by Dale Brown
“It’s Cheech’s fault,” retorted the copilot. “We have bullshit IDs on those transports. Everybody knows they’re not civvies.”
“Hey, screw you, Micelli,” said the airborne radar operator. “The radar says what the radar says. They’re not identing,” he added, using slang for using the automated identification gear. “What can I tell you?”
“Relax, guys,” said Sparks sharply. “We went too far west getting out of the way of the Chinese missiles. Just play it the way it lays.”
Sparks pushed the Megafortress south toward the warhead recovery area.
“You with us, Flighthawks?” he asked.
“Roger that,” said Cowboy. “Got your six, big mother.”
Aboard Dreamland Bennett,
over northwest India
0330
“MISSILE LAUNCH!” SHOUTED SULLIVAN, THE BENNETT’S copilot. “Two—FD-60s. Pen Lung Dragon Bolts.”
“ECMs.”
The FD-60 was a medium range semiactive radar homing missile similar to the Italian Aspide, which by some reports had been reverse-engineered to create it. Unlike the missile they had dealt with earlier, Dog had considerable experience with the Dragon Bolt, and was confident the electronic countermeasures would sufficiently confuse it.
“Range is forty miles,” said Sullivan. “Sukhoi is changing course.”
As soon as it fired its missiles, the Chinese plane swung eastward. Dog held his own course steady, figuring the Sukhoi was looping around to get closer to the transports.
“He may be running away,” said Sullivan as the Sukhoi continued to the east.
“No, he’s going to swing back and protect the transports. Where are those missiles?”
“Missile one is tracking. Missile two is off the scope.”
“Keep hitting the ECMs.”
“We’re playing every song the orchestra knows, Colonel.”
THE LEAD TRANSPORT WAS A SMALL GRAY BLIP IN THE SIMULATED heads-up display screen at the center of Starship’s station. According to the computer, the aircraft had turboprop engines, was moving at 320 knots, and was definitely a Xian Y-14. But Starship knew he couldn’t trust the computer’s ID; he had to close in and get visual confirmation.
But the computer was so integrated into the aircraft he was flying that even a “visual” was heavily influenced by the computer’s choices. The image he saw wasn’t an image at all, it was constructed primarily from the radar aboard the Megafortress. The computer took the radar information, along with data from other available sensors, weighed how much each was worth under the circumstances, and then built an image to the pilot that represented reality. Even at close range, when he was ostensibly looking at a direct image from one of the Flighthawk’s cameras, the computer was involved, enhancing the light and steadying the focus. So where did you draw the line on what to trust?
The two aircraft were flying single file, headed directly toward the lake. They were descending at an easy angle, coming down through 20,000 feet above sea level—relatively close to some of the nearby peaks, which topped 12,000. The lake and the valley it was in were about 5,000 feet.
Starship was approaching the lead plane just off its right wing. At ten miles he switched the main screen to the long-range optical view, but all he could see was a blur, and a small one at that.
Within five seconds he had closed to inside five miles. The starlight-enhanced image showed a dark gray plane with no civilian markings. It was a twin turbojet, high-winged, with its engines close to the fuselage. Admittedly, it looked a lot like the reference pictures of a Fokker that he had pulled up from the Tactics library. But the wing area was larger, and the angle of the fuselage near the tail just a bit sharper—according to the computer, which modeled the image against the references for him.
But the key for Starship were the passenger windows—round on the An-24, and round on the airplane in front of him. The Fokker’s were rectangular.
All aircraft carried an IFF—Identification Friend or Foe—system, designed to distinguish between civilian and military aircraft. While the Megafortress had tried ident earlier, Starship instructed the computer to query the airplane again. The transponders in the two planes failed to respond.
“Bennett, I have the lead turbojet aircraft in sight,” said Starship. “I confirm visually that it is an An-24. Be advised, its ident does not respond.”
“Roger that. Take it down.”
“Copy, Bennett.”
THE SU-27 BEGAN A TURN BACK TOWARD THE TRANSPORTS when it was about fifty miles from the Bennett, a little later than Dog hoped. His plan was to get close to the Su-27 and then spin in front of him just within range of the Stinger air mines.
He’d have to wait two whole minutes now before he’d be close enough to make the turn, and a lot could happen in that time. Including getting hit by the Sukhoi’s first missile, which was still tracking them.
“Missile one is still coming at us,” said Sullivan. “Ten miles.”
“Chaff. Crew, stand by for evasive maneuvers,” said Dog, even as he jerked the aircraft onto its wing. The chaff was like metal confetti tossed into the air to confuse targeting radars. The Megafortress dropped downward, away from the chaff, in effect disappearing behind a curtain. Dog pressured his stick right, putting the EB-52 into a six g turn.
The missile sailed past. Apparently realizing its mistake as it cleared the cloud of tinsel without finding an aircraft, it blew itself up—not out of misery, of course, but in the vain hope that its target was still nearby.
By this time, however, the Bennett was swinging back to the north. The Su-27 was approaching her nose from about two o’clock. The Chinese fighter pilot wanted to do exactly what Dog wanted him to do—get on his tail and fire his heat-seekers. Quicker and with a much smaller turning radius than the Megafortress, the Chinese pilot undoubtedly felt he had an overwhelming advantage.
Dog had flown against Chinese fighter pilots several times. They had two things in common: They were extremely good stick and rudder men, and they knew it. He was counting on this pilot being no different.
What he wasn’t counting on was the PL-9 heat-seeker the pilot shot at his face as he approached.
“Flares,” said Dog. He tucked the Megafortress onto her left wing, sliding away as the decoys exploded, sucking the Chinese missile away.
The Su-27 pilot began to turn with the Megafortress, no doubt salivating at the sight—the large American airplane was literally dropping in front of him, its four turbojets juicy targets for his remaining missile.
“Stinger!” said Dog. “Air mines!”
Sullivan pressed the trigger, and the air behind the Megafortress turned into a curtain of tungsten.
“Launch! Missile launch! He’s firing at us!” shouted Sullivan.
Dog throttled back hard and yanked back sharply on his stick, abruptly pulling the nose and wings of his aircraft upward. The aircraft’s computer barked out an alarm, telling him that he was attempting to “exceed normal flight parameters”—in layman’s terms, he wasn’t flying so much as turning himself into a brick, losing all of his forward momentum while trying to climb. The Megafortress shook violently, gravity tugging her in several different directions at once.
Down won. But just as it did, Dog pushed the stick forward and ramped back up to military power on the engines. This caused a violent shudder that rumbled through the fuselage; the wing roots groaned and the aircraft pitched sharply to the right. Dog eased off a bit, grudgingly, then finally saw what he’d been hoping for—two perfect red circles shooting past.
They were followed by a much larger one. This one wasn’t simply red exhaust—the edges of the circle pulsed with a violent zigzag of orange and yellow. Not only had the Sukhoi sucked a full load of shrapnel into its engine, but one of the exploding air mines had started a fire.
“He’s toast!” yelled Sullivan. A second later the canopy of the Chinese jet flew off and the pilot bailed, narrowly avoiding the tumult of flames as his aircr
aft turned into a Molotov cocktail.
STARSHIP STRUGGLED TO KEEP HIS FLIGHTHAWK ON A steady path as the Megafortress jerked and jived through the air. This was the most difficult part of flying the robot planes: making your hand do what your mind told it to do, and not what its body wanted. The disconnect between what was happening on the screen—an aircraft in straight, level flight—and what was happening to his stomach was difficult to reconcile.
Starship put both hands on the control and lowered his head, leaving the Megafortress behind as he willed himself inside the little plane. He took Hawk One in a wide turn to his left, away from the military transport he’d just passed. Hawk Two, trailing by a little over two miles, followed. He thought of switching planes—Hawk Two would have had an easier shot—but the Megafortress’s shuddering sounds seemed to promise more heavy g’s to come, and he decided to stay where he was.
By the time he came out of his turn, the lead aircraft had made a turn of its own to the east. Its companion was following suit.
“Colonel, my contacts are heading away,” said Starship. “Should I pursue?”
“Stand by, Flighthawk leader.”
The Bennett leveled off. Starship checked the position of his airplanes on the sitrep; he was about eighty miles northeast.
“What’s the situation, Starship?”
“Looks like they’ve broken off and are heading home,” said Starship. “I’m not sure if they saw the Flighthawks or not—Hawk One was definitely close enough for a visual.”
“Save your bullets,” said Dog. “We’re out of Anacondas and we may need them for the ride home.”
VI
Borrowed Time
White House basement
1500, 17 January 2006
(0600, Karachi)
“SO I HEAR ROCKY BALBOA FINALLY GOT HIS MITTS ON Dreamland,” Margaret McGraw said when she called Jed to brief him on the latest round of NSA intercepts related to the warhead recovery mission.
“How’s that?”
“Oh, don’t give me the I’m-above-all-the-infighting line, Jed. I know you know what’s going on. Admiral Balboa pulled a coup.”
“Dreamland is being folded back, um, um, into the c-c-command structure.”
“There’s a positive spin for you. What are they going to do with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re not kicking you out too, are they?”
“N-N-Not that I know.”
“Kissing up to Balboa, huh?”
“No.”
McGraw laughed. She was a section leader in the NSA analysis section. Jed had met her only once or twice in person, but had spoken to her several times a week for more than a year.
“To work,” she said. “There’s a definite connection between the Kashmir guerrillas and China. They’re going crazy looking for the gadget.”
“Gadget” was McGraw’s way of saying warhead. She summarized a set of NSA intercepts and decrypted messages, then told Jed that the CIA had somewhat similar information from “humanint”—human sources, or spies.
“Word is, though, DIA and Navy intelligence are poopooing it,” added McGraw. “They think China is neutral.”
“Why?”
“Because the words ‘Navy’ and ‘intelligence’ don’t go together?” McGraw laughed. “Did I ever tell you what DIA stands for?”
“Like twenty times,” said Jed.
“Aw, ain’t that cute—you’re turning red.” McGraw chuckled.
“How do you know that?” said Jed, who was.
She laughed even harder.
“The Ch-Ch-Chinese have been firing on Dreamland aircraft,” said Jed.
“Absolutely. But, see, it hasn’t happened to a Navy ship, so they still think China’s neutral,” said McGraw. “I’m forwarding you a report on what we have. We have traffic back and forth, but the encryptions are good. We haven’t broken them.”
“When will you?”
“Don’t know. Not my department. It’s immaterial,” McGraw added. “What do you think they’re talking about? The price of tea?”
“Uh, no.”
“Good. Well, let’s wrap this up, hon. I don’t want to keep you from any hot dates.”
An atoll off the Indian coast
Time and date unknown
ZEN WOKE THIRSTY, HIS ENTIRE BODY ACHING FOR WATER. For a second he thought he was home, and he reached his hand toward the small table at the side of the bed, where by habit he usually kept a bottle of springwater. But of course he wasn’t at home, and instead of finding water, his hand swung against the side of his makeshift tent, collapsing it.
The struggle to fix the shelter took his mind off his thirst for a few minutes, but the craving soon returned. His lips felt as if they had shriveled into briquettes of charcoal. His throat had turned to rock, his tongue to sand.
There was about a half liter left in the bottle from his survival pack. How long could he make that last?
Grudgingly, Zen pulled himself to a sitting position and picked up the bottle. Two sips, he told himself. Small ones.
The first was small, but on the second his parched lips took over and he caught himself gulping.
Enough, he told himself, capping the bottle.
If he was thirsty, Breanna must be even more so.
“Hey, are you awake? Bree? Bree?”
He touched her gently, brushing away her hair. Then he moved his hand to her shoulder and pushed more firmly, as if she’d overslept the morning of a mission.
“Bree, come on now. Come on. Got some water. Let’s go.”
She didn’t move. She was breathing, but still far away.
Was she even breathing?
Zen uncapped the bottle and dripped some of the water onto his fingers, then rubbed it onto her lips, his forefinger grabbing at the chapped flesh. It didn’t seem like enough—he cupped his hand in front of her mouth and dribbled it from the bottle, pushing it toward her mouth. But she didn’t drink, and the water slipped away to the ground.
“Come on, Bree. We can’t waste this!”
For a moment he was angry at her, mad as he hadn’t been in months, years—since his accident, when he was mad at everything and everyone, at the world.
“Damn it, Breanna. Get the hell up. Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!”
He balled his hand into a fist and pounded his own forehead. The anger disintegrated into fear. Slowly, he recapped the bottle. Tucking it away, he sucked the remaining moisture from his fingers, then crawled out of the tent to see what the new day would bring.
Aboard the Abner Read
0600
STORM STOOD ON THE DECK, IGNORING THE SPRAY AS THE ship’s low-slung bow ducked up and down in the waves. In order to provide the smallest possible radar signature to an enemy, the Abner Read was designed to sit very low in the water, which meant the deck of its tumble-form hull was always wet. It was not exactly a good place to stroll, even on the calmest of days.
Storm liked it, though; standing on it gave you the feeling that you were part of the water. The salt really was in the wind, as the old cliché had it, and that wind rubbed your face and hands raw. It flapped against your sides, scrubbing the diseases of land away, rubbing off the pollution of politics and bureaucratic bullshit.
Should he defy Woods? The admiral was wrong, clearly wrong—even if the Chinese weren’t preparing the Khan for an attack, even if they had no intention of breaking the truce, wasn’t it in America’s best interests to sink her?
Especially since she had a nuclear weapon aboard.
Sink her. It would take less than a half hour now.
The opportunity was slipping through his grasp. The Khan would be out of range in a few hours.
A gust of wind caught him off balance, nearly sending him off his feet.
Storm steadied himself. He would follow his orders, even if they were misguided. It was his job and his duty. Besides, Eyes would never go against the admiral. He would have to lock him up.
N
o, that was foolishness. Woods had taken his moment of glory away out of jealousy, and Storm knew there was nothing he could do about it but stand and stare in the Khan’s direction, knowing that somewhere in the future they would meet again.
Base Camp One
0600
LIEUTENANT DANCER WAS WAITING FOR DANNY WHEN THE Osprey touched with its water-logged load at the Marine camp in the Indian desert. The sun was just starting to rise, and it sent a pink glow across the sand, bathing the woman in an ethereal, angel-like light. It was a good thing Jennifer was with him, Danny thought, because he wouldn’t have trusted himself otherwise.
“Captain Freah, welcome back,” said Dancer, stepping forward and extending her hand. “Glad you’re in one piece.”
“Never a doubt,” said Danny. “How are you, Lieutenant?”
Dancer gave Jennifer a puzzled look. “How did you get here?”
“We needed an expert to look at some of the wiring and circuits on the missiles,” said Danny. “And Jen was available. She jumped in with the Whiplash team.”
“You’re qualified to jump?”
“Jumping’s the easy part,” said Jennifer. “It’s the landing that’s tough.”
Dancer turned back to Danny. “Captain, we have to talk. What happened out there?”
Danny explained about the stillborn baby and the disaster that had followed its birth. Dancer had already heard a similar version of the story from the Marines who were on the mission—including Gunny, who had made it a point to say that he’d advised against sending the men.
“He did,” said Danny. “I take responsibility for my men.”
“The general is worried about how it will look public-relations-wise,” said Dancer. She seemed to disapprove as well, though she didn’t say so.
“Nothing I can do about that.”
Dancer nodded grimly. “I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault,” said Danny.