by Ben Bova
“That Flanker’s a photo plane. Looks like a two-seater.”
The three MiGs pulled up alongside ABL-1 on the right, speed brake flaps down to slow them to the 747’s lumbering pace.
Kaufman said, “They’re keeping themselves between us and Mother Russia.”
“Just following orders,” said Christopher, “same as us.”
At that moment all three MiGs pulled their flaps up and roared ahead of ABL-1. The lead fighter suddenly jinked straight up, then sideways.
“He’s viffing,” Colonel Christopher said. Then she added for Kaufman’s benefit, “Vectoring in flight.”
“I know what viffing is,” Kaufman replied testily. “Like the Marines’ Harriers. They can take off straight up, like a helicopter.”
The three MiGs made a tight turn and circled around to take up a station off the 747’s left wing tip. Before Christopher could say anything, they zoomed ahead again and turned the other way, then settled into formation again off the right wing.
Christopher laughed. “They’re flying rings around us.”
“Showing off,” Kaufman grumbled.
The Sukhoi pulled up even closer. Christopher could see two helmeted heads inside its elongated canopy.
O’Banion’s voice piped up in her earphone. “They’re painting us with radar, Colonel.”
“I’ll bet they are,” said Christopher. “And with everything else they’ve got. They’d x-ray us if they could.”
She saw the pilot of the flanker looking over at her as he held the fighter alongside. On an impulse, she waved at him. After a moment he waved back.
“Next thing you know he’ll be asking for your phone number,” Kaufman muttered.
“That’s better than shooting at us.”
“Guess so.” But Kaufman didn’t sound convinced of it.
U.S. Route 12, Bitterroot Mountains, Idaho
The snow was getting thicker. Charley Ingersoll nudged the windshield wiper control and the blades smeared freshly fallen flakes across the SUV’s windshield.
The weather report on the radio had called for “cloudy and mild” all afternoon, with a chance of snow after sunset. We oughtta be home before sunset, Charley said to himself. Specially if we don’t stop for lunch.
Sure enough, Charley Jr. piped from the backseat, “I’m hungry! When are we gonna eat lunch?”
The boy must have mental telepathy, Charley thought.
“Me too!” Little Martha added. She never wanted to be left out of anything her older brother did.
Charley scowled at the thickening snow. The highway was still dry, nothing much had accumulated on the paving, but Charley knew it was only a matter of time before the road became slick and slippery.
“We got anything to feed them?” he asked his wife.
Martha gave him one of her you-always-blame-everything-on-me looks as she said, “No, dear. You said we’d stop for lunch on the way home, remember?”
“Okay, okay.”
The gas gauge had dipped well below half, Charley saw.
“Look out for a gas station,” he said to Martha. “One with a convenience store. You can get something for the kids to eat while I fill the tank.”
They passed a big sign for another RV park up the road. It looked like an old sign, beat-up and weathered. Just as they sped past the entrance to the park, Charley Jr. announced, “I gotta go.”
“Me too,” said Little Martha.
His wife turned in her seat and said sternly, “Just control yourselves for a few more minutes. Your father’s looking for a gas station. You can go there.”
The snow was getting heavier. Charley punched the radio on again. Still nothing on the satellite stations. Martha fiddled with the dial until they got the tail end of a local weather report.
“... cloudy and mild, with a chance of snow this evening,” a cheery male voice was saying. “Snow accumulation could be more than a foot in the upper elevations.”
“It’s snowing now,” Martha said, sounding a little nervous.
Charley saw a sign that announced a gas station five miles ahead.
“Five miles, kids,” he said. “Just hang in there for another few minutes.”
The gas station was nothing much: just a couple of pumps and a little building that looked barely big enough to hold an attendant. A sign saying NO CASH TRANSACTIONS was plastered by the door.
Charley pulled the SUV up to the pumps. Almost before he stopped the kids had the side door slid open and were racing for the side of the building. Martha got out and hurried after them, bundling her coat around herself as she ran through the thick wet flakes of snow that had already covered the parking area with white.
Charley was surprised by how cold it felt. A stinging wind cut through the light jacket he was wearing. His face felt cold, raw. Muttering to himself about weather forecasters, he slid his credit card into the pump’s slot. Nothing happened. The screen was blank.
Grumbling now, Charley stomped through the wet snow to the building and pushed its door open. A pimply-faced kid sat huddled in a tatty-looking wool coat. His hair looked as if it hadn’t been combed in a week and hadn’t been washed in Lord knows how long.
“The pump won’t take my card,” Charley complained.
“Yeah, I know,” the kid said, his voice raspy. “No electricity. We lost power ‘bout half an hour ago. Soon’s my pop comes to pick me up I’m outta here.”
“Don’t you have a manual pump?”
“Nope.”
“How do I get gas?” Charley demanded. “Beats me,” the kid said.
The Pentagon: Situation Room
“Where are they now?” General Higgins asked. “Over the Pacific, approaching Japan,” replied General Scheib, pointing to the electronic map on the wall screen. A tiny winking light gave the position of ABL-1, a thin trace of blue line showed its course so far. Scheib wondered if Higgins couldn’t see the map clearly; maybe he’s nearsighted or something.
Higgins had loosened his tie and hung his blue jacket on the back of his chair. The situation room looked lived-in, plastic coffee cups dotting the oblong conference table, the cart that once held pastries and other snacks now bearing nothing but crumbs and three empty stainless steel urns.
Zuri Coggins had moved from her seat at Higgins’ right hand down the table to be next to Michael Jamil, who was still bent over his iPhone. He had connected it wirelessly to the DoD computer that served the situation room and was slaving away over calculations of some sort.
On the wall opposite the big map, screens showed satellite views of North Korea. The two missiles still stood on their launch pads. No sign of the troops that Pyongyang had reportedly sent, but the satellite imagery was spotty, at best.
The admiral seated halfway down the table looked up from his laptop screen. “The Russian planes have turned back,” he said, looking relieved. Like Higgins, the admiral had long since taken off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair.
“They got a damned good look at our plane,” Higgins muttered.
General Scheib nodded. He was on his feet, pacing the length of the situation room as if he were doing his daily exercises.
“They can’t tell much from the exterior,” Scheib said, trying to sound reassuring. But then he added, “Of course, that turret on the nose could be a giveaway. There’s been enough publicity about the airborne laser that they’ll recognize ABL-1 from that potato nose.”
General Higgins shot an angry look at him and Scheib remembered the general’s “Possum” nickname. Smart, he berated himself. Real smart.
“Who’s flying the plane?” Higgins asked. “I hope we’ve got a good man at the controls.”
Scheib started for his chair and the notebook computer opened on the table in front of it.
“This was supposed to be a test run for them,” he said to Higgins. “They weren’t expecting this crisis.”
“Who the hell was?”
Scheib sat and pecked at his notebook. “Damned security red tape,” h
e muttered, his head bent over the tiny keyboard. “Slows everything down.”
Jamil looked up from his calculations. “I think it’s imperative that we send a warning to the civil defense operations in Honolulu, Hilo, Anchorage, Juneau—”
“Not San Francisco?” one of the civilians asked.
Jamil looked up the table at General Higgins. Very calmly, he replied, “I seem to be the only one here who’s worried about San Francisco.”
Higgins made a sound halfway between a grunt and a snort.
Gently, Coggins asked, “You still think it’s possible that they’ve targeted San Francisco?”
“I do. And we ought to be watching what the Chinese are doing. Watching very carefully.” “There doesn’t seem to be anything unusual—”
“They’ve put their missiles on high alert, haven’t they?”
“Well, so have we. And the Russians.”
“And the Iranians?” Jamil asked.
Coggins studied his coffee-colored face with its fringe of beard as she wondered, What’s he after? Why is he pushing us into his disaster scenario? And the answer immediately came back to her: because he believes it. He’s scared that we’re about to unleash a nuclear holocaust.
To Jamil she murmured, “The Israelis will take care of Iran.”
“Before or after Tehran launches its missiles on Israel?”
Coggins hesitated.
“We should at least warn the Israelis of the possibility,” Jamil urged with quiet intensity.
“And have those hotheads launch a preemptive strike on Iran? That would start your Sarajevo scenario all by itself, wouldn’t it?”
Jamil slumped backing his chair. “Damned if we do, damned if we don’t.”
General Scheib called from his seat halfway up the table, “Okay, I’ve got it. The crew for today’s flight of ABL-1, civilians and blue suits.”
“What kind of experience does the pilot have?” General Higgins asked.
“Let me scroll down to…” Scheib’s face reddened, then went white.
“Well?” Higgins demanded.
His voice dead flat, Scheib replied, “The pilot is Lieutenant Colonel Karen Christopher—”
“A woman?”
“One of the best pilots in the Air Force,” Scheib said without looking up from his miniature computer’s screen. “She piloted B-2s in actions over Afghanistan and Iraq. Very experienced, decorated…” His voice fell off.
“What’s she doing driving a test program plane?” Higgins groused. “A pilot with that much experience and seniority.”
Scheib knew, of course. It wasn’t printed out on Karen’s dossier, but he knew that she’d been stuck in the airborne laser program as punishment for refusing to divulge the name of the married Air Force officer she’d been sleeping with. Her career’s been blighted because she was loyal to me, Scheib knew.
And now she’s flying right into what could be the start of a nuclear war.
What if she gets killed on this mission? he asked himself. That would solve a lot of problems.
And he hated himself for even thinking of it.
ABL-1: Beam Management Compartment
Monk came back through the hatch with both his hands full of black cases that held spare optics components.
“Relax, Harry,” he said. “I can get it put together again in an hour, maybe less.”
“You can work up there?” Harry asked. “It’s a tight space; I barely got into it.”
Delany grinned at him. “I know the layout inside out, Harry. All I gotta do is get my arm into the housing.”
“You sure of that?”
“If I need to I can get Taki to help me. She’s small enough to get in there with no trouble.”
Harry nodded but heard himself say, “And how do we test it?”
Monk stared at him.
“You put a new lens assembly in, but how do we know it’s aligned right? How do we know it’s working the way it should?”
“Jeez, Harry, I’m doin’ the best I frickin’ can.”
“Yeah, I know. But it might not be good enough.”
Monk put the boxes gently down on the workbench that ran along one side of the compartment. Turning back to Harry, he asked, “So what do you want to do?”
I want to go home and have a beer and watch the sun go down over the ocean, Harry thought.
“Harry?”
“Get to work,” he said. “I’ve got to talk this over with the pilot. She’s in command of this plane.”
“If we can’t be sure the ranger is okay, we’ll hafta turn back, I guess,” Monk said softly, almost as if talking to himself.
“We’re not turning back,” Harry said. “Not unless the woman in charge says so.”
“She doesn’t know shit about this technology.”
“She’s in charge. It’s her decision, not mine.”
Monk looked as if he wanted to argue, but he merely shook his head dumbly.
“You need help with this?” Harry asked him.
“Naw. Another pair of hands would just get in the way.”
“Okay,” Harry said. “I’m going up to talk it over with the skipper.”
Harry ducked out of the optics compartment.
Taki was at her battle management console, looking bored. But one glance at Harry’s face made her get to her feet.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Plenty,” said Harry. On an impulse, he said, “Look in on Monk, give him a hand if he needs it. He’s got to replace the ranger’s optics assembly.”
“Replace?” She looked startled. “Why? What’s wrong with the—”
“It’s missing.”
“Missing? How can it be missing?”
Harry thought she looked genuinely surprised, genuinely alarmed. “That’s what I’d like to know. You go in and offer Monk your help. Don’t leave him alone in there.”
Taki’s face, normally impassive, was wide-eyed with consternation.
Harry left her and started up the ladder to the flight deck, thinking, If Monk sabotaged the ranger, he probably won’t try anything else with Taki watching him. Unless she’s in on it, part of the plot. Hell, they could all be in on it. Maybe I’m the only one who isn’t.
The two blue-suiters were at their consoles, the lanky black lieutenant and the redheaded captain at the communications console. It seemed quiet up on the flight deck, the big jet engines muted to a distant background drone, the plane’s throbbing vibrations barely noticeable.
The redhead gave him a quizzical glance as Harry clambered up from the ladder.
“I’ve got to talk with the skipper,” Harry said.
Without a word to him, the comm officer tapped a key on his console and spoke into his pin mike. Then he looked up at Harry.
“Colonel Christopher will be right with you,” he said.
She came out of the cockpit, stretching her slim body as she stepped through the open hatch. Harry thought that sitting for hours on end at the plane’s controls must be hell on your body. His back twinged in sympathy for her.
Christopher looked up at him and smiled tiredly. “I was just thinking about taking a little nap.” She made it sound like an apology.
Glancing at the two officers at their consoles, Harry said, “Can we go down to the galley?”
The colonel nodded. “A little coffee might do me good.”
She gestured him to the ladder, then followed him down. They went past the empty battle management station; Taki was still in the forward section with Monk, Harry saw. The two of them were bent over the workbench, putting together the spare lenses of the optics assembly.
Once in the cramped little galley, Christopher went straight to the coffee urn and poured herself a cup.
“Almost empty,” she murmured. “I’ll have to get Sharmon to make a fresh batch.”
Unable to contain himself any longer, Harry blurted, “Somebody sabotaged the ranging laser.”
“What?” Christopher’s dark eyes flashe
d.
“My people are fixing it, but somebody took out the optics from the ranging laser. Deliberately.”
She sagged back against the curving bulkhead, as if her legs wouldn’t hold her.
“We’ll get it fixed,” Harry said.
“It couldn’t have been any of my guys,” said the colonel. “None of them would know how.”
Harry agreed with a nod. “It’s one of my people. But I don’t know who.”
“You’re sure…?”
“It was deliberate. The lenses were in place when we did our inspection last night. When I checked ten minutes ago they were gone.”
“Shit on a shingle,” Christopher muttered.
“Somebody in my team doesn’t want this mission to go ahead,” Harry said.
“You can fix it? We can go on?”
“Yes, I’m pretty sure.”
“Pretty sure?”
“I’m not worried about fixing the lens assembly,” Harry said. “What worries me is what the guy’s going to try next.”
“He could blow this plane out of the sky!”
Strangely, Harry felt calm, unafraid. “I don’t think so. Whoever did it picked the least damaging way to shut us down. Without the ranging laser the big COIL is useless. And the saboteur is aboard this plane, riding with us. He doesn’t want to kill himself, whoever he is.”
“You keep saying ‘he.’ You have a woman on your crew. She’s Chinese or something, isn’t she?”
“Taki Nakamura,” Harry replied. “Born in Phoenix, Arizona. Her family’s been in the States since the 1920s. She’s as American as you or me.”
Christopher digested that information in silence. Then, “You’re going to have to keep your eyes wide open, mister.”
“I know. But we have another problem.”
“Another?”
“We can fix the ranging laser. But we won’t know if it’s calibrated properly unless we can try it out on a real target.”
“Explain.”
“It’s a low-power laser. We use it like radar, to get a pinpoint fix on the target’s distance and velocity. We need a live target to test it on.”
Colonel Christopher almost smiled. “That’s easy. We’re due for another refueling rendezvous in”— she glanced at her wristwatch—“another seventy-three minutes. You can ping the tanker.”