by Dale Brown
Beside her, Luke Cohen unbuckled his seat belt and then reached over to do the same thing for her. “We need to go, boss,” he murmured. In his ripped suit jacket and torn pants, the White House chief of staff looked as battered as she felt. Like most of her senior staff, he’d been hustled away from the attack in another of the armored SUVs belonging to her presidential motorcade. A few of her aides were still missing—probably left among the dead and wounded heaped across the burning air base.
Supported by Cohen’s arm, Barbeau staggered upright. More Secret Service agents formed up around them. “Tempest is in motion,” Díaz said into his radio, using her assigned Secret Service code name. “Let’s make this transfer fast and clean, people.”
Marine One’s forward door opened. Hot air swirled inside, mixed with the tang of jet fuel.
Surrounded by Díaz and the other agents, Barbeau and Cohen hurried down the steps and out across the tarmac toward the waiting E-4B. The big jet was one of several Boeing 747-200s converted into strategic command and control aircraft. Designed to remain aloft for at least a week with constant air-to-air refueling, they were intended to serve as mobile, survivable command posts for ranking U.S. military and government officials, especially the president, in the event of a serious national emergency.
One of the E-4B’s crewmen motioned them toward the forward crew entrance, up a ladder near the aircraft’s nose. He saluted Barbeau. “What are your orders, Madam President?”
“Get this goddamned plane in the air ASAP,” she snapped. She didn’t want to spend another minute longer than she had to on the ground. If there was another attack by those murderous combat robots, this hangar was a deathtrap . . . no matter how many soldiers, airmen, and airport cops were posted on guard.
They helped her up the metal stairs and into the plane, and then up another short flight of steps to the E-4B’s main deck. From there it was just a few feet to the small, utilitarian office suite reserved for the National Command Authority. The aircraft’s cockpit was directly overhead, up on the modified 747’s flight deck.
Gratefully, Barbeau dropped into one of the suite’s big chairs. She fastened her seat belt with trembling hands and then laid them flat on the desk in front of her—battling the urge to scream and swear at her staff to move faster as they scurried aboard and found seats.
Outside, the aircraft’s four huge General Electric turbofan engines started spooling up.
Ten minutes later, they were airborne and climbing fast toward a cruising altitude of more than forty thousand feet. A uniformed Air Force officer, one of the battle staff permanently assigned to this command center, entered the compartment. “We’ve established secure links to Admiral Firestone and the NSC, Madam President.”
“Patch them through to here,” Barbeau ordered.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, leaning past her to flip several switches on the wall-mounted communications control panel above her desk. Its central video screen flickered to life, showing Firestone, the short, stocky chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, in his office at the Pentagon and Ed Rauch in the White House Situation Room.
She picked up one of the white secure phones; Cohen took the other. Barbeau took a deep breath. She knew that it was vital that she come across to these men as calm and in command. “Brief me on the situation,” she said tersely.
“We are now at DEFCON Three,” Admiral Firestone reported. “And we are ready to go to DEFCON Two on your order.”
Barbeau shook her head. “Let’s hold off on that for now, Admiral,” she said. Moving to DEFCON Two would significantly ratchet up the readiness level of the entire U.S. military—especially its remaining nuclear-armed and nuclear-capable air and naval forces. But it would also put the U.S. just two steps away from signaling a move to all-out nuclear war. She wasn’t ready just yet to take such a drastic measure, not without more information.
Ed Rauch spoke up. “The vice president is on his way to Site-R, Madam President.” Site-R was an underground alternate command and communications center at the Raven Rock Military Complex in Pennsylvania, not far north of Camp David. “He and his staff should be there in thirty minutes or less.”
Barbeau concealed a sneer. She’d chosen Raymond Summers, a former governor of Ohio, as her vice president for purely political reasons during her first presidential campaign. She’d counted on him to swing his home state’s electoral votes into her column. But that had turned out to be the absolute limit of his usefulness. Aside from an aptitude for glad-handing and spouting meaningless, folksy-sounding one-liners, Ray Summers had no real discernible leadership skills that she could detect. God help the United States if that fatuous moron ever lands in the Oval Office, she thought bitterly.
“There haven’t been any other raids against our bases here or overseas,” Rauch continued. “And we see no indications of any additional overt offensive moves by the Russians or by the People’s Republic of China. In fact, there are no signs that their conventional or nuclear forces are even moving to higher states of readiness.”
Barbeau felt cold. “You’re sure about that?” she demanded.
“So far, yes,” her national security adviser said. “Satellite imagery and NSA signals intercepts haven’t picked up any evidence of movement out of garrison by their major ground forces. The same thing goes for their warships and combat aircraft. At this point, all we’re detecting are routine air and sea patrols.”
My God, Barbeau thought in dawning horror. Her suspicions about the attack on Barksdale, wild as they had seemed to her at first, were being confirmed. After all, why would the Russians or the Chinese blow up an American air base and then stop there? It didn’t make any strategic or political sense for Moscow or Beijing to commit an outright act of war against the U.S. and then sit back on their hands—leaving their own troops, ships, and planes completely vulnerable to any counterstrike. Nobody but a fool or a madman would do something that dumb. And while neither Gennadiy Gryzlov nor Zhou Qiang, his Chinese counterpart, was especially stable, she couldn’t see either of them taking that kind of risk.
With an effort, she regained her focus. “What are your recommendations, Admiral?” she asked Firestone.
“Even if we hold at DEFCON Three for now, I strongly recommend moving elements of the fleet to sea, as a precautionary measure,” the chairman of the Joint Chiefs said. “Especially our ballistic missile submarines.” He grimaced. “Now that we’ve lost more of our long-range B-52 and XB-1F strategic bombers, those boomers represent most of what’s left of our deterrent force.”
“Absolutely not,” Barbeau said quickly. “If Gryzlov and Zhou aren’t putting their own military forces in motion, the last thing I want to do is trigger a dangerous round of escalation and counterescalation. We simply cannot afford to stumble into another pointless confrontation with the Russians or the Chinese.”
Which was probably just what the crazy bastard who’d orchestrated the strike on Barksdale Air Force Base hoped for, she realized abruptly.
“But we’re already under attack, Madam President,” Rauch protested.
She glared at him. “Tell me something I don’t damn well know, Dr. Rauch! I was standing right there when we got nailed. Remember?” That shut him up. Barbeau scowled. “It’s time to face the facts, gentlemen. We were not attacked by Moscow. Or by Beijing.”
“Then who—” Rauch wondered.
“It was that scumbag Martindale,” she said. “And his mercenary Iron Wolf Squadron.” She saw the disbelief on her national security advisor’s narrow, pallid face. Angrily, she snapped, “I saw his damned CIDs shooting the hell out of our planes. Those robots were there—as big as Death itself.” She gripped the secure phone tighter. She was not going to allow the dread those memories conjured up to show on her face or in her voice. Not in front of these men. Instead, she channeled her fear into fury. Her voice cut like a knife. “Do you know of anyone else out there with Cybernetic Infantry Devices besides Martindale’s Iron Wolf thugs, Ed?”
> On the screen, Rauch visibly flinched. “No, ma’am,” he admitted.
“I didn’t think so,” Barbeau said, not bothering to hide her scorn. “And the cruise-missile strike that kicked the attack off is more proof of who’s responsible—as if we needed any.” She turned back to Firestone. “Do the Russians or the Chinese have any long-range stealth bombers, Admiral? Bombers that could have launched those missiles and evaded our radar?”
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs shook his head. “No, Madam President.” He looked thoughtful. “Both Moscow and Beijing are working hard to develop long-range stealth aircraft, but they’re not there yet.”
“Which leaves Martindale,” Barbeau said coldly. “And thanks to Sky Masters, he has a whole slew of manned and unmanned stealthy aircraft in his arsenal. And plenty of missiles to go with them.” She gritted her teeth. “Only now instead of using those weapons against the Russians, he’s turned them against us.”
Rauch frowned. “I can’t see what former president Martindale could hope to gain by destroying Barksdale,” he said cautiously. “It’s an act of treason. One we cannot possibly overlook or forgive. Why would he take that chance?”
“That’s because you don’t understand how Martindale thinks,” Barbeau retorted. “He’s always been a game player . . . and he sees people and countries as pieces he can move around on his chessboard. Well, by wrecking those B-52s, our B-21 prototype, and our first operational F-35 fighter squadron, he’s just wiped out a sizable fraction of our frontline strategic and tactical airpower, right? So, with them gone, now what are we going to do?”
“I’m not sure,” her national security adviser admitted. He shook his head. “We can replace the fighter aircraft we lost in a few weeks, but working up another group of F-35 pilots and ground crews will take months. And rebuilding our bomber force will take years . . . especially now that we’ve lost the B-21 Raider prototype.”
“Exactly.” Barbeau nodded. “Which is why I can tell you what Martindale’s plan is, Dr. Rauch. He wants us so desperate that we’re forced to fall back on the super-high-tech, gee-whiz weapons produced by his pals at Sky Masters.”
“But you’ll never buy into that idea,” Rauch pointed out.
“No kidding,” she snapped. “Which is why Martindale wants me dead or run out of office by that prick J. D. Farrell. Either way he wins.”
For the first time since boarding the E-4B, Luke Cohen ventured an opinion. He cleared his throat. “I can see where he might have been hoping to kill you, but . . .” His voice trailed off uncertainly.
“Go on, Luke,” Barbeau said, irritably waving him on. “What’s eating at you?”
“It’s just that whether or not Martindale had a hand in what happened today, this attack is going to backfire on him big-time . . . and on Farrell, too,” her chief of staff said. “You’re bound to get a huge boost in the polls from this. People always rally around the flag in times of national crisis.”
“Sure they do,” she agreed bluntly. “And if the election were going to be held in the next couple of weeks, I’d be sitting pretty.” Then her eyes hardened. “But November’s too far off. Any polling bounce I get will fade over time. And it will fade even faster once Farrell and his surrogates start pounding away on us for screwing up so badly.”
Cohen looked blank.
“Oh, for God’s sake, figure it out, Luke,” Barbeau said in exasperation. “Everybody in the fucking world just saw my strategic rearmament program go up in highly publicized flames. And whose bright idea was it to mass so many of our remaining bombers and our best stealth fighters in one vulnerable spot . . . as part of a political show?” She felt her mouth twist into an ugly smile. “Tell me, how popular was General Short on Oahu once the bombs stopped falling?”
“Pearl Harbor,” Rauch murmured, suddenly catching her historical reference.
She nodded. The stories her father, a career Air Force officer, had told her when she was young had sunk deep. Before the Japanese sneak attack on Pearl Harbor, Lieutenant General Walter C. Short, who commanded the U.S. Army’s defenses in the Hawaiian Islands, had ordered all of his fighter planes and bombers parked wingtip to wingtip—so that they could be more easily defended against saboteurs. That made them sitting ducks when Japanese Zeros came slashing in on strafing runs.
The parallels were unpleasantly close.
Nineteen
IRON WOLF FLIGHT LINE, POWIDZ, POLAND
A SHORT TIME LATER
Brad McLanahan finished entering his flight plan into the XCV-62 Ranger’s main navigation computer. Then, methodically, he started clicking through a series of digital maps, checking and rechecking his work. Sometimes prepping for a mission took more time and effort than the flight itself. In this case, that wasn’t true. He was facing a grueling, eleven-thousand-nautical-mile, one-way trip. Even with all the automation built into the Ranger’s flight controls and several planned refueling and crew rest stops, he knew he was going to be pushing his endurance to its limits. When you threw in their need to avoid detection by radars and air patrols over several different countries—Algeria, Morocco, Colombia, Mexico, and, finally, the United States itself—the full magnitude of the challenge came into focus.
At last, satisfied that he’d caught and corrected all the obvious and not-so-obvious flaws, he pushed a virtual “key” on his MFD. “Mission plan accepted,” the computer acknowledged. “Minimum flight safety and fuel parameters met.”
Brad glanced across the cockpit at Nadia Rozek. The beautiful, dark-haired Polish special forces officer had her head down, studying her own displays. One of them showed a map of the North Atlantic. Colored icons indicated their best estimates of the positions of a number of Western and Russian naval task forces, including a U.S. Navy carrier group operating off America’s Eastern Seaboard. Circles of varying diameters showed radar ranges and the airspace within reach of routine combat air patrols for each group of warships. The circles moved and changed size and shape often, reflecting the flight path of E-2C Hawkeye radar planes on patrol.
As Brad’s copilot and systems operator, she was steadily working her way through Scion’s most recent intelligence on any air surveillance radars or other threats they might encounter along their planned route. At first he thought she was completely focused, so intent on her task that she was entirely unaware of his admiring gaze. Then he noticed the faint smile hovering at the corner of her lips.
Nope, he thought with inward amusement. The day he caught her off guard would be a first. She had more natural situational awareness than anyone he’d ever met, including Whack Macomber and his dad.
“I’m going to check on the rest of our gear,” Brad said. “Need anything?”
Nadia shook her head. “Not just yet, thank you.” Her faint smile deepened. “But I may want a foot rub or a massage later.”
“I’ll pass the word to our flight attendant,” he promised.
“My God, that’s not Colonel Macomber, is it?” she said, pretending to sound worried.
Brad chuckled. “Nah, he’s just a passenger.” He jerked a thumb at himself. “I guess I’m it, ma’am. Since I’m already the designated pilot, cook, bottle washer, and all-around, general-purpose gofer on this aircraft, what’s one more tough job?”
With a theatrical sigh of relief, Nadia got back to work.
Still smiling, Brad opened the hatch and slid down the Ranger’s crew ladder. He dropped lightly onto the hangar floor. Crews were working in every corner of the large bomb-resistant shelter the Iron Wolf Squadron used to prep its aircraft and CIDs for missions.
Technicians and mechanics swarmed over the XCV-62, making sure its avionics, engines, and other systems were in tip-top condition. They were devoting special care to the four Rolls-Royce Tay 620-15 turbofan engines buried in the wing’s upper surface. This was likely to be a long-duration mission and Brad and his team would be operating out of rough, improvised landing strips the whole time. Losing an engine to avoidable mechanical failure was
not an acceptable risk.
He walked around the Ranger, making his own visual inspection. The STOL transport was around the size of a Gulfstream 450 business jet. It was big enough to carry two-plus tons of cargo or around twelve to sixteen passengers. Between its batwing configuration and the special radar-absorbent material coating its surfaces, the aircraft had a remarkably low radar cross section. While the Ranger wasn’t in the same stealth league as an F-22 Raptor, which had the radar signature of a marble when viewed head-on, it was close to that of the B-2A Spirit bomber.
The aircraft’s rear ramp was down. Brad squatted down beside the ramp, taking a good look inside the troop compartment. It was overcrowded, packed from floor to ceiling with equipment, weapons, ammunition, CID batteries and fuel cells, and other spare parts. The three combat robots he, Nadia, and Macomber would pilot were secured to bulkheads. They were powered down, seemingly lifeless. Six uncomfortable-looking web seats in two rows of three each filled the remaining space—providing cramped accommodations for Macomber and a five-man Iron Wolf recon team commanded by Captain Ian Schofield.
“Not a lot of legroom, is there?” a cheerful voice said.
Unhurriedly, Brad rose, dusted off his flight suit, and turned toward Schofield. The Canadian had served in his country’s special operations regiment before joining Scion and the Iron Wolf Squadron. His teeth gleamed white in a face weathered by years spent outdoors in all climates and seasons.
“Afraid not,” Brad agreed, with a note of apology. “If I said you guys were going to be packed in like sardines, you could sue me for overly optimistic false advertising.” Then he matched the other man’s wry smile. “But think of it like this, if we hit turbulence, you’ll never know it . . . because you’ll be jammed in too tight to move so much as an inch.”