Shadows of steel

Samson was heading to the door as he spoke: “Tell General Andleman I’m on my way to Whiteman and that he’s minding the store. Tell base ops to notify me immediately when the C-20 calls Shreveport Approach inbound for landing. And tell my wife …” He paused, thinking about what he was about to do and what it might mean.

“Tell her I’ll talk to her tonight. I will talk to her tonight.”

SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA 16 APRIL 1997, 2055 HOURS LOCAL

The new waitress quit after only one day—something about how life was too short to work for a “stressed-out bulldog hyped on speed,” or some such comment like that—so the owner of the little tavern on the Sacramento River near Old Sacramento had to fill in waiting tables himself.

It had been many years since he had had to take drink orders.

Still dressed in a long-sleeve white shirt, colorful “power tie,” Dockers slacks, and black Reeboks, he zipped from bar to tables to kitchen and back, memorizing drink and appetizer orders while wiping tables and setting up place settings, all the while remembering that he had to smile, say a pleasant word, and stay as cheerful as he could. The original owner had bought the bar after his retirement from the Sacramento Police Department more than fifteen years earlier, and he had never seemed cheerful or pleasant. Despite this—or possibly because of it—McLanahan’s Pub, only seven blocks from police headquarters, had been one of the most popular cop bars in town. Police, sheriff’s deputies, even federal agents working downtown in California’s capital had regularly shuttled between Gillooly’s, the Pine Cove, and McLanahan’s after duty hours. They’d always gotten good advice from a seasoned veteran sergeant, a lot of stories, and a little cajoling and friendly criticism—but never cheerfulness.

The new owner of McLanahan’s wasn’t a cop, and although his younger brother was slated to start the police academy soon and all of the police photos and memorabilia were still on the walls of the place, it wasn’t the same popular cop hangout it had been years ago. Because the clientele was more touristy and more sophisticated these days, McLanahan’s had changed as well: they served selections of Napa Valley chardonnays and specialty espresso coffee drinks as well as cold beer and bourbon. Tourists who ordered cafe mochas and veggie appetizers expected cool, suave Tom Cruise-look-alike bartenders and cheerful, trim-and-tan California-cutie servers, not loud, adrenaline-pumped cops lining the bars being served by gruff, overworked owners.

The second-generation owner, Patrick McLanahan, indeed looked as if he might be more at home in a squad car or on motorcycle patrol than in a bar. Patrick was a bit less than average height, but his broad shoulders, thick forearms and neck, and deep chest made him look much shorter. If the blond-haired, blue-eyed man smiled, which was rare these days, one might almost call him disarming, like a big, cuddly teddy bear. But no one remembered the last time their forty-year-old boss had smiled for real, and now it was easy to see a lot of turmoil going on behind those shining blue eyes.

It was Monday night, and the crowd was small and quiet. A few regulars at the bar, a few cops still hanging around (although shift change was a couple of hours ago), a few strangers getting out of the off-and-on drizzle outside. Quite a contrast from table to table. Three guys and a woman, sitting at different tables, reading the paper or watching the news on TV, all drinking coffee; Patrick guessed they were U.S. Marshals or Secret Service, still on duty or on call. A few San Jose Sharks fans were still here, celebrating the hockey team’s latest victory at home over the Stanley Cup champions, the Buffalo Sabres, that they had watched on the big-screen TV here at the bar. One big black guy was by himself in a booth in the corner, still wearing his dark overcoat, watching TV as well—he looked a little rumpled and overburdened, maybe a mid-level manager for the state who had just had an argument with his wife, or a local businessman worrying about the state of Sacramento’s economy now that all of the area’s military bases had been closed down. He paid for his Samuel Adams with a fifty-dollar bill. His only interaction with Patrick was when he asked him to switch the TV over the bar to CNN, and since there was nothing on ESPN, he complied.

In between serving drinks and wiping tables, Patrick made lots of calls to other employees, asking for help, and after an hour and a half he finally got someone to come in from eleven to closing, so he had a bit more time to circulate and do owner things rather than serve tables. He finally escaped to his office and plopped down in a spare chair beside the woman seated at his desk, who was punching numbers into a computer with the speed and ease of someone very familiar with using a keyboard. “Damn, if I ever see another plate of potato skins or another glass of white wine, it’ll be too soon. My feet are killing me.”

Patrick’s wife, Wendy, turned and smiled at her husband, and Patrick automatically extended his hand to her and they held hands as they talked. Wendy was in her mid-thirties, with short strawberry blond hair and bright green eyes. Bandages still covered the left side of her neck and her right arm, and her breathing was noticeably labored, but her smile could still melt Patrick’s heart like nothing else. Wendy and Patrick were still newlyweds, having married late last year, but an entire lifetime’s worth of events had interrupted their new life together, and they spoke and treated each other as lifelong mates. “Think about that the next time you chop on a server because she’s not going fast enough for your taste, hon,” Wendy said. She stifled another cough, and Patrick winced inside as he heard the delicate but raspy noise.

“How are you doing, sweetheart?” Patrick asked. It was the end of Wendy’s first full week of part-time work doing the books, payroll, and ordering at the tavern. Patrick had seen some of the country’s toughest professional soldiers in sixteen years in the U.S. Air Force, and there was no doubt in his mind that Wendy was stronger and more durable than any of them. Yes, she had lost a lot of weight, and she suffered shortness of breath if she walked around too much, and she required a two-hour nap in the afternoon as well as a full eight hours of sleep at night, but she had been out of the hospital after three weeks and working just a few short months after her horrible aircraft incident.

“Don’t change the subject, hon,” Wendy said with a stern smile. “That was the second waitress that quit this week. We’re hiring only experienced persons, Patrick—they’re not butter-bars. You’ve got to let them make a few touch-and-goes and get some pattern work on their own before you start a full-scale stan-eval ride on them.”

Patrick smiled at all the military aviation jargon. It had been quite some time since he had heard them. “Yes, ma’am,” he responded, snapping a left-handed salute, then kissed her hand.

She looked at him skeptically, as if afraid he wasn’t listening to her indirect criticisms. “Hey, I’m just trying to keep things moving, trying to pitch in. It’s easier for me to notice how long an order’s been sitting ready to be picked up if I’m just standing by the door. I’m only trying to help, you know, keep things moving …”

“The only things that keep moving are the servers,” Wendy said.

“Let them do their thing—they feel uncomfortable having the boss hovering nearby all the time. Did you ever work better with that slave driver Colonel Anderson standing over you telling you to …?” Wendy paused as she saw Patrick’s eyes drift away and begin staring at faces and places long lost but certainly never forgotten. “Sorry, sweetheart,” Wendy said in a soft voice. “I hope it’s not too painful for you when I mention …”

“No, it’s okay,” Patrick said. “I just hadn’t thought about him, or any of them, for a while.”

“If I may so politely and delicately point out: bullshit,” Wendy said, squeezing his hand. “You think about them all the time. I can see you talking on the phone or sweeping the floor, and all of a sudden you’ll stare off into space, and I know you’re on the deck of the Megafortress or one of those other creations you built, dropping bombs and screaming around at Mach one with your hair on fire.”

“Hey, c’mon, that’s all past me … us,” Patrick said. He glanced at his wife reassuringly, then motioned at the computer screen.

“Can you give me a list of applicants? I’ll call a few tomorrow morning and find us a replacement.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Wendy said. She turned his face back to face hers. “We can talk about it, you know—the service. I can talk about it.”

“There’s not much to talk about, is there?” Patrick said, a trace of bitterness in his voice. “We’re out, involuntarily retired.

Everything we built is gone, everyone we know is gone. We’re two grad-school-plus-educated professionals living in a one-bedroom apartment over a bar. We live off your disability payments, we eat bar food, drink bar drinks, and watch bar TV because we can’t even afford our own TV.” He took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. “Not exactly the kind of life I wanted to make for you, Wendy.”

“Maybe you should soak your head, lover, not your feet,” Wendy said disapprovingly. “Where did you suddenly get this sad-sack streak from? You took an early retirement as an Air Force lieutenant colonel—you can’t draw your fifty percent retirement salary because you’re barely forty years old! You’ve lived more and done more in the past twenty years than most men would in two lifetimes. You own an established restaurant and tavern in the capital city of the state of California, which earns enough to put a brother through college and pay for your mother’s condo in Palm Springs—we live over the bar because it doesn’t cost us anything and we’re saving up for the lake-view condo up on Lake Tahoe you’ve always wanted. You’ve got so many prospects available, you can’t count them all. Yes, we eat bar food, but we eat pretty dam good bar food, thank you very much—I don’t see any ribs sticking out your sides, if I may say so, lover. Why are you suddenly so down on life?”

“I’m not down on life, Wendy,” Patrick responded. “I just wanted more by now, that’s all.”

“You’re unhappy because you’re not flying, that’s what it is, isn’t it?” Wendy asked. “Patrick, you can go flying anytime you want. There’s a bunch of rental planes waiting for you at Executive or Mather. You can do aerobatics, you can go high and fast and push the Mach, you can fly a helicopter or a war bird or a racer—you’re checked out in almost everything with wings. In fact, I wish you’d get out a little more often, look up your pals in the service, maybe even write a book.

“But you paid your dues as a military aviator, Patrick. Your work is done. You’re a genuine hero. You’ve saved this nation a dozen times over. You’ve risked your life, hell, I’ve lost count how many times! For my sake as well as yours, put that life behind you and start a new one, with me, here, right now.”

“I will, Wendy,” Patrick said. He took a deep breath, squeezed her hand, then got to his feet. “I better see if Jenny’s showed up yet.”

“Hey,” she said, pushing him back to his seat. She held his hands tightly until he looked into her eyes again. “You know, Patrick, Charlie O’Sullivan asked if he could look over our books again, and he wants to bring Bruce Tomlinson from First Interstate over.”

She interrupted herself with another short fit of coughing.

“You okay, sweetie?”

She ignored the question and continued: “He’s really serious about buying the place. He knew your dad from the force. He’s got the financial backing to turn this place into a real entertainment spot, bring in big-name groups—we can’t even afford to get a dancing permit.”

“I’m working on all that, too, sweetheart.”

“But we can’t afford all the upgrades we need to do unless we mortgage the place again, and that’s too risky. You said so yourself,” Wendy said. She took his hands and squeezed. “I’m your wife and your friend and your lover, Patrick, so I feel qualified to tell you: as a barkeep, you’re a great bombardier.”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you want to be working for a business that you took on just because you love your father and you couldn’t stand the idea of your mother selling?” Wendy asked. “You don’t want to be a barkeep, babe. I have no doubt you could make it if you wanted to, but your heart’s not in it. You She stopped again, the coughing lasting a bit longer this time. “Besides, hon, the air quality in Sacramento is not getting any better. My company doctor down in La Jolla says a change might do me some good—San Diego, or Arizona, or Tahoe …”

“So you think we should sell?”

“We’d have the money to make a fresh start,” Wendy said. “We could go anywhere, do anything. Jon Masters said he’d hire you in an instant, doing God knows what. Any defense contractor in America would hire you, hire both of us, on the spot if we wanted to get into that life again. Hal Briggs talked about us getting involved in his brother’s police canine-training facility in Georgia. Or we could just buy a boat and shuttle back and forth from Friday Harbor to Cabo San Lucas all year. We wouldn’t be obliged to anyone except ourselves and our own dreams. We could …”

But she stopped, and she knew he wasn’t listening—he had adopted what the Vietnam vets called the “thousand-yard stare,” a flashback. His mind had drifted off once again, replaying some bomb run or aerial chase or dangerous mission where men and women had died around him. Mentioning the names of Brad Elliott, Jon Masters, and Hal Briggs had been a big mistake, she decided. His life, his heart, was still with them, wherever they were. If there truly was a purgatory, Wendy thought, Patrick McLanahan must be in it—and she was with him.

She knew that he had forcibly separated himself from them, his longtime friends, to return her to California so she could heal after her aircraft accident—and it had been a truly extraordinary event. A Russian spy named Kenneth Francis James had shot down an experimental bomber in which she had been a crew member. Only two of the seven crew members aboard that bomber had survived; the spy had killed six other soldiers, injured several others, and destroyed hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of equipment in his mad dash to escape. The incident had led to the dismissal of all of the senior officers of Nevada-based HAWC, including Patrick McLanahan, and the closure of the facility.

Patrick had accepted an early retirement rather than demotion and reassignment so he could be with his new love during her recovery; to pass the time and do something close to home, he had taken over the operation of the longtime family business in Old Sacramento. She loved him for making that sacrifice for her, but she could tell that he longed to be back in the action, even though he was bitter that the government and the Air Force had destroyed so many lives and careers in the witch-hunt that followed the James disaster. The restlessness, his guilt-based desire to stay with his wife and run the family business, and his anger and frustration were all combining to turn Patrick Shane McLanahan into a dark, explosive, and angry young man.

He said absently, “I’ll think about it, sweetie,” before rising, robot-like, giving her a peck on the cheek, and departing. As Wendy watched him leave, she knew that he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. All he could see was a job not yet finished, a life not yet fulfilled. He had come out of sixteen horrible, hard years in the Air Force with barely a scratch, yet he had been wounded far worse than all the others—his spirit may have even been killed. Just a little bit, perhaps, but just as surely and as finally as the deaths of J. C. Powell, Alan Carmichael, and John Ormack, among all the others that had touched Patrick’s life over the past ten violent, unpredictable years.

Patrick’s attention had wandered because he had heard the eleven o’clock news come on. As usual the lead story was on the goings-on in the Middle East, and he wanted to hear the latest.

So far, a lot of saber-rattling by Iran, and virtual silence from Washington.

“What do you think of all that shit, boss?” asked the bartender, a young kid by the name of Hank.

“I think the Iranians are sailing their carrier around to scare the shit out of the rest of the world, and to prove they’re the baddest Muslim country on the planet,” Patrick replied matter-of-factly.

“Why aren’t we doing anything about them? Is it because we’re afraid of getting our asses kicked, like twenty-five years ago?”

“Hank, that was Vietnam, and we didn’t get our asses kicked—we withdrew,” McLanahan corrected him. “Iran and Iraq are two different countries in the Middle East, not southeast Asia. Both countries border on the Persian Gulf, a major oil-producing region. We went to war with Iraq six years ago, remember?”

“Six years ago … man, I was just in high school then, boss!”

Hank laughed. “Did we win that war?”

“Hank, we won that war in one hundred days!”

“One hundred days! That’s … that’s like over three months!”

Hank exclaimed. “Don’t the Navy SEALs and guys like Jean-Claude Van Damme kick ass and clean up in just a day or two?”

“The Vietnam War lasted ten years, Hank.”

“Oh, yeah, we learned about that one in school,” Hank said, trying to sound as if he had really been paying attention. “That was the war where Johnson and Nixon kept on drafting war protesters and sending them over into the jungles to napalm villagers and get killed by bamboo poisoned with rat shit, until Jane Fonda caught Reagan bugging her offices and got him thrown out of office …”

“Jesus, Hank …” Patrick spluttered. Man, this kid made him feel old, Patrick thought. He didn’t even remember the Persian Gulf War, let alone the Vietnam War or Watergate! All he knew was what he saw on “Beavis and Butthead” or “Hard Copy.”

“Try picking up a copy of something other than Mad magazine once in a while, okay?”

“So why don’t we just go in and kick some butt, boss, like we did against Iran …?”

“Iraq, Hank.”

“Yeah, right … whatever. Why don’t we just go in and bomb ‘em or something?”

Patrick looked angrily at the bartender, then turned, picked up a towel to do the tables, and said as he walked away, “We don’t bomb anybody anymore, Hank. We’re peacekeepers now.”

Hank nodded, hopelessly confused, and said, “Yeahhh … right.

We’re peacekeepers” Talking international affairs with Hank was like talking to the dishrag in his hands, Patrick decided.

Yep, only peacekeepers now … and targets …

The waitress hadn’t shown up yet, so Patrick decided to make the rounds. The guys who looked like feds only wanted coffee refills.

Patrick tried to strike up conversations with them, hoping to find out if his instincts were right, but none of them were in a chatty mood, which suited Patrick just fine. Patrick found a pretty blond woman sitting with the black gent in the corner booth now; she placed her coffee cup where he could reach it with the pot, and Patrick filled it. He tried to catch a good glimpse of her face, but failed. Was she a hooker, trying to scare up some business? Patrick caught a glimpse of sleek legs, but little else.

It appeared that the black gent hadn’t touched his beer in half an hour. Even the sweat on the side of the glass was gone. Patrick reached for the glass: “I’ll get you a fresh Samuel A,” he said.

“Thanks, young man,” the gent said. “Guess I’m paying more attention to the news than to the beer.”

“Me too,” Patrick offered. “Can I get you anything else? We have some great hot appetizers. Would you like to see a menu?” The woman sitting at the guy’s table tittered a bit, covering her mouth. The black guy scowled at her; Patrick ignored it, but inside he was turning, asking himself, Why the hell am I here?

What the hell am I doing? This bitch is laughing at me because I’m taking food orders … but I’m not happy doing this. Wendy’s right, I’m not happy doing this.

“I heard what you told the bartender about Iran,” the black guy said, in a bit of a booming, authoritative voice that made Patrick think perhaps he was a little drunk or distraught. “It’s pretty unbelievable when you think about the historical memories of America’s young people.”

“Not everyone,” Patrick said. “Hank’s main concern right now is paying the rent, not world affairs. He’s a pretty smart guy.”

“What makes you think the Iranians are just scaring everybody?”

“Iran’s got enough domestic problems without worrying about picking fights with any of its neighbors, or with the United States,” Patrick said, not really wanting to get into another inane discussion about the Middle East but unconsciously blowing off a little steam from interacting with ol’ Hank. “But the GCC attack on Abu Musa Island stirred up the military. Soon they’ll mobilize the Pasdaran-“

“The what?” the guy asked. “The who?”

“The Pasdaran, the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, the Iranian elite troops. The Pasdaran are the Iranian storm troopers, the SS of the Middle East. They’re the best of the best, the pointy end of the spear. They have about the same size, speed, and equipment as the U.S. Marine Corps—maybe even better.” Patrick pointed to the TV set over the right side of the bar just as a map of Iran was being shown for the hundredth time that hour on CNN.

“What will they do?”

“If the military gets the ear of the clerics in charge of the country, the first thing they might do is close off the Strait of Hormuz and the Persian Gulf. They’ll use the Khomeini carrier group, backed up by their new fleet of land-based bombers.”

“You’ve lost me, son,” the gent said. “Iran’s going to do all this? Why?”

“They’ll do it if anyone, especially the U.S. or Israel, gets in their way,” Patrick said. “If Iran closes off the Gulf and maybe then the Red Sea, all the oil-rich countries lose billions a day.

The Gulf states won’t risk that—they’ll deal with Iran rather than risk losing oil revenues.”

“So why don’t we just get a Steve Canyon aviator hero-type and bomb the crap out of Iran, like we did in Iraq?” the woman chimed in, her voice slightly sarcastic, as if a mere bartender had any answers she would find useful or informative. Aha, Patrick thought, not a hooker—or at least a very highly educated one.

These two were together, and probably with the other three guys surrounding the bar. What in hell was going on?

“We could, but we risk starting a huge Middle East war,” Patrick said. “We’d need a pretty thick scorecard to keep track of all the alliances, cooperatives, economic unions, and religious factors in this region.” Patrick began wiping a nearby table so he’d be better able to slip away and avoid a prolonged conversation with these two. “We couldn’t count on our old friends for help, because Iran is a pretty tough adversary, far stronger than Iraq was. This time, both Russia and China are involved—on Iran’s side, not ours. And we’ve got fewer bombers, tanks, ships, and men to fight a war. We’re pretty well on the backside of the power curve on this one.” Patrick paused, then added, “Besides, Steve Canyon types are just fiction.”

“Too bad,” the blonde said.

“That sounds like a fighter pilot talking,” the black gent observed. “You a flier?”

“I was in the Air Force once,” Patrick said. “Didn’t do anything special. Put in my years and punched out.” His blue am, and he half turned to the man and told him, “I’ll bring that beer right away.”

“Sure. Thanks,” the guy said. As Patrick was walking back to the bar, the guy raised his voice and added, “When you get back, maybe you can explain how a single B-2A equipped like a Megafortress could slow down the Iranian advances without triggering a Middle East war.”

Patrick tried hard to make no outward reaction to the word Megafortress, but inside his guts turned upside down. The Megafortress had been one of his top-secret projects back when he was in the Air Force—a highly modified B-52 bomber, what they referred to as a “flying battleship,” designed for long-range heavy-precision strikes and to escort other, less sophisticated bombers, such as unmodified B-52s, into the target area. Several other Megafortresses had been built and flown—even flown in combat, over Lithuania and Belarus—but they had all been dismantled and placed in storage or destroyed when HAWC was disbanded. This guy knew about it, knew about him, about his past. All that information was highly classified. Was he a reporter? A foreign agent? An industrial spy?

Remaining calm, pretending he hadn’t heard the guy, Patrick nonchalantly set the man’s beer mug on the bar. “Hank, pour him another Adams,” Patrick said, then headed immediately into the office.

“Sure, boss. Hey, I’m gonna need …” But Patrick was already through the office door, practically at a dead run.

As soon as he closed the door behind him, he said, “Wendy, head out the back, take the cell phone, and call OSI.” OSI, the Air Force’s Office of Special Investigations, was their point of contact should anyone try to contact them regarding any classified information. Their nearest office was at Beale Air Force Base up in Marysville, about an hour away, but if they had any agents in the area, someone could be by there right away to intercept. Or maybe they’d call the FBI or U.S. Marshal’s office in Sacramento for help …

“I think it’s too late for that, dear,” Wendy said. There, standing next to Wendy, was a stranger in a black trench coat and wearing black gloves.

Patrick didn’t hesitate. He quickly stepped forward until he reached the desk, then shoved the computer monitor off its stand at the stranger. The guy instinctively grabbed at the monitor flying toward him, which distracted him and brought his face down to the perfect level—so Patrick swung his right fist, putting his entire two hundred pounds behind it, connecting squarely in the middle of the stranger’s left temple. He went down with a muffled grunt and lay still, knocked cold.

“God,” Wendy gasped as she stared at the unconscious stranger.

“Patrick, wait.”

Without stopping, Patrick stepped on and over the stranger, grabbed Wendy’s left arm, and steered her toward the back of the office to the back door. “Head toward the coffee shop down the street—they’ll be open, and the cops hang out there,” Patrick told Wendy. “Tell them there’s five out front, one black male, three white males, one white-“

“What in hell is going on back here!” a voice thundered behind him. Patrick whirled around and saw the black gent and the woman standing at the office door. The black guy was bug-eyed as he looked first at Patrick, then at the unconscious guy on the floor with the computer monitor lying on his chest, then back at Patrick. The woman studied the scene the same way, but her face registered immense glee. “What do you think you’re doing, McLanahan?”

“Wendy, go!” Patrick tried to pull her toward the door, but she was not moving. “Wendy, what’s wrong?”

“Patrick, sweetie, you just knocked a Secret Service agent out cold,” Wendy said with a smile.

“A what?”

“He’s a ‘who,’ dear,” Wendy repeated, grinning broadly. “Special Agent Frank Zanatti, from Washington, D.C. He’s already showed me his ID. I tried to tell you, before you knocked my monitor over.”

“Secret Service?” Patrick looked at the unconscious guy in total confusion, then pointed an angry finger at the large black guy standing in his office door. “Then who the hell are you?”

“I am Philip Freeman, U.S. Army, retired, National Security Advisor to the President of the United States,” Philip Freeman bellowed.

“Fr … Freeman? General Freeman?”

“Don’t just stand there gaping, Colonel,” Freeman shouted, “help Agent Zanatti up.” He half turned to the woman beside him and ordered, “Colonel, give him a hand. I swear, McLanahan, if you’ve killed him, we’ll all be skinned alive.”

The woman standing beside Freeman hurried over to the fallen Secret Service agent. As she did, she passed close by Patrick and, to his amazement, whipped off her blond wig and handed it to him. “Hello, Colonel. Last time I saw you, you were blasting that rat bastard Maraklov out of the sky in Cheetah. Never thought I’d ever see you asking me if I wanted a hot appetizer. I couldn’t help laughing. Sorry.”

Patrick blinked in total surprise: “Preston? Major Marcia Preston …?”

“Lieutenant Colonel Preston, Patrick,” she said as she gave him a friendly hug. Preston had been former National Security Advisor Deborah O’Day’s personal aide and bodyguard, a U.S. Marine Corps F/A-18 Hornet fighter pilot, and one of the first female combat pilots in the American military. “It’s nice to see you, but let’s get General Freeman’s man up off the floor, shall we?” Patrick’s head was swimming in confusion as they helped Zanatti to an armchair and revived him. After he was up and around, Preston stood and walked over to Wendy and extended a hand. “You must be Dr. Wendy Tork … er, Dr. Wendy McLanahan. Marcia Preston.”

They shook hands. “I’ve only flown once with your husband, but it was a ride I’ll never forget.”

“This is Wendy Tork?” Freeman asked in surprise. He too walked over and extended a hand in greeting. “It somehow didn’t show up in any files that you two were married. Congratulations. I assume it was just before your … accident.”

“That’s right, General.”

“It was an unfortunate, tragic incident, a huge and incredible loss,” Freeman said, “but out of the ashes will come a newer, even stronger force.”

He turned to Patrick and said, “I must ask a favor, Patrick. I need to speak to you right away, and since I see you’re one of the only ones on duty, it might be better if you closed up early. We have a lot to discuss. The White House will see to it that you’re compensated for your lost time.”

The dark, cold expression came over Patrick’s face. “Somehow, I doubt that,” he said, “but since you’ve probably scared all the other customers out already …”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Freeman acknowledged with a wry smile.

“I guess we don’t have much choice … as usual,” Patrick said, and he went to close and lock the doors.

Freeman’s men swept Wendy and Patrick’s apartment for listening devices in just a few minutes—thankfully, there were none—and they sat down to talk over coffee and fresh fruit. Freeman winced as he put a slice of fresh kiwi up to his nose, wishing he had a nice thick, gooey doughnut instead, but he seemed to enjoy the kiwi and helped himself to a slice of mango next. “We’re nicknaming it Future Flight,” the President’s National Security Advisor began. “I’m bringing back your team, Patrick, at least as many as we can. Being the senior member, I want you to command the team. I borrowed Colonel Preston here from the Marine Corps again, and she’ll be your deputy.”

“What exactly are we going to do, General?” Patrick asked.

“Anything and everything,” Freeman replied. “The purpose of Future Flight is to support specialized intelligence operations with long-range, stealthy aerial assets—in particular, a certain B-2A Spirit stealth bomber, which you knew as Test Article Number Two, assigned to the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, and which you tested and flew for two years, loaded with various payloads, including reconnaissance, communications, intelligence, and combat strike.

“Sounds pretty … open-ended,” McLanahan observed warily. “A license to kill, so to speak.”

“You’ll be attached to the Air Force Air Intelligence Agency—you’ll report to Major General Brien Griffith. He’ll report to me …”

“And you report to the President,” Patrick interjected. Freeman nodded. “Sounds awfully dangerous to me—lots of chances for abuse.”

“You did it all the time when you were a member of HAWC”

“And look what happened to us,” Patrick snapped. “HAWC is closed down, General Elliott was demoted and forced to retire, and everyone else was scattered to the four winds or kicked out. Lots of careers and reputations were ruined, General. If we wanted to appeal those verdicts, we’d have been thrown in prison for life for violating national security-“

“You retired with an honorable discharge and a pension after only sixteen years of active-duty service, Colonel,” Freeman pointed out. “You made out pretty well, I’d say.”

“Only because Brad Elliott used the last of his political markers to get us some leniency,” Patrick said. “Only because I agreed not to talk, not to go to the press, not to sue. I’m not proud of the way I exited, sir. One reason I’m not in the service and doing what I was trained to do is because Brad did everything the White House and the Pentagon wanted of him, and he was branded a loose cannon and taken down. My only other options were a less-than-honorable discharge or a demotion and reassignment to a remote non-flying specialty.

“My point is, sir, what we learned after ten years was a simple lesson: If the government wants a strike or recon mission done, call on the armed services to do it,” Patrick said. “If they don’t have the equipment or the training, either get them what they need, or don’t do the mission.”

“Neither are options, Patrick,” Freeman said. “We don’t have the funds to equip an active-duty unit with the equipment you developed at HAWC, and we don’t have the time to train an active-duty flier on how to use the equipment you designed, tested, and flew in combat. Our only other option is to withdraw all the ISA technical groups from their deployed positions, which would hurt our intelligence-gathering capabilities—to the contrary, we want to assist these cells and allow them the chance to do even more.”

“ISA can take care of themselves, sir,” Patrick said. “If they can’t, if the situation is too hot for them, yank them out. If the situation’s too hot for ISA, it’s probably at the wartime stage anyway.”

“That’s the whole point, Patrick. Future Flight’s mission is to prevent any situation from escalating into the wartime stage by the careful, controlled application of strike assets,” Freeman said, “and I’m talking about ISA, and I’m talking about the B-2A stealth bomber. Iran has done exactly the same thing: they’ve drawn a line at the entrance to the Persian Gulf, daring anyone to cross it. The rest of the world is completely paralyzed with fear; Iran knows this, and they’re going to take advantage of it.”

“So your solution is to play high-tech terrorist, too, right?”

“in a manner of speaking, yes!” Freeman replied resolutely, slapping a hand on his knee. “Who the hell says the United States has only two choices—war or peace?—pardon my language, Dr. McLanahan.”

“Wendy,” she said. “And your language doesn’t offend me, sir—but frankly, your ideas do.”

“Then I’ll try to explain them,” Freeman said. “Listen, Patrick, Wendy: my job is to coordinate the United States’ national security affairs before they get to the guns and bombs phase. In peacetime, that usually means intelligence operations—trying to find out what the bad guys are doing before they do it, so we can pursue diplomatic and legal solutions and avert war. Sometimes NSA uses field operatives, and in very rare instances we’ll use military forces to help out in security or direct-engagement situations. But we’re expanding that role now to include military and paramilitary options. Our means are less ‘hide-and-seek,’ more offensive than pure intelligence operations, but the goal is the same: find out what the bad guys are doing before they do something so we can pursue diplomatic solutions and avert a war.”

“You can sugarcoat it all you want, General,” Wendy said, “but the bottom line is the same—it’s terrorism. If Iranians were doing the same to us, we’d call it terrorism, and we’d be correct.”

“And what about that Gulf Cooperation Council attack on Abu Musa Island?” McLanahan said. “Iran says the attack was conducted by an American stealth bomber and Israeli F-15E attack planes, which I believe is bullshit, but they got one observation right: the attack had to have been made by precision-guided weapons.”

“So what if that’s true …?”

“So the British Aerospace Hawks flown by Oman and the United Arab Emirates don’t normally drop precision-guided munitions,” McLanahan said, “and the Super Puma and Gazelle attack helicopters normally fire only AS-12 missiles, which are short-range optically-guided missiles, not very useful on high-speed night attacks—they need spotters to find targets for them. And those Peninsula Shield crews weren’t trained in using Maverick missiles, especially the imaging infrared version. That tells me that the missiles were laser guided, probably Hellfires or French AS-30L missiles. And since none of the aircraft involved in the attack carries laser designators, the designators had to be on the ground, which meant you had commando teams lasing targets for the Peninsula Shield pilots. Who were they, General Freeman?

Marines? SAS? Green Berets? The CIA?”

“What in hell difference does it make, McLanahan?” Freeman retorted, silently very impressed with this civilian’s accurate analysis. “The GCC attacked hostile offensive weapon systems-“

“You didn’t answer my question, General. Who was it?”

“You don’t have a need to know,” Freeman shot back. “Why am I arguing about this with you, McLanahan? You of all people, you and your mentor Brad Elliott, Misters Damn-the-Torpedoes, Praise God and Pass-the-Ammunition. The GCC destroyed what they believed was a hostile force on disputed territory.”

“Instead of negotiating!” McLanahan said. “General, they performed a terrorist action! They weren’t defending themselves, they attacked a foreign base without warning or without a declaration of war. That’s an act of terrorism.”

“That ‘foreign base’ was getting ready to attack GCC ships and American-flagged tankers transiting the Gulf.”

“Really, General? When?” McLanahan interjected. “Iran has had those missiles on that island for years and hasn’t fired one missile except for live-fire exercises. But the GCC struck first, and I think the U.S. helped them.”

“You’re guessing.”

“It’s not a big stretch of the imagination, sir,” McLanahan said. “It’s a logical assumption. The GCC might have started this whole conflict because they got exasperated or impatient about the negotiations over Abu Musa and the Tumbs.”

“And now the President has ordered the Abraham Lincoln carrier group to stay out of the Persian Gulf for the time being,” Freeman pointed out, “which is making many of our Middle East allies nervous—which means Iran is already winning the war that always occurs before the shooting starts, the psychological war.”

McLanahan paused at that—he knew Freeman was right.

“I’m sending in ISA and the team you worked with, Patrick, Madcap Magician, to keep an eye on iran’s carrier battle group and other Iranian military assets,” Freeman went on. “Every suspected Iranian nuclear, chemical, or biological warfare base or storage dump will have an ISA agent nearby; every Iranian bomber, fighter, rocket, or missile base capable of striking the Lincoln battle group or reaching targets in Saudi Arabia, Turkey, Kuwait, or Israel will have an agent watching it. If the Iranians try to make a move, and one of those special bases is involved, I want to know about it, and I’ll recommend that the President order that base put out of commission.

“Now, both of you know the chances of a Navy A-6 or a large flight of Tomahawk cruise missiles reaching an isolated Iranian military base are pretty slim—and you know the B-2A is the only platform that can make it. Loaded with the right mix of anti-air defense and Disruptor-type weapons, we can accomplish the mission with a very low probability of collateral damage or risk to the American crews involved.”

Freeman paused as he noticed Patrick’s surprised expression, then smiled at the former bombardier. “Ah, I see the name “Disruptor’ got your attention. C’mon, Colonel, you didn’t think all of Brad Elliott’s little experiments could be kept secret forever, did you? Especially not the Disruptor series.”

Wendy looked confused, which pleased Freeman—so Patrick McLanahan could keep a secret, even from his wife, who had once held as high a security clearance as he. To Wendy, Freeman added, “General Elliott was very involved in research and development of non-lethal weapons, which he called Disruptors. Elliott and HAWC became proficient enough in killing from very long range with very high precision—toward the end, he began to experiment in ways to Simply disrupt, damage, or discombobulate something from long range and with high precision. The Disruptors are nonlethal air weapons, designed to confuse, frighten, interrupt, or intimidate the enemy without killing or destroying anything. We used some of these type weapons in the Persian Gulf War, but some of the new gadgets Elliott concocted put those to shame, “When Dreamland was closed, we turned some of Elliott’s work over to the Air Force Air Weapons folks at Eglin, but most we turned over to Sky Masters. They have some prototypes ready for testing.” Freeman turned again to Patrick, the same mischievous smile on his face. “All we need is a seasoned B-2A crew member or two to test and train and get ready to fly. Interested, Patrick?”

“I can’t fly a B-2A by myself,” Patrick said. “You’ll need several crews.”

“One for now,” Freeman said. “We may recruit more later.”

Patrick hesitated, looked at Wendy, then shook his head. “Sorry, Sir, I’m still not interested,” he said resolutely.

“if you agree to begin, you’ll be fully compensated by the National Security Agency,” Freeman said. “You’ll receive pay and benefits equivalent to a GS-19, the equivalent to an O-6 in the military, whether or not you fly a mission. You’ll be relocated completely without charge, given dependent and survivor privileges, plus extra personal-support services granted to senior NSA members.” He paused for a moment, looking at the floor, then said, “I know you’ve been thinking about selling the tavern. We could assist with that, or assist in helping you keep it.”

“How in hell did you find out about …?” But Patrick already knew the answer—it was easy for anyone, not to mention the National Security Agency, to find out those things.

“In fact, one such opportunity has already presented itself,” Freeman said. “One cover we were considering using was Sky Masters, Inc. They’re a well-known defense contractor, downsized like all contractors but still viable. They’re relocating some of their offices and R-and-D facilities to San Diego, and they have a new rocket test facility on unused government land near Tonopah.

We even know that the Top Gun bar on the waterfront in San Diego is for sale—if you wanted to stay in the tavern business, that would be your opportunity. I know Dr. Masters has already given you several job offers. It may be time to accept one. You can of course accept his generous pay and benefits package as well as NSA’S. The climate change might be of some benefit to you as well, Wendy.”

“Is that your medical opinion, General?” Patrick snapped. “If I wanted to work for Masters, I’d have accepted his offers. I didn’t because I’m not interested in working for a company that does business with the same government that uses its best people, then discards them like so much dirty tissue paper. That goes for your offer, too. The money and the climate don’t concern me as much as the way you treat—or should I say, mistreat—those who believe in what they do.”

“I’ve told you what your mission is, Patrick,” Freeman said.

“Your mission is to protect your fellow ISA agents. If the job calls for a military response, we’ll send in the military, but we’re going to send in ISA and other NSA assets before the military, just as we did before you went in as a HAWC bombardier, so we can gather as much intelligence information as possible.

I’m just looking for a way to protect those men and women who will risk their lives to avert war.”

“You haven’t convinced me that we won’t be called on as the President’s private little gang of thugs and assassins,” Patrick said warily.

“Colonel, I listened to the entire proposal, and I’m for it,” Marcia Preston interjected. “I’ve worked for the NSA in the past, and we’re not a private mercenary group for the White House or the CIA. We’ve got an honorable mission, Patrick. Our mission is to stop war. Iran is butchering our agents in-“

“in where?” Wendy asked. “What’s happened?”

“It’s classified,” Freeman said. “I didn’t want to bring it up Preston looked at Freeman for permission to continue; he granted it with a slight nod. “Happened not long ago,” Preston said.

“The ISA intelligence vessel Valley Mistress—you’re familiar with it, of course?”

“Paul White’s group?” Patrick exploded. “What happened?”

“They were flying a stealth reconnaissance drone over the Klionteini battle group, trying to keep an eye on it,” Preston replied. “Drone had a malfunction, and the Iranians tracked it back to the ship … and sank it. Thirteen crew members missing, including Colonel White …” Freeman held up a hand, ordering her to stop.

“My God …”

“We do what we do to beat up on the bad guys, Patrick, not against innocent persons,” Freeman said. “We do the job to fix the problem at hand—we Worry later about the long-term consequences.

That’s the unfortunate aspect of our work: we don’t have time to analyze or determine the effect of our actions. A problem needs fixing, we fix it; a crisis develops that needs attention, we attend to it. We know what we do is necessary and vital for the national security and safety of Americans—we pray that what we do is for the long-term benefit of all.”

Patrick paused for a moment, and now even Wendy was looking at him with a thoughtful glance. But still he said, c’

“No. I … I’m sorry about Paul and his crew … but I can’t.

Sorry.”

“Then we’ll be off,” General Freeman said, rising to his feet.

“Thank you for your time, both of you. I don’t need to remind you. I’m sure, that this entire conversation, this entire interaction, is of the highest secrecy …”

“General, tell him the rest,” Preston said. I think not.” What is this, some kind of game? A ‘good-cop-bad-cop’ routine?”

Patrick said, rising to his feet as well. “I said I’m not interested. That’s final.” ‘Tell him, General.” ‘No. “It’s about Madcap Magician,” Preston said quickly. Freeman whirled at the Marine, but she finished her sentence: “One of the ISA agents attached to Madcap Magician—”

“Colonel, that’s enough!”

“He wasn’t killed, but he’s going back in to look for Colonel White and anyone else who might have been captured.”

“Preston, what in hell is it?”

“Colonel Preston, no!”

“One of the Madcap Magician agents is Major Hal Briggs,” Preston said. “Hal Briggs is with ISA? With Madcap Magician?” Patrick exclaimed.

“At the risk of breaking a major rule of survival with ISA—yes,” Philip Freeman replied, after giving Marcia Preston one last warning glare. “Individual technical units aren’t supposed to know any members of other units—one captured agent can put hundreds of others at risk. But … yes, Hal Briggs was recruited for service by my predecessor shortly after the James spy incident. In fact, he’s going to be named its operations commander, if the unit survives and is reconstituted.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s … in-country,” Freeman admitted. “Major Briggs … er, has a valuable contact, an intelligence officer from the United Arab Emirates who assisted him in the raid on Abu Musa Island.

Major Briggs is awaiting clearance to go back in to make contact.”

“That agent’s gotta be a woman,” Wendy said with a smile.

“I must warn you again, Colonel and Dr. McLanahan,” Freeman said, pointing a finger at both of them, “that all this information is highly classified—I don’t need to tell you what would happen to the persons involved if word as to their identities of position was released.” Freeman nodded at the Secret Service agents in the room, and they headed for the door. He extended a big, rough hand. “It was a pleasure and an honor to meet you, Patrick McLanahan,” he said. “The country—maybe the entire world—already owes you a tremendous debt of gratitude. I’m sorry we couldn’t put your talents to work again. Dr. McLanahan, it was an honor to meet you as well. Good day to you both.”

But Patrick was looking into Wendy’s eyes—and she saw it, the sudden hot spark of energy, the old cock-sure hellfire-and-damnation blaze in his eyes that had attracted her to him ten years earlier, back at that bar in Bossier City, Louisiana. Briggs had tipped the scale, she knew—Briggs and White and the memories of their old friends and comrades-in-arms.

His gaze was also a question—he knew there was no time to converse, no time to talk it over as they always had before, but he was asking her opinion, asking her permission She knew—and she responded: Do it, Patrick, her eyes told him.

You want it, I want it for you, and men out there need you. Do it, but don’t do it their way—do it your way!

And Patrick understood, because when Freeman tried to release the handshake, Patrick held firm.

Freeman looked at McLanahan with a puzzled expression. “Colonel McLanahan, does this mean …?” Freeman started—but McLanahan’s grip suddenly tightened. Freeman couldn’t let go. “Yes, very well, Pat-“

“We use Disruptors,” McLanahan interrupted, still clutching Freeman’s hand tightly. “Non-lethal weapons only, unless there’s a declaration of war—then we go in with everything we’ve got, and I mean everything.”

“Ah …” McLanahan’s grip tightened suddenly; it surprised Freeman. “Agreed,” Freeman replied. “That was the plan all along, of course.”

“We operate overseas only, not over U.S. or allied territory unless there’s a declaration of war or an invasion.”

“Agreed,” Freeman said again, hiding the pain. “Now if we could, I’d like to have Colonel Preston give you-“

“We support ISA operations only—no CIA, no other agencies or operations. No DEA, no ATF, no FBI,” McLanahan continued. “Full disclosure, full verification, open access.”

“Colonel, there’s time to run down all the options …”

The grip suddenly doubled in strength—Freeman didn’t think it was possible. He was starting to sweat. “Agree to it, General!”

McLanahan said loudly. The Secret Service agents warily took a step toward McLanahan. McLanahan’s grip was crushing, making Freeman see stars. “Sweat it! Or is all of this some kind of bullshit agency snow job right from the top?”

“What in hell do you think you’re doing, dammit?”

The Secret Service agents started to rush over to Freeman’s side.

“If those sons of bitches touch me or Wendy, the whole deal’s off!” McLanahan shouted. Freeman held up his left hand, halting the agents. “Tell me the truth, Freeman, damn you, if you have the balls!”

Something was going to break—his hand, or the Secret Service agents’ patience All right!” Freeman cried out through gritted teeth, “I agree!”

“Agree to what?”

“No other agencies … ISA only … full disclosure, full access,” Freeman said. McLanahan released his grip, and Freeman jerked away, as if he had just been electrocuted. He gingerly rubbed the circulation back into his hand. McLanahan hadn’t even broken a sweat. “That was a childish and immature thing to do, McLanahan,” Freeman said. “What were you trying to prove—how tough you think you are?”

“I wanted to give you a little reminder, in case you’ve been in the Pentagon or the White House too long”, McLanahan said, “that good men, my friends and 1, are going to be counting on you keeping your promises. If you don’t, the pain you just felt will be nothing compared to theirs.”

Freeman knew he should be furious, but somehow he couldn’t fault McLanahan, not after all the man had seen and been through. He let the anger drain away with the pain in his right hand, then nodded. “I’ll keep my part of the bargain,” Freeman said, I not because of your little macho stunt, but because I goddamn do care about the men and women under my command. I don’t play games, Colonel McLanahan.”

McLanahan snatched up the wig and shook it in front of Freeman angrily. “We all play games—but not with the lives of fellow crewdogs. I learned a lot from Brad Elliott in almost ten years, sir, and I’ve got lots of ideas of my own. You play straight with me, and we’ll kick some ass and come home alive. If you don’t, I’ll make you wish you hired Brad Elliott and had never even heard of me.”

Freeman did not like being spoken to in this way, but he knew McLanahan was a truly dedicated man. Everything he had heard and read about this guy was true. “If you’re finished breaking my fingers and my ass, you’re on the government clock now, McLanahan.

Your plane leaves Travis Air Force Base in seven hours. Good luck.” By impulse, he held out a hand to him, then quickly retracted it. He smiled, nodded, and said, “Kiss your lovely wife good-bye, McLanahan. You’re in the ISA now.”

WHITEMAN AFB, MISSOURI 17 APRIL 1997, 0649 CT

“Who the hell is it, Tom?” Colonel Anthony Jamieson irritably asked the one-star general standing beside him. The two officers were standing in the cool, damp morning air outside the base operations building at Whiteman Air Force Base, Knob Noster, Missouri, waiting as ordered for the jet carrying the VIPs to arrive. “A Congressman? A Senator’s aide?”

“The boss says you don’t need to know the answer to that, Tony—yet.” Brigadier General Thomas Wright, the commander of the 509th Bomb Wing, Whiteman Air Force Base, and Jamieson’s boss, obviously disliked giving that kind of response to a senior officer, fellow pilot, and friend—but it was the only one allowable.

Jamieson could see his boss’s indecision and decided to keep on pressing: “Do you know who he is?” he asked.

“Not exactly,” Wright admitted, “and apparently I don’t need to know, either. Listen, Tiger, stop asking all these damned questions. You just have to fly him in the simulator. This is just one of Samson’s gee-whiz dog-and-pony-show tours. Have fun, water his eyes—you know the drill. I’ll wax your ass in golf afterward.”

Jamieson muttered a curse under his breath and fell silent, seething underneath. Tony “Tiger” Jamieson, a twenty-five-year veteran of the U.S. Air Force with over four thousand hours’ flying time and experience in several major conflicts from Vietnam to Libya to the Persian Gulf, had been tasked to give a “dog-and-pony-show” ride for a visiting VIP. The former fighter-bomber ace, now the operations group commander of the 509th Bomb Wing, the home of the B-2A Spirit stealth bomber, was not accustomed to being ordered to do these “public affairs things,” as he liked to call them, and he would have preferred to turn the whole thing over to the bomb squadron commander or one of his senior instructor pilots, the tall, studly-looking Steve Canyon types with the square jaws and blue eyes that look so good on TV and in the newspapers. But the brass—namely, the wing commander and his boss, the commander of all Air Force bomber forces—wanted Jamieson, so his job was to salute smartly. say “Yes, sir,” and perform as expected.

The C-20H military special air mission jet landed precisely at its scheduled time, and taxied quickly to the base operations building; even before the engines had spooled down on the military version of the Gulfstream IV, a door popped open and soldiers and technicians in fatigues hurried out. The VIPs, led by a three-star general accompanied by a two-star general, a colonel, and two civilians, were quickly whisked right from the plane to the waiting cars without stopping for any pleasantries, as if the early-morning sunlight would shrivel them up like vampires if they stayed in the open too long. Two Humvee security vehicles filled with uniformed and plain-clothes security officers flanked the staff cars; Jamieson was displaced to a second staff car because a plain-clothes security officer, armed with a submachine gun partially hidden under his safari-style jacket, took the front seat. He also noted many other persons in utility uniforms disembarking from the C-20 Gulfstream jet, all heading for the maintenance group hangar complex in a real hurry, some carrying catalog cases full of tech orders, some carrying toolboxes and test-gear equipment—and some, judging by the length of their hair and the width of their midsections’ obviously not military. They all looked as if they were already late for a big meeting.

Security police units closed all the intersections as the little motorcade made its way to the B-2A Weapon Systems Trainer building. All this excitement only served to make Jamieson even grumpier. Doing these “dog-and-pony shows” was bad enough, but a motorcade and extra security for a lousy civilian? A lot of it had to be for show, Jamieson decided. The visitor was probably some congressional budget weenie investigating security procedures for the B-2A stealth bomber fleet, and the brass had beefed up security to make it look good. Their security was already very tight here at Whiteman, but a good show of force never hurt.

After they were seated in a briefing room in the simulator building, with the doors closed and locked and guards stationed inside and out, Jamieson got his first opportunity to check out the VIP. Too bad it was a guy—the female congressional staffers that frequently visited Whiteman were all knockouts, and Jamieson, now single after two divorces (“if the Air Force wanted you to have a wife, they’d have issued you one”), had gotten to know many of them. The guy was about ten years younger, four inches shorter, and forty pounds heavier than Jamieson, with broad, knobby shoulders, thick arms, and weight lifter-like thighs and calves—a former college power lifter turned desk jockey who liked to hang out at the weight machines on occasion, Jamieson decided—with thin blond hair and a fairly new mustache, both a bit longer than the regs allowed and definitely a lot longer than the current crew-cut style common in the late-nineties military. His handshake was firm, his eyes were blue and sparkling with energy, and he looked as if he might have wanted to smile when the introductions were made, but something dark and painful inside him vetoed the idea of showing any emotion at all, let alone a happy one. Bags under his eyes and lines in his face showed signs of tension, of aging beyond his years.

Jamieson was also reintroduced to another VIP who was going to monitor the simulator ride: the commander of Eighth Air Force himself, Lieutenant General Terrill “Earthmover” Samson, the man responsible for manning, training, equipping, and deploying all U.S. Air Force heavy bomber units. Samson was America’s “bomber guru,” the man who was single-handedly responsible for the continued presence of the B-2A stealth bomber and the other heavy bombers still in the Air Force inventory. When everyone else had been telling Congress to get rid of the “heavies,” Samson had been trying to convince Congress that America still needed the speed, flexibility, and sheer power of the intercontinental-range combat aircraft. Jamieson had met him once, a few years earlier, when Jamieson had been installed as Operations Group commander of the 509th.

Samson often brought influential congressmen and Defense Department bureaucrats in to see the B-2A stealth bomber in order to drive his arguments home. Because civilians were not permitted to fly in the plane (the third seat in a B-2A, located at the flight engineer’s station behind the right seat, was no longer fitted with an ejection seat), a few special VIPs sat in on B-2A simulator sessions flown by other crew members. Jamieson assumed that this guy was going to get a real special treat and sit in the right seat while he flew the simulator. No problem: Jamieson could fly the beast without help just fine, from the left seat.

“Good morning, gentlemen, welcome to Whiteman Air Force Base,” General Wright began. “I’m Brigadier General Tom Wright, commander of the 509th Bomb Wing, the home of four thousand dedicated men and women who take care of the world’s most sophisticated warplane, the B-2A Spirit stealth bomber. As you may know, the 509th has the distinction of being the only American military unit to employ nuclear weapons in anger—as the 509th Bomb Group, we dropped the first two nuclear bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in World War Two. Our unit crest is the only military crest authorized to depict a mushroom cloud on it. We take great pride in our past as well as responsibility and leadership in our future.

“Today, we employ a weapon system that is far more sophisticated and far more important to our national defense than the thermonuclear device—the B-2A Spirit stealth bomber. We will be introducing you to the world’s deadliest war machine by giving you a short unclassified background briefing on the aircraft, a thirty-minute classified familiarization ride in the B-2A Weapon Systems Trainer, a tour of our facilities, a meeting with some of the outstanding officers and airmen of our major units, and of course a look at the aircraft itself. Without further ado, I’d like to introduce you to the 509th Operations Group commander and our most experienced B-2A aircraft commander and instructor, Colonel Tony ‘Tiger’ Jamieson, who will conduct today’s simulator familiarization session. Colonel Jamieson?”

Jamieson had already set up all the standard briefing stuff, and he flipped on the digital slide projector and got to his feet: “Thank you, sir. I’m Tony Jamieson, Operations Group commander here at Whiteman. I’m responsible for overall operational and administrative charge of five squadrons in the wing, about two thousand men and women, dealing directly with combat flying activities, training, and deployment: the 393rd Bomb Squadron ‘Tigers,’ the first operational B-2A squadron; the 715th Bomb Squadron ‘Eagles,’ which is due to receive its first B-2A aircraft later this year; the 509th Air Refueling Squadron Griffiths,’ which fly the KC-135R Stratotanker aerial refueling tankers; and the 4007th Combat Crew Training Squadron ‘Senseis,’ which fly the T-1A Jayhawk and T-38 Talon jet trainers and operate the B-2A part- and full-task weapons-system simulators. The Senseis conduct all B-2A initial, recurrent, and instructor ground and flight training.

Also under my chain of command is the 509th Operational Support Squadron, which include the life support, weapons loaders, flight line security, weather, intelligence, and mission-planning officers.

“My job is simple: provide General Wright with the maximum number of mission-ready tactical aircrews ready to go to war at a moment’s notice,” Jamieson went on. “We do this by maintaining a rigorous training schedule to keep all crews fully proficient, including using the simulators and Jayhawk jet trainers for normal proficiency training, thereby maximizing the number of bombers and tankers available to go to war. We feel the combination of the part-task and full-motion simulators and the specially configured Jayhawks can keep our crews proficient without too much training time in the bomber itself, which allows us to deploy the B-2A as much as possible without sacrificing capability or training—in fact, we can deploy all of our B-2A bombers overseas and still train aircrews to full mission capable status here at home.

“The name of the game here at Whiteman is ‘quick strike’—the ability to successfully strike any assigned target anywhere in the world with any weapon in our arsenal within twenty-four hours of a warning order,” Jamieson continued. “In simple terms, in case of war or if ordered to deploy to an overseas base, my group and I move as a team as quickly as possible, brief and launch the combat-ready bombers and tankers, load our prepositioned mobility packages into the first available transport planes, and begin attack operations and/or deploy to our forward operating location, depending on our orders.”

“I hate to burst Colonel Jamieson’s obvious pride hubble,” General Samson interjected with a smile, turning toward the stranger, “but I must add that the 509th is not yet fully mission ready. We’re at least a year ahead of our planned initial operational capability schedule of January one in the year 2000, and we could fly combat missions with the ten planes we have here right now, but the 509th won’t be officially combat capable for another year or two.”

Jamieson took a deep breath as he clicked the button and brought up the next slide. Man, this was a total waste of his time, he thought. The VIP looked disinterested and distracted, as if thinking about a hundred things happening thousands of miles away.

Probably already has his report written, Jamieson concluded.

“This morning, after showing you around the base a bit,” he went on, “we will present an overview of the 509th Bomb Wing organization, a briefing on current and near-future technology, then present standard flight mission planning profile in the-“

“Colonel, we can stop this right here,” General Samson said, holding up a hand. “Tony, I apologize. I’ve had to lead you on a bit. My orders were to conceal the real purpose of this visit as much as possible using my own discretion, so I made this visit look like a VIP tour. It isn’t.” He motioned to the civilian seated beside him and said to Jamieson, “Tony, I want you to give this gentleman a full B-2A emergency procedures simulator check ride.”

Jamieson nearly dropped his jaw in surprise. Was this some kind of joke? “Of course, sir,” Jamieson responded sarcastically.

“Give a check ride in the B-2A stealth bomber to a civilian. Not an orientation ride, but a check ride. Yes, sir.” He turned to the stranger with an amused grin and asked, “So. How did you do on your open-book and closed-book exams, sir?”

“I think I did pretty good, Colonel,” the VIP replied, in a deep, monotone voice, opening his briefcase.

Jamieson scowled at the guy’s smart-ass comeback, then laughed as if dismissing the thought of this guy passing a B-2A bomber crew-member exam. But all traces of humor disappeared when the VIP picked out a folder with a red TOP SECRET cover sheet on it, and extracted a single sheet of paper—a 509BMW Form 88, “B-2A Record of Aircrew Training and Performance.” Jamieson examined the form with a dumbfounded expression, then muttered, “What is this shit?”

“It’s all genuine, Colonel,” the VIP said, as if reading Jamieson’s mind. He had indeed finished his open-book and closed-book exams, with near-perfect marks, along with a 100 on a “bold print” emergency procedures test, a complete publications inspection—this guy apparently had a complete and up-to-date set of B-2A tech orders, including the classified ITO-B-2A-25-1 weapons-delivery manual—an oral exam, and a complete Class 1 flight physical and psychological stress exam. He was even certified under the Personnel Reliability Program, the program used to certify any person who had responsibility for nuclear weapons or components. A few of the sign-off blocks had been blacked out so he couldn’t read who the evaluator was, but all of the other blocks were signed off by Eighth Air Force Standardization/Evaluation instructors, with General Steve Shaw himself, the four-star commander of Air Combat Command, in charge of all Air Force combat air forces, as the final approving authority.

“Yeah, right. And I’m the Prince of fucking Wales,” Jamieson snapped. He swung around to Samson and tossed the form on the table. “What’s going on, General? Who is this guy? Why is Eighth Air Force Stan/Eval signing him off?”

“Tony, I’ll answer all the questions you have … later …

maybe,” Samson said. “But all your questions will be moot if this gentleman can’t fly. I need you to give him an EP check ride.”

“Excuse me, Sir. I don’t know what’s going on here, and I don’t think I care to know, but if you’re asking me to ‘pencil-whip’ this guy, General, ask someone else,” Jamieson said firmly. “We got standards to follow.”

“I’m not asking you to sign him off if he doesn’t know the procedures, Tony,” Samson said. “If he’s not qualified, I want to know about it.”

“He’s not qualified then, Sir,” Jamieson said resolutely, refusing to be bullied by the hulking three-star general before him. “All B-2 crew members must be U.S. Air Force pilots with at least one thousand hours’ jet flight time, they must be selected by the 509th wing commander and the commander of Air Combat Command, and they must be graduates of B-2A Combat Crew Training here at Whiteman. I help screen and select every B-2 bomber candidate, and I personally know and fly with every graduate from the 4007th CCTS. I don’t remember seeing him.”

“Tony, I want you to evaluate this gentleman as if he were fresh out of CCTS and ready to undergo unit mission-ready qualification,” Samson said evenly. “General Wright has already certified him as ready to begin unit certification—it’s your job to evaluate his readiness to certify him mission-capable.”

Jamieson glared at Wright, who remained impassive. Tom Wright obviously knew much more about this little con game than he had let on, and he had not shared his knowledge with his old friend and long-time wingman. Either Wright was turning into a true mindless staff weenie, or this was really heavy shit going on with this stranger. “But the fact remains, Sir,” Jamieson went on, “that I know lie hasn’t been through CCTS. If I continue, I’ll be knowingly violating the law. Are you asking me to do that?”

“The fact is, Colonel,” Samson said, “that he has been through initial B-2 flight training—I can’t tell you which one, that’s all.”

“But there’s only one initial B-2A flight training school, Sir.”

“No, there isn’t, Colonel,” Samson emphasized, “and that’s all I can say about the matter. Now get out your scenario book and the rest of your evaluator shit and give this man an EP check ride, and do it quietly.” The argument ended right there, with Samson shooting an angry glare into Jamieson’s brain. The newcomer was quiet, keeping his mouth shut and his eyes averted through this discussion.

They took a break for a half hour while Jamieson brought in the materials for an emergency-procedures simulator examination—one simulator was already set up for the evaluation, he learned—and when he was ready, he began briefing the mission profile. It was a simple profile: preflight, taxi, takeoff, an aerial refueling, a high-altitude bomb run, a low-attitude bomb run, and return to base—although these check rides never ended up looking anything like the briefed profile. The simulator instructors—there was only one man on the simulator console today, a civilian Jamieson had never seen before—could insert hundreds of different malfunctions and emergencies into the scenario at any time.

The EP check ride concentrated mostly on “bold print” and warning items, which were actions that each crew member had to commit to memory perfectly and execute flawlessly. EP check rides were the most demanding. A bust in any “bold print” or “warning” action or more than one or two busts in a less-serious “caution” action meant instant flight decertification. Few new guys ever passed an EP check ride the first time, and even experienced crewdogs who didn’t keep up with their studies had trouble on “no-notice” checks.

When Jamieson finished briefing, the stranger got to his feet and began to give the mission commander’s portion of the flight briefing. “Hold it,” Jamieson interrupted, totally caught off guard, “you don’t have a part to brief in this scenario. You fly the profile and-“

“I’m your MC on this flight, sir,” the newcomer responded, in a deep, rather reserved but no-nonsense tone of voice. The MC, or mission commander, on a B-2A stealth bomber acted as copilot, offensive-systems officer, and defensive-systems officer, although either pilot could complete the mission alone in an emergency.

“The MC always briefs his actions on takeoff and the route of flight-“

“When I need you to give me something, mister, I’ll tell you-“

“Let him brief, Tony,” General Wright said. “We want to hear this.”

“Thank you, sir,” the stranger said immediately. “I’ll be briefing the mission commander’s portion of the emergency-procedures simulator flight check. I’ll be evaluated on three main areas: knowledge of all procedures and tech order directives; performance as mission commander during normal and emergency situations; and Performance as the flying crew member during emergency situations. Since Colonel Jamieson didn’t give one, let’s start off with a time hack”

Without seeming to notice or care about Jamieson’s protests, the guy launched into a standard crew briefing, outlining his responsibilities, the mission timing, the route of flight, the attack route, the assigned targets, alternate landing bases, and his actions during all critical phases of flight. He completed the preflight briefing competently and succinctly—he clearly knew his stuff.

Jamieson was amazed. The guy was obviously a former bomber crew member, with a lot of experience in many different combat aircraft, and he knew very technical and detailed information on the B-2A stealth bomber and current attack procedures. He had no detectable accent—not New England, not southern, not Texas, not midwest. Who was he? Why hadn’t Jamieson ever heard of him?

Samson thought of the U.S. Air Force’s tiny fleet of B-2A stealth bombers as his own personal responsibility, almost his personal property, so no one was going to go up in one unless Tiger checked him out first. Besides, it was always a good thing to do a favor for a three-star general, especially a guy like the Earthmover.

Terill Samson spent almost as much time testifying on Capitol Hill on behalf of an expanded heavy bomber fleet as he did at his headquarters at Barksdale Air Force Base in Bossier City, Louisiana, and one word from him in the right cars in Washington and at the Pentagon was worth perhaps another order of sophisticated “brilliant” weapons, another upgrade on a B-52 or B-1B bomber, maybe even another B-2A bomber wing—not to mention the addition of one, maybe two, stars on Jamieson’s shoulders in the not-too-distant future Nobody, not even the big fearsome-looking three-star general, told “Tiger” Jamieson whom to fly with, but he was intrigued by the secrecy and urgency surrounding the stranger and this mission, so, like an idiot, he agreed to cooperate.

“Ground position freeze The high-resolution video display out the cockpit windows froze, as did all of the cockpit instruments and readouts. “Record current switch positions and flight parameters and get me a mission printout.” Instantly the visual display shifted—they were now over a large expanse of desert, with the runway lights of a large airport complex barely visible in the distance. “Thank you. Everyone take five, then reconfigure the simulator for the next session. You too, MC. Step outside and take five.”

The civilian sat back in his seat in the cockpit of the B-2A Weapon Systems Trainer, or WST, The Spirit of Hell (all of the B-2A bombers were nicknamed after a U.S. state except the WST, which was nicknamed after the place most crewdogs associated with their time spent in it), and consciously let his muscles relax.

“We’ve still got an engine-out approach and landing to do, Colonel,” he said, staring at the scenery depicted on the high-resolution video screens as if he were really looking off into the distance. “I’m ready to go as soon as we reconfigure.”

“I don’t need to see an approach,” Jamieson said. He turned to the younger man beside him and scowled. “You know just enough to be dangerous, in my opinion. You know a little about a lot of stuff in the beast, but not nearly enough to fly it in combat.

The evaluation is over.”

“We’re here to complete an emergency-procedures evaluation, Colonel,” the civilian said. “The curriculum calls for an engine-out.”

“I don’t need to see an approach,” Jamieson insisted, wiping sweat from his eyebrows and scowling at the stranger beside him, “and I designed the entire B-2A initial, recurrent, upgrade, and instructor training curricular don’t need you to tell me what it says.” The B-2A WST, or Weapon Systems Trainer, was the world’s most realistic simulator, and it often left its users exhausted and stressed after even a simple combat scenario. The stranger looked completely relaxed, Jamieson noted, with not a drop of sweat anywhere on his body. Either he was sedated or he had ice water for blood. “I got no doubts you can fly an approach, run a checklist, maybe even land the thing with one engine out, even though you’re not a B-2A pilot—or any kind of pilot,” Jamieson said. “You just don’t have what it takes to fly the Beak, period.” The civilian was taking Jamieson’s words pretty well—very little reaction, just sitting still and looking at nothing in particular.

The guy had just gone through an emergency-procedures scenario that would’ve killed most crewdogs, no matter how experienced they were. The sim operator had thrown in an emergency action message and a scramble launch—Jamieson hadn’t done that since his B-1B Lancer bomber days five years ago. They’d then had a complete failure of one of the B-2A’s primary hydraulic systems, and after a short but intense argument, they’d decided to proceed with the mission. The sim operator had thrown in what appeared to be a series of minor glitches, most of which were handled automatically by the B-2A’s sophisticated flight-control computers. In the end, on the bomb run, all those little malfunctions had turned out to be a staggering huge malfunction, one that threatened to scrub the mission or even force the crew to eject.

They hadn’t ejected—the stranger had handled all of the malfunctions. Jamieson had to admit (to himself only, of course) that he had no idea why the B-2A hadn’t just flipped over on its back and plowed into the ground, or hadn’t been cut to ribbons by the multiple layers of air defense weaponry that had been inserted into the scenario. Normally in an EP sim, when the action in the cockpit was getting too rough and the crew coordination was breaking down, the Sim operators would begin to reduce the outside distractions—they would flatten the terrain, improve the weather, or reduce the number of threats—so the crew had at least a chance to catch up and get some productive training out of the simulator session, even if they flunked the exam, It wasn’t realistic—the number of threats usually increased as the mission went on, not decreased—but it kept the session from being a total washout.

Not only had the stranger not flunked the exam, but the sim operator hadn’t reduced the number of threats.

They’d somehow made it to the target area, laying a string of bunker-busting 2,000-pound bombs on a command-post complex on the high-altitude pass, and a cluster-bomb attack on an air base and radar-site complex on the low-altitude run—and gotten all of their weapons off on time and on target. Jamieson didn’t know if they would be armed weapons—the MC was running so many damned checklists, juggling so many malfunction screens, and pulling and resetting so many circuit breakers that even Jamieson couldn’t keep up—but they had made their attacks and then actually departed the target area with at least two engines and all crew members still alive. That was more than most crews could claim if they had been loaded up as they had been. Returning to base was not a requirement in an emergency-procedures sim session.

“Listen, son, for a civilian, you’re a damned good student, and I think you’d make a great crewdog,” Jamieson went on, “but a B-2A flight-crew candidate has to attend twelve months of Air Force pilot school, spend five to seven years in combat strike aircraft, pass a screening program that accepts only one in two hundred applicants, attend a tough six-month B-2A combat-crew training course here at Whiteman, a six-month in-House qualification course, then spend at least two years as a B-2A pilot before upgrading to the right seat as mission commander. You’ve showed me a few things this morning that tell me you can handle a program like that.”

Stop trying to stroke the guy, Jamieson shouted at himself. This guy had done none of these things necessary to fly the Spirit. He wasn’t qualified, period. Sure he knew systems, and he knew the basics of flying, but that didn’t give him the right to play MC with a billion-dollar warplane.

“Any specific critique items, Colonel?” the guy asked quietly.

“A few—not that it makes any difference,” Jamieson replied.

“Go-no-go decision making was your biggest screw-up. A responsible, thinking crew never, never takes a primary hydraulic problem away from home plate. The plane’s too valuable; we have only ten of the damn things flying. If it’s a major bold-print malfunction item, bring it home and fight another day. We would’ve given you the engine-out approach right away if you had called the command post and brought the Beak back for landing like you were supposed to do. uld’ve sent you through the bomb run with only the electrical fault, and you would’ve possibly avoided the fighter attack because you would not have had the hydraulic failure or the split ruddervator. If you knew your tac doctrine, you’d know all that.” Jamieson didn’t remind the guy that they had somehow survived the fighter attack. A stealth bomber that wasn’t stealthy was a sitting duck for any air-superiority fighter-the MC had (again that word) somehow maneuvered the bomber so that it had survived the requisite two missile and two gun passes. Yes, they had been shot up, but they were still alive and still flying! The guy earned a big fat “atta boy” for his work. Unfortunately, Jamieson wasn’t the guy who was going to give it to him.

“Maybe the persons your mission is supporting need you over the target when you said you’d be there,” the civilian said. “Maybe they’re counting on you. Maybe lives depend on-“

“It’s not worth risking over a billion dollars’ worth of hardware, weapons, gas, and manpower,” Jamieson interrupted testily. “We’re heavy into flight safety here, son. There are always backups to every strike mission. No one plane is that valuable.”

“That’s not always the case, sir. They put four engines, four in dependent hydraulic systems, four independent flight-control systems, and four independent electrical systems on the B-2A for a reason: to continue the mission should one, two, or even three of them fail.”

“This is my critique of your performance, mister, not a debate.”

Jamieson interjected. “I’m explaining why you wouldn’t pass a check ride—we can talk about tactics and doctrine in Snobsters over a couple beers.” Snobsters was Whiteman’s old officers’ club, now the all-ranks, all-services casual bar. “You studied hard, son, and you got a good full speed-ahead attitude. It’s obvious you played on heavy bombers before, many, many years ago, but frankly, son, you don’t know shit about modern-day bombers. The days of swapping spares and using bubble gum and baling wire to keep a bomber in the air, no matter what, are dead and gone—and good riddance.

Today, the crew’s responsibility in the new Air Force is to monitor and manage systems. If things start going tits-up, you bring the beast home and go to your backup plan. You’re good, son. You’re a good systems operator …”

“So what’s the problem, Colonel?” the civilian asked, removing his headset and letting his longish blond hair hang loose in sweaty strands-aha, the guy’s not a friggin’ machine. He does sweat!

“If you say I can fly the B-2A …”

“Sir, give me a few months and I can teach a monkey to fly the Beak,” Jamieson said, unstrapping from his seat and heading for the rear entry hatch to the simulator cab, “but I wouldn’t want to go to war with the son of a bitch. A monkey can drop bombs, work the MDUS, maybe even fly an approach if you give him enough bananas—but he won’t back you up and he won’t make good decisions. I need an MC that will not just run a checklist, but make sound decisions based on tactical doctrine and years of experience in a flying unit. You don’t have it. Sorry.” He turned and headed for the exit, then turned back to the stranger and added, “I’m sure you’re a good aviator and a good student, and with time and training I’m sure you can get the job done. But not now.”

As Jamieson was leaving, he heard the civilian say, “Thank you for the lesson, Colonel.” It was a low, sad voice—but there was a certain cock-sure ring to it, a hint of defiance, perhaps?

Jamieson did not reply. The guy was better than he had let on, Jamieson had to admit. Yeah, decision making was important, but that’s why God had invented aircraft commanders and crew coordination. Jamieson would prefer to have a knowledgeable systems man in the right seat any day over a second-guesser or a self-anointed tactics expert. Jamieson reluctantly admitted that he regretted the Air Force’s decision to put a second pilot in the right seat of the B-2A stealth bomber rather than a pilot-trained navigator or engineer; or, even better, leaving the third seat in and bringing a navigator-engineer-bombardier along. He had criticized the guy for knowing a little about a lot; in fact, the man knew quite a bit about almost everything, and that made him a valuable asset on a bomber crew, no matter what kind of wings he wore—or even if he wore no wings at all.

The door to the cockpit came opened, and the crew chief for The Spirit of Hell met up with Jamieson. “We’re done for the day, chief,” Jamieson said, as he stepped from the cab to the steel platform surrounding the full-motion simulator. “You’re cleared to reset the box after the print-out’s ready.”

“Uh, sir …?”

“Where’s the printout?” Jamieson asked—then he stopped short when he saw the armed guards in the doorway to the simulator room.

“What’s going on, chief?” he snapped. “What in hell are those security guys doing in here?”

“I asked them,” Lieutenant General Terrill Samson said. The big three-star general was in the simulator instructor’s control room, carrying the mission-data printout and a large catalog case with a large combination lock on it. Jesus, Jamieson thought, the guy is huge! How did he ever fit into the cockpit of a military jet trainer? “Thank you, chief. If you’ll excuse us, I need to talk with Colonel Jamieson. Let me know when the maintenance troops arrive, please.” Soon they were alone in the control room.

Jamieson noticed that everyone in the entire simulator bay had departed, except for the guards, who were armed with Uzi submachine guns.

Jamieson was tall, but the commander of Eighth Air Force towered over him. It was a little intimidating even for a guy like Jamieson, who was not easily scared by other men. Tony Jamieson had over four thousand hours’ flying time in a dozen different Air Force combat aircraft, including more than sixty combat sorties over Iraq, and anyone who could beat those numbers got Jamieson’s instant respect and attention. Terrill Samson was such a man. “Hello, General,” Jamieson said to Samson. “What’s with the guards?”

“We’re going to be doing a few modifications to this simulator,” Samson said, “testing out a few new items. It’ll be down for only a day or two; you’ll have to use the second box by itself for the time being. How did it go with our boy?”

“Fair to poor,” Jamieson replied. “He’s knowledgeable and all-book stuff, numbers, some good systems knowledge, not a bad stick—but he doesn’t know tac doctrine and procedures.”

“Could he be a B-2A Combat Crew Training Unit student?” Samson asked. CCTU was the 509th Bomb Wing’s B-2A six-month initial training program. “If so, what stage would he be in?”

“His pilot skills are average, but based on his systems knowledge, I’d say he was a second- or third-stage student, upper level …”

“So you’re saying he’s as good as an average pilot who’s been through about half the CCTU program, Tiger?”

“There are lots of candidates out there with better piloting skills,” Jamieson said quickly, still not wanting to admit that the guy was pretty good for fear of appearing to compromise on his deliberately set lofty standards for B-2A crew members. “He seems to have lost a lot of heavy iron piloting skills.”

“He never was a pilot, Tiger,” Samson said with a smile. “He’s an ex-bomber-navigator, B-52s mostly.”

Jamieson was surprised—no, shocked was the word. The bomber part didn’t surprise him, but Jamieson would’ve bet that the guy had been flying nothing but a desk for years. “Where’d he learn to fly, then?”

“HAWC,” Samson replied, “and that’s classified. Highly classified.”

“HAWC?” Jamieson sputtered. “You’re shitting me … er, sorry, sir, I mean … man, this guy used to fly for HAWC? When? What did he fly?”

Samson closed his eyes, as if the very mention of the word HAWC caused him great physical or mental stress. “Tony, do me a big damned favor and keep your questions to yourself,” Samson said impatiently.

Jamieson did exactly as he was told—he knew as well as Samson what the Department of Defense did to those who breathed a word about its most super-secret research facility. Only the best engineers and fliers got to work at HAWC—even hotshot veteran sticks like Tony Jamieson didn’t dare apply to work there for fear they’d be rejected or that working under such a constant level of strict security would destroy their private lives.

The aircraft and weapons HAWC worked on were classified at the highest levels of national security, and any inquiries or even a casual mention of the place or the organization required a report to the Air Force Office of Special Investigations. Jamieson knew that Samson had to report him to AFOSI—just for having this conversation—and that such a report would change Jamieson’s life forever, because of the level of official scrutiny he’d be under from now on. With all of the recent security breaches rumored to have occurred at HAWC, everyone even remotely involved in the facility would be closely monitored; their public and private lives would no longer be their own, but would be documented and examined by the Department of Defense until death closed the file.

“Excuse me, sir, but there’s a whole lot you’re not telling me,” Jamieson probed. “You say this guy is ex-military, a civilian, but he’s got access to B-2A tech orders, weapons manuals, and he’s riding the sim with the radar on? No person without a special-access clearance has ever seen the radar in operation before—he not only watched it work, but knew how to work it in a combat situation!”

“No more questions, Tiger,” Samson said. “I need to know one thing: would you fly with him, right now, in combat?”

“Not in a million friggin’ years!” Jamieson retorted. “Why should I, sir? I’ve got thirty of the world’s best pilots in my wing, already fully trained and qualified to fly the Beak.

Why should I fly with someone who’s not checked out?”

“I’m not asking you to choose between a mission-ready crew member and him,” Samson urged. “I’m asking you, would you fly with him if-“

“If he was the last man on earth?” Jamieson interjected. He had no idea where this was leading, but it wasn’t good. “He could back me up on most tasks, but … no, sir, I wouldn’t fly with him. It’d be a waste of a good airframe.”

“On today’s sim ride, Tiger, what would have been the chance that he would’ve hit his assigned target?” Samson asked.

Jamieson shrugged. “You saw the results, sir: he hit his assigned targets, so I guess the answer is one hundred percent,” Jamieson admitted. “But I’d give him only a seventy-five percent chance of reaching his target in the first place, and that’s bad, because he could have brought his bomber home and gotten it fixed and taken a one hundred percent plane into combat. What’s his chance of bringing the plane and his crew home with all the malfunctions he let accumulate? Maybe twenty percent, tops. He exercised poor judgment.”

“What if the mission absolutely had to go off on a certain date and time?”

“Use the backup planes,” Jamieson replied. “You need one bomber to take out the target: launch three. Send one home after the last inbound refueling, then send another home just before ingressing Indian country. Fly the best one to the target and bomb the crap out of it.”

Samson nodded; it was the correct response. If he had forgotten it, he was grateful to Jamieson for pointing it out—and angry that his superiors had forced him to forget the basics of employing strategic air power. But the wheels were already in motion here; Samson was committed to following his own directives until they could be followed no more. “What if you had only one bomber available?” Samson asked. “What then?”

“Sir, I wouldn’t get forced into that predicament in the first place,” Jamieson said resolutely. “Don’t let the bean counters talk you into limiting your options in order to save money or reduce risk—as if they knew anything about reducing the risk to anyone but themselves. If you aren’t left with any options, recommend scrubbing the mission or find another way.” Just then the civilian came into the simulator control room, carrying his charts and checklists. “You’ll have to wait outside, sir.” But the guy didn’t move—and Jamieson noticed that his entire demeanor, his entire bearing, had changed. He didn’t seem like the quiet, contrite civilian bureaucrat anymore. “General?” the guy asked. “What about it?”

Jamieson felt his face flush with anger. “I said wait outside, mister…”

The stranger was still ignoring the Ops Group commander: “I need to know right now, General.”

“Did you hear what I said, buddy?”

“Tiger …” Samson interjected. Jamieson looked at the three-star general with a shocked expression—the stranger was practically ordering Samson around here! “I … we have something to ask of you.”

“What’s going on, sir?” Jamieson asked. He turned to the civilian. “What’s your story, mister?”

“This gentleman is … joining the 509th for a while, Tiger,” Samson began. “We’re going to take a B-2A bomber, load it with state-of-the-art precision standoff weapons, and fly bombing missions overseas—except they won’t be Air Force operations. We need a B-2A aircraft commander, preferably the best in the business—General Wright says it’s you, and I agree.”

“What the hell is this, General?” Jamieson retorted. “Who in hell does he work for?”

“You’re not authorized to reveal anything,” the stranger said to Samson.

“I told you I wasn’t going to allow any of my people to commit to this project without full disclosure,” Samson said to the stranger. “Jamieson’s been cleared. We tell him, or the deal’s off.”

The civilian looked at Samson, then at Jamieson’s angry, confused features, then nodded to Samson. “All right, sir,” retired Air Force Lieutenant Colonel Patrick S. McLanahan said resolutely.

“In the vault.”

The 509th Operational Support Squadron building was a huge three-story, 20,000-square-foot electronic vault, guarded night and day by humans and by a dazzling array of electronic eyes and sensors. The reason: the OSS received real-time intelligence information from all over the world and processed it continuously, building and refining a series of preplanned strike packages for the B-2A stealth bomber and other long-range bombers. When the Russians moved an SS-21 missile from one launch site to another, or when Iran deployed a new fighter, or a new terrorist base camp in Sudan opened, or a new surface-to-air missile site in China was activated, the computers in the OSS adjusted mission charts, flight plans, strike routings, target lists, and threat predictions on dozens of computerized mission packages. If the stealth bomber crews were tasked to perform a strike mission, the 509th OSS would simply dump the latest flight plans and intelligence data into two videocassette-sized cartridges and print out the latest sixteen-color charts straight from the computer databases. The crews would load the cartridges into readers in the planes, and the mission would begin. Satellite uplinks to the B-2A bomber would allow crews to receive the latest intelligence data and update their mission computers continuously in-flight, right up to seconds before bomb release.

There were several briefing rooms within the OSS building, where aircrews received pre-mission briefings and received the latest intelligence information. General Wright led Samson, Jamieson, and the stranger to one of the larger briefing rooms and posted a guard inside and out.

His face impassive, his voice even and firm, the stranger got to his feet, faced Jamieson, and began: “What I’m about to tell you is classified top secret, Colonel.”

“I figured that much,” Jamieson interjected, not quite ready to be intimidated by this guy. “Just tell me who you are and what you want.”

“My name is Patrick McLanahan, lieutenant colonel, United States Air Force, retired,” the civilian said. “I …”

“McLanahan! I recognize that name,” Jamieson said. “You were involved in the raid on Chinese forces in the Philippines a few years ago, like I was. The President gave you some award or commendation, but no one knew who the hell you were, where you came from, or what you did.”

McLanahan nodded. “That’s right, Colonel.” Three years earlier, naval forces of the People’s Republic of China had attempted an invasion of the Philippines following the U.S. military withdrawal. Jamieson himself had led a force of three B-2A bombers on secret raids against Chinese air defense positions in what had been the first use of the B-2A bomber in combat …

… at least, the first known combat mission for the B-2A.

Obviously there had been others …

“There was a fourth bomber, Tony,” Samson explained, as if he were reading Jamieson’s mind, “and it didn’t launch from Whiteman. It was in-theater before the Whiteman birds deployed to Guam, doing special reconnaissance and defense-suppression stuff. It-“

“Defense suppression? Reconnaissance? We didn’t have any defense-suppression weapons on …” He finally stopped and made all the connections. “This guy … this guy went in ahead of the Air Battle Force bombers with defense-suppression weapons? I thought we took out the coastal radars and long-range ship-borne radars with cruise missiles.”

“HAWC was tasked to employ several of its test-bed aircraft over the Philippines and to use some of its other development weapons and space technology to support air operations,” McLanahan explained. “The President wasn’t sure if he wanted to commit massive U.S. forces against the Chinese, so he sent HAWC units in secretly to soften up the Chinese air defenses, make them more vulnerable to U.S. air attacks. The idea was if they found themselves more open to attack, it might draw them back to the negotiating table faster.”

“Obviously it worked—the Chinese navy backed off in a matter of days,” Samson said proudly. “It was a great victory for strategic air power.”

“Well, HAWC can’t seem to get out of its own way lately, from what I hear,” Jamieson said with a sneer. “I heard rumors of a plane crash, another stolen plane, right?”

“I’m not going to go into details about what happened at HAWC, Colonel,” McLanahan said, trying not to show the flush of anger and frustration—and the flood of awful memories—that rose up within him. “But HAWC was closed down, right?” Jamieson asked.

“Tiger, drop it,” Samson warned.

“That’s all right, General,” McLanahan interjected. “Yes, Colonel, HAWC was disbanded. Weapon-test operations went to Eglin Air Force Base; flight-test ops went to Edwards. Most of our more exotic airframes and weapons were either destroyed or placed in secure storage. Some were dispersed to active-duty units after cleaning out the classified stuff. In fact, the 509th was slated to get one of our experimental airframes, Air Vehicle 0 1 1. The test crews and technicians were reassigned; the senior staff members were given early retirements, including me.”

“You don’t look too retired to me,” Jamieson said. There was a knock on the door at that moment, and two more Air Force officers were shown inside by uniformed and plain-clothes security officers.

“Colonel Jamieson, I didn’t come here to be evaluated by you: I came here to evaluate you,” McLanahan said. He motioned to the newcomers and said, “Colonel Jamieson, this is Major General Brien Griffith, commander of Air Force Air Intelligence Agency; Colonel George Dominguez, the chief B-2A maintenance officer assigned to this task force; and Marine Corps Lieutenant Colonel Marcia Preston, my deputy and liaison officer with the office of the White House National Security Advisor. Colonel Dominguez, Colonel Preston, and I are the chief officers of a task force of the Air Intelligence Agency, code-named Future Flight. We’re going to take charge of Air Vehicle 011.” Jamieson’s jaw dropped open in surprise as McLanahan continued, “We are going to use the B-2A to fly covert reconnaissance and defense-suppression missions in support of National Security Agency operations.

“You’re CIA?” Jamieson retorted. “You’re a goddamned CIA agent?”

“I’m a crewdog, not a CIA agent,” McLanahan said.

“You’re a contractor, a former crewdog working for the CIA,” Jamieson corrected him. “You got canned because of some fiasco at HAWC, so now you sell your services to the guys with more money than brains-“

“You don’t know shit about me or my mission, Colonel!”

“I don’t fucking care to know!”

“All right, both of you, shut up,” General Samson interjected.

“Colonel, you listen to what this man has to say. I’ll give you an opportunity to talk. Now you listen.”

“Yes, sir,” Jamieson relented. “Sorry, but I’m a little confused and a little angry that I’m being ‘volunteered’ for some illegal ops. So what does this Future Flight want with me?”

“General Griffith is taking command of Air Vehicle 01 I and assigning it to Future Hight,” McLanahan explained. “My job is to assist Colonel Dominguez in equipping it, then to recruit, train, and fly reconnaissance and defense-suppression missions in the Middle East. I’ve chosen you to be my aircraft commander.”

“What?”

“I’ve been tasked with forming a group that can support secret high-risk deep-strike and reconnaissance operations worldwide.

The B-2A stealth bomber is the best strike platform out there; the President and the National Security Council agree. I’ve been tasked to recruit B-2A flight and support crews from the active-duty ranks, among others, to support group operations.”

“You mean, you’re forming a secret squadron to fly B-2A bombing missions?” Jamieson asked incredulously.

“That’s the most asinine thing I’ve ever heard. Pardon me, General, but I don’t believe what I’m hearing here’ “You go ahead, Tiger,” Samson said, fixing McLanahan with a satisfied smile.

“You got something to say, say it.”

“So what about it, McLanahan?” Jamieson asked, arms crossed on his chest.

McLanahan didn’t need to be an expert on body language to know that Jamieson wasn’t going to buy any explanations—those crossed arms were like a wall erected against any suggestions. “I don’t have to explain anything to you, Colonel. My instructions were to recruit you to fly missions for me and my team and see to the refit of my plane.”

“Your plane?”

“Air Vehicle 01 I,” McLanahan said. “Colonel Dominguez’s techs are modifying it as we speak.”

“Modifying it? Are you crazy? That’s our best plane!” Jamieson cried. “That bird is tweaked tighter than any other bird Northrop’s ever cranked out! It’s got the lowest radar cross-section, the best engines, the best hydraulics, the best..

“It should have the best of everything—I spent two years on that bird back in Dreamland, redesigning and improving almost every aspect of that plane’s performance,” McLanahan said. “Air Vehicle 01 I used to be Test Vehicle 002 …”

“The one that was supposedly tested to destruction?”

“Yes, sir,” McLanahan said. “HAWC rescued it, rebuilt it—we probably spent a quarter of a billion dollars on making it airworthy and upgrading it. I spent plenty of long nights with the engineers to squeeze every knot of performance out of that plane, before the Philippines conflict. That’s the plane I flew into combat—twice. It’s the only bird in the fleet already modified to carry reconnaissance pods, anti-radar missiles, cruise missiles …”

“it can’t be the same one,” Jamieson pointed out. “AV-011 doesn’t have a MILSTREAM data bus yet for the release systems—it’s only hard-wired for dumb bombs. It can’t carry any ‘smart’ weapons without a-“

“We didn’t use MILSTD buses on test articles at HAWC,” McLanahan said. MILSTD, or Military Standard, was the generic term for the standard electrical and electronic circuits and systems developed by the U.S. military for civilian contractors—every weapons design used MILSTD, SO the plane could “talk” with the weapons or other systems. “They were too slow, too old, and too easy to jam or disrupt. We borrowed a few commercial-grade data buses from a company in Arkansas—sixty-four-bit logic, clock speed well into triple digits, fiber optics ready, secure and hardened. It’s all plumbed for our own data bus—the Sky Masters people I brought with me are going to reinstall the system in about three hours.

Ever have any problems with the radar?”

“No,” Jamieson replied, “but we haven’t had much trouble with any of our radars.”

“If your troops opened up the SAR on AV-011, you wouldn’t have known what to do with it,” McLanahan said proudly. “We modified some of its subsystems for reconnaissance as well as for targeting and terrain avoidance, far beyond Block 30 standards. Range is doubled, resolution tripled, and it has air, sea, and electromagnetic spectrum search as well as ground mapping, terrain following, and targeting—the radar can act as a signal processor for programming antiradar missiles and for jamming. We were doing terrain-following years before Block 30 was announced.”

Now Jamieson was intrigued. He’d always suspected that organizations like HAWC did cool stuff like this, and he had always wanted to be a part of it—but was this the way to do the job? “I still don’t buy it, McLanahan,” Jamieson said. “You’ll be conducting military missions in support of … who? The National Security Council? The CIA? The Boy Scouts of America?”

“Listen, Colonel, I was given a task to perform—to get you and Test Vehicle Double-Ought-Two ready to fly, for me,” McLanahan said impatiently. “We were assured full cooperation by General Samson and General Wright. In exchange, I agreed to tell you a little bit about what’s going on. I was not authorized to answer any questions, and I’m sure I’ve told you far more than I’m supposed to tell. Now you’ll agree to cooperate in this project and prepare to-“

“Hey, mister, I don’t fly for nobody unless I know the whole story,” Jamieson said. “I’m not participating in any secret backroom espionage Ollie North-Air America stunt that’s gonna get me in front of some congressional committee or a court-martial.

You tell me what’s going on, and then I’ll think about helping you.”

McLanahan noticed General Samson’s satisfied smile, as if he were saying, “I told you he wouldn’t take kindly to threats, boy.”

“General Samson said that approach wouldn’t fly,” McLanahan said, “which is why I decided not to take the tough-guy approach with you.”

“You’re smarter than you look, McLanahan …

“So I’ll just say this, Jamieson.” McLanahan stepped closer to Tiger Jamieson and regarded him with an amused stare. “You will agree to accompany me on this mission and cooperate, or … I’ll get someone else.”

“You’ll what?” Jamieson was as surprised as if he’d just kissed him on the lips. “You can’t do that …” Jamieson instantly decided it was a bluff. “Yeah, right, don’t make me puke, McLanahan,” Jamieson said acidly. He noticed the shit-eating grin on McLanahan’s face, then turned to Samson—the big three-star was not smiling. “You’re crazy, McLanahan,” Jamieson sputtered nervously. “Who else are you going to get?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll find someone.”

“Hey, buster, I trained each and every B-2A crewdog on the entire planet,” Jamieson said, jabbing a thumb into his own chest to drive the point home, then jabbing a finger at McLanahan, “except maybe you, and I’m not totally convinced you’re fully qualified.

I’ve forgotten more about the Beak than everyone else put together knows. You can’t get no one better because there aren’t nobody better.”

“I’ll get Ed Carlisle,” McLanahan said calmly. “He’s the 715th Bomb Squadron commander, young, lots of hours, bright guy, and the 715th hasn’t stood up yet.”

“Carlisle? ‘Boondock’ Carlisle, the only guy ever to get, lost while flying a B-2A bomber?” Jamieson exclaimed. “The guy’s got fifty million dollars’ worth of navigation gear sitting in front of him, and he still managed to fly out of the RED FLAG range during an exercise—he was nearly in Los Angeles before he figured out where he was. The guy’s a former Navy pilot, for God’s sake!”

“He’s also written the book on B-2A combat tactics,” McLanahan repeated, standing up and packing up his briefcase. “He’s a forward thinker, an innovator, a planner—you’re just a throttle jockey. The bottom line, Jamieson, is this: you’re either in with me, or you’re out. We’re going to take aerial strike warfare into the next century, today, and if you’re not with me, you’ll be left behind. So what’s it going to be?”

“Don’t fuck with me, McLanahan,” Jamieson said angrily. He realized that McLanahan was serious—he was not going to select him if he didn’t cooperate! “You’re obviously not thinking about the success or failure of your project—you’re only out to throw your weight around. This is some kind of damned power trip for you …

“I don’t play games, Colonel,” McLanahan warned. “I’ve been given a job to do, and I’m doing it. I’m wasting my time talking to you.”

“I think you’re both two prima donnas who’re only out to see who can pee the farthest, and I’m sick of it. Button it, both of you,” General Samson said angrily, aiming a huge finger at both McLanahan and Jamieson. “McLanahan, I agreed to backstop this project because of one thing: you got “the best players working for you, dedicated guys who won’t let America down no matter how bad the bureaucrats, politicians, and spooks want to screw things up. Now Carlisle is damned good, but he’s more valuable to me as a staff officer ‘and squadron commander-“

“Wait a minute, General,” Jamieson interjected, “where does that leave me?”

“I said button it, Jamieson!” Samson shouted. “Tiger, you’re a damned fine officer and a great pilot—but you are not the last word in strategic aerial strike warfare. This is not a beauty contest, Jamieson, this is serious business, and I want it done right or not at all.

“Now, McLanahan has proven to me that he can fly the Beak without breaking it, so I’m authorizing the refit of Air Vehicle 011 and the transfer to McLanahan and his Intelligence Support Agency group. In my mind, there’s only one B-2A crew member who I trust to do this mission, and it’s Tony Jamieson. There’s no alternative, no option—it’s you two, or nobody. And the choice is still voluntary—Colonel Jamieson can accept or reject the offer, with no official consequences.” He turned to Jamieson.

“Talk to me, Tiger. Now’s your chance to talk—do it.”

“This is total bullshit, sir,” Jamieson said angrily. “Since when do we turn tricks for a bunch of spies? If they want a target taken out, why don’t they just crank out a warning order and an air tasking order? We’ll blow up anything they want. We don’t need McLanahan. I’ve got the best aviators in the world waiting right now to go to war, especially with Iran. Just say the word, and we’re locked and loaded.”

“Colonel, they’ve got a ship that carries precision-guided weapons, anti-radar missiles, and reconnaissance gear that even I’ve never heard of,” Samson said. “How long would it take you to train a crew to use the equipment?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Jamieson replied testily. “Maybe a week, maybe a month—maybe it’s so automated that it doesn’t require any special training, just turn it on and watch it work. Make McLanahan our tech rep or our civilian instructor—but don’t make him part of the flight crew.”

“Colonel, you know the answer as well as I do, and that aren’t it,” Samson said, turning toward Jamieson and impaling him with the most evil, deadliest stare he had ever seen. “Face it—this wing is not operational. Your crews and your planes are at least a year, probably two, from going into combat. McLanahan and this Future Flight is the best we’ve got, and I want you part of it.”

Jamieson still didn’t like it, still resented the break from his long-established and trusted chain of command. But it was the opportunity of a lifetime. “Who would I report to?” m

“Me,” McLanahan replied. “The plane, the weapons, the personnel—I own them all, as of right now.”

“But you’re a civilian,” Jamieson protested, though with less vehemence than before. “I don’t report to a damned civilian.”

“My boss is General Griffith; he reports directly to Philip Freeman, in regards to this mission,” McLanahan added. “And Freeman reports to the President.”

Jamieson still had not finally agreed, but McLanahan knew he had his man. He turned away and nodded at General Samson. “Thank you for your help, sir. I’ll report to you and General Wright on the progress of the work on AV-011 at our noon briefing. Colonel Jamieson, you’ve got sixty minutes to clear your desk; then we meet back here at eleven hundred hours for an overview on the mods to tail number AV-01 1. Bring your tech orders and checklists; we’ll be updating them with lots of new stuff.” To Samson, he asked, “Anything more for me, sir?”

“Just one more thing, Patrick,” Samson said. “I’ve been fighting for exactly this kind of role for our strategic bomber force for years. I never expected a group like the Intelligence Support Agency to be the one sponsoring my program, but it’s being done, and that’s the important thing. But I’ve built a career out of seeing that this kind of mission succeeds, and I’ll still be fighting even though it’s out of my hands once you sign for the plane. This will not turn into another Iran-Contra debacle, or—and I don’t mean this personally—another Brad Elliott operation.”

“I do take that personally, General,” McLanahan said, his fiery blue eyes narrowing in clear, immediate anger. “Brad Elliott is a good friend of mine.”

“Then I apologize,” Samson said quickly but, in McLanahan’s estimation, not sincerely. “But I reemphasize my point: We go all out, we play to win, but we do this by the book. Agreed?”

The fair-haired, blue-eyed young man was silent for a moment.

Samson was just thinking that this was someone he could work with, a fellow crewdog who would work on the “inside,” give a fresh perspective to the White House brain trust …

… until McLanahan’s features suddenly turned dark, and his blue eyes narrowed into dark cobalt pits, and he stepped closer to the big three-star general and said in a low voice, “You’re right, General: we’ll do this by the book—my book. This is not an Air Force operation, and this is not your operation, it’s my operation, is that clear?” Samson was too stunned by the guy’s sudden change in demeanor to respond.

“General Samson, this team was picked for one reason only: to protect the lives of the agents on the ground that are following the orders of their leaders in the White House,” McLanahan went on. “if we fail, men and women die—some of them my friends. If they die, they are not just forgotten—it will be as if they never existed. I was given this opportunity to form a team to help them survive, and that’s exactly what I’ll do.”

Jamieson was watching General Samson as the big three-star tightened his jaw muscles, but instead of exploding, he nodded, jabbed a finger in McLanahan’s direction, and said calmly, “Fine, Mr. McLanahan. You do your thing. When you need Eighth Air Force’s help to bail your ass out, just call.” He nodded at Jamieson, turned, and walked away.

McLanahan’s eyes followed Samson as he departed; then he turned to Jamieson and asked, “Anything to add before we get started, Colonel?”

“Yes: I think you’re an asshole, Mr. McLanahan,” Jamieson replied matter-of-factly.

“Thank you, Colonel,” McLanahan said. “It’s nice to be working with you, too.”

IN THE GULF OF OMAN ISLAMIC REPUBLIC OF IRAN 19 APRIL 1997, 0612 HOURS LOCAL

It was General Buzhazi’s first look at the aircraft carrier Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini since the thing had been towed into port two years earlier, and frankly, it didn’t look that much better—the crews had cleaned it up greatly, but now it seemed more cluttered, more disorganized. Two years earlier it had been in mothballs in a Russian shipyard in Nikolayev, Ukraine, abandoned and heavily cannibalized for scrap steel, wiring, even light bulbs and screws—it had even been set on fire by shipyard protesters. After being brought to Bandar Abbas, it had been towed down to Chah Bahar and used briefly as a floating prison for work crews, where it had been even further abused by the inmates during that construction “jihad.” Then, it had been the biggest, ugliest ship Buzhazi had ever seen in his life—and Iran was paying the People’s Republic of China $500,000 per month to use it!

Now it had over three dozen combat aircraft on board and three thousand men working on it. Iran was still paying only a half a million dollars a month to use it, but now China was paying Iran millions per month for training, billeting, and installing new, modern equipment.

“Welcome aboard the pride of the Islamic Republic’s attack fleet, sir,” Pasdaran Major Admiral Akbar Tufayli said effusively, as Buzhazi stepped off the Mil-8 helicopter that had flown Buzhazi from Bandar Abbas out to the carrier. Akbar Tufayli was one of Buzhazi’s young, energetic “lions” in the Pasdaran-i-Engelab.

When the Pasdaran had been an independent, elite military force during the War of Liberation with Iraq in the 1980s, Buzhazi expected that Tufayli had had grand ideas about his future as a major commander, given his political and family connections, but when the Pasdaran had been integrated into the regular Iranian army, all of Tufayli’s chances for greatness had been reduced.

Because of this, Tufayli sought out the highest-visibility positions, the ones no one else wanted to touch; then he would lie, cheat, steal, whine, beg, and murder his way to success. He thought of himself as bold and fearless, when in fact he was stupid, rash, and always looking for a scapegoat.

Well, he’d certainly picked the biggest, most highly visible position now: commander of the Middle East’s first aircraft carrier. With a new, fat emergency budget following the GCC attack on Abu Musa Island, and lots of favorable attention from the mullahs, Tufayli was in a pretty good position to move up the Pasdaran chain of command. Being the first sometimes got men the glory, but most often it was a no-win situation. Tufayli’s future, as they say, was his to destroy.

“Thank you, Admiral Buzhazi said. “I wanted to see for myself if all is in readiness—including the ‘special’ shipment …”

“It is indeed, sir—I have my best men on it,” Tufayli said. “I will show you right away.” Dodging running men and jet aircraft engine blast, Tufayli led the way across the steel non-slip deck, over countless hoses, ropes, cables, chain, to the huge island superstructure and the hatch that would take them below. Buzhazi noted with some amusement that the huge white flag with the hammer and sickle of the Soviet navy was still barely visible on the flat side of the superstructure just above the hatch—Allah help us, he thought, if we don’t even have enough paint to cover that properly, what kind of shape can this tub be in when it comes time to take it into combat? The aircraft hangar deck was so choked with planes, men, aircraft-moving equipment, tools, spare engines and fabricated steel parts, and thousands of unrecognizable odds and ends that the flag contingent could hardly pass through.

Here, Chinese maintenance officers worked side by side with Iranian officers, but only Iranians worked on the planes themselves—the Chinese maintenance workers crowded around and watched. All but two of the Khomeini’s twenty-four fighters and all but two of the ship’s sixteen helicopters were parked down here, all in various stages of repair—none of them looked as though they could fly right now if needed. Security was tightened considerably as they moved forward to the double-walled steel bulkhead that separated the hangar from the missile bay forward.

The next compartment forward was just as high and wide as the hangar deck, and almost as long, but unlike the hangar deck, there was plenty of room to move around, and it was blissfully quiet, almost somber, as befitting the kind of weapons fitted here. “Here we are, sir,” Tufayli announced proudly. “This compartment is the reason that, even without its Sukhoi-33 fighters, the Khomeini would still be one of the most devastating warships on the planet.”

There before them, in two rows of six, stood the steel launch canisters of the Khomeini’s P-700 Granit medium-range attack missiles. Each canister was six feet in diameter and thirty-six feet long, stretching far above, all the way to the flight deck.

Cranes and hoisting devices were strung everywhere on deck to move the 11,000-pound missiles in the compartment. “We have no reloads now, sir,” Tufayli said. “but when we have enough missiles to allow for reloads, they will be stored in a shielded magazine in the area by the bulkheads fore and aft. All the carrier’s missiles, including the P-700s, are transferred through the hatch on the port-side—we have the proper equipment to allow under-way missile transfers, although most transfers will probably be at dockside. Missiles are transferred from the magazine via the cranes to be loaded in the launch canisters.”

Tufayli motioned to the weapons officer. A warning light began to flash, and one of the launch canisters began to lower itself down to the deck, like a giant sequoia slowly falling to the forest floor. Once on the deck, the top part of the canister swiveled open toward the side of the ship, revealing the missile inside.

It looked like a long, thin, winged needle, with a narrow cylindrical body, short, narrow, steeply angled wings, and small aft wings. A small air intake could be seen on top of the missile. On the aft end, two long cylindrical detachable booster motors were mounted nearly flush with the engine exhaust tailpipe.

The missile was a spongy light gray color except for the nose cap, which was hard red plastic, and a section near the front that was outlined in yellow and black.

“The P-700 Granit anti-ship missile, the largest and most powerful anti-ship weapon in the world,” Tufayli said proudly. “It can fly over twice the speed of sound to ranges in excess of six hundred kilometers. It is guided by its own inertial navigation computer until within fifty kilometers of its target, when it activates its own onboard radar, locks onto the largest radar target in its line of sight, and guides itself precisely on target. The missile blasts out of the launch canister on those two rocket motors to about Mach one, when the turbojet engine takes over. It flies a powered ballistic path up to thirty thousand meters’ altitude until very close to the target, when it executes a high-speed dive—almost impossible to shoot down with any known antiaircraft weapons. This rubbery coating burns off during its flight to protect the guidance and warhead sections.”

“And the warhead?”.Buzhazi asked.

Tufayli turned to the weapons officer, who assured him that all nonessential personnel were out of the compartment, then he nodded to Buzhazi. “Yes, sir,” he said, “this is what you wanted to see—the NK-55 thermonuclear warhead”—and Tufayli slapped his hand on the yellow-and-black bordered section. The sudden slap sound made them all jump. “Selectable yield from five-hundred-kilogram high explosive to three-hundred-kiloton nuclear. Barometric and radar altimeter fusing, detonating two to three thousand meters above the target., with impact backup.”

“Do you think it is wise to slap that warhead like that, Admiral?”

Buzhazi asked acidly.

“Perfectly safe, sir,” Tufayli the idiot replied, not understanding Buzhazi’s meaning at all—Buzhazi meant to ask if he thought it was wise for Tufayli’s career and continued good health to be scaring the chief of staff like that.

“Yes … and the other canisters …?”

“Still all one-thousand-kilo high-explosive contact warheads on all the rest,” Tufayli replied. “We look forward to getting more warheads such as this one for our other missiles.”

“That appears unlikely,” General Buzhazi said, “unless we can convince the President that the Islamic Republic needs more nuclear warheads to counter our enemies in the Persian Gulf region and elsewhere.”

“President Nateq-Nouri would be happier, I think, if Iran had no warships or missiles at all,” Tufayli said. “This proposal to ban all warships from the Persian Gulf and Gulf of Oman? Ridiculous.

You should advise the President that it would be in all of our best interests to continue an aggressive weapons buildup and develop a better indigenous weapons manufacturing-“

“Yes, yes, Admiral, you are correct, of course,” Buzhazi interrupted, shutting off this egotistical, strutting popinjay.

Any other officer would be immediately dismissed for trying to tell Buzhazi how to do his job—but he needed Tufayli to outfit this battle group and get it out into the Gulf of Oman, where it would have maximum psychological effect against the GCC and the West … or could be best used to spearhead a drive to close off … the Persian Gulf, and ultimately propel himself to the presidency.

“How soon can you be on station in the Gulf of Oman, Admiral?”

Buzhazi asked, as he headed for the hatch to go back up on deck.

“We have a few minor repairs to conclude, nothing too serious,” Tufayli said. “We should be fully operational, with a full complement of aircraft and weapons, in two days.”

Judging by the looks of things in the aircraft hangar, Buzhazi thought, this idiot Tufayli wouldn’t be ready to fight for two years, but he didn’t say that. Instead: “Very well, Admiral.

Good work. In two days, I will see you on station in the Gulf of Oman, ready to counter any seagoing force which may threaten the sovereignty of the Islamic Republic. Good luck, and good hunting.”

“Thank you, sir!” Tufayli said in his best academy parade voice.

“You will be pleased and gratified by the trust you have placed in me.”

Just don’t get sunk by your own stupidity, Tufayli, Buzhazi thought. Do what I will tell you to do, whatever I tell you to do, and you will do just fine. When it comes time to launch that missile, don’t think about it—just do it.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

20 APRIL 1997, 0906 HOURS ET

“A mysterious attack on an island in the Persian Gulf that some claim was perpetrated by the United States against Iran; a bold so-called defensive move by Iran’s new aircraft carrier battle group into the Gulf of Oman, punctuated by a recent deadly attack against an unarmed rescue vessel; a military arms buildup by Iran, Turkey, and Pakistan unprecedented in two decades,” Tim Russert, the host of NBC News’ “Meet the Press,” began. “In the aftermath of the collapse of the Soviet Union and the glut of high-tech weapons of mass destruction on the world’s arms market, the Middle East is becoming an even more dangerous powder keg. Is it ready to explode?

“Joining us to help put all this in perspective is today’s very special guest, the Vice President of the United States, Ellen Christine Whiting. Madam Vice President, welcome to ‘Meet the Press.”

“Thank you, Tim.” The image of Russert, the “saber-toothed teddy bear,” flashed in her mind, almost making her laugh, and instead prompting her famous “ten-million vote” smile.

“Finding the first one hundred days challenging enough, Madam Vice President?” Russert asked.

It was the patented Russert disarming tactic, she thought: hit the guest with his boyish, chubby-faced smile, then the light, easy banter, the brainless question she could answer while half-asleep.

He liked to make his guest feel at ease, as if this were going to be an easy Sunday-morning chat, then whammo … “It’s a challenge I’ve been savoring ever since I was a young campaign volunteer in Frederick, Maryland, Tim,” Whiting replied. “But let’s get right down to the issues your viewers want to hear about.”

“Indeed, let’s,” Russert said with a smile, but his voice turned decidedly harder after being upstaged like that. “Let’s first talk about what seems to be on everyone’s mind, Madam Vice President, and that’s the attack on those disputed Iranian islands, allegedly by the Gulf Cooperative Council, the launching of Iran’s huge nuclear aircraft carrier battle group, the attack on that rescue vessel with the loss of about a half dozen lives and a dozen still unaccounted for, and the administration’s apparent wait-and-see, do-nothing attitude.

What’s the latest on this, Madam Vice President?”

“Tim, at the risk of sounding like a broken record—and I know most of your audience still remembers what a record is—we’re looking into exactly what happened out there in the Persian Gulf,” Whiting replied. “The Gulf Cooperative Council is preparing a full report on their attack on Abu Musa Island, but claims it was a defensive, preemptive strike on Iranian offensive missile emplacements that threatened ships in the Persian Gulf oil lanes.

Given Iran’s huge military buildup on that island since their illegal annexation of those islands in 1992, their explanation seems somewhat justified.”

“And Iran’s claims that U.S. and Israeli commandos were involved in the raid?”

“Nonsense,” the Vice President replied. “This appears to be a GCC operation, and the White House was not notified of the action before or during the attack.

“As far as the salvage ship Valley Mistress attack, the U.S. company, Jersey Tech Salvage, out of Elizabeth City, is currently under investigation by the Justice Department for its recent activities,” the Vice President continued. “Apparently the ship that was attacked by Iranian aircraft was involved in some … illegal operations, taking advantage of its U.S. Naval Reserve Fleet designation. These operations have something to do with shipping weapons, possibly to Iraq, possibly to anti-Iranian government rebels.”

“So the reports that this was a spy ship are completely false?”

“The ship may have done some government or defense work in the past,” the Vice President acknowledged, “but it was not operating under a government contract when it was attacked and hadn’t received a government contract since the Gulf War. The President has asked the Justice Department to thoroughly investigate Jersey Tech Salvage and all other contract and Naval Reserve Fleet companies to see that abuses are quickly stopped.”

“But what about the Americans reportedly being held by the Iranian government?”

“We are not positive whether or not anyone is being held, or if they are American citizens or legal employees of Jersey Tech Salvage,” Whiting replied. “Iran is not cooperating with anyone, yet they continue to throw unsubstantiated rumors and wild accusations around every time a reporter cruises near. Now Jersey Tech is not cooperating with State Department officials because they’re under investigation by the FBI. It’s very frustrating.”

“But surely the United States has spies, intelligence personnel, in the area? Can you tell us anything they’ve learned?”

“Tim, you know I can’t talk about any ongoing intelligence operations,” Whiting said seriously, letting her smile turn stern and disapproving, as if gently scolding him. Her hope was that the viewers would scold him in their minds and side with her, not him. “That’s strictly off limits. As a veteran journalists I’m very surprised you asked me about that.

“I wasn’t asking you for specific information or specific sources, just general information …”

“Tim, you know about this—we’ve talked about it before,” the Vice President said, not recalling if they had or not, but trying to sound as if he were pumping her for information he knew was supposed to be off the record. “We can’t go into specifics, as you very well know. Let me say this”—a brief pause as the camera moved closer, building a little anticipation that she was about to reveal a very inside piece of information—”yes, we have analysts working ‘round the clock, studying events all over the world.

“But I have to tell you, Tim, that one source of information we use has been the press, not just in the U.S., but all over the world, and frankly the media has the intelligence community going around in circles. The intelligence folks follow up every news item, every piece of so-called evidence, reinterview so-called experts, and check every lead, even if it’s only to completely discount it. It may be enlightened speculation to the press, but every bit of speculation adds to the confusion.”

“But what about Iran’s aggressive military buildup, and their apparent drive to become the warlords of the Islamic world?”

“I don’t think the American people want us speculating on something as important and as far-reaching as this, Tim,” Vice President Whiting said. “The press can afford to speculate all it wants, and when we hear a news item from a supposedly respected and authoritative source, yes, we check it out. In this particular case, the media has been all over the place, so that hasn’t been a good source lately. The fact is that Iran is not on the warpath—far from it. In fact, they’ve proposed a bold new peace initiative that would eliminate the threat of that aircraft carrier from the Persian Gulf. No one seems to believe Iran is serious about that initiative except the President.”

“So the White House is going to do nothing else about Iran, Madam Vice President?” Russert asked.

“Tim,” the Vice President responded in an exasperated tone, exaggerated slightly for the viewers at home, “it sounds like you’re suggesting that we send American troops twelve thousand miles from home back to the Persian Gulf to threaten Iran simply because they are choosing to deploy weapon systems such as the Khomeini carrier group. It seems as if you’re suggesting we do something just because. I don’t agree with that view, Tim.

“I think the American people out there want us to be ready to act if America, her allies, or her vital interests overseas are threatened. Otherwise, I think America wants our military forces to stay home with their families. We will proceed with extreme caution, and trust that diplomacy and common sense will win out.”

ABOARD THE B-2A SPIRIT STEALTH BOMBER AV-011, OVER THE PERSIAN GULF 23 APRIL 1997, 0113 HOURS LOCAL TIME

“Let’s go into COMBAT mode,” McLanahan announced. “Give me consent.”

Tony “Tiger” Jamieson flipped a red-guarded switch near his left elbow, checked all the rest of his switch configurations, then nestled his butt deeper into his seat and tightened up his lap belt and shoulder straps. “Consent switch up. Clear to engage.”

McLanahan pressed a small switch light on the eyebrow panel marked COMBAT, and just that quickly, the checklist was complete for arming the weapon systems, configuring the threat warning and defensive systems, and preparing the computers, aircraft systems, and avionics for combat. Both men checked the MDUs (Mission Display Units) as the computer reported all of the subsystems’ status, and then prepared themselves to penetrate enemy territory.

It took only thirty seconds to confirm that the computer had switched all systems into COMBAT mode. “We’re in COMBAT,” McLanahan announced.

“Confirmed,” Jamieson responded—and that was the most he had had to do in the past three hours.

There was one thing that Tony Jamieson hated more than anything else, and that was sitting idle. As a B-2A Spirit stealth bomber mission commander, he did anything but—the MC was by far the busiest crewman aboard. Although they still called the B-2A left-seaters the AC—the “aircraft commander,”—he was no longer responsible for the success of a mission, as were other aircraft ACs. The AC’s job was to fly the plane and monitor the systems—in the B-2A stealth bomber, it meant to follow the “blue line,” the computer-generated course line on his lower-center MDU, and to respond to computer-generated WARNINGS, CAUTIONS, and ALERTS, or WCAs. Any good AC kept up with the mission progress and was ready to complete the mission from the left seat if something catastrophic happened to the mission commander; although the B-2A was ultra-reliable and redundant and the AC rarely intervened, he had to be prepared to drop weapons, navigate, communicate, and operate all of the defensive systems from the left seat if necessary.

The damned problem was, Jamieson wasn’t prepared to do that in Air Vehicle 01 1. This fucking plane had been so heavily modified by the plane’s current MC, Patrick McLanahan, the now-defunct HAWC, and his Intelligence Support Agency engineering pukes that he didn’t recognize a thing on the right side of the plane. From his studies over the past several days, he knew that he could do a number of’ things from the left seat, but in the heat of battle he seriously doubted if he could fly the plane and run a checklist at the same time. All he’d really done so far on this mission was a preflight, takeoff, two air refuelings—one east of Hawaii, the other north of Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean—airspeed adjustment to make sure they were on time, and a flip through MDU pages, checking stuff. That, and look out the window as they chased the sunset.

Long flights in the B-2A bomber were comfortable and relatively stress-free, but in this plane it was even more brainless than in the Block 10 and Block 20 planes at Whiteman. Navigation was managed by an automatic navigation System run by dual redundant inertial reference unit a Northrop astro-tracker—first developed for the Blackbird spy plane—that could track and lock on to stars even in daytime for accurate heading data, and a Global Positioning System satellite navigation system for position and velocity data—the B-2A’s navigation accuracy could be measured in a few feet, even without using the radar.

The fuel-management system was automatic and completely hands-free. Jamieson trusted the automatic navigation and flight-control systems enough to take short catnaps throughout the flight when things were quiet (he would never, ever admit he trusted McLanahan well enough to watch over things). The seats were big and comfortable—unlike most ACES II ejection seats, which were narrow and hard—and the cockpit was very quiet. You could take the “brain bucket” off, put electronic noise-canceling headsets on, and listen to the single-sideband HF radio channels from all over the world while monitoring the plane and the computers. Station and oxygen checks every thirty minutes, mission status reports by satellite every hour, and sit back and wait for the action to start. The GLAS, or Gust Load Alleviation System—the pointed “beaver tail” on the back of the B-2A’s short fuselage—smoothed out the occasional turbulence bumps with ease.

Jamieson didn’t know if McLanahan ever napped. Whenever a message came in on the satellite receiver, he was right there to receive it; whenever the computer alerted them to a Significant navigation turn point or mission checkpoint, McLanahan was always right there to respond. Jamieson used the chemical toilet mounted behind the mission commander’s seat quite often—Jamieson had never subscribed to the “low-residue” diet recommended for long over-water flights and had brought along two big box lunches filled with fried chicken, bologna sandwiches, raw vegetable sticks, and fruit juice, plus sticky buns that could be warmed up in the bomber’s microwave oven in the tiny galley beside the entry hatch, and plenty of coffee. On the other hand, McLanahan had brought only Thermos bottles of cold protein drinks, plus coffee and lots of water; even so, he’d cleared off for relief only twice. Had to be the “B-52 bowels,” Jamieson decided—since the big B-52s carried only a cramped, uncomfortable, smelly “honey bucket” instead of a real chemical toilet on board, some crew members got accustomed to flying very long missions without using it.

Their flight path took them over the Pacific and Indian oceans, on a less direct course far from the normal transoceanic flight routines in order to avoid visual detection by a passing airliner.

Since this was a secret mission, they didn’t need to give position reports or talk to anyone when crossing international boundaries.

McLanahan activated the radar for a few seconds every time they passed close to land, but mostly kept it in standby to prevent stray electronic emissions from giving away their position. They had no anticollision lights or transponder beacon codes activated—they were counting on the “big sky” theory to keep them away from other aircraft.

They’d overflown the Hawaiian Islands four hours after takeoff and received their first refueling about 120 miles west of Honolulu.

They passed within radar range of Guam, overflew the Philippines, and shot a two-second radar image each of Vietnam, Malaysia, and Thailand—all without one challenge from any nation’s air defense systems. They were nothing but ghosts.

Approaching the Maldives in the northern Indian Ocean southwest of SriLanka, out of radar range of India’s potent Soviet-built air defense network, they refueled from a U.S. Air Force KC-10 Extender tanker. Now, with full tanks and in long-range cruise mode, the real magic of this incredible warplane was obvious: they could just as easily fly all the way back to Hawaii now if they wanted. The computer listed all the alternate and emergency airfields available to them with their full tanks—they ranged as far north as Anchorage, Alaska, as far south as Auckland, New Zealand, or Cape Town, South Africa, even as far west as London!

If they included civil airfields on the list, runways big enough for a standard Boeing 727, they had their choice of about three hundred airports within max fuel endurance range.. That kind of power really impressed Tony Jamieson, and it was what drove him to the big bomber game and the B-2A Spirit stealth bomber in particular. The power he commanded was unlike anything ever believed possible. With only two aerial refuelings, he could fly halfway around the world—but more impressive, he could fly over their fleets, their capitals, their cities, their military bases, and he could unleash devastating weapons on all of them, and those on the ground would not know he was ever there, even after the missiles hit! He knew the U.S.S. Abraham Lincoln aircraft carrier battle group was just a few minutes farther east in the Arabian Sea—they had flown within Sixty miles of the group—but the greatest seaborne battle group in the world had had no idea they were nearby.

Eleven hours after takeoff, they’d finally come within radar range of the Arabian Peninsula. McLanahan knew there was an American E-3C Airborne Warning and Control System radar plane flying in southeast Saudi Arabia, to observe all air and sea activity near the Iranian aircraft carrier fleet; Saudi Arabia also operated a sophisticated peninsula-wide air defense command-and-control system called Peace Shield Skywatch, which linked seventeen regional radar sites to a central control facility in Riyadh. But the bomber had overflown Saudi Arabia, then southern Iraq, and then down along the Persian Gulf into southern Iran without one squeak of a radar locked onto them or one challenge on any radio frequency, even though there were lots of Saudi, Iranian, and American fighter patrols up that night. Less than sixty miles away was the Strait of Hormuz and the Iranian military city of Bandar Abbas, one of the most heavily defended places on earth, Just 100 miles south of the strait in the Gulf of Oman was the huge Khomeini aircraft carrier battle group, challenging all those who tried to enter the Persian Gulf.

“I don’t friggin’ believe this,” Jamieson exclaimed. “We’re flying over no-man’s land here. One missile jock get, lucky, and he bags himself a B-2A stealth bomber.” McLanahan made no reply—probably the first indication that night that he was nervous. The threat indicator on McLanahan’s supercockpit display was showing massive amounts of threats all around them: numerous SA-10 surface-to-air missile sites near the larger cities in western Iran; a cluster of mobile SA-8 missile units and ZSU-23/4 antiaircraft artillery sites in Iraq, all radiating and searching the skies; and a handful of high-performance MiG-29s over Iran, not too far away. They were bracketed by long-range search radars, but not one of them showed any indication of locking a continuous-wave or height-finder signal on them.

Tensions in the region were always high, but since the invasion of Abu Musa Island and the deployment of the Khomeini carrier group, it seemed everyone had every man and every piece of military hardware they owned out in the field, ready for battle. “What in hell are we doing up here, McLanahan? This is nuts …”

“There’s an ISA rescue mission being executed now over Bandar Abbas,” McLanahan said—he knew that Jamieson knew why they were doing this mission, but he had to get his AC’s mind off the threats surrounding them and back on the mission right now. “That salvage vessel that got hit by the Iranians the other day? It was an ISA ship. They took several captives, and the ISA’s going to get them back.”

“I heard it was a civilian vessel,” Jamieson said.

“It was civilian, but it was being used by the Intelligence Support Agency to run surveillance on the Khomeini carrier group.”

“So that’s why the Iranians are pissed,” Jamieson commented. “Can we blame them?”

“We can and we do,” McLanahan said. “They were conducting surveillance only, no closer than thirty miles to tiny ship, operating over international waters and airspace.”

“So when the rag heads said that the crew of the ship shot down two of their fighters … that was true?”

“In self-defense, and only after the ship was attacked by fighters from the Khomeini.” McLanahan said. He looked at Jamieson. “Any more questions, Colonel?”

“Touchy, touchy,” Jamieson said. “Just wanted to listen to you explain our mission—I wanted to see how much of a brainless little government robot you’ve become.”

“Glad to see you’re keeping yourself amused,” McLanahan said. He continued: “Our intelligence says the crew members that were captured aboard the ship were taken to Suru Prison near Bandar Abbas. The infiltration group is going right into the prison itself. We’re going to provide air cover for them.”

“We fly all this way, I expect to blast something apart,” Jamieson said, with mock grumpiness. “A carrier would make a mighty big boom, for instance-“

“Stand by, target area’s coming up,” McLanahan interrupted. With little else to do, Jamieson leaned over to watch McLanahan operate his cosmic equipment. It was nothing like any of Whiteman’s Block 10 or Block 20 planes—in fact, it was nothing like the future Block 30 planes, not yet in production, or any other concept Jamieson had ever seen for the B-2A.

Dominating the right side of the B-2A’s cockpit was a huge rectangular monitor, larger than three normal-sized multifunction displays put together. McLanahan called this his “supercockpit” display, and the term fit. Air Vehicle 011 obviously had had this equipment in it earlier, when it had been known as Test Vehicle 002 at Dreamland, because it had taken less than a day for engineers to reinstall this huge screen. Instead of fixed-function buttons around the edges, the display had function buttons on the screen itself that could be selected using the trackball, by touching the big screen, or by using spoken commands. McLanahan was obviously very adept at it—he used all three methods simultaneously, which allowed him to operate his controls with incredible speed.

For most of the flight, the supercockpit display was configured to resemble a normal B-2A right-side cockpit: graphic depictions of three B-2A MDUS, showing aircraft and computer status “home” page; the Horizontal Situation Indicator with compass, artificial horizon, and autopilot steering indicators; and navigation displays with present position, heading, ground speed, and time and distance to go to the next way point. Occasionally, McLanahan would call up a graphic typewriter keyboard and use it to compose satellite messages to the National Security Agency—heck, Jamieson mused wryly, McLanahan even used a weird layout, called a Dvorak keyboard, that he operated with speed and precision but would be three times as hard for anyone else to use.

Closer to the target area now, just minutes away from the action, McLanahan still had the three standard MDU displays on the screen, except they were about one-fourth their normal size and relegated to the upper portion of the screen where he and Jamieson could still monitor them. The rest of the screen showed a digital chart of Hormozgan Province of southern Iran, including the Strait of Hormuz and the city of Bandar Abbas. The province was fairly rural and hilly, with only one medium-sized city, one small city, and perhaps two dozen towns and significant villages in the entire 18,000square-mile area.

The city of Bandar Abbas and its many military bases and military-industrial centers were protected by modern long-range SA-10 Grumble, medium-range Hawk, and short-range antiaircraft missile sites, along with numerous medium- and short-range antiaircraft artillery sites. In addition, the airfield at Bandar Abbas had the largest tactical air force in Iran outside of Tehran, with modern MiG-29, ex-U.S. Air Force F-4 Phantoms, and ex-U.S. Navy Tomcat F-14 fighter interceptors airborne on patrol.

Jamieson and McLanahan were flying well inside the normal lethal range of the SA-10 Grumble surface-to-air missile, hoping that their plane’s stealth characteristics would keep them safe. Those thick, multilayered defenses would be deadly to any aircraft trying to fly into Bandar Abbas, and only the B-2A Spirit stealth bomber had the capability to approach the area and knock out those missile sites.

MINA JEBEL ALI NAVAL BASE, DUBAI, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES THAT SAME TIME Gunnery Sergeant Chris Wohl was making a final preflight inspection of his men’s personal equipment, checking for proper survival clothing; although the CV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor aircraft was safe and reliable even in harsh combat conditions, Wohl always made sure that its occupants dressed as if they’d have to walk or swim back to base.

As was typical with Intelligence Support Agency operations, the men wore a mishmash of clothing items, mostly generic military-style clothing intermingled with civilian clothes, with all patches and labels removed and local clothing makers’ labels sewn on. Some shaved, although it had to be done without soap or shaving cream to avoid telltale aromas that might attract dogs or guards; most did not shave and had short Middle East-style beards.

Hair was usually cut very short and washed with unscented soap, or shaved completely bald. Headgear usually consisted of full-face ski masks or balaclavas worn over an extra watch cap to better protect the ears from frostbite. Most of the unit wore thick woolly mittens over thin wool or cotton glove inserts, with cutouts in the mitten palms to allow them to extend a trigger finger. The men were lightly armed—a few had AK-74 assault rifles, but most others carried small submachine guns like the .45 caliber Uzi or the 9-millimeter MP-5. They carried a variety of favorite side arms and two days’ worth of patrol supplies—the rest they would gather from the land as they traveled.

All of the men in the unit were experienced professionals, so this was just a quick safety inspection, not an instructional one, but Wohl began a short briefing and a special mission topic during his quick inspections. “Listen up,” Wohl said, as he continued his inspections, “just to bring you all up to speed: Our target area tonight is the naval prison medical facility at Suru, a few klicks south of Bandar Abbas. Our route of flight will take us northwest around Abu Musa, feet-dry at Bostaneh Point, twenty klicks west of Bandar-e Lengeh, then terrain-following across the Laristan range, along the Kot River, and touchdown just outside Bandar Abbas.

“This is our second infil into this area, and as you all know, we got creamed over the Tumb Islands the other night, so stay heads-up tonight. We’re checking three different exfiltration points tonight outside Bandar Abbas. If our guys are out there, I want them brought back on board the Pave Hammer without a scratch.

You all know the code words and code signs. Anyone who doesn’t return a recognition signal is a hostile. We’re not going in to slaughter civilians, but you will protect your own sorry butts and those of your fellow grunts to the maximum extent.

“Assignments: Monroe will be the wheel; Bennet is port guard; Reid’s on starboard guard; I’ll be the ramp guard. Guards, remember, don’t go out too far or your gunners watching your back will lose sight of you, and he’s likely to blow your ass away.

Guards, use your recognition signals; flash them whenever you see the aircraft, since a gunner probably has you in his sights and his finger’s tightening on the trigger. Schiff is tail gunner, Morgan is port gunner; Andrews, you’re starboard gunner. Gunners, radio out for signals before you open fire, and wait to get a return signal—but if you don’t get one, shoot first, then call out your hostile’s position. You don’t get extra credit for shooting off a whole can of ammo—make your shots count. Our call sign tonight is ‘Japan.”

“You got the standard escape-and-evasion plan memorized, I hope, but the basic plan is head west and stay away from everyone and everything. You should all know where our backup and emergency pickup points are; I’m going to ask all of you to point them out for me on your map on the way out, and if you miss even one, you’ll be on KP for a week. “I remind you that we’re going into the area with the Iranian military on high alert, which means a very likelyhood we could see action and might even get shot down,” Wohl continued, scanning each Of his men’s eyes to try to gauge their readiness for this mission. “if we’re shot down, remember to evacuate out the back of the aircraft, not the sides. Grab a buddy or a crewman or extra gear, but don’t waste time evacuating the aircraft if things are going to shit. Get as far away from the crash site as possible after the crash. Most guys who get captured after a force-down are captured near their aircraft within ten minutes, so the farther you can get away from your force-down point in the first ten minutes, the better.

“Move only at night, avoid all contact with civilization as much as you can, and move during daytime only long enough to get oriented, then get back into deep hiding,” Wohl went on. “Make your way to a pickup point, but stay away from roads, railroads, rivers, or streams—that’s where the bad guys will be looking for you. Trying to blend in with the locals is a Hollywood stunt, not a valid escape-and-evasion technique. Don’t make contact with anyone unless You’re hurt, but I goddamn guarantee that you better be hurting real bad, because if you ask someone for help you’ll likely be captured and tortured and then the pain will be unlike anything You’ve ever experienced.

“When you get to a pickup point, don’t just march right into it—take a few hours and check it out first. If you’re able, backtrack and check your rear—we don’t want the ragheads setting up any ambushes for Your rescuers. And remember to preserve the pickup points for other unlucky saps who ‘night need it in the future. Don’t just bolt out of a spider-hole when you see the angel coming down for you if the bad guys aren’t on your tail, police your area and recamouflage everything before the pickup to make it tougher for the ragheads to find the hiding Spots. Okay.

What are your questions for me?” No responses.

“Good. I got one more thing to say,” Wohl went on. “We got three guys hurt on the last sortie, including the FNG, Major Briggs.

They’re all right, but they’ll be out of action for a few weeks. I wanted to remind all you swinging dicks that sometimes no matter how much you shake your snake, that last drop can still roll down your pants. The latest prelaunch intel had the antiaircraft stuff moved off the Tumb Islands onto Abu Musa; we didn’t know they had put more stuff on Lesser Tumbs until it was too late. Shame on us. Shit happens.

Forget about the last mission and concentrate on this one. Don’t let it get you down. We’re here to find Colonel White and our shipmates and bring ‘em back alive.

“We got some help tonight—apparently some other ISA cell is going to stir up some shit for us tonight,” Wohl said. “Maybe it’ll keep the ragheads off balance, maybe it won’t. Forget about them and concentrate on your work tonight. Our job is to go in, check the escape-and-evasion areas, rescue anyone that might be out there waiting for us, and come back alive. Let’s get loaded up.”

Wohl had picked the men personally for this patrol, so he really was not looking into each individual’s face as he went down the line just before boarding the chopper—he could usually recognize each man by his build or choice of weapons or voice or attitude.

He came to the last and most senior man in his squad, the “wheel,” who would coordinate the flight crew’s activities with the ground team. Monroe had his balaclava on, shielding his face against the freezer-like chill of the hangar. “Ready to do it tonight, Monroe?” he asked him. No response, just a thumbs-up and a rather nervous shuffling of the feet. Wohl looked and saw the man’s right finger extended out of his mitten, covering the trigger guard of his suppressed IAI Uzi .45 submachine gun—this bad boy, he thought, was ready to go …

… but unfortunately, he wasn’t going to go! “You are one stupid son of a bitch, Briggs,” Gunnery Sergeant Chris Wohl said in a low voice. “You are just too stupid for words. Did you really think I wasn’t going to notice you on my aircraft?”

Hal Briggs pulled off his balaclava. “How’d you know it was me, Gunny? You didn’t even look at my face or my eyes.”

“You’re the only one who always sticks his trigger finger outside your mitten and covers the trigger guard when he gets nervous,” Wohl said. “I noticed it the first mission we flew. Now, what the hell are you doing out here? I thought the flight doc ordered another week of bed rest.”

“I’m sick of bed rest,” Briggs said. “I’m fine. I’m ready to go.”

“The doc didn’t sign you off yet.”

“Fuck the flight surgeon, Gunny,” Briggs said. “I’m ready to go on this patrol—hell, I’ve got to go on this patrol or I’ll go nuts.”

“You were ordered to stay in bed, sir,” Wohl said. “The doc ordered it, and I ordered it. Sick or not, sir, I’M-going to kick your ass if you don’t start obeying orders.”

“You can do an operational evaluation on me,” Briggs suggested.

“Plenty of room in the Pave Hammer. Besides, Monroe can’t fly tonight—he’s got a cold or a sinus infection or something.”

“Bullshit,” Wohl said. “Stop treating me like your senile old aunt baby-sitting you when you want to sneak out to the drive-in, Briggs. You wanna override doctor’s orders and go on a patrol, just come out and say it.”

“I’m saying it already, Wohl,” Briggs said. “I want to go.”

“Disapproved,” Wohl said quickly. “You look OK to me, but I did talk to the doc today—he said he found blood on a towel in your room. You been hiding shit from the flight doc, Hal?”

“Dr. Sabin checks the towels in my damned room?” Briggs exclaimed angrily. “I want him to stay the hell out of my room.”

“Did you or didn’t you?”

Briggs didn’t reply. Instead, he asked, “How do you feel, Gunny?”

“I feel fine.”

“You sure?”

“Stick your tongue up my ass and take my temperature if you really care,” the Marine said irritably.

“Otherwise, get out of my face.”

“Why didn’t you get hit, Wohl? We were standing side by side, less than an arm’s length away from each other. Three guys went down when that antiaircraft artillery site opened up on us—two guys on one side of you, then me on the other side of you. You’re sitting in the middle and don’t get a scratch. Why the hell not?”

“Because a Marine sucks in a triple-A and spits out fire, Briggs,” Wohl said with a perfectly serious expression. “We eat barbed wire and piss napalm.”

“Yeah, yeah, hoo-rah and all that jar-head shit.”

“it aren’t jar-head shit, Briggs,” Wohl said earnestly. “I don’t know why I didn’t get hit, Briggs. Maybe I’ll get it on this trip—would that make you happy, Briggs?”

“C’mon, Gunny, I didn’t mean it that way. I’m just bored and ready to get my ass in the air again, and I can’t believe I got hit by the golden BB. I’m too young and too good-looking to get nailed by a triple-A site older than my uncle”

“I’ll tell you what I believe, Briggs: I truly believe I won’t get hit because I’m a U.S. Marine. I truly believe I’m too tough and too strong and too dumb to get hit by a little Iranian Zeus-23/4.”

“Give me a break, Chris “I’m serious as a stock market crash, Hal,” Wohl said. “You see, you’re smart, a real college boy, not a correspondence-course college boy like me. You knew it was a ZSU-23/4, knew about how deadly it is to low-flying aircraft that stray within lethal range … hell, you probably know its rate of fire, its reliability, its crew complement, its maintenance procedures.”

“Yeah, I do. So?”

“So I’m not being critical, Briggs, but maybe you got tagged because you believed you’d get tagged. You thought it was perfectly logical and understandable and proper that if we come across a Zeus-23 that’s not supposed to be there, you’d get hit by a ricochet. I, on the other hand, believe that only lily-livered pussy-whipped, pudd-pounding, tired-ass, numb-nut legs—or any officer—are weak enough to be put down by something as low-tech as a Zeus-23.”

“What about Barnes and Halmar?”

“They got it because they were sitting next to you.”

“Gimme a break, Gunny.”

“The point is, Briggs, I did not allow myself to die. I’d allow myself to die rescuing our shipmates, die with one or two fellow buddies on my shoulders, but not die by a lousy piece-of-shit Iranian ack-ack gun. And if it doesn’t kill me, it makes me stronger.” Wohl paused, shrugged, then added with a faint smile, “Or it could’ve been the non-stop praying I’d been doing, and the extra thin-line Kevlar jacket I was wearing that night.

“Now, stop screwing around and go get Monroe out here so we can get this show on the road. You want to help, go monitor the situation display in the command center. Just don’t let the flight doc see you.”

Monroe wasn’t too far away—he’d told Briggs that it would never work, so he’d been standing by, ready to go—and soon he was aboard the CV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor and the rescue mission was under way. Again, Briggs was left behind.

Dammit, he thought, it wasn’t fair! Just because he didn’t snarl and growl like a bitch in heat like all these other borrowed Marines, he had to sit on his ass and get his room searched by the flight surgeon without his knowledge!

After returning his prized Uzi and its spare magazines to the armory, Briggs checked in with the command center. Nothing would be happening for at least twenty-five minutes until the CV-22 went feet-dry. Last mission, they hadn’t made it that far—an antiaircraft artillery site on Tumb as Sughrd, or Lesser Tumb Island, had opened fire on them as they passed nearby, and they’d been hit by a half-second burst. The CV-22 had sustained minor damage; three crewmen had been wounded by flying shrapnel, including Briggs.

This time, with a little luck, Madcap Magician was going all the way into the claws of the beast: Bandar Abbas, the largest military complex in Iran and one of the largest in the Middle East. Intelligence had suggested that the survivors of the Valley Mistress might have been taken to Suru prison. They were going to check out the prison’s security and try to find any weaknesses, in case they decided they had to break in; then they would check the safe areas.

Like all areas of every country in which they operated, Madcap Magician had a series of safe areas and escape-and-evasion plans formulated that every crewman was required to memorize before each mission. During the infiltration, every crew member was kept apprised of the team’s present position, their heading, and speed, so in case the aircraft was forced down, every man knew where he was and which way to proceed to the nearest safe area. At specific times for each area, a survivor would make his way as carefully as he could to a contact point, where—with a little luck—a rescuer would be there to find him.

But every day that went by lessened the chance of a successful rescue. The Iranian army, the Revolutionary Guards, reserves, and Basic militias were everywhere, near every city, town, highway, road, railroad, bridge, and river, looking for infiltrators. A guy on the run couldn’t hold up for very long even if his health was perfect—if he was injured, as a result of an escape or fight, he’d be in bad shape.

He’d lost Colonel Paul White and ten of his best men, and he hadn’t even gotten a chance to lead them yet.

LAFAYETTE SQUARE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

THAT SAME TIME The gentleman being escorted by the tuxedo-dressed bellman through the cherry-paneled corridors of the luxurious Hay-Adams Hotel in Washington already had his jolly, glad-handed face on when he entered the small, secluded dining room. His contact and another man, probably an assistant or aide, were already waiting for him.

The double doors were closed behind him; the warm room enveloped him like a calfskin glove. Nothing like this in Tehran these days, he thought. “Ah, my friend Robert, it is good to be here with …” But his politically practiced visage changed abruptly when the man in the room turned to him.

“Mr. Sabin, please come in,” Philip Freeman, the President’s National Security Advisor, said. It was obvious that his presence was a complete shock to Sabin. He extended a hand in greeting, but Philip Freeman did not accept it. Then Sabin looked for a chair and did not find one. It was obvious this was not going to be a civil sociable meeting.

Businessman and professor Tahir Sabin was one of a rare and unusual breed, vital to governments all over the world—a well—spoken, well-traveled, educated man welcomed and employed by all sides of a dispute. A son of a wealthy landowner in eastern Turkey, Sahin’s Muslim family had escorted and guarded the Ayatollah Khomeini during his exile to Iraq via Turkey in 1963. A young Tabir Sahin had then accompanied Khomeini to the holy Shiite city of Najaf in Iraq and spent several years with him, acting as interpreter and bodyguard.

Sahin had seen firsthand the transformation of Khomeini and his vision of a worldwide Islamic revolution, and in time Sabin had become infused with much of the same burning passion as Khomeini.

When Khomeini had been deported from Iraq and moved ed to his native land and become instrumental in spreading the word about Khomeini’s impending revolution to Turkey and everywhere else he traveled in his business. When Khomeini had made his triumphant return to Iran and established his Islamic republic, Sahin had been an honored guest many times. With his Turkish passport and Iranian identity papers, signed by Khomeini himself, Sabin could travel anywhere in the world with complete safety and security.

It was after the closing of all diplomatic relations between the United States and Iran following the U.S. embassy siege in 1979 that Tahir Sahin’s real worth had stood out. Sabin had been part of the secret “arms for hostages” deals with the United States to the benefit of the Iranians, but had also helped secure the release of British, French, Italian, and American hostages held captive by pro-Iranian radicals in Lebanon. Although not credentialed with the U.S. State Department or recognized professionally by any country, Sahin had been acting as an unofficial messenger between the two governments, keeping the lines of communication open between two countries who did not have embassies in each other’s country.

The downside to having a pro-Iranian, pro-Islamic fundamentalist man like Sahin roaming freely around Washington was that he was reportedly a deputy director of an organization called the Niru-ye Entezami-e Johuriye, or Institute of Strategic Security Studies.

The ISSS was known as an Iranian defense “think tank,” which advised rich Middle East countries on emerging defense technology and strategies; but it was also widely believed to be an international intelligence front operation, designed to feed information through diplomatic channels back to Iran. If Sahin hadn’t been funneling messages back and forth between Washington and Tehran, he’d have been kicked out of the United States years ago as a suspected spy.

It was painful for Freeman to be meeting a likely Iranian spy like this, but there was no better way to impress upon Iran the seriousness of the situation that was before them now.

Tahir Sahin put his glad-happy face back on and nodded enthusiastically at his hosts. “It is indeed an unexpected honor to be here with you, General.”

“I have a simple message for President Nateq-Nouri and General Buzhazi,” Freeman interrupted. “The President of the United States views the attack on the civilian salvage vessel Valley Mistress by the Khomeini carrier battle group and the capture of its crew as an act of aggression against the United States. The President is demanding their return immediately.”

“Please, General Freeman, please,” Sahin interrupted, holding up his hands as if in surrender, “but I am nothing but a small businessman. I am not an ambassador or an emissary of any country …”

“And this is not a diplomatic visit,” Freeman interjected. “I’m asking you to deliver a message, Mr. Sahin—if you can do it, you’ll be providing a great service for both the United States and the Islamic Republic of Iran. If you can’t deliver the message, then we’ve all wasted our time here.”

Sahin nodded thoughtfully. “I will of course endeavor to do as you wish, General Freeman,” Sahin said. “I hope I have the good fortune to have the opportunity to speak with Minister Velayati or Minister Foruzandeh.”

“See to it that this message is delivered immediately, Mr. Sahin,” Freeman said. “We are going to play a little game with the Islamic Republic of Iran.”

“A game, General?”

“Yes, Mr. Sahin. Every day that an American is held captive by Iran, or his whereabouts are not known, the United States will attack a military target inside Iran. You will not know where, or when, or how, only that it will happen. The United States will not publicize this; no public comments will be made. The targets will be vital military installations and command-and-control targets. The goal of the strikes will be gradually to weaken Iran’s air defense, command, mobility, and long-range strike capability so that if war does break out, Iran will have difficulty defending its borders from attack or will find its forces substantially weakened or unable to mobilize.”

Tahir Sahin laughed a hesitant, nervous laugh. “This … this is very odd, General Freeman,” he said. “This … this is tantamount to terrorism!”

“Call it what you will,” Freeman said. “If the captives are not released, Iran will suffer the consequences.”

“Does this concern the proposal by the Islamic Republic to exclude all foreign warships from the Persian Gulf?” Sahin asked. “Is this an attempt to induce Iran to capitulate?”

“This has nothing to do with the Persian Gulf,” Freeman said. “in fact, the President is seriously considering that proposal, and he may agree to it with some modifications. This only concerns the thirteen men missing from the salvage vessel Valley Mistress. The President wants those men immediately released unharmed and unmolested in any way—no questioning, no interrogation, no coercion.”

Sahin shook his head, his eyes blankly scanning the room in complete surprise. “This is a very unexpectedly belligerent and arrogant stance the President is taking, General Freeman,” he said. “Is the President truly in control, or is it possible that the military has taken over the White House?”

“The President is in control, I assure you,” Freeman replied. “If I were in control, I’d have destroyed all of Iran’s military bases one by one, sent Iran’s carrier to the bottom of the Gulf of Oman, and had U.S. troops occupy Hormozgan Province by now.”

“Do you believe such a belligerent, intractable attitude will help improve relations with Iran or assist in negotiations, General?”

“Perhaps you don’t understand, Mr. Sahin: the United States is not negotiating anything at this time,” Freeman said, turning to leave. “The attacks will commence and will continue until our demands are met. The President may open negotiations for the removal of land-attack warships from the Persian Gulf, but as for the topic of the survivors of the Valley Mistress, we will not negotiate. The attacks will commence and will continue until our demands are met. Good day, Mr. Sahin.”

“This is … this is highly irregular!” Sahin blurted out as Freeman reached the door. “I must take with me some proof of this discussion, some sign that you and I spoke-“

“The only proof you need is the news that a military target inside Iran has been destroyed,” Freeman said. He checked his Ulysses-Nardin multi-zone watch and added, “In fact, the first attack should be happening at any moment. It will be in retaliation for the illegal and unwarranted attack on the Valley Mistress. Good day to you, Mr. Sahin.”

ABOARD THE B-2A SPIRIT STEALTH BOMBER AV-011, OVER IRAN THAT SAME TIME McLanahan finished typing in commands on the supercockpit display. “SAR configured,” he announced. “No terrain returns, no large cultural returns, moving-target mode enabled.” He turned to Jamieson: “Ready, AC?”

“I was born ready, MC,” Jamieson said gruffly. “Take the shot.”

“Here we go,” McLanahan said easily, “radar enabled … radar transmitting …” then, just two seconds later, he announced, “radar’s in standby.”

“Two seconds is plenty long for the ragheads to track us, MC,” Jamieson pointed out angrily. “A standard SAR shot is one second max, dammit.”

That point was most important while they were so close, because in order to transmit the synthetic aperture radar, COMBAT m ode was temporarily suspended. Part of going into COMBAT mode was the activation of the B-2A stealth bomber’s ANNUQ-13 BEADS system, the Bomber Electronic Attenuation Defensive System, or the “cloaking device.” BEADS electrified the outer surface of the B-2A bomber and the cockpit windshield with positive ions, in effect turning the aircraft into a giant electron magnet.

With the “cloaking device” activated, very little electromagnetic energy could penetrate the positron field-electrons were “sucked” into the field and dissipated behind the aircraft; similarly, electromagnetic energy radiated from the bomber was also absorbed.

Along with the radar-absorbing materials in the bomber’s non-metallic composite surface and the low reflective makeup of the composite structure, BEADS reduced the bomber’s radar cross-section by 60 to 70 percent, depending on the range and power of the radar. The remaining 40 percent of the reflected radar energy was diverted in different directions by the unique shape of the bomber itself. The end result: less than 1 percent of the radar energy of even the most powerful radars in the world returned to its sender after hitting the B-2A Spirit stealth bomber.

The drawback to BEADS was that if electronic emissions couldn’t go in, they also couldn’t go out. In COMBAT mode, the crew couldn’t transmit on the radios, couldn’t receive radio or satellite messages or navigation signals, couldn’t use the MAWS defensive missile tracking system, and could not use the synthetic aperture radar. The “cloaking device” automatically deactivated itself when the crew took an SAR shot or bypassed the safety interlocks to use the radios or get a navigation fix while in COMBAT mode.

Even though a typical SAR shot was very short, in that short time frame the B-2A bomber’s radar cross-section grew several times larger than normal—very dangerous when so close to enemy air defenses.

To Jamieson, activating the SAR and shutting off BEADS was like dipping his dick into a tank filled with piranhas—the less time in there, the better. He might not get attacked the moment he stuck it in, but the longer it stayed in there, the better his chances of getting it bitten off, and sure as hell, the piranhas would be ready and waiting for the next time he dipped it in.

“This isn’t a standard SAR shot, AC,” McLanahan said. “Besides, the SAR computer decides how long the exposure will be, based on the mode programmed, the environmental conditions, the signal strength—I don’t control it … stand by, second shot coming up … ready … now … radar in standby, SAR routine ended, radar disenabled.”

“A second shot? What in hell is that for? Jesus, McLanahan, that thing’s going to kill us!”

“Threat scope’s clear, AC.”

“Lucky for us,” groused Jamieson. “What in hell was the second shot for?”

“Watch.” Jamieson watched the big supercockpit screen—and was amazed at what he saw. Overlaid on the chart of Hormozgan Province was a radar picture filled with tiny blips.

“Here’s all the small cultural returns we picked up,” McLanahan explained. “Since an SA-10 or Hawk on its transporter-erector-launcher might be stationary or moving, we’ve got to check both, so all are displayed. I simply instruct the computer to search for returns that match the size of a Grumble or Hawk TEL, either in road-march configuration or in launch position … now.” In a matter of seconds, all but a handful of the dots disappeared. There were about two dozen blips remaining.

“We’ve got a few, but not as many as before. From here, we can just pick one, and we check it out. The SAR will not pick up decoys unless they’re close to the same mass as a real missile, so inflatable decoys or decoys made out of wood won’t show. But before we search, I’ll be looking for a few other items.

According to our intel guys, a pre-surveyed launch point will have a fence surrounding it. I’ll tell the computer to pick out any returns that look like that.”

“This radar will pick up something as small as a fence?”

“With ease,” McLanahan said. Sure enough, several such objects were selected. McLanahan rolled a cursor over one blip that was sitting a few hundred yards off a small secondary highway, then entered in some voice commands. The blip began to grow in size until it filled the supercockpit screen—and to Jamieson’s amazement, he could easily identify the return. “Holy shit, it looks like a cattle car!”

“I’d say that’s what it is, too,” McLanahan agreed. It was easy to do—the image was as sharp and clear as a black-and-white photo in daytime. He entered a command and the image disappeared and switched to the next blip. After automatically enlarging again, they finally found their quarry. “We got one.”

Jamieson was astounded. There it was, a nearly photographic radar picture of an SA-10 Grumble surface-to-air missile on its transporter-erector-launcher, similar in size and appearance to a Patriot missile system. They could clearly see every detail—its fins, the shape of its nose cone, even that the driver’s side door of the tractor truck pulling the TEL had been left open. “This is unbelievable!” he exclaimed.

“We goddamn found a mobile SA-10 missile deployed in the field!”

McLanahan was typing commands into his supercockpit terminal.

“And now NSA and the Intelligence Support Agency know where it is, too,” he said. “We’re flightplanned to be in the orbit for the next fifteen minutes—let’s see if we can find some more.”

For the next fifteen minutes, McLanahan systematically checked the blips on the supercockpit display, changing the search parameters after every search—blips on the road, blips on the rail lines, blips inside fences, blips out in the open, blips moving, blips not moving—then went back, rechecked the original size parameters, expanded them out slightly to get more returns, then searched again. In fifteen minutes, they had charted six new air defense missile sites near Bandar Abbas—including several decoys set up close to the real missile sites. The Iranians had set up a piece of steel sewer pipe on a flatbed tractor-trailer, very close to the size and appearance of the real SA-10 Grumble.

“Threat scope’s clear,” McLanahan said. “Search radars only.

Ready to stir up some dirt?”

“Go for it,” Jamieson said.

“Stand by for bomb doors,” McLanahan said. “Doors coming open …

now …” Jamieson and McLanahan felt a rumble in the B-2A bomber’s normally rock-solid fuselage as the four massive “barn door” bomb doors opened. Just as the doors opened, a “IO” symbol with a diamond symbol around it appeared, and they heard a low, slow “Deedle … deedle … deedle …” sound in their headphones.

“SA-100 searching …”

“C’mon dammit,” Jamieson muttered, “launch, son of a bitch, launch!” The B-2A bomber was now at its most vulnerable position: with its bomb-bay doors open, its radar cross-section was just as large as any major aircraft. And as it launched missiles, the missile’s track through the sky would point directly back at the retreating B-2A, showing the way for enemy gunners to take a shot and bag a billion-dollar bomber.

“Launcher rotation completed, stand by for missile launch …

missile one away … two away …” Jamieson expected to feel a lurch or a bump or something as the 4,000-pound missiles left the plane, but there was nothing, except for the graphic depictions of shapes leaving the little bomb-bay drawing on his MDU.

The diamond around the “IO” symbol on the threat scope began to blink, and they heard a higher-pitched, faster deedledeedledeedle warning sound. “Height-finder active!” McLanahan shouted. He put his fingers on the supercockpit screen on the buttons marked MAWS and ECM. “Launchers rotating … stand by … three away …

four … five … six missiles away … bomb doors moving … bomb doors closed Just then, both the diamond and the “10” symbol began blinking, and a computer-synthesized voice announced, MISSILE LAUNCH … MISSILE LAUNCH … McLanahan immediately hit the MAWS and Ecm buttons. The Missile Approach and Warning System was an active missile defense system on the B-2A bomber designed to actually protect the bomber, not just jam a missile’s tracking systems. As soon as the SA-10 missile launch was detected, a small radar dome extended from a compartment near the B-2A bomber’s tail, the radar slaved itself to the azimuth of the SA-10 missile site, and the radar began scanning the sky for the missile itself.

The MAWS’s ALQ-199 HAVE GLANCE radar tracked it, displayed its position to the crew on the pilot’s main screen, and a computer suggested which way to turn to evade it by making corrections to the terrain-following autopilot. The computer also ejected bundles of chaff—thin slivers of metal that would create huge radar-reflective clouds in the sky and hopefully decoy the Hawk radar—and also sequenced the ECM (electronic countermeasures) track breakers’ jamming signals to allow computer-controlled jammer-free “corridors” that would “point the way” for the Grumble’s radar to lock on to the cloud of chaff.

As the SA-10 missile rose through the sky toward the B-2A bomber, the next and most high-tech aspect of the MAWS system activated—MAWS shot high-powered laser beams at the approaching missile, blinding its seeker head and overheating the missile’s guidance electronics. In less than three seconds, the Grumble was deaf and blind, flew harmlessly behind the B-2A, and then self-destructed as it began its death plunge toward the Persian Gulf.

“Good connectivity on all missiles,” McLanahan reported. “Good signal … I’ve got flight-control surface deployment on all missiles, good guidance. They’re on their way.”

In thirty seconds, the first attack was over—and Jamieson realized he hadn’t done a thing, hadn’t even touched the throttles, and his right hand was resting only lightly on the control stick. They’d needed no evasive maneuvers, no threading their way around terrain trying to hug the ground to hide from enemy radar, no coordinated defensive maneuvers.

It was so sterile, so robotic—almost inhuman. Shadows of steel, death from nowhere, from everywhere …

But it didn’t stay quiet for long. Seconds later, the searchradar signal had changed, and Jamieson saw a bright yellow arc on the threat scope, aimed very close to the B-2A, slowly becoming narrower and narrower until it was a line. Fortunately, the line also began to offset behind the center of the scope, meaning that it was not locked onto the B-2A. “Height finder active again,” McLanahan said. “Looks like they’re locked on to one of the JSOWS. JSOWs have responded … looks like missile number two is tracking.”