Shadow Command pm-14 Page 2

  The missile didn’t have enough speed to begin orbiting the Earth, so as soon as the second stage separated it began its long fall, but it didn’t need to orbit: like an atmospheric anti-tank missile, it was falling in a ballistic path toward a computed point in space where its quarry would be in mere seconds. The predicted path, programmed well before launch by ground controllers, was soon verified by on-board targeting computers: the target’s orbit had not changed. The intercept was just as planned.

  Twenty seconds before impact, the third stage deployed a fifty-yard-wide circular composite net — well above the atmosphere, the net was unaffected by air pressure and stayed round and solid even though traveling several thousand miles an hour. The net was an insurance policy against a near-miss…but this time, it didn’t need it. With the third stage solidly locked onto the target, and with very little need for hard jarring maneuvering because of the precision of the launch and flight path, the third stage made a direct hit on its intended target.

  * * *

  “Impact, sir,” the technician reported. “No telemetry received from the test article.”

  The commanding general in charge, Russian Air Forces chief of staff Andrei Darzov, nodded. “But what about the flight path? Was it affected by the improper launch parameters?”

  The technician looked confused. “Uh…no, sir, I do not believe so,” he said. “The launch seemed to go perfectly.”

  “I disagree, Sergeant,” Darzov said. He turned to the technician and affixed him with an angry glare. An angry look was bad enough, but Darzov kept his head shaved to best reveal his extensive combat injuries and burns across his head and body, and he looked even more fearsome. “That missile went far off-course, and it may have locked onto an errant satellite by mistake and attacked it.”

  “Sir?” the technician asked, confused. “The target…uh, the American Pathfinder space-based surveillance satellite? That was—”

  “Was that what we hit, Sergeant?” Darzov asked. “Why, that was not in the flight test plan at all. There has been a horrible mistake, and I will be sure it is investigated fully.” His features softened, he smiled, then clasped the technician’s shoulder. “Be sure to write in your report that the missile went off-course because of a sideslip in the launch aircraft — I will take care of the rest. And the target was not the American SBSS, but our Soyuz target spacecraft inserted into orbit last month. Is that clear, Sergeant?”

  CHAPTER ONE

  It is better to be violent, if there is violence in our hearts, than to put on the cloak of nonviolence to cover impotence.

  — MAHATMA GANDHI

  ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

  THAT SAME TIME

  “Okay, suckers, c’mon and poke your head out — just a little bit,” Captain Hunter “Boomer” Noble muttered. “Don’t be afraid — this won’t hurt a bit.” This was day two of their new patrol, and so far they had squat to show for it except for a persistent headache from watching the sensor monitors for hours at a stretch.

  “Hang in there, sir,” Air Force Master Sergeant Valerie “Seeker” Lukas said gaily. “You’re anticipating, and that negative energy only keeps their heads down.”

  “It’s not negative energy, Seeker, whatever that is,” Boomer said, rubbing his eyes. “It’s that TV picture — it’s killing me.” Hunter rubbed his eyes. They were staring at a wide-screen high-definition image of a suburban section of the southeast side of Tehran, in what used to be called the Islamic Republic of Iran but was now referred to by many in the world as the Democratic Republic of Persia. The image, shot from a telescopic electro-optical camera mounted aboard a U.S. Air Force RQ-4 Global Hawk unmanned reconnaissance aircraft orbiting at sixty thousand feet above the city, was fairly steady, but every shake, no matter how occasional, felt like another pinch of sand thrown into Boomer’s eyes.

  The two were not sitting at a console in a normal terrestrial combat control center, but in the main battle management module of Armstrong Space Station, positioned two hundred and seventy-five miles above Earth in a forty-seven-degree inclination easterly orbit. Noble and Lukas were among four additional personnel brought aboard to run the U.S. Air Force’s Air Battle Force monitoring and command mission over the Democratic Republic of Persia. Although Boomer was a space veteran with several dozen orbital flights and even a spacewalk to his credit, floating in zero-G staring at a monitor was not what he joined the Air Force for. “How much longer are we on station?”

  “Just five more hours, sir,” Lukas said, smiling and shaking her head in mock disbelief when Noble groaned at her reply. Seeker was an eighteen-year U.S. Air Force veteran, but she still looked barely older than she did the day she enlisted in January 1991 when Operation Desert Storm kicked off, and she loved her profession just as much now as she did back then. The images of laser- and TV-guided bombs flying through windows and down ventilator shafts fascinated and excited her, and she started basic training two days after graduating from high school. She joined every high-tech optronic sensor school and course she could find, quickly becoming an all-around expert at remote sensing and targeting systems. “Besides the power plant, environmental, and electronic systems, the most important systems in strategic reconnaissance are patience and an iron butt.”

  “I’d rather be out there flying myself,” Boomer said petulantly, readjusting himself yet again on his attachment spot on the bulkhead in front of the large monitor. He was a little taller than the average American astronaut that most of the instruments on the space station were obviously designed for, so he found almost everything on the station just enough of the wrong size, height, or orientation to irk him. Although the twenty-five-year-old test pilot, engineer, and astronaut was a space veteran, most of his time in space had been spent strapped into a nice secure spaceplane seat at the controls, not floating around in zero-G. “All this remote-control stuff is for the birds.”

  “You calling me a ‘bird,’ sir?” she asked with mock disapproval.

  “I’m not calling anyone anything, Master Sergeant — I’m giving this particular procedure my own personal opinion,” Boomer said. He motioned to the screen. “The picture is really good, but it’s the radar aiming thingy that’s driving me nuts.”

  “That’s the SAR aiming reticle, sir,” Seeker said. “It’s slaved to the synthetic aperture radar and highlights any large vehicle or device that appears in the sensor field of view that matches our search parameters. If we didn’t have it, we’d have to manually scan every vehicle in the city—that would really drive you nuts.”

  “I know what it is, Master Sergeant,” Boomer said, “but can’t you make it stop darting and flitting and shaking around the screen so much?” The monitor showed a rectangular box that appeared and disappeared frequently in the scene. When it appeared, the box surrounded a vehicle, adjusted its size to match the vehicle, and then if it matched the preprogrammed size parameters, a tone would sound and the camera would zoom in so the humans could see what the computers had found. But it would only stay focused on one vehicle for five seconds before starting the wide-area scan again, so Boomer and Seeker had to almost constantly watch the screen and be prepared to hit the HOLD button to study the image before the computer jumped out again. “It’s giving me a damned headache.”

  “I think it’s incredible it’s doing what it’s doing, sir,” Seeker said, “and I’m more than willing to put up with a few jiggles if it helps us spot a—” And at that moment the computer locked onto another vehicle, which had just appeared atop a parking structure beside a cluster of apartment buildings. Seeker slapped the HOLD button a second later. “Hey, we got one!” she shouted. “It’s a Katyusha…no, I think it’s a Ra’ad rocket! We got them setting up a Ra’ad!”

  “You’re mine, suckers,” Boomer said, instantly forgetting all about his purported headache. He glanced at the monitor, but he was already busy making sure the target coordinates obtained by the Global Hawk were being uploaded properly. The live image was incredibly detailed. The
y watched as four men carried a large rocket, resembling a large artillery shell with fins, out of the parking garage to the back of a Toyota pickup truck — it must’ve been very heavy, because it appeared they were having difficulty carrying it. The pickup had a large steel skeletal pedestal mounted in the pickup frame, with a circular cradle atop it. The men rested the rocket on the back of the truck, then two of them hopped up and they began struggling to lift the rocket up to the launcher.

  “Don’t drop it, boys,” Seeker said. “You wouldn’t want to spoil our fun, would you?” She turned to Boomer. “How much longer, sir?”

  “Target coordinates uploaded,” Boomer said. “Counting down now. How long do we have?”

  “Once they get it up into the launcher, it could be fired in less than a minute.”

  Boomer glanced up and watched the monitor. Several children ran up to the truck to watch the terrorists at work — at first they were shooed away, but after a few moments they were allowed to get a closer look. “Looks like ‘Career Day’ is on in Tehran,” he said gloomily.

  “Get out of there, kids,” Seeker murmured. “It’s not safe for you there.”

  “Not because of us,” Boomer said coldly. He hit a transmitter button on his console. “Ripper to Genesis.”

  “I’m right here, Boomer,” responded Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan, “standing” on the bulkhead behind Boomer and looking over his shoulder. The twenty-one-year Air Force veteran and three-star general was the commanding officer at Elliott Air Force Base, Groom Lake, Nevada, the home of the High-Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, or HAWC. HAWC developed the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane, along with countless other air weapons and aircraft, but it was leaders like Patrick McLanahan who saw the capabilities and possibilities of those experimental devices and brought them to bear in crisis situations where America or her allies would otherwise suffer tremendous losses or even defeat. Short, husky but not large, with disarming blue eyes and a quick smile, Patrick McLanahan did not at all resemble the hard-charging, determined, audacious globe-crossing aerial bombardment expert and master tactician portrayed by his reputation. Like Boomer and Seeker, McLanahan was becoming a veteran astronaut — this was his third trip to Armstrong Space Station in as many months.

  “We’ve got a good one, sir,” Boomer said, nodding at his monitor. “Not a little homemade Qassam or Katyusha this time, either.” Boomer studied the young three-star Air Force general’s face carefully, noticing his eyes flicking back and forth across his monitor — not just looking at the rocket, Boomer thought, but at the kids clustered around the makeshift terror weapon launcher. “The master sergeant thinks it’s a Ra’ad rocket.”

  It appeared as if Patrick hadn’t heard him, but a few moments later he nodded excitedly. “I agree, Seeker,” he said. “A Hezbollah weapon, based on a Russian battalion-level battlefield attack missile. Two-hundred-pound warhead, simple but usually effective barometric fuse, airburst with a backup impact detonation, killing radius a hundred yards or more, usually loaded up with glass, ball bearings, and pieces of metal along with high explosives to increase the injury toll. A real terror weapon.” He shook his head. “But there are too many civilians around. Our ROE says no noncombatant casualties and minimal collateral damage. Pick a different target, Boomer, one with fewer bystanders. There will be plenty of opportunities…”

  “We don’t see many Ra’ad rockets, sir,” Seeker said. “That’s not a homemade rocket — that’s a military-grade short-range ballistic attack missile.”

  “I know, Master Sergeant, but our orders are specific and—” At that moment the insurgents shooed the children away again, more forcefully this time, as another insurgent fitted ignition wires to the tail end of the rocket in final preparation for launch. “Now,” Patrick snapped. “Take it down.”

  “Yes, sir,” Boomer said enthusiastically. He issued commands on his computer, checked the computer’s responses, then nodded. “Here we go…missile counting down…doors coming open…ready…ready…now, missile away.” He checked a countdown timer. “Don’t anyone blink, ’cuz this won’t take long.”

  Over the Caspian Sea two hundred and twenty miles north of Tehran, an unmanned EB-1D Vampire bomber opened its combined forward and center bomb bay doors and released a single large missile. The D-model Vampire was a modified U.S. Air Force B-1B strategic bomber, converted by the High-Technology Aerospace Weapons Center to a long-range unmanned flying battleship. It was capable of autonomously flying itself from takeoff to final parking with an inflight-reprogrammable flight plan, or could be flown by satellite remote control like a large multimillion-dollar video game from a laptop computer located almost anywhere.

  The missile the Vampire had just released was an even more sophisticated weapon developed by the engineers at HAWC. Its unclassified designator was the XAGM-279A SkySTREAK, but anyone who knew anything about this missile — and there were only a handful of persons on the entire planet who did — called it the “Streaker.” It resembled a cross between a bullet and a manta ray, with a pointed carbon-carbon nosecap and bullet-shaped forebody splaying out into a thin, flat fuselage and pointed tail section. After stabilizing itself in the atmosphere, four solid-fuel rocket motors ignited, pushing the weapon to well past Mach 3 and one hundred thousand feet of altitude in just a few seconds.

  Within eight seconds the motors had burned out, and a wide, flat oval air intake popped open underneath the missile. Supersonic air was ingested and compressed by the shape of the now-empty rocket motor casings, mixed with jet fuel, and ignited by high-energy pulses of laser energy. The resultant energy propelled the missile to over ten times the speed of sound in just a few more seconds, and the missile ate up the distance between its launch point and its target in no time, climbing to two hundred thousand feet as it raced downrange. The missile burned all of its jet fuel in just a few seconds, and it quickly decelerated and began descending back through the atmosphere. Once the outside skin temperature was within safe limits, the bullet-shaped forebody detached from the spent propulsion section, which automatically blew itself to bits moments later.

  Small stabilizer fins popped out of the forebody, and it became a supersonic re-entry vehicle, guiding itself to its target with its on-board navigation computer refined by Global Positioning System signals. Fifteen seconds to impact, the protective nosecap detached, revealing a combination millimeter-wave radar and imaging infrared scanner, and the warhead began uploading video signals via satellite to Boomer and Seeker back in Dreamland. The steering cue in the video image was several yards off, but Seeker used a trackball and rolled the steering rectangle back on the pickup truck, which sent steering correction signals to the warhead.

  The video image from the warhead was sharp and clear all the way to impact. Patrick had a brief glimpse of a young man, no more than fifteen or sixteen years old, wearing a mask and carrying an AK-47 assault rifle that looked almost as big as he was, who looked right up at the incoming weapon milliseconds before the image vanished. Patrick knew that the warhead was programmed to explode a tenth of a second before impact, splitting the warhead apart into thousands of small hypervelocity fragments, increasing the killing radius of the weapon out to about forty to fifty yards.

  “Direct hit!” Boomer shouted happily. He looked at the control monitor and slapped his hands together. “Total time from detection to impact: forty-eight point nine seconds. Less than a friggin’ minute!”

  “It’s more like a Maverick missile — or a sniper’s bullet — only fired from two hundred miles away!” Seeker exclaimed. She had switched back to the Global Hawk’s image of the target area and zoomed in to take a close look at the Streaker warhead’s impact spot. “Pretty good urban weapon effects, sir, exactly what you were hoping for. A really good-sized hole, about fifteen to twenty feet in diameter — looks like the center punched through the concrete parking garage roof into the floor below — but no damage to the nearby buildings that I can see except for a few broken windows. Even
a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound Small-Diameter Bomb might have caved in the sides of the building facing the blast.”

  “With no explosive warhead on the Streaker, there’s nothing there to create any collateral damage,” Boomer said. “We put just enough shaped explosive charges in the warhead to break it apart milliseconds before impact, and that was both to increase the weapon effect slightly as well as to destroy as much of the evidence as we could. All they should find are tiny pieces of—”

  “Oh…my…God,” Seeker breathed. She had zoomed out to survey a little more of the surrounding area. There were clusters of people, perhaps two dozen or so, just outside the apartment complex area lying on the sidewalk and street, with others attending to them, waving frantically for help. “What in hell happened here? Where did those people come from, and why are they lying on the ground like that? Are they from inside the apartment complex…?”

  “The Streaker must’ve set off the Ra’ad rocket’s warhead,” Boomer said. They all carefully studied the image as Seeker took manual control of the camera and zoomed in. “But what’s going on? Those people over there weren’t anywhere near the blast, but they’re staggering around like they were hit. Was it shrapnel from the Ra’ad warhead? The Streaker doesn’t have an explosive payload — it’s all kinetic energy. Is the Persian army moving in? What’s going…?”

  “A chemical weapon cloud,” Patrick said.