Plan of Attack

by Dale Brown

  “It’s necessary,” Gryzlov said. “You failed to destroy Eareckson Air Base in the initial assault, and now it is being used against us by McLanahan and his Phoenix bombers. Plan a strike mission on Eareckson. Completely destroy the airfield, intelligence-gathering, and surveillance facilities. Plan another mission to attack any military air-defense or airfield facilities on Attu Island as well.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gryzlov thought for a moment, then said, “Launch the attack on Shemya using the MiG-23 tactical bombers from Anadyr only. Mass those forces if you must, but I want Eareckson turned into glass as soon as possible. I want the long-range bombers readied for follow-on attacks over North America.”

  “Targets, sir?”

  “The targets that failed to be struck by our initial attack force: the Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Barksdale Air Force Base, Fairchild Air Force Base, Nellis Air Force Base, Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base….” Gryzlov paused, gazed off into the distance distractedly, then added, “And Sacramento, California, as well.”

  “Sacramento? You mean, Beale Air Force Base, sir?”

  “That can be our intended target, of course,” Gryzlov said. “But I want the warhead to land in the city of Sacramento, not on the military base.”

  “For God’s sake, sir, why? The city itself is no longer a military target—all of the bases located near it were turned into civilian airports. There is a small rocket-motor research company there, and some computer-chip research firms, but they don’t…” Then he remembered the general’s previous remarks about his twisted motivations for this entire campaign—and he remembered that same look Gryzlov had now, and he knew why Gryzlov wanted to target a major American population center, before the president started to speak. “Not McLanahan again, sir…?”

  “Another of our missiles will go off course, Stepashin, just like the one that ‘went off course’ and hit Spokane, Washington,” Gryzlov said. “But that strike, the loss of his son and what remains of his already fractured family, will be the final event that will drive Patrick Shane McLanahan mad.”

  “Sir, you cannot tell me that you would kill hundreds of thousands of civilians just to lash out at—?”

  “It will be a missile malfunction, damn it!” Gryzlov retorted. “I will apologize, offer my condolences, perhaps even offer to resign from office in an attempt to atone for the miscalculation. The Duma will reject that offer, of course. But McLanahan will suffer far more than any other man or woman on the planet.” He glanced at Stepashin’s incredulous expression and shook his head. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you, General? McLanahan is perhaps even now preparing to strike our forces, and you still believe that I’m crazy for taking such a personal interest in this man?

  “It is you who are mistaken, Stepashin,” Gryzlov went on. “McLanahan is like a crocodile, like a rattlesnake. He lies quietly, moves slowly, barely creates a ripple in the water or disturbs a leaf on the ground when he moves. But when he moves, it is with speed, power, and tenacity. His jaws clamp on, and he will not let go until he has killed his prey. And then he returns to his lair or his river, lies quietly, and watches and waits for the next opportunity to strike.”

  “Mr. President, with all due respect, I suggest you take some time to get a little more perspective on this conflict,” Nikolai Stepashin said. He knew that it was dangerous to try to admonish or correct a man like Gryzlov, but in order to sustain any semblance of control or leadership in this conflict, he had to be sure of exactly where the president’s head was right now. “I understand your campaign against McLanahan—I agree that the man has been at the root of so many major conflicts in past years that it is a wonder he’s still alive, let alone not in prison or dangling at the end of a rope. But this war is far beyond one man now. We are at war, Mr. President! Let us focus on the American war machine, not on this one disgraced Air Force officer. You must meet with the general staff and hear what they have to—”

  “I’m well aware of what’s at stake and what must be done, Stepashin,” Gryzlov said. “Your job is to get the information and opinions from the general staff and present them to me, and for me to pass along my orders to the general staff. I have followed the staff’s recommendations to the letter. I have invested the money, built up and modernized our forces, and garnered the support of the Duma—everything my military and political advisers told me I would have to do before this campaign could be successful. Do not question my motivations, Stepashin!”

  “I…I do not question your goals, nor your commitment to them, sir,” Stepashin said. “But talking about going to war and destroying one city just to lash out against one man is not rational. Disrupting the American strategic nuclear triad and regaining parity with American nuclear forces—that is a goal I and the members of the general staff agree with completely. But it is…disheartening to hear you rattle on about this McLanahan as if he were some demigod that needs to be destroyed.”

  Gryzlov looked as if he were about to explode in a fit of rage…but instead he lit another cigarette, took a deep drag, stubbed it out, and nodded through the haze of blue smoke. “Do not worry, Stepashin,” he said. “The battle in which Russia is engaged is real. The battle I fight on Russia’s behalf with McLanahan will not interfere with that. Now give the order to strike Eareckson Air Base on Shemya Island, and have the plan ready for my approval as soon as possible.”

  That’s the order, Muck,” Dave Luger said. “I just got the hard copy.” There was no response. Luger waited a few more moments, heard nothing, then asked, “You copy, Patrick?”

  “Loud and clear,” Patrick McLanahan responded via his subcutaneous satellite transceiver.

  “It sucks, but all the players will still be in position, and we can move fast from Eareckson when we get the go-ahead,” Luger said. “Should I give the word?”

  There was another long period of silence. Luger was about to ask the question again, but Patrick finally responded, “No. Everyone continues as planned.”

  “Patrick…”

  “No arguments this time,” Patrick interjected. “The brass signed off on the operation—and damn it, we’re going to complete it. Unless Gryzlov is confirmed dead or in custody by American officials, I’m not trusting him to make peace with the United States.”

  “Muck, they may have signed off on the plan originally, but they’re changing it now,” David argued. “We have a decent alternative: The ground units move forward, and the air units get a chance to refuel and rearm at Eareckson.”

  “It’s not a good alternative, Texas. The president is grasping at any options that would mean an end to hostilities. He still believes that Gryzlov was desperate when he attacked the United States, and that if everyone stops right now, we can have peace. Gryzlov doesn’t want peace—he wants to destroy the U.S. military, plain and simple. He obviously suspects we’re coming after him, and he’s telling the president anything he can think of to get us to stop.”

  “I hear you, Patrick, but we have no choice,” Luger said. “You can’t send in a force this size and with this large an objective without an okay from the White House, and we don’t have it now.”

  “I sure as hell can….”

  “This is different, Patrick,” Luger argued. “Attacking Engels, Zhukovsky, Belgorod—those were all preemptive strikes designed to defend our own forces or to prevent an imminent attack from taking place.”

  “So is this operation, Dave.”

  “Ultimately yes, but the first step is definitely an invasion, not a preemptive strike,” Luger said. “There’s no defensive aspect to the operation—we take the offensive all the way. I want full authority to do this. We had it; now we don’t. We have no choice but to hold until we get the word to go.”

  Again Patrick hesitated. Luger fully expected Patrick to give him an order to continue the current mission, and he was ready to obey the order. But to his surprise, Patrick said, “Very well. Make room for the Air Battle Force and the Marines to refuel and rearm at Eareckson. Let
’s plan on getting a second and third ground contingent on their way as well.”

  “Roger that, Muck. I don’t like it any more than you do, my friend, but I know we’re making the right decision.”

  “We’ll see,” Patrick said simply. “McLanahan out.”

  Near Shemya Island, Alaska

  Several hours later

  Eareckson Approach, Bobcat One-one flight of two, passing twelve thousand for eight thousand,” radioed Lieutenant Colonel Summer “Shade” O’Dea, the aircraft commander aboard Patrick McLanahan’s EB-52 Megafortress bomber. “Check.”

  “Two,” responded Colonel Nancy Cheshire, the aircraft commander aboard the second aircraft in the flight, an AL-52 Dragon airborne-laser. The AL-52 Dragon was a modified B-52H bomber with a three-megawatt plasma-pumped electronic laser installed inside its fuselage, which could project a focused beam of laser energy powerful enough to destroy a ballistic missile or satellite at a range of three hundred miles, an aircraft at one hundred miles, or ground targets as large as an armored vehicle at fifty miles. Although the fleet of Dragons had grown to three in less than two years, the weapon system was still considered experimental—a fact that never stopped Patrick McLanahan.

  Nancy Cheshire was the squadron commander of the Fifty-second Bomb Squadron from Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base, the home of all of the Air Force’s modified B-52 bombers—and, as Nancy reminded herself often, one of only two B-52 squadrons left in the world right now, after the nuclear decimation of Minot Air Force Base by the Russians. She was determined to do everything she could—use every bit of her flying skills and leadership ability, whatever it took—to make the Russians pay for what they’d done to America.

  “Bobcat One-one flight, roger, radar contact,” the air-traffic controller at Eareckson Air Force Base responded. “Cleared for Shemya Two arrival, report initial approach fix inbound. Winds two-four-zero at twenty-one gusting to thirty-six, altimeter two-niner-eight-eight. Your wingman is cleared into publishing holding and is cleared to start his approach when you report safely on the ground.”

  “One-one flight cleared for the arrival, will report IAF inbound. Two, copy your clearance?”

  “Two copies, cleared for the approach when lead is down,” Cheshire responded.

  “It’s an unusually nice day on Shemya,” O’Dea said on intercom. “The winds are only gusting to thirty-six knots. We’ve been cleared for the approach. Check in when ready for landing, crew.”

  Patrick turned in his ejection seat and looked back along the upper deck of the EB-52 Megafortress. Six aft-facing crew seats had been installed for carrying passengers—aircraft-maintenance and weapon technicians from Battle Mountain and the Tonopah Test Range in Nevada. Six more technicians were seated on the lower deck. These twelve men and women were key in accomplishing their mission. Unfortunately, their mission was on hold, on order of the president of the United States himself.

  “Lower deck ready,” one of the techs radioed.

  “Upper deck ready,” another responded.

  “MC ready for approach,” Patrick chimed in. “Aircraft is in approach and landing mode. Sixteen miles to the IAF. I’m going to do a few more LADAR sweeps of the area before the ILS clicks in.”

  “Clear,” O’Dea said.

  Patrick activated the Megafortress’s LADAR, or laser radar. Emitters facing in every direction transmitted electronically controlled beams of laser energy out to a range of three hundred miles, instantly “drawing” a picture of every object, from clouds to vehicles on the ground to satellites in near-Earth orbit. The composite LADAR images were presented to him on his main supercockpit display, a large two-foot-by-three-foot color computer monitor on the right-side instrument panel. Patrick could manipulate the image by issuing a joystick, by touching the screen, or by using voice commands. The attack computer would also analyze the returns and, by instantaneously and precisely measuring objects with the laser beams, compare the dimensions with its internal databank of objects and try to identify each return.

  Immediately Patrick noticed a blinking hexagonal icon at the northernmost edge of the display, at the very extreme of the LADAR’s range. He zoomed his display so the contents of the hexagon filled the supercockpit display. The attack computer reported the contact as “unidentified aircraft.” “Shade, I’ve got an unidentified air target, two-thirty position, two hundred and seventy-three miles, low, airspeed four-eight-zero, three-five-zero-degree bearing from Shemya.”

  O’Dea hit a button on her control stick. “Go around,” she ordered. The flight-control computer instantly advanced the throttles to full military power, leveled off, configured the Megafortress’s mission-adaptive skin to maximum climb performance, and started a climb. “Approach, Bobcat One-one is on the go,” she radioed. “Alert Eareckson. We may have unidentified aircraft inbound from the north at two-seven-zero miles. Break. Bobcat Two-two.”

  “We’re looking for your target, lead,” Cheshire replied.

  “Roger. We’re on the go.” On intercom, O’Dea said, “Crew, strap in tight and get on oxygen. Give me a vector, General.”

  “Heading two-eight-zero, climb to fifteen thousand feet,” Patrick said. “LADAR coming on.” He activated the laser-radar system, this time focusing energy on the returns to the north after making a complete sweep of the skies and seas around them. “I’ve got numerous bogey out there, counting six so far. They’re right on the deck, accelerating past five hundred knots. I’d say they’re bad guys.” He switched over to the command channel. “Two-two, you have them yet?”

  “Not yet, but we’re receiving your data and maneuvering to set up an orbit,” Cheshire responded. “Did you notify Eareckson?”

  “Just approach control, not the units. Tell them to get everyone into shelters.” Patrick knew that it was a futile move—one or two bombs the size of the warheads that were dropped on Eielson or Fort Wainwright would obliterate Shemya Island, shelters and all. “Fire up the lasers, Zipper.”

  “They’re already warming up, boss,” responded the AL-52 Dragon’s mission commander, Major Frankie “Zipper” Tarantino. The Dragon’s electronic laser really didn’t need to “warm up,” like less sophisticated chemical or diode lasers, but the system stored electrical power in massive banks of capacitors to use during the firing sequence, and the more power that could be stored prior to the first shot, the more shots the laser could fire. “Two-two has LADAR contact, two-five-zero miles bull’s-eye. I count six targets as well, but at first the computer counted seven. We may have a big gaggle of multiple contacts coming at us.”

  “Checks,” McLanahan said. “I still count six. Let me know when you’re in attack position.”

  “Roger,” Tarantino said. The AL-52 departed its holding pattern, flew northwest toward the oncoming targets, and then began a long north-south racetrack pattern at twenty thousand feet altitude. By the time the Dragon was in its racetrack, the unidentified aircraft had accelerated to six hundred knots’ airspeed and were less than one hundred miles away. “Two-two is ready to engage. I now count six groups, but I believe there are multiple contacts in each group.”

  “You are cleared to engage,” Patrick ordered. “Take out the lead aircraft in each group if you can break it out.”

  “Roger,” Tarantino said. He selected all six groups of unidentified returns as targets, then zoomed in on the nearest group. The airborne laser used an adaptive-mirror telescope to focus laser energy on its target, but it also allowed the user to get a magnified and extremely detailed visual look at the target. “I’ve got a visual, lead,” he reported. “Looks like Russian MiG-23 fighters. Each formation looks like it has four fighters in very close formation. Three big fuel tanks and two gravity weapons each. I can’t identify the weapons, but they look like B-61 gravity nukes.”

  Patrick called up the datalinked image from the AL-52 Dragon’s telescope on his supercockpit display. “That checks,” Patrick said. “RN-40 tactical nuclear gravity bomb, the only one cleared for extern
al carriage on supersonic fighters. Start weeding them out, Zipper.”

  “Roger that, sir. Fire in the sky.” He hit his command button and spoke, “Attack targets.”

  “Attack targets, stop attack,” the computer responded. Seconds later: “Attack commencing.”

  In the tail section of the AL-52 Dragon, pellets of tritium fluoride dropped into an aluminum combustion chamber under computer control and were bombarded by beams from several diode lasers. The resulting cloud of gas was compressed and further heated by magnetic fields until the gas changed to plasma, a highly charged superheated form of energy. The plasma energy was channeled into a laser generator, which produced a tremendous pulse of laser light that was amplified and focused through a long collimation tube through the AL-52’s fuselage and directed forward. A four-foot diameter mirror, controlled by laser-radar arrays on the AL-52’s fuselage, predistorted and steered the laser beam toward its target, correcting and focusing the beam to compensate for atmospheric distortion.

  Even after traveling almost a hundred miles through space, the invisible laser beam was focused down to the size of a softball by the time it rested on the fuselage of the lead Russian MiG-23 fighter-bomber. Precisely tracked by the laser-radar arrays, the beam quickly burned through the fighter’s steel surface on the left side just forward of the wing root. Before the laser burned through fuel and hydraulic lines under the skin, the sudden structural failure caused the MiG’s entire left wing to peel away from the fuselage like a banana skin. Before the pilot or any of his wingmen knew what was happening, their leader disappeared in a tremendous ball of fire and hit the icy Bering Sea a fraction of a second later.

  The sudden loss of their leader caused the first attack formation to scatter. Executing their preplanned lost-wingman maneuvers, the three wingmen turned away from their original track and started a rapid climb to be sure they got away from the ocean, from their doomed leader, and from the other members of their attack group. They had no choice but to completely clear out of the way, then rejoin using radar or visual cues or execute their strike as single-ship attackers.