by Dale Brown
Three seconds later, the missile’s first-stage motor ignited, and the missile leaped into the sky on a long tongue of flame.
The sight of that missile rising into the sky toward Domodedovo made him smile. To think that the Americans, not the Ukrainians, had originally planned to do this awful task! Americans simply had no inkling of what it was like to have their homeland invaded, their people killed by the thousands, their entire way of life ripped away from them far beyond their control. America would have been hated if it had accomplished this attack. Ukrayina was acting in self-defense—it had a moral and legal right to mount any soft of attack in order to defend its homeland.
Pavlo knew that his flight plan said to turn west and try to make it as close to the Belarus border as he could before flaming out—he didn’t have enough gas to make it out of Russia, let alone back to Ukrayina—but he kept the nose pointed toward the bright city lights of Moscow and even started a slight climb so he could get a better view. He knew he was supposed to put on his antiflashblindness goggles and close off the cockpit too, but that would be depriving him of the best seat in the house.
It was time to record his last will and testament, indulge in a few seconds of rhetoric—he had earned as much by successfully accomplishing this fearsome task. He set his primary radio to 243.0, the international emergency channel, keyed the mike, and said in Russian, “Good morning, Russia. This is Colonel of Air Defense Aviation Pavlo Grigor’evich Tychina of the Air Force of the Republic of Ukrayina. I am of sound mind and body, acting under orders of the President of the, Ukrainian Republic and the Parliament.
“I have just launched an RKV-500B missile at Domodedovo air-port, where I understand the butcher Vitaly Velichko is hiding. I wish him a swift journey to Hell.” He hoped that lying about the missile, calling it a Russian cruise missile rather than an American AGM-131, would leave no doubt in anyone’s mind that the attack was launched by Ukrayina, not America—at least he wanted to get full credit for this deed.
“This strike is in retaliation for my beloved fiancèe, Mikola Kor-neichuk, who was killed by a similar weapon fired by a Russian Tupo-lev-22 bomber several days ago in the attack against Ukrayina, and for the other nuclear bomb attacks against Ukrayina that left thousands dead or maimed. It is done on behalf of myself, my country, and the good people of the Republic of Turkey, who offered their hand in friendship. I hope this action stops the conflict between Russia and the NATO allies. If it does, I wish you all peace. If it does not, I will see you all in Hell very soon. I hope that—”
He could not finish his sentence because a blinding flash of pure white light obliterated every sound, every sense in his body. He felt no pain, heard no engine sounds. He missed the familiar rumble of the old Sukhoi-17 between his legs, but he knew he had done his task well.
Colonel Pavlo Tychina was twenty miles from Domodedovo airport, ground zero for the twenty-kiloton AGM-131 SRAM-B missile, when it descended and exploded at precisely five thousand feet above ground. The fireball was five miles in diameter, completely enveloping the airport and vaporizing everything it touched, including the entire twenty-story command post and senior leadership bunker set under forty feet of concrete under the airport, and throwing millions of tons of debris a hundred thousand feet in the air with the power of ten volcanoes.
Vitaly Velichko was reduced to superheated gas in a millionth of a second as he conferred with his military commanders, sitting around a table on the sixth floor of the bunker, drinking vodka and plotting the invasions of Romania, Turkey, Georgia, Kazakhstan, and Alaska by Russian troops.
Pavlo Tychina was not caught in the fireball, but the overpressure from the explosion swatted his Su-17 out of the sky like a tennis ball hit with an overhead smash. Only God could see the smile on his face as he crashed into the frozen Russian ground.
EPILOGUE
A nation which makes the
final sacrifice for life
and freedom does not get beaten.
—Kemal Ataturk,
founder of the
Republic of Turkey
Vilnius, Lithuania
Later That Morning
Daren Mace lightly touched her arm: “Rebecca? Wake up.”
“Huh? What … Jesus!” She was sitting in the cockpit of her RF-111G Vampire bomber, her gloves and helmet on and the canopy closed—but somehow she had fallen asleep, and the airspeed had been allowed to drift almost to zero. It was still dark outside, but she could tell that they were right on the deck, lower than treetop level—the altimeter tape was reading only five hundred feet! She grabbed for the throttles, jamming them forward to military power—
“Easy, Rebecca,” Mace said, grabbing for her hands. “We’re on the ground. In Vilnius, Lithuania—remember? The crew chiefs are here to load us up.” Slightly embarrassed, Rebecca and Daren climbed out of the cockpit, where they had been sitting guard all night ready to launch again, and let the maintenance control team from Incirlik in to do their job.
The Vampires had been refueled as soon as they touched down at Vilnius International Airport, and a maintenance control team that had been sent the day of the attack had fixed the radar and patched the fuel leaks in Furness’ aircraft. Now, two hours after landing, a C-17 Globemaster III transport delivered external fuel tanks, Sidewinder missiles, starter cartridges, four AGM-88C HARM missiles, and two CBU-89 “Gator” mine dispersal weapons for each Vampire—a typical defense-suppression load—along with security guards, command post personnel, and a new strike routing, this time targeting armor divisions that might roll across the Russian frontier toward Lithuania. The weapons and fuel tanks were quickly uploaded onto both aircraft, and Thunder One and Thunder Two went on cockpit alert.
“So it wasn’t a nightmare,” Furness said. “It wasn’t a dream.”
“Nope, we really did it,” Mace replied. They were both wrapped in leather and fur coats borrowed from the Lithuanian Self-Defense Forces, wearing helmets so they could monitor the radios. Both crewmen were wearing survival vests under their coats, complete with 45-caliber automatics—they could be going to war at any time, and they had to be thinking tactical warfare now. A warm-air hose from the external power cart hooked up to the Vampire kept them warm inside the cockpit despite below-freezing temperatures outside. “Pavlo did it.”
“Where is he?”
“He never came in,” Mace said. “I heard him talking on the radio in Russian while we were getting away—I don’t speak Russian, but it sounded like an electronic suicide note to me.”
“Damn him,” Furness muttered. “He didn’t have to do that. He was a hero—he had no reason to kill himself.”
“Hard to tell what a guy thinks about after launching a nuclear weapon,” Mace said. “But he was doing it to defend his home and his people. That changes things a lot. I’m going to miss him.”
Their cockpit alert duty did not last long. Eight hours and two power carts later, Lieutenant General Tyler Layton arrived at the aircraft shelters with several Lithuanian officers and senior NATO commanders. Rebecca and Daren got out of the aircraft when Layton waved them down.
“General Palcikas, I’d like to present Major Rebecca Furness and Lieutenant Colonel Daren Mace,” Layton said. “Rebecca, Daren, General Dominikas Palcikas, Minister of Defense of the Lithuanian Republic.”
“A great pleasure,” Palcikas said, nearly crushing even Mace’s strong grip with a huge bearlike hand, then tenderly kissing Rebecca’s hand with a slight bow. Everyone had heard of Dominikas Palcikas, even Furness. He was one of the biggest heroes to come out of the post-Soviet Union states. He was a fifty-five-year-old combat veteran who had trained and risen up through the ranks of the old Soviet Army. But upon the independence of Lithuania in mid-1991, Palcikas became General and Commander in Chief of the Lithuanian Forces of Self-Defense. He named his initial cadre of officers and enlisted volunteers the Iron Wolf Brigade, invoking not only the spirit of the Grand Dukes of Lithuania, but the unit of the same name that had be
en led by his father in World War II, a unit that once saved Lithuania. Then, in 1992, when an ambitious general from neighboring Byelorussia made a play to take over Lithuania, it was Palcikas (with a little help from the U.S. Marines) who crushed the uprising and kept Lithuania independent once again, earning Palcikas not only worldwide fame but a place in history as well.
“We bring good news,” announced Palcikas. “The war is over. Russia has laid down its weapons and is withdrawing from Ukrayina even now.”
“That’s wonderful!” Furness said, giving everyone there, including Palcikas, a big hug. The big Lithuanian minister didn’t seem to mind one bit.
“The Congress of People’s Deputies of Russia has appointed Valentin Sen’kov as acting president, pending new elections,” Layton said. “He ordered the military withdrawal from Ukrayina, and so far it appears that the Russian Army is responding.”
“How badly was Moscow hit?” Daren Mace asked.
“Bad,” Palcikas responded, “but not as badly as the Russians did to Ukrayina and Turkey. Much damage to southern Moscow and cities of Podolsk, Zhukovsky, and Ramenskoye. Perhaps twenty thousand dead at Domodedovo, another twenty thousand other places. Russia very lucky the Ukrayinans good bombers. Direct hit on Domodedovo Airport, little destruction elsewhere.”
“We’re tracking the fallout, and we could see another twenty to fifty thousand casualties from that in time—perhaps some in China and even North America,” Layton added. “Radiation could get into the food chain in Asia. It’s bad, but like General Palcikas said, it could have been worse, especially if the Russians had retaliated with an all-out attack. I think the world just got a wake-up call, my friends. I just hope we hear the alarm and take action, and don’t just hit the snooze button.
“Anyway, you two are off alert. You can turn your classified documents over to the communications detail, and you can run your decocking and stand-down checklists. Once maintenance signs for the plane and the weapons, you two are on your own for a few days. General Palcikas has kindly offered the hospitality of the capital city and his staff.”
“Lithuania is cold and blustery place in winter,” Dominikas Palcikas said, “but we have many fine ways of keeping our guests warm. You are most welcome. But first show me your beautiful aircraft here. I understand Turkey wants to buy Vampire bombers, and perhaps Lithuania will buy some too. Would you like to come to Lithuania to teach my crews how to fly these beautiful planes?”
“It might just happen,” General Layton said. “Negotiations are underway, and the Pentagon will most likely deactivate the Vampire wing at Plattsburgh. Vilnius even looks like Plattsburgh, in an Old World way. You two will certainly be at the top of the list for the initial training cadre—an experienced instructor pilot, a maintenance wizard, and an experienced weapons officer. Think about it, you two.”
“Lithuania would be honored to have you,” Palcikas added. “You come. We have lots of fun.” He looked at the two flyers, noticing how they were looking at each other, then winked at Tyler Layton. “I see the thought of you two being together in foreign land is very disturbing. I welcome you to Lithuania.” Layton took Palcikas over to the RF-111G and began explaining its features.
Mace turned to Rebecca and smiled warmly, saying, “Hey, all I got left at Plattsburgh waiting for me is some busted taps at a biker bar in downtown Plattsburgh. You have a business to run, a bunch of new planes, maybe a future.”
Rebecca thought about her options—for about two seconds. “You know, I think I’ll tell Ed Caldwell to take his Cessna Caravans and stick them up his oversexed ass. Pardon my language. I want to fly the F-111s, period. If I can’t fly them in New York, I’ll fly them in Vilnius, or Ankara. As long … as long as you’re there with me.”
“Deal, lady,” Daren Mace replied, taking both her hands in his. “It’s a deal.”
Rebecca gave him a tight hug, pulled back a bit, then met his lips with her own.
The White House, Washington, D.C.
That Same Time
“Zah vashe zdarov’yeh. Congratulations, Valentin … er, I should say, Mr. President,” the First Lady said on the satellite telephone call to St. Petersburg. An emergency Russian government had been transferred there until a full assessment of the destruction and fallout from Domodedovo could be completed. “We’re very happy for you.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. President,” Valentin Sen’kov, the acting president of the Russian Federation, replied. “I am not sure if congratulations are in order, considering the circumstances, but I thank you for your kind thoughts.”
“All America is very concerned about the devastation at Domodedovo and throughout Russia,” the President said. His feet were propped up on the Kennedy desk, the phone resting on one ear, while he chewed on a chicken leg with his free hand. He had ordered out this evening, over the protests of the First Lady who was on a nearby extension, and a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken rested on his desk, along with a huge Coke and a basket of biscuits. He loved the Colonel’s original recipe. “Our blessings are with you. And on behalf of the NATO alliance, I want to thank you for agreeing to pull your forces out of the Ukraine and your warships in the Black Sea away from Turkey. A major disaster has been averted, thanks to you.”
“I hope what has transpired over the past few days only serves to bring our people closer together in this hour of need,” Sen’kov said.
“We share your hopes, Valentin,” the President said, wiping his mouth. He saw his chief of staff giving him a signal and pointing at his watch, reminding him that the next news conference was about to start. “We have to go, Valentin. If there’s anything you require, you know how to reach us.”
“Our blessings go with you,” the First Lady said. “It’s good to have a close friend and a strong, true advocate of democracy in the Kremlin.”
“Yes … ah, but there is still one small matter,” Sen’kov said quickly. “I understand you are giving another news conference in a short time. I think this would be a good opportunity to propose a reparation plan for the relief of the Russian people. I think—”
“What did you say?” the President interrupted, almost choking on one of the Colonel’s legs. “Did you say a reparation plan?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Sen’kov said evenly. “We have not come up with any firm estimates on the damage caused by the AGM-131 weapon launched on Domodedovo, but I think a fair, conservative estimate might be in the order of one hundred billion dollars.”
“What in the hell are you talking about, Sen’kov?” the President retorted, spitting out the chicken. “Why should the United States or anyone pay reparations to Russia for the attack? First of all, it was a conflict between the Ukraine and Russia—”
“Come, come … we both know that it was not a Ukrainian AS-16 missile, as the pilot who launched the missile claimed during his radio message, but an American AGM-131 missile that destroyed Domodedovo,” Sen’kov said. “I think the world would be horrified to learn that you—”
“The United States did not launch the damn thing, the Ukrainians did!” thundered the President, his feet now off the desk. He looked at his wife, horrified, as if to say, Now see what you’ve gotten me into!
“Be that as it may, Mr. President,” Sen’kov said smugly, “the American involvement in the attack can be easily verified, and I think this confirmed story may prove, shall we say, damaging to your reelection hopes.”
“But it was you who suggested that we attack Domodedovo,” the First Lady snapped. “You told us he was in the bunker.” Her eyes were as big as saucers; her blonde hair was all but standing on end.
“How in the world would I have access to information like that, dear lady?” Sen’kov said. “I am just a simple congressman. I have no apparatus, no contacts, to get that kind of information. That is top secret information, shared by only a few close to the President, and certainly not with a member of the opposition party.
“Now, may I suggest we split the reparation payments into t
en parts, ten billion dollars per year for ten years. Of course, during your news conference, you may call it humanitarian relief for the poor people of Russia. I have no objection to that. And we must discuss the procedures for plea-bargaining the lawsuits brought against my government by people affected by the fallout … that could go on for another five years.”
“This is blackmail!” the First Lady shouted, pacing with her extension in front of the French doors leading to the Rose Garden.
“You pull this shit on us, Sen’kov, and we’ll claim the same damages to Russia for its attacks on our NATO allies,” said the President, suddenly feeling an ulcer attack underway.
“But Mr. President—it is only fair,” Sen’kov said. “Of course, Russia did not use full-yield thermonuclear weapons, like the United States provided for the Ukraine, and it was Vitaly Velichko’s government, not mine, who ordered those horrible attacks on the Ukraine and Turkey. However, I am fully prepared to compensate the victims. My government would gladly negotiate reparations for the pain and suffering for the victims in the Ukraine and Turkey, and compensation for the property damage—minimal in our case, since the warheads launched against your allies hardly did any damage at all compared to the one missile you launched against us—provided the United States and NATO pay the same for victims in Russia.”
“Valentin … Mr. President,” the First Lady purred, “why are you doing this? Why are you turning on us like this? Your nation started a war against our NATO allies. Velichko would have started World War Three.”
“Dear lady, Mr. President, please understand,” Sen’kov explained. “Velichko was a mad dog, but he spoke for many in my country—like myself—that are disturbed by the disintegration of the Russian state. The Communists like Velichko bankrupted our country, it’s true, but his ideals are held by many here, including many powerful members of the armed forces. Just because the Cold War is over, the Soviet Union is no more, and the world is changing, does not mean that other countries can take what they want from my country, and we should do nothing about it. Russia should be powerful once again.