Patrick McLanahan Collection #1

by Dale Brown

  The deck was slick with frozen condensation and leaking coolant from some of the electronics bays, but the men ignored it and continued aft. They could hear the loud click-click-clack-click sounds of the navigation system, which used Doppler radar and radar fixes to update an analog computer as big as a refrigerator that still used gears and levers to provide position, heading, and velocity information. The noise from the big dual counterrotating propellers beating on each side of the fuselage was deafening, even through their helmets and ear protectors. Leborov found the switch for the port-side weapon pylon inspection light and flicked it on—and there it was. He had seen it and preflighted it on the ground, of course, but somehow it looked different when the Tu-95 was in the air.

  The left weapon pylon held one Kh-90 air-launched attack missile. These were experimental missiles, fielded for the first time when two missiles had been launched at a CIA base in Uzbekistan just recently during an operational test. Then the missiles had carried high-explosive warheads.

  But now these missiles carried two one-kiloton thermonuclear devices.

  Code-named Sat Loshka, or “Garden Hoe,” the warheads were actually copies of American nuclear “bunker-buster” bombs developed after Desert Storm to destroy deep underground bunkers, cave complexes, and biochem-weapon storage facilities without risking large numbers of civilian casualties. The warheads used rocket motors and armored nose caps to drive themselves down as much as thirty meters underground, even through layers of steel or Kevlar armor, before detonating. That meant that the fireballs would be relatively small and that blast and overpressure damage aboveground also would be small. Each cruise missile had its own inertial-navigation system—a system of electronic gyroscopes and pendulums that gave the navigation computers heading and velocity information—but the addition of GLONASS satellite navigation gave the missiles better than twenty-meter accuracy.

  The bombardier walked down to another porthole to inspect the aft section of the huge Kh-90 missile. It was as if they were carrying a small jet fighter on their wings, Leborov thought. He saw a tiny bit of ice around the air inlet under the nose, but that would not be of any concern; less than a minute after launch, the exterior of the missile would heat up to several hundred degrees Centigrade as it approached its top speed of five times the speed of sound. He nodded to his bombardier, indicating they were done with their inspection, then shut off the inspection light and moved to look at the starboard missile. Everything having to do with nuclear weapons always had to be two-officer, even if it meant looking at the weapons from inside the plane.

  Two thermonuclear bunker-buster missiles, faster than any antiaircraft missile—and Leborov’s sortie was only the leader of a thirty-one-plane gaggle of similarly armed Tupolev-95 bombers. Each missile had two independently targeted nuclear warheads designed to burrow underground and destroy even the best-protected bunker. The Americans would never know what hit them. Poor bastards.

  The bomb bay itself contained a rotary launcher with six Kh-31P long-range antiradar missiles. As they closed in on their launch point, Leborov and three of the other lead bombers would be responsible for shutting down the local radar sites along their intended route of flight, including Yellowknife, Pine Point, Uranium City, Lynn Lake, Fort Nelson, Cold Lake, Edmonton, and Whitehorse. The ramjet-powered Kh-31s had a range of two hundred kilometers and a maximum speed of Mach 3, with a ninety-kilogram high-explosive fragmentary warhead that would shred a radar antenna or a building into pieces in the blink of an eye.

  The inspection complete, Leborov and the bombardier crawled along the narrow catwalk back the length of the bomb bay and looked in on the gunner, seated in the very aft tail cabin. They did not ask him to open his pressurized hatch—that meant he would have had to put on his oxygen mask and depressurize his compartment—but instead just knocked on the porthole and got a thumbs-up from him. The gunner was surrounded by box lunches filled with low-residue snacks, a small stack of magazines, numerous bottles of water, and metal boxes to store his relief bags. Normally the gunner stayed up front with the crew in a jump seat until close to enemy territory, but during formation flying his job was to keep an eye on the wingmen through his large windows and tail radar, so he had to spend the entire mission in his little compartment.

  Despite the bone-chilling cold, Leborov was bathed in sweat by the time he’d returned to the cockpit and strapped himself into his seat again. “Pilot’s back up,” he reported.

  “You look like shit,” Borodev said cross-cockpit to his aircraft commander. “You didn’t rot yego yebal with the bombardier again, did you?”

  “Screw you.”

  Borodev looked at his friend carefully. “You okay, buddy?”

  Leborov was silent for a few moments. Then, “Ah, shit, Yuri, no one deserves to die in their bed under a fucking nuclear fireball.”

  “That’s not our concern nor our decision, Joey,” Borodev said. He liked calling his friend the anglicized version of his name, because he was so obsessed with the dichotomy of Americans—their strange mixture of strength, humor, ruthlessness, and generosity. Some thought his preoccupation with all things American would affect his job performance—and, Borodev admitted, maybe they were right. “Our targets are missile-launch facilities and underground command posts for nuclear-warfighting units, not bedrooms. Besides, what’s the difference between dying beneath a fireball and a one-thousand-kilo high-explosive bomb? Dead is dead.”

  “You know damn well there’s a difference….”

  “No I don’t, partner. I don’t believe there’s a difference. Just like there’s no difference between the American attack on Engels and this attack. These are military attacks against military targets. Maybe some civilians will get killed—that can’t be helped, and we’re doing everything possible to limit civilian casualties, including decreasing the yields on our weapons to limits that very well may not destroy the target. And you gotta enjoy the irony of attacking the Americans with a mini-nuke that they invented and deployed….”

  “I’m not in the mood to appreciate irony here, Yuri.”

  “Joey, we’re more justified in doing this than the Americans were attacking Engels—we weren’t fighting them, we were fighting the damned Taliban that raided our bases in Turkmenistan,” Borodev went on, driving the point home as hard as he could without attracting the attention of the others behind them. The last thing they needed to hear was their copilot trying to convince the aircraft commander that what they were about to do was right. “The Americans attacked us for no reason. Remember that! They attacked us.

  “Damn it, Joey, we were there. We could’ve been killed in that raid. One-third of our own regiment was wiped out that night, Joey. One-third. I lost a lot of good friends in that attack, Joey—so did you—and I know a lot of kids who lost fathers and who can’t stop crying at night because they’re afraid of American bombs falling on top of their heads again. Russia’s finest bomber base is abandoned now—a ghost town. And I’m convinced that the Americans would not hesitate to keep on attacking, using every weapon in their arsenal and threatening us with every other weapon they had, including nukes. That’s why this attack is necessary. I give President Gryzlov a lot of credit for having the courage to order this mission.”

  “But why are we using nukes, Yuri?”

  “You know damned well, Joey,” Borodev replied. “It’s a tactical decision, not a psychological one—we’re doing a job, not trying to send a message. We’re using nukes because the Kh-90s wouldn’t have the destructive power if we put nonnuclear warheads on them. They wouldn’t put a dent in any of the targets we’re going after.” He looked at the pilot with an exasperated expression. “You know all this stuff, my friend. You certified this mission to the commanding general just three days ago, and he chose you to lead this gaggle specifically because you explained it all so well. Don’t wuss out on me now, zalupa.”

  “I’m not wussing out. I believe using nukes and biochem weapons is different from using other ki
nds of weapons, that’s all.”

  “You’re a dipshit, Joey. What’s going on? You get your girlfriend pregnant and now you dream of a perfect world with no fighting and no war? Wake up, pal.” He looked at his friend carefully. “You got her pregnant, didn’t you?”

  “Worse—I married her.”

  “You jerk! You never listen to a thing I tell you!” Borodev said, slapping him hard on the shoulder. “Congratulations! When were you planning on telling the general?”

  “I submitted the paperwork to him three days ago. He signed us off yesterday.”

  “The great Josef Leborov, scourge of the gay bars—I mean, the taverns—missing in action because he has a wife and a rug rat now. I’m glad I lived to see the day.” He patted his friend on the shoulder. “Good man. If we make it, you have someone to go home to…and if you don’t, your name carries on. Well done, Senior Captain. Now, can we please get back to fucking work?”

  “Affirmative,” Leborov said. On intercom he reported, “Crew, all weapons have been visually checked and are ready, and we have visually ensured that our gunner is still with us. Station check.” Every crew member did an oxygen check, checked his equipment, and reported back in order. “Very well. Naviguesser, position report?”

  “Thirty-two minutes to the start-countermeasures point,” the navigator responded. The start-countermeasures point was the farthest point from which American radar planes based at Eielson Air Force Base in Fairbanks, Alaska, could detect them. So far their intelligence had not reported any airborne, but Leborov knew that could change at any time, and without warning. “Approximately three hours to the launch point.”

  “Thank you,” Leborov said. Borodev looked at him, and he realized that his voice sounded a little high-pitched and squeaky, a combination of his heavy breathing from crawling around almost the entire length of the plane and from the realization that time was passing quickly and the action was going to start very, very soon. He flashed his friend their mutual “okay” signal, ordered a crew-compartment and oxygen check, then decided to finish off his last box lunch now, before things started getting hairy.

  Secretary of Defense’s Briefing Room, the Pentagon

  A few hours later

  If Ayou don’t mind my saying so—and I don’t care if you do or not—you all sound like a bunch of bickering, whining children,” Secretary of Defense Robert Goff said, slumping wearily in his seat. He had just received a rundown on the current emergency from the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the chief of staff of the Air Force, the commander of Air Combat Command, the commander of Air Intelligence Agency, and finally Brigadier General Patrick McLanahan—and his head really hurt now. The emergency meeting was called because of the alert sent by the North American Aerospace Defense Command, sent directly to the chief of operations in the secretary of defense’s office.

  When the warning from NORAD sounded, the White House was instantly put on alert, and the complex mechanisms put in motion to evacuate the president and other senior members of government. Per the plan, the president, the secretary of defense, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs and any of the service chiefs in close proximity, and any available members of the congressional leadership would get to Andrews Air Force Base as quickly as possible and board an Air Force E-4B aircraft known as the National Airborne Operations Center. The E-4’s extensive communications suite allowed anyone on board to communicate instantly with virtually anyone anywhere on planet Earth. If the president was traveling, as he was now, he would take airborne one of the two VC-25 “flying White House” aircraft known as Air Force One and communicate with military commanders from there.

  If they couldn’t make it to Andrews, key government leaders would be evacuated immediately to an “undisclosed location,” which almost everyone in Washington knew to be the Mount Weather Special Facility, code-named “High Point,” the 434-acre mountain base near Berryville, West Virginia, operated by the Federal Emergency Management Agency to implement the National Continuity of Government Plan. From the High Point underground-bunker complex, the A-list government and military leaders holed up there had a direct secure videoconference link with the White House Situation Room, Air Force One, the Pentagon, the Navy’s E-6B National Command Post, and the Air Force’s E-4 National Airborne Operations Center—anywhere the president or the strategic warfighting commanders were likely to be in an emergency. But neither the president nor anyone in his cabinet would evacuate Washington unless absolutely necessary, and it was up to Secretary of Defense Robert Goff and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Richard Venti to give the president their recommendation.

  After receiving a fast status briefing from Venti—and a slightly more detailed briefing from the commander of NORAD, General Randall Shepard—Goff immediately called the White House operations staff and gave them a “no imminent threat” message. It was not an easy message to send: If he made a wrong decision, it could mean the avoidable loss of hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives, including those in the highest levels of government. Goff was usually ebullient, cheerful, and smiling, but when he was angry, his expression and features turned dark, bordering on wide-eyed maniacal. The Joint Chiefs chairman, Air Force General Richard Venti, had not seen the secretary with such an evil visage in quite some time.

  Naturally, the person responsible for giving him this expression was the same person that caused him to have it the last time: Patrick McLanahan.

  “I find plenty of fault to go around here,” Goff went on, “but let’s start with the main instigator of this mess. General McLanahan, to say you overstepped the bounds of your authority is being far too generous. It’s as if you have never heard of a chain of command, a direct order, or a commanding officer. Your actions in this entire episode are a disgrace to your uniform, and I think it’s about time we investigate whether or not you should be wearing an American military uniform.

  “However, just because we don’t like the person who pulled the fire alarm doesn’t mean we can ignore the smell,” Goff went on. “General Houser, I understand and concur that you have plenty of reason to be angry at this gross contravention of authority and chain of command. I’m not an analyst, but I tend to agree with your opinion that we don’t have enough information to make an accurate assessment. However, your recommendation that we do nothing is astounding to me. If it were any other person giving you this information, I think you’d do more, but because the information came from McLanahan, you recommended no action.” Goff turned to General Venti. “General? Recommendations?”

  “Sir, I know how everyone feels about General McLanahan, but I happen to think the man is a true professional and that his analysis is timely and accurate,” Venti said. “If he thinks there is a danger out there, we should do something about it. I recommend that we establish an airborne-radar and fighter patrol over northern Alaska immediately while we fully activate the North Warning System. General Muskoka?”

  “The Third Wing from Elmendorf provides AWACS radar coverage for northern Alaska,” Thomas Muskoka, commander of Air Combat Command, responded from his headquarters at Langley Air Force Base in Virginia via a secure video teleconference link. “The Three-fifty-fourth Fighter Wing from Eielson provides F-16 alert fighter patrols, backed up with alert F-15s from Elmendorf—fifteen to twenty minutes away, max. This can be set up in a matter of minutes.

  “Over the rest of the northern U.S., we deploy AWACS radar aircraft from Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma over central Canada, deploy Air National Guard air-defense fighters from Fresno and Klamath Falls to northern bases, and reconfigure other Air National Guard fighters from St. Louis, South Dakota, North Dakota, Montana, Colorado, Michigan, Iowa, and Minnesota for air-defense duties. The AWACS planes can be deployed within a few hours. Reconfiguring the fighters will…take some time.”

  The shock on Goff’s face was obvious to everyone, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. “How long, General?” he asked.

  “The Fresno and Klamath Falls fighters on ready alert can l
aunch within a few minutes,” Muskoka said. “If we can arrange tanker support, which is almost a certainty, we can put them on airborne alert, armed and ready for action.” He spread his hands resignedly. “The other aircraft were never meant to be alert aircraft, but respond only to general mobilization and—”

  “How long, General?”

  Muskoka shrugged. “Seventy-two hours at the earliest, sir,” he responded. Goff’s lips parted in surprise. Muskoka added quickly, “Fresno and Klamath Falls should be able to launch perhaps a half dozen aircraft, F-15s and F-16s, within a few minutes. They’ll have to do a unit recall to get more aircraft, but with regular ongoing training sorties, we should have another half dozen aircraft ready to go in an hour or two. If you need more than a dozen fighters right now, sir, I’d say we’re in deep shit.”

  “I just never dreamed…I mean, I never thought it took so long for us to get fighters in the air, especially after September eleventh,” Goff said.

  “Sir, we can get a fighter in the air with guns to cover one hundred percent of the U.S. that’ll look real tough and pretty for CNN,” Muskoka explained, “but launching a fighter to chase down a Cessna 182 who makes a wrong turn and flies over the White House is a lot different from chasing down a Russian bomber or a cruise missile—doing real air-defense work.” The frustration on Muskoka’s face was obvious. “Besides, I want to know who’s going to pay for all this—it sure as hell shouldn’t come out of my budget!—and mostly I want to know why we’re putting so much stock in McLanahan’s analysis. He’s a bomber guy, not an intel weenie, for Christ’s sake!”