by Dale Brown
By the time the dawn started to peek above the horizon, Linda had reached the contact spot. There was a small dirt parking lot next to the river beside another north-south bridge, where during the summer vacationers could launch rafts and float down the river toward the city. There used to be a small campground there, where rafters from farther upstream could spend the night, but a lack of funds and abuse by drug dealers and hoboes had caused the campground to fall into disuse and disrepair. Of the dozen campsites, only one still had a rickety picnic table on it. That was her contact point.
The ground was rocky and felt frozen, but there were plenty of trees and vegetation. Her job was to find a good hiding spot and wait. Sometime during daylight hours, her contact person would arrive at the contact point and somehow make himself known to her. She had to stay hidden the rest of the day and night. Surely, she thought, the hue and cry for her was out. Surely, she prayed, the network had heard of the murder on base and activated itself. Surely, she pleaded, her contact would realize she was on the move and show this morning.
But the time came and went, and no one showed. Tears
flowed down her cheeks, and her lips trembled in fear and loneliness. Nothing. She had never felt so alone, so helpless.
Since it was now daytime and she was less than a kilometer from both the highway and the bridge-and if she could see cars, they might be able to see her-Linda had no choice but to crawl away to the densest part of the little patch of trees near the park, crawl into the deepest and darkest dirt gully she could find, and wait. The river was just a few meters away across the parking lot, but she didn't dare try to get water in daytime; there was even a coffee and doughnut vendor in the parking lot across the highway to the south, selling his goods to workers arriving at the steel scrapyard and woodworking factory on the south side of the highway, and even in her hole she could smell the boiled dough and strong black coffee. She always had rolled-up pancake crepes with jam, fruit, or cream cheese inside and coffee every morning, and now the emptiness in her belly was beginning to turn into a dull ache.
This was going to be impossible, she thought grimly. She had practiced her procedures, memorized her directives, and thought through her moves for years, and all the time thought she could do it, if she ever had to. But it was just barely twelve hours since going on the run, and she doubted whether she could make it even another twelve hours. Her handler said it could take days to activate the network, and then it was up to the contact person to decide if it was safe enough to try to make contact. Even then, the actual procedure took daysLinda wasn't supposed to contact the first person she saw, but had to verify simply by waiting and watching if he or she was the right one. Sleep was impossible---every sound, every car noise, every voice she heard was a potential captor.
From her hole, she could see the parking lot and campground. A few hoboes came around, searching the garbage cans. To Linda's immense shock, moments after the hoboes arrived, they were jacked up by local police and taken away. The police were everywhere, but they were out of sight, immediately pouncing on anyone who looked suspicious. After the arrest, the police would do a short search of the area, checking nearby bushes and trees for any sign of anyone else's presence. They would sweep denser bushes aside roughly with
nightsticks, beating them and looking for evidence of anyone's presence, checking behind and around any shrubs that might be large enough to conceal a person, then disappear as quickly as they appeared.
It was hopeless, Linda thought. The contact person would never dare come anywhere near here, ever. Her handler had warned her exactly what would happen. Eventually, her hunger, loneliness, hopelessness, weariness, and fear would cause her to do something stupid, and she would be nabbed, and just like that, the game would be over.
She burrowed down as deep as she could into the dirt, sobbing softly to herself, afraid to show even the tiniest bit of skin outside her hole. It began to rain, big fat cold sleety drops, then soon started to snow. She had never been so cold in her life, and she knew she would probably die of hypothermia before long. When darkness fell, she felt brave enough to eat some dirty wet snow for water and carefully pile leaves and branches around herself, and with a sort of crude nest made for herself, she at least felt strong enough to make it through the night. But it was hopeless, useless. The police were everywhere, and the killing of a fellow cop only made them more determined to get the killer.
She expected, then soon hoped, that the police would swoop down on her and take her away any moment. Even being gangraped and sodomized by vengeful police officers in an MSB prison cell would be far better than freezing to death.
High-Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, Elliott Air Porce Base, Groom Lake, Nevada Early the next morning
"Good morning, General Sivarek, General Smoliy, ladies and gentlemen," Brigadier-General Patrick McLanahan said, as his image appeared on the secure videoteleconference screen. "I am General Patrick McLanahan, here to brief the special mission portion of this morning's exercise. This briefing is classified Secret. Our rooms are secure, and this videoconference is being conducted on a secure closed circuit." In the room with
McLanahan were the pilots from the United States; in the conference room at Nellis Air Force Base were the crew members from Ukraine and Turkey involved in today's exercise.
Patrick hit the button on his wireless remote computer controller, and the first PowerPoint slide popped onto a separate frame on the Nellis videoconference
screen. "As you all know, the unclassified reason you're here is that you're on a goodwill tour of the United States and as part of NATO exercises here in Nevada. The classified reason is to test your aerial warfighting capabilities and to try to integrate your flight operations with some of the technologies we're developing for NATO. This is the first in a series of six missions we'll fly together to see how well we can coordinate both defensive and offensive operations from an aerial platform."
"We have worked with AWACS controllers many times, General," Sivarek pointed out.
"As have we," Smoliy added. "Both Russian and NATO versions." The attempt at one-upmanship had been going on ever since the two had met. So far, it was still on a friendly, although sometimes childish, level.
"You won't be working with AWACS aircraft," Patrick said. "At this point, we cannot reveal what kind of aircraft will be involved."
"I should think we will find out soon," Sivarek said. "If it is on the range and interfering with our pilots, we will shoot it down."
"It is fair game on the range-if you can find it and take a shot, it's yours," Patrick said. "However, we ask you both to follow the range controller's directions. If you are vectored away or are issued a 'knock it off'call, obey it immediately. We will attempt to keep you outside visual range of our aircraft, but we don't want to interfere with training, either."
"This sounds very interesting," General Smoliy remarked. "It is an allied plane, but you do not wish us to see it. It will be controlling us, but you cannot tell us who or what it is. Very mysterious."
"The entire concept is experimental at this point," Patrick said. "Although we have received clearance to perform these exercises, the actual program itself has not yet been approved.
If the program is canceled in midstream, the less you know about it, the better."
"You are not placing a lot of trust in us, Patrick," Sivarek said acidly. "We are allies-at least, I think we are still so." Sivarek had made it very plain that he didn't care for President Thomas Thorn and his attitude toward supporting his Eurasian allies.
"There is no offense intended, sir," Patrick said. "You will be briefed on the entire program and the results of this exercise before you depart Nellis. Whether or not the program is implemented will be decided by others later."
"Bes Para etmez, " Sivarek remarked grumpily. Literally it meant, "Does my head have a bald spot?" but in actuality it meant, "What's the problem here?" But he nodded, indicating that he was through asking questions and was ready to c
ontinue. Smoliy, far more animated and affable, took another sip of tea and waited patiently.
Patrick gave a time hack, a weather report, and then briefed the mission lineup. For this first mission, both of the foreign general officers were "playing." Normally, Patrick discouraged this, but he could not talk them out of it-it was part of their "prerogative," and of course it was fun to be out on the Nellis ranges playing war. And because both foreign general officers were going to fly, naturally Patrick had to bump one of his flyers off one of the American planes so he could fly, too. Yes, rank did have its privileges.
"Ornx 101 flight of two will defend inside the range Patrick went on. "You pick your own patrol altitude. You will have your own controllers manning Tatil Control during the exercise." The Dreamland ranges had a simple ground-controlled intercept radar facility set up for allied nations that still relied heavily on ground controllers, although most NATO nations now used airborne radar controllers. "Sila Zero One flight of two will approach the range complex from the east-that's as specific as I get. Vampire will also enter from the east, plus or minus five minutes from Sila flight. You are cleared to Level Two maneuvers-no maximum altitude, minimum altitude of five hundred feet above ground level, maximum airspeed six hundred, maximum closure speed twelve hundred miles per
hour, minimum vertical and lateral separation one nautical mile. We want you to be aggressive, but not dangerous.
"We will adjust separation from Vampire as necessary for operational security. Please be aware, Vampire may be employing a towed electronic countermeasures array, so be careful approaching from the rear quadrant. Again, if the range controllers give you a vector away from Vampire, follow their instructions exactly. You'll have plenty of opportunities to attack. Questions?" Patrick waited for the translators to finish and the two generals shake their heads, then concluded with: "I must remind you, this briefing is classified Secret. Good luck, good hunting. This concludes my briefing. End of transmission."
Patrick headed back to his office to pick up his flight gear and head over to the mission planning room for his crew briefing when the secure phone rang. He considered letting voice mail pick it up, but he knew that only a handful of persons had that number, so he answered it. "McLanahan."
"Ever wonder what we do when we retire, Patrick9" Patrick recognized the voice instantly, although they had only spoken to each other a handful of times in the past twelve years. "How are you, sir?"
"Sharp as ever," the caller said, pleased that McLanahan had recognized his voice. "I'm fine, General. You?"
"Fine, sir. How can I help you?"
"I have a project for you and your team."
"I'm sorry, sir, but this is not a topic for discussion, even on a secure line."
"Don't worry-I'll do all the talking," the caller said. "Been reading the intelligence files on the Balkans lately?"
"Other than what happened a few days ago with the AWACS plane-no, sir."
"Something happened a few hours ago that could tear the whole place wide open," the caller said. "You'll be getting a call in the next few hours from the Pentagon, inquiring as to the possibility of your team participating in a high-risk, high-value cover mission. I need you to build a flight plan for a mission into Russia for one, possibly two, Megafortress bombers, and
be ready to present it to the National Command Authority as soon as possible."
"But I-"
"Just do it, Patrick," the caller said-urgently, almost but not quite an order. Patrick knew he had no authority to order anyone to do anything. "Have it ready to go ASAP, as complete as you can make it without having access to the details. When the warning order is issued, I want you ready to present the plan to the NCA." And the line went dead.
Patrick had absolutely zero time to spend on this-the crew bus was going to depart for the flight line in ten minutes-so he furiously typed out an e-mail message to David Luger, relaying the strange request and asking him to work something up. He had no way of knowing if the voice on the other end of the line was really who he thought it was, but whatever was really going on, it would be a good exercise for David and the Operational Support Group.
A few minutes later, the phone rang again. "Hey, Muck what's this about?" It was David Luger, and he had already re ceived the e-mail.
"A project I'm working on."
"Did we receive a warning order?"
"No. But the requester said we will. I'd like to brief a mission package within three hours."
"Piece of cake-seeing we have no concrete information such as a target time, weapon load, threat assessment, or mission objectives," Luger said. "But it would be more valuable to you if I had a few more details."
"As soon as I get more information, I'll pass it along,9' Patrick said. "Meanwhile, have OSG put a package together." "Should I ask General Samson to review it if you're still up flying?"
Patrick immediately recognized what Luger was really asking: Is this job authorized? Does Samson know anything about it? Does Samson need to know anything about it? "I'll brief him personally if and when we get a warning order," Patrick replied. "Until then, no need to notify the boss."
"Okay, Muck, you got it," Luger said. "You know the boss will get a flag in his security file the minute we open a new in-
telligence file and start pulling overhead imagery and data on the Russian Federation?"
"I know. If he asks, I'll brief him. But he'll be busy at Nellis with the
Ukrainians and Turks. This thing may go awayor it may start to spin up before he has a chance to notice the security flag and call a stop. Get your guys to work."
"You got it. Have a good flight."
Oh yeah, Patrick thought as he hung up the phone-he had a mission to fly. Enough intrigue for now-it was time to earn his living.
Aboard an P- 16 fiAter of the RepubHo of Turkey Air Force
A short Ume later
" Yyuz iki, nah sihl sih nihz ? " the lead pilot of the Americanmade Turkish F- 16 Fighting Falcon fighter asked, glancing out his right cockpit canopy at the fighter jet flying loose formation on his right wingtip. "Status check, 102."
"Cok iyiyim, shef, " his wingman responded. Then, in English, he added: "Full of joy, boss."
The flight leader, Major-General Erdal Sivarek, smiled at his wingman's casual use of American fighter pilot's slang. All the years they had spent studying Western fighter tactics, military procedures, and even Western life and society, were obvious. Although using American slang was not officially approved in the cockpit, it helped to get everyone involved geared up and ready to fight.
Sivarek settled into his seat, quickly scanned his instruments, engaged the autopilot, and loosened his straps a bit, cursing his family's bad genetic luck as he did. Unlike the average Turk, Sivarek was just over five feet tall-he needed a specially designed ejection-seat-pan cushion to get the proper cockpit sill clearance, then had to extend the rudder pedals to their full extension so he could reach them. He was built like a fireplug, with a thick chest, thick waist, square head and jaw, and lots of hair-lots of hair on his knuckles, hair on his ankles, and a perpetual "five o'clock shadow." Sivarek, call sign "Ma-
gara oglan, " or "Cave Boy," was quick to tell everyone that being short and a little heavy helped him to fight off g-forces encountered in high-speed jet fighter maneuvering, which partially explained why he always pushed himself and his machine beyond the limits-and may have explained why he was the best of the best. Even though he was the commander of the Republic of Turkey's air defense fighters, he was also that country's best fighter pilot and one of the best F-16 Fighting Falcon pilots in the world.
With the MASTER ARM switch off, Sivarek selected each of his weapons to check connectivity. He carried a very light combat load on this patrol mission, just two AIM-7 Sparrow radarguided missiles and two AIM-9 Sidewinder heat-seeking missiles, a 30-millimeter cannon with 150 rounds of ammunition, plus a centerline fuel tank. Sivarek then activated each of his radar's functions one by one to check them o
ut. His improved F- I 6C Block 50 fighter, nicknamed Ornx H in Turkey, had most of the latest radar, computer, and weapons technology, and was one of the most advanced light combat fighters around, but he was already bored with it. It was agile, sophisticated, and simple to fly and maintain, but it lacked power, speed, and real load-carrying capability. Sivarek had seen the F- 15 Eagle fighters and had lusted after one for years, but now the new F-22 Raptor fighters were ready for delivery, and he lusted after one of those now.
" Yyuz iki hazirim, " Sivarek's wingman, flying in an identical F- 16C, responded on the interplane frequency.
" Yyuz beer hazirim, " Sivarek responded. " 10 I's in the green." He expected nothing else but one-hundred-percent combat-ready aircraft. His squadron was small, just six aircraft, but he firmly believed they were the best-maintained Fl6s in the world. "Take spacing. Weapons check."
"Tamam, " replied the wingman. Sivarek's wingman was one of his squadron's more junior officers, but an excellent pilot and inspired instructor. Normally, Sivarek liked to have his junior officers assume flight lead duties, but this mission was more important than most. They were up against an unknown number of strategic bombers attacking targets in the Tolicha Airfield. It was Sivarek's job to find it and stop it. They
might have some fighter protection, type and number unknown.
At that very moment, Sivarek picked up a single, quick flash on his radar-warning receiver, ahead and to the left. He immediately turned toward the signal's
bearing and, using hand signals, ordered his wingman to assume a combat spread formation, slightly high, slightly behind, and to the leader's right. Definitely an enemy radar signal. It was only there for two seconds, but it was long enough. Sivarek had to chuckle to himself No matter how high-tech or stealthy a machine is, he thought, the slightest operator error meant the difference between evasion and detection, escape or capture, life or death. The bomber crew had obviously violated procedures by transmitting with their radar-that mistake would cost them dearly.