Eagle Station

by Dale Brown

  Beside Schofield, the RCAF warrant officer muttered, “Good Christ, that was—”

  Schofield coughed meaningfully.

  “Something I didn’t see,” the warrant officer finished.

  “I do appreciate a fast learner,” Schofield said with approval.

  Together, they watched the black flying wing taxi farther down Runway 28, make a sharp left turn onto the airport’s longer main runway, and keep rolling—obviously heading for the taxiway to the NORAD base. As it got closer, its true dimensions were more apparent. The aircraft was roughly the size of one of Scion’s Gulfstream 600 business jets, though its overall configuration made it look more like a miniature B-2 Spirit stealth bomber.

  Schofield turned to his guide. “I believe this is where you make yourself scarce, Warrant Officer McNeil.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Schofield shook hands with the younger Canadian and then handed him a business card. It was blank, except for a telephone number. “If you ever get bored with service in the regular armed forces, ring that number,” he suggested. “We’re always on the lookout for able and discreet people.”

  Five minutes later, he paced alongside the midsize jet aircraft as it slowly taxied into an empty hangar. Then he stood quietly off to the side, waiting while the hangar’s big doors rolled closed, sealing them away from any curious, prying eyes. The low rumble from its engines died away, leaving only silence.

  Moments later, a hatch opened below the cockpit and a short crew ladder unfolded. Wearing a black flight suit, Brad McLanahan slid down the ladder. He turned lithely at the bottom and helped Nadia through the hatch. With his arms still wrapped around her slender waist, he set her down gently on the hangar floor, where she stood perched on the tips of her carbon-fiber running blades. For a moment, the two of them just stood there, entwined.

  Schofield cleared his throat loudly.

  Brad swung toward him with a grin. “Hey, Ian.” He took in the other man’s neatly pressed battle dress. “I’m sorry that I had to pull you away from your training exercise.”

  “It was hard to leave all that lovely muck and mire behind,” Schofield said complacently. “But sacrifices must sometimes be made.”

  They walked out from under the fuselage to join him. On the way, Brad proudly patted the aircraft’s black radar-absorbent coating. “So, what do you think of her?” he asked. “A beaut, isn’t she?”

  “I thought this was my old friend, the Ranger stealth transport aircraft,” Schofield said carefully. He, Brad, and Nadia had served together on three high-risk covert missions over the past several years—the first to attack Perun’s Aerie, a cyberwar complex buried in the Ural Mountains, the second to hunt down and destroy Russia’s war robots rampaging inside the United States itself, and the third, just last year, to pull Brad himself out of enemy territory. All three missions had been flown using a Sky Masters–designed stealthy, short takeoff and landing (STOL) tactical airlifter, the XCV-62 Ranger. “But up close, this particular aircraft seems . . . well, bigger. Especially those engines.”

  “Your grasp of the technical aspects of military aviation is, as always, eye-opening,” Brad said with a laugh.

  “He means that you are right, Ian,” Nadia explained helpfully.

  Brad nodded. “You’re actually looking at the XCV-70 Rustler.”

  “Another of Sky Masters’ experimental prototypes?” Schofield asked.

  “Yep,” Brad said. “Boomer set the design process in motion right after he read our classified after-action report on Perun’s Aerie. He figured some improvements might be welcome.”

  Schofield nodded, remembering the risks they’d been forced to run, thanks to the older aircraft’s inherent limitations. While it was a remarkable machine for its day, the Ranger’s comparatively low subsonic speed, relative lack of maneuverability, and inability to carry any offensive weapons were serious disadvantages once things got hot. “I assume Dr. Noble and his design team succeeded?”

  “Oh, hell yeah,” Brad said with undisguised enthusiasm. “The Rustler’s just as stealthy and STOL-capable . . . but she’s got significantly more range and a hell of a lot more power. At least in short bursts.” He pointed to the aircraft’s four large wing-buried engines. “Each of those GE Affinity engines produces four thousand more pounds of thrust than the Rolls-Royce Tay 620-15 turbofans mounted on the XCV-62. Plus, they’re supersonic-capable.”

  “But only at the cost of a considerable expenditure of fuel,” Nadia reminded him.

  Undaunted, Brad shrugged. “Sure, there’s always a trade-off. TANSTAAFL, right? ‘There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch,’” he quoted.

  Schofield nodded his understanding. Aircraft design was always a blend of compromises between speed, maneuverability, sturdiness, range, and, in this age, stealth. Significantly improving one aspect of a plane’s performance almost invariably entailed accepting somewhat weaker performance in other areas.

  “The other good news is that we’re not going in unarmed this time,” Brad continued. He indicated two internal bays on the underside of the XCV-70’s fuselage. “Besides the usual array of defenses—SPEAR, flares, and chaff—we can carry offensive weapons, a mix of heat-seeking air-to-air missiles and air-to-ground ordnance.”

  “Very nice, indeed,” Schofield said with real feeling. In previous missions, he’d intensely disliked the sensation of being a helpless passenger strapped into the Ranger’s troop compartment. Knowing that the Ranger itself was equally unable to fight back under enemy attack had made that feeling even worse. “So, when all’s said and done, this XCV-70 Rustler of yours is faster, longer-ranged, and has teeth of its own.” Brad nodded with a grin. “And the trade-off for all of that is?” Schofield asked.

  “Significant reductions in the aircraft’s cargo and passenger capacity,” Nadia informed him. “Where the XCV-62 could carry twelve of your troops or three of Iron Wolf’s combat robots, the Rustler has room for only a small fire team, no more than four soldiers . . . or just a single Cybernetic Infantry Device.”

  Schofield raised an eyebrow. “Four passengers total?”

  “Yep,” Brad said.

  “And we’re flying in to extract a three-person Scion intelligence unit?”

  Brad nodded again. “Uh-huh.”

  Elaborately, Schofield looked around the otherwise empty hangar as if noticing for the first time that he was alone. He turned back to the other man. “So if things go sour while the aircraft’s on the ground inside Russia—?”

  “You’d be our private, one-man field army,” Brad acknowledged solemnly.

  “You know, Brad,” Schofield said carefully, “much as I relish a reputation for working miracles, there are limits.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” the younger man promised. “Look, I won’t lie. The margin’s pretty thin on every part of this mission. We’ll be riding a razor’s edge practically from the moment we take off. Given that, this is strictly a volunteer gig. If you want out, no harm, no foul.”

  “But the two of you are going anyway? With me, or without me?” Schofield asked, eyeing Nadia. “Despite the risks?”

  She nodded. “Brad and I have worked through the mission plan to the best of our ability, Ian.” She shrugged her shoulders slightly. “It will be dangerous. And very difficult. But I do not believe that it is necessarily impossible.”

  Schofield sighed. “Put like that, how can I refuse? Count me in.”

  Seventeen

  National Defense Control Center, Moscow

  A Short Time Later, Morning (Local Time)

  In the last years of his rule, Gennadiy Gryzlov had ordered the construction of a massive new military command center on the northern bank of the Moskva River, within a few kilometers of the Kremlin. Completed at enormous cost, the huge complex was supposed to demonstrate the growing power and sophistication of Russia’s armed forces—both to bolster domestic public opinion and to frighten potential enemies. Nightly news programs had featured reports show
ing off vast, futuristic-looking control rooms, complete with IMAX-sized situation display screens and dozens of computer stations, all manned by dedicated young officers.

  Now those rooms were empty, gathering dust.

  For all their high-tech glamour, those overcrowded auditoriums had proved to be worse than useless during any real military crisis. Between the dizzying array of maps, status reports, and combat footage flashing across huge theater screens, and the hubbub created by a large audience of thoroughly useless subordinates, they were only breeding grounds for chaos and confusion.

  Instead, Marshal Mikhail Leonov had established his own Defense Ministry command post far belowground. Surrounded by both human guards and automated defenses, it was much smaller—with just four workstations, one for him and three more for his chief deputies. Secure video links connected him to key military and intelligence service commands, including the FSB’s headquarters and Q Directorate.

  He glowered at the screens. The Scion spies they were hunting seemed to have disappeared into thin air. FSB officers had found the enemy agents’ abandoned rental car behind a derelict garage on the road between Kansk and Krasnoyarsk. In all probability, that meant there was a third Scion operative in the region, a backup man or woman with another vehicle. He’d issued new orders to all the police checkpoints taking that into account. Beyond that, there was nothing more he could do but wait.

  A secure phone beeped. One of Leonov’s aides answered it and then swung toward him. “It’s Minister of State Security Kazyanov, sir. He’s requesting an immediate video connection.”

  “Put him through.”

  Kazyanov’s broad face blinked into existence on one of his screens. He looked excited. “We’ve found something, Mikhail Ivanovich! Last night, the police stopped a van at a checkpoint outside Lesosibirsk. The driver claimed he was making deliveries to a number of businesses in the area. Since he appeared to be alone, they let him proceed after routine questioning. Fortunately, one of the local officers decided to check up on his story this morning—”

  “Let me guess,” Leonov interjected. “None of the customers the driver named received any packages.”

  “Correct.”

  “Has this fake delivery van passed through any of our other checkpoints north of Lesosibirsk?” he asked. Kazyanov shook his head. “So now we know where to concentrate our search,” Leonov said with satisfaction. His eyes narrowed in thought. “I want the police and other local authorities to scour Lesosibirsk and the nearest villages. They know the ground better than anyone we can bring in from the outside.”

  “That’s true,” Kazyanov said. He hesitated only momentarily. “And the outlying areas? Who will search them? Between old logging huts and hunting cabins, there must be dozens of possible hiding places scattered through those woods.”

  Leonov nodded grimly. “I’m aware of that, Viktor.” He opened another secure channel, this one to the headquarters of Russia’s Central Military District in Yekaterinburg. “This is Defense Minister Leonov. Put me through to Lieutenant General Varshavsky. It’s urgent.”

  He looked back at Kazyanov. “We’ll let the army handle the job. Between them, Varshavsky’s Third Guards Special Purpose Brigade and the National Guard’s Nineteenth Special Purpose Detachment Ermak can deploy several hundred Spetsnaz troops and at least a dozen helicopters.” He shrugged. “If the American spies are hiding in those forests, our soldiers will dig them out.”

  After he’d issued his orders to Varshavsky, Leonov broke the connection and sat back thinking hard. Was he missing something? His breath caught for a moment. What if Scion planned to fly its agents out? The same way the Americans had covertly retrieved their downed spaceplane pilot from Russia’s Far East during the Mars One crisis?

  Leonov shook his head in disbelief. It seemed impossible. The distances involved were much greater: the Krasnoyarsk region was well over four thousand kilometers from any American or American-allied airfield. No known short takeoff and landing aircraft had that kind of range. Not even the stealthy transport plane the Iron Wolf mercenaries had used before in raids against the Motherland.

  Still, he decided, it would be a grave mistake to dismiss this possibility altogether. Time and again the Americans had shown themselves willing to run almost insane risks. He opened another secure video link, this one to Colonel General Semyon Tikhomirov. Once his deputy, Tikhomirov had moved up to full command of the Aerospace Forces.

  The connection went through in seconds.

  “Yes, sir?” the other man asked.

  “Contact the 712th Guards Fighter Aviation Regiment at Kansk-Dalniy. I want four MiG-31s on ready alert. And make sure the radar stations in our Arctic defense zone are fully operational. If they pick up even the faintest low-altitude blip on their scopes, I want to know about it immediately!”

  Eighteen

  Scion Seven-Zero, over the Arctic Ocean, North of Nunavut, Canada

  A Few Hours Later

  Twenty thousand feet above the Arctic Ocean, the XCV-70 Rustler stealth transport flew northeast in close formation with a much larger aircraft—a Sky Masters–owned 767 aerial tanker. The two planes were connected by the tanker’s refueling boom. They were fifteen hundred nautical miles and a little more than three hours outward bound from Yellowknife. While the Rustler still had plenty of jet fuel remaining when it arrived at this midair refueling rendezvous, the immense distances they would have to fly to complete this mission ruled out turning toward Russia with anything but full tanks.

  “Scion Seven-Zero, this is Masters Two-Four, pressure disconnect,” the boom operator aboard the 767 radioed. Brad knew that boom operator was several thousand miles away at a remote console, as were the pilots of that unmanned tanker. “You’re topped off and good to go.”

  “Copy that, Two-Four,” Brad McLanahan replied from the Rustler’s left-hand pilot’s seat. He felt a quick CL-CLUNK as the boom nozzle slid back out of the slipway and retracted. “Thanks for the gas. Clearing away now.”

  Immediately, he tweaked his engine throttles back and pushed his stick forward a tad, lowering the aircraft’s nose a couple of degrees. The roar from their big GE Affinity turbofans decreased as they descended a few hundred feet. At the same time, the bigger air tanker accelerated and climbed away from them, already banking as it made a gentle right turn back toward the distant Greenland coast.

  Far below the two rapidly separating aircraft, Arctic ice floes stretched away in all directions. Lit by the midnight sun, they were rippling sheets of dazzling pure white broken only by narrow cracks of dark blue open water.

  “Our promised Trojan horse is right where it is supposed to be,” Nadia announced from the right-hand seat. She was flying as Brad’s copilot and systems operator. Currently, one of her big multifunction displays was set to show all air contacts within several hundred miles. Most were civilian flights with active transponders and in communication with air traffic control centers in Canada, Greenland, Alaska, and northern Russia.

  Thanks to a highly advanced data-link system comparable to those equipping F-35 Lightning II fifth-generation fighters, her computers could fuse information gathered from a wide range of friendly ground- and space-based sensors into a single coherent picture. As a result, freed from any immediate need to activate its own powerful radar, the Rustler could fly safely through even crowded airspace without giving its position away, cloaked in electromagnetic silence.

  She tagged one of those air contacts on her display. Within milliseconds, the data-link system transferred its position, heading, and observed airspeed to the XCV-70’s flight computer. A green line appeared, connecting them to the aircraft she’d selected. “Intercept course generated,” she reported.

  Instantly, a new steering cue blinked onto Brad’s HUD. It was high up and sliding fast to the left across his field of vision.

  “Turning to intercept,” he said. He pushed his throttles forward to full military power and pulled back and to the left on the stick. G-forces pushed
them back against their seats as the Rustler rolled into a steep, climbing turn—chasing after the tagged air contact as it arrowed toward the north high above them.

  Steadily, the steering cue moved back toward the center of Brad’s HUD. Glowing green brackets appeared, highlighting a distant silvery dot against the pale blue sky. He rolled back out of his turn, but kept the XCV-70’s nose up—soaring through thirty thousand feet and on past forty thousand feet before leveling off just above the altitude of the other aircraft. Their airspeed increased to 520 knots.

  As they closed in, the tiny dot visible through the cockpit canopy grew bigger and took on more definition. Abruptly, it shifted to become the clearly recognizable shape of a very large, multi-engine aircraft painted in bright white and yellow stripes. “The contact is a Traveler Air Freight 747-8 cargo plane,” he said.

  “Copy that,” Nadia confirmed.

  Traveler Air Freight was another of Kevin Martindale’s shell companies. Ordinarily he used its aircraft to discreetly ferry supplies, equipment, and personnel to various Scion teams operating covertly around the globe. But today’s flight had a very different purpose.

  Brad kept his left hand on the Rustler’s throttles as they flew in behind the enormous wide-body cargo jet. Numbers appeared on his HUD, showing the distance between their two aircraft. Those numbers decreased rapidly at first and then slower as he reduced power, reducing the XCV-70’s rate of closure. He was careful to stay slightly above the 747 to avoid running into any wake turbulence curling off its wings.