CHAPTER ONE

It is better to be violent, if there is violence in our hearts, than to put on the cloak of nonviolence to cover impotence.

— MAHATMA GANDHI

ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION
THAT SAME TIME

“Okay, suckers, c’mon and poke your head out — just a little bit,” Captain Hunter “Boomer” Noble muttered. “Don’t be afraid — this won’t hurt a bit.” This was day two of their new patrol, and so far they had squat to show for it except for a persistent headache from watching the sensor monitors for hours at a stretch.

“Hang in there, sir,” Air Force Master Sergeant Valerie “Seeker” Lukas said gaily. “You’re anticipating, and that negative energy only keeps their heads down.”

“It’s not negative energy, Seeker, whatever that is,” Boomer said, rubbing his eyes. “It’s that TV picture — it’s killing me.” Hunter rubbed his eyes. They were staring at a wide-screen high-definition image of a suburban section of the southeast side of Tehran, in what used to be called the Islamic Republic of Iran but was now referred to by many in the world as the Democratic Republic of Persia. The image, shot from a telescopic electro-optical camera mounted aboard a U.S. Air Force RQ-4 Global Hawk unmanned reconnaissance aircraft orbiting at sixty thousand feet above the city, was fairly steady, but every shake, no matter how occasional, felt like another pinch of sand thrown into Boomer’s eyes.

The two were not sitting at a console in a normal terrestrial combat control center, but in the main battle management module of Armstrong Space Station, positioned two hundred and seventy-five miles above Earth in a forty-seven-degree inclination easterly orbit. Noble and Lukas were among four additional personnel brought aboard to run the U.S. Air Force’s Air Battle Force monitoring and command mission over the Democratic Republic of Persia. Although Boomer was a space veteran with several dozen orbital flights and even a spacewalk to his credit, floating in zero-G staring at a monitor was not what he joined the Air Force for. “How much longer are we on station?”

“Just five more hours, sir,” Lukas said, smiling and shaking her head in mock disbelief when Noble groaned at her reply. Seeker was an eighteen-year U.S. Air Force veteran, but she still looked barely older than she did the day she enlisted in January 1991 when Operation Desert Storm kicked off, and she loved her profession just as much now as she did back then. The images of laser- and TV-guided bombs flying through windows and down ventilator shafts fascinated and excited her, and she started basic training two days after graduating from high school. She joined every high-tech optronic sensor school and course she could find, quickly becoming an all-around expert at remote sensing and targeting systems. “Besides the power plant, environmental, and electronic systems, the most important systems in strategic reconnaissance are patience and an iron butt.”

“I’d rather be out there flying myself,” Boomer said petulantly, readjusting himself yet again on his attachment spot on the bulkhead in front of the large monitor. He was a little taller than the average American astronaut that most of the instruments on the space station were obviously designed for, so he found almost everything on the station just enough of the wrong size, height, or orientation to irk him. Although the twenty-five-year-old test pilot, engineer, and astronaut was a space veteran, most of his time in space had been spent strapped into a nice secure spaceplane seat at the controls, not floating around in zero-G. “All this remote-control stuff is for the birds.”

“You calling me a ‘bird,’ sir?” she asked with mock disapproval.

“I’m not calling anyone anything, Master Sergeant — I’m giving this particular procedure my own personal opinion,” Boomer said. He motioned to the screen. “The picture is really good, but it’s the radar aiming thingy that’s driving me nuts.”

“That’s the SAR aiming reticle, sir,” Seeker said. “It’s slaved to the synthetic aperture radar and highlights any large vehicle or device that appears in the sensor field of view that matches our search parameters. If we didn’t have it, we’d have to manually scan every vehicle in the city—that would really drive you nuts.”

“I know what it is, Master Sergeant,” Boomer said, “but can’t you make it stop darting and flitting and shaking around the screen so much?” The monitor showed a rectangular box that appeared and disappeared frequently in the scene. When it appeared, the box surrounded a vehicle, adjusted its size to match the vehicle, and then if it matched the preprogrammed size parameters, a tone would sound and the camera would zoom in so the humans could see what the computers had found. But it would only stay focused on one vehicle for five seconds before starting the wide-area scan again, so Boomer and Seeker had to almost constantly watch the screen and be prepared to hit the HOLD button to study the image before the computer jumped out again. “It’s giving me a damned headache.”

“I think it’s incredible it’s doing what it’s doing, sir,” Seeker said, “and I’m more than willing to put up with a few jiggles if it helps us spot a—” And at that moment the computer locked onto another vehicle, which had just appeared atop a parking structure beside a cluster of apartment buildings. Seeker slapped the HOLD button a second later. “Hey, we got one!” she shouted. “It’s a Katyusha…no, I think it’s a Ra’ad rocket! We got them setting up a Ra’ad!”

“You’re mine, suckers,” Boomer said, instantly forgetting all about his purported headache. He glanced at the monitor, but he was already busy making sure the target coordinates obtained by the Global Hawk were being uploaded properly. The live image was incredibly detailed. They watched as four men carried a large rocket, resembling a large artillery shell with fins, out of the parking garage to the back of a Toyota pickup truck — it must’ve been very heavy, because it appeared they were having difficulty carrying it. The pickup had a large steel skeletal pedestal mounted in the pickup frame, with a circular cradle atop it. The men rested the rocket on the back of the truck, then two of them hopped up and they began struggling to lift the rocket up to the launcher.

“Don’t drop it, boys,” Seeker said. “You wouldn’t want to spoil our fun, would you?” She turned to Boomer. “How much longer, sir?”

“Target coordinates uploaded,” Boomer said. “Counting down now. How long do we have?”

“Once they get it up into the launcher, it could be fired in less than a minute.”

Boomer glanced up and watched the monitor. Several children ran up to the truck to watch the terrorists at work — at first they were shooed away, but after a few moments they were allowed to get a closer look. “Looks like ‘Career Day’ is on in Tehran,” he said gloomily.

“Get out of there, kids,” Seeker murmured. “It’s not safe for you there.”

“Not because of us,” Boomer said coldly. He hit a transmitter button on his console. “Ripper to Genesis.”

“I’m right here, Boomer,” responded Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan, “standing” on the bulkhead behind Boomer and looking over his shoulder. The twenty-one-year Air Force veteran and three-star general was the commanding officer at Elliott Air Force Base, Groom Lake, Nevada, the home of the High-Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, or HAWC. HAWC developed the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane, along with countless other air weapons and aircraft, but it was leaders like Patrick McLanahan who saw the capabilities and possibilities of those experimental devices and brought them to bear in crisis situations where America or her allies would otherwise suffer tremendous losses or even defeat. Short, husky but not large, with disarming blue eyes and a quick smile, Patrick McLanahan did not at all resemble the hard-charging, determined, audacious globe-crossing aerial bombardment expert and master tactician portrayed by his reputation. Like Boomer and Seeker, McLanahan was becoming a veteran astronaut — this was his third trip to Armstrong Space Station in as many months.

“We’ve got a good one, sir,” Boomer said, nodding at his monitor. “Not a little homemade Qassam or Katyusha this time, either.” Boomer studied the young three-star Air Force general’s face carefully, noticing his eyes flicking back and forth across his monitor — not just looking at the rocket, Boomer thought, but at the kids clustered around the makeshift terror weapon launcher. “The master sergeant thinks it’s a Ra’ad rocket.”

It appeared as if Patrick hadn’t heard him, but a few moments later he nodded excitedly. “I agree, Seeker,” he said. “A Hezbollah weapon, based on a Russian battalion-level battlefield attack missile. Two-hundred-pound warhead, simple but usually effective barometric fuse, airburst with a backup impact detonation, killing radius a hundred yards or more, usually loaded up with glass, ball bearings, and pieces of metal along with high explosives to increase the injury toll. A real terror weapon.” He shook his head. “But there are too many civilians around. Our ROE says no noncombatant casualties and minimal collateral damage. Pick a different target, Boomer, one with fewer bystanders. There will be plenty of opportunities…”

“We don’t see many Ra’ad rockets, sir,” Seeker said. “That’s not a homemade rocket — that’s a military-grade short-range ballistic attack missile.”

“I know, Master Sergeant, but our orders are specific and—” At that moment the insurgents shooed the children away again, more forcefully this time, as another insurgent fitted ignition wires to the tail end of the rocket in final preparation for launch. “Now,” Patrick snapped. “Take it down.”

“Yes, sir,” Boomer said enthusiastically. He issued commands on his computer, checked the computer’s responses, then nodded. “Here we go…missile counting down…doors coming open…ready…ready…now, missile away.” He checked a countdown timer. “Don’t anyone blink, ’cuz this won’t take long.”

Over the Caspian Sea two hundred and twenty miles north of Tehran, an unmanned EB-1D Vampire bomber opened its combined forward and center bomb bay doors and released a single large missile. The D-model Vampire was a modified U.S. Air Force B-1B strategic bomber, converted by the High-Technology Aerospace Weapons Center to a long-range unmanned flying battleship. It was capable of autonomously flying itself from takeoff to final parking with an inflight-reprogrammable flight plan, or could be flown by satellite remote control like a large multimillion-dollar video game from a laptop computer located almost anywhere.

The missile the Vampire had just released was an even more sophisticated weapon developed by the engineers at HAWC. Its unclassified designator was the XAGM-279A SkySTREAK, but anyone who knew anything about this missile — and there were only a handful of persons on the entire planet who did — called it the “Streaker.” It resembled a cross between a bullet and a manta ray, with a pointed carbon-carbon nosecap and bullet-shaped forebody splaying out into a thin, flat fuselage and pointed tail section. After stabilizing itself in the atmosphere, four solid-fuel rocket motors ignited, pushing the weapon to well past Mach 3 and one hundred thousand feet of altitude in just a few seconds.

Within eight seconds the motors had burned out, and a wide, flat oval air intake popped open underneath the missile. Supersonic air was ingested and compressed by the shape of the now-empty rocket motor casings, mixed with jet fuel, and ignited by high-energy pulses of laser energy. The resultant energy propelled the missile to over ten times the speed of sound in just a few more seconds, and the missile ate up the distance between its launch point and its target in no time, climbing to two hundred thousand feet as it raced downrange. The missile burned all of its jet fuel in just a few seconds, and it quickly decelerated and began descending back through the atmosphere. Once the outside skin temperature was within safe limits, the bullet-shaped forebody detached from the spent propulsion section, which automatically blew itself to bits moments later.

Small stabilizer fins popped out of the forebody, and it became a supersonic re-entry vehicle, guiding itself to its target with its on-board navigation computer refined by Global Positioning System signals. Fifteen seconds to impact, the protective nosecap detached, revealing a combination millimeter-wave radar and imaging infrared scanner, and the warhead began uploading video signals via satellite to Boomer and Seeker back in Dreamland. The steering cue in the video image was several yards off, but Seeker used a trackball and rolled the steering rectangle back on the pickup truck, which sent steering correction signals to the warhead.

The video image from the warhead was sharp and clear all the way to impact. Patrick had a brief glimpse of a young man, no more than fifteen or sixteen years old, wearing a mask and carrying an AK-47 assault rifle that looked almost as big as he was, who looked right up at the incoming weapon milliseconds before the image vanished. Patrick knew that the warhead was programmed to explode a tenth of a second before impact, splitting the warhead apart into thousands of small hypervelocity fragments, increasing the killing radius of the weapon out to about forty to fifty yards.

“Direct hit!” Boomer shouted happily. He looked at the control monitor and slapped his hands together. “Total time from detection to impact: forty-eight point nine seconds. Less than a friggin’ minute!”

“It’s more like a Maverick missile — or a sniper’s bullet — only fired from two hundred miles away!” Seeker exclaimed. She had switched back to the Global Hawk’s image of the target area and zoomed in to take a close look at the Streaker warhead’s impact spot. “Pretty good urban weapon effects, sir, exactly what you were hoping for. A really good-sized hole, about fifteen to twenty feet in diameter — looks like the center punched through the concrete parking garage roof into the floor below — but no damage to the nearby buildings that I can see except for a few broken windows. Even a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound Small-Diameter Bomb might have caved in the sides of the building facing the blast.”

“With no explosive warhead on the Streaker, there’s nothing there to create any collateral damage,” Boomer said. “We put just enough shaped explosive charges in the warhead to break it apart milliseconds before impact, and that was both to increase the weapon effect slightly as well as to destroy as much of the evidence as we could. All they should find are tiny pieces of—”

“Oh…my…God,” Seeker breathed. She had zoomed out to survey a little more of the surrounding area. There were clusters of people, perhaps two dozen or so, just outside the apartment complex area lying on the sidewalk and street, with others attending to them, waving frantically for help. “What in hell happened here? Where did those people come from, and why are they lying on the ground like that? Are they from inside the apartment complex…?”

“The Streaker must’ve set off the Ra’ad rocket’s warhead,” Boomer said. They all carefully studied the image as Seeker took manual control of the camera and zoomed in. “But what’s going on? Those people over there weren’t anywhere near the blast, but they’re staggering around like they were hit. Was it shrapnel from the Ra’ad warhead? The Streaker doesn’t have an explosive payload — it’s all kinetic energy. Is the Persian army moving in? What’s going…?”

“A chemical weapon cloud,” Patrick said.

“What…?”

“It looks like some sort of chemical weapon cloud, spreading out from the target area,” Patrick said. He pointed to the monitor. “Not more than thirty feet away. Here’s a little bit of the cloud…see, it’s not rising like a cloud from an explosion or from heat, but traveling horizontally, blown around by air currents.” He looked closer. “Not twitching…it’s hard to tell, but it looks like he’s rubbing his eyes and face and is having trouble breathing. I’ll bet it’s a blister agent…lewisite or phosgene. Mustard agents would take longer to incapacitate someone, even in high concentrations…look, now someone collapsing across the street. Jesus, the warhead must’ve had several liters of CW in it.”

“My God,” Seeker gasped. “I’ve been operating remote sensors for almost twenty years, and I’ve never seen anyone die from a chemical weapon attack.”

“I have a feeling the powers that be aren’t going to like this,” Patrick said.

“Should we recall the Vampire, sir?”

“Hell no,” Patrick said. “We still have three more Streakers on board, and another Vampire loaded and waiting to go at Mosul. Keep on scanning for more insurgents. Congratulations, Boomer. The SkySTREAK worked perfectly. Nail a few more insurgents for us.”

“You got it, sir,” Boomer said happily.

ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION
A SHORT TIME LATER

Unfortunately, Patrick turned out to be exactly correct. The Global Hawk images were being beamed to several terrestrial locations as well as to Silver Tower, including the Joint Chiefs of Staff Operations Center in Washington, and it was there that he received his first call just moments later: “Genesis, this is Rook.” That was from the duty officer at the JCS Operations Center. “Stand by, please.” A moment later, the chief of staff of the Air Force, General Charles A. Huffman, appeared on the video teleconference channel, looking a little pale himself but still very angry as well.

Huffman, a tall, dark-haired, and very young man with husky, athletic features — more like a linebacker than a running back, Boomer thought — was typical of the new breed of leaders in the American military. In the five years since the Russian nuclear cruise missile air strike on the continental United States, known as the “American Holocaust,” which left several thousand dead, hundreds of thousands injured, several Air Force bases destroyed, and almost all of America’s long-range bombers wiped out, the military ranks had filled with eager young men and women wishing to protect their country, and many officers were promoted well below their primary zones and placed into important command positions years before it was ever thought possible. Also, since senior leaders with extensive combat experience were kept in charge of tactical units or major commands, often officers with less direct combat experience were placed in more administrative and training billets — and since the office of the chief of staff was mostly concerned with equipping and training their forces, not leading them into combat, it seemed a good match.

That was true of Huffman as well: Patrick knew he came from the logistics field, a command pilot, wing, and numbered Air Force commander, and former Air Force Materiel Command commander with over fifteen thousand hours flying time in a variety of cargo, transport, and liaison aircraft in two conflicts, and extensive experience in supply, resource management, and test and evaluation. As former head of Materiel Command, Huffman had been notional commander of activities at the top-secret High-Technology Aerospace Weapons Center at Elliott Air Force Base, although that link was mostly administrative and logistical — operationally, the commanders at HAWC reported to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff or the Secretary of Defense at the Pentagon, the President’s National Security Adviser at the White House, or — at least under former President Kevin Martindale — directly to the President himself.

Patrick had never spent any time in logistics, but he knew that logistics officers liked their world as neat, orderly, and organized as possible. Although they learned to expect the unexpected, they very much preferred to anticipate, predict, and manage the unexpected, and therefore anything unexpected was not welcome. He knew Huffman, however, and he knew that’s precisely the way Huffman liked it: no surprises. “McLanahan, what in hell happened out there?”

“Calling Genesis, say again, please,” Patrick said, trying to remind the general that although the connection was encrypted and as secure as they could make it, it was still a wide-open satellite-based network and prone to eavesdropping.

“We’re secure here, McLanahan,” Huffman thundered. “What in hell is going on? What happened?”

“We hit an insurgent rocket launcher, and apparently detonated its explosive chemical-weapon warhead, sir.”

“What did you hit it with?”

“A XAGM-279 with a kinetic warhead, sir,” Patrick responded, using the SkySTREAK’s experimental model number instead of its name to confuse any eavesdroppers. “Almost no explosives in it — just enough to fragment the warhead.”

“What is a XAGM-279? An experimental precision-guided missile?”

So much for communications security, Patrick thought, shaking his head. It was five years after the American Holocaust and seven years since 9/11, and many folks had forgotten or abandoned the tight security measures that had been put in place after those two devastating attacks. “Yes, sir” was all Patrick said.

“Launched from that unmanned B-1?”

“Yes, sir.” Anyone listening to this conversation — and Patrick didn’t delude himself that any number of agencies or units around the world could’ve done so easily — could piece together their entire operation by now. “I briefed the staff two days ago on the operation.”

“Dammit, McLanahan, you briefed minimal collateral damage, not dozens of dead women and children lying in the street!” Huffman cried. “That was the only way we could sell your idea to the President.”

“The weapon produced virtually no collateral damage, sir. It was the chemical warhead on the insurgents’ rocket that caused all those civilian casualties.”

“Do you believe anyone is gong to care about that one bit?” Huffman said. “This is a major fuckup, McLanahan. The press is going to have a field day with this.” Patrick remained silent. “Well?”

“I don’t feel it’s my task force’s or my responsibility to worry about what the enemy’s weapons do to the civilian population, sir,” Patrick said. “Our job is to hunt for insurgents firing rockets into population centers in Tehran and destroy them.”

“The Qagev members inside the Turkmeni insurgent network and Buzhazi’s spies inside Mohtaz’s security staff briefed us that the insurgents could use weapons of mass destruction at any time, McLanahan,” Huffman said. Patrick suppressed another irritated breath: Huffman had just revealed two highly classified intelligence sources — if anyone was eavesdropping, those sources were dead meat in just a matter of days, perhaps hours. “You should have adjusted tactics accordingly.”

“Tactics were adjusted, sir — I was ordered to reduce the number of bombers on station from three to one,” Patrick responded—by you, he added to himself. “But we don’t have enough coverage of the city to effectively deal with the number of launchers being reported. I recommend we launch two more bombers so we can hunt down more launchers before the insurgents actually start firing live chemical warhead munitions into the city.”

“Are you crazy, McLanahan?” Huffman retorted. “The President will probably order the entire program shut down because of this! The last thing he will do is put more bombers up there. As it is, we’ll spend a week defending ourselves from being accused of releasing those chemical warheads. You will recall your aircraft immediately, then prepare to debrief the JCS and likely the entire national security staff. I want a full report on the incident on my desk in one hour. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And after the briefing is complete, get your ass off that damned space station,” Huffman said. “I don’t know why my predecessor allowed you to go up there, but you’ve got no business traipsing up to that floating pile of tubes every time you feel like it. I need you down here—if for no other reason than to have you personally answer to the national command authority regarding another lapse in judgment.”

“Yes, sir,” Patrick replied, but the transmission had already been ended by the time he spoke. He terminated the videoconference link, thought for a moment, then spoke, “McLanahan to Mace.”

Another window popped open on the opposite lower corner of Boomer’s large multifunction screen, and he saw the image of Brigadier General Daren Mace, the operations officer and second-in-command of the Air Battle Force attack wing at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base in northern Nevada. The air wing at Battle Mountain was the home base and central control facility for the unmanned long-range bombers, although commanders at HAWC could also issue instructions to the bombers as well.

“Yes, General?” Mace responded. Older than Patrick by just a few years, Daren Mace was a veteran B-1B Lancer strategic bomber OSO, or offensive systems officer, and bomb wing commander. His expertise on the B-1’s attack systems and capabilities led him to be chosen to head the Air Battle Force’s long-range supersonic attack fleet.

“Recall the damned Vampires,” Patrick ordered tonelessly.

“But sir, we’ve still got three more Streakers on board the Vampire, and it’s got at least two more hours’ endurance before it has to head back to Batman Air Base in Turkey,” Boomer interjected. “Intel briefed us that—”

“The operational test was successful, Boomer — that’s what we needed to find out,” Patrick said, rubbing his temples. He shook his head resignedly. “Recall the Vampire now, General Mace,” he said quietly, his head lowered, his voice sounding utterly exhausted.

“Yes, sir,” the veteran bomber navigator responded. He entered keyboard instructions on his computer console. “The Vampire’s on the way back to Batman Air Base in Turkey, sir, ETE forty-five minutes. What about the follow-on sorties?”

“Hold them in their hangars until I give the word,” Patrick replied.

“And what about our shadow, sir?” Daren asked.

Patrick looked at another monitor. Yep, it was still there: a Russian MiG-29 Fulcrum jet fighter, one of several that had been hanging near the bomber since it started its patrol, always within one or two miles of the Vampire, not making any threatening moves but certainly able to attack at any second. It certainly had a front-row seat for the SkySTREAK launch. The Vampire bomber had taken several photographs of the fighter with its high-resolution digital camera so detailed that they could practically read the pilot’s name stenciled on the front of his flight suit.

“If it locks onto the Vampire, shoot it down immediately,” Patrick said. “Otherwise we’ll let it—”

And at that moment they heard a computer-synthesized voice announce, “Warning, warning, missile launch! SPEAR system activated!”

Patrick shook his head and sighed audibly. “The game’s afoot, crew,” he said. “The battle begins today, and it has little to do with Persia.” He turned to the computer screen of the command center at Battle Mountain. “Shut that bastard down, Daren,” Patrick radioed.

“He’s down, sir,” Daren said.

* * *

As soon as the Vampire bomber detected the missile launch, its newest and most powerful self-defense system activated: the ALQ-293 SPEAR, or Self-Protection Electronically Agile Reaction system. Large sections of the composite skin of the EB-1D Vampire had been redesigned to act as an electronically scalable antenna that could transmit and receive many different electromagnetic signals, including radar, laser, radio, and even computer data code.

As soon as the MiG’s radar was detected, the SPEAR system immediately classified the radar, examined its software, and devised a method to not just jam its frequency but to interface with the radar’s digital controls themselves. As soon as the missile launch was detected, SPEAR sent commands to the MiG’s fire control system to send a command to the missile to switch immediately to infrared seeker mode, then shut down the digital guidance uplink from the fighter. The missiles automatically deactivated their on-board radars and activated its infrared seeker, but they were too far away from the Vampire bomber to lock on using its heat-seeking sensor, and the missiles harmlessly plummeted to the Caspian Sea without acquiring a target.

But SPEAR wasn’t done. After defeating the missiles, SPEAR sent digital instructions to the MiG-29 via the fire control system to start shutting down aircraft systems controlled by computer. One by one, the navigation, engine controls, flight controls, and communications all turned themselves off.

In the blink of an eye, the pilot found himself sitting in a completely silent and dark glider, as if he were sitting on the ramp back at his home base.

To his credit, the veteran pilot didn’t panic and eject — he was not out of control, not yet, but just…well, turned off. There was only one thing to do: turn all switches off to reset the computers, then turn everything back on, and hope he could get his stricken jet running again before he crashed into the Caspian Sea. He flipped his checklist to the BEFORE POWER ON pages and started shutting every system in the plane off. His last image out his canopy was watching the big American B-1 bomber bank sharply left, as if giving the Russian a farewell wing-wag, and fly off toward the northwest, speeding quickly out of sight.

No one in the Russian air force had ever run a series of checklists faster than he. He had descended from forty-two thousand feet all the way down to four thousand feet above the Caspian Sea before he was able to get his jet shut down, turned back on, and the engines started again. Thankfully, whatever evil spirits had entered his MiG-29 were no longer present.

For a brief instant the Russian MiG pilot considered pursuing the American bomber completely radar-silent and putting a load of cannon shells into his tail — he was going to be blamed for almost crashing his plane anyway, so why not go out in a blaze of glory? — but after briefly considering it, he decided that was a foolish notion. He didn’t know what caused the mysterious shutdown — was it an American weapon of some kind, or a glitch in his own plane? Besides, the American bomber was not launching any more missiles that could be “mistaken” for an attack against him. This was not a war between the Americans and the Russians…

…although he felt it certainly could blossom into one at any moment.

* * *

“Let’s put together a debrief, then get ready to head back to HAWC, Boomer,” Patrick said after they were assured that the EB-1C Vampire bomber was safely on its way back to Batman Air Base in Turkey. His voice sounded very tired, and his facial expression appeared even more so. “Good job. The system seems to be working fine. We’ve proven we can control unmanned aircraft from Silver Tower. That should get us some sustainment funding for another year at least.”

“General, it wasn’t your fault that the damned insurgents had a bunch of kids around when the SkySTREAK attacked, or that they loaded up that Ra’ad missile with poison gas,” Hunter Noble responded, looking worriedly at Master Sergeant Lukas.

“I know, Boomer,” Patrick said, “but it still doesn’t make watching innocent men, women, and children die like that any easier.”

“Sir, we’re on station, the Vampire is loaded, the SkySTREAKs are running cool, and no doubt there are more of those Ra’ads out there with poison gas warheads,” Boomer said. “I think we should stay and—”

“I hear you, Boomer, but we’ve validated the system — that was the mission objective,” Patrick said.

“Our other objective was to try to control multiple bombers and multiple engagements,” Boomer reminded him. “We had enough trouble getting authorization and funding to fly this mission — getting approval for another mission to do what we could have done on this flight will be even more difficult.”

“I know, I know,” Patrick said wearily. “I’ll ask, Boomer, but I’m not counting on it. We’ve got to analyze the data, prepare a summary report, and brief the chief. Let’s get to it.”

“But sir—”

“Meet you back here in ten, Boomer,” Patrick said finally, detaching himself from his anchor position and floating his way toward the sleeping module.

“Looks like he took that one hard,” Seeker said after the general had left the control module. Boomer didn’t respond. “It kind of shook me up too. Is the general feeling okay?”

“He had a rough trip up here,” Boomer said. “Every push into orbit has been hard on him, but he keeps on flying up here. The last push took a lot out of him, I think. He probably shouldn’t be making these trips anymore.”

“It could be watching those people getting killed like that,” Seeker said. “I’ve seen the aftereffects of a guided missile attack plenty of times, but somehow a biochem weapon attack is…different, you know? More violent.” She looked at Boomer curiously, unable to read his rather flat expression. “Did it shake you up too, Boomer?”

“Well…” And then he shook his head and added, “No, it didn’t, Seeker. All I want to do now is hunt down more bad guys. I don’t understand why the general wanted to wrap this up so soon.”

“You heard the chief, sir,” Seeker said. “The general wanted to send the other two bombers.”

“I know, I know.” Boomer looked around the module. “The things we can do on board this station are amazing, Sergeant, really amazing — we should be allowed to do them. We need to convince the powers that be that we can turn the Air Force on its ear. We can’t do that if we pull our planes out when a little kid ten thousand miles away gets caught in the crossfire. Can’t believe the general got all misty-eyed like that.”

Master Sergeant Lukas looked at Boomer sternly. “Do you mind if I say something, sir?” she finally asked.

“Go right ahead, Seeker…or is it ‘Master Sergeant’ now?”

“I haven’t been working at HAWC that long — not as long as you,” Lukas said, ignoring the sarcastic remark, “and I don’t know General McLanahan that well, but the guy is a friggin’ hero in my book. He’s spent almost twenty years laying his ass on the line fighting battles all over the world. He’s been kicked out of the Air Force twice, but he came back because he’s dedicated to his country and the service.”

“Hey, I’m not bad-mouthing the guy—”

“The ‘guy’ you’re referring to, sir, is a three-star general in the U.S. Air Force and commands the largest and most highly classified aerospace research facility in the U.S. armed forces,” Lukas interrupted hotly. “General McLanahan is nothing short of a legend. He’s been shot up, shot down, blown up, beat up, ridiculed, busted, demoted, and called every name in the book. He’s lost his wife, a close friend, and dozens of crewmembers under his command. You, sir, on the other hand, have been in the force now…seven years? Eight? You’re a talented engineer and a skillful pilot and astronaut—”

“But?”

“—but you’re not in the general’s league, sir — far, far from it,” Lukas went on. “You don’t have the experience and haven’t shown the same level of commitment and dedication as the general. You’re not qualified to pass judgment on the general — in fact, in my opinion, sir, you haven’t earned the right to be talking about him the way you are.”

“Like you’re talking to me now?”

“Write me up if you want, sir, but I don’t appreciate you second-guessing the general like that,” Lukas said flatly. She logged herself off from her console and detached herself from the bulkhead with a perturbed jerk and a loud riip! of Velcro. “I’ll help you download the sensor data and prepare your debrief for the general, and then I’ll be happy to help you prepare the Black Stallion for undocking…so you can go home as soon as possible, sir.” She said the word “sir” more like the word “cur,” and that jab wasn’t lost on Boomer.

With Seeker’s exasperated and irate help — not to mention they didn’t do very much chatting as they worked — Boomer was indeed done quickly. He uploaded his data and findings to the general. “Thanks, Boomer,” McLanahan radioed back. “We’re scheduled to do the videoconference in about ninety minutes. I found out the Joint Chiefs chairman and National Security Adviser are going to sit in. Kick back for a while and get some rest.”

“I’m fine, sir,” Boomer responded. “I’ll go hide out in Skybolt, get my e-mail, and check in on my girlfriends.”

“‘Girlfriends’…plural?”

“I don’t know — we’ll see what the e-mails say,” Boomer said. “None of them like me disappearing for days and weeks, and I certainly can’t tell them I’ve been blasting terrorists to hell from space.”

“They probably wouldn’t believe you if you did tell them.”

“The ladies I hang out with don’t know a space station from a gas station — and that’s the way I like it,” Boomer admitted. “They don’t know, or care, what I do for a living. All they want is attention and a good time on the town, and if they don’t get it, they split.”

“Sounds lonely.”

“That’s why I always like to have more than one on the hook, sir,” Boomer said.

“Could be fireworks if they ever run into each other, eh?”

“We hook up together all the time, sir,” Boomer said. “No brag, just fact. Like I said, all they want is attention, and they get even more attention if folks see them arm in arm with another hot babe. Besides, if there’s ever any conversation—”

“Wait, wait, I know this one, Boomer: ‘If there’s any conversation, you don’t have to get involved,’” Patrick interjected with a laugh. “Okay, go say hi to your girlfriends, and don’t tell me how many you got waiting for you to get back. Meet me in the command module in sixty minutes so we can rehearse our dog and pony show.”

“Yes, sir,” Boomer replied. Before McLanahan clicked off, he asked, “Uh, General?”

“Go ahead.”

“I’m sorry if I got out of line earlier.”

“I expect you to give me your professional opinion and point of view anytime, Boomer, especially on a mission,” Patrick said. “If you were out of line, I wouldn’t hesitate to let you know.”

“It got me pretty steamed, watching those bastards setting up a rocket with a damned chemical warhead on it. All I wanted to do was blast a few more.”

“I hear you. But it’s more important we get this program off and running. We both know we’re going to catch some flak for what happened in Tehran — shooting more missiles wouldn’t have helped us.”

“Maybe offing a few more terrorists would compel them to keep their heads down and hide in their ratholes for a few days more.”

“We have some incredible weapons at our disposal, Boomer — let’s not let the power go to our heads,” Patrick said patiently. “It was an operational test, not an actual mission. I know the temptation to play Zeus with a few SkySTREAK missiles is powerful, but that’s not what we’re here for. Meet back here in sixty.”

“Yes, sir,” he responded. Just before the general logged off, Boomer remarked to himself that the general looked even wearier than any other time since embarking on this sortie to the space station — maybe the combination of witnessing the chemical weapon release and the monthly trips into space were starting to get to him. Boomer was half his age, and sometimes the stress of the trips, especially the recent quick-turn, high-G re-entry profiles, and multiple sorties they had been flying, wore him down fast.

Boomer floated back to the crew quarters module, retrieved his wireless headphones and video goggles, and floated to the Skybolt laser module at the “bottom” of the station. Skybolt was the station’s most powerful and so most controversial piece of technology, a multi-gigawatt free-electron laser powerful enough to shoot through Earth’s atmosphere and melt steel in seconds. Tied to Silver Tower’s radars and other sensors, Skybolt could attack targets as small as an automobile and burn through the top armor of all but the most modern main battle tanks. Classified as a “weapon of mass destruction” by all of America’s adversaries, the United Nations had been calling for the weapon’s deactivation for many years, and only America’s veto power in the Security Council kept it alive.

Ann Page, Skybolt’s designer, operator, and chief advocate, was on Earth preparing to testify to Congress on why funding for the weapon should be continued, and Boomer knew that very few others on the station ever went near the thing — Skybolt was powered by an MHDG, or magnetohydrodynamic generator, which used two small nuclear reactors to rapidly shoot a slug of molten metal back and forth through a magnetic field to produce the enormous amount of power required by the laser, and no amount of shielding and assurances by Ann could assuage anyone’s fears — so he often went into the module to get some peace and quiet. The Skybolt module was about a fourth of the size of the main modules on the station, so it was relatively cramped inside, and it was crammed with pipes, wire conduits, and a myriad of computers and other components, but the gentle hum of the MHDG drive’s circulating pumps and the excellent computers and communications gear there made it Boomer’s favorite place to get away from the others for a while.

Boomer connected his headphones and video goggles to the module’s computers, logged in, and began downloading e-mail. Even though the headphones and goggles were a pain, there was precious little privacy on Silver Tower, even in the huge modules, so the only semblance of privacy had to come down to the space between one’s ears. Everyone assumed that if personnel from the super-secret High-Technology Aerospace Weapons Center were on board the space station that all incoming and outgoing transmissions of any kind were being recorded and monitored, so “privacy” was a vacuous idea at best.

It was a good thing he had bothered to put on the gear, because the video e-mails from his girlfriends were definitely not for public viewing. Chloe’s video was typical: “Boomer, where the hell are you?” it began, with Chloe sitting in front of her videophone photographing herself. “I’m getting tired of you disappearing like this. Nobody at your unit would tell me a goddamned thing. That sergeant that answers the phone should be booted out of the service, the fag.” Chloe called any man who didn’t immediately hit on her a “fag,” believing being gay was the only reason that any normal male wouldn’t want to screw her right away.

She paused for a moment, her features softening a bit, and Boomer knew the show was about to begin: “You’d better not be with that blond spiky-haired bitch, Tammy or Teresa or whatever the hell her name is. You’re over at her place, aren’t you, or you two have jetted off to Mexico or Hawaii, haven’t you? You two just fucked and you’re checking mail while she takes a shower, right?” Chloe set the videophone down on her desk, unbuttoned her blouse, and slipped her large, firm breasts out from under her brassiere. “Let me just remind you what you’re missing here, Boomer.” She put a finger sensuously in her mouth, then circled her nipples with it. “Get your ass back here and stop screwing around with those skanky bottle-blond hos.” She smiled seductively, then hung up.

“Crazy bitch,” Boomer muttered as he continued to scroll through the messages, but resolved to look her up as soon as he got back. After previewing more messages he stopped and immediately entered the code to access the satellite Internet server. Another benefit of the new American space initiative, of which Armstrong Space Station was the hub, was the coming availability of almost universal Internet access via a constellation of over a hundred low-Earth-orbit satellites that provided global low-speed Internet access, plus ten geostationary satellites that provided high-speed broadband Internet access to most of the Northern Hemisphere.

“No IP address, no extensions, no open active server identification code — this has got to be a call from outer space,” came the reply from Jon Masters a few moments later after establishing a videophone connection to the designated secure address. Jon Masters was the vice president of a small high-tech research and development company called Sky Masters Inc. that designed and licensed many different emerging aerospace technologies, from microsatellites to space boosters. Masters, a multidegree, multidoctorate scientist and engineer regarded as one of the world’s most innovative aerospace designers and thinkers, had formed his company at the ripe old age of twenty-five, and he still looked and acted the part of the geeky, eccentric, and flippant child prodigy. “Thanks for returning my call, Boomer.”

“No problem, Jon.”

“How are things up there?”

“Fine. Good.”

“I know you can’t talk about it on a satellite server, even if it is encrypted. Just wanted to be sure you’re okay.”

“Thanks. I’m fine.”

There was a slight pause; then: “You sound a little down, my friend.”

“No.”

“Okay.” Another pause. “So. What do you think of my offer?”

“It’s extremely generous, Jon,” Boomer said. “I’m not sure if I deserve it.”

“I wouldn’t offer it if I didn’t think you did.”

“And I get to work on whatever I want?”

“Well, we hope we can entice you to help out on other projects,” Masters said, “but I want you to do what you do best: think outside the box and come up with fresh, innovative, and kick-ass designs. I don’t try to game or anticipate the aerospace market, Boomer — I try to shape it. That’s what I want you to do. You won’t answer to anyone else but me, and you get to pick your team, your protocols, your design approach, and your timelines — within reason, of course. You knock my socks off with your ideas, and I’ll back you all the way.”

“And this estimated budget figure for my lab…?”

“Yes?”

“Is this for real, Jon?”

“That’s just the starting point, Boomer — that’s the minimum,” Masters chuckled. “You want that in writing, just say so, but I’m guaranteeing you that you’ll have a generous budget to build the team to research and evaluate your designs.”

“Even so, it’s not enough for the entire division. I’ll need—”

“You don’t understand, Boomer,” Masters interjected excitedly. “That money is just for you and your team, not split up between everyone in your division, existing projects, or specific company-mandated programs or technology.”

“You’re kidding!”

“I’m serious as a heart attack, brother,” Masters said. “And it’s not for stuff like company-wide expenses, compliance mandates, or security, but for your team- and project-specific costs. I believe in giving our top engineers the tools they need to do their job.”

“I can’t believe it. I’ve never even heard of that kind of money being invested by a small company like this.”

“Believe it, Boomer,” Masters said. “We may be small, but we’ve got investors and a board of directors who think big and expect big things to happen.”

“Investors? A board of directors…?”

“We all answer to someone, Boomer,” Masters said. “I ran my company by myself with a handpicked board of directors, which was okay until the projects got smaller and the money got tight. There were a lot of investors out there who wanted to be part of what we were doing here, but no one wants to dump hundreds of millions of dollars into a one-man show. We’re public, and I’m not president anymore, but everyone knows I’m the guy who makes the magic.”

“I don’t know…”

“You don’t worry about the board, Boomer. You report to me. Be advised, I’m going to make you work for every dime. I’m going to expect big things from you, and I’ll be putting bugs in your ear about what I know or discover about government requests for proposals, but like I said, I don’t want you waiting around for some weenie in the Pentagon to tell us what they might want — I want us to tell them what they want. So, what do you say? Are you in?”

“I’m thinking about it, Jon.”

“Okay. No problem. I know your commitments to the Air Force are up in eight months, correct?” Boomer guessed that Jon Masters knew to the day when his educational commitments to the Air Force for pilot training were up. “I guarantee they’ll offer you a regular commission before that, along with a big fat bonus. They might try to stop-loss you, claiming you’re in a critical specialty, but we’ll deal with that when and if we have to. I have enough contracts with the Air Force, and enough buddies in the Pentagon, to put a little pressure on them to respect your decisions. After all, you’re not getting out to go work for the airlines or be a consultant or lobbyist — you’ll be working for the company that builds them the next generation of hardware.”

“That sounds good.”

“You bet it does, Boomer,” Jon Masters said. “Don’t worry about a thing. One more thing, buddy. I know I’m older than you, probably old enough to be your dad if I started real early, so I get to give you a little heads-up.”

“What’s that, Jon?”

“I know trying to tell you to take it easy, be safe, and maybe don’t fly so many missions is like trying to tell my golden retriever to stay out of the lake, but I wouldn’t want to have the company’s future vice president of R&D become a shooting star, so take it easy, okay?”

“Vice president?”

“Oh, did I say that out loud?” Masters deadpanned. “You weren’t supposed to hear that. Forget I said that. Forget the board was considering it but didn’t want me to reveal that. Gotta go before I tell you about the other thing the board was kicking around…oops, almost did it again. Later, Boomer.”

OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT, THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION
A SHORT TIME LATER

The room was loudly called to attention as Russian Federation president Leonid Zevitin quickly strode into the conference room, followed by his chief of staff Peter Orlev, the secretary of the security council, Anatoli Vlasov; the minister of foreign affairs, Alexandra Hedrov; and the chief of the Federal Security Bureau, Igor Truznyev. “Take seats,” Zevitin ordered, and the officers already in the room — General Kuzma Furzyenko, the chief of staff; General Nikolai Ostanko, chief of staff of the army; and General Andrei Darzov, the chief of staff of the air force — shuffled to their chairs. “So. I gave the command for our fighter to attack the unmanned American bomber if it fired a missile, and since we’re meeting like this so quickly, I assume it did, and we did. What happened?”

“The American B-1 bomber successfully launched a missile from over the Caspian Sea that reportedly destroyed a Hezbollah squad preparing to launch a rocket from an apartment complex in southeast Tehran,” General Darzov replied. “The missile made a direct hit on the launch squad’s location, killing the entire crew…” He paused, then added, “including our Special Forces adviser. The bomber then—”

“Hold on, General, hold on a sec,” Zevitin said impatiently, holding up a hand. “They launched a missile from over the Caspian Sea? You mean a cruise missile, and not a laser-guided bomb or TV-guided missile?” Many of those around the table narrowed their eyes, not because they disliked Zevitin’s tone or question but because they were unaccustomed to someone with such a distinct Western accent at a classified meeting in the Kremlin.

Leonid Zevitin, one of Russia’s youngest leaders since the fall of the czars, was born outside St. Petersburg but was educated and had spent most of his life in Europe and the United States, and so had almost no Russian accent unless he wanted or needed one, such as when speaking before Russian citizens at a political rally. Frequently seen all over the world with starlets and royalty, Zevitin came from the world of international banking and finance, not from politics or the military. After decades of old, stodgy political bosses or bureaucratic henchmen as president, the election of Leonid Zevitin was seen by most Russians as a breath of fresh air.

But behind the secretive walls of the Kremlin, he was something altogether different than just expensive silk suits, impeccable hair, jet-setter style, and a million-dollar smile — he was the puppet master in the grand old Russian tradition, every bit as cold, calculating, and devoid of any warm personality traits as the worst of his predecessors. Because he had no political, apparatchik, military, or intelligence background, no one knew how Zevitin thought, what he desired, or who his allies or captains in government were — his henchmen could be anyone, anywhere. That kept most of the Kremlin off-guard, suspicious, tight-lipped, and at least overtly loyal.

“No, sir — the missile went faster than Mach four, which is the fastest speed our fighter’s radar can track a target. I would describe it as a very high-speed guided rocket.”

“I assume, then, that you compared the time of launch and the time of impact and came up with a number?”

“Yes, sir.” His eyes looked pained — no one could tell whether it was because the general was afraid of telling the president the bad news, or because he was being lectured to by this foreign-sounding young playboy.

“But you don’t believe the number you computed,” Zevitin said for the air force chief of staff. “Obviously this weapon was something we did not expect. What was the speed, General?”

“Average speed, Mach five point seven.”

“Almost six times the speed of sound?” That news rocked every member of the security staff back in their chairs. “And that was the average speed, which means the top speed was Mach…ten? The Americans have an attack missile that can fly at Mach ten? Why didn’t we know of this?”

“We know now, sir,” General Furzyenko said. “The Americans made the mistake of using their new toy with one of our fighters on his wingtip.”

“Obviously they were not concerned enough about our fighter to cancel their patrol or their attack,” Zevitin offered.

“It was what the Americans call an ‘operational test,’ sir,” air force chief of staff General Andrei Darzov said. A short, battle-worn air force bomber pilot, Darzov preferred his head shaved bald because he knew how it intimidated a lot of people, especially politicians and bureaucrats. He had visible burn scars on the left side of his neck and on his left hand, and the fourth and fifth fingers of his left hand were missing, all a result of injuries sustained in the bombing of Engels Air Base, Russia’s main bomber base, several years earlier, when he served as Forces of Long-Range Aviation division commander.

Darzov had wanted nothing short of bloody payback for the utter devastation wreaked on his headquarters during the sneak attack on Engels, and swore revenge on the American air commander who had planned and executed it…Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan.

Under former military chief of staff turned president Anatoliy Gryzlov, who wanted revenge on the United States as badly as Darzov, he soon got his opportunity. Andrei Darzov was the architect of the plan just a year later to modify Russia’s long-range Tu-95 Bear, Tu-26 Backfire, and Tu-160 Blackjack bombers with aerial refueling probes to allow them the range to attack the United States. It was an audacious, ambitious plan that succeeded in destroying most of the United States’ long-range bombers and the control centers for over half of their land-based intercontinental ballistic nuclear-tipped missiles. The devastating assault killed over thirty thousand people and injured or sickened thousands more, and soon became known as the “American Holocaust.”

But Darzov hadn’t heard the last of his archenemy, Patrick McLanahan. When McLanahan’s counterattack destroyed almost an equivalent number of Russia’s most powerful silo-based and mobile intercontinental ballistic missiles, someone had to take the blame — other than the then-president of Russia, General Gryzlov, who had been killed during an American air strike on his Ryazan underground command center — and Darzov was it. He was blamed for making the decision to stage all of the Ilyushin-78 and Tupolev-16 tanker aircraft at one isolated air base in Siberia, Yakutsk, and for not providing enough security there, which allowed McLanahan and his Air Battle Force to take over the base and use the enormous amount of fuel stored there to be used by McLanahan’s bombers to hunt down and destroy Russia’s land-based nuclear deterrent force.

Darzov was demoted to one-star general and sent to Yakutsk to oversee the cleanup and eventual closing of that once-vital Siberian base — because in an attempt to destroy McLanahan’s bombers on the ground, Gryzlov had ordered Yakutsk attacked by low-yield nuclear weapons. While only four of the dozens of nuclear warheads penetrated McLanahan’s anti-missile shield around the base, and they were all high-altitude airbursts designed to minimize radioactive fallout, most of the base had been severely damaged, and the heart of it had been flattened and rendered uninhabitable. There was much speculation that the general staff hoped Darzov would become sick from the lingering radioactivity so they would be spared the chore of eliminating the popular, intelligent young general officer.

But not only did Darzov not die, he didn’t stay long in virtual exile in Siberia. Health-wise, Darzov and his loyal senior staff members survived by using the radioactivity decontamination equipment left behind by the Americans when they evacuated their personnel from Yakutsk. Career- and prestige-wise, he survived by not giving in to despair when it seemed like the entire world was against him.

With the financial and moral support of a young investment banker named Leonid Zevitin, Darzov rebuilt the base and soon made it operational again instead of preparing it for demolition and abandonment. The move revitalized Russia’s Siberian oil and gas industry, which relied on the base for much-needed support and supply, and the government raked in enormous amounts of revenue from Siberian oil, most sold to Japan and China through new pipelines. The young base commander garnered the attention and gratitude of Russia’s wealthiest and most successful investment banker, Leonid Zevitin. Thanks to Zevitin’s sponsorship, Darzov was brought back to Moscow, promoted to four-star general, and eventually picked as chief of staff of the air forces by newly elected president Zevitin.

“The Americans have tipped their hand and revealed a new hypersonic air-to-ground weapon,” Furzyenko said. “It shows how overconfident they are, and that will be their weakness. Not only that, but they wasted a multimillion-dollar missile destroying a truck and homemade rocket worth a few dollars.”

“Seems to me they have every right to be overconfident, General — they can quickly and accurately destroy any target from two hundred miles away as easy as a child plinking a can with a.22 rifle from twenty meters away,” Zevitin said. Many of the generals knitted their eyebrows, as much in confusion at some of Zevitin’s Western terms as in struggling to understand his heavily accented Russian. “Plus, they did it right before our eyes, knowing we’d be watching and measuring the weapon’s performance. It was a demonstration for our benefit, as well as a very effective terror weapon against the Islamists.” Zevitin turned to Darzov. “What happened to the fighter that was shadowing the B-1 bomber, Andrei?”

“The pilot landed safely but with most of his plane’s electronic equipment completely disabled,” the air force chief of staff responded.

“How? Their terahertz weapon again?”

“Possibly, but the American so-called T-Ray weapon is a subatomic wide-area weapon that destroys electronic circuits at ranges exceeding six hundred kilometers,” Darzov replied. “No other stations reported any disruption. The pilot reported that as soon as he launched his missiles his fighter…simply shut itself down.”

“You mean, the missile shut itself down.”

“No, sir. The entire airplane shut itself down, as if the pilot had turned everything off all at once.”

“How is that possible?”

“The terahertz weapon may have been able to do it,” Darzov said. “We will not know until we look at the fighter computer’s error logs. But my guess would be that McLanahan has deployed his ‘netrusion’ system on the Dreamland bombers, and possibly all of his aircraft and spacecraft.”

“‘Netrusion’? What’s that?”

“The ability to ‘hack’ into an opponent’s computer systems through any sensor or antenna that receives digital signals,” Darzov explained. “We do not completely understand the process, but the bombers can transmit a signal that is picked up and processed like any other digital instruction or message. The enemy signal can be false radar targets, confusing coded messages, flight control inputs, or even electronic commands to aircraft systems…”

“Such as a shutdown order,” Zevitin said. He shook his head. “He conceivably could have commanded the MiG to fly straight down or around in circles — luckily he only ordered it to shut down. Must be nice to be so rich that you can build such wonderful toys to load up on your planes.” He nodded. “Looks like your old friend is still in the game, eh, General?”

“Yes, sir,” Darzov said. “Patrick McLanahan.” He smiled. “I will welcome a chance to take him on again and repay him for imprisoning my men and women, taking my base, and stealing my fuel. However, from what I understand, he may not be around much longer. The new administration does not like him at all.”

“If McLanahan had any political savvy, he’d have resigned the moment the new president took the oath of office,” Zevitin said. “Obviously that has not happened. Either McLanahan is more dedicated — or dumber — than we thought, or Gardner isn’t going to fire him, which means he might not be the buffoon we think he is.” He looked at the generals around him. “Forget about McLanahan and his high-tech toys that never get built — he’s the best they’ve got, but he’s only one man, and he’s squirreled away in that awful desert base in Nevada instead of in the White House now, which means no one has the opportunity to listen to him anymore.” To Truznyev, chief of the Federal Security Bureau, successor organization to the KGB, he asked, “What about your ‘adviser’ in Iran? Did you get him out?”

“What was left of him, yes, sir,” the FSB chief replied.

“Good. The last thing we need is some enterprising American or Persian investigator finding Russian clothing or weapons mixed in with a lot of Iranian body parts.”

“He was replaced with another agent,” Truznyev said. He turned angrily to Alexandra Hedrov, the foreign minister. “Giving those Hezbollah bastards weapons like the 9K89 is a waste of time and money, and hurt us in the long run. We should stop supplying them with such advanced missiles and let them go back to firing homemade Katyushas and mortars at the Persian collaborators.”

“You agreed to General Furzyenko’s recommendation to send the ‘Hornet’ missile to Iran, Director,” Zevitin pointed out.

“I agreed that the Hornet missile should be used to attack Persian army and air force bases with high-explosive and mine-laying warheads, sir,” Truznyev said, “not to just fire them indiscriminately into the city. The launch point was at the very edge of the rocket’s maximum range to hit the Doshan Tappeh air base, which was the target they told us they were going to strike. The Hezbollah crew also reportedly dragged their feet launching the missile — they even let children come around and watch the launch. This has been reported many times.”

“We will obviously have to instruct the insurgents to adjust tactics now that we know about this new American weapon,” General Darzov said.

“Will you also instruct them not to put their own homemade poison brews in the warhead?” Truznyev asked.

“What are you talking about, Director?”

“The Hezbollah insurgents loaded the Hornet missile’s warhead up with some sort of chemical weapon concoction, similar to mustard gas but much more effective,” the FSB chief said perturbedly. “The gas killed a dozen people on the street and injured several dozen others.”

“They cooked up their own mustard gas?”

“I do not know where the hell they got it, sir — Iran has a lot of chemical munitions, so maybe they stole it or had it secretly stored away,” Truznyev said. “The stuff went off when the American missile hit. But the point is, they violated our directives and attacked an unauthorized target with an unauthorized warhead. There are only a few truck-launched missiles that have the fusing necessary to carry out a chemical weapon attack — it will not be hard for the Americans to discover we supplied the Iranians with the Hornet missiles.”

“Get Mohtaz on the phone, now,” Zevitin ordered. Chief of staff Orlev was on the phone in an instant.

“Now that the Pasdaran has brought in foreign fighters from all over the world to join this damned jihad against Buzhazi’s coup,” Truznyev said, “I do not think the clerics have very tight control over their forces.” The Ayatollah Hassan Mohtaz, the former Iranian national defense adviser — and the most senior member of the former Iranian government to survive Buzhazi’s bloody purge of Islamists — had been proclaimed president-in-exile, and he called upon all the Muslims of the world to come to Iran and fight against the new military-monarchist government. The anti-Persia insurgency grew quickly, spurred on by tens of thousands of Shi’a Muslim fighters from all over the world who answered the fatwa against Buzhazi. Many of the insurgents had been trained by Iran’s Revolutionary Guards Corps, the Pasdaran, so their fighting effectiveness was even greater. Within days after Mohtaz’s call to arms went out, most of the cities of the new Persia were embroiled in bitter fighting.

But part of the chaos in Persia was due to the fact that the coup leader, General Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi, inexplicably refused to form a new government. Buzhazi, the past chief of staff and former commander of the paramilitary Internal Defense Forces that battled the Revolutionary Guards Corps, had led a stunningly successful coup, killing most of Iran’s theocratic rulers and sending the rest fleeing to neighboring Turkmenistan. It had been assumed that Buzhazi, together with former chief of staff Hoseyn Yassini, the officers of the regular armed forces, and supporters of one of Iran’s past royal families, the Qagevs, would take control of the capital city of Tehran and form a government. A name had even been chosen — the Democratic Republic of Persia, indicating a clear direction the people wanted to take — and the country was now referred to by its historic name, “Persia,” instead of the name “Iran,” which was the name decreed to be used by Reza Shah Pahlavi in 1935. Only supporters of the theocracy still used the name “Iran.”

“But I do not think we should stop arming the insurgents,” General Darzov said. “Every successful attack against the Persians will weaken them. We need patience.”

“And every time the jihadis launch another missile into the city and kill innocent women and children, the insurgency suffers the same fate — it gets weakened, as does Russia, General,” foreign minister Alexandra Hedrov said. Tall, dark-haired, and as alluring as any woman in the senior echelons of Russian government could be, Alexandra Hedrov was the highest-ranking woman to ever serve in the Kremlin. Like Zevitin, she came from an international finance background, but as a lifelong resident of Moscow and a married mother of two, she didn’t have the jet-setting reputation of her superior. Serious and sharp and without extensive political connections, Hedrov was widely considered the brains behind the presidency. “We look even worse if we are seen supporting baby-killers.”

She turned to Zevitin. “Mohtaz has got to find a way to tone down the jihadis, Mr. President, without relieving the pressure on Buzhazi and Qagev to give up and evacuate the country. We cannot be seen supporting mass murder and instability — that makes us look unstable ourselves. If Mohtaz continues on this path, the only recourse we have is to support Buzhazi.”

“Buzhazi?” Zevitin asked, confused. “Why support Buzhazi? He turned to the Americans for help.”

“That was our fault — he acted out of desperation, and we were not there for him when he needed us, so he turned to McLanahan,” Hedrov explained. “But Washington inexplicably has not thrown its support behind Buzhazi, and this creates an opportunity for Russia. We secretly support Mohtaz because Russia benefits from the instability in the region with higher oil prices and greatly increased arms sales. But if we end up backing a loser, we should reverse course and support whom I believe will be the eventual winner: Buzhazi.”

“I disagree, Minister,” Darzov said. “Buzhazi is not strong enough to destroy Mohtaz.”

“Then I suggest you get out of your airplanes and laboratories and take a look at the world as it really is, General,” Hedrov said. “Here is the real question, Mr. President: Whom do you want to win, Buzhazi or Mohtaz? That is who we should be supporting. We support Mohtaz because the chaos in the Middle East keeps America from meddling in our affairs in our own spheres of influence. But is a theocratic Iran a better choice for Russia? We know Buzhazi. You and I have both met with him; we supported him for many years, before, during, and after his removal as chief of staff. We still supply each other with intelligence information, although he is keeping information about the American presence in Iran closely guarded and more expensive to obtain. Maybe it is time to increase the level of contact with him.”

The phone vibrated beside Orlev, and he picked it up and moments later put it on hold. “Mohtaz on the line, sir.”

“Where is he?”

“Iranian embassy in Ashkhabad, Turkmenistan,” Orlev replied, anticipating the question.

“Good.” When the Ayatollah Mohtaz and his advisers fled Iran, he unexpectedly holed up in the Russian embassy in Ashkhabad, demanding protection from Buzhazi’s forces and the so-called monarchist death squads. That created a lot of curiosity and questions from most of the rest of the world. It was well known that Moscow was an ally of Iran, but would they go so far as to protect the old regime? What if elections were held and the theocrats were voted out? Would the clerics and Islamists become an albatross around Russia’s neck?

As a concession to the rest of the world, Zevitin had Mohtaz leave the embassy, but quietly guaranteed his safety with Russian FSB units stationed in and around the Iranian compound. At first he thought the Islamist wouldn’t leave the embassy — or, worse, threaten to expose Russia’s involvement in Iran if he was forced out — but thankfully things didn’t reach that stage. He knew Mohtaz could always produce that card in the future, and he needed to decide what to do if he tried to play it.

Zevitin picked up his phone. “President Mohtaz, this is Leonid Zevitin.”

“Please stand by for His Excellency, sir,” a heavily Persian-accented voice said in Russian. Zevitin rolled his eyes impatiently. It was always a game with weak men like Mohtaz, he thought — it was always so damned important to try to gain the smallest advantage by making the other party wait, even over something as simple as a phone call.

A few moments later, the voice of a young translator said, “The Imam Mohtaz is on the line. Identify yourself please.”

“Mr. President, this is Leonid Zevitin calling. I hope you are well.”

“Praise be to God for his mercy, it is so.”

No attempt to return pleasantries, Zevitin noted — again, typical of Mohtaz. “I wanted to discuss the recent air attack by the Americans in Tehran against a suspected Hezbollah rocket launcher.”

“I know nothing of this.”

“Mr. President, I warned you against allowing the insurgents to arm the rockets with weapons of mass destruction,” Zevitin said. “We specifically chose the Hornet rocket because it is in use all over the world and would be harder to trace back to Russia. The only rocket force known to have the technology to put chemical warheads on them was Russia.”

“I know no details of what the freedom fighters do in their struggle against the crusaders, nonbelievers, and Zionists,” the translator said. “All I know is that God will reward all who have answered the call of holy retribution. They will earn a place at His right hand.”

“Mr. President, I urge you to keep your forces in check,” Zevitin said. “Armed resistance to foreign occupation is acceptable to all nations, even with unguided rockets against suspected sympathizers, but using poison gas is not. Your insurgency risks a popular backlash if—”

Zevitin could hear Mohtaz shouting in the background even before the translator finished speaking, and then the flustered young man had to scramble to keep up with the Iranian cleric’s sudden tirade: “This is not an insurgency, damn your eyes,” the translator said in a much calmer voice than Mohtaz’s. “Proud Iranians and their brothers are taking back the nation that has been illegally and immorally taken from us. That is not an insurgency — it is a holy war of freedom against oppression. And in such a struggle, all weapons and all tactics are justified in the eyes of God.” And the connection was broken.

“Fucking bastard,” Zevitin swore — not realizing until it was too late that he had done so in English — as he slammed the receiver down.

“Why bother with that insane zealot, sir?” foreign affairs minister Hedrov asked. “The man is crazy. He cares for nothing else but retaking power — he does not care how many innocent people he must kill to do it. He is bringing in foreign jihadis from all over the world, and most of them are crazier than he is.”

“Do you think I care about Mohtaz or anyone in that damned country, Minister?” Zevitin asked heatedly. “For the time being, it is better for Russia with Mohtaz alive and stirring up the Islamists, calling for them to go to Iran and fight. I hope that country tears itself apart, which is almost a certainty if the insurgency grows.”

“I wish Buzhazi had called on us rather than McLanahan when he wanted support for his insurgency — Mohtaz and that monarchist bitch Qagev would be dead by now, and Buzhazi would be firmly in command, with us at his side,” Hedrov said, casting a disapproving glare at Federal Security Bureau chief Truznyev. “We should have recruited him the moment he surfaced in the Iranian People’s Militia.”

“Buzhazi was completely off our radar screens, Minister,” Truznyev said dismissively. “He was disgraced and all but condemned to die. Iran had drifted into the Chinese sphere of influence…”

“We sold them plenty of weapons.”

“After oil prices rose, yes — they bought Chinese crap because it was cheaper,” Truznyev said. “But then we found many of those weapons in the hands of Chechen separatists and drug runners within our own borders in short order. China stopped their support for Iran long ago because they support Islamists in Xinjiang and East Turkestan — Chinese Islamic insurgents were fighting government troops with their own damned weapons! The theocrats in Iran are completely out of control. They do not deserve our support.”

“All right, all right,” Zevitin said wearily, shaking his hand at his advisers. “These endless arguments are getting us nowhere.” To Truznyev, he said, “Igor, get me all the data on that American hypersonic missile you can get your hands on, and get it fast. I don’t need to know how to counter it — yet. I need enough information so that I can make Gardner believe that I know all about it. I want to argue that it’s a threat to world peace, regional stability, the arms balance, blah, blah, blah. Same with their damned Armstrong Space Station. And I’d like an update on all the new American military technology. I’m tired of hearing about it after we encounter it in the field.”

Argue with the Americans, eh, Mr. President?” chief of the general staff Furzyenko asked sarcastically. “Perhaps we can go in front of the Security Council and argue that the sunlight reflecting off their station’s radar arrays keeps us up at night.”

“I don’t need snide remarks from you today, General — I need results,” Zevitin said acidly. “The Americans are settled in Iraq, and they may have gained a foothold in Iran if Buzhazi and the Qagev successfully forms a government friendly to the West. Along with American bases in central Asia, the Baltics, and eastern Europe, Iran adds yet another section of fence with which to pen us in. Now they have this damned space station, which passes over Russia ten times a day! Russia is virtually surrounded—” And at that, Zevitin slapped his hand down hard on the table. “—and that is completely unacceptable!” He looked each of his advisers in the eye, his gaze pausing momentarily on Truznyev and Darzov before sitting back in his seat and irritably running a hand over his forehead.

“That hypersonic missile surprised us all, sir,” Truznyev said.

“Bullshit,” Zevitin retorted. “They need to test-fire the thing, don’t they? They can’t do that in an underground laboratory. Why can’t we be observing their missile tests? We know exactly where their high-speed instrumented test ranges are for hypersonic missile development — we should be all over those sites.”

“Good espionage costs money, Mr. President. Why spy for the Russians when the Israelis and Chinese can offer ten times the price?”

“Then perhaps it’s time to cut some salaries and expensive retirement benefits of our so-called leaders and put the money back into getting quality intelligence data,” Zevitin said acidly. “Back when Russian oil was only a few dollars a barrel, Russia once had hundreds of spies deep inside every nook and cranny of American weapons development — we once had almost unfettered access to Dreamland, their most highly classified facility. And what places we didn’t infiltrate ourselves, we were able to buy information from hundreds more, including Americans. The FSB’s and military intelligence’s task is to get that information, and since Gryzlov’s administration we haven’t done a damned thing but whine and moan about being surrounded and possibly attacked again by the Americans.” He paused again, then looked at the armed forces chief of staff. “Give us a status report on Fanar, General Furzyenko.”

“One unit fully operational, sir,” the chief of staff replied. “The mobile anti-satellite laser system proved very successful in downing one of the American spaceplanes over Iran.”

“What?” chief of staff Orlev exclaimed. “Then, what the Americans said was true? One of their spaceplanes was downed by us?”

Zevitin nodded to Furzyenko as he pulled a cigarette from his desk drawer and lit up, wordlessly giving him permission to explain. “The Fanar project is a top-secret mobile anti-satellite laser system, Mr. Orlev,” the military chief of staff explained. “It is based on the Kavaznya anti-satellite laser system developed in the 1980s, but greatly modified, enhanced, and improved.”

“Kavaznya was a massive facility powered by a nuclear reactor, if I remember correctly,” Orlev observed. He was only in high school when he learned about it — at the time the government had said there was an accident and the plant had been shut down for safety upgrades. It was only when he assumed his post as chief of staff that he learned that Kavaznya had actually been bombed by a single American B-52 Stratofortress bomber, a highly modified experimental “test-bed” model known as the “Megafortress”—crewed by none other than Patrick McLanahan, who was then just an Air Force captain and crew bombardier. The name McLanahan had popped up many times in relation to dozens of events around the world in the two decades since that attack, to the point that Darzov and even Zevitin seemed obsessed with the man, his high-tech machines, and his schemes. “How can such a system be mobile?”

“Twenty years of research and engineering, billions of rubles, and a lot of espionage—good espionage, not like today,” Zevitin said. “Continue, General.”

“Yes, sir,” Furzyenko said. “Fanar’s design is based on the Israeli Tactical High-Energy Laser program and the American airborne laser program, which puts a chemical laser on a large aircraft such as a Boeing 747 or B-52 bomber. It is capable of destroying a ballistic missile at ranges as far as five hundred kilometers. It is not as powerful as Kavaznya was, but it is portable, easily transported and maintained, is durable and reliable, extremely accurate, and if locked onto target long enough, can destroy even heavily shielded spacecraft hundreds of kilometers in space…like the Americans’ new Black Stallion spaceplane.”

Orlev’s mouth dropped. “Then the rumors are true?” Zevitin smiled, nodded, then took another deep drag of his cigarette. “But we denied we had anything to do with the loss of the American spaceplane! The Americans must realize we have such a weapon!”

“And thus the game begins,” Zevitin said, smiling as he finished the last of his cigarette. He ground the butt into the ashtray as if demonstrating what he intended to do to anyone who dared oppose him. “We’ll see who is willing to play, and who is not. Continue, General.”

“Yes, sir. The system can be disguised as a standard twelve-meter tractor-trailer rig and can be driven almost anywhere and mixed in with normal commercial traffic. It can be set up and readied to fire in less than an hour, can fire about a dozen bursts on one refueling, depending on how long the laser is firing at one target — and, most importantly, it can be broken down and moved within minutes after firing.”

“Only a dozen bursts? That does not sound like very many engagements.”

“We can bring along more fuel, of course,” Furzyenko said, “but Fanar was never designed to counter large numbers of spacecraft or aircraft. The system can only fire for up to thirty seconds at a time due to heat, and one load of fuel can fire the laser for approximately sixty seconds total. The next barrage can be fired thirty to forty minutes later after refueling, depending on if the fuel comes from the fire vehicle or a separate support vehicle. Most spacecraft in low-Earth orbit would be well beyond the horizon before another barrage, so we decided it would be best not to try to fire too many barrages at once.

“In addition, everything else in the convoy increases in size as well — security, provisions, spare parts, power generators — so we decided to limit the extra laser fuel to one truck. With one command and fire vehicle, one power and control vehicle, one refueling and supply vehicle, and one support and crew vehicle, it can still travel anonymously enough on open highways anywhere without drawing attention. We brought it back to Moscow for additional tests and upgrades. That will take some time to accomplish.”

“I think you’ve had enough time, General,” Zevitin said. “The Americans need to see how vulnerable their precious space station and spaceplanes can be. I want that system up and running now.”

“If I had more engineers and more money, sir, I could finish the three that are in the construction pipeline within a year,” Furzyenko said. He glanced at General Darzov. “But there seems to be a lot of attention being paid to General Darzov’s Molnija project, and I’m afraid our resources are being unduly diverted.”

“Darzov has made some good arguments for Molnija, General Furzyenko,” Zevitin said.

“I’m afraid I do not know what Molnija is, Mr. President,” Alexandra Hedrov said. “I assume it’s not a fine watch maker. Is this a new secret weapon program?”

Zevitin nodded to Andrei Darzov, who stood and began: “Molnija is an air-launched anti-satellite weapon, Madam Minister. It is a prototype weapon only, a combination of the Kh-90 hypersonic cruise missile reprogrammed for extreme high-altitude flight with a combination of rocket-ramjet-rocket propulsion to allow it to fly up to five hundred kilometers above Earth. The system was first developed by the Americans in the 1980s; we had a similar system but canceled it many years ago. The technology has improved greatly since then.”

Molnija is a big step backward,” Furzyenko said. “The laser system has proven its worth. Air-launched anti-satellite weapons were rejected years ago because it was unreliable and too easily detected.”

“With respect, sir, I disagree,” Darzov said. Furzyenko turned to glare at his subordinate, but it was difficult to stare at the man’s rather disturbing wounds, and he was forced to look away. “The problem with a fixed anti-satellite weapon, as was found with the Kavaznya anti-satellite laser, is that it is too easy to attack it, even with numerous and sophisticated anti-aircraft weapon systems protecting it. Even the mobile laser system we developed is vulnerable to attack since it takes so much support and takes so long to set up, fuel, and aim. We saw how quickly the Americans were able to attack the laser site in Iran — luckily, we had time to move the real system and construct a decoy in its place. Molnija can be carried to many air bases in the target’s path and can attack from multiple angles.

“A single Molnija missile is carried aloft by a MiG-29 fighter or Tupolev-16 light bomber, or two missiles can be carried by a Tupolev-95 or Tupolev-160 heavy bomber,” Darzov went on. “The launch aircraft are maneuvered into position by ground-based or airborne radars and then the missiles are released. Molnija uses a solid rocket motor to boost it to supersonic speed, where it then uses a ramjet engine to accelerate to eight times the speed of sound and climb to target altitude. Once in range of the target, it uses its on-board sensors to track the target and ignites its third-stage rocket motor to begin the intercept. It uses precision thrusters to get within range, then detonates a high-explosive fragmentary warhead. We can also place a nuclear or X-ray laser warhead on the weapon, depending on the size of the target.”

“X-ray laser? What is that?”

“An X-ray laser is a device that collects and focuses X-rays from a small nuclear explosion and produces extremely powerful long-range energy beams that can penetrate even heavily shielded spacecraft as far as two hundred kilometers away,” Darzov said. “It is designed to disable spacecraft by scrambling its electronics and guidance systems.”

“Using nuclear weapons in space will create problems in the international community, General,” Hedrov pointed out.

“The Americans have had a nuclear reactor flying over Russia for decades, and no one seemed to notice, Alexandra,” Zevitin said bitterly. “The X-ray laser is just one option — we’ll use it only if it’s deemed absolutely necessary.”

“The nuclear reactor on board the American space station is just for generating power, sir,” Hedrov pointed out. “Yes, the laser has been used as an offensive weapon, but the reactor is thought of differently…”

“It is still an atomic device,” Zevitin argued, “which is expressly prohibited by treaty — a treaty the Americans casually ignore!”

“I am in agreement with you, sir,” Hedrov said, “but after the air attacks against the United States using nuclear weapons by President Gryzlov—”

“Yes, yes, I know…America gets a pass, and the world waits in fear to see what Russia will do next,” Zevitin said, the frustration thick in his voice. “I’m sick of the double standard.” He shook his head, then turned to General Darzov again. “What is the status of the anti-satellite missile program, General? Can we deploy the system or not?”

“Additional underground tests with the prototype Molnija unit were highly successful,” Darzov went on. “The technicians and engineers want more tests done, but I believe it is ready for battle now, sir. We can make improvements, upgrades, and enhancements for years and make it better, but I think it is ready as is, and I recommend deployment immediately.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Furzyenko interjected, looking at Minister of National Defense Ostenkov in confusion, “but General Darzov isn’t in charge of Molnija. It’s a secret project that is still being overseen by my research and development bureau.”

“Not anymore, General,” Zevitin said. “I have tasked General Darzov to develop strategies for dealing with the American space station and spaceplanes. He will report to me and Minister Ostenkov directly.”

Furzyenko’s mouth opened and closed in confusion, then hardened in sheer anger. “This is an outrage, sir!” he blurted out. “This is an insult! The chief of staff is responsible for organizing, training, and equipping the armed forces, and I should have been informed of this!”

“You are being informed now, General,” Zevitin said. “Fanar and Molnija belong to Darzov. He will keep me informed of his actions and will make recommendations to the national security bureau, but he takes his orders only from me. The farther outside your chain of command he operates, the better.” Zevitin smiled and nodded knowingly. “A little lesson we’ve learned from our friend General Patrick Shane McLanahan over the years, yes?”

“I believe the man is obsessive, compulsive, paranoid, and probably schizophrenic, sir,” Darzov said, “but he is also courageous and intelligent — two traits I admire. His unit is extremely effective because it operates with speed and daring with small numbers of highly motivated and energetic forces in command of the latest technological innovations. McLanahan also seems to completely disregard most regulations, normal conventions, and chains of command, and acts precipitously, perhaps even recklessly. Some say he is crazy. All I know is, he gets the job done.”

“As long as you don’t go off the deep end yourself,” Zevitin warned.

“Unfortunately I agree with Minister Hedrov, sir: nuclear weapons in space will not be seen as a defensive weapon by the world community,” Minister of National Defense Ostenkov said.

“The world community looks the other way and shuts its eyes and ears while the Americans orbit a nuclear reactor over their heads and fill the skies with satellites and spaceplanes — I really don’t give a shit about their opinions,” Zevitin said angrily. “The Americans can’t be allowed to freely go in and out of space as they please. Our mobile ground-based laser got one and almost got another of their spaceplanes — we almost took out their entire active fleet. If we can bring down whatever they have left, we can cripple their military space program and possibly give us a chance to catch up again.” He glared at Ostenkov. “Your job is to support the development and fielding of Fanar and Molnija, Ostenkov, not tell me what you think the world will say. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Ostenkov said. “The anti-satellite missile is ready for operational testing. It could be the most feared weapon in our arsenal since the Kh-90 hypersonic cruise missile which Gryzlov used successfully to attack the United States. It can be deployed quickly and easily anywhere in the world, faster than a spacecraft can be launched or repositioned in an orbit. We can transport Molnija anywhere and run only a small risk of discovery until it’s fired.”

“And then what?” Orlev asked. “The Americans will retaliate with everything they have. You know they consider space part of their sovereign territory.”

“That’s why we need to employ Fanar and Molnija carefully — very, very carefully,” Zevitin said. “Their usefulness as weapons depend more on quietly degrading the Americans’ space assets, not trying to outright destroy them. If it’s possible to make it look like their space station, spaceplanes, and satellites are unreliable or wasteful, the Americans will shut them down on their own. This is not an attack plan or a cat-and-mouse game — it’s a game of irritation, of quiet degradation and growing uncertainty. I want to bug the shit out of the Americans.”

“‘Bug the shit,’ sir?” Orlev asked. “What does this mean?”

“It means attack the Americans with mosquito bites, not swords,” Zevitin said in Russian this time, not realizing until just then that in his excitement he had switched to English again. “Americans have no tolerance for failure. If it doesn’t work, they’ll scrap it and replace it with something better, even if the malfunction is no fault of theirs. Not only will they scrap something that doesn’t work, but they’ll blame the failure on everyone else, waste billions of dollars indicting someone to take the blame, then spend billions more to try to come up with a solution that is oftentimes inferior to the first.” He smiled, then added, “And the key to this working is President Joseph Gardner.”

“Naturally, sir — he is the President of the United States,” Orlev remarked, confused.

“I’m not talking about the office, but of the man himself,” Zevitin said. “He may be the commander-in-chief of the most powerful military force in the world, but the thing he is not in command of is the most important path to success: control of himself.” He looked at the advisers around him and saw mostly blank expressions. “Thank you, all, thank you, that’s all for now,” he said dismissively, reaching for another cigarette.

Chief of Staff Orlev and Minister of Foreign Affairs Hedrov remained behind; Orlev didn’t even try to suggest to Hedrov that he and the president be allowed to talk privately. “Sir, my impression, one that I share, is that the staff is confused about your intentions,” Orlev said pointedly. “Half of them see you surrendering power to the Americans; the others think you are ready to start a war with them.”

“Good…that’s good,” Zevitin said, taking a deep drag of his cigarette, then exhaling noisily. “If my advisers leave my office guessing — especially in opposite directions — they don’t have an opportunity to formulate a counterstrategy. Besides, if they’re confused, the Americans certainly should be as well.” Orlev looked worried. “Peter, we can’t yet beat the Americans in a military confrontation — we’d bankrupt this country trying. But we have lots of opportunities to stand in opposition to them and deny them a victory. Gardner is the weak link. He needs to be niggled. Irritate him enough and he’ll turn on even his most trusted advisers and loyal countrymen.” Zevitin thought for a moment, then added, “He needs to be irritated right now. The attack on our fighter…he needs to know how angry we are that they downed our fighter with a low-yield nuclear device.”

“But…the fighter was not downed,” Orlev reminded him, “and the general said the weapon was not a nuclear T-Ray weapon, but a—”

“For God’s sake, Peter, we’re not going to tell the Americans what we know, but what we believe,” Zevitin said, irritation in his voice but a smile on his face. “My reports state that they shot down our fighter with a T-Ray nuclear device, without provocation. That is an act of war. Get Gardner on the phone immediately.”

“Should Minister Hedrov make contact and—?”

“No, I will make the protest directly with Gardner,” Zevitin said. Orlev nodded and picked up the phone on Zevitin’s desk. “Not the regular phone, Peter. Use the ‘hot line.’ Voice and data both.” The emergency “hot line” between Washington and Moscow had been upgraded after the conflicts of 2004 to allow voice, data, and video communications between the two capitals, as well as teletype and facsimile, and also allowed for more satellite circuits that gave the leaders easier access to one another. “Minister Hedrov, you will file a formal complaint with the United Nations Security Council and the American State Department as well. And I want every media outlet on the planet given a report of the incident immediately.”

Orlev made the call to the foreign ministry first, then contacted the Kremlin signal officer to open the “hot line” for the president. “Sir, this could backfire,” Orlev warned as he waited for the connection. “Our pilot certainly initiated the attack by firing on the American bomber—”

“But only after the bomber launched their hypersonic missile,” Zevitin said. “That missile could’ve been headed anywhere. The Americans were clearly the aggressors. The pilot was fully justified in firing his missiles. It turns out he was correct, because the missile the Americans fired into Tehran carried a chemical warhead.”

“But—”

“The first reports may be proved inaccurate, Peter,” Zevitin said, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t protest this incident now. I believe Gardner will act first and then check out the facts. You wait and see.”

Alexandra Hedrov looked at Zevitin silently for a long moment; then: “What is this all about, Leonid? Do you just want to harass Gardner? What for? He is not worth the effort. He will more likely self-destruct without you constantly…how did you say, ‘niggled’ him. And certainly you cannot want Russia to align with and support the Iranians. As I said before, they are just as likely to turn on us after they retake their country.”

“This has absolutely nothing to do with Iran, Alexandra, and everything to do with Russia,” Zevitin said. “Russia will not be encircled and isolated any longer. Gryzlov was a megalomaniac, sure, but because of his insane ideas Russia was feared once more. But in their absolute fear, or pity, the world began to give the United States all it wanted, and that was to encircle and try to squash Russia again. I will not allow that to happen.”

“But how will deploying these anti-spacecraft weapons accomplish this?”

“You don’t understand, Alexandra — threatening war against the Americans will only serve to increase their resolve,” Zevitin explained. “Even a spineless fop like Gardner will fight if his back is forced against the wall — at the very least, he’ll turn his junkyard dog McLanahan loose on us, as much as he resents his power and determination.

“No, we must make the Americans themselves believe they are weak, that they must cooperate and negotiate with Russia to avoid war and disaster,” Zevitin went on. “Gardner’s hatred — and fear — of McLanahan is the key. To make himself look like the brave leader he can never be, I’m hoping Gardner will sacrifice his greatest general, dismantle his most advanced weapon systems, and retreat from important alliances and defensive commitments, all on the altar of international cooperation and world peace.”

“But why? To what end, Mr. President? Why risk war with the Americans like this?”

“Because I won’t stand to see Russia encircled,” Zevitin said sharply. “Just look at a damned map, Minister! Every former Warsaw Pact country is a member of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization; almost every former Soviet republic has a NATO or American base of some kind on it.”

Zevitin went to light up another cigarette, but threw them across his desk in blind anger. “We are wealthy beyond the dreams of our fathers, Alexandra, and yet we can’t spit without the Americans complaining, measuring, analyzing, or intercepting it,” he cried. “If I wake up and see that damned space station shooting across the sky—my Russian sky! — once more, I am going to scream! And if I see another youngster on the streets of Moscow watching an American TV show or listening to Western music because he or she has free Internet access courtesy of the American domination of space, I will kill someone! No more! No more! Russia will not be encircled, and we will not be smothered into submission by their space toys!

“I want Russian skies cleared of American spacecraft, and I want our airwaves cleansed of American transmissions, and I don’t care if I have to start a war in Iran, Turkmenistan, Europe, or in space to do it!”

ABOARD ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION
A SHORT TIME LATER

“Stud Zero-Seven is ready to depart, sir,” Master Sergeant Lukas reported.

“Thanks, Master Sergeant,” Patrick McLanahan responded. He flipped a switch on his console: “Have a good trip home, Boomer. Let me know how the module release experiments and new re-entry procedure works.”

“Will do, sir,” Hunter Noble responded. “Feels weird not having you on board flying the jet.”

“At least you get to pilot it this time, right?”

“I had to arm-wrestle Frenchy for it, and it was close — but yes, I won,” Boomer said. He got an exasperated glance in his rear-cockpit camera from U.S. Navy Lieutenant Commander Lisette “Frenchy” Moulain, an experienced F/A-18 Hornet combat pilot and NASA space shuttle mission commander and pilot. She had recently qualified to be spacecraft commander of the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane and was always looking for another chance to pilot the bird, but none of her arguments worked this time on Boomer. When Patrick flew to and from the station — which was quite often recently — he usually picked Boomer to be his backseater.

Minutes later the Black Stallion detached from the docking bay aboard Armstrong Space Station, and Boomer carefully maneuvered the craft away from the station. When they were far enough away, he maneuvered into retrorocket firing position, flying tailfirst. “Countdown checklists complete, we’re in the final automatic countdown hold,” he announced over intercom. “We’re about six hundred miles to touchdown. Ready for this one, Frenchy?”

“I’ve already reported my checklists are complete, Captain,” Moulain responded.

Boomer rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. “Frenchy, when we get back home, we need to sit down at a nice bar somewhere on the Strip, have an expensive champagne drink, and talk about your attitude — toward me, toward the service, toward life.”

“Captain, you know very well that I’m engaged, I don’t drink, and I love my work and my life,” Moulain said in that same grinding hair-pulling monotone that Boomer absolutely hated. “I might also add, if you haven’t realized it by now, that I hate that call-sign, and I don’t particularly care for you, so even if I was unattached, drank alcohol, and you were the last man on earth with the biggest cock and longest tongue this side of Vegas, I wouldn’t be seen dead in a bar or anywhere else with you.”

“Ouch, Frenchy. That’s harsh.”

“I think you’re an outstanding spacecraft commander and engineer and a competent test pilot,” she added, “but I find you a disgrace to the uniform and I often wonder why you are still at Dreamland and still a member of the United States Air Force. I think your skill as an engineer seems to overshadow the partying, hanging out at casinos, and the constant stream of women in and out of your life — mostly out—and frankly I resent that.”

“Don’t hold back, Commander. Tell me how you really feel.”

“Now when I report ‘checklist complete,’ Captain, as you fully well know, that indicates that my station is squared away, that I have examined and checked everything I can in your station and the rest of the craft and found it optimal, and that I am prepared for the next evolution.”

“Oooh. I love it when you talk Navy talk. ‘Squared away’ and ‘evolution’ sound so nautical. Kinda kinky too, coming from a woman.”

“You know, Captain, I put up with your nonsense because you’re Air Force and this is an Air Force unit, and I know Air Force officers always act casually around each other, even if there’s a great difference in rank,” Moulain pointed out. “You’re also the spacecraft commander, which puts you in charge despite the fact that I outrank you. So I’m going to ignore your sexist remarks during this mission. But it certainly doesn’t change my opinion of you as a person and as an Air Force officer — in fact, it verifies it.”

“Sorry. I didn’t catch all that. I was busy sticking pencils in my ears to keep from listening to you.”

“Can we follow the test flight plan and just do this, Captain, without all the male macho bullshit nonsense? We’re already thirty seconds past the planned commencement time.”

“All right, all right, Frenchy,” Boomer said. “I was just trying to act like we’re part of a crew and not serving on separate decks of a ship in the nineteenth-century Navy. Pardon me for trying.” He pressed a control stud on his flight control stick. “Get me out of this, Stud Seven. Begin powered descent.”

“Commencing powered descent, stop powered descent…” When the computer did not receive a countermanding order, it began: “Commencing deorbit burn in three, two, one, now.” The Laser Pulse Detonation Rocket System engines, or LPDRS, pronounced “leopards,” activated and went to full power. Burning JP-7 jet fuel and hydrogen peroxide oxidizer with other chemicals and superheated pulses from lasers to increase the specific impulse, the Black Stallion’s four LPDRS engines produced twice as much thrust as all of the engines aboard the space shuttle orbiters combined.

As the spacecraft slowed, it began to descend. Normally at a certain velocity Boomer would shut down the main engines and then turn the spacecraft using its thrusters to a forward-flying nose-high attitude and prepare for “entry interface,” or the first encounter with the atmosphere, and then use aerobraking — scraping the shielded underside against the atmosphere — to slow down for landing. This time, however, Boomer kept it flying tailfirst and the LPDRS engines running at full power.

Most spacecraft could not do this for long because they didn’t carry enough fuel, but the Black Stallion spaceplane was different: because it refueled while on Armstrong Space Station, it had as much fuel as it would have when blasting into orbit, which meant it could keep its engines running for much longer periods during re-entry. Although aerobraking was much more fuel-efficient, it had its own set of hazards — namely, the intense heat of friction that built up on the underside of the spacecraft — so the crew was trying a different re-entry method.

As the Black Stallion slowed even more, the descent angle got steeper, until it seemed as if they were pointed straight up. The flight and engine control computers adjusted power to maintain a steady 3-G deceleration force. “I hate to ask,” Boomer grunted through the G-forces pressing his body back into his seat, “but how are you doing back there, Frenchy? Still optimal?”

“In the green, Captain,” Frenchy responded, forcing her breath through constricted throat muscles in order to keep her abdominal muscles tight, which increased blood pressure in her head. “All systems in the green, station check complete.”

“A very squared-away report, thank you, M. Moulain,” Boomer said. “I’m optimal up here too.”

Passing through Mach 5, or five times the speed of sound, and just before reaching the atmosphere at approximately sixty miles’ altitude, Boomer said, “Ready to initiate payload separation.” His voice was much more serious now because this was a much more critical phase of the mission.

“Roger, payload separation coming up…program initiated,” Moulain responded. The cargo bay doors on top of the Black Stallion’s fuselage opened, and powerful thrusters pushed a BDU-58 container out of the bay. The BDU-58 “Meteor” container was designed to protect up to four thousand pounds of payload as it descended through the atmosphere. Once through the atmosphere the Meteor could glide up to three hundred miles to a landing spot, or release its payload before impacting the ground.

This mission was designed to show that the Black Stallion spaceplanes could quickly and accurately insert a long-duration reconnaissance aircraft anywhere on planet Earth. The Meteor would release a single AQ-11 Night Owl unmanned reconnaissance aircraft about thirty thousand feet altitude near the Iran-Afghanistan border. For the next month, the Night Owl would monitor the area with imaging infrared and millimeter-wave radars for signs of Muslim insurgents crossing the border, or Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps or al-Quds convoys smuggling in weapons or supplies from neighboring countries.

After the Meteor container was away, Boomer and Frenchy continued their powered descent. The atmosphere made the spaceplane slow down much more quickly, and soon the LPDRS engines were throttling back to maintain the maximum 3-G deceleration. “Hull temperatures well within the green,” Moulain reported. “I sure like these powered descents.”

Boomer fought off the G-forces, reached out, and patted the top of the instrument panel. “Good spaceship, nice spaceship,” he cooed lovingly. “She likes these powered descents too — all that heat on the belly is not nice, is it, sweetie? Did I tell you, Frenchy, that those ‘leopards’ engines were my idea?”

“Only about a million times, Captain.”

“Oh yeah.”

“Air pressure on the surface is up to green…computers are securing the reaction control system,” Moulain reported. “Mission-adaptive control surfaces are in test mode…tests complete, MAW system responding to computer commands.” The MAW, or Mission Adaptive Wing, system was a series of tiny actuators on the fuselage that in essence turned the entire body of the spaceplane into a lift or drag device — computers shaped the skin as needed to maneuver, climb or descend, make the craft slipperier, or slow down quickly. Even flying backward, the MAW system allowed complete control over the spaceplane. With the atmospheric controls active, Boomer took control of the Black Stallion himself, turned so they were flying forward like a normal aircraft, then hand-flew the ship through a series of steep, high angle-of-attack turns to help bleed off more speed while keeping the descent rate and hull temperatures under control.

At the same time, he was maneuvering to get into position for landing. This landing was going to be a bit trickier than most, because their landing spot was in southeast Turkey at a joint Turkey-NATO military base at a city named Batman. Batman Air Base was a Special Operations Joint Task Force base during the 1991 Gulf War, with American Army Special Forces and Air Force pararescue troops running clandestine missions throughout Iraq. It was returned to Turkish civil control after the war. In a bid for greater cooperation and better relations with its fellow Muslim nations in the Middle East, Turkey forbade NATO offensive military operations to be staged from Batman, but America had convinced the Turks to allow reconnaissance and some strike aircraft to fly from Batman to hunt down and destroy insurgents in Iran. It was now one of the most vital forward air bases for American and NATO forces in the Middle East, eastern Europe, and central Asia.

“Passing sixty thousand feet, atmospheric pressure in the green, ready to secure the ‘leopards,’” Moulain said. Boomer chuckled — securing the “leopards” and transitioning to air-breathing turbojet mode was done automatically, as were most operations on the spaceplane, but Moulain always tried to pre-guess when the computer would initiate the procedure. Cute, yes — but she was generally correct, too. Sure enough, the computer notified him that the LPDRS engines were secure. “We’re still in ‘manual’ mode, Captain,” Moulain reminded him. “The system won’t restart the engines automatically.”

“You’re really on top of this stuff, aren’t you, Frenchy?” Boomer quipped.

“That’s my job, Captain.”

“You’re never going to call me ‘Boomer,’ are you?”

“Unlikely, Captain.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing, Frenchy.”

“I’ll survive. Ready for restart.”

Part of her allure was definitely the chase. Maybe she was all businesslike in bed too — but that was going to have to wait for a time when they weren’t seated in tandem. “Unspiking the engines, turbojets coming alive.” They had enough oxygen in the atmosphere now to stop using hydrogen peroxide to burn jet fuel, so Boomer reopened the movable spikes in the engine inlets and initiated the engine start sequence. In moments the turbojets were idling and ready to fly. Their route of flight was taking them over central Europe and Ukraine, and now they were over the Black Sea, heading southeast toward Turkey. Along with keeping hull temperatures low, the powered descent procedures allowed them to descend out of orbit much quicker — they could come down from two hundred miles’ altitude into initial approach position, called the “high gate,” in less than a thousand miles, where a normal aerobraking descent might take almost five thousand miles.

Below sixty thousand feet they were in Class A positive control airspace, so now they had to follow all normal air traffic control procedures. The computer had already entered the proper frequency in the number one UHF radio: “Ankara Center, this is Stud Seven, due regard, one hundred twenty miles northwest of Ankara, passing flight level five-four-zero, requesting activation of our flight plan. We will be MARSA with Chevron Four-One.”

“Stud Seven, Ankara Center, remain outside Turkish Air Defense Identification Zone until radar identified, squawk one-four-one-seven normal.” Boomer read back all the instructions.

At that moment, on their secondary encrypted radio, they heard: “Stud Seven, Chevron Four-One on Blue Two.”

Boomer had Frenchy monitor the air traffic control frequency, then switched to the secondary radio: “Four-One, this is Stud Seven.” They performed a challenge-and-response code exchange to verify each other’s identity, even though they were on an encrypted channel. “We launched out of Batman because we heard from Ankara ATC that they are not letting any aircraft cross their ADIZ, even ones with established flight plans. We don’t know what’s going on, but usually it’s because an unidentified aircraft or vessel drifted into their airspace or waters, or some Kurds fired some mortars across the border, and they shut everything down until they sort it out. We’re coming up on rendezvous point ‘Fishtail.’ Suggest we do a point-parallel there, then head out to MK.”

“Thank you for staying heads-up, Four-One,” Boomer said, the relief obvious in his voice. Using the powered descent profile grossly depleted their fuel reserves — they were almost bingo fuel right now, and by the time they reached the initial approach fix at Batman Air Base they’d be in an emergency fuel status, and they would have no fuel to go anywhere else. Their closest alternate landing site was Mi-hail Kogălniceanu Airport near Constanţa, Romania, or simply “MK” for short, the first U.S. military base established in a former Warsaw Pact country.

With the two aircraft linked via the secure transceiver, their multi-function displays showed them each other’s position, the track they had to follow to rendezvous, and the turnpoints they’d need to get into position. The Black Stallion reached the Air Refueling Initial Point fifteen minutes early, four hundred knots too fast, and thirty thousand feet too high, so Boomer started a series of high-bank turns to bleed off the excess airspeed. “I love it — boring holes in the sky, flying around in the fastest manned aircraft on the planet.”

“Odin to Stud Seven,” Boomer heard on his encrypted satellite transceiver.

“It’s God on GUARD,” he quipped. “Go ahead, Odin.”

“You’re cleared to proceed to MK,” Patrick McLanahan said from Armstrong Space Station. He was monitoring the spaceplane’s progress from the command module. “Crews are standing by to secure the Black Stallion.”

“Do I have to have someone back home looking over my shoulder from now on?” he asked.

“That’s affirmative, Boomer,” Patrick responded. “Get used to it.”

“Roger that.”

“Any idea why Ankara wasn’t letting anyone in, sir?”

“This is Genesis. Still negative,” David Luger chimed in. “We’re still checking.”

Eventually the Black Stallion was able to slow down and descend to get into proper position, five hundred feet below and a half mile behind the tanker. “Stud Seven is established, checklist complete, got you in sight, ready,” Boomer reported.

“Roger, Seven, this is Chevron Four-One,” the boom operator in the tanker’s tail pod responded. “I read you loud and clear, how me.”

“Loud and clear.”

“Roger that. I have a visual on you too.” On intercom, he said, “Boom’s lowering to contact position, crew,” and he motored the refueling book into position, its own steerable fly-by-wire wings stabilizing it in the big tanker’s slipstream. Back on the radio: “Seven is cleared to precontact position, Four-One is ready.”

“Seven’s moving up,” Boomer said. He opened the slipway doors atop the fuselage behind the cockpit, then smoothly maneuvered the spaceplane to the precontact position: aligned with the tanker’s centerline, the top of the windscreen on the center seam of the director light panel. The immense belly of the converted Boeing 777 filled the windscreen. “Seven’s in precontact position, stabilized and ready, JP-7 only this time,” he said.

“Copy precontact and ready, JP-7 only, cleared to contact position, Four-One ready,” the boom operator said. He extended the nozzle and set the “maneuver” light blinking, the signal for the receiver to move into position. Boomer barely had to move the controls because the plane was so light — almost as if just by thought, he carefully maneuvered the Black Stallion forward and up. When the maneuver light turned steady, Boomer held his position, again as if by thought only, and the boom operator slid the nozzle into the receptacle. “Contact, Four-One.”

“Seven has contact and shows fuel flow,” Boomer acknowledged. “You’re a very welcome sight, boys.”

“We’re a Cabernet crew, sir,” the tanker pilot said.

It took the KC-77 ten minutes to transfer thirty thousand pounds of jet fuel to the Black Stallion. “Let’s start heading west, Four-One,” Boomer said. “We’re starting to get too close to Krasnodar.” Krasnodar on the east coast of the Black Sea was the location of a major Russian air base, and although they were well outside theirs or anyone else’s airspace, it was best not to fly around such areas unannounced. Along with their big air defense radar and numerous long-range surface-to-air missile batteries, Krasnodar was one of the largest fighter bases in the entire world, with no less than three full air defense fighter wings based there, including one with the Mikoyan-Gurevich MiG-29 “Fulcrum,” considered one of the best interceptors in the world.

Even four years after the American retaliatory attacks in Russia, nerves were still frayed throughout the entire region, and operators were on a hair trigger to scramble fighters and activate air defense systems. Luckily, there were no signs of any air defense activity behind them. “Right turn is best.”

“Coming right to two-seven-zero,” the tanker’s pilot said. Boomer expertly banked behind the modified Boeing 777 aircraft as they started to turn south, maintaining contact in the turn.

They had just rolled out on the new heading when the tanker’s boom operator said, “Well well, folks, looks like we have a visitor. Seven, your three o’clock, real damned close.”

“What is it, Frenchy?” Boomer asked, concentrating on staying in the refueling envelope.

“Oh shit…it’s a Russian MiG-29,” Moulain said nervously, “three o’clock, less than a half mile, right on our wingtip.”

“See if he has a wingman,” Boomer said. “Russkies don’t fly around single-ship too often.”

Moulain scanned the sky, trying to stay calm, straining to look as far back as she could. “Got him,” she said moments later. “Seven o’clock, about a mile.” The one at three o’clock slid closer, riveting her attention. In her fifteen-year Navy career she had never seen a MiG-29 except the ones in service in Germany, and that was on a static display, not inflight. It could’ve been a fixed-wing clone of the F-14 Tomcat Navy carrier fighter, with broad wings, beefy fuselage, and a large nose for its big fire control radar. This one was in green, light blue, and gray camouflage stripes, with the big white, blue, and red flag of Russia on the vertical stabilizer — and she could clearly see one long-range and two short-range air-to-air missiles hanging off the MiG’s left wing. “He’s loaded for bear, that’s for sure,” she said nervously. “What are we going to do?”

“I’m going to finish getting my gas,” Boomer said, “and then we’re going to proceed to landing at MK. This is international airspace; sightseeing is allowed. Let Genesis and Odin know what’s out there.”

Boomer could hear Frenchy on the number two radio talking to someone, but she stopped a moment later: “That prick at three o’clock’s moving closer,” she said nervously.

“How are we doing on gas?”

“Three-quarters full.”

“We got enough to get to MK with reserves?”

“Plenty.”

“I want to top ’em off just in case. How close is the MiG now?”

“He’s right on our right wingtip,” Frenchy said. “You going to do a disconnect, Captain?”

“Nah. I’m showing him how it’s done. No doubt he wants a glimpse of the future too.” But the little game wasn’t over. The MiG-29 kept on coming closer until shortly Boomer could hear his engine roar and vibration outside his cockpit canopy. “Okay, now he’s starting to piss me off. How are we on gas?”

“Almost full.”

“Where’s the wingman?”

Moulain began to shift in her seat so she could turn all the way around to her left again…but soon found she didn’t have to, because the second MiG had zoomed forward and was now sitting right off the tanker pilot’s left cockpit window, close enough for his engine exhaust and jet wash to shake the tanker’s left wing, barely noticeably at first but soon more violently as the MiG slid closer.

“Seven, this is Four-One. It’s getting hard to keep it under control. What do you say?”

“Bastard,” Boomer muttered. “Time to call it quits.” On the radio he responded, “Four-One, let’s do a disconnect and—”

But at that moment the second MiG to the left of the tanker’s cockpit stroked its afterburners, its exhausts just yards away from the tanker’s left wing’s leading edge, causing the wing to shove first violently downward, then upward, causing the tanker to roll right. “Breakaway, breakaway, breakaway!” the boom operator shouted on the radio. Boomer immediately chopped the throttles, hit the voice command button, and spoke, “Speed brakes seventy!” The Mission Adaptive Wing system immediately commanded a maximum drag setting, creating thousands of little speed brakes all over the spaceplane’s surface and allowing it to sink quickly…

…and it wasn’t a moment too soon, because the tanker pilot, struggling with his plane’s controls and at the same time jamming on full military power and a thirty-degree climb angle when he heard the “breakaway” call, had overcorrected and was now violently rolling to his left, in the grip of a full power-on stall and on the verge of a tail-low spin. Boomer could swear he was going to be face-to-face with the boom operator as he saw the tanker’s tail swing lower and lower toward him. “C’mon, Chevron, recover, dammit, recover…!”

The KC-77 tanker seemed to be doing a pirouette on the tip of the still-extended refueling boom, rolling left and right as if clawing the sky for a handhold, its wings fluttering like a giant osprey in a climb, except the tanker wasn’t climbing but was getting ready to roll over and spin out of control at any second. Just when Boomer thought it was going to roll over on its back and dive uncontrollably into the Black Sea, it stopped its death’s oscillations, the left wing stayed down, and the nose started to creep toward the horizon. As the nose dipped below the horizon, the right wing slowly, agonizingly started to come down. When the tanker disappeared from view, it was almost wings-level, steeply nose-low but quickly regaining its lost airspeed.

“Chevron, you guys okay?” Boomer radioed.

A few moments later he heard a high, squeaky, hoarse male voice say, “I got it, I got it, holy shit, I got it…Seven, this is Four-One, we’re okay. Man oh man, I thought we were goners. We’re at twelve thousand feet. We’re okay. One engine flamed out, but we’re restarting now.”

Boomer scanned the sky and saw the two MiG-29s joined up far above him, heading east. He could almost hear them laughing over their radios on the little scare they put into the Americans. “You motherfuckers!” he shouted into his oxygen visor, and he shoved the throttles forward to max afterburner.

“Noble! What are you doing?” Moulain shouted when she had gotten her breath back after the sudden G-force shove to her chest. But it was soon obvious what he was doing — he was flying right for the middle of the MiG formation. By the time she could cry out, they had blasted past the two MiGs, passing less than a hundred yards above them, traveling more than seven hundred miles an hour! “Jesus, Noble, are you insane?”

Boomer pitched the Black Stallion into a steep sixty-degree climb, still accelerating. “We’re going to see if they like scrapping with the other alley cats or if they just pick on the big fat tabbies,” he said. The threat warning receiver blared — the MiGs had been running radar-silent until now, which is how they were able to sneak up on their formation so easily, but now they had their big N-019 radar on and searching. Boomer leveled off at forty thousand feet, pulled the throttles back to military power, and switched his multifunction display to the threat depiction, which gave him his best picture of the situation. “Keep an eye on my fuel and let me know when we’re getting close to bingo fuel on MK, Frenchy.”

“Stud, this is Odin,” Patrick McLanahan radioed from Armstrong Space Station. “We just picked up the threat warning. You’ve got two MiGs behind you! Where are you going?”

“I’m going to drag these guys east as much as possible so they’ll stay away from the tanker,” Boomer said, “and I’m going to teach them a lesson about screwing with a Black Stallion and especially its tanker.”

“Do you know what you’re doing, Boomer?” Patrick asked.

“I’m hoping these guys will take a shot at me, General,” Boomer said, “and then I’m really going to water their eyes. Any other questions, sir?”

There was a slight pause, during which time Moulain was positive the general would be swearing a blue streak and literally bouncing off the ceiling of the command module in pure anger at Noble’s adolescent stunt. To her shock, she heard McLanahan reply: “Negative, Boomer. Just try not to scratch the paint.”

“Fifteen minutes to bingo fuel at this rate and course, SC,” Moulain reported. “Stop this shit and turn us around!”

“Five more minutes and we’ll do a U-turn, Frenchy,” Boomer said, then muttered, “C’mon, you chickenshits, shoot already. We’re right dead in your sights and we’re not jamming — take the—”

At that instant the two “bat-wing” symbols on the threat warning display depicting the MiG’s search radars started to blink. “Warning, warning, missile alert, six o’clock, twenty-three miles, MiG-29K…” followed moments later by: “Warning, warning, missile launch, missile launch, AA-12!”

“Here we go, Frenchy — hold on to your bloomers,” Boomer said. He jammed the throttles to max afterburner, then spoke, “Leopards online.”

“Leopards online, stop leopards…leopards activated,” the computer responded, and both crewmembers were shoved back into their seats when the full force of the Laser Pulse Detonation Rocket System engines fired up in full turbojet mode — with the throttles already in full afterburner, rather than moving them up gradually, they got almost full turbojet power in just a few seconds. The airspeed jumped from just below Mach 1 to Mach 2, then 3, then 4 in the blink of an eye. He then started a steep climb, then kept the pitch input in until they were headed straight up, passive fifty, then sixty thousand feet.

“Missiles…still…tracking,” Moulain grunted through the nearly seven Gs. “Still…closing…”

“I’m almost…done…with these bozos, Frenchy,” Boomer grunted back. He pulled the power back at Mach 4 and kept pulling on the control stick until they were inverted. He rolled upright, his nose now aimed down almost directly vertical, then glanced at the threat display. As he hoped, the two MiGs were still transmitting radar energy, searching for him — the AA-12 missile, a copy of the American AIM-120 Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missile, was homing in using its own on-board radar.

“Wondering where I went, boys? You’ll find out in a sec.” Boomer aimed the Black Stallion at a point in space where he thought the MiGs would be in the next heartbeat or two — at his relative speed, the MiGs appeared to be hovering in space, although the threat display said they were flying at almost twice the speed of sound. Just as he caught a glimpse of the black dots below him, he rolled left until he was knifing right between the two Russian jets. He had no idea if he had judged the turn correctly, but it was too late to worry now…

The MiGs were nothing more than imperceptible blurs as he flew directly between them, missing the closest by just fifty yards. As soon as he passed them he pulled the throttles to idle, deactivated the LPDRS engines to conserve fuel, used the MAW system to assist the spaceplane to level off without breaking itself into pieces — at their current rate of speed they would hit the Black Sea in just eight seconds without the Mission Adaptive Wing technology — and started a tight left turn just in case the AA-12 missiles were still tracking…

…but he didn’t have to worry about the missiles, because moments later they caught a glimpse of a large flash of light above them, then another. He rolled upright, let the G-forces subside, and scanned the sky. All they could see were two black clouds above them. “Payback’s a bitch, huh, comrades?” Boomer said as he headed westbound once again.

They had to chase down the tanker again and refuel because they had reached emergency fuel status in just a couple minutes with the LPDRS engines activated. The tanker crew was jubilant, but Moulain was even more quiet and businesslike than usual — she said nothing else except required call-outs. “You guys okay, Four-One?” Boomer asked.

“We got our dentures loosened big-time,” the tanker pilot said, “but it’s better than the alternative. Thanks, Stud.”

“You can thank us by giving us a little more gas so we can make it to MK.”

“As long as we have enough to make it to the nearest runway, you can have the rest,” the tanker pilot said. “And don’t even think about buying any drinks for any other gas-passer anywhere on the planet — your money’s no good with us anymore. Thanks again, Stud Seven.”

Less than an hour later the two aircraft made their approach and landing at Constanţa-Mikhail Kogălniceanu Airport in Romania. The airport was located fifteen miles from Constanţa and nine miles from the city’s famed Mamaia Beach on the Black Sea, so it was rarely affected by the freezing fog that shrouded the coastal city in winter. The U.S. Air Force had built an aircraft parking ramp, hangars, and maintenance and security facilities on the northeast side of the airfield, as well as upgraded the airport’s control tower, radar and communications facilities, and civil airport terminal. Along with NATO and European Union membership, the investments made in Romania by the United States had quickly turned this area known before only for its busy seaport and historic sites into a major international business, technology, and tourist destination.

The two aircraft were escorted to the security area by a small convoy of armored Humvees and parked together in the largest hangar. There was a lot of hugging and handshakes between the crews as they deplaned. They debriefed their mission together and then separately, with promises to meet up for dinner and drinks later in Constanţa.

Noble and Moulain’s mission debriefing took considerably longer than the tanker crew’s. It took nine grueling hours to debrief the maintenance and intelligence crews, Patrick McLanahan on Armstrong Space Station, Dave Luger at Dreamland, and get their usual post-flight physical exams. When they were finally released, they cleared Romanian customs at the civil airport, then took a shuttle bus to the Best Western Savoy Hotel in Constanţa, where the U.S. military contracted for transient lodging.

The Black Sea coast was not busy at all in winter, so except for a few airline crews from Romania, Germany, and Austria and some surprised businessmen unaccustomed to seeing much partying in Constanţa in winter, the Americans had the bar to themselves. The tanker crew had already been partying hard and was buying drinks for anyone who wore wings, especially the foreign female flight attendants. Boomer was ready as well, but to his surprise he saw Lisette heading for the elevator to her room. He extricated himself from the arms of two beautiful blond flight attendants, with promises he’d be right back, and hurried to follow her.

He barely squeezed himself past the closing elevator doors. “Hey, Frenchy, turning in so soon? The party’s just getting started, and we haven’t had dinner yet.”

“I’m beat. I’m done for the day.”

He looked at her with concern. “You haven’t said much since our little run-in with the Russkies,” he said. “I’m a little—”

Suddenly Moulain whirled toward him and smacked him across the jaw with a closed right fist. It wasn’t that hard a blow, but it was still a fist — he was smarting, but mostly from the surprise. “Hey, what’d you do that for?”

“You bastard! You prick!” she shouted. “You could’ve gotten us both killed today out there!”

Boomer rubbed his jaw, still looking at her with concern; then he nodded and said, “Yeah, I could have. But no one pushes around my tanker.” He smiled, then added, “Besides, you gotta admit, Frenchy, that it was one helluva ride.”

Moulain looked as if she was going to punch him again, and he was determined to let her do it if it made her feel better…but to his surprise, she rushed forward in the elevator, threw her arms around his neck, smothered him with a kiss, and pressed herself against him, pinning him against the wall.

“You’re damned right, Boomer, it was one helluva ride,” she breathed. “I’ve flown jets off of carriers in two wars and been shot at dozens of times, and I have never been so turned on as I was today!”

“Jeez, Moulain…”

“Frenchy. Call me Frenchy, dammit,” she ordered, then silenced him with another kiss. She didn’t let him up for air for a long time.

“You were so quiet on the way back and in debriefing, I was afraid you were going into some kind of shell-shocked fugue state, Frenchy,” Boomer said as Moulain started kissing his neck. “You sure have a funny way of showing your excitement.”

“I was so excited, so turned on, so friggin’ aroused that I was embarrassed to show it,” Moulain said in between kisses, her hands quickly finding their way south of his waist. “I mean, two fighter pilots died, but I was so jacked up I thought I was going to come in my damned flight suit!”

“Dang, Frenchy, this is one strange side of you that I never—”

“Shut up, Boomer, just shut up,” she said as the elevator slowed on their floor. She had him practically unzipped and unbuttoned by then. “Just take me to my room and fuck my brains out.”

“But what about your fiancé and your—?”

“Boomer, I said, shut the hell up and fuck me, and do not stop until it’s morning,” Moulain said as the elevator doors slid open. “I’ll explain it to…to…oh hell, whatever his name is, in the morning. Remember, Captain, I outrank you, so that’s an order, mister!” It was obvious that issuing orders was just as much of a turn-on for her as flying the hypersonic spaceplane.

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