by Dale Brown
The commandos on this mission also had another hightech weapon in their arsenal: their improved "Tin Man" electronic battle armor. Also developed by Sky Masters Inc., the armor used a special electroreactive technology that caused ordinary-looking and — feeling fabric instantly to harden to several times the strength of steel when sharply struck. The suit also contained self-contained breathing apparatus, temperature control, communications, long-range visual and aural detection and tracking sensors, mobility enhancers-compressed-air jump jets in the boots-and self-protection weapons. The self-defense weapon was an electrical discharge device that disabled the enemy with a bolt of high-voltage energy; it operated automatically, tied to the suit's sensors, and was able to fire instantly in any direction out to thirty feet from electrodes on both shoulders if an enemy was detected.
The newest feature of their battle armor: a microhydraulically controlled fibersteel exoskeleton that gave the wearer the strength and power of a multimillion-dollar robot. The exoskeleton ran along the back, shoulders, arms, legs, and neck, and amplified the wearer's muscular strength a hundred times; yet the exoskeleton and its control systems weighed only a few pounds and used very little power.
The armor could save its wearers from most small- and medium-sized infantry attacks and even some light armored attacks, but every attack drained precious power from the suit quickly, and they were several hundred miles from help. The Tin Man technology was designed to save its wearer from attack long enough to escape a defensive, patrol, or security engagement, not to press an assault against a superior fighting force. The longer Wohl stayed in the area after the alarm was sounded, the more danger he was in.
Through his electronic visor, Patrick could see that Wohl had stopped just outside an area that had previously been identified in satellite photos as a garbage dump, known by its map coordinate Bravo Two. The area was unguarded and unsecured, and military and civilian personnel passed by it constantly without being stopped or challenged by anyone-there was no reason to suspect it was anything else but a garbage dump. Patrick had dismissed it in their search. "Nike, what are you doing at Bravo Two?"
"I want to check this place out," Wohl replied. "I'm secure."
"Nike, let's stick with the recon plan, shall we?"
"I'll be back on schedule in no time."
"Stalkers, looks like there's some activity on this side of the base-your guy might have missed a bed check or something," ex-Air Force security officer and commando Hal Briggs reported. The commandos on this mission were spread out around the sprawling, isolated desert base in strategic support locations, and moving from one spot to another without attracting any attention took time. "They're doing a search around the perimeter. Might as well let Nike poke around a bit more-he's safe there for now."
"If the alarm's been sounded, we need to bug out of here," Patrick said. "Your best exit point now is Alpha One, Nike. Get moving." To Briggs, he added, "Taurus, can you cover him?"
"Dammit, Castor, we traveled too far to turn around the moment someone has a bad dream," Wohl radioed. "I'm secure, and I think I found something interesting, so I'm staying put for sixty lousy seconds longer. The FlightHawks will have to RTB in less than fifteen minutes anyway-they might not complete a full reconnoiter, and there won't be time to recover, refuel, and relaunch them before daybreak. I'm staying. If you don't like it, come in here and try to drag me back. Nike out."
McLanahan cursed again-it seemed as if he was doing that a lot lately-:and wished for one of his long-range bombers loaded with smart bombs to be flying overhead right about now. Twice retired from the United States Air Force-the last time involuntarily-Patrick had been a one-star general, the deputy commander of one of the world's most secret weapons development and testing facilities, the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center (HAWC), Elliott Air Force Base, Groom Lake, Nevada. The weapons from that facility had many times been used in real-world conflicts, from Russia to China to America and everywhere in between, and Patrick had been a part of the action originating there for over a decade. Patrick had seen and experienced the best-and worst-of both human suffering and technological amazement.
But they would probably not see action within a decade,
if ever, because few politicians and bureaucrats-including, in Patrick's estimation, the current administration of U.S. President Thomas Nathaniel Thorn-had the guts to use them. Just one of HAWC's Megafortress bombers could destroy several dozen armored vehicles and keep an entire battalion of troops at bay, without being detected on radar and without exposing itself to undue risk; if they were given the order, one Megafortress could destroy the entire base without so much as rustling an innocent civilian's tent flap, if there were any here. They had already proven the value of a small commando team paired up with one stealth bomber in the skies over Russia, right near Moscow itself.
But since then, Thorn had all but shut down HAWC and had sent most of America's fleet of bombers to the Boneyard, along with about a third of the active-duty military and other deep cuts in tactical weapons and units. McLanahan and the other commandos here at Samah were not here under government sanction. It was dirty, difficult, and dangerous work.
No wonder Patrick found little to smile about these days.
"Don't give me that 'Nike out' crap," McLanahan radioed back. "This is supposed to be a soft probe, not a search-and-destroy-that's why we have the FlightHawks overhead. I want you out now."
"Then I guess I'll just ignore this SS-12 battery I just found."
"What?"
"Pretty damned clever, hiding it in a garbage dump," Wohl said. He moved closer to the area. There was a short ramp on the west end of the pit, ostensibly to make it easier for the dump truck drivers to enter the pit. But on closer inspection, he saw that the garbage was piled not on the ground inside the pit but atop a retractable net. "Normal overhead imagery shows a garbage dump. It's unguarded like a garbage dump-and the organic waste gives off enough heat to block infrared and radar imagery." Wohl examined underneath the net with his infrared sensory "And there it is, boys-the aft end of a MAZ-543 transporter-
erector-launcher and an SS-12 Scaleboard rocket, still in its marching sheath. I'll bet there are at least three more TELs in this pit, and if I check the other garbage pits, I'll find more. Not to mention the TELs hidden in some of the service buildings."
"The damned Libyans have SS-12s," Briggs breathed. "Holy shit." The SS-12 tactical ballistic missile, NATO code name "Scaleboard," was the upgraded version of the ubiquitous mobile "Scud" surface-to-surface missile, in service with almost a dozen nations around the world. The SS-12 was larger, had three times the range of a Scud, was more accurate-and it carried a one-point-three-megaton nuclear warhead. As far as anyone knew, this was the first known instance of an SS-12 missile based outside of Russia. "Can you see the warhead, Nike? Is it a nuke?" "Stand by, Taurus. I'll check."
"Nike, clear out of there," McLanahan repeated. "We'll have the FlightHawks take them out." The first FlightHawk UCAV carried only the laser radar array, but the second FlightHawk was armed with four antitank BLU-108 SFW sensor-fuzed weapon bomblets and four antipersonnel Gator cluster bomb munitions. They were devastating weapons: A single SFW could destroy as many as three dozen main battle tanks, and a single Gator could kill, injure, or deny enemy access across an area twice the size of a football field. "Base, you copy? Stand by to arm up the 'Hawks."
"We have a good location on Nike," Wendy McLanahan radioed from the Catherine out in the Med. The Tin Man battle armor contained a transponder to allow Wendy on board the command ship to track and monitor all the commandos. "Ready to come in hot."
"Negative, Base, negative," Wohl interjected. "The junk they got these things buried under will keep the SFW from detecting them, or they might lock onto some other hot object; and the junk might block the bomblets' blast effects. We're going to have to expose them enough so the SFWs and Gators can do their job, or destroy them one by one by hand. I'm moving in."
N
o use in trying to hold him back, Patrick thought, he's on the warpath. It's not every day that you're sent in just to take a few pictures and end up coming across a bunch of nuclear-tipped missiles. Wohl must be salivating in his battle armor. "Roger, Nike. Stalkers, let's move in together. One coordinated attack. Stand by."
But Chris Wohl wasn't going to "stand by"-he was already on the move.
He hurriedly checked for a sentry. There were sentry shacks on all four sides of the garbage pit, but through his infrared sensors he could see that all were deserted. He descended down the incline toward the rear of the rocket…
… and the second he reached the floor of the pit and touched the net covering the rocket, four huge ballpark lights illuminated the entire garbage pit, and a siren sounded. There were no sentries because the entire garbage pit was alarmed. Time had run out.
From his observation point, Patrick saw the lights come on. "Oh, shit," Patrick murmured. "Taurus, move in, check the garbage pit at Alpha Two," he radioed. "I'll check Golf Six. Pollux, create a diversion around Tango Five. Base, order the FlightHawks in to attack."
"Roger that, Castor," Patrick's younger brother, Paul, responded. One of the original members of the Night Stalkers and the acknowledged expert in the use of the Tin Man battle armor, he was the fourth man on this spy team, taking the east side of the Libyan base.
"Copy, Castor," Wendy replied. "They're coming in hot, two minutes out, SFWs and Gators. Light up the targets as much as you can."
Meanwhile, Wohl dashed to the body of the SS-12 rocket, grabbed a cable running down the side, and pulled. The SS-12 missile was encased in a plastic transport sheath that protected it during transit but popped off easily during launch; it was simple to peel it off now. It was a real SS-12 rocket-no decoys here. He dashed forward, unzipping the sheath as he ran, then climbed up onto the cab until he reached the warhead. It looked real enough too, although he had never seen a live nuclear warhead before. "Castor, I just cracked open the warhead. Take a look and tell me what it is."
Patrick commanded his electronic helmet visor to lock in on Chris Wohl's visor image, transmitted from his suit's electronics suite via satellite. He recognized it instantly: "It's the real thing, folks-a Russian NMT-17 Mod One warhead, one-megaton-plus yield."
Wohl turned at a sudden sound behind him and saw soldiers rushing to the edge of the garbage pit, gesturing inside. The best proof he had a live warhead here wasn't McLanahan's assessment-it was the fact that none of the Libyans surrounding him dared raise a rifle muzzle in his direction or even come any closer to him. They were afraid of creating a nuclear yield if they hit the missile with a bullet. Wohl knew it took a lot more than one bullet to set one of these things off-but then again, maybe they knew something he didn't. "How do I disable it, Castor?"
"You can't, unless you brought a whole truckload of Snap-On Tools," Patrick replied. "Your best option is to create a heat source and let the FlightHawks finish the job."
"I can do that," Wohl said. He jumped down from the front of the TEL and searched until he found the diesel fuel refilling port, between the third and fourth set of wheels on the right side. The fuel tank itself was underneath the chassis and protected very well by slabs of steel, but he didn't need it. He opened the filler port, stepped back a few paces, and activated his self-protection weapon, sending a bolt of electrical energy from electrodes on his shoulders directly into the fuel port. A few moments later, Patrick saw a flash, and a second later heard an explosion, then another just a few moments later. So much for their little sneak-and-peek operation.
"All right, Nike, you dropped your drawers-we might as well have some fun too," Hal Briggs chimed in. "I'm in."
"Go for the fuel filler port on the right side between the rear wheels," Wohl said as he moved to the third SS-12. "The TELs aren't grounded, and there aren't any flame suppressors in the filler tube."
"Hey, Castor," Briggs asked, "what's the chance of one of those babies popping off with a yield in a fire?"
"Very slim," Patrick replied. "If they have no safeties in them or if the ones the Russians installed haven't been maintained by the Libyans, the worst that will happen is that the high-explosive jacket surrounding the core will cook off and scatter radioactive debris around."
"What if the trigger gets activated by a concussion or even by our shock beams?"
"I don't know," Patrick said. "Try not to hit the warhead with your beams. But there would have to be no pressure or acceleration safeties and pretty unstable triggers that then happen to work perfectly to produce a yield. Don't worry about it. Expose your missiles with a heat source as best you can so the FlightHawk can drop on them, and let's get out of here."
Several seconds later, Patrick saw another explosion, this time farther north. "Hot damn, that works good!" Briggs crowed. "I'm liking this!"
Patrick started running for the perimeter fence, then hit his boots'jump-jets. A shot of compressed air propelled him twenty feet into the sky and almost a hundred feet forward. When he landed, he jogged forward while scanning the area with his helmet-mounted sensors. Libyan soldiers were pointing in his direction. He had to run several yards until the accumulators built up enough pressure, then propelled himself with ease over the perimeter fence. His sensors and self-protection weapons worked automatically-any soldiers within thirty feet were knocked unconscious by a bolt of energy strong enough to start a jet aircraft.
Two more jumps and six blocks later, Patrick was at the southernmost garbage pit. It was exactly as Chris Wohl described it: a strong net, steel or even Kevlar, with enough real trash piled atop it to hide a huge wide truck carrying a large rocket. One step inside the pit revealed a second transporter about fifty yards away. He immediately found the fuel filler port and set the first SS-12 afire just as Wohl and Briggs did, and the TEL's right rear wheels blew apart, sending the SS-12 rocket rolling right off its launch rail. In-t few seconds it was going to be covered in burning diesel fuel — he hoped the nuclear warhead would just melt away and not cook off. He had no idea how sophisticated the Russians' nuclear warhead safety mechanisms were, or how well the Libyans had maintained them, so he had to assume that the explosive material surrounding the nuclear core would explode and scatter radioactive debris everywhere. He wanted to be off the base before any of them did just that.
Patrick quickly attacked the other two SS-12 launcher vehicles. Now there were explosions everywhere, mostly in the north where Hal Briggs was creating havoc. He turned just as his battle armor's defensive weapon downed another Libyan soldier that had run out from an underground shelter, an AK-47 raised and ready to fire. "Base, status of the FlightHawk?"
"Inbound sixty seconds, coming in hot," Wendy McLanahan responded. "FlightHawk One has good imagery of all three garbage pits and good downlink to FlightHawk Two. You guys can bug out anytime. I took the liberty of calling for the Hammer too." The "Hammer" was the CV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor aircraft. Accompanied by another tilt-rotor aircraft acting as an aerial refueling tanker, the Pave Hammer had flown them in across Egypt from the S.S. Catherine the Great in the Mediterranean Sea and had been waiting for them about a hundred miles to the south in the Sahara Desert.
"Good thinking, Base. Stalkers, rendezvous at Sierra One." The team had buried caches of battery packs, spare parts, water, and medical supplies in various places in the desert for their withdrawal; if they were not used within three days, explosive charges would destroy the evidence.
"Taurus copies."
"Nike copies."
"Pollux copies." Patrick had just turned to start jumping out of the base when he heard Paul cut in, "Wait, Stalkers. I found something."
"What do you got, Pollux?"
Paul McLanahan was too stunned to take cover-he was standing out in the open in front of three shabby-looking tin service buildings. Just before he was going to jet away, the big overhead doors to each building opened-and two MAZ-543 transporter-erector-launchers carrying an SS-12 Scaleboard nuclear rocket started to roll
out. "Stalkers, I'm staring at six huge rockets coming out of those service buildings. I think they're the same SS-12s you guys have been setting on fire. Should I-?
And then he stopped-because all six of the huge vehicles stopped, and the SS-12 missiles started to rise up off the truck bed, and large steel legs began to extend to the ground to steady the vehicle. Warning lights began to blink, and soldiers and ground crew members that had been running around before now started to take cover.
"Hey, guys, I think the Libyans are going to launch these puppies," Paul said.
"Oh, crap," Patrick murmured. "Base, ETA on the FlightHawks?"
"Less than ninety seconds, Castor."
Patrick had no idea how long it took to launch an SS-12, but he assumed that once it was elevated into launch position, it would take just a few moments. "Stalkers, converge on Pollux. Let's take those SS-12s out before they can launch!"
"I can take them!" Paul shouted. "You can't make it here in time! Continue the evacuation!"
"Stalkers, converge on Pollux now!" Patrick repeated. At the same time, he jet-jumped to the east in Paul's direction. "Base, have the Hammer meet us at Tango Ten exfil point."
"Roger," Wendy replied. "FlightHawks are sixty seconds out. Hammer's ETA to Tango Ten is two-zero minutes."
Paul's electrical defensive weapon went off as several Libyan soldiers approached. He felt heavy-caliber bullets pounding into him from many directions, all on full automatic and some with very heavy rates of fire-a Minigun or antiaircraft gun aimed at him. Seconds later, he got a lowpower warning. The Tin Man battle armor was not designed to sustain a heavy attack, and heavy-caliber aulpmatic-weapons fire drained power quickly. Paul had only seconds to get away.
A loud siren sounded. Paul turned toward the SS-12 rocket just to the right of him just as restraining clamps that held the rocket to the launch rail released and the rocket started to eject some gases from its nozzles. It looked like it was going to launch at any moment.