Plan of Attack

8

First indications are confirmed, sir,” said Chief of the General Staff and Minister of State Security Nikolai Stepashin. “Two Tupolev-160s missing after they successfully attacked their targets on the Alaskan mainland. Presumably lost while making their final run on Eareckson Air Base in the Aleutians. Probably surviving fighter jets from Eielson or Elmendorf, deployed or dispersed to Eareckson because it’s the only surviving military base in Alaska.”

Gryzlov thought for a moment, then shook his head. “It has begun, Stepashin. American fighters who survived the attacks on the mainland would not deploy fifteen hundred kilometers out to a windswept island at the end of the Aleutians. I believe the counteroffensive has begun, Nikolai — McLanahan’s war.”

“Who, sir?”

“McLanahan. Thorn will send Patrick McLanahan and his modified long-range bombers into battle. They will deploy to Eareckson Air Base and launch attacks on us in the far east.”

“Perhaps the bombers were shot down by a Patriot or I-Hawk surface-to-air missile?…”

“We have been watching Eareckson Air Base for months — there was never any indication they were going to install Patriots on that rock. We would have seen it,” Gryzlov said. “No. I believe that McLanahan has been activated — his planes are already on Shemya, or soon will be. He will commence attacks on our Siberian bomber bases very soon — they may already be under way.”

“That’s crazy, sir,” Stepashin said. “Why attack bases in the far east? Why not Moscow, St. Petersburg, or any of dozens of active bases in the west?”

“Because McLanahan has discovered our secret — that we are using long-range bombers launched from Siberian bases,” Gryzlov said. “It was he that sent those small satellites over our bomber bases.” He thought hard for a moment, then said, “You must assume that all of our eastern sub bases will be attacked soon, probably first by long-range bombers launching cruise missiles, followed by commandos — if McLanahan is involved, they’ll probably use their Tin Man commandos in small groups.” He paused again, then corrected himself. “No — McLanahan will attack air bases, not naval bases. He’ll go after Anadyr, Blagoveshchensk, Ulan-Ude, Bratsk, or maybe even Kavaznya again.”

“How do you know that, sir?” Stepashin asked skeptically. “If I were he, I’d go after the ballistic-missile sub bases — Rybachiy and Vladivostok. He should know that all of our Pacific ballistic-missile subs are based there, and that we keep most of them in port. Our bombers have scattered — there’s nothing to hit at any of those bases except for a few empty planes.”

“I know him, and I challenged him, so that’s what he’ll do,” Gryzlov said confidently. “Even if the bases are empty, he’ll bomb them just to show us and Thorn that he can bomb them. Thorn will keep him on a tight leash. He won’t want to provoke a nuclear counterattack by striking our nuclear-sub bases — that would be an overt act of aggression, and Thorn isn’t built for that.”

Gryzlov picked up the telephone to the communications center. “Get me President Thorn immediately on the hot line.” To Stepashin he said, “Listen to me carefully, Nikolai. You may get only one chance to stop him. I have studied McLanahan, his weapons, and his tactics. I believe that this is the best way to stop him:

“First, his stealth technology is second to none,” Gryzlov began. “He will come at you from every direction, even from behind. It is absolutely critical that your defensive forces not use radar, except for long-range surveillance. The first targets he will attack are surface-to-air missile-defense systems. Activating surface-to-air missile radars will only result in their being destroyed. It is important not to waste your defensive-missile systems, because the initial attacks are designed only to clear a path for follow-on forces—those are your main targets. They will attempt to degrade or destroy your defensive systems enough to allow less stealthy special-operations transports to fly in, and you cannot allow that to happen.

“The fighters are your first line of defense. You must mass your fighters around your important bases, use long-range-surveillance radars only, and have the fighters use just optronic sensors to the maximum extent possible. The minute they turn on radar, they will be shot down. Any targets you see on surveillance radar are your real targets, but you must assume that they are being escorted by stealth aircraft with substantial air-to-air capabilities. Therefore you must have your fighters go in fast, strike at long range, and then get out of the area. There is no use in doing visual identifications or trying to close in to dogfight-missile range — McLanahan’s stealth aircraft will eat your forces alive. Knocking down as many of the special-operations transports as possible is more important than knocking down the bombers.

“However, you must assume that some special-operations forces will sneak in — most likely McLanahan’s Tin Man armored commandos,” Gryzlov went on. “Unless you receive intelligence information that indicates otherwise, I suggest you augment forces at every bomber base with additional heavy infantry. Don’t bother with heavy armored vehicles: The Tin Man commandos are far too fast, and they carry penetrator weapons that can disable even main battle tanks with ease. Light, fast armored reconnaissance units, helicopters with precision-standoff antiarmor weapons, and dismounted infantry with antitank weapons can deal with them effectively.

“More important is the Tin Men’s ability to vector unmanned bombers and attack aircraft, so you must supplement your ground forces with as much antiair weaponry as possible,” Gryzlov said. “Use passive infrared and optronic sensors, not radar. Don’t try to detect their aircraft from long range — you won’t see them until the attack has begun. The Americans will go after command and control, communications, power generation and distribution, air defenses, radar, and airfields first, so have each base decentralize and disperse its resources, and have alternate, backup, and emergency networks in place.

“McLanahan’s forces hit fast, hit hard, then disengage,” Gryzlov summarized. “The better your forces can ride out the initial standoff attack and then give chase as they try to withdraw, the more success they’ll have in whittling down his Tin Man forces. Killing one Tin Man is equivalent to destroying an entire mechanized infantry platoon or tank squadron. Do you understand, General?”

“Yes, sir.” Stepashin picked up a telephone and began issuing orders.

“Mr. President, Thomas Thorn is on the line for you,” the command center’s operator announced. “An interpreter is standing by.”

Gryzlov picked up the phone and nodded for the connection to be opened. “Is this Thomas Thorn?” he asked.

“This is President Thorn. To whom am I speaking?”

Gryzlov paused a moment to collect his thoughts, took a deep breath, then said through his interpreter, “This is President Gryzlov, Mr. Thorn.” He purposely tried to keep Thorn off balance by not using his title of “president,” addressing him as just another bureaucrat or functionary. “I just wanted to call to inform you that we have detected movement of General McLanahan’s forces from Battle Mountain.”

“Do you expect me to confirm that information for you, Gryzlov?” Thorn asked. “Or did you call just to make more threats?”

“I am glad to see you did not attempt to deny it,” Gryzlov said. “You are not very good at lying, and your truthfulness is your most endearing virtue. It will also be your downfall.”

“Let me guess, Gryzlov,” Thorn said. “You will say that I should recall all my special-operations forces immediately; that any forces in your country will be caught; that if caught, they will be summarily executed; and that if there are any attacks on any base in Russia, then you will have no choice but to retaliate with all weapons under your command. Is that what you called to tell me, Mr. President?”

“I am calling to tell you, Thorn, that you will be responsible for triggering more death and destruction, and it is totally and completely unnecessary,” Gryzlov said. “Our attacks on your bases were done out of frustration and desperation. It is not a sign of an all-out war between our countries, I swear it. I hereby promise to you that I will order a complete stand-down of all Russian strategic and tactical forces around the world immediately.”

Thorn paused for several moments. Finally he said, “I am very glad to hear it, Mr. President.”

“I know that McLanahan’s bomber forces and most assuredly his Tin Man commandos are even now moving toward staging locations at Eareckson Air Base on Shemya Island, and that a number of his Tin Men are already located there,” Gryzlov went on. He thought he detected an uneasy rustling and a slight intake of breath on the line and was pleased that he’d apparently guessed correctly. “Our intelligence also indicates that McLanahan intends to strike our bomber bases at Ulan-Ude, Vladivostok, and Blagoveshchensk. These attacks are not necessary, Thorn. I wish to do everything in my power to convince you to stop these attacks from commencing.”

“I’m sure you do, Gryzlov.”

“I will order all Russian strategic and tactical forces to stand down — but not our defensive forces. All air, coastal, and base-defense and — security forces will remain at one hundred and fifty percent manning and at full alert.”

“I think that is a very wise and reassuring move, Mr. President.”

“But it would not look wise or reassuring for my base defenders to have to fight off your attack planes and armored commandos after I announce a cease-fire,” Gryzlov said. “I think it would be most wise to recall McLanahan’s forces and any other military, paramilitary, or intelligence operations you have ongoing against my country. We certainly cannot commence negotiations for a complete end to hostilities with foreign military troops on our shores.”

“Now that your military objectives have been met, you want to negotiate an end to hostilities, is that it, Gryzlov?”

“I told you before, Thorn: Our actions were not premeditated,” Gryzlov said. “They were born of desperation and frustration on our part — not of American hegemony but of our inability to make any progress in reversing our own economic misfortunes. As the only remaining true world superpower, you must certainly understand the enormous pressure on myself and my government to come up with results. The military response was unfortunate and miscalculated, and I take full responsibility for it. Russia will do everything possible to compensate the United States for its loss and ensure that such a horrendous, unspeakable catastrophe never happens again.”

“What do you propose we do to decrease the likelihood of another attack on one another, Mr. President?” Thorn asked.

“Russia’s actions will be unilateral,” Gryzlov said. “I will immediately order all ballistic-missile submarines to unload American targeting data from their missiles’ computers, leave their alert launch positions, and return to their bases; I will order all land-based ballistic-missile forces to unload target data and return to normal alert; all mobile land-based missiles will unload data and return to their shelters; and all strategic and tactical aircraft will unload their nuclear weapons and return them to storage. I will hope that the United States will follow suit, but there is no condition for our own actions.”

“The United States will certainly cooperate, once we observe your forces returning to normal alert and once their status can be verified,” Thorn said.

“I thank you, Mr. President,” Gryzlov said. “I think this is an important first step in ensuring peace.” He paused for a moment, then added, “But as I said, Mr. President, there remains the problem of McLanahan’s attack forces. They are undoubtedly already on their way and ready to close in on our bomber bases. You of course understand that it would look very, very bad for myself and my government if I announce a unilateral stand-down and then several of our most important eastern bases come under attack. Ordering McLanahan’s forces to withdraw to Eareckson Air Force Base or to the continental United States would help me convince the parliament and my people that my actions truly are in the best interests of peace.”

“Negotiating a cease-fire with Russia when in eight American states radioactive fires caused by Russian nuclear warheads are still burning will not look good for me either,” Thorn said. “Besides, I’m not confirming or denying any national-security activities in Russia or anywhere else in the world.”

“I understand, Mr. President,” Gryzlov said. “I’m sure you understand my position as well, and you will do the appropriate and right thing. All I can offer is this: If you give me their location and egress-route information in a timely manner, I will guarantee their safe passage out of Russian territory and airspace. They will not be harmed. I will publicly guarantee this. If they are downed or captured, I will return them to American control immediately, with no recourse whatsoever to the Geneva Conventions. They will be treated as noncombatants and turned over to you or to a third party you designate who can guarantee their safe return.”

“This will be discussed, Mr. President,” Thorn said simply.

“Very well,” Gryzlov said. “In any case, the order to stand down Russian strategic and tactical strike forces will be issued within the hour; a copy will be sent to your Department of State via our embassy in Washington, which will be addressed to all affected Russian military forces. In that way you can verify that all of our forces that can hold American targets at risk have been notified. We will also send copies of acknowledgments and unit positions on a daily basis, so that your space reconnaissance forces can pinpoint our withdrawing forces as well. We will be happy to negotiate implementation of any other verification programs you care to propose. All the information we send is releasable to the world media.”

“I think this is an important and forthright first step, President Gryzlov,” Thorn said, “and I look forward to receiving the notifications and data from you.”

“We shall be in touch, Mr. President,” Gryzlov said, and disconnected the call.

Thorn replaced the phone in its cradle, then leaned back in his chair and stared at a far wall. Behind him was a plain light blue drape, which had served as the camera backdrop when he made his last address to the American people from his office in the converted Boeing 747. Since the attack he had made four addresses, which were broadcast around the world in many different languages. All of them had been messages seeking to reassure the American people that he was alive, that he was in control, and that their government and military were still functioning despite the horrific loss of life and destruction of American military forces.

“Mr. President,” Les Busick said, breaking the president’s reverie, “talk to us.” The vice president was on a secure videoconference line at “High Point,” the Mount Weather Special Facility in West Virginia, along with Director of Central Intelligence Douglas Morgan and other cabinet officials and members of Congress. “You’re not going to cooperate with that rat bastard, are you?”

Thorn was silent for a very long moment. “General Venti, where are McLanahan and his team members now?”

“Mr. President, with all due respect — are you serious?” Secretary of Defense Robert Goff interjected. He, along with Venti and other members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, was also airborne in the National Airborne Operations Center aircraft, now orbiting over central New Mexico. “You can’t recall them now!”

“I know, Robert.”

“Besides, Gryzlov can’t and won’t guarantee their safety,” Goff went on. “The minute they exposed themselves, he’d blow them all away.”

“I would never order them to reveal their location,” Thorn said. “I would expect them to execute their egress plan and get out as stealthily as they got in.”

“Mr. President, there is no egress plan,” Goff said. “The team had a due-regard point — a point of no return. Once they crossed that line, there was no plan to get them out again unless their operation was successful.”

“I was never told that!”

“McLanahan never briefed it, and there wasn’t enough time to staff the plan before it was time to issue the execution order,” Goff said. “Once McLanahan’s team goes in, it’s a one-way mission unless they succeed.”

“Every mission has a contingency plan and an emergency egress plan,” Thorn said adamantly. “Even McLanahan has enough experience to know this.”

“There’s an outside chance that special-ops forces could pull them out, but flying that far inside Siberia, retrieving several dozen men, and getting out again is difficult and dangerous for even our best guys,” Richard Venti said. “There was barely enough time to organize what forces we had. Communications are still screwed up, and every American military unit is in complete COMSEC and OPSEC lockdown — no one is talking or sharing data with anyone unless they know exactly who they’re talking to.” A base in total COMSEC (Communications Security) or OPSEC (Operational Security) status would be virtually cut off from the rest of the world — no one allowed on or off the base, no outside unencrypted telephone or data lines, and no movement on the base itself without prior permission and only under strict supervision. “No contingency plan was ever built into McLanahan’s operation — there just wasn’t time to get all the players organized.” He paused, then said, “Aside from a complete nuclear-attack plan, sir, I think McLanahan’s operation is the best chance we’ve got.”

“How in hell could Gryzlov discover McLanahan’s plan?”

“He’s guessing, Mr. President,” Busick said. “He’s bluffing. McLanahan’s whole damned operation is a hundred feet underground — no Russian satellite can see what he’s doing. He’s bullshitting you.”

“Gryzlov is smart, I’ll give him that,” Robert Goff said. “He’s a bomber guy, too, like McLanahan. He’s certainly smart enough to guess McLanahan’s next move.”

Thorn nodded, then turned to another camera and asked, “Maureen? Your thoughts?”

“Mr. President, I don’t know the details of McLanahan’s plan,” Secretary of State Hershel began. She had at first returned to Washington, but then, in the interest of safety and security, she’d been flown to Atlanta, Georgia, where a Joint Strategic Information Operations Center had been set up during the 1996 Summer Olympic Games. The Atlanta JSIOC was a combined federal, state, and local command-and-communications center that securely combined information from the CIA, FBI, State Department, Pentagon, and other agencies to allow law enforcement to more effectively track down and stop suspected terrorists.

Since the Olympics the JSIOC had been redesignated as a Federal Continuity of Government facility and used during exercises to relocate several governmental agencies in times of crisis. This was the first time the facility had been used for the real thing: the virtual evacuation of the Department of State from Washington, the first time that had happened since the War of 1812.

“But I trust the general to plan and execute missions that are very limited in scope, swift, effective, and deadly. I’d trust my life with his decisions.” The president masked the thought that flashed in his mind: She said that, he was sure, because she was developing a very close personal relationship with McLanahan.

“On the other hand, I do not trust Anatoliy Gryzlov,” Hershel went on. “He rules the government by fear and the military by blind, almost mythic fealty — an arrangement more akin to a military dictatorship, like Saddam Hussein’s Iraq or Kim Jong Il’s North Korea. Gryzlov’s Russia will probably end up like those two regimes — destroyed and disgraced. Unfortunately, also as in both those regimes, the dictator will probably attempt to scorch most of his adversaries on the way out, without any thought to the fate of any innocent persons, including his own people.” She paused, then ended by saying, “I recommend you let the general proceed with his plan, Mr. President. Bargaining with Gryzlov is an absolute no-win situation.”

“Lester?”

“I hate to say it, Mr. President, but that big Russian asshole has got you by the balls,” Vice President Busick said. “If you let McLanahan go ahead, he can claim you escalated the conflict instead of negotiating. If you agree to his demand, you could be tossin’ away McLanahan’s life — and that motherfucker could still hit us from the blind side again. It’s the wacko in the catbird seat, sir.” He sighed, then said, “I recommend you let McLanahan proceed. We’ve always got the sea-launched nukes. If Gryzlov commences another attack, he’ll be signing his own death warrant. This time, though, I suggest you launch on alert — the second we see any more missiles comin’ at us, we pound Moscow and every military base in our sights into carbon atoms.”

Thomas Thorn turned away from the camera and stared off toward the door to the office suite aboard Air Force One. He hated making decisions like this alone; he’d always had Goff, Venti, or his wife nearby to query or from whom to get opinions on something. Even though he was electronically connected to everyone, he felt completely isolated.

He turned back toward his teleconference monitors. Goff looked angry, Venti as calm and as unruffled as ever, and Maureen Hershel appeared determined and aggressive. “Robert, what’s the chance of McLanahan’s successfully accomplishing this mission?” he asked.

“Mr. President, it’s impossible to guess,” Goff replied. “It’s a good plan — simple, modest, and audacious enough to surprise the heck out of everyone. I don’t believe for a moment Gryzlov knows where our boys are or what they’re doing, or else he would’ve paraded shot-up aircraft and bodies out for the world press in a heartbeat. McLanahan’s teams are small and rely too much on high-tech gizmos for my taste, but if anyone knows that arena, it’s him. However, the sheer scope of what they have to do…hell, sir, I don’t give them more than a one-in-ten chance.”

“That’s it?”

“But considering our only other options, I think it’s the best chance we’ve got,” Goff said. “Gryzlov’s a mad dog, sir — totally unpredictable. If he were worried about the destruction of his regime and the Russian government, he never would have attacked us. The bottom line is, he could strike again at any moment. We’ve got to move before he does. McLanahan’s our only option, other than an all-out nuclear attack.”

“And if I chose to recall McLanahan and wait to see if Gryzlov really will stand down his strategic and tactical nuclear forces?”

“Sir, you just can’t trust Gryzlov,” Vice President Busick said. “More than likely he’s hoping that we’ll try to recall or freeze McLanahan, which will give the Russians an opportunity to pinpoint his location. The guy is obsessed with tacking McLanahan’s scalp up on his wall, sir — you heard him yourself. My God, the bastard probably murdered Sen’kov and then attacked the United States of America with nuclear weapons just to lash out at McLanahan — he wouldn’t hesitate to lie to your face if it meant getting a shot at McLanahan, dead or alive.”

Thorn nodded his thanks to his onetime political adversary, thought in silence for a few moments, then said, “I don’t want to play Gryzlov’s game, but I don’t want to provoke another nuclear attack either. And if there’s any way to ensure peace, even if it means entering into negotiations with the Russians before we attempt a counterstrike, even if it means sacrificing a good man, I’ll do it.

“McLanahan can continue to his objective — but he holds short before he attacks. He must contact Secretary Goff, General Venti, or myself for an update and instructions. If we have positive evidence that Gryzlov has stood down his forces and is ready to negotiate a verifiable arms deal, we’ll recall McLanahan — preferably by getting permission from Gryzlov to fly a transport plane in and get him, rather than make McLanahan evade the Russian army halfway across Siberia. Under no circumstances can McLanahan or his forces commence their attack without a go signal from one of us.”

Reluctantly, Secretary Goff turned to Richard Venti and nodded. Venti picked up a telephone. “Get me General Luger at Battle Mountain.” Moments later: “Dick Venti here, secure, Dave.”

“David Luger, secure, ready to copy, sir.”

“We’re going to issue written orders in a moment, but I’m relaying orders to you now directly from the president: Patrick’s teams go in, but they hold in place and contact the National Command Authority or myself before initiating action.”

“That would be extremely hazardous for the team, sir,” Luger responded. “With their fuel states and reaction times, they’re counting on a very precise sequence of actions to occur. Stopping someplace outside the fence to hide and wait wasn’t in the game plan.”

“Unfortunately, that’s the order, General,” Venti said. “Transmit yours and Patrick’s concerns to me once you get the written orders, but get a message out to Patrick right away and give him the update. Ask him to acknowledge the orders immediately.”

“Yes, sir. Can I ask what prompted this change of plan, sir? Communications from President Gryzlov?”

“Affirmative.”

“Sir, I assure you, the team is still on schedule and still one hundred percent mission-ready,” Luger said. “If Gryzlov told you that agreeing to call off this mission is the only way to save the team’s lives or to ensure peace, he’s lying.”

“Issue the orders, General,” Venti said simply. He knew for damned sure Luger was right, but the president had already made his decision. It was a dangerous but prudent compromise — putting a small group of commandos at great risk in the hope of averting a nuclear exchange at the same time. “If you have any questions or concerns, put them in writing and send them along. Out.”

You can’t be serious, sir!” General Nikolai Stepashin exclaimed. “You are going to unilaterally stand down our strategic and tactical forces?”

“Of course not, General,” President Anatoliy Gryzlov said as he replaced the phone back on its cradle. He lit up a cigarette, which only served to make the cramped, stifling meeting room even gloomier. “Do you think I’m stupid? Give the Americans the locations of the missile bases, silos, and garrisons they already know about and monitor; move a few planes around; scatter around some inert weapons, fuel tanks, or ammo boxes on the ramps besides a few bombers — anything to make it appear as if we are disarming.”

“Such trickery will not fool the Americans for long.”

“It doesn’t have to, Nikolai,” Gryzlov said. “All I want is for Thorn to issue the order to McLanahan to halt.”

“Halt? Why do you think he will tell him to just stop?”

“Because Thorn is a weak, spineless, contemplative rag doll,” Gryzlov responded derisively. “He sent McLanahan on some mission — more likely McLanahan himself launched a mission — so he does not want to order him to just turn around and come home, because it represents the only offensive action he’s taken during this entire conflict. But at the same time, he wants to avoid confrontation and distress and will therefore clutch onto any possible hope that a concession from him will end this conflict.

“My guess is that he will not order McLanahan to turn back, but he will not order the mission to be terminated either — it is part of his pattern of indecisive thinking that will result in defeat for the Americans and disgrace for Thorn and all who follow him,” Gryzlov said confidently. “He will order McLanahan to stop at Eareckson Air Base and stand by until Thorn sees if we are serious or not. This will give us several hours, perhaps even a day or two, to find McLanahan and crush him. All of our strike forces will still be in place and still ready to deliver another blow against the Americans if they decide to counterattack.”

Gryzlov looked at Stepashin and aimed a finger at him menacingly. “You have your orders, Stepashin — it’s up to you and your men now,” he said. “Find McLanahan, his aircraft, and his Tin Man commandos. Don’t worry about taking them alive — just blast them to hell as soon as you find them.” He thought for a moment. “You have a force of bombers standing by for follow-on attacks, do you not, Stepashin?”

“Yes, sir,” the chief of staff replied. He quickly scanned a report in a folder in front of him. “I think we have adequate forces ready, sir. What is the target, sir?”

“Eareckson Air Base on Shemya Island.”

Stepashin nodded. That order was not unexpected: The two Tupolev-160 bombers originally assigned to destroy Shemya obviously were shot down or crashed sometime between their successful strikes over Alaska and their planned attacks against Eareckson; satellite reconnaissance reported much air activity over Shemya, so the base was obviously still operational. As America’s closest base to Russia’s eastern military bases, Shemya had to be dealt with. “We will plan another air strike using MiG-23s from Anadyr.”

“Fighter-bombers? What about the rest of our heavy-bomber fleet, Stepashin?”

Nikolai Stepashin swallowed apprehensively. “The initial attack on North America was most successful, sir, but the casualty count was high,” he said. “The heavy-bomber units will need time to reorganize and reconstitute their forces.”

“How high?”

Stepashin hesitated again, then responded, “Forty percent, sir.”

“Forty percent!”

“Approximately forty percent of the force that launched on that mission was shot down, failed to return to base, or returned with damage or malfunctions significant enough to make them non-mission-ready,” Stepashin said. “Against the United States, I count that as a major victory.”

“You do, do you?” Gryzlov asked derisively. “It sounds like a tremendous loss to me!”

“It is a tremendous loss to our bomber force, sir,” Stepashin said. “But we scored an amazing victory and accomplished eighty to ninety percent of our stated objective — crippling America’s strategic strike force. Initial reports estimate that we have eliminated seventy-five percent of its long-range bomber force and perhaps half of its strategic nuclear-missile force, plus all but eliminated America’s capability to launch its surviving land-based missiles and its ability to control its nuclear forces in the event of an all-out nuclear war. I consider it a great victory for you, sir.”

“I don’t share your optimistic assessment, Stepashin,” Gryzlov said angrily. “Forty percent casualties in one day is far too much, and initial assessments of successes are always too optimistic. What nuclear forces remain?”

“Virtually all of our land-and sea-based nuclear ballistic force is operational,” Stepashin said. “You can be assured that—”

“I am assured of nothing when it comes to our missile fleet, General, and you know it,” Gryzlov said. “Why do you think I put so much trust in our bomber fleet? I was in your position two years ago, damn it. I visited the bases, interviewed the crews — not the suck-ass commanders, mind you, but the launch and maintenance crews themselves! — and saw for myself the deplorable condition of our nuclear forces. I wouldn’t give our missile forces more than a sixty percent success rate — and that’s a sixty percent chance of even leaving their launch tubes successfully, let alone hitting their assigned targets with any degree of accuracy!”

“That is simply not the case, sir….”

“Nye kruti mnye yaytsa! Don’t twist my balls!” Gryzlov snapped. “I relied on the modernization of our bomber forces to save this country, Stepashin. The Americans disassembled virtually all of their bomber defenses — the attacks should have been cakewalks.” Stepashin had no response for Gryzlov’s accusations, just silent denial. “How many planes are in reserve?”

“We committed no more than one-third of the fleet to the initial attack,” Stepashin replied, then quickly added, “at your order. That leaves us with a long-and extended-range bomber force of approximately one hundred and eighty aircraft. Two-thirds of these are based in the Far East Military District, safe from tactical air attack and positioned so they can mount successful raids on North America again if necessary.”

“It’s necessary,” Gryzlov said. “You failed to destroy Eareckson Air Base in the initial assault, and now it is being used against us by McLanahan and his Phoenix bombers. Plan a strike mission on Eareckson. Completely destroy the airfield, intelligence-gathering, and surveillance facilities. Plan another mission to attack any military air-defense or airfield facilities on Attu Island as well.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gryzlov thought for a moment, then said, “Launch the attack on Shemya using the MiG-23 tactical bombers from Anadyr only. Mass those forces if you must, but I want Eareckson turned into glass as soon as possible. I want the long-range bombers readied for follow-on attacks over North America.”

“Targets, sir?”

“The targets that failed to be struck by our initial attack force: the Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Barksdale Air Force Base, Fairchild Air Force Base, Nellis Air Force Base, Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base….” Gryzlov paused, gazed off into the distance distractedly, then added, “And Sacramento, California, as well.”

“Sacramento? You mean, Beale Air Force Base, sir?”

“That can be our intended target, of course,” Gryzlov said. “But I want the warhead to land in the city of Sacramento, not on the military base.”

“For God’s sake, sir, why? The city itself is no longer a military target — all of the bases located near it were turned into civilian airports. There is a small rocket-motor research company there, and some computer-chip research firms, but they don’t…” Then he remembered the general’s previous remarks about his twisted motivations for this entire campaign — and he remembered that same look Gryzlov had now, and he knew why Gryzlov wanted to target a major American population center, before the president started to speak. “Not McLanahan again, sir…?”

“Another of our missiles will go off course, Stepashin, just like the one that ‘went off course’ and hit Spokane, Washington,” Gryzlov said. “But that strike, the loss of his son and what remains of his already fractured family, will be the final event that will drive Patrick Shane McLanahan mad.”

“Sir, you cannot tell me that you would kill hundreds of thousands of civilians just to lash out at—?”

“It will be a missile malfunction, damn it!” Gryzlov retorted. “I will apologize, offer my condolences, perhaps even offer to resign from office in an attempt to atone for the miscalculation. The Duma will reject that offer, of course. But McLanahan will suffer far more than any other man or woman on the planet.” He glanced at Stepashin’s incredulous expression and shook his head. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you, General? McLanahan is perhaps even now preparing to strike our forces, and you still believe that I’m crazy for taking such a personal interest in this man?

“It is you who are mistaken, Stepashin,” Gryzlov went on. “McLanahan is like a crocodile, like a rattlesnake. He lies quietly, moves slowly, barely creates a ripple in the water or disturbs a leaf on the ground when he moves. But when he moves, it is with speed, power, and tenacity. His jaws clamp on, and he will not let go until he has killed his prey. And then he returns to his lair or his river, lies quietly, and watches and waits for the next opportunity to strike.”

“Mr. President, with all due respect, I suggest you take some time to get a little more perspective on this conflict,” Nikolai Stepashin said. He knew that it was dangerous to try to admonish or correct a man like Gryzlov, but in order to sustain any semblance of control or leadership in this conflict, he had to be sure of exactly where the president’s head was right now. “I understand your campaign against McLanahan — I agree that the man has been at the root of so many major conflicts in past years that it is a wonder he’s still alive, let alone not in prison or dangling at the end of a rope. But this war is far beyond one man now. We are at war, Mr. President! Let us focus on the American war machine, not on this one disgraced Air Force officer. You must meet with the general staff and hear what they have to—”

“I’m well aware of what’s at stake and what must be done, Stepashin,” Gryzlov said. “Your job is to get the information and opinions from the general staff and present them to me, and for me to pass along my orders to the general staff. I have followed the staff’s recommendations to the letter. I have invested the money, built up and modernized our forces, and garnered the support of the Duma — everything my military and political advisers told me I would have to do before this campaign could be successful. Do not question my motivations, Stepashin!”

“I…I do not question your goals, nor your commitment to them, sir,” Stepashin said. “But talking about going to war and destroying one city just to lash out against one man is not rational. Disrupting the American strategic nuclear triad and regaining parity with American nuclear forces — that is a goal I and the members of the general staff agree with completely. But it is…disheartening to hear you rattle on about this McLanahan as if he were some demigod that needs to be destroyed.”

Gryzlov looked as if he were about to explode in a fit of rage…but instead he lit another cigarette, took a deep drag, stubbed it out, and nodded through the haze of blue smoke. “Do not worry, Stepashin,” he said. “The battle in which Russia is engaged is real. The battle I fight on Russia’s behalf with McLanahan will not interfere with that. Now give the order to strike Eareckson Air Base on Shemya Island, and have the plan ready for my approval as soon as possible.”

That’s the order, Muck,” Dave Luger said. “I just got the hard copy.” There was no response. Luger waited a few more moments, heard nothing, then asked, “You copy, Patrick?”

“Loud and clear,” Patrick McLanahan responded via his subcutaneous satellite transceiver.

“It sucks, but all the players will still be in position, and we can move fast from Eareckson when we get the go-ahead,” Luger said. “Should I give the word?”

There was another long period of silence. Luger was about to ask the question again, but Patrick finally responded, “No. Everyone continues as planned.”

“Patrick…”

“No arguments this time,” Patrick interjected. “The brass signed off on the operation — and damn it, we’re going to complete it. Unless Gryzlov is confirmed dead or in custody by American officials, I’m not trusting him to make peace with the United States.”

“Muck, they may have signed off on the plan originally, but they’re changing it now,” David argued. “We have a decent alternative: The ground units move forward, and the air units get a chance to refuel and rearm at Eareckson.”

“It’s not a good alternative, Texas. The president is grasping at any options that would mean an end to hostilities. He still believes that Gryzlov was desperate when he attacked the United States, and that if everyone stops right now, we can have peace. Gryzlov doesn’t want peace — he wants to destroy the U.S. military, plain and simple. He obviously suspects we’re coming after him, and he’s telling the president anything he can think of to get us to stop.”

“I hear you, Patrick, but we have no choice,” Luger said. “You can’t send in a force this size and with this large an objective without an okay from the White House, and we don’t have it now.”

“I sure as hell can….”

“This is different, Patrick,” Luger argued. “Attacking Engels, Zhukovsky, Belgorod — those were all preemptive strikes designed to defend our own forces or to prevent an imminent attack from taking place.”

“So is this operation, Dave.”

“Ultimately yes, but the first step is definitely an invasion, not a preemptive strike,” Luger said. “There’s no defensive aspect to the operation — we take the offensive all the way. I want full authority to do this. We had it; now we don’t. We have no choice but to hold until we get the word to go.”

Again Patrick hesitated. Luger fully expected Patrick to give him an order to continue the current mission, and he was ready to obey the order. But to his surprise, Patrick said, “Very well. Make room for the Air Battle Force and the Marines to refuel and rearm at Eareckson. Let’s plan on getting a second and third ground contingent on their way as well.”

“Roger that, Muck. I don’t like it any more than you do, my friend, but I know we’re making the right decision.”

“We’ll see,” Patrick said simply. “McLanahan out.”

Eareckson Approach, Bobcat One-one flight of two, passing twelve thousand for eight thousand,” radioed Lieutenant Colonel Summer “Shade” O’Dea, the aircraft commander aboard Patrick McLanahan’s EB-52 Megafortress bomber. “Check.”

“Two,” responded Colonel Nancy Cheshire, the aircraft commander aboard the second aircraft in the flight, an AL-52 Dragon airborne-laser. The AL-52 Dragon was a modified B-52H bomber with a three-megawatt plasma-pumped electronic laser installed inside its fuselage, which could project a focused beam of laser energy powerful enough to destroy a ballistic missile or satellite at a range of three hundred miles, an aircraft at one hundred miles, or ground targets as large as an armored vehicle at fifty miles. Although the fleet of Dragons had grown to three in less than two years, the weapon system was still considered experimental — a fact that never stopped Patrick McLanahan.

Nancy Cheshire was the squadron commander of the Fifty-second Bomb Squadron from Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base, the home of all of the Air Force’s modified B-52 bombers — and, as Nancy reminded herself often, one of only two B-52 squadrons left in the world right now, after the nuclear decimation of Minot Air Force Base by the Russians. She was determined to do everything she could — use every bit of her flying skills and leadership ability, whatever it took—to make the Russians pay for what they’d done to America.

“Bobcat One-one flight, roger, radar contact,” the air-traffic controller at Eareckson Air Force Base responded. “Cleared for Shemya Two arrival, report initial approach fix inbound. Winds two-four-zero at twenty-one gusting to thirty-six, altimeter two-niner-eight-eight. Your wingman is cleared into publishing holding and is cleared to start his approach when you report safely on the ground.”

“One-one flight cleared for the arrival, will report IAF inbound. Two, copy your clearance?”

“Two copies, cleared for the approach when lead is down,” Cheshire responded.

“It’s an unusually nice day on Shemya,” O’Dea said on intercom. “The winds are only gusting to thirty-six knots. We’ve been cleared for the approach. Check in when ready for landing, crew.”

Patrick turned in his ejection seat and looked back along the upper deck of the EB-52 Megafortress. Six aft-facing crew seats had been installed for carrying passengers — aircraft-maintenance and weapon technicians from Battle Mountain and the Tonopah Test Range in Nevada. Six more technicians were seated on the lower deck. These twelve men and women were key in accomplishing their mission. Unfortunately, their mission was on hold, on order of the president of the United States himself.

“Lower deck ready,” one of the techs radioed.

“Upper deck ready,” another responded.

“MC ready for approach,” Patrick chimed in. “Aircraft is in approach and landing mode. Sixteen miles to the IAF. I’m going to do a few more LADAR sweeps of the area before the ILS clicks in.”

“Clear,” O’Dea said.

Patrick activated the Megafortress’s LADAR, or laser radar. Emitters facing in every direction transmitted electronically controlled beams of laser energy out to a range of three hundred miles, instantly “drawing” a picture of every object, from clouds to vehicles on the ground to satellites in near-Earth orbit. The composite LADAR images were presented to him on his main supercockpit display, a large two-foot-by-three-foot color computer monitor on the right-side instrument panel. Patrick could manipulate the image by issuing a joystick, by touching the screen, or by using voice commands. The attack computer would also analyze the returns and, by instantaneously and precisely measuring objects with the laser beams, compare the dimensions with its internal databank of objects and try to identify each return.

Immediately Patrick noticed a blinking hexagonal icon at the northernmost edge of the display, at the very extreme of the LADAR’s range. He zoomed his display so the contents of the hexagon filled the supercockpit display. The attack computer reported the contact as “unidentified aircraft.” “Shade, I’ve got an unidentified air target, two-thirty position, two hundred and seventy-three miles, low, airspeed four-eight-zero, three-five-zero-degree bearing from Shemya.”

O’Dea hit a button on her control stick. “Go around,” she ordered. The flight-control computer instantly advanced the throttles to full military power, leveled off, configured the Megafortress’s mission-adaptive skin to maximum climb performance, and started a climb. “Approach, Bobcat One-one is on the go,” she radioed. “Alert Eareckson. We may have unidentified aircraft inbound from the north at two-seven-zero miles. Break. Bobcat Two-two.”

“We’re looking for your target, lead,” Cheshire replied.

“Roger. We’re on the go.” On intercom, O’Dea said, “Crew, strap in tight and get on oxygen. Give me a vector, General.”

“Heading two-eight-zero, climb to fifteen thousand feet,” Patrick said. “LADAR coming on.” He activated the laser-radar system, this time focusing energy on the returns to the north after making a complete sweep of the skies and seas around them. “I’ve got numerous bogey out there, counting six so far. They’re right on the deck, accelerating past five hundred knots. I’d say they’re bad guys.” He switched over to the command channel. “Two-two, you have them yet?”

“Not yet, but we’re receiving your data and maneuvering to set up an orbit,” Cheshire responded. “Did you notify Eareckson?”

“Just approach control, not the units. Tell them to get everyone into shelters.” Patrick knew that it was a futile move — one or two bombs the size of the warheads that were dropped on Eielson or Fort Wainwright would obliterate Shemya Island, shelters and all. “Fire up the lasers, Zipper.”

“They’re already warming up, boss,” responded the AL-52 Dragon’s mission commander, Major Frankie “Zipper” Tarantino. The Dragon’s electronic laser really didn’t need to “warm up,” like less sophisticated chemical or diode lasers, but the system stored electrical power in massive banks of capacitors to use during the firing sequence, and the more power that could be stored prior to the first shot, the more shots the laser could fire. “Two-two has LADAR contact, two-five-zero miles bull’s-eye. I count six targets as well, but at first the computer counted seven. We may have a big gaggle of multiple contacts coming at us.”

“Checks,” McLanahan said. “I still count six. Let me know when you’re in attack position.”

“Roger,” Tarantino said. The AL-52 departed its holding pattern, flew northwest toward the oncoming targets, and then began a long north-south racetrack pattern at twenty thousand feet altitude. By the time the Dragon was in its racetrack, the unidentified aircraft had accelerated to six hundred knots’ airspeed and were less than one hundred miles away. “Two-two is ready to engage. I now count six groups, but I believe there are multiple contacts in each group.”

“You are cleared to engage,” Patrick ordered. “Take out the lead aircraft in each group if you can break it out.”

“Roger,” Tarantino said. He selected all six groups of unidentified returns as targets, then zoomed in on the nearest group. The airborne laser used an adaptive-mirror telescope to focus laser energy on its target, but it also allowed the user to get a magnified and extremely detailed visual look at the target. “I’ve got a visual, lead,” he reported. “Looks like Russian MiG-23 fighters. Each formation looks like it has four fighters in very close formation. Three big fuel tanks and two gravity weapons each. I can’t identify the weapons, but they look like B-61 gravity nukes.”

Patrick called up the datalinked image from the AL-52 Dragon’s telescope on his supercockpit display. “That checks,” Patrick said. “RN-40 tactical nuclear gravity bomb, the only one cleared for external carriage on supersonic fighters. Start weeding them out, Zipper.”

“Roger that, sir. Fire in the sky.” He hit his command button and spoke, “Attack targets.”

“Attack targets, stop attack,” the computer responded. Seconds later: “Attack commencing.”

In the tail section of the AL-52 Dragon, pellets of tritium fluoride dropped into an aluminum combustion chamber under computer control and were bombarded by beams from several diode lasers. The resulting cloud of gas was compressed and further heated by magnetic fields until the gas changed to plasma, a highly charged superheated form of energy. The plasma energy was channeled into a laser generator, which produced a tremendous pulse of laser light that was amplified and focused through a long collimation tube through the AL-52’s fuselage and directed forward. A four-foot diameter mirror, controlled by laser-radar arrays on the AL-52’s fuselage, predistorted and steered the laser beam toward its target, correcting and focusing the beam to compensate for atmospheric distortion.

Even after traveling almost a hundred miles through space, the invisible laser beam was focused down to the size of a softball by the time it rested on the fuselage of the lead Russian MiG-23 fighter-bomber. Precisely tracked by the laser-radar arrays, the beam quickly burned through the fighter’s steel surface on the left side just forward of the wing root. Before the laser burned through fuel and hydraulic lines under the skin, the sudden structural failure caused the MiG’s entire left wing to peel away from the fuselage like a banana skin. Before the pilot or any of his wingmen knew what was happening, their leader disappeared in a tremendous ball of fire and hit the icy Bering Sea a fraction of a second later.

The sudden loss of their leader caused the first attack formation to scatter. Executing their preplanned lost-wingman maneuvers, the three wingmen turned away from their original track and started a rapid climb to be sure they got away from the ocean, from their doomed leader, and from the other members of their attack group. They had no choice but to completely clear out of the way, then rejoin using radar or visual cues or execute their strike as single-ship attackers.

The other three four-ship formations saw the first plane explode and go in. Thankful it wasn’t them, they activated their electronic countermeasures equipment, tightened their oxygen masks and seat belts, and prepared to take on whatever enemy antiair weapons were in the vicinity — until the second lead MiG-23 exploded right before their eyes, moments after the first, and again with absolutely no warning whatsoever.

“Bobcat, I’ve got six single-ships and four more attack formations still inbound,” Tarantino reported. “I’ve also got a caution message on my laser. I might have just two or three shots remaining before the magnetron field strength is below safety limits.”

“Copy that, Two-two,” Patrick responded. “I’m engaging now. You can reposition to engage any bandits that leak through.” Patrick activated his laser-radar arrays, designated the third attack formation, and, at a range of about sixty miles, commanded, “Attack aircraft.”

“Attack aircraft command received, stop attack,” the computer responded. Moments later, when Patrick did not countermand his order, the computer announced, “Attack aircraft Anaconda.” The forward bomb-bay doors swung inward, and the first AIM-154 Anaconda long-range hypersonic air-to-air missile dropped free from the bomb bay. The weapon fell for less than a hundred feet, then ignited its first-stage solid rocket motor and shot ahead and skyward. By the time the motor burned out, the missile was traveling at over twice the speed of sound, and a ramjet sustainer engine kicked in, accelerating the missile to more than Mach 5. A second and third missile followed seconds later.

Now flying faster than sixty miles per minute, it did not take long for the first Anaconda missile to reach its quarry. Seven seconds before impact, the missile activated its own terminal-guidance radar — that was the first indication to the MiG-23 crews that they were under attack.

The third attack formation scattered, leaving trails of radar-decoying chaff in their wakes. The first Anaconda missile’s radar was now being hopelessly jammed, and it switched guidance back to the signals from the EB-52 Megafortress’s laser-radar system. The missile abandoned the third formation of MiGs and steered itself toward one of the single-ship aircraft. The missile ran out of fuel and detonated several hundred feet away from its target, but that was enough to create fear and confusion in all of the remaining attackers.

The second and third Anaconda missiles did not miss. They picked off single-ship attackers one by one as they maneuvered to get on their bomb-run tracks. “Splash two,” Patrick announced. “I count three large formations and…hell, at least fifteen or twenty single-ship attackers lining up for bomb runs. I’ve got nine Anacondas remaining.”

Just then he heard, “Time to bug out, sir,” on the command channel.

Patrick studied his supercockpit display — and his eyes widened in surprise as his sensors finally identified the weapon approaching them from behind. “Left turn heading one-five-zero, and do it now, Shade!” he ordered.

O’Dea didn’t hesitate but threw her EB-52 into a hard left turn, cobbing the throttles to full military power and keeping back pressure and bottom rudder in to tighten the turn. She could hear one of their six passengers on the upper deck retching and hoped to hell it was into a barf bag. Shade completed her turn first and only then asked, “What’s going on, General?”

“Lancelot in the air,” Patrick said simply.

“Roger that,” O’Dea said. That was enough for her.

One hundred miles behind Patrick’s formation of modified B-52s was a second formation of three modified B-1B bombers called “Vampires.” Commanded by Brigadier General Rebecca Furness from Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base, the EB-1C Vampires were the next generation in flying battleships, specifically designed to carry a large variety of standoff weapons into combat.

The Vampires’ primary weapon was the ABM-3 Lancelot air-launched anti-ballistic-missile weapon. Designed to be an interim weapon for use against ballistic missiles until the airborne-laser aircraft weapon system was perfected, the ABM-3 was in effect a four-stage air-launched Patriot missile, using the Vampire bomber as its first-stage engine. Steered by the Vampire’s laser-radar array and by its own onboard terminal-guidance radar, the Lancelot missile had a range of nearly two hundred miles and could attack targets even in near-Earth orbit.

But the Lancelot missile itself was only part of the effectiveness of the weapon; its primary deadliness came from its plasma-yield warhead. Unlike a high-explosive or thermonuclear warhead, Lancelot’s warhead created a large cloud of plasma gas that instantly converted any matter within its sphere into plasma, effectively vaporizing it. Even though the size of the superhot plasma sphere was limited when created in Earth’s atmosphere — the warhead was designed to explode in space, where the plasma bubble was thousands of feet in diameter and could even be electronically shaped and steered by computer control — the kill zone in the lower atmosphere was still hundreds of yards wide.

And when it exploded now, in the midst of the fourth formation of MiG-23 attackers, all four fighter-bombers simply, instantly ceased to exist.

“My God,” Patrick breathed. He had seen the effects of the plasma-yield warhead many times — he was the first use one in test launches over the Pacific — but it still never failed to astound him. It was a totally fearsome weapon. The plasma-yield detonation had taken out not just the fourth formation of MiGs but several of the single-ship bombers as well. “I see two formations and eight stragglers,” he said.

“Keep coming south, sir,” Rebecca Furness said, and at that moment Patrick saw another Lancelot missile heading north toward the Russian planes. Her second Lancelot missile malfunctioned and failed to detonate, but a Lancelot fired from one of her wingmen destroyed another complete formation. By then the sixth formation of MiG-23s and all of the surviving single-ship aircraft were heading west, toward Petropavlovsk Naval Air Base on the Kamchatka Peninsula, their intended recovery base.

“Good shooting, Rebecca,” Patrick radioed. “Looks like they’re on the run.”

“Thanks, boss,” Rebecca said. “We’ll stay on patrol while you guys land and reload.”

“I’ll send the Dragon down to have the laser looked at,” Patrick said, “but we’re not going to land. I’m going to air-refuel the rest of the package and press on.”

“But you were ordered to land, boss.”

“And I fully intended to comply — until Gryzlov tried a sneak attack on Eareckson,” Patrick said. “Our mission is back on. I’m going to take the fight to Gryzlov and make him negotiate — with the barrel of a gun pointed right in his face.”

President Anatoliy Gryzlov, seated in the center of a raised row of seats behind Chief of the General Staff Nikolai Stepashin and his senior aides, could immediately see that something had happened. The staff officers with the headsets listening to reports had suddenly stiffened, then looked furtively at Stepashin, then quickly turned away before they were noticed; the technicians working on the grease boards froze, looked at their symbols with angst, then stepped away from the boards as if unsure what to do. “What has happened, General?” he asked.

“I…er, reports are still coming in, sir,” Stepashin stammered.

“Damn it, Stepashin, what happened?” Gryzlov thundered. Heads snapped up at the command, then lowered quickly back to consoles and papers.

“One of our flight leaders of the Shemya attack force reports that he has lost contact with…with all of the other flight leaders,” Stepashin said. “Flight Six is leading his group plus five stragglers back to their poststrike base at Petropavlovsk.”

“One flight plus five…nine aircraft?” Gryzlov exclaimed. “We sent twenty-four planes on that strike mission!” Stepashin could do nothing but nod. “Was Eareckson destroyed?” Stepashin didn’t need to respond to answer the question. “Was Eareckson even hit?” Stepashin shook his head. “Damn it, General, I thought we had intelligence that said there were no aircraft except a few tankers and transport planes at Eareckson — probably an advance force preparing for the arrival of a large number of aircraft, but certainly not a base-defense force. What in hell happened?”

“Our flight leader said they were intercepted by air-defense aircraft firing air-to-air missiles, some with nuclear warheads,” Stepashin said.

Gryzlov was about to continue his tirade but stopped short. “Nuclear weapons? I don’t think so,” he said. He shook his head, thought for a moment, then nodded knowingly. “No, I think what the squadron encountered was McLanahan’s attack force of Megafortresses and Vampires and his other high-tech aircraft. It was just plain bad luck, Nikolai. Either McLanahan’s forces were deploying to Eareckson or President Thorn really did order those planes to return to Eareckson, and McLanahan was obeying his order — rather uncharacteristic of him. They may have even used one of their plasma-yield weapons when they found they were in danger of being overrun — one detonation could have easily destroyed a close formation of MiGs.”

The Russian president shook his head, and Stepashin was surprised to see a smile creep across his face. He lit up a cigarette, the same crocodile smile still on his face, although his voice was now seething with anger. “You know what else, Stepashin? We will never get a phone call from Thomas Thorn. He will never accuse us of breaking the agreement or even acknowledge that anything untoward happened. If he didn’t realize it before — and I’m positive he was sincere when he said he would recall McLanahan’s forces in the interest of peace — he knows it now: The fight is on.”

“What do you want to do, sir?” Stepashin asked.

“McLanahan will come now — no doubt about it,” Gryzlov said. “It could happen at any time. Start a watch from the last report from our MiG bombers, set aside enough time for McLanahan to refuel those forces at Eareckson and rearm the ones that expended weapons, and then compute flight time to Vladivostok, Petropavlovsk, Kavaznya, or Anadyr — that is how long you have to get your air-defense forces in place. Whatever he has in mind, he’ll come, and he will come hard and fast.”