Strike Force

by Dale Brown

  “I should take career management advice from you, the most wanted man in the entire damned country? That would be hilarious if it wasn’t so tragic. What in the world are you doing here?”

  “You invited me, remember? ‘Let’s march off a few’—that’s what you said. I’ve been waiting for you ever since.”

  “No, I mean, what are you still doing in Iran?” Yassini asked. “Haven’t you done enough damage to the country?”

  “I’m not finished, Hoseyn,” Buzhazi said. “The Pasdaran is like a typhoon—as long as it’s unopposed, even by the smallest hill or tree, it will grow stronger, its path will become more unpredictable, and it will destroy more and more lives. I plan to stop it.”

  “You have about as much chance of doing that as stopping a real typhoon,” Yassini said. “Can’t you see that?”

  “Some things are worth dying for, Hoseyn: freedom from betrayal, freedom from persecution, freedom to live our lives with dignity and honor. I’m doing something about it. What I don’t understand is how you can even stand the stench of being around Pasdaran butchers after what happened last night.”

  “I heard,” Yassini said gloomily. “Typical Pasdaran tactics—disregard friendly forces in the target area, disregard taking prisoners, and kill everyone in the area. Monstrous.”

  “‘Monstrous?’ That’s all you have to say? There was an entire company of security guards in that warehouse complex, some just teenage conscripts with barely any training! They’re all dead! They were obliterated in a massive artillery attack designed to kill every living thing in the entire area!”

  “I had nothing to do with planning, authorizing, or executing that attack.”

  “I never thought you did, Hoseyn, but the question is: what are you going to do now?”

  “What can I do about it?”

  “You’re the damned chief of staff, Hoseyn!” Buzhazi retorted. “Call out the army, disperse them to operational areas outside the cities, and tell Zolqadr and whoever else is in charge that you will send them into the cities and crush the Pasdaran if they don’t lay down their arms and stop this madness!”

  “They will never lay down their weapons,” Yassini said. “The fact is, Hesarak, that you have driven them to execute such extreme operations! They would never have done it if you and your insurgent forces had just gotten out of the country instead of embarking on this insane plot.”

  “Hoseyn, this is only the beginning,” Buzhazi said. “They will stop at nothing now. They won’t just be chasing me—they’ll be going after every soldier and soon every civilian that doesn’t toe the fundamentalist line just so. You’ve condemned millions of Iranians to death because of your inaction. And when they’re done in Iran, they’ll spread out over the entire region, perhaps the entire planet.”

  “Don’t blame this on me, Buzhazi! It’s you who started this, not me! The deaths of the innocents will be on your head, not mine!”

  “At least I’m doing something about it, Hoseyn. My death won’t be as horrible as the one you are condemning Iran and the world to with your silence and inaction.” Yassini didn’t—couldn’t—answer that. “Do it, Hoseyn—now, tonight, before it’s too late. Call out the army and disperse them to the countryside. The Pasdaran is too involved in hunting me down to guard every base across the country. You’ll only get one chance at this. Do it tonight.”

  “That’s treason, Hesarak,” Yassini said. “That’s a crime, punishable by public beheading.”

  “The people and the armed forces will suffer much worse if the ayatollahs unleash the Pasdaran on the cities,” Buzhazi said. “Do it, now.”

  Yassini paused…then shook his head, and Buzhazi’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. “You realize that I have to report this contact, don’t you?” Yassini said instead. “I have no choice. I could be executed just for the very thought of being seen with you.”

  “Then why did you want to meet here, Hoseyn?” Buzhazi asked. “I know the reason—you’re unsure of what to do. I’ll tell you what you should do, my friend—get out and come with me, now. I have a squad with me standing by that can get us all out safely. I have more men ready to get your family out of the capital as well.”

  Yassini turned and looked away, out onto the assembly area. “You know I can’t do that, Hesarak,” he said after a long, quiet moment.

  “You’re a fool, Hoseyn.”

  “I’m not like you, Hesarak. I believe in my country and its leaders, right or wrong. They may not be perfect—they may not even be right. But I’m a soldier, and I’m sworn to live by my oath and defend this nation. You may think I’m crazy or suicidal, but that’s what I have to do.” He took a deep breath, turned, then said, “And part of my duty is to call for the guards and…”

  But it was too late—when he turned to look at his old friend, he was gone—most certainly for the last time.

  General Yassini took his time walking back to his quarters, but upon arriving he immediately picked up the phone. He didn’t have to dial any numbers—he knew someone was listening and would inform Zolqadr right away. He probably didn’t even need to pick up the phone—the entire apartment was probably bugged, like the phone.

  “This is General Yassini,” he spoke. “I would like to report contact with a known wanted criminal, General Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi, near the assembly yard duty officer’s station on the Imam Ali Military Academy campus, just a few minutes ago. He said he was here with a squad of men. He was dressed as an orderly or kitchen laborer. He did not appear armed, but he should be considered armed and dangerous.”

  General Yassini shook his head as he hung up the phone. Poor bastard, he thought—Buzhazi doesn’t have a chance, and he still doesn’t realize it.

  ELLIOTT AIR FORCE BASE,

  GROOM LAKE, NEVADA

  THE NEXT MORNING

  “I hope everyone realizes that we’re not going to be making this a regular thing,” Hunter Noble said, squirming uncomfortably in his seat. He had already bumped his helmet on the canopy a dozen times, and he dreaded having to touch any switch in the cockpit. Not only was he bumping into things, but he wasn’t even in his seat—he had been relegated to the mission commander’s seat, the dreaded “Guy in Back,” for the second time.

  “Quit your complaining, Boomer—I think this is very cool,” “Nano” Benneton said, strapped into the passenger module of the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane. “I think making you ride bitch every now and then keeps you humble.”

  “I let the general fly his mission in the front seat,” Boomer said. “I’m still trying to live that one down too.” It was also the first time he had ever worn a spacesuit in the cockpit of the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane, so he was feeling doubly uncomfortable. It was an older-style Skylab-type spacesuit, a design at least thirty years old, the first series of spacesuits not custom-fitted for a particular astronaut—and it felt like it too. Underneath the suit was a thin mesh garment with fluids circulating through tubes to help keep the wearer comfortable, and under the helmet he wore the classic “Mickey Mouse” cap–style headset. The suit was not yet pressurized, and Boomer still had complete mobility in it, but he still groused. He had to put it on hours earlier and seal it up so he could pre-breathe pure oxygen, and then he had to suffer the indignation of having to be helped into the cockpit by Nano and the smiling, laughing ground crew. “I can’t see or feel a thing, it’s noisy, I can’t hear the radios, and it smells. The cockpit pressurization system is just fine.”

  “Boomer, if I hear you complain about the suit one more time, you’re staying on the ground,” Lieutenant-General Patrick McLanahan radioed from the Dreamland command center.

  “I know, sir, I know,” Boomer responded.

  “Poor baby’s got to wear a spacesuit,” Ann Page said, chuckling. She was seated with Nano in the passenger module. “Get over it, Boomer.”

  “Hey, you old farts had to wear them all the time,” Boomer argued. “This is the twenty-first century. Our stuff works.”


  “Captain, you are about to experience the thrill of a lifetime—enjoy it,” Colonel Kai Raydon said. He was in the front seat as pilot of the XR-A9. Raydon was a little over average height—which meant tall for an astronaut—with short blond hair and quick, piercing blue eyes. Everyone found it amusing that Raydon’s fingers were always in motion, as if he couldn’t wait to start flipping switches or entering instructions into a computer. “We are going to knock your socks off this morning, I guarantee it.”

  Although designed for six passengers, the Black Stallion’s passenger module was loaded to capacity with supplies and equipment, so Benneton and Page had absolutely no room to move about even if they wanted to do so. The rear of the module contained all their supplies, and they were seated in the middle row. The front of the module was mostly occupied by a large flexible tube attached to the top of the module. This was the docking adapter and transfer tunnel. Like many of the systems and procedures they would use on this flight, the adapter had never been operationally tested either. It was definitely going to be a day full of firsts.

  “I can’t wait, sir,” Boomer said moodily. “Really, I can’t.” He checked his readouts when an alert tone sounded. “Computer’s started the pre-engine start checklist, crew,” he announced. Things happened quickly after that, and before long the Black Stallion was airborne.

  Because this was going to be a different kind of mission, the insertion into orbit was anything but typical. After refueling over the Pacific Ocean as normal, Boomer flew the Black Stallion on a steep climb and descent across the North Pole, then over the Norwegian Sea and North Sea just off the coast of Scotland, where they rendezvoused with another modified KC-77 tanker and refueled once again. They then turned north and cruised off the coast of Norway as directed by the flight computers, awaiting the proper time for orbital insertion. At the proper moment, the Laser Pulse Detonation Rocket System engines flared to life, and the Black Stallion propelled itself once again into space.

  It was soon obvious that this was not another typical orbital insertion mission—the boost burn lasted several minutes longer than normal, and the view from the cockpit was completely different. The difference in altitude was striking. “Well, this looks weird,” was all Boomer could say. The sense of altitude and the sight of so much more of the Earth was unnerving, like looking down from a very tall bridge while standing on the edge of a very narrow catwalk.

  “Coming up on the last normal orbital abort point,” Dave Luger said.

  “Everyone okay?” Boomer asked, forgetting for the umpteenth time that the aircraft commander called for checklists to be completed, not the “Guy In Back. Station check and give me a green light to continue.” At this point if there was some sort of problem they could execute a deorbit burn, come out of orbit, and still have enough fuel to make a normal landing at a good variety of airports. If they went past this point with the main engines still boosting them higher, their options quickly decreased. But everyone reported all systems normal, so they continued.

  It happened with amazing speed: five minutes past a normal burn period, Boomer got a flashing warning message on his supercockpit display. “Cripes, just fifteen minutes to bingo fuel,” he muttered. “Normally we’d be getting ready to land by now—we haven’t even completed our insertion burn yet.”

  “It’s going to be a close one, crew,” Dave Luger said. “We’re watching the burn curve carefully, and so far we’re just a few percent under it. About ten minutes to the emergency abort point.”

  “Too much information, General,” Raydon said. “We’re committed—there’s no emergency abort.” Everyone knew he was correct: they could make it back to Earth intact, but exactly which runway they’d land on—or even if there was a runway nearby—was unknown. Their best—and soon their only—hope was to make the trip as planned.

  It seemed to take forever, but soon the “leopards” engines shut down, and the ship went from a sustained, loud roar to complete silence within milliseconds. “Two hundred and fifteen miles up,” Boomer breathed. “I didn’t think it would make that big a difference, but it does.” He looked at the fuel readings, then told himself not to bother looking any longer—they were dismal. Their fuel was nearly exhausted, and they still had one large LPDRS burn to do to slow the Black Stallion down from its current “chase” speed to a speed slow enough for the crew to use maneuvering thrusters to position the spaceplane.

  The telemetry readouts showed them exactly how far they had to go and how long it would take to get there, so there were absolutely no surprises, but Boomer found himself staring out the canopy side windscreens for their objective. The glare of the Earth against the darkness of space made scanning the horizon difficult. “Man, it’s easy to see the station at night—I’ve even seen it at late afternoon,” he said, “but I can’t see it now.”

  “Be patient, Boomer,” Raydon said. “Don’t anticipate. If we start chasing it, even subconsciously, we’ll run out of fuel. Relax.” It was easier said than done, but Boomer forced himself to close his eyes and recite his Transcendental Meditation mantra to help calm him down.

  It obviously helped, because Boomer found himself awakened by the warning tone that the computer was beginning the pre-rendezvous checklist. Moments later the thrusters activated to flip the Black Stallion around so it was flying tail-first, and shortly afterward the LPDRS engines flared briefly to life. Soon the speed of the station and the spaceplane were just a few miles an hour different. “Okay, Colonel, she’s all yours,” Patrick radioed.

  “Roger that,” Raydon said. Using the opposite set of thrusters in order not to deplete too much propellant from one set of maneuvering engines, Raydon carefully nudged the Black Stallion up and around until they were facing the direction of flight again…

  …and Boomer felt himself take a deep, excited breath as their objective came into sight. My God, he breathed, it’s beautiful…!

  At magnitude minus-6, the Armstrong Space Station was fifty percent brighter than the planet Venus in the night sky—only the sun and moon were brighter. It was so bright that quite often the light reflecting off its solar panels, radar arrays, antennae, and reflective anti-laser outer skin cast shadows on Earth. Boomer knew all that and had studied and even photographed “Silver Tower” through a telescope as a kid. But seeing it this close was breathtaking.

  The main cluster of four large habitats was arranged perpendicular to Earth’s horizon, which gave it its “Tower” nickname, with a short service, storage, and mechanical spar horizontal. It had four rows of solar power–generating panels on the upper half, each over four hundred feet long and forty feet wide. Two large remote manipulator arms were visible, ready to assist loading and unloading cargo and inspecting all of the modules.

  The lower half of the station below the keel had two rows of electronically scanned phased-array radar antennae each over a thousand feet long and fifty feet wide, resembling a delicate ribbon floating in mid-air. This radar, the largest ever built, could detect and track thousands of stationary and moving targets as small as an automobile on land, in the sky, in space, and even hundreds of feet underwater and dozens of feet underground. A number of smaller antennae for signals collection, datalinks, and station self-defense surveillance were mounted on arms connected to the keel. Atop the tower was another device Boomer knew was the station self-defense system, nicknamed “Thor,” but it had been destroyed and had been mostly removed.

  “Can you see it, Boomer?” Ann Page asked. “How does it look?”

  “It looks…lonely,” Boomer replied. He knew exactly what Ann was asking about—and it wasn’t the space station.

  At the very “bottom” of the station below the keel and radar arrays was a single module almost as long as the upper “tower” of the station itself. It was actually four separate modules that had been lofted up to the station by the Shuttle Transportation System over a period of three years. This was Skybolt, the world’s first space-based anti-missile laser, designed and engineered b
y Ann Page and a team of over a hundred scientists.

  Skybolt was a large free-electron laser, powered by a small nuclear-fueled generator called a magnetohydrodynamic generator, or MHD, that produced massive amounts of power for short periods of time. The generator cranked an electrostatic turbine that shot an electron beam—a focused, intense bolt of lightning—through to the laser chamber. Inside the laser chamber a bank of powerful electromagnets “wiggled” the electron beam, thereby producing the lasing effect. The resultant laser beam was millions of times more powerful than the energy generated by the MHD, creating a tunable and extremely powerful beam in the megawatt range that could easily destroy objects in space for thousands of miles and, as Ann and her crew soon discovered, even damage targets as large as a warship on Earth’s surface, or aircraft flying through Earth’s atmosphere.

  “Good. That’s good,” Ann cooed. “What are we waiting for, Kai? Let’s hook up and get aboard.”

  “Hold your water, Senator,” Raydon said. “I don’t like distractions when I’m flying, so everyone pipe down. That’s an order.” He flexed his fingers one more time, then unstowed the thruster controls and carefully placed his hands on them. Resembling small bathtub faucet knobs, the controls could be twisted, pushed, pulled, and jockeyed sideways or up and down to activate the small hydrazine thrusters arrayed around the Black Stallion. The controls were “standardized,” meaning that the same manual controls had been used in manned spacecraft since Mercury and extending all the way to the Black Stallion.

  With the closure rate now less than five miles an hour between the spaceplane and the station, Raydon activated the exterior cameras and began his approach. Armstrong Station had two docking points, one designed for manned spacecraft such as the Shuttle and USS America spaceplane, and one for unmanned cargo modules such as Agena. The docking port for manned spacecraft was on the side of the upper “tower,” about halfway between the top of the tower and the keel.