by Dale Brown
Khamis Mushait Air Base,
southwestern Saudi Arabia
0900
Starship brought the Flighthawk onto the runway after the Megafortress had turned onto the ramp, taxiing around so the U/MF-3 trailed the big airplane like a dog following its master. He had definitely drawn the short stick on the mission. After the excitement with the Ethiopians, Baker-Baker Two hadn't been challenged. He'd spent most of the six hours since Zen handed off the Flighthawk flying crazy eights at twenty thousand feet, and hadn't so much as buzzed a dhow during the entire time.
Dreamland's MC-17 sat near the ramp area, along with an MV-22 Osprey. A pack of maintainers met Baker-Baker Two as she trundled to a stop. They were already working on the damaged engine when Starship came down the ladder.
Starship got out of his flight gear and debriefed the mission. Too keyed-up to hit the sack, he decided to get a late breakfast. The Saudis had a cafeteria-style grill on their side of the base; a whiteboard at the door welcomed u.s. fliers and announced a special of hamburgers and fries in their honor, the words presented in both Arabic and English.
Starship wasn't sure why burgers were being presented as breakfast fare, but wasn't about to argue. He took his to a table near a group of Saudis who were dressed in flight suits. One of the men smiled at him as he sat down, then came over and introduced himself as Major Bandar, inviting Starship to join him and the others. Well into their thirties, the men were all F-15 jocks who'd spent time in the States and had flown during the Gulf War. When they asked Starship what he flew, he answered by saying he used to fly F-15s himself.
"And now what do you fly?" asked Bandar. "Mega-fortress?"
Starship held out his hands. "Can't say." The others jeered good-naturedly. "Oh, oh, top secret," laughed Bandar. "You fly the robot," guessed one of the others. "The midget with wings."
"He doesn't look small enough." "What is it like? Is it difficult?"
Starship tried changing the subject, and finally got them to talk about the F-15s and their own routine. Bandar lamented that they were restricted to a flight a week, and that the missions were little more than hops north and back, barely enough to get the turbines spinning.
"Maybe we can work an exercise out with you sometime," said Starship as the Saudis got up for a meeting. "A little dissimilar aircraft tactics."
"That would be very good," said Bandar.
"I'd like to shoot down a Megafortress," said the officer across from Bandar.
Starship started to smile but the pilot's expression made it clear he wasn't joking.
Now it was Bandar's turn to change the subject. "If you are interested in seeing the town," he said, "let me know. I will be your guide."
"Yeah? I wouldn't mind a tour," said Starship.
"Meet me at the gate at 1400," said Bandar. "Two p.m."
Starship hesitated. He was supposed to fly tonight and had been planning on sleeping.
"Two p.m.," repeated Bandar. "You'll be there?"
"Sure," said Starship.
White House
0600
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral George Balboa, spent much of his time at the White House angry, but Jed Barclay had never heard him quite this angry.
Then again, he'd never heard his boss this angry either. The walls of the Executive Office Building were practically shaking as the two men shouted at each other. Fortunately, because of the early hour, there were few people in the West Wing to hear them — though given how loud they were shouting, Jed wouldn't have been surprised to find that they woke half the city.
"You're trying to create your own private army, Freeman. That's what Dreamland is — a private army."
"That's baloney and you know it. It's slander."
"You tell me what to call a deployment of military units that ignores the normal chain of command. And ignores international law."
"I'd like to see proof of that. That aircraft was attacked. They have proof."
"Manufactured by them, no doubt."
"You're way out of line, Balboa. And for the record, Whiplash has always operated at the President's specific command — legally, per the law. It's the President's prerogative as commander in chief to direct units and set their missions."
"Does the President know about it?"
"Ask him yourself."
"I damn well will," said Balboa.
Jed literally threw himself back against the wall as Balboa stormed from the office. Balboa's face was red, and the admiral's stubby legs and arms pumped like the rods in an overworked V-8 car motor. Jed held his breath as the admiral passed. Just as he exhaled, Balboa swung around.
"And you," he shouted at Jed. "You better wake up and smell the coffee here, kid. I thought you had a brain in your head."
"I have a brain," snapped Jed.
"You're a dupe. You better watch yourself, Barclay, or you're going to end up like Ollie North — if you're lucky. More like Dean and Erlichmann."
He stomped away, disappearing around the corner. Jed walked into Freeman's suite, where he found his boss picking up files from the floor.
"Sorry about that, Jed," said Freeman. "The Chairman is a little upset."
Jed nodded and began to help. "Who's Dean and Erlich-mann?"
"John Dean and John Erlichmann. They were in the Nixon administration. They went to prison because they lied for the President."
"Oh," said Jed, sitting in the chair in the corner. "That's just Balboa being Balboa. Don't worry about it." "Why would I be like one of those guys?"
"You're not. Balboa is throwing his usual smoke. He's still angry about the strike on China by Brad Elliott and company," said Freeman. "He'd love to prove that Dreamland was behind it."
"Dreamland had nothing to do with it," said Jed.
They were referring to the so-called Fatal Terrain episode, which had been pulled off by a semiprivate group operating on behalf of the Taiwan government — or at least that was the public version. Even Jed wasn't privy to all the details. But he did know that the Dreamland people weren't involved. Or at least he thought he did.
"Balboa apparently thinks that Dreamland and Whiplash should be placed back in the military chain of command," said Freeman. "Or I should say, under his chain of command."
There had been various plans to bring Dreamland back "online" as a regular command, but the President was ambivalent about doing so. Jed had always believed this was because, as the President had said, he didn't want to stifle the creativity there. But in light of what Balboa had just said, he had to admit there might be other reasons as well. Lieutenant General Terill Samson had been tapped to head nearby Brad Elliott Air Force Base, which on paper was supposed to have included Dreamland. But Dreamland's funding line was specifically excluded from the command, and no one in the Air Force — not even the formidable General Samson — had direct authority over Colonel Bastian and his people. Once a Whiplash order designated a mission, Bastian answered only to the President.
Usually through Jed. Which put him in the middle… maybe in the same place Erlichmann and the others had been.
"Among his other goals," continued Freeman, "Admiral Balboa is angling to have the Dreamland team in the Gulf of Aden placed under Captain Gale. Xray Pop could use help. There's no question about that."
"But that would change their focus from the submarine to the pirates," said Jed.
"They may end up being the same mission. Balboa is claiming the Dreamland people provoked the attack on their aircraft."
"I heard, but that's ridiculous. Colonel Bastian wouldn't do that. Besides, Ethiopia has scrambled planes before." "Mmmm."
Jed could tell that Freeman wasn't entirely sure. "I can get the mission tapes," he said.
"No, that's all right. Like I said, it's just Balboa being Balboa." Freeman rose. "It may make sense to have the Megafortresses work with Xray Pop. The only problem is that Gale and Bastian will spend so much time spitting at each other they'll forget who the enemy is."
Aboard the Abner Read,
Gulf of Aden
1414
They were exactly fifteen miles offshore, directly north of the port where the Dreamland people had tracked the Somalian pirates. Storm had ordered the radars turned on so they knew the Abner Read was there, hoping that would provoke a response. Thus far it hadn't.
If he wanted to, he could unleash a barrage from his gun and obliterate the town just above the tiny port where the pirates had taken refuge. A dozen shells would erase it.
Two or three hundred years ago, when sails ruled the sea, that's what they would have done. There'd be no political niceties, no worry about a peace process or the UN.
"Captain, we have two unidentified aircraft approaching from the south at high speed," said Eyes. "Just popped up over the mountains, coming toward the coast."
"Very good," Storm said. "Weapons, track them and prepare to fire."
Aboard the Wisconsin,
over the Gulf of Aden
1414
Zen tapped the command to share the video feed with Ensign Gloria English, who was operating the Piranha at the other Flighthawk station. "What's that?" he asked.
"That, Major, is the future of the Navy. The DD(L)-01 Abner Read. A littoral warfare destroyer. It's the naval equivalent of a Megafortress, in terms of cutting-edge equipment. That's Captain Storm Gale's flagship."
"Looks like a Popsicle with a couple of sugar cubes on it."
"Be interesting to see what it could do in a tangle."
"Zen, those Ethiopian MiG-23s are continuing north," warned Dish, who had been tracking them on radar. "They have activated their attack radars. Looks to me like they're going to attack the Abner Read."
"Better warn them. I'm on it," said Zen, plunging the Flighthawk in their direction.
Aboard the Abner Read,
Gulf of Aden
1416
The excited shouts over the ship's battle circuits revved Storm's heart as he glanced at the graphic rendering of the approaching MiGs in his hologram. The two aircraft were just crossing from the land to the water fifteen miles away, sweeping in their general direction. "We have them targeted."
"Stand by," said Storm. The Abner Read had SM-2 missiles in its Vertical Launching System; the missiles could knock out a target at roughly ninety miles.
The MiGs weren't coming on an exact intercept, but they were well within range to launch antiship missiles. Neither, however, had turned on a targeting radar, and thus had not committed a hostile act — which his orders required before he was allowed to shoot them down.
Orders he didn't particularly care for, orders that put him and his ships in danger — but orders which, if disobeyed, would be used by his enemies to derail his career.
"Communication from a Dreamland aircraft, warning us that two MiGs are approaching."
"About time," scoffed Storm. "Connect me."
"It's not easy cutting that circuit in, sir. There's a technical glitch on our side that—"
"Connect me."
Aboard the Wisconsin,
over the Gulf of Aden
1417
"They're both MiG-23BNs," Zen told the Navy captain. "Computer says they don't have antiship missiles. Repeat, no missiles." "Bombs?"
"Appear to have no weapons of any kind," said Zen. "I think they're just up for their jollies. They're not reacting to your ship. I don't think they know you're there."
"They must be up to something. The Ethiopians typically don't come over Somalian territory."
"They did last night."
The two Ethiopian warplanes were now ten miles off the Flighthawk's nose. Zen began a turn to the east, planning to bring the Flighthawk in an arc behind the MiGs. Wisconsin, meanwhile, had already begun tacking in that direction to stay close to the Piranha probe.
"Have a small patrol craft moving out of the port," said Ensign English, who was commanding the probe.
"Feed me the location," said Zen. The plot merged into the sitrep screen in Zen's helmet. The MiG fighter-bombers, meanwhile, continued northward.
"It's a sucker play," said Zen. "They sent the MiGs out to get everyone's attention while the patrol boat sneaks off in broad daylight."
Aboard the Abner Read,
Gulf of Aden
1426
"MiGs see us," Eyes told Storm. "Changing course. Heading toward us."
"Do we have a lock?"
"Having some trouble," said Eyes.
The missiles themselves were dependable weapons, but were designed to work with a different targeting system. Sometimes they were locked even though the weapons panel indicated they weren't — and vice versa. The experts promised a fix…but by the time that happened, the new system would probably be ready.
"Weapons, can you target those planes?" Storm asked.
"Ready to fire at your command," said the weapons officer. "I can't guarantee a hit, because of the glitch."
"I'm not asking you to, son."
"Dreamland aircraft is back on the line," said the communications officer. "They say it's urgent."
"Tell them to take a ticket," said Storm. "Have the Ethiopian aircraft been warned?"
"Affirmative."
"Eyes, are those aircraft in Somalian territory?"
"Negative, sir. They have crossed into international airspace. They have not answered hails. I believe they show hostile intent. They are a bombing run, and we're in their crosshairs."
"Noted. Engage the enemy."
Aboard the Wisconsin,
over the Gulf of Aden
1428
Zen saw the first missile flash from the desk of the Abner Read and shook his head.
"Missile in the air!" warned Dish. "RIM-67, Navy Standard Missile Two in ship-to-antiaircraft mode, targeted at the Ethiopian MiG."
"He's a dead pony," said Zen. He pushed the Flighthawk closer to the water. The patrol boat had her throttle open full bore and was kicking over the waves at close to fifty knots. It was crossing out of Somalian waters, heading for the open sea.
"Dish, have you advised Xray Pop? The patrol boat's getting away."
"Told me to hold on," said Dish. "Second missile launched. Same deal, targeting the second MiG."
"Flighthawk leader, we have to get into position to make another buoy drop," said the Wisconsin's pilot.
"I copy. I'm coming back," said Zen. He changed the display from the optical camera to the sitrep, and was surprised to see that the two MiGs were still in the air, hightailing it back over the Somalian coast. "Don't tell me Navy missed," said Zen.
"Shanked to the right," said Dish. "My guess is there's a problem with the Abner Read's radar — their signal is very degraded. Looks like the MiGs selected afterburners before the Abner Read got her first shot off," added the radar operator.
"Storm's not going to be happy about that," said English.
"You know him?" asked Zen.
"Only from what Commander Delaford has told me. They served together. Storm's a hothead."
"And not a very good shot either," said Zen. "But at least he scared the pants off those Ethiopians. Idiots are still in afterburner. Probably run out of fuel halfway home."
White House
0706
Admiral Balboa had calmed down considerably in the few hours since Jed had seen him, but that was only relative; he was still frowning and clearly irritable as they waited upstairs in the White House residence for the President. It was just after seven a.m. The President was supposed to leave no later than seven-thirty from the back lawn for a round of visits to the Midwest. The early morning session had been called primarily to update him on the situation in China, where a U.S. plane had been forced down by hostile action, but the Gulf of Aden was nearly as volatile. The Ethiopian Air Force claimed that two of their aircraft had been shot down without provocation, and had filed a protest with the UN. Meanwhile, the Navy was demanding more resources for Xray Pop, which had lost several men after boarding a pirated ship.
Jed real
ized that if the last administration hadn't cut the funding for weapons development, the task group would have had a much easier time of things; at the very least, it would have had more Shark Boats, working UAVs, and competent radar. But no one wanted to hear that, least of all Admiral Balboa, who seemed to think the last President walked on water, with an aircraft carrier to guide him.
"Young Jed, good to see you this morning," said President Martindale, springing into the Treaty Room at the center of the upstairs floor of the presidential mansion. The President liked to have small, intimate sessions in the residence; he thought they were much more informal and likely to yield "real" advice than sessions in the West Wing. Jed, though, thought that the history of the place intimidated some people — you were sitting where Abraham Lincoln walked his sick son to sleep, where FDR poured cocktails and shared off-color gossip, where Kennedy sized up his conquests.
"Admiral, Mr. Freeman, Jeffrey, Jerrod — everyone have coffee except me?" The President went to the large urn that had been wheeled into the room and helped himself. "Let's hear what the Seventh Fleet's story is," he said as he poured.
"I think we should talk about the Gulf of Aden first," said Freeman. "And get that out of the way."
"Xray Pop lost twelve men last night," said Balboa, launching into a short summary of what had happened.
Martindale nodded solemnly, and Jed guessed that he already knew everything Balboa was telling him. The White House military liaison would most likely have woken him with the news.
"There was also an attack on a Dreamland aircraft by Ethiopia," Balboa went on. "Provoked by the Dreamland aircraft."
"That's not true," blurted Jed.
Everyone looked at him. Jed felt his face shade red. He glanced at Freeman, who was frowning.
"Go ahead, Jed," said the President. "What happened?"
"First of all, there were two encounters, one early in the evening with the Sudanese, and then several hours later with the Ethiopians. The Sudanese did a fly-by; it's not clear how they knew that the Megafortresses were in the area, or even if they were military aircraft as opposed to, say, uh, civilians. They went away without incident. Several hours later the Ethiopians approached. They demanded that the Megafortresses identify themselves or be fired on. Since their mission was covert, they maintained radio silence. Four MiGs then engaged the Megafortress that was commanding the Piranha probe. Two were shot down, one by the Megafortress and the other by a Flighthawk."