Shadows of steel pm-5

by Dale Brown

  “Then let’s do it,” the President said. “Brief me on the plan, and let’s get started.”

  “You should think about this for a time, Mr. President,” Freeman said. “The plan involves great personal political risk.”

  “Philip, this job is nothing but a long list of great personal political risks,” President Martindale said. “But I told you, I want that carrier stopped. If you got a way to do it without starting a general war in the Middle East-“

  “Or Asia, sir?” Freeman interjected.

  The President hesitated—Freeman and the other advisers could see the President avert his eyes, thinking hard, perhaps reconsidering …

  “Or Asia,” the President said. “Let’s hear it.” And with that, Philip Freeman began outlining his plan to the President and his advisers.

  TEHRAN, IRAN THAT SAME TIME Smiling, General Buzhazi hung up the dead phone. “Your threats will do you no good, President Martindale,” he said. To Air Force General Sattari, Buzhazi’s acting chief of staff, he asked, “Is the mission ready to proceed, General?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sattari responded. “Backfire bombers from Esfahan and attack planes from Bandar Abbas will attack the United Arab Emirates’ bases at Taweela, Mina Saqr, and Mina Sultan, and the Omani naval base on the Musandam Peninsula; six fighter-bombers from the Khomeini will attack Sib Air and Naval Base near Muscat in Oman. Six fighters from the Khomeini will provide primary air cover to the east, backed up by fighters from Chah Bahar; Bandar Abbas and Abu Musa will provide air- and ground-based air defense cover for the western attackers. The attack will be perfectly coordinated so that all attacks are simultaneous and that air defense fighters will launch and cover the strikers’ retreat, without alerting anyone that an attack is imminent.”

  “And what about the Americans?” Buzhazi asked. “The Americans patrol the Arabian Peninsula almost all the way to the Gulf of Oman.”

  “We outnumber all Western and GCC aircraft by a factor of three to one,” Sattari responded. “As you ordered, we shall launch six fighters for every one of theirs. The American and Saudi F-15s are respectable, but they are not a match for a locust swarm of MiG-29s and their own F-14 Tomcats.”

  “Very good,” Buzhazi said. “And the preparations for an attack by their stealth bombers?”

  “Radar sites from Shiraz to Char Babar are now all synchronized.

  We cover the entire Persian Gulf and Gulf of Oman region with radar capable of detecting the B-2A stealth bomber,” Sattari replied proudly. “The network is controlled by the master combat information center aboard the Khomeini, but any radar facility can become the master combat center if the others should go off the line. The long-range air defense radars around Tehran have also been synchronized, and soon all of Iran’s long-range radar systems will be synchronized to be able to detect stealth aircraft.”

  “And what of our preparations for the follow-on attacks?”

  “We are ready, sir,” Sattari reported. “We have two fighter bomber and one additional fighter-interceptor teams ready to fly in follow-up sorties should the first round of attacks prove successful. The slowest element in the follow-on sorties will be the carrier-based aircraft, so we have split their force into two bomber and two fighter elements, to provide continuous air defense patrols while the bombers land and depart. The other elements from Chah Bahar and Bandar Abbas will be ready to attack the follow-on targets in Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, and Qatar immediately.

  In addition, other forces from Tabriz and Mahabad will be standing by to strike targets in Turkey if you so order.”

  “Excellent, General, excellent,” Buzhazi said. “The attack will commence tonight. May Allah be with our pilots!”

  ANDERSEN AIR FORCE BASE, GUAM 28 APRIL 1997, 1551 HOURS LOCAL Patrick McLanahan was on the third-floor catwalk of the hangar in which his B-2A Spirit stealth bomber was going through its final maintenance checks. He wore a black flight suit with no patches or insignia—it looked like mechanic’s overalls—with Chinese-made flight boots, thick and woolly.

  “The thousand-yard stare again,” Wendy McLanahan said as she approached him. She linked her arm in his and rested her head on his right shoulder. “They did a pretty good job on it in such a short time,” she said, looking at the left engine nacelles.

  “Can’t even tell you were hit by an Iranian missile and almost blown into a thousand pieces.”

  “Wendy..

  “This is really a crazy idea,” Wendy said irritably, “and I can’t believe you thought of it, and I can’t believe Freeman accepted it.

  “It’s the only way we can do it, Wendy,” Patrick said absently, still staring at nothing, as if trying to look into the future and see if this was going to work. “If there was another way, I’m open to suggestions…”

  “I’ve got one—let it be. Let the Iranian carrier be,” Wendy said angrily. “No one has declared war here, Patrick. Paul White and the survivors of the Valley Mistress are safe, Hal got back at the Iranians for what they did—aren’t we even now?”

  “We were—until Buzhazi had President Nateq-Nouri killed,” Patrick said. “It’s obvious that he doesn’t want peace. He wants to take that carrier battle group and wreak havoc in the entire region, all for the sake of glory and power for himself.”

  “Why risk your life for a man you didn’t know—for an Iranian,” Wendy asked incredulously. “He was just another fundamentalist Muslim looking to infect the rest of the world with his brand of Islam by whatever means he could..

  “Nateq-Nouri was a man who wanted peace,” Patrick said. “He wasn’t a Muslim fundamentalist—he was a realist. He may not have liked the United States, but he was wise enough to think of innovative ways to avoid a conflict. Buzhazi’s not a fundamentalist, either—he’s a homicidal psychopath. He’s out there taking shots at our aircraft carriers with Backfire bombers and supersonic cruise missiles just for fun. What if he gets lucky and lands a one-ton warhead on the decks of the Abraham Lincoln, or decides to put a torpedo into one of our ships? How many Americans does he have to kill before we should go after him?” Wendy had no answer for him.

  They stood together for a few minutes longer, until Patrick looked at his watch and sighed. “I’ve got to go,” he said.

  “I know,” Wendy responded. He hugged Wendy closely, and she started to cry. “You know … you know we talked about trying to have another child,” Wendy said in a tiny voice through her tears.

  “We should stop trying …

  “What?” Patrick asked. “Why, Wendy? We both want one so much.

  Why …?” He read the sorrow in her eyes, then shook his head in exasperation. “Is it because I’m with Future Flight? Dammit, Wendy, I was afraid this would happen. I never should have accepted this Future flight assignment. I was happy working the pub in Old Sacrament’, “No you weren’t,” Wendy interjected. “You wanted to come back, wanted to start flying again. When Freeman came along, it was a dream come true for you. You made a decision.”

  “But I love you, Wendy. I want us to be happy. I know how much you want a child, how upset you were when you lost the first one.

  If it means that much to you, Wendy, I’ll quit.

  “You will? Right now? Three hours before takeoff?”

  “Yes,” Patrick said resolutely. “You mean more to me than this mission or Future Flight or even the damned country!

  Wendy was so surprised that she had to remember to close her mouth. “I … I can’t believe this …

  you’d do that for me? For us?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s so sweet … I love you so much, Patrick,” Wendy said.

  “But that’s not what I meant.”

  “What? You don’t … I’m confused, Wendy. What are you saying?

  Don’t you want me to quit flying?”

  “Of course not,” Wendy said. “What, and watch you stare off into space and mope around the House all day and yell and scream at the employees all night? No, you’re doing what you lov
e to do, and you’re the best at it, so keep doing it. I’ll consult for Jon Masters, and telecommute with Sky Masters from home while I take care of our baby.”

  “Our … our what?”

  “Our baby, bomber-brain—our offspring, our rug-rat, our cookie-cruncher,” Wendy said. “We can stop trying to have a baby because we did it—I’m pregnant.”

  “But … but how …?”

  “How? Your mom never told you the facts of life?”

  “No, dammit … I thought you couldn’t have a baby after the accident because of trauma to your follicles or something … I thought we had to do all that in vitro fertilization stuff, do the test tubes and the echography and follicle punctures …”

  “Well, either it was an immaculate conception or the doctors were wrong about the old lady’s plumbing, because we got pregnant the old-fashioned way—without Synarel sprays or Pergonal shots or micromanipulation,” Wendy said proudly. “You’re going to be a daddy after all—that is, as long as you come back to me.”

  “Of course I’ll be back, Wendy,” Patrick said. “Even if I have to walk. If I’ve got any skill, if I’ve got any luck, if I’ve got any brains at all, I’ll use them all to come back to YOU.”

  They embraced again, tighter than ever before; and even amid the sounds of external power carts and shouting soldiers and missiles and weapons being uploaded and all the other sounds of war in that hangar, for a brief instant in time, there were only the two of them, together forever Takeoff was shortly after darkness set in on Guam. After the area was cleared for any unidentified aircraft or vessels, Air Vehicle 011 launched from Andersen’s north-south runway, instantly 500 feet above the ocean as it left the runway because the end of the runway was on a tall cliff on Guam’s northernmost tip. McLanahan couldn’t help but think of the last time he had taken a B-2 bomber into combat from Guam—they almost hadn’t made it. But that was a lifetime ago, it seemed.

  The launch brought the same thrill of fear into Tony Jamieson’s heart. He remembered all too well their mission against the Chinese navy and air force over the Philippines.

  And this mission was even more insane. They had planned it less, and all the planning had been done by McLanahan—a damned civilian, no less!—along with his computers and his buddies at Sky Masters, Inc. The enemy was more numerous, better equipped, better prepared, and they were on their home turf, defending their homeland. But Jamieson had agreed to do it—he couldn’t back out now. He had to prove to himself that he really did have the right stuff to fly into combat.

  Just two hours after takeoff, over the Philippine Sea between Luzon and the Batan Islands, they rendezvoused with a KC-135 tanker that had taken off before them, and they topped off their tanks—it was the loneliest feeling in the world to see that KC-135 leave. They began a step-climb to 48,000 feet, saving as much fuel as possible. Both crew members could see the lights of Manila about 300 miles to the south; 300 miles north were the lights of Taipei, and off the B-2A’s curved beak nose on the horizon were the lights of Victoria and Macao. They altered course slightly to avoid overflying Hong Kong …

  … but went feet-dry over the city of Zhelang, Guangdong Province, in the People’s Republic of China. They were overflying China on their way to strike Iran.

  “I don’t friggin’ believe this,” Jamieson said, “but we’re doing it. We’ve just violated China’s airspace with an armed strategic bomber.”

  The huge naval and air base at Guangzhou was the biggest concern right now. They had picked up strong radar and air defense signals from more than 300 miles out, shortly after completing their aerial refueling. Guangzhou was alive with air defense systems—most older, ex-Soviet systems, like the Vietnam-era SA-2 long-range “flying telephone pole” missile; China was flying late-evening air patrols as well. The majority of Chinese air interceptors on patrol showed on the threat scope as MiG-21s, with a few more modern Sukhoi27s in the mix. “Well, the Chinese air force is certainly awake tonight,” Jamieson commented. “Training day, I hope.

  Just then, one of the Chinese-built Xian J-7 fighters, copies of the Russian MiG-21, swept its radar beam across the B-2A stealth bomber—and the green triangle representing its search radar changed to yellow. Shit, that MiG-21 locked onto us!” Jamieson called out. “He’s at eight o’clock, twenty miles!”

  “If we get intercepted, our best plan is an emergency descent, then deviate southwest across Laos or Burma,” McLanahan said, repeating their hastily planned escape procedures. “Range to the Laotian border is about five hundred miles. Radar coverage is almost nonexistent to the southwest.”

  “If he gets an eyeball on us, we’ll be lucky to make it five minutes, let alone five hundred miles,” Jamieson muttered. But thankfully, the fighter’s radar broke lock a few moments later, and he did not reacquire. “God, that was close.”

  But it wasn’t over yet. Several minutes later, another fighter—this one a Russian-built Sukhoi-27, a much more up-to-date fighter-bomber—started sweeping the area, searching for the B-2A bomber—and seconds later, it too showed a lock-on.

  “The Su-27’s got us,” McLanahan said. “Seven o’clock, fifteen miles.”

  “What in hell’s going on?” Jamieson asked. “Recheck your switches.” But after quickly scanning the status page of the computer readouts, they could find nothing out of place—they were in COMBAT mode, with all stealth and defensive systems on and functioning. “That’s two in a row.

  Are we hanging something?”

  “That’s got to be it,” McLanahan said. “Try a turn to the left.”

  Sure enough, as soon as they turned into the fighter, the yellow target-tracking radar turned to a green search radar, and the fighter began sweeping the skies in other directions, trying to lock on. The closest he got was ten miles, well outside visual range even with night-vision optics.

  “I was afraid of that,” Jamieson said. “Field maintenance in a B-2A bomber is not like any other plane. The maintenance crews have to be specially trained, and the plane has to be checked to make sure its stealth characteristics weren’t altered. One fastener not screwed in all the way, one seam not in perfect alignment, one ding in the skin, can destroy the stealth characteristics and increase the radar cross-section two or three times.” Jamieson turned to McLanahan. “We got a decision to make, bub. The Chinese generally are known to have shitty military stuff, but their standard line aircraft got a lock-on and closed within missile range—twice. Iran’s got top-of-the-line stuff; so do India and Pakistan. Burma’s our last safe chance to get out.”

  McLanahan knew that they had no choice—the mission was in serious jeopardy. “All right,” he said, “I have to agree. I think we can still make it, but the risk is too much. We’ll execute the Burma escape route; once we’re clear of Chinese radar coverage, I’ll flash a message to Andersen to schedule a tanker.” In the back of his head was Wendy’s surprise message, too—he was going to be a father. He couldn’t risk his first child growing up without him.

  As McLanahan composed their status and abort message for satellite relay, they continued on for another hour until they were well clear of the Chinese air defense region near Chengdu, where it was safe to temporarily deactivate the AN/VUQ-13 BEADS “cloaking device,” get a GPS satellite navigation fix, and activate the encoded satellite transceiver. Just as McLanahan was ready to send his message, a priority message came in.

  “Shit,” McLanahan said. “Iran is attacking the United Arab Emirates and Oman!”

  “What?”

  “Bomber attacks on three bases in the UAE and two bases in Oman,” McLanahan read. “Iran is shutting down any Gulf Cooperative Council base that might threaten the carrier Khomeini while it’s stationed in the Gulf of Oman. Extensive Iranian fighter coverage throughout the region, including near the Abraham Lincoln battle group … no U.S. or GCC air defense units were able to respond.

  The attack came out of nowhere.”

  “We’ll get plastered,” Jamieson said. “If Iran presses th
e attack, we could lose every usable air and naval base east of the Red Sea. We’d …” He knew … they both knew, what this meant—they couldn’t abort their mission now. Their B-2A bomber was the only allied strike aircraft in the Gulf region ready to fight back, the only one that could shut off the Iranian surge.

  “What’s our ETE to the area, MC?”

  “About three hours,” McLanahan responded.

  “Well, we won’t be in time to help in the first series of attacks, but we can sure as hell do some damage in the second,” Jamieson said. “Let’s get cloaked up again and get back on the blue line—we’ve got an aircraft carrier to knock out.”

  Once past Chengdu, all Chinese air defense activity dropped off markedly. They deactivated BEADS to get more target and status updates via satellite, activating the system once again as they neared Lhasa in southern China, then again as they approached Kathmandu in Nepal.

  As they came closer to India, they studied the updated threat charts closely. “I think it’s too risky,” McLanahan said finally.

  “The original plan had us crossing northern India and Pakistan, which is the shortest track, but the radar coverage is too thick there—the border skirmishes between India and Pakistan over the Punjab and Kashmir have that area too heavily fortified. Our best bet would be to extend farther north and go through Afghanistan north of Kabul, then south to Chah Bahar.”

  “What’s that do to our fuel status?” Jamieson asked.

  “It’ll add another hour to our flight time,” McLanahan said. “If we assume that all our divert bases on the Arabian Peninsula and Turkey are unavailable because of Iran’s attacks, that means we either hit a tanker right away over the Arabian Sea on the outbound leg, or we splash down—Diego Garcia goes away as an alternate. No other safe alternates are available.”

  “What’s our decision point?”