by Dale Brown
The vice president fell silent again; he then nodded, and his eyes had a new fire in them. “I have a new project for you, Mr. Dobson,” he said, a mischievous smile growing on his face.
Tim smiled in return. “Yes, Mr. Vice President,” he said. “I’m in.”
“Good.” Phoenix picked up the phone, and a few moments later Patrick McLanahan’s image reappeared on the videoconference monitor. “Where are you, Patrick?” he asked.
“ Sunnyvale, California, sir.”
“More importantly: Do you have any CIDs and Tin Men available?” He noticed Patrick glancing at Dobson, then said, “This is Tim Dobson, CIA, on my space-policy-review panel; I just enlisted him to plan a few other projects for me.”
“As you know, sir, all but one of the CIDs were destroyed in Iraq, and the survivor was badly damaged,” Patrick said after a slight hesitation. “It was confiscated by the Army, including all remaining weapon packs and the electromagnetic rail guns. They also took possession of all of the remaining Tin Man suits, including battery packs.”
The vice president smiled. “Mr. Dobson is okay, Patrick.”
Patrick still didn’t look convinced, but after a few additional moments of consideration, he said, “Jon Masters has a number of operational Tin Man outfits and a few more in various stages of completion. He’s made a few design changes, incorporating what he learned working with the CID units.”
“What about the CID units, Patrick?” the vice president asked. “Is anyone building them anymore?”
“I don’t believe Dr. Masters has any CIDs-that wasn’t a Sky Masters creation,” Patrick explained. “The Air Battle Force bought the last remaining units, the ones used in Iraq.”
“If the Air Force bought them, General McLanahan, how did Scion Aviation International, the contracting group you headed, get them?” Dobson asked.
Patrick glanced at Dobson, hesitated again, then decided to ignore the question. “I know Colonel Jason Richter and Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Turlock at the Army Transformational Battlelab were in charge of what remained of the CID project now at Aberdeen Proving Ground,” he said, “but I haven’t been in contact for some time.”
“You had some other pretty interesting devices, if I recall,” Phoenix went on. “In particular, a way to insert commandos into enemy territory from long distances and fly them out again?”
“What exactly do you have in mind, sir?” Patrick asked.
“Just brainstorming here.”
Patrick’s expression slowly changed from distrust, confusion, and caution to one of curiosity and finally to pleasure. “I believe you’re referring to the MQ-35 Condor, sir,” he said with a slight smile. “We could load up four commandos and their gear and drop them from a stealth bomber, and it could glide up to two hundred miles. If it survived the landing without much damage, it could take off again and fly out again.”
“That’s the one.”
“That was a Lake project,” Patrick said. Even on a secure link, most veterans of the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center hesitated to use the term “HAWC” or the other common names, “Dreamland” or “ Groom Lake,” because of the intense security surrounding America ’s most secure military aerospace testing facility. “I haven’t had top-level security clearance for some time, so I don’t know if the Condor is still active.”
“Jon Masters would know, wouldn’t he?”
“I don’t know, sir. Everything is pretty compartmentalized out there.”
“We’ll check.”
“I don’t know if I have the security clearance for that place,” Dobson said, “if it’s the place I think you’re referring to.”
“You will,” Phoenix said, “and you will, too, Patrick, if it’s necessary.”
“They don’t do much on air-combat systems these days out there, sir,” Patrick said. “They concentrate on more support services, intelligence, unmanned aerial vehicles, and tactical transport. I believe Brigadier General Martin Tehama is still commanding.”
“Not a friend of yours, if I remember correctly.”
“We have different leadership styles and unit philosophies, yes, sir.”
“What about that other group you know, the ones that helped us out over Turkey?”
Patrick’s smile disappeared, and his mouth dropped open ever so slightly as he looked at Dobson again. “Sir, are you certain you want to bring that up?” he asked.
The vice president turned to Tim Dobson. “You’re standing at the edge of the river Rubicon, Mr. Dobson,” he said seriously. “The point of no return. You will learn things that could mark you as a legitimate threat to persons who wield great power, persons from whom even my office might not be able to protect you. You could say no and your life and career will be unaffected, I guarantee that. But if you say yes, your life will change in ways even you could never imagine.”
“Sir, I don’t think we should be pressuring Mr. Dobson like this,” Patrick said. “He’s in the White House Situation Room sitting next to the vice president of the United States. Do you really expect him to say no to anything you ask him?”
“Excuse me, General McLanahan, but I think I’m capable of making that decision,” Tim said, with a determination in his voice that surprised the others. “I’ve been in the CIA since I graduated from Rutgers fifteen years ago. I voted for President Gardner, but I know this is the most uncomfortable I’ve felt about the future of the United States since President Thorn. The vice president is asking me questions about things I hoped I’d been asked about years ago.” He turned to Phoenix. “I say yes, Mr. Vice President.”
“And how do you know you can trust Mr. Dobson, sir?” Patrick asked. “He’s on your space-policy-review panel, but maybe he would find a way to use this information to advance his career faster.”
Ken Phoenix looked at Dobson carefully, then nodded. “I don’t know I can trust him, Patrick…but I feel I can,” he said finally. “I had the same feeling about you, back in President Martindale’s White House, and you haven’t let me down.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got fifteen minutes before my next meeting. What are you up to today, Patrick?”
“I’m available for anything you need me for, sir.”
“Good. The president agreed to send the Seventh Air Expeditionary Squadron out to the Middle East to shadow the Russians. I don’t know where they’ll be based, but they’re going to put on a little show of force to the Chinese and Russians.”
“Good idea, sir,” Patrick said.
“That might make them available for other missions,” Phoenix said. “The president is getting too open and chummy with the Russians and Chinese for my liking, so I’d like to think up some options. Let’s go back to my office and we’ll get hooked up again there. I’ll get you started, and then you can take over, Patrick. You’ve got your old security clearance back again, General.”
“Thank you, sir,” Patrick said.
“You, too, Mr. Dobson-you’re going to wear the supersecret decoder ring from now on,” the vice president said. “Whatever you thought your future looked like, it doesn’t anymore.” Both he and Patrick could see Dobson do a nervous swallow, but he still nodded determinedly. “Patrick, tell Mr. Dobson what we need and find out how we can get it; draw up a plan, and I’ll brief the president. Let’s see how serious the president is about getting to the bottom of Russia ’s and China ’s plans against our satellites.”
OVER THE GULF OF ADEN, 400 MILES EAST OF ADEN, REPUBLIC OF YEMEN
DAYS LATER
“Attention unidentified aircraft, attention unidentified aircraft,” the stern, heavily accented voice said in English on 243.0 megahertz, the international UHF emergency frequency, “approaching the fiftieth meridian, flying west at thirty-five thousand feet, this is patrol aircraft of the navy of the Russian Federation Southern Fleet on GUARD. You are on course to approach a Russian navy aircraft carrier task force. If you do not alter course, you will be intercepted, and if your identity or stores cannot be verified as
peaceful, you will be forced to alter course. The use of deadly force is authorized and you may be fired on without warning. Respond on UHF GUARD frequency, please.”
“Our friends are calling,” Lieutenant Colonel Gia “Boxer” Cazzotto, aircraft commander of a U.S. Air Force EB-1C “Vampire” bomber, said on intercom. Beside her in the cockpit of the highly modified long-range strategic bomber was Major Alan “Frodo” Friel, the mission commander. Boxer was the commander of the 7th Air Expeditionary Squadron, a small bomber unit based at Air Force Plant 42 in Palmdale, California. Originally organized to flight-test refurbished B-1 bombers taken out of storage, the 7th AES-being one of only a handful of American heavy bomber squadrons still in existence-was occasionally tasked for real-world missions.
The EB-1C Vampire bomber was one example of a state-of-the-art refurbished design. To date, fifteen airframes had been taken out of flyable storage, modified, and upgraded to perform a dazzling array of missions, making it a true “flying battleship.” Although originally designed for four crewmembers, this EB-1C bomber was so computerized and automated that all attack and defensive functions could be performed by just two-or, operated as an unmanned attack aircraft, with none.
“All countermeasures in ‘PASSIVE’ mode, Boxer,” Frodo responded. Friel definitely resembled the character from whom his call sign was derived-he was much shorter than Cazzotto, with big round eyes, thick curly brown hair under his flight helmet, and light skin. All of the bomber’s defensive systems-electronic jammers, decoys, and active antimissile emitters-were not operating, only listening for threats. “He sounds pretty belligerent to me. I thought this was all worked out in advance? What’s that about?”
“Maybe it’s for practice, Frodo,” Boxer said.
“Fracture Two-One, this is Armstrong,” Major Jessica “Gonzo” Faulkner radioed via satellite from Armstrong Space Station.
“We’ve got two bandits at your twelve o’clock, one hundred miles, four-eight-zero knots, definitely heading your way.”
“Roger, Armstrong,” Boxer replied. “Nice to know you’re watching over us.”
“We might have spotty coverage here and there, but we’ll be watching as best we can until you’re back on the ground.”
“Thanks, guys.” She switched to the secondary channel and spoke: “Russian fleet patrol aircraft, this is Fracture Two-One on GUARD, we read you loud and clear. Over.”
“Fracture Two-One, switch to fleet reserved frequency two-two-nine-point-zero.”
“Switching,” Boxer replied. On the new frequency: “Two-One is up.”
“Fracture Two-One, squawk mode three-two-two-seven-one, mode C normal.” Frodo set in the new transponder codes. “I have you radar-identified, Fracture. Do not approach any Russian warships. Be advised, we will intercept you at this time for positive visual identification. Do not change altitude or airspeed. Over.”
“Fracture Two-One, roger.”
“I don’t understand why we’re doing these flights,” Frodo complained. “Just public relations?”
“I’m sure it started out as a real surveillance mission,” Boxer replied, “but then someone got nervous that there might be another accident, like the Bush-carrier episode, so the diplomats huddled and changed the rules of engagement. Now it’s just pictures and a flyby.”
“We can’t do anything anyway,” Frodo said. “All we’re carrying are the AMRAAMs.” The forward bomb bay carried a rotary launcher fitted with eight AIM-120 AMRAAM radar-guided air-to-air missiles; in addition, the aft bomb bay carried a three-thousand-gallon auxiliary fuel tank. “Ever do an intercept with the Russians?” Frodo asked.
“Just at ‘Red Flag’ and other exercises,” Boxer said, “and never with a Sukhoi-33, although it’s similar to the Su-27, which I have played with before. This is the first time the Russians have put together a carrier battle group of this size. But these things are usually not big deals. It’s all been cleared diplomatically.”
“Diplomatically?”
“Legally we can fly near their ships out in the open seas, and they can intercept us in international airspace,” Boxer said. “But no one wants something to happen like what happened with the carrier Bush, so some diplomat sends an e-mail or fax to his counterpart in Moscow and gives them a heads-up. Everyone plays nice. We don’t do anything stupid or sudden to get anybody spooked. Let’s get a LADAR snapshot and see who we got.”
“Roger.” Frodo activated the Vampire’s LADAR, or laser radar, which “drew” a high-resolution picture of everything within four hundred miles on the ground, on the ocean’s surface, in space, and even several dozen feet underwater. The LADAR was on for only a few seconds, then set back in “STANDBY.” “And the winner is: a pair of Sukhoi-33 Flanker-Ds,” Frodo reported. “Closing at four hundred eighty knots, about eighty-five miles away. The carrier group is at two hundred sixty miles.”
“Armstrong, this is Fracture, we’re tied on,” Boxer reported.
“Roger,” Gonzo replied, “we’ve got a good datalink. We’re looking for any trailers, negative contact so far.”
“Thanks, Armstrong.” Boxer pulled back the throttles and set a speed of 360 knots-slower airspeeds made any aircraft less threatening. “I’ll wake up home plate,” she said to Frodo. She made sure her communications panel was set up, then spoke: “Control, Fracture Two-One, bandits, tied on.”
“Two-One, roger, stand by,” the air-component commander at Central Command headquarters at MacDill Air Force Base, Florida, responded via satellite. The commanders at Central Command could receive all sensor data from almost all sources in its entire theater of command, so they could see what Boxer and Frodo saw on their large multifunction cockpit displays. In addition, they could tap into any other data source anywhere in the region, whether from ships, other aircraft, or on land, and put it all together in a big tactical picture. “Fracture Two-One, proceed as briefed,” the air commander radioed a few moments later.
“Two-One copies.” Boxer shrugged. “Sheesh, no pep talk, no ‘go get ’em, guys,’ no enthusiasm? ‘Proceed as briefed’?”
“What do you expect? He’s ten thousand miles away in a nice comfy command center.”
ABOARD THE RUSSIAN FEDERATION NAVY AIRCRAFT CARRIER VLADIMIR VLADIMIROVICH PUTIN
THAT SAME TIME
“Aircraft is slowing to six hundred seventy kilometers per hour, Captain,” the radar technician reported. “Still at ten thousand meters.”
“Very long-range, very high, very big plane, too fast for an unmanned patrol plane-it has to be an American bomber,” the tactical action officer said. He and the rest of the battle management team was in the Combat Information Center aboard the Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin, steaming westward toward Aden, Yemen, in the Gulf of Aden. The Combat Information Center was filled with computer monitors; a team of fifteen enlisted and two officers manned the Putin’s radars and optical sensors and controlled the ship’s weapons. “The fighters should intercept in a few minutes.”
“I’ll notify the admiral,” the commanding officer of the Putin said. He picked up the “Red Phone,” which tied directly to the flag bridge. “Inbound patrol plane from the east, Admiral. We will intercept in a few minutes. Probably an American long-range bomber.”
“Not one of their Global Hawks, Captain?” the admiral asked.
“We will have visual identification shortly, sir. It appears to be traveling faster and at a lower altitude than the Global Hawks, and faster than a naval patrol plane.”
“Very well. Let me know if they do anything unusual. All defensive systems ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. Carry on.”
“Yes, sir.” The captain hung up the phone. “I am surprised they can spare any bombers to harass us,” he said. “Gryzlov blew most of them into hell, and Gardner canceled the American Next Generation Bomber program in favor of more carriers. Yet here they are.”
“Standard procedures, sir?”
“Yes, standard procedur
es,” the captain said. “Radar silent, passive sensors only, plenty of videotape so we can complain about being harassed once again. Let the Americans have their fun. I am going topside to take some pictures.”
The admiral in charge of the Russian navy task force in the Gulf of Aden lit up a cigarette, then lifted another telephone before him on the instrument panel of the flag bridge. He had three watertight computer monitors, showing him radar images.
“This is Central,” a voice on the other end of the line said. “Admiral?”
“I was ordered to report when the American patrol plane approached the task force,” he said.
“And?”
“We do not have positive visual contact, but it appears to be flying faster and lower than the unarmed American Global Hawks.”
“You are talking in circles, Admiral,” the voice said curtly.
“What is it?”
“I believe it to be an American long-range bomber,” the admiral replied. “The Americans have a few B-1 and B-2 bombers stationed in Diego Garcia and occasionally in Bahrain and the United Arab Emirates.”
“Very well. Stand by.” And the line went dead.
The senior controller turned to General Andrei Darzov, who was in his command post at his headquarters in Moscow. “The task force has made contact with a large patrol plane to their east, believed to be an American long-range bomber, sir,” he said.
Darzov nodded, then picked up a telephone before him. “Mr. President, the Americans are sending their air patrols in. It does not appear to be an unmanned plane, but a bomber.”
“A bomber?” Russian president Igor Truznyev exclaimed. “Do they mean to attack the task force?”
“No, sir. I believe it is a typical show-of-force tactic. The typical profile is a high pass, followed by a low-altitude flyby.”
“And what are we doing while the Americans are allowed to do this so-called typical routine, General?”
“Well…very little, sir,” Darzov said. “We do not want to show any capabilities to the Americans. We usually turn off all radars except for standard search radars. Since the carrier Putin is part of the task force, we will scramble fighters to intercept, but they stay radar-silent. We usually photograph the intercept, but allow the plane to inspect the fleet. As part of our agreement, the Americans transmit air-traffic control codes and talk with our controllers.”