Strike Force pm-13

by Dale Brown

  “The army is patrolling the streets of the major cities, and there is a dusk-to-dawn curfew, with violators being shot on sight. The curfew was set up because of reports of Revolutionary Guards soldiers in plain clothes, and displaced al-Quds and komiteh irregulars — the religious and government enforcers among the people — roaming the streets gunning down celebrating civilians and ambushing army patrols and checkpoints. There are already reports of terrorists, jihadists, and Islamic soldiers of fortune on their way to Iran from all over the world to help restore the theocracy.

  “General Buzhazi has instituted martial law in Iran, but it’s doubtful if he has control of more than a handful of neighborhoods in Tehran, let alone control of the entire country,” Vista went on. “There are reports of squabbling between Buzhazi, military chief of staff Yassini, and members of the various former monarchies of Iran.”

  “So we have an insurgency and possibly a three-way civil war brewing in Iran,” the President summarized, “with no consensus on who should govern. Meanwhile the theocrats, Islamists, and old government are in hiding and could pop up any time. It’s Iraq all over again.” No one had any comments after that last remark — it was too terrible to contemplate. “Any idea where Mohtaj and the Revolutionary Guards high command might be hiding?”

  “Tehran was the base of support for all branches of the government, of course, with Qom the choice of the clerics,” Vista explained. “We’ll check all the major cities, but I’d put my money on Mashhad, in the east near the Turkmeni border. Mashhad is the second largest city; it’s an important religious city because of the Emam Reza Shrine; and it has an extensive military infrastructure because it was the city farthest away from the fighting during the Iran-Iraq War. The population sextuples during the annual pilgrimage to the shrine, and that would be an easy way to get recruits and smuggle in supplies.”

  “I don’t think we should be hunting down the old government in any case, Mr. President,” Vice President Hershel said. “Let the United Nations and the Iranian people deal with it.”

  There was a nod of agreement around the Oval Office. “That’s fine by me,” the President said, obviously relieved. “We’ll pledge our full support for a peaceful resolution to the conflict and full restoration of democratic institutions and the rule of law, yada yada yada.” He rubbed his eyes. “I just want this Iranian thing to be over with, and I certainly don’t want to get bogged down in another ‘peacekeeping’ mission in the Middle East. Patrick? Got all your guys pulled out of there yet?”

  “As we speak, sir,” Patrick responded. “The last patrol plane should be refueling over the Persian Gulf on its way back to Diego Garcia. But we still haven’t recovered the body of Captain Lefferts or our missing equipment…”

  “As soon as we make contact with Buzhazi or whoever’s in charge out there, we’ll make sure we expect them to locate Lefferts and our equipment and turn them over to us immediately — it’s the least they can do for all the blood and treasure we spent helping them,” the President said. Patrick nodded but said nothing. “Sorry if that’s not the answer you’re looking for, Patrick, but I think we need to back off so hopefully things will simmer down out there.” The President turned to the Secretary of Defense. “Joe, I think the Air Force and Navy can keep an eye on things out there — from a distance, a great distance. I want to send McLanahan’s boys back to their sandbox.”

  “We certainly can, Mr. President,” Secretary of Defense Gardner said. “I’ll brief you and General Sparks on my plan later on this morning.”

  “Thank you.” The President turned to Patrick once again. “Sorry about your loss, Patrick. Briggs was with you almost from the beginning, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir, he was. He was a good friend and a real asset to everyone at Dreamland and Battle Mountain.”

  “I’m sorry about the loss of the second spaceplane, too,” the President said. “But your losses take nothing away from the job your people did over Iran. I want you to pass along my congratulations and sincerest thanks to everyone out there in Nevada. They took on a hard job and did brilliantly.”

  “I’ll do that, Mr. President, thank you,” Patrick said. “But I still want to address the future long-range strike mission. I still believe space is the answer, and I’d like to…”

  “Hold on, Patrick, hold on,” the President said. “I need a little time to recover from the fight, and I want to get the thoughts and reports from everyone before I put the topic of the long-range strike fleet back on the front burner. Your spaceplanes did well, Patrick, but we still lost two-thirds of the fleet in battle. We have to be ready to explain why before Congress will authorize us to build more of them.”

  “Frankly, General, I’d say your modified B-1 and B-52 bombers and those CID robots did exceptionally well out there,” Joint Chiefs of Staff chairman General William Glenbrook commented. “Maybe you should be looking at building up a force of those things instead.”

  “The small satellite fleet and that resurrected space station did well too,” National Security Adviser Jonas Sparks added. “I liked sitting in my office and listening in and watching the battle take place on my computer screen. Your spaceplanes are good, General, but they’re too high-tech for my taste.”

  “Maybe when us old farts are out of the way you can sell them, Patrick,” the President said, “but as long as our generation is in charge, I think we’ll have to find something else to fly. But I want everyone’s reports first and then we’ll reopen this discussion. Anything else?” He didn’t wait for a response, but got to his feet, prompting everyone else to rise. “Thank you all very much.”

  As usual, the Vice President and Chief of Staff hung back as everyone else lined up to leave. The President shook hands with everyone as they departed; Patrick, being the youngest and lowest-ranking staffer, went last. After he shook hands with him, the President said, “I’m sending you back to Dreamland, Patrick. I spoke with the staff, and the bottom line is that you made too many folks look bad and stepped on too many toes, to put it mildly, for there to be a suitable work environment here, even with you in the basement. I don’t expect you to stay out of trouble out there, but until January twentieth, try to keep me informed of things before you proceed to set the world on fire, okay?”

  “Of course, Mr. President. Thank you.”

  “I hope your son and the ticker are doing okay. Take care of them both.”

  “I will, sir.” The President turned to Carl Minden, indicating he was done with Patrick; he purposely also did not turn to the Vice President, leaving her free to depart as well, which she did.

  The Vice President and Patrick walked together without speaking until they reached her office and closed the door. She walked over to her chair in the meeting area in the center of the office, but Patrick did not follow her there. “Patrick, I’m sorry about Hal,” she said. “I liked him. He was a good guy. I want to be there for his service.”

  “Of course. Thank you. It’ll be held at HAWC.”

  “With Elliott and all the other heroes from that place. Good. That’s appropriate.” There was an uncomfortable silence. “So you’ll be heading back to Dreamland. When will you be back?”

  “I won’t be back, Maureen.”

  She looked unhappy and a little embarrassed, but not surprised. She lowered her head. “How did you find out?”

  “About you and Joe Gardner? Hal discovered it,” Patrick said. “He investigated all the possible leaks from the White House and Pentagon to Senator Barbeau’s office. I thought it was Minden, but Hal knew it was you. I think he told me, but I didn’t — couldn’t — believe him.” He turned toward the door. “Good-bye, Miss Vice President. Have a nice day.”

  “You’re not going to even ask me why, are you?” Maureen Hershel exploded. “You’re going to leave and go back to the Nevada desert without even looking back, despite all the years we’ve been together. That pretty much sums up the bottom line of our relationship.”

  “I think I know why,
Maureen,” Patrick said, still without looking back at her. “I think I knew it ever since you realized I didn’t want to give up my career because of my heart condition. You wanted me to be with you. You didn’t care if leaving military or government service would make me unhappy.”

  “You’re wrong, McLanahan,” Maureen shot back. “It was way before your heart thing, way before you rigged up your own self-monitoring thing that everyone bought off on. It was the flying in the spaceplane, hanging out at Dreamland, being with your boys and girls out there instead of wanting to be with me. I wanted something more than a part-time relationship.”

  “So you picked Gardner? Gardner is your full-time partner…when he’s not screwing Barbeau or his wife or the dozens of other women he’s got on the side.”

  “But he was there for me,” Hershel said, almost pleading. “That’s something you never could do — even when you were with me, you were always somewhere else. At least Joe paid attention to me and treated me like I needed to be treated…”

  “And we both know what that is, now, don’t we?”

  “Hey, buster, don’t give me advice on how to live a good and proper life!” Hershel spat. “We both know how close you’ve come to being in prison for the rest of your life! Not even the President of the United States can keep you under control — but that’s not the President’s problem, it’s yours. Even your son can’t keep you from unnecessarily risking your life or breaking the rules for your own selfish, nihilistic reasons.” That remark seemed to hit Patrick like a physical blow, and he opened the office door.

  “I’m not finished with you, mister!” Hershel snapped behind him. “You’re pathetic! You’re a disgrace! The only one besides yourself who could possibly be proud of what you do was Brad Elliott, and look where he is now!” He could still hear her yelling something as he walked out of her office suite and headed for the exit.

  “Dad!” he heard moments later. He hadn’t even noticed his ten-year-old son Bradley sitting in the reception area. He came running over to him and gave him a tight embrace, then attempted to pick him up as he always did when they hugged — not too much longer, Patrick knew, he would be able to do it too. “Miss Parks said you were in a meeting with the President and the Vice President. Can we see them? I want to say hi.”

  “Not now, Brad. They’re all busy.” He looked a little dejected, but nodded. They started walking downstairs for the exit. “It’s pretty late for you to be up, big guy. Did you have dinner yet?”

  “Yes. But I didn’t have dessert. Can we go to Andrews for dessert? They have the best ice cream there.”

  “I think it’s too late for ice cream, Brad. But we’ll go out to Andrews tomorrow morning for breakfast. How about that?”

  “Good. Are we going flying?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Back to Las Vegas.” He looked for any hint of excitement or disappointment, but didn’t really see either.

  “What about school?”

  “You get some time off until I sign you up for school in Las Vegas.”

  Again, little reaction. Maybe he was getting accustomed to being displaced, having little time to say good-bye to friends and having to face the challenge of finding new friends, just like millions of other kids of military parents had to deal with for most of their youth.

  They exited the West Wing and headed toward the parking garage without saying anything else except “good night” to the uniformed Secret Service officers. Patrick had no reason to fear walking the streets of the District of Columbia late at night: since the American Holocaust, there was plenty of federal and District police, and even some National Guard still on the streets, day and night. Patrick felt Brad lagging behind a bit. “Carry me, Dad?” a sleepy voice asked.

  He hadn’t asked that in years, or if he did Patrick had to say “no.” Bradley was not heavy but he was tall, past Patrick’s chin and almost to his mouth when standing together. At the very least, carrying him would have been unwieldy. But he stooped down, scooped him up, and cradled him in his arms. “Thanks, Dad,” Bradley said, and fell asleep immediately.

  For the first time, perhaps in a long time, Patrick found it easy to keep his mind focused on this important task, rather than the dozens of equally important ones awaiting him.

  EPILOGUE

  ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION,

  OVER EAST-CENTRAL TURKEY

  THREE HOURS LATER

  “Crossing the Iranian horizon…now,” Colonel Kai Raydon said. Almost the entire crew of Armstrong Space Station was floating near the radar technicians and displays as the station’s powerful sensors began sweeping Iran with its ultra-precise, high-powered, high-resolution beams.

  Tehran had mostly been spared destruction by the Iranian Revolutionary Guards. Only two Shahab-2 rockets had hit, both on Doshan Tappeh Air Base, resulting in relatively few casualties. The Air Battle Force had destroyed or intercepted a total of eighteen Shahab-2s, plus another twenty-four Shahab-2s and twenty Shahab-3 rockets aimed at targets to the west.

  But there was one more missile to be destroyed. They had received indications by their constellations of NIRTSats that the third remaining Shahab-5 missile based near Kermān in southern Iran was preparing for launch. It was too dangerous for the Air Battle Force to send in its bombers to try to destroy the silo, and there were no ships available in the area with conventional cruise missiles. There was only one weapon system available to deal with the big Iranian missile.

  “Starting to receive imagery of the Zarand launch site, crew,” Raydon reported. “Genesis, are you receiving?”

  “Affirmative, Odin,” Dave Luger responded from the command center at Dreamland. “‘Avenger’ has already approved execution — weapons free.”

  “Copy, Genesis,” Raydon responded. “Thirty seconds.” As the station got closer to the target area and the radar’s line of sight became less angled, they could make out more detail. “Looks like the silo door is open, gang,” Raydon reported. “Crew, we have authorization. Weapons free, batteries released. Ann, fire ’em up.”

  “Roger that, Colonel,” Ann Page replied from the Skybolt control module. “Crew, attention in the station, MHD magnetic fields coming alive.” The lights dimmed briefly, and then they heard a rhythmic vibration traveling throughout the station.

  At that moment Raydon saw a large column of heat burst upward from the Iranian missile silo, completely obscuring their view. The sensor operator zoomed out…just in time to watch a Shahab-5 missile shoot out from inside the silo! “Missile launch, missile launch!” the tech shouted. “Confirmed Shahab-5 missile launch…veering south now, altitude twenty-five thousand, fifteen miles downrange…sensors confirm the target as the north-central Indian Ocean.”

  “Bastards — they actually launched a missile against Diego Garcia,” Raydon said angrily. He floated over to the Skybolt control console to be sure that the radar and targeting lasers were locked onto the Shahab-5 missile rising through the atmosphere. “Ann, do me a big favor and destroy that sucker for me?”

  “You got it, Kai,” Ann said. “Crew, stand by for weapon release.” She hit a button on her console that commanded the Skybolt system to life:

  In the Skybolt laser module, two small nuclear reactors began sending a chunk of molten metal through a non-conducting pipe that had a strong electromagnetic field in the middle. When the metal reached the reactor heads it vaporized into a gas, which shot it back the other way through the pipe. When it moved away from the head it turned back into a solid just as it passed the magnetic field, creating a massive slug of electricity that was stored in a capacitor. As the slug traveled through the pipe and reached the other reactor head, it turned back into a gas and was propelled in the opposite direction to start the process over again. The generator could operate for centuries like this with absolutely no moving parts.

  The MHD generator quickly picked up speed, sending tremendous pulses of electricity through the capacitors until it filled, then releas
ed the electron energy all at once into the laser chamber. This sequence occurred several thousand times a second, creating massive pulses of electron laser energy that were reflected up and down the magnetic laser amplifier, increasing its power even more until the laser light reached its maximum power, then shot out of the amplifier, into a collimation chamber to focus the beam, then out of the module through the directional adaptive mirror and into space.

  The higher the Shahab-5 rose through the atmosphere, the more vulnerable it was to the electron laser beam. The intense heat, focused precisely on the rear one-third of the missile where its first-stage liquid fuel was stored, burned through the rocket’s skin within three seconds, then detonated the rocket fuel. The plume of fire traveled through the sky for several seconds, blossoming outward as it climbed until the fuel was completely burned up.

  “Target destroyed,” the radar sensor operator reported. “Confirmed kill.”

  “Good job, Ann,” Raydon said. “I’m very impressed. You sure know how to cook.”

  “Damn right I do, Kai,” Ann said. “Damn right I do.”

  MASHHAD, IRAN

  THAT SAME TIME

  “Missile destroyed — less than one minute after launch,” Russian General Kuzma Furzyenko, chief of staff of the Air Forces of the Russian Federation, commented, shaking his head at the report coming in via secure text messaging from a Russian spy ship in the Arabian Sea. “Amazing. Quite amazing.”

  “I’m glad you’re impressed, General!” retorted Ayatollah Hassan Mohtaj, acting president and Supreme Leader of Iran. “That was a half-billion-dollar ballistic missile that was just destroyed…and on your request! I hope you realize your government is going to compensate us fully for the cost!”

  “You will be fairly compensated, Mohtaj…you just won’t be paid anything,” Furzyenko said.