Plan of Attack

Prologue

SA-17 target-detection radar, twelve o’clock, fifty miles, no problem, well below detection threshold…oh, wow, a newcomer, SA-12 surveillance radar, one o’clock, eighty-five miles,” the reconnaissance technician reported. The guy looked all of nineteen years old and sounded even younger. He could’ve been commenting on the appearance of aliens in a video game — he was neither excited nor surprised, just gleefully energized. “SA-12 datalink signals being transmitted…still not locked on, but he knows we’re out here. He — Wait, radar’s down. He shut it off in a big hurry.”

“Well, well — the Russkies sneaked an SA-12 into the theater,” Major General Patrick McLanahan remarked. He was well accustomed to the youthful expressions and seemingly laid-back style of his soldiers, and he tried not to impart his own “red alert” mentality on them. The forty-seven-year-old two-star Air Force general typed in commands on his computer terminal, calling up any additional information on this new contact. “Possibly a full SA-12 battery — six transporter-erector-launchers plus five loader-launchers tied into a surveillance radar vehicle, sector-scanning radar vehicle, and command post. He’s pretty far outside Ashkhabad — it’s obviously not intended to protect Russian forces in the capital. It’s a clear violation.”

“They’re moving the heavy guns a little farther east every day,” Air Force Colonel Daren Mace remarked. The fifty-one-year-old Air Force veteran watched as the large, full-color tactical display updated itself with the location and identification of the new Russian surface-to-air missile unit. The SA-12, similar in performance to the American Patriot antiaircraft system, was one of the Russian Federation’s most advanced surface-to-air missile systems, capable of destroying large aircraft out as far as sixty miles. “You’d think they didn’t want us out there watching them or something.” He made a few inputs on his own keyboard. “The task force has been updated with the new intel, and we’ve sent warnings to all the United Nations participants,” he went on. “The Russians are threatening past the sixtieth meridian now with the SA-12, sir. If they keep this up, they’ll have surface-to-air missile coverage over Mary itself in just a few days.”

Patrick nodded. The Republic of Turkmenistan had been cut in half since the Taliban invasion last year, with the Turkmen government and military virtually exiled to the city of Mary in the east and the Army of the Russian Federation in control of the capital city of Ashkhabad in the west. The United Nations Security Council had ordered all parties to stand fast until peacekeeping forces could be moved into the country to try to sort everything out, and to everyone’s surprise the resolution passed without a veto from Russia. Now it appeared that the Russians were violating the order and moving steadily eastward, taking steps to control the skies first and then slowly taking more and more of the countryside. “I’ll go to Eighth Air Force again and make sure they know that the Russians haven’t stopped pushing east.”

“Think that’ll do any good, sir?” Daren asked. “We’ve painted a pretty clear picture of the Russians moving east across Turkmenistan, in violation of the Security Council’s resolution. The SA-12 is a lot more than a tactical defensive weapon — one battery can shut off two hundred thousand cubic miles of airspace.”

“Our job is to surveille, monitor, analyze, and report — not attack,” Patrick said with a hint of weariness in his voice as he keyed in commands to submit a report to Eighth Air Force’s senior duty controller. Eighth Air Force, located in Shreveport, Louisiana, was the Air Force major command in charge of all of America’s heavy bomber forces. “I’m taking it upon myself to have the assets in place in case we’re asked to respond. I have a feeling I’m lucky to continue to be doing that.” Daren Mace said nothing — he knew that the general was definitely correct.

Patrick, Daren, and their technical crew were conducting an aerial surveillance and reconnaissance mission over central Turkmenistan, a former Soviet Central Asian republic — but they were safe and secure in the BATMAN, or Battle Management Center, at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base in north-central Nevada. The aircraft flying over Turkmenistan was a QB-1C Vampire III, a highly modified unmanned B-1 bomber loaded with electronic surveillance and monitoring equipment. Eavesdropping equipment allowed Patrick to intercept signals from a wide variety of sources, and the bomber’s laser radar, or LADAR, allowed them to take incredibly detailed images of ground and air targets from long range.

Along with defensive weapons — six AIM-120 Advanced Medium Range Air-to-Air Missiles (AMRAAMs) on external fuselage hardpoints — the Vampire bomber carried two StealthHawk UCAVs (Unmanned Combat Air Vehicles) on a special rotary launcher in its center bomb bay. Resembling wide, fat, winged surfboards, the StealthHawk drones carried small but powerful precision-guided missiles and cluster munitions to attack hostile ground targets. The StealthHawks could be retrieved, refueled, and rearmed inside the Vampire, allowing each drone to attack dozens of targets while the mother ship stayed well out of range of antiaircraft threats.

Patrick punched the radio channel command, entered a password, waited a few moments until the secure channels synchronized, then spoke, “Fortress, this is Avenger, secure.”

“Avenger, Fortress is secure,” the Eighth Air Force senior controller on duty responded.

“How are you tonight, Taylor?”

“Just fine, General,” Air Force Lieutenant Colonel Taylor Viner replied. Taylor Rose Viner was a young and talented aerospace engineer and command pilot that Patrick had tried for years to recruit to Dreamland, the top-secret weapon center in Nevada, but the mother of twin boys had opted for a halfway normal family life as one of the shift commanders in charge of Eighth Air Force’s command center. “Go ahead, sir.”

“We’ve detected a new SAM site in central Turkmenistan, an SA-12 less than forty miles outside the city of Mary,” Patrick said. “It’s not a threat to task-force aircraft right now, but that’s only because we’re stealthier than the average bear. If we put up any standard reconnaissance aircraft, they’d be dead meat.”

“The Security Council resolution prohibits Russian forces from approaching closer than fifty kilometers from Mary — that’s thirty miles,” Viner said. “He’s legal.”

“But an SA-12 is a threat to large aircraft out to forty miles, and that means over the city of Mary,” Patrick said.

“I understand, sir,” Viner said. “I’m not arguing, only playing devil’s advocate.” She was also gently reminding Patrick of the first likely question the Eighth Air Force commanders would ask if she woke them up with this information. “What do you want to do, sir?”

“I’m requesting permission to launch a StealthHawk UCAV over the city in an effort to ascertain the Russians’ intent.”

“UCAV? You’ve got UCAVs on board the task-force aircraft, sir?” Taylor asked with surprise. She paused for a moment as she typed on her own computer terminal, then added, “Sir, there’s nothing on the frag order about UCAVs. Are they armed, sir?” Patrick hesitated — and that’s all Viner needed to know. “General, my recommendation to you would be to launch another aircraft immediately that is armed exactly per the frag order to replace the one you have on station.”

“The frag order doesn’t prohibit us from carrying UCAVs, and it does permit us to carry defensive weapons.”

“Yes, sir,” Viner replied, in a tone of voice that clearly said, The bosses aren’t going to like that argument one bit. “Shall I upchannel your observations and request, sir, or would you like to continue monitoring the situation?”

Taylor was making one last attempt to dissuade Patrick from taking any action, and Patrick decided she was right. “We’ll continue monitoring the situation, Colonel,” Patrick said. “You can put in your report that we have StealthHawk UCAVs on board the Bobcat patrol aircraft and that we are ready to respond immediately if necessary. Please mark the SA-12 battery-contact report ‘urgent’ and let them know we’re standing by.”

“Yes, sir,” Viner responded. “Anything else to report, sir?”

“No, Taylor. Ops normal otherwise. We’re standing by to respond.”

“Roger that, sir. Fortress clear.”

“Avenger standing by.” Patrick sat back in his seat and studied the displays in front of him. “Well, Daren,” he said to Mace beside him, “I sure hope I didn’t piss off the brass — any more than I already have.”

“If you’ll pardon an unsolicited observation, sir, I think they’re probably going to be perpetually pissed at you, whether or not you launched the Vampires with UCAVs,” Daren observed. Patrick nodded in agreement. He was right: This whole mission was a no-win situation from day one, and Patrick was the center of the shit storm.

The United Nations Security Council resolution ordered aerial observation of Turkmenistan only. President Thomas Thorn, in a surprise move, pledged support, and the council accepted. The secretary of defense ordered U.S. Central Command, the major command in charge of military operations in Central Asia, to set up round-the-clock reconnaissance; Central Command in turn tapped the U.S. Air Force to perform the reconnaissance task.

At first the Air Force tasked Twelfth Air Force, the Air Combat Command headquarters that owned long-range reconnaissance aircraft, to plan a reconnaissance schedule. Twelfth Air Force built a plan to deploy its conventional reconnaissance aircraft — the unmanned RQ-4A Global Hawk, the U-2 “Dragon Lady” spy plane, the RC-135 RIVET JOINT electronic reconnaissance plane, and the E-8 Joint STARS (Surveillance and Targeting Radar System) ground-reconnaissance aircraft. With a combination of these aircraft over Turkmenistan, augmented with satellite reconnaissance, they’d have a complete, 24/7 real-time picture of the situation there.

But the 111th Bomb Wing’s aircraft, already deployed to Diego Garcia during the initial conflict in Turkmenistan, offered so much more than just simple surveillance. An unmanned QAL-52 Dragon airborne-laser aircraft could protect as much as 20 million cubic miles of airspace from ballistic missiles, cruise missiles, aircraft, and even some ground targets; the unmanned QB-1C and QB-52 “flying battleships” each provided as much offensive and defensive firepower as a flight of tactical fighters. At Patrick McLanahan’s urging, Central Command vetoed Twelfth Air Force’s plans and ordered Eighth Air Force, in charge of the Air Force’s long-range bombers, to deploy McLanahan’s Air Battle Force to patrol Turkmenistan. The high-tech bombers of the 111th Bomb Wing had acquitted themselves well in the opening conflict with the Russians, and this was seen as a reward for their efforts; besides, they were already in place and knew the tactical situation thoroughly.

This decision managed to upset both Eighth and Twelfth Air Force commanders, although they had no choice but to accept it. Eighth Air Force had its own fleet of strike aircraft, of course—160 long-range B-1B, B-52, and B-2 bombers and several hundred aerial-refueling tankers, along with a dazzling array of cruise missiles and precision-guided munitions. But they were all back in the States or providing long-range patrol duties with U.S. Navy Surface Action Groups around the world.

Although administratively part of the Air Reserve Forces — most of the men and women in the Wing were part of the Nevada Air National Guard — the 111th Bomb Wing operationally belonged to Eighth Air Force. But when it came down to it, no one at Eighth Air Force knew how to deploy or fight with the high-tech gadgets at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base. They had no choice but to place Major General Patrick McLanahan in charge of the operation, reporting directly to Eighth Air Force headquarters.

The decision to let Patrick’s Air Battle Force patrol Turkmenistan created a much more effective presence there for far less cost than Twelfth Air Force’s planned operation, but the decision did not sit well with many Air Force general officers. No doubt they were all waiting for Patrick and his fleet of robot planes to fail.

Daren Mace let Patrick stew in silence for several long moments. Daren was a bit older than Patrick, but his Air Force career had not been nearly as successful or dynamic — until he met up with the young two-star general. Now, as operations officer of the 111th Bomb Wing, Daren Mace commanded a growing fleet of the most high-tech warplanes on the planet, the majority of which were created by Patrick McLanahan in the supersecret desert research center at Elliott Air Force Base in Groom Lake, Nevada, commonly known as Dreamland. A few years ago, aerial-warfare expert Mace had made his living flipping slides and making coffee for generals and administrators in the Pentagon. Now those same generals and bean-counting bureaucrats were coming to him asking for answers to America’s tough defense problems.

“Want to bring that Vampire home,” Daren asked, “and replace it with one without StealthHawks aboard?”

Patrick looked as if he didn’t hear Mace. He was staring intently at the large, full-color tactical situation display, with the new SA-12 battery in the center. Finally he pointed at the screen on the wall before him. “You see anything wrong with how that SA-12 is deployed, Daren?” he asked.

Daren studied the display. Something had been nagging at him ever since the surface-to-air missile battery had been detected. The SA-12’s precise position was plotted on the screen, along with a circle representing the maximum effective range of the two-stage solid-propellant Russian 9M82 antiaircraft missile, a larger but almost direct copy of the American Patriot missile. “Well, I wouldn’t have put it there myself,” Daren said a few moments later.

“Why?”

“It’s too far south,” Daren replied. “If we were going to fly a strike mission against Russian forces coming from Ashkhabad, we could easily circumnavigate that SA-12.”

“Which tells you…?”

“That…maybe the Russians have another SA-12 battery farther north?”

“Exactly,” Patrick said. “How many batteries can a single SA-12 command post control?”

“Up to four — almost a hundred missiles total.”

“We might have two or three more batteries sneaking their way east as we speak.” Patrick pointed at several laser-radar returns well north of the SA-12 battery. “There’s a bunch of newcomers up there, but we haven’t identified them yet—”

“Because they haven’t broadcast any radar or radio datalink signals,” Daren said. “They could be anything — tanks, SCUDs, SAMs, camels — but if they didn’t flash a radar or broadcast what we think might be a fire-control datalink signal, we left it alone until we had time to give it a closer look.”

“But the SA-12 could use a hardwired cable datalink, which we couldn’t detect. They could be ready to fire within seconds,” Patrick said. He pointed at the screen on his console. “I count ten vehicles in this area and twelve in this general area here. They could be SA-12 batteries, sitting silent. I wish we had authorization to send some Tin Man recon units into the area.” But that was not going to happen. Part of Patrick’s Air Battle Force, the Tin Men were small commando teams outfitted with electronic battle armor, sophisticated sensor systems, and high-tech infantry weapons. They could move quietly, survive in extremely hostile situations, and reconnoiter large areas far behind enemy lines very quickly. Naturally, the Russians didn’t want them anywhere near their troops. They convinced the United Nations Security Council that the Tin Men were nothing but search-and-destroy squads, not a monitoring team, and so were forbidden to enter the theater of operations at all.

“I think it might be time to take a look,” Daren said. “Eighth Air Force might squawk if we launch a StealthHawk, but if we move the Vampire bomber in for a closer look…”

“Do it,” Patrick said.

Daren smiled and pulled his headset microphone closer to his lips, issuing orders to the technicians in the “virtual cockpit” behind him in the Battle Mountain Battle Management Center. The QB-1C Vampire III bomber normally operated under a preprogrammed flight plan written and uploaded on the ground, which commanded the bomber to patrol a certain area for a certain amount of time, then return for refueling or landing. But it took only moments for the technicians in the ground-based “cockpit” of the big bomber to change the flight plan and radio it to the bomber via secure satellite transmission.

Moments later Patrick and Daren watched as the unmanned Vampire bomber began moving farther and farther north. It took almost thirty minutes to change the patrol orbit a hundred miles north. “Laser radar transmitting…LADAR identifies the vehicles as transports. No SA-12s.”

“Get it in closer,” Patrick said. “I want a detailed identification.”

“Roger.” Daren issued more orders, and they watched as the Vampire bomber moved even closer to the suspect vehicles — now within twenty miles of the unidentified “transports.” “LADAR now classifying some of the vehicles as transporter-erector-launchers,” Daren reported. “We might have something here. What next, General? You want one of the StealthHawks to make a pass now?”

“Not quite yet,” Patrick responded. He thought for a moment, then, “Open the bomb doors.”

“That should get their attention,” Daren said. Into his microphone he ordered, “Send to Bobcat Zero-seven: open center bomb-bay doors. Do not launch UCAVs. Repeat, do not launch UCAVs.”

The QB-1C Vampire III bomber had the radar cross-section smaller than a bird — until one of its three sets of bomb-bay doors were opened. Once that happened, its radar size increased a thousandfold. Radar energy bounced and reflected inside the bomb bay, making the bomber’s apparent size on radar jump exponentially. Seconds after Daren issued the order, they heard a computer voice in their headsets: “Warning, threat radar, SA-12, eleven o’clock, twenty-two miles, surveillance scan…warning, datalink active, SA-12, eleven o’clock, twenty-one miles.”

“There it is,” Daren remarked. “You were right, sir — they have another SA-12 system farther north. And it’s a lot closer to Mary. They have full radar and antiaircraft-missile coverage of the city now.” He hit his intercom button. “Bobcat Zero-seven, close bomb doors, activate all defensive countermeasures, and get out of there fast.” He knew that the flight-control techs would simply take manual control of the Vampire and fly it directly away from the SA-12, while at the same time reprogramming the flight plan for a low-level evasive dash. “What do you want to do with the SA-12 batteries, General?”

“Kill them, Colonel,” Patrick said simply, punching up the datalink code for Eighth Air Force headquarters again. “It’s an unidentified hostile threat that is not authorized by United Nations resolution. Destroy it. Command vehicle first, then the radars, and then the missiles. I’ll notify Eighth Air Force of our actions.”

“Yes, sir,” Daren responded enthusiastically. On the secure command link, he ordered, “Bobcat Zero-seven, this is Bobcat. Designate the SA-12 contacts as hostiles and attack. Repeat, designate all SA-12 contacts as hostile and attack. We think they rolled an entire brigade into the area. If they did, I want them all found, and I want them to die soonest. Order of target priority: command-post vehicle, missile-control radars, scanning radars, and launchers.” The Vampire flight technicians acknowledged the order and hurriedly reprogrammed both the Vampire and its StealthHawks for the attack.

The Vampire began a fast turn to the east and a rapid descent. The tactical display showed the lethal-range ring of the SA-12 system — as the Vampire descended, the ring was getting smaller, but the bomber was still well within kill range. The display suddenly showed the Vampire’s rate of descent slowing dramatically. Daren was about to ask why when he realized that Bobcat Zero-seven had to almost level off to launch its StealthHawks — the UCAVs could not safely leave the center bomb bay with the bomber in a steep descent. “First StealthHawk away…”

“Hurry, damn it, hurry,” Patrick breathed.

“Warning, SA-12 missile guidance radar, six o’clock, thirty miles,” the computer blared. “Warning, missile launch…warning, second missile launch!”

“Second StealthHawk away…” Moments later the icon representing Bobcat Zero-seven disappeared. “Lost contact with Bobcat Zero-seven,” the flight-control tech reported. “Looks like both SA-12 missiles hit dead on.”

Daren Mace slammed a fist into a palm and swore loudly. “I don’t want to see anything but smoking holes in the ground where those SA-12s are!” he shouted.

“Take it easy, Colonel,” Patrick said. On his secure datalink, he spoke, “Fortress, this is Avenger, secure. Priority-alert notification.”

“Go ahead with your priority-alert notification, Avenger, Fortress is secure.” Patrick could hear the warning tones being sounded in the Eighth Air Force command center as Taylor Viner hit the ALERT button on her console, which sounded a tone in the entire room and would page each of the headquarters’ staff officers.

“Bobcat Zero-seven has just been shot down by a Russian SA-12 surface-to-air missile. Request permission to return fire with ground-attack UCAVs.”

“Copy your request, Avenger. Stand by.”

“General…?” Daren asked. The StealthHawks were beginning their attack runs.

“Continue,” Patrick said without hesitation. “Nail ’em.”

Each of the StealthHawk UCAVs carried millimeter-wave radar and infrared sensors that could precisely locate and identify the enemy targets. They received initial target-area instructions from the Vampire bomber, but, once released, they searched for targets on their own. A screen on the “big board” showed the decision-making matrix each StealthHawk employed. It was extraordinary to watch: The BATMAN staff saw the image the StealthHawk was looking at, saw it compare the image to its stored catalog of vehicles and come up with several possibilities. A few seconds later, the StealthHawk would take another “snap-shot” of the target and refine its guess until it came up with only one possibility. Then it selected a weapon that would be most effective in destroying the target: an AGM-211 mini-Maverick missile for the armored SA-12 command vehicle, and CBU-87/103 Combined Effects Munitions mines against the radar arrays and transporter-erector-launchers.

Two more SA-12 missiles launched moments after they picked up a sector-scan warning, followed by two more from a different set of launchers, but it was obvious the radar didn’t have a solid lock-on. “Four SA-12s in flight…missiles are deviating, the missile-tracking radar has lost contact…back to surveillance-scan mode only…clean misses.” The radar cross-section of each StealthHawk was one one-thousandth the size of the already-stealthy Vampire bomber — the Russian radar had no chance at all of tracking it except at very close range.

Both StealthHawks bypassed the second SA-12 battery and instead rushed the first group of vehicles detected — the one with the command-post vehicle, the nerve center of the SA-12 system. The Ural-4320 six-by-six was the smallest vehicle in the group, but that didn’t matter to the UCAVs — both launched a single mini-Maverick missile at the correct vehicle. Patrick and Daren watched the attack unfold as the area images from the StealthHawk’s sensors, and then the target images from the mini-Mav’s imaging infrared sensor, showed the missiles closing in. The mission commander had the option of designating another target or correcting the aimpoint, but it wasn’t necessary — the StealthHawks were perfectly accurate. Both missiles plowed dead-center into the command-post vehicle, transforming it into a cloud of fire in seconds.

Like meat-eating bees buzzing around a picnic table, the StealthHawks continued their work. The first UCAV sent its second mini-Maverick into the nearby 9S15MV surveillance-radar vehicle, which consisted of a large tracked vehicle carrying a massive billboardlike long-range radar. The second UCAV rolled in on another large radar array not far from the command-post vehicle, but Patrick hit his intercom button. “Negative on that target, Zero-seven,” he said. “That’s the sector-scanning radar — it’s only effective against ballistic-missile attack. Put another mini-Mav into that ‘billboard’ radar.” The remote mission commander overrode the StealthHawk’s target choice and instead guided it against the same long-range radar attacked by the first UCAV. Without the command-post vehicle, the SA-12 was lobotomized. Now, without the surveillance radar, it lost its long-range vision.

The StealthHawks continued their attack by orbiting the two SA-12 batteries, searching for targets for their second weapon — two canisters, each filled with thirty BLU-97 Combined Effects Munitions bomblets that were scattered in a wide oval pattern above a target cluster. Each bomblet was a two-pound high-explosive fragmenting case with an inflatable Ballute parachute tail and a tiny radio altimeter that measured how far aboveground the canister was and set off the explosive at precisely the correct instant. When detonated, each canister shot several thousand steel fragments in all directions out to fifty to sixty feet, strong enough to penetrate automotive steel and light armor. At the same time, a mixture of zirconium in the Cyclotol explosive ignited, creating a fireball hot enough to set off unprotected fuel tanks, detonate ammunition — or kill a human being — for thirty to forty feet away.

The two StealthHawks could not hope to destroy all of the over 180 remaining SA-12 missiles in the brigade, but their final attacks were still devastating. Each StealthHawk automatically adjusted its altitude and track so as to maximize the kill pattern of its Combined Effects canisters, dropping the canisters so that the scatter pattern of the BLU-97 bomblets hit as many targets as possible. Each run managed to hit at least two SA-12 transporter-erector-launchers or reload-launcher trailers, which created spectacular secondary explosions as the shrapnel ripped open missile casings and fuel tanks and the incendiary fireballs ignited the fuel or explosives within.

As the StealthHawks continued to orbit the area, they sent back images and radar maps of their handiwork. “Command vehicle, surveillance radar, and most of two entire SA-12 batteries destroyed or heavily damaged, sir,” the StealthHawk flight-control officer reported. “No radar or datalink transmissions detected.”

“Over thirty missiles destroyed and several more damaged,” Daren said. “Friggin’ unbelievable. We pretty much pulled the plug on this entire brigade.” Left unsaid was the casualty count — each SA-12 battery was manned by almost fifty soldiers, and the command vehicle alone had twelve officers and technicians on board.

But even after all of their weapons were expended, the StealthHawks were not finished. Because they knew that their Vampire mother ship had been destroyed and they did not have enough fuel to reach friendly territory or rendezvous with another mother ship, they located one last target — both of the UCAVs selected a surviving launcher filled with SA-12 missiles — and dove in on it. Their small, thirty-pound “suicide” warheads ensured that both the target and the UCAVs themselves were destroyed in their final kamikaze attack runs.

“Direct impacts on two more transporter-erector-launchers,” Daren reported. Patrick was still listening for word from Eighth Air Force headquarters. “Almost two entire SA-12 batteries destroyed, including their command-and-surveillance center.”

“Pass along to your Bobcat crews, ‘Well done, good shooting,’ Daren,” Patrick said. It was over in less than ten minutes — one QB-1C Vampire bomber and two StealthHawk UCAVs destroyed with no casualties, versus half of a Russian SA-12 brigade with possibly dozens of casualties. Even Patrick was astounded by the power and efficiency of his unmanned aerial-combat warplanes. “Let’s get another Vampire airborne and on patrol, and let’s pinpoint the rest of that SA-12 brigade.”

“Roger that, sir,” Daren responded eagerly. He left his station beside Patrick to go up the theaterlike Battle Management Center to the Bobcat flight-control center to pass along the general’s congratulations. At the same time, Patrick heard a chime in his headset. He entered his passcode and waited for the secure linkup. “Fortress, Avenger is up and secure.”

“What’s your report, General?” Patrick recognized the groggy, gruff voice as Major General Charles Zoltrane, the deputy commander of Eighth Air Force. Well, he thought ruefully, the brass was awake now. He was probably speaking from a secure phone in his quarters, and he definitely did not sound happy about being awakened at this hour.

“One of my unmanned Vampire bombers was shot down by a Russian SA-12 surface-to-air missile battery just outside Mary, sir,” Patrick replied. Patrick had known Zoltrane for many years, and they were of equal rank. But when Zoltrane used “General” instead of “Patrick,” McLanahan knew to keep this conversation formal and carefully observe their chain of command.

“Shit,” Zoltrane murmured. “How in hell did you manage that, General?”

“We were investigating some unidentified ground returns just twenty miles outside Mary, well within the prohibited area, when it popped on and nailed us. We detected two SA-12 batteries and their command-and-control units.”

“Transmit the site’s coordinates and electromagnetic signals to headquarters, and let’s have a look.” But Zoltrane detected the hesitation in Patrick’s response and said, “What else do you have to report, McLanahan?”

“The SA-12 batteries have been neutralized, sir,” Patrick said. “The command-and-control unit, surveillance radar, and a total of ten transporter-erector-launchers have been destroyed.”

“Destroyed? Destroyed with what?”

“StealthHawk UCAVs, sir, launched from our Vampire just before it was shot down.”

“StealthHawks? You had Stealthhawks on board your reconnaissance aircraft? How many?”

“Two.”

“Where are they now?”

“They were both completely destroyed when they kamikazied into SA-12 transporter-erector-launchers.”

“Who gave the order to attack those SA-12 batteries, General?”

“I did, sir, as soon as my Vampire bomber was attacked and destroyed by hostile ground fire from within the prohibited area around Mary.”

“You received no guidance from General Samson or from CENT-COM?” Zoltrane asked. Lieutenant General Terrill Samson was the commander of Eighth Air Force and the immediate task-force commander. Although anyone up the chain of command could have issued attack orders to Patrick — even the president of the United States himself — most if not all commands would have gone through General Samson at Eighth Air Force except in the direst of emergencies.

“No, sir.”

“I see.” There was silence for several long moments, during which Patrick could tell that Zoltrane was still on the line. Then, abruptly, he said, “Stand by,” and the connection was broken. That was not a good sign, Patrick thought.

Daren Mace returned a few minutes later. “Bobcat Zero-four is inbound inside the ingress corridor over western Pakistan and should be on station in less than an hour,” he reported. “He does not have any StealthHawks on board. Bobcat Zero-two will be ready to launch from Diego Garcia in about thirty minutes, and he’s loaded with two UCAVs. We can only load fifty percent of our Vampires with UCAVs for now, but we expect to get a few more ready to upload within twenty-four hours. Within forty-eight hours, all Vampires will have UCAVs on board.”

“Very good,” Patrick said. “Get Zero-two airborne as soon as possible, with StealthHawks and full defensive armament. All Vampires that launch from now on will have StealthHawks on board unless further advised. The Russians might have many more SA-12s waiting for us out there.”

“Yes, sir.”

Patrick glanced up and saw Brigadier General David Luger, his second in command, trotting down the stairs toward the command console, apparently in a very big hurry, looking worriedly at Patrick. “Put Zero-four on patrol, and have him identify each and every laser-radar return within fifty miles of Mary,” he went on. “If the Russians have a portable latrine out there, I want to know about it.”

“You got it, sir,” Daren said enthusiastically. He started to put on his headset to talk with the flight-control crew in the BATMAN and his ground crews on Diego Garcia, but David Luger came over to him, bent down, and whispered something to him. Daren Mace looked quizzically at Luger and shook his head, but Luger grasped Mace by his right upper arm, and Mace stood up and retreated up the stairs toward the flight-control crews.

Patrick watched this interchange with a slight feeling of dread that he tried not to make evident in his voice as he asked, “What’s going on, Dave?”

“I received a call from Eighth Air Force headquarters, Patrick,” Luger replied. Patrick noticed that David was in a flight suit but was un-shaven and had barely taken the time to lace up his flying boots. At that moment a tech from the communications center trotted down the steps carrying a message. He handed it to Luger, who read it quickly. Patrick saw his face turn ashen. “Oh, shit…”

“What in hell’s going on, Texas?” Patrick asked.

“You…you’ve been relieved of duty, Patrick,” Luger responded, his voice shaking with disbelief and shock. He handed the message to Patrick. “I’ve been ordered to take command of the Air Battle Force and to confine you to quarters until you can be reassigned. All of our planes are being recalled. You…Christ, Patrick, you’ve been demoted to brigadier general.”

Patrick read the message, shrugged, and simply nodded. “Guess they didn’t appreciate me blowing up a Russian SAM site without letting them know first,” he said simply.

“Patrick…Muck, this is not right,” David stammered. “Eighth Air Force can’t take away your command just like that—we don’t belong to them. And only the president, the SECDEF, or the chief of staff can take away your stars.”

“This message is not from Eighth Air Force,” Patrick said, holding up the note and tapping the relevant line. “It came from the Pentagon, transmitted in response to a request from General Samson,” Patrick said. He crumpled the paper in his hands. “You have command of the Air Battle Force, Dave. I’ve been ordered to go home.” He looked at his friend, clasped him on the shoulder, then took off his headset and dropped it on the command console. “I’ll be with my son in quarters. If they want me, they can reach me there. I’ll have my earset on — don’t ring my home phone. It might wake Bradley.”

David Luger was just too stunned to move. “Muck…”

“Don’t let them take away your ability to fight, Dave,” Patrick said, looking at his longtime friend and partner with a defeated expression Luger had never seen before. “The staff weenies at Barksdale don’t have a clue. Don’t let them take away your strength.” And with that, Patrick McLanahan marched up the steps and out of the Battle Management Center.

In the blink of an eye, a general reduced to nothing.

Yes, sir, I know what my orders were,” Colonel General Boris Kasimov, commander of Turkmenistan Defensive Alliance forces, forcibly responded on the secure telephone line. “The order was ‘all weapons tight.’ But we were under attack, damn it. The Americans had an armed B-1 bomber up there over Mary, and it rolled in on my brigade and attacked without any warning.”

“Take it easy, Boris, take it easy,” General Anatoliy Gryzlov, president of the Russian Federation, asked in a soft, understanding tone. Short, slender, with thin brown hair and bright blue eyes, the former cosmonaut, test pilot, and, until recently, chief of staff of the Russian military, usually appeared as if he would very much like to beat up everyone to whom he spoke. But when he was speaking to his generals, Gryzlov’s entire demeanor was different; he treated them all, from the most senior commanders to the lowliest conscripts, with fatherly attention.

“Sir, I take full responsibility for this incident. I—”

“Boris, hold it,” Gryzlov implored. “It’s me, Anatoliy, your classmate at the academy, your squadron leader, your poker buddy. We’ve served too long together, fought too many battles, for you to talk to me like an altar boy caught yanking his wanker in the confessional. Just speak to me, all right? What happened?”

Gryzlov could hear Kasimov take a deep, relieved breath and a hard swallow. “General, we came under attack, and the air-defense brigade reacted, plain and simple,” he said wearily. “All of a sudden that damned American bomber appeared out of nowhere and headed right for the number-one battery, and it had its bomb doors open. The crews saw it on the optronic sights, and everyone panicked. They lit it up and fired on it without requesting permission.”

“For Christ’s sake, Boris, I know your crews have more discipline than that,” Gryzlov said. “That’s the reason we picked that brigade to deploy on this mission — they knew how to preserve operational security. My orders were specific: Weapons stayed tight unless I personally, verbally gave the order to attack. And that was only going to happen after we started moving the armored divisions eastward — not for another six months at least. I was hoping by then that the world would have forgotten about that stinking rathole called Turkmenistan and leave us alone to do our business, just like Chechnya. This incident puts the conflict right back on the world media’s hot sheet.”

“General, blame it on the Americans,” Kasimov said angrily. “They weren’t permitted to bring armed attack aircraft into Turkmenistan, just unarmed reconnaissance planes and other aircraft armed with defensive systems only.”

“I know that, Boris,” Gryzlov said. “What I’m asking you is, what were your orders to the brigade? Exactly.” There was a long pause. “Boris, let’s not play games here. Talk to me.”

“I told my brigade commanders that the order from you was ‘weapons tight,’ but I made it clear to them that I did not want to lose the brigade to attackers, especially Americans or Turkmenis,” Kasimov said finally. “I told the colonel that they were not to initiate an attack, but they were not to lose the brigade under any circumstances.” He quickly added, “Surely, General, you did not expect me to just allow that S-300 brigade to be attacked from the air without fighting back? I know that your orders didn’t mean we should just let the entire brigade be wiped out….”

“Boris…”

“The Americans had a B-1 bomber that launched two unmanned attack aircraft,” Kasimov said, his voice pleading now. “Each one of those things employed at least two guided missiles and two cluster munitions before flying themselves into another target. They took out nearly the entire antiaircraft brigade! At least we got the fucking bomber — and if you ask me, we should follow it up by attacking their forward base in Diego Garcia. We can’t let the Americans get away with this!”

Gryzlov winced when Kasimov reminded him of that fact. The Antey S-300V-series surface-to-air missile system — what the West called the SA-12 “Gladiator”—was the best long-range, high-altitude antiaircraft weapon system in the Russian Federation, and probably the best in the world; it was also the world’s first workable mobile antiballistic-missile system. Despite its effectiveness, however, Russia’s outmoded and inadequate industrial and technical development centers and its rapidly shrinking defense budget couldn’t produce enough spare parts and reloads for its own training and operational needs, let alone fully support its export customers. Just a single pair of missiles expended in a rare live-fire training exercise took weeks, sometimes months to replace — losing two entire missile batteries, not to mention the command-and-surveillance radar vehicles, would be devastating.

And the men that were lost…five officers and thirteen technicians killed, including the brigade commander and his deputy; three officers and thirty techs injured, some critically. It was a devastating loss. It didn’t matter that the United States was technically in violation of the UN Security Council’s peacekeeping agreement: Russia had suffered a tremendous loss, in a country where it had almost total control.

The plan to move the S-300 brigade secretly into central Turkmenistan was Gryzlov’s, but it could be accomplished only with perfect and careful security. All of the components of the S-300 could easily be disguised while on the march, and it could stay well disguised and hidden even when fully set up and operational — it could go from completely closed up and camouflaged to ready to fire in just five minutes. The key was simple: Keep the radars off the air and the datalink transmissions between radar and fire-control centers limited to fiber-optic landline cables. The orders were not followed — or were never properly issued — and the brigade was discovered. No one in Moscow thought the Americans would immediately open fire on the brigade with precision-guided and cluster munitions, but they did, and the cost in human life and loss of equipment was high indeed.

And someone was going to have to pay it.

“Damn it, Boris, I’m sorry it happened,” Gryzlov said. “I wish your boys had kept their fingers off the COMMIT buttons.”

“I apologize for that, General,” Kasimov said. “I take full responsibility. But the fact remains: The Americans killed almost two dozen men and injured many more. The Americans provoked a response by their actions, and they employed offensive weapons in violation of the peacekeeping agreement.”

“I know, and I will hold them fully responsible for the deaths they caused,” Gryzlov said. “I’m sorry, Boris, but I have to bring you back to Moscow. You did not pull the trigger, but you are responsible for what happened out there and for the actions of your men.”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

“Don’t worry, Boris, I’m not going to make you the whipping boy — you know more about Central Asia than almost any other general officer, and you’ve done a commendable job commanding our forces in Turkmenistan all these years. You’ll still be involved in everything that goes on in Central Asia. Turn your staff operations over to General Bilatov, hop a flight back, and report to General Stepashin. After you two have a chance to talk, we’ll meet and discuss our next moves, once the furor over this incident dies down.”

“Yes, sir,” Kasimov replied. “I’ll depart within the hour.”

“Good. That will be all. I’ll see you in a day or two.”

Colonel General Kasimov felt somewhat relieved as he called for his staff transport jet, a Yakovlev-40, to be made ready for departure and his staff car brought around to take him home so he could pack. He was going to be roasted over the coals by Nikolai Stepashin, the new chief of staff and the commander of the Ministry of State Security, perhaps even demoted. But Gryzlov needed experienced, well-educated officers for his Central Asian campaign, and Kasimov felt confident that his talents were not going to be wasted commanding some frozen remote radar site in Siberia for the next ten years just because one of his lieutenants had an itchy trigger finger.

Kasimov briefed his deputy commander while he loaded files into his briefcase, then shook hands with his office staff members and strode out to his waiting car. The plane would not be ready for at least another hour, so he had time to relax and have a few drinks in his quarters, an unassuming concrete-block building on the northeast side of Ashkhabad International Airport. He told his aide and driver to stay in the car — he could pack easier and faster himself, and he wanted to be alone. He would be done as soon as the plane was fueled and ready for takeoff.

He was sure as hell not going to miss this shitty little house, he thought as he fixed a stiff drink, retrieved his A-3 kit bag from under his bed, zipped it open, and started throwing clothing into it. Duty in Turkmenistan was great until this whole incident had blown up in their faces — the Taliban invasion of eastern Turkmenistan, the threat to Russian interests, the mobilization of troops, the American involvement, the battle for the cities of Mary and Chärjew, and the Americans’ preemptive strike inside Russia to cut off their counterattack. Since then all officers who had formerly lived in nice apartments in the capital had to move to these little houses at the airport, where it was a bit more secure. Inadequate heat and light, terrible water, leaking plumbing, drafty doors and windows, cold in the winter and hot in the summer — he now lived only slightly better than his troops in their tents or out in the field camping beside their armored vehicles.

Satisfied that the rest of his packing could be finished in a few minutes, Kasimov kicked off his boots, stretched out on his bed, and took a deep sip of his vodka on ice. Still at least a half hour to wait. He thought he should call his wife but decided instead to call her from base operations right before departure. He took another sip, then closed his eyes for a short catnap.

Kasimov never heard the gunman enter through the back door, step silently into the bedroom, place a pistol muzzle under the general’s chin, and fire a single sound-suppressed round into his brain. In seconds the gunman retrieved the spent shell casing and replaced it with one from a small plastic bag, left some hair and fabric samples near the body so they could be easily found by forensic investigators, and departed.

Russian president Anatoliy Gryzlov replaced the telephone receiver on its cradle. “Something terrible has happened — General Kasimov has been murdered in his quarters,” he said tonelessly, matter-of-factly.

Minister of State Security and Chief of the General Staff Nikolai Stepashin nodded. “A horrible tragedy. I shall commence an immediate investigation. No doubt anti-Russian Turkmen assassins or Muslim terrorists were involved. They will be hunted down and summarily executed.” He could have been reading from a long-ago-prepared script — which, in fact, he was.

“Now that we have the unpleasantries out of the way,” Gryzlov said, “these are my orders: I want Turkmenistan in complete Russian control in thirty days. I want every Taliban fighter and sympathizer dead and buried, and I want every American aircraft blown out of the sky. That idiot Kasimov tipped our hand and gave away the element of surprise, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t care what it takes, I don’t care what forces you need to mobilize — just do it. I want every oil and natural-gas field in that entire fucking country with a Russian infantry battalion on it.”

Stepashin nodded — he dared not voice any of the dozens of concerns he had — and picked up the telephone to issue the orders that would send a hundred thousand more Russian soldiers into Turkmenistan.