by Dale Brown
That day, Mashhad was one of the most heavily defended cities on planet Earth…and it was about to be put to the test.
About two hours before dawn, the first alert was issued from the long-range air defense radar at S-300 battery number two, located thirty miles northwest of Mashhad: “Alarm, alarm, alarm, this is Syeveer battery, high-speed low-altitude target inbound, bearing two-eight-zero, range one-fifty, velocity nine-six-five, altitude nine-zero.”
“Syeveer, this is Tsentr, acknowledged,” the tactical action officer, Captain Sokolov, responded. His tactical display showed three high-speed, low-altitude targets heading toward Mashhad. “Contact, sir,” he reported to the regimental commander. “Looks like a terrain-following bomb run, right where you thought they’d be.”
“Completely predictable,” Colonel Kundrin, the air defense regimental commander, said confidently. As if sensing that something might happen that morning, he had been dressed and at his post in the regimental air defense command center on the top floor of the administration building at Reza International hours earlier. “The planes may change over the years, but the tactics remain the same. We placed that battery in perfect position — the bomber is trying to terrain-mask down the valley, but the mountains funnel right down to where we placed that battery. A fatal flaw in their mission planning. He can’t continue straight ahead, and if he pops up over the ridges he’ll be exposing himself even more.”
“Too fast and too low for a B-2 stealth bomber — this must be a B-1 bomber,” Sokolov surmised. “And they haven’t launched their hypersonic cruise missiles either.”
“I don’t think they have any stealth bombers left after President Gryzlov and General Darzov expertly pounded their bases and caught the fools flat-footed on the ground,” Kundrin said. “Besides, this is not the American air force we’re up against — it’s just McLanahan, the general that went crazy up in space. He’s probably fired all his missiles already. Tell Syeveer to engage at optimal range, and be sure to watch for a trailing aircraft. If he’s got more than one bomber, he’ll either be in close trail or attacking from a different axis. I don’t want anyone to slip inside.”
Sokolov relayed the order. “Order to engage confirmed, sir, fifteen seconds to go…wait one! Sir, Zapat battery reports new hostile target inbound, bearing two-five-zero, range one hundred, altitude one hundred, speed eight-seventy and increasing!” Zapat was the westernmost battery, situated fifty miles west of Mashhad.
“I knew it! Predictable, all too predictable,” Kundrin said happily. “Looks like we placed that number three battery in a perfect place too — covering the Binalud ridgeline west of the city. If I were to plan an attack on the airport, I’d hug the ground along the ridge, then pop around the end of the ridge and launch missiles right at rollout. That’s exactly what McLanahan did — and we were in exactly the right spot to nail him! He’ll have his bomb doors open and his radar signature will be massive! Tell Zapat to engage when ready!”
Each battery had three missile trailers, separated by several miles but linked to each other via microwave datalink, each carrying four 48N6 vertical-launch interceptor missiles which were already raised to launch position. Once the order to attack was given and the proper attack mode set — launch at optimal range — the engagement was virtually automatic. As soon as the target came within range, a nitrogen gas catapult pushed the missile out of the launch tube to a height of about thirty feet and the rocket motor ignited, accelerating the missile to greater-than-a-mile-per-second velocity in less than twelve seconds. Three seconds later, a second missile automatically fired to assure a kill. The S-300’s missiles climbed to an altitude of only twenty thousand feet, guided to a predicted intercept point.
“Status?” the regimental commander asked.
“Batteries engaging targets, four missiles in the air,” Sokolov reported. “Targets making only minimal evasive maneuvers and little jamming. Solid lock-on.”
“The last act of overconfidence,” Kundrin said. “They have no room to maneuver in any case. Too bad they’re unmanned aircraft, eh, Captain?”
“Yes, sir. I’m concerned about those T-waves, or whatever they hit our fighter with.”
“We’ll see in a moment, won’t we?”
“Missiles tracking perfectly…targets making slightly more aggressive maneuvers…channel-hop away from jamming, still locked on…three…two…one…now.”
There were no other reports from the tactical action officer, which confused the regimental commander. “TAO, report!”
“Sir…sir, both missiles reporting ground contact!” Sokolov said in a low, confused voice. “Negative warhead detonation. Complete miss!”
“Release batteries and launch again!” Kundrin shouted. “Target range and bearing?”
“Second volley processing…missile three launched…missile four launched,” Sokolov said. “Target range nine-zero, bearing steady at two-eight-zero.”
“What of battery three? Status?”
“Battery three engagement…” And then his voice cut off with a sharp intake of breath.
Kundrin flew out of his seat and stared at the display. It was unbelievable…“They missed?” he exclaimed. “Another ground impact?”
“Battery three re-engaging…missile three launch…missile four…”
“Say range and bearing on battery three’s target?”
“Range eight-zero, bearing steady at two-five-zero.”
“That…that doesn’t make sense,” Kundrin said. “Both target bearings did not change even though they fell under attack? Something’s not—”
“Sir, batteries two and three second-engagement missiles show ground impact as well!” Sokolov said. “All engagements missed! Battery two re-engaging. Battery three—”
“Negative! All batteries tight!” Kundrin shouted. “Inhibit auto engage!”
“Repeat that last, sir?”
“I said, all batteries tight, inhibit auto engagement!” Kundrin shouted. “We’re being meaconed!”
“Meaconed? You mean, jammed, sir?”
“They’re broadcasting false targets on our displays and making us fire at ghosts,” Kundrin said.
“But we have full countermeasures and anti-jam algorithms in place, sir,” Sokolov said. “Our systems are in perfect working order.”
“We’re not being jammed, dammit,” Kundrin said. “Something’s inside our system. Our computers believe they are processing actual targets.”
The command network phone rang; only the regimental commander could answer it. “Tsentr.”
“This is Rayetka.” It was General Andrei Darzov himself, calling from Moscow. “We copied your notification of an attack response, but now we see you have canceled all engagements. Why?”
“Sir, I think we’re being meaconed — we’re reacting to false targets generated by our own sensors,” Kundrin said. “I’ve inhibited automatic responses until…”
“Sir, battery two S-300 and Tor units receiving automatic engagement commands and are preparing to launch!” Sokolov shouted.
“I gave no such orders!” Kundrin shouted. “Countermand those orders! All batteries tight!”
“Tsentr, are you positive those are false targets?” Darzov asked.
“Every missile launched so far has hit the ground,” Kundrin said. “Not one of our units has reported visual, optronic, or noise contact even though the targets are at very low altitude.”
“S-300 battery two launching against new multiple inbound high-speed targets!” Sokolov reported. He ran over and pushed the communications officer out of the way, slapping on his headset. “Syeveer and Zapat batteries, this is Tsentr TAO, batteries tight, repeat, batteries tight! Ignore the computer’s indications!” He hurriedly made out a date-time code for authentication — but as he did so, he watched as still more S-300 and Tor-M1 units launched missiles. “All units, this is Tsentr TAO, stop launch! Repeat, stop launch!”
“Stop those damned units from launching, Captain, now!” Ku
ndrin shouted. There were now more targets appearing on the display — flying in exactly the same tracks, speed, altitude, and bearing as the first sets of targets! Soon battery one, the S-300 company at Reza International Airport, was beginning to launch missiles. “Rayetka, this is Tsentr, we’re picking up more inbound hostile targets, but they’re flying the exact same speed, altitude, and track as the first hostiles! Recommend we stop all responses and go to standby on all sensors. We’re being spoofed, I’m positive.”
There was a long pause, with the command net crackling and popping from the shifting encryption decoding routines; then: “Tsentr, this is Rayetka, deploy Fanar. Repeat, deploy Fanar. Stand by for engagement authentication.”
“Repeat that last, Rayetka?” Kundrin asked. For God’s sake, the regimental commander cried to himself, I just recommended to the guy that we shut everything down — now Darzo wants to roll out the biggest gun and the biggest sensor they had! “Repeat, Rayetka?”
“I said, deploy Fanar and stand by for engagement authentication,” the order came back. It was followed by an authentication code.
“I copy, Rayetka, moving Fanar to firing position, standing by for engagement authentication.” Darzov must be getting desperate, Kundrin thought. Fanar, the anti-spacecraft laser, was probably their last chance. The anti-aircraft artillery units scattered around Mashhad had no chance against fast, low-flying bombers. He picked up his regiment’s command network phone: “Security, this is Tsentr, move Fanar to firing position and notify the crew to prepare to engage enemy aircraft.” He gave the security commander an authentication code to move the trucks.
“Sir, we managed to get all units to respond to a weapons-tight order,” Sokolov said. “We’re down to twenty percent primary rounds available.”
“Twenty percent!” Shit, they wasted eighty percent of their missiles on ghosts! “They had better be reloading, dammit!”
“We’re in the process of reloading now, sir,” Sokolov went on. “The Tor-M1 units will be done within fifteen minutes, and the S-300 units will be done before the hour.”
“Get on it. The real attack may be happening at any moment. And make sure they do not respond to any more targets unless they have optronic verification!” Kundrin rushed to the exit, down the corridor, out the emergency exit, and up to the roof of the administration building. From there, using night-vision binoculars, he could see the progress of the security units.
The four Fanar trucks were just emerging from their hiding places. They had been hidden in a tunnel that ran under the runways which allowed vehicles to go from one side of the airport to another without going all the way around the runways. They were headed for a firefighting training pad on the north side of the runways, which had some old fuel tanks arranged to look like an airliner which could be filled with waste jet fuel and ignited to simulate a crashed airliner. The command vehicle was just now unfolding the huge electronically scanned radar antenna and datalink mast, which would allow the radar to tie into the S-300 fire control network.
Kundrin’s secure portable radio crackled to life: “Tsentr, this is Rayetka,” Darzov spoke. “Status.”
“Fanar deployment under way, sir,” Kundrin replied.
“Tsentr, this is the TAO,” Sokolov radioed.
“Stand by, TAO,” Kundrin said. “I’m talking to Rayetka.”
“They are setting up on the southeast pad as directed?” Darzov asked.
Southeast pad? There was a fighter alert pad on the southeast side, but it was still in use by Revolutionary Guards Corps tactical attack helicopters and also as secure parking for the Russian transports. They had never briefed using it to employ the anti-spacecraft laser. “Negative, sir, we’re using the north firefighting training pad, as briefed.”
“Acknowledged,” Darzov said. “Proceed.”
Moments later, the TAO burst through the door to the roof observation post. “Stop, sir!” he shouted.
“What in hell is going on, Sokolov? What are you doing up here?”
“The authentication from Rayetka — it was not valid!” Sokolov said. “The order to deploy Fanar was not valid!”
“What?” A dull chill ran through Kundrin’s head. He had assumed that because the person on the radio used the proper code name and was on the proper encrypted frequency that he was who he said he was and gave a valid order — he didn’t wait to see if the authentication code checked…
…and he realized that he had just told whoever it was on the other end of that channel exactly where Fanar was located!”
He frantically raised his radio to his lips: “Security, this is Tsentr, cancel deployment, get those trucks back in hiding!” he shouted. “Repeat, get them into—!”
But at that exact moment there was a flash of light, and milliseconds later an impossibly thunderous explosion, followed by several more in quick succession. Kundrin and Sokolov were blown off their feet by the first concussion, and they frantically crawled away as crashing waves of raw heat roiled over them. They could do nothing but curl up into protective balls and cover their ears as the explosions continued one after the other.
It seemed to last an entire hour, but it was actually over in less than twenty seconds. Kundrin and Sokolov, their ears ringing from the deafening noise, crawled over to the shattered front of the administration building and peered out across the runways. The entire area north of the runways was on fire, centered on the firefighting training pad. The fire on the pad itself — obviously the burning chemicals used by the laser — seemed so hot and intense that it was radioactive. The alert aircraft parking area to the southeast had been hit too — every helicopter and transport was on fire.
Then they heard them, and in the brilliant reflection of the fires they soon saw them too, as plainly as if in daytime: a pair of American B-1 bombers, flying right down the runway. They obviously knew that all of the air defense units had been ordered to shut down their systems and not open fire. The first one wagged its wings as it passed by the administration building, and the second actually did an aileron roll, flying less than two hundred feet aboveground. When they finished their little airshow spectacle, they ignited afterburners, sped off into the night sky, and were soon out of sight.
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
THAT SAME TIME
Stacy Anne Barbeau loved casinos, and she spent quite a bit of time in them on the Mississippi River in Louisiana and on the Gulf Coast in neighboring Mississippi. But this was the first time in many years that she had been in a big Las Vegas casino, and she was impressed. They were much more than gambling halls now — they were spectacular destinations, a sensory bombardment not only of lights, colors, and sounds, but of scenery, landscaping, architecture, and art that was truly amazing. The last time she was here, the decorations seemed cheesy and campy, almost Disneyesque. Not anymore. It was definitely Las Vegas elegant — bright, a little gaudy, loud, and extravagant, but it was elegant nonetheless.
“You know what I love the most about these places, darlin’—you can be completely anonymous so easily, even dressed like this,” Barbeau said to her assistant Colleen Morna as they strode from the hotel elevators through the wide, sweeping hallway and across the rich red carpeting of a very large Italian-themed casino on the Strip in Las Vegas. She was wearing a silvery cocktail dress, diamond earrings and necklace, and carrying a mink stole, but except for the frequent and appreciative glances, she felt as if she was just another part of the scenery. “So where is ‘Playgirl’?”
“Private poker room in the back,” Morna said. She produced what appeared to be a thick ruby-encrusted brooch and pinned it to Barbeau’s dress. “This is all you need to get in.”
“It’s ugly. Do I have to wear it?”
“Yes. It’s an identification and tracking transponder — an RFID, or radio-frequency identification tag,” Morna said. “They’ve been tracking us ever since I picked it up a half hour ago while you were getting dressed. They track all your movements; it sends information to all the cashier
s, croupiers, maître d’s, security, hotel staff, and even to the slot machines about who you are, what you play or do, and — more importantly to them, I’m sure — how much is left in your account. The security staff watches you with their cameras and automatically compares your description to their database to keep an eye on you while you’re on the property. I think if you took more than one or two wrong turns anywhere around this place, they’d send a couple hospitality guys after you to steer you in the right direction.”
“I like the sound of that—‘hospitality guys,’” Barbeau cooed. “I don’t much like the idea of being tagged like a brown bear in the woods, though.”
“Well, keep it with you, because it’s your room key, access to your line of credit, your charge card, and your admission pass to all the shows and VIP rooms — again, you don’t need to know a thing because these guys will escort you everywhere you want to go. Anywhere.”
“But they don’t know who I am, do they?”
“I would assume they know exactly who you are, Senator,” Morna said, “but this is Vegas — here, you are whoever you want to be. Tonight you’re Robin Gilliam from Montgomery, telecommunications and oil money, married but here alone.”
“Oh, do I have to be from Alabama?” she deadpanned. Morna rolled her eyes. “Never mind. So how did I get into this private poker room if I’m not who I say I am?”
“A fifty thousand dollar line of credit is the best way to start,” Morna said.
“You used the billing codes from the White House for this trip for a line of credit in the casino? Smart girl.”
“It’s just to get us in the door, Senator — don’t actually use any of it, or the sergeant at arms will crucify you,” Morna said.