Rogue Forces

CHAPTER ONE

“Masters Two-Two, this is White Sands.” The portable radio squawked to life, splitting the still, early-morning air. “You are cleared for takeoff, runway one-zero, winds calm, altimeter two-niner-niner-seven. Threat condition red, repeat, red, read back.”

“Roger, Masters Two-Two copies, cleared for takeoff, runway one-zero, threat condition red.”

A large, rather strange-looking aircraft spooled up its engines and prepared to take the active runway. It somewhat resembled a B-2 Spirit “flying-wing” stealth bomber, but it was vastly more bulbous than the intercontinental bomber, suggesting a far larger payload capacity. Instead of the engines embedded inside the fuselage, the aircraft had three engines mounted atop the rear of the fuselage on short pylons.

As the weird “winged guppy” aircraft taxied across the hold line onto the active runway, about a mile to the west a man wearing a cloth cap, balaclava, a thick protective green jacket, and heavy gloves lifted a MANPADS, or Man-Portable Air Defense System, launcher onto his right shoulder. He first inserted a vegetable-can-size device into the bottom of the launcher, which provided argon gas coolant for the infrared seeker and battery power for the device.

“Allah Akbar, Allah Akbar,” the man intoned in a quiet voice. He then got to his feet and aimed the weapon east toward the gradually increasing sound of the aircraft’s engines spooling up for takeoff. It was not yet light enough to see the plane from that distance, so the missileer lowered a pair of night-vision goggles over his eyes, carefully adjusting his head position so he could still aim the MANPADS through its mechanical sights. He activated the weapon by pressing and releasing the integrated safety and actuator lever. He could hear the gyros spinning up in the missile’s guidance section even over the noise of the airliner rumbling across the desert.

As soon as he centered the sights on the green-and-white image of the retreating jetliner, he heard a low growling sound in his headphones, indicating that the MANPADS’ infrared sensor had just locked onto the jetliner’s engine exhausts. He then pressed and held the “uncage” lever, and the acquisition tone got louder, telling him that the missile was tracking a good target.

He waited until the aircraft was airborne, since if he hit it while it was still on the ground, the crew could probably stop the plane safely on the runway and put the fire out quickly, minimizing loss. The most vulnerable time was five seconds after liftoff, because the plane was accelerating slowly and its landing gear were in transit; if it lost an engine, the crew would have to react swiftly and precisely to avoid a catastrophe.

Now it was time. He whispered another Allah Akbar, super-elevated the launcher so that the target was on the lower left corner of the mechanical sights, held his breath to avoid inhaling any missile exhaust, then squeezed the trigger.

The small ejection motor fired the missile out of the barrel about thirty feet into the air. Just as the missile began to fall, its first-stage solid rocket motor fired, and the missile headed for its target, with the sensor solidly locked on. Then the missileer lowered the MAN-PADS and watched the engagement with glee through his night-vision goggles as an instant later he saw the missile explode in a cloud of fire. “Allah friggin’ Akbar,” he muttered. “That was cool.”

But the counterattack wasn’t over yet. As soon as the sound of the explosion reached him a second later, the missileer suddenly felt an intense burning sensation all throughout his body. He threw the spent launcher onto the ground, confused and disoriented. It felt as if his entire body had suddenly burst into flames. He dropped to the ground, hoping to extinguish the flames by rolling around, but the heat got more intense by the second. He could do nothing but curl into a protective ball and cover his eyes, hoping to avoid being blinded or burned alive. He screamed as the flames spread, engulfing him…

“Whoa, boss, what happened?” he heard a voice say in his headphones. “Are you okay? We’re on the way. Hold on!”

The man found his chest heaving and his heart pounding with the sudden surge of adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream, and he found it hard to speak for several moments…but the severe burning sensation had suddenly stopped. Finally, he got up and dusted himself off. There was no evidence whatsoever that anything had happened to him except for the awful memory of that intense pain. “No…well, maybe…well, yes,” the missileer, Dr. Jonathan Colin Masters, replied shakily. “Maybe a little.”

Jon Masters had just turned fifty years of age, but he still looked and probably would forever look like a teenager with his thin features, big ears, gangly body movements, crooked grin, and naturally tousled brown hair under his headset. He was the chief operations officer of Sky Masters Inc., a small defense research and development company he’d founded that for the past twenty years had been developing absolute cutting-edge aviation, satellite, weapons, sensors, and advanced materials technology for the United States.

Although he no longer owned the company that still bore his name—a board of directors, led by his ex-wife and business partner Helen Kaddiri, and the company’s young president, Dr. Kelsey Duffield, ran company affairs now—and was rich enough to travel the world for the rest of his life if he chose, Jon enjoyed spending time either in the lab designing new gadgets or out in the field testing them. No one really knew if the board of directors allowed him to do things like fire live MANPADS missiles or stay out on the missile range during a test just to humor him…or because they were hoping he’d get dusted by his own inventions, something that had nearly happened many times over the years.

Several Humvees and support vehicles—including an ambulance, just in case—rolled up, illuminating Jon with headlights and spotlights. A man jumped out of the first Humvee on the scene and ran over to him. “You okay, Jon?” asked Hunter “Boomer” Noble. Boomer was the twenty-five year-old vice president in charge of air weapon development for Sky Masters Inc. Formerly a U.S. Air Force test pilot, engineer, and astronaut, Boomer once had the enviable job of designing exotic aircraft spacecraft systems and then being able to fly the finished product himself. Flying the revolutionary XR-A9 Black Stallion single-stage-to-orbit spaceplane, Boomer had been in orbit more times in the past two years than the rest of the American astronaut corps combined had been in the past ten years. “Jeez, you gave us a scare back there!”

“I told you, I’m fine,” Jon said, grateful that his voice didn’t sound as shaky as it had a few minutes earlier. “I guess we dialed the emitter power up a little too high, eh, Boomer?”

“I set it to the lowest power setting, boss, and I checked and double-checked it,” Boomer said. “You were probably too close. The laser has a fifty-mile range—you were less than two when you got hit. Probably not a good idea to star in your own tests, boss.”

“Thanks for the advice, Boomer,” Jon replied weakly, hoping no one would notice his shaking hands. “Great going, Boomer. I’d say the Slingshot automatic countermissile weapon test was a complete success.”

“So would I, Boomer,” another voice behind him said. Two men approached from another Humvee, wearing business suits, long dark coats, and gloves to ward off the early-morning chill. They were followed by two more men, similarly dressed, but their coats were open…which made it easier for them to get at the automatic weapons slung on harnesses underneath. The man with the longish salt-and-pepper hair and goatee shook his finger at Jon and continued: “You almost succeeded in killing yourself, Jon…again.”

“Nah…it went exactly as planned, Mr. President,” Jon responded.

The man, former president of the United States Kevin Martindale, rolled his eyes in disbelief. A Washington establishment figure for decades, Martindale served six terms in Congress, two terms as vice president, and one term as president before being voted out of office; he then became only the second man in the history of the United States to be voted back in again.

He also had the distinction of being the first vice president ever to be divorced while in office, and he was still a confirmed bachelor who was often seen in the company of young female actors and athletes. Although over sixty years old, Martindale was still ruggedly handsome, self-confident, and almost devilish with his goatee and long, wavy hair, featuring the famous “photographer’s dream” twin curling silvery locks that automatically appeared across his forehead whenever he was angry or emotional.

“He still likes being involved in his own tests, Mr. President—the more outrageous, the better,” the man beside him, retired Lieutenant-General Patrick McLanahan, said. Shorter than Martindale but considerably more solidly built, McLanahan was as much a legend as Martindale, except only in the shadowy world of strategic aerial combat. He’d served five years as a B-52G Stratofortress navigator and bombardier in the U.S. Air Force before being chosen to join a top-secret research-and-development unit known as the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, or HAWC, based at an uncharted air base in the Nevada desert known as “Dreamland.”

Led by its audacious and slightly uncontrollable first commander, Lieutenant-General Bradley James Elliott, HAWC was tasked by the White House to perform secret missions throughout the world in order to stop an adversary from escalating a conflict into an all out war, using cutting-edge experimental technology that wouldn’t be used by any other military forces for many years—if ever.

HAWC’s specialty was modifying older aircraft with new systems and technology to make them perform unlike anything anyone had ever seen, and then using weapons brought to HAWC for classified test programs in the real world to quickly and quietly suppress a potential foe. Most of HAWC’s missions would never be known about by the public; the pilots chosen to test-fly a brand-new aircraft would never know not only that were they not the first to fly it but that the plane had already been used in combat; the families of the scores of dead aviators and engineers, both military and civilian, would never know what really happened to their loved ones.

Because of Elliott’s single-minded determination to dominate, as well as HAWC’s incredible capabilities, which far exceeded any civilian or military commander’s expectations, the unit often initiated responses to new threats without full knowledge or authorization from anyone. That eventually led to mistrust and finally to outright condemnation by the Washington and Pentagon establishment, which sought to isolate and even undermine HAWC’s activities.

As its most experienced and tested aviator and systems operator, McLanahan had been alternately praised, punished, promoted, dismissed, decorated, and disgraced during his fourteen years as a member of HAWC. Although he was widely considered America’s most heroic general since Norman Schwarzkopf, McLanahan retired from the Air Force as quietly as he had appeared on the scene, without fanfare, praise, or gratitude from anyone.

As both vice president and president, Kevin Martindale had been HAWC’s most ardent supporter and advocate, and over the years he knew he could rely on Patrick McLanahan to get the job done, no matter how impossible the odds. With both of them now out of public life, it was no surprise to Jon Masters to see them standing side by side here in the deserts of New Mexico, on a secret weapon test range.

“Congratulations again, Dr. Masters,” Martindale said. “I understand you can build that Slingshot laser self-protection system into any aircraft?”

“Yes, sir, we can,” Boomer said. “All it needs is a power source and a twelve-inch open access panel through the aircraft’s pressure vessel for the infrared detection sensor and beam director. We can install and calibrate a unit in a matter of days.”

“Does it form a protective cocoon around the entire plane, or just shoots the beam toward the missile?”

“We focus the beam on the enemy missile to save power and maximize the destructive effect of the laser beam,” Jon explained. “As soon as the infrared seeker detects a missile launch, it sends a beam of concentrated high-power laser energy along the same axis within milliseconds. Then, if the system can compute the approximate launch point, it’ll automatically hit the enemy launch area to try to knock out the bad guy.”

“What did getting hit by a laser beam feel like, Jon?” Patrick asked.

“Like being dunked in boiling cooking oil,” Jon replied with a weak smile. “And that was at the lowest power setting.”

“What else can that laser do, Jon?” Martindale asked. “I know HAWC has deployed offensive laser systems in the past. Is Slingshot like that?”

“Well, sir, the laser is only for self-defense, of course,” Jon replied sarcastically.

“Just like the XC-57 is no longer a bomber, right, Jon?”

“Yes, sir. The U.S. government doesn’t approve of its defense contractors building offensive weapons and using the technology in a manner that might harm relations with other countries or violate any laws. So the laser system is fairly limited in range and capabilities—mostly for use against tactical antiaircraft systems and their operators.”

“That leaves a lot left open for interpretation,” Patrick noted. “But you could turn the knob and pump up the power a skosh, right?”

“As far as you know, Muck, the answer is no,” Jon said.

The former president motioned toward the sky in the direction of the departing aircraft, which was just now entering the downwind pattern to set up for a landing. “Pretty risky using one of your new big test-bed planes to test the system, wasn’t it, Doc?” Martindale asked. “That was a real Stinger missile you fired at your own aircraft, I take it? Your shareholders can’t be too happy about risking a multi-million-dollar aircraft like that.”

“I wanted to water your eyes, of course, Mr. President,” Jon replied. “What the directors and shareholders don’t know won’t hurt them. Besides, this XC-57 ‘Loser’ is unmanned.”

“‘Loser,’ huh?” Patrick McLanahan commented. “Not the coolest name you’ve come up with, Jon.”

“Why in the world do you call it that?” Martindale asked.

“Because it lost out in the Next Generation Bomber competition,” Jon explained. “They didn’t want an unmanned plane; they wanted it stealthier and faster. I was going for payload and range, and I knew I could arm it with hypersonic standoff weapons, so we didn’t need stealth.

“Besides, I’ve been designing and building unmanned aircraft for years—just because they weren’t comfortable with it doesn’t mean it couldn’t be considered. Isn’t the Next Generation Bomber supposed to be next generation? The design wasn’t even considered. Their loss. Then, to add insult to injury, I was prohibited from building the plane for ten years.”

“But you built it anyway?”

“It’s not a bomber, Mr. President—this is a multirole transport,” Jon said. “It’s not designed to drop anything; it’s designed to put stuff into it.”

Martindale shook his head woefully. “Tap-dancing around the law…who else do I know likes to do that?” Patrick said nothing. “So you use an unmanned aircraft—that’s not a bomber—for the test of a laser that’s not an offensive weapon, but then put yourself in the line of fire to test its effects on a human? Makes perfect sense to me,” Martindale said drily. “But you certainly did water my eyes.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You have how many of the Losers flying now, Jon?” Patrick asked.

“There are just two others—we built three for the NGB competition but stopped work on the second and third when our design was rejected,” Jon replied. “It’s still a research-and-development program, so it was low priority…until you called, Mr. President. We’re considering putting our system on commercial planes as well as high-tech airframes.”

“Let’s have a closer look at it, Jon,” Martindale said.

“Yes, sir. I’ll have it fly over slowly so we can take a look, then I’ll bring it in for a landing. Watch this flyby—you won’t believe it.” He picked up his walkie-talkie and tried to call his control center, but the laser beam had fried it. “I forgot to take it out of my pocket before the test,” he said sheepishly, smiling at the others’ muffled chuckles. “I lose more phones that way. Boomer…?”

“I got it, boss,” Boomer said. “Low and slow?” Jon nodded, and Boomer winked and radioed the mobile control van.

Moments later the XC-57 appeared on final approach. It leveled off just fifty feet above ground, flying amazingly slow for such a large bird, as if it were a huge balsa-wood model drifting gently on a soft breeze.

“Like a pregnant stealth bomber with the engines on the outside,” Martindale commented. “It looks like it’s going to fall out of the sky at any moment. How do you do that?”

“It doesn’t use any normal flight controls or lifting devices—it flies using mission-adaptive technology,” Masters said. “Almost every square inch of the fuselage and wings can be either a lift or drag device. It can be flown manned or unmanned. About sixty-five thousand pounds of payload, and it can take up to four standard cargo pallets.

“But the Loser’s unique system is a completely integral cargo handling capability, including the ability to move containers around inside while in flight,” Masters went on. “That was Boomer’s first idea when he came on board, and we’ve been scrambling to refit all of the production aircraft to include it. Boomer?”

“Well, the problem I’ve always seen with cargo planes is that once the cargo’s inside you can’t do anything with the plane, the space, or the cargo,” Boomer said. “They’re all wasted as soon as it’s loaded on board.”

“It’s cargo on a cargo plane, Boomer. What else are you going to do with it?” Martindale asked.

“Maybe it’s a cargo plane in one configuration, sir,” Boomer replied, “but move the cargo around and slip a modular container through an opening in the belly, and now the cargo plane becomes a tanker or a surveillance platform. It’s based on the same concept as the Navy’s Littoral Combat Ship that’s all the rage now—one ship that can do different missions depending on which hardware modules you put on board.”

“Plug and play? That simple?”

“It wasn’t easy to get the weight and balance, fuel system, and electrical systems to integrate,” Boomer admitted, “but we think we have the bugs worked out. We pump fuel around between the various tanks to maintain balance. Without the mission-adaptive system, I don’t think it would’ve been possible at all. The Loser can lift cargo or the mission modules inside through the cargo hatch or belly hatch—”

“Belly hatch?” Martindale interrupted him with a wink. “You mean the bomb bay?”

“It’s not a bomb bay, sir, it’s a cargo access hatch,” Jon retorted. “It used to have a bomb bay, and I didn’t think it was right to just seal it up—”

“So it became a ‘cargo access hatch,’” the former president said. “Got it, Doc.”

“Yes, sir,” Jon said, feigning exasperation at having to continually remind people of his point. “Boomer’s system automatically arranges the modules as necessary for the mission, plugs them in, and turns them on, all by remote control. It can do the same while in flight. When a module is needed or one is expended, the cargo handling system can replace it with another one.”

“What modules do you have available, Jon?” Martindale asked.

“We’re making up new ones every month, sir,” Jon said proudly. “Right now we have boom aerial refueling modules along with hose-and-drogue wingtip pods, which are installed on the ground and can refuel probe-equipped planes. We also have laser radar modules for air and ground surveillance with satellite datalink; infrared and electro-optical surveillance modules; and the active self-defense module. We’re pretty close on a netrusion module and a Flighthawk control system—launching, directing, and perhaps even refueling and rearming FlightHawks from the Loser.”

“Of course, we would want to do attack modules, too, if we could get permission from the White House,” Boomer interjected. “We’re doing pretty well with the high-powered microwave and laser-directed energy technology, so that might happen sooner rather than later—if we can convince the White House to let us proceed.”

“Boomer is highly motivated to say the least,” Jon added. “He won’t be happy until he gets a Loser into space.”

Martindale and McLanahan looked at each other, each instantly reading the other’s thoughts; they then looked at the otherworldly sight of the massive Loser aircraft gliding down the runway in that flying-saucer slow-motion pace.

“Dr. Masters, Mr. Noble…” President Martindale began. Just then, the XC-57 Loser suddenly accelerated with a powerful roar of its engines, climbing out at an impossibly steep angle and disappearing from sight within moments. Martindale shook his head, amazed all over again. “Where can we go to talk, boys?”