by Dale Brown
"Why, Yegorov?" Fursenko asked. "Don't you think your buddy Pavel Kazakov will understand when you tell him your bomb doors were jammed open?"
"Fuck you!" Yegorov shouted. He immediately started a turn back toward the tanker, then hit a switch on his weapons panel to override the backseater's laser aiming control. "I advise you not to touch another switch or circuit breaker back there, Fursenko," he warned. "If we strike our intended target, Kazakov may let you live, even if he does discover it was sabotage."
"You fool, look at that threat scope," Fursenko shouted. Yegorov had indeed been looking-it appeared as if the entire Turkish Air Force were after them. "Forget this bomb run---the Turks will be all over you in one minute, long before you can line up for another bomb run. Get us out of here while you still can!"
"No!" Yegorov shouted wildly. "This is my mission I Comrade Kazakov ordered me to take command and complete this mission, and that's what I'll do I No one is going to stop me !11
The threat warning receiver now showed two sets of enemy fighters-one set Turkish, the other Russian-made fighters, probably Ukrainians-bearing down on them. "We're not going to make it!" Fursenko shouted. "Turn away! Turn back before they shoot us down!"
"No!" Yegorov shouted again. He an-ned his internal R-60 missiles. "No one is going to get me! No one!" He flicked on the Metyor-179's infrared scanner, lined up on the closest set of fighters coming in from the north, waited until he got a lockon indication, opened fire with one missile per fighter, then turned back toward the tanker Ustinov. The aiming pipper had drifted off the tanker slightly, and he-
The MASTER CAUnON light snapped on. Yegorov checked the warning panel and saw two LAUNCHER HOT lights on. Both internal launchers that he had just used were on fire. "I'm going to cut off power to the stores panel !" Fursenko shouted.
"No!" Yegorov shouted. "Keep power on until after bomb release."
"We can't!" Fursenko shot back. "There's a serious short or fire in the wing launcher, and there's no way to stop it unless we cut off all power to the weapons panel. If you allow that fire to continue, it could completely bum through the wing. I'm going to turn off weapons power before that wing fails and we are both killed!"
"I said, leave it on, you traitorous bastard!" Fursenko was reaching for the master weapons power switch when he heard a tremendous BANG! and felt a sharp stinging sensation in his left shoulder. To his amazement, he realized that Yegorov had pulled out his survival pistol, reached back between the seats, and shot him! The bullet tore through his shoulder, bounced off the metal ejection-seat back, and lodged deep in his left lung. Fursenko tasted blood, and soon blood was pouring from his mouth and nostrils.
Fursenko's head was spinning, and he tried to keep himself upright and find the weapons power switch. He felt as if he was only moments away from passing out when he looked out the left side of the cockpit canopy and saw a flash of fire burst from just aft of the leading edge of the wing beside the fuselage. He knew precisely what it was. At that same moment, he felt a jolt and a rumble as the last Kh-73 laser-guided bomb fell free from the bomb bay.
He reached between his legs just as the burst of fire became an explosion, and the entire left wing separated from the fuselage. With his last ounce of strength, Fursenko pulled the ejection handle between his legs and fired himself out of the Metyor-179. The spinning, flaming remnants of his longtime pride and joy narrowly missed him as he plummeted toward the Black Sea. His man-seat separator snapped him free from his ejection seat, and his body began a ballistic arch through the air, decelerating as he fell. At exactly fourteen thousand feet above the water, his baro initiator shot his pilot chute out of his
backpack, which pulled his main chute safely out of its pack. He was thankfully unconscious through the entire ride.
Once he hit the water, his life vest automatically inflated and infrared
seawater-activated rescue lights illuminated, and he lay halftangled in the parachute riser cords, halfsubmerged as his parachute began to sink. Luckily, a Turkish Coast Guard patrol boat was just a few miles away, and he was picked up just moments before the parachute dragged his head below the surface.
The Metyor- 179 splashed down about ten miles away, with Gennadi Yegorov still in the front pilot's seat, trying to fly his bird down to a safe ditching in the Black Sea. The impact broke the stealth warplane-and Yegorov-into a thousand pieces and scattered them across the ocean.
Unguided, without even an initial beam to get it moving in the right direction, the second Kh-73 one-thousand-kilo bomb missed the tanker Ustinov by two hundred and fifty yards and exploded harmlessly in the sea.
The White House, Washington, D.C. The next day
"The Russian and German governments vehemently demand an answer, sir," Secretary of State Edward Kercheval said. "They keep on insisting we have information on this so-called Black Sea Alliance, and they claim we are secretly supporting them."
President Thomas Thorn sat with his fingers folded on his chest, staring as usual into space, leaning back in his seat behind his desk in the Oval Office. "They have any proof of this?" the President asked absently.
. "Several radio transmissions between Turkish and Ukrainian aircraft and an unidentified aircraft flying over the Black Sea in Turkish airspace, protected by aircraft that are part of this Black Sea Alliance," Secretary Goff replied. "The transmissions were picked up by a Russian intelligence-gathering ship operating in the free navigation lane created by this Black Sea Alliance for international ships. The Russians claim the broadcasts were directing Alliance aircraft to an intercept with another unidentified aircraft."
fig 11 This second unidentified aircraft being the Russian stealth liter that was about to attack the tanker in the Turkish port," Presidea Thorn added,
."Yes, sir," Goff said. "Of course, the Russians and the Germans claim they know nothing of this stealth fighter."
"So no one is offering any ideas as to the identity of any of these unidentified aircraft," Thorn went on, "except we had
something to do with them?" Kercheval nodded. "Tell the German and Russian governments that we will cooperate in any way possible to help identify these aircraft and to find out exactly what happened last night near Eregli, but we maintain we have nothing to do with this incident or with the Black Sea Alliance.
"Furthermore, the United States does not recognize or oppose this Black Sea Alliance," the President went on. "The United States remains an interested but completely neutral third-party observer in all foreign military alliances and treaties. We urge all governments and all alliances to come to peaceful settlements of arguments and conflicts, but the United States will not interfere with any nation's foreign or domestic activities unless, in my opinion, it directly affects the peace and security of the United States of America. Deliver that message right away to the Russian and German governments and
to the world media. I'll make myself available for a press conference to discuss the statement later today. Have the Vice President's office set it up for me."
Kercheval departed, leaving the President alone with Robert Goff. The Secretary of Defense had a big, childlike grin on his face. Thorn pretended not to notice and went back to making notes and sending e-mail messages from his computer; but finally he said without looking up, "What are you grinning at, Robert?"
"Okay, spill it, Thomas," Goff said. "What did you do?" "Do?"
"That incident over the Black Sea? It's got HAWC written all over it. That Turkish frigate said they detected a bomb dropped from what was apparently a stealth bomber-but it was shot out of the sky by a missile fired from another aircraft that never appeared on radar. Did you authorize HAWC to send in one of their Megafortress ABM bombers to patrol that area?"
"Directing military aircraft on combat operations, secret or otherwise, is yourjob, Robert. If you didn't direct such a mission, it never happened."
"Spoken like a real twenty-first-century president, Mr. President," Goff said, beaming. "I'm proud of you."
> "I still don't know what you're talking about."
"So you actually assisted Martindale's Night Stalkers?" "Martindale's who?"
"Stalkers-the call sign he used during that mission, the call sign the Black Sea Alliance aircraft used, and the call sign he once mentioned to me that he was going to use," Goff said. "Was it just a coincidence that there happened to be a bunch of folks using 'Stalkers' call signs flying around last night?"
"Robert, I'm not in the mood for word games and puzzles ,right now," the President said. "I've never heard the name 'Night Stalkers' before, and if there is such an organization, it was probably just a coincidence. But that's not what's important here.
"In case you haven't noticed, nothing has really changed in that region, even after all this fuss about phantom bombs and missiles and strange call signs and radio messages. Russia and Germany still occupy most of the Balkan states, and they're sending in a thousand troops a day as reinforcements against any more so-called terrorist actions against their peacekeeping forces. The rest of NATO has all but left the Balkans. This Black Sea Alliance is threatening to start a naval war in the Black Sea. World oil prices are skyrocketing in response to what's happened with that tanker-the media thinks this Black Sea Alliance is really out to torpedo all Russian oil shipments. Russia may start escorting tankers across the Black Sea with warships, and then what's this Black Sea Alliance going to do? And do we want American warships in the area?"
Goff looked on the young president as a proud father looks on his son who has just won a science fair ribbon. "Press conferences? Statements to the world media? Concern over what the media thinks? Analysis of world military events? Even considering sending American warships into harm's way?" Goff asked with feigned surprise, beaming happily. "Why, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were giving a damn about foreign affairs, President Thomas Nathaniel Thorn."
Thorn glanced at Goff, then gave him a barely perceptible smile. "Have you been keeping up with your meditation exercises, Robert?" he asked seriously.
"No-but I think I will," Goff said as he headed for the door to the Oval Office. He stopped before he opened the door,
turned to the President, and asked, "I wonder if that wristband you're wearing right now would help my meditation exercises?"
The President smiled contentedly as he absently fingered the strange new
electronic wristband on his right wrist, and suddenly he became acutely aware of the spot on his right shoulder recently imitated by the subcutaneous miniature transceiver and what it meant to him now. But he just replied, "Talk to you later, Mr. Secretary," he said.
"Yes, Mr. President," Robert Goff replied. I'm sure I won't be the only one you'll be talking with, my friend, Goff said to himself as he departed the Oval Office.
Codlea, Romania A short time later
When the Metyor- 179 aircraft did not report in before its scheduled landing time, Pavel Kazakov's security forces were put on immediate alert and reviewed their preplanned escape procedures. When the aircraft became overdue, one hour past its maximum possible fuel endurance time, Pavel Kazakov's security forces went immediately to work. They worked quickly and with grim efficiency. Explosives were set in a pile in the main hangar, classified records and documents having anything to do with the Metyor- 179 were set atop them ...
... and then the bodies of the Metyor Aerospace engineers, technicians, and workers at Codlea were stacked atop those. Pavel Kazakov was notified a few hours later when the grim
work was done, and he went out to inspect their work. The whole gory pile had been covered with tarps and then weighed down with tires to contain the blast. More explosives had been set up on the hangar's roof, designed to blow downward to simulate a gravity bomb dropped through the roof. "Good work," Kazakov said. "We wait until we are clear of the area, and then-"
"Aircraft inbound! " one of the security men shouted. "Unidentified aircraft inbound!" Security men with machine guns and assault rifles ready rushed outside. Other security
men pushed Kazakov's helicopter back inside the main hangar to keep it out of sight.
"It's a tilt-rotor aircraft!" someone shouted. "Still in full airplane mode! I do not see any markings or insignia. Probably American or NATO Marines or special forces commandos. We've been discovered."
Kazakov looked through a set of binoculars and saw the big aircraft bearing down on them. "Don't worry," Kazakov said. "It will still need to slow down to drop off its soldiers. When it does, blast it with everything you have." But the aircraft did not slow down. It was traveling well over three hundred nautical miles per hour when it passed directly overhead. "It may try to drop paratroopers, or land and off-load its comniandos away from the compound," Kazakov said. "That'll give us time to escape and time for you to hunt them down. Pull my helicopter out and get it-"
, 11
Look! " someone shouted. Kazakov looked. They saw three soldiers leap off the tilt-rotor's open rear cargo ramp. Each soldier was carrying a very large rifle and appeared to be jumping directly into the center of the compound between the hangar door parking apron and the runway ... but none Qf the three was wearing a parachute! "What in hell are they doing? Are they insane?" As a stunned Pavel Kazakov and his security men watched, the three crazy soldiers hurtled earthward, still in a standing position, still with the rifles at port arms. They were sure they were going to see three broken bodies bounce off the concrete aircraft parking apron in just half a second.
But at the very last moment, a loud WHOOOSH! of highpressure air erupted from each of the strangers' boots-and all three soldiers touched down gently on the concrete apron with about as much force as if they had jumped off a chair after changing a lightbulb, still standing upright, still with their large rifles at port arms, as if they had just materialized there. Each soldier was wearing a dark gray combat bodysuit, a thick utility belt, thick boots, some sort of harness or device on his shoulders, a full-face helmet, and a thin backpack. The rifles were of completely unknown origin, resembling fifty-caliber
sniper rifles but with a complex firing mechanism unlike any other firearin they'd ever seen.
"I don't know who they are," Kazakov said, "but if they are not all dead
in the next sixty seconds, we will be." Kazakov bolted and ran for cover around the back of the main hangar, followed by three of his bodyguards, while the other security officers spread out and opened fire on the strangers. Kazakov saw at least three lines of bullets fired on full automatic walk across the ramp and intersect right on the strangers-but they did not go down.
He then remembered the stories from frantic crewmen aboard his oil tanker Ustinov about invincible commandos who shot lightning from their eyes, and he ran faster than he ever ran in his life. They were real, and they were here.
The security officers got only one burst off at the strangers before all three of them disappeared-only to reappear moments later several dozen yards away, leaping into the air by using jets of compressed air from their boot s. One by one, the commandos shot a round from their weird rifles into any available target-the helicopters, vehicles, communications rooms, power-generating facilities, any valuable target. They appeared only slightly staggered if hit by a bullet, then resumed their methodical attack on the compound. If they got close enough to a security officer, he was immediately put down either by a short blast of electrical energy, like a massive Taser blast from as far as twenty feet away, or by a fist or knife-edge hand that landed as hard as a chunk of steel.
In moments all of the security officers had been dispatched, and the entire area was a smoking ruin. "All clear," Hal Briggs reported, after carefully scanning the area with his helmet's sensors for any signs of survivors or escapees.
"Clear," Chris Wohl responded.
"Clear," the electronically synthesized voice of Paul McLanaban replied. Paul, Patrick's younger brother, was a California attorney and former police officer, who'd been horribly wounded on his first night on duty. He'd survived the attack but rem
ained dead inside-until an incredible new technology had given him a renewed will to live. The electronic battle armor had enabled Paul to play an active role in defending peace even
with his debilitating injuries; and as one of the first to wear the armor and its associated weapon systems, Paul had become an instructor in how to use the system, as well as a fighter himself. "Patrick? How copy?"
"Loud and clear."
Hal Briggs took another fix on Kazakov and his bodyguards, then on Patrick, using his electronic locating dev ice. "He's headed your way, Muck."
"I'm ready for him."
"Security Three? Security Four?" Kazakov shouted into his walkie-talkie. "Answer, dammit! Someone answer!"
"No response from any of the security or transportation units," one of the bodyguards confirmed. "They knocked out our entire force."
"They'll be looking for us next," Kazakov said. "We split up. You two, separate directions. You, with me. Their armor may make them bulletproof, but try anything you can think of to slow them down-trip them, dunk them in water, decoy them, make them fall off a cliff, anything. Now move!" As his men bolted in opposite directions, Kazakov and his one remaining bodyguard turned ...
... right into the path of another armored commando. Gunfire erupted on both sides. Kazakov hit the ground, closed his eyes, and covered his ears as heavy-caliber bullets and even a forty-millimeter grenade shell burst around him. He lay as flat on the ground as he could, screaming and crying as the bullets and bombs flew and wave after wave of gunshots, explosion concussions, and earsplitting noise roiled over him. But it did not last long. When he opened his eyes and ears again, everything was still. When he got to his feet ...
* * *only the commando stood before him. His men were all lying on the ground, jerking and flinching as the last watts of electrical energy dissipated through their unconscious bodies.