Shadow Command Page 3

  “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.

  “What…?”

  “It looks like some sort of chemical weapon cloud, spreading out from the target area,” Patrick said. He pointed to the monitor. “Not more than thirty feet away. Here’s a little bit of the cloud…see, it’s not rising like a cloud from an explosion or from heat, but traveling horizontally, blown around by air currents.” He looked closer. “Not twitching…it’s hard to tell, but it looks like he’s rubbing his eyes and face and is having trouble breathing. I’ll bet it’s a blister agent…lewisite or phosgene. Mustard agents would take longer to incapacitate someone, even in high concentrations…look, now someone collapsing across the street. Jesus, the warhead must’ve had several liters of CW in it.”

  “My God,” Seeker gasped. “I’ve been operating remote sensors for almost twenty years, and I’ve never seen anyone die from a chemical weapon attack.”

  “I have a feeling the powers that be aren’t going to like this,” Patrick said.

  “Should we recall the Vampire, sir?”

  “Hell no,” Patrick said. “We still have three more Streakers on board, and another Vampire loaded and waiting to go at Mosul. Keep on scanning for more insurgents. Congratulations, Boomer. The SkySTREAK worked perfectly. Nail a few more insurgents for us.”

  “You got it, sir,” Boomer said happily.

  ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

  A SHORT TIME LATER

  Unfortunately, Patrick turned out to be exactly correct. The Global Hawk images were being beamed to several terrestrial locations as well as to Silver Tower, including the Joint Chiefs of Staff Operations Center in Washington, and it was there that he received his first call just moments later: “Genesis, this is Rook.” That was from the duty officer at the JCS Operations Center. “Stand by, please.” A moment later, the chief of staff of the Air Force, General Charles A. Huffman, appeared on the video teleconference channel, looking a little pale himself but still very angry as well.

  Huffman, a tall, dark-haired, and very young man with husky, athletic features—more like a linebacker than a running back, Boomer thought—was typical of the new breed of leaders in the American military. In the five years since the Russian nuclear cruise missile air strike on the continental United States, known as the “American Holocaust,” which left several thousand dead, hundreds of thousands injured, several Air Force bases destroyed, and almost all of America’s long-range bombers wiped out, the military ranks had filled with eager young men and women wishing to protect their country, and many officers were promoted well below their primary zones and placed into important command positions years before it was ever thought possible. Also, since senior leaders with extensive combat experience were kept in charge of tactical units or major commands, often officers with less direct combat experience were placed in more administrative and training billets—and since the office of the chief of staff was mostly concerned with equipping and training their forces, not leading them into combat, it seemed a good match.

  That was true of Huffman as well: Patrick knew he came from the logistics field, a command pilot, wing, and numbered Air Force commander, and former Air Force Materiel Command commander with over fifteen thousand hours flying time in a variety of cargo, transport, and liaison aircraft in two conflicts, and extensive experience in supply, resource management, and test and evaluation. As former head of Materiel Command, Huffman had been notional commander of activities at the top-secret High-Technology Aerospace Weapons Center at Elliott Air Force Base, although that link was mostly administrative and logistical—operationally, the commanders at HAWC reported to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff or the Secretary of Defense at the Pentagon, the President’s National Security Adviser at the White House, or—at least under former President Kevin Martindale—directly to the President himself.

  Patrick had never spent any time in logistics, but he knew that logistics officers liked their world as neat, orderly, and organized as possible. Although they learned to expect the unexpected, they very much preferred to anticipate, predict, and manage the unexpected, and therefore anything unexpected was not welcome. He knew Huffman, however, and he knew that’s precisely the way Huffman liked it: no surprises. “McLanahan, what in hell happened out there?”

  “Calling Genesis, say again, please,” Patrick said, trying to remind the general that although the connection was encrypted and as secure as they could make it, it was still a wide-open satellite-based network and prone to eavesdropping.

  “We’re secure here, McLanahan,” Huffman thundered. “What in hell is going on? What happened?”

  “We hit an insurgent rocket launcher, and apparently detonated its explosive chemical-weapon warhead, sir.”

  “What did you hit it with?”

  “A XAGM-279 with a kinetic warhead, sir,” Patrick responded, using the SkySTREAK’s experimental model number instead of its name to confuse any eavesdroppers. “Almost no explosives in it—just enough to fragment the warhead.”

  “What is a XAGM-279? An experimental precision-guided missile?”

  So much for communications security, Patrick thought, shaking his head. It was five years after the American Holocaust and seven years since 9/11, and many folks had forgotten or abandoned the tight security measures that had been put in place after those two devastating attacks. “Yes, sir” was all Patrick said.

  “Launched from that unmanned B-1?”

  “Yes, sir.” Anyone listening to this conversation—and Patrick didn’t delude himself that any number of agencies or units around the world could’ve done so easily—could piece together their entire operation by now. “I briefed the staff two days ago on the operation.”

  “Dammit, McLanahan, you briefed minimal collateral damage, not dozens of dead women and children lying in the street!” Huffman cried. “That was the only way we could sell your idea to the President.”

  “The weapon produced virtually no collateral damage, sir. It was the chemical warhead on the insurgents’ rocket that caused all those civilian casualties.”

  “Do you believe anyone is gong to care about that one bit?” Huffman said. “This is a major fuckup, McLanahan. The press is going to have a field day with this.” Patrick remained silent. “Well?”

  “I don’t feel it’s my task force’s or my responsibility to worry about what the enemy’s weapons do to the civilian population, sir,” Patrick said. “Our job is to hunt for insurgents firing rockets into population centers in Tehran and destroy them.”

  “The Qagev members inside the Turkmeni insurgent network and Buzhazi’s spies inside Mohtaz’s security staff briefed us that the insurgents could use weapons of mass destruction at any time, McLanahan,” Huffman said. Patrick suppressed another irritated breath: Huffman had just revealed two highly classified intelligence sources—if anyone was eavesdropping, those sources were dead meat in just a matter of days, perhaps hours. “You should have adjusted tactics accordingly.”

  “Tactics were adjusted, sir—I was ordered to reduce the number of bombers on station from three to one,” Patrick responded—by you, he added to himself. “But we don’t have enough coverage of the city to effectively deal with the number of launchers being reported. I recommend we launch two more bombers so we can hunt down more launchers before the insurgents actually start firing live chemical warhead munitions into the city.”

  “Are you crazy, McLanahan?” Huffman retorted. “The President will probably order the entire program shut down because of this! The last thing he will do
is put more bombers up there. As it is, we’ll spend a week defending ourselves from being accused of releasing those chemical warheads. You will recall your aircraft immediately, then prepare to debrief the JCS and likely the entire national security staff. I want a full report on the incident on my desk in one hour. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And after the briefing is complete, get your ass off that damned space station,” Huffman said. “I don’t know why my predecessor allowed you to go up there, but you’ve got no business traipsing up to that floating pile of tubes every time you feel like it. I need you down here—if for no other reason than to have you personally answer to the national command authority regarding another lapse in judgment.”

  “Yes, sir,” Patrick replied, but the transmission had already been ended by the time he spoke. He terminated the videoconference link, thought for a moment, then spoke, “McLanahan to Mace.”

  Another window popped open on the opposite lower corner of Boomer’s large multifunction screen, and he saw the image of Brigadier General Daren Mace, the operations officer and second-in-command of the Air Battle Force attack wing at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base in northern Nevada. The air wing at Battle Mountain was the home base and central control facility for the unmanned long-range bombers, although commanders at HAWC could also issue instructions to the bombers as well.

  “Yes, General?” Mace responded. Older than Patrick by just a few years, Daren Mace was a veteran B-1B Lancer strategic bomber OSO, or offensive systems officer, and bomb wing commander. His expertise on the B-1’s attack systems and capabilities led him to be chosen to head the Air Battle Force’s long-range supersonic attack fleet.

  “Recall the damned Vampires,” Patrick ordered tonelessly.

  “But sir, we’ve still got three more Streakers on board the Vampire, and it’s got at least two more hours’ endurance before it has to head back to Batman Air Base in Turkey,” Boomer interjected. “Intel briefed us that—”

  “The operational test was successful, Boomer—that’s what we needed to find out,” Patrick said, rubbing his temples. He shook his head resignedly. “Recall the Vampire now, General Mace,” he said quietly, his head lowered, his voice sounding utterly exhausted.

  “Yes, sir,” the veteran bomber navigator responded. He entered keyboard instructions on his computer console. “The Vampire’s on the way back to Batman Air Base in Turkey, sir, ETE forty-five minutes. What about the follow-on sorties?”

  “Hold them in their hangars until I give the word,” Patrick replied.

  “And what about our shadow, sir?” Daren asked.

  Patrick looked at another monitor. Yep, it was still there: a Russian MiG-29 Fulcrum jet fighter, one of several that had been hanging near the bomber since it started its patrol, always within one or two miles of the Vampire, not making any threatening moves but certainly able to attack at any second. It certainly had a front-row seat for the SkySTREAK launch. The Vampire bomber had taken several photographs of the fighter with its high-resolution digital camera so detailed that they could practically read the pilot’s name stenciled on the front of his flight suit.

  “If it locks onto the Vampire, shoot it down immediately,” Patrick said. “Otherwise we’ll let it—”

  And at that moment they heard a computer-synthesized voice announce, “Warning, warning, missile launch! SPEAR system activated!”

  Patrick shook his head and sighed audibly. “The game’s afoot, crew,” he said. “The battle begins today, and it has little to do with Persia.” He turned to the computer screen of the command center at Battle Mountain. “Shut that bastard down, Daren,” Patrick radioed.

  “He’s down, sir,” Daren said.

  As soon as the Vampire bomber detected the missile launch, its newest and most powerful self-defense system activated: the ALQ-293 SPEAR, or Self-Protection Electronically Agile Reaction system. Large sections of the composite skin of the EB-1D Vampire had been redesigned to act as an electronically scalable antenna that could transmit and receive many different electromagnetic signals, including radar, laser, radio, and even computer data code.

  As soon as the MiG’s radar was detected, the SPEAR system immediately classified the radar, examined its software, and devised a method to not just jam its frequency but to interface with the radar’s digital controls themselves. As soon as the missile launch was detected, SPEAR sent commands to the MiG’s fire control system to send a command to the missile to switch immediately to infrared seeker mode, then shut down the digital guidance uplink from the fighter. The missiles automatically deactivated their on-board radars and activated its infrared seeker, but they were too far away from the Vampire bomber to lock on using its heat-seeking sensor, and the missiles harmlessly plummeted to the Caspian Sea without acquiring a target.

  But SPEAR wasn’t done. After defeating the missiles, SPEAR sent digital instructions to the MiG-29 via the fire control system to start shutting down aircraft systems controlled by computer. One by one, the navigation, engine controls, flight controls, and communications all turned themselves off.

  In the blink of an eye, the pilot found himself sitting in a completely silent and dark glider, as if he were sitting on the ramp back at his home base.

  To his credit, the veteran pilot didn’t panic and eject—he was not out of control, not yet, but just…well, turned off. There was only one thing to do: turn all switches off to reset the computers, then turn everything back on, and hope he could get his stricken jet running again before he crashed into the Caspian Sea. He flipped his checklist to the BEFORE POWER ON pages and started shutting every system in the plane off. His last image out his canopy was watching the big American B-1 bomber bank sharply left, as if giving the Russian a farewell wing-wag, and fly off toward the northwest, speeding quickly out of sight.

  No one in the Russian air force had ever run a series of checklists faster than he. He had descended from forty-two thousand feet all the way down to four thousand feet above the Caspian Sea before he was able to get his jet shut down, turned back on, and the engines started again. Thankfully, whatever evil spirits had entered his MiG-29 were no longer present.

  For a brief instant the Russian MiG pilot considered pursuing the American bomber completely radar-silent and putting a load of cannon shells into his tail—he was going to be blamed for almost crashing his plane anyway, so why not go out in a blaze of glory?—but after briefly considering it, he decided that was a foolish notion. He didn’t know what caused the mysterious shutdown—was it an American weapon of some kind, or a glitch in his own plane? Besides, the American bomber was not launching any more missiles that could be “mistaken” for an attack against him. This was not a war between the Americans and the Russians…

  …although he felt it certainly could blossom into one at any moment.

  “Let’s put together a debrief, then get ready to head back to HAWC, Boomer,” Patrick said after they were assured that the EB-1C Vampire bomber was safely on its way back to Batman Air Base in Turkey. His voice sounded very tired, and his facial expression appeared even more so. “Good job. The system seems to be working fine. We’ve proven we can control unmanned aircraft from Silver Tower. That should get us some sustainment funding for another year at least.”

  “General, it wasn’t your fault that the damned insurgents had a bunch of kids around when the SkySTREAK attacked, or that they loaded up that Ra’ad missile with poison gas,” Hunter Noble responded, looking worriedly at Master Sergeant Lukas.

  “I know, Boomer,” Patrick said, “but it still doesn’t make watching innocent men, women, and children die like that any easier.”

  “Sir, we’re on station, the Vampire is loaded, the SkySTREAKs are running cool, and no doubt there are more of those Ra’ads out there with poison gas warheads,” Boomer said. “I think we should stay and—”

  “I hear you, Boomer, but we’ve validated the system—that was the mission objective,” Patrick said.

  “
Our other objective was to try to control multiple bombers and multiple engagements,” Boomer reminded him. “We had enough trouble getting authorization and funding to fly this mission—getting approval for another mission to do what we could have done on this flight will be even more difficult.”

  “I know, I know,” Patrick said wearily. “I’ll ask, Boomer, but I’m not counting on it. We’ve got to analyze the data, prepare a summary report, and brief the chief. Let’s get to it.”

  “But sir—”

  “Meet you back here in ten, Boomer,” Patrick said finally, detaching himself from his anchor position and floating his way toward the sleeping module.

  “Looks like he took that one hard,” Seeker said after the general had left the control module. Boomer didn’t respond. “It kind of shook me up too. Is the general feeling okay?”

  “He had a rough trip up here,” Boomer said. “Every push into orbit has been hard on him, but he keeps on flying up here. The last push took a lot out of him, I think. He probably shouldn’t be making these trips anymore.”

  “It could be watching those people getting killed like that,” Seeker said. “I’ve seen the aftereffects of a guided missile attack plenty of times, but somehow a biochem weapon attack is…different, you know? More violent.” She looked at Boomer curiously, unable to read his rather flat expression. “Did it shake you up too, Boomer?”

  “Well…” And then he shook his head and added, “No, it didn’t, Seeker. All I want to do now is hunt down more bad guys. I don’t understand why the general wanted to wrap this up so soon.”

  “You heard the chief, sir,” Seeker said. “The general wanted to send the other two bombers.”