Shadow Command

CHAPTER SIX

“Two minutes to re-entry initiation, crew,” Major Jim Terranova announced. “Re-entry countdown initiated. First auto countdown hold in one minute. Report when your checklist is complete.”

“S-One, roger,” Macomber responded.

“How are you feeling, Whack?” Terranova asked.

“Thanks to copious amounts of pure oxygen, a little Transcendental Meditation, not using the eye-pointing electronic checklists, and the mind-numbing routine of still more damned checklists to perform, I feel pretty good,” Macomber responded. “Wish this thing had windows.”

“I’ll put it on the wish list, but don’t count on it anytime soon.”

“It’s a pretty spectacular sight, guys,” Frenchy Moulain said. “This is my eleventh flight in orbit and I never get tired of it.”

“It looks pretty much the same after the first orbit,” groused Chris Wohl. “I’ve been on the station three times, and it just feels like you’re standing on a really tall TV tower, looking down.”

“Only the sergeant major could minimize a sight like this,” Moulain said. “Ask to spend a couple nights on the station, Whack. Bring lots of data cards for your camera. It’s pretty cool. You’ll find yourself waking up at all times of the night and scheduling window time a day in advance just to take a picture.”

“I doubt that very much,” Macomber said dryly. He received a notification beep in his helmet. “I’m getting another data dump from the NIRTSats, guys.” NIRTSats, or Need It Right This Second Satellites, were small “microsatellites,” no bigger than a refrigerator, designed to do a specific task such as surveillance or communications relay from low-Earth orbit. Because they were smaller, carried less positioning thruster fuel, and had substantially less solar radiation shielding, the NIRTSats stayed in orbit for very short periods of time, usually less than a month. They were launched from aircraft aboard orbital boosters or inserted into orbit from the Black Stallion spaceplanes. A constellation of four to six NIRTSats had been put into an eccentric orbit designed to maximize coverage of Iran, making multiple passes over Tehran and the major military bases throughout the country since the military coup began. “Finish your checklists and let’s go over the new stuff before we get squished again.”

“I don’t think we’ll have time unless we delay re-entry for another orbit,” Terranova said. “You’ll have to review the data after we land.”

“Listen, we have time…we’ll make the time, MC,” Macomber said. “We already launched on this mission without any proper mission planning, so we need to go over this new data right away.”

“Not another argument,” Moulain said, exasperated. “Listen, S-One, just run your checklists and get ready for re-entry. You know what happened last time you weren’t paying attention to the flight: your stomach gave you a little warning.”

“I’ll be ready, SC,” Macomber said. “Ground team, finish your checklist, report when complete, and let’s get on the new data dump. S-One is complete.” Turlock and Wohl reported complete moments later, and Macomber reported that the passengers were ready for re-entry. Moulain acknowledged the call and, tired of arguing with the zoomie again right before an important phase of flight, said nothing else.

Cautiously, Macomber opened the new satellite data file using voice commands instead of the faster but vertigo-causing eye-pointing system, allowing the data to flow onto the old imagery so he could see changes to the target area. What he got was a confusing jumble of images. “What the hell…looks like the data’s corrupted,” he said over private intercom, which allowed him to talk to his Ground Force team members without disturbing the flight crew. “Nothing’s in the right place. They’ll have to resend.”

“Wait one, sir,” Wohl said. “I’m looking at the computer frameholders on the two shots, and they’re matching up.” As Macomber understood them — which meant he didn’t understand them hardly at all — the frameholders were computer-derived marks that aligned each image with known, fixed landmarks that compensated for differences in photograph angle and axis and allowed more precise comparisons between images. “Recommend you do not delete the new data yet, sir.”

“Make it quick. I’ll rattle HQ’s cage.” Macomber cursed into his helmet, then switched over to the secure satellite communications network: “Rascal to Genesis. Resend the last TacSat images. We got garbage here.”

“Stand by, Rascal.” Jeez, I really hate that call-sign, Macomber complained to himself. A few moments later: “Rascal, this is Genesis, set code Alpha Nine, repeat, Alpha Nine. Acknowledge.”

“What? Is that the abort code?” Macomber thundered. “Are they telling us we’re not going in?”

“Shut up, S-One, until we get this figured out,” Moulain snapped. “MC, did the authentication come in?”

“Affirmative — got it just now,” Terranova said. “The mission’s been scrubbed, crew. We’re directed to remain in present orbit until we get a flight plan change to a transfer orbit that will bring us back for a refueling and landing ASAP. Canceling re-entry procedure checklist…‘leopards’ secure, checklist canceled.”

Macomber punched a fist into his hand and was instantly sorry he did so — it felt as if he punched a steel wall. “What in hell is going on? Why didn’t we get a clearance? This is bull—”

“Rascal, this is Genesis.” This time it was David Luger himself, calling from the battle management area at HAWC. “That data dump was valid, Rascal, I repeat, valid. We’re looking it over, but it looks like the landing zone is hot.”

“Well, that’s the reason we’re going in, isn’t it, Genesis?” Macomber asked. “Let us drop in there and we’ll take care of business.”

“Your mission was scrubbed by the White House, Whack, not us,” Luger said, the tension obvious in his voice. “They want you guys back home right away. We’re computing a re-entry schedule now. It’s looking like you’ll have to stay up for at least another day before we can—”

“Another day! You’ve gotta be shitting me—!”

“Stand by, Rascal, stand by—”

There was a moment’s pause, with a lot of encryption clicking and chattering on the frequency; then a different voice called: “Rascal, Stud, this is Odin.” This was from McLanahan, up on Armstrong Space Station. “Recon satellites are picking up strong India-Juliet radar signals coming from your target area. Looks like a long-range search radar. We’re analyzing now.”

“A radar, eh?” Macomber commented. He started studying the new NIRTSat images again. Sure enough, it was the same Soltanabad highway airbase…but now all the craters were gone, and several semi tractor-trailers, troops and supply trucks, helicopters, and a large fixed-wing aircraft were parked on the ramp. “Looks like you were right, Odin. The bastards are setting the place up again.”

“Listen to me, guys,” McLanahan said, and the tone of his voice even over the encrypted satellite link was plainly very ominous indeed. “I don’t like the smell of this. You’d be safer if you deorbited, but you’ve been ordered to return to base, so we have to keep you up there.”

“What’s the problem, sir?” Moulain asked. “Is there something you’re not telling us?”

“You cross the target’s horizon in eleven minutes. We’re trying to compute if we have enough time to deorbit you and have you land in central Asia or the Caucasus instead of overflying Soltanabad.”

“Central Asia! You want us to land where…?”

“Button it, Whack!” Moulain shouted. “What’s going on, Odin? What do you think is down there?”

There was a long pause; then McLanahan responded simply: “Stud One-One.”

He could have not made a more explosive response. Stud One-One was the XR-A9 Black Stallion that was shot down over Iran in the early days of the military coup, when the Air Battle Force was hunting down and destroying Iranian medium- and long-range mobile ballistic missiles that threatened not only the anti-theocratic insurgents but all of Iran’s neighbors as well. The spaceplane was downed not by a surface-to-air missile or fighter jet but by an extremely powerful laser similar to the Kavaznya anti-satellite laser built by the Soviet Union over two decades earlier…that had appeared not over Russia, but in Iran.

“What do we do, sir?” Moulain asked, the fear thick in her voice. “What do you want us to do?”

“We’re working on it,” Patrick said from Armstrong Space Station. “We’re trying to see if we can start you down right now in time to stay out of line of sight, or at least out of radar coverage.”

“We can translate right now and get ready,” Terranova said.

“Do it,” Patrick said immediately. He then spoke, “Duty Officer, get me the President of the United States, immediately.”

“Yes, General McLanahan,” the computer-synthesized female voice of Dreamland’s virtual “Duty Officer” responded. A moment later: “General McLanahan, your call is being forwarded to the Secretary of Defense. Please stand by.”

“I want to speak with the President of the United States. It’s urgent.”

“Yes, General McLanahan. Please stand by.” Another long moment later: “General McLanahan, your ‘urgent’ request has been forwarded to the President’s chief of staff. Please stand by.”

That was probably the best he was going to do, Patrick thought, so he didn’t redirect the Duty Officer again. “Inform the chief of staff that it’s an emergency.”

“The ‘urgent’ request has been upgraded to an ‘emergency’ request, General. Please stand by.”

Time was running out, Patrick thought. He thought about just having the Black Stallion crew declare an inflight emergency — there were dozens of glitches occurring on every flight that could constitute a real no-shit emergency — but he needed to be sure the Stud had someplace to land before ordering them to drop out of orbit.

“This is Chief of Staff Kordus.”

“Mr. Kordus, this is General McLanahan. I’m—”

“I don’t like being called by your computerized staffers, General, and neither does the President. If you want to talk to the President, show us the simple courtesy of doing it yourself.”

“Yes, sir. I’m on board Armstrong Space Station, and I’m—”

“I know where you are, General — my staff was watching the live broadcast with great interest until you abruptly cut it off,” Kordus said. “When we give you permission to do a live interview we expect you to finish it. Mind telling me why you cut it off like that?”

“I believe the Russians have placed an anti-spacecraft weapon of some kind, possibly the same laser that downed the Black Stallion over Iran last year, in an isolated highway airbase in Iran once used by the Revolutionary Guard Corps,” Patrick responded. “Our sensors picked up the new activity at the base and alerted us. Now our unmanned reconnaissance aircraft are picking up extremely high-powered radar signals from that very same location that are consistent with the anti-spacecraft laser’s acquisition and tracking system. I believe the Russians will attack our Black Stallion spacecraft if it passes overhead still in orbit, and I need permission to deorbit the spacecraft and divert it away from the target area.”

“You have positive proof that the Russians are behind this? How do you know this?”

“We have satellite imagery showing the base is now completely active, with fixed-wing aircraft, trucks, and vehicles that appear similar to the vehicles we detected in Iran where we believe the laser that downed the Black Stallion came from. The radar signals confirm it. Sir, I need permission immediately to divert that flight. We can have it come out of orbit and maneuver it as much as possible with all but emergency fuel until it reaches the atmosphere, and then we can fly it away from the target area to an alternate landing site.”

“The President has already ordered you to land the spaceplane back in the United States at its home base, General. Did you not copy that order?”

“I did, sir, but complying with that order means flying the spaceplane over the target base, and I believe it will be attacked if we do so. The only way we can protect the crew now is to deorbit the spaceplane to keep it as low as possible on the horizon until we can—”

“General, I don’t understand a word of what you just said,” Kordus said. “All I understand is that you have a strong hunch that your spaceplane is in danger, and you’re asking the President to countermand an order he just issued. Is this correct?”

“Yes, sir, but I need to stress the extreme danger of—”

“I got that part loud and clear, General McLanahan,” Kordus said, the exasperation thick in his voice. “If you start bringing the spaceplane down, will you be overflying anyone’s airspace, and if so, whose?”

“I don’t know precisely, sir, but I’d say countries in eastern Europe, the Middle East—”

“Russia?”

“Possibly, sir. Extreme western Russia.”

“Moscow?”

Patrick paused, and when he did he could hear the chief of staff say something under his breath. “I don’t know if it will be below the sixty-six-mile limit, sir, but depending on how fast and how successful we are at maneuvering the—”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Perfect, just perfect. Your spaceplane coming out of orbit right over the capital of Russia will look like an ICBM attack for damned sure, won’t it?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “This is precisely the nightmare scenario the President was afraid of. He’s going to tear your throat out, McLanahan.” He paused for a moment; then: “How long does the President have to decide this, General?”

“About five minutes, sir.”

“For God’s sake, McLanahan! Five minutes? Everything is a crisis with you!” Kordus shouted. “But poor planning on your part doesn’t constitute an emergency on our part!”

“Lives could be at stake, sir.”

“I’m well aware of that, General!” Kordus snapped. “But if you had bothered to wait and have this plan approved by the White House and the Pentagon before launching the spaceplane, none of this would be happening!” He muttered something else under his breath; then: “I’ll take this request to the President right away. In the meantime, stay on the line because you will have to explain all this to the National Security Adviser so he can properly advise the President, because I doubt if you have the capacity to explain it clearly enough to him to his satisfaction — or that he would even listen to you if you tried. Stand by.”

“Crew, be advised, we’re doing a y-translation in preparation for deorbit. Stand by.” Using her multifunction display and her piloting skills, Moulain used the Black Stallion’s hydrazine thrusters to flip the spaceplane around so it was flying tailfirst. The maneuver took almost two minutes — a record for her. Everything felt exactly the same to the crewmembers in the passenger module, and even Macomber’s stomach didn’t complain. “Maneuver complete, Genesis. When do we start down? When can we fire the ‘leopards’?”

“We need to find out if you can reach a safe landing runway if you deorbited right now,” Dave Luger interjected. “We’re also looking for a tanker that can refuel you in case you can’t reach a suitable airport, and we need permission from the White House to bring you down over national boundaries.”

“You need what?” Macomber retorted. “You think the Russians are going to shoot at us with a fucking laser, and you need permission to get us the hell out of here?”

“We’re running the calculations, Major — put a sock in it and let us do our work,” Luger said sternly, unaccustomed to being yelled at by a field-grade officer. Still, the tone in his voice made it obvious he wasn’t all that happy about the circumstances either. “Stand by.”

“Do it, Frenchy,” Macomber said on intercom. “Get us the hell out of here.”

“I can’t do that without authorization, S-One.”

“The hell you can’t. You’re the spacecraft commander — you made that real clear to me, remember? Exercise some of your authority and get us the hell out of here!”

“I can’t just drop us out of the sky without knowing where we go once we re-enter the atmosphere,” Moulain said. “I need to know where we’ll be when we resume atmospheric flight, what our best range will be, which runway we’ll approach, what the terrain is, how long the runway is, what the political, diplomatic, and security situation will—”

“For Christ’s sake, Frenchy, stop asking questions and hit the damned button!” Macomber shouted. “Don’t wait for some politician to wave his hand or give us the finger — just do it!”

“Shut up and stand by, Macomber!” Moulain shouted. “We can’t just pull over and shut off the engine. Just hold your water, will you?”

“We’ll be crossing the target area’s horizon in about two minutes,” Terranova reported.

“We briefed several recovery, alternate, and emergency bases in eastern Europe, India, and the western Pacific,” Macomber persisted. “We know we have alternates. Just declare an emergency and land at one of them.”

“We’ve already passed most of the safe emergency bases,” Terranova said. “The alternate landing sites we had picked were designed in case of failure to insert into orbit, failure of re-entry burn engines, or alternate landing sites if we started deorbit but weren’t authorized to go into the target area. We’re past that point now. If we didn’t deorbit by now, the plan was to overfly the target area, transfer orbits if we had enough fuel, or stay in orbit until we could land back at Dreamland. We can’t just turn on a dime and head back the other way.”

“So we’re screwed,” Turlock said. “We’ve got to overfly the target area now.”

“Not necessarily, but the longer we delay firing the ‘leopards,’ the fewer options we have,” Terranova said. “We can always bleed off more energy and drop faster through the atmosphere to try to stay as low to the horizon as possible, then once we’re back in the atmosphere we can use the rest of the available fuel to fly away from the tracking radar.”

“Then do it!”

“If we bleed off all our energy and don’t have enough fuel to make it to a suitable landing site, we’re dead,” Moulain said. “This bird glides just a little bit better than a damned brick. I’m not going to throw away all our options unless there’s a plan! Besides, we don’t even know if there’s a Russian anti-satellite laser down there. This could all be just a bad case of paranoia.”

“Then there’s one more option…”

“No way, MC.”

“What’s the last option?” Macomber asked.

“Jettisoning the passenger module,” Terranova said.

“What?”

“The passenger module is designed to be its own re-entry vehicle and lifeboat…”

“I’m not releasing the module except in an emergency,” Moulain insisted. “Absolutely not.”

“There’s no way we can make it down by ourselves!” Macomber cried.

“The simulations say it can, although we’ve never tested it for real,” Terranova said. “The passenger module has its own reaction control system, high-tech heat shields better than the Stud, parachutes and impact attenuation bags for landing, a pretty good environmental system—”

“‘Pretty good’ isn’t good enough, MC — the captain doesn’t have any armor on,” Chris Wohl interjected.

“It’ll work, Sergeant Major.”

“I’m not jettisoning anything, and that’s that,” Moulain cut in. “That’s the last resort only. I’m not even going to consider it unless all this fearmongering comes true. Now everyone shut up for a minute.” On the command channel: “Genesis, Odin, what do you got for us?”

“Nothing,” Patrick responded. “I’ve spoken to the chief of staff, and he’s going to talk to the President. I’m waiting to talk to SECDEF or the National Security Adviser. You’re going to have to—”

“I’ve got it!” Dave Luger suddenly cut in. “If we deorbit now and use max-G maneuvers to lose altitude, we should have enough energy to make it to Baku on the Caspian coast of Azerbaijan. If not, you can make it to Neftcala, which is an Azerbaijan border and coastal patrol base. Turkey and the United States are expanding an airstrip there and you might have enough runway to make it. The third option—”

“Jettison the passenger module into the Caspian Sea, then ditch the Stud in the Caspian Sea or eject before hitting the water depending on how out of control we become,” Moulain intoned.

“Stand by, Stud,” Patrick said after a short pause. “Genesis, I’m studying the latest images of the target area, and I’m concluding that the trucks and setup at Soltanabad are virtually identical to the ones we saw in Kabudar Ahang in Iran. I believe the Russians set up their mobile anti-spacecraft laser in Soltanabad. Can you verify?”

“General, are you sure this Russian threat is for real? If we do this, there’s no turning back.”

“No, I’m not sure of any of this,” Patrick admitted. “But the signs are looking just like Stud One-One. Genesis?”

“I’m double-checking, Odin,” Dave Luger said. “Remember they faked the setup at Kabudar Ahang to suck in the Battle Force. They could be doing the very same thing again.”

“We’ll know in about sixty seconds, crew,” Terranova said.

“We can’t wait,” Patrick said finally. “Stud, this is Odin, I’m ordering you to deorbit, do a max-rate re-entry interface profile, and attempt an emergency landing at Baku or Neftcala, Azerbaijan. Genesis, upload the flight plan to the Black Stallion and be sure it’s executed. Do you copy?”

“Odin, I copy, but are you sure about this?” Moulain asked. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Just do it, Frenchy,” Macomber said. “If he’s wrong and everything goes snafu, we might take a swim in the damned polluted Caspian Sea with the caviar. Big deal. Been there, done that. If he’s right, we’ll still be alive in an hour. Do it.”

“Flight plan uploaded,” Luger reported. “Awaiting execution.”

“Stud, advise when you execute deorbit procedures.”

“What are you waiting for, Frenchy?” Macomber shouted. “Start us down! Fire the rockets!”

“I don’t want to crash into the Caspian Sea,” Moulain said. “If we don’t make it, we’ll have no option but to ditch—”

“Dammit, Frenchy, get us down now!” Macomber shouted. “What’s with you?”

“I don’t believe General McLanahan, that’s why!” Moulain cried out. “I don’t believe any of this!”

“Stud, I’m sure this is a trap,” Patrick said. “I think we stumbled onto a Russian anti-spacecraft laser weapon site in Iran. If you don’t get out of there, any way you can, their laser will burn through your heat shielding and destroy the spacecraft. I don’t want to take that risk. Deorbit the spacecraft and get out of there.”

“Crossing the target’s horizon, now,” Terranova said.

“Stud, that was an order: deorbit the spacecraft,” Patrick said. “Your objection is noted. I take full responsibility. Now do it.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I copied valid and authenticated orders to the contrary from the national command authority: stay in orbit until we’re in a position to return to Groom Lake,” Moulain said. “Those orders supersede yours. We’re staying. MC, remove the deorbit flight plan and reload the previous one.”

“Frenchy—”

“Do it, MC,” Moulain said. “That’s an order. I’ll stay in this orientation to conserve thruster fuel, but we’re staying in orbit, and that’s final.”

The radios and intercoms got very quiet after that, with Luger and McLanahan feeding the crew and each other a steady stream of radar threat warnings and updated reconnaissance imagery. Time seemed to drag on forever. Finally, Macomber said, “What the hell is going on, Genesis, and how long until we’re out of the shit?”

“Four minutes ten seconds until we cross back below the target area horizon,” Dave Luger responded.

“I’m sorry, Odin,” Moulain said, “but I had to make a decision. I’m following orders.”

“I hope I’m wrong, SC,” Patrick responded. “You did what you thought was right. We’ll talk about it after you’re home safe.”

“How are we doing on that Baku landing site, Genesis?” Terranova asked.

“You’ll lose it in thirty seconds. You won’t have enough energy to make it to Forward Operating Base Warrior in Kirkuk, Iraq, after you re-enter the atmosphere — Herat, Afghanistan, is your best option, but you’ll still have to overfly Soltanabad. Another option might be the deserts of southern Turkmenistan — we can get a special ops team from Uzbekistan in to help you quickly.”

“You suggesting we land in Turkmenistan, sir?”

“I didn’t say ‘land,’ MC.”

Terranova gulped. Luger obviously meant for them to “jettison the aircraft”—let it crash-land in the desert. “What’s the next abort base?”

“Karachi and Hyderabad beyond that.”

“We’re ready to fire the ‘leopards,’” Terranova said. “Ten-second checklist hold. Should I set the re-entry for maximum deceleration?”

“We’re not going to deorbit,” Moulain said. “The Russians wouldn’t dare take a shot at us. Leonid Zevitin’s not crazy. The guy can dance, for God’s sake!” The radios sparkled with low chuckles. But she looked at her aft-cockpit camera and nodded to Terranova, silently ordering him to program the computers for a maximum-rate speed and altitude loss. “I mean, think about it, everyone: no male who knows how to dance would be nutty enough to—”

Suddenly they heard, “Warning, warning, laser detected…warning, warning, hull temperature increasing, stations two hundred fifty through two-ninety…warning, hull temperatures approaching operational limits…!”

“The Kavaznya laser!” Patrick McLanahan exclaimed. “They’re attacking from extreme range. Stud, get out of there now!”

“Initiate deorbit procedures!” Moulain shouted. “Crew, stand by to deorbit immediately! ‘Leopards’ engines throttling up!”

“…hull temperature rate warning, stations two-seventy through two-ninety…warning, warning…!”

The crew was slammed back into their seats as the Laser Pulse Detonation Rocket System engines fired at full power. The immense power of the hybrid rocket engines immediately and dramatically decelerated the Black Stallion aircraft, and it quickly began its fall to Earth. Macomber cried out as the G-forces quickly increased, far past anything he had previously experienced. Soon he could no longer muster the strength to make any noise at all — it took all of his concentration to inflate his lungs enough to keep from passing out.

“Passing twenty-eight thousand feet per second,” Terranova said amidst the almost-constant warning messages. “Passing ninety miles’ altitude…‘leopards’ at ninety percent power, three point zero Gs…”

“Go to one hundred and ten percent power,” Moulain grunted through the pressure.

“That’s over five Gs, SC,” Terranova said. “We’ll have to sustain that for—”

“Do it, MC,” Moulain ordered. “Crew, SC, it’s going to get real uncomfortable for a few minutes. Keep ahead of it the best you can.” A few moments later, her words were cut off by a feeling that her chest was going to implode as the G-forces nearly doubled. Cries of anguish and surprise were evident. “Hang…on…crew…”

“Five point three Gs,” Terranova gasped. “Jesus…passing twenty-five K, passing eighty miles…”

“Oh God, how much longer?” someone murmured — it was impossible to tell who was speaking now.

With the destruction of Engels Air Base near Saratov and the bombing of R’azan underground command center by the Americans, air forces chief of staff General Andrei Darzov had reactivated and modernized an old civil defense shelter and reserve forces reconstitution center southwest of Moscow called Poldosk for use as his evacuation and alternate command post. It didn’t have an air base or even room for a large helicopter landing pad, but it had underground rail lines adjacent to the facility, plenty of freshwater supplies (as fresh as could be expected in the Greater Moscow area)…

…and — more importantly, Darzov believed — it was sufficiently close to large numbers of city dwellers that even someone as crazy as the American bomber commander Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan might think twice about bombing the place.

Because of its mostly modern high-speed data and communications upgrades, Poldosk today served yet another purpose: as the monitoring and command center for the Molnija anti-spacecraft air-launched missile and Fanar anti-spacecraft laser systems. From a simple room with a bank of four computers, Darzov maintained contact with his forces in the field via secure high-speed Internet and voice-over-IP connections. The command center was completely mobile, could be packed up in less than an hour and set up elsewhere in about as much time, and in an emergency could be run from a single laptop computer and secure cellular or satellite phone anywhere on the planet.

This evening, the focus was on Soltanabad. It was unfortunate that the Americans found Fanar so quickly — it had to be blind luck, or maybe some Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps members turned traitor and informed on them to the coup leader Hesarak Buzhazi or to the Americans. But he had set up Fanar at Soltanabad precisely because so many American spacecraft overflew the area so often. It was, as the Americans put it, a “target-rich environment.”

Darzov scowled at a new readout and hit the TRANSMIT button on the computer keyboard: “Striker, this is Keeper. Say status. You terminated the attack…why?”

“We had full optronic lock on the target and opened fire as ordered, General,” the chief engineer and project officer at Soltanabad, Wolfgang Zypries, replied. “But seconds after we initiated the attack we lost contact.” Zypries was a German laser engineer and scientist and formerly a colonel in the German air force. Unknown to him, Zypries’ longtime girlfriend was a Russian spy, hacking into his computer at home and transferring volumes of classified material to Moscow. When his girlfriend informed him of who she was and that the German Militärischer Abschirmdienst, or Military Screen Service’s counterespionage group, was on his tail, he allowed himself to be whisked off to Russia. Darzov immediately plied him with everything he desired — money, a house, and all the women he could handle — to work on improving and mobilizing the Kavaznya anti-spacecraft laser system. After over five years’ work, he was more successful than even Darzov dared to hope.

“The spacecraft appears to be descending rapidly,” Zypries went on. “We suspect our optics were blinded when the spacecraft fired its retrorockets.”

“You did brief me that might happen, Colonel,” Darzov said. To avoid detection they had decided to use a telescopic electro-optical acquisition and tracking system and keep their extreme long-range space tracking radar in standby. They locked onto the American spaceplane seconds after it crossed the horizon and tracked it with ease. As they hoped, it had not started its descent through the atmosphere, although the highly magnified image showed it was indeed turned in the proper direction to begin slowing down, flying tailfirst. It was still in the perfect position, and Darzov ordered the attack to commence.

The next step in the laser engagement was to hit the target with a higher-powered laser to measure the atmosphere and apply corrections to the main laser’s optics, allowing it to focus more precisely on the target before firing the main chemical-oxygen-iodine laser. Darzov and Zypries decided, since the spacecraft was turned in position to fire its retrorockets, to use the main laser itself to make its own corrections in order to engage more rapidly.

“The crew was obviously expecting an attack,” Zypries said, “because they fired their main engines seconds after our laser hit. We were able to maintain contact for about fifteen seconds, but the optics were still fine-focusing so we were probably only laying sixty percent power on their hull. Then the optronic system broke lock. They must be squishing their crewmembers like bugs inside that thing — they are decelerating at three times the normal rate. I am tracking them on infrared scanners but that’s not precise enough for the main laser, so I need permission to use the main radar to reacquire and engage.”

“Are they still in range and high enough to engage?”

“They are at one hundred thirty kilometers’ altitude, sixteen hundred kilometers downrange, decelerating quickly below seven thousand eight hundred meters per second — they are dropping like a stone, but they are well within the laser’s engagement envelope,” Zypries assured him. “The structure of that spacecraft must be incredibly strong to withstand that kind of stress. They will be in the atmosphere soon but they will not be able to fly away fast enough now. I will get him for you, General.”

“Then permission granted to continue the attack, Colonel,” Darzov said immediately. “Good hunting.”

“Five point seven Gs…twenty-two K feet per second…seventy-five miles…five point nine Gs…” It seemed to take forever for Terranova to grunt out each readout. “Passing seventy miles…sixty-five miles, reaching entry interface, crew, ‘leopards’ cutoff.” The G-forces suddenly were reduced, followed by a chorus of moans and swearing from throughout the spacecraft. Macomber couldn’t believe he hadn’t passed out from that sustained pressure. He still felt the deceleration forces as the spaceplane continued to lose energy, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as it was when the “leopards” were firing. “Crew, report.”

“You guys okay?” Macomber asked the others in the passenger module. “Sing out.”

“S-Two, I’m okay,” Turlock said weakly.

“S-Three, okay,” Wohl responded, sounding as if nothing at all had just happened. The jarhead bastard was probably sound asleep through it, Macomber thought.

“S-One is okay too. SC, passengers are okay, everything back here’s in the green. That was some ride.”

“Roger that,” Moulain said. “The laser looks like it’s broken lock for now. We’ve initiated maneuvering to entry interface attitude.” The Black Stallion began to turn so it was nose-forward again, then pitched up to forty degrees above the horizon for atmospheric entry, presenting its bottom heat shields to the onrushing atmosphere to protect the ship against the heat built up by friction. “MC, let’s brief the approach.”

“Roger,” Terranova said. “We’ve passed the terminal alignment cylinder for Baku, so I’ve programmed in Herat, Afghanistan, as our landing site. We are still on max-energy descent profile, and Herat is fairly close — around thirteen hundred miles — so we have plenty of energy to reach the base. In sixty seconds the airflow pressure will be great enough for the adaptive surfaces on the Stud to take effect, and we’ll shut down the reaction control system, transition to maximum-drag profile, and deviate east over Turkmenistan to stay away from Soltanabad. Once we pass one hundred thousand feet we can transition to atmospheric flight, shut down the ‘leopards,’ start up the turbojets, and head down on a normal approach profile.”

“How much gas do we have, MC?” Macomber asked.

“After we start up the turbojets, we’ll have less than an hour of fuel, but we’ll be gliding in at around Mach five so we’ll have plenty of energy to get rid of before we need the turbojets,” Terranova replied. “We’ll start securing the thrusters and get ready to secure the ‘leopards’ so when we—”

“Warning, warning, search radar, twelve o’clock, nine hundred sixty miles, India-Juliet band,” the computerized voice of the threat warning receiver suddenly blared. Seconds later: “Warning, warning, target tracking radar, twelve o’clock, nine hundred fifty miles…warning, warning, pulse-Doppler target tracking radar, twelve o’clock, nine hundred forty miles…warning, warning, laser detected, twelve o’clock…warning, warning…!”

“They hit us with radar at almost a thousand miles?” Terranova blurted out. “That’s impossible!”

“It’s the Kavaznya radar, crew,” Patrick McLanahan said. “The range of that thing is incredible, and now it’s mobile.”

“Warning, warning, emergency cooling system activated…warning, warning, spot hull temperature increasing, station one-ninety…”

“What do we do, Odin?” Lisa Moulain cried on the radio. “What do I do?”

“The only choice you have is to roll the spacecraft to keep the laser energy from focusing on any one spot for too long,” Patrick said. “Use the reaction control system to roll. Once your mission adaptive system is effective, you can use max bank angle to fly away from the laser and do heading changes as much as possible to keep the laser off you. Dave, I need you to launch the Vampires from Batman Air Base and knock out that laser site! I want Soltanabad turned into a smoking hole!”

“They’re on the way, Odin,” Luger responded.

But as the seconds ticked by, it was obvious that nothing Moulain could do was going to work. They were getting almost constant overtemperature warnings from dozens of spots on the hull, and some began reporting leaks and structural integrity losses. Once Moulain accidentally looked directly at the laser light shining through the cockpit windshield and was partially blinded even though they both had their dark visors lowered.

Terranova finally muted the threat warnings — they were doing them no good anymore. “Frenchy, you okay?”

“I can’t see, Jim,” Moulain said on the “private” intercom setting so the crewmembers in the passenger compartment couldn’t hear. “I glanced at the laser beam for a split second, and all I see are big black holes in my vision. I screwed up. I killed us all.”

“Keep rolling, Frenchy,” Terranova said. “We’ll make it.”

Moulain began nudging the side control stick back and forth, using the thrusters to turn and roll the spacecraft. Terranova fed her a constant stream of advisories when she was going too far. The temperature warnings were almost constant no matter how hard she tried. “We’ve got to jettison the passenger module,” Moulain said, still on “private” intercom. “They might have a chance.”

“We’re way over the G-force and speed limits for jettison, Frenchy,” Terranova said. “We don’t even know if they’ll survive even if we slowed down enough — we’ve never jettisoned the module before.”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Moulain said. “I’m going to initiate a powered descent to try to slow us down enough to jettison the passenger module. We’ll use every drop of fuel we have left to slow us down. I’ll need your help. Tell me when we’re ass-end backward.” She gently rolled wings-level, then with Terranova’s assistance turned the Black Stallion so they were flying tailfirst again. On full intercom she spoke, “Crew, prepare for max retrorocket fire, powered-descent profile. ‘Leopards’ coming online.”

“What?” Macomber asked. “You’re firing the ‘leopards’ again? What—?”

He didn’t get to finish his question. Moulain activated the Laser Pulse Detonation Rocket System engines and immediately pushed them up to powered-descent profile power, then to maximum power, far exceeding the normal G-limits for passengers and crewmembers. Their speed dropped dramatically — they were still flying at over Mach 5, but that was over half of the speed they would normally be flying. Everyone in the passenger module was hit with G-forces so severe and so unexpected that they immediately blacked out. Jim Terranova blacked out too…

…and so did Lisa Moulain, but not before she opened the cargo bay doors on the upper fuselage of the XR-A9 Black Stallion, unlocked the securing bolts holding the module to the cargo bay, lifted a red-guarded switch, and activated it…

…and at the very instant the doors were fully open, the securing bolts were free, and the module’s jettison rockets fired, the Black Stallion exhausted every pound of propellant left in its tanks…and it was ripped apart by the Russian laser and exploded.

“Target destroyed, General,” Wolfgang Zypries reported from Soltanabad. “Showing massive speed loss, multiple large targets probably debris, and quickly losing radar and visual contact. Definite kill.”

“I understand,” General Andrei Darzov responded. Many of the technicians and officers in the room triumphantly raised fists and gave low cheers, but he silenced them with a warning glare. “Now I suggest you get out of there as fast as you can — the Americans have certainly sent a strike force out to destroy that base. They could be there in less than an hour if they launch from Iraq.”

“We will be out of here in thirty minutes, General,” Zypries said. “Out.”

Darzov broke the connection, then activated another and spoke: “Mission accomplished, sir.”

“Very well, General,” Russian president Leonid Zevitin responded. “What do you expect will be their reaction?”

“They are undoubtedly launching unmanned B-1 bombers from Batman Air Base in Turkey, fitted with the hypersonic attack missiles to attack and destroy the base in Iran,” Darzov said. “They could be in position to fire in less than an hour — even as quickly as thirty minutes if they had a plane ready to launch. The target will be struck less than a minute later.”

“My God, that’s incredible — we need to get our hands on that technology,” Zevitin muttered. “I assume your people are haulin’ ass and getting away from that base.”

“They should be well away before the Americans attack — I assure you, they feel those hypersonic missiles on the backs of their necks even now.”

“I’ll bet they do. Where was the spaceplane when it went down, General?”

“Approximately one thousand kilometers northwest of Soltanabad.”

“So by chance does that place it…over Russia?”

There was a short pause as Darzov checked his computerized maps; then: “Yes, sir, it does. One hundred kilometers northwest of Machackala, the capital of Dagestan province, and three hundred kilometers southeast of the Tupolev-95 bomber base at Mozdok.”

“And the debris?”

“Impossible to say, sir. It will probably be scattered for thousands of kilometers between the Caspian Sea and the Iran-Afghanistan border.”

“Too bad. Track that debris carefully and advise me if any reaches land. Order a search team from the Caspian Sea Flotilla to begin a search immediately. Have our radar stations alerted our air defense systems?”

“No, sir. The normal air defense and air traffic radar systems would not be able to track a target so high and traveling so fast. Only a dedicated space tracking system would be able to do so.”

“So without such radar, we wouldn’t know anything has happened yet, would we?”

“Unfortunately not, sir.”

“When would you expect the debris to be detected by a regular radar system?”

“We are not tracking the debris anymore since we are breaking down the Fanar radar system at Soltanabad,” Darzov explained, “but I would guess that within a few minutes we might be able to start picking up the larger pieces as they re-enter the atmosphere. I will have our air defense sites in Dagestan report immediately when debris is detected.”

“Very good, General,” Zevitin said. “I wouldn’t want to complain about the latest American attack against Russia too soon, would I?”

“My, my, Mr. President,” the female staff sergeant said as she rose from her knees and began rebuttoning her uniform blouse, “you certainly get my vote.”

“Thank you, Staff Sergeant,” President Gardner said, watching her rearrange herself as he zipped his fly. “I think there’s a position available on my…staff for someone as skilled as you.” She smiled at the very much intended double entendre. “Interested?”

“Actually, sir, I’ve been waiting for an opening in Officer Training School,” she replied, looking the commander-in-chief up and down hungrily. “I was told a slot might not open up for another eighteen months. I finished my bachelor’s degree and put in my application just last semester. I’m very determined to get my commission.”

“What was your degree in, sugar?”

“Political science,” she replied. “I’m going for a law degree, and then I’d like to get into politics.”

“We could sure use someone of your…enthusiasm in Washington, Staff Sergeant,” the President said. He noticed the CALL light blinking on the phone — an urgent call, but not urgent enough to override the DO NOT DISTURB order. “But OTS is in Alabama?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s too bad, honey,” the President said, acting disappointed — the last thing he wanted was for this one to show up in Washington. Maxwell Air Force Base in Alabama would be perfect — far enough away from Washington to avoid rumors, but close enough to Florida for her to sneak down when he was at his estate in Florida. “I’d sure like to work with you more often, but I admire your dedication to the service. I’m sure I heard of an OTS slot opening up in the next class, and I think you’d fit in perfectly. We’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. President,” the steward said, smoothing out the rest of her hair and uniform, then departing without even a backward glance.

That’s the way he liked them, Gardner thought as he took a sip of juice and started to get his heart rate and thoughts back in order: the ones bold and aggressive enough to do anything necessary to get an advantage over all the others, but wise enough to go back to work and avoid getting emotionally involved—those were the real powerhouses in Washington. Some did it with talent, brains, or political connections — there was nothing wrong, or different, about the ones who did it on their knees. Plus, she understood the same as he that both their careers would be finished if word ever got out about their little rendezvous, so it benefited both of them to do what the other wanted and, more important, keep their mouths shut about it. That one was going to go very far.

Seconds later, his mind quickly refocused on the upcoming events and itinerary, he punched off the DO NOT DISTURB button. Moments later his chief of staff and National Security Adviser knocked, checked the peephole to be sure the President was alone, waited a moment, then entered the suite. Both had cell phones up to their ears. Air Force One could act as its own cellular base station, and unlike passengers on commercial airliners there were no restrictions on the use of cell phones inflight on Air Force One — users could light up as many terrestrial cell towers as they liked. “What’s going on?” the President asked.

“Either nothing…or the shit has just hit the fan, Mr. President,” Chief of Staff Walter Kordus said. “Air forces in Europe headquarters got a call from the Sixth Combined Air Operations Center in Turkey requesting confirmation for an EB-1C Vampire bomber flight of two scramble launch out of Batman Air Base in southern Turkey…the same ones we grounded after the missile attack in Iran. USAFE called the Pentagon for confirmation since there was no air tasking order for any bomber missions out of Batman.”

“You mean, McLanahan’s bombers?” Kordus’s panicked face had the answer. “McLanahan ordered two of his bombers to launch…after I ordered them grounded? What the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know yet, sir,” Kordus said. “I told USAFE that no bombers were authorized to launch for any reason, and I ordered them to deny launch clearance. I have a call in to McLanahan and to his deputy Luger out in Nevada, trying to find out what’s going on.”

“Are the bombers armed?”

“We don’t know that yet either, sir. This mission was totally unauthorized.”

“Well, we should assume they are — knowing McLanahan, he would keep weapons on his planes even though they’re all grounded, unless we specifically ordered him not to, and even then he might do it. Just keep them on the ramp until we find out what’s going on. What’s the story with the spaceplane? Is it still in orbit?”

“I’ll check as soon as McLanahan picks up the phone, sir.”

“It’d better be, or I’ll nail his hide to my bathroom door,” the President said, taking another sip of orange juice. “Listen, about the ‘meet-and-greet’ thing in Orlando…” And then he heard Carlyle swear into his phone. “What, Conrad?”

“The B-1 bombers launched,” the National Security Adviser said. The President’s jaw dropped in surprise. “The tower controller at the air base told the crew to hold their position, but there is no crew on those planes — they’re remotely controlled from Elliott Air Force Base in Nevada—”

“McLanahan.”

“McLanahan is still aboard the space station, so it’s his deputy, Brigadier General Luger, in charge of the bombers out of Elliott,” Carlyle said. “I’ve got a call in to Secretary of Defense Turner to order Luger to get those bombers back on the ground. Je-sus…!”

“He is out of control!” the President snapped. “I want him off that space station and in custody immediately! Send a damned U.S. Marshal up there if you have to!”

“Send a U.S. Marshal — into space?” Kordus asked. “I wonder if that’s ever been done before…or if we could get a marshal to volunteer to do that?”

“I’m not kidding around, Walter. McLanahan has to be slapped down before he starts another damned war between us and Russia. Find out what in hell is going on, and do it fast. Zevitin will be on the phone before we know it, again, and I want to assure him everything is under control.”

“Headbanger Two-One flight of two is level at flight level three-one-oh, due regard, Mach point nine-one, thirty minutes to launch point,” the mission commander reported. “Due regard” meant that they had terminated all normal air traffic control procedures and were flying without official flight-following or civil aviation monitoring…because they were going to war.

Two officers sat side by side in a separate section of the BATMAN, or battle management area, at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base in northern Nevada, seated at what appeared to be a normal computer workstation that might be used by a security guard or securities day trader…except for the jet-fighter-style joysticks. On each side of the officers were two enlisted technicians with their own bank of computer monitors. The men and women in the room talked into their microphones in muted voices, bodies barely moving, eyes scanning from monitor to monitor. Only an occasional flick of a finger on a keyboard or hand rolling a cursor with a trackball led anyone to believe anything was really happening.

The two officers were piloting two unmanned EB-1C Vampire supersonic “flying battleships” which had launched from their forward operating base in eastern Turkey across northern Iran. Three high-resolution monitors showed the view in front and to the sides of the lead bomber, while other monitors showed performance, systems, and weapons readouts from both planes. Although the two bombers were fully flyable, they were usually flown completely on computer control, reacting autonomously to mission commands entered before the flight and deciding for themselves what to do to accomplish the mission. The ground crew monitored the flight’s progress, made changes to the flight plan if necessary, and could take over at any time, but the computers made all the decisions. The technicians watched over the aircraft’s systems, monitored the electromagnetic spectrum for threats, and looked over incoming intelligence and reconnaissance data along the route of flight that might affect the mission.

“Genesis copies,” David Luger responded. He was back at the battle staff area at Elliott Air Force Base in south-central Nevada, watching the mission unfold on the wall-sized electronic “big boards” before him. Other displays showed enemy threats detected by all High-Technology Aerospace Weapons Center aircraft and satellites and other allied sensors operating in the region. But Luger’s attention was drawn to two other displays: the first was the latest satellite imagery of the target area in eastern Iran…

…and the second was of the satellite space tracking data, which at the moment was blank.

“They’re taking down the laser stuff in a pretty big damned hurry,” Dave commented. “They must have guessed we’d send bombers to blast the hell out of that base. I’m not sure if we’ll get there in time, Muck.”

“Push ’em up, Dave,” Patrick McLanahan said. He was monitoring the mission as well from the command module on Armstrong Space Station. “Get a tanker airborne to meet the bombers on the way back, but I want those missiles on the way before the Russian cockroaches scatter.”

“Roger, Muck. Stand by. Headbanger, this is Genesis. Odin wants the bombers to attack before the target scatters. Push up the bombers and say status of the support tankers.”

“Already got the alert tankers taxiing out, Dave,” the commander of the Air Battle Force’s air forces from Battle Mountain, Major General Rebecca Furness, responded. “He’ll be airborne in five minutes.”

“Roger that. Odin wants the Vampires pushed up as much as you can.”

“As soon as the tanker’s within max safe range, we’ll push the Vampires up to Mach one point two — that’s the max launch speed for the SkySTREAKs. Best we can do with the current mission parameters.”

“Suggest you erase the one-hour fuel reserve for the tanker and push up the Vampires now,” Luger said.

“Negative — I’m not going to do that, Dave,” Rebecca said. Rebecca Furness was the U.S. Air Force’s first female combat pilot and first female commander of a tactical combat air unit. When Rebecca’s Air Force Reserve B-1B Lancer unit at Reno, Nevada, was closed and the bombers transferred to the High-Technology Aerospace Weapons Center for conversion into manned and unmanned “flying battleships,” Furness went along. Now she commanded the five tactical squadrons at the new Reserve base at Battle Mountain, Nevada, composed of converted manned and unmanned B-52 and B-1 bombers, unmanned QA-45C stealth attack aircraft, and KC-76 aerial refueling tankers. “We’ll get them, don’t worry.”

Luger glanced again at the latest satellite image of the highway air base at Soltanabad, Iran. It was only five minutes old, but it already showed a few of the larger trucks gone and what appeared like an entire battalion of workers taking down the rest. “We’re running out of time, ma’am. The cockaroaches are scattering quick.”

“I know, Dave — I see the pictures too,” Rebecca said, “but I’m not risking losing my bombers.”

“Like we lost the Stud?”

“Don’t give me that crap, Dave — I know what’s going on here, and I’m just as mad about it as you are,” Rebecca snapped. “But may I remind you that our bombers are the only long-range strike aircraft we have now, and I’m not going to risk them on…an unauthorized mission.” It was no exaggeration, and Dave Luger knew it: since the American Holocaust, the Russian cruise missile attack on American bomber and intercontinental missile bases four years earlier, the only surviving long-range bombers had been the handful of bombers deployed overseas and the converted B-52 and B-1 bombers based at Battle Mountain.

Furness’s bombers soon racked up casualties of their own. All of Battle Mountain’s bombers had been sent to a Russian aerial refueling tanker base in Yakutsk, Siberia, from where Patrick McLanahan led attack missions against nuclear ballistic missile bases throughout Russia. When the American bombers were discovered, then — Russian president General Anatoliy Gryzlov attacked the base with more nuclear-tipped cruise missiles. Half the force had been lost in the devastating attack. The remaining bombers successfully attacked dozens of Russian missile bases, destroying the bulk of their strategic nuclear force; McLanahan himself, aboard one of the last EB-52 Megafortress battleships, attacked and killed Gryzlov in his underground bunker southeast of Moscow in a grueling twenty-hour-long mission that took him across the entire breadth of the Russian Federation.

After the conflict, Rebecca Furness had been given command of the Air Force’s few remaining bombers; consequently, no one knew better than she the incredible responsibility placed upon her. The surviving planes, and the few unmanned stealth bombers built since the American Holocaust, were the only air-breathing long-range strike aircraft left in the American arsenal — if any bombers were going to be built ever again, it might take decades to build the force back up to credible levels.

“Ma’am, I’m sure the strike mission will be approved once the national command authority gets our report on what happened to our spaceplane,” Dave said. “That mobile Kavaznya laser is the biggest threat facing our country right now — not just to our spacecraft, but possibly to anything that flies.” He paused, then added, “And the Russians just killed five of our best, ma’am. It’s time for some payback.”

Rebecca was silent for a long moment; then, shaking her head, she said wryly, “Three ‘ma’ams’ out of you in one conversation, General Luger — I believe that’s a first for you.” She punched some instructions into her computer. “I’ll authorize a change to thirty minutes’ bingo fuel.”

“Odin to Headbanger, I said, push them up, General Furness,” Patrick interjected from Armstrong Space Station. “Take them up to Vmax, then slow them down to one point two for weapon release.”

“What if they don’t make it to the air refueling anchor on the way back, General?” she asked. “What if there’s a navigation error? What if they can’t hook up on the first go? Let’s not lose sight of—”

“Push ’em up, General. That’s an order.”

Rebecca sighed. She could legally ignore his order and be sure her bombers were safe — that was her job — but she certainly understood how badly he wanted retribution. She turned to her Vampire flight crew and said, “Push them up to one point five, recompute bingo fuel at the air refueling control point, and advise.”

The crew complied, and a moment later reported: “Headbanger flight of two now at flight level three-one-oh, on course, speed Mach one point five, due regard, in the green, twenty minutes to launch point. Bingo fuel at the ARCP is gone; we’re down to ten minutes’ emergency fuel. We should make up a few more minutes after we get the tanker’s updated ETE.”

“That’s ten minutes after the second bomber cycles on the boom, right?” Rebecca asked. The grim, ashen expression and silent no on the face of the tech told her that they were in really deep shit.