Рыбаченко Олег Павлович : другие произведения.

Union Cia Mossad And The Russian Mafia

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Школа кожевенного мастерства: сумки, ремни своими руками
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  • Аннотация:
    The thirst for joint profit pushes intelligence officers, all sorts of adventurers, members of syndicates to commit crimes. And the Russian mafia spreads its tentacles and creates branches almost all over the world. And there is a fierce struggle for the redistribution of spheres of influence.
  UNION CIA MOSSAD AND THE RUSSIAN MAFIA
  ANNOTATION
  The thirst for joint profit pushes intelligence officers, all sorts of adventurers, members of syndicates to commit crimes. And the Russian mafia spreads its tentacles and creates branches almost all over the world. And there is a fierce struggle for the redistribution of spheres of influence.
  
  PROLOGUE
  
  
  Revenge is a kind of wild justice.
  
  - SIR FRANCIS BACON
  
  
  
  SACREMENTO, CALIFORNIA
  APRIL 2016
  
  
  "Ladies and gentlemen," the flight attendant said over the airliner's public address system, "let me be the first to welcome you to Patrick S. McLanahan International Airport in Sacramento, local time is 8055pm." She continued with the usual warnings to stay seated with seat belts fastened and watch for loose items in overhead bins as the airliner taxied to the designated gate.
  
  One of the first-class passengers, dressed in a business suit and a white Oxford shirt without a tie, looked up in surprise from his magazine. "They named Sacramento International after General Patrick McLanahan?" he asked his comrade sitting next to him. He spoke with a very slight European accent, making it difficult to tell which country he was from from the other passengers seated around them. He was tall, bald, but with a dark, well-groomed goatee, and sternly handsome, like a recently retired professional athlete.
  
  The woman looked at him in surprise. "You didn't know that?" she asked. She had the same accent-definitely European, but it was difficult for other passengers within earshot to identify. Like her companion, she was tall, beautiful but not sexy, with long blond hair pinned up, an athletic figure and high cheekbones. She was wearing a business suit, tailored to look unbusinesslike, for travel. They definitely looked like a power couple.
  
  "No. You've booked a table, don't forget. Also, the airport code on the ticket still says 'SMF' when it was Sacramento Metropolitan Field.
  
  "Well, now it's the Sacramento-McLanahan field," the woman said. "Perfect fit if you ask me. I think it's a great honor. Patrick McLanahan was a real hero." Passengers across the aisle from the couple, although pretending not to eavesdrop, nodded in agreement.
  
  "I think we don"t know half of what this guy has done in his career - it will all be classified for at least the next fifty years," the man said.
  
  "Well, what we know is more than enough for his name to be listed at the airport in the city where he was born," the woman said. "He deserves his own monument at Arlington National Cemetery." More nods of agreement from those around the couple.
  
  The honoring of Patrick McLanahan in the terminal building continued after they left the plane. In the center of the main terminal was a ten-foot bronze statue of Patrick on a six-foot pedestal, holding a high-tech flight helmet in one hand and a pocket computer in the other. The toe of the statue's right shoe shone as passers-by rubbed it for good luck. The walls were covered with photographs of Patrick depicting events throughout his military and industrial career. On the exhibition panels, children drew images of the EB-52 Megafortress and EB-1C Vampire bombers with the words "BOMBS OUT, GENERAL!" and THANK YOU FOR KEEPING US OUT, PATRIK!
  
  Waiting at the baggage carousel for their luggage, the man nodded towards the electronic billboard. "There is an advertisement for this tour of the family bar and the McLanahan house and its columbarium," he remarked. "I would like to see it before we leave."
  
  "We don't have time," the woman pointed out. "The only flight from New York to Sacramento was late, and we have to be in San Francisco by ten in the morning, the Cemetery does not open until nine, and the bar does not open until eleven."
  
  "Rats," the man said. "Maybe we'll go early and see if someone can open it for us." The woman shrugged evasively and nodded.
  
  They soon collected their luggage and headed to the car rental desk next to the baggage carousels. On the way, the man went into a gift shop and a few minutes later came out with a large shopping bag. "What did you get?" the woman asked him.
  
  "Model planes," the man replied. "One from the EB-52 Megafortress, the one used by General McLanahan when he first attacked Russia, and the other from the EB-1C Vampire, one of the bombers he used against the Russian President"s bunker after the Holocaust in AMERICA." The mass strike of sub-nuclear cruise missiles against American air defense bases, intercontinental ballistic missiles and long-range bombers was known throughout the world as the American Holocaust, during which more than fifteen thousand Americans died. Patrick McLanahan led a counterattack against Russian mobile ICBM installation sites and ultimately against Russian President Anatoly Gryzlov's underground command bunker, killing Gryzlov and ending the conflict.
  
  "I thought you already had models of all of McLanahan's experimental planes," the woman remarked.
  
  "I want," the man said, smiling like a boy on Christmas morning, "but not so big! The biggest of my models are in 148th scale, but these bad guys are in 124th scale! Twice as many as my other ones!"
  
  The woman shook her head in mock disbelief. "Well, you'll have to carry them," was all she said, and they lined up for a rental car to drive to their hotel in downtown Sacramento.
  
  Both got up early the next morning. They dressed, ate breakfast in the hotel dining room, returned to their room to pack, checked out, and left the hotel in their rental car at half past seven. The downtown streets of California's state capital were quiet this weekend morning, with only a few people jogging and trading.
  
  The couple's first stop was Mclanahan's, a small bar and restaurant that has been popular with law enforcement since it opened around the turn of the twentieth century. A relative bought the property from Patrick McLanahan's sisters, the only surviving family members other than Patrick's son, Bradley, and turned the upstairs apartment into a small Patrick McLanahan museum. There was still a bar and restaurant on the ground floor, but the owner had hundreds of framed photographs and newspaper clippings depicting events in the life of Patrick McLanahan, as well as the lives of those who served in the US Air Force during the Cold War. "Closed," the woman remarked. "Doesn't open until 11am, We should be in San Francisco by 10am."
  
  "I know, I know," said her companion. "Let's try the columbarium."
  
  The entrance to the newly remodeled section of Sacramento's Old City Cemetery had an access aisle with a "CLOSED" sign over it, but the couple found the gate open and an elderly man cleaning the table next to the x-ray machine. The man smiled and nodded as the couple approached. "Good morning guys," he greeted them cheerfully. "Sorry, but we won't be open for another hour or so."
  
  The European made no attempt to hide his disappointment. "We have to be in San Francisco on important business by ten and we won't be able to go back. I wanted to see the general's crypt so badly."
  
  The caretaker nodded, a slight regret flickering in his eyes, then asked, "Where are you from, sir?"
  
  "I'm from Vilnius, Lithuania, sir," the man said. "My father was a colonel in the Lithuanian Air Force under General Palsikas when my country declared its independence from the Soviet Union, and he was a firsthand witness to the events when the Russians invaded in response. He told many stories of the incredible battles fought by Patrick McLanahan, Bradley Elliot and the brave fighters of a secret task force codenamed "Magic Wizard" on behalf of my country. He talked about Patrick so often that I thought we were related." The caretaker smiled at this. "And now I'm here, standing at his grave, eager to say goodbye to the true hero of our family, and I can't." His face became dejected. "Well, have a good day, sir," and he turned to leave.
  
  "Wait," said the caretaker. The Lithuanian turned, his face lit up. "I'm an assistant professor here at the memorial." He thought for a moment, then said, "I can take you to see the crypt. Just a quick glance so we don't get a flood of people wanting to go inside, no photos out of respect -"
  
  "That would be great, sir!" - exclaimed the Lithuanian. "Honey, did you hear that?" The woman seemed to be happy for her companion. "Just a quick glance, no touching, no photographs. You made my day better sir!" The caretaker let the couple in and closed the gate behind them.
  
  "I need to look in your bag," the caretaker said. The Lithuanian brought with him a large bag with aircraft models. "Our x-ray machine is off and it will take a long time to warm it up-"
  
  "Of course, of course," said the man. He picked up one of the big boxes. "Model EB-52 Megafortress. I already have one -"
  
  "A few, you mean," the woman put in with a smile.
  
  "Yes, several, but not one of this size!" He lowered the box into the bag and picked up the second box. "Vampire EB-1. Can't wait to put them together."
  
  The caretaker smiled and nodded. "Here, guys," he said. He immediately began his memorized guided tour: "Old City Cemetery was established in 1849, at the start of the California Gold Rush, and is the final resting place of over twenty-five thousand souls," he began. "The McLanahans were part of a large stream of dowry hunters and adventurers from Ireland. But they saw that their small town home was rapidly growing and becoming wild, so they gave up hunting for gold and silver and turned to law enforcement to help maintain law and order. More than five hundred McLanahans were officers of the Sacramento City Police, including nine police chiefs.
  
  "In this part of the over-acre cemetery lie the remains of seven generations of McLanahans, including four mayors, two Roman Catholic bishops, one state governor, three United States congressmen, several generals, and hundreds of men and women who served our country until the Civil War. . Patrick's father and mother were the last to be buried here because eventually the space ran out, and then the family and the General Patrick McLanahan Memorial Foundation built a columbarium for the general and the remaining members of his family."
  
  They came to a room with two rows of marble walls. On the wall to the left were crypts eighteen inches square, some of which were already decorated with markers; on the wall to the right was a large mural engraved in marble with the American flag, several large American jet bombers flying towards the viewer from the direction of the central bald eagle, and the words of John Gillespie Magee Jr.'s sonnet "Flying High" written below the planes. "You will notice that each wall is eighteen feet high, eighteen inches thick, and the walls are eighteen feet apart," the assistant professor said, "eighteen is the number of years the general served in the Air Force."
  
  The caretaker pointed to the wall on the left, flanked by an American flag, and next to it was another blue flag with three silver stars. "This is the final resting place of General McLanahan," he said. The visitors watched with wide eyes and were in awe. In the center of the top of the marble wall was a simple blue metal tablet in a silver frame with three silver stars on it. His wife Wendy's crypt is next to his grave on the right, but her urn is empty because her ashes were scattered at sea. By order of President Kenneth Phoenix, during the first year after the appointment of the general, the military once guarded the columbarium around the clock here - the president wanted a special place for the general to be allocated at Arlington National Cemetery in Washington, but the family did not want this. When the separation of the Maclanahan columbarium from the rest of the cemetery was completed, the guards were removed. On special occasions like Patrick's birthday, the anniversaries of some of his battles, or occasions like Veterans Day, we have volunteer sentries here to honor the General and America.
  
  "To the General's left is the crypt of Patrick's brother, Paul, who was an officer with the Sacramento Police Department, wounded in the line of duty, and later recovered by Sky Masters Inc. with high-tech limbs and sensors, and then became a member of a secret anti-terrorist task force called 'Night Stalkers'," the caretaker continued. "He was killed during a covert operation under a government contract in Libya; many facts of that operation are still classified. The other crypts in the top row are reserved for the general's two sisters and for several close friends of the general and his aides-de-camp, including Major General David Luger, who recently retired from active duty, and Brigadier General Hal Briggs, who was killed in action, where he is plaque with a single silver star. The spot right below Patrick and Wendy's house is reserved for Patrick's son, Bradley, who is currently studying aerospace engineering at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo."
  
  The assistant professor turned and pointed to the opposite marble wall. "The general has a very large family, so this wall was built to accommodate the remains of any other family members, friends of the general, or fellow generals who wish to be buried here," he continued . "There are also crypts here, but until the first wall is filled, this beautiful carved limestone diorama covers the face. The diorama will be dismantled and relocated when..." Only then did the caretaker notice that the Lithuanian had put his bag on the seat between the marble walls and pulled out the boxes of model aircraft. "What are you doing there, sir? Remember, no pictures."
  
  "We're not here to take pictures, my friend," said a woman behind the caretaker. A fraction of a second later, a rag was pressed against the caretaker's mouth and nose. He struggled to free himself, but the woman was surprisingly strong. The caretaker gasped as he inhaled full lungs of a very harsh chemical that smelled of mothballs. After a few seconds, he felt as if the columbarium was spinning, and his vision blurred, switching from color to black and white, and then began to explode with colored flashes. Thirty seconds later, the man's legs gave out and he collapsed to the ground.
  
  He had been awake long enough to see a Lithuanian man pulling what looked like metal tools from boxes of model airplanes!
  
  "This thing works great," the man said in Russian. "This thing works great."
  
  "I'm getting a little dizzy myself," said the woman, also in Russian. She used a damp cloth to wipe the remaining nerve agent from her fingers. "I myself get a little dizzy from dimethyltryptamine."
  
  In a matter of seconds, the man assembled two crowbars and a wrench-like tool from the parts in the boxes. While he was gathering tools, a woman stepped out of the columbarium and returned a moment later, rolling away a large decorative concrete planter. The man climbed onto the planter, the woman handed him a crowbar, and he began chipping away at the engraved marble stone covering the tomb of Lieutenant General Patrick Shane McLanahan.
  
  "CCTV cameras are on the way," the woman said. "Surveillance cameras everywhere."
  
  "It doesn't matter," the man said. Breaking off several pieces of thin stone, he finally managed to remove the engraved stone from the crypt, revealing a steel panel with two very large bolts that attached it to the marble. Using a wrench, he began to unscrew the bolts. "Inform the sleeper teams that we will be on our way soon." The woman called from a disposable mobile phone.
  
  The opening of the crypt did not take long. Inside, they found a simple cylindrical aluminum urn, as well as several letters sealed in transparent sealed containers, and several military awards. The man picked up one of them. "A curse!" he cursed. "I didn"t know the bastard got an Air Force Cross with a silver star!" The star has meant receiving the Air Force Cross, the air force's highest honor other than the Medal of Honor, five times. "One of them must be for the assassination of President Gryzlov. I think they don't give out medals of honor to criminals."
  
  "Let's get out of here," the woman said. "The network has been put on alert."
  
  In a few moments it was all over. The contents of the crypt were loaded into a shopping bag, and the two Russians left the cemetery, walking quickly back to their rented car, but not running so as not to attract attention. They drove only a few blocks, to an area already noted for having no security systems or traffic cameras nearby, and moved into another car driven by a young man. Taking care not to rush or pass any traffic lights or stop signs, they left the city on the Tower Bridge into West Sacramento. They changed cars three more times in different parts of the city before stopping in a deserted gravel parking lot with fruit stands west of Davis, California, where there are hardly any security cameras. The man approached a large dark sedan with diplomatic license plates. The window is down; the man brought in the packages through the window and returned to his car. The black sedan drove down the driveway until it reached an exit that took them onto Interstate 80, heading west toward San Francisco.
  
  "You're a complete fool, Colonel," said the older man in the front seat. He had long white hair carefully styled in waves, a thick neck, wore an expensive dark suit and designer sunglasses, and spoke without turning around to address the people in the back seat. "You are a complete fool, Ilyanov," said a man named Boris Chirkov. Chirkov was the envoy in charge of the Russian consulate in San Francisco, coordinating all trade matters between the Russian Foreign Ministry, the US State Department, and businesses in the western United States. "You're risking too much."
  
  "I am following the orders of President Gryzlov himself, Your Excellency," said the man in the back seat, Bruno Ilyanov. Ilyanov was a colonel in the Russian Air Force and, officially, a deputy air force attache é seconded to the Russian embassy in Washington. Beside him sat a woman with jet-black hair, high cheekbones and an athletic build, dark eyes hidden behind sunglasses. "But I am happy to follow these orders. These Americans, especially from his hometown, treat McLanahan like a god. This is an insult to all Russians. The man who deliberately killed the father of President Gryzlov and bombed our capital is not to be commended."
  
  "You are - or better said, you were before you touched these bags - the official military representative of the Russian Federation, Ilyanov," Chirkov said. "And you," he turned to the woman, "are a high-ranking security officer with diplomatic privileges, Korchkova. You will both lose your diplomatic credentials and be forced to leave this country permanently, and you will also be denied entry to all countries of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization and countries that are members of NATO. Less than six months in the United States, in your first major post in the Kremlin abroad, and now you are nothing more than a common thief and vandal. Does your career mean so little to you?"
  
  "The President has assured me that my future will be secure, sir," Ilyanov said. "Even if I get arrested, all the Americans can do is deport me, which I will gladly see, just to get out of this corrupt and decrepit country."
  
  Ilyanov was an idiot, thought Chirkov - Gennady Gryzlov was throwing people away like used napkins, and had been doing this for decades. But the global geopolitical situation was much more serious than Ilyanov's mindless actions. This could completely destroy US-Russian relations, Chirkov thought, although, in truth, those relations were already pretty bad. He knew that Gennady Gryzlov's father, Anatoly Gryzlov, gave orders that killed tens of thousands of Americans and even hundreds of compatriots on Russian soil, and he had no doubt that his son was capable of such heinous acts. Although Chirkov was the fourth oldest member of the Russian diplomatic delegation to the United States of America, the Gryzlov family was far richer and more politically powerful than his own. Whatever was on Gryzlov's mind, aside from robbing graves, Chirkov probably couldn't stop him. But he had to try to dissuade him somehow.
  
  Chirkov half turned around in his place. "What else is President Gryzlov, Ilyanov planning?" he asked. "Desecration and looting of the crypt is bad enough."
  
  "When this crypt contained the remains of the most bloodthirsty aggressor of Mother Russia since Adolf Hitler, I was glad to take part in this," Ilyanov said. "McLanahan is a criminal who killed the president of my country. He does not deserve such an honor."
  
  "This attack was a very long time ago, and it was during the war."
  
  "The war unleashed by McLanahan, sir, is completely unauthorized and illegal," Ilyanov said. Chirkov sat motionless, suppressing the urge to shake his head. Former Russian President Anatoly Gryzlov retaliated for the attack, led by Patrick McLanahan, by firing waves of nuclear-tipped supersonic cruise missiles and nearly destroying America's entire ground-based nuclear deterrent - along with several thousand Americans - in what has come to be known as the "American Holocaust." "McLanahan's subsequent non-nuclear attack on Russia using the last remaining American long-range bombers was a response that left both countries with nearly equal numbers of nuclear warheads. The latest attack, led by Patrick McLanahan himself, was directed against Gryzlov's alternative underground command post in Ryazan, targeted the blow that killed the Russian president.
  
  Whoever was responsible for starting the bomber war that led to the Holocaust in America and the attack on Ryazan, McLanahan, or Gryzlov was debatable and probably pointless, but Gryzlov was certainly not an innocent bystander. A former general in command of Russia's long-range bomber force, he responded to a near-minor attack on Russian air defense facilities by launching nuclear warheads and killing thousands of Americans in a surprise attack. These were not the actions of a sane person. When McLanahan took over a Russian air base in Siberia and used it to stage attacks on Russian mobile ballistic missile sites, Gryzlov ordered another nuclear strike with cruise missiles... but this time targeting his own Russian air base! His obsession with killing McLanahan resulted in the deaths of hundreds of Russians in Yakutsk, but McLanahan escaped and killed Gryzlov hours later by blowing up Gryzlov's spare and supposedly secret command post.
  
  "Give me the urn and other items, Colonel," Chirkov insisted. "I will return them at the appropriate time and explain that you acted under the influence of strong emotions and were sent back to Moscow for a consultation about grief or something else, which I hope will arouse a little sympathy in you."
  
  "With all due respect, sir, I won't," Ilyanov said in a colorless voice.
  
  Chirkov closed his eyes and shook his head. Ilyanov was a mindless henchman of Gennady Gryzlov and would probably die rather than hand over the things he stole. "What will the President do with them, Colonel?" he asked wearily.
  
  "He said he wanted to put the urn on his desk and use it as an ashtray," Ilyanov said, "and maybe stick the McLanahan medals on his chest of drawers whenever he pees. He deserves nothing less than a proper place of honor."
  
  "You are acting like a child, Colonel," Chirkov said. "I urge you to reconsider your actions."
  
  "The first president, Gryzlov, was forced to respond to McLanahan's aggression or face new attacks and new killings," Ilyanov said. "McLanahan's actions may or may not have been sanctioned, but they certainly were sanctioned by President Thomas Thorne and his generals. This is just a small example of what President Gryzlov intends to do to restore the honor and greatness of the Russian people."
  
  "What else do you plan to do, Colonel?" Chirkov repeated. "I assure you, you've already done enough."
  
  "The presidential campaign against the memory of General Patrick McLanahan has just begun, Your Excellency," Ilyanov said. "He intends to destroy every institution that McLanahan has ever had anything to do with. Instead of celebrating and memorializing the life of Patrick McLanahan, America will soon curse his name."
  
  Chirkov's encrypted cell phone beeped and he answered it without saying anything, then ended the call moments later. "The Federal Bureau of Investigation notified the US Secretary of State of the robbery in Sacramento," he said in a toneless tone. "Your henchmen will probably be arrested within the hour. Eventually, they will speak." He half-turned in his chair again. "You know that if the American FBI gets a warrant from a federal judge, they can enter your premises in Washington, and since your activity was not an official act, you can be arrested and prosecuted. Diplomatic immunity does not apply."
  
  "I know, Your Excellency," Ilyanov said. "I really didn't think the Americans would be able to react so quickly, but I planned it in case I was discovered. I have already arranged for a private jet to fly me from Woodland, California to Mexicali and from there home via Mexico City, Havana, Morocco and Damascus. The diplomatic security forces are ready to help with local customs." He handed the consul a business card. "Here is the address of the airport; it is close to the freeway. Drop us off and you can continue on to the consulate in San Francisco and we'll be on our way. You can deny any involvement in this case."
  
  "What else do you have planned for this escapade of yours, Colonel?" Chirkov asked after handing the card to the driver, who entered the address into the car's GPS. "I feel like this is much more serious than burglary."
  
  "I will not jeopardize your diplomatic status or career by involving you in the further activities of the President, Your Excellency," Ilyanov said. "But you will understand it when you hear about the incidents, sir... I guarantee it." He pulled an aluminum bin from his large grocery bag, running his fingers over the three silver stars on the side and the US Space Defense Force shield on the lid. "What a joke," he muttered. "Russia had a real space defense force for almost a decade, while this unit was never used, except in the twisted brain of McLanahan. Why are we so afraid of this man? He was nothing but a work of fiction, both alive and dead." He lifted the urn for trial, and a puzzled expression appeared on his face. "You know, I've never seen cremated human remains before..."
  
  "Please do not desecrate the remains of this man," Chirkov said. "Leave them alone. And think about leaving them with me. I can concoct a story where you don't get involved and the President's wrath will be directed at me and not at you. Russian thieves and hooligans did their job, but when they tried to sell them on the black market, we caught them and are holding them under arrest at the consulate. A sincere apology, the return of the artifacts, promises to bring those responsible to justice, and an offer to pay to repair the damage and restore the columbarium should be enough to satisfy the Americans."
  
  "I don't want to implicate you any more, Your Excellency," Ilyanov repeated, "and I have no desire to return these things or restore the monument to this bastard myself. Let's hope that improper burial of these things will lead to the fact that McLanahan's soul will wander the universe forever.
  
  This, Chirkov thought, was exactly what he feared.
  
  Ilyanov once again raised the urn. "This is much easier than I thought," he muttered, then unscrewed the lid. "Let's see what the great General Patrick Shane McLanahan looks like after taking his last bath in a sauna at a temperature of a thousand degrees Celsius."
  
  Chirkov did not turn around to look, but stared straight ahead and tried to hide his disgust. But soon, after several long moments of silence, he became confused and turned to look over his shoulder...
  
  ... to see the face of a Russian Air Force colonel, as white as the tablecloth on the dining table in the consulate, his mouth open as if he is trying to say something. "Ilyanov...?" The colonel looked up, his eyes were round and big like saucers, and now Chirkov saw Korchkov's face with the same shocked expression - very, very unusual for such a highly trained security officer and assassin. "What is this?"
  
  Ilyanov was stunned silent, his mouth still open. Shaking his head in complete bewilderment, he slowly tilted the open urn towards Chirkov...
  
  ... and that's when the Russian ambassador was able to see that the urn was completely empty.
  
  
  ONE
  
  
  Approach the edge of the cliff and jump off it. Build your wings on the way down.
  
  - RAY BRADBURY
  
  
  
  MCLANAHAN INDUSTRIAL AIRPORT, BATTLE MOUNTAIN, NEVADA
  A FEW DAYS LATER
  
  
  "Boomer, is this guy sleeping?" the flight surgeon supervising the crew's physiological data transmission system radioed in. "His pulse hasn't changed a bit since we put him on the monitors. Is he fucking dead? Check how he is, okay?"
  
  "Understood," replied Hunter "Boomer" Noble, the pilot on the flight. He got up from his seat, climbed back between two adjacent seats in the cockpit, passed through the airlock between the cockpit and the cockpit, and entered the small passenger compartment, designed for four people. In contrast to the more familiar orange full-pressure suit worn by two passengers on this flight, Noble's tall, lanky, athletic body was clad in a form-fitting suit called an EEAS, or electronic elastomer track suit, that performed the same functions as a traditional space suit. suit, except it used electronically controlled fibers to compress the skin instead of pressurized oxygen, so it was much easier for him to move around the cabin than the others.
  
  Noble, his mission commander and co-pilot, retired US Marine Corps pilot Lt. Col. Jessica "Gonzo" Faulkner, and two passengers were aboard the S-19 midnight spaceplane, the second of three versions of the American single-stage orbital aircraft that revolutionized spaceflight when the first, the S-9 Black Stallion, entered service in 2008. Only three S-19s were built, in favor of the larger experimental XS-29 Shadow spaceplanes. All versions of spaceplanes could take off and land on runways built for commercial airliners, but each had special trihybrid engines that could transform from air-powered supersonic turbofans to hypersonic ramjet engines to pure rocket engines capable of put the device into low Earth orbit.
  
  Boomer walked over to the first passenger and examined him carefully before speaking. Through the visor of his space helmet, he could see that the passenger's eyes were closed and his hands were folded in his lap. The two passengers wore orange Advanced Crew Escape Suits, or ACES, which were pressurized suits designed to survive loss of pressure in the passenger compartment or even outer space.
  
  Yes, Boomer thought, this is a cool cucumber - his first space flight, and he was either sleeping or on the verge of it, as if he were on a wide-body airliner preparing to leave for a vacation in Hawaii. His companion, on the other hand, looked normal for a first space passenger-his forehead was glistening with sweat, his hands were clenched, his breathing quickened, and his gaze darted to Boomer, then out the window, then to his companion. Boomer gave him a thumbs up and got one in return, but the man still looked very nervous.
  
  Boomer turned back to the first passenger. "Sir?" he asked over the intercom.
  
  "Yes, Dr. Noble?" the first man answered in a low, relaxed, almost sleepy voice.
  
  "Just checking on you, sir. Flight document says you're too relaxed. Are you sure this is your first time in orbit?"
  
  "I can hear what they are talking about. And I don't think I can forget my first time, Dr. Noble."
  
  "Please call me Boomer, sir."
  
  "Thank you, I'll do that." The man looked at his companion, frowning at the man's obvious nervousness. "Ground control generally worried about my companion"s vitals?"
  
  "He's normal for a fat guy," Boomer said.
  
  "What"?"
  
  "Paddy is a rookie astronaut," Boomer explained. "Named after Don Puddy, the NASA guy who used to give shuttle astronaut candidates the good news that they were accepted into the astronaut training program. Being hyper-nervous is natural even for veteran astronauts and fighter jocks - so to speak, sir, it's a little creepy to see someone as relaxed as you seem."
  
  "I'll take that as a compliment, Boomer," the man said. "How long until takeoff?"
  
  "The main window will open in about thirty minutes," Boomer replied. "We will finish the check before takeoff and then I will ask you to go to the cockpit and take the right place for takeoff. Colonel Faulkner will sit on the jump seat between us. We will ask you to return to your seat here before we go into hypersonic mode, but once we are in orbit you can return to your seat if you wish."
  
  "I'm perfectly happy to be here, Boomer."
  
  "I want you to get the full benefit of what you're about to experience, and the cockpit is the best place to be, sir," Boomer said. "But the g-load is quite high when we go to hypersonic speed and the jump seat is not loaded for hypersonic flight. But when you unbuckle to return to the cockpit, sir, it will be a moment you will never forget."
  
  "We've been on oxygen for an awful long time, Boomer," the passenger asked. "At least a few hours. Will we have to stay at the station without oxygen?"
  
  "No sir," Boomer replied. "The atmospheric pressure of the station is slightly lower than the pressure at sea level on Earth or the pressure in the cockpit of a spaceplane - you will feel that you are at an altitude of about eight thousand feet, similar to the pressure in the cockpit of an airliner. Breathing pure oxygen will help flush out inert gases from your body so that gas bubbles do not enter your blood vessels, muscles, brain, or joints."
  
  'Bends'? How can scuba and deep sea divers get it?"
  
  "Quite right, sir," Boomer said. "Once we're at the station, you can film this. For those of us on spacewalks, we go back to pre-breathing for a few hours because the pressure is even lower in space suits. Sometimes we even sleep in a sealed airlock with pure oxygen to make sure we get a good supply of nitrogen."
  
  They did indeed take off thirty minutes later, and soon they were flying north over western Idaho. "Speed one, sir," Boomer replied over the intercom. "For the first time flying in supersonic?"
  
  "Yes," said the passenger. "I didn't feel anything abnormal."
  
  "How about a second swing?"
  
  "Did we just double the speed of sound? So fast?"
  
  "Yes, sir," Boomer said with obvious excitement in his voice. "I like to loosen the 'leopards' at the beginning of every mission - I don't want to know at Mach 10 or 15 that there might be problems."
  
  "'Leopards'?"
  
  "My nickname for laser pulse detonation turbofan-scramjet-jet hybrid engines, sir," Boomer explained.
  
  "Your invention, I presume?"
  
  "I was the lead engineer on a very large team of Air Force engineers and scientists," Boomer said. "I swear to God, we were like little kids in a candy store, even when the shit hit the fan - we reacted to the huge explosion of 'leopards' like we threw a firecracker in the girls' bathroom in high school. But yes, my team designed 'leopards'. One engine, three different tasks. You'll see".
  
  Boomer slowed the midnight spaceplane to medium supersonic speed and soon turned south over Nevada, and Jessica Faulkner returned to help a passenger into the mission commander's chair on the right side of the cockpit, buckle up and plug her suit's umbilical cord into a power outlet, and then she deployed a small seat between two seats in the cab and secured. "Can you hear me, sir?" Faulkner asked.
  
  "Loud and clear, Jessica," the passenger replied.
  
  "So this was the 'first stage' of our three-stage orbital launch, sir," Boomer explained over the intercom. "We are thirty-five thousand feet in the troposphere. Eighty percent of the Earth's atmosphere is below us, making it easier to accelerate when it's time to go into orbit. But our tanker has conventional air powered turbofans and is pretty loaded with all our fuel and oxidizer so we have to keep pretty low. We'll meet in about fifteen minutes."
  
  As promised, a modified Boeing 767 airliner with SKY MASTERS AEROSPACE INC on its sides came into view, and Boomer maneuvered the midnight spaceplane behind its tail and flipped a switch to open the slipway doors overhead. "Masters Seven-Six, Midnight Zero-One, pre-contact position, ready, please bomb first," Boomer announced on the tactical frequency.
  
  "Understood, Midnight, Seven-Six has stabilized pre-contact, we are ready for the "bomb," entering contact position, Seven-Six is ready," a computerized female voice replied.
  
  "Great - two planes flying at over three hundred miles an hour, just a few feet apart," remarked a passenger in the mission commander's chair.
  
  "Want to know what's even more remarkable, sir?" Boomer asked. "This tanker is unmanned."
  
  "What?"
  
  "Sky Masters provides a variety of contractual services to military forces around the world and the vast majority of their aircraft, vehicles and vessels are unmanned or optionally manned," Boomer explained. "There is a human pilot and a boom operator in the Battle Mountain room who are watching us via satellite video and audio streams, but even they don"t do anything if they don"t have to - the computers do all the work, and people just watch. The tanker itself is controlled by no one but a computer - they upload the flight plan to the computer, and it executes it from the starting taxi to the final stop without human pilots, like a Global Hawk reconnaissance aircraft. The flight plan can be changed if necessary, and it has a lot of fail-safe systems in case of numerous malfunctions, but the computer controls this thing all the way from the starting taxi to the engine shutdown at home base."
  
  "Amazing," said the passenger. "Afraid your work will someday be transferred to a computer, Dr. Noble?"
  
  "Hey, I'd help them design this thing, sir," Boomer said. "In fact, the Russians have been sending Soyuz cargo ships and an unmanned Progress to the International Space Station for years, and they even had a copy of the Buran space shuttle that did an entire unmanned space mission. I think I would rather have a flight crew if I was flying into orbit on a Russian spacecraft, but in a few years the technology will be so advanced that passengers will probably never notice."
  
  As the passenger watched in fascination, the spaceplane slid under the tanker's tail, and a long boom, guided by small wings, dipped from under the tail down to the spaceplane. Guided by flashing green warning lights and a yellow line drawn under the tanker's belly, Boomer moved forward under the tail until the green warning lights went out and two red ones came on.
  
  "How do you know when you're in the right position, Boomer?" asked the passenger.
  
  "There is a certain 'picture' between the bottom of the tanker and the windshield frame that you will learn to recognize," Boomer replied. "Not very scientific, but it works every time. You will feel it and know if you are too close or too far, even at night ".
  
  "Are you doing this at night?"
  
  "Of course," Boomer said matter-of-factly. "Some missions require night operations, and of course, where we go, it is always night." As he spoke, Boomer turned off a tiny bit of power and all forward movement stopped. "Midnight Zero One, stabilized in contact position, ready for contact," he radioed.
  
  "Understood, zero one," replied the computer with a female voice. A nozzle popped out of the end of the arrow, and a moment later they heard and felt a slight CLICK! when the tanker's nozzle slid into the slipway and settled into the refueling tank. "Showing contact," the computer voice said.
  
  "Contact confirmed," Boomer said. On the intercom, he said, "All I'm doing right now is following the turn signals and staying on the center line of the tanker."
  
  "If the tanker is fully computerized, shouldn"t the receiving aircraft also be able to rendezvous using a computer?" asked the passenger.
  
  "It's possible - I just prefer to drive this thing myself," Boomer said.
  
  "Impress the VIPs on board, right?"
  
  "After what you see today, sir," Boomer said, "me and my meager flying skills will be the least impressive thing you will see on this flight."
  
  "You said 'bomb', not 'fuel'&# 8197;" the passenger said. "We don"t take fuel?"
  
  "First we use a special liquid oxidizer called BOHM, or borohydrogen methoxide, the 'bomb' is essentially purified hydrogen peroxide," Boomer said. at least with current technology, supercooling liquid oxygen from a tanker plane.The 'bomb' isn't as good as cryogenic oxygen, but it's much easier to handle and much cheaper.We don't take on any 'bombs' before takeoff, to save weight; we take jet fuel last so we have the maximum to complete the mission."
  
  Loading the thick oxidizer took more than fifteen minutes, and it took several more minutes to clear all traces of Bohm's oxidizer from the supply system before switching to the JP-8 jet fuel feed. As soon as jet fuel began to flow into the Midnight Spaceplane, Boomer felt a marked relief. "Believe it or not, sir, this was probably the most dangerous part of the flight," he said.
  
  "What happened? Transporting Bohm?" asked the passenger.
  
  "No - switching from BOHM to jet fuel in the tanker refueling system," acknowledged Boomer. "They flush the arrow and plumbing with helium to flush out the entire 'bomb' before the jet fuel passes through it. Additions of boron in the oxidizer help create a much stronger specific impulse than conventional military jet fuel, but mixing BOM and jet fuel, even in small amounts, is always dangerous. Usually, a laser is required to ignite the two mixtures, but any heat source, spark, or even vibration of a certain frequency can cause them to fire. The experiments we did at Sky Masters and Air Force test centers resulted in some spectacular explosions, but we learned a lot."
  
  "So you got your nickname 'Boomer'?"
  
  "Yes, sir. Perfection requires mistakes. I cooked a whole ton of them."
  
  "So how do you manage it in engines?"
  
  "Laser igniters pulse, anywhere from a few microseconds to a few nanoseconds, to control detonation," Boomer explained. "The stuff works, trust me, and it's powerful, but the specific impulse only lasts a moment, so we can control the power..." He paused long enough for the passenger to turn his helmeted head towards him, then added, ".. . most part of time".
  
  They could almost feel the second passenger in the back seat tense nervously, but the passenger in the front seat just chuckled. "I hope," he said, "that I won't feel anything if something goes wrong, Dr. Noble?"
  
  "Sir, the out-of-control explosion of the leopards is so powerful," Boomer said, "that you won't feel a thing... even in your next life." The passenger didn't say anything, but just took a big nervous "SIP".
  
  The transfer to the JP-8 was much quicker, and soon Colonel Faulkner was helping the front seat passenger to buckle up in the back seat next to the obviously still nervous co-passenger. Soon everyone was seated and the team was ready for the next evolution. "Our tanker left," Boomer said, "and as planned, he landed us over southwestern Arizona. We'll turn east and start accelerating. Some of the sonic boom we create can reach the ground and be heard below, but we try to do it in as much uninhabited space as possible so as not to annoy the neighbors. We monitor the on-board computers while they complete all the checklists and we're on our way."
  
  "How long will it take?" asked the first passenger.
  
  "Not for long, sir," Boomer replied. "As we said on the ground, you have to deal with positive Gs for about nine minutes, but that's just a little more than what you'd feel like taking off aboard a high-speed bizjet strapped to a dragster or riding a really cool rollercoaster, - except that you will feel them for a longer period of time. Your suit and the design of your seat will help you stay awake - in fact, you may "blush" a little because the seat is designed to bring blood into your brain rather than being pulled out by g-forces, and the more pressure, the more blood will remain."
  
  "How long do we have to stay in orbit before we can chase the space station?" asked the passenger. "I heard that sometimes it takes a few days to establish a connection."
  
  "Not today, sir," Boomer said. "The beauty of the spaceplane is that we are not tied to a launch site located in one specific place on Earth. We can create our own launch window by adjusting not only the launch time, but also by changing the approach angle and position relative to our target spacecraft. If we needed to, we could fly across the continent in just a couple of hours, refuel again, and line up in direct rendezvous orbit. But because we've been planning this flight for so long, we could minimize flight time, refuel and leave, and save fuel by simply planning when to take off, when and where to refuel, and being in the right place and heading into orbit in the right way. By the time we finish our orbital launch and enter our orbit, we should be right next to the Armstrong space station, so there's no need to chase it down or use a separate Homan transfer orbit. Get ready everyone, we are starting our turn."
  
  The passengers barely felt it, but the S-19 Midnight made a sharp turn to the east, and soon they felt constant pressure on their chests. As instructed, they sat with their hands and feet resting on the seats, without crossing their fingers or feet. The first passenger looked at his companion and saw that his partial pressure suit chest was rising and falling at an alarming rate. "Try to relax, Charlie," he said. "Control your breathing. Try to enjoy the ride."
  
  "How is he, sir?" - Asked Gonzo on the intercom.
  
  "A little shortness of breath, I think." Moments later, as the g-force steadily increased, he noticed that his companion's breathing had become more normal. "He looks better," he said.
  
  "That's because the home base says he's unconscious," Boomer said. "Don't worry - they're keeping a close eye on him. We'll have to watch him when he wakes up, but if he's given the motion sickness injection as instructed, he should be fine. I wouldn't want him blowing chunks into his oxygen helmet."
  
  "I could do without that last detail, Boomer," the conscious passenger chuckled wryly.
  
  "Sorry sir, but this is what we need to be prepared for," Boomer said. He was struck by the fact that the passenger did not seem to experience the slightest difficulty in breathing due to the g-forces, which now exceeded two Gs and steadily increased as they accelerated - his voice sounded as normal as it did back on Earth. "Battle Mountain can adjust his oxygen levels so he sleeps until the medics arrive."
  
  "My home base won't like this," the passenger pointed out.
  
  "It's for his own good, trust me sir," Boomer said. "So everyone, we're approaching three fifty thousand feet and the 'leopards' are starting to switch from turbofans to supersonic ramjets, or scramjets. We call this 'surge' because the surge in each engine moves forward and diverts the supersonic air around the turbine fans into ducts where the air is compressed and mixed with jet fuel and then ignited. Since there are no rotating parts in a scramjet like a turbofan engine, the maximum speed we can achieve is about fifteen times the speed of sound, or about ten thousand miles per hour. Jet engines will start working soon. We inert the fuel in the fuel tanks with helium to avoid unspent gas from entering the fuel tanks. Stay ahead of the GS."
  
  This time, Boomer did hear some grunts and deep sighs over the intercom, as a few moments later the engines went into full scramjet mode and the Midnight Spaceplane quickly picked up speed. "Going through Mach five... Mach six," Boomer announced. "Everything looks good. How are you doing there, sir?"
  
  "Okay... okay, Boomer," the passenger replied, but it was now obvious that he was fighting G-forces, squeezing his stomach and leg muscles and taking in more air into his chest, which should have slowed blood flow to his lower body and helped hold it in his chest and brain, helping him stay conscious. The passenger looked at his companion. His seat automatically reclined to about forty-five degrees, which helped keep his blood in his head as he couldn't do G-crunches while unconscious. "How... how much... longer?"
  
  "I hate to disappoint you, sir, but we haven't even gotten to the fun part yet," Boomer said. "The scramjet jet engines will give us maximum speed and altitude while still using atmospheric oxygen to burn fuel. We want to keep our BOHM oxidizer as long as possible. But at about sixty miles - three hundred and sixty thousand feet - the air will become too thin for launching scramjets, and we will switch to pure rocket mode. You will feel... then a little push. It won't last long, but it will be... noticeable. Get ready sir. Another ninety seconds." Moments later, Boomer reported, "Leopard dive ... dive complete, scramjets report full shutdown and safety. Get ready to transition to rocket, crew... Support me on turbopump temperature and pressure readings, Gonzo... increase power, immediately... good ignition, rockets going up to sixty-five percent, fuel glowing green, throttles up..." Passenger thought that he was ready for it, but the breath left his lungs with a sharp "BAARK"! at that moment... "Good primary ignition, turbopump pressure rating, all readings OK, get ready for 100% power, let"s go...ready...ready...now."
  
  It was like a car accident. The passenger felt his body press back into the seat-thankfully, the computer-controlled seat anticipated this by leaning back at the same time, adjusting the cushioning and keeping the weight of his body from the sudden force. The Midnight's nose seemed to point straight up, but this sensation lasted only a few moments, and soon he no longer had any idea of up or down, left or right, forward or backward. For a moment, he wished he could be unconscious like his comrade, unaware of all those strange, alien forces pounding through his body.
  
  "One-six... one-seven... one-eight," Boomer announced. The passenger was not quite sure what all this meant. "Passing four-zero... five-zero... six-zero..."
  
  "We...do...is it okay, Boomer?" asked the passenger, struggling to suppress the growing darkness in his eyes, which indicated the beginning of the loss of consciousness. He pretended to be a bodybuilder, tensing every muscle in his body, hoping to get enough blood to his head so he wouldn't fall over.
  
  "We're in... the green zone, sir," Boomer replied. For the first time on this damned flight, the passenger thought, he could pick up a hint of pressure or strain in Hunter Noble's voice. His tone was still measured, still curt and even formal, but there was definitely a note of unease in it that meant even to a novice space traveler that the worst was yet to come.
  
  Hell, the passenger thought, if Hunter Noble-probably America's most frequently traveled astronaut with dozens of missions and thousands of orbits-is in trouble, what chance do I have? I'm so tired, he thought, trying to fight the damn g-forces. I'll be fine if I just relax and let the blood drain from my brain, right? It won't harm me. The pressure is starting to make me slightly nauseous, and for God's sake, I don't want to puke into my helmet. I just relax, relax...
  
  Then, a moment later, to his complete surprise, the pressure stopped, as if the twisting screws in the vise that were pressing down on his entire body had simply disappeared after only a few minutes. Then he heard a surprising, completely unexpected question: "Are you all right there on this magnificent morning, sir?"
  
  The passenger was somehow able to answer briefly and completely casually: "Is it morning already, Dr. Noble?"
  
  "It's already morning somewhere, sir," Boomer said. "We have a new morning every ninety minutes at the station."
  
  "How are we doing? We are fine? We made it?"
  
  "Check your details, sir," Boomer said. The passenger looked back and saw the man's arms floating about six inches above his still unconscious body, as if he were asleep, floating on his back in the ocean.
  
  "We... are we weightless now?"
  
  "Technically, the acceleration of gravity towards the Earth is equal to our forward speed, so we are actually falling, but never hitting the ground. We are hurtling towards the Earth, but the Earth keeps shifting to the side before we crash into it, so the end effect feels like weightlessness," Boomer said.
  
  "What to say?"
  
  Boomer grinned. "Sorry," he said. "I like to say that to Paddy. Yes sir, we are weightless."
  
  "Thank you".
  
  "We are currently flying at Mach 25 and climbing one hundred and twenty-eight miles to our final altitude of two hundred and ten miles," Boomer continued. "Corrections are nominal. When we stop moving at orbital speed, we should be within ten miles of Armstrong at the appropriate speed, altitude, and bearing. It looks very cool, sir, very cool. Welcome to outer space. You are officially an American astronaut."
  
  Moments later, Jessica Faulkner returned to the passenger compartment, her eyes still charming behind the closed visor of her spacesuit helmet. The passenger had seen a lot of astronauts floating in zero gravity on TV and in movies, but it was like seeing it for the first time in person - it was just, completely unrealistic. He noticed that her movements were gentle and deliberate, as if everything she touched or was about to touch was fragile. She didn't seem to be grasping at anything, but she used a few fingers to lightly touch the bulkheads, ceiling, or deck to maneuver.
  
  Faulkner first checked Spellman's condition by checking a small electronic panel on the front of his suit that displayed conditions in the suit and the wearer's vital signs. "He looks fine and his suit is safe," she said. "As long as his gyroscopes don't kick in when he wakes up, I think he'll be fine." She approached the first passenger and gave him a very sweet smile. "Welcome to orbit, sir. How do you feel?"
  
  "It was pretty hard when the rockets went off - I thought I was going to pass out," he replied with a faint smile. "But now I'm fine."
  
  "Fine. Let's unfasten you and then you can join Boomer in the approach cockpit. He might even let you dock it."
  
  Dock a spaceplane? To the space station? I? I can not fly! I haven't driven a car in almost eight years!"
  
  Faulkner would unfasten the passenger from his seat using Velcro to keep the straps from dangling in front of them. "Do you play video games, sir?" she asked.
  
  "Sometimes. With my son ".
  
  "It's just a video game - the controls are almost identical to game controllers that have been around for years," she said. "Actually, the guy who designed them, John Masters, probably did it on purpose - he was a video game freak. In addition, Boomer is a good instructor.
  
  "So the secret to maneuvering in zero gravity is to remember that although you don"t have the effects of gravity, you still have mass and acceleration, and they need to be counteracted very carefully, otherwise you will end up bouncing off the walls," - Faulkner said. "Remember that this is not the feeling of weightlessness that you experience when floating in the ocean, where you can move on oars - here any directional movement can be countered only by opposing the acceleration of the mass with an opposite and equal force.
  
  "Once we're at the station, we use Velcro shoes and patches on our clothes to keep ourselves safe, but we don't have them yet, so you'll have to learn the hard way," she continued. "Very light, gentle movements. I like to just think about moving first. If you don't consciously think about the movement before doing it, you'll fly towards the ceiling when your core muscles are engaged. If you just think about standing up, you will engage more small muscles. You will have to overcome your mass in order to start moving, but remember that gravity will not help you change direction. Try it".
  
  The passenger did as she suggested. Instead of using his legs and arms to push off the seat, he simply thought of standing up with a few fingers of one hand lightly touching the rail or seat armrest... and to his surprise, he began to gently lift himself off the seat. "Hey! It worked!" he exclaimed.
  
  "Very well, sir," Faulkner said. "Do you feel good? The first time in weightlessness upsets the stomachs of many."
  
  "I'm fine, Jessica."
  
  "The balance organs in your ears will soon no longer be 'up' or 'down' and will send signals to your brain that don't match what you see or feel," Faulkner explained. The passengers were briefed about all this at home, but they did not receive any other astronaut training, such as simulated weightlessness underwater. "It will be a little worse when you get to the station. A little nausea is normal. Get through it."
  
  "I'm fine, Jessica," the passenger repeated. His eyes were wide open, like those of a small child on Christmas morning. "My God, this is an incredible feeling - and at the same time incredibly strange."
  
  "You're doing great, sir. Now what I'm going to do is step aside and let you maneuver towards the cockpit. I could try and get you into your seat, but if I don't line up perfectly and apply the right amount and direction of force, I'll blow you out of control, so it's best if you can do it. Again, just consider moving. Do not rush."
  
  Her suggestions worked. The passenger completely relaxed his body and turned to face the hatch connecting the cockpit to the passenger compartment, and, touching almost nothing, he began to drift towards the hatch, and Boomer watched his slow progress over his right shoulder, a pleased smile was visible through his visor oxygen helmet. In the blink of an eye, the passenger swam right up to the cockpit hatch.
  
  "You do it naturally, sir," Boomer said. "Now Gonzo will disconnect your umbilical cord from the passenger seat and hand it to me, and I will connect it to the socket on the seat of the mission commander. You need to carefully hold on to the hatch while we reattach you. Again, don"t kick or push anything - gentle touches." The passenger heard and felt the tiny blasts of conditioned air in his partial pressure suit cut off, and soon a connecting hose appeared. Boomer reached across the cockpit and plugged it in. "Do you hear me well, sir? Do you feel that the air conditioner is all right?"
  
  "Yes, and yes again."
  
  "Fine. The seat is the hardest to get on because it is quite tight. The technique is to slowly, gently bend at the waist and pull your hips towards your chest, as if you were doing a stomach stretch. Gonzo and I will toss you over the center console to your seat. Don't try to help us. Okay, keep going." The passenger did exactly as he was told, arching slightly, and in just a few unexpected bumps and turns, he was over a very wide center console on the seat, and Faulkner fastened his knees and shoulder straps for him.
  
  "Are you sure we didn't collide in the hallways at NASA astronaut training in Houston, sir?" Boomer asked, his smile visible through the visor of his oxygen helmet. "I know veteran astronauts who get hot, sweaty and irritated doing what you just did. Very good. Here is your reward for all this work." And he pointed outside the cockpit...
  
  ... and for the first time the passenger saw it: the planet Earth was spread out in front of him. Even through the relatively narrow cockpit windows, it was still wonderful to look at. "This... this is incredible... beautiful... My God," he breathed. "I've seen all the photographs of Earth taken from space, but they just don't compare to what I've seen myself. It's great!"
  
  "Worth all the hoops you had to jump through to get here, sir?" - Asked Gonzo.
  
  "I would do it a hundred times just to get a chance," the passenger said. "It's incredible! Damn, I'm running out of adjectives!"
  
  "Then it's time to get back to work," Boomer said, "because it's getting a little busy around here. Take a look."
  
  The passenger looked ... and saw the destination in amazing splendor. It was almost thirty years old, mostly built with 1970s technology, and even to the untrained eye, it was beginning to show signs of aging despite minor but fairly consistent upgrades, but it still looked amazing.
  
  "The Armstrong Space Station, named after the late Neil Armstrong, of course the first man to walk on the moon, but everyone who is anything at all calls it the Silver Tower," Boomer said. "It began as a semi-secret Air Force program merging and improving the Skylab space station project and President Ronald Reagan's Space Station Freedom project. Ultimately, Liberty became the American contribution to the International Space Station, and Skylab was abandoned and allowed to return and burn up in Earth's atmosphere, but the military-funded space station program continued to operate in relative secrecy - as secret as you can keep. a similar monster worth three billion dollars that revolves around the Earth. They are essentially four Skylabs connected together and attached to a central truss, with larger solar arrays and improved docking, sensors and maneuvering systems designed more for military applications than scientific research."
  
  "It looks fragile-a bit fusiform, like those modules could fall off any second."
  
  "He's about as strong as it needs to be here in freefall," Boomer said. "It's certainly not as strong as a building of this size on Earth, but then again, it's not necessary. All modules are equipped with small computer-controlled motors that connect all the parts together because the station rotates on its axis so that the antennas are pointed towards the Earth."
  
  "Is the silver coating really supposed to protect against ground-based lasers?" asked the passenger. "Has he ever been hit by a laser? I heard that Russia is hitting him with a laser every chance they get."
  
  "He gets hit all the time, and not just from Russia," Boomer said. "So far it doesn't seem to have caused any damage; the Russians claim they are simply using lasers to monitor the station's orbit. It turns out that the silver material-sputter-sprayed aluminized polyimide-is a good shield against micrometeorites, solar wind and cosmic particles, and lasers, and is a good insulator. But the best thing for me is being able to see the station from Earth when the sun hits it directly - it is the brightest object in the sky, except for the sun and the moon, and can sometimes be seen during the day, and at night it can even cast shadows.
  
  "Why do you call it 'station' instead of 'the station'?" the passenger asked, "I've heard a lot of you guys say it that way."
  
  Boomer shrugged at the seat belts. "I don't know - someone started saying it that way in the first months of Skylab and it stuck," he said. "I know most of us think of it as more than just a collection of modules or even a workplace - it's more of an important or favorite destination. It's like I could say, 'I'm going to Tahoe'. 'I'm going to the station' or 'I'm going to Armstrong' just sounds... right."
  
  As they approached the station, the passenger pointed towards the station. "What are those round things on each of the modules?" he asked.
  
  "Lifeboats," Boomer replied. "Simple aluminum spheres that can be sealed and thrown overboard away from the station in case of an accident. Each holds five people and has enough air and water to last about a week. They cannot re-enter the atmosphere, but they are designed to fit in the cargo hold of any spaceplane, or they can be towed to the International Space Station and handed over to survivors. Each module has one; The Galaxy module, which is a combination of galley, gym, entertainment room and medical clinic, has two lifeboats."
  
  He pointed to the lowest central module, smaller than the others and attached to the "bottom" of the lower central module, pointing towards Earth. "So this is VP Page's creation, huh?"
  
  "That's it, sir: XSL-5 'Skybolt'", &# 8202; Boomer said. "A free electron laser with a klystron, or electronic amplifier, powered by a magnetohydrodynamic generator."
  
  "What"?"
  
  "The power for the station is generated mainly by solar panels or hydrogen fuel cells," explained Boomer, "neither of which produces enough power for a multi-megawatt-class laser. A nuclear reactor on Earth uses the heat from the fission reaction to produce steam to spin a turbine generator, which is not possible on a space station because the turbine would act like a gyroscope and disrupt the station's control systems - even the flywheels on our exercise bikes do it. MHD is similar to a turbine-style power generator, but instead of spinning magnets to create a stream of electrons, MHD uses plasma spinning in a magnetic field. The power generated by the MHD generator is enormous, and the MHD generator has no moving or rotating parts that could affect the station's orbit."
  
  "But the catch is...?"
  
  "Creating a plasma requires heating substances that produce ions to high temperatures, much higher than the state of vapor," Boomer said. "In space, there is only one way to produce this level of heat, and that is with a small nuclear reactor. Naturally, many people are afraid of anything nuclear, and it's doubly so if it flies overhead."
  
  "But nuclear reactors have been orbiting the earth for decades, right?"
  
  "The MHD generator was the first American nuclear reactor in space in twenty years, and it is much more powerful than anything else here," Boomer replied. "But the SOVIETS launched almost three dozen satellites that used small nuclear reactors to generate electricity using thermocouples until the USSR went bankrupt. They never shouted about their nuclear reactors, but when the US launched one MHD generator after the USSR canceled their program, they went berserk. Typically. And they're still screaming even though we haven't fired a Skybolt in ages.
  
  The passenger studied the Skybolt module for a while, then remarked: "Anne Page designed it all."
  
  "Yes sir," Boomer said. "She was just a young upstart engineer and physicist when she made the plans for Skybolt. Nobody took her seriously. But President Reagan wanted to build a Star Wars missile defense shield, and he spent a huge amount of money, and Washington was frantically looking for programs to launch so they could spend all that money before it went to some other program. Dr. Page's plans fell into the right hands at the right time; she got the money and they built the Skybolt and installed it on the Armstrong in record time. Skybolt was Dr. Page's child. She even talked her into doing partial astronaut training so she could take the shuttle up to oversee the installation. They say she dropped thirty pounds of 'executive spread' to get selected for astronaut training and she never put it back on. When her baby said her first words, it shocked the world."
  
  "And that was almost thirty years ago. Amazing."
  
  "It's still a state of the art device, but if we had the funds, we could probably improve its efficiency and accuracy significantly."
  
  "But we could reactivate the Skybolt now, right?" asked the passenger. "Improve it, modernize it, yes, but refuel it and launch it now or in a fairly short time?"
  
  Boomer turned and looked at his passenger for a moment with some surprise. "You take all this seriously, don't you, sir?" he finally asked.
  
  "I bet you do, Dr. Noble," the passenger replied. "I bet it is."
  
  A few minutes later they moved within a few hundred yards of the Armstrong space station. Boomer noticed that the passenger's eyes got bigger and bigger as they got closer. "It feels like you"re in a tiny boat sailing up to an aircraft carrier, doesn"t it?"
  
  "That's exactly what it sounds like, Boomer."
  
  Boomer took out a wireless device that actually looked like a familiar console game controller and placed it in front of the passenger. "Ready to do more than be a passenger, sir?" - he asked.
  
  "Are you serious? Do you want me to deliver this thing to the space station?"
  
  "We could run it automatically, and computers are great at this task, but what's the fun in that?" He moved the controller in front of the passenger. "I have a feeling that you will succeed."
  
  He entered commands on the keyboard on the center console, and a target appeared on the windshield in front of the passenger. "Proper control moves the spaceplane forward, backward and side to side-we don't roll like an airplane, we just move sideways," Boomer continued. "Left control is a little different: by turning the knob, the spacecraft turns around its center, so you can point the nose in a different direction than the spaceplane is flying; and you can adjust the spaceplane's vertical position by pulling the handle to start vertically up or push down to move down. Manipulating the controls activates the thrusters, tiny rocket engines located throughout the spaceplane. We usually pay close attention to how much fuel our docking engines use - another reason the powers that be prefer us to use a docking computer, as it is generally better and more economical at docking than us mere mortals. , - but for this flight we loaded a lot of extra fuel into the station in order to replenish the tanks before departure, and everything is in order.
  
  "So, sir, your job is to manipulate the controls to hold the reticle you see before you focus on the docking target on the station, which is that big zero you see on the docking module. As you get closer, the director's lights will flash and you'll see more clues on what to do. Important note here: Remember that the station rotates along its long axis once every ninety minutes, so the antennas and windows are always pointed towards the Earth when it orbits, but as long as you follow the director's signals, this compensates for this. Remember also that you not only need to aim the spear at the target, but also align the spaceplane according to the directions of the searchlights, as well as control the forward speed so as not to ram the space station and disturb Midnight, which would be bad for everyone involved. "
  
  "I'll try not to," the passenger said weakly.
  
  "Thank you, sir. As Jessica instructed you in zero gravity moving, gross movements are bad, but minor movements and adjustments are good. We have found that thinking about the movement is usually enough to activate the measured, correct response of the small muscles. You seemed to have a good command of this concept when you sat down in your chair this morning, so I have every confidence that you will be able to do the same by maneuvering our docking spaceplane." The passenger responded with a very noticeable nervous swallow.
  
  "Your director's indicators tell you that you are approaching at twelve inches per second, you are thirty yards down, ten yards to the right, a range of one hundred and thirty-three yards, and heading sixteen degrees to the left to align," Boomer continued. "As we approach fifty yards, we will gradually slow down the closing speed, so that at five yards we will be less than three inches per second. You need to be less than one degree off course, on course and altitude and at less than one inch per second to hit the bullseye or we will abort the approach and try again."
  
  "Do you want to alert the station, Boomer?" Faulkner asked over the intercom. Now she sat in the jump seat between Boomer and the passenger.
  
  "I think we'll be fine, Gonzo," Boomer replied.
  
  Boomer could see the passenger gulp nervously, even through his suit and helmet. "Maybe we better not..." he said.
  
  "I think you'll be fine, sir," Boomer repeated. "You have touch."
  
  Boomer noticed that the passenger straightened up and gripped the control panel even tighter than before, and put his hand on his left hand. "Wait, sir," he said. "Wait. Just wait. Take a deep breath, then exhale slowly. Seriously. Take a deep breath, sir. Boomer waited until he heard the passenger take a deep breath, then let it out. "Very good. The key to this maneuver is visualization. Visualize the zoom even before you touch the controls. Imagine what the controls will do when you touch them and activate them. Can you imagine what each control and input will do? if you can't, don't activate it. Long before you take a step, be clear that what you are going to think about is what you really want to do. Map this out in your mind before hitting any switch. Never be surprised by what happens when you flip a switch. Expect whatever happens when the switch is pressed is exactly what you intended to do; and if it doesn't, immediately determine why it didn't happen the way you wanted it to and fix it. But don't overreact. All reactions and counter-reactions must be deliberate, balanced and deliberate. You must know why you are moving the engine, not just where and how much. Let's do it, sir."
  
  The passenger replied...doing absolutely nothing, which Boomer thought was the best thing to do. The Midnight was already nearing its near-perfect rendezvous point, and the passenger was well aware that the technology that allowed him to get this far was likely far beyond his own meager capabilities, so he wisely decided to let the automated maneuver complete its evolution, explore what else was needed. to do - if anything at all - and then complete it if he can.
  
  The Armstrong space station loomed closer and closer to the Midnight spaceplane, filling the tiny, narrow windshield with its impressive bulk and obliterating all other visual data ... except for the important ones, which were the computer-generated images on the multifunction display as in front of the aircraft commander, as well as in front of the passenger. The correct placement with the dock on the space station was obvious - it required some consideration which controls to touch and adjust to correct the movements of the spaceplane.
  
  "I can't get the spaceplane to move sideways," the passenger muttered, disappointment in his voice. "I keep pressing the switch, but nothing happens."
  
  "The fix you applied is in there - you just have to let it happen, sir," Boomer said. His voice began to sound less belligerent and more like a shamanic or spiritual guide. "Pleasant, light, gentle, smooth inputs. Remember, just a light press of your thumb on the vernier controls generates hundreds of pounds of rocket thrust that changes the orbit of a hundreds of thousands of pounds of spacecraft traveling at twenty-five times the speed of sound hundreds of miles above the Earth. Visualize the motion of the spacecraft and visualize the corrective actions needed to correct the flight path, then apply the necessary control inputs. Reacting without thinking is evil. Take command."
  
  The passenger removed his hands from the controls, allowing the controller to float in front of him on a tether, closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. When he opened them, he found that all the data he had entered had indeed begun to register. "How about this?" he muttered. "I'm not a complete idiot."
  
  "You're doing great, sir," Boomer said. "Remember that there is no atmosphere or roadway here to create friction, and gravity would take a few tens of revolutions to kick in, so whatever adjustments you made must be removed. This data here shows how much correction you have applied and in what direction, that is, how much you need to remove. Also keep in mind how long it took your inputs to apply, so this will give you an accurate idea of when to use them."
  
  Now the passenger was definitely in the zone. With the controller on his lap, oriented just like the spaceplane itself, he barely touched the handles with his fingertips. As they approached the bull's-eye, their forward speed slowed slightly, so that by the time the crosshairs hit the bull's-eye, their forward speed had almost reached zero inches per second.
  
  "Contact," Boomer announced. The passenger's shoulders visibly relaxed, and he let go of the controller. "The latches are secure. The spaceplane is moored. Congratulations, sir."
  
  "Don't do this to me again, do you mind Dr. Noble?" the passenger asked, looking up and taking a few breaths of relief, then releasing the hand controller as if it were a radioactive weapon. "All I could think about was the catastrophe and the fact that we were all stuck in orbit."
  
  Boomer held up another controller, identical to the first. "I had your back, sir," he said with a smile. "But you did great - I didn"t touch anything. I didn't tell you this, but we usually need a forward speed of at least zero point three feet per second for the docking mechanism to click - they click for you at a slower rate."
  
  "This won't ease my nerves in the slightest, Boomer."
  
  "Like I said, sir, you have talent," Boomer said. "Gonzo is going to get us ready to transfer to the station. First, she will prepare your companion, and several crew members from the station will first carry him, and then we will go. We usually close the airlock from the cockpit while we install the transfer tunnel in case of a leak or damage, but everyone is in spacesuits so even if there is an accident or a malfunction, we will be fine."
  
  Boomer and the passenger turned and watched as Faulkner took out the checklist, attached it to the bulkhead with Velcro, and got to work. "The Midnight spaceplane has a small cargo hold, larger than the S-9 Black Stallion, but not nearly as big as the Space shuttle, but it was never really designed to dock or carry cargo or passengers - actually it was just a technology showcase," Boomer explained. "We later turned it into a workhorse. In front of the passenger module is an airlock that allows us to dock with Armstrong or the International Space Station and transport personnel or cargo back and forth without going into outer space."
  
  "Go into space?" repeated the passenger. He pointed to the cabin windows. "You mean you had to go there to get to the station?"
  
  "It was the only way to get to the space station on the S-9 Black Stallion and the early S-19 Midnight," Boomer said. "Sky Masters has designed an airlock between the cockpit and the cargo hold with a system of pressurized tunnels so that it is now easier to get from the spaceplane to the station. S-9 is too small for an airlock, so the transfer means spacewalk. This is a short and pleasant spacewalk. It was not far, but it was undeniably impressive."
  
  "The cargo bay doors are opening," Gonzo reported. They could hear a low rumble through the hull of the spaceplane. "The doors are completely open."
  
  "Looks like your cargo bay doors are fully open, Boomer," said a voice over the intercom. "Welcome to Armstrong".
  
  "Thank you, sir," Boomer replied. Addressing the passenger, he said: "This is Trevor Scheil, station manager. All of the personnel at the Armstrong Space Station are contractors right now, though nearly all are former military veterans with extensive space operations experience, and about half of them have worked on the station in the past. We open the cargo bay doors to release excess heat from the spaceplane." On the intercom, he said, "Pretty good approach, don't you think, sir?"
  
  "Don't give yourself a cramp by patting yourself on the back, Boomer," Sheil radioed.
  
  "It wasn't me or Gonzo: it was our passenger."
  
  There was a long, rather awkward pause; Sheil then responded with a wooden "understood."
  
  "He didn't seem pleased," the passenger remarked.
  
  "Trevor didn't like the idea of you docking at the Midnight, sir," Boomer admitted. "The station director, retired Air Force General Kai Raidon, approved the idea; they left it up to me."
  
  "I would have thought it would be wrong to refuse your stationmaster, Boomer."
  
  "Sir, I think I know and understand the reason why you are doing all of this," Boomer said as he watched the progress of attaching the transfer tunnel to the air lock. "You are here to prove an important point, and I am all for it. It's a huge risk, but I think it's a risk worth taking. If you are ready to do so, I am ready to do everything in my power to moisten your eyes and thereby moisten the eyes of the whole world. If I can say, sir, I just need you to have the courage to tell the world what you did on this trip and what you saw, over and over and over again, in every possible place, all over the world. Your words will push the world into the excitement of space travel far more than mine ever could." The passenger considered this for a moment, then nodded.
  
  "The transmission tunnel is connected and secure," Gonzo reported. "Sealing the air lock."
  
  "So Gonzo is in the airlock alone, isolated from the cockpit and passenger module?" asked the passenger. "Why are you doing it?"
  
  "So that we don't depressurize the entire spaceplane in case the tunnel fails or isn't sealed properly," Boomer replied.
  
  "But then Gonzo...?"
  
  "She is in a partial pressure suit and could probably survive the loss of pressure," said Boomer, "but she and Mr. , Mr. Spellman would have had to endure on his own. It's dangerous, but she's done it before. Mr. Spellman would probably take it just fine - he's a pretty healthy dude..."
  
  "God," said the passenger. "It's mind-boggling how many things can go wrong."
  
  "We're working on it and constantly making improvements, and we train, we practice, we practice, and then we train some more," Boomer said. "But you just have to accept the fact that we're playing a dangerous game."
  
  "Everything is ready to open the station," Sheil said.
  
  "Understood you. Armstrong, "Midnight" is ready to be opened from the side of the station, - said Boomer. He pointed to the multi-function instrument panel display, which showed air pressure in the spaceplane, on the station docking module, and now inside the tunnel connecting them. The pressure in the tunnel showed zero. ... And just at that moment, the pressure inside the tunnel began to slowly rise. It took almost ten minutes for the tunnel to fully pressurize. Everyone was watching for any signs of pressure drop indicating a leak, but it remained steady.
  
  "The pressure is holding, Boomer," Shale reported.
  
  "I agree," Boomer said. "Is everyone ready to level the score?"
  
  "I'm fine, Boomer," Gonzo replied. "Second passenger too."
  
  "Clear to open it, Gonzo."
  
  They felt a slight pressure in their ears as the higher pressure in the spaceplane's cabin equaled the slightly lower pressure in the station, but it was not painful and only lasted a moment. A moment later: "Transit hatches open, second passenger on the way."
  
  "Understood, Gonzo," Boomer said. He began to unfasten himself from his seat. "First I will unfasten your seat belts, sir," he told his passenger, "and then I will enter the airlock while you are unfastening your seat belts, and I will lead you outside and come up." The passenger nodded but said nothing; Boomer noticed the rather distant expression on the face of the first passenger and wondered what he was thinking about so intensely. The hardest part was done - all he had to do now was hover around the big station, look around and be a space tourist until it was time to go home.
  
  But after Boomer unfastened the seat belts on his knees and shoulders and was about to rise from his seat, the passenger held his hand. "I want to do it, Boomer," he said.
  
  "What to do, sir?"
  
  The passenger looked at Boomer, then nodded his head to the right side of the cockpit. "Out. There."
  
  The passenger could see Boomer's eyes flash through his helmet with disbelief, even alarm, but soon a satisfied smile appeared on his face. "Do you really want to do this, sir?" he asked incredulously.
  
  "Boomer, I'm doing some incredibly amazing things today," the passenger said, "but I know I'll be mad at myself if I go back to Earth without doing it. We've had enough oxygen already, haven't we? There is no danger of getting 'bends', is there?"
  
  "Sir, a case of decompression sickness might be the least dangerous aspect of a spacewalk," Boomer said, mentally going over the checklist in his head to see what could ban it. "But to answer your question, yes, we have been pre-breathing pure oxygen for over four hours now, so we should be fine." He clicked open the ship-to-station intercom. "General Raydon? He wants to do it. Right now. From the cockpit and through the station lock, not through the tunnel."
  
  "Get ready, Boomer," another voice replied.
  
  "That's the second guy at the station who seems to be annoyed by talking to you, Boomer," the passenger remarked again with a smile.
  
  "Believe it or not, sir, we talked about it too," Boomer said. "We really wanted you to have the full experience. That's why we put you in a full ACES advanced crew escape system suit instead of the more comfortable partial pressure suit - designed for short spacewalks or extravehicular activities. Are you sure that your home base guys will like what you are going to do?"
  
  "They may not like it at all, Boomer," said the passenger, "but they are down there and I am up here. Let's do that ". As if to signal agreement, a moment later a mechanical arm extended from a hatch on the other side of the docking module, carrying a lift chair-like device and two cables in a mechanical claw.
  
  Boomer flipped a few switches, then checked his passenger's suit fittings and instrument readings before patting him on the shoulder and nodding confidently, approvingly. "I like the shape of your jib, sir," he said. "Go". Boomer flipped a final switch, and with a few loud, heavy clicks and a loud hum of engines, the canopies on either side of the cockpit of the midnight S-19 spaceplane opened wide.
  
  Before the passenger could realize it, Boomer was up from his seat, completely free of the spaceplane with only one thin strap to attach it to something, looking like some kind of ethereal Peter Pan in his skintight spacesuit and oxygen helmet. He grabbed one of the cables on his remote-controlled arm and connected it to his suit. "I'm back on my feet," he said. "Ready to go down." The robotic arm lowered Boomer to the same level as the outside of the cab on the passenger side. "I'm going to disconnect you from the ship, connect you to me and to the elevator, and connect you to this umbilical cord, sir," Boomer said. In the blink of an eye it was done. "All is ready. How do you hear?
  
  "Loud and clear, Boomer," the passenger replied.
  
  "Fine". Boomer helped the passenger up from his seat, which was much easier than getting in because it was now completely open. "We can't stay outside for long because we're not very well protected from micrometeorites, space radiation, extreme temperatures and everything space-related, but it's going to be a fun ride as long as it lasts. Umbilical cords are clean, Armstrong. Ready to rise." The robot arm began to slowly lift them up and away from the spaceplane, and then the passenger found himself floating freely in space above the docking module ...
  
  ... and in a few moments the entire structure of Armstrong's space station was spread out before them, gleaming in the reflected sunlight. They could see the entire length of the structure, see the large laboratory, living, mechanical, and storage modules both above and below the farm, and the endless expanses of solar arrays at either end of the farm that seemed to stretch indefinitely-he could even see people watching on them through the large viewing windows on some modules. "Oh... my... God," breathed the passenger. "This is wonderful!"
  
  "It's true, but it's not nonsense," Boomer said. He grabbed the passenger's suit from behind and pulled it so that it turned down ...
  
  ...and the passenger saw the planet Earth below them for the first time. They could all hear him gasp in utter astonishment. "Good God!" he exclaimed. "It's incredible! It's great! I can see almost the entire continent of South America down there! My God! It looks completely different than through the cockpit windows - now I really feel the height."
  
  "I think he likes it, General Raydon," Boomer said. He allowed the passenger to admire the planet Earth for about a minute more, floating freely in the air; then he said, "We dare not stay here any longer, sir. Get us into it, Armstrong." With the passenger still facing Earth, the robot's arm began to retract back towards the space station, pulling the two men with it. Boomer lifted the passenger to an upright position just before approaching the large hatch. He swam up to the hatch, unlocked and opened it, floated through the opening, strapped himself to the inside of the airlock, attached another strap to the passenger, and guided him carefully inside the station's airlock. Boomer disconnected them both from their umbilical cords, let them out, then closed and battened down the hatch. He connected himself and the passenger to the umbilical cords in the airlock, waiting for the pressure to equalize, but the passenger was completely dumbfounded and didn't say a word, even after the airlock's inner door opened. Technicians helped the passenger remove his suit, and Boomer pointed to the airlock exit.
  
  As soon as the passenger exited the airlock, Kai Raydon, a lean, athletic man with bob cut silver hair, chiseled features, and expressive light blue eyes, drew himself to attention, raised the microphone of the wireless headset to his lips, and spoke, "Attention on Station Armstrong, this is the Director, to inform all personnel, the President of the United States of America, Kenneth Phoenix, is on board the station." Raydon, Station Manager Trevor Scheil, Jessica Faulkner, and several other space station personnel stood at attention as best they could, hooking their toes on the footrests as frills and flourishes sounded over the station's PA system, and then "Long live the chief."
  
  
  TWO
  
  
  The fear of death should be feared more than death itself.
  
  - PUBLILIUS SYRUS
  
  
  
  ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION
  
  
  "So are you, ladies and gentlemen," President Kenneth Phoenix said as the music ended. "I would kiss the deck if I knew which way it was." The assembled station staff laughed, applauded, and cheered for several long moments.
  
  "I'm Kai Raidon, Station Manager, Mr. President," Kai introduced himself, swimming up to the Phoenix and shaking hands. "Welcome to the Armstrong Space Station and congratulations on plucking up the courage to become the first sitting head of state to fly in Earth orbit, and now the first sitting head of state to take a spacewalk. How are you feeling, sir?"
  
  "I'm completely shocked, General Raydon," Phoenix said. "I saw and did what I only dreamed of, thanks to you and your people. Thank you for giving me this incredible opportunity."
  
  "We gave you an opportunity, like every president since Kevin Martindale, but you chose to take it," Kai said. "Many people say that this is all a political stunt, but the courage you have shown today clearly tells me that this is much more than politics." He turned to those around him. "Let me introduce Station Manager Trevor Scheil, Chief of Operations Valerie Lucas and of course you know Jessica Faulkner, our Flight Operations Director." The President shook hands with them, at the same time discovering that it was not easy to do in zero gravity - a simple gesture threatened to throw him to the ceiling.
  
  "Dr. Noble and Colonel Faulkner did an excellent job getting me here, General Raydon," the president said. "An exciting journey. Where is Doctor Noble?
  
  "He needs to do some planning for your return, sir, and he also oversees the refueling and maintenance of the spaceplane," Raydon said. "Boomer is director of aerospace development at Sky Masters Aerospace, which is the prime contractor for the Armstrong space station, and he probably has a job for them too. He is also the company's chief spaceplane pilot and has six apprentices in his training program. He is a busy boy."
  
  "Knowing him, Mr. President, he probably decided to take a nap," Jessica put in with a smile. "He likes to make himself out to be a tough space jock, but he has been planning flights and checking out the spacecraft for this visit for a whole week."
  
  "Well, his work paid off," the president said. "Thank you all for an amazing trip."
  
  "We have about an hour before your broadcast, so we have time for a tour and light snacks if you want."
  
  "A tour would be great, General Raydon," said Phoenix. "But first, I'd like to check on Agent Spellman, my Secret Service agent."
  
  "Trev?" Raydon asked.
  
  "Understood," Shale said, bringing the wireless microphone to his lips. A moment later, "Agent Spellman is awake in medbay, sir," Shale replied. "Unfortunately, he doesn't handle unusual Gs very well. Physically, he was the most qualified member of your group to volunteer to go on this mission with you, Mr. President, but there is no direct correlation between athletic ability and your ability to work with abnormal pressure and kinesthetic sensations on your body. We'll have to consult with the aerospace medical team to figure out the best way to get him back to Earth. I don't believe we've ever carried an unconscious person through reentry before."
  
  "He is a real sign of courage in this mission," Phoenix said. "Volunteering for this was far beyond the call, and that speaks volumes for the Secret Service. Let me visit him first and then go on tour if there is time."
  
  Raydon led us through the connecting tunnel to the first module. "I'm sure Boomer and Jessica have explained the zero gravity movement to you in detail, sir," Raydon said. "You will see some of the more experienced crew members flying around large modules such as Superman, but I have found that for beginners it is best to use one or two fingers to move around using the handrails and footholds, and do so carefully and slowly ".
  
  "I'm sure I'll have some bruises to show off when I get home," Phoenix said.
  
  They emerged from the connecting tunnel into what appeared to be a circular wall of cabinets, with a circular opening in the middle. "It's a data storage and processing module," Raydon explained. "Follow me". He floated softly up the center aisle, resting his hands on the edges of the cabinets, the president and the others following. The president soon found a dozen circular rows of cabinets arranged throughout the module like pineapple slices in a jar, with large man-sized gaps between them. "Supplies are brought in through airlocks at the upper and lower ends, collected or processed as needed, and stored here. The infirmary is in the module above us."
  
  "I'm getting a little dizzy from all the mention of 'up' and 'above'," the president admitted. "I don't feel like either."
  
  "  'Up' and 'down' refer to the direction you want to go," Faulkner said. "You can have two crew members side by side, but one will be pointing one way and the other pointing the other way, so it's all relative. We use every surface of the modules to work with, so you will see astronauts 'hang' from the ceilings while others work on the 'floor', although 'ceiling' and 'floor' are, of course, relative terms."
  
  "You're not helping my dizziness, Gonzo."
  
  "Let us know if your dizziness starts showing up physically, sir," Jessica said. "Unfortunately, this is something that takes time to get used to, and you won't be here for that long. As we have already said, it is not unusual to start experiencing some nausea shortly after moving in zero gravity."
  
  "I'm fine, Jessica," the president said, but this time he wondered how long it would last.
  
  En route to the Galaxy, which combines a galley, training module, office, clinic and entertainment module, the president stopped several times to shake hands with station personnel, and stopping and restarting greatly improved his maneuvering skills. Although Raydon announced that the President was on board, most of the technicians he met seemed completely shocked to see him. "Why do some of the men and women aboard the station seem surprised to see me, General?" Phoenix finally asked.
  
  "Because I have decided not to inform the crew until I do, once you pass through the airlock, sir," Raydon replied. "Only me, Trevor, the Secret Service, a few officials at Sky Masters Aerospace, and the midnight spaceplane crew and ground crew knew. I felt that safety was paramount for this event and it was too easy for station personnel to contact Earth. I expect the number of messages to family and friends will increase soon, but by the time this is known, you will be on TV all over the world."
  
  "And the timing of your speech was chosen in such a way that when you went on the air, you were not in range of any known Russian or Chinese anti-satellite weapons for several orbits," said Trevor Sheil.
  
  The president's eyes widened in surprise - this revelation definitely caught his attention. "An anti-satellite weapon?" he asked, startled.
  
  "We are aware of at least half a dozen sites in northwestern and eastern Russia and three sites in China, sir," Raydon said. "This station has self-defense weapons - chemical lasers and short-range missiles - but the Kingfisher anti-missile and anti-satellite systems in low Earth orbit are not yet fully functional, so the spaceplane was not protected, and we did not want to risk it."
  
  "Why didn"t they tell me about this!" the President exclaimed.
  
  "That was my call, sir," Raydon said. "Honestly, in my opinion, the ASAT threat is way down the list of life-threatening dangers you face on this mission - I didn"t want to give you any more to think about." The Buchou tried to say something, but his mouth only opened silently. "By the time you leave, you will only be within range of one object," Raydon continued, "and Boomer is planning the deorbit trajectory of the spaceplane to avoid most of the others. You will be as protected from anti-satellite weapons as we can protect you."
  
  "You mean, did you plan this trip on the assumption that some foreign government would actually try to attack a spaceplane or space station while I was on board?" The silence of Trevor and Raydon and the expressions on their faces prompted Phoenix to answer. The President could do nothing but shake his head for a few moments, staring at a point on the bulkhead, but then he looked at Raydon with a wry smile. "Are there any other threats that I haven't been told about, General Raydon?" he asked.
  
  "Yes, sir, the list is longer than my arm," Raydon said bluntly. "But I was notified that the President of the United States wanted to visit the Armstrong space station, and I was ordered to do so, and we succeeded. If my orders were to try to keep you from coming here, I think I could provide a very long list of very real threats to your family, your administration and members of Congress, which would result in the cancellation of this mission as well." He pointed to the end of the connecting tunnel. "Here, Mr. President."
  
  Unlike the storage and processing module and the tiny spaceplane cockpit and passenger module, the Galaxy module was light, warm and airy. Along the walls of the module were a variety of pub-style desks and nightstands with the ubiquitous footstools, an array of computer monitors and laptops, exercise bikes, and even a darts board. But most of the station's personnel huddled around the three-foot-by-five-foot panoramic window, taking pictures and pointing at Earth. A large computer monitor showed which part of the Earth the space station was flying over, and another screen showed a list of names who had reserved a window seat to film their hometown or some other earthly landmark.
  
  "Highly trained astronauts who had to go out of their way to get up here - and their main form of entertainment is to look out the window?" the president remarked.
  
  "That, and sending emails and video chatting with the guys at home," Raydon said. "We have many video chat sessions with schools, colleges, academies, scouts, ROTs and civil air patrol units, as well as with the media, family and friends."
  
  "It must be a very good recruiting tool."
  
  "Yes, it is, both for the military and for getting kids to study science and engineering," Raydon agreed.
  
  "So in a way, my coming here may have been a bad idea," the president said. "If kids learn that any healthy person can fly to a space station - that they don"t need to study hard sciences - maybe these kids will just become space tourists."
  
  "There is nothing wrong with space tourism, Mr. President," Sheil said. "But we hope that children will want to develop and use newer and more advanced ways to go into space and, perhaps, fly it to the Moon or the planets of our solar system. We don't know what will fire up the youthful imagination."
  
  "Don't worry, Mr. President," Raydon said. "I think your being here will have a very deep impact on people around the world for a very long time."
  
  "Certainly; kids will say, 'If that old fart can do it, then I can do it', huh, general?" the president is unimpressed.
  
  "Whatever the cost, Mr. President," said Valerie Lucas. "Whatever it takes."
  
  The President was surprised to find Agent Charles Spellman in a strange linen cocoon that looked like a sleeping bag, velcroed vertically to the bulkhead - it looked like some kind of large insect or marsupial hanging from a tree. "Mr. President, welcome," said a very attractive dark-haired, dark-eyed woman in a white jumpsuit, skillfully swimming towards him and holding out her hand. "I am Dr. Miriam Roth, Medical Director. Welcome to the Armstrong Space Station."
  
  The President shook her hand, pleased that he was steadily improving his body control in weightlessness. "Very nice to meet you, Doctor," Phoenix said. He asked the Secret Service agent, "How are you feeling, Charlie?"
  
  "Mr. President, I'm so sorry about this," Spellman said, his deep monotonous voice not hiding the depth of his chagrin. His face was very swollen, as if he had been in a street fight, and the faintest smell of vomit nearby was unmistakable. "I've never had seasickness, motion sickness in the air or in a car in my life - I haven't even had a stuffy nose for years. But as that pressure hit me, I got dizzy, and before I knew it, the lights went out. It won't happen again, sir."
  
  "Don't worry about it, Charlie - I've been told that when it comes to motion sickness, there are those who have and those who will," the president said. Turning to Roth, he asked, "The question is, can he get back to Earth without getting another episode?"
  
  "I think he will, Mr. President," Miriam said. "He is certainly healthy, easily comparable to anyone at this station. I gave him a small shot of Phenergan, a long-used standard anti-nausea drug, and I want to see how he handles it. In fifteen minutes or so, I will let him out of the cocoon and try to move around the station." She gave Spellman a teasing frown. "I think Agent Spellman didn't take the medication I prescribed before takeoff, as he was advised."
  
  "I don't like shots," Spellman said hoarsely. "Besides, I can"t take medication while on duty and I never get sick."
  
  "You've never been in space before, Agent Spellman," Miriam said.
  
  "I'm ready to go out right now, doc. The nausea has gone. I am ready to return to my duties, Mr. President."
  
  "Better do what the doctor says, Charlie," the president said. "We have a return flight in just a few hours and I want you to do it one hundred percent." Spellman looked extremely disappointed, but he nodded without saying anything.
  
  They went through another connecting tunnel, this time a longer one, and entered the third module, which was lined with computer consoles and high-definition widescreen monitors. "This is the command module, Mr. President, the top central module on the station," Raydon said. He swam up to a large row of consoles at which six technicians were working. Technicians hovered in front of their consoles in a standing position, their legs locked in place with footholds; checklists, notepads, and drink containers with protruding straws were securely velcroed nearby. "This is a sensor fusion center. From here, we collect sensory data from thousands of civil and military radars, satellites, ships, aircraft and ground vehicles and combine them into a strategic and tactical picture of the world's military threat. The Armstrong space station is equipped with its own radar, optical and infrared sensors, with which we can bring targets both in space and on Earth within range, but mainly we connect to other sensors around the world to create an overall picture " .
  
  He floated through the module to four small unmanned consoles behind two sets of three consoles and computer screens, also unmanned. "This is a tactical operations center where we use space-based weapons," Raydon continued. He put his hand on the technician's shoulder, and the man turned and smiled broadly at the president. "Mr. President, I would like to introduce you to Henry Lathrop, our Aerospace Weapons Officer." The two men shook hands, while Lathrop grinned from ear to ear. Lathrop was in his late thirties, short, very thin, wore thick glasses, and sported a shaved head. "Henry, explain what you're doing here."
  
  Lathrop's mouth dropped open, as if he didn't expect to say anything to the president-which he didn't-but just as Raydon was about to get worried, the young engineer pulled himself together, "Y-yes, sir. Welcome to the station, Mr. President. I am an aerospace weapons officer. I operate the station's weapons, designed to operate in space and in the Earth's atmosphere. We have some kinetic weapons available, but the Skybolt laser is not active by presidential order, so my only weapon is a coil, or a chlorine-oxygen-iodine laser."
  
  "What can you do about it?" the President asked.
  
  Lathrop swallowed, panic in his eyes now that he had to answer a direct question from the President of the United States. But he was in his element and recovered faster than before: "We can protect ourselves from space debris at a distance of about fifty miles," Lathrop said. "We also use it to break up larger debris-the smaller the debris, the less of a threat it poses to other spacecraft."
  
  "And you can use the laser to protect the station from other spaceships?"
  
  "Yes, sir," said Lathrop. "We have radar and infrared sensors that can see incoming spacecraft or debris from about five hundred miles away, and we can connect to other military or civilian space sensors." He pointed to the computer monitor. "The system is now in automatic mode, which means that the COIL will automatically trigger if the sensors detect a threat that matches certain parameters. We of course set it to manual control when you arrived."
  
  "Thank you for that, Mr. Lathrop," the President said. "So the laser can protect the station and smash space debris, but is that it? Didn"t you once have the ability to attack targets on Earth?"
  
  "Yes sir, we did it," Lathrop said. "The Skybolt laser was powerful enough to destroy light targets such as vehicles and aircraft and disable or damage heavier targets such as ships. The Kingfisher weapons workshops stored guided kinetic charges that could hit spaceships or ballistic missiles, as well as precision-guided projectiles that could re-enter the Earth's atmosphere to hit targets on land or at sea."
  
  "Do we still have those Kingfisher garages? I know that President Gardner didn't approve of them - he used them more like a bargaining chip with the Russians and the Chinese."
  
  "President Gardner allowed seven garages to re-enter the Earth's atmosphere and burn up," Lathrop said. "Another thirteen garages have been removed and stored at the station farm. Ten garages are still in orbit but inactive. They are periodically retrieved, refueled, serviced, and put back into orbit by spaceplanes so we can study their long-term performance and make design changes, but they are not currently active."
  
  "Is the coil laser different from VP Page's laser?" Phoenix asked.
  
  "Yes, sir, it is. We are prohibited from using any weapon with a range of more than sixty miles, and the Skybolt, a free electron laser, can hit targets in the Earth's atmosphere and on the surface at a distance of about five hundred miles, so it is currently inactive."
  
  "Inactivated?"
  
  "Not active, but can be activated if needed," Raydon said.
  
  "In a fairly short amount of time?" the president asked.
  
  "Henry?" Kai asked.
  
  "We would need some experience from Sky Masters or other contractors," Lathrop said, "and a few days to get the MHD reactor up and running."
  
  "And an order from you, sir," Raydon added. "The disagreement over Skybolt almost cost us the entire military space program."
  
  "I remember very well," Phoenix said. "I'm looking to fix it. Please continue, Mr. Lathrop."
  
  "The coil uses a mixture of chemicals to produce laser light, which is then amplified and focused," Lathrop continued. "We use a different optic than the Skybolt Free Electron Laser to focus and guide the laser beam, but the process is very similar. We use radar and infrared sensors to constantly scan around the station looking for objects that could pose a threat - we can detect objects the size of a golf ball and hit them. The normal maximum range of the coil is three hundred miles, but we have changed the laser setting to remove some of the reflectors that increase the power of the laser, so we are at the limit. "
  
  "Can you show me how the sensors work?" the president asked. "Perhaps to conduct a simulated attack on a target on Earth?"
  
  Lathrop looked panicked again, and he turned to Raydon, who nodded. "Show the president how it's done, Henry," he said.
  
  "Yes, sir," said Lathrop, his face quickly showing arousal. His fingers fluttered across the keyboard on the console. "From time to time we conduct exercises to attack a number of targets, which are constantly monitored and have priority." The largest computer monitor came to life. It showed a large area of the Earth with the trajectory and position of the space station approaching the North Pole from eastern Siberia. There was a series of circles around several points in Russia.
  
  "What are those circles, Mr. Lathrop?" the President asked.
  
  "We call them Delta Bravos, or duck blinds," Lathrop replied. "Location of known anti-satellite weapons. The circles are the approximate range of the weapons there."
  
  "We're getting awfully close to this, aren't we?"
  
  "In a day, we fly over many of them, located in Russia, China and several countries adjacent to them," Lathrop said. "This is, in particular, the Yelizovo airport, the MiG-31D fighter base, which, as we know, is equipped with anti-satellite weapons that they can launch from the air. They regularly make patrols from there and even practice assault runs."
  
  "They make?" the president asked incredulously. "How do you know if this is a real attack or not?"
  
  "We're scanning the missile," Kai explained. "We see a missile and we have less than two minutes to launch defensive weapons or hit it with lasers. We scan them and analyze any signals they transmit, and we can study them with radar and optoelectronics to see if they are preparing to do something. They almost always track us with long-range radar, but from time to time they will hit us with target tracking and missile guidance radar."
  
  "Why?"
  
  "Try to scare us, try to get us to hit them with a Skybolt or an Earth assault weapon so they can prove how evil we are," Trevor said. "It's all Cold War cat and mouse nonsense. We usually ignore it."
  
  "However, it keeps us on our toes," Valerie added. "Command, this combat mock target, designated Golf Seven, will be in range in three minutes."
  
  "Prepare for a simulated encounter with a Skybolt," Raydon said. "Attention station, simulated target engagement in three minutes. Command module operations. on duty, report to the damage control station, put on space suits, and begin pre-breathing. Simulate midnight undocking."
  
  "What does that mean, general?" the President asked.
  
  "Off duty personnel have damage control responsibilities," Kai said. "Up here, that could mean spacewalking to recover equipment or... personnel lost in space. Pre-breathing pure oxygen for as long as possible allows them to put on their ACES suit and perform their rescue duties, even if it means spacewalks. They may need to perform many repairs and restoration operations in outer space. For the same reason, we also undock any spaceships we have on the station to use as lifeboats in case of problems - we would use lifeboat spheres and wait for rescue in a spaceplane or commercial vehicle. The President swallowed hard at these gloomy thoughts.
  
  "Command, this is Operations, requesting permission to simulate MHD spinning up," Valerie Lucas said from her position on the bulkhead, watching the simulated collision.
  
  "Permission received, simulate MHD launch, make all preparations to hit the simulated ground target." The President noted that it was like rehearsing a board play: everyone was reciting their parts, but no one actually moved or did anything.
  
  "Understood you. Engineering department, this is operations department, simulate MHD launch, report activation and fifty percent power level."
  
  "Operations, Engineering Department, you got it, imitation of the spin-up of the MHD," reported Engineer Officer Alice Hamilton. A few moments later: "Operations, engineering, MHD simulated active, power level at twelve percent and rising."
  
  "Command is an operation, MHD is simulated online."
  
  "Team accepted. Boy, what is our conditional target?"
  
  "Golf Seven's simulated ground target is a deactivated radar on the DEW line in western Greenland," Lathrop said. "Primary sensor data will come from the SBR. Get ready for a secondary sensory source." His fingers fluttered over the keyboard again. "The simulated secondary sensor source will be USA-234, a radar imagery satellite, which will be above the Golf Seven horizon in sixty seconds and will be within range of the target for three point two tenths of a minute."
  
  "What does all this mean, General?" President Phoenix asked.
  
  "We can fire the Skybolt quite accurately with our own sensors," Kai explained. "SBR, or spaceborne radar, is our primary sensor. The station is equipped with two X-band synthetic aperture radars for Earth imaging. We can scan large areas of the Earth in 'stripmap' mode or use 'spotlight' mode to aim at a target and get accurate images and measurements with a resolution of up to several inches.
  
  "But because we're filming from such a long distance, traveling hundreds of miles per minute, for even greater accuracy, we can connect to any other sensors that happen to be in the area at the same time," Kai continued. "USA-234 is a US Air Force radar imagery satellite that takes radar images and transmits them to the National Reconnaissance Office in Washington. We are lucky enough to be an image user, so we can request that the satellite focus on that specific target. We can combine satellite imagery with our own to get a more accurate view of the target."
  
  Lathrop typed in a few more commands, and on the large monitor to the left of the main monitor appeared a picture of a simulated target, a distant radar station with a large radome in the center, several communication systems pointing in different directions, and several long, low buildings surrounding the radome. "This is what it looks like in a recent photo from above," he said. A few moments later, the photo disappeared and was replaced by another image, this one showing a dot surrounded by an H-shaped rectangle against a predominantly black background. "This is a radar image from a reconnaissance satellite. The background is black because the snow does not reflect the radar energy very well, but the buildings are visible well."
  
  "Operations, engineering, MHD at the simulated fifty percent," Alice reported.
  
  "Understood, engineer," Valerie said. "Combat, this is an operation, we are at fifty percent, simulating the open contours of the Skybolt"s defeat, weapons at the ready, prepare for battle."
  
  "Understood, Operation, simulating opening of the Skybolt activation circuits, weapon at the ready."
  
  A few more moments later, the image changed again, and it looked very much like the photograph they had seen, with the occasional cloud floating across the image. Lathrop used a trackball to precisely center the image on the screen. "And that's thanks to the station's telescopic electro-optical sensors added to the radar image," he said. "Operation, this is combat, positive identification of the dummy target 'Golf Seven', tracking established, we are locked and ready."
  
  "Understood, boy," said Valerie. "Command, operations, we are focused on. MHD status?"
  
  "MHD one hundred percent in ten seconds."
  
  "Understood," Valerie confirmed. "Requesting permission to simulate the transfer of the Skybolt into combat position and engage in combat."
  
  "This is Command," Raydon said. "You can put the control of the Skybolt into combat mode and simulate hitting the target. Station attention, this is the director, we are simulating a ground target hit with the Skybolt."
  
  "Understood, command, the Operations Department confirms that we are authorized to simulate the defeat of the target. Combat, operations, "Skybolt" is allowed to simulate the entry into battle, the weapon imitates the one fired."
  
  "Understood, operatives, imitation weapons have been released." Lathrop pressed one key on his keyboard, then looked up. "That's it, Mr. President," he said. "The system will wait for the optimal time to fire, and then continue to fire until it detects that the target has been destroyed, or until we drop below the target's horizon. In fact, in addition to the main laser, two lasers are involved: the first one measures the atmosphere and corrects the mirror to correct for atmospheric conditions that could degrade the quality of the laser beam; and the second tracks the target as the station flies by and helps to focus and accurately aim the main beam. "
  
  "Thank you, Henry," Kai said. Lathrop looked overjoyed as he returned to his console after a nervous shake of the president's hand. "As you can see, Mr. President, there is only one tactical crew station manned because our Kingfisher gun shops have not been restored. But if that were the case, sensory synthesis operators detect, analyze, and categorize any threats they see, and these threats are displayed on these four monitors that I use; Valerie, my chief of operations; an aerospace tactical weapons officer and a ground weapons officer. We can then respond with our own space-based weapons, or direct land, sea or air-based responses."
  
  "What are these Kingfisher gun shops?" the president asked. "I remember President Gardner didn't like them."
  
  "The Kingfisher weapon system is a series of spacecraft we call "garages" in low Earth orbit," Kai said. "The garages are operated from here, and they can also be operated from the US Space Command headquarters on Earth. The garages are equipped with their own sensors, engines and control systems, and can be programmed to dock with a station for refueling and re-arming. Each garage has three anti-satellite or anti-missile guns and three precision ground attack guns."
  
  "I remember that Gardner really hated these things," the president remarked. "When that attack missed and destroyed the factory, I thought he was going to kill someone."
  
  "Well, President Gardner didn't cancel the program, he just covered it with mothballs," Kai said. "The full constellation of Kingfisher has thirty-six Trinity garages in orbit, so at any given moment there are at least three garages overhead in every part of the Earth, similar to a GPS navigation system. All this is controlled directly from here or from the headquarters of the US Strategic Command."
  
  "General Rydon, this is the part of the Space Defense Force that I never understood: why does all this revolve around the Earth?" President Phoenix asked. "This is very similar to the command centers that already exist on Earth, and in fact it looks identical to the airborne radar warning and control system of the aircraft. Why put the same thing in space?"
  
  "Because we're much safer here in space, which makes it the perfect place for any command center, sir," Raydon replied.
  
  "Even with a list of dangers as long as your arm, as you put it, General?"
  
  "Yes, sir, even with all the dangers of space travel," Raydon said. "The enemy is less likely to completely blind the United States with an orbital command center. The enemy can destroy a base, a ship or an AWACS radar aircraft and we lose that sensor, but we can get sensor data from anywhere or use our own sensors and quickly fill the gap. Also, since we are orbiting the Earth, we are less likely to be attacked successfully. Our orbit is known, of course, which makes it easier to search, track and target, but, at least in the short term, attacking this station is much more difficult than attacking a ground, ship or air command center. The bad guys know where we are and where we will be, but at the same time we know exactly when their known anti-satellite bases will become a possible threat in case of an attack. We constantly monitor these well-known sites. We are also checking for unknown attack bases and getting ready to respond to them."
  
  "I think, in a broader sense, sir," said Trevor Scheil, "that staffing the station and making it into a functioning military command post, and not just a set of sensors or laboratories, is important for America's future presence in space."
  
  "How is it, Mr. Shale?"
  
  "I'm comparing it to the westward expansion of the United States, sir," Trevor explained. "At first, small groups of explorers set off and discovered the plains, the Rocky Mountains, the deserts and the Pacific Ocean. Several settlers ventured to follow them, drawn by the promise of land and resources. But it was only after the US Army was sent in and established camps, outposts, and forts that settlements, and eventually villages and towns, could be built, and the real expansion of the nation began.
  
  "Well, the Armstrong space station is not just an outpost in Earth orbit, but a real military installation," Shale continued. "We are much more than computers and consoles - we have twelve men and women on board who monitor and can control military operations around the world. I think it will encourage more adventurers, scientists and explorers to go into space, just like the presence of the US Army fort was a great comfort to the settlers."
  
  "Space is much bigger than the Midwest, Mr. Shale."
  
  "For us in the twenty-first century, yes sir," Trevor said. "But to an eighteenth-century explorer who first saw the Great Plains or the Rocky Mountains, I'm willing to bet he felt like he was standing at the very edge of the universe."
  
  The President thought for a moment, then smiled and nodded. "Then I think it's time to take it to the next level," he said. "I would like to speak to my wife and Vice President Page, and then get ready for my speech."
  
  "Yes, sir," Raydon said. "We'll put you in the director's chair." The President moved carefully to Raydon's console and wedged his feet into the stirrups underneath, standing in front of the console but feeling as if he was floating on his back in the ocean. The large monitor in front of him came to life and he saw a tiny white light under a small lens at the top of the monitor and he knew he was online.
  
  "You finally stopped looking around and decided to give us a call, huh, Mr. President?" Vice President Ann Page asked, her face visible in the built-in window on the monitor. She was in her sixties, lean and vigorous, with long hair that had been shamelessly allowed to remain naturally gray, pulled back into a bun at her collar. Until recently, with all the cuts in the US budget, Ann has taken on a host of tasks in the White House along with her duties as vice president: chief of staff, press secretary, national security adviser and chief political adviser; she eventually delegated most of these additional responsibilities to others, but continued to be Ken Phoenix's closest political adviser and confidant, as well as White House chief of staff. "I started to get a little worried."
  
  "Ann, this is an absolutely incredible experience," said Ken Phoenix. "This is everything I imagined and much more."
  
  "Let it be known that I had one Supreme Court judge who was around 24/7 to take the oath in case one of the thousands of things that could have gone wrong really did go wrong," Anne said. . "I will continue to insist on this long after you return."
  
  "A very wise decision," the president said. "But I'm fine, the flight was incredible, and if I'm doomed to turn into a meteorite on my return, at least I know the nation will be in safe hands."
  
  "Thank you, sir."
  
  "It was amazing, Ann," the president continued. "Dr. Noble, let me dock the spaceplane."
  
  The Vice President blinked in surprise. "You did? Lucky. I have never done this, and I have flown space planes several times! How it was?"
  
  "Like most things in space: just think of something and it will happen. It's hard to believe that we were flying at five miles per second, but we were talking about the spaceplane moving only a few inches per second. I didn't really have a sense of height or speed until we went into outer space and I saw the Earth under...
  
  "What?" I asked. Ann exclaimed, her eyes bulging in shock. "You did what?"
  
  "Anne, you were the one who first told me about how you got to the station from the first spaceplanes," the president said. "Dr. Noble mentioned it again to me when we disembarked, and I decided to go for it. It only lasted a couple of minutes."
  
  The vice president's mouth dropped open in surprise, and she had to physically shake herself out of her stunned silence. "I... I don't believe it," she finally said. "Are you going to report this to the press? They will roll over...even more than they are already about to roll over."
  
  "Probably the same reaction when a sitting president made the first trip on an ocean liner, or the first trip in a locomotive, or a car, or an airplane," the president said. "We've been flying in space for decades - why is it so hard to imagine the President of the United States traveling in space or doing spacewalks?"
  
  Vice President Paige momentarily returned to her almost catatonic state of complete disbelief, but shook her head in resignation. "Well, I'm glad you're all right, sir," Ann said. "I'm glad you're enjoying the trip, and the view, and," she swallowed again in disbelief before continuing, "...spacewalk, sir, because I think we're in for a real storm of shit when you get back. ". The president openly encouraged Ann to speak her mind both publicly and privately, and she took every opportunity to do just that. "The cat has already been discovered - the people from the station must have already called home to let others know that you have arrived, and the rumors are spreading like wildfire. I'm sure the presser is going to be really amazing." Like all astronauts, Ann referred to Armstrong's space station as "the station." "I hope you're ready for this."
  
  "I, Ann," said the President.
  
  "How do you feel?"
  
  "Very good".
  
  "No dizziness?"
  
  "Just a little bit," the president admitted. "When I was a kid, I had a mild case of anoblephobia - the fear of looking up - and that"s pretty much what it sounds like, but it goes away quickly."
  
  "Nausea? Nausea?"
  
  "No," the president said. Ann looked surprised and she nodded admiringly. "I feel like my sinuses are clogged, but that's about it. I think it's because liquids don't flow down like they normally do." Ann nodded-she and Phoenix's wife, a doctor, had spoken at length about some of the physiological conditions he might encounter even during a short stay on the station. She avoided talking about some of the psychological issues that some of the astronauts faced. "It's annoying, but not bad. I feel myself good. I can't say the same about Charlie Spellman."
  
  "Your secret service agent who volunteered to go upstairs with you? Where is he?"
  
  "Infirmary".
  
  "Oh God," Ann muttered, shaking her head. "Wait, the press will know you're there without your data."
  
  "He looks better. I think he'll be fine for the return flight. Besides, I don't think any assassins will get in here."
  
  "True enough," Ann said. "Good luck with the press conference. We will be watching."
  
  The President was then paired with his wife Alexa. "My God, it's good to see you, Ken," she said. Alexa Phoenix was ten years younger than her husband, a pediatrician who left his private practice when President Joseph Gardner unexpectedly chose her husband as his running mate. Her olive complexion, dark hair, and dark eyes made her look like a Southern European, but she was a South Florida surfer to the core. "I got a call from Sky Masters Aerospace and was told that you had arrived at the station. How are you? How do you feel?"
  
  "Okay, dear," the President replied. "A little stuffy, but nothing terrible."
  
  "I can see a slight swelling of the face - you are already starting to get the face of the space moon," Alexa said, framing her face with her hands arranged in a circle.
  
  "Is it noticeable already?" the President asked.
  
  "I'm kidding," his wife said. "You look beautiful. Either way, it's a badge of honor. Will you be all right after the pinch?"
  
  "I feel good," the president said. "Wish me luck".
  
  "I've wished you luck every hour of every day since I agreed to this crazy little trip of yours," Alexa said with a slight hint of annoyance in her voice. "But I think you will do just fine. Slay them on the spot."
  
  "Yes ma'am. See you in Andrews. Love you".
  
  "I will be there. Love you". And the connection was interrupted.
  
  About fifteen minutes later, with Kai Raydon, Jessica Faulkner, and Trevor Scheil standing by his side, the world was able to see the most amazing sight most of them have ever seen: an image of the President of the United States in space. "Good morning my dear Americans, ladies and gentlemen who are watching this broadcast around the world. I'm broadcasting this press conference from the Armstrong space station, orbiting 200 miles above Earth."
  
  A small window on the monitor showed the press room of the White House ... and this place turned into a real bedlam. Several reporters jumped to their feet in absolute astonishment, dropping tablets and cameras; several women and even a few men gasped in horror, holding their heads in disbelief or biting the knuckles in their mouths to muffle their screams. Finally, one of the staff members addressed the reporters and motioned for them to return to their seats so that the president could continue.
  
  "I flew here just a few minutes ago aboard the Midnight Spaceplane, a spacecraft much smaller than the Space Shuttle, but capable of taking off and landing like an airplane, and then launching itself into orbit and docking with Armstrong or the International Space Station." the president continued. "Needless to say it was an amazing trip. It has been said that the planet Earth is nothing more than a spaceship itself, with all the resources it has always had and will ever have that God has already loaded on board, and the view of our planet from space against the backdrop of billions of stars is indeed makes you realize how important our commitment to protecting our spacecraft called Earth really is.
  
  "I am grateful to the staff aboard the Armstrong and the folks at Sky Masters Aerospace for making my trip a successful, safe and awe inspiring," the President said. "With me is the station director, retired Air Force General and space veteran Kai Raydon; station manager and shuttle mission veteran Trevor Shale; and Chief of Flight Operations and co-pilot aboard the spaceplane, retired Marine Colonel Jessica Faulkner. The spaceplane pilot, Dr. Hunter Noble, is busy planning our return, but I thank him for giving me a unique and wonderful view, as well as many opportunities to experience the difficulties of flying and working in space. Nowhere in the world will you find a more professional and dedicated group of men and women than those who serve this establishment. It has been almost thirty years since this station became operational, but although it is beginning to look its age and needs some modernization, it is still in orbit, still functioning, still contributing to the defense of our country and still takes care of his crew.
  
  "I must admit that my staff and I have deliberately misled the White House press corps over the past few days: I really wanted to hold a press conference, but I did not say where it would be," the president said with a slight smile. "I know there were rumors that I was going to covertly travel to Guam to meet with residents and military personnel and inspect the maintenance work being done at Andersen Air Force Base after the attack by the People's Republic of China last year. But I had the opportunity to make this wonderful journey, and after consulting with my wife, Alexa, and my children, and with Vice President Paige, who, as you know, is an experienced astronaut herself, with my staff and cabinet, the leaders of Congress and my doctors, I decided to take the risk and do it. I'm returning to Washington in just a few hours aboard the Midnight. I thank those I consulted for their advice and prayers and for keeping my trip a secret.
  
  "The purpose of this trip is simple: I want America to go back into space," the president continued. "Our work on the International Space Station and Armstrong has been outstanding over the years, but I want to expand on it. Mr. Scheil compared outposts in space to forts built on the American frontier to help settlers moving west, and I think that's a great comparison. America's future is in space, just as military expansion westward across North America was the key to America's future in the eighteenth century, and I want that future to begin right now. I'm here talking to you from space to prove that the average person with a little guts and a heart, a fairly taut waist and good genetics, can go into space.
  
  "Space Station Armstrong is a military outpost and it needs to be replaced, but I want our return to space to be much more than just military - I want our return to include more scientific research and industrialization as well," President Phoenix continued. "I have been briefed and familiarized with the plans to create amazing systems and industries constantly operating in Earth orbit and beyond, and I call on Congress and the federal government to support and help private industry implement and promote these incredible innovations.
  
  "For example, as you may know, space debris is a big problem for satellites, spacecraft, and astronauts - hitting even a tiny particle moving at over seventeen thousand miles per hour can disable a ship or kill an astronaut. I have seen the patented plans of American companies to go into the debris fields and use robots to extract large fragments that cause damage. I have even seen the plans for a space debris disposal program: decommissioned or failed satellites and jettisoned boosters can be retrieved, unused fuel removed, solar panels and electronics restored and repaired, and batteries recharged and reused. They even talk about having a space facility in orbit that can repair spaceships and get them back into service-it doesn't take time, energy, manpower, and dollars to get a satellite back to Earth when the space station has a crew ready to do the job. work.
  
  "These are just two of the many projects I have seen, and I have to tell you: after the briefings, and especially after I flew here and made a space trip, I feel like I am standing on the starting line for a great march to the west, reins the government is in my hands, and my family, friends and neighbors are close to me, ready to start a new life and aspire to the future. I know there will be danger, failure, disappointment, loss, injury and death. This will cost a lot of money, both private and public, and I'm going to cancel, postpone, or scale down a lot of other programs to make available resources for systems that I feel will take us far into the twenty-second century. But after I've come here, seen what's being done, and learned what can be done, I know it's extremely important - no, it's vital - that we start immediately.
  
  "So, my flight back to Washington leaves in a couple of hours. I want to check on Special Agent Spellman, see how he's doing, have lunch with the dedicated staff aboard this facility, explore the area some more so I can work on my zero-gravity free-fall propulsion technique, and then return to Earth, but I would be happy to answer a few questions from the White House Press Office in the Press Briefing Room at the White House in Washington." He looked at the monitor in front of him, at the drooping jaws, the bewildered expressions of the reporters, and had to suppress a smile. "Geoffrey Connors from ABC, why don't you start with us?" The reporter rose unsteadily to his feet. He looked over his notes and realized that he hadn't written anything else, except for the questions he expected Guam to ask. "Jeff?"
  
  "Uh...Mr...Mr President...how...how are you feeling?" the reporter finally muttered, "Any...any adverse effects of launch and weightlessness?"
  
  "I have been asked this question about a hundred times in the last couple of hours," the president replied. "From time to time I get a little dizzy, as if I was in a tall building, looked out the window and suddenly felt like I was falling, but this quickly passes. I feel myself good. I think other newcomers to free fall - weightlessness - don't do as well. My Secret Service squad, Special Agent Spellman, is in the infirmary."
  
  "I beg your pardon, sir?" Connors asked. The shocked, bewildered expressions of the other correspondents instantly vanished as they smelled fresh blood in the water. "There, upstairs, with you is a secret service agent"?
  
  "Yes," the president confirmed. "Of course it is necessary, and the Earth's orbit is no different. Special Agent Charles Spellman volunteered to accompany me on this trip. It was far, far above the call of duty."
  
  "But is he unwell?"
  
  "If you will, Mr. President?" Kai Raydon intervened. The President nodded and pointed to the camera. "I am Retired Brigadier General Kai Raidon, formerly of the US Space Defense Force, and currently a member of Sky Masters Aerospace and Station Director. The stresses of space flight affect people in different ways. Some people, like the president, are very good at handling g-forces and weightlessness; others are not. Special Agent Spellman is in excellent physical condition, on par with anyone who has ever traveled before Armstrong, but his body has temporarily become unbearable to the forces and sensations that he experienced. As the president said, he is recovering very well."
  
  "Will he be able to handle the stress of returning to Earth?" another reporter asked.
  
  "I should have referred to our medical director, Dr. Miriam Roth," Kai said, "but Special Agent Spellman looks good to me. I think he will be all right when he returns after a little rest and medication for his illness."
  
  "Will he be given medication?" - retorted another correspondent. "How is he going to carry out his duties if he is drugged?"
  
  "This is the standard drug used by nearly all station personnel experiencing symptoms of space sickness," Kai said. It was clear that he was not comfortable being the target of all these quick-fire, more accusatory questions. "Persons taking Fenergan can continue to perform all of their normal duties for a very short time."
  
  Correspondents were now tapping their clipboards or scribbling rapidly in their notepads. President Phoenix could see the growing annoyance on Kai's face and quickly intervened. "Thank you, General Raydon. How about Margaret Hastings from NBC?" the President asked.
  
  The well-known and longtime White House chief correspondent rose to her feet, her eyes narrowed so that millions of American television viewers recognized her as a veteran reporter ready to sink her claws into her. "Mr. President, I have to say, I'm still in a state of absolute shock," she said in a distinctive Boston accent that she never lost despite her years in New York and Washington. "I simply cannot understand the unusually high level of risk to the nation that you have been exposed to by going to the space station. I'm just completely at a loss, I have no words."
  
  "Miss Hastings, life is full of risks," the president said. "As I mentioned to Vice President Page, I'm sure a lot of people felt that a sitting president shouldn't have taken a boat, locomotive, car, or plane for the first time-that it was simply too risky, and the technology is so new that it wasn't worth the risk. the president's life in unnecessary danger. But now it has all become routine. Theodore Roosevelt was the first president to fly an airplane, and that was less than ten years after Kitty Hawk. Americans have been flying in space for almost sixty years."
  
  "But this is completely different, Mr. President!" exclaimed Hastings. "Space is infinitely more dangerous than flying in an airplane...!"
  
  "You can say it now, Miss Hastings, in the second decade of the twenty-first century, when airplanes have been around for over a hundred years," the President interjected. "But at the beginning of the twentieth century, I am sure, many realized that flying is infinitely more dangerous than riding in a carriage or on horseback, and, of course, too dangerous to risk the life of a president when he could just as easily get into a carriage, train or a ship. But I know that space travel has advanced to the point that we need to use it to help our country and humanity grow, and the way I have chosen to do this is to go on this journey."
  
  "But that's not your job, Mr. President," Hastings said indignantly, as if she were lecturing a little boy. "Your job is to lead the executive branch of the United States of America and be the leader of the free world. The location of this very important work is in Washington DC, sir, not in outer space!"
  
  "Miss Hastings, I've been watching you on TV for years," the President replied. "I have seen your reports from chaotic, ruined urban battlefields, from blood-soaked crime scenes, from disaster zones where marauders run the streets threatening you and your team. Are you saying that reporting from the epicenter of the hurricane was necessary for your work? You went out into a hundred and twenty miles an hour wind or put on a bulletproof vest and a helmet and went into the thick of gunfights for some reason, and I think the reason is to convey to your audience the message that you wanted to convey to your audience .
  
  "Well, I do the same thing going up here," Phoenix continued. "I believe America's future is in space, and I wanted to highlight that by accepting the invitation to fly here and do it. I wanted to experience what it's like to put on a space suit, fly in space, feel the g-forces, see the Earth from two hundred miles, go into outer space, look at this magnificent..."
  
  The shock and bedlam in the White House press room flared up again, and the members of the press corps who had been sitting jumped to their feet as if they had been pulled by strings by a puppeteer. "Go into outer space?" they all exclaimed, as if in unison. "Did you do a spacewalk...?"
  
  "It went on for two, maybe two and a half minutes," the president said. "I got out of the cockpit of the spaceplane, they lifted me to the roof-"
  
  "Have you been in the cockpit of a spaceplane?" Hastings called out.
  
  "I had the opportunity to sit in the cockpit during the docking, and I took advantage of it," the president said. He immediately decided not to tell them that he had made the docking. "Vice President Page told me that the way they first had to transfer to the station from early spaceplanes was through spacewalks. We were ready for it, and there was no more danger in it than in any other astronaut experience."
  
  "But you are not an astronaut, Mr. President!" Hastings screamed again. "You are the President of the United States! You don't get paid to take that kind of risk! With all due respect, Mr. President... Are you out of your mind? "
  
  "He's not crazy, Hastings," protested Kai Rhydon, angered by her unprofessional outburst. "And now that he's got the guts to go into orbit, he's definitely an astronaut - a damn good one, as it turns out. He proved that any healthy, trainable, balanced person could become an astronaut if they so desired, without years of physical training or science or engineering education."
  
  The bedlam seemed to subside, as if Raydon was a high school teacher urging his class to calm down and get to work, but the president could see the group of reporters getting pretty irritated and he was ready to end it. "Are there any other questions?" he asked.
  
  Another well-known TV presenter, seated in the front row, got to his feet. "Mr. President, these space industry proposals sound interesting, but they also seem expensive, as I'm sure everything related to space can seem. You've been campaigning for financial responsibility for over a year now and paying for every new government program. How do you propose to pay for all this? You said you were going to cancel, postpone, or cut other programs. Which ones?"
  
  "I plan to target programs that I believe are costly, unnecessary, bloated, obsolete and wasteful, Mr. Wells," the President said. "I have a long list of proposals that I will present to the leadership of the congress. The three categories that make up eighty percent of the national budget-benefits, defense, and discretionary spending-all need to be considered. Modernizing our nation's defenses and preparing for the challenges of the twenty-second century is my absolute priority."
  
  "So you're going to build space weapons by cutting Social Security, Medical Assistance, Medicaid, and the Affordable Care Act?" the reporter asked.
  
  "I want to stop adding new government benefit programs and I want to see real reforms in all benefit programs so they can survive the century," the president replied. "I think we can achieve cost savings when we make real reforms that we can use to modernize defense. The same can be said about the military itself. One example would be the significant reduction of nuclear weapons in the American arsenal." He could see another flurry of tapping and scrawling as the digital recorders moved closer to the speakers set up in the press briefing room. "I'm going to propose that we reduce the number of nuclear warheads on alert from the current level of about seven hundred to about three hundred."
  
  The level of excitement in the press briefing room began to rise again. "But, Mr. President, don"t you think that given what happened in the South China Sea and the Western Pacific - China set off a nuclear depth charge, opened fire on ships, shot down our plane and attacked Guam, not Speaking of Russia's military resurgence, is this a totally inappropriate time to reduce our nuclear deterrent?"
  
  "You have answered your own question, Mr. Wells," the president said. "We currently have about seven hundred nuclear warheads ready to strike within a few hours, but what exactly did they prevent? Russia, China and other countries, in response, have become stronger and bolder. And when we hit back, what weapon did we use to stop them? High-precision non-nuclear weapons launched from aircraft and spacecraft.
  
  "I feel that nuclear deterrence is no longer relevant and should be drastically reduced," the president repeated. "The Russians took care of many of the cuts during the American Holocaust, of course with the horrendous loss of American lives. But there has been a lot of talk about replacing the fleet of bombers and intercontinental ballistic missiles, and I'm not going to support it. I propose that the strategic nuclear submarine fleet be the only force on permanent nuclear alert and that it be reduced so that only four strategic nuclear ballistic missile submarines are on alert, two in the Pacific and two in the Atlantic , and four more were ready to go to sea on an urgent basis. Notification. Several tactical air forces, deployed on land and at sea, will be ready, if necessary, to bring the forces to a state of nuclear alert within a few days."
  
  Shocked, incredulous expressions reappeared on the faces of reporters - reporters who did not answer their editors on portable devices, making stunned comments to their colleagues, the level of noise quickly increased. The president knew this press conference was nearly over, but he had a few more scoops to break: "Not all cuts will be defense-related, but most will be," he continued. "I propose to reduce Army and Marine Corps personnel and weapons systems such as tanks and artillery, reduce the number of carrier battle groups to eight, and cancel future purchases of ships such as the Littoral Combat Ship and aircraft such as the F- 35 Lightning".
  
  "But, Mr. President, don't you think that you are undermining the military at a time when we should be preparing the military to confront adversaries such as China and Russia, both of whom have repeatedly attacked us in recent years?" - asked the correspondent. "Are you going to replace these canceled weapons systems with something else?"
  
  "Yes, in two key national security imperatives of the twenty-first and twenty-second centuries: space and cyberspace," the president replied. "I will propose that the bulk of US long-range offensive military systems be deployed from space or Earth orbit, and the bulk of our defensive military systems be deployed from cyberspace. The United States must dominate in both areas, and I'm going to see to it that America does just that. If we don't manage this, we will quickly and inevitably lose, and it won't happen on my watch. America will dominate space and cyberspace, just as we used to dominate the world's oceans. This is my mission, and I will expect Congress and the American people to support me. Are there any other questions for me?"
  
  "Yes sir, I have a lot," said Margaret Hastings. "What exactly do you mean by 'dominate' in space and cyberspace? How are you going to dominate them?"
  
  "First: no longer tolerating the activities that have been going on for the past few years that are almost considered part of the cost of doing business," Phoenix said. "For example, I was told that American companies, government agencies and military computers are detecting daily intrusions and direct attacks from governments around the world, either sponsored by a government organization or carried out directly by the government. This can no longer be tolerated. A computer attack will be treated like any other attack. The United States will respond appropriately to any cyber attack.
  
  "I was also told that American reconnaissance satellites are hit with lasers to blind or destroy optics; that jamming satellites are placed into orbit near our satellites to disrupt their operation; and that US GPS signals are jammed on a regular basis. I have been told that several countries are hitting this very station daily with lasers, microwaves and other electromagnetic forms of energy to try to damage or disrupt work here. This can no longer be tolerated. Any such attack will be dealt with accordingly. We will closely monitor Earth orbit for any sign of possible interference or attack by any nation or organization. The American satellite in orbit, as well as the orbit itself, is sovereign American territory, and we will protect it just like any other American resource."
  
  "Excuse me, sir," Hastings said, "but did you just say that you consider Earth orbit to be American property? Are you saying that no other nation can put a spacecraft into orbit if the United States already has a satellite in that orbit?"
  
  "That's exactly what I'm saying, Miss Hastings," Phoenix said. "The usual technique for attacking US space objects is to launch anti-satellite weapons into the same orbit, chase them and destroy them within range. This is how the Russians destroyed our Kingfisher weapons depot, incapacitating it with directed energy weapons, killing an American astronaut. Any spacecraft launched into the same orbit as an American satellite will be treated as a hostile act and will be treated accordingly."
  
  The bedlam that had been growing and threatening to spiral out of control in the White House press briefing room hadn't subsided this time, and the president knew it probably wouldn't be for a very long time. "Thank you ladies and gentlemen, thank you," the President said, ignoring the raised hands and shouted questions. "I think it's time to share a meal with the astronauts aboard the station..." He turned to Raydon, smiled, and added, "... my fellow astronauts, and get ready to return to Washington. Good night from the Armstrong space station, and may God bless the United States of America." He saw so much noise on the monitor that he doubted if anyone had heard his all-clear signal.
  
  "Good speech and good Q&A, Mr. President," Vice President Ann Page said moments after her image reappeared on the command module's control monitor. "Many veteran astronauts have trouble holding press conferences on Earth, not to mention that it's only been a few minutes since the first space flight. I didn't leak any details of the military reorganization as you requested, so everyone in the world got it all at once. Phones still ring non-stop. Are you going to take any calls to the station?"
  
  Phoenix considered this for a moment, then shook his head. "I'm going to call Alexa, and then I'm going to meet the space station crew, taste their food, check on poor Charlie Spellman, look around the station some more, and get ready for the flight back. We've been talking about answering a few questions that we expect reporters and heads of state to ask, and I'll leave that to you until I get back and check the papers. The last thing I want to do is spend the last couple of hours at the station talking on the phone."
  
  "I hear you, sir," Ann said. "I will answer calls from heads of state, then from the mainstream media. You like it up there. No more spacewalks, okay sir? Pass through the docking tunnel like all of us mere space travelers."
  
  "If you insist, Miss Vice President," President Phoenix said with a smile. "If you insist."
  
  
  THREE
  
  
  The mere premonition of evil to come has placed many in a situation of extreme danger.
  
  - MARCUS ANNEUS LOUCANUS
  
  
  
  WATERGATE HOTEL
  WASHINGTON, DC
  IN THE SAME TIME
  
  
  "Of course I saw it!" exclaimed former US Senator, Senate Majority Leader and Secretary of State Stacey Ann Barbeau over the phone, staring dumbfounded at the large HDTV in her hotel room. "Bring senior staff here right now!"
  
  Despite being in her early sixties, Stacey Ann Barbeau was still a beautiful, energetic, ambitious woman and a veteran politician. But those in the know knew that Barbeau was no sweet Louisiana magnolia-she was a Venus flytrap, using her beauty and southern charms to disarm men and women, forcing them to lower their defenses and submit to her desires, willingly sandwiched between her ruby - red lips. The whole world has known for a decade that she had presidential ambitions, and now those ambitions have morphed into a powerful, well-funded campaign that has maintained a small but consistent lead in the race against incumbent Kenneth Phoenix...
  
  ... a race that has just started up because of this unexpected press conference from outer space.
  
  Barbeau's campaign headquarters in Washington occupied an entire floor of the Watergate Hotel and office building. She had just returned to her hotel room from a fundraising dinner and turned on the news to watch the press conference, full of energy and excitement for another successful performance. Now she stood in total shock as she listened to the stunned commentators trying to make sense of what they had just seen: the President of the United States addressing the world from Earth orbit.
  
  Luc Cohen, Barbeau's campaign manager and top advisor, was the first to break into her hotel room. "It must have been spoofed or CGI'd," he said breathlessly. Cohen, a tall, thin, good-looking New Yorker, was Barbeau's chief of staff during her years as Senate Majority Leader and Secretary of State. "No President of the United States would ever be stupid enough to fly into space, especially six months before the election!"
  
  "Quiet, I'm listening," said Barbeau. Cohen turned away to answer his cell phone while she listened to the comment.
  
  "CNN," Cohen said during the next pause. "They want five minutes."
  
  "They can take two," Barbeau said. The assistant, whose only duty was to write down every word that came out of Barbeau's lips, burst into the room with a tablet computer at the ready. "It was the most daring, sensational, dangerous and irresponsible election year stunt I have ever seen in my thirty years in Washington," she was quoted as saying. "President Phoenix risks the safety of the entire nation and the free world with his reckless act. I seriously question his judgment, as do all Americans. For the good of the nation, as soon as he returns, he must undergo a series of medical and psychological examinations to ensure that he has not suffered from any negative effects of space travel, and if any are found, he must immediately resign from his post." The assistant pressed a button and the words were sent to Barbeau's chief speechwriter, who would have a talking point ready for her and the campaign representatives in a matter of minutes.
  
  "Luke, assign a researcher to find out the symptoms of every known illness or distress that astronauts may be suffering from," Barbeau continued, "and then I want him to monitor every second of every Phoenix public appearance to see if he is showing any of these symptoms." Cohen took out his cell phone in the blink of an eye and gave instructions. "So what do you think the feedback will be?"
  
  "I agree with your reasoning, Miss Secretary of State," Cohen said. "At first, I think most voters will think it's cool and exciting that the president went into space and did a spacewalk, talk about his courage and so on. But soon after that, perhaps by the time the morning talk shows start talking about it and people start to learn more about the dangers and risks, they may question his judgment and his ability to hold office. The pressure to resign can be intense."
  
  "If he thinks he's going to start gutting the military to pay for his fancy space weapons and cyber warfare, he's sorely mistaken," Barbeau said. "Remove two carrier battlegroups? Only over my dead body. I want to create more carrier battle groups, not destroy them! I want to visit shipyards, naval groups, air bases and veterans' groups and talk about the effect the elimination of two carrier battle groups will have on the economy as well as national defense. Halve the power of nuclear deterrence? Cut tanks and fighters? Maybe he is already suffering from some kind of space disease. He just committed political suicide. I'm going to make sure he pays the price for this stunt."
  
  "I can't believe he started talking about welfare reform," Cohen said. "It's ok to do it before the convention if you're in the main race but he's already got a nomination. Nobody challenges him."
  
  "He'll regret it too," Barbeau said caustically. "Find out how much one of these spaceplanes and this space station cost, and then find out how many people would be disadvantaged if everyone lost even ten percent of their benefits in order to pay for a spaceplane that ninety-nine tenths of Americans will never even see, not talking about flying. Find out what it cost to fly his ass back and forth, and then figure out how much education, infrastructure, and medical research we could have done were it not for the President"s pleasure trip."
  
  Stacey Ann Barbeau walked over to the large mirror in her suite and examined her makeup. "Do you think you have made history today, Mr. President?" - she said. "You think you're a big astronaut hero? You made the biggest mistake of your political career, buster, and it will cost you dearly. I will take care of it." She looked at Cohen through the mirror. "Luke, make sure one of the make-up artists is ready for me and that my TV studio is ready to broadcast, and tell CNN I'll be ready in five."
  
  
  KREMLIN, MOSCOW
  RUSSIAN FEDERATION
  IN THE SAME TIME
  
  
  "The man is really insane! This man is really insane!" Russian President Gennady Gryzlov thundered in front of the TV in his office in the Kremlin. "Phoenix thinks he's going to control all of outer space? He will soon realize how wrong he is!"
  
  Gennady Gryzlov was only forty years old, the son of former President Anatoly Gryzlov, and his career in many ways paralleled that of his father. Gennady Gryzlov graduated from the Yuri Gagarin Air Force Academy and completed basic flight training at the Baronovsky air base in Armavir and bomber training at the Engels air base in southwestern Russia, and only two years later was selected for training at the command school in Moscow. He wanted nothing more than to follow in his beloved father's footsteps and was determined to do so without his family's extensive connections in government and the petrochemical industry.
  
  But shortly after graduating from command school in Moscow, but before he returned to Engels Air Base to take command of the 121st Guards Heavy Bomber Regiment, a Tupolev-160 Blackjack supersonic bomber unit, an event occurred that changed his life forever: Engels Air Base was attacked by an American EB-1C Vampire stealth bomber, a heavily modified B-1 Lancer supersonic bomber that destroyed dozens of Russian bombers that were waiting for orders to take off and destroy a terrorist nest in Turkmenistan. Hundreds were killed in the air raid, including many of Gryzlov's closest friends and fellow aviators. The father and son were devastated and spent over a month attending funerals and memorial services and planning how to rebuild the base and bomber force.
  
  It was never officially revealed, but the elder Gryzlov told his son who he thought was planning the air raid: a US Air Force general named Patrick McLanahan, who was acting without the orders or authority of the US White House or the Pentagon. Both men turned their grief at the devastation into a white-hot desire for revenge on McLanahan.
  
  With the destruction of the Engels air base, Gennady turned his attention away from flying bombers and, with the help of his father, entered the Alexander Mozhaisky Military Space Academy in St. Petersburg, where a place had already been reserved for him at the Cosmonaut Training Center in Star City. But his training there, too, was interrupted. A unit of American bombers attacked a Russian defensive anti-aircraft battery in Turkmenistan...
  
  ...and, it soon transpired, the raid had been planned and ordered by Major General Patrick McLanahan, again without proper authority from his superior officers.
  
  Gennady knew that this raid had pushed his father over the edge. President Gryzlov recalled all members of the bomber's crew and sent them to Belaya Air Base in Siberia for training. Gennady was able to use his father's influence to stay in Mozhayskoye, but he kept a close eye on the activities of the huge number of long-range aircraft at Belaya and other bases such as Irkutsk, Aginskoye and Yakutsk, including the elegant Tu-22 Backfires, reliable turboprop Bears Tu-95, Tu-160 supersonic Blackjacks and Ilyushin-62 air tankers. Gennady knew something big was about to happen.
  
  At the end of the summer of 2004, this happened. Waves of Russian long-range bombers attacked U.S. air defenses and early warning radars in Alaska and Canada with AS-17 Krypton anti-radar missiles and AS-16 Otkat supersonic strike missiles, and then launched long-range hypersonic cruise missiles AS- X-19 "Koala" with low-yield nuclear warheads on ICBM launch control centers, bomber bases and command and control bases in the United States. The United States lost nearly all of its land-based ballistic missile forces, a significant portion of its strategic bomber fleet, and tens of thousands of military personnel, family members, and civilians in the blink of an eye.
  
  This soon became known as the "American Holocaust".
  
  Gennady was happy and overjoyed at the bravery of his heavy bomber crewmates, many of whom had died over the United States and Canada, and was proud of his father for finally striking the decisive blow against the Americans. He hoped McLanahan was under one of those nuclear warheads. In the meantime, all training at Mozhaisk was canceled, and Gennady was ordered to the Aginskoye air base in southern Russia to form a new bomber regiment, where new Tu-160 Blackjack bombers would be sent, which were undergoing repairs and returning to service. Russia was beginning to go into martial law, and Gennady was happy that he would not have to hang around at school while other brave Russian aviators would fight head to head with the Americans.
  
  Preparations for war with the United States had barely begun when the unthinkable happened. The Yakutsk air base in Siberia was overrun by a small force of American commandos, and the United States began flying from the base in long-range bombers and aerial tankers. For days, American bombers have plied much of Russia from Yakutsk, tracking down and destroying Russian mobile ICBM launchers and underground launch control centers with ground-penetrating precision-guided cruise missiles and bombs.
  
  Gennady was not surprised to learn that none other than Patrick McLanahan was in command of the bombers.
  
  President Anatoly Gryzlov was forced to make a fateful decision: to destroy Yakutsk before the US Navy could destroy the mobile ballistic missile force, the backbone of Russia's strategic deterrence force. He ordered bombers to launch nuclear-tipped AS-X-19 Koala cruise missiles at the American-occupied base, without prior warning that the Russians were still being held there. Although most of the cruise missiles were shot down by American air-to-air missiles and the sophisticated onboard laser system mounted on several B-52 bombers, a few managed to hit the base, killing hundreds, both Russians and Americans, who were not lucky enough to reach the fortified underground shelters.
  
  Gennady felt sorry for his father, who was forced to make the terrible decision to kill the Russians in order to prevent the massive destruction of the nation's ICBM arsenal. He wanted so badly to be with his father and give him moral support, but the older Gryzlov was undoubtedly safe in one of more than a dozen alternative command centers in western and central Russia. Gennady's main concern now was for his base and his regiment, and he ordered all non-essential personnel to take cover in fear of an American counterattack and hastening preparations for the Blackjack bombers, which we hoped would soon arrive.
  
  Gennady was engrossed in organizing his regiment and planning their actions when he received devastating news the next morning: an American bomber task force, consisting of modified B-1 and B-52 bombers, had broken through the complex air defense network in western Russia and attacked the Reserve Military the command center of Ryazan, 120 miles southeast of Moscow. The devastation was complete... and Gennady's father, the center of his universe, the man he most wanted to emulate, was blown to dust. He immediately made arrangements to return to Moscow to be with his mother and family, but before leaving Aginsky, he learned that his mother, upon hearing the news about her husband, committed suicide due to an overdose of sleeping pills ...
  
  ...and, once again, he learned that the commander of the bomber task force that killed his father, and therefore his mother, was General Patrick McLanahan. The American Highway Pilot was promoted to Lieutenant General shortly after the attack and appointed Special Advisor to the new/former President of the United States, Kevin Martindale, tasked with rebuilding the Long Range Strike Force.
  
  After that day, Gennady Gryzlov turned into a different person. He resigned and retired from the armed forces. He always had a high level of energy, but now his personality has become more like that of a whirling dervish. He took control of his family's oil, gas and petrochemical companies and placed them beautifully when oil prices began to skyrocket in the late first decade of the twenty-first century and he became one of the richest men in the western hemisphere. He remained a bachelor and became one of the most popular and recognizable playboys in the world, pursued everywhere by rich women and men. He turned his wealth, popularity, and good looks into political capital and was quickly appointed Minister of Energy and Industry and Deputy Prime Minister of Russia, and later elected by the Duma as Prime Minister, although he never served in the legislature, seeking a higher post. He subsequently ran for president and was elected to the post by over 80 percent of voters in the 2014 election.
  
  But now the face of the tall, handsome young man, undoubtedly the most photographed male face on planet Earth, was contorted in a mixture of disbelief, rage and determination. Sergei Tarzarov, head of the presidential administration, ran into Gryzlov's office when he heard the president's screams. "Call Sokolov and Khristenko here for a double transmission," Gryzlov called to his chief of staff, his long dark hair flying around his head as he paced his office. "I want answers to some questions, and I want them now!"
  
  "Yes, sir," Tarzarov said, and picked up the phone in the president's office. Tarzarov was almost a generation older than Gryzlov, a lean and unremarkable man in a plain brown suit, but everyone in the Kremlin knew that the former intelligence officer and interior minister was the force behind the presidency and had been since his father had taken power. Gennady. "They saw the broadcast and are on their way, sir," he reported a few moments later.
  
  "Why, that smug, preening, clueless bastard-I'll show him how to make a statement to the world," snapped Gryzlov. "It was nothing more than an election year gimmick. I hope this blows up in his face! I hope he dies from the fireball during the return. Then the American government will be in a state of total chaos!"
  
  "I am receiving data from the Ministry of Defense," Tarzarov reported after checking his tablet computer. "Minister Sokolov has ordered the renewal of our space offensive and defensive forces, as well as the ground, air and naval forces that support space operations. He and General Khristenko will inform you as soon as they arrive."
  
  "Why the hell didn"t we know that Phoenix was going to fly to that space station?" - Shouted Gryzlov. "We know what this bastard is doing, almost before he knows it, and we have installations, listening devices, cameras and informants all over Washington. Invite Kazyanov here too. No, gather the entire security council here." Tarzarov made another phone call and said that Viktor Kazyanov, the minister of state security, Russia's top espionage and counterintelligence service, was also on his way to the president's office.
  
  "Mr. President, Phoenix must be completely crazy to pull off a stunt like that," Defense Minister Gregor Sokolov said as he quickly entered the president's office a few minutes later. "If he wasn"t damaged before he took off, cosmic radiation and lack of oxygen would surely get to him-if he really did everything he claimed to do, and it wasn"t all an elaborate election year hoax-and then the American space program would be deader than it was after the crash of the space shuttle Challenger."
  
  "Shut up, Sokolov," said Gryzlov. "The fact is he did it and I want to know how, I want to know why I didn't know about it and I want to know what we can do if he starts doing all the shit he says he's going to do - and I want to know it right now!"
  
  Tarzarov walked up to Gryzlov, turned his back on the others in the room and said in a soft voice: "It"s perfectly fine to rant when neither I nor anyone else is in the room, Gennady, but when the national security officers arrive, you should keep yourself in hands." Gryzlov's head turned sharply towards the chief of staff and his eyes flashed, but when his angry face met Tarzarov's hard, warning gaze, he relaxed and nodded. "And don't make your comments personal. You want the support of your cabinet, not their resentment."
  
  "I want answers, Sergei," Gryzlov said, lowering his voice, but only slightly. "I want the answers I should have received a few days ago!" But he turned away from Tarzarov, bowed his head slightly to Sokolov in apology, then went back to his desk and pretended to look through some dispatches on his tablet computer.
  
  The meeting of Gryzlov's national security advisers began a few minutes later, when Foreign Minister Darya Titeneva joined Gryzlov and others in a conference room adjacent to the president's office. Chief of the General Staff General Mikhail Khristenko spoke first, using a tablet computer to wirelessly display photographs and data slides on a large flat screen computer monitor: -space operations, has informed our embassy in Washington, through the office of the air attaché, that they will be launching an S-19 midnight spaceplane to the Armstrong space station."
  
  Gryzlov looked like he was about to explode again, but Tarzarov spoke first: "Minister Titenev?"
  
  "I was not informed," replied Titeneva, a foreign veteran with dark hair and eyes and a full but attractive body. "Urgent messages go to my office immediately, but regular messages go to my headquarters in charge of such matters and they are included in the two summary reports I receive every day. The spaceplane is sent to space stations or into orbit many times a month - such flights are considered routine."
  
  "Perhaps your office should be notified every time such a flight occurs," suggested Tarzarov.
  
  "This may be a good idea for the military, Mr. Tarzarov, but I see no reason why the Ministry of Foreign Affairs should report this, unless the military or state security considers that the flight may pose a threat to the Motherland or our allies," - said Titeneva, obviously hurt that the chief of staff challenged her to a full meeting of the security council. "The main reason we demanded that the United States notify us of the flights at all is that putting it into orbit can be like launching an ICBM. They are certainly not required to provide us with a list of passengers."
  
  "You will instruct your office to notify you whenever one of these spaceplanes is about to launch, minister," Gryzlov said angrily. "Then you will immediately notify me with details of departure and return dates and times, destination and purpose. I won't let those damn things just fly overhead and not know anything about it!" He turned to the Minister of State Security. "Kazyanov, aren"t you tracking the whereabouts of the President of the United States?" he asked. "How the hell can the president of the United States be broadcasting television from space and apparently no one in this whole damned city knows anything about it?"
  
  "We are doing our best to track down the President of the United States, high officials and senior officers of the army, sir," replied Viktor Kazyanov, a tall, bald and commanding-looking former army colonel. Like the director of national intelligence in the United States, the newly created Department of Homeland Security was to integrate domestic, international, and military intelligence, presidential and embassy security, and border security activities under a single cabinet-level officer who reported directly to the security council. .
  
  However, the intelligence services were extremely reluctant to share information and lost access to the presidential office. It was well known that the directors of the Federal Security Service (once known as the State Security Committee, or KGB), the Foreign Intelligence Service, the Presidential Security Service, and the Main Intelligence Directorate of the General Staff (Main Intelligence Directorate, or GRU) reported directly to the president through the chief of staff. : very often Kazyanov learned something last. "But we can't know exactly where the American president is every minute of every day," Kazyanov said. "All the American press thought he was on his way to Guam for this press conference, and that's where we were waiting for him. If he is going to leave the capital for a while, we know about it."
  
  "Well, I would say he left the capital, right?" Gryzlov retorted mockingly. "Don't you watch the White House and the Capitol all the time?"
  
  "Any movement by the president, vice president, cabinet officials and their deputies, as well as high-ranking military officers and representatives of the Ministry of Defense, causes us a warning, sir," Kazyanov said. "The President and any official who travels with a large contingent, or any information we receive about travel plans, is alarming. If they don't, we may not be aware of their movements. Obviously, this trip was kept in the strictest confidence, with minimal security protocols to avoid attracting attention."
  
  "It is imperative that you develop a means to determine when one of these spaceplanes is about to take off and who and what is on board, Kazyanov," Gryzlov said. "If they fly that regularly, maybe their security procedures are starting to falter. You must also think of ways to signal the movements of major American officials, in addition to the size of their entourage. Be prepared to inform the board of your proposals at the next meeting next week." It was obvious from his expression that Kazyanov didn't like being barked at, even by the president, but he nodded in agreement. Gryzlov turned back to General Khristenko. "Go on, general."
  
  "Yes, sir," said the chief of the general staff. He called for a silent replay of President Phoenix's press conference. "My staff have reviewed footage of the Phoenix press conference and several videos taken after the Phoenix press conference where he had dinner with several astronauts, and based on these preliminary images, my staff believes that this is indeed President Phoenix, and he is on aboard a spacecraft in Earth orbit, experiencing true weightlessness, and looking very healthy and not suffering from any of the negative effects of space flight or weightlessness. Other individuals in the video have been identified as retired Brigadier General Kai Raydon, engineer and astronaut Trevor Scheil, and retired US Marine Corps lieutenant colonel and astronaut Jessica Faulkner, a spaceplane pilot.
  
  "Most likely, he actually went into low-Earth orbit on a spacecraft, which was reported to our embassy by the US Strategic Command, on an S-19 spaceplane, nicknamed 'Midnight'," Khristenko continued, switching slides to a photo of the spaceplane. "He is transporting the crew of two people and up to five thousand kilograms of cargo. It apparently has a pressurized module in the cargo hold that has room for as many as four passengers."
  
  "I don't care about its capacity, General," Gryzlov said caustically. "What threat does this spacecraft pose to Russia?"
  
  "This is a technology that we still have a few years to develop: the ability to take off from almost any commercial airstrip in the world, fly to low Earth orbit, dock with space stations or perform various actions in space, enter the Earth"s atmosphere and again land on any runway - and do it all again in just a few hours," Khristenko said. "It has a sophisticated propulsion system that uses readily available jet fuel and an oxidizer based on hydrogen peroxide. It can dock with a space station and deliver supplies or personnel almost on demand. Had it remained in the atmosphere, it could have flown from its base in the western United States to Moscow in less than three hours."
  
  "Three hours!" Gryzlov exclaimed. "And then drop nukes right on our heads!"
  
  "As far as we know, sir, spaceplanes have used only non-nuclear weapons in space," Kazyanov said, "but one such weapon, the so-called Thor's Hammer, successfully entered the Earth's atmosphere and destroyed a target on the ground."
  
  "That's when we spoke in favor of bringing the Outer Space Treaty into force, sir," Foreign Minister Titeneva said. "The treaty bans any weapon based in space that can hit targets on Earth. Russia, China, and every other space-capable country has ratified the treaty, with the exception of the United States, although they appear to be abiding by it."
  
  "Damn it, Daria, I want weapons like this banned...only as long as it takes for us to build them ourselves!" Gryzlov said. He ran a hand through his thick hair. "And we don"t have technology like this spaceplane?"
  
  "We built a reusable spacecraft many years before the Americans built their Space shuttle," Defense Minister Sokolov said. "The Elektron space plane was launched into orbit using an SL-16 launch vehicle and could land on the runway - it was even armed with guided missiles. We have built several spacecraft, but their working condition is unknown. The Buran spaceplane was very similar to the American Space Shuttle. We built five of them and made one successful flight before the empire collapsed. Three more Burans are in various stages of completion; another completed spacecraft was destroyed in a ground accident."
  
  "And look what happened: we allowed the Americans to gain an advantage over us in space," Gryzlov said. "So get them back in service and fly immediately, and if we've already built them once, we can build them again. I want as many as possible to be put into production immediately."
  
  "Phoenix is a fool if he really plans to degrade his army and navy in favor of space weapons," Sokolov said. "And he can build any cyberweapon he wants while our troops take over his cities."
  
  "It seems to me that Phoenix will not comply with any space treaty for a long time," Gryzlov said. "If he wants to industrialize space, he will want to protect it. If we can't get him to agree not to militarize space, and he wins re-election and goes ahead with this plan, what do we have to oppose such moves? What can we use to attack his spaceship?"
  
  "Our most powerful anti-satellite weapon currently deployed is the S-500 Avtocrat anti-aircraft missile system, sir," Khristenko said. "Its maximum target height of five hundred kilometers and maximum range of seven hundred kilometers put it within range of the US military space station. The system is mobile, easy to move and set up, so it can be fired and then moved to evade a counterattack or quickly orbit targets. The S-500 is also very effective against hypersonic strike missiles, stealth aircraft, low-flying aircraft or cruise missiles and ballistic missiles. It is by far the most powerful surface-to-air missile system in the world.
  
  "Finally, some good news," Gryzlov said.
  
  "The only problem with the S-500s is that we have built very few of them so far, sir," Sokolov said. "There are only twelve batteries in service, deployed around Moscow, St. Petersburg and Vladivostok to protect against stealth aircraft and cruise missiles."
  
  "Twelve?" Gryzlov objected loudly. "We must have twelve thousand of them! You will receive funding to build ten a month, and I want several of them to be placed in every Russian military base in the world! I want this space station and all Western spaceships to be under Russian gunpoint around the clock! Continue".
  
  "The next viable anti-satellite system, and the most flexible one, is the MiG-31D anti-satellite missile launcher," Khristenko said, changing the slide again. On the slide was a picture of a large, two-tailed, muscular-looking jet fighter. "Its maximum speed is almost three times the speed of sound, and its maximum altitude exceeds thirty thousand meters. It uses the 9K720 Osa missile, which is the same missile used on the Iskander theater ballistic missile. The MiG-31 is directed to its target by ground-based radar stations and launches a missile when it gains an altitude of twenty thousand meters. The Osa missile does not necessarily carry a micronuclear warhead, so one missile would probably be enough to knock a US space station out of the sky. The Osa missile, guided by the MiG-31 radar, is capable of hitting other air targets as well."
  
  "That's good," Gryzlov said. "How many actives do we have right now, General?"
  
  "There are only thirty anti-satellite missile carriers in service right now, sir," Khristenko replied. "Two squadrons in the west and one in the far east."
  
  "When the hell did we stop making military equipment?" Gryzlov groaned. "What else?"
  
  "The MiG-31 first took to the air over forty years ago," Khristenko said. "His radar has been upgraded, but not for several years, in favor of newer fifth generation fighters. In its anti-satellite role, the range of the MiG-31 is limited to only about eight hundred kilometers. But the 9K720 missile has a range of four hundred kilometers, enough to destroy any American spacecraft in low Earth orbit."
  
  "Can we build more?"
  
  "Currently we have about two hundred and fifty MiG-31s in service, sir," Khristenko said. "About a hundred of them are active."
  
  "More than half of the inventory is inactive?" Gryzlov complained again. "If our country is bathed in oil money, why are we letting half of our planes sit idle?" Khristenko did not answer. "Then turn all active MiG-31s into anti-satellite missile carriers," Gryzlov said. "I assume you have other fighters that can take over the MiG-31 interceptor role?"
  
  "Of course, sir."
  
  "I want a full conversion report, and I want an estimate of how long it will take to build more S-500s," Gryzlov ordered. "What about space assets?"
  
  "We have a Soyuz human cargo spacecraft and an unmanned Progress cargo spacecraft, sir, along with the medium-lift Proton and heavy-lift Angara rockets," replied Khristenko. in resupply missions to the International Space Station."
  
  "And it's all? Supply missions? "
  
  "Sir, Russia has been providing significant support to the International Space Station, especially since the Americans stopped flying their shuttles," Sokolov said. "We didn't need any other outpost in Earth orbit, as we have unlimited access to the Russian orbital section of the ISS for scientific experiments."
  
  "But this is not a Russian space station," Gryzlov said. "Do we have any plans at all to build our own military space station? What happened to our own space station designs? We had several, and now we have none?"
  
  "Yes, sir," replied Khristenko. "The project is called the Orbital Manned Assembly and Experimental Complex. Before the International Space Station is decommissioned and allowed to re-enter the atmosphere, Russia will detach the modules of its Russian orbital section and install them on a central farm with solar panels and installation engines. The station will be used to assemble spacecraft for flights to the Moon or Mars, conduct experiments and ...
  
  "When is this supposed to happen?"
  
  "In about five years, sir," Sokolov replied.
  
  "Five years? This is unacceptable, Sokolov!" - Shouted Gryzlov. "I want the plans for this station to be improved. I want this to happen as soon as possible!"
  
  "But we have agreements with nine countries to use these modules on the International Space Station, sir," Foreign Minister Titeneva said. Gryzlov's eyes flashed at this interruption. "The Partnership has already paid Russia for their use and support of the ISS. We can not-"
  
  "Unless the United States cancels this overbearing plan to militarize and industrialize the earth's orbit, all partnerships and agreements relating to outer space are void," Gryzlov said. "You understand me? If Phoenix persists in this outrageous plan, Russia will strike back. It's better for everyone here to understand: Russia is not going to allow any one nation to dominate outer space. That bastard Kenneth Phoenix just issued a challenge: Russia accepts it and we will respond... starting right now!"
  
  Gryzlov closed the meeting with a wave of his hand, and soon he and Tarzarov were left alone. "I'm tired of the constant need to start a fire under the asses of these careerist-bureaucrats," Gryzlov said, lighting a cigar. "We may need to update the list of replacement ministers again. Titenov's name is at the top of the list to be replaced. How dare she challenge my desires? I don"t care what the protocols are - I want what I want and it"s her job to get it for me."
  
  "Now that you've given them orders, let's see how they react," Tarzarov suggested. "If they fail to get money from the Duma and start military construction projects, you have a good reason to replace them. As I said, Gennady, don't take it to heart."
  
  "Yes, yes," Gryzlov said dismissively.
  
  Tarzarov checked his smartphone for messages. "Ilyanov is here."
  
  "Fine. Bring him here," Gryzlov said. A moment later, Tarzarov, carrying a box of items, escorted Bruno Ilyanov and Yvetta Korchkova to the president's office, then placed the box on the president's desk. "I hear you've been successful, Colonel, even though your workers have been arrested," he said, rising from the table to greet them. Ilyanov was dressed in the uniform of the Russian air force. Not trying to be discreet, Gryzlov ran his eyes up and down Korchkova's body as she approached. She was dressed in a dark business suit tailored to accentuate her curves and breasts, but she wore studded high heels more suited to a cocktail party than a business visit to the Russian president's office. Korchkov responded to Gryzlov's appraising look without any expression. He turned his attention back to Ilyanov and held out his hand. The Russian colonel took it, and Gryzlov held his hand, keeping Ilyanov close to him. "The capture of your people is unfortunate, Colonel," he said. "I hope they can hold their tongues."
  
  "It doesn't matter, sir," Ilyanov said. "Our story will be confirmed. These are famous robbers and Russian nationalists who wanted to take revenge on General Patrick McLanahan. They gave the items to other unknown expatriates. If they speak and accuse me, I will deny everything. You can support their feelings, but start an investigation, fire me and offer to pay for repairs. The ridiculously fast U.S. media news cycle and general ignorance about everything but sex and violence will quickly sweep away the entire episode."
  
  "That would be better, Colonel," Gryzlov warned. He returned to his desk, dumped the items from the box onto its lid, picked up the urn, weighed it, then looked at Ilyanov. "Empty?"
  
  "That's right, sir," Ilyanov said. "What does it mean?"
  
  "That means someone has already dumped it down the drain," Gryzlov said caustically, "depriving me of the opportunity to do so." He looked through the rest of the items. "So. This is all that's left of the great Patrick Shane McLanahan, the aerial assassin," he said.
  
  "Not quite all, sir," Ilyanov said. "His next of kin. Two sisters and a son."
  
  "I didn't give the order to kill women, Colonel," Gryzlov said, looking back at Korchkov. He knew that the Russian beauty was a highly trained Vympel commando specializing in assassinations at close range... intimate close range. "But the rest of McLanahan's estate goes to me. Have you found your son?
  
  "He makes no attempt to hide his whereabouts, sir," Ilyanov said. "He regularly posts on social media - the whole planet knows where he is and what he does. We have not yet found any sign of the guards surrounding him."
  
  "Just because he doesn't post anything about Facebook's security service doesn't mean it doesn't exist," Gryzlov said. "I hope you have chosen more reliable people for this task."
  
  "There is no shortage of people ready to carry out these operations, sir," Ilyanov said. "We have selected the best. Now they are in position and ready to strike. My people will make it look like my son killed himself by using cocaine while intoxicated, and I will be sure that the details will appear in every newspaper and television show in the world. I will also clarify that the son was addicted to drugs and alcohol due to the neglect of his father, and that the father had similar addictions and emotional problems."
  
  "Very well," Gryzlov said. He took a deep puff on his cigar, taking advantage of the pause to look Korchkov up and down once more. "Why not send Captain Korchkov?" he asked. "I"m sure young McLanahan would have had a nice big smile on his face... a moment before his life was cut short." Korchkova remained completely impassive, her arms folded in front of her torso, her legs almost shoulder-width apart in a very ready, athletic stance.
  
  "The people I have selected will have no difficulty, sir," Ilyanov said. "Sending the captain back to the United States for McLanahan would be like using a sledgehammer to break an egg."
  
  "Just make sure it gets done, Colonel," Gryzlov said. "I waited long enough to get my revenge on Patrick McLanahan. I want everything that belonged to him to be dead and destroyed. All that's left of him is his son and his reputation, and I want both to be destroyed."
  
  "Yes, sir," said Ilyanov. "I will report my team's success tomorrow."
  
  "It would be better if everything went well, Colonel," Gryzlov said. "I want the McLanahan name to be tarnished forever." He gave Korchkova another look, debating whether to tell her to stay or contact her later, then waved his hand. "You have orders, Colonel. Fulfill them." Ilyanov and Korchkov turned and left without saying a word.
  
  "This is not the business of the President of the Russian Federation, sir," Tarzarov said after the two left.
  
  "Perhaps not, Sergei," Gryzlov said, his face hard and sinister through a cloud of cigar smoke, "but this is definitely the business of Anatoly Gryzlov's son. Once McLanahan's son is eliminated, I can fully focus on rebuilding our nation and returning it to the path of greatness. We've been raking in natural resource money for far too long and stuffing it under the mattress, Sergei - it's time to start spending it and take our rightful place in the world as a true superpower."
  
  
  CALIFORNIA POLYTECHNICAL UNIVERSITY
  SAN LUIS OBISPO, CALIFORNIA
  IN THE SAME TIME
  
  
  "Was that fucking cool?" exclaimed Bradley McLanahan. He and four other students were in his professor's office in the Reinhold Aerospace Engineering Building on UC San Luis Obispo's sprawling campus, known simply as Cal Poly, just off the central coast of California, watching TV on one of the computers in the office. . "The President of the United States is in orbit around the Armstrong space station! If he can do it, I am damn sure I can!" The other students nodded in agreement.
  
  Brad McLanahan was close to completing his first year as an aerospace engineering student at Cal Poly. Everything in his life, from his body to education to experiences, seemed to be only slightly above average. He was a little taller, heavier, and better-looking than average, with blue eyes and blond hair that grew a little longer than most engineering students on campus. His grades were probably slightly above average, just enough to get him into the UC Pauley College of Engineering, which accepted less than a third of all applicants. Thanks to a generous trust and the benefits of his late parents' solid life insurance policy, Brad was in a better financial position during college than most other students: he rode a good bike to school from his off-campus home in San Luis Obispo and even occasionally flew his father's turbine Cessna P210 Silver Eagle jet from a nearby airport, all the while knowing he would have no college fees or student loan bills due to his undergraduate or graduate studies. education.
  
  "We couldn't have picked a better time for this, Brad," Lane Egan said. Fifteen-year-old Lane was from Roseburg, Oregon, graduated from homeschooled high school after just two years with a stratosphere GPA, and was accepted to Cal Poly on a four-year scholarship. Small, slightly overweight, with thick glasses-he looked like a classic Hollywood version of a nerd-Lane looked at Brad like he was a big brother. Lane was a freshman in the College of Electrical Engineering, majoring in computer and microchip design and programming. "I hope Professor Nukaga likes our offer."
  
  "I still think we should have gone with the idea of space junk, Bradley," said Kim Jung Bae. Jung Bae - everyone called him "Jerry" because he liked the films of Jerry Lewis, a nickname he used with pride - was from Seoul, United Korea, who, after two years of study at the Pohang University of Science and Technology, transferred to study in the United States. Tall and lean, he spent as much time on the basketball court as he did in the engineering lab. Jerry was a mechanical engineering student, majoring in robotics and energy storage technologies. "You know Nukaga: he's not that interested in military affairs."
  
  "Starfire is not a military program, Jerry," Casey Huggins said. Casey was also the recipient of a four-year junior scholarship at California Polytechnic University. A water skiing accident when she was a little girl left her paralyzed from the waist down, so studying became an important part of her life. She fought to lose her weight by moving around in a manual wheelchair around UCLA's very large six thousand-acre campus and playing adaptive sports such as wheelchair basketball and archery. Casey was an electrical engineering student, specializing in directional energy projects. "We're using some military hardware, but it's not a military program." Jung Bae shrugged, not entirely convinced, but also unwilling to provoke another argument.
  
  "I love Jerry's space junk idea too, but especially after President Phoenix's little speech, I think we should stick to our proposal, friends," said Jodie Cavendish, pushing her long blond hair off her shoulders and then nervously twirling it around her chest. . Jodi was from Brisbane, Australia, and although she looked like a tall, fit, blue-eyed surfer girl from Southern California, lived very close to the ocean at home and loved sailing, surfing and kayaking, more than anything she loved to learn and experiment , and could be found either in the laboratory or in the library on the computer. She was close to completing her two-year student exchange scholarship program between California Polytechnic University and Queensland Institute of Technology, studying mechanical engineering with a degree in Advanced Materials and Nanotechnology. "Besides, we spent too much time rehearsing our chatter."
  
  "As Jody said, I agree with any idea, and we can also propose an idea with space debris - we are ready," Brad said. "But now, with this speech and this challenge, I think Starfire will be the winner."
  
  "Are you now, Mr. McLanahan?" they heard a male voice, and Toshuniko Nukaga, Ph.D., professor of aerospace engineering at California Polytechnic University, ran into the office. Born, raised and educated in Berkeley, California, Nukaga, known in academia as well as among his close friends as "Toby", took nothing slowly, be it cycling, lecturing, or writing and presenting the next breakthrough article. in the world of aerospace science. Sixty-year-old Nukaga, who retired from the aerospace industry, was one of the most sought-after experts in the design of new aircraft and spacecraft. He had the choice between board positions or leadership of hundreds of companies and universities around the world, but he chose to spend his remaining years until his retirement in California's Central Valley, passing on his knowledge and drive to explore and question conventional wisdom to a new generation of engineers and thinkers. .
  
  "Good afternoon, Dr. Nukaga," said Brad. "Thank you for having us so late in the afternoon."
  
  By the time Brad had finished speaking, Nukaga had checked his email on his desktop computer, removed his tablet from his backpack, and plugged it in to charge. He nodded, accepting the young man's gratitude, then leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingertips against each other to keep himself moving despite being seated. "You're welcome. Let's hear your 'winner', Mr McLanahan."
  
  "Yes sir," said Brad. "I recently learned that Sky Masters Aerospace in Nevada has issued a request for proposals to universities and companies for next generation space projects. It looks like companies like Sky Masters are cooperating with the Phoenix administration because the president just suggested the same thing in his address from the Armstrong space station. The Sky Lords want-"
  
  "You said the president addressed the nation from a military space station?" - Nukaga asked incredulously. "Is he in orbit right now?"
  
  "Yes sir," Brad replied. "He also just finished the press conference. He felt pretty good, weightless and all. I think his secret service boyfriend didn't do so well."
  
  "What the hell is the President of the United States doing on a military space station?" Nukaga remarked rather bitterly. "It seems extremely irresponsible to me. A thousand incidents can happen and he can contract a hundred diseases, some of which can affect his mind, and he is the commander-in-chief of the armed forces with nuclear weapons. This is madness". He paused for a moment, then waved his hand, erasing the subject from his mind. "Please continue, Mr. McLanahan."
  
  "We are requesting space and resources for computer, mechanical and aerospace labs for twelve weeks this summer for a project that we hope can be put into orbit and tested before the end of the year," Brad said. "We call it Project Starfire."
  
  Nukagi's eyebrows rose in surprise. "I presume your name is Mr. McLanahan?"
  
  "That was mine, sir," Lane Egan said proudly.
  
  "Of course, Mr. Egan," Nukaga said, hiding a slight smile behind two fingertips tapping his lips. At first he did not trust the young man-actually a boy-because his parents both had multiple PhDs and were very wealthy, aggressive, demanding research scientists, and he believed that Egan's success was largely due to the strong, driving influence of his parents. But this definitely turned out not to be the case. Although young Egan easily reverted to teenage image from time to time, he was indeed a gifted young man who would no doubt soon have his own collection of doctorates, surpassing his parents' impressive achievements.
  
  The professor wiped away all hints of a smile, turned to stone again, then said, "Indeed. So why don't you continue with the presentation, Mr. Egan?"
  
  "Yes, sir," Lane replied, keeping to the rhythm. Just like that, the teenager left, he was replaced by a serious young future scientist. "As you are well aware, sir, the idea of getting power from the Sun from a spacecraft in Earth orbit and transmitting electricity to Earth has been proposed for many years, but we think we have overcome the technical hurdles and can design a commercially viable space-based solar power plant."
  
  Nukaga looked at Casey and Jody. "Since you have Ms. Huggins on your team, I'm guessing your spacecraft is using some kind of directed energy, like microwaves," he remarked. "Miss Huggins?"
  
  "Not really, sir," Casey said. "Most research into solar power generation in space has used microwaves or lasers to transmit electricity harvested from the sun to Earth. Lasers have some political hurdles. Microwave ovens are very efficient and can transfer a lot of energy very quickly. But microwaves require a large antenna, or transmitting antenna, of at least a square kilometer, and an even larger rectenna, or receiving antenna, perhaps ten times the size of the transmitting antenna. Our partners around the world and we here at Cal Poly have developed a maser: a microwave laser. We are able to move and collimate the beam in the microwave spectrum, so we can squeeze a lot of energy into a smaller, more focused beam. It has some of the best microwave and visible light laser performance, uses much smaller antennas, and is much more efficient. In addition, maser rectifiers that convert microwave energy into electricity are smaller, quite portable and can be installed almost anywhere."
  
  "In addition, sir, the main components and equipment for power generation have already been installed at the Armstrong space station," Brad said. Nukaga looked at Brad and squinted disapprovingly at being interrupted, but let him continue. "The Skybolt laser is a free electron laser pumped by a klystron powered by a magnetohydrodynamic generator. We can build a microwave resonator into the laser itself and use the harvested electricity from Starfire to power the laser, so we don't have to use MHD. We can even use Skybolt's guidance and control systems."
  
  "This monster should have been removed from orbit many years ago and allowed to burn up on re-entry," Nukaga said. He gave Brad another frown, as if the space-based laser belonged to him. "Do you see any problems launching maser beams from space, Ms. Huggins?" he asked.
  
  "There are many potential political hurdles, sir," Casey replied. "The 2006 Outer Space Treaty aims to eliminate all offensive space weapons. In particular, it mentions directed energy systems capable of producing more than one megajoule of energy at a distance of more than one hundred kilometers. The Skybolt laser on the Armstrong space station hit targets in space, the atmosphere, and even on Earth at ranges far in excess of a hundred kilometers, with much more energy." Nukagi had a very sour expression on his face - he obviously knew very well what the laser had done space-based, and was extremely dissatisfied with this.
  
  "Following the reactivation of the Skybolt missile defense laser aboard the Armstrong space station and the deployment of the Kingfisher space-based interceptors, the treaty was resubmitted and adopted by the United Nations General Assembly in 2010," Casey continued. "The Security Council sought to codify the treaty; The United States, under the Gardner administration, chose to abstain rather than veto it, and the treaty passed. Although it has not been ratified by the US Senate, the United States - at least to date - has chosen to abide by it. Therefore, if the concept of maser energy transfer is viewed by the United Nations as a potential space weapon, it could not have been used unless the United States simply ignored the treaty."
  
  "Which, I sincerely hope, has not been done," Nukaga added. "What other challenges did you overcome in this project? Miss Cavendish, since you are an MA student, why don't you continue?" They all knew that Nukaga would never allow one team member to make a presentation like this, so they all had to be equally familiar with the proposal and ready to make it at any time.
  
  "Yes sir," Jody said. "The weight of standard silicon photovoltaic cells just kills the deal - it would take hundreds of shuttle-sized spacecraft that we don"t have, with the exception of some Russian spacecraft that we probably couldn"t use, or expendable heavy-lift launch vehicles to install enough photovoltaic panels on the spacecraft to do the job. But we and our partners have developed a technology to capture solar cells using multi-latitude nanotubes deposited on a flexible conductive substrate that could allow a mile-long photovoltaic cell to be built for the same startup costs as a single foldable silicon solar cell designed to be placed inside shuttle, with several times the power generation capacity."
  
  For the first time in the meeting, Nukaga momentarily stopped fidgeting, and the change was instantly noticed by all the students, even young Lane. "Interesting," the professor commented, continuing to tap his finger. "An organic carbon nanotube that is more efficient than a silicon cell?"
  
  "It's not a carbon nanotube, sir," Jody said. She smiled, leaned forward, then said in a low, conspiratorial voice: "This is an optical antenna with a structure of inorganic titanium dioxide of various widths, consisting of nanotubes."
  
  Nukagi's eyebrows arched, just for a moment, but the students around him felt like a firecracker had gone off in the room. "Interesting," he repeated, though all the students could hear the slight breath in his voice. "Optical Antenna".
  
  "Yes sir," Jody said. "Using inorganic nanotubes, we have developed a way to convert sunlight into electricity at thousands of times the efficiency of silicon solar cells. Even better, the structures are hundreds of times lighter and stronger than silicon solar cells."
  
  He tried very hard to hide his surprise, but Toshuniko Nukagi looked like he was about to slip out of his chair. "Interesting," he managed to repeat, but his finger-tapping stopped completely. "Did you fabricate such a structure?"
  
  "I haven't done it yet, sir," Jody said, "but I've spoken and corresponded with researchers in Cambridge and Palo Alto and we could do it here in our own labs with the right support. And, thanks to our team leader Brad, we have access to researchers around the world."
  
  "And what are the benefits of this inorganic nanotube structure, Mr. Kim?" Jerry seemed to be having a little trouble answering a question about an area of engineering he wasn't as familiar with as some of the others, so Nukaga reached out to Brad. "Perhaps you could help Mr. Kim, Mr. McLanahan?"
  
  "Power generation is significantly greater than silicon solar cells, but at a much lower weight," Brad replied. "Besides, solar panels fix themselves."
  
  "How do they do it?"
  
  "Because the substrate on which the nanotubes are built is not a metal, but a flexible sol-gel material that not only allows electrons to flow from the nanostructure to the collection system with greater efficiency, but also acts as a shock absorber," said Brad. "If orbital debris enters the solar array, the tear is repaired electrochemically, like damaged skin. It forms a kind of scar tissue similar to human skin that is not as photovoltaic as the original, but at least the matrix is still functioning. In addition, the defense lasers aboard the Armstrong space station could be used to deflect debris that could severely damage nantenna arrays."
  
  "Protection lasers? I don't think so," Nukaga said. "Continue".
  
  "Titanium dioxide nanotubes are impervious to cosmic radiation and solar wind, and the sol-gel substrate can withstand significant temperature changes with minimal and temporary changes in conductivity," said Brad. "The structures that we can put together can be huge, perhaps several kilometers long. This will allow us to eventually fire multiple energy shots at different points around the globe in the same orbit."
  
  Nukaga was apparently unimpressed by Brad's response-it was a huge oversimplification of a very complex process the team needed to work through before the university was asked to provide thousands or even millions of dollars for research. "And how will a Starfire deployment work?" Nukaga asked. He turned to Jerry. "Begin, Mr. Kim."
  
  Jung Bae frowned as he gathered his thoughts, but continued with a slight delay. "One of our requirements on this project was a size limit, sir," said Jerry. "The S-19 midnight spaceplane, our preferred delivery vehicle for space-based components, can carry a nine thousand-pound payload in a fairly small package. This was a problem at first. Even using expendable boosters along with spaceplanes, it would take many years, perhaps even decades, to build a Starfire."
  
  "And how did you decide that? Nine thousand pounds sounds like a lot, but not when you have to build an entire spaceship from scratch."
  
  "It wouldn't be from scratch, sir," Jerry said. "Our proposal defines the use of the Armstrong Space Station, the International Space Station, or Chinese... Chinese..." Once again, he had trouble finding memory.
  
  Nukaga glanced at Brad, silently letting him help. "Chinese space laboratory Tiangong-2, sir," he said.
  
  "What are these spaceships for? Mr Egan?
  
  "Because, with the exception of Tiangong, the rest are obsolete and ready to be replaced by unmanned platforms, sir," Lane said. "Armstrong is almost thirty years old, and the design life of ten years has expired. The ISS is twenty years old and is approaching its design limit - its scheduled de-orbit is scheduled in five years."
  
  "And Tiangong-2?"
  
  "The Chinese are expected to launch Tiangong-3 in just a few weeks, sir," Lane said. "We think they would be happy to use their lab for this project. If Starfire works as planned, we will be able to supply power to the most remote regions of China - even to the peaks of the Himalayas!"
  
  "What other challenges lie ahead of us? Miss Cavendish?
  
  "It's a matter of getting nanotennas, capacitors, control equipment, microwave resonators, maser generators and related equipment to the station," Jody said. "We estimate that we can put all the panels into orbit in just ten spaceplane flights, or four if we use disposable rockets."
  
  "It seems incredible," Nukaga remarked. "How do you rate that, Miss Huggins?"
  
  "This is based on Jody's estimate of the thickness of the nantens and the dimensions of the cargo hold of the midnight S-19 spaceplane, sir," Casey replied. "We calculated that one rolled nantenna array, five hundred meters long and thirty meters wide, could fit in Midnight's cargo hold, which is well within the weight limits, since the nanotube structure would be very light. Our original design includes a total of eight of these panels. We would then need two more flights to bring in additional equipment."
  
  "That seems unrealistically optimistic, Ms. Huggins. Mr McLanahan?
  
  "We propose to use for this project most of the equipment that is already on board the Armstrong space station, sir," said Brad. "Armstrong is a particularly good fit for our project because they already have a lot of the beam steering equipment, capacitors and guidance systems we need for the maser. All this is already there - we don't need to run it, just update the software and some of the hardware. It is much better than when it all burns up after deorbiting."
  
  "A lot seems to depend on whether the government will allow you to use their space station for your project," Nukaga said.
  
  "I contacted the guys at Sky Masters Aerospace, who are the caretakers of the Armstrong space station until they decide what to do with it," Brad said. "They are open to the Starfire project. They want to see our data and results before making a commitment, but they love the idea of buying a space station for themselves, privatizing it and getting it going."
  
  "I think Sky Masters Aerospace is a front for the Central Intelligence Agency or even a secret government spy unit," Nukaga said. "I have a bad taste in my mouth every time I hear that name." Still, he nodded, almost imperceptibly, but for the students it was a very good sign. "Tell me about the ground part of your project, Mr. Kim," Nukaga said. "I've heard a lot about details in orbit, but very little about ground systems and the problems you're working on."
  
  Kim seemed at a loss again, but after a moment he replied, "Sir, the ground data acquisition system includes a 200-meter steerable rectifier antenna, alternators, positioning controls, environmental systems, and a way to either store the direct current generated by the rectifier tube , or integration of the output into the local electrical network".
  
  "Two hundred meter straight pipe?" Nukaga noticed. "Not quite suitable for the Himalayas, is it, Mr. Egan?"
  
  "The size of the direct antenna is based on the beam steering system currently on board the Armstrong space station, sir," Lane said. "This technology is forty years old, it may have been updated several times, but not to modern standards. I haven't seen their code yet, but I'm sure I can improve the software to make pointing and focusing more accurate, and then we can build a smaller straight antenna. The maser beam does not expand as much as the microwave, and the side-lobe propagation is much lower and tunable."
  
  "Despite this, sir, ground systems are much smaller than any other type of power plant," Brad interjected. "We use no natural resources other than sunlight, and more electricity can be generated in one day of sunlight than in a whole year produced worldwide."
  
  "This will look good on the website, Mr. McLanahan, but I'm not interested in the ad campaign right now," Nukaga said rather irritably, now openly showing his displeasure at Brad's meddling. He paused, thinking, then resumed tapping his finger. "And what progress have you made so far?" he asked after a few moments.
  
  "Jody and Casey have plans for the nantenna and maser and can start manufacturing as soon as we get approval for the laser and materials lab and funding," Brad replied. "They also have plans to miniaturize it so that it can be placed on a spacecraft, but we are focused on demonstrating that an inorganic nanotube nanotenna is technically feasible. They are confident that they will be able to do it by the end of the summer."
  
  "End of summer?" Nukaga exclaimed. "Creating complex structures from nanotubes in just a few months of work?"
  
  "I've been working on inorganic nanotubes for over four years, sir," Jody said, "but mostly alone there in Australia. Brad tracked me down based on my presentations over the years. He brought our team together and he is still looking for experts and scientists from all over the world to help. Everything happens quickly."
  
  Nukaga nodded slightly, then signaled to Brad that he could continue. "Jerry and I have plans to integrate control systems, power, environmental protection, communications and sensors, but we don't have a spacecraft, so we're still spread out," Brad said. "Lane already has software written for spacecraft control systems and rectenna ground control systems and is ready to start debugging and chip burning as soon as we get permission. He already has an outline of a software project for Armstrong's beam controllers, but Sky Masters hasn't released their software to us yet, so this is just a preliminary sketch."
  
  "And you did all this in your free time, between classes and other duties?" Nakuga noticed. "And, with the exception of Mr. Kim, you are all freshmen, right?"
  
  "Jody is a third year student, sir," Brad replied. "Laine, Casey and I are freshmen."
  
  Nakuga nodded slightly, clearly impressed. "Where are you going to get the spaceship, Mr. McLanahan?"
  
  "Sky Masters Aerospace" in Battle Mountain, Nevada, sir," replied Brad. "I have already identified the Trinity module and loaned it, and as soon as we have space for the laboratory, I can send it to us. On it you can't fly, but this is a real spaceship, not just a mockup or scale model."
  
  "Trinity?"
  
  "This is one of several different versions of the Sky Masters Aerospace autonomous orbital maneuvering vehicles that were used by the Space Defense Force a few years ago," explained Brad. "He was put into orbit by a midnight spaceplane. It has its own guidance sensors, or it can receive guidance data from the Kingfisher armory or the Armstrong space station; it can autonomously refuel from an Armstrong or other unmanned service module; he can ...
  
  " 'Targeting'? 'Gun Garage'?" Nukaga interrupted. "Are these all space weapons?"
  
  "Well, Trinity is a multi-purpose orbital module, but yes, sir, it is used in various types of space-based weapons," Brad said. He hoped not to tell Nukuga that Trinity was a space weapon-the professor was a well-known and mildly activist anti-war guy-but in his excitement about pitching the project and getting the lab site, he said words that hopefully wouldn't kill the project.
  
  Nukaga started blinking in some confusion. "I didn't know you were making space weapons, Mr. McLanahan," he said.
  
  "We're not going, sir," Brad said, his confidence fading fast the way a bicycle tire slowly leaks. "Starfire is an orbital power plant based on Armstrong's space station. We felt that we must not only design the components of the power plant, but also find ways to safely and efficiently deliver all the components to orbit using modern technology. We can demonstrate that if we-"
  
  "I don't feel comfortable doing business with a company that makes space weapons," Nukaga said stiffly, looking at Brad accusingly. "If this company obtains information about your Starfire and then decides to use the technology to develop more space weapons, this university will become an accomplice in the arms race in space. Technology that can direct maser energy to a direct antenna on Earth could certainly be used to disable spacecraft or even destroy targets on the ground."
  
  "Sky Masters Aerospace is offering a $50 million grant for new orbital spacecraft technology, Dr. Nukaga," Brad said. "I think even just a part of it would be extremely beneficial for the university. We hope that providing lab space and time in the Directed Energy Labs and Computer Labs will demonstrate the university's commitment to the project and help secure a portion of this grant's funds."
  
  "Money isn"t the only consideration here, Mr. McLanahan," Nukaga protested indignantly... but he looked away for a moment, silently acknowledging the fact that receiving a significant portion of the multi-million dollar grant would certainly benefit the school - and his own prestige, of course. "How did you happen to stumble upon this Trinity module, Mr. McLanahan?" - he asked.
  
  "My father used to be the COO of the company, sir," said Brad. "I didn't work there for long and I still have friends there. I keep in touch with the engineering and flight test guys and hope to work there someday."
  
  " 'Was earlier'? Is your father retired?
  
  Brad swallowed hard, and when his mouth opened, there was no sound.
  
  "His father was killed, sir," Lane said in a soft voice. Nukaga looked at the young man, then back at Brad's blank expression, still confused.
  
  "Dr. Nukaga, Brad"s father was General Patrick McLanahan," Casey said, her tone of voice making it clear she couldn"t believe he didn"t know - Bradley McLanahan, son of the great aerospace warrior General Patrick McLanahan, was something of a minor celebrity on campus.
  
  Nukagi finally realized what had just happened, but the look of shock and embarrassment on his face only lasted a moment. "I... my apologies, Mr. McLanahan," he finally said, straightening up in his chair and looking at the dot on the wall over Brad's shoulder. "I did not know that". Still looking away, he cleared his throat, then pointed to the folder in Brad's hand. "I will review your project, present it to the project committee and update you as soon as possible," he said as Brad handed him the folder. "Thank you all". The students shuffled to their feet and left. "Mr. Kim. A few words please."
  
  "We'll be at the Starbucks at the market, Jerry," Casey Jung Bae whispered as they made their way to the exit. Jerry nodded, then returned to his seat.
  
  Nukaga waited a few moments until he was sure there was no one in the waiting room; then: "I don't think you've prepared very well for this presentation, Mr. Kim," he said. "Each spring, I receive several dozen requests for sponsored space for a summer lab with just three seats. The teams I invite to give a personal presentation spend hundreds of hours preparing and are all at the top of their game. But you didn't seem to be that way today. Can you tell me why, Mr. Kim?"
  
  "I'm afraid I can't, sir," Jerry said. "Perhaps a little stage fright."
  
  "I don't think so, Mr. Kim," Nukaga said. "If permission is granted, this will be your third sponsored lab project in two years at a school where only a third of engineering students receive even one. You are the top engineering student in South Korea and one of the world's foremost minds. I'm glad you chose Cal Poly, but you belong at MIT or Stanford."
  
  Jerry looked away for a moment, then looked at Nukaga. "Actually, sir... you are the reason I am here," he said. "I have been following your career for many years."
  
  "Then why aren"t you in aerospace engineering, son?" Nukaga asked. "We could work side by side if you weren't on the engineering section of the campus. In all the years you've been here, I've only had a few sessions with you."
  
  "Engineering was chosen for me by my corporate and government sponsors back home, sir," said Jerry. "Out of respect for them, I did not change my specialty. My second major was chosen for me by my parents and my minor was supposed to be in a non-science field, so I chose business. But as soon as I finish my studies and receive my credentials at home, I will be free to pursue other specialties, and I intend to return here for my master's and doctoral degrees under your guidance."
  
  "That would be amazing, Jung Bae," Nukaga said. "I can almost guarantee your acceptance. I would even consider transferring to Stanford if you wanted to get a PhD there instead - they have been urging me for years to join their faculty and maybe even become dean of an engineering college." Jerry's eyes widened in surprise and he broke into a very happy smile.
  
  "But let's get back to this so-called Starfire project, son," Nukaga continued. "I'm confused. You're in graduate school, but you hang out with a bunch of undergrads. Mr. Egan is almost young enough to be your son. None of these children are on your intellectual level. What gives? Even if you liked the project - which I don't think you like - why aren't you at least leading it? You have a rookie leading it, and he's not even the smartest on the team." Jerry shrugged and looked away. Nukaga paused, then winked conspiratorially at Jerry as the student's gaze returned to him. "Is this Miss Cavendish, Jung Bae? She is definitely a cutie. I would even volunteer to carry Miss Huggins to and from a wheelchair, if you know what I mean."
  
  Kim did not respond to personal remarks about his fellow students. He shrugged again, a childish move that Nukaga was starting to annoy for such a gifted student. "I... I respect Mr. McLanahan, sir," he finally replied.
  
  "McLanahan? Respect what's in it? He's just a first-year aerospace engineering student with good but unremarkable grades. I didn't know he was Patrick McLanahan's son, but that hardly matters to me - in fact, it puts him down a notch, as far as I can tell. His father was a highwayman pilot who always seemed to avoid demotion, if not jail, after causing all sorts of heinous international incidents without the proper orders. I myself believe that it was his actions that hastened the Russian air attack on the United States, which killed tens of thousands."
  
  "Mr. McLanahan may not be the best engineering student at Cal Poly, sir, but he... knows how to build teams," Kim said. "Not only did he come up with the idea for Starfire, but he put together an incredible team, took us through the four stages of Tuckman's group development - formation, assault, rationing and performance - and coached us during our presentation to you. If he doesn't understand something or runs into a problem, he finds someone to explain the science to him and they always end up joining his team. As you will see when you read the presentation, sir, Mr. McLanahan has amassed a significant and quite impressive list of students, faculty, scientists and engineers from all over the world who are willing to contribute to the project."
  
  "This is an engineering college, Jeon Bae, not a fraternity," Nukaga said. "Mr. McLanahan would be wisely advised to work a little more on his grades and enjoy less." He frowned, then continued, "And I'm very wary of the connection between Mr. McLanahan and this military defense company in Nevada. I won't let Cal Poly's college of engineering become the cradle of some new technology of death and destruction-I don't care if they give us all fifty million dollars." That wasn't true, of course, but Nukaga was on principle, not political reality of the university. He thought for a moment, then nodded decisively. "I will review the proposal and present it to the committee," he said, "but I will also recommend approval of any resources you need."
  
  "Thank you very much, sir," Jerry said.
  
  Nukaga nodded again, signaling that the meeting was over. Jerry got to his feet, as did Nukaga. He held out his hand and Jerry shook it. "I will tell you that the main reason I recommend this project is because you are involved in it, Jung Bae," said the professor. "I wish your name was at the top of the list of project leaders, but for now you are enough on the McLanahan team. I think that your participation in the project will provide a significant part of the start-up capital from this Nevada defense contractor."
  
  "Thank you again, sir," Jerry said, bowing.
  
  "But I will also make you a strong suggestion, Jung Bae: if it turns out that the Sky Masters aerospace division wants to use your technology as a weapon in any way, I urge you to leave the team and report to me," Nukaga said. "Money or no money, I will not let this university turn into a weapons technology factory. There are enough universities in this country willing to prostitute for little money, but I will not let Cal Poly be one of them." He paused for a moment, then asked, "Tell me, Jung Bae: did you have an alternative project that you can would you imagine me instead of this Starfire thing?"
  
  "Yes sir, I did it."
  
  Nukagi's eyes widened with interest, and he gestured for him to return to his office. "Give me another fifteen minutes of your time, Mr. Kim," he said. "I want to know everything about it."
  
  
  FOOD INDUSTRY AND CAMPUS MARKET BUILDING
  CAL POLY
  A little while later
  
  
  "I messed up guys," Brad said. He and his fellow Starfire teammates were seated at a table on the Starbucks patio at Campus Market. The food processing building was an unattractive warehouse-like structure, but its southeast side was attractively remodeled with a coffee shop and store where students could buy freshly prepared food and a wide variety of other items, as well as a large sunny outdoor seating area that enjoyed popular with students and teachers. "I shouldn't have mentioned details about the Trinity module. Now Nukaga thinks we're going to create a death ray. I'm sorry."
  
  "He was going to eventually find out when he read our offer, Brad," Jody said. "Don't worry. It's apples".
  
  "You know, I've noticed that your accent and slang almost completely disappear when you're talking to professors like Nukaga," Casey said. "How do you do it, Jody?"
  
  "I can do a lot of accents or nothing at all," Jody said. She switched to thick Russian. "How do you like this? How do you like this?"
  
  "I think your Australian accent and slang is funny, Jodie," Lane said, chuckling.
  
  "I'm funny, how - you mean, funny, like I'm a clown, I amuse you? Am I making you laugh?" Jodie said in her best Brooklyn accent, convincingly impersonating Joe Pesci's character, Tommy DeVito, in The Good Boys and trying not to use four letter words. "'Am I here to amuse you?' " Lane giggled again, the scientist left, a young schoolboy took his place. Jody switched to her strongest Australian accent and added: "Damn, friends, but I could eat a horse and chase a jockey." The others looked at each other, then at Jodie: "It means 'I'm hungry.' Let's get something to eat."
  
  "I'm going to the library," Lane said, suddenly rising to his feet and grabbing his backpack containing his laptop. In the blink of an eye, the schoolboy disappeared, replaced by a serious scientist. "See you guys later."
  
  "Dine with us, Lane," Casey said. "We're just going to wait to see if Jerry shows up."
  
  "No thanks," Lane said. "My mom and dad will come and pick me up from there. Besides, I need to finish my history work." Brad blinked at that last statement, but said nothing.
  
  "When is this supposed to happen?" Casey asked.
  
  "A couple of weeks," Lane said, "but I can't stand it when some unfinished projects are lying around." He put on his best Australian accent and said, "Good afternoon, friends. Aren't you guys rotten now, right?"
  
  Jody crumpled up the napkin and threw it at him. "Damn Bojik, Doug!"
  
  Lane headed toward University Avenue, toward the Robert E. Kennedy Library, just a few blocks away. Brad caught up with him moments later. "I'll go with you, Lane," Brad said, his own laptop bag slung over his shoulder.
  
  "You don't have to come with me, Brad," Lane said. "I'm not a child".
  
  "You're fifteen," Brad said. "Also, we talked about the buddy system. Always find a security officer or someone you know to come with you."
  
  "I see kids all the time walking around the city alone."
  
  "I know, and it's not smart," Brad said. "Find a friend. Call me if you can't find a campus volunteer or security guard." He looked over and saw Lane smiling, obviously glad that Brad was coming with him and lecturing him about personal safety. "What was that bullshit about taking a history exam? I know for a fact that you completed all of your coursework for all of your classes for the entire year a few months ago, and you were a straight A student to boot."
  
  "I know," Lane admitted after a moment. "I just..."
  
  "Just what?"
  
  "Nothing".
  
  "Give it up, Lane."
  
  "It's just... I think you guys would be better off at the Market if I wasn't there," Lane said. "I... I get the feeling that you guys can"t... you know, have fun because "the kid" is with you."
  
  "That's bullshit, Lane," Brad said. "We are all friends. We do what we want to do. Girls go out and do what they do all the time. If they want to hang out with us, they do it." They walked in silence for about a minute, and then Brad added, "But it must be hard being fifteen years old surrounded by adults."
  
  "No. I'm used to it," Lane said. "I never remember Mom and Dad treating me like a little kid or teenager the way they treat my friends or other kids. I feel much older than I am and have been since I finished elementary school. But I've seen you guys at Starbucks or downtown when I wasn't with you and you look like you're having a really great time. When I'm with you, you're everything... I don't know, reserved, constrained, making sure you don't say or do anything that might upset or corrupt a child."
  
  "Look, we're all buddies," Brad said. "We..." And suddenly, as soon as they reached the trees on University Avenue surrounding the parking lot across the street from the library, he jumped because someone dug their nails into his ribs and yelled "BOO!" behind him. Brad turned around to see Jody Cavendish giggling hysterically, and soon Lane joined him. "God, Jody, I almost pissed my pants!"
  
  "You have to learn to be more aware of your surroundings, mate," Jody said. "The world is a harsh place, even little California Poly. I thought I'd take a walk with you." She told Lane, "I know all about Brad's buddy policy, and I thought he shouldn't be walking alone through the dirty streets of UCLA."
  
  "Friendship policy is for Lane," Brad said, but when Jody smiled softly at him and winked, he added, "But the company is nice. What about Casey?
  
  "We gave up on Jerry - I'm sure he's on the basketball court," Jody said. "Casey got a call from her boyfriend du jour and she's going back to the dorm for God knows what. I wonder what Dr. Nukaga wanted from Jerry?"
  
  "Jerry thinks Dr. Nukaga is cool," Lane said.
  
  "Like half the engineering world, Lane," said Brad. "I know Jerry is upset that we didn't choose his ion booster space debris cleanup idea to present to Dr. Nukaga. Maybe he is presenting it to him now."
  
  "Can you do two sponsored lab projects at the same time?" Jody asked.
  
  "If anyone can do it, it's Jerry," Brad said.
  
  They crossed the Northern Perimeter Street, entered the library, and made their way to the Café é on the first floor. "Remember, don't go wandering around campus alone, Lane," Brad said. "Call your parents to pick you up, or call me."
  
  "Yes, Uncle Brad," Lane whined, but he punched Brad and smiled, glad that someone was looking after him, and he ran to his favorite computer terminal.
  
  "Can I buy you a cup of coffee, Jody?" Brad asked after Lane disappeared.
  
  "Why don't I treat you to a glass of wine at my house?" she replied. "I parked opposite Reinhold."
  
  "Me too. Sounds good," Brad replied.
  
  It was a short two block walk to the parking lot. They climbed into Jody's small sedan and headed northwest on Village Drive to the Poly Canyon Village apartment complex. She parked in the large north parking lot and they walked the short distance to her apartment. The complex resembled a small town square with several five-story apartment buildings, some with retail stores on the ground floors, surrounding a large common area with benches, chairs, and picnic areas. The elevator didn't work, so they had to take the stairs to Jody's apartment on the third floor.
  
  "Come in, buddy," she said, opening the door wide for him, then set her laptop down on the table and turned it on to recharge. Inside, Brad found a small but comfortable one-bedroom apartment with a bar surrounding a small but functional kitchen and a combined lounge/breakfast nook/dining area. The living room also served as Jody's study and computer room; Brad wasn't surprised she didn't have a TV. A small patio overlooking the common area was visible through a sliding glass door, and even the city of San Luis Obispo was visible in the distance from there.
  
  "These apartments are very nice," commented Brad.
  
  "Except when the west breeze picks up and you smell university warehouses," Jody said. "We could do a lot of engineering work here, but you can always tell what the roots of UC Pauley were: farming and animal husbandry." She poured two glasses of Chardonnay from the bottle in her fridge and offered one to him. "Haven't you thought about moving here next year? Many engineering students stay at Poly Canyon."
  
  "I have an application for here and Cerro Vista, but everyone wants to get here, so I'm probably at the very bottom of the list, and the bike ride will take longer," Brad said. "I haven't heard of either."
  
  "Not going to get a car anytime soon?"
  
  "I was too busy to even think about it," said Brad. "And with a bike, I do a little sport every day."
  
  "Where do you live?" she asked. "Funny; we have been working together for several months now, but we only see each other on campus."
  
  "Near. Down the foothills, across Highway One, past Foothill Plaza."
  
  "I think it's a long way to go," Jody said. "How do you like it?"
  
  Brad shrugged. "It's not bad. It's a small ranch, about an acre, fenced off from the rest of the area. The surrounding neighborhoods are sometimes a bit wild. It belongs to a friend of my father. I think he retired from the Marine Corps, but he is constantly on the road, so I stay at his house and take care of him. I have never even met this guy - we just correspond by e-mail. Most of the time it is quiet here, I never see the owner and everything is well arranged."
  
  "So this is a bohemian place for a bachelor party?" Jody asked with a smile.
  
  "I don't know the owner, but I do know that he used to be a drill instructor or something," Brad said. "I don't throw parties at his house. I was just lucky that he broke into town during a party and kicked my ass. Anyway, I'm not a party person. I don't know how any of these freshmen can have all these crazy parties, especially during the week. I would never have had time to do anything."
  
  "You're at Cal Poly, mate," Jody said. "We are an amateur party school compared to UCs or USC."
  
  "What about Australian universities?"
  
  "Without a doubt, you guys are party goers compared to even our most prestigious schools," Jodie replied. "We Australians work our brains out to get into the best schools with the best scholarships and then do nothing but rage as soon as we leave the house and go to university."
  
  "So you turned into a party girl too?"
  
  "Not me, mate," Jody said. "Actually, I went to university to get an education. I had to get out of there and go to a regular American school so I could do some work."
  
  "But you're coming back pretty soon, aren't you?"
  
  "Right before Christmas," Jody replied with a sigh and a sip of wine. "Our first semester at home starts in February."
  
  "This is very bad. Starfire should only be flaring up if our project moves forward."
  
  "I know," Jody said. "I will still be helping over the Internet and I want to be there when we flip the switch and send the first watts to Earth, but I really want to stay to see the project launch. I have applied for grants and scholarships for renewal but nothing has been received so far."
  
  "Would you have to pay for your own tuition, room, meals and books?" Brad asked.
  
  "Yes, and American universities are big bikers compared to Australian schools, especially for newcomers," Jodie said. "My parents are fighters, but I have five siblings, all younger than me. I had to get a scholarship or not go to university at all."
  
  "Perhaps I could help," Brad said.
  
  Jody stared at Brad over the rim of her glass. "Why, Mr. McLanahan, are you laughing at me?" she asked, taking a sip.
  
  "What?"
  
  "Don't worry, Brad," Jody replied. "I would never borrow money from anyone, especially not a cobber. It's just not in my nature." Brad's eyes narrowed about the sixteen millionth time. "From a friend, you are an idiot. I would never borrow money from a friend."
  
  "ABOUT". He hesitated for a moment; then, "But if it was to keep you here until after Starfire, then it would be an investment in the project, not a loan, right?"
  
  She smiled at him again, trying to see some hidden intent in his words, but finally shook her head. "Let's see what happens with all my apps and the project, mate," Jody said. "But you are the candy to offer. More wine?"
  
  "Just a little, and then I have to go back to Reinhold, get my bike and go home."
  
  "Why don't you stay and I'll cook something for us?" Jody asked. "Or we can go to the market and buy something." She stepped closer to Brad, set down her glass, leaned forward and planted a gentle kiss on his lips. "Or we can skip tea and get a little naughty."
  
  Brad gave her a light kiss, then said, "I don't think I need an Australian slang dictionary to decipher that." But to her great disappointment, he averted his eyes. "But I have a girlfriend in Nevada," he said.
  
  "I have one or two guys at home, mate," Jody said. "I'm not talking about relationships. We're two buddies away from home, Brad - I'm just a little further from home than you are. I think you're brave and I've seen you pervert me-"
  
  "What! No, I don't... what?"
  
  "I mean, you're hot and I've seen you looking at me," Jody said with a smile. "I'm not saying we're getting married, mate, and I'm not going to steal you from your significant other... at least not immediately and not forever... maybe. She reached out to take his hand, casting a quick glance down the corridor leading to her bedroom. "I just want to... what do you Yanks call it, 'getting fucked up'?" Brad blinked in surprise and didn't-couldn't-say anything. She read the hesitation in his face and body language and nodded. "It's all right, buddy. Don't blame Sheila for trying...or trying again later."
  
  "I think you're sexy Jodie and I love your eyes and hair and body," Brad said, "but I'm just not in the mood for a hookup and I want to see if I can make a long distance relationship. Besides, you and I work together and I don't want anything to spoil it."
  
  "It's all right, Brad," she said. "I think we are both old enough to continue working together even if we have a couple of naughty ones, but I respect your feelings." She saw Brad's serious face break into a smirk, then a chuckle. "Stop making fun of my accent and slang, you dumbass!"
  
  He laughed out loud at the new slang word. "I thought I heard all the Australian slang, Jody! Just today I heard ten more new songs!"
  
  "Are you laughing at my accent again, Mr. McLanahan?"
  
  "Sorry".
  
  Jody pointed to her nose, then said in a very low voice, "Don't apologize: it's a sign of weakness."
  
  "Hey! You play John Wayne too! Military van, right?" He clapped.
  
  "Thank you sir," Jody said, bowing, "except she was wearing a yellow ribbon. Now let's get out of here before I pounce on your bones, drongo!"
  
  By the time they got back to the parking lot in front of the Reinhold Aerospace Engineering Building, it was just starting to get dark. "I'd be happy to drive you home and pick you up again in the morning, Brad," Jodie said as Brad got out of her car, grabbed his backpack, and walked over to the driver's side window. "All you have to do is buy brekkie."
  
  "I guess it means breakfast," Brad said with a smile. She rolled her eyes in mock annoyance. "I can take your offer when the weather is lousy, but I'll be fine. It's not too dark yet."
  
  "Any time, mate," Jody said. She was pleasantly surprised when Brad leaned in through the open window and kissed her lightly on the lips. "Any time, Brad," she added with a smile. " 'Night". She shifted into gear and pulled away.
  
  "Am I the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet?" he asked himself in an undertone. He got his keys out of his jeans, removed the locks from his Trek CrossRip hybrid road/cross-country bike, turned on the headlights and the red and white flashing LED safety lights he had installed all over the bike, strapped on his helmet and turned on the headlights, secured his pack with a waist belt, and set off . on my two mile ride home.
  
  There was heavy traffic on the main avenues, but San Luis Obispo was a very bike-friendly city and had to dodge inattentive motorists only once or twice in the fifteen-minute drive before reaching home. The one-story, three-bedroom, one-and-a-half-bathroom house was located in the center of a one-acre lot, with a detached two-car garage adjacent to it; the plot was surrounded by an old but well maintained wooden fence. In this busy and rather overpopulated area, it was a small reminder of the sprawling farm estates and numerous small ranches that dominated the area before the university increased the population.
  
  Brad took his bike into the house-the garage had been broken into many times, so nothing of value was stored in it-and even inside the house, he locked it with a big, ugly-looking chain and a huge padlock. There was no crime in the area, but children were constantly jumping over fences, looking in windows, and sometimes trying to open doors looking for something that could be easily stolen, and Brad hoped that if they saw a bike chained up they would move on to easier prey. For the same reason, he hid his backpack with his laptop out of sight in the closet and never left his laptop on his desk or kitchen table, even if he was in the yard or went to the store a few blocks away.
  
  He rummaged through the refrigerator for leftovers. He vaguely remembered his father, a single father after the murder of his mother, who made mac and cheese and sliced hot dogs quite often for his son when he was at home, and it always cheered Brad up, so he always had half a can of it all. in a refrigerator.
  
  Hell, Jody felt good too, he told himself. Who knew that the friendly but usually quiet Australian science geek would want something like "hang out"? She was always so serious in class or in the lab. Who else, he thought, was like that? Casey Huggins was a bit more rambunctious, but he was pretty serious most of the time too . He started going through a list of the few women he knew, comparing them to Jodie...
  
  ... and then he pulled out his cell phone, realizing that the main reason he didn't sleep with Jody or anyone else was probably because he was waiting for his call. He quickly dialed her number.
  
  "Hi, this is Sondra," the message began. "I'm probably flying, so do your thing when you hear the beep."
  
  "Hi Sondra. Brad," he spoke after the horn sounded. "It's almost eight. Just wanted to say hello. Today we have prepared a presentation for Starfire. Wish us luck. Later."
  
  It turned out that Sondra Eddington and Jody Cavendish looked a lot alike, Brad realized when he found the jar of pasta. Both were fair-haired and blue-eyed; Sondra was a little taller, not as thin, and a few years older. Although Jody was a student, and Sondra had already received her bachelor's and master's degrees in business, as well as a number of pilot certificates, both were professionals in their fields: Jody was a master in the laboratory, while Sondra felt absolutely comfortable and perfectly controlled the aircraft - and was soon to become a spaceplane, as soon as she completed her training in the cockpit in the mountains.
  
  And, most importantly, both spoke their minds without hesitation and told you exactly what they wanted, whether it be professional or personal, and definitely on all personal levels. How the hell can I attract women like this? Brad asked himself. It must have been just some stupid old luck, because he certainly didn't...
  
  ... and at that moment he heard the creak of a boot on the wooden kitchen floor and felt, rather than saw, a presence behind him. Brad dropped the pot on the floor and turned around to find two men standing in front of him! One of them was holding a backpack, and the other also had the same one, along with a rag in his right hand. Brad half stumbled, half jumped back, towards the refrigerator in surprise.
  
  "Awkward amenities," the first man growled to the other in what Brad took to be Russian. "Clumsy idiot." He then casually pulled an automatic pistol with a muzzle-attached silencer from the waistband of his pants, held it at waist level, and aimed at Brad. "Don't move or scream, Mr. McLanahan, or you'll die," he said in perfect English.
  
  "What the fuck are you doing in my house?" Brad said in a shaky, broken voice. "Are you robbing me? I have nothing!"
  
  "Let you go, fool," the first man said in a low voice. "Let him go and do it right this time."
  
  Moving with startling speed, the second man grabbed something from his belt and swung it. Stars flashed before Brad's eyes, and he never remembered how an object hit his temple or how his body collapsed to the floor like a bean bag.
  
  
  FOUR
  
  
  Be like a fox that leaves more footprints than necessary, some in the wrong direction. Practice resurrection.
  
  - WENDELL BERRY
  
  
  
  SAN LUIS OBISPO, CALIFORNIA
  
  
  "Finally you did something right," said the first man in Russian. "Now watch the back door." The second man tucked his baton back into his pants, pulled out a silenced pistol, and took up a position where he could watch the backyard through the kitchen window curtains.
  
  The first man began laying out items from his backpack on the dining table: small sachets of white powder the size of peas, spoons covered in soot, butane lighters, rolled-up hundred-dollar bills, memorial candles, a bottle of 151 rum, hypodermic needles and syringes . . After they were laid out on the table in the way an addict would lay out his works, the first man dragged Brad to the table, removed his left sports shoe and sock, and began to poke him deeply between his toes with a hypodermic needle, releasing blood. Brad groaned but didn't wake up.
  
  He heard the shuffling of feet on the floor behind him. "Shut up, damn you," the first attacker said in Russian through gritted teeth. "Shut up, you clumsy fool. Get your goddamn legs up." He then began pouring rum over Brad's face and mouth, as well as the front of his shirt. Brad coughed, groaned, and spat out a strong liquid. "Damn, he's almost awake," he said. He took out a lighter and put his finger on the igniter. "Clear the path and let"s get the hell out of-"
  
  Suddenly, the man felt his body lift off the floor, as if he had been sucked in by a tornado. He caught a glimpse of his aide, crumpled and bleeding on the floor by the back door, before he felt himself being turned around...until he found himself face to face with one of the most terrifying, twisted, malevolent human forms he had ever seen in his twenty years of killing for the Russian government's Federal Security Bureau, once known as the KGB, or Committee of State Security, the security bureau of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. But he only saw the face for a moment before a huge fist came out of nowhere and slammed into his face right between the eyes, and he didn't remember anything after that.
  
  The newcomer let the unconscious Russian fall four feet to the floor, then bent down to check on Brad. "God, baby, wake up," he said, checking to see if Brad's airway was blocked and if his pupils were showing signs of a concussion. "I'm not going to drag your fat ass." He took out his cell phone and quickly dialed a number. "It's me," he said. "Cleaning the ranch. Shut down." After finishing the conversation, he began to hit Brad in the face. "Wake up, McLanahan."
  
  "I'm sorry, what...?" Brad's eyes finally opened... and then they went wide in complete surprise when he saw the newcomer's face . He recoiled in shock and tried to wriggle out of the man's grip, but she was too strong. "Crap! Who are you?"
  
  "Monster," the man said, alarmed. "Where are your school things?"
  
  "My... my what...?"
  
  "Come on, McLanahan, pull yourself together," the man said. He looked around the dining room and hallway and noticed the open closet door with the backpack on the shelf. "Go". He hauled Brad halfway through the front door, grabbing his backpack off the shelf before rushing out the door.
  
  A large black SUV was parked in the street near the front gate. Brad was pressed against him and held in place with a hand on his chest as the man opened the right rear passenger door, then grabbed his shirt and hurled him inside. Someone else pulled him further inside as an intimidating-looking man slid inside, the door slammed shut, and the SUV sped away.
  
  "What the hell is going on?" Brad shouted. He was squeezed tightly between two very large men, and this squeeze seemed very deliberate. "Who-"
  
  "Shut the hell up, McLanahan!" commanded the man in a low, menacing voice that seemed to shake seats and windows. "We are still in the city center. Passers-by can hear you." But soon they pulled onto Highway 101, heading north.
  
  The second man in the back seat moved back into the third row, so Brad was in the second row with a big stranger. Neither of them said a word until they were well outside the city. Finally: "Where are we going?"
  
  "Somewhere in a safe place," said the stranger.
  
  "I can't leave. I have work to do."
  
  "Do you want to live, McLanahan? If you do that, you won't be able to go back there."
  
  "I have to," Brad insisted. "I have a project that can put an orbital solar plant into operation within a year." The stranger looked at him but didn't say anything, then started working on his smartphone. Brad looked at the man as the light from his smartphone illuminated his face. The glow left deep furrows on the man's face, apparently caused by some kind of injury or illness, possibly a fire or chemical burn. "You look familiar," he said. The man didn't say anything. "What is your name?"
  
  "Ox," said the man. "Chris Wohl"
  
  It took several long moments, but finally Brad's face brightened. "I remember you," he said. "Sergeant of the Marine Corps. You are my father's friend."
  
  "I was never your father's friend," Vol said in a low voice, almost a whisper. "He was my commander. That's all".
  
  "Do you own the house I'm staying in?" Wol said nothing. "What's going on, sergeant?"
  
  "Senior sergeant," Vol said. "Resigned." He finished what he was doing on the smartphone, and his scarred face was plunged back into darkness.
  
  "How did you know those guys were in the house?"
  
  "Observation," Vol said.
  
  "Are you watching the house or me?" Wol said nothing. Brad was silent for a few moments, then said: "These guys look like Russians."
  
  "This is true".
  
  "Who are they?"
  
  "Former Federal Security Bureau agents working for a guy named Bruno Ilyanov," Wall said. "Ilyanov is an intelligence officer who officially holds the position of Deputy Air Force Attaché & # 233; in Washington with diplomatic powers. He reports directly to Gennady Gryzlov. Ilyanov was recently on the West Coast."
  
  "Gryzlov? Do you mean Russian President Gryzlov? Linked to the former President of Russia?"
  
  "His eldest son".
  
  "What do they want from me?"
  
  "We're not sure," Wall said, "but he's involved in some kind of campaign against the McLanahans. His agents broke into your father's crypt and stole his urn and other items inside."
  
  "What? When did this happen?"
  
  "Last Saturday morning."
  
  "Last Saturday! Why didn't anyone tell me?" Vol did not answer. "What about my aunts? Were they told?
  
  "No. We also keep them under surveillance. We think they are safe."
  
  "In safety? Safe, how am I? Those guys had guns and they broke into the house. They said they would kill me."
  
  "They tried to make it look like an accident, a drug overdose," Wall said. "They were careless. We discovered them a couple of days ago. We didn't find anyone near your sisters. They may not be aware of them, or they may not be targets."
  
  "Who are we'? Are you from the police? FBI? CIA?
  
  "No".
  
  Brad waited a few moments for some clarification, but never got it. "Who do you work for, Sergeant Major?"
  
  Wol took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Your father belonged to several...private organizations before he took over the Sky Masters," he said. "These organizations were doing contract work for the government and other organizations using some of the new technology and weapons systems developed for the military."
  
  "The tin lumberjack armor and cybernetic infantry device controlled the robots," Brad said matter-of-factly. Vol's head jerked up in surprise, and Brad felt rather than saw the big man's breathing slow to a stop. "I know about them. I was even trained at CID. I piloted one of them in Battle Mountain. Some Russians tried to kill my father. I crushed them in the car."
  
  "Damn," Wol muttered under his breath. "Did you pilot the CID?"
  
  "Of course I did," Brad said with a big smile.
  
  Vol shook his head. "You liked it, didn't you?"
  
  "They ransacked my house looking for my father," Brad said, a little defensively. "I would do it again if I had to." He was silent for a few moments, then added, "But yes, I did. CID is a hell of a piece of hardware. We have to build thousands of these."
  
  "The power penetrates you," Vol said. "Your father's friend - and mine - General Hal Briggs got drunk and it killed him. Your father ordered me to do... missions with the CID squads and the Tin Woodman and we were successful, but I could see how the power was affecting me, so I quit."
  
  "My father didn"t die in a criminal investigation robot."
  
  "I know exactly what happened in Guam," Wall said. "He neglected the safety of his unit and even his own son to strike back at the Chinese. Why? Because he had a bomber and weapons, and he decided to use them himself. It was just a pinprick..."
  
  "The Chinese surrendered immediately after the strike, didn"t they?"
  
  "Some Chinese military and civilian leaders organized a counter-underground a few days after the attack," Wol said. "It had nothing to do with your attack. It was a coincidence."
  
  "I guess you're an expert," Brad said. Wol shook his head but said nothing. "Who do you work for, Sergeant Major?" Brad repeated.
  
  "I'm not here to answer a bunch of questions, McLanahan," Wall snapped. "My orders were to intercept the strike team and keep you safe. That's all ".
  
  "I'm not leaving campus, Sergeant Major," Brad said. "I have a lot of work to do."
  
  "I don't give a shit," Vol said. "I have been ordered to protect you."
  
  "Orders? Whose orders? No answer. "If you're not going to answer, then I'll talk to your boss. But I can't leave school. I just began." Will remained silent. A few minutes later, Brad repeated, "How long did you work for my father?"
  
  "For a while," Vol said after a few moments. "And I didn"t work for him: I was under his command, his master sergeant."
  
  "You don't seem to be happy about it."
  
  Vol glanced in Brad's direction, then turned and looked out the window, and was silent for several long moments; then finally: "After... after your mother was killed, your father... changed," said the Ox in a low voice. "In all the years I've known him, he's always been a guy on a mission, tough and tough, but..." He took another deep breath before continuing, "But after your mother was killed, he became more evil and deadly. It was no longer about defending the nation or winning the conflict, but about ... killing, even killing or threatening the Americans, anyone who stood in the way of victory. The power he received seemed to go to his head, even after he quit Scion Aviation International and landed a corporate job at Sky Masters. I put up with it for a while, until I thought the situation was getting out of hand, and then I quit."
  
  "Quit? Why didn't you try to help him instead?"
  
  "He was my commander," Wol replied woodenly. "I don"t advise superior officers unless they ask for it themselves."
  
  "That's bullshit, Vol," said Brad. "If you saw that my father was in pain, you should have helped, and to hell with that senior officer shit. And I've never seen any of that other stuff. My father was a good father, a volunteer and a dedicated leader who loved his family, his community, his country and his company. He was not a killer."
  
  "You never saw it, because it protects you from all this," Vol said. "Next to you, he is a completely different guy. Besides, you were a typical kid - most of the time your head was up high and hidden in your ass."
  
  "You are full of enthusiasm, Sergeant Major," said Brad. He caught a glimpse of Vol's wrinkled face again in the headlights of an approaching truck. "What happened to your face?"
  
  "None of your business," Vol grumbled.
  
  "You've been spying on me for god knows how long and I can't ask you one lousy personal question?" Brad asked. "I think you've been in the Marines too long."
  
  Vol half turned to Brad, as if he was about to argue with him, but did not and turned back to the window. After a few moments, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "The American Holocaust," he finally said. "I assume you have heard of this?"
  
  "Sarcasm, sergeant major? It doesn't suit you and it's inappropriate. Tens of thousands were killed."
  
  "Your father planned and executed the American counterattack," Vol said, ignoring Brad's remark. "Waves of bombers have spread across much of western and central Russia, tracking down mobile intercontinental ballistic missiles. I was his junior officer in charge of Yakutsk, the Siberian airbase he commanded."
  
  It took a few seconds, but then Brad recognized the name of the airbase and his jaw dropped in surprise. "Oh shit," he breathed. "You mean... a base that was hit by Russian nuclear cruise missiles?"
  
  Vol did not react in any way, but again fell silent for a few moments. "Obviously I didn't get a lethal dose of radiation - I was wearing the Tin Woodman's battle armor - but I was exposed to the most radiation of anyone except General Briggs," he finally said. "Forty-seven survivors from that Russian underground shelter died of radiation-induced illnesses over the years. It just takes me a little longer."
  
  "Oh my God, Sergeant Major, I'm sorry," Brad said. "The pain must be terrible." Vol glanced at Brad, a little surprised to hear the sympathy coming from the young man, but he said nothing. "Perhaps this is what killed General Briggs. Perhaps the radiation made him take the risk. Maybe he knew he was dying and decided to go out and fight."
  
  "Now look who our expert is," Ox muttered.
  
  They followed Highway 101 north, occasionally turning onto side roads and turning back, looking for any signs of surveillance. Every few minutes when they found an overpass on the highway, they would stop and one of the men in the SUV would get out, carrying what looked like very large multi-lens binoculars. "What is he doing, sergeant major?" Brad asked.
  
  "Looking for aerial pursuers," Wol replied. "We know that the Russians use drones to spy on military bases and other secret installations over the United States, and Gryzlov was an officer in the Russian Air Force. He would definitely have such equipment. He uses infrared binoculars that can detect heat sources in the air or on the ground from miles away." A few minutes later, the man got back into the SUV and they continued on their way.
  
  About an hour after leaving San Luis Obispo, they turned onto an airport road outside of Paso Robles. The driver entered the code into the electronic lock, and the high mesh gate opened to let them into the airport grounds. They drove along quiet, dark taxiways, lit only by small blue lights at the edges, until they came to a large aircraft hangar, surrounded on three sides by another chain link fence, with only the parking lot entrance and taxiway open. This time, instead of a code, the driver pressed his thumb against the optical reader, and the lock opened with a soft buzz.
  
  The interior of the very large hangar was dominated by a gray General Atomics MQ-1B Predator remotely piloted aircraft parked on the left side of the hangar. The words "CUSTOMS AND BORDER GUARD" and the agency's shield were painted on the front of the plane, but it certainly didn't look like a government agency. Brad walked over to look at it, but a guy in jeans and a black T-shirt with a machine gun slung from a quick-release belt over his shoulder stepped between him and the Predator and crossed his arms in front of him, silently and unequivocally warning him to stay away.
  
  Brad returned to Chris Wall, who was talking to the men who were in his SUV and some others. In the twilight of the hangar, he could better see the deep scratches on Vol's face, as well as the skin damage on his neck and on both arms. "What is this place, Sergeant Major?" - he asked.
  
  "Somewhere in a safe place, for now," Vol answered.
  
  "Who are these-"
  
  "I'm not going to answer questions right now," Vol said hoarsely. "If you need to know anything else, they will tell you." He pointed to a cabinet along one of the walls next to the Predator. "There's coffee and water if you want. Don't go near the plane again." He turned away from Brad and spoke to the others again.
  
  Brad shook his head and decided to go see if they had anything to eat, regretting that he didn't take advantage of any of her suggestions - food or otherwise. He found a bottle of cold water in the refrigerator, but instead of drinking it, he put it on the side of his head to soften the blow where the Russian had hit him with a club. A few minutes later, he heard some aircraft outside the hangar approaching the area, sounding like it was moving very fast. Vol and the other men stopped talking and turned to the hangar door as the sounds of the aircraft outside became a little quieter as the engines were turned to idle. Just as Brad was about to go back to Vol and ask him what was going on, the light dimmed even more and the hangar's double doors began to open.
  
  After the door was fully opened, a small C-23C Sherpa twin-tail cargo plane taxied in. It had an American flag and civilian number N on its tail, but no other military markings, and was painted jet black instead of the usual grey. He taxied straight into the hangar, spinning his large turboprops, and Brad, Ox, and the others were forced to retreat as the plane was fully inside. Piloted by a linesman with a machine gun on his shoulder, he taxied forward until he was signaled to stop, and then the engines died out. The large double doors of the hangar began to motor close as the engines began to stall. The smell of jet engine exhaust was strong.
  
  A moment later, the passenger door on the left side of the aircraft outside the cockpit windows opened, and out emerged a large soldier-like guy in a suit and tie-and with a noticeable bulge of a weapon under his jacket-followed immediately by a shorter man in a suit but no a tie, with rather long gray hair and a neatly trimmed gray beard; at the same time, the cargo hatch/ramp at the rear of the aircraft began to be opened by the engine. Wol and the other men approached the second newcomer, and they all shook hands. They talked for a few moments, and then Vol nodded in Brad's direction, and the second newcomer approached him, unbuttoning his jacket.
  
  "Mr. Bradley James McLanahan," the newcomer said in a loud, dramatic, very political-sounding voice as he was still a few steps away from us. "It's been a long time. You probably don't remember me. I certainly wouldn't recognize you."
  
  "I don't remember you, sir, but I'm sure I recognize you: you are President Kevin Martindale," Brad said, not trying to hide his surprise and confusion. Martindale smiled broadly and looked pleased that Brad recognized him, and he held out his hand as he approached. Brad shook it. "Nice to meet you, sir, but now I'm even more confused."
  
  "I don't blame you one bit, son," the former president said. "Everything is happening fast and people are trying their best to keep up. Then this incident with you in San Luis Obispo surfaced and we had to respond." He glanced at the bruise on the side of Brad's head. "How is your head, son? You have a very nasty bruise there."
  
  "It's all right, sir."
  
  "Fine. I of course asked the sergeant major what we should do when we found the intrusion, and he said to extract you, I said yes, and he did. He's extremely effective at things like this."
  
  "I didn't see what he did, but I'm here, so I think he must be," said Brad. "If the sergeant major is working for you, sir, then could you tell me what's going on? He didn't tell me anything."
  
  "He wouldn't tell you if he had a car battery connected to his testicles, son," Martindale said. "Like any of the people in this hangar. I assume that I am in charge of this organization, but I do not actually manage it. He does."
  
  "He? He who?"
  
  "He," said Martindale, and pointed to the plane's cargo ramp as soon as it appeared. It was a cybernetic infantry device- a robotic robot designed for the US Army as a replacement for the standard infantry platoon on the battlefield, including the latter's mobility, versatility, and all of its firepower-but it was unlike any CID that Brad could remember. . This one somehow seemed sleeker, lighter, taller and more refined than the one Brad had flown a few years earlier. The twelve-plus-foot robot had a large torso that went from broad shoulders to a slightly thinner waist, slenderer hips, and rather thin-looking arms and legs attached to the torso. Sensors were installed, it seemed, everywhere - on the shoulders, waist and arms. The head was a hexagonal box with beveled sides and no eyes, just touchpads on each side. It seemed a little taller than the one Brad was piloting.
  
  The feeling of piloting a cybernetic infantry device was nothing like anything Brad had ever experienced before. He first obtained a digital map of his nervous system and loaded it into the robot's computerized control interface. Then he climbed into the robot through the back, lay flat on the rather cold, gelatinous conductive mat, and stuck his head into the helmet and oxygen mask. The hatch closed behind him, and everything was plunged into darkness, quickly causing a slight claustrophobia. But after a few moments, he could see again... along with the mountains of data received from the robot, the sensors were presented to him visually and inserted into his body's sensory system, so that he did not just read information from the screens, but images and data appeared in his mind, like memory or actual input from touch, sight and hearing. As he began to move, he found that he could run with amazing speed and agility, jump dozens of feet, smash walls, and flip over armored vehicles. An amazing array of weapons were attached to the robot, and it could control them all with breathtaking speed and pinpoint precision.
  
  "CID," Brad remarked. "He looks brand new. New design too."
  
  "This is the first instance of the new CID force model we plan to deploy," Martindale said.
  
  "Cool," said Brad. He waved to the robot. "Who is the pilot? Charlie Turlock? She taught me how to drive one of them a couple of years ago." To the CID he said, "Hi Charlie, how are you? Will you let me ride it?"
  
  TID walked up to Martindale and Bradley, his movements eerily human despite his size and robotic limbs, and said in an electronic humanoid voice, "Hello, son."
  
  It took Brad a few moments to realize that what he had just heard was true, and the realization dawned on him, but finally, Brad's eyes widened in surprise and shock, and he yelled, "Daddy?" He reached for the CID, not sure where to touch it. "Oh my God, dad, is that you? You are alive? You are alive! "
  
  "Yes, son," said Patrick McLanahan. Brad still couldn't figure out where to touch the robot, so he had to content himself with holding on to his own stomach. He began to sob. "It's all right, Bradley," Patrick finally said, reaching out and hugging his son. "Oh my God, it's so good to see you again."
  
  "But I don't get it, dad," Brad said after a few long moments in his father's arms. "They...they told me that you...died from your injuries..."
  
  "I really died, son," Patrick said in an electronically synthesized voice. "When they pulled me out of the B-1 bomber in Guam after you landed the B-1, I was clinically dead and everyone knew it and the word was going around. But after you and the other crew members were evacuated to Hawaii, they loaded me into an ambulance and started resuscitation, and I came back."
  
  "They...they wouldn't let me stay with you daddy," Brad said between sobs. "I tried to stay with you, but they wouldn't let me. I'm sorry dad, I'm so sorry, I should have demanded-"
  
  "It's all right, son," Patrick said. "All the victims had to wait for evaluation and triage, and I was just another victim out of hundreds that day. The victims were taken care of by local doctors and volunteers, while the military and contractors were taken away. They kept me alive for a day and a half in a small clinic outside the base, parked away from everything. The first people to come to the rescue were the locals, and they didn't know who I was. They took me to another small clinic in Agana and saved my life."
  
  "But how...?"
  
  "President Martindale found me a couple of days after the attack," Patrick said. "The Heavenly Masters were still able to track me through the subcutaneous data link. Martindale tracked all activities of Sky Masters Inc. in the South China Sea region and flew the aircraft to Andersen Air Force Base to collect intelligence and information about the attack. Eventually they found me and smuggled me out to the States."
  
  "But why CID, dad?"
  
  "It was Jason Richter's idea," Martindale said. "I take it you met Colonel Richter at Battle Mountain?"
  
  "Yes, sir. He helped me with programming so I could test myself in CID piloting. He is now Head of Operations at Sky Masters Aerospace."
  
  "Your father was in critical condition and didn't expect him to survive the flight back to Hawaii," Martindale said. My plane that evacuated him had very few medical personnel and no surgical equipment or trauma care facilities... but there was an infantry cybernetic device on board that assisted in the Guam rescue. Jason said that CID can help the victim breathe and control other bodily functions until he gets to the hospital. Richter didn't know your father was the victim."
  
  "Then...then are you all right, dad?" - Asked Brad, at first delighted. But he quickly realized that his father was far, far from being okay, otherwise he wouldn't still be on board the CID with his only son standing in front of him. "Dad...?"
  
  "I'm afraid not, son," Patrick said. "I can't survive without a criminal investigation."
  
  "What?"
  
  "I might have survived Brad, but I would definitely be on CPR and heartbeat and probably in a vegetative state," Patrick said. Brad's eyes filled with tears and his mouth dropped open in shock. Both of the robot's arms reached out and rested on Brad's shoulders, his touch light, even gentle despite his size. "I didn't mean it, Brad. I didn't want to be a burden on my family for years, maybe decades, until they had the technology to heal me, or until I died. Inside the CID, I was awake, functional, up and moving. Outside, I'd be in a coma, on life support. When I was inside CID and came to my senses, I had a choice: stay on life support, pull the plug, or stay in CID. I decided that I would rather stay inside where I could be of some use."
  
  "You... are you going to stay inside... forever... ? "
  
  "I'm afraid so, son," Patrick said, "until we have a chance to heal all the injuries I've received." Tears rolled down Brad's face even more. "Brad, it's all right," Patrick said, and his soft, reassuring tone was evident even in the robot's electronic voice. "I should have been dead, son - I was dead. I have been given an extraordinary gift. It may not seem like life, but it is. I want you to be happy for me."
  
  "But I can"t... can"t see you?" Brad reached out and touched the robot's face. "I can"t touch you for real...for real?"
  
  "Trust me son, I can feel your touch," Patrick said. "I'm sorry you can't feel mine except cold composites. But the alternatives were unacceptable to me. I'm not ready to die yet, Brad. It may seem unnatural and unholy, but I am still alive and I think I can make a difference."
  
  "What about the memorial service... Urns... death certificates...?"
  
  "This is my doing, Brad," said President Martindale. "As your father said, he was dead for a short time, in critical condition, and did not expect to live. No one, except Richter, thought that the placement of a wounded person in the criminal investigation department would last a maximum of several days. As soon as we got back to the States, we tried several times to get him off CID so we could get him into surgery. Every time we tried, he got arrested. It was... as if his body didn't want to leave it."
  
  "I was in a bit of a quandary too, Brad," Patrick said. "I have seen the photos. There is little left of me."
  
  "So what do you want to say? Are you being healed by CID? How can this work?
  
  "Not healed, but rather... sustained, Brad," Patrick said. "CID can control my body and brain, deliver oxygen, water and nutrients, process waste and control the internal environment. It can't fix me. Maybe with time I will get better, but no one knows. But I don't need a healthy body to pilot a CID or use its weapons."
  
  Brad understood what his father was talking about and it sent goosebumps down his spine and his face contorted in disbelief, despite the joy he felt in talking to his father again. "You mean... you mean you"re just a brain... a brain driving a machine...?"
  
  "I'm alive, Brad," Patrick said. "It's not just the brain driving the car." He tapped his armored chest with a compound finger. "It's me here. This is your father. The body is a mess, but it's still me. I'm driving this car, just like you were driving back in Battle Mountain. The only difference is that I can't just get off when I want to. I can't go out and be an ordinary father. This part of my life was destroyed by shells from the cannon of that Chinese fighter. But I'm still me. I don't want to die. I want to keep working to protect our country. If I have to do it from inside this thing, I will. If my son can't touch me, can't see my face anymore, then that's the punishment I get for accepting life. It is a gift and a punishment that I gladly accept."
  
  Brad's brain was thinking frantically, but gradually he began to understand. "I think I understand, dad," he said after a long silence. "I'm happy you're alive." He turned to face Martindale. "I don't understand you, Martindale. How could you not tell me that he was alive even though he was in CID?"
  
  "I run a private organization that does high-tech intelligence, counterintelligence, surveillance and other high-risk operations, Brad," Martindale said. He noticed Chris Wall making a move towards Brad and shook his head, warning him to back off. "I am always looking for personnel, equipment and weapons to do our job better."
  
  "You're talking about my father, not some fucking piece of iron, sir," snapped Brad. Martindale's mouth dropped open in surprise at Brad's remark, and Ox looked angry enough to bite off a piece of a cargo plane's propeller. Brad noticed something he hadn't noticed before: two strands of gray hair curled over Martindale's forehead above each eye, resembling inverted devil horns. "You start talking like some crazy scientist Dr. Frankenstein."
  
  "I'm sorry, Brad," Martindale said. "Like I said, all the doctors we spoke to didn't expect your father to live. I really didn't know what to say to the White House, to you, to your aunts... what the hell to say to the whole world. So I made an offer to President Phoenix: We don't tell anyone that your father was still alive in CID. We had a memorial service in Sacramento. When your father passed away, which we sincerely believed was inevitable, we would truly return his remains and the legend of Patrick McLanahan would finally be put to rest." Martindale looked at the infantry cybernetic device beside him. "But as you can see now, he didn't die. Once again, he managed to shock and surprise the hell out of us. But what could we do? We have already buried him. We had a choice: to tell the world that he is alive, but lives inside the CID, or not to tell anyone. We have chosen the latter."
  
  "So why tell me now?" Brad asked, his head still spinning. "I believed my father was dead. You could have left him dead and I could remember him the way he was before the attack."
  
  "Several reasons," Martindale said. "First the Russians stole your father"s cremation urn and we have to assume they opened it and found it empty - we never dreamed that anyone would ever steal it and we thought it would take a little time before it's needed, so unfortunately we didn't put anyone's remains in it. We thought that the Russians could use this fact to put pressure on President Phoenix or even make the fact public, and then he would be forced to react."
  
  "You know what they say about guessing," Brad said scathingly.
  
  Patrick put an armored hand on Brad's shoulder. "Calm down, son," the electronic voice said softly. "I know this is a lot to think about, but you still need to show a little respect."
  
  "I'll try, dad, but right now it's a little difficult," Brad said bitterly. "And secondly?"
  
  "The Russians have come for you," Patrick said. "That was the last straw for me. I was at the facility in Utah when it all happened and I asked to be with you."
  
  "An object?"
  
  "Vault," said Patrick.
  
  "Storage?"
  
  "We can talk more on the plane on the way back to St. George," said Kevin Martindale. "Let's load up and-"
  
  "I can't get out of here, sir," Brad said. "I am finishing my freshman year at Cal Poly and I just made a pitch for a summer lab project that could win a big grant from Sky Masters Aerospace for the engineering department. I can't just leave. I lead a large team of researchers and developers and they all count on me."
  
  "I understand, Brad, but if you go back to San Luis Obispo and Cal Poly, you'll be too vulnerable," Martindale said. "We cannot risk your safety."
  
  "I appreciate the master sergeant getting me out of there, sir," Brad said, "but-"
  
  "I asked to be pulled out, son," Patrick interrupted. "I know this will completely ruin your life, but we just don't know how many Russian agents are or could be involved. Gryzlov is as crazy as his father, and he could send dozens of strike teams. I'm sorry. We'll put you in protective custody, give you a new identity, send you somewhere to finish your education, and...
  
  "No way, dad," said Brad. "We have to come up with another way. If you don"t tie me up and throw me in the back seat of your cool cargo plane, I"ll be back even if I have to hitchhike."
  
  "I'm afraid that's not possible, Brad," Patrick said. "I cannot allow this. It's too dangerous. I need you to-"
  
  "I'm an adult now, dad," Brad interrupted, finding it a little funny to argue with the twelve-foot robot. "If you do not take away my constitutional rights by force, I am free to do whatever I want. Besides, I'm not afraid. Now that I know what's going on - at least a little more than what I knew just a couple of hours ago - I'll be more careful."
  
  Kevin Martindale leaned over to Patrick and said, "Sounds like a damn McLanahan to me, that's right," he commented with a smile. "What are you going to do now, General? It looks like an immovable object collided with an irresistible force."
  
  Patrick remained silent for several long moments. Finally: "Senior sergeant?"
  
  "Sir?" The ox answered immediately.
  
  "Meet with Bradley and your team and come up with a solution to this dilemma," Patrick said. "I want to know the risks and your assessments on how to reduce or mitigate these risks to Bradley's personality if he returns to this campus. Report back to me as soon as possible."
  
  "Yes, sir," Vol replied, taking out his cell phone and getting to work.
  
  "Brad, you will not be returning to school until this is settled to my satisfaction, and if necessary, to secure your consent, I will tie you up and throw you in the hold - and it will not be the compartment of that plane, but a much smaller one," Patrick continued. "I'm sorry, son, but that's the way it will be. Looks like we're staying here for the foreseeable future." He paused, silently reviewing the information on his on-board computer displays. "There's a motel with a restaurant not far from here, Sergeant Major," he said. "They show a lot of vacancies. I'll ask Kylie to book rooms for you and send you information. Stay there overnight, and in the morning we'll work out a game plan. Ask one of the men to bring some food for Bradley, please."
  
  "Yes, sir," Wol replied, turned and left.
  
  "But what are you going to do, dad?" Brad asked. "You can't check into a motel."
  
  "I'll be safe enough here," Patrick said. "I don't need hotel beds or restaurants anymore, that's for sure."
  
  "Then I'll stay here with you," Brad said. The LED was still and silent. "I'm staying here with you," Brad insisted.
  
  "The McLanahans are getting reacquainted," Martindale said. "Lovely." He pulled out his smartphone and read on the display. "My plane is landing. As soon as he taxis, I will return to St. George and, for a change, sleep in my bed. You can work out the details of what to do with the younger McLanahan, General." He paused and everyone fell silent, and of course they could hear the sound of an approaching jet outside the hangar. "My car has arrived. I wish you gentlemen all the best. Keep me posted, General."
  
  "Yes, sir," Patrick's electronically synthesized voice replied.
  
  "Good night everyone," said Martindale, turning on his heels and leaving, followed by his guards.
  
  Patrick spoke into the air over the CID's extensive communications system, "Kylie?"
  
  A few moments later, "Yes, sir?" answered "Kylie", an electronic personal assistant with automatic voice recognition, who was given the same name as Patrick's real-life assistant at Sky Masters Inc.
  
  "We need two rooms at a motel or hotel nearby for the night and maybe three more for tomorrow and the day after for Sergeant Major's team," Patrick said. "I will stay here for the night; The 'policeman' is heading back to headquarters." "Cop" was the code name for President Martindale.
  
  "Yes sir," Kylie replied. "I have already received the updated 'Cop' itinerary. I will send the deployment information to Sergeant Major immediately."
  
  "Thank you," Patrick said. "Won." To Brad, he said, "Pull a chair, son. I can't wait to get into it." Brad found bottles of water in a small refrigerator. The policeman pulled a thick extension cord from his belt pocket, plugged it into a 220-volt outlet, straightened up, then froze in place. Brad brought a chair and water to CID. Inside the robot, Patrick couldn't help but smile at his son's expression. "Quite strange, isn't it, Brad?" - he said.
  
  "'Weird' doesn't even come close to describing it, Dad," Brad said, shaking his head, then he put the cold bottle to the swelling bruise on his head. He carefully studied the criminal investigation department. "Do you sleep well there?"
  
  "Mostly I sleep. I don't need much sleep. It's the same with food." He reached into another armored compartment at his belt and pulled out a curved container that looked like a large flask. "Concentrated nutrients are pouring into me. The CID is testing my blood and adjusting my nutrient composition." Brad just sat there, shaking his head slightly. "Come on, ask me anything, Brad," Patrick finally said.
  
  "What did you do?" Brad asked after a few moments to clear his floating mind. "I mean, what does President Martindale tell you to do?"
  
  "Most of the time I train with Chris Wall and other direct action teams using a variety of weapons and gadgets," said Patrick. "They also use my computers and sensors to plan possible missions and conduct surveillance." He paused for a moment, then said in a very obviously grim tone, "But basically I'm standing in the vault, connected to power, medicines, waste disposal and data, scanning sensor feeds and the Internet, interacting with the world... sort of. Digitally."
  
  "Are you staying in the storage room?"
  
  "I don't have much reason to be walking around here, unless we're on training or on a mission," Patrick said. "I scare people enough already, I think."
  
  "No one is talking to you?"
  
  "During training or operations, of course," Patrick said. "I collect reports of what I see and send them to Martindale and we could discuss them. I can IM and teleconference with just about anyone."
  
  "No, I mean...just talk to you like we're doing now," Brad said. "You are still you. You are Patrick McLanahan."
  
  Another pause; then, "I've never been a big talker, son," he finally said. Brad didn't like that answer, but he didn't say anything. "Besides, I didn"t want anyone to know that it was me from the criminal investigation department. They think he's unoccupied when he's in the warehouse and that a bunch of pilots show up to practice with him. They do not know that he is busy twenty-four hours a day / seven minutes." He saw an expression of absolute sadness on his son's face and desperately wanted to hug him.
  
  "Isn"t it becoming... do you know what the rank is?" Brad asked.
  
  "If so, I can't detect it," Patrick said. "But they periodically transfer me to another criminal investigation department."
  
  "They make? So you can exist outside of CID?"
  
  "For very short periods of time, yes," Patrick said. "They change bandages, give me medication if I need it, check things like muscle tone and bone density, then put me in a clean robot."
  
  "So that I can see you again!"
  
  "Brad, I don't think you'd like to see me," Patrick said. "I was pretty exhausted sitting in the gusts of wind from this downed B-1 bomber for so long. By the way, thanks for getting us back safe and sound."
  
  "You're welcome. But I would still like to see you."
  
  "We'll talk about it when the time is right," Patrick said. "They give me a couple of days' notice. I'm on life support while I'm outside."
  
  Brad looked even more dejected than before. "What is all this for, dad?" he asked after a long silence. "You"re going to be some kind of high-tech killing machine like Sergeant Major said you"ve become?"
  
  "A sergeant major can sometimes be a drama queen," Patrick said. "Brad, I realized the importance of the gift of life because it was almost taken from me. I know how precious life is right now. But I also want to protect our country, and right now I have an exceptional ability to do so."
  
  "And then what?"
  
  For a moment, Brad thought he saw his father shrug his huge, armored shoulders. "Honestly, I don't know," Patrick said. "But President Martindale was involved in the creation of many of the secret organizations that have protected and promoted American foreign and military policy for decades."
  
  "Is there anything you can tell me about?" Brad asked.
  
  Patrick thought for a moment, then nodded. "You've seen the Predator with the Customs and Border Protection shield on it, but I think you've noticed that the guards and other personnel here are not from CBP. This is one way to keep an eye on the territory of the United States, but maintain complete denial. This gives the White House and the Pentagon a lot of wiggle room."
  
  "Sounds fucking illegal, dad."
  
  "That may be true, but we are also doing a lot of great work that I feel has kept the world out of war several times," Patrick said. "President Martindale and I were involved in a defense contracting company called Scion Aviation International, providing aerial surveillance contract services and ultimately attacking the US military. When I joined the Sky Masters, I lost track of what Scion was doing, but now I know he kept the job going. He does a lot of anti-terror surveillance work around the world under contract with the US government."
  
  "Martindale is starting to piss me off, dad," said Brad. "He's a cross between a greasy politician and a generalissimo."
  
  "He's the kind of guy who thinks outside the box and gets the job done-he always ends up justifying the means," Patrick said. "As Vice President of the United States, Martindale was the driving force behind the use of experimental high-tech aircraft and weapons being developed at secret test sites in Dreamland and elsewhere in what he called "operational test flights," and as President of the United States, he created the Agency intelligence support that covertly supported the CIA and other agencies in operations around the world, including inside the United States."
  
  "Again, dad, that sounds completely illegal."
  
  "Today, perhaps," Patrick replied. "During the Cold War, politicians and commanders looked for ways to accomplish a mission without violating the law or the Constitution. The law prohibited the CIA from operating on US soil, but civilian surveillance and intelligence support groups were not illegal. Their definition, identity and purpose have been intentionally blurred."
  
  "So what do you want to do, dad?" Brad asked.
  
  "I have been given something I will never be able to repay: the gift of life," said Patrick. "I owe something to President Martindale for giving me this gift. I'm not saying I'm going to be his hired gun from now on, but I'm willing to follow that path to see where it takes me." Brad had a very worried expression on his face. "Lets change theme. One of the things that I follow every day is you, at least your digital life, which is quite extensive these days. I can access your social media sites and I can access some security cameras on campus as well as security cameras at your home and at the airport in an aircraft hangar. I didn't take my eyes off you. You haven't flown that much or done anything other than schoolwork. I see you're busy with Project Starfire."
  
  "We told Dr. Nukaga about this this afternoon," Brad said. It was nice to see him perk up when he started talking about school, Patrick thought. "Before I get it into his head that this is a covert military project, which it is not, I think we have a good chance. One of our team leaders, Jung Bae Kim, gets along really well with Nukaga. He may be our ace up our sleeve."
  
  "Your entire team is pretty remarkable," Patrick said. "Lane Egan's parents are world-class explorers and he is probably smarter than both of them put together. Jodie Cavendish was a superstar who studied science at a high school in Australia. She received a dozen patents before she completed her freshman year of college."
  
  Brad's face fell again. "I guess you have a lot of time to surf the Internet, don't you dad?" he remarked in a low, sad tone.
  
  This time, Patrick disconnected from the network, walked over to his son, wrapped his armored arms around him and held him close. "I don't want you to feel sorry for me, Brad," he said after several long moments. "I don't want you to feel sorry for me." He returned to his seat, connected to the network, then straightened up and froze. "Please do not. As I said, I feel a strong connection with you because I can watch you and check you online. I even tweeted you a couple of times."
  
  As if a flashbulb went off, Brad's face lit up with astonishment. "Do you have? Who are you? What is your Twitter name?"
  
  "I don't have it. I am invisible."
  
  "Invisible?"
  
  "Not visible to the user or other visitors." Brad looked skeptical. "I have the ability to track someone's social media accounts without being 'friended', Brad. Many government agencies and even companies have this capability. I search posts by keywords and leave messages for you. Sometimes it's just 'like' or a word or two. I just love following you. I am content to just watch and read."
  
  Despite his son's initial anxiety at the thought of unknown individuals, companies, or government agencies having access to his social media posts, Patrick thought it was the happiest sight of Brad since he left the Sherpa. "You know what, dad? I always had a feeling, not very strong, but just somewhere deep down in my soul, that you were watching me. I thought it was something religious or spiritual, like it was your ghost, or you were in heaven, or something like that. That's how I feel about my mom too."
  
  "You were right. I've been watching you... even talking to you digitally. And I think mom is looking after us too."
  
  "Crap. I guess trust your feelings," Brad said, shaking his head in disbelief.
  
  "Let's talk about Cal Poly."
  
  "I have to go back, dad," said Brad. "I'm coming back. Starfire is too big a deal. If you've been eyeing me, you know how important this is."
  
  "I know you've been really hard at work on this," Patrick said. "But I won't let you come back until I'm sure you're safe. The house you were in is closing - it's just too isolated."
  
  "Then I will live in a hostel and eat in canteens," Brad said. "They are pretty crowded. I don"t know how much work I can do there, but I have 24/7 access to the Reinhold Aerospace Engineering Building - I can work there."
  
  "If anyone can think of a way to get you back there safe and sound, it's Chris Wohl," Patrick said. "So how did you choose Cal Poly?"
  
  "The best aerospace engineering school on the West Coast that I could get into with my grades," said Brad. "I think too much football, civil air patrol and charity flying Angel Flight West in high school really affected my grades." He paused for a moment, then asked, "So it's no coincidence that the rancherita was available when I was looking for a place to live? Does this really belong to the sergeant major?"
  
  "It belongs to Scion Aviation," Patrick said. "I felt that it was easier to look after you there than in the dorm. So do you really like Cal Poly?"
  
  "California Polytechnic is a great school, I like most of my professors and it's within P210 range so I can fly to Battle Mountain to visit Sondra Eddington when I can."
  
  "You two got along pretty well, didn"t you?"
  
  "Yeah, but it's hard to move forward," Brad said. "She is always away, and I have almost no free time."
  
  "Still want to be a test pilot?"
  
  "I bet I do, dad," Brad said. "I have always kept in touch with Boomer, Gonzo, Dr. Richter and Dr. Kaddiri of the Sky Masters and Colonel Hoffman of the Warbirds. They might be able to get me an internship at the Nevada Test Pilot School between junior and senior years if I keep my grades high, and maybe Sky Masters even sponsor me for a class spot like the Warbirds do. Forever with Sondra's training in spaceplane piloting at Sky Masters."Warbirds Forever" was the aircraft maintenance center at Steed Airport in Reno, Nevada, where they also trained civilian pilots on a wide variety of aircraft, from old classic biplanes, multi-million dollar bizjets and military aircraft to retired; Sondra Eddington was one of their instructor pilots. "One and a half million dollars for a master's degree and accreditation as a test pilot. Ultimately, I also want to launch spaceplanes into orbit. Maybe Sondra will be my instructor."
  
  "Congratulations. I think you are on the right track."
  
  "Thank you dad". Brad paused, looked CID up and down and smiled. "It's great to be able to talk to you again, Dad," he said at last. "I think I'm starting to get used to the fact that you're locked inside a car."
  
  "I knew it would be hard for you at first, and maybe later too," Patrick said. "I thought about not getting out of the Sherpa or telling you it was me, just so you would be spared the pain it caused. President Martindale and I talked about it and he said he would play it the way I wanted. I'm glad I told you and I'm glad you're starting to get used to it."
  
  "I have a feeling that you are not really there," Brad said. "You say you are my father, but how should I know?"
  
  "Do you want to test me?" Patrick asked. "Continue".
  
  "OK. You kept cooking something for me for dinner that was easy for you and healthy for me."
  
  "Macaroni and cheese and sliced fried hot dogs," Patrick immediately said. "You especially liked the MRE version."
  
  "Mother?"
  
  "You scattered her ashes in the sea near Coronado," Patrick said. "It was amazing: the ashes shone like silver, and it seemed that he never touched the water. They went up, not down."
  
  "I remember that day," Brad said. "The guys with us were sad, but you didn"t seem that sad."
  
  "I know," Patrick said. "I believed that as a commander, I should not show sadness, fear, weakness or sadness, even towards my own wife. It was wrong. I always thought you never noticed. Obviously you did." After a moment's hesitation, he added, "I'm sorry, son. Your mother was an extraordinary woman. I never told you the story of what she did. I regret it too. I will make amends to you."
  
  "That would be cool, dad." Brad pointed over his shoulder at a C-23C Sherpa. "Is this your plane?"
  
  "One of many in President Martindale's collection," said Patrick. "Surplus US Air Force in Europe. This is the smallest cargo plane I can fit into. He has a Boeing 737-800 cargo plane for overseas travel. He paints them all black, despite how dangerous and illegal it is, and how much it messes with the aircraft's environmental control systems. He's been like this since I've known him: everything is a means of control and intimidation, even the color of the paint on an airplane, and don't care about the mechanical, social or political consequences."
  
  "Are you ever going to tell Aunt Nancy and Aunt Margaret?" Brad asked.
  
  "I will never say never, Brad, but right now I want my existence to be a secret," Patrick said. "You can't tell anyone either. Only President Martindale, President Phoenix, Chris Wall and a handful of others know. Not even Dr. Kaddiri and Dr. Richter of Sky Masters know, and their company is the main contractor for the creation of cybernetic devices for the infantry. For everyone else, I'm just a callsign.
  
  "What is this?"
  
  There was a short pause, then Patrick replied: " 'Resurrection'. "
  
  "We think it can be done, sir," Chris Wall said as he and his men entered the hangar early the next morning. He placed the bag of breakfast sandwiches on the table in the conference room where Brad slept.
  
  Brad woke up instantly and followed Vol and his men to the main hangar, where the CID was stationed. "Did you come up with a plan that quickly?" he noticed. "It's not even six in the morning yet."
  
  "The General said as soon as possible," Vol said matter-of-factly. "We worked all night." Speaking to CID Patrick, he said, "Sir, we have uploaded maps of the campus and surrounding area and have received information about the campus security police unit, the city police, the San Luis Obispo County Sheriff"s Department, the California Highway Patrol, and federal law enforcement agencies based in in and around San Luis Obispo. All agencies are very well staffed and trained. The campus police have an extensive CCTV system-virtually every door and hallway in the academic and administration buildings, almost every street corner, and every outside doorway in every other campus building is camera-equipped and recorded. Major crimes on campus don't seem to be a big problem.
  
  "There are approximately nineteen thousand students on campus," he continued. "Students are mostly from California, mostly white, Hispanic and Asian; only two percent of students are from other countries, and only fifteen percent of foreign students are from Eastern Europe. The county is rural and hilly and does not appear to have a significant gang presence, although there are numerous reports of rural meth labs and marijuana farms being quickly shut down by county, state, and federal agencies that appear to be working closely with each other. with a friend.
  
  "Problems: Access to the campus and most buildings is not generally controlled, although campus buildings, laboratories and classrooms can be remotely locked using campus electronic security; and emergency communication via text messages is excellent," Vol continued. "However, since access is not controlled, it would be easy for my team to infiltrate the campus if necessary. Identifying an intruder or surveillance among all students would be difficult, and training in counter-surveillance tactics must be required in order for Bradley to be able to identify the shadow. Guns are not allowed on campus, and concealed carry firearm permits are nearly impossible to obtain in this county, or the entire state, for that matter, but there have been a large number of reports of armed students. A 'cop' could help get a concealed firearm permit. The county jail is less than two miles to the south, and the California Men's Colony, a minimum and medium security state prison, is less than three miles to the northwest. San Luis Obispo Regional Airport is four point two tenths of a mile to the south.
  
  "My recommendation, sir, based on our preliminary analysis, would be for your son to return to campus as soon as possible, but not to the dorms," Vol concluded. "We would recommend that he move to an apartment complex known as Poly Canyon. It's more like an apartment building complex, it has fewer students, it's further away from the main campus, each building has its own full-time manager and full-time security team, and student assistants rotate on each floor- residents, so it looks like a lot of people are looking both ways around the clock. seven. We estimate that he would have had a moderate to good chance of surviving if he had been properly trained in counter-surveillance, self-defense and gun handling and carried a firearm."
  
  "I would love to do all this!" Brad exclaimed. "When do I start?"
  
  SID remained motionless for several long moments, but finally moved his head. "Excellent report, Sergeant Major," Patrick said. "Thank you".
  
  "Not at all, sir."
  
  "Set up a workout schedule for Bradley at your local gym or similar," Patrick said. "I believe Chief Ratel is still in the area. Get to work as soon as possible. I'll contact "Cop" and ask him to work on legal permits for concealed carry and entry into Pauly Canyon. Train Brad on how to use the weapon and carry it anyway until we get a legal unrestricted concealed carry permit."
  
  "Yes, sir," Wol replied, turning and walking into the conference room with his teammates.
  
  "Kylie". Patrick spoke into his com system.
  
  "Yes, sir?" answered the computerized assistant.
  
  "I urgently need a summer and year-round residence at the Poly Canyon student residence at Cal Poly, San Luis Obispo campus for Bradley McLanahan," he said. "I also need a Nationwide Concealed Carry Bradley Permit, including a permit to carry on college campuses. Report this request to headquarters and to the 'Policeman' - he may need help in overcoming any bureaucratic or political obstacles.
  
  "Yes, sir".
  
  "I'm still not entirely comfortable with this, Brad," Patrick said, disconnecting from his electronic assistant, "but if we can get you to Poly Canyon and the staff sergeant can train you, I'll feel better. I hope the Russians don't bother you or your aunts after meeting Sergeant Major Vol, but we assume they will come back and try again after they regroup and hunt you down, so we'll do our best to keep you safe and stayed at school. I'm sure Gryzlov will send more teams after you as soon as you show up, so we don't have much time to train you, and Chris and his team won't always be available to look after you, so it's important to complete the training as soon as possible. ".
  
  "Thank you, dad," said Brad. He approached CID and hugged him - thinking of the big robot as his father was getting easier every minute. "It would be great. I will work really hard on this, I promise. One of my team leaders lives in Poly Canyon and if Sondra hasn't come home yet, I would definitely want to be with her."
  
  "Just remember to keep your eyes and ears open and listen to that little voice in the back of your head that told you that your father was watching you," Patrick said. "It will warn you of danger."
  
  "I'll do it, dad."
  
  "Fine. Speak to the sergeant major and arrange for him to take you to a hotel in the city until we find you a room on campus. You probably also need to clear up your story and talk to the police about what happened at the ranch. I'm returning to St. George's tonight."
  
  "Back to the vault?"
  
  "Where I can test my goals and get bogged down again," Patrick said. "I'll be in touch, Brad. I love you son."
  
  "I love you too, dad," said Brad. He hugged CID one more time, then went to the conference room and found Chris Wall. "Thank you for putting this report together so quickly, Sergeant Major," he said. "I had no idea the campus was so safe."
  
  "It's not," Vol said, "at least not for you against Russian assassins."
  
  Brad's smile disappeared. "What to say?" he asked with a stunned expression.
  
  "Think about it, McLanahan: nineteen thousand students, probably another five thousand faculty and staff, crammed into less than three square miles," Wall said. "Anyone can come and go 24/7 anywhere on campus they please. There is only one sworn campus police officer for every thousand students per shift, and they don't carry heavy weapons or SWAT training. You have completed all your freshman courses, so your class sizes will be smaller from now on, but you will still be attending classes and labs with dozens of kids."
  
  "Then why did you advise me to return?"
  
  "Because I think your father cares too much about you - he would be very happy to just lock you up, put you in a nice safe box like him, and give you access to the world via the Internet," Vol said. "He wouldn"t care how unhappy you were, because in his mind you would be safe from the dangerous world in which he lived and fought for almost his entire life."
  
  "So what do you care what my father wants to do to me, Sergeant Major?" Brad asked. "I don't know you and you don't know me. You said you weren't my father's friend. Why do you care?
  
  The ox ignored the question. "The information I gave was accurate: it is a relatively safe campus and city," he said instead. "With some preparation, danger can be dealt with, perhaps even minimized." He grinned broadly at Brad, who still looked rather wicked, and added, "Besides, now me and my people have you, and we got the go-ahead to develop a training program to get your ass in shape and learn the right way to look at the world. Every day, an hour a day."
  
  "Every day? I can't train every day. I have..."
  
  "Every day, McLanahan," Vol said. "You will train every day, rain or shine, sick or well, exams or dates, or I will send you back to your father and he will gladly ban you in the red rocks of southern Utah. You will be doing weights and cardio for physical fitness; cane-Ja and Krav Maga for self-defense; as well as to conduct classes and demonstrations of methods of observation, counter-surveillance, investigation, observation and identification." He faked that evil smile again, then added, "Did you think Second Animal at the Air Force Academy was cool? You haven't seen anything yet, bubba. Vol's smile faded and a thoughtful expression appeared on his face. "The first thing we need to do is give you your call sign," he said.
  
  "Call sign? Why do I need a callsign?"
  
  "Because I'm tired of calling you 'McLanahan' - too many syllables," Wall said. "Besides, McLanahan is definitely your father until he loses his temper, and I don't think it will be for a very long time." He looked at his teammates who were with him in the conference room, all three were tall, square-jawed and heavily muscled, the Hollywood version of the Navy SEAL that Brad thought they probably once were . "What do you guys think?"
  
  "Pussy," one said. He was the largest of the three, over six feet tall and weighing over two hundred pounds, with a thick neck, broad shoulders, tapering to a thin waist, widening again to thick thighs and calves, then tapering again to thin ankles. He looked like a professional bodybuilder, Brad thought. "Better yet, just give it to the chief. He will chew it up and spit it out, the general will send it to St. George, and then we will not have to mess with him.
  
  "Flex, we have a job to do," Wall said. "Keep your opinion to yourself. Dice?"
  
  "Kolobok".
  
  "Crazy," said a third.
  
  "Be nice to the young man," Vol said, putting on that malevolent smile again. "He had a very traumatic experience, and besides that, he is a hardworking engineering student."
  
  "Smart guy, huh?" asked the one called Dice. "My kid used to watch a brainless cartoon on TV called Dexter's Laboratory where this really smart kid gets beat up all the time by his dumb sister. Let's call him 'Dexter'. "
  
  "I still like 'Doughboy' more," said a third.
  
  "This is Dexter," Vol announced.
  
  "That's a lousy callsign," Brad said. "I will choose myself."
  
  "Dexter, the callsigns are well-deserved and are chosen by your teammates, not by yourself," Vol said. "You haven't earned anything yet. But callsigns can change, both for the worse and for the better. Work hard and maybe we'll give you something better."
  
  "What is your call sign?"
  
  "For you it is 'sir' or 'master sergeant'" " said Ox, looking at Bradley with grave menace. "You'd better get it right the first time." In turn, he said to his men: "Dice, find us a safe hotel to stay in San Luis Obispo, close to campus Flex, contact Chief Ratel and ask if he can set up a martial arts, counter-surveillance and firearms training program for us as soon as possible." To Brad, he said: "Let's see how you shoot."
  
  "Shooting hand? I don't have a hand to shoot."
  
  "Then what hand do you pick your nose with, Dexter? Come on, we don't have the whole day ahead of us." The ox grabbed Brad's right wrist, and Brad opened his hand. "God, tiny hands, just like your father. That"s probably why he went to the Air Force-he didn"t have big enough hands to hold even a damn girl"s gun." He raised his hand so that the third team member could see Brad's hand. "Rattlesnake"?
  
  "Smith & Wesson M and .40 caliber," said a third member of the team in a low, growling voice. "Or a rifle pistol."
  
  "That's forty calometers," Vol said. "Get on with it." The three team members took out their mobile phones and got to work. "And lastly, Dexter."
  
  "I already hate this callsign," said Brad.
  
  "I already hate that call sign, sir," Wohl corrected him. "I told you: do something decent for the team and for yourself, and you might get a better callsign. And start showing some respect for your superiors here. I should have kicked your ass all over the hangar for talking to President Martindale yesterday. I will do it next time, I promise you." Brad nodded and wisely remained silent.
  
  "Right now we can do a few things to help you detect danger and protect yourself from it, but there's not much we can do for your friends," Vol continued. "We noticed that you don't really interact with anyone other than your nerd research group on this Starfire project, which is good, but I want you to limit your time in public with anyone. If the capture team starts attacking your friends to get to you, it could turn into real trouble for everyone that we can't contain. Understand?"
  
  "Yes," said Brad. He could feel the anger on Vol's face. "Yes, sir," he corrected himself.
  
  "Fine. Have breakfast, pack your things and be ready to move out in ten minutes."
  
  "Yes sir," said Brad. He returned to the conference room and noticed that all of the breakfast sandwiches were gone. "This is starting a really shitty day," he muttered. But he looked back at the other end of the hangar and saw the CID with his father inside, and he smiled. "But my father is alive. I can not believe this. I'm living in a dream... But I don't care because my father is alive!"
  
  
  REINHOLD AEROSPACE ENGINEERING BUILDING
  CAL POLY
  IN THE NEXT MORNING
  
  
  "Brad! What the hell happened to you?" Lane Egan exclaimed as Brad entered the room. The others jumped to their feet and gaped in horror as they saw a long, ugly bruise on the side of Brad's head and face - no amount of ice could yet hide it, though the swelling had shrunk considerably.
  
  "Hey guys," Brad said. They all approached him, and he especially liked Jody's caring touches. "I'm fine, I'm fine."
  
  "What happened to you?" Kim Jong Bae asked. "Where have you been? In the hospital? We were terribly worried about you!"
  
  "You won't believe this, Jerry: I was involved in a home invasion last night after we made our presentation," Brad lied. Eyes popped out of their sockets and mouths fell open in complete surprise. "Two guys broke into the house and hit me on the side of the head with a club or a baseball bat or something."
  
  "No shit?" they all exclaimed. "What's happened?"
  
  "No idea," Brad lied. "I woke up and there were cops everywhere. The paramedics examined me, I submitted a report, and that's pretty much it. They found drugs on the kitchen table and thought maybe some drug addicts wanted to get high somewhere."
  
  "Oh my God, Brad," Casey breathed, "thank God you're okay."
  
  "I'm fine, I'm fine, Casey," Brad assured them. "My gyros do tuck a little from time to time, but I can still ride my bike."
  
  "Where you stopped?" Jodie asked, and Brad thought he saw a twinkle in her eye and a hint of an impatient smile. "You"re not going back to that house, mate?"
  
  "Hell no," said Brad. "The landlord had a seizure. He's got workers moving furniture that wasn't broken, and he's going to board the place up. I'm not sure what he's going to do after that. I'm in one of the luxury hotels on Monterey Street. I could stay there until the end of the semester, until the students leave town. I'm going to apply to Cerro Vista and Poly Canyon and will try to avoid visiting summer hostels as much as possible."
  
  "Good luck with that, mate," Jody said. "The Cerro Vista apps were due two months ago and the Poly Canyon apps last year. You may have to live off campus again if you don't want to live in a dorm."
  
  "Okay, this is all being worked out, so let's get down to business before we have to get out," Brad said, and their meeting began. It only lasted a few minutes, long enough for everyone to report on their team's status, agree on a lab schedule, and send requests to Brad for supplies or information for the coming week, and then they hurried off to class.
  
  Jody walked beside Brad. "Are you sure you're okay, buddy?" she asked. "I think this is the worst bruise I have ever seen."
  
  "I'm fine, Jody, thanks," Brad said. "I wish I could say, 'You should look at the other guy,' but I was unconscious."
  
  "Why didn't you call me, Brad?"
  
  "There just wasn't time, Jodie," Brad lied. "I was out of my mind like a fire, and then I had to deal with the cops, the paramedics, and then the landlord."
  
  "Then where were you all yesterday?"
  
  "Sit with ice packs on my throbbing head, listening to my landlord yelling orders, ranting and raving about drug addicts, crime and the breakdown of society," Brad lied again. "Then he helped me find a hotel. I got such a bad headache that I just fell over after that."
  
  "Why don"t you drop by my place after class?" she asked. "You don"t want to just go to the hotel alone, do you, without anyone looking after you?" This time, Brad didn't have to guess her intentions - she reached out and touched his arm. "What do you say, buddy?"
  
  He was a little dizzy from everything that had happened to him over the past few days, so his answer was a little hesitant and Jody's smile faded. "Sounds great, Jody," he said, and her smile returned. "But first I have an appointment after our lab."
  
  "At the doctor"s appointment?"
  
  Brad decided that he would not lie to this woman about everything, if he could avoid it at all. "Actually, my landlord is a former Marine, I think I told you, he's designing a training program for me. Physical training and self-defense." He wasn't about to tell Jody about counterintelligence and other spy training or gun training-hey, he thought, not saying anything is different from lying, right? "He thinks I'm too soft and I need to do more to help myself in situations like home invasion."
  
  "Wow," Jody remarked, blinking in surprise. "Are you right about that?"
  
  "Of course," Brad said. "I spend too much time sitting on my butt - a little physical training will do me good. One hour a day. I can be at your place around seven."
  
  "Great, Brad," Jody said, her worried and puzzled expression quickly disappearing. "I'll cook us something for dinner. I can pick you up and take you to appointments if you're not feeling well enough to ride a bike."
  
  "So far, I'm doing well, Jody," Brad said. He really liked the idea, but didn't know what the gym would look like and wanted to get an idea of Vol and who his trainer would be before bringing others. "But thank you." He hugged her and received a kiss on the cheek in return. "See you around seven."
  
  "See you, cum," Jody said and hurried off to her next lesson.
  
  He got a lot of surprised and even shocked expressions when the students on campus saw his big ugly bruise and Brad did consider buying makeup until things healed, but the kids on campus were pretty open and tolerant - and he's pretty damn sure he didn't want to. for Chris Wall or his team to catch him in makeup! so he pushed the thought out of his mind and tried to ignore the looks. Luckily, he didn't need drugs to numb the pain, so he made it through his classes and session in the Starfire Project Engineering Lab without much difficulty, with only occasional headaches that would go away when he stopped thinking about it and focused on something- then another. After that, he locked his computer backpack in a locker, got out his gym bag, then jumped on his bike and went to his first physical training session.
  
  The name of the establishment was Chong Jeontu Jib, written in both Korean and Latin letters, in the southern part of the city, near the airport. It was a simple two-story frame building, old but in very good condition, with a fenced-in yard that contained some machines and weights in a small training area. Behind the fence at the rear was a firing line set up against a large circular earthen wall that had previously surrounded the oil tanks that stored fuel during World War II bomber training flights. The front window was covered from the inside with flags of the United States of Korea and AMERICA, and the glass front door was covered with a large US Air Force flag. Inside, he found a counter, and beyond that, a large gym with a blue gym mat on the floor. The walls were covered with all sorts of awards, trophies, photographs and martial arts weapons.
  
  A short, thin man with a shaved head and a gray goatee came up from the back room. "Dexter?" he called. "Here". Brad walked around the counter and just touched the mat when the man shouted: "Do not touch the mat with shoes, and only with respect." Brad jumped off the mat onto the linoleum-covered path. The second room was slightly smaller than the first, with a different blue gymnastics rug on the floor, but instead of decorations and awards, it had a weight machine, a treadmill, a speed running boxing bag, a punching bag, and posters with arrows pointing to different places on the human body. Brad was sure that he would soon know everything he needed to know about these things. In the opposite corner there was an emergency exit and what looked like a locker room.
  
  "You're late," the man said. "Today I'll let you relax because it's your first time here, but now you know where this place is, so don't be late again."
  
  "I won't."
  
  "I won't, sir," the man said. "The sergeant major told me that you were in the Civil Air Patrol and briefly attended the Air Force Academy, so you know a thing or two about military courtesy. Use this when dealing with me or anyone on the team. You will know when you can contact us in any other way. Understood?"
  
  "Yes, sir".
  
  "Next time, come prepared for training. I don't want to waste time waiting for you to change. This is not your private resort club where you can get in and out as you please."
  
  "Yes, sir".
  
  The man nodded towards the locker room door. "You have thirty seconds to change." Brad hurried across the blue carpet to the locker room. "Stop!" Brad froze. "Come back here." Brad is back. "Get off the mat." Brad stepped off the blue rug onto the linoleum. "Dexter, you're wearing Korean dojang," the man said in a low, measured voice. "The center of the dojang, the rug, is ki, which means 'spirit.' You train to learn to embrace the spirit of martial arts, the fusion of inner peace and outer violence when you step onto the mat, which means you must respect the spirit that reigns over it. This means that you never touch the carpet in your shoes, you are prepared for training and do not wear street clothes unless the lesson requires it, you receive permission to enter and leave the carpet from the master, and you bow at the waist facing the center of the carpet before stepping on it and before getting off. Otherwise, bypass it. Remember this".
  
  "Yes, sir".
  
  "Now start moving." Brad ran the mat and was back in his training uniform in record time.
  
  "My name is James Ratel," the man said when Brad returned, "but you don't have to worry about real names or call signs because I'm 'sir' or 'chief' to you. I am a retired Chief Master Sergeant of the United States Air Force, a thirty-three year veteran, who last served as Chief Master Sergeant of the Seventh Air Force at Osan Air Force Base, United Korea. I am an experienced skydiver with over two hundred combat jumps in Panama, Iraq, Korea and Afghanistan and dozens of classified locations, graduated from Army Ranger School and I have two Purple Hearts and a Bronze Star. I am also a Fifth Degree Black Belt and Master Kana Ja Instructor, Fifth Degree Expert Krav Maga Black Belt and Nationally Certified Firearms and Club Instructor. Here I give private lessons in self-defense and firearms, mostly to retired military men. I count one hundred and ten percent every second you're in my dojang. Show respect and you will get it in return; relax and your hour with me will turn into a living hell."
  
  Ratel took out a small device with a neck strap and tossed it to Brad. "Self-defense training takes months, sometimes years, and the danger you face is obvious," he said. "So, you are given this device. Wear this always. It works almost anywhere in the country with a cellular signal. If you're in trouble, press the button and I, or any other member of the team who may be nearby, will be able to find you and help. Most likely, considering the opponents you will face, it will help us find your body faster, but we might be lucky." Brad looked at Ratel dumbfounded.
  
  "So since it"s your first day, you"re probably still in pain from being hit on the head with a baton and you came in late, for which I"m sorry, we"re just going to have a fitness assessment today," Ratel continued. "I want to see your maximum number of pull-ups, crunches, bend-overs, and push-ups to muscle failure, with no more than ninety seconds between them, and your best time on a two-mile run on a treadmill." He pointed to the other side of the room, where the treadmill and other machines were waiting. "Start moving."
  
  Brad ran to the gym on the other side of the room. He was grateful for cycling so much, so he thought he was in pretty good shape, but it's been a long time since he's been in the gym and he never liked pull-ups. He started with them and managed six before failing to pull himself up again. The push-ups were easy-he was able to complete eighty-two of them before he had to stop. Failure was new to him. He stepped between a row of horizontal, parallel railings, grabbed hold of them, extended his arms, lifted his legs off the linoleum, leaned over as far as he could, then extended his arms again. He could only manage three of them, and the third had to strain his trembling hands to finish.
  
  Now his hands were actually talking to him, so Brad decided to take the running test next, and he didn't get any complaints from Ratel, who was watching and taking notes from across the room. Now he was more in his element. He ran the treadmill to a nine-minute pace per mile and found it to be quite easy. He used that time to rest his tired arm muscles for push-ups, which he thought would also be easy. After a two-mile run, his arms felt pretty good and he squatted down to do push-ups, but found he could only complete twenty-eight of them before his arms gave out.
  
  "Dexter, you couldn't have completed Air Force Basic Training with numbers like that, let alone Air Force Academy," Ratel told him after he walked around the blue mat and stood in front of him. "The strength of your upper body is negligible. I thought you were a high school football player - you must have been a "place kicker." In fact, Brad was not just a high school football player, but a punter, and could kick a football from twenty yards. "We can work on it. But what annoys me the most about what you just did is your lousy stinky 'don't give a damn' attitude."
  
  "Sir?"
  
  "You've been training hard on the treadmill, Dexter," Ratel said. "I understand that you are a cyclist and in pretty good shape in terms of aerobics, but it seemed to me that you were just relaxing on the treadmill. You set a lousy nine-minute pace per mile - that's not even an 'average' base workout. I said I wanted you to get the best two-mile time, not the slowest time. What's your excuse?"
  
  "I needed to rest my hands before finishing the tests," said Brad. "I thought the nine-minute mile was a good place to start." With each uttered word, the little man's tiny eyes grew angrier and angrier, until it seemed that they were about to pop out of his head. Brad knew there was only one valid answer: "Sorry, Chief. No excuses."
  
  "You're damn right Dexter, there's no excuse," Ratel growled. "I told you about respect. There is nothing respectful about doing things halfway. You don't show respect for me, and you certainly don't show respect for yourself either. It's your first day here, and you haven't shown me a damn thing that I can respect you for. You were late, you weren't ready for training, and you took it easy on yourself. You don't show me squats, Dexter. Another session like this and we might as well cancel this event. Pack your things and get out of my sight." Brad got his duffel bag in the bathroom and by the time he got back, Ratel was gone.
  
  Brad felt like shit when he got on his bike and pedaled back to Cal Poly, and he was still in a gloomy mood as he headed to Poly Canyon and Jody Cavendish's apartment. She hugged him tightly at the door, to which he did not respond. "Oh, someone is acting up," she remarked. "Come in, have a glass of wine and talk to me."
  
  "Thanks, Jody," Brad said. "Sorry, I smell like my feet. I didn"t shower or change after I left the gym."
  
  "You can use the shower here if you want, mate," Jody said with a wink. Brad missed the obvious suggestion. He walked over to one of the bar stools at the counter surrounding the kitchen, and she poured a glass of Chardonnay and placed it in front of him. "But that doesn't bother me. I like guys who smell like guys, not like trough lollies." She waited a few seconds, but Brad didn't say anything. "You're not even going to ask what it is? Wow, you must have been really cocky today. Tell me about it, love."
  
  "It really doesn't matter that much," Brad said. "I was a little late for this practice, but he said that the first time was forgivable. The instructor is a retired chief master sergeant with a strong personality. He made me take an aptitude test. I thought I did okay, but he chastises me for being reserved and lazy. I thought I had it all. I don't think I did it."
  
  "Well, there's always a next time," Jody said. "Fitness instructors are taught to shock and awe their students, and I think he was putting Clayton on you. Don't worry Brad - we both know you're in good shape, apart from that bruise on your head. How do you feel? Your bruise still looks like it's bleeding. 'Maybe you should skip those workouts until this passes.'
  
  Brad shrugged. "I told them I would do it, so I guess I'll keep going until I pass out or my head explodes," he said. The last thing he wanted to do was incur the wrath of Vol for leaving just after the first day. He leaned back in his chair and looked directly at Jody for the first time. "I'm sorry, Jody. Enough about my new fitness instructor. How was your day?"
  
  "Apples, mate," Jody replied. She leaned across the kitchen counter towards him and said in her usual conspiratorial whisper, which she used when she wanted to say something unexpected: "I did it, Brad."
  
  "Did what?" Brad asked. Then, studying her face and body language, he understood. "The structure of inorganic nanotubes...?"
  
  "Synthesized," Jody said in a low voice, almost a whisper, but very excited. "Right in our own lab at Cal Poly. Not just a few nanotubes, but millions. We were even able to create the first nantenna."
  
  "What?" Brad exclaimed. "Already?"
  
  "Man, the nanotubes practically connect on their own," Jody said. "They have not yet been mounted on a sol-gel substrate, we have not yet connected them to a collector and have not even taken them outside, but the first optical nanotenna built from inorganic nanotubes is in a laboratory on the other side of this very campus ... on my work table! It's even thinner and stronger than we thought. I receive emails from scientists all over the world who want to get involved. It turns out that this is one of the biggest advances in nanotechnology in recent years!"
  
  "It's incredible!" Brad exclaimed. He took her hands in his and they exchanged a kiss across the kitchen counter. "Congratulations, Jody! Why you did not call me?"
  
  "You were already in training and I didn't want to disturb you," she said. "Besides, I wanted to tell you in person, not over the phone."
  
  "This is great news! We are aiming to get a room for the laboratory and allocate money right now!"
  
  "I hope so," Jody said. "I could even apply for a Cal Poly scholarship - they wouldn"t want me to come back to Australia with such a breakthrough, would they?"
  
  "You will definitely get a scholarship, I know that," said Brad. "Let's go out and celebrate. In some not-too-posh place - I still smell like a gym."
  
  A sly smile appeared on her face, and she took a very brief look at the hallway leading to her bedroom, obviously showing how much she wanted to celebrate. "I've already cooked dinner," Jody said. "It won't be ready until fifteen minutes later." She took his hand again and smiled mischievously. "Maybe we can soap each other"s backs in the shower?"
  
  Brad smiled broadly and looked into her eyes, but shook his head. "Jody..."
  
  "I know, I know," she said. "I told you I was going to try again, and maybe again and again. She's lucky to have you, buddy." She went to the refrigerator, took out a bottle of Chardonnay and refilled his glass.
  
  Brad heard his smartphone vibrate in his gym bag, took it out and read a text message. "Well, how about this?" he remarked. "In the end, it turns out to be a really great day."
  
  "What's the matter, love?"
  
  "I rented a room in Poly Canyon," he said. Jody had an absolutely stunned expression on her face. "Fifth floor in Aliso. I can move tomorrow and I can stay for the summer if we get a summer lab grant and I can stay in my sophomore year and junior high."
  
  "What?" Jody exclaimed.
  
  "This is good?"
  
  "Aliso is the most sought after residential building at UCLA!" Jody explained. "They are closest to shops and car park. And the top floors always fill up first because they have the best view of the campus and the city! And they never let students stay at Poly Canyon for the summer and you have to reapply every year and hope you keep your room. How the hell did you manage that, buddy?"
  
  "I have no idea," Brad lied - he was sure that his father and probably President Martindale pulled some strings and made it happen. "Someone must have taken pity on me."
  
  "Well, well done, mate," said Jody. "Your head is spinning around here." She noticed that Brad was smiling at her Australian slang again, picked up a towel, threw it at him, then walked over and kissed him lightly on the lips. "Stop pestering me with these childish whims, buddy, or I might just drag you into a bunkhouse and make you forget about how-it-her-it was in Nevada."
  
  
  FIVE
  
  
  There has never been a mother who taught her child to be an unbeliever.
  
  - HENRY W. SHAW
  
  
  
  INDUSTRIAL AIRPORT McLANAHAN
  BATTLE MOUNTAIN, NEVADA
  IN THE NEXT MORNING
  
  
  "Masters Zero-Seven, McLanahan Proving Ground, you are cleared to fly Romeo four eight one three Alpha and Bravo and Romeo four eight one six November, at all altitudes, report assigned codes, report to Oakland Center when leaving areas, contact tower, successful flight".
  
  "Understood, Earth," Sondra Eddington replied over microwave radio number one. She reread the entire clearance, then switched to the frequency of the tower. McLanahan Tower, Master Zero-Seven, number one, runway three-zero, ready to take off."
  
  "Master Zero-Seven, McLanahan Tower, calm winds, runway three-zero, airspeed limited to two zero-zero knots, in Charlie class airspace, takeoff cleared."
  
  "Master Zero-Seven" is ready for runway three-zero," Sondra replied. She taxied the large jet onto the runway, leveled on the center line, held the brakes, slowly and smoothly shifted the throttles, felt a jolt as the engines shifted to zone 1 afterburner, released the brakes, smoothly shifted the throttles to zone 5, and climbed only five thousand feet She lowered the nose of the large jet to gain speed quickly, retracted the landing gear and flaps, then returned the throttles to 50 percent power to avoid overshooting speed until they exit the airspace of the McLanahan Industrial Airport, which does not take long at all.
  
  "Good takeoff, Sondra," said Hunter Noble, Sondra's instructor on this training flight. He was in the back seat of a Sky Masters Aerospace MiG-25UKS, an unarmed Mikoyan-Gurevich tandem supersonic fighter modified to fly at extreme speeds and at high altitude. The original Russian MiG-25RU was the fastest combat jet fighter in existence, capable of reaching almost three times the speed of sound and an altitude of sixty thousand feet, but after modification by Sky Masters Aerospace, the jet aircraft was capable of reaching almost five times the speed of sound and altitude one hundred thousand feet. "Good timing for braking and power. The first zone with the brakes on is fine, but anything after that will cause the brakes to fail."
  
  "Boomer, you got it," Sondra said. In the language of fighter pilots, "Accepted" after an instructor's criticism meant that the student already knew and identified the discrepancy. "Thank you" usually meant that the student missed it and acknowledged the teacher's good catch. "I figured it out."
  
  "I'm showing that we're free of Charlie-class airspace," Boomer said. "Two-zero-zero heading will take us to the restricted area."
  
  "Understood," Sondra said. In less than two minutes, they were on R-4813A and B, two closed military test sites at the Fallon Naval Air Station complex in north-central Nevada, leased by Sky Masters Aerospace and coordinated with the FAA Air Traffic Control Center in Oakland to test high-performance aircraft. "Now I make checklists before flying at high altitude. Report back when finished."
  
  "It will do," Boomer said. The checklist prepared the crew for operations at extremely high altitudes not normally reached by conventional fighters. It only took a few minutes. "The checklist is complete. I'm showing us the insides of R-4813A. Cleaned up when done."
  
  "I got it, Boomer," Sondra said. "Get ready." Sondra turned on full power, slowly and smoothly advancing the throttles on the MiG-25 until they got into afterburner in the fifth zone, and then at Mach 1 she lifted her nose until they turned their nose up sixty degrees and continued to accelerate. Gravity increased as speed increased, and soon both were groaning from the g-forces pressing down on their bodies, trying to keep blood from leaking out of their lungs and brain. Both pilots were wearing partial pressure suits and space helmets, plus high-tech electronic pressure suits that covered their legs and lower abdomen with constriction fabric to prevent blood pooling in their legs from G-forces-but it still took work to resist. overload effects. Soon they were at an altitude of sixty thousand feet and were flying at four times the speed of sound, with seven times the force of gravity pressing down on their bodies.
  
  "Talk to me, Sondra," Boomer said. "Are you... are you all right?"
  
  "I'm... fine... Boo... Boomer," Sondra said, but it was obvious she was struggling to cope with the overload on her body. Suddenly, the MiG-25 banked sharply to the left and rushed down.
  
  "Sondra?" No answer. The nose of the fighter was directed towards the Earth. Just before he was about to take control, Boomer felt and heard the throttles switch to idle on descent and the wings straightened out.
  
  "Are you okay, Sondra?" Boomer repeated.
  
  "Yes". He could hear over the intercom that her breathing was a little labored, but otherwise sounded normal. "I'm fine".
  
  Boomer kept a close eye on the altimeter and airspeed readings, making sure Sondra was in complete control of the aircraft. In the rear cockpit, he could take full control of the aircraft if necessary, but touching the controls would mean failure for the aircraft commander, and he was reluctant to do so unless it was absolutely necessary. With only ten thousand feet lost, the Sondra began to lift its nose back toward the horizon, and as the plane leveled off and the airspeed became subsonic, it added power to keep its altitude and airspeed stable. "How are you, Sondra?" Boomer asked.
  
  "I'm fine, Boomer," Sondra replied, her voice sounding perfectly normal and in control. "I'll go back down to thirty thousand feet and we'll try again."
  
  "We don't have enough fuel for another high-altitude high-G demonstration," Boomer said. "We can do a few high-speed approaches without flaps and then be done with it."
  
  "We have enough fuel, Boomer," Sondra protested.
  
  "I don't think so, baby," Boomer said. "Let's make an approach to Battle Mountain ILS and make a flap approach, make a miss at decision height, then make another approach to a full stop. It's clear?"
  
  "As you say, Boomer," Sondra replied with obvious dejection in her voice.
  
  The high-speed instrument approaches simulated landing approaches on Black Stallion or Midnight spaceplanes. The MiG-25 was an important step for novice spaceplane pilots because it was the only aircraft that could briefly simulate the extremely high g-forces experienced by pilots during their ascent. The Sky Masters Aerospace centrifuge could generate nine times normal gravity on the ground, but the MiG-25 was the better platform because the pilot had to control the plane while being subjected to G-forces. The Sondra made instrument approaches with typical accuracy, and the landing was right on schedule.
  
  They parked a large jet, went to a life support store to turn in space suits and electronic sealants, interviewed maintenance technicians, had a quick check-up with a doctor, then returned to the classroom to talk about flying. Sondra wore a blue flight suit tailored to accentuate her curves, and her flight boots made her look even taller. She loosened her straight blond hair as she poured herself a cup of coffee; Boomer, dressed in an olive drab Air Force flight suit, had already picked up his bottle of ice water.
  
  "Pre-flight, take-off, departure, approach, landing and post-flight are all in order," Boomer said, consulting his notebook. "Tell me about the rise."
  
  "I was fine - I guess I just left too soon," Sondra said. "You always say it's better to abort a high-g run sooner rather than later. Maybe I got a little nervous. I was fine."
  
  "You didn't answer when I called."
  
  "I heard you perfectly, Boomer," Sondra said. "I had a lot to do. The last thing I wanted to do was stall the compressor or spin." Boomer looked at Sondra, who was looking away, sipping her coffee, and decided to accept her answer. The rest of the debriefing didn't take long. They discussed the next day's class plans and flight training objectives, then Sondra went to the phone to check messages, while Boomer went to his office to sort through reports and documents and check out the many laboratories and design offices he oversaw.
  
  The afternoon began with an executive meeting that Boomer barely endured, but it was part of his new job as head of aerospace operations. The meeting was chaired by the company's new vice president of operations, Jason Richter, a retired lieutenant colonel and US Army robotics engineer who was hired to replace the late Patrick McLanahan. Jason was tall, fit and athletic, with a good-looking brunette. He was hired by Sky Masters Aerospace for his engineering background, especially in robotics, but he proved to be just as skilled in management, so he was promoted to head of research and development at the company. Although he felt at home in a laboratory or design office, he enjoyed the power and prestige of directing so many of the best and brightest minds in the world.
  
  "Let's get started," Richter said, starting the meeting at exactly one o'clock as usual. "Let's start with the aerospace division. Hunter, congratulations on the successful delivery of the president to the Armstrong space station and safe return. A real achievement." The rest of the audience rewarded Boomer with a slight applause - Hunter "Boomer" Noble was considered an eccentric character in the company's executive board room, not serious, and therefore he was treated condescendingly. "The President does not appear to be suffering from any negative consequences. Observations?
  
  "The guy did fantastic," Boomer said, silently acknowledging the positive feedback from his fellow board members but also noting the negative reactions. "He remained calm and unruffled the entire flight. I wasn't too surprised when he agreed to do the docking, but I couldn't believe it when he wanted to do an airlock EVA. He acted as if he had been training astronauts for years. This kind of courage is extraordinary."
  
  "We're already getting requests for spaceplane flights, and there's been talk of funding more S-19s and XS-29s," Jason said.
  
  "I'm all for it," Boomer said, "but I think we need to get the resources to get started in earnest on the next series of space stations. Armstrong hangs in there, but his days are numbered, and if Brad McLanahan's Starfire project moves forward, which I'm betting it will, Armstrong may be out of the military space weapons business altogether. I have two people, Harry Felt and Samantha Yee, who work on materials for the space station, mainly developing systems for the Armstrong upgrade. I would like to put them in charge of a new design team, three or four people to begin with, who are developing designs for new military and industrial stations in accordance with President Phoenix's proposals. We also need to immediately send you and Dr. Kaddiri to Washington to meet with our lobbyists and find out who is responsible for this new breakthrough in space." He hesitated for a moment, then added, "Maybe you or Helen should volunteer to do this, Jason."
  
  "I?" Jason asked. "In Washington? I'd rather be buried up to my neck in the desert. But I like your ideas. Send me a proposal and budget immediately and I will forward it to Helen."
  
  Boomer made a few taps on his tablet computer. "Now in your mailbox, Comandante."
  
  "Thank you. I knew you had already come up with something. I will make sure Helen gets it today."
  
  At that moment, the company's President and Chief Executive Officer, Dr. Helen Kaddiri, entered the meeting room. Everyone rose to their feet as a tall, dark-eyed woman of fifty-two years old with very long dark hair pulled back into an intricate knot at the back of her head, dressed in a dark gray business suit, appeared in the doorway. Helen Kaddiri was born in India but was educated primarily in the United States, earning numerous degrees in business and engineering. She worked at Sky Masters for decades, partnering with Jonathan Masters to acquire the initially bankrupt aerospace company they worked for and grow it into one of the world's leading high-tech design and development companies. "Everyone, please take your seats," she said in a light, melodious voice. "Sorry to interrupt, Jason."
  
  "Not at all, Helen," Jason said. "Do you have anything for us?"
  
  "Announcement," she said. She walked to the front of the room and stood next to Jason. "The Board of Directors has selected three projects for grants this year, all at universities: the State University of New York at Buffalo for the swarm satellite project; Allegheny College of Pennsylvania for a laser communication system; and the bulk of the prize, twenty-five million dollars, will go to the California Polytechnic University at San Luis Obispo, for a very impressive in-orbit solar power plant project." Another burst of applause from the branch directors in the hall.
  
  "This project is being led by Brad McLanahan," Boomer said. "This guy is amazing. I ask the guy a question about some part of the project and he says he doesn't know and that he will call me back and the next thing I remember is a phone call from some Nobel laureate from Germany with an answer. He has a list of experts and scientists on his team that will make you cry."
  
  "We are already investing heavily in their project," Jason said. "We have already provided them with the Trinity module, which they use for measurements and pairing testing. When they start making subsystems, they want to lift parts of the space system to Armstrong's space station on Midnight and Black Stallion, so they asked for things like cargo bay dimensions, systems, power, environment, temperatures, vibration, and so on. . They also asked to see the computer code for the Skybolt guidance system - they want to use it to transmit maser energy to a direct antenna on Earth, and their computer team leader believes it can improve accuracy. "
  
  "They play together, that's for sure," Boomer added.
  
  "I will give the universities the good news," Helen said. "That's all. Anything for me?"
  
  "Boomer had a great idea to meet with President Phoenix and whoever is leading this new space initiative and share some ideas with them and find out what they are interested in doing," Jason said. "He also wants to form a team to start designing space stations, military and industrial. I have his proposal and budget on my tablet."
  
  "Great ideas, Boomer," Helen said. "Send his offer to me at my office right after the meeting."
  
  "It will do," Jason said.
  
  "I also invited you or Jason to volunteer to lead the government's space initiative, if no one has been named yet," Boomer said.
  
  "I have a job, thank you very much, and Jason is not going anywhere - I just brought him here after much persuasion and exhortation," Helen said, smiling. "But going to Washington sounds good to us." She answered a few more questions and comments, then left. Jason continued to preside over the meeting, walking around the table receiving reports from all the directors of operations, and it ended in about an hour.
  
  Jason walked up to Helen's office a few minutes later and knocked on the door frame of the open office door. "I have this report for you," he said through the doorway, holding his tablet computer.
  
  "Come in, Jason," Helen said, working on her laptop at her desk. "Close the door". Jason did as she ordered, then walked over to her desk and started transferring the file from his tablet to her laptop.
  
  "This is a rather long dossier," he said. "You know Boomer-why say something with just two words when he can think of twenty?"
  
  "It's wonderful," she said. "What should we do while we wait?"
  
  "I have a few ideas," Jason said smiling as he leaned over and kissed her hard, to which she responded with equal enthusiasm. They kissed for several long, agonizing moments. "I wish I could let your hair down right now," he said in a deep, quiet voice. "I love watching your hair cascade after you pin it up...Especially if it falls over my bare chest." She responded by pulling him close and giving him another deep kiss. "Are you free tonight? I haven't been with you for several days."
  
  "Jason, we shouldn't have done this," Helen whispered. "I'm your boss, and I'm over ten years older than you."
  
  "I don't care how old you are chronologically," Jason said. "You are the most exotic, most seductive woman I have ever been with. Sex radiates from you like a laser. And you may be older than me, but I can barely keep up with you in bed."
  
  "Stop it, you lustful goat," Helen said with a smile, but in gratitude she gave him another deep, long kiss. She grabbed his face and shook him playfully. "Remember, I have a speech at the Lander County Chamber of Commerce meeting tonight, and the city manager, the chairman of the planning committee, and the chief of police want to talk after. I think it's about expanding the utilities to build more units near the airport and revisiting the letter of agreement with airport security, the county, and security. I want to make sure the accommodation is out of the noisy area of the airport, and I don't want our security staff to be bound by sheriffs with federal and state security agreements. Charles Gordon from the Governor's Office will also be there and I want to talk to him about getting some seed money to expand the airport."
  
  "Crap".
  
  "Why don't you come with me? Everyone knows you as the guy who designed and built the cybernetic infantry device that saved the city from Judah Andorsen and the Knights of the True Republic - I'm sure they'd love to meet you."
  
  "I don't do politics," Jason said. "I like you. I don't think I could keep my hands off you."
  
  "Oh, I think you have more control over your impulses, Jason," she said. "In addition, I'm sure they would like to meet the future president and CEO of Sky Masters Aerospace."
  
  "We need to talk about this some more, Helen," Jason said. He sat down opposite her. "I don't think I'm a good fit for the CEO role. You had to convince me to take over as chief of operations after Patrick McLanahan was killed-"
  
  "And you're doing great," Helen said. "Your team is the best in the business. You've only been in this position for a few months. It will become second nature to you before you realize it. You need a little more business education, maybe an MBA in addition to all the other degrees you have, but you are obviously a leader."
  
  "I feel at home in the lab, not at the table."
  
  "No one says you have to stay at the table," Helen said. "Leaders do their job in a variety of ways. You know how to assign, delegate and organize - this leaves you time and opportunity to spend more time with your engineers and do all the things that company leaders should do." She got up from her desk and walked over to him, pressing her breasts against him, as she knew he liked. "Come with me tonight. Then, if it's not too late, I'd like to invite you over."
  
  "I thought you said we shouldn't do this."
  
  "Oh, we shouldn't," Helen said with a smile. Jason stood up and they exchanged another deep, passionate kiss. "I could lose my job if the board finds out that I slept with one of my VPs even though I co-founded the company." One more kiss. "You would definitely get fired and you would probably be sued for your signing bonus." One more kiss.
  
  "Please, Miss President, stop talking now," Jason said.
  
  "Yes, Mr. Vice President," Helen said, and they kissed again, and this kiss lasted much longer than the others.
  
  It was well after sunset when Boomer left the Sky Masters Aerospace Center and headed home. The once sleepy, isolated small mining community of Battle Mountain in north-central Nevada has undergone an incredible transformation in just three years since Sky Masters Aerospace Inc. moved there from Las Vegas: the population had more than tripled, construction projects of all kinds were everywhere, and the unincorporated community-it had retained its identity as a mining camp and railroad junction from its founding in the 1840s, despite being the center of Lander County - finally became the youngest city in Nevada and one of the fastest growing in the country. Boomer rented a house in one of the new neighborhoods between the airport and the new downtown, close enough to visit new casinos and upscale restaurants whenever he felt like it, but convenient enough to commute to work, especially now that the morning commute is on the Interstate . 80 to the airport seemed to get busier by the day, thanks to the dozens of businesses that have sprung up in the area since Sky Masters Aerospace expanded.
  
  Boomer parked his Lincoln MKT in the garage, looking forward to a nice relaxing evening. He was a regular at several of the newer casinos in the city and hadn't had to pay for food or drinks in over a year-he was sure he'd given the casino enough money at the card tables to more than make up for his losses-but tonight was going to be just plain bad. Maybe some wine, maybe a movie, maybe-
  
  "Just in time you got home," said a voice from the kitchen. It was Sondra Eddington, wearing only one of Boomer's Sky Masters Aerospace Inc. T-shirts, her long blond hair falling perfectly around her chest, as if she had styled it herself-which, Boomer thought, probably was. "I was going to start without you."
  
  "I didn't know you were coming," Boomer said.
  
  "I was a little energized after flying this morning," Sondra said in a half-tired, half-teasing tone. "I've tried jogging and a hard workout at the gym, but I'm still... a little energized." She came over and kissed him on the lips. "So I thought I'd pop in and ask if you know of any ways I can burn off some energy?"
  
  Boomer tried but couldn't help it, his eyes wandering over her body which made her smile. "Where is your car?" - he asked.
  
  "I parked it outside the convenience store down the block," Sondra said. "I saw too many Sky Masters people in your area and I didn't want them to see my car parked in front of your house very often."
  
  Sounds like a really good idea, Boomer thought. He held her at arm's length and looked her straight in the eyes. "Or we can do the right thing, as we agreed, and no longer sleep with each other."
  
  "Oh, I know we talked about it," Sondra said, pouting her lips slightly, putting her hands on his shoulders and wrapping her hands around his neck, "but I can't help myself. You have such a hot hard body and you have this roguish smirk and this don't care attitude that just drives me crazy. Not to mention you are a tiger in bed."
  
  "Thank you," Boomer said. "You're pretty hot too."
  
  "Thank you".
  
  "But your boyfriend, Brad, is becoming my friend, and if he knew about us, it would be difficult for us to work with him in the near future. His Starfire project has just received funding approval."
  
  "Then I'll break up with him."
  
  Boomer blinked in surprise. "Is that so easy?"
  
  "When the time comes to break up with you, it will be just as fast," Sondra said. "I like Brad and he's as big as you but he's a lot younger than me and he's off to college and lately he's been too busy to visit me and I'm lonely away from home. Besides, I don't like being tied up. I want what I want when I want it and right now I want you."
  
  "And when Brad is here, will you want him too?"
  
  Sondra shrugged. "May be. I don't think he would have accepted me back after the breakup - he's a little immature about women and relationships and I don't think he could handle being just friends or casual sex partners." She pulled him closer. "How about this, boy? Start your engines and give me a ride?"
  
  Boomer smiled but shook his head. "I don't think so, Sondra," he said.
  
  She took a step back and ran her hands through her blond hair, which was spilling over her chest. "You don't need me anymore? I said I would break up with Brad."
  
  "We had sex once and we talked about it later and both of us decided it was wrong," Boomer said. "We will train together for another twelve months. I am your instructor. Sleeping together is not a good idea."
  
  "If you say so," Sondra said in a soft voice. Then, slowly and seductively, she took off her T-shirt, revealing her breathtaking body, firm breasts and flat tummy. She held out the T-shirt, making sure it didn't block Boomer's view of her amazing body. "Do you want your T-shirt back Dr. Noble?"
  
  Boomer reached out and took the T-shirt from her...then slung it over his shoulder. "Damn, I'm going to hell anyway," he said, hugging Sondra and kissing her hard.
  
  
  FOURTEENTH BUILDING, KREMLIN, MOSCOW
  RUSSIAN FEDERATION
  A FEW DAYS LATER
  
  
  President Gennady Gryzlov's main official offices in the Kremlin's government complex were in the Senate Building, also known as the First Building, but he preferred the president's more isolated back office, known as the Fourteenth Building. He recently completely refurbished the building, turning it into a high-tech replica of his oil company's St. Petersburg offices, with multiple levels of security, sophisticated surveillance and counter-surveillance systems, and ultra-secure communications, all of which rivaled and in many ways outperformed Russia's best technology; there was also an underground emergency evacuation railroad that could take him to Chkalovsky Airport, eighteen miles northeast of Moscow, which was his cosmonaut training airfield serving Star City and now had a contingent of military transport aircraft that could safely take it out if necessary.
  
  He was determined not to be trapped in an underground command post during an air raid, as his father had been: at the first warning of any danger, Gryzlov could leave the Fourteenth Building in less than a minute, leave the city in less than five, and board a jet plane. , ready to deliver it anywhere in Europe in less than thirty.
  
  Gryzlov rarely held meetings in the Fourteenth Building, preferring all official high-level cabinet meetings to be held in his office in the First Building, but he summoned Foreign Minister Darya Titeneva to his office in the Fourteenth Building early in the morning. She was escorted to the office by the head of the administration, Sergei Tarzarov, who then took up his position "out of sight, out of mind" in the presidential administration, but was fired at a glance from Gryzlov. "Hi, Daria," said Gryzlov from behind his huge table. "Welcome. Tea? Coffee?"
  
  "No, thank you, Mr. President," Titeneva said. She took a moment to look around the office. Gryzlov's desk had panoramic windows with breathtaking panoramic views of the Kremlin and Moscow, and on the walls in front of the table were high-definition widescreen monitors displaying a variety of information, from international news to government news feeds, to stock quotes and stock volumes from around the world. The conference table for twenty people was to the left of the president, and a comfortable seating area for twelve people, surrounding the coffee table, was to the right. "I haven't seen your private office here since you finished renovating it. Very businesslike. I like it, Mr. President."
  
  "I can't do much work in the Senate building when the staff is furious," Gryzlov said. "I go to the First Building to listen to the clucking of chickens, then I come back here and make decisions."
  
  "I hope I'm not one of those chickens you're talking about, Mr. President," Titeneva said.
  
  "Of course not," said Gryzlov, walking around his desk, approaching Titeneva and kissing her lightly on the cheek, and then receiving a polite kiss in return. "You are a reliable friend. You have worked with my father for many years, ever since you were in the air force together."
  
  "Your father was a great man," Titeneva said. "I have been honored to serve him."
  
  "He dragged you along the whole way, didn"t he?" Gryzlov said. "You both rose through the ranks in the air force together, and then he put you through the government ranks, right?"
  
  "Your father knew how important it was to have trusted people around you, both in the army and outside it," Titeneva said. "He also made sure that I learned from the best experts in the Kremlin."
  
  "You were his chief of staff for a short time, before the traitor Nikolai Stepashin, if I remember correctly," Gryzlov said. "I'm curious: why did you leave him and enter the diplomatic service? By now, you could be prime minister or even president."
  
  "We both thought that my talents could be better used in Washington and New York," Titeneva said casually. "At that time, women did not hold most of the high positions in the Kremlin."
  
  "Understood," said Gryzlov. He turned straight towards her. "So the rumors I heard about a long-term sexual relationship with my father are not true?" Titeneva said nothing. Gryzlov stepped up to her and kissed her on the lips. "My father was a happy man. Maybe I'll have the same luck."
  
  "I'm almost old enough to be your mother, Mr. President," she said, but Gryzlov leaned forward to kiss her again, and she didn't pull away. Gryzlov smiled at her, let his eyes roam up and down her body, then returned to his desk and took a cigar from a drawer. "Did you invite me into your private office to kiss me, Mr. President?"
  
  "I can't think of a better reason, Daria," he said as he lit a cigar and blew a large cloud of fragrant smoke toward the ceiling. "Why don't you visit me more often?"
  
  "My husband, for example."
  
  "Your husband Yuri is a good man and a well-deserved veteran, and I am sure that what he does when you are away from Moscow does not concern you, as long as he does not jeopardize your position in the government," Gryzlov said. Titeneva said nothing. Without turning to her, he gestured with his cigar to a chair in front of his desk, and she took it. "Do you receive reports on American spaceplane flights?"
  
  "Yes, Mr. President," Titeneva said. "The number of flights to the military space station has increased slightly, from three per month to four."
  
  "This is an increase of thirty percent, Madam Minister of Foreign Affairs - I would say that this is significant, not insignificant," Gryzlov said. "Their cargo?"
  
  "Intelligence reports suggest that the station has undergone some significant improvements, possibly in laser beam control and power distribution systems," Titeneva said. "Optical sensors can see very little change outside the station."
  
  "You are personally and officially interested in the contents of these spaceplanes, yes?"
  
  "Of course, Mr. President, as soon as I receive notification that the launch is imminent," Titeneva replied. "The usual American responses are 'personnel', 'supply' and 'classified'. They never give any details."
  
  "And unofficially?"
  
  "Security is still very tight, sir," she said. "Spaceplane flights and most of the operations aboard the Armstrong Space Station are carried out by civilian contractors, and their security is very complex and multi-layered. None of my contacts in Washington know anything about the contractors at all, except that, as we have seen, many of them are former military officers and technicians. I'm afraid it's very difficult for me to get much information about the contractor's space program. Minister Kazyanov may have more information."
  
  "Understood," said Gryzlov. He was silent for a few moments; then: "You were granted permission to speak to the Security Council prior to the vote on our resolution on America's outrageous space initiative, correct?"
  
  "Yes, Mr. President."
  
  Gryzlov blew a cloud of smoke into the air above his desk, then put his cigar in the ashtray and got up from his seat, and as protocol required, Titeneva immediately got up too. "You left my father, Daria, because you couldn't handle the level of responsibility and initiative that my father wanted to give you," Gryzlov said, walking up to her and piercing the woman with an icy, direct gaze. "You weren't tough enough to be with him, even as his mistress. You left Moscow for social parties in New York and Washington, instead of helping him fight in the political ditches of the Kremlin."
  
  "Who told you these lies, Mr. President?" Titenev asked, her eyes flashing with anger. "That old Tarzar goat?"
  
  In a blurry motion that Titeneva had never expected, Gryzlov hit her in the face with his open right hand. She staggered from the blow, shaking the stars from her head, but Gryzlov noticed that she did not step back and did not cry out, but after a moment she straightened her back and straightened up in front of him to her full height. And again, in the blink of an eye, he was on top of her, his lips closing on hers, pulling her head down with his right hand while his left roamed over her breasts. Then, after a long and rough kiss, he pushed her away from him. She rubbed her cheek, then her lips with the back of her hand, but straightened up again in front of him, refusing to back down.
  
  "You're going to New York and speaking at the United Nations Security Council," Gryzlov said, looking her straight in the eyes, "but you're not going to be that mature, wise, respected, reserved diplomat anymore, do you understand me? You will be the tigress my father wanted and trained, but never had. I see that tigress in your eyes, Daria, but you're mired in a comfortable life at the Foreign Office with your war hero husband, putting up with his little flings because you want to keep your cushy job. Well, not anymore.
  
  "You will go to the Security Council and Russia will get everything I demand, or we will no longer have anything to do with the United Nations," Gryzlov said. "You will get this resolution passed or you will blow this place up. You will demonstrate my displeasure and anger without the slightest doubt in anyone's mind, or don't bother returning from New York."
  
  "The United States will veto the resolution, Gennady," Titeneva snapped. Gryzlov noticed the change in her tone of voice and smiled-like a championship thoroughbred racehorse, she responded well to a little discipline, he thought. "You know it as well as I do."
  
  "Then destroy this place," Gryzlov said. "This House and the whole fucking world should clearly understand how angry I will be if this resolution is not passed." He grabbed the hair at the back of her head, pulled her to him and gave her another deep kiss, then pulled her away from him. "If you decide to be a rabbit instead of a tigress, and you dare to go back to the Kremlin, then I will make sure you become somebody's little rabbit. Maybe even mine. And I guarantee you won't like it. Now get the hell out of here."
  
  Sergei Tarzarov entered the president's office a few minutes after Titeneva left. "Not your typical staff meeting, I presume, sir?" he said, touching his lips as a signal.
  
  "Just a little motivational speech before her trip to New York," Gryzlov said hoarsely, wiping lipstick from his mouth with the back of his hand. "Where is Ilyanov?"
  
  "By secure phone from Washington, channel three," Tarzarov said.
  
  Gryzlov picked up the receiver, pressed the channel selector, and waited impatiently for the decryption circuitry to establish the connection. "Colonel?"
  
  "Safety, sir," Ilyanov replied.
  
  "What the hell happened there?"
  
  "It was completely unexpected, sir," Ilyanov said. "Apparently McLanahan does have security because they wiped out my team, took McLanahan and closed the house before sunrise."
  
  "Where is your team?"
  
  "Unknown, sir," Ilyanov said. "They are not in the custody of local civilian law enforcement, that's all I know."
  
  "Damn," Gryzlov swore. "Either the FBI or private security. They will sing like birds in record time, especially if they are in the hands of civilian counterintelligence operatives. I told you, Colonel, don't assume anything. Where is McLanahan now?"
  
  "He just surfaced, sir," Ilyanov said. "He registered as a resident of one of the campus apartment complexes. He was wounded during my team's invasion, but he seems to be fine now. We're investigating his movements, the complex's security system, and looking for the presence of his personal security forces. We won't be surprised anymore. So far we haven't found anything. McLanahan appears to have resumed his usual movements before the invasion. We cannot detect any guards surrounding him."
  
  "Then look carefully, colonel, damn you!" Gryzlov snapped. "I want it destroyed. I don't care if you have to send a whole platoon after him - I want him destroyed. Take care of it!"
  
  
  NORWEGIAN HALL, UN SECURITY COUNCIL HALL
  NEW YORK
  A FEW DAYS LATER
  
  
  "This illegal, dangerous and provocative pursuit of American space dominance must stop immediately," Russian Foreign Minister Darya Titeneva shouted. She spoke at a meeting of the United Nations Security Council in New York, sitting in the ambassador's chair next to Russian Ambassador to the UN Andrei Naryshkin. "Russia has recorded a 30% increase in space plane and unmanned aerial vehicle flights to the US military space station since President Phoenix made his announcement regarding US control of space. Russia has evidence that the United States is reactivating its constellation of space weapons satellites called the Kingfishers, as well as reactivating a space free electron laser called Skybolt with improved guidance systems and increased power, making it capable of destroying targets anywhere on Earth. It all seems like nothing more than a show of force in an election year, but President Phoenix is playing a very dangerous game of threatening the peace and stability of the entire world only to win a few votes.
  
  "The Russian government has prepared a draft resolution for consideration by the Security Council demanding that the United States cancel plans to reactivate all of its space weapons and destroy those already in Earth orbit, and orders President Kenneth Phoenix to change his stated position that that any orbit occupied by an American spacecraft is sovereign American territory that can be defended by military force. Outer space is not and should never be dominated by any one nation or alliance. I ask the Council's permission for the Russian resolution to be submitted to the procedural committee and then to the Security Council for a vote, followed by immediate implementation - after a "yes" vote. Thank you Mr President." After Titeneva finished her speech, there was a faint applause - not exactly a loud sign of approval, but a rather ominous signal of difficulties for the Americans.
  
  "Thank you, Madam Foreign Minister," said Sofyan Apriyanto of Indonesia, the incumbent President of the United Nations Security Council. "Chairman invites Ambassador Ells for ten minutes for rebuttal."
  
  "Thank you, Mr. President," replied Paula Ells, US Ambassador to the United Nations. "It won't take me ten minutes to refute the allegations of the Russian foreign minister. Her statements and allegations are completely baseless and her facts are at best inaccurate and at worst outright lies."
  
  "How dare you, Ambassador!" Titeneva screamed when she heard the translation. "How dare you call me a liar! The evidence is clear to the whole world! It is you and the entire Phoenix administration who are the liars and instigators here!"
  
  Ambassador Paula Elles blinked in surprise. During her career, she met and spent time with the veteran Kremlin bureaucrat many times and knew her as a calm, intelligent, fully professional person, but since she came to New York, she has become almost unrecognizable. She gave several interviews to the world press, criticizing President Phoenix and his space initiative, using words that Ells had never heard from her before. This attitude continued here, with even greater causticity. "The only facts you have stated that are true are the increase in spaceplane flights and unmanned rocket flights," Ells said, "but, as usual, you only state half-truths and make wild accusations that are not supported by facts:
  
  "The number of flights of our spacecraft has increased, it is true, but only because Russia, for some unknown reason, has reduced the number of Soyuz and Progress flights to the International Space Station, and the United States decided to step up and increase our missions to fill the resulting gap," Ells continued. "Our space planes and commercial missions are directed not only to the Armstrong Space Station, as the Foreign Secretary claims, but also to the International Space Station. If Russia thinks they can influence international affairs by postponing and canceling critical resupply missions - missions that have already been bought and paid for, I must add - they are completely wrong.
  
  "Regarding this draft resolution, Mr. President, the wording is so broad and vague that a seventh grader could have written it better," Ells continued. Titeneva slammed her palm on the table and said something to Naryshkin, angrily pointing her finger first at Ells, then at him. "If this resolution were passed, the United Nations could, for all practical purposes, disable the American global positioning system, since it is an integral part of space weapons systems, but it does not mention anything about the Russian GLONASS satellite navigation system, which has the same capabilities .
  
  "In addition, the resolution aims to ban any weapon system that has anything, even remote, relation to spacecraft traveling above the atmosphere, which means that the United Nations can ban all American heavy aircraft, because once they did test launches of ballistic missiles from aircraft, or coastal cargo ships, because they once carried parts for space weapons," Ells continued. "The resolution has nothing to do with peace and security and has everything to do with submitting a resolution to the Security Council that vetoes the United States so that the Russian Federation can point to America in horror and tell the world that the United States seeks to dominate outer space. . The United States hopes that other members of the Council will see this tactic for what it is: a cheap political ploy that uses fabricated evidence, distorted data and fear-mongering. I urge the Council to refrain from presenting this resolution to the committee and not to give it more attention."
  
  Ells turned directly to Titeneva. "Miss Foreign Secretary... Daria, let's sit down at the negotiating table with Secretary Morrison and work out a compromise," she pleaded, raising her hands as if in surrender. "President Phoenix's initiative is not space rearmament. The United States is ready to do whatever the international community wants to test our intentions and assets in space. We have to-"
  
  "Don't address me like we're sisters, Ambassador Ells!" Titeneva broke down. "Show some respect. And the time for verification has passed a very, very long time ago - the United States should have thought about this before the Phoenix statement from the military space station! The United States has only one option to demonstrate its sincerity, openness and genuine desire for peace: immediately dismantle the entire infrastructure of space weapons!"
  
  Ells's shoulders slumped as she noticed Titeneva's growing anger. She just couldn't talk to her. It was as if she had turned into some kind of snarling monster dressed as Daria Titeneva. Ells turned to the President of the Security Council and said: "I have nothing more to add, Mr. President. Thank you ".
  
  "Thank you, Ambassador Ells," President Sofiane Apriyanto said. "Are there any other comments on the proposal to bring the Russian resolution to the committee?" There were several other brief speeches, both for and against. "Thank you. If there are no more comments, I will consider the proposal to forward the resolution to the committee."
  
  "I am so touched, Mr. President," said Russian Ambassador Andrey Naryshkin.
  
  "I support," the Ambassador of the People's Republic of China immediately said, apparently prepared in advance for China to officially support this measure.
  
  "The resolution was moved and supported," Apriyanto said. "I provide another opportunity to discuss with your governments or propose any amendments." There were no volunteers, and the Secretary General quickly got down to business: "Very good. If there are no objections, I call for a vote. All for, please indicate this by raising your hand, and please keep your hand up so that an accurate count can be made."
  
  All hands went up, including the hands of the representatives of Great Britain and France ... with the exception of one, the hand of Ambassador Paula Ells of the United States. "All who are against, please indicate this with a show of hands." All hands went down except Paula Ells's. "The chairman recognizes the United States of America's no vote," Apriyanto noted, "and as such, the resolution is not implemented."
  
  "This is outrageous!" Russian Foreign Minister Titeneva screamed. "The Russian Federation protests in the strongest terms against this vote! All but one nation voted for the resolution! All voted for, except for one! This cannot go on!"
  
  "Madame Foreign Minister, with all due respect, the President did not recognize you," said President Apriyanto. "The Security Council has granted you the privilege of speaking to its members on this matter in place of your ambassador, but has not granted you the right to make any comments on the results of any vote. As you are well aware, the United States of America, as well as the Russian Federation and other permanent members of the Council, enjoy their privilege of great power unanimity when they vote "no". The Russian Federation and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics before it have enjoyed this privilege many times in the past. Thank you. May I draw the Council's attention to the following item-"
  
  "Don't reject me like some child!" Titeneva screamed. "Mr. President, this will not happen again! President Kenneth Phoenix is about to seize total and unrestricted control of space, and the Security Council will do nothing to stop him? This is madness!"
  
  Apriyanto took a small hammer and lightly tapped the soundbox with its handle, trying to calm the Russian Foreign Minister without calling her to silence... or worse. "Madam Foreign Minister, you are disturbing the order. Please-"
  
  "No, this Council is out of order! This whole corps is out of order!" Titeneva screamed. "Russia will not tolerate this!"
  
  "Madam Foreign Minister, please-"
  
  "Mr. President, President Phoenix's statement is a clear violation of the Seventh Chapter of the Charter of the United Nations, which prohibits Member States from threatening peace or committing acts of aggression," Titeneva said loudly. "The seventh chapter authorizes the Security Council to act to preserve peace and stop aggression."
  
  "The United States is not a threat to anyone, Madam Foreign Secretary," Ells said. "President Phoenix's program is a technology laboratory for advancing peaceful access to space. We are not activating any space weapons. We want-"
  
  "You can say it all you want, Ells, but your words don't make it so," Titeneva said. "Mr. President, the veto does not apply in this matter, because the United States is directly involved in the resolution, and a permanent member of the Security Council cannot veto a resolution directed against itself. They must abstain and therefore the resolution is passed."
  
  "A parliamentary committee has already ruled that the resolution, although clearly directed against the recently announced United States space program, is applicable to any space nation and therefore subject to veto," Apriyanto said. "Madam Foreign Minister, you are disturbing the order. You can file a protest with the Secretary General and address the General Assembly, but the resolution was not adopted and the matter is closed. You can continue to watch our actions, but...
  
  "I will not continue to sit and watch this farce," Titeneva said, jumping to her feet and throwing the translation earpiece on the table in front of her. "Listen to me very carefully. If the Security Council does not act, Russia will. Russia will not cooperate with any nation that opposes our pursuit of security with regard to the US military space program, and if Russia discovers that the United States is militarizing any aspect of its space equipment, Russia will consider this an act of war and respond accordingly. .
  
  "Russian President Gryzlov has authorized me to inform you that Russia will no longer support manned or unmanned missions to deliver cargo to the International Space Station," Titeneva boomed. "In addition, Russia is demanding that the modules on the International Space Station, which belong to Russia, be disconnected and made ready for immediate transport to their own orbits. The Russian modules are hereby considered sovereign Russian territory and must be released and placed under Russian control."
  
  "Disconnect Russian modules?" Paula Ells objected. "It's not a Lego toy up there, Daria. The modules were Russia's contribution to international partnerships. This partnership pays for the upkeep of the modules, and the partnership pays Russia for the use of the modules and for Soyuz support missions. You can't just take your bat and ball and head home - we're talking twenty-ton modules traveling at thousands of miles per hour in orbits of hundreds...
  
  "I don't want to listen to your tiresome American aphorisms, Ells," Titeneva said, "and I told you never to call me by my first name in this or any other place! Russia will not allow the so-called partnership to use modules created by the Russians unless the international community does something to ensure the interests of Russia's national security, and we certainly do not want any nation hostile to Russia to freely use our modules. You will immediately release and hand them over to Russia, or we will take action." And with that, Titeneva turned and left the hall, followed by Naryshkin.
  
  
  SAN LUIS OBISPO, CALIFORNIA
  ONE WEEK LATER
  
  
  James Ratel entered the back room of his dojang south of San Luis Obispo and found Brad McLanahan already doing push-ups on the linoleum. "Well, well, five minutes earlier... Much better," Chief Ratel said. "And you came ready for training. Maybe you can still be trained."
  
  "Yes, chief," Brad replied, jumping to his feet and standing almost at attention on the edge of the blue rug.
  
  "Are you warmed up?"
  
  "Yes, chief."
  
  "Good," Ratel said. "Until now, we have concentrated on strength training, and I see progress. From now on, you will continue these exercises on your own, in your spare time. You don't need to go to the gym to get a good workout. Push-ups, twists, tilts and pull-ups - all to failure, with a break of no more than ninety seconds. Every week I will test you again and every week I expect to see improvements."
  
  "Yes, chief," Brad replied.
  
  "Today is your first self-defense class," Ratel continued. He handed Brad the package. "From now on, you will wear a beol, or training suit, which is called gi in Japanese. As soon as we start practice, we will be doing this in street clothes so that you learn to feel more realistic, but for now you will wear this. You have thirty seconds to change." It took Brad less than fifteen. Ratel showed him how to properly tie a white belt, and then they were ready.
  
  "First, we will start with the most basic self-defense tool." Ratel took a simple wooden walking stick with a pointed head and two fluted handles carved into the wood, one near the head and the other farther down the shaft. "Many years ago, after the First Korean War, a South Korean master taught at a self-defense school called 'Joseon' in which he used walking sticks and agricultural tools for self-defense. This style was taught because during the Japanese occupation of Korea during World War II and During the North Korean occupation, South Korean citizens were not allowed to carry knives or guns, but walking sticks, walking sticks, and agricultural implements such as rakes, saws, and hammers were very common. self-defense, and he developed a method for teaching others how to use a cane for self-defense, this became known as Kane-Ja, or cane discipline.For the next few weeks, you will walk with a cane and always carry it with you, even if you are traveling on plane or go to a school or courthouse.Once you have mastered cane shooting, you will move on to other, more brutal forms of self-defense, where a cane may be unnecessary or can be used if you lose or break it."
  
  "Cane? You mean like an old man?" Brad protested. "Am I supposed to act like an old cripple and walk around with a stupid cane, chief?"
  
  "You don't have to act like an old man," Ratel said. "Never try to be something you're not - most people fail, most others can see it, and you'll draw attention to yourself. Act like you normally do. You don't have to limp, carry any weight on it, or even keep the tip of your cane on the ground all the time, but you must carry it with you, keep it ready, and never put it down. Throw it over your arm or belt, but never put it down because you will forget it. You can attach it to your backpack straps if it is within reach. And never call it a weapon or something that is necessary for self-defense. It's a walking stick - you just happen to know how to use it in a different way."
  
  "That's stupid, sir," Brad said. "Do I have to carry a stick around with me? By bike? In class?"
  
  "Everywhere," Ratel said. "Everyone around you should associate you with the cane, and the cane with you. It should be your constant companion. People will see this bruise on your head and face, they will see the cane, and they will add one plus one, and this ratio will remain long after the injury has healed. The aggressors, on the other hand, will see the two of you and think that you are weak and vulnerable, and that gives you an advantage."
  
  Ratel raised his cane. "Note that the cane has a round handle that is pointed at the end, and the handles are cut into the shaft in two places, and the handle is cut into the handle," he said. "There is also a comb along the back of the reed. We will adjust this cane to your height, but I figured this one should fit well." He gave it to Brad. "Like any cane, it should be long enough to support your body as you lean on it, but not too short to reduce its impact or force you into a weak stance. Keep it close to your body." Brad did as he was told. "Fine. Your arm is not quite straight. We just want to bend your elbow slightly. If you really leaned on it, it should look natural, like you can really weight it down a bit."
  
  Ratel took his own cane, a worn version of Brad's cane, for demonstration. "Usually you lean with one or two hands on the bar and form a triangle with your feet, like this," he said, casually stopping in front of Brad. "This is the 'relax' pose. You don't really relax, but the idea is to appear relaxed and at ease, while still allowing a potential attacker whom you have identified by your observations or instincts to see that you have a cane, which can either scare him or cheer him up. . Obviously, with the type of attacker we're preparing for, the sight of a cane won't stop them, but they might think you're weak. If you need your hands, you can attach the cane to your belt, but return to the 'relax' position when you can. This is the first warning position for the attacker, green light."
  
  He slid his hand from the hilt down the shaft to the topmost set of gripping lugs, with the open end of the hilt pointing down. "Now your attacker is approaching you and you can see him, so you take this position, which we call 'interception', yellow light. The handle of the cane is in front of you, and you hold on to the top grip. The crossbar is facing down. This is the second warning. To a casual observer or adversary, this may seem like a non-warning position.
  
  "There are a number of things you can do from here," Ratel continued. "The easiest way, of course, is to use a cane to drive someone away just by poking at them." He delivered a couple of blows to a mannequin that was standing nearby. "This, along with verbal warnings, is usually effective enough to deter an aggressive beggar or a young would-be burglar. Obviously, with the opponents we are preparing for, this would probably not be enough. Later, I will teach you how to resist someone who grabs your cane.
  
  "From the 'intercept' position, if you are attacked with fists or a knife, you swing the cane from the outside, striking the attacker's arms between the wrist and elbow as hard as you can. It pulls his body away from you and you have the advantage. You can strike with a bend on his knee, thigh or groin. Keep in mind that hitting the head with the handle of a cane will likely kill or seriously injure you. Killing in self-defense is permissible, but what exactly constitutes "self-defense" is debatable in court. Protect yourself at all times, but always remember that your actions have consequences."
  
  Ratel had Brad practice moves against the dummy, performing each move as ordered by Ratel, increasing speed as he advanced. Soon, sweat glistened on Brad's forehead. After just a few seconds of practice, Brad's arms definitely started to get tired. "Break," Ratel finally said. "Once we get those arms and shoulders, you can both accelerate and increase the power of the blow."
  
  "But I won"t hit the opponent for a long time, right, chief?" Brad asked.
  
  "Our goal is to develop muscle memory so that your movements become second nature," Ratel said. "It will take time and practice." He waved Brad away from the dummy, then assumed a green light pose, holding the hook with both hands. He then positioned himself on a yellow and then a red light, loudly commanding "Stop!", the cane pointed directly at the mannequin. In the next moment, the cane was reduced to nothing more than a blur as Ratel pounded the dummy from seemingly every possible angle, striking for a full minute before assuming all three poses down to the relaxed "green light" position.
  
  "Holy crap," Brad exclaimed. "Incredible!"
  
  "There are more punches and techniques that we will learn," Ratel said. "Until then, your main task is just to get used to carrying a cane. This is the toughest challenge for new Cane-Ja students. You need to know where is the best place to store it when not in use, remember to take it out after you place it on the bus or car seat, and keep it with you at all times. I guarantee you will lose your cane more than once. Try not to do it."
  
  "Yes, chief," said Brad. Ratel had Brad practice swinging and punching on a dummy until their session was over; Brad then changed back into training clothes, left the beol in a small storage box in the dojang, and headed back to Cal Poly.
  
  Final exam week was fast approaching, so after a quick shower and change, Brad headed to the Kennedy Library to study. He found a desk, plugged in his laptop, and began browsing lecture notes and PowerPoint slides provided to him by his professors. He had been doing this for about an hour when Jody Cavendish approached him. "Hey buddy," she greeted him. "Well, well, look at the sink. So I thought I'd find you here. Ready to smoke?"
  
  "I don't know what you just called me," Brad said, "but I hope it's something good."
  
  "Just because you're a hard-working dude and I think it's time for a coffee break."
  
  "Then I'm in." Brad locked his computer in a small cabinet next to his desk and got up to follow Jody.
  
  "Do you need to answer this?" she asked, pointing back at the table.
  
  Brad turned around and saw that he had left his cane on the table. "Oh...yeah," he said, and they headed for the stairs. "I knew I would forget it."
  
  As they walked downstairs, Jody noticed that Brad didn't really use a cane to walk. "What do you need a cane for, buddy?" she asked. "I think you look like you're moving pretty well."
  
  "I still get a little dizzy sometimes, so I thought I'd carry it," Brad lied.
  
  "But you still ride your bike and jog, don"t you?"
  
  "Yes," said Brad. "I don't need it all the time. In fact, what I need most is for it to just stand still."
  
  "Hope your head is okay, mate," Jody said. "The bruise is finally gone, but you may still be affected by the blow."
  
  "I had an MRI and they didn't find anything," Brad said. He tapped his head and added, "In fact, they literally didn't find anything." Jody laughed at the joke and changed the subject, and Brad was glad of that. Maybe it's time to give up the cane, he thought. Chief Ratel said that he would soon start unarmed martial arts, and when he got it as good as Kane-Ja, maybe Kane wouldn't have to be with him all the time.
  
  The coffee shop on the ground floor was almost as crowded as it was during the day, and they had to drink their coffee outdoors. Luckily the weather was perfect in the early evening. "How is your studies going?" Brad asked when they found the bench.
  
  "These are apples," Jody said. "I can't believe I used to study for final exams without a laptop and PowerPoint slides of all my professors - back then I really relied on my own notes to pass my exams! Madness!"
  
  "I have the same thing," admitted Brad. "I take lousy notes." His mobile phone beeped, indicating that he had received a message, and he looked at the number. "Someone from the administration, but I don"t recognize him. I wonder what's going on?
  
  "Why are they calling so late?" Jody thought aloud. "Better call back."
  
  Brad dialed a number on his smartphone and waited. "Hi, this is Brad McLanahan, answering a call from a few minutes ago. I just got a message... who? President Harris? Do you mean the president of the university? Yes, of course, I will wait for him."
  
  "What?" Jody asked. "President Harris wants to talk to you?"
  
  "Maybe this is what we've been waiting for, Jody," Brad said. "Yes... yes, that"s him... Yes, sir, actually, I"m here with one of the team leaders... yes, sir, thank you." He tapped the screen and put the call on speakerphone. "I'm here with Jody Cavendish, sir."
  
  "Good evening to you both," said university president Marcus Harris. "I have good news. The news actually came in about a week ago, but we just finalized the agreement and signed the paperwork. Your Starfire project was one of three projects selected for research and development funding by Sky Masters Aerospace. Congratulations." Jody and Brad jumped to their feet, Jody let out a yell of joy, and she and Brad embraced. Harris allowed them to celebrate for a few moments, then said, "But that's not all."
  
  The students sat down. "Sir?"
  
  "I am also pleased to inform you that your project has received half of the Sky Masters aerospace grant - twenty-five million dollars," continued Harris. "This makes Starfire the highest award-winning aerospace engineering research project in the history of the University of California."
  
  "Twenty-five million dollars?" Jody exclaimed. "I can not believe this!"
  
  "Congratulations to you two," Harris said. "Brad, find a time when your whole team can get together as soon as possible, call my office and set up a time for a press conference. I know we're getting close to the finale and I don't want to take too much of your time, but we want to make a huge splash about this before everyone leaves for the summer."
  
  "Yes, sir!" Brad said. "I will contact everyone tonight. We usually have a team meeting every day at 11 am, so maybe tomorrow will be the best time."
  
  "Great," Harris said, his voice getting more excited with every second. "I'll get your schedules and send emails to your teachers letting them know you'll be late for class because I'm sure the press conference and photo session will take some time. We are going to go international with this project guys and we hope to break more financial records with it. Put on something pretty. Congratulations again. Oh, one more thing while I have Miss Cavendish on the line."
  
  "Sir?"
  
  "Miss Cavendish has been awarded a full Cal Poly undergraduate scholarship, including tuition, books, fees and housing," Harris said. "We can't let one of our top graduate students leave when she was so instrumental in getting such a big grant, can we? I hope you will accept, Miss Cavendish."
  
  "Of course I will, sir!" Jody was crying in stunned glee. "Of course I accept!"
  
  "Excellent," Harris said. "Congratulations to the entire Starfire team. Great job. Good night, mustangs." And the connection was interrupted.
  
  "I don't fucking believe it!" Brad exclaimed as he hung up. "Twenty-five million dollars just fell into our laps!" He hugged Jody tightly. "It's incredible! And you got the scholarship you were looking for! Congratulations!"
  
  "It's all because of you, mate," Jody said. "You are a jackaru. You are my jerk." And Jody put her hands on Brad's face and kissed him hard on the lips.
  
  Brad enjoyed every moment of that kiss, pulled back, and then gave her one in return. When they parted after the kiss, Brad's eyes said something to Jody, something powerful and incredibly personal, and her eyes immediately said yes. But, to her horror, she heard Brad say, "I better get in touch with the others. Tomorrow will be an important day."
  
  "Yes," Jody said. She was content, at least for now, to hug Brad and sip coffee while he texted on his phone.
  
  Brad contacted all of the team's leadership via text messages, then included Cal Poly engineers, professors and students who helped with the project, then decided to include everyone who helped with the project who was within a couple of hours drive from the university, all the way to Stanford and American University - he was determined to fill this press conference room with Starfire supporters. When he was done with that, he decided to write to everyone who supported the project, whether they could attend the press conference or not - everyone involved with the project should be aware of the press conference and the upcoming worldwide publicity, thought He. Anyone associated with this project should not hear about the grant from anyone other than the team leader.
  
  He read out all of Jody's text confirmations except for one. It was the only Central Asian country code in all the messages he received, and was from Kazakhstan, which had no contributors to Starfire. The message simply read: Congratulations. D.
  
  When Brad placed the letters on the phone's keypad against the numbers that appeared on the message screen, the sender's name was spelled Resurrection .
  
  Several days passed and the weather, which had been excellent for most of April, still couldn't get rid of the winter completely, so they had rather cold days with damp fog and rain. For the past three days, Brad has taken the bus instead of cycling. It was a nice and relaxing hike to the dojang south of town: an easy jog from Poly Canyon to the 6B bus stop near the Kennedy Library; an easy seven-minute bus ride to the city center transit center; transfer to bus line route 3; a longer twenty-minute bus ride to Marigold Mall; and then another easy run from there along Tank Farm Road to dojang, which was north of the airport. He had plenty of time to read a little or listen to audiobooks or lecture recordings on his tablet computer. Brad wanted to ride the bus all the time- it was free for UCLA students-but he wanted to stretch, so he took it whenever the weather was good.
  
  The week began, along with the rain, with an introduction to Krav Maga. "Krav Maga was developed in Israel for the military," James Ratel began last Monday afternoon. "It's not a discipline like karate or judo; it's not a sport and will never be in the Olympics or on TV. Krav Maga has three main goals: to neutralize the attack with blocking and parrying with hands, being careful to protect yourself; move from defense to attack as quickly as possible; and quickly neutralize the attacker by manipulating the joints and attacking weak spots on the body using any tools that may be at hand. We're assuming that you've broken or misplaced your cane, so now you'll have to defend yourself unarmed and probably against a very vicious attacker.
  
  "Some teachers tell their students that the amount of force needed to neutralize an attacker should be proportional to the strength of the attack, which means, for example, that you would apply less force to an attacker who uses his fist than to an attacker with a bat or knife." Ratel continued. "I do not believe in that. Your goal is to lay down the attacker so you can escape. In practice, you will throw three punches to demonstrate that you can throw them, but on the street you keep attacking until your attacker falls. Forget every Bruce Lee movie you've ever seen: it's not one parry, one punch, and then let the guy get up to attack you again. Once you have blocked the attacker, you keep hitting his soft vulnerabilities and joints until he falls, and then you run as fast as you can and get out of the situation as quickly as possible. Understand?"
  
  "Yes, chief," said Brad.
  
  Ratel pointed to a folder that lay on the counter outside. "This is your homework," he said. "We will train to attack vulnerable spots on the body using numbers starting from head to toe. Memorize places and numbers. You will also learn about all the 230 joints in the human body and in particular how they articulate so that you can attack them. Get ready to show them to me by next Wednesday."
  
  "Yes, chief."
  
  "Very good. Throw off those shoes and socks, then onto the mat." Brad took off his sneakers and socks, bowed to the center of the blue mat, and stepped out into the middle, Ratel following him. Brad was wearing his beol training uniform, now with a red and black belt instead of white, with first level poom rank marks indicating that he had passed his first round of basic training.
  
  "We start with the basics, and in Krav Maga it's a parry," Ratel began. "Notice I didn't say 'block'. The block assumes that you can absorb some of the energy that the attacker uses against you, like two football players on the line crashing into each other. Instead, we use the term 'parry', which means you deflect most or all of the attack's energy in a safe direction."
  
  "Just like basic cane moves, sir?" Brad watched.
  
  "Quite right," Ratel said. "The key to the initial parry in Krav Maga is anticipation, which means being aware of your surroundings. If a potential attacker approaching you has his right hand in his pocket, he probably has a weapon in his right hand, so your mental plan of action is to prepare to defend against an attacker who is right-handed." Ratel took a rubber knife from a shelf behind him and tossed it to Brad. "Try it".
  
  Brad removed his right hand with the knife behind his back and approached Ratel, then waved his hand in his direction. Ratel's left hand shot up, pushing the knife past his chest and half-turning Brad's body. "First of all, the knife is not next to your body, and if the attacker had another weapon in his left hand, he would not be able to use it right now because I turned it away. As with the cane, you now see exposed areas of the body." Ratel struck at Brad's torso and head. "Or I can catch my right hand with my right hand and block it, keeping the knife at a safe distance from me, and keeping my hand locked, I control the attacker." Ratel grabbed Brad's right arm from below, put his hand on Brad's triceps and pushed. Even with a little pressure, it seemed that the arm was about to break in two, and Brad would be unable to move anywhere but to the ground.
  
  It was the first day of training, and after the end of the third, Brad began to wonder if he could ever master any of these Krav Maga moves, let alone use them. But he reminded himself that he thought the same thing about Kane-Ja, and decided that he was good at it. He stepped out of the dojang, pulled on the hood of his green and gold Cal Poly Mustangs windbreaker, and ran east along Tankfarm Road toward Broad Street and the bus stop. Although it was not quite sunset yet, it was drizzling, it was cool, it was getting dark quickly, and he wanted to get off this unlit road to the main highway as soon as possible and get on the bus.
  
  He was halfway up Broad Street, on the darkest part of the road, when a westbound car pulled up. Brad stepped off the sidewalk and onto the uneven gravel "warning path" but continued to run. The car shifted slightly to the left and stood across the center line, and it seemed that she was going to pass him with a lot of room ...
  
  ...when suddenly he swerved further to the left, then began to skid to the right on a slippery road, the car was now perpendicular to the road, brakes and tires squealed - and headed straight for Brad! He had almost no time to react to the sudden movement. The car slowed down a bit, but when it hit it was ten times harder than any hit he'd ever taken in high school football.
  
  "Oh my god, sorry about that, Mr. Bradley McLanahan," the man said a few moments later through the haze in Brad's mind. Brad lay on his back on the side of the road, dazed and confused, his right hip and arm hurting like hell. Then, in Russian, the man said, "Sorry. I'm sorry. Wet road, I may have been driving a little too fast, a coyote ran in front of me and I could barely see you in the drizzle, blah blah blah. At least that's the story I'll tell the deputies if they find me."
  
  "I... I think I'm fine," Brad said, gasping for air.
  
  "V samom dele? Really? Well, my friend, we can fix it." And suddenly the man pulled a black plastic garden cleaning bag out of his pocket, pressed it against Brad's face and pressed. Brad still couldn't breathe because the air was knocked out of him, but panic rose from his chest in terrifying waves. He tried to push his attacker away, but he couldn't get any part of his body to work properly.
  
  "Just relax. Just relax, my young friend," the man said, mixing English and Russian as if he were an expat or foreign cousin from old England telling a bedtime story. "This will be over before you can look back."
  
  Brad didn't have the strength to remove the plastic from his face at all and thought about giving in to the roaring in his ears and the burning pain in his chest...but somehow he remembered what he had to do and instead of fighting with hands holding the plastic over his face or trying to find his cane, he reached out and pressed a button on the device hanging around his neck.
  
  The assailant saw what he had done and momentarily released the pressure on Brad's face, found the device, ripped it off Brad's neck and discarded it. Brad took a deep breath of air. "Nice try, asshole," the assailant said. He pressed the plastic against Brad's face before Brad could take three deep breaths. "You'll be dead long before your vigilant nurses arrive."
  
  Brad couldn't see it, but a moment later headlights approached. "Keep them away," the man said over his shoulder in Russian to the second attacker, whom Brad had never seen. "Keep them away. Have them call 911 or whatever, but keep them away. Tell them I'm doing CPR."
  
  "I'll keep them away, comrade," the aide admitted. "I'll keep them away, sir."
  
  The first attacker had to stop pressing the plastic bag over Brad's mouth and nose until the newcomers left, but he leaned over Brad as if doing mouth-to-mouth CPR, but covered his mouth in the process so Brad couldn't scream. A few moments later, he heard, "That's it. Everything is over ".
  
  "Same . It's the same here," the first attacker said...and then his vision exploded into a sea of stars and blackness as the handle of the cane slammed into his left temple, knocking him unconscious instantly.
  
  "God, Dexter, you're blue as a fucking smurf," James Ratel said, shining a small flashlight in Brad's face. He lifted Brad to his feet and placed him in the front seat of his Ford pickup. He then loaded two Russian hitmen into the cargo hold of a pickup truck and drove back down Tankfarm Road to dojang. He put plastic handcuffs on the wrists, ankles and mouths of two Russians and sent a text message to his phone. By then, Brad had begun to recover in the passenger seat of a pickup truck. "Dexter!" Ratel screamed. "Are you okay?"
  
  "Wh-what...?" Brad muttered.
  
  "McLanahan... Brad, Brad McLanahan, answer me," Ratel shouted. "Wake up. Are you all right?"
  
  "I... what... what the hell happened...?"
  
  "I need you to wake up, damn it, McLanahan, right now," Ratel called out. "We could be attacked at any moment and I won't be able to protect you unless you wake up and can protect yourself. Wake up motherfucking right now. Confirm my order, pilot, immediately."
  
  It took several long moments, but finally Brad shook his head, clearing it up, and was able to say, "Chief? Y-yeah, I'm awake... I'm... I'm fine, chief. W-what should I do? What's happening?"
  
  "Listen to me," Ratel said. "We don't have much time. I'm assuming we're going to be attacked by a backup strike team any second. We are completely alone and in extreme danger. I need you alert and responsive. Do you hear what I'm saying, McLanahan?"
  
  "Y-yes, chief," Brad heard himself answer. He still wasn't sure where he was or what was going on, but at least he was able to answer Chief Ratel. "Tell me what to do."
  
  "Go inside and grab some mats and weights to cover these guys," Ratel said. They both went inside. Brad found exercise mats and barbells. Ratel opened an ordinary-looking trophy display case at the front of the dojang; in a hidden drawer under the display case were hidden several pistols, shotguns and knives.
  
  "I covered them, Chief," Brad said.
  
  Ratel inserted a cartridge into the chamber of the shotgun and handed it to Brad, then did the same with the two pistols. "Put your pistols in your belt." He armed himself with two pistols, an AR-15 rifle, and several magazines filled with ammunition. "We're going to try to get to the hangar in Paso Robles - it's easier to defend."
  
  "Shouldn't we call the police?"
  
  "I would like to avoid it, but we may not have a choice," Ratel said. "Go".
  
  They exited onto Highway 101 heading north. Darkness fell, and the rain continued to pour, significantly reducing visibility. They had been on the highway for less than five minutes when Ratel said, "We are being watched. One car stays with us about a hundred yards behind us."
  
  "What should we do?"
  
  Rathel didn't say anything. A few miles later, at the Santa Margarita exit, he pulled off the freeway, and at the end of the exit they armed themselves and waited. Not a single car left because of them. "Maybe they weren't following us," Brad said.
  
  "Most likely they have a GPS tracking device somewhere on my pickup, so they don"t have to watch very closely - I didn"t have time to check," Ratel said. "They probably have more than one pursuit team. The first team will go further, then stop somewhere, and the second pursuit team will take over. We will go to the airport by the back door."
  
  They drove along the ring roads for another hour, until they finally reached the Paso Robles airport. Passing through the security gates, they headed for the crew hangar, but stopped about a quarter of a mile away. "It's still too busy at the airport to drag these guys inside," Ratel said, placing his AR-15 rifle on his lap. "We'll wait until it's quieter." They waited, alert for any approach. About an hour later, a small twin-engine plane taxied closer, and the pilot parked a few hangars away. It took the pilot almost an hour to get his car out of the hangar, park the plane inside, then pack up his things and leave, and the airport was quiet again.
  
  Thirty minutes later, with no more signs of activity, Ratel finally couldn't wait any longer. He drove up to the hangar, and he and Brad dragged the attackers inside. Ratel then drove the pickup about a quarter mile and parked it, then ran back to the hangar.
  
  "It worked," Ratel said, wiping raindrops from his head and his AR-15. "The support teams will track the delivery and then track us down here. Then they will probably wait a few hours before attacking."
  
  "How will they track us here?"
  
  "I can think of a dozen ways," Ratel said. "If they're any good, they'll be here. I just hope help arrives before then."
  
  Less than an hour later, amid the incessant rain and occasional gusts of wind, they heard the sound of metal scratching against metal outside the main front door. "Follow me," Ratel whispered, and he and Brad retreated to the hangar. Inside was a small business jet, the black color of which indicated that it belonged to Kevin Martindale's international organization Scion Aviation. Ratel found a large, closet-sized tool box on wheels against the wall of the hangar, pushed it away from the wall, and they both stood behind it. "Okay, your job is to keep an eye on that front door over there," Ratel said, pointing to the large aircraft hangar door. "I will watch the door to the main office. Only single shots. Make them count."
  
  A few minutes later they heard another sound of metal being pressed in, and a few minutes after that they heard more metal on metal coming from the hangar's front door, a signal that the door had been forced open. A moment later, the door opened and Brad saw a man in night vision goggles crouching low through the opening, a submachine gun in hand. Bizzjet was hiding it now. The second attacker entered the door, closed it, and stayed there, covering it. At the same time, Ratel could see two more attackers enter the office door, also wearing night vision goggles and carrying machine guns.
  
  "Shit," he whispered. "Four guys. We've run out of time." He took out his cell phone, dialed 911, left it on, turned the volume down all the way, and tucked it under his toolbox. "Use a gun. Get the guy out the door. The other guy will probably hide behind the right hand drive of the plane." Brad peeked out from behind the toolbox and took aim at the guy at the front door, which was partially lit by a glowing emergency exit sign. Ratel took a deep breath, then whispered, "Now."
  
  Brad and Ratel fired almost simultaneously. Ratel's blow landed, and one attacker fell. Brad had no idea where his shot had landed, but he knew he hadn't hit anything except maybe the hangar wall. The guy at the door dashed along the hangar wall towards the conference room, ducking low. Just as Ratel had predicted, the other guy took cover behind the wheel of the plane... and then the hangar exploded with machine gun fire that seemed to come from all directions at the same time. Ratel and Brad dived behind the toolbox.
  
  "Open fire when the shooting stops!" Ratel screamed. The toolbox was riddled with bullets, but the tools inside seemed to soak up the bullets. A moment later, there was a momentary lull in the shooting, and Brad peered out from behind the toolbox, saw movement at the plane's tire, and fired. The bullet hit the tire, which exploded instantly, sending a shockwave into the assailant's face. He screamed, clutching his face in agony. The bizjet looked like it was about to crash to the right, but the wheel hub barely kept it from tipping over completely.
  
  Now the shooting changed direction - more bullets hit the side of the toolbox, and not the front. "Look around!" Ratel screamed. "They will try... ahhh! Crap! Brad looked and saw Ratel clenching his right hand, which looked like it had been torn wide open by a bullet. Blood splattered everywhere. "Take a rifle and keep them out!" Ratel screamed as he grabbed his wounded arm, trying to stop the bleeding.
  
  Brad tried to peek around the toolbox, but the moment he moved, bullets began to fly, and now he felt them coming closer and closer like a swarm of bats buzzing over his head. He tried to aim the rifle at the toolbox and fire, but the muzzle of the rifle jumped uncontrollably. Ratel wrapped a rag around his right hand and fired the pistol with his left, but the muzzle was not at all stable, and he looked as if he could pass out at any moment. Brad heard approaching footsteps and voices in Russian. This is it, he thought. The next shot he heard would be the last of his life, he was sure of it...
  
  
  SIX
  
  
  Lies never live to old age.
  
  - SOPHOCLE
  
  
  
  PASO ROBLES, CA
  
  
  Suddenly, there was a terrible explosion in the back of the hangar. The air instantly filled with dust and debris. The voices were shouting in Russian... And soon the screams were replaced by screams, and a moment later the screams were silent.
  
  "It's all clear, Brad," an electronically synthesized voice rang out. Brad looked up and saw a cybernetic infantry device behind the bizjet.
  
  "Dad?" - he asked.
  
  "Are you all right?" Patrick McLanahan asked.
  
  "Chief Ratel," Brad said over the ringing in his ears from all the gunfire in the closed hangar. "He's hurt." A moment later, two men hurried and carried Ratel out. Brad ran to the robot. He saw where his father had stormed through the doorway, tearing down most of the wall around the door between the hangar and the main office. All six attackers, the four who attacked the hangar and the two who attacked Brad on Tankfarm Road, have already been taken away.
  
  "Are you all right, Brad?" Patrick asked.
  
  "Yes. I can't hear very well with all this shooting, but other than that I'm fine."
  
  "Fine. Let's get out of here. The Highway Patrol and the Sheriffs will be about five minutes away." Patrick picked up his son and carried him across a large open field to a parking lot at the south end of the runway, where a black Sherpa cargo plane was waiting, its turboprops spinning at idle. Patrick lowered Brad to the ground, climbed in through the cargo ladder at the rear, and sat on the cargo deck, with Brad climbing aboard right after him. A crew member put Brad in the cargo net seat, helped him buckle up, and gave him headphones. In a few moments they were in the air.
  
  "What about Chief Ratel?" Brad asked, assuming his father could hear him over the intercom.
  
  "He will be evacuated and treated," Patrick replied.
  
  "What will the cops do when they see this hangar? It's like a war zone. It was a war zone."
  
  "President Martindale will sort this out," Patrick replied.
  
  "How did you get here so fast, dad?"
  
  "I was in St. George when your alarm went off in San Luis Obispo," Patrick said. "It's less than two hours away on the Sherpa. Thank God Chief Ratel got to you in time and took you out of town."
  
  "St. George? Is this where we are heading now?"
  
  "Yes, Brad," Patrick said. CID turned to Brad and raised his armored arm, anticipating Brad's protests. "I know you want to go back to Cal Poly, Brad," Patrick said, "and now that you've received a grant from the Sky Masters, your work becomes even more important. I also want to see how you continue your studies. So, I'm going to have Sergeant Major Vol's team locate and capture any other assault troops that come after you. They will be located closer to the campus, so you do not have to go to the training in the southern part of the city. They will take over your training until Chief Ratel is well enough for it."
  
  "You mean they will be my bodyguards or something?"
  
  "While I'm sure they can handle them, Wohl teams are not built to work in the personal security field," Patrick said. "They train for counterintelligence and direct action missions. But now we are faced with four teams of Russian hitmen of two people. I'm not going to let any strike teams roam the United States on their own, especially those that target my son. So, we need to develop a plan of action. We will interrogate the newcomers, do some investigation and come up with a plan."
  
  "So I"ll be like a decoy to lure the bad guys in so Sergeant Major can take them out?" Brad noticed. He nodded and smiled. "It's cool as long as I can go back to calf. I can go back to Cal Poly, right dad?"
  
  "Against my common sense, yes," Patrick said. "But not today. Have the master sergeant and his teams interrogate the new prisoners, gather some information, and comb the campus and city. It will only take a day or two. I know you do most of your final exam preparation online and your classes are mostly over so you can work at our headquarters. Before graduation week comes, you should be able to get back to campus."
  
  "I just need to come up with an excuse to tell the Starfire team about this," Brad said. "The project is developing rapidly, dad. The university receives money and support from all over the world."
  
  "I know, son," Patrick said. "To the university's credit, they are keeping Starfire strictly within the Cal Poly undergraduate project-other universities, companies, and even governments have offered to take over. Looks like you'll be in charge for now. Just understand that the pressure to take the project to someone else as a commercial operation will certainly mount - I bet it's most likely Sky Masters Aerospace, now that they've invested so much in it - and the university might be tempted to to the fact that big money will allow some company to take it over. Just don't be offended if it happens. Universities run on money."
  
  "I won't be offended."
  
  "Fine". The TIE turned its massive armored head towards Brad. "I'm proud of you, son," Patrick said. "I've seen it in hundreds of emails from all over the world: people are impressed with your leadership in moving this project forward, building a first-class team and getting technical support. No one can believe that you are a freshman."
  
  "Thank you, dad," said Brad. "I hope I can achieve at least a small fraction of the success that you have in the Air Force."
  
  "I think your path will be completely different from mine," Patrick said. He turned back, facing the back of the plane. "I always wished I had leadership qualities like you. My life could be very different if I had your skills and learned how to use them. You obviously learned it from someone other than your father, or maybe from the Civil Air Patrol."
  
  "But you were... I mean, you are a three-star general, dad."
  
  "Yeah, but my promotions came from what I did, not my leadership qualities," Patrick said, the wistfulness in his voice still evident despite the CID electronic voice synthesizer. "Over the years I have had several command positions, but I never acted like a real commander - I acted as I always did: operator, pilot, crew member, not a leader. I saw the work that needed to be done and I went out and did it. As a field officer or general, I had to create a team that would get the job done instead of going off and doing it myself. I never really understood what it means to lead."
  
  "I also think getting the job done is the most important thing, Dad," Brad said. "I'm an aerospace engineering student, but I can barely understand most of the sciences I'm expected to learn. I work my way through this, finding someone to explain it to me. But all I really want is to fly. I know I need to get a degree so I can attend test pilot school and fly hot jets, but I don't care about a degree. I just want to fly."
  
  "Well, it works for you, son," Patrick said. "Keep focused on the goal. You can do it ".
  
  The Sherpa landed about two hours later at General Dick Stout Airfield, fourteen miles northeast of St. George in southern Utah. The airport has been greatly expanded over the past few years as the population of St. George's has grown, and while Stout Field was still a towerless airport, its western end has flourished as an industrial and commercial air hub. The black Sherpa taxied up to a very large hangar on the south side of the airport's industrial section and was towed inside the hangar before anyone was allowed to disembark. The huge hangar housed a Challenger-5 business jet, a Reaper drone with under-wing weapons pylons, and a smaller version of the V-22 Osprey tilt-rotor aircraft, all painted black, of course.
  
  Patrick led his son into a nearby building. Brad immediately noticed that the ceiling was higher, and all the doors and corridors were wider and taller than usual, all obviously designed to accommodate the Cybernetic Infantry Device that passed through them. Brad heard the lock automatically click open as they approached the door and they entered a room in the center of the building. "This is my house," Patrick said. It was nothing more than a bare, windowless room with nothing but a table with a few canisters of nutrients, the place where Patrick plugged in to recharge...
  
  ... and, in the far corner, another new model of the cybernetic infantry robot. "I see I have a replacement," Patrick said in a wooden voice. "It usually takes us another day or so to run a full set of diagnostics for a new CID before they make the transfer."
  
  "Then I can see you, Dad."
  
  "Son, if you are sure that this is what you want to do, then I will allow it," Patrick said. "But it's not pretty."
  
  Brad looked around the room. "Damn, you're not even allowed to hang pictures on the walls?"
  
  "I can play all the pictures I want, anytime I want, right in my mind," said Patrick. "I don't need them hanging on the wall." He replaced the nutrient containers in his chassis with the new ones that were on the table, then stood at the specified location in the center of the room, and the power, data, hygiene, nutrient, and diagnostic cables automatically descended from the ceiling and connected to the correct places on the CID. Patrick froze in place, straightening up, much like an unmanned robot in the corner. "The sergeant major will arrive in a few hours to have a briefing and talk to you about what happened, and then he will take you to the hotel," he said. "He'll bring you back in the morning and we'll set you up so you can work out a little."
  
  Brad thought about what he was about to say in silence for a while; then: "Daddy, you told me that inside this robot you are still yourself."
  
  "Yes".
  
  "Well, the 'you' I remember had awards and plaques and pictures on the walls," Brad said. "Even in a small two-meter-wide trailer in Battle Mountain, you had your old flight helmets, display cases with memorabilia, model aircraft and various little things that I didn"t even know what they were, but they are obviously a lot meant to you. Why don't you have any of that here?"
  
  The robot remained motionless and silent for several long moments; then, "I guess I never really thought about it, Brad," Patrick finally said. "At first I thought it was because I didn"t want anyone to know it was me in here, but now all the people I interact with in this building know it"s me, so it"s really more not applicable ".
  
  "Well, a robot wouldn't have anything on the walls," Brad said, "but my dad would." Patrick didn't say anything. "Maybe when things calm down and get back to normal - or as close as possible to ever getting back to normal - I can fly over here and arrange something. Make it more like your room than a closet."
  
  "I would like that, son," Patrick said. "I would like that."
  
  
  OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT
  FOURTEENTH BUILDING, KREMLIN
  MOSCOW
  A FEW DAYS LATER
  
  
  "There are definitely signs of heightened activity at the US military space station," State Security Minister Viktor Kazyanov said via video link from his intelligence center to the president's office. He showed pictures of the Armstrong space station before and after. "There was one launch of a heavy-lift rocket that delivered these long structures along with many smaller pressurized and non-pressurized containers. We don't yet know for sure what's in the sealed containers, but these other leaky items resemble batteries already installed on the farm, so we're guessing they are batteries too."
  
  "I don't want any more guesses from you, Kazyanov," Russian President Gennady Gryzlov said, poking his cigar at Kazyanov's image on a computer monitor. "Get me information. Do your damn job."
  
  "Yes, sir," said Kazyanov. He cleared his throat, then continued, "There has also been a significant increase in spaceplane flights, sometimes three to four a month, sir." He changed slides. "The latest model of their single-stage orbital spaceplane, the S-29 Shadow, has now completed operational testing and made one flight to the station. In terms of size and carrying capacity, it is similar to our Elektron spaceplane, but, of course, it does not need a rocket to launch into space.
  
  "Of course not," President Gennady Gryzlov said caustically. "So. Now they have one shadow spaceplane, which is similar in size to our Electron. How many electrons do we have, Sokolov?"
  
  "We have reactivated seven Elektron spaceplanes," Defense Minister Gregor Sokolov replied. "One of them is ready for launch in Plesetsk, and another pair of spaceplane-rocket has arrived there and can be paired and brought to the launch site within a week. we have..."
  
  "A week?" Gryzlov boomed. "Minister, I told you, I want to fill the Earth's orbit with Russian space planes and weapons. I want to be able to launch two spaceplanes at the same time."
  
  "Sir, only one launch site in Plesetsk was loaded for the Angara-5 launch vehicle," Sokolov said. "Funds intended for the construction of another site there were redirected to the construction of the Vostochny cosmodrome and the extension of the Baikonur lease. We have to-"
  
  "Minister Sokolov, I sense a pattern here: I give orders, and you give me excuses instead of results," Gryzlov said. "Is there a launch pad on Vostochny suitable for the Angara-5 launch vehicle or not?"
  
  "Cosmodrome Vostochny will not be completed within the next two years, sir," Sokolov said. Gryzlov rolled his eyes in annoyance for the hundredth time during the conference call. "Baikonur is the only other launch pad currently available to accommodate Angara-5."
  
  "So why is there no Elektron spaceplane, Sokolov at Baikonur?"
  
  "Sir, I understand you didn't want any more military launches from Baikonur, only commercial launches," Sokolov said.
  
  Gryzlov could hardly contain his anger. "I said that I want, Sokolov, to get as many spaceplanes as possible to the launch pads as quickly as possible so that we at least have a chance to challenge the Americans," he said. "We are paying good money to use this facility - we will start using it. What else?"
  
  "Sir, we are continuing to modernize the Plesetsk, Vostochny and Znamensk spaceports," Sokolov continued, "but the work is slowing down due to cold weather and must be completely stopped in about a month, otherwise the quality of concrete castings will deteriorate."
  
  "So we only have two launch pads for our spaceplanes, and one not even in our own country?" Gryzlov said with disgust. "Perfect".
  
  "There is another way that we can take, Mr. President: to launch Elektron space planes from China," Foreign Minister Darya Titeneva intervened. "Thanks to America's actions against both of our countries, our relationship with China has never been better. I explored this possibility with the Chinese Foreign Minister and I spoke with his military adviser who suggested a base in the far west of China: Xichang. With the opening of the new Wenchang Space Center on Hainan Island, all heavy rocket launch operations have been moved there from Xichang, making the base open and accessible, and its equipment state-of-the-art. They have two launch pads for our Angara-5 rockets, as well as for our Proton series. There is a lot of concern that a launch failure could result in debris falling on nearby cities and reduced range factories, but I think a little more attention to local and provincial politicians could allay their concerns."
  
  "Excellent work, Daria," said Gryzlov, smiling for the first time during the meeting. "See, Sokolov? Here's how it's done. Out of the box thinking."
  
  "You object to launches from Baikonur, but are considering sending our rockets and spaceplanes to China, sir?" Sokolov objected. "I'm sure the Chinese military would like to get to know Elektron and Angara-5 better.
  
  "I ordered Russian space planes at the launch pads, Sokolov!" Gryzlov snarled, pointing his cigar at the Defense Minister's picture on his monitor. "If I can't launch them from Russian facilities, I'll do it from somewhere else." He turned back to Titeneva. "Keep your preparations, Daria," he said. "What else did the Chinese talk about?"
  
  "They were talking about an exchange for using Xichang, sir, along with cash, of course," Titeneva said. "They mentioned a few things, a few political points, such as supporting their claims to the Senkaku Islands and the South China Sea, and possibly reopening talks about oil and natural gas pipelines to China from Siberia, but what they are most interested in is mobile class missiles. ground-to-air S-500, the latest model capable of attacking satellites."
  
  "Indeed?" Gryzlov said, nodding enthusiastically. "Exchange launchers for S-500 missiles, which I would like to deploy at all Russian spaceports and military installations around the world anyway. Great idea. I approve".
  
  "Sir, the S-500 is the most advanced air defense weapon in the world," Sokolov said, his face turned into a stunned mask, telling everyone that he couldn't believe what the President had just said. "This is at least a generation ahead of anything the Chinese or even the Americans have. The electronic, sensor and propulsion technologies used in the S-500 are the best in Russia... no, the best in the world! We will give them what they have been trying to steal from us for decades!"
  
  "Sokolov, I want Electrons and Buranas to be on the launch pads," Gryzlov barked. "If the Chinese can do it and they want the S-500, they will get the S-500." He frowned at the shocked look on Sokolov's face. "How are our other rearmament programs going? The Duma has increased our defense appropriations by thirty percent - this should lead to hundreds of S-500s, MiG-31D anti-satellite systems and much more than just five space planes."
  
  "It takes time to restart the weapons programs that were canceled many years ago, sir," Sokolov said. "The S-500 is already in production, so we can expect one to two systems per month over the next -"
  
  "No, Sokolov!" Gryzlov interrupted. "This is unacceptable! I want at least ten a month!"
  
  "Ten?" Sokolov objected. "Sir, eventually we can reach the goal of ten units per month, but it takes time to accelerate production to this level. It"s not enough just to have money - we need trained workers, space on the assembly line, a steady and reliable flow of parts, test facilities -"
  
  "If the S-500 was already in production, why isn"t it all in place yet?" Gryzlov boomed. "Were you planning to build only one to two a month? The most advanced air defense system in the world, or so you say, but we don't build more of these?"
  
  "Sir, defense spending has been shifted to other priorities such as anti-ship missiles, aircraft carriers and fighter jets," Sokolov said. "The S-500 is primarily an air defense weapon designed for use against cruise missiles and stealth aircraft, and later adapted as an anti-satellite and anti-missile weapon of the 'S' model. After our bombers and cruise missiles struck the United States, which practically destroyed their bombers and intercontinental ballistic missiles, air defense was not given much importance, because the threat was almost gone. Now that space is a higher priority and the S-500s have proven successful, we can start building more, but as I said sir, it takes time to...
  
  "More excuses!" Gryzlov shouted into the microphone of the videoconference. "All I want to hear from you, Sokolov, is 'yes sir' and all I want to see is results or I'll get someone else to follow my orders. Now get down to business!" And he pressed a button that cut off communication with his secretary of defense.
  
  At this point, Tarzarov sent the president a private text message that scrolled across the bottom of the videoconference screen: it read: Praise publicly, criticize privately. Gryzlov was going to answer "Fuck you", but changed his mind. "Daria, good job," he said over the teleconferencing network. "Let me know what you need me to do to help."
  
  "Yes, sir," Titeneva replied with a confident smile and hung up. Gryzlov chuckled. Daria Titeneva has definitely changed over the past few weeks: aggressive, creative, demanding, even vulgar at times... in and out of bed. Gryzlov continued the videoconference with other ministers in his cabinet for a few more minutes, then hung up.
  
  "Your anger and temper will sooner or later get the better of you, Gennady," said Tarzarov, as soon as all ties with the president's ministers were securely cut off. "Always warning you about this doesn't seem to help."
  
  "More than ten years have passed since the destruction of the American fleet of bombers and intercontinental ballistic missiles, Sergey," Gryzlov complained, once again ignoring Tarzarov's advice. "The Americans reactivated their military space station and switched to space-based weapons instead of rebuilding their bomber and missile armament, and they made no secret of it. What the hell have Zevitin and Truznev been doing all these years-playing with themselves?"
  
  "For most of that time, former presidents had institutional, political and budgetary problems, Gennady," Tarzarov said, "as well as the need to recover weapons destroyed by the Americans during counterattacks. It is useless to point fingers at past presidents. Very few heads of state, including you, are in complete control of the fate of their country." He checked his smartphone, then shook his head in annoyance. "Ilyanov and Korchkov are waiting outside. Have you finished this project yet, sir? Ilyanov is just a thug in an air force uniform, while Korchkova is a mindless automaton who kills because she likes it."
  
  "I will finish these two when their task is done," Gryzlov said. "But at the moment they are the right people for the job. Bring them here." Tarzarov escorted the Russian officer and his assistant to the president's office, then took his "inconspicuous place" in the office and effectively blended into the atmosphere. Ilyanov and Korchkov were in military uniform, Ilyanov in the form of the air force, and Korchkov in a simple black tunic and trousers, without orders or medals, only insignia on epaulettes, characteristic of the elite special group "Vympel" commandos. Gryzlov noticed that she also wore a knife in a black sheath on her belt. "I expected to hear from you a few days ago, Colonel," he said. "I also haven't heard anything on the news about the death of McLanahan's son, so I'm guessing your squad failed."
  
  "Yes, sir," said Ilyanov. "The first group reported to Alpha, command, that they had McLanahan, and then Alpha lost contact with them. The second and third teams picked up McLanahan and the man McLanahan did self-defense and physical training with as he drove out of town."
  
  "Who is this man?" - Asked Gryzlov.
  
  "A retired non-commissioned officer named Ratel, now a self-defense and firearms instructor," Ilyanov said. "He comes into contact from time to time with several people who also appear to be ex-military - we are currently in the process of identifying them. One man looks like he's been burned by chemicals or radiation. He seems to be the one in charge of the ex-military."
  
  "It's getting even more interesting," Gryzlov said. "McLanahan's bodyguards? Some kind of private paramilitary group? McLanahan Sr. reportedly belonged to such groups, both within and outside the military."
  
  "Our considerations are exactly the same, sir," Ilyanov said. "The second team had to rip his tail off because he thought he was found, but the teams were using an electronic beacon on Ratel's car, so they were ordered to rip off his tail and wait for the beacon to stop. He landed at a small airport in central California. The teams found the abandoned vehicle, but they were able to determine which airport building Ratel and McLanahan were hiding in, a large aircraft hangar. Command ordered Teams Two and Three to wait until activity at the airport ceased and then attack from different directions, which they did."
  
  "And obviously failed," Gryzlov said. "Let me guess the rest: members of all three teams are missing, not in police custody, and McLanahan is nowhere to be found. Who owned the hangar, Colonel?" He raised his hand. "Wait, let me guess again: some run-of-the-mill aviation company with unremarkable officers and a few employees who haven't been in the area for too long." The expression on Ilyanov's face told the president that he had guessed correctly. "Perhaps the hangar is the headquarters of this group, or was. They will surely scatter in all four directions. Was your team able to search the hangar?"
  
  "The command group couldn't get inside because of the police and then because of a heavily armed private security guard," Ilyanov said. "But the team leader did watch many men and women haul files and equipment out on trucks, and the business jet that was in the hangar during the operation taxied out and left for the night after the operation. The business jet was painted completely black."
  
  "I thought it was illegal in most countries to paint an aircraft black, unless it's a government or military aircraft," Gryzlov said. "Again, very interesting. You may have stumbled upon some mysterious paramilitary organization, Colonel. What else?"
  
  "The group commander was able to notice that the main entrance to the aircraft hangar had been blown inwards, possibly by a vehicle that had driven straight through the main office and crashed into the hangar itself," Ilyanov said. "However, there was no sign of the damaged vehicle anywhere outside the hangar."
  
  Gryzlov thought for a moment, nodding, then smiled. "So McLanahan's friends in the paramilitaries save people by smashing a car against the front door? Doesn't sound very professional. But they got the job done." He got up from his desk. "Colonel, the ten men you sent there were either killed or captured, presumably by this anti-surveillance or counterintelligence unit around McLanahan. Whoever you recruit from within the United States, they are practically useless. You back off while we wait to allow conditions there to return to normal. Obviously McLanahan has no intention of leaving this school, so it will be easy to pick him up again."
  
  Gryzlov examined Korchkov's body from head to toe. "And when the time is right, I think it's time to send Captain Korchkov - one," he added. "Your two-man teams are idiots or incompetent or both, and now this paramilitary team has been alerted. I'm sure the captain will do the job. She may have to eliminate a few of these ex-militaries first before she gets to McLanahan." Korchkova said nothing, but there was a hint of a smile on her face, as if she was already enjoying the prospect of more murders. "But not at once. Let McLanahan and his bodyguards think we've given up hunting. Take some time to create the perfect cover for the captain, close to McLanahan and close enough to get a good look at this paramilitary team. Don't use her diplomatic powers - I'm sure all embassy and consular staff will be under scrutiny for a while."
  
  "Yes, sir," said Ilyanov.
  
  Gryzlov stepped closer to Korchkova and stared into her unblinking eyes. She looked straight back at him with her tiny smile. "They let you in here with a knife, Korchkov?"
  
  "They couldn't take you away from me, sir," said Korchkov, and those were the first words that, in Gryzlov's memory, the beauty had ever heard. "They didn"t dare take it from me. Sir."
  
  "Understood," said Gryzlov. He examined her body from head to toe one more time, then said, "It wouldn't bother me a bit, Captain, if you decided to torture McLanahan a little before executing him. Then you could come back to me and describe it all in great detail."
  
  "With pleasure, sir," said Korchkov, "With pleasure, sir."
  
  
  IN EARTH ORBIT
  OCTOBER 2016
  
  
  "Wow, look at all those new bling," said Sondra Eddington. She and Boomer Noble were aboard an S-19 midnight spaceplane bound for the docking bay at the Armstrong space station, about a mile away. It was her fourth spaceplane flight, her second flight in an S-19 spaceplane-the others flew the smaller S-9 Black Stallion-but her first time in orbit and her first docking with the Armstrong space station. Both she and Boomer wore tight-fitting electronic elastomer tracksuits and oxygen pre-breathing helmets in case of an uncontrolled depressurization.
  
  "Part of the Starfire solar project," Boomer said. He could see Sondra shake her head slightly as he spoke the word Starfire. They meant two additional sets of solar collectors mounted on towers between the "upper" modules of the station, aimed at the sun. "It's hard to believe, but these new photovoltaic collectors generate more electricity than all the station's silicon solar cells combined, although they are less than a quarter in size."
  
  "Oh, I believe it," Sondra said. "I can almost explain to you how they are built and draw you the molecular structure of nanotubes."
  
  "I guess Brad told you about them more than once."
  
  "Until it rings in my ears," Sondra said wearily.
  
  This part of Sondra's training in spaceplane piloting was completely computer controlled, so both crew members sat back and watched the computers do their thing. Boomer asked questions about possible malfunctions and her actions, pointed out certain signs and talked about what to expect. Soon they could only see one station module, and soon all they could see was the docking site, and a few minutes later the midnight spaceplane was brought to a halt. "Latches secured, docking successful," Boomer reported. "Pretty boring when the computer does it."
  
  Sondra finished monitoring the computer as it completed the post-docking checklist. "The Postdock checklist is complete," she said when the computer completed all the steps. "There is nothing I like more than a boring flight - it means that everything went well and everything worked out. Good enough for me."
  
  "I like to fix it by hand," Boomer said. "If we have extra fuel for Armstrong or Midnight, I'll do it. Otherwise, the computer is much more fuel efficient, I hate to admit it."
  
  "You're just showing off," Sondra said. "Confident, as always."
  
  "It's me". He was silent for a moment, then asked, "What was the feeling of being uplifted? I feel you still have a little difficulty with positive Gs."
  
  "I can stay ahead of them just fine, Boomer," Sondra said.
  
  "It just looked like you were really concentrating a lot on staying on top."
  
  "Whatever does the job, right?"
  
  "I'm a little worried about the decline," Boomer said. "G-forces are heavier and longer lasting. You only get two or three Gs on the way up, but four or five on the way down."
  
  "I know, Boomer," Sondra said. "I'll be ok. I went through all the MiG-25 flights and I did well flying the S-9 and other S-19s."
  
  "They were all suborbital - we can avoid Gs more easily because we don"t have to slow down as much," Boomer said. "But now we're going down Mach twenty-five. To reduce Gs, I can decrease the deorbit angle a bit, but then you have to go against Gs for a longer period of time."
  
  "I've heard the lecture before, Boomer," Sondra said a little irritably. "I'll be fine no matter what angle of descent you choose. I was practicing my M-manoeuvres." M-maneuvers were a method of tightening the abdominal muscles, inflating the lungs, and then grunting against the pressure in the chest to force the blood to stay in the chest and brain. "Besides, EEAS helps a lot."
  
  "Okay," Boomer said. "Is it like practicing your Kegel exercises?"
  
  "Something you would like to experience in person?"
  
  Boomer ignored the intimate comment and pointed to the dashboard displays. "This indicates that the computer is ready to proceed with the 'Pair tunnels before handover' checklist ," he said. "I will go ahead and initiate it. Since the transfer tunnel will be connected by a machine - that's why we wear spacesuits - just in case the tunnel turns out to be unsafe when we want to exit, we can safely go into outer space to reconnect it or get to the station.
  
  "Why don"t we just do a spacewalk to get to the station like President Phoenix did last spring?" Sondra asked. "That sounded like fun."
  
  "We will do this in a later evolution," Boomer said. "Your task in this evolution is to learn how to control the ship and station from the cockpit, be able to recognize anomalies and take action."
  
  "How long does shipping take?"
  
  "Depends. There are not many cargo modules on this flight. Probably not for long."
  
  As the transfer tunnel was put into place over the transfer chamber between the cockpit and the cargo bay, Boomer watched as mechanical arms from the Armstrong space station retrieved the pressurized modules from the open cargo bay and delivered them to their destination. The smaller modules were intended for the crew members' personal belongings - water, food, spare parts and other essentials - but the largest module was the last one. It was one of the last components of the Starfire project delivered to the Armstrong space station: a microwave generator that was to be installed inside the station's already installed free electron laser to generate maser power from the collected electrical energy generated by the Sun.
  
  A beep sounded in the astronauts' helmets, and Boomer touched the microphone button. "Battle Mountain, this is the Third Stallion, keep going," he said.
  
  "Sondra, Boomer, this is Brad!" Brad McLanahan said excitedly. "My team and I would like to congratulate you on the release of the last major component of Starfire."
  
  "Thanks, buddy," Boomer said. "Convey our congratulations to your team. Everyone at Armstrong and Sky Masters is excited to be getting the latest part of this project up and running very soon."
  
  "Same, Brad," Sondra said simply.
  
  "How are you, Sondra? How was your first flight into orbit?"
  
  "I"m more like a babysitter here: everything is so automated that I don"t do anything, just watch the computers do all the work."
  
  "Well, the takeoff was incredible, we watched you take off from mission control and the meeting was perfect," said Brad. "We can see them loading the microwave resonator into the Skybolt module right now, damn it. And you just made your first flight into orbit. Awesome! Congratulations!"
  
  "You sound like a little kid, Brad," Boomer said.
  
  "The team and I couldn't be more excited, Boomer," Brad said. "I couldn"t sleep at all last night - hell, not all last week!"
  
  "So when are we going to release this bad guy, Brad?" Boomer asked.
  
  "Things are going really well, Boomer, maybe in a week or so," Brad replied. "The construction of the first rectenna is complete and as we speak it is being tested and ready for test firing at the White Sands Missile Range. Computer chips and new aiming control software are online and tested. We've had a couple of glitches with the Lithium Ion capacitors completely draining in the Skybolt laser, but we have a whole army of guys working on them and we're recruiting more experts and technicians for the project every day. I'm still trying to get Dr. Kaddiri and Dr. Richter talked me into flying to the station. Put in a good word for me, okay?"
  
  "Of course, Brad," Boomer said.
  
  "Sondra, when are you coming back?" Brad asked.
  
  "I can't tell you that, Brad, not from an unsecured transmission," Sondra replied irritably. "I know I have a few classes and exercises here at the station, and I don't think we'll be going straight back to Battle Mountain."
  
  "I have to go back to Cal Poly tomorrow morning," Brad said with obvious dejection in his voice. "I've already missed enough classes."
  
  "Next time, Brad," Sondra said.
  
  "Well, I'll let you guys get back to work," Brad said. "We're going to talk to Armstrong technicians about starting the integration of the microwave resonator into the Skybolt, and then the team is heading into town to celebrate the completion of Starfire. I wish you guys were with us. Thanks again for an exciting and successful flight."
  
  "You guessed it, buddy," Boomer said. "And I'll talk to superiors about getting you and the rest of your team on a space plane to Armstrong. You should be here when you fire your first shot."
  
  "Cool, Boomer," said Brad. "Thank you again. We'll talk to you soon."
  
  "Midnight Free" Boomer terminated the connection. "Dude, it's good to hear that the guy is so damn excited about something," he said over the intercom. "And I love hearing 'team this' and 'team that'. He's the lead on a project with almost a hundred members and a budget of over $200 million at last count, but it's still a team. Very cool." Sondra nothing didn't say. Boomer looked at her, but couldn't read her face through the oxygen helmet. "Am I right?" he asked.
  
  "Certainly".
  
  Boomer let the silence drag on for a few long moments; then: "You still haven't broken up with him, have you?"
  
  "I don't need to," Sondra said irritably. "I only saw this guy three weekends in six months, and when we do meet, he only talks about what Starfire is or Cal Poly is, and all he does is school work and stuff related to Starfire and then he rides his bike or does hundreds of push-ups and squats to work out. He did it every day when I was away."
  
  "Does he train every day?"
  
  "At least ninety minutes a day, not including time for cycling to class or the gym," Sondra said. "He really has changed, and it's a little scary. He only sleeps four or five hours a night, he's constantly talking on the phone or computer or both, and he eats like a damn bird. I come home from visiting him and I feel like ordering a whole big cheese and pepperoni pizza just for myself."
  
  "I have to admit, he looked really good when I saw him before takeoff today, much better than the last time I saw him when his dad was around," Boomer said. "He has lost a lot of weight and looks like he now has a gun."
  
  "It's not like I've ever had to shoot any of them," Sondra said sullenly.
  
  Boomer didn't ask for clarification.
  
  
  DOWNTOWN BATTL MOUNTAIN, NEVADA
  A FEW HOURS LATER
  
  
  "Last Starfire Fragment in Orbit!" Brad called out to the team members gathered around him. "Perfect!" All members of the team echoed their newfound motto, which in Latin means "higher still".
  
  "I booked us a table at Harrah's Battle Mountain Steakhouse," Casey Huggins said as she finished her work on her smartphone. "They will be waiting for us at six."
  
  "Thanks, Casey," Brad said. "I'm going to go for a little run. See you guys at the casino concierge desk."
  
  "Are you leaving to go running?" Lane Egan asked. "Now? Casey and Jerry's microwave has just been delivered to the space station and will be installed in a couple of days, after which Starfire will be ready to launch. You have to have fun, Brad. Starfire is almost ready for a test run! You deserved it ".
  
  "I'm going to have fun guys, trust me," Brad said. "But if I can't run, I get irritable. See you in an hour at the concierge desk at Harrah's." He ran away before anyone else could protest.
  
  Brad ran back to his room, changed into a tracksuit, did two hundred sit-ups and push-ups, then grabbed his cane, went downstairs and out into the street. It was near-perfect weather in early October in north-central Nevada, not so warm, with a hint of winter in the air, and Brad found the conditions perfect. In thirty minutes, he ran nearly four miles through the hotel's van lot, which was far less congested than the car park, then headed back to his room to shower and change.
  
  He had just begun to undress when he heard a noise on the other side of the door. He took his cane, looked through the peephole in the door, then opened it. He found Jody outside, she was typing a note on her smartphone. "ABOUT! You're back," she said, surprised. Brad stepped aside and she stepped inside. "I was just about to leave you a message to meet us at the Silver Miner Club instead - they have a pretty good jazz band playing right now." Her eyes traveled over his chest and shoulders and widened in surprise. "Damn buddy, what the hell were you doing to yourself?"
  
  "What?"
  
  "That's it, mate," Jody said, and ran her fingers over his biceps and deltoid muscles. "Are you on steroids or something?"
  
  "Hell no. I would never do drugs."
  
  "Then where did those spanking flexors come from, Brad?" Jody asked, her fingers running over the top of his chest. "I know you've been training, but holy Dooley! You have some mouth-watering buttocks there too." She ran her hand over his stomach. "And that"s the six pack I see, mate?"
  
  "My trainers are pretty energetic guys," said Brad. "We lift weights three times a week, in between cardio. They throw in a speed bag and even some gymnastics, just to mix things up." He still hadn't told her about the cane, Krav Maga, and pistol training, but he knew he had to do it soon. They weren't officially a couple and didn't actually date, they just saw each other a little more often outside of school. They took a couple of flights in a turbine P210, but they were all short day trips to watch a baseball game in San Francisco or buy seafood in Monterey.
  
  "Well, it works for you, big boy," Jody said with a smile. She ran her fingernail down the front of his chest, but when he didn't react the way she hoped she pulled away. "But I don"t understand why you need this cane. You said you thought you needed it from time to time after that attack last spring, just to help you calm down. Are you still shaking? You run and ride your bike all the time."
  
  "Yes, I will get a little dizzy from time to time," Brad lied. "Not enough to stop me from running or cycling. I'm just used to having it with me, I guess."
  
  "Well, you look very dapper in it," Jody said. "And I'm willing to bet people will let you get ahead of themselves in the super line too."
  
  "I don't let it get that far unless I'm really in a hurry," Brad said.
  
  She walked over and took his cane, tapping the hilt against her hand. "Looks disgusting as cat piss, mate," she said, running her finger along the pointed tip of the hilt and over the carved hilts along the shaft. This one was a little more decorative than the ones she'd first seen him in; it had more ledges across and three channels that ran the entire length. "It's not my grandfather's cane, that's for sure."
  
  "I found out about this from Chief Ratel when he noticed I was getting a little dizzy," Brad lied again, using excuses and stories he'd made up and rehearsed over the past few months. "I just never had time to buy another one, like the ones that stand up on their own, and he never asked for it back."
  
  Looking at her expression, Brad couldn't tell if Jody believed any of this or not, but she leaned her cane against the bed, took another long look at his body, and smiled. "See you downstairs at the club, brave," she said and left.
  
  The team members arranged an extraordinary gala dinner. After Lane Egan's parents took him to the airport to catch his flight back to California, so Brad, Jody, Casey and a few other team members decided to check out a new casino on Highway 50 that had a nice comedy club. It was getting dark and getting cooler, but still comfortable enough for a walk. The regular pedestrian crossing was blocked by sidewalk construction, so they had to walk east for about half a block to the second entrance to the casino parking lot, which was not as well lit as the main entrance.
  
  Just as they began to make their way back to the casino, two men appeared out of nowhere from the darkness and blocked their path. "Give me five bucks," one of the men said.
  
  "Sorry," Brad said. "I can't help you."
  
  "I didn't ask for your help," the man said. "Now it will cost you ten."
  
  "Get out, you freak," Casey said.
  
  The second man lashed out, kicking Casey's wheelchair, spinning her sideways. "Shut up, you idiot," he said. Brad, who helped push Casey when she needed it, reached out to grab the wheelchair. The second man thought he was after him, so he drew a knife and swung, ripping open Brad's shirt on his right forearm and drawing blood.
  
  "Brad!" Jody called out. "Someone help us!"
  
  "Shut up, bitch," growled the man with the knife. "Now throw your wallets on the ground right now, damn it, while I-"
  
  The movement was nothing more than a blur. Brad grabbed the handle of his cane with his left hand and spun it around, bringing his assailant down on his knuckles with a sound of wood breaking, causing him to drop his knife with a yelp of pain. Brad immediately grabbed the end of the cane with his right hand and, swinging, hit the first man on the side of the head. The robber fell, but Brad's cane broke in two.
  
  "You bastard!" shouted the second attacker. He took back his knife and this time held it in his left hand. "I'll gut you like a fucking pig!"
  
  Brad raised his hands, palms out. "No, no, no, no, please don"t hurt me again," he said, but his tone of voice sounded anything but surrender-it was as if he was acting out in front of this attacker, teasing him with a mocking in a tone like he was actually urging the guy with the knife to attack! "Please, moron," said Brad, "don't kill me." And then, to everyone's surprise, he wiggled his fingers in the direction of the assailant, as if taunting him, then said, "Come and grab me, big man. Try to take me."
  
  "Die, idiot!" The assailant took two steps forward and the knife aimed at Brad"s stomach...
  
  ... but in another blurry motion, Brad blocked the attacker's arm with his right hand, slipped his hand under the attacker's arm and locked it straight, kneed the attacker several times in the stomach - no one watching this fight could count how many times he did it, until the attacker dropped the knife and nearly doubled over. He then twisted the assailant's left arm upward until they heard several loud CLAPs as the shoulder tendons and ligaments detached. The assailant collapsed onto the sidewalk, screaming madly, his left arm bent backwards at a very unnatural angle.
  
  At that moment, two armed casino guards ran out onto the sidewalk, each grabbing Brad's arm. Brad offered no resistance. "Hello!" Casey screamed. "He didn't do anything! These guys tried to rob us!" But Brad was thrown onto the sidewalk, turned over and handcuffed.
  
  "Damn it, cops, can't you see he got cut?" Jody cried after the guards released Brad. She applied direct pressure to the wound. "Give first aid here, now!" One of the guards took out a walkie-talkie, calling the police and an ambulance.
  
  "Looks like this guy had his arm twisted almost immediately," a second guard said after paramedics arrived, examining a screaming man on the sidewalk. He checked the first robber. "This guy is unconscious. I've seen this guy begging before, but he's never robbed anyone." He shone his flashlight on the pieces of the broken cane, then looked at Brad. "What have you been doing, drunks and beggars, riding around with kids to impress your girlfriends?"
  
  "They were trying to rob us!" Jody, Casey and the others shouted almost in unison.
  
  It took more than an hour, during which Brad sat with his hands cuffed behind his back at the door of the police car after the wound on his right arm was bandaged, but finally surveillance video from two different casinos and a parking camera in the garage showed what happened. and he was released. They all testified for police reports and the group returned to their hotel.
  
  While the others went to their rooms, Brad, Jody and Casey found a quiet bar in the casino and bought drinks. "Are you sure you're okay, Brad?" Casey asked. "That bastard gave you a good time."
  
  "I'm fine," Brad replied, touching the bandages. "It wasn't a very deep cut. The paramedics said I probably wouldn't need stitches."
  
  "So how did you learn all this with a cane, Brad?" Casey asked. "Are these the self-defense techniques you"ve been working on since that home invasion attack in April?"
  
  "Yes," said Brad. "Chief Ratel and his other instructors teach Korean self-defense and cane-Ja, cane self-defense, and physical fitness. It came in handy."
  
  "I'll tell you," Casey said. "It was still a fun night. I'm going to play some slot machines, maybe see if that guy I met at the club is still around, and wrap it up. See you guys in the morning." She finished her glass of wine and rolled to the side.
  
  Brad took a sip of his scotch, then turned to Jody. "You were very quiet after the fight, Jody," he said. "Are you okay?"
  
  Jody's face was a mix of confusion, worry, fear...and, as Brad soon realized, disbelief. "Argument?" she said at last, after a long, rather painful moment. "You call it a 'quarrel'?"
  
  "Jody...?"
  
  "Oh my God, Brad, you almost killed one guy and nearly ripped off another guy"s arm!" Jody exclaimed in a low voice. "You broke your cane on the guy's skull!"
  
  "Damn right I did!" Brad fired back. "This guy cut my hand! What was I supposed to do?
  
  "First of all, mate, the guy who stabbed you wasn't the guy you hit in the head," Jodie said. "All he did was ask for money. If you had given him what he asked for, none of this would have happened."
  
  "We were attacked, Jody," Brad said. "This guy pulled out a knife and slashed me. He could have done this to you or Casey, or worse. What was I supposed to do?
  
  "What do you mean, what did you have to do?" Jody asked incredulously. "You Yankees are all the same. Someone bumps into you on the street and you think you should jump in like Batman and kick someone's ass. Are you a drongo? That's not how it works, Brad. Someone attacks you like this, you give them what they want, they leave, and everyone is safe. We had to drop our wallets, back off and call the police. We were the most stupid of those who went into the dark areas instead of sticking to the lit and protected areas. If they tried to drag me into their car, I'd fight tooth and nail, but five or ten or a million lousy bucks isn't worth a life. It's not even worth the cut on your hand. And then after you broke your cane on the first guy's head, you attacked the guy with the knife and you were unarmed. Are you crazy? You even sounded like you were teasing a guy to attack you! What is this shit?"
  
  Wow, thought Brad, she's really upset about this - it was a reaction he didn't expect at all. Arguing with her wouldn't help one bit. "I... I guess I just didn't think," he said. "I just reacted."
  
  "And it looked like you were trying to kill both guys!" Jody continued to rumble, her voice rising enough to get the attention of those around her. "You beat that second guy so hard I thought he was going to throw up and then you almost twisted his arm off! What the hell was that?"
  
  "Self defense classes I attend..."
  
  "Oh, that's all, right?" Jody said. "Your new buddy Chief Ratel is teaching you how to kill people? I think the further you get away from this guy, the better. He brainwashes you into thinking that you are invincible, that you can fight a guy with a knife and smash his head with a cane." Her eyes widened in realization. "So that's why you're carrying that creepy-looking cane? Did Chief Ratel teach you how to attack people with it?"
  
  "I didn"t attack anyone!" Brad protested. "I was-"
  
  "You cracked that poor guy's head open with that cane," Jody said. "He didn't do anything to you. The other guy had a knife, so it was self-defense-"
  
  "Thank you!"
  
  "- but it looked like you were trying to kill the guy!" Jody continued. "Why did you keep hitting him like that, and why did you twist his arm so far back?"
  
  "Jody, the guy had a knife," Brad said, almost begging her to understand. "Knife striker is one of the most dangerous situations you can get into, especially at night and against a guy who knows how to use it. You saw how he rushed at us with his left hand after I knocked the knife out of his right hand - he obviously knew how to fight with a knife, and I had to knock him out. I-"
  
  "Put it away?" People at nearby tables began to notice the rise in tone in Jody's voice. "So you tried to kill him?"
  
  "Krav Maga teaches counter, control and counterattack, in general-"
  
  "I heard about Krav Maga," Jody said. "So are you currently training to become an Israeli assassin commando?"
  
  "Krav Maga is a form of self-defense," Brad said in a softer tone, hoping Jody would follow suit. "This is designed to incapacitate unarmed attackers. It has to be fast and brutal so that the defender doesn't-"
  
  "I don't know you anymore, Brad," Jody said as she got to her feet. "I think this attack at your home in San Luis Obispo must have knocked you down a bit - or did you lie to me and others about it?"
  
  "No!"
  
  "Since then, you have become such an obsessive type A guy, a fidgety dervish, the complete opposite of the guy I met at the beginning of the school year. You don't eat, you don't sleep, and you no longer hang out with your friends or socialize on campus. You have become this... this machine, designing and learning tactics to destroy Israeli commandos and using a cane to crush several skulls. You lied to me about the cane. What else have you lied to me about?"
  
  "Nothing," Brad replied immediately - perhaps too quickly, because he saw Jody's eyes flare again and then narrow suspiciously. "Jody, I'm not a machine." I know one, thought Brad, but I'm not alone. "I'm the same guy. Maybe this home invasion really unsettled me a bit. But I-"
  
  "Look, Brad, I need to think about something about us," Jody said. "I really thought we could be more than friends, but that was with Brad, who I met a long time ago. This new one is intimidating. You seem to be consuming everything Chief Ratel feeds you and you have turned into a monster."
  
  "Monster! I don't-"
  
  "I suggest, for your own good, that you tell this Chief Ratel guy to back off and maybe see some kind of psychologist before you go completely insane and start roaming the streets in a mask and cape looking for guys who you can beat, "said Jodie, pointing her finger at Brad. "In the meantime, I think it's best for me to stay away from you until I feel safe again." And she sped away.
  
  
  MARICOPA, CALIFORNIA
  LATER THAT NIGHT
  
  
  A woman with long dark hair, dressed in a leather jacket, dark trousers and pink sunglasses, was filling up her rented car at an abandoned gas station when a brand new windowless van pulled into a dark parking space next to the station office . A tall, handsome man in jeans and an unbuttoned flannel shirt stepped out of the van, gave a long, admiring glance at the woman at the gas station, and stepped inside to make a purchase. When he came out a few minutes later, he approached the woman and smiled. "Good evening, sweet lady," he said.
  
  "Good evening," the woman said.
  
  "Good night, isn't it?"
  
  "A bit chilly, but nice."
  
  "My name is Tom," the man said, holding out his hand.
  
  "Melissa," the woman said, shaking his hand. "Nice to meet you".
  
  "Same, Melissa," the man said. "Beautiful name".
  
  "Thank you, Tom."
  
  The man hesitated, but only for a second, before moving a little closer to the woman and saying, "I have an idea, Melissa. I have a bottle of bourbon in the van, some nice leather seats in the back, and a hundred dollars burning a hole in my pocket. What do you say if we have some fun together before we hit the road again?"
  
  The woman looked Tom straight in the eye, then gave him just a hint of a smile. "Two hundred," she said.
  
  "We've done this before, haven't we?" Tom said. "That's a little cool for the half in my van." The woman took off her sunglasses, revealing dark seductive eyes and long lashes, then unbuttoned her leather jacket to reveal a red blouse with a plunging neckline and sexy cleavage. Tom licked his lips contentedly, looking around. "Park next to me."
  
  The woman parked her rental car next to the van and Tom opened the side door for her. The interior of the van was very well equipped with a leather sofa in the back, leather captain's chairs behind the driver's seat, a TV with satellite receiver and DVD player, and a breakfast bar. Melissa took one of the captain's chairs while Tom poured two glasses of bourbon. He handed one to her, then tilted his glass towards hers. "For a pleasant evening, Melissa."
  
  "So be it," she said. "But first?"
  
  "Of course," Tom said. He reached into his jeans pocket, pulled out a money clip, and shook out two hundred-dollar bills.
  
  "Thank you, Tom," Melissa said, taking a sip of her bourbon.
  
  Tom waved his hand behind his back, and only then did the woman notice the sports camera in the corner, pointed at her. "You don't mind if I turn on my little camera, do you, Melissa?" - he asked. "I like to keep a collection of souvenirs."
  
  The woman hesitated for a moment, a slight confusion in her eyes, then gave him her barely perceptible smile. "No, go ahead," she said. "I love being in front of cameras."
  
  "I bet it is, Melissa," Tom said. He turned, walked to the back of the camera, and pressed the button to turn it on. "I have another down payment that I also want to receive." He turned...
  
  ...and found himself face to face with Melissa, looking into her dark, mesmerizing eyes. He smiled, admiring her high cheekbones and full red lips. "Hey baby, I can't wait either, but let me..."
  
  ... and at that moment the knife pierced his abdomen, passed through the diaphragm, lungs and reached the very heart. A hand was over his mouth, but he didn't cry out-he was dead before he hit the carpet.
  
  The woman removed the sports rear-view camera from the mount, took the money clip, opened the side door, saw that there were no strangers, quickly got out of the van, got into her car and drove away. By the time they found the body, she was hundreds of miles away.
  
  
  THE WHITE HOUSE
  WASHINGTON, DC
  A FEW DAYS LATER
  
  
  "Well, that's it," Vice President Ann Page said. She was in the White House situation room with President Kenneth Phoenix; National Security Adviser William Glenbrook; Harold Lee, Under Secretary of Defense for Space; and Air Force General George Sandstein, commander of the Air Force Space Command, was watching live video from space on a high-definition wall monitor in the situation room. They watched in stupefaction as a large section of the International Space Station separated from the rest of the structure and began to move away from the ISS. "For the first time in almost twenty years, the International Space Station is free," Ann breathed, "and for the first time, there are no Russian components on it."
  
  "What is being taken away from us, Ann?" the President asked.
  
  "It's called the Russian Orbital Segment, or ROS, sir," the VP replied, needing no further comment - as a former astronaut, aerospace and electronics engineer, she has been an expert on all US space stations since Skylab ". "There are three docking and airlock modules, one docking and storage module, one laboratory, one habitation module, one service module, four solar panels and two heat sinks."
  
  "Were any critical modules removed? If we sent carriages there, would they be in any danger?"
  
  "The most important Russian module was Zvezda, or Zvezda, the service module," Ann replied. The Zvezda is a large module positioned entirely "to the rear" during the flight of the station, and as such provides attitude and navigation control and is used to place the station into a higher orbit when needed. Among many other important functions, it also produces power , oxygen and water."
  
  "And now?"
  
  Zvezda will eventually be replaced by two US modules, an ISS propulsion module and an interim control module," Ann explained. backup control and movement systems in case Zvezda fails or is damaged; the propulsion module has also been designed to de-orbit the ISS when the time is right."
  
  "That time may come sooner than we expected," National Security Adviser William Glenbrook commented.
  
  "Both modules were in storage at the Naval Research Laboratory," the vice president continued. "When the Russians made the announcement that they were going to remove ROS from the ISS, NRL initiated functional tests of the two modules. This has just been completed, and now we are just waiting for the modules to be connected to the booster and sent to the ISS. The problem is that two of the modules were built to be transported to the ISS aboard the space shuttle, so some reengineering would be required to fit them on the rocket. It may take a few more weeks."
  
  "So that"s why the station had to be abandoned?" the president asked. "They couldn"t produce power, water or oxygen, or operate the station?"
  
  "The Harmony module on the ISS can produce consumables, but only for two astronauts, not six," Ann said. "Unmanned and manned spacecraft can resupply the ISS and dock to the ISS to steer and propel it higher when needed, so station management and provisions shouldn't be a problem. For security reasons, it has been decided to evacuate the ISS until the procedure for dismantling the Russians is-" Ann suddenly stopped and stared at the HD monitor. "Oh my Lord! Well, well, our Russian friends have definitely seemed very busy over the past few months, haven't they?"
  
  "What is this?" Phoenix asked.
  
  "This," Ann said, rising from her seat, walking to the screen in front of the Situation Room and pointing at a small triangular-shaped object on the screen. "Freeze it," she ordered, and the computer reacted by pausing the live feed. "This, Mr. President, if I am not mistaken, is the Soviet-era spaceplane Electron."
  
  "Do the Russians have a spaceplane similar to the one I flew?" President Phoenix asked incredulously.
  
  "It's more like a small space shuttle, sir," Anne explained, "in the sense that it's carried on a booster and then re-enters the atmosphere and glides unpowered towards the runway. Although smaller than a shuttle and carrying only one astronaut, its payload is almost twice that of our S-19 spaceplanes, about fifteen thousand pounds. They were armed with guided missiles specifically designed to hunt down and destroy American satellites and the Silver Tower. The plane has not been seen since the collapse of the Soviet Union. The Soviets said they were going to build hundreds of these. Maybe they did." Ann paused, distracted by painful memories of past decades. "I was aboard the Armstrong space station when the Soviets attacked with three of those bastards. They almost destroyed us."
  
  "Did we know they were going to launch a spaceplane, General?" the President asked.
  
  "Not really, sir," Air Force General George Sandstein, commander of the Air Force Space Command and deputy commander of space, US Strategic Command, replied. "About three days ago, we received notification of the launch from the Plesetsk Cosmodrome, Launch Pad 41, of a Soyuz-U rocket carrying a Progress unmanned cargo payload to assist in the ROS dismantling process, sir. Nothing was mentioned about the spaceplane. We tracked the payload and determined that it was indeed entering orbit and on its way to rendezvous with the ISS, so we classified it as a normal mission."
  
  "Isn't it unusual for the Russians to use Plesetsk instead of Baikonur, General?" Ann asked.
  
  "Yes, ma'am - Plesetsk was practically abandoned after the Russians made a deal with Kazakhstan to continue using Baikonur," Sandstein replied. "Plesetsk was mainly used for testing ICBMs and other light and medium military projects-" Sandstein stopped, his eyes widening in shock, then he said, "Including the Elektron spaceplane and the BOR-5 Buran test items.
  
  "Buran"? the President asked.
  
  "A Soviet replica of the space shuttle, sir," Ann said. "Buran was designed as a military program from the very beginning, so test launches of test items on a smaller scale were carried out from Plesetsk, which is located in Russia, not Kazakhstan. The Buran spaceplane itself made only one launch from the Baikonur Cosmodrome before the collapse of the Soviet Union, but the mission was eminently successful - a fully autonomous unmanned launch, orbit, return and landing. Five Buranovs were built; one was destroyed and three were in various stages of completion."
  
  "If the Russians launch space planes again, this could be the start of a new Russian space return initiative," Glenbrook said. "They have ROS and it won't be tied to the Western Space Station anymore, so they can do whatever they want without being watched closely. If they start flying on electrons, they can prepare in many other areas, all of which involve building up their own capabilities as well as countering ours."
  
  "An arms race in space," the president said. "Just what we need right now. Aren't we required to notify the Russians if we're going to launch a spaceplane into orbit?"
  
  "Yes sir, and we do it every time," Sandstein replied. "Launch date and time, initial orbital trajectory, destination, target, payload, and return date and time."
  
  "We will give them all this?"
  
  "Our spaceplanes are much more than orbital spaceships, sir," Sandstein explained. "Their flight paths are much more flexible than when launched from an earth launch pad, as you have experienced yourself. To avoid conflict, we agreed to provide them with information about each flight so that they can monitor the flight and respond to any unexplained deviations."
  
  "So the Russians knew that I was flying in a spaceplane?"
  
  "We don't fill them in on such details, sir," Sandstein said with a hint of a smile.
  
  "So we should get the same information about Russian spaceplanes, right?"
  
  "If we want to show that we know about it, sir," Ann said. "Perhaps it would be better if we didn't reveal what we know about Elektron right now. We can assume that they know, but we are not required to reveal everything we know about their activities. Silence is gold".
  
  President Phoenix nodded-now that the discussion was moving from the military to the geopolitical arena, he needed a different mix of advisers. "What can the Russians do with this section of the space station?"
  
  "ROS itself is already a fully functioning space station for two or three people," Ann said. "They could probably use a few more solar arrays to power it, and they don't have the complex space and terrestrial sensor systems or communications that the ISS has, but they can connect other spacecraft to it for resupply; it can maneuver, accelerate when needed, produce power, water and oxygen, everything."
  
  "And they undocked it just because Gryzlov got mad at me?" the president remarked. "Incredible."
  
  "Unfortunately, his tactics may work, sir," National Security Adviser Glenbrook said. "Perhaps the European Space Agency would rather undock its Columbus research module than risk irritating the Russians - they had plans to cooperate with Russia to build up a presence in space long before they decided to cooperate on the ISS. If they do, or if the spare modules we are planning to ship fail, the Japanese can detach their cyber modules and abandon the project as well. Canada still has remote weapons on station, but we are not sure if they will keep them on the ISS if the Russians, ESA and Japan leave."
  
  "So, if all the other partners in the ISS leave, what will we be left with?"
  
  "The ISS is still a very important part of American scientific exploration, even without cyberspace, Columbus or ROS, sir," said Ann Page. "We already have huge investments in IT and we are gaining a lot of knowledge and experience in living and working in space. If we want to eventually return to the Moon or send astronauts to Mars or beyond, the ISS is the best place to do it. The Japanese, in particular, have a very extensive research program on the ISS, so I think they would like to keep the ISS in the air for as long as possible until they launch their own station or become partners with someone else. Both the ISS and the Armstrong Space Station would be the best platforms for your already announced space industrialization initiative."
  
  "Good," said the President. "I want to speak to the Prime Minister of Japan and the Prime Ministers of the European Space Agency countries and I want to reassure them that we are committed to keeping the ISS and continuing all the work we are doing, despite the annoyance that the Russians feel."
  
  "Yes, Mr. President," Ann said.
  
  "Bill, if the Russians are really preparing to return to space," the president told his national security adviser, "I need to find out what else they are developing and how much - military, industrial, scientific, everything. I don't want to be surprised that new spaceplanes will suddenly appear around our space stations. I would like to receive an update on all Russian and Chinese spaceports. The Russians have collaborated with the Chinese before, in the Indian Ocean and the South China Sea - they may be preparing to do it again."
  
  "Yes, sir," Glenbrook replied.
  
  "General, I need a brief overview of all the assets we have to support the ISS and the Armstrong space station in light of this dismantling process and the possible Russian spacewalk, as well as what we may need and how soon," the President said. Sandstein. "If there is an arms race in space, I want to win it."
  
  "Absolutely, sir," Sandstein said. The president shook hands with the four-star general and let him go.
  
  "Speaking of the space industrialization initiative," the president continued after the general left, "what is happening with the Armstrong space station and our other space projects?"
  
  "On the right track, Mr. President," Deputy Secretary of State Lee said proudly. "Based on your outline, sir, we have three programs we support: successful flight testing of the XS-29 Shadow spaceplane, a larger version of the spaceplane you flew; support for larger commercial rocket boosters to deliver more payloads into space, including some reusable technologies; and the first industrial program: the installation of a solar power plant aboard the Armstrong space station."
  
  "Solar power plant?"
  
  "It will collect sunlight, convert it into electricity and store it," Li explained. "When it comes within range of a terrestrial collector called a rectenna, it converts the electricity into a form of electromagnetic energy called a maser - a combination of a microwave oven and a laser - and transmits the energy to Earth in a rectenna, which converts the maser energy back into electricity, then stores the energy. in giant batteries or feeds it into the electrical network. If what they are planning comes to fruition, in one four-minute shot - the maximum time it takes for a space station to fly from horizon to horizon - they could transfer enough power to power a remote research center or village for a week or more."
  
  "Incredible," the president remarked. "Great job."
  
  "And as you pointed out, sir," Lee continued, "the federal government only provides support in the form of using federal facilities such as national laboratories, launch pads and computer networks - things that are already being used for other projects. We don"t give anyone borrowed money. The companies and universities involved in these programs have to invest heavily, and they do. If successful, they hope to be compensated in the form of government contracts to operate the systems they develop."
  
  "Excellent," said the president. "Please keep me posted, Mr. Deputy Minister." He stood up, shook Lee's hand, and dismissed him too, and Glenbrook left shortly thereafter. After the two left, the President told Ann Page: "As soon as the video of the Russian section of the ISS leaving the station, Ann, we will make a hell of a fuss in the press, because the election is less than a month away."
  
  "I'm a little more optimistic, Ken," Ann said. She knew it was time to take off her vice president's hat and put on the hat of top political adviser Ken Phoenix, which she always loved to do. "Secretary Barbeau has criticized your space initiative as another of Reagan's Star Wars stupidity. When the public sees the Russians starting to retreat in space, they will know that Barbeau is on the wrong side of the issue."
  
  "I hope so," Phoenix said, "but it has been several months since I announced the initiative aboard the space station, and so far only the Russians have kept their promise to remove their modules from the ISS. Will any of these space programs be available to us for campaign use?"
  
  "Absolutely, Ken," Ann said. "The XS-29 spaceplane has completed its first orbital test flight and has already completed a mission to both the ISS and the Armstrong Space Station. The solar power project could be online before the election, and we could describe it as another project that Barbeau does not support, is not funded by the taxpayer and will be an example of what will wither and die if you are not re-elected. The new advanced rocket boosters are not that far advanced, but we could take tours of the assembly buildings and remind voters how important these things are."
  
  "Where are we at the solar power plant?"
  
  "It's all put together - they're just doing last-minute testing," Ann said. "About a dozen space plane flights and one heavy-lift rocket, all assembled by remote control in just two or three spacewalks. So it was planned from the beginning by a team of college students with the support of scientists and engineers from around the world ... led, by the way, by one Bradley James McLanahan.
  
  "Brad McLanahan?" exclaimed the president. "Are you kidding! Son of Patrick McLanahan? I felt sorry for him when he left the Air Force Academy and when his father was killed - I think he got on his feet. Well done." He paused, thinking hard, then said, "What does that sound like, Ann: let's get Brad McLanahan and maybe one or two more of his team to the Armstrong space station."
  
  "Until you tell me you want to go up there again, sir."
  
  "I think I've had my share of lifelong worries," the president said. "Will this make Brad the first teenager in space?"
  
  "Except for the dogs and chimpanzees that have already been sent upstairs, yes," Ann said. "I heard Brad has been asking for the station for a while now." Her expression became serious. "Initial considerations, sir: risky. If the flight fails, the son of a very popular and significant figure will die, and your space initiative may go down the drain, as after the Challenger and Columbia. Not good."
  
  "But if it succeeds, it could be amazing, right?"
  
  "Yes, it certainly could happen, sir," said Ann Page.
  
  "Then let's make it happen," the President said. "We'll send McLanahan and possibly a female member of his team for the first use of this thing." He shook his head. "I remember the first time Patrick brought Brad to the White House. He looked around and said, 'God, dad, you definitely work at the old place.' "The expression on the President's face became serious. "Speaking of Brad McLanahan..."
  
  "Yes, sir?"
  
  "I didn"t tell you this because I thought the less people knew the better, but Brad McLanahan found out last spring, so I think you should too."
  
  "What did you find out?"
  
  Phoenix took a deep breath, then said, "Last year, just after the Chinese attack on Guam, a private counterintelligence team led by former President Martindale went to Guam to gather information about hacked utilities and see if there was any other evidence of a Chinese intelligence in Guam.
  
  "Aviation offspring," said Ann. "I remember. What does this have to do with Brad McLanahan?"
  
  "One of the Scion teams had Brad under surveillance after that break-in at Patrick McLanahan's columbarium in Sacramento," the president said. "They wanted to make sure that the same Russian agents who broke into the crypt would not target Brad. It turns out they targeted him and actually attacked him three times. Scion's boys saved him."
  
  "Well, that's good," Ann said, "but I'm still confused. Why is Scion Aviation International monitoring Brad McLanahan? Isn't this a job for the FBI? If he is the target of a foreign direct action team, he must be under full FBI counterintelligence protection."
  
  "It's because of one of the Scion members," the president said. He looked straight into the vice president's eyes and said, "Patrick McLanahan."
  
  Ann's only visible reaction was just a few blinks. "That's impossible, Ken," she said in a flat voice. "You got some wrong information. Patrick died over China. You know it as well as I do."
  
  "No, he didn't do it," the president said. "Martindale found and revived him, but he was in bad shape. To keep him alive, they put him in a cybernetic infantry device, one of those big manned robots." Ann's face began to turn into a mask of stunned disbelief. "He's still alive, Ann. But he cannot live outside the robot. If they cannot heal him, he will be there for the rest of his life."
  
  Ann's eyes widened and her mouth curled into an O. "I... I can't believe it," she gasped. "And he can control the robot? Can he move around, communicate, everything?"
  
  "He has some incredible abilities," Phoenix said. "He controls the sensors and all the capabilities of the robot and can communicate with anyone in the world - I wouldn't be surprised if he's listening to us right now. Patrick McLanahan and the robot is a one-man army platoon, perhaps an entire army battalion and an air force division combined." Phoenix sighed and looked away. "But he can never leave that fucking car. It's like he's trapped in the Twilight Zone."
  
  "Awesome. Just amazing," said Ann. "And Martindale put him in charge of Scion operations?"
  
  "I'm sure he walks on the very edge of the law, as he always did," Phoenix said.
  
  "Ken, why did you tell me this?" Ann asked. "I might never know."
  
  "I know you and Patrick are friends," the President said. "But the main reason is that I feel guilty about not letting you in on this from the start. You are my closest political adviser and my closest friend, with the exception of my wife Alexa. This whole Brad McLanahan thing reminded me of the mistake I made when I didn't trust you with my decision to keep Patrick alive and not tell anyone. I wanted to correct this mistake."
  
  "Well, thank you for that, Ken," Ann said. She shook her head, still in disbelief. "What a thing to keep to yourself. Nobody else knows but Brad? Even his family?"
  
  "Just Brad and a few Martindale guys," Phoenix said.
  
  "Glad you got that off yours, weren't you, sir?"
  
  "I bet you do," the president said. "Now let's go back to another, unreal world: politics and elections. I want to be really active in promoting the space initiative in the last days of the campaign. I want to talk to teenagers in space, frequent and give speeches to hypersonic space planes and rocket boosters, and help turn on space-generated electricity. We may be losing in the polls right now, Ann, but we're going to succeed - I can feel it!"
  
  
  SEVEN
  
  
  He is not worthy of honeycombs. Who avoids the hives because the bees sting.
  
  - WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
  
  
  
  REINHOLD AEROSPACE ENGINEERING BUILDING
  CAL POLY
  THE NEXT DAY
  
  
  "This is our mission control room, otherwise known as one of our electronics labs," said Brad McLanahan. He stood in front of a group of foreign journalists, bloggers, photographers and their translators, giving the 100th tour of the Starfire project at Cal Poly. With him were Jody Cavendish, Kim Jung Bae, Casey Huggins and Lane Egan. The room was crammed with a dozen laptops, control and communications equipment, and network interface boxes with hundreds of feet of CAT5 cables running through walls and under climate-controlled floors. "It's not as big and beautiful as NASA's mission control center, but it functions very similarly: we control the main components of the Starfire, such as the microwave generator, nantenna and rectenna steering, power control and beam control, among many others. Although the astronauts aboard the Armstrong space station are in complete control of the situation, we can issue some commands from here, namely, we can turn off the network if something goes wrong."
  
  "Are you harvesting solar power now, Mr. McLanahan?" one reporter asked.
  
  "We have been collecting and storing solar energy for about three weeks now," Brad replied. "Solar energy collection and storage systems were the first to be installed on the Armstrong space station." He pointed to a large model of the station that the team had set up for the press. "These are nantennas, or nanotube solar collectors, developed by Jody Cavendish with the assistance of Kim Jong Bae, whom we call Jerry here. They are double-sided, so they can collect sunlight directly from the sun or bounce off the Earth. Here, on the farm, there are ten 200-kilogram lithium-ion capacitors, each capable of storing three hundred kilowatts, designed by Jerry Kim. We're not going to fill them out for this test, but you can see that we have the ability to store three megawatts of electricity at the plant, just with this little experimental system."
  
  "How much energy will you expend on this test?"
  
  "We plan to produce a total of one and a fifth megawatts," Brad said. "The station will be in the rectenna for about three minutes, so you can see that we are going to send a lot of energy to Earth in a very short period of time." He pointed to a large, poster-sized photo of a round object standing in a desert landscape. "This is a rectenna, or receiving antenna that will collect maser energy, developed by Jody Cavendish with Casey Huggins," he said. "It is 200 meters in diameter and is located on the White Sands Missile Range, because it is a large safe area that can be easily cleared of aircraft. As you can see in this photo, we only have a rectifier, some indication controls and data monitoring equipment - we are going to measure how much electricity is coming in, but we are not going to store or feed any electricity into the grid during this first test . Lane Egan wrote the software and programmed the computers here on Earth and at Armstrong to give us the accuracy we need to hit this rather small target from two hundred to five hundred miles away."
  
  "Why test in a large isolated area, Mr. McLanahan?" the reporter asked. "What happens if the space station"s maser energy hits an aircraft or an object on the ground, such as a house or a person?"
  
  "It's like putting metal utensils in the microwave," Brad said. "The maser beam is primarily microwave energy, designed and built by Casey Huggins and Jerry Kim, but collimated with Armstrong free electron laser subsystems to amplify and help channel the energy."
  
  "Are you going to fire the Skybolt laser?"
  
  "No, not at all," Brad replied. "The Skybolt laser system uses a series of electromagnetic valves to direct, amplify and align the free electron laser beam. We turned off the free electron laser and installed a Casey Huggins microwave generator powered by stored solar energy. We're going to use the Skybolt subsystems to do the same with microwave energy: amplify, collimate and focus it, and then use the Skybolt guidance subsystems, thanks to Jerry Kim, to send the energy down to earth.
  
  "But to answer your question, we don't really know what exactly is going to happen, so we don't want anyone near the beam when we fire," Brad continued. "We're going to close a lot of airspace before launching Starfire. Obviously the Starfire is more suited to delivering power to isolated areas, to spaceships or even to the Moon, so launching a maser into populated areas won't necessarily be a problem, but we'll be making aiming control and beam spread better and better as we go, so that the direct antenna can be smaller and the hazards greatly reduced."
  
  Brad asked a few more questions, but the last one was stupid: "Mr. McLanahan," began a very attractive female reporter standing in front, with long jet-black hair, dark eyes, full red lips, a stunning figure and a very slight European accent, "you give very good credit to the other members of your team for all they have done to contribute to this project... but what have you done? What components did you create? What do you have in common with this project, if I may ask?"
  
  "Truth be told, I didn't create any components," Brad admitted after a lot of thought. "I consider myself a beggar, like the character Air Lieutenant Handley in The Great Escape." The woman blinked in confusion, obviously not knowing who he meant but making a note to find out. "I had an idea, I found the best students, scientists and engineers I could find, and I asked them to explain the essence of science to me, I brought in a few ideas of my own, applied them to work and repeated the process. I provide the team with everything they need for their phase of the project: money, help, computer or lab time, equipment, parts, software, whatever. I also hold progress meetings and helped prepare the team for our presentation at the school for the space summer lab before our project received funding from Sky Masters Aerospace."
  
  "So you look more like a coach or a project manager," the woman said. "You're not really a quarterback; you don't really pass the ball, but you coach the team, get the equipment, and run the coaching staff." She didn't wait for an answer, and Brad didn't have an answer to give her anyway. "But you are a first-year engineering student, aren"t you?"
  
  "Sophomore student of aerospace engineering, yes."
  
  "Perhaps you should consider another area of study?" said the woman. "Perhaps business or management?"
  
  "I want to be a test pilot," said Brad. "Most of the best test pilot schools in the United States require a degree in the exact sciences, such as engineering, computers, mathematics, or physics. I chose aerospace engineering."
  
  "Are you good at it, Mr. McLanahan?"
  
  Brad was a little surprised to find himself being asked so many personal questions - he was preparing to answer technical questions from foreign science and space journalists and bloggers rather than answering questions about himself. "I managed to finish the first course and start the second," he said. "I think my grades are average. If I need help, and I do, I ask for it. If I don't understand something, I will find someone to explain it to me. He looked around the lab for any more raised hands, then turned to the woman and found her staring straight at him with a slight smile, and he gave her one in return. "If that"s all guys, thank you for-"
  
  "I have another surprise announcement that I would like to share with you all," said UC Pauley President Dr. Marcus Harris from the back of the room. He walked to the pulpit next to Brad. "Armstrong Space Station Station Chief , Retired Air Force General Kai Raydon, recently spoke with the White House and received permission from the President of the United States to fly two Starfire team leaders to the Armstrong Space Station to observe the Starfire test shot." The journalists burst into applause.
  
  Harris put his arm around Lane's shoulders. "Sorry Lane, but you are too young, but it will happen soon. The flight will take place in just a week, and they will stay aboard the Armstrong space station for approximately three days. As for Brad, Jodie and Casey, if they accept this offer, they will be the first teenagers in space, and if Jung Bae accepts, he will only be the second Korean to fly into space, and by far the youngest." More applause, then feverish scribbling.
  
  "The White House has said they prefer male and female team leaders," Harris continued, "but that's up to the Starfire team. Selected candidates will be required to undergo a comprehensive medical examination, but as we saw last spring with President Phoenix, it looks like you just need to be healthy and courageous to fly into space - and I'm proud to say that applies to Casey as well. Huggins, who, if she accepted, would not only be the first teenage woman in space, but also the first paraplegic in space." This time the applause was even louder and longer.
  
  "I'll let the team talk between myself and their parents, and then I'd like to meet with them myself," Harris said. "But this is an outstanding opportunity and a rare honor for our Mustangs, and we couldn't be more proud." More applause, led by Harris, and the press conference ended.
  
  "God damn it!" Brad exclaimed as the Starfire team was left alone in the lab. "What an opportunity! How should we solve this? I'm sorry, Lane."
  
  "No problem," Lane said. "I'm still motion sick in the air."
  
  "Who wants to go?"
  
  "You have to go, Brad," Lane said. "You are the project manager. We couldn't have made it without you."
  
  "Damn right," Casey said.
  
  "Besides, just like your new friend-that pretty female reporter up front who was making goofy eyes at you-said, "What the hell are you still doing here?" Jody joked and everyone laughed heartily at it. Jody gifted Brad with accusing and inquisitive-and maybe jealous? Brad thought about it-but said nothing more. She then changed her voice to that of James Garner, who plays the character Handley in the film, "'You want to talk about danger? Let's talk about danger. Let's talk about you. You're the biggest danger we have." Another burst of laughter.
  
  "Okay, okay, very funny," said Brad. "Let's see what happens. I'm going to go into space soon enough anyway, I can guarantee you that, so if anyone else wants to take advantage of this opportunity, I'll put it off. Jody?
  
  "Not me, mate," Jody said. "I love the sand, the surf and the sea level - even California Poly is almost too high above sea level and too far from the beach for me. Besides, I don't want to be anywhere else but right here in this lab, watching the monitors when Starfire gives way."
  
  "Jerry?"
  
  The thought of flying into space didn't seem to sit well with Jung Bae. "I don't know," he said with concern. "I would love to design and test a spacecraft someday, but as far as flying in orbit in one... I think I'll pass. Also, I want to be in White Sands to monitor the direct antenna and maser output. We are still having problems with lithium ion capacitors. We store enough energy, but sometimes we have problems transferring energy to the microwave resonator."
  
  "I'll ask a few more experts to help you with this, Jerry," said Brad. He turned to Casey. "Then it's just you and me, Casey. What are you going to say? This is your maser - you should be up there."
  
  Casey's face was a mixture of apprehension and confusion. "I don't think so, Brad," she said. "I don"t like it when people look at me in airports or department stores - paralyzed among a dozen astronauts on a space station? I don't know..."
  
  "Well, just think, Casey - the last thing you need in space is legs, right?" Brad said. "You will be just like everyone else up there. There are no wheelchairs in space, lady."
  
  She stared at her wheelchair for a long time, her eyes averted... And then her head and arms shot up and she screamed, "I'm flying into space!"
  
  The team went through a trial run of test firing procedures until late in the evening, then met with university president Harris and relayed the news about who was going to fly to the Armstrong space station. Harris immediately scheduled an in-flight physical for the next morning, after which he was to make an announcement to the media. Only in the early evening they were able to go home. Brad had just arrived at his Poly Canyon apartment building and was about to carry his bike and backpack up the stairs when he heard, "Hi, stranger."
  
  He turned around and saw Jody with a laptop backpack in his hand. "Hello to you," he said. "We are not strangers. I see you every day."
  
  "I know, but only at school. We live in the same complex, but I hardly see you here." She nodded towards Brad's bike. "What, buddy, were you just going to lug your bike and backpack up five flights of stairs?"
  
  "I always do that."
  
  "Wow. Well done, onya." She looked him over. "I noticed you don't carry a cane anymore."
  
  "I just never replaced him."
  
  "Won"t Chief Ratel get mad at you?"
  
  "Last spring, he got injured, closed the store and left for what I think is Florida," Brad said. It was true - fearing that the Russians would be a target not only for Brad, but also for him, Kevin Martindale convinced him to take his wife and leave the city, which he reluctantly did. "I should have told you this, but... you know how it was."
  
  "Wow. I think it's been a long time since we've been catching up," Jodie said. "So you don"t go to the gym anymore?"
  
  "From time to time I will take self-defense classes at a gym in the city center," Brad said. That was mostly true, but it was weekly sparring sessions with team member Chris Wall, and he had a bi-weekly firearms retraining session. Brad had a permit that allowed him to carry a gun on campus - he never told Jody or anyone else on the Starfire team about it. "I spend most of my leisure time in my living room, riding my bike, or doing things like bringing the bike into my apartment."
  
  "Great". For several long moments they stood in silence; then, "Hey, do you want a cup of coffee before they close?" My shout."
  
  "Certainly". They went to a small coffee shop on the first floor of the next apartment building and had coffee outside. At the end of October, the weather was still perfect on the central coast of California, although autumn had definitely arrived. "Dude, it's been a long day," Brad said after a few minutes of silence. "Are you okay with your studies?"
  
  "Mostly," Jody said. "Professors are giving me a break until the test firing is over."
  
  "I have the same thing," said Brad.
  
  They were silent again for a few minutes, and then Jodie put down her coffee, looked Brad straight in the eye, and said, "I'm sorry about my rant at the Battle Mountain hotel, mate. I must have been shocked and took it out on you. You really protected us from the guy with the knife."
  
  "Forget it, Jodie," Brad said.
  
  Jody looked at her coffee, then at the tabletop. "The flight to the space station is only a couple of days away," she said in a low, broken voice, "made me realize that... I mean, if... if something went wrong, I... I would never saw you again and I wouldn't have had a chance to apologize."
  
  Brad reached out and took her hands in his. "It's all right, Jody," he said. "Nothing will happen. It will be a successful flight and test firing, and I will fly back. It will be an adventure. This has already been a real adventure. I would like you to come with me."
  
  "Brad..." She squeezed his hands and lowered her head, and when she lifted it again, Brad could see the sparkle in her eyes, even in the streetlights. "I'm... I'm afraid, mate," she said with a slight tremble in her voice. "I know how much you want to go into space and I'm glad you got the chance, but I'm still afraid."
  
  Brad walked over to the chair from the side of Jodie's desk, put his arm around her, and held her tight. As they parted, he lightly touched her face and kissed her. "Jody... Jody, I want-"
  
  "Come with me," she whispered as the kiss ended. Her eyes widened and stared at him, silently pleading. "Buddy, damn it, don"t you dare leave me alone again. Please Brad. Take me before you leave."
  
  This time, during their next deep kiss, there was no hesitation in Brad McLanahan's thoughts.
  
  
  WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM
  WASHINGTON, DC
  IN THE NEXT MORNING
  
  
  "It's good that you've decided to have me check out other launch pads and spaceports, Mr. President," National Security Adviser William Glenbrook said after President Ken Phoenix and Vice President Anne Page entered the Situation Room and took their seats. "The Russians were really very busy."
  
  "What did you find, Bill?" Phoenix asked as he set down his coffee mug, his second of the morning. His coffee consumption has definitely increased as Election Day approaches.
  
  "A huge and fast Russian space rearmament program is under way, sir," Glenbrook said. He pressed a button, and the first photograph appeared on the screen at the front of the Situation Room, showing the missile with a winged lifting body at the very top replacing the missile's nose cone. "This is the Plesetsk cosmodrome in northwestern Russia. The spaceplane we observed when the ROS undocked from the ISS was confirmed to be an Electron spaceplane, probably launched from Plesetsk.
  
  "There is already another spaceplane on the launch pad," Glenbrook continued, reading notes on his tablet computer, "and we believe that these containers and this large storage near the launch pad is another Electron and its rocket- carrier "Proton". We think it's a Proton and not an Angara-5 booster due to the lack of a cryogenic oxygen storage nearby. Angara-5 uses liquid oxygen and RP-1 kerosene, while Proton uses hypergolic liquids: dimethylhydrazine and nitrogen tetroxide, two highly toxic chemicals that burn when mixed without requiring an ignition source. The Angara-5 booster is more powerful, but its liquid oxygen needs to be replenished once it's on board the booster because it boils off; The fuel in the Proton lasts almost indefinitely, so it can be on the launch pad without the need for maintenance."
  
  The photos have changed. "This is the Baikonur Cosmodrome in Kazakhstan," Glenbrook continued, "and as you can see, there seems to be another Electron on the launch site, this time on an Angara-5 launch vehicle. These are two that could be up and running in a fairly short amount of time, perhaps within days or even hours. Electron, which had already been launched when ROS undocked from the ISS, landed yesterday on the shuttle runway at Baikonur. So we've counted maybe four electrons. We believe that there are five of them in the inventory, although there may be more. So, we went in search of the fifth Russian space plane. You won't see anything like this anywhere in Russia..."
  
  Glenbrook changed the photos, and another image of the Electron spaceplane appeared on top of a large Russian rocket. "We found it - not in Russia, but in the People's Republic of China," he said. "This is the Xichang launch site in western China. Xichang was used for the largest, most powerful and reliable launches of Chinese Long March rockets, but all these missions were transferred to the Wenchang launch site on Hainan Island, so Xichang was not used as often.
  
  "So the Chinese allow launches of Russian spaceplanes from Chinese launch pads?" Ann noticed.
  
  "Yes, ma'am," said Glenbrook. He enlarged the photo. "Not only that, but the fact that these buildings are identical to the buildings in Plesetsk. It is possible that these buildings either contain or are intended to house the second Elektron spaceplane launch system, and if so, this means that there may be six Elektrons, and maybe more. We are monitoring all of these objects for future launches and recovery, but based on our intelligence when these devices were first deployed, the Russians may re-launch the spaceplane every ten to fourteen days after recovery. It's extraordinarily fast. Now it could be faster."
  
  He stayed with the Chinese photo but enlarged another area. "Here's another interesting development." He highlighted some objects with a laser pen. "The Russians usually install modern S-400 Triumf surface-to-air missiles at all of their spaceports and major military bases," he said, "but here we are looking at the S-500, the most advanced class missile in the world." ground-to-air", several times more capable and powerful than the S-400 or even our own PAC-3 Patriot. The S-500 is more like a medium-range ballistic missile than a conventional surface-to-air missile designed to strike from air and space at extremely long distances. This is the first deployment of the S-500 outside the Russian Federation, and the fact that it is located at a Chinese military base is amazing - we assume that the Chinese can now access technical information about the best air defense system ever created.
  
  "Model "S" indicates that it is designed to effectively engage space targets - in particular, American space stations, spacecraft and weapons depots in low Earth orbit, as well as ballistic missiles, low-flying cruise missiles and stealth aircraft, - continued Glenbrook. "We searched the known S-500 launch sites around Moscow and elsewhere, and our suspicions were confirmed: they are moving some S-500s, usually located around some of their cities, and dispersing them around the spaceports. We are also studying Almaz-Antni's production facilities near Moscow and St. Petersburg. Petersburg to see if there is any evidence that the Russians are ramping up S-500 production. We expect them to quadruple S-500 production in the very near future, with at least one S-500 battery secured at every Russian military base around the world."
  
  "It seems to me that they are preparing not only for operations in space, but also to repel the next attack on their isolated bases," Ann said. She and Phoenix exchanged knowing glances - the last American air attack on a foreign military base was a B-1B Lancer bomber raid on military installations in the People's Republic of China led by Patrick McLanahan, who was widely believed to have died in the attack.
  
  "So the intelligence guys thought that while we are looking at other anti-missile weapons that the Russians or the Chinese are deploying, they will be looking for fighter-launched anti-missile missiles," Glenbrook said. "Three bases are known for the Mikoyan-Gurevich 31D aircraft, on board of which there are Russian front-line anti-aircraft and anti-satellite missiles. We counted slightly more than the usual observed number, and we also counted more Il-76 tankers at each base. All bases are active, and the Russians are patrolling around the clock - at least two anti-satellite flights are in the air twenty-four hours a day. /seven. Particularly active are bases in Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky, the Yelizovo airbase in the Russian Far East, Bolshoye Savino airport in western central Russia, and the Chkalovsky airbase near Moscow. They do patrols and do a lot of practice test runs, flying fighters almost vertically to very high altitudes.
  
  "The MiG-31 was out of production almost forty years ago, but it has some improvements," Glenbrook continued. "The plane itself is one of the fastest in the world. The transfer of the ASAT missile turns it into a hulking pig, but the system still works. It fires one modified 9K720 missile, the same as the latest Iskander TVD ballistic missile, but with a millimeter-wave radar-guided warhead with a high-explosive fragmentation warhead for space operations. There are about a hundred D-models in operation - maybe more if they convert other models to anti-spatial or extract some from storage." He closed the lid of his tablet, indicating that his briefing was over.
  
  "So it looks like the Russians are responding to my space initiative by preparing their space force, and the Chinese are helping them, at least with launch pads and support," President Phoenix concluded. "Thoughts?"
  
  "Nothing unexpected," Ann said. "Over the past few years, we have seen all of this in action, with the exception of spaceplanes."
  
  "We have to assume that they will arm these Electron spaceplanes just like they did fourteen years ago," Glenbrook said. "They carried ten ultra-high-speed laser-guided missiles. There is no warhead, but a warhead is not needed - if an object hits a station or satellite moving at a speed of several miles per second, it will definitely damage it and most likely destroy it. And ground-launched missiles could also carry a micronuclear warhead, like the one used in the US Holocaust attacks, which, if detonated a mile from the station, could send it straight into oblivion. Even if he missed by more than that, the radiation and electromagnetic pulse would probably seriously damage the station."
  
  "Our spacecraft are pretty well shielded from radiation, Bill, especially our manned spacecraft-they've been exposed to space radiation for years, sometimes decades," Ann said. "But any kinetic weapon directed against the station poses a serious danger."
  
  "The station has defensive weapons that it can use, right?" the president asked. "I got a tour of the command center on Armstrong. They said they would be able to activate the big Skybolt laser within a few days, and they talked about a smaller chemical laser they could use, but the orbital armories are not active."
  
  "That's right, sir, after the Starfire experimental material is removed," Anne said. "Perhaps we should activate the Kingfisher weapons workshops and return the inactive ones to orbit."
  
  "I'm not quite ready to do it yet, Ann," Phoenix said, "but I want to be ready in case we detect any movement towards our space assets, especially Armstrong. Missiles and air bases with these anti-satellite MiGs can target sea-launched ballistic or cruise missiles, right?"
  
  "Yes sir," Glenbrook replied, "but it will take time to get the submarine into position and a Russian attack on the Armstrong space station could happen very quickly. If Russia can overwhelm the station's defenses, they can knock it out of the sky. A combination of an attack from an Electron spaceplane, air-launched missiles, and ground-launched anti-satellite missiles attacking at the same time could do just that."
  
  The President nodded, but remained silent for several long moments; then: "Let's give diplomacy and cooler heads a chance before we use any more space weapons," he finally said. "Knocking Armstrong off his feet would be like attacking an aircraft carrier or a military base: an act of war. Gryzlov is not that crazy."
  
  "Russia has done both in the past, sir," Anne reminded the president. "Gennady's father was a master of the covert attack on the United States during the American Holocaust that killed nearly ten times as many people as Pearl Harbor."
  
  "I know it, Ann, but I'm still not ready to escalate this situation if I can avoid it," Phoenix said. "I authorize the use of all defensive weapons currently in use, including the chemical laser, but no offensive weapons."
  
  "May I suggest activating the magnetohydrodynamic generator aboard the Armstrong space station, sir?" Ann asked. Anne Page was the designer not only of the Skybolt missile defense system, but also of one of its many high-tech features: the MHD, or magnetohydrodynamic generator, a nuclear-powered device that produced hundreds of megawatts of power for the Skybolt free electron laser without disrupting the system. attitude control of the Armstrong space station or orbital flight path. "It has been practically mothballed for a couple of years and it will take a day or two to turn it on and test it. If things really go bad, it would be good if Skybolt was available as soon as possible."
  
  "Are you talking about the generator that powers the large Skybolt laser?" Phoenix asked. Ann nodded. "I know that we never ratified the treaty banning offensive space weapons, but we acted as if the treaty was in force. Will this violate the treaty?
  
  Ann thought for a moment, then shrugged. "I am not an arms control expert or a lawyer, sir, but to me a power generator is not a weapon, even if it is equipped with a nuclear reactor. The Skybolt is a weapon, and some of its components are being used by students at Cal Poly to transmit electricity to Earth." She hesitated, then added, "They could provide us with some diplomatic security if the need arises, sir."
  
  "They're not going to use a big generator, are they? I never gave permission for this."
  
  "The microwave laser beam in the Starfire is powered by energy harvested by the students' solar panels," Anne explained. "The MHD generator is still physically connected to the Skybolt, but the free electron laser cannot be fired without removing the Starfire components and plugging the Skybolt parts back into place. I have no idea how long it will take, but the students got the Starfire in place pretty quickly, so if need be, I think we can get the Skybolt back up and running pretty quickly."
  
  The President thought about this for a few moments, then nodded in agreement. "Until the big ship-destroying laser works without my order, I have permission to activate and test the generator," he said. "I think we will postpone informing the Russians that we have been testing a large generator until sometime in the near future."
  
  "I agree," Ann said. "But if you want to deal with the Russians, you may have to reconsider your space policy and military cuts. For example, to do away with the declaration of the occupied orbits as sovereign American possessions - Gryzlov seemed especially annoyed by this.
  
  "I will do it if necessary - hopefully not before the elections," the president said. "That's more ammo for Barbo."
  
  "We can leak the information that Bill just informed us about," Ann said. "If we show Russia's buildup of space weapons, your space policy will look like a legitimate national defense imperative."
  
  "But Barbeau could say that Russia is simply responding to my space initiative," the president said. "I would rather not go down that path. I will think about softening my policy, especially regarding the protection of our space assets and orbits - you are right, I think this is the part that fired up and worried Gryzlov. Hopefully it can wait until the end of the election." He turned to his national security adviser. "Bill, I need to know exactly how long it will take to set up the Kingfisher weapons workshops, and I want to target as many spaceplane boosters as possible. I don't want to transfer any forces, but I want to know how long it will take to destroy everything that threatens our space resources. I remember we used to have a whole array of space launch weapons - I want to find out what Joe Gardner did with them."
  
  "Yes, sir," said Glenbrook, and left.
  
  After he left, the president poured himself his third cup of coffee that morning, which he didn't think was a good sign. "I hate to get politics involved in these decisions, Ann," he said. "That's not the way it should be done."
  
  "Maybe not, but that's life in the real world, Ken," Ann said. "The President of the United States will probably never be able to separate himself from politics, especially during elections. It's just the way it is."
  
  "Then let's get back to the campaign, Ann," Phoenix said. "What's on our agenda for today?"
  
  "You have the day off and I suggest you spend it with your family because you will be campaigning almost every day until Election Day," the vice president said. "The final run on the West Coast starts tomorrow morning. We have Phoenix, San Diego and Los Angeles booked, but the campaign staff also suggested making a few stops in northern and central California. It's late - the FAA prefers to have more than two days notice of airspace closures around airports you fly to for Air Force One, but if we notify them this morning, you'll be fine.
  
  "I suggest we make three stops before we get to Portland and Seattle," Ann continued, reading from her tablet computer. "First, NASA's Ames Research Center near San Jose, which conducts wind tunnel testing of various space technologies; Aerojet Rocketdyne, east of Sacramento, which makes engines for a new class of heavy-lift launch vehicles; and San Luis Obispo to attend the test launch of the Starfire solar orbital power station. Each city has one meeting and one fundraising dinner in San Jose. After that, he travels to Portland and Seattle, to a memorial service at the former Fairchild Air Force Base near Spokane in honor of the American anniversary of the Holocaust, and then to Boise to complete the West Coast tour. Then you make your way to the east. Three cities a day before Election Day. I'll make a few stops on the east coast and then head west as you head east."
  
  "Phuh," said the President. "I'm glad this will be my last campaign - it's nice to meet the guys, but it definitely takes your breath away." He considered changing plans, but not for long: "Go ahead and add stops in Northern California, Ann. I will rest when I die."
  
  "Yes, sir," said the vice president, picking up the phone and alerting her staff to take the necessary action. When she finished, she asked, "Before we alert the FAA, sir, I have a question, would you like to postpone the trial run of the orbital solar power plant and the trip to the station by Brad McLanahan and Casey Huggins, college students from California?" Space issues situation is starting to heat up and this test firing is getting a lot of attention around the world. A lot of people, including the Russians and a bunch of anti-war and environmental groups, want this test canceled and the space station allowed to burn up in the atmosphere." .
  
  "I read about these protests," the president said, shaking his head. "This seems to be about the same thing that we have been hearing from far-left liberals for decades: technological progress is simply bad for people, animals, world peace, the poor and the planet. Armstrong especially gets a lot of negative press, mostly because it's so visible in the sky, I think, and the left thinks we're spying on everyone on Earth and ready to use a death ray to shoot anyone. They have no idea what they are doing at the Armstrong space station. I can talk until I'm blue in the face about my experience and the technology that made it possible, but I'd be wasting my time."
  
  Ken Phoenix considered this for a moment, then shook his head. "Anne, I'm not stopping my space technology and industrialization initiative because the Russians or some left-wing lunatics think this is the beginning of the end of the planet," he said. "Let's try to anticipate and prepare for what these groups, or even the Russians, might do after these test firings, but I'm not going to cancel them. That would be an insult to the hard work these students put into this project. This is a peaceful project: sending energy to those who need it, almost anywhere in the world. This is a good thing. The left can say whatever they want about it, but that's the way it is. No, we are moving forward."
  
  
  SAN LUIS OBISPO REGIONAL AIRPORT
  THAT EVENING
  
  
  Brad sat at a desk in the aircraft hangar at San Luis Obispo Regional Airport, monitoring progress on his computer as the latest navigation, maps, terrain, and obstacles were fed via satellite directly to his father's Cessna P210 Silver Eagle parked behind him. him. The Silver Eagle was a small but extremely powerful Cessna P210, modified with a 450-horsepower turbine engine, and a long list of high-tech avionics and other systems, making the thirty-year-old aircraft one of the most advanced in the world.
  
  His cell phone beeped and he looked at the caller ID, not surprised that he didn't recognize it - he answered so many media inquiries that he simply answered without looking, "Hi. This is Brad, Project Starfire."
  
  "Mr McLanahan? My name is Yvette Annikki, Senior Fellow at European Space Daily. We spoke briefly at your press conference in your lab a few days ago."
  
  He didn't recognize the name, but he definitely recognized the sultry accent. "I don't think I heard your name at the press conference," Brad said, "but I remember seeing it on the media list. How are you tonight?"
  
  "Very well, thank you, Mr. McLanahan."
  
  "Brad, please."
  
  "Thank you, Brad," Yvette said. "I just got back to San Luis Obispo to attend your congratulatory party tonight and watch the Starfire test launch, and I had a few follow-up questions for you. Are you still in the city?"
  
  "Yes. But I am leaving for Battle Mountain early in the morning."
  
  "Oh, of course, flying to the Armstrong space station aboard a midnight spaceplane. Congratulations."
  
  "Thank you". Damn, that voice was mesmerizing, Brad thought.
  
  "I don't want to bother you, but if you're free, I'd really like to ask you a few questions and get your opinion on the flight to the space station," Yvette said. "I can be on campus in a few minutes."
  
  "I'm off campus," Brad said. "I am pre-flighting my plane in preparation for the Battle Mountain flight."
  
  "Do you have your own plane, Brad?"
  
  "This belonged to my father. I fly it every chance I get."
  
  "How exciting! I love the freedom of flight. It's so wonderful to be able to jump in your own plane and fly somewhere at any moment."
  
  "That's right," Brad said. "Are you a pilot?"
  
  "I only have a European light sport aircraft pilot's license," Yvette said. "I couldn't fly from San Luis Obispo to Battle Mountain. I believe it is a very easy journey on your plane."
  
  "The trip takes about nine hours," Brad said. "I can do it in a little more than two."
  
  "Amazing. It must be a very good plane."
  
  "Would you like to see it?"
  
  "I don't want to force myself on you, Brad," Yvette said. "You have some very important days ahead of you, and I just have a few questions."
  
  "It's not a problem," Brad said. "Go south on Broad Street, turn right onto Airport Road and stop at the exit marked 'General Aviation' on the left. I will go out and open it for you."
  
  "Well... I would love to see your plane, but I don"t want to disturb you."
  
  "Not at all. I'm just waiting for the plane to update itself. Company would be nice."
  
  "Well, in that case, I would be happy to join you," Yvette said. "I can be there in about ten minutes. I'm driving a rented white Volvo."
  
  Exactly ten minutes later, a white Volvo sedan pulled up to the terminal building. Brad walked through the front gate and slid his access card into the reader, and the front gate began to open. He jumped on his bike and headed back to his hangar, the Volvo not far behind.
  
  Brad left the hangar's double doors open and the interior lights on so Yvette could see the Silver Eagle as soon as she pulled up. "It's good to see you again, Brad," she said as she got out of the car. She shook his hand, then held out a business card. "I hope you remember me?"
  
  "Yes, of course I want to," said Brad. Damn it, he thought to himself, she's even sexier than last time. He turned and pointed to the plane. "Here she is."
  
  "This is wonderful!" Yvette noticed. "Looks like you keep it in perfect condition."
  
  "I still think this is my father's plane, so I work on it every chance I get and clean it after every flight," Brad said.
  
  "Your father was such a great man," Yvette said. "I'm so sorry for your loss."
  
  Brad always had to remember to play along with these feelings that the media was constantly offering him - it was hard, but he got better and better at portraying that his father was really dead. "Thank you," he replied.
  
  Yvette entered the hangar and began to admire the aircraft. "So. Tell me about your sexy jet, Brad McLanahan."
  
  "It's called the Silver Eagle, a Cessna P21ў Centurion that has had its 310-horsepower piston gasoline engine replaced with a 450-horsepower jet-fueled turboprop," said Brad. "It also has a bunch of other modifications. Cruise speed about two hundred and fifty miles an hour, range one thousand miles, ceiling twenty-three thousand feet."
  
  "Ooo". She gave Brad a mischievous smile and said, "That would make him fit for the Four Mile High Club, not just the Mile High Club, right?" Brad tried to laugh at her taunt, but it only came out as a rude snort as he distracted himself by thinking about how the hell he managed to join this club in the Silver Eagle's cockpit. "And you said the plane was updating itself?"
  
  "Updates are being broadcast via satellite," Brad said, brushing off his fantasies. "When they are needed, I just plug the plane into an external power source, turn it on and wait."
  
  "This is not like the usual way to update avionics and databases."
  
  "This aircraft has several enhancements that are not yet available to the rest of the general aviation community," said Brad. "My dad used his plane as a test bed for a lot of high tech stuff." He pointed to a tiny ball mounted in the middle of the bottom of the right wing. "He used this aircraft for surveillance missions with the Civil Air Patrol many years ago, so he put these sensors on the wings. They are about the size of tennis balls, but they can scan twenty acres per second day or night from both sides of an aircraft at six-inch resolution. The images are transmitted to ground receivers or may be displayed on cockpit multifunction displays with flight or navigation information overlaid. I have made several landings in total darkness without lighting using this sensor."
  
  "I've never heard of this before with such a small sensor," Yvette said.
  
  "I can do things on this plane that won't be available to the general public for at least five years, maybe ten," Brad said. "Fully automated clearances, air traffic control recommendations, automatic flight planning and re-routing, voice-activated avionics, lots of it."
  
  "Can I write about it, Brad?" Yvette asked. "Can I tell my readers about this?"
  
  Brad thought for a moment, then shrugged. "I don't see why not," he said. "It's not classified as "top secret" or anything like that - it's just not yet available to general aviation. All of this is Fed-approved, but not yet produced or put up for sale."
  
  "But it represents the future of general aviation," Yvette said. "I'm sure my readers would like to read about it. Can I get copies of additional type certificates and approvals for these wonderful systems?"
  
  "Of course, this is all public information," said Brad. "After I get back, I can put it all together for you."
  
  "Thank you very much," Yvette said. "I see that I must make another visit to San Luis Obispo after you return..." She looked into his eyes and smiled slightly mischievously. "Not only so you can tell me about your flight into space, but also so you can tell me more about your fascinating aircraft. May I look inside the four-mile-high club headquarters?"
  
  "Of course," Brad said. He opened the front door for her, then glanced at her business card while she admired the interior-and yes, admired her delicious ass, which shook before his eyes as she looked inside the plane. "Do you live in San Francisco? This is also an easy flight. Maybe I could pick you up in San Carlos, we could do a test flight and maybe have lunch in Half Moon Bay?"
  
  "That sounds great, Brad," Yvette said.
  
  "Yvette. Nice name," added Brad.
  
  "Thank you. Mother is French and father is Swedish." She turned to him. "You are very generous with your- Oh!" Brad turned to where she was looking and was surprised to find Chris Wall standing just a few feet away from her, his hands in his jacket pockets. "Hello, sir. Can we help you?"
  
  "He's my friend," Brad said. "Yvette, meet Chris. Chris, Yvette, reporter from European Space Daily." The two looked directly at each other. "What's going on, Chris?"
  
  Vol remained silent for several long moments, looking at Yvette; then: "There are a few necessary things that we must discuss before you leave, if you have a moment."
  
  "Of course," Brad said, blinking in surprise. Something was going on here - why didn't Brad find it...? "Yvette, could you-"
  
  "I've taken enough of your time, Brad," Yvette said. "I can email you the questions I have. If you have time before takeoff, please reply; otherwise, they can wait until we meet again after your flight." She held out her hand and Brad shook it, and then Yvette leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "Good luck with your flight and test firing. I hope you have a safe journey and great success." Then she held out her hand to Vol. "Nice to meet you, Chris," she said. After a few rather awkward heartbeats, Wol slowly took his right hand out of his pocket and shook her hand without taking his eyes off her. Yvette smiled and nodded, gave Brad another warm smile, got into her car and drove away.
  
  When she was out of sight, Brad turned to Vol. "What's going on, sergeant major? You have given the warning code phrase 'required items'. What's happening?"
  
  "Who is she?" Vol asked in a low, menacing voice.
  
  "Reporter for European Space Daily, an aerospace blog based in Austria." Brad gave him Yvette's business card. "I spoke to her before, at a press conference."
  
  "Did you check on her before inviting her here to meet you one on one?"
  
  "No, but she passed her university background check and received press credentials and campus access," Brad replied, studying Vol, who looked genuinely concerned about this meeting.
  
  "The chimpanzee can get press credentials and campus access with enough bananas, Trigger," Wall said, using Brad's new call sign given to him after the Paso Robles shootout - he didn't know if that referred to the shootout or the fact that he was a horse's ass. "You didn"t check her out, but you invited her to your hangar, at night, alone?"
  
  "Daddy checks on me," Brad said. He forgot that his father could access the security cameras in the hangar and monitor his cell phone calls, and realized that Patrick had undoubtedly called whoever was closest to immediately go to the airport and check on the reporter.
  
  "Probably saved your ass, Trigger," Vol said.
  
  "Okay, okay, I violated standard security and counter-surveillance procedures," Brad said. "You and your team have been in the city for months without a single alarm, without a single warning. Now, why all of a sudden a warning passphrase? How do you know she's a threat?"
  
  "I don"t know for sure - yet - but I have a very strong suspicion and that"s all I need," Vol said. For the first time since Brad worked with Chris Wall, he saw a big retired sergeant major hesitate as if he was... embarrassed? Chris Wall, a retired US Marine Corps Sergeant Major who cares what the hell anyone thinks of him...?
  
  "What the hell, sergeant major?" Brad said.
  
  "I get the standard and ... expected reaction from people when I first encounter them, especially ... especially women," Wall said.
  
  "Let me guess, they recoil in stomach-turning horror at the mere sight of your radiation burns," Brad said deadpan. "About the same reaction I had when I first saw you."
  
  "With all due respect, Trigger: fuck you," Vol said. This, Brad thought, was the real Chris Wall he knew. "You didn't notice that with your friend Yvette, did you? You were careless in your counterintelligence tactics, weren't you?"
  
  "What the hell are you talking about, Sergeant Major?"
  
  "Did you see your friend Yvette's reaction when she saw me?" Vol asked.
  
  "Yes. She was surprised. A little." But Brad remembered and revised his answer. "And enjoyable."
  
  "Do you think so, Trigger?" Vol asked.
  
  "I..." Brad paused. God, he thought, I've completely missed something that the big ex-Marine is worried about, maybe even... scary? He thought hard, then said, "Actually, she was very collected. True, she did not react to you with shock or surprise, as I have seen even grown men do. But she was polite."
  
  "Polite, yes," Vol said. "What else? What was she really trying to achieve by being kind to an ugly, strange-looking stranger who suddenly appeared right behind her, something she didn't expect? What else was she calculating, Trigger?"
  
  "She..." Brad's mind worked feverishly, trying to catch up with what Chris Wahl had apparently already anticipated much earlier, what he himself would have recognized if he had not been distracted by external - that is, sexual - factors. "She...she was trying to figure out how she was going...to deal with you," Brad finally said.
  
  "'Deal' with me?"
  
  Brad hesitated again, but the answer was painfully obvious: "Eliminate you," he corrected himself. Holy crap, Brad thought, wide-eyed and shaking his head in disbelief. "She was after my ass but you showed up and took her by surprise and she didn't know what to do," he said. "She had to make a last second decision about whether to attack or retreat, and she decided to retreat. Oh shit... !"
  
  "At last you think tactically," Vol said. "Do you think that if you go a few months without any events, you will be safe? You couldn't be more wrong. Time always favors the patient hunter. This gives the enemy more time to observe, plan, re-plan, and execute. Do you think that since the bad guys haven't attacked in six months, they've given up? Wrong. What"s more, you can"t afford to make more mistakes." Vol's frown deepened the lines on his face. "Tell me, Trigger: will you ever see your friend again?"
  
  "Of course, when she finishes chasing me and moves in for the kill," Brad said. "But as a reporter? Never. She's going to dive deep underground."
  
  "Quite right," Vol said. "She didn't finish the hunt, but you'll never see her interview anyone again, at least not in North America." He looked around in the gathering darkness. "She had several opportunities to film you here at the airport, from a distance, without being noticed by security or cameras, and she did not take them. What does that tell you, Trigger?"
  
  "That she doesn't want to do it from a distance," Brad said. "She prefers to do it up close."
  
  "What else?"
  
  Brad thought for a moment; then: "She's not afraid to be photographed. She believes she can escape, or she has a net behind her that she is sure will be able to get her out."
  
  "Or both," Vol said. He looked at the business card. "Svay. Means 'sword' in Swedish. I bet she chose that cover name for a reason." Brad swallowed hard at those words. "She's quite brazen, that's for sure: she chose a cover that shows her in rooms with lots of cameras and microphones, and she's not afraid to dress in a way that draws attention to herself - exactly the opposite of what she is taught. She's either really stupid or a very talented killer. She's definitely a classy cucumber. I bet there are a lot of pictures of her there. I will have the team start tracking her down." He thought for a moment. "Huggins is already in Battle Mountain, right?"
  
  "Casey had to leave early so they could fit a suit for her," Brad said.
  
  "How is the weather between this place and Battle Mountain tonight?"
  
  "Clouds over the Sierra, maybe a little turbulence over the summit, but everything else is fine."
  
  "You had something planned for tonight on campus, didn"t you?"
  
  "The College of Engineering was going to throw a little party for the Starfire team."
  
  "Something happened and you had to get to Battle Mountain early to prepare for the flight to the space station," Wall said. "You will apologize later. Your new friend Yvette was invited to that party, right?" Brad didn't say anything, but the realization was clear on his face. "If I were bold enough to try again on the same day, that's where I would lie in wait. You are not going back to that campus." He didn't wait for an objection from Brad - who knew how close he had come to becoming the woman's next victim, if she really was who they thought she was. "Do your pre-flight preparation, then hit the road as soon as possible. I'll wait here until you take off."
  
  Brad nodded and entered the hangar. But before starting pre-flight preparations, he turned to the security camera in the corner and said, "Thank you, dad."
  
  A few seconds later, he received a message on his smartphone. It was written there: Not at all, son. Fly safely.
  
  
  Over CENTRAL NEW MEXICO
  THE NEXT DAY
  
  
  "Pressure shutdown," Boomer announced. Brad McLanahan turned off some of the power and allowed the S-19 Midnight spaceplane to return to a pre-contact position behind and below the B-767 Sky Masters Aerospace air tanker. The refueling boom retracted under the tail of the tanker.
  
  "All clear, Seventh Midnight," said the computerized female voice of the robot operator of the barrier. "Is there anything else we can do for you, Seven?"
  
  "It would be nice to have a cup of coffee," Boomer said, "but if that doesn't work, we'll say adios."
  
  Tanker 767 began a sharp left turn. "Masters Three-One is clear, Seven," said the voice. "Have a good day".
  
  Boomer lifted the oxygen helmet visor of his electronic elastomer suit, watched the Midnight Spaceplane's computers run the "After Refueling" and "Before Hypersonic Flight" checklists, then looked at Brad in the mission commander's seat. Brad was wearing an orange ACES partial pressure suit and helmet, his gloved hands resting on the side control panel and the throttles on the center console, and he sat comfortably looking straight ahead as if he were watching TV on the couch Brad lifted the visor of his helmet when he noticed that Boomer had done so.
  
  "You know, Brad, you're the second passenger in a row I've had that made my eyes water."
  
  "Say again?" Brad said.
  
  "First President Phoenix, and now you: both of you guys are acting like you've been astronauts for years," Boomer said. "You fly the spaceplane like a pro. You look like at home."
  
  "It's not really that different from a B-1B bomber, Boomer," Brad said. Sky Masters Aerospace, under the direction of Patrick McLanahan, repaired several retired B-1B Lancer bombers and returned them to service, while Brad was trained to ferry aircraft from Battle Mountain to Guam to counter the aggressive actions of the People's Republic of China against their neighbors in the South China sea. "It is much more maneuverable at higher airspeeds, but at subsonic it handles very much like a bone, and the picture of the sight at the point of contact under the tanker is almost exactly the same as the B-1."
  
  "Well, I'm impressed," Boomer said. "You operated it by hand for almost the entire flight, no less than from the right seat, and were dressed in a spacesuit and bulky spacesuit gloves to boot. Ready for the next step?"
  
  "I bet you do, Boomer," Brad said.
  
  "I'm just willing to bet that it is," Boomer said. "So, so far, the worst overload you've experienced has been around two, but now it's going to get a little more intense. We will use a maximum of about four Gs, but you will experience them for a longer period of time. I'll let you manually control it, but if the G's get too much, let me know and I'll let George's autopilot drive it. Remember that your fingers will weigh almost a pound each. Don't try to resist - say something and I'll put the autopilot on."
  
  "I'll do it, Boomer."
  
  "Fine. Casey?"
  
  "Yes, Boomer?" Casey Huggins answered. She was in the spaceplane's passenger module in the cargo hold with Jessica "Gonzo" Faulkner. Casey was wearing a partial pressure suit with a closed visor; Gonzo was wearing a form-fitting EEAS.
  
  "Remember what we told you about congestion," Boomer said. "If you've been on a roller coaster before, you've felt the same pressure as you'll feel now, only it will last longer. Your seat will help you not be pressured. Ready?"
  
  "I'm ready, Boomer."
  
  "Gonzo?"
  
  "Ready".
  
  "Brad?"
  
  "I'm ready".
  
  "Then get ready to have some fun, mission commander," Boomer told Brad. "Your flight director is in front of you. I'm holding you by the chokes. Keep the flight director centered, just as you would control the IAS signal. We'll start at about twelve degrees with the nose up, but as the speed increases, it will increase. As you said, the S-19 loves to go fast, so the handling will feel easier the faster it picks up speed, until we're above the atmosphere and the sticks are switched to reaction control, and then it's kind of crappy. Now I'm showing us the insert window. The checklists are complete. Go."
  
  Boomer slowly advanced the throttles. Brad forced himself to remain calm as he felt the acceleration and Gs begin to build up. He saw the flight director's wings go up and he pulled the control stick too hard and the wings went down, which meant their nose was too high. "Calm down, Brad. She is slippery. Light touches on the controls." Brad loosened his grip on the controls and gently directed the flight director's wings at the pyramid. "That's it," Boomer said. "Don't anticipate. Nice simple entry."
  
  The Mach numbers were dropping very quickly, and they went from turbojet to scramjet mode faster than Brad could have imagined. "Sixty-two miles high, Brad and Casey-congratulations, you are American astronauts," Boomer said. "How is everybody?"
  
  "Beautiful... good," Casey said, clearly straining from the overload. "How...hard...longer?"
  
  "A few more minutes and then we'll switch to missile mode," Boomer said. "The overload will jump from three to four - a little higher, but it won"t last that long." He looked at Brad, who barely moved at all during the acceleration. "Are you all right there, mission commander?"
  
  "I'm fine, Boomer."
  
  "You are doing great. You have competition here, Gonzo."
  
  "I haven't had a vacation in a while - Brad can take my shifts," Gonzo said.
  
  A few minutes later, the scramjet's jet engines were at full power, and Boomer put the Leopards into full rocket mode. He noticed a few more leans in the flight director's seat, though Brad was still upright and didn't seem to be moving a single muscle. "Is everything all right, Brad?"
  
  "I... I think so..."
  
  "Walk in the park," Boomer said. "Just don"t think about the fact that if you slip more than two degrees, you can send us somersaulting out of the atmosphere for two thousand miles until we crash and crash to Earth in little fiery pieces."
  
  "Thanks...thanks, buddy," Brad grumbled.
  
  "I see you've taken your mind off the GS," Boomer said, "and your course has flattened out considerably." And at that moment, the "leopards" turned off, and the overload stopped. "See? No problem and we're right on course. I'll turn on George so you can relax for a moment and breathe normally again." For the first time in hours, Brad took his hand off the controls and throttled back. "It will take us about half an hour to get to the station."
  
  Brad felt like he'd just spent two hours getting beaten up by Chris Wall and his shock team at the gym. "Can we raise the visor?" he asked.
  
  Boomer checked the environmental readings. "Yes, you can," he said. "The pressure in the cabin is green, clear to raise the visor. We'll give Brad a moment to rest - he's had a nice little workout, hand-flying the spaceplane from zero to Mach 25. In a couple of minutes, I'll ask him to return to the passenger module and ask Casey to come up to dock. It is pleasant and easy for everyone to move around the cabin."
  
  Brad lifted his visor, then found his water bottle and took a deep shot, trying to seal the tube tightly with his lips and squirt the water deep into his mouth so that his throat muscles could carry it to his stomach-gravity could no longer do it for him. It helped calm his stomach, but only a little. He put away the water bottle, then said, "Okay, Casey, I'm ready."
  
  It took a lot of grunts, groans, thumps and slams on the helmet, but Brad finally managed to get up from his seat and walk towards the airlock. "Not bad for a first time, Brad," Boomer said, "but President Phoenix was better."
  
  "Thanks again, mate," Brad said. Zero Gs seemed really strange - he almost preferred positive Gs, he thought, even crushing ones. He opened the airlock door, stepped inside and closed the cockpit hatch. "The hatch is closed," he said.
  
  "Everything fits here," Boomer confirmed.
  
  The passenger module door swung open and Casey was right on the other side, floating horizontally like an orange-clad fairy with a big smile on her face. "Isn't that wonderful, Brad?" - she said. "Look at me! I feel like a cloud!"
  
  "You look great, Casey," Brad said. I wish I felt the same way, he thought. He backed away from the hatch to let Casey through and was rewarded with a blow to the bulkhead, several blows to the deck and ceiling as he struggled to stay on his feet, and another headbutt.
  
  "Nice, easy moves, Brad," Gonzo told him. "Remember..."
  
  "I know, I know: no gravity will stop me," Brad said.
  
  "Watch Casey and you will learn," Gonzo said with a smile.
  
  "See you, Brad," Casey said cheerfully. Barely touching the bulkhead, she slithered into the airlock like a ghost.
  
  "Show-off," Brad muttered as he helped close the airlock hatch. He could not wait to sit in his seat, fasten his seat belts and shoulder belts, and tighten those belts as tightly as he could.
  
  
  EIGHT
  
  
  Success has many dark sides.
  
  - ANITA RODDICK
  
  
  
  COSMODROME PLESETSK
  ARKHANGELSK REGION, NORTH-WEST OF THE RUSSIAN FEDERATION
  IN THE SAME TIME
  
  
  "Three... two... one... launch..." announced the main dispatcher of the launch center. The spaceplane shuddered, then shook, then rumbled as if it was about to explode into pieces, but then the astronaut felt the holding towers detach. The rumble stopped and very soon the g-forces began to build up as the Angara-A7P booster began its ascent.
  
  "The main engines are at 100% power, all systems are normal," the lone cosmonaut reported. Colonel Mikhail Galtin was the number one active cosmonaut in the Russian Federation and commander of the astronaut training squad in Star City near Moscow. He was a twenty-two-year veteran of the Soviet and Russian space corps who had completed four public space flights, including the first transfer from one space station to another. He also made several flights into space with secret projects, including two military space stations based on Salyut-7 and Mir. But he was known in cosmonaut circles as a member of the design team, one of the first pilots of the spaceplane, and now the most experienced pilot of the Electron spaceplane, the only spacecraft specifically designed as a ground attack aircraft - a space fighter.
  
  Galtin was the protégé of the most gifted and skilled cosmonauts of the Soviet Union since Yuri Gagarin: Lieutenant General Alesandr Govorov, Colonel Andrey Kozhedub and Colonel Yuri Livy. Govorov was a true pioneer, the father of the Space Defense Forces of the Soviet Union, the world's first military unit dedicated to manned space operations in defense of the motherland. No military cosmonaut has ever set foot on board any spaceship unless Govorov did it first, even if it was just another copy of Elektron or Salyut. Kozhedub and Livia were the "Red Barons" of the Soviet Space Defense Forces, led by Govorov in strike missions and dangerous adversaries in space or on Earth. Galtin was just a young trainee when these space giants took on the United States and the Armstrong Space Station in combat.
  
  The Elektron spacecraft occupied the upper stage of the Angara launch vehicle, mounted vertically on top of the launch vehicle with tail and wings folded, inside a protective casing that would open after entering orbit and allow the spaceplane to fly freely. Although Gultin had plans for a two-seat version of the Elektron, all spaceplanes now flying were single-seat, and they were the only spacecraft in the world to carry only one passenger into space.
  
  Less than ten minutes later, Galtin was in orbit. He performed several functional checks on his Electron spaceplane and its payload while he waited for his target to come into range.
  
  "Electron-one", this is control," the mission controller radioed about two hours later. "The distance to Kosmos-714 does not exceed one hundred kilometers."
  
  "Accepted," Galtin said. He activated Electron's radar and within seconds located his target. Electron One made contact with the radar." Kosmos-714 was an electronic eavesdropping satellite that failed and spent several years in a collapsing orbit - it would have made an ideal target. It was in an orbit different from Galtin's orbit; their the orbits intersected about five kilometers apart at their closest point.
  
  As with any fighter pilot, it was necessary to practice a little shooting from time to time.
  
  Gultin issued commands that opened the cargo bay doors at the top of the fuselage and pushed a large canister called the Nail or "Nail Puller" out of its stowed and locked position. At a distance of fifty kilometers, he entered commands into his autopilot, which was to take control of the Electron's orientation thrusters and turn the spacecraft to track the satellite as it passed. The two spaceships were approaching at over thirty thousand kilometers an hour, but that wouldn't matter to this weapon.
  
  At a distance of thirty kilometers, he activated the weapon. There was nothing to see outside of Electron, but on the radar screen, Galtin noticed the blur and wobbly trajectory of the target satellite on the radar, and after a few seconds, he noticed that several objects now appeared on the radar - the satellite was torn apart.
  
  Hobnail was a hundred kilowatt coaxial carbon dioxide laser with electrical discharge. The maximum range of the laser was more than fifty kilometers, but even at this distance the laser could burn through a centimeter of strong steel in a matter of seconds - the shell on Kosmos-714 was much thinner. The batteries for the laser allowed it to fire for a maximum of about thirty seconds, no more than five seconds per burst, which equated to about six to seven bursts, depending on how long the laser was activated. This was about half that of Electron's current weapon, the super-fast Yatagan missiles, but the Hobnail had much greater range and accuracy and could hit targets in any direction, even targets crossing at very high speeds. This was the first successful test of the Hobnail in space, although the laser had been successfully used in the lab for many years. Each Elektron spaceplane will eventually receive one, like the Russian orbital section, of the Russian-built segment of the International Space Station that was recently separated from the ISS.
  
  Gultin entered commands into his computer to stow the Nail back into the cargo bay and disable its attack radar. It would not begin its descent from orbit for the next seven hours, but it had one more task to complete.
  
  Three hours later he turned the radar on again, and there it was, exactly where it should have been, only thirty kilometers away, within range of Hobnail: Armstrong, the US military space station. It was at a much higher altitude and in a completely different orbit - there was never any danger of a collision - but of course the Americans would raise a fuss over such a deliberate overflight.
  
  Too bad, Galtin thought happily. Space does not belong to the United States. And, if need be, it will again become a battlefield.
  
  
  ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION
  THE NEXT DAY
  
  
  "Oh my god, I can't believe what I'm seeing!" Jody Cavendish exclaimed as the monitor came to life. Behind her came the applause of the audience, who were allowed by the American secret service to watch the test firings - they expected the arrival of the President of the United States in a couple of hours. What they saw was Brad McLanahan and Casey Huggins, both in blue flight suits with Armstrong Space Station and Project Starfire patches, free-falling behind the console. Behind them were Kai Reidon and Valerie Lucas. "You did it! You did it!"
  
  "Hi Jody; hello Jerry; hi Lane," Brad said. "Greetings from the Armstrong space station!"
  
  "I just can't believe what I'm seeing," Jody said, tears of joy streaming down her cheeks. "I would never have believed this would ever happen, friends."
  
  "You guys look great," Lane said. "How was the spaceplane trip?"
  
  "Amazing, Lane," Brad replied. "The overloads were not as bad as I expected."
  
  "Speak for yourself, buster," Casey said. It was so strange to see a young woman floating in zero gravity with her legs tucked under her, just like any other astronaut - it was almost strange not to see her in a wheelchair. "I thought I was going to be turned inside out."
  
  "Guys, are you feeling well?"
  
  "Not bad," said Brad.
  
  "He was throwing up his guts," Casey said with a chuckle.
  
  "Only twice," Brad said. "I got an injection and now I feel good."
  
  "I get dizzy from time to time, but I feel great, Lane," Casey said. "Though I still have my vomit bag handy."
  
  "We heard that you were able to pilot the spaceplane and even dock it to the station," Lane said. "How cool! How it was?"
  
  "I had a few uncertain moments, but everything went great," said Brad. "I wish there was a pilot Boomer here, but he had to take the spaceplane to the International Space Station - since the Russians turned off their service module, they cannot produce as much water and oxygen as before, so some technicians have to leave. How does everything look from there, Jody?"
  
  "Apples, Brad," Jody replied. "However, we are still getting intermittent failures in the lithium-ion capacitor output relay, the one we have been working on for a couple of weeks now."
  
  "Jerry with us on the channel?"
  
  "He is meeting with his team via videoconference to try and find a solution," Jody said. "He thinks it"s a temperature problem - he says that when the station is in sunlight, the relay works fine, but then when they go into shade, the problem sometimes pops up."
  
  "Unfortunately, this means spacewalking to replace the relay or its temperature control unit," said Kai Raidon. "It might take a day or two."
  
  "This won't affect our positioning with the rectenna, will it, sir?" Brad asked.
  
  "The delay will slightly worsen the test, depending on how many days it takes to correct," Kai said. "For this test, we put Armstrong into what is called sun-synchronous orbit, which means that we pass over the same place on Earth - the rectenna site at the White Sand missile range - at the same mean solar time every day. . But because our altitude is lower, we move a few degrees away from our ideal location each day, so our time within view of a direct antenna will get shorter and shorter, down to less than a minute. Eventually the situation is reversed, but it takes twenty-four days to return to the ideal position. Right now we are at the perfect time, with the maximum exposure available at the latitude of the target. We just have to hope the relay kicks in when it's time to open fire."
  
  "God, that would be better," Jody said, patting her laptop. "Come on baby, you can do it."
  
  "It might be a little embarrassing if it doesn't work because the president has to oversee the test," Brad said. "Is there anything else we can try?" He glanced around the command center and noticed the empty Skybolt laser control console. "What about Skybolt?" he asked.
  
  Skybolt is a free electron laser, Brad," Kai said. "It was disabled so we could install your microwave."
  
  "What about Skybolt's power source, magnetohydrodynamic generator?" Brad asked.
  
  "You mean use the power from the MHD instead of the solar power you collected?" Valerie Lucas asked with a hint of a smile. "Wouldn"t that be like cheating?"
  
  "We harvested power with nantennas and stored electricity in capacitors, Sergeant, so we know it all works," Brad said, "and we did microwave cavity discharge tests, so we know we can produce maser power. All we have to do now to validate the project is to hit the straight antenna with a maser and have it generate electricity on the ground. Perhaps we can do this with MHD instead of the energy in capacitors that we can't get to."
  
  Valerie turned to Kai and shrugged. "We got permission to activate MHD and test it," she said. "We did some full power tests." Turning to Casey, she asked, "What kind of power do you need, Casey?"
  
  "We planned to pass five hundred kilowatts per minute through the microwave resonator," Casey replied.
  
  Valerie shrugged again. "We did ten times as much, but in much shorter periods of time," she said. "But I have no doubt that MHD can do it. We will have to keep an eye on heat levels in your microwave generator and in the magnetic reflectors, collimator and Skybolt electrical assemblies, but we have already determined that the Skybolt subsystems can handle the power coming from Li-Ion capacitors - I'm sure they can handle the same level power and duration of the discharge, as the MHD generator ".
  
  "Then there is one last thing left to do: get permission from the person himself," Kai said.
  
  They didn't have to wait long. About ninety minutes later, President Kenneth Phoenix entered the lab and greeted everyone who was there, including Lane and Jody. UC President Marcus Harris introduced the participants. Phoenix shook hands with Jody first. "How are you, Miss Cavendish?"
  
  "Very well, Mr. President. I am the head of the nanotechnology group. Lane Egan is Team Leader for Computers and Software."
  
  The President shook hands with Lane. "How are you today, young man?"
  
  "Excellent, Mr. President," Lane said. He handed the president a silver ink felt-tip pen, then drew a blank space on the front of his blue and red Project Starfire nylon windbreaker. "Please Mr. President?" Phoenix smiled and signed the front of Lane's jacket in large cursive letters.
  
  "May I introduce you to the other Starfire project team leaders, Mr. President?" Jody said. She pointed to a large monitor on the wall. "Inset at upper left is Jerry Kim, Power and Control Systems Team Leader, connected via satellite from the White Sand Missile Range where the receiving antenna is located; and in the main window aboard the Armstrong Space Station, Casey Huggins, Directed Energy Team Leader, and our overall team leader-"
  
  "Brad McLanahan, I know," the president interrupted. Almost everyone in the lab blinked in surprise-did Brad McLanahan know the President of the United States? "We met many times even though you were quite young and probably don"t remember."
  
  "No sir, I remember," said Brad. "Good to see you again, sir."
  
  "Guys, are you having fun up there?" the president asked. "I know my trip there was an experience I will never forget."
  
  "We're rocking, Mr. President," Casey said. "Thank you so much for giving us this amazing opportunity."
  
  "So, along with the brains, the whole world knows that you guys have incredible courage," the president said. "The first male and female teenagers and the first paralyzed person in space, and they are Americans. Congratulations. The whole country is proud of you and I'm sure the whole world is impressed. Where are we test firing, Brad?"
  
  "We've come across a potential issue that we hope you can help resolve, sir," Brad said.
  
  "I? How?"
  
  "We have collected energy that we would like to send to Earth," Brad explained, "but we are afraid that we will not be able to extract it from the storage devices into a microwave chamber to send it to Earth."
  
  "This is very bad, guys," the president said. "I hope this is easy to fix for you."
  
  "Everything else works, sir, and we've proven we can form a maser beam," said Brad. "The only thing we haven't proven is that the beam hits the Earth and is converted into electricity."
  
  The President looked at his campaign manager and the lead secret service unit, silently signaling them to begin preparations for the formation and movement of his convoy, then glanced at his watch. "I'm really sorry about this guys," he said, "but I don't know how I can help and we do have a schedule to-"
  
  "Mr. President, we think we have a workaround," Kai Raydon said.
  
  "What is it, general?"
  
  "Instead of using the energy stored in Starfire capacitors, we would like your permission to use the Skybolt Magnetohydrodynamic Generator," Kai said. "The MHD is still connected to the Skybolt, but the free electron laser is disabled, so the students' microwave generator can use the Skybolt subsystems. We can route the power from the MHD to the Starfire in exactly the same amount as the capacitors. The only thing that has changed from the students' original plan is the power source. You have already given us permission to test the MHD generator and it is fully operational. We would like permission to use it to power Starfire."
  
  The president's face darkened, and he looked around at all the faces in the lab and on the monitor. "General, are you absolutely certain that the large laser is disconnected and will not fire?" he asked, his voice low with great concern.
  
  "Yes sir, I'm sure."
  
  "Not a single watt of laser radiation?"
  
  "None, sir," Kai assured him. "It would take a long time to reconnect the Skybolt. No, sir, the Skybolt won't fire. I am absolutely sure of it."
  
  He looked around again, then pulled out his secure mobile phone. "I need to consult with a few people," he said. "I'm afraid some may believe that your maser is actually a Skybolt laser. I would like to get a legal opinion before-"
  
  "Excuse me, sir," Jody said, "but we need to make a decision pretty quickly - the station is rising above the target's horizon in about ten minutes." She looked at the big teleconference monitor. "Sergeant Lucas, can you tell me how long it will take to connect the MHD to Starfire?"
  
  Valerie turned to the computer console and entered commands. "The wired connection is already there," she said. "Testing the circuit should only take a few minutes if we find no problems. No guarantees, but I think we can make it on time."
  
  Jody turned to the President. "Sir?"
  
  Phoenix looked even grimer than before, but after a few tense moments, he nodded and said, "Do it. Good luck."
  
  "Thank you, sir," Jody said. Her hands fluttered over the laptop keyboard, and Lane was actually typing instructions into two laptops at the same time. "Sgt. Lucas, you have the cavity power control program on list page two-twelve, bravo."
  
  "Got it," Valerie said. "Engineering, this is Operations, turn on the MHD, switch to page two-twelve bravo, turn on the seventeenth red system and the MHD power management subsystem and recheck."
  
  "On line," came the reply from Alice Hamilton in the engineering module, awaiting confirmation from the station commander.
  
  "Engineering, this is command," Kai said over the intercom. "Authorized to run MHD and connect it to Starfire. Let me know when you're ready." He pressed the intercom button for all stations. "Attention station, this is the director. We will activate the MHD generator and use it to send project Starfire maser energy to Earth via the Skybolt subsystems. Since we will activate the MHD at any moment, I want all modules to be pressurized, crew members on duty receive oxygen, and off-duty crews to damage control posts and space suits. Report to the departments when you are ready."
  
  "Accepted, command," Alice confirmed. "Operations, MHD is accelerating. Get ready."
  
  "Got it," Valerie said. She entered commands on her keyboard. "Henry, Christina, get ready to do your thing."
  
  "Yes ma'am!" Henry Lathrop said. He and Ground Weapons Officer Christine Reyhill were at their posts wearing oxygen masks, filling out checklists. A few minutes later, the command monitor switched from an upper fixed satellite image of the rectenna to a real-time image from the Armstrong space station, which clearly showed a large, dark, round device alone in the New Mexico desert. "The fight is on target," Rahill said. "There are no additional sensors available other than the Starfire cameras."
  
  "We want this to be right on target, Christine," Valerie said. "Use everything you have."
  
  It was very close. After several faults were found and corrected, and about thirty seconds after the station passed over the horizon of the rectenna, they heard: "Operations, engineering, communication established and tested. You have food and the feed levels are programmed. Engineers have switched MHD control to Operations mode and are ready."
  
  "Got it," Valerie said. "Team, permission to switch control of Starfire to combat."
  
  "Make sure the Skybolt is cold, Valerie," Kai ordered.
  
  Moments later, Valerie replied, "Confirmed, sir. Skybolt is cold.
  
  "Switch Starfire's fire control to combat, Valerie," Kai said. He looked at Brad and Casey. "Release is allowed. Good luck guys," he added.
  
  "Boy, you have control," Valerie said after entering the instructions into her computer.
  
  "Understood you, in battle everything is under control. Starfire, what does it look like?"
  
  "Everything's fine, Armstrong, except for the capacitor discharge subsystem, and it's been deactivated," Jody said, fiddling nervously with her long blond hair. "Starfire Ready"
  
  "Understood, Starfire. Good luck." Rayhill entered the command. Starfire is alive guys.
  
  Absolutely nothing changed on either the Armstrong space station or the UC lab for several long, tense moments. The only sign that something was going on was Jerry Kim's suddenly flustered face as he checked his testimony: "Rectenna getting powered, control!" he shouted. "Item two... item four... item five... it works guys, it works!" The control center at Cal Poly erupted in cheers and applause as Brad and Casey almost went into an uncontrollable spin, trying to hug each other.
  
  "The microwave is heating up, but by the time we turn it off, the temperature should still be within normal limits," Jody said. "Reflectors, collimators and beam steering parameters are higher, but still in the green zone. Engineering?"
  
  "All in green, Starfire," Alice reported. "We will reach the yellow temperature range in about three minutes."
  
  "One megawatt!" Jerry screamed a little over a minute later. He was jumping for joy in front of the camera so much that they couldn't see his face. "We just received one megawatt of power from Starfire! The temperature curves of the rectennas are exactly on their own - they should reach the yellow line in four minutes. Jody, you did it! The conversion rate is much higher than we predicted! Maybe we could get two megawatts before we hit the temperature limit! We could even-"
  
  "I got a warning from White Sands, guys," Valerie announced. "Unauthorized aircraft entry to the landfill. Turn off the starfire, fight. Engineering Department, secure the MHD and the reactor."
  
  "Understood," Henry said. His finger was already on the "destruct button" and he instantly entered the command. "The team has a cold nose."
  
  "Starfire is disabled," Alice said. "MGD is spinning down. The reactor is safe. Everything is painted green."
  
  "Congrats guys," Kai said as he took off his oxygen mask. "You made it through. You were transmitting electrical energy from space to Earth." On the intercom, he said: "To all the staff, this is the director, you can connect to the MHD stations. Please join me in extending congratulations to the entire Starfire team for a successful test firing." Applause erupted in the command module.
  
  "We couldn't have done this without you and everyone on the station, sir," Brad said as he removed his oxygen mask. He hugged Casey again. "It worked, Casey. Your microwave generator has worked!"
  
  "Our microwave generator," Casey said. "Our starfire! It worked! It worked!" And to celebrate further, she pulled out her vomit bag and vomited into it.
  
  Despite the sudden shutdown, the celebrations continued at the Cal Poly lab, with President Phoenix applauding as enthusiastically as anyone else. "Congratulations, Miss Cavendish, Mr. Egan," he said. The traveling campaign manager told him where to stand and face, and there were two team leaders at his side, a large monitor showing the others over his shoulder as the cameras started rolling.
  
  "I have been honored to be present and witness an amazing event here at Cal Poly: the first successful transmission of electrical energy from space to Earth," he said. His staff prepared several sets of remarks for him, including a speech in case the Starfire failed, the spaceplane was lost, or the device destroyed the space station. He was overjoyed - and relieved - to present this version. "Although in its infancy, this is a remarkable achievement, made no less remarkable by the fact that a team of college students designed, built, installed and operated it. I am very proud of these young people for their accomplishments and it shows perfectly what investment in education, technology and space sciences can bring. Congratulations to Jody, Brad, Casey and Jerry and the entire Starfire team." The President lingered for a few more minutes to take pictures, then left.
  
  
  WHITE SANDS MISSILE TEST FACILITY
  ALAMOGORDO, New MEXICO
  IN THE SAME TIME
  
  
  "How far are we from that antenna, dude?" asked the pilot of the Cessna 172 Skyhawk, pushing rows of chestnut dreadlocks out of his eyes. "Everything looks the same here."
  
  "Ten more minutes," said the man in the right seat. He used a mapping app on his smartphone to navigate the small plane. Like the pilot, he had long, shoulder-length, messy-looking hair, a beard, a mustache, and thick glasses. The pilot was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, knee-length Bermuda shorts, and trainers; The one on the right was wearing a T-shirt, cut-off jeans and sandals. "Stay on this course."
  
  "Okay, okay," said the pilot. They took off from Alamogordo-White Sands Regional Airport about half an hour ago and headed northwest, entering Holloman Air Force Class D airspace without speaking to anyone on the radio. "Are you sure you hit the right place, dude?" the pilot asked.
  
  "The news reports about the trial made that quite clear," another man said. "We should see it when we get closer - it's pretty big."
  
  "Dude, this is nuts," the pilot said. "The news said that no aircraft would be allowed to fly near the antenna."
  
  "What are they going to do, shoot us down?" - asked the navigator.
  
  "I don"t want to get shot down, man, not by the military, not by that... phaser beam, laser beam, whatever the hell it is."
  
  "I don't want to fly over the antenna, just close enough that they cancel the test," the navigator said. "This is an illegal space weapon test, and if the federal government or the state of New Mexico don't stop it, we'll have to."
  
  "As you say," said the pilot. He strained to look out the window. "We get... God shit! There, to their left, not more than a hundred feet away, was a green Black Hawk military helicopter with USAF written in big black letters on the side, flying in formation. The helicopter's right sliding door was open to reveal a crew member wearing a green flight suit, helmet and dark visor lowered. "We have company, man."
  
  The helicopter crew member at the open door picked up what looked like a large flashlight and began flashing lights to the Cessna pilot. "One... two... one... five," the pilot said. "This is the emergency distress frequency." He switched his number one radio to that frequency.
  
  "Single-engine, high-wing Cessna aircraft tail number N-3437T, this is the United States Air Force from your left wing, transmitting 'alert'," they heard, referring to the VHF universal emergency frequency. military airspace that is currently active. Change course immediately. The area is active and you are in great danger. I repeat, change course immediately."
  
  "We have a right to be here, man," the pilot radioed. "We don't do anything. Leave".
  
  "November 3437T, this is the United States Air Force, you are in great danger," said the co-pilot of the helicopter. "Change course immediately. I am authorized to take any action necessary to prevent you from entering restricted airspace."
  
  "What are you going to do, dude - knock us down?" asked the pilot of the Cessna. There was indeed a long tube on the nose of the helicopter that looked like a cannon - he did not know that it was just a probe for refueling in the air. "Look, we just want to stop the Starfire test and then we go home. Leave".
  
  At these words, the Black Hawk suddenly accelerated and made a sharp right turn, passing in front of the Cessna at a distance of no more than a hundred feet, its propeller disk covering the Cessna's windshield. The startled pilot screamed and jerked the control stick back and to the left, then had to struggle to regain control as the small plane almost stalled. They could hear the helicopter rotors hitting the Cessna's fuselage as it circled around them.
  
  The Black Hawk emerged from its port wing a second later, closer this time, the sound of the propeller blades becoming deafening, as if a gigantic invisible fist was beating the side of their little plane. "N-3437T, change course immediately! That's an order! Obey immediately!"
  
  "Is this dude crazy, dude?" - said the pilot. "I almost pissed my pants!"
  
  "I see it! I see it, I see the antenna!" said the one on the right. "A little to the right, on the horizon! Big round baby boy!"
  
  The pilot followed his passenger's index finger. "I can't see anything, man, I don't- Wait, I get it, I get it," he said. "That big round thing in the desert? I will go to him." He steered the little Cessna into a steep right bank...
  
  ... and as soon as he did, the Black Hawk helicopter made a sharp left turn, dousing the Cessna with a powerful blow from the main rotor. This action completely turned the Cessna on its head. It went into an inverted flat spin and crashed into the New Mexico desert seconds later.
  
  
  SEATTLE, Washington
  A FEW HOURS LATER
  
  
  "Congratulations Jung Bae on successfully testing Starfire," said Dr. Toshuniko "Toby" Nukaga, professor of aerospace engineering at Cal Poly, via video link on his laptop computer from his suite in an upscale hotel in Seattle, Washington. "I just heard the news. I'm sorry I couldn't be there, but I'm chairing the Seattle conference."
  
  "Thank you sir," Jerry said. He was in a trailer about a mile from the Starfire rectenna test site at the White Sands Missile Range northwest of Alamogordo, New Mexico, surrounded by laptop computers used to monitor the power and steering systems aboard the Armstrong Space Station. The seven members of the team were with him, high-fiving each other, as they began to analyze the mountain of data. "I'm sorry you couldn't be here either, sir. You have been the driving force behind this project from the very beginning."
  
  "The credit goes to you and the other members of the project team, Jung Bae - I was just a facilitator. So, how much energy did you transfer?"
  
  "One point four point seven megawatts, sir."
  
  "Outstanding! Great job!"
  
  "It had to be aborted because an unauthorized aircraft entered the coverage area."
  
  "I heard that some protesters were going to try to disrupt the test by flying a private jet over the rectenna," Nukaga said.
  
  Jerry blinked in surprise. "Are you done, sir?" he asked incredulously.
  
  "Jung Bae, I'm here in Seattle for the annual conference of the International Confederation of Responsible Scientists," Nukaga said. "There are more than a hundred groups of scientists, politicians, environmentalists and industry leaders from around the world represented here - we even have a presidential candidate, former Secretary of State Stacy Ann Barbeau, who will give a keynote address later today.
  
  "We have some pretty radical groups here too, and one of them, Students for Global Peace, came to me complaining that Cal Pauley was involved in a weapons development program with Starfire," Nukaga continued. "I assured them it wasn't, but they insisted. They said it was their duty to do whatever they could to stop the Starfire test firing, even if it endangered their lives - I actually think they were hoping someone would get hit by a maser, just to prove it was indeed a weapon. ".
  
  "It's incredible, sir," Jerry said. "Why didn"t you tell us about this?"
  
  "I only half believed it myself, Jung Bae," Nukaga said. "Honestly, the guys who ran into me looked like they didn"t know where their next meal was coming from, not to mention they had the means to hire a plane to fly over the government"s no-go zone in the hope of getting shot down." maser beam from space. So. "Nukaga was clearly looking to change the subject." Mr. McLanahan and Ms. Huggins looked good aboard the military space station. I saw one of their press conferences last night. They are fine?"
  
  "Very well, sir."
  
  "Fine. Any problems? Having trouble with the hardware or software?" Jerry hesitated and looked away from the camera for a brief moment, and Nukaga noticed it immediately. "Jung Bae?"
  
  Jerry wasn't sure if he should talk about anything related to Starfire and the space station on the unsecured network - the team leaders decided to discuss among themselves what was and wasn't made public - but Nukaga was one of their professors and one of the first, but somewhat reluctantly supported the project. "There was a potential problem with the relay I designed that allowed power to be transferred from the lithium-ion capacitors to the microwave generator, sir," he finally said.
  
  'Potential' problem?
  
  "It didn"t fail today, but...it wasn"t one hundred percent reliable," Jerry said with concern, "and since the President of the United States was present for the test firing at Cal Poly, we wanted to make sure we could hit the rectenna with maser energy."
  
  "Well, you did," Nukaga said. "The test was successful. I don't understand."
  
  "Well, we... we didn't use the energy we collected with the antennas and stored in the capacitors."
  
  "Then what energy did you use?"
  
  "We used power from ... a magnetohydrodynamic generator," Jerry said.
  
  There was silence on the line for several long moments, and on the video monitor Jerry could see Nukaga's growing expression of disbelief; then, "You mean you activated the laser aboard the Armstrong space station, Jung Bae?" Nukaga asked in a breathless, low, incredulous tone.
  
  "No sir," Jerry said. "Not a laser. The free electron laser itself has been deactivated so we can use the laser subsystems for the Starfire. We just used his power source to...
  
  "That MHD generator was still running?" Nukaga asked. "I was led to believe that all components of the Skybolt Space Laser were deactivated." Jerry didn't have an answer to that. "So one and four tenths of the megawatts you collected with the rectenna came from MHD and not from Starfire?"
  
  "Yes sir," Jerry replied. "We tested everything else: we collected solar energy, stored electricity, fed it to a microwave generator, and emitted maser energy using Skybolt reflectors, collimators and steering systems. We just had to hit the rectenna with maser energy. We wanted to do it on the first try, in front of the President of the United States. The MHD generator was our only...
  
  "Jung Bae, you fired a beam of directed energy at a target on Earth," Nukaga said. "Have you fired one megawatt of power for more than two minutes over two hundred miles? It's..." He paused, doing mental calculations. "That's over three million joules of energy released by MHD from that military space station! That's three times the legal limit, at almost four times the legal range! This is a serious violation of the Outer Space Treaty! This is a crime that can be prosecuted by the International Court of Justice or considered by the United Nations Security Council! Space weapons, especially directed energy weapons, are not allowed to be used by anyone, not even students!"
  
  "No sir, that can't be!" Jerry said, confused, afraid that he had said too much and betrayed his colleagues, and afraid of drawing the wrath of his beloved professor and mentor. "Starfire is a solar power plant, not a space weapon!"
  
  "It was, Jung Bae, until you gave up using solar energy and used the power source of an illegal military space laser!" Nukaga was crying. "Don"t you understand, Jung Bae? You can use fireworks to celebrate the New Year, but if you use a Scud missile to do so, it changes and pollutes the very nature of the spirit you were trying to express, even if you don't attack anyone or blow anything up. That's why we have laws against using such things for any purpose." He saw the panicked expression in Jerry's eyes and immediately felt sorry for him. "But you were in New Mexico, weren't you?"
  
  "Yes, sir".
  
  "Did they consult with you about the decision to use an MHD generator?"
  
  "No sir," Jerry said. "There was no time, and I was on a teleconference with my team trying to find a solution to the relay problem."
  
  "Do you know who came up with the idea to use MHD?"
  
  "I believe it was Mr. McLanahan, sir," Jerry said. Nukaga nodded in understanding - he could easily have guessed that. "He pitched the idea to General Rydon, station commander, and Sergeant Lucas, station operations officer."
  
  "Are they all military personnel?"
  
  "I believe they are all retired," Jerry said, "but are well versed in the operation of the space station and have been hired by a private defense contractor to operate it."
  
  "'Private defense contractor', huh?" Nukaga chuckled, "Was that the company in Nevada that gave the university the money for the initial grant?"
  
  "Yes... I... Yes, sir, it was," Jerry said... and a moment later, realization began to dawn on me.
  
  "Now you"re starting to understand, aren"t you, Jung Bae?" Nukaga asked, seeing Jerry's expression change. "Bradley McLanahan, the son of General Patrick McLanahan, a retired Air Force officer and a former Nevada employee of the company, came up with the idea for a so-called space-based solar power plant, and in just a few months he assembled a team of engineers and made several significant scientific and technological breakthroughs. Then is it a coincidence that Cal Pauley is getting grant money? Is it just a coincidence that Mr. McLanahan wants to use the Armstrong Space Station for Starfire, which is operated by the same Nevada defense contractor? I don't believe in coincidences, Jung Bae. And you shouldn't."
  
  "But they got permission from the President of the United States to use MHD," Jerry said, "only if the Skybolt free electron laser was not capable of launching."
  
  "Certainly. They couldn't launch the laser without violating the Space Conservation Treaty, so they got the next best thing: a maser built by a group of college students, everything is very neat, inspiring and innocent - bullshit, all bullshit, "Nukaga spat. "It seems to me that the so-called problems with your relay could be easily rigged, so they had to use an MHD generator to demonstrate the power of the maser weapon. Three million joules! I bet the military was very happy with this demonstration."
  
  "I designed the power relay system, sir, and I was the only one responsible for monitoring it," Jerry said. "I assure you, no one deliberately interfered in this."
  
  "Jung Bae, I am very glad that you told me about this," Nukaga said. "I don't blame you for anything. It seems that Mr. McLanahan had his own agenda when he created this project. As I suspected from the start, Mr. McLanahan was working with this defense contractor, and quite possibly with the military themselves, as the son of a prominent and infamous military officer, to create a space weapon and hide it from the world. Obviously, he was assisted by this contractor and the government - how else could a freshman gather all the resources needed to carry out such a project in such a short time?"
  
  "I... I had no idea, sir," Jerry said, his eyes darting back and forth in confusion. "Mr. McLanahan, he... He seemed to have extraordinary leadership and organizational skills. He has always been very open and transparent about everything. He shared all his resources with every member of the team. We knew every moment of every day what was needed and how he intended to get it."
  
  "Once again, Jung Bae, I don"t blame you for falling for this... this obvious huckster," Nukaga said. He nodded, pleased that he was on the right track. "It makes sense to me. Our university has been involved in a coordinated conspiracy by McLanahan-at first most likely his late father, then his adopted son-supported by this defense contractor, the military, and their government backers, such as President Kenneth Phoenix and Vice President Anne Page, to covertly build a space-based directed energy weapon and disguise it as nothing more than a student engineering project. How terribly smart. How many other progressive, peace-loving universities have they used this scheme? Interesting."
  
  Nukagi's mind raced for a few moments before realizing that he was still in a video conference with Jung Bae. "I'm sorry Jung Bae," he said, "but I have a very important matter to attend to. You should leave this project immediately. In fact, if I find out that the university had anything to do with this military program, or if the university does not withdraw any involvement in the project and return the money received from this defense contractor, I will immediately resign from my positions, and I would strongly recommend that you transfer to another school. I'm sure we would both be very happy at Stanford University. I look forward to meeting you soon." And he dropped the connection.
  
  My God, Nukaga thought, what an incredibly diabolical plan! This should have been revealed immediately. It had to stop. He was the chairman of this conference, and it was broadcast around the world - he, of course, had access to cameras, microphones and media, and he intended to use them.
  
  However, he admitted to himself that his audience, although global, was not that big. Much of the world saw the participants as nothing more than Wall Street peace activists called Occupy Wall Street, psycho hippies. One of the reasons he was asked to chair the conference was to give the organization and the conclave much more legitimacy. He needed help. He needs...
  
  ... and in the blink of an eye, he remembered and pulled a business card from his pocket, then took out his smartphone and dialed the Washington number of a man he knew was only a few floors up. "Mr. Cohen, this is Dr. Toby Nukaga, chairman of the event... Fine sir, thank you, and thank you again to you and Secretary Barbeau for your participation.
  
  "Sir, I just received some very disturbing information that I think the Secretary of State should be aware of and possibly act on," Nukaga continued, almost breathless. "This is about the Starfire project... yes, the so-called space solar power plant... yes, I say "so-called" because today I found out that this is by no means a solar power plant, but a well-disguised space weapons program ... yes sir, a directed energy military space weapon disguised as a student engineering project ... yes sir, this information was given to me by someone very high on the project, very high ... yes sir, I have full confidence in the source. He has been dragged into this business, just as I, my university and hundreds of engineers and scientists around the world have been pulled into collaborating with him, and I want to expose this frightening and outrageous program before any more harm is done .. yes sir... yes sir, I can be upstairs in just a few minutes. Thank you Mr Cohen."
  
  Nukaga hurriedly began to assemble his tablet computer when a text message appeared on his screen. It was from the head of Students for Global Peace, one of the international environmental and world peace groups, who was present at the conference, and the message read: Our protest plane was shot down by a Starfire space weapon near the rektenna site. We are at war.
  
  
  MAIN SPEECH OF THE CONCLAVE OF THE INTERNATIONAL CONFEDERATION OF RESPONSIBLE SCIENTISTS
  SEATTLE, Washington
  LATER THAT EVENING
  
  
  "It is my pleasure and honor to introduce a man who certainly needs no introduction, especially for this gathering," began Dr. Toshuniko Nukaga, reading a script that was provided to him by Secretary of State Barbeau's campaign office. "Stacey Ann Barbeau describes herself primarily as an Air Force brat. She was born at Barksdale Air Force Base near Shreveport, Louisiana, and said that the roar of B-47s and B-52s outside her family's home simply lulled her, and the smell of jet fuel certainly penetrated her blood. The daughter of a retired Air Force two-star general, she moved residences with her family a total of ten times, including two overseas assignments, before returning to her home state of Louisiana to attend college. A bachelor's degree in pre-law, business, and public administration from Tulane, a law degree from Tulane, then employment in the public defender's offices in Shreveport, Baton Rouge, and New Orleans before running for Congress. Three terms in Congress were followed by three terms in the United States Senate, the last four years as Majority Leader before being elected the 67th Secretary of State. Today, she is a candidate for President of the United States, and if she wins, she will be the first woman to hold the office. I can"t imagine a person more suitable for this position, can I?" A tremendous standing ovation followed, lasting almost a full minute.
  
  "This is her official background, my friends and colleagues, but let me tell you a few things about this extraordinary woman that you may not know," Nukaga continued. "Secretary Barbeau has two sides. There is a fierce but caring advocate for green technology, the environment, global warming action and carbon control. But it is equally strong and committed to strengthening and responsibly modernizing our armed forces. Not surprisingly, she is a strong spokeswoman for the air force, but also a strong advocate for our country maintaining its leadership on the world's oceans and maintaining a force that is ready to help other countries in time of need with fast, sustained and powerful yet compassionate humanitarian assistance. I know her as a strong, caring and dynamic person, but she is undoubtedly what Humphrey Bogart would call a 'classy woman'. &# 8197;" Nukaga was relieved to hear a burst of laughter and applause in response to this line - it was one that he would have deleted from his prepared introduction if he had been allowed to do so.
  
  "Stacey Ann Barbeau is fluent in five languages. Stacey Ann is a scratch golfer. Stacy Ann knows Washington inside and out, but her roots and heart are with the people, with you and with me. Stacy Ann knows and cares about the US military, the force that defends our nation and the free world, but Stacy Ann knows that the military is a force not just for war, but to protect those who cannot defend themselves." Nukaga raised his voice as he started the song, and the growing applause from the audience helped him tremendously-so much so that he found himself raising his arms and clenching his fists, something he thought he would never do. "Stacey Ann Barbeau is a leader, fighter and protector and with our help and support, Stacey Ann Barbeau will be the next President of the United States of America!" Nukagi's next words were inaudible over the roar, the deafening standing ovation that erupted just at that moment. "Ladies and gentlemen, friends and colleagues, please join me in welcoming former Secretary of State and next President of the United States of America, Stacey Ann Barbeau!"
  
  With a beaming smile and an enthusiastic wave of both hands, Stacey Ann Barbeau entered the stage. She did what Stacey Ann Barbeau knew how to do flawlessly: look professional, presidential and seductive at the same time. Her wavy blonde hair and make-up were flawless; her dress was fitted, which emphasized her curvaceous figure without looking too flashy; her jewelry attracted a lot of attention, but just enough to make her look successful without being conspicuous.
  
  "Thank you, thank you ladies and gentlemen!" Barbeau shouted into the microphone after she reached the pulpit. She then delivered her well-known and oft-repeated campaign slogan in a very loud Cajun-accented voice: "Let's start building the future together, shall we?" The applause and shouts were deafening.
  
  Barbeau stood silently on the podium until the shouting and applause subsided, and then waited for almost a minute, so that the audience waited with bated breath for her words. Finally, she began, "My friends, as I begin, I'm going to deviate from my prepared remarks because there have been some serious developments in the last few hours that I think you should be aware of.
  
  "I'm sure you all know that I'm not a big fan of President Kenneth Phoenix's new so-called industrial space initiative," she said. "I give the president all the credit in the world for flying to the military space station to make his momentous announcement-even though it cost American taxpayers tens of millions of dollars in what turned out to be the most wasteful and unnecessary undertaking on the planet." - but frankly, my friends, everything went downhill from there: relations with the Russians and many countries in Europe and Asia are at an all-time low and threaten to explode diplomatically at best friction, at worst a return to the Cold War ; the military no longer trusts the president because of all the pending massive cuts he plans to make in our proud military; the Russians have abandoned the International Space Station, the European Union and Japan are considering doing the same; and the economy is still in crisis four years after he took office, despite an austerity campaign that virtually eliminated entire cabinet-level departments. Is this what we want to continue for another four years?" The audience began chanting a familiar line that had been repeated over and over during Barbeau's campaign: "Do something about érité now, Ken Phoenix, or get out of the car! " mixture of Cajun and Creole expressions.
  
  After waiting a few seconds, Barbeau raised her hands, smiling broadly, until the singing finally ended. "But while he warned us of his plans to reduce the military in a time of ever-increasing danger to our country and our allies; while he warns us that he is ready to cut safety nets and benefits designed to help the most vulnerable among us; while he's threatening to create a huge deficit to try and deploy these pie-sized space things in the sky, do you know what he did earlier today, my friends? Today he launched a directed energy weapon, a microwave laser, from space, in direct violation of the Treaty on the Preservation of Outer Space. Although the treaty has not yet been ratified by the Senate-an oversight that I will correct when I take over the White House, I promise you-its terms have been carefully observed over the past eight years to ensure peace. And you know what's worst? To hide his program from the world, he disguised this action as an innocent experiment of college students.
  
  "That's right, my friends. You have heard or read about the first teenagers in space, and of course Casey Huggins, the first paraplegic in space, the gifted young scientists who had the courage to go into space to conduct this experiment. Well, it's all a big lie. With the help of a Nevada defense contractor and the support of President Phoenix and Vice President Page, these students have created a directed energy weapon that is in orbit above our heads right now and was successfully fired at a target on Earth today, all under the guise of a solar power plant. , which can supply electricity to any part of the globe to help disadvantaged communities or researchers in remote parts of the world. As we say there, on the channel, my friends: this dog does not hunt.
  
  "They tried to deceive us, my friends," Barbeau continued. "They tried to deceive us. But one member of the so-called Starfire Project team couldn't take the hypocrisy any longer, and he called our conference chair, Dr. Toby Nukaga, and told him the truth. This brave young man's name is Kim Jong-bae, a gifted engineering student from the United Korea who was the project team leader but was not allowed to voice his opposition to the test firing. He is a hero for breaking this charade."
  
  Her face darkened. "We also learned today that there has been a terrible tragedy involving this directed energy weapon - you may have heard about it already," Barbeau continued. "One of the groups represented here, Students for Global Peace, organized a protest over the Starfire Test Site. They hired two brave men to fly a small plane near the Starfire target. They knew about the danger, but they wanted to do everything possible to stop the test. I regret to inform you... The plane was shot down by an illegal space weapon. Yes, shot down by a microwave laser beam from the Armstrong space station. The two brave men on board were killed instantly." There was complete silence in the hall, except for a few sobs and sighs of horror, and everyone at one table immediately jumped to their feet in shock and anguish and headed for the exit from the hall.
  
  Barbeau let the silence linger for a few moments. Then, slowly, gradually, her expression changed: no longer grim, but glowing with anger. "Stop being hypocritical, Mr. Phoenix," said Barbeau, articulating her words and pointing her finger directly at the network and cable news cameras that were hastily installed at her suggestion for her speech. "Stop the lies and deceit, stop wasting our hard-earned tax money on dangerous and illegal weapons programs, and stop killing innocent Americans who wanted nothing more than to express their outrage and do anything, anything, for the sake of peace. Deactivate this space weapon immediately, drop it and let it de-orbit, burn up and fall into the ocean. Do it now" . Again thunderous applause and chants of "Do it now! Do it now! Do it now!"
  
  "When I am President of the United States, my friends," Barbeau continued after a minute of applause and chants, "I will restore the faith and honor of this country, our armed forces, the White House, and in the eyes of all around the world who yearn for freedom and pray for an extended helping hand. Our military will be number one again without trying to be number three. When the oppressed and peaceful peoples of the world look up, they won't see the missiles fired at them by their own government, and they certainly won't see an American military space station ready to reduce their village to ash or shoot a plane out of the sky with an invisible beam of light - they will see a transport plane with the red, white and blue flag of the United States of America carrying food, water, medicine, doctors and peacekeepers to help them. And when Americans call for help and ask their government to help feed their children and get jobs, they won't hear about their president spending hundreds of millions of dollars on pleasure flights into space or the secret creation of death rays-they'll get the help they desperately need. . This I promise!"
  
  The applause and cheering were even louder than before, and this time Stacey Ann Barbeau let it go on and on and on.
  
  
  KREMLIN
  MOSCOW RUSSIAN FEDERATION
  A FEW HOURS LATER
  
  
  "My fellow Russians, this morning my speech will be short and direct," President Gennady Gryzlov said to the camera from a television studio in the Kremlin. He had a grim, stern expression on his face, as if he was about to announce the death of a loved one. "By now you should have heard about the remarks made by U.S. presidential candidate and former Secretary of State Stacy Ann Barbeau earlier today about the test launch of a directed energy weapon from space at a target on Earth from a U.S. military space station and the downing of a U.S. aircraft with that weapon. My ministers and I were horrified to hear about this. We are working to verify this information, but if it is true, then these actions would be a serious threat to world peace - in fact, they are a violation of the treaty, a warning to the rest of the world, a provocation and a virtual act of war.
  
  "When we considered our options, we were concerned that we could spread panic throughout Russia, and indeed around the world. But we felt we had no choice, and that is why I am writing to you this afternoon. Moreover, we have decided to act deliberately and immediately to protect the lives of Russians and our friends and allies, as follows:
  
  "First, starting immediately, the Russian Space Defense Forces will continuously broadcast the predicted location of the US military space station and the potential range and bearing of its directed energy weapons, as well as provide warnings about when and where directed energy weapons could threaten the Russians, our allies, and our friends on earth," Gryzlov continued. "When a weapon poses a threat to you, we ask you to take cover underground or in the most durable building where you can quickly evacuate. The exact properties of the weapon are unknown, so we don't yet know what the best cover might be, but you may have a better chance of surviving an attack if you're indoors rather than outdoors. The threat can last up to four minutes. You and your loved ones may be threatened by weapons several times a day.
  
  "The explosion of this weapon can damage electronics, so prepare your homes and businesses for the fact that they will be left without electricity for several days or even weeks: stock up on blankets, food and water; gather wood for the fire; and organize your neighborhoods to unite and help each other," he continued. "If at all possible, avoid flying on airplanes, riding in an elevator or electric train, or operating heavy machinery while the weapon is in the danger zone, because, as we have seen, weapons can easily bring down aircraft and can disrupt or even destroy electrical circuits.
  
  "Second, I demand that all US space weapons at the Armstrong space station be deactivated and destroyed immediately," Gryzlov said. "This includes the Skybolt free electron laser, the Hydra chlorine-oxygen-iodine laser, and the Kingfisher orbital weapons workshops; Starfire, a so-called college student experiment that actually turned out to be a microwave laser weapon; and any other space-based weapons, their power sources and all their components, whether or not the Americans classify them as defensive weapons only. Specifically, Russia is demanding that the Skybolt module be separated from the Armstrong space station within forty-eight hours and that it be removed from orbit when it no longer poses a danger to anyone or anything on Earth. and sent to burn in the Earth's atmosphere or crash into the ocean. We have powerful ground sensors to determine if it's done. If this is not done, I must assume that the United States intends to continue to use weapons, and Russia will immediately take all necessary steps to protect itself.
  
  "Third, I hereby declare that, effective ten days from now, unless the Americans destroy all of their space weapons, all airspace around the Russian Federation from the surface to an altitude of five hundred kilometers is henceforth restricted airspace and closed to all unauthorized spacecraft," Gryzlov continued. "For decades, all countries have recognized that only airspace below twenty kilometers can be restricted or controlled, but no more. Our scientists estimate that the Americans can fire their directed energy weapons up to five hundred kilometers with enough force to kill a person on the ground, so this is the airspace we will be protecting. Any unauthorized flight over the Russian Federation below the specified altitude, regardless of the type of aircraft or spacecraft, will be considered hostile and subject to neutralization. I know this affects many countries, but the Americans have changed the global security dynamic for the worse, and we have no choice but to act. Ten days should be enough for all unfriendly countries to change the orbits of their spacecraft or provide us with detailed information about the type, purpose and orbits of aircraft and spacecraft flying over Russia in order to comply with this order.
  
  "This limitation is especially true for one spacecraft in particular: US single-stage spacecraft for launch into orbit," Gryzlov said. "Because of their hypersonic flight capabilities in the atmosphere and their ability to accelerate to low Earth orbit, as well as their demonstrated ability to launch weapons or launch satellites carrying weapons into orbit, they pose a particularly dangerous threat to the Russian Federation.
  
  "Thus, starting with ten days to give spaceplanes time to evacuate any personnel from the International Space Station or Armstrong Station, US S-series spaceplanes will not be welcome in Russian airspace and will be deployed and shot down without further warning." Gryzlov continued. "Let me repeat this so that there is no confusion or doubt: starting today, ten days from now, American space planes will be activated if they fly over the Russian Federation. The threat of an attack with these hypersonic aircraft is simply too much of a threat to the Russian people. The United States has many commercial human spacecraft that can serve the International Space Station and other such tasks and will be allowed to do so after requesting permission to fly over Russia, but space planes will not be granted permission to fly over Russia either. under what circumstances.
  
  "I did not want to take such drastic measures, my dear Russians, but after consulting with my advisers and after much prayer, I felt that I had no choice if I wanted to protect Russian citizens from the danger they now face above their heads" - concluded Gryzlov. "I urge all Russians to take all necessary precautions to protect themselves and their families from the danger of an attack using space weapons. If the Americans do not respond to my demands, I assure you, Russia will act. Stay informed and stay safe, my dear Russians. May God bless the Russian Federation."
  
  Gryzlov rose from his seat and strode out of the Kremlin television studio, followed by his chief of staff, Sergei Tarzarov. He didn't greet anyone or stop to chat, but quickly walked back to his official office. Waiting inside were Foreign Minister Darya Titeneva, Defense Minister Gregor Sokolov, and Chief of the General Staff General Mikhail Khristenko, who all rose as Tarzarov opened the door for the Russian president. "Excellent treatment, sir," Sokolov said. "I think ten days will be enough for the Americans to start negotiations on access to Russian airspace for their spacecraft."
  
  Gryzlov sat down at his desk and glared at Sokolov. "I'm not going to give anyone ten days," he snapped, lighting a cigar, "and I'm not going to negotiate with anyone about anything."
  
  "Sir?"
  
  "Forty-eight hours, Sokolov," said Gryzlov. "If I don't see the Skybolt module disconnected from that space station, I want that space station to be attacked the next time it flies over Russia, with all kinds of weapons in our arsenal. It's the same with any of their spaceplanes. I'm not going to sit back and do nothing while the Americans fly over my head with directed energy weapons. I would rather drag this country into a war than let this happen."
  
  Sergei Tarzarov picked up the telephone at the other end of Gryzlov's office, listened, then put it back. "President Phoenix is here for you, sir," he said.
  
  "It didn't take long," Gryzlov said. He motioned for those in the room to remove the disconnected extensions so they could listen to the translation, then picked up the phone on his desk. "What's the matter, Mr. Phoenix?"
  
  "It was not a directed energy weapon, Mr. President," Phoenix said through an interpreter. "It was a college engineering project, a space-based solar power plant. And this plane was not shot down by a Starfire - it lost control while trying to evade an Air Force patrol helicopter after violating restricted airspace, minutes after the test was completed. I don't know where Secretary Barbeau got her information from, but she is wrong and you have been misled into believing it. She is campaigning for the presidency and she needs headlines."
  
  "Wait". Gryzlov pressed the wait button and turned to those who were with him in the room. "Well, well," he said, "Phoenix starts this conversation by trying to explain. It might be interesting."
  
  "He could be ready to negotiate," Tarzarov said. "Let him give something, and then you will give something in return."
  
  "What the hell are you talking about, Tarzarov," Gryzlov said angrily, but with a smile on his face. "I will not yield an inch to this weak-willed semblance of a head of state." He pressed the hold button again. "Are you saying that Barbeau is lying, Phoenix?" he asked, no longer using the title of Phoenix or even referring to him as "Mister" - Phoenix's first move was defensive, and Gryzlov wanted there to be no doubt about who was now in control.
  
  "I'm giving you the facts, Mr. President: The Starfire is not a directed energy weapon," Phoenix said. "This is an experimental solar-powered space power plant designed by several California engineering students. The Skybolt free electron laser has been deactivated. The students' experiment was to transmit electricity from space to Earth. This is all . The small plane crashed because its pilot was stupid, not because it was hit by a maser. A solar power plant poses no threat to anyone on earth and certainly won't disable planes, elevators, trains, or anything else. You're spreading panic over a harmless college experiment. Neither this project nor the space station poses any threat to you."
  
  "Phoenix, I just don't believe you anymore," Gryzlov said. "There is only one thing you can do to restore my faith in your words: immediately disconnect the laser module from the space station. If you do this, I will not impose increased restrictions on Russian airspace and will enter into negotiations with you to create a permanent space weapons treaty. All I care about is offensive weapons in space that could pose a threat to Russia. I may have misinformed the nature of the device, but that still doesn't change the fact that you used the Skybolt module to blast power to the Earth's surface, which is unacceptable."
  
  Gryzlov noted a long silence on the other end of the line; then: "I will consult with my advisers, Mr. President," Phoenix finally said.
  
  "Very well," Gryzlov said. "You have two days, Phoenix, and then Russia will defend its airspace and low Earth orbit as we would defend our homeland, with every man, woman and child and every weapon in our arsenal at our disposal. This I promise, Phoenix. And with that, he threw the phone back into place.
  
  Sergey Tarzarov returned the disconnected extension cord to its original place. "I think he will do as you ask and detach the laser module from the military space station," he said. "He certainly acknowledges this. May I suggest-"
  
  "No, you can't, Tarzarov," Gryzlov interrupted him. He turned to Defense Minister Sokolov and Chief of the General Staff Khristenko. "I will give the Americans their two days to disconnect this Skybolt module from the space station, and I will only allow them to deliver manned capsules to their space station if they tell us their exact flight path and destination before launch, and if they don't deviate from this flight path neither by a degree nor by a meter. If they don't inform us, or if they deviate from their flight path, I want the spaceship to be destroyed. Spaceplanes will be activated whenever they come within range of our weapons."
  
  "What about the details of their cargo or passengers, sir?" Minister of Foreign Affairs Titenov asked.
  
  "I don't care anymore what they might be carrying," Gryzlov said. "From now on, I assume that every spacecraft launched by the Americans carries a space weapon and is a danger to Russia. The Americans and this spineless President Phoenix are liars and a danger to Russia. I will treat them like the enemy they are, I will give in on nothing and will operate on the assumption that America is just waiting for the right opportunity to strike, so we must be ready to strike first."
  
  
  NINE
  
  
  Shootouts are organized by criminals, not law enforcement officers.
  
  - JOHN F. KENNEDY
  
  
  
  ON BOARD THE FIRST AIRCRAFT, OVER NORTHERN CALIFORNIA
  IN THE SAME TIME
  
  
  President Phoenix hung up the receiver. "Everything went smoothly," he muttered wearily. He was heading north to Portland, Oregon, the next day of campaign shutdowns. "Do you guys hear all this?" he asked into his videoconference camera. All three participants in the videoconference - Vice President Anne Page, National Security Adviser William Glenbrook and Secretary of Defense Frederick Hayes - responded in the affirmative. "I screwed up with the cur. I should have called you guys and asked for your opinion before allowing calf students to use a nuclear generator. Thanks to Barbeau, Russia thinks I just fired a death ray. I don't feel like I have any choice here guys but to unplug this Skybolt module. Thoughts?"
  
  "I would advise you to continue testing the MHD generator if you asked me in advance, Mr. President," said Ann. "All we did was let UC students demonstrate their technology-we didn't fire space weapons. "Starfire" is not a space weapon, no matter what Barbo and Gryzlov say.
  
  "Now the question is, do we think Gryzlov would dare to attack if we fly a space plane over Russia?" the President asked.
  
  "He's taking steps to try and convince us that's exactly what he would do," Glenbrook said. "Launching this Elektron spaceplane into an orbit that intersects with a space station? It was a deliberate action."
  
  "They were miles apart," Hayes said. "There was no danger of a collision."
  
  "But just a few seconds miscalculation and it could have been a lot worse," Ann said. "Bill is right: it was a deliberate and dangerous act."
  
  "You mentioned something else that happened before that span of time, didn"t you, Fred?" the president asked. "What was it?"
  
  "Before the Russian spaceplane flew past the Armstrong space station, we watched it fly very close to the failed Russian satellite," Hayes said. "While we were watching, we noticed that the satellite was suddenly falling apart."
  
  "The spaceplane attacked him? How?"
  
  "Preliminary data on this event was obtained from radar images, and they did not detect any projectiles, such as the ultra-fast Scimitar missiles that they had previously used," Hayes said. "We asked the Air Force to look at space-based infrared satellite imagery taken during the incident to see if they could detect the laser."
  
  "Laser?" the President exclaimed. "A satellite-destroying laser on a spaceplane?"
  
  "Very possible, sir," Hayes said. "We had plans for a long time to build small lasers to destroy satellites, just like the Russians - they may have installed one in the cargo hold of the Electron spaceplane."
  
  "We could use something like this now," Ann said.
  
  "We chose Kingfisher strike satellites, ma'am, because they could carry anti-satellite, anti-missile and assault weapons, while laser satellites could not attack targets on Earth," Hayes said.
  
  "Do we agree that the Russians at least appear ready, willing and able to attack our spacecraft?" the President asked. His question was met with silence and many grim faces. "I tend to agree guys: Gryzlov is angry and he is a psychopath, and with this Starfire test he saw his opportunity to advance the issue of space weapons - and he could very easily attract the attention of the world community. He could attack one of our spaceplanes and claim that he was provoked into it." He looked at the stunned faces on the videoconference screen. "Does anyone think Gryzlov is going to have any negotiations on this?"
  
  "He's already told the world what he's going to do," Glenbrook said. "He called for the safety of his entire nation - he even told his citizens to take cover when the station flies overhead! Anything less than turning a Skybolt into a meteorite would be unacceptable. He would look like a weakling if he started negotiations."
  
  "What military options do I have? Fred?"
  
  "We haven't exhausted all our options, Mr. President," Secretary of Defense Hayes said emphatically. "In no case. The free electron laser aboard the Armstrong space station and the Kingfisher weapons workshops are the best options for destroying Electron launch pads, MiG-31D bases and S-500 anti-satellite missile launchers, sir. If we deploy the entire constellation of Kingfisher, we can threaten every Russian missile defense site and spaceport twenty-four hours a day / seven minutes. The Russians have placed S-500 air defense weapons on their launch pads, but they can't touch the precision-guided Thor's Hammer projectile coming from space at ten thousand miles per hour - and of course the Skybolt flies at the speed of light. If he gets into position and gives free rein, he can"t be stopped."
  
  The President considered this for a few moments - it was obvious that he was not satisfied with the use of space-based weapons. "Other options, Fred?" he finally asked.
  
  "The S-500 is a game changer, sir," Hayes said. "The only other non-nuclear options are attacks by our six remaining B-2 stealth bombers and cruise missiles launched from our several B-1 and B-52 bombers, plus ship-launched conventional cruise missiles. Attacking Russian and Chinese spaceports means flying over Russian and Chinese territory - our non-nuclear cruise missiles have a range of only seven hundred miles, which means we could hit a few S-500 targets, but not spaceports. The S-500 is capable of countering both stealth and subsonic low-flying cruise missiles, has high power against B-1 bombers, and is deadly for B-52s."
  
  "What are the chances of cruise missiles and stealth bombers, general?" Vice President Page asked.
  
  "No better than fifty-fifty, ma'am," Hayes said. "The S-500 is so good. The range of our air-launched cruise missiles is twice that of the S-500, but the S-500 is mobile and can be quickly moved and adjusted, so it is likely that an inertial guided cruise missile will only target a set of geographic coordinates at its last known position battery and hit one of them, not very high. The extended range version of the Joint Air-Launched Standoff cruise missile is equipped with an infrared imaging sensor so it will be more effective against moving and pop-up targets, but it is subsonic and the S-500 would be very effective against that. The twelve refurbished B-1 bombers we received are good, but we don't have experienced crews yet. The B-52 would have zero chances. They would have to bypass Russia's main air defense system, the S-400s, and then take over the S-500s protecting spaceports and launch pads." He turned to the President. "Space weapons are our best option, sir. We should not deactivate the Skybolt module - in fact, my recommendation is to activate the Skybolt and Kingfisher satellites already in orbit, send space planes and ask them to bring the stored garages back into their orbits in order to complete the formation of the grouping."
  
  It was obvious that the President did not like this recommendation. "I don't want the Russians to shoot at our spaceplanes, Fred," he said after a long moment of thought.
  
  "They could still do it if we disconnected the Skybolt module, sir, and then we would have abandoned the main weapon system that could help repel an attack on the station or weapons workshops."
  
  The President nodded. "How long will it take to get the Kingfisher garages back into orbit?"
  
  "A few weeks, sir," Hayes said as he flipped through some of the notes on his tablet computer. "Garages are stored on Armstrong. They would have to load the modules aboard the spaceplane, then either wait for the right moment or fly into what is called a transfer orbit to get into the proper position to place the module into their orbit."
  
  "And the Russians will be watching this activity all the time, I presume?"
  
  "Certainly, sir," Hayes replied. "They can see, like anyone else, which orbits need to be taken in order to complete coverage - all they have to do is track those orbits. In the meantime, they can place S-500s and MiG-31Ds in the right places to shoot at garages whenever they please, and of course they can do that now with Armstrong - in fact, we believe they have as many as six C- 500 and MiG-31D with anti-satellite weapons aimed at Armstrong right now in his current orbit. If we change the orbit of the station, they will simply move the anti-satellite weapons to where it is needed."
  
  "So Armstrong is vulnerable to attack?" the President asked.
  
  "The Hydra COIL shield laser is operational and the Kingfishers currently in orbit and the Skybolt laser can be activated fairly quickly," Hayes replied. "There are three anti-satellite guns in every Kingfisher garage, as well as three ground attack projectiles. I believe the station will be able to defend itself very well once all systems are back online." He spread his hands. "At the end of the two-day period, the Russians will see that we have not disabled the Skybolt, and then we will see if they carry out their threat."
  
  "Gryzlov has already appeared on international television - if he backs down, he will lose face in the eyes of the whole world," National Security Adviser Glenbrook said. "He could have landed a minimal attack to try and look serious..."
  
  "Gryzlov doesn't strike me as someone who would do things halfway," Ann said. "I don't think he's bothered by losing face - the guy is just manic. I think if he decides to leave, he will give it his all."
  
  "What would we lose if we lost Armstrong, Fred?"
  
  "Fourteen personnel, including two college students," Hayes said. "Multi-billion investment. Several types of weapons and sensors with advanced features. However, we would still control the armories from US Space Command Headquarters."
  
  "Armstrong is a pretty powerful presence, sir - it's like an aircraft carrier off someone's coast," Glenbrook added. "If we lost him, it could paint a very ominous picture around the world. We would not be completely defeated, but we would definitely lose a few positions."
  
  Ann could see the absolute agony on the president's face as he struggled with the decision. "Sir, the main thing we will lose is altitude," she said. "Gryzlov wants it and he hopes we will just pass it on to him. I believe that Armstrong has the weapons to fight off the Russians. I don't want to give in to Gryzlov's intimidation. Starfire is not a space weapon and it does not threaten Russia. Gryzlov cannot dictate what we do with our forces. What is he going to demand next - that we do away with all our nuclear submarines and aircraft carriers, because they can pose a threat to Russia? My suggestion: tell the bastard to go thresh sand."
  
  "Damn," Phoenix muttered. This was the moment he had dreaded all his presidential life: the future of the republic depended on the words he could utter in a few moments. Yes or no, to go or not to go, to attack or not to attack. If he had ordered his troops to retreat, they might have survived to fight another time. If he ordered his forces to build up strength and prepare for battle, that is probably exactly what they would have to do very soon.
  
  "Guys, I hate to bend to Gryzlov," he said after much thought, "but I feel like I have no choice. I want the Skybolt laser deactivated and the module detached from the Armstrong space station. Glenbrook and Hayes looked relieved; Ann looked dejected. "What are we left with at the station after the Skybolt deactivation, Ann?"
  
  "The Skybolt laser module is equipped with several targeting sensors and lasers that will be disabled when the module is detached," Anne replied, "but the station will still have a Hydra short-range laser, Trinity modules, which are stored on the farm stations, and the Kingfisher Constellation armories already in orbit."
  
  "All defensive weapons?"
  
  "The Trinity modules each contain three land attack vehicles and three anti-satellite vehicles," Ann said. "It can be considered an offensive weapon. Sir, I would like you to reconsider your decision," she added. "We can't deactivate every military system that Gryzlov wants."
  
  "Unfortunately, I have made the decision to allow the use of a military weapon system for this college experiment," the president said. "Many people make up stories, express outrage and horror, and threaten war, but the fact remains that I decided to weaponize an experiment in college. I have to live with the consequences. Turn it off and unplug it, Fred."
  
  "Yes, sir," Secretary of Defense Hayes said.
  
  "Mr. President, I'd like to go to the station to help deactivate Skybolt," Vice President Page said.
  
  "What?" Phoenix's eyes popped out of their sockets in absolute shock. "This request is denied, Miss Vice President! This station is already under Russian gunpoint and could be attacked at any moment!"
  
  "Sir, no one knows more about this module than I do. I spent three years designing it and two years building it. I know every pattern and rivet because I personally hand-drawn them on a real drawing board and did everything myself except work with a soldering iron and a riveter." The President didn't look at all convinced. "Another space trip for the old lady. If John Glenn can do it, I'm pretty damn sure I can. What do you say, sir?
  
  The President hesitated, carefully studying Anne's smiling face. "I would prefer you to be closer to the White House or campaign for our re-election, Ann," he said, "but I know Skybolt is your brainchild." He shook his head sadly, then nodded. "I may be crazy doing this, but your request has been approved. The first president, the first secret service agent, the first teenagers, the first paraplegic, and now the first vice president in space, all in one year. My head is spinning. God bless us".
  
  "Thank you, sir," Ann said.
  
  "I'm going back to Washington immediately," the president said. "I plan to go on television to explain that the Starfire was not a space weapon and that the United States will immediately deactivate and disconnect the laser module."
  
  "Very well, sir," said Ann. "See you at the station. Wish me luck". And the video conference was terminated.
  
  "We're all going to need a little luck," the president said in an undertone, then reached for the phone to call the Air Force One flight crew. Moments later, the president's plane was heading east toward Washington.
  
  Then the president called Moscow. "What have you decided, Phoenix?" Gryzlov asked through an interpreter without any courtesies or prefaces.
  
  "The United States agrees to undock the Skybolt module from the Armstrong space station," Phoenix said, "and deorbit it at the appropriate time and allow it to re-enter the atmosphere. All parts that survive the reentry will fall into the ocean."
  
  "Then Russia agrees not to limit its airspace above twenty kilometers," Gryzlov said, "for all spacecraft ... except for your S-series spaceplanes and your Kingfisher weapons workshops."
  
  "We need these spaceplanes, Mr. President," Phoenix said.
  
  "They pose the same danger to Russia as your Skybolt, Phoenix laser," Gryzlov said. "Perhaps even greater danger. No sir. The United States has been flying in space for decades without a spaceplane, and now you have several commercial operators who can maintain space stations and other tasks. Commercial spacecraft are allowed to fly over Russia, provided they provide details of their mission before launch. But after ten days from today, we will consider any overflight of spaceplanes or armories as a hostile act and will respond accordingly. Do we have an agreement, Phoenix?"
  
  "No, you don't understand, sir," Phoenix said. "Space planes provide us with access to Earth orbit and our orbital facilities. This is not a military weapon. We agree to keep you informed of future launches and their flight trajectories, and we will prevent space planes from flying over Russia in the atmosphere if possible, but we insist on access to space for all of our vehicles, including spaceplanes. Are we in agreement, Mr. President?"
  
  After a long pause, Gryzlov said, "We will monitor your military space station for signs that the laser module has been deactivated and disconnected. Then we'll talk again." And the call was terminated.
  
  Phoenix pressed the button to call the communications officer. "Yes, Mr. President?" She answered immediately.
  
  "I want to speak to the National Security team at the White House again," he said. Moments later, the Vice President, National Security Adviser, and Secretary of Defense reappeared on the videoconference screen. "I made a deal with the devil, guys," he said. "I want the Skybolt module to be disconnected from the Armstrong space station as soon as possible. Ann, get up there as fast as you can."
  
  
  ON BOARD THE ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION
  A little while later
  
  
  "Is he crazy?" Brad exclaimed. "Gryzlov wants us to detach the Skybolt and deorbit it? And now he's going to limit all airspace over Russia to three hundred miles? This is madness!"
  
  "Guys, I'm so sorry about this," Kim Jung Bae said via satellite videoconference from the White Sands missile range. "I never said that it was a space weapon - that was the conclusion of Dr. Nukagi. I'm sorry I told him we used an MHD generator, but all I did was confess to him that my power transfer relays weren't working and he asked me what power source we used. I'm so sorry guys. I had no idea everything would explode like that."
  
  "It's not your fault, Jerry," Brad said. "I think Dr. Nukaga thought it was a weapon from day one. But he supported the project because of you, and then when Cal Poly won that big grant and we went international, he was completely with us." Jerry still looked pale and dejected, as if he had just lost his best friends in the world by being caught stealing from them. "The question is, what do we do now?"
  
  "It's simple, Brad; as soon as we can, we will raise the spaceplane and pick you up and Casey from the station," said Kai Rydon, director of the Armstrong space station. He was in command post, and all the other combat positions were manned as well - including the Skybolt station, although the Starfire microwave generator was still installed. "After that, I want to prepare this station for war, not only on earth, but also in space."
  
  "Can any orbiting body completely avoid passing over Russia?" Casey Huggins asked.
  
  "Any orbit with an inclination of less than about thirty-five degrees will not fly over Russia," said Valerie Lucas. "We can still look quite deep into Russia, although we miss most of their most remote northern regions, depending on the altitude. By contrast, if we imposed the same limit, Russian spacecraft would be limited to no more than about twenty-five degrees. But, with the exception of geosynchronous orbits or ocean observation, equatorial orbits are basically useless because very little of the Earth's population lives at the equator."
  
  "But that's not the point, Valerie," Kai said. "There are thousands of spacecraft that fly over Russia every day - Gryzlov can't just tell everyone they have to move them. It's all bragging. Even if he had enough weapons to attack the satellites that flew over Russia, he knows that he could start a world war if he even tried to shoot down a foreign satellite. Gryzlov is making wild accusations and using his fabricated scripts to try to impose an emergency decree and circumvent international law." His serious expression became even darker. "Casey, how long does it take to get your microwave generator off the Skybolt?"
  
  "Less than two days, sir," Casey replied, "with at least one EVA."
  
  "Plus two more days, maybe three to get the free electron laser up and running and at least one spacewalk," Valerie Lucas added. "Plus a day or so to test it. We certainly could use some technical assistance and more manpower."
  
  "Trevor, get Alice with the Starfire people and start working on dismantling the microwave generator," Kai said. The station manager, Trevor Scheil, turned to his comms panel and began making intercom calls. "I will call US Space Command and start getting some help and clearances to get the free electron laser reinstalled and ready for launch."
  
  "Do you really think Gryzlov would have attacked the station, sir?" Brad asked.
  
  "You heard him, Brad; the guy thinks we're going to start destroying towns, villages and countryside with death rays," Kai replied. "He gave us an ultimatum for just ten days, and anyone who flies over Russia will be subject to what he calls "neutralization," whatever that means. These are pretty serious threats. I want this station up and running in case he's serious."
  
  Kai heard an incoming call beep and pressed a button on his command console. "Just getting ready to call you, General," he said after the cipher channels connected.
  
  "I believe you heard Gryzlov's remarks, Kai," said General George Sandstein, commander of the Air Force Space Command.
  
  "Pretty outrageous, General," Kai said, "but I believe every word. I want to reactivate the free electron laser and start rebuilding the Kingfisher constellation right now."
  
  "Unfortunately, orders from the White House are to deactivate Skybolt and disconnect the module from the station, Kai," Sandstein said.
  
  "What else to say, General?"
  
  "This is an order from the president himself," Sandstein said. "We are launching S-19s and S-29s as soon as possible to get students out of the station and bring in additional staff, including the Skybolt designer."
  
  Everyone in the command module gasped in surprise. "Are they sending a vice president?"
  
  "You heard me right, Kai," Sandstein said. "It sounds a little strange, but she is an experienced astronaut and there is no one who knows Skybolt better. Sorry about Skybolt, Kai, but the President wants to defuse the situation before things get out of hand. Everything else in green?"
  
  "The Hydra's laser is working," Kai said, shaking his head in disbelief. "We can also use Kingfisher modules on the central truss for station self-defense."
  
  "Excellent," Sandstein said. "Good luck up there. We will be watching. Hopefully everyone stays nice and cool and this all settles down soon."
  
  
  MCLANAHAN INDUSTRIAL SPACEPORT, BATTLE MOUNTAIN, NEVADA
  LATER THE SAME DAY
  
  
  "Thanks for coming so fast guys," Boomer said as he entered the crew briefing room. In the hall sat six student spaceplane pilots and four instructor spacecraft commanders, as well as mission support and maintenance technicians. "This may sound like some cheesy World War II novel, but I'm sure you've heard Gryzlov's ramblings and I think we're slowly moving towards a war with the Russians. The president has canceled the rest of his campaign and is returning to Washington to give a speech about the Starfire case. He ordered the Skybolt laser to be deactivated and detached from Armstrong."
  
  Everyone in the briefing room looked scared. "That's bullshit!" exclaimed Sondra Eddington. "Gryzlov rants, makes all sorts of outrageous statements and threatens us while we kowtow to him? Why don't we send him away instead?"
  
  "I agree with you Sondra, but we have orders and time is precious," Boomer said. "We have been tasked with delivering supplies and technicians to help detach the Skybolt module, and we will also deliver additional supplies to the ISS. I think we will be flying a lot in the next couple of weeks." He looked at the crew members of the spaceplane in front of him. "John, Ernesto and Sondra, you have a year of training or more and are verified as mission commanders on at least two spaceplanes, so you are going to be operational and fly as mission commanders before graduation." All three of them smiled happily and gave each other high fives, while the rest looked depressed. "Don, Mary and Kev, you guys may not have much time to fly in space for a few weeks, but you can continue your studies and double your time in the simulator and in the MiG-25. Kevin, you're the closest you'll be to a one-year ban, and you've been vetted as an anchor in S-9 and S-19, so you could be drafted if this goes on too long.
  
  "Now Russian President Gryzlov has threatened to attack any space planes flying over Russia in ten days," Boomer reminded them all. "I think the guy does nothing but beat his chest, but we just don't know for sure. So if you think there might be too much danger - even more than what we usually prepare on every flight - you don't have to fly. No one will criticize you at all if you decide to leave. We are not in the army: we are contractors, and although we risk our lives every time we board these aircraft, we are not expected to work in a war zone. We're risking enough already not to fly under fire from missiles or lasers, right? You don't have to tell me now - tell me in my office, in private, and we'll redo the schedule."
  
  "I'll tell you right now, Boomer: I'm flying," said Ernesto Hermosillo, one of the senior pilot students. "Gryzlov can become mi culo peludo". Everyone else in the briefing room clapped and said they were coming too.
  
  "Thank you all," Boomer said. "But I know you haven't spoken to your families about this and it should be a family decision. After you have spoken to your families, if you would like to cancel just tell me. Like I said, no one will think less of you.
  
  "We have one S-29 and one S-19 on the line and two more ready to ship on the 19th in a few days, so here are the missions," Boomer continued. "Gonzo and Sondra in S-19, and me and culo peludo Ernesto in S-29. Since I'm supposed to be doing some spacewalks when we arrive, I'll be taking a pre-breath." He handed out other assignments, always pairing an experienced spaceplane commander with a student mission commander. "Go through the medical, we will all be in EEAS or ACES suits and will probably stay in them for a few days. Ernesto, we'll have a briefing right after we put on our suits, during my prebreath. Questions?" Boomer answered a few questions and had some nervous jokes with his teams. "Alright guys, the countdown has started for the first two birds. Let's be careful, work smart, work as a team, and everyone will return home. Go".
  
  Sondra stayed after the others had left, with a slight flash of anger in her eyes. "Why am I flying with Gonzo?" she asked. "Why can't I fly with you?"
  
  "Sondra, you are not registered as an anchor on S-29," Boomer said. "Ernesto is like that. Besides, I'm giving you and Gonzo a stopover in Washington. You will meet the Vice President and take her to see Armstrong."
  
  Instead of being surprised or delighted by the vice president's flight, Sondra was still angry. "I'm finishing my S-29 mission commander course in just a couple of months," she said irritably. "Now I am the best leader in any of the spaceplanes that Ernesto will ever be."
  
  Boomer's eyes rolled in surprise. "Hey, hey, Sondra. We don't say bad things about fellow pilots, even in private. We are a team ".
  
  "You know it's true," Sondra said. "Besides, this damn thing practically flies by itself - it doesn't even need an MC. You did it because you're angry that we don't sleep together anymore."
  
  "I did this because you're not verified as an MC in S-29, Sondra, to put it simply," Boomer said. "Besides, I made the decision not to sleep with you. Brad and I were working closer and closer together on Starfire and I didn't think it was right."
  
  "But it was okay when I started training here, right?" Sondra spat. "You knew I dated him back then."
  
  "Sondra, I'm not going to change the schedule," Boomer said. "Fly with Gonzo or don't fly." He looked at his watch, then at her. "The countdown has begun. Are you coming or not?" In response, she gave him an angry look, turned on her heels and ran out.
  
  Boomer rubbed his hand across his face in annoyance, confused and conflicted about what to do in this situation. But he decided to put this personal matter out of his mind and focus on the current task.
  
  Every member of the crew had to undergo a pre-flight medical check, so this was Boomer's first stop. After that, he settled on Mission Planning to check the flight schedule, which was set up and checked by a computer, and then uploaded to the spaceplane computers. His own S-29 Shadow spaceplane was being loaded with much-needed supplies for Armstrong and the ISS, so he will arrive first. The Gonzo S-19 midnight spaceplane had a passenger module on board in the cargo hold. She was supposed to take off, arrive at Joint Base Andrews near Washington in just a couple of hours, pick up the Vice President and her Secret Service team, and deliver her to Armstrong about four hours after he arrived in Armstrong.
  
  The next stop was life support. While Hermosillo needed help donning his improved crew rescue suit, it was relatively easy for Boomer to don. The EEAS, or Electronic Elastomeric Athletic Suit, was like a heavy union suit made of silvery, radiation-resistant carbon fiber strands that covered every part of the body from the top of the neck to the soles of the feet. Donning electronically controlled insulated underwear that would monitor his body temperature during his spacewalk, Boomer donned his EEAS, then his boots and gloves, securing the connectors for each, connected his suit to the test console, then donned his pre-breathing mask .
  
  After confirming that there were no deep wrinkles in the suit and that his testicles and penis were properly positioned, he connected the suit to the test console and pressed a button. The suit instantly tightened tightly around every square inch of his body that came into contact with him, causing him to grunt loudly involuntarily - the source of the suit's nickname and EEAS alias: "EAAHHSS!" But moving around, and especially spacewalking, would be much easier for him than someone in an oxygenated ACES because the suit would automatically adjust to his body to maintain pressure on the skin without creating any binding or causing changes. pressure. The vascular system of the human body was already hermetically sealed, but in a vacuum or at lower atmospheric pressure, the skin would bulge outward if it were not compressed; ACES did it under oxygen pressure while EEAS did it under mechanical pressure.
  
  "I always think I'd like to try some of those things," Ernesto said over the intercom, smiling and shaking his head as he watched Boomer prep his suit, "and then I watch you press on the test switch, and it looks like you get kicked in the balls every time, so I changed my mind."
  
  Boomer turned off the control switch to dampen the effect of the suit. "It takes a little getting used to," he admitted.
  
  They finished donning their spacesuits, then settled into comfortable chairs while Chief Mission Planner Alice Wainwright briefed the crew via video link. The flight route immediately caught Boomer's attention. "Uh, Alice? Given the reason why we are doing all this, is this really the flight path we should be following?" he asked over the intercom.
  
  "Computers don"t understand politics or Gryzlov, Boomer-all they know is the desired end position, azimuth, speed, gravity, orbital mechanics, thrust, station position and all that stuff," Alice said. "The station needs equipment as soon as possible."
  
  Boomer knew there was a process called a "chain of accidents": a series of minor and seemingly unrelated incidents that collectively led to an accident-or, in this case, a collision with Russian anti-satellite weapons. One of the most common incidents was "to complete the mission is important; ignore safety and common sense and just see it through." That's exactly what was happening right now - the number one link in the chain of accidents had just appeared. "This can"t wait another day or even a few hours?" Boomer asked.
  
  "I've mapped all the launch windows and flight paths, Boomer," Alice said. "Everyone else is flying over populated areas and people have been complaining about sonic booms." Link number two. "Ever since the Russians disconnected ROS from the International Space Station, both Canada and Mexico and a number of other countries have expressed deep reservations about allowing space planes to fly over their territory to the level of K & # 225; rmá n. This flight or nothing for two days."
  
  That alarm bell rang in his head as Flight Three joined the others, but he knew that Armstrong and the ISS needed supplies, and those who remained on the ISS needed them badly-or now he was building his own flights in accident chains? "Are we going to notify the Russians of our missions?" he asked.
  
  "It's standard procedure," Alice said. "Obviously Space Command thinks Gryzlov is bluffing. We are going to stick to the usual protocols."
  
  The fourth link in the chain of accidents had just been created, Boomer thought-it didn't look good. He turned to Ernesto. "¿ What's the matter with you, amigo? What do you think, buddy?"
  
  "Vamos, Comandante," said Ernesto. "Let's go, Commander. Gryzlov has no brains." Was it another link? Boomer considered.
  
  "Any more questions, Boomer?" Alice asked a little impatiently. "You're leaving in ten minutes and I still need to brief Gonzo and Sondra."
  
  The fifth link in the chain of accidents had just been connected, but Boomer didn't recognize it. He was the commander of the spaceship - that was his final decision... but he didn't. He thought about it for a moment, then nodded to Ernesto. "No questions, Alice," he said over the intercom. "We insist." Ten minutes later, Boomer took his portable air conditioner and oxygen tank, and he and Ernesto made their way to the crew van that was supposed to take them to the departure line.
  
  The S-29 Shadow was the third and largest spaceplane model, with five leopard engines instead of four and a payload capacity of fifteen thousand pounds. After the technicians completed their pre-flight preparations, Boomer and Ernesto entered the spaceplane through the open cockpit visors, connected their cables to the craft, and strapped themselves in. The Shadow was even more automated than its sisters, and it was just a matter of checking the computer's progress as it ran through the pre-flight checklists, confirming that each checklist was complete, then waiting for them to start - engines, taxi and takeoff times.
  
  At the programmed time, the engines automatically came to life, checklists were run after starting the engine, the taxiway was cleared, and exactly at the time of taxiing, the throttles were automatically applied, and the Shadow began taxiing to the main runway at Battle Mountain for takeoff. "I will never get used to a plane that just taxis by itself," said Ernesto. "A little creepy."
  
  "I know what you mean," Boomer said. "I asked several times to be allowed to drive it myself, without automation, but Richter always refused me, sternly warning me not to try. After there is more than one of them, I will ask again. Kaddiri and Richter don't want their new and smartest daughter to be defiled by someone like me. Do they defile each other enough, corregier? Ernesto punched Boomer and nodded in agreement.
  
  The two astronauts literally just sat there for the rest of the flight, chatting, going over checklists and confirming completions and launches, and watching Shadow do its thing: it flew to the refueling site, this time over northern Minnesota; refueled with another computer-controlled tanker aircraft; turned to the orbital insertion point over Colorado, turned to the northeast and at the right time stepped on the gas. They went through all the readings and confirmed they followed the checklist, but in the end they were just babysitters.
  
  But now that they were heading into orbit, they stopped talking and were on their guard, because their path lay through the northwest of Russia ...
  
  ... just three hundred miles northwest of the Plesetsk cosmodrome and practically directly above the naval headquarters of the Russian Red Banner Northern Fleet in Severomorsk.
  
  "Let's talk about turning the tiger's tail, Comandante," commented Ernesto. "Or, in this case, a bear tail."
  
  "You got it right, amigo," Boomer said. "You got it right."
  
  
  KREMLIN
  MOSCOW RUSSIAN FEDERATION
  IN THE SAME TIME
  
  
  "Sir, an American spaceplane has just been discovered flying over the Plesetsk Cosmodrome!" - Shouted Defense Minister Gregor Sokolov into the telephone when Gryzlov picked it up.
  
  "What the hell did you say?" Gryzlov grumbled something into the phone in the bedroom. Foreign Minister Daria Titeneva, who was lying naked next to Gryzlov, woke up instantly, got out of bed and hurried to get dressed - she did not know what the call was about, but anyone who dared to call President Gennady Gryzlov in the middle of the night must have been seriously reason for this, and she knew that she would be immediately summoned to his office.
  
  "I said, the Americans launched the spaceplane into orbit - and it landed a few hundred kilometers from the Plesetsk cosmodrome!" Sokolov repeated. "It flew right over the headquarters of the Red Banner Northern Fleet in Severomorsk. It is definitely in orbit and on its way to intercept the Armstrong space station within the hour."
  
  "Fuck!" Gryzlov cursed. "How dare these sons of bitches do this after I just gave the order? Are they fucking ignoring me? Have we been notified of any spaceplane flights?"
  
  "We're checking the air attache's office in Washington, sir," Sokolov said. "There is no response from them yet."
  
  "These bastards!" shouted Gryzlov. Phoenix will pay for this! Gather the entire security council in my office immediately!"
  
  Twenty minutes later Gryzlov entered his office, his long dark hair streaming hurriedly behind his neck. Only Tarzarov and Sokolov arrived. "Well, Sokolov?" he shouted.
  
  "US Space Command has informed the Air Force Attaché é in Washington that one S-29 Shadow and one S-19 Midnight spacecraft will be sent into orbit within the next six hours," the secretary of defense said, handing the president several maps and radar charts. . "S-29 will go to Armstrong, deliver supplies and pick up passengers, enter a transfer orbit, make a transfer to the International Space Station to deliver supplies and pick up personnel, then return the next day. The S-19 will fly to Joint Base Andrews near Washington, pick up passengers, then fly to Armstrong. They also announced that they will send several manned and unmanned commercial cargo modules to both stations within the next seventy-two hours."
  
  "Two spaceplanes?" Gryzlov boomed. "They launch two spaceplanes? And one of them is already in orbit, and not within six hours? This is unacceptable! And their flight paths?"
  
  "Any flight path leading to any space station will fly over Russia, sir," Sokolov said.
  
  "This is unacceptable!" Gryzlov shouted again. "I ordered space planes not to fly over Russia! Is there any evidence that they are working on decoupling the Skybolt module from the military space station?"
  
  "No, sir," Sokolov said. "We scan the station as it passes by a space object, about every four to six hours, and we haven't noticed any external changes on the station."
  
  "It hasn't been that long since you delivered your speech or talked to President Phoenix, sir," Chief of Staff Tarzarov said. "Perhaps the purpose of these flights is to carry out what you have ordered. And sir, you said you'd give the Americans two...
  
  "Stop making excuses to the Americans, Tarzarov," Gryzlov said. "I will not allow myself to be neglected in this way! I won't let you make a scapegoat out of me like that staggering fool Phoenix!" He looked at the radar plots of the spaceplane's flight path. "I think this is a test attack on our spaceport! This is unacceptable! "
  
  "Should I put you on the phone with President Phoenix, sir?" - Asked Tarzarov. "It must be explained."
  
  "No need, Mr. Tarzarov," Darya Titeneva said, quickly entering the president's office after she modestly waited a while after leaving Gryzlov's bedroom. She held up the folder. "The text of the appeal that Phoenix made on American television quite recently. He again denies that it was a space-based directed energy weapon and that a civilian aircraft was shot down with the weapon; no mention of turning off the Skybolt laser; and he says that no nation has the right to restrict any movement of any aircraft or spacecraft above the Ká rm & #225;n which is the height above which the aerodynamic lift cannot be...
  
  "I know what the hell the Ká line is. rmán, Daria - I trained as an astronaut, remember?" Gryzlov interrupted caustically. He nodded, then turned back to his desk and looked out the window. They all noticed that he suddenly became remarkably calm-they expected him to continue the ranting that started this meeting. "So. This was unexpected. Kenneth Phoenix has somehow come into his own in recent days, despite his unexpected agreement to disconnect the Skybolt module. We have much to discuss, my friends. Let's go to the conference room. Coffee or tea?"
  
  
  ASSOCIATED BASE ANDREWS, NEAR WASHINGTON, DC.
  A FEW HOURS LATER
  
  
  Inside a large aircraft hangar, Jessica "Gonzo" Faulkner and Sondra Eddington were standing at the foot of the steps of an S-19 midnight spaceplane when a limousine pulled up. Gonzo was wearing her EEAS suit while Sondra was wearing the orange ACES suit. None of them wore a helmet. On either side of them were two plainclothes Secret Service agents who had already inspected the interior and exterior of the S-19 spaceplane they were standing next to - they freely admitted that they didn't know what the hell to look for, but their the job was to check any area where blemish could be found. the president could borrow, so they did it. The spaceplane was parked in a secure aircraft parking area at Joint Base Andrews, formerly Andrews Air Force Base, the main military airfield used by senior members of the US government when they travel in military aircraft. The ramp was surrounded by several layers of security, both on the ground and overhead.
  
  A Secret Service agent opened the limousine doors and two people stepped out, both wearing orange ACES spacesuits: a female Secret Service agent and United States Vice President Ann Page. Ann walked over to Gonzo and held out her gloved hand. "Colonel Faulkner?"
  
  "Yes, ma'am," Gonzo said, shaking her hand. "Nice to meet you. Today I will be the commander of your spaceship. This is Sondra Eddington, our mission commander." Sondra and the Vice President also shook hands. "Welcome aboard".
  
  "Thank you. I'm looking forward to it," Ann said, her eyes glittering with excitement. "This is Special Agent Robin Clarkson, my Secret Service agent." Clarkson shook hands with the pilots. She looked a little flustered, Gonzo thought, but nowhere near as much as poor Special Agent Charlie Spellman had been when he flew with the president. Ann stood and admired the S-19 Midnight with a big smile on her face. "My first time after midnight on the S-19. I did a few flights in a black stallion S-9, but that was in the very early days."
  
  "I don't think you'll find much difference at all, ma'am," Gonzo said. "The passenger module is very comfortable, but I assumed you would want to be in the cockpit during this flight."
  
  "Hell yes," Ann said. "I hope you don't mind, Miss Eddington. I never turn down the opportunity to ride in the cockpit."
  
  "Of course not, ma'am," Sondra said, but it was pretty obvious that she did mind. I never give it up either, she thought, but I guess I just don't matter in this place anymore.
  
  "We have to go?" Ann asked excitedly. "Can't wait to see the station again."
  
  "We have plenty of time, ma'am," Gonzo said. "Don't rush at all. Our launch window will open in about an hour."
  
  "Very well, Colonel Faulkner," said Ann.
  
  "Gonzo, please. I no longer respond to the title."
  
  "It's Gonzo." She looked at the EEAS suit. "I love this costume," she said. "It flatters your figure very well, much better than this old thing. Do you like it?"
  
  "When it's activated, it's a bit of a kick in the ass," Gonzo admitted, "but it allows for much better movement and performance."
  
  They climbed the stairs to the airlock access hatch on the roof of the Midnight Spaceplane, then descended the ladder aft to the passenger module, and Gonzo helped Clarkson and Sondra buckle up and put on their helmets, then briefed them on normal and emergency procedures. "I know the rules of the game, Gonzo," Sondra said, sounding worried as Gonzo tried to help her reattach the umbilical cord.
  
  "I have to go through a routine with everyone, Sondra-you know that," Gonzo said in a low voice, giving the young woman a warning look and checking to see if Clarkson had noticed any of this. "Behave yourself, okay?" Addressing Clarkson, she said: "For security reasons, we will be wearing helmets and gloves, but you can keep your visors open. If necessary, all you need to do is close them and you will be safe. Sondra will help you. Pleasant flight". Clarkson nodded but said nothing.
  
  After the technicians made sure everything in the passenger module was secure and ready, they helped Ann Page into Midnight's right front seat, strapped her in, connected her, and helped her put on her helmet. "I can't wait, I can't wait," she said excitedly as the intercom kicked in. "I miss traveling in space so much. You guys probably seem so routine, but back then, in the days of the shuttles and early spaceplanes, it seemed like every flight was a test. The media always reported it as 'another shuttle launch' but we were so clueless. You have no idea."
  
  "Oh, I believe ma'am," Gonzo said. "I know the guy who designed the engines for our 'leopards' and he can be a real badass sometimes. Our lives are in this guy's hands on every flight."
  
  "Gonzo, please call me Ann on this flight," Ann said. "I want to feel like a member of the crew, not a passenger who is allowed to ride a shotgun."
  
  "Okay, Ann."
  
  "Hunter "Boomer" Noble," Ann said. "I remember being a cat pajama in aerospace engineering until he came along. His reputation swept past mine like a fucking hurricane."
  
  "The students working on the Starfire project will soon overtake Boomer, I guarantee it," Gonzo said, "and their school, Cal Poly, isn't even the best engineering school in the country. I think very soon we will see some amazing achievements."
  
  The two continued to chat until it was time to taxi out and take off. Gonzo found that the vice president was very familiar with the spaceplane's checklists and switch positions, and she handled the role of mission commander very well. "I'm impressed, Ann," she said. "You know as much about Midnight as a student host."
  
  "I helped design the S-9 spaceplanes and learned how to fly them, even though most of the time I was just a passenger," Ann said. "I think it's like riding a bike: once you do it, you'll never forget it."
  
  Takeoff, transfer to the air refueling track and jet acceleration were all normal. Since their take-off times differed by several hours from the S-29, the flight paths of the two spaceplanes were separated by several thousand miles - when the S-19 Midnight took off on scramjet jets, they flew over India, China and the Russian Far East.
  
  "I love it, I love it, I love it," the Vice President intoned as they began their steep climb. There was absolutely no hint of overload in her voice, just a wide smile on her face. "It's the only way to fly!"
  
  
  Above YELIZOVO AIRPORT
  KAMCHATKA TERRITORY, EASTERN PART OF RUSSIA
  IN THE SAME TIME
  
  
  "Flight Harpoon", this is the Master, your order is sunshine, I repeat, sunshine," the senior controller radioed. "Sunshine, sunshine. Act according to the plan."
  
  "The commander of the "Harpoon" flight confirms," the pilot of the leading flight of two MiG-31D "Foxhound" fighters transmitted over the radio in response. "Break. Harpoon two, do you understand?"
  
  "Yes, leader," the pilot of the second MiG-31 replied. "The second one is ready."
  
  The lead pilot completed his pre-release checklists, turned to the center of the flight control strip on his display, gradually increased power until he entered the afterburner zone, waited until the airspeed exceeded Mach 1, then began a steep climb and continued to increase power until did not enter the fifth afterburner zone. At ten thousand feet per minute, he covered fifty thousand feet. The airspeed had reached Mach 1, but now it was gradually decreasing as the pilot changed airspeed to altitude, but this did not bother him: his main job was to maintain the flight control needles, which displayed the required heading and angle of climb transmitted from the tracking station headquarters.
  
  "The data link has downloaded the final targeting data," the weapons systems officer behind the pilot reported. "Data transfer to Osa is starting. There are ten seconds left."
  
  At 60,000 feet, the pilot received his first warning of low fuel consumption - two huge Soloviev D30-F6 engines in afterburner "zone-five" consumed fifty thousand pounds of fuel per hour, although he carried only thirty thousand pounds in total - airspeed decreased only up to three hundred knots, and the rate of climb decreased to three thousand feet per minute. "Data transfer completed, five seconds to launch," the weapons systems officer reported. The pilot breathed a sigh of relief-in ten seconds, if they didn't stop climbing, they would stall and fall like a stone from the sky. "Three...two...one...rocket on takeoff."
  
  The MiG-31D made a small turn to the left, and both crew members were able to watch as the Wasp rocket fired up the solid propellant engine and began its ascent into space on a long yellow-red column of fire and smoke. Wasp was a derivative of the 9K720 Iskander short-range ballistic missile for the theater. It received flight path data from the ground tracking station, used its inertial guidance system to follow the flight path, then activated the infrared terminal's guidance system to locate the target. Even moving almost vertically, he was moving at over a mile per second. Twenty seconds later, the second MiG-31 fired its own Wasp missile...
  
  ... on the intercept course of the midnight S-19 spaceplane, which raced in space over Russia to meet with the Armstrong space station.
  
  
  ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION
  MOMENTS LATER
  
  
  "Missile launch detected!" shouted Christine Reyhill, Ground Weapons Officer at the Armstrong Space Station. "Two Russian Wasp satellites launched from Kamchatka!"
  
  Kai Raydon pressed the "general call" button on his console. "Combat Posts!" he shouted, trying to control his voice. "All personnel to take up combat positions, this is not an exercise!" Speaking to Valerie Lucas, he said, "All defense systems are on automatic, Valerie-we'll have to put them back on MANUAL when the spaceplane approaches. What is the status of "Skybolt"?"
  
  "Still deactivated," Valerie said. "We just started shutting down Starfire."
  
  "Plug it back in - we might need it," Kai said. "Where are the students?"
  
  "I'm right here," said Brad, strapped to the bulkhead next to Valerie's console. "Casey is in the Skybolt module. What should I do?"
  
  "Watch the monitors and yell if you see anything that looks dangerous," Kai replied. "Point it out to Sergeant Lucas, or someone else if she's busy. I can always use another pair of eyes."
  
  "Should I put on a spacesuit?" Brad said over the intercom as soon as he put on the oxygen mask and activated it.
  
  "Too late," Kai said. "By now, all modules should have been sealed. Command module personnel have to rely on the assistance of damage control crew members." Kai didn't want to think about what would eventually happen to all of them in the event of a severe hull breach, with or without oxygen, but 100% oxygen was the best they had. He pressed another intercom button. "Boomer, tell me your status?"
  
  "We're leaving in ten minutes, General," Boomer replied. He and Ernesto Hermosillo docked at the Armstrong Space Station and oversaw the unloading of supplies from the cargo hold and refueling, and as soon as the alarm sounded, they stopped the unloading and began preparing to undock.
  
  "All defensive weapons, except for the Skybolt, are activated and in automatic mode," Valerie said. "Starfire, can you give me-"
  
  "It's an S-19!" Christine Rahill called out. "Wasp has targeted the S-19! Interception in two minutes! Two missiles are coming!"
  
  "Crap!" Kai scolded. He pressed a button on his console. "Second midnight, this is Armstrong, the red Wasp, I repeat, the red Wasp." On the intercom, he asked: "What is the range of their operation to the station?"
  
  "Beyond Hydra's reach," Valerie replied.
  
  "Increase the firing range to the maximum," Kai said. Hydra's chlorine-oxygen-iodine laser, which had a maximum range of three hundred miles, had been adjusted to sixty miles in accordance with the treaty, but Kai Rydon wasn't about to pay attention to the treaties now. "Prepare the Kingfishers for departure to the station. They will be released as soon as you have a launch solution."
  
  Midnight is accelerating and gaining altitude," Henry reported. In orbit, speed meant only one thing: altitude above the Earth. Go faster and your altitude will increase; slow down and your altitude will decrease.
  
  "Now we are calculating a launch solution," Valerie said. The Kingfisher gun garages that were stored at Armstrong's central farm were connected to the combat system and their missiles were available to defend the station.
  
  A moment later, Henry Lathrop called out, "Yes! Intercept course set! Six interceptors ready!"
  
  "Fight, the batteries are low," Valerie said. "Squeeze those suckers!"
  
  "Weapons put away!" Henry shouted. The two armories on the station farm fired all three of their satellite interceptors. They were simple non-aerodynamic boxes-because they had never flown in Earth's atmosphere, they could be any shape-six feet long, with radar and infrared homing at the front, maneuvering rocket nozzles around the hull on either side, and a large rocket motor at the rear. The interceptors used control signals from Armstrong to maneuver until they were able to lock on to targets with their own sensors. "Good track for all Trinity. Sixty seconds to interception. I think we'll make it in time, sir. Midnight rises higher and faster. The intruders will be within range of the Hydra in seventy seconds."
  
  Kai was not going to relax until both of those Russian Wasp missiles were destroyed. "Trev, get in touch with Space Command, tell them what's going on," he ordered. "Tell them that I want permission to destroy all anti-satellite airfields and launch pads that we-"
  
  "Pop-up orbital scarecrow!" shouted Henry Lathrop. A new icon has appeared on the large tactical display. It was in an orbit more than a hundred miles off Armstrong's and in a completely different declination, but it was very close to a miss in orbital terms. "It came out of nowhere, sir! Nominate Oscar number one." It didn't seem to pose a threat to the station or S-19 Midnight, but the fact that they didn't detect it until it was very close was disturbing, very -
  
  "Sir, I'm losing Trinity!" Henry called out.
  
  "What?" Kai called out. "What the hell is going on?"
  
  "I don't know, sir!" shouted Lathrop. "Lost contact with one...two...three, sir; three Triunities, negative contact!"
  
  "Who is this newcomer?" Valerie screamed. "Can you visualize it?"
  
  "Trinity intercepts use all electro-optical tracking devices," Lathrop said. "I have a good radar trace, but poor visibility." A moment later: "Lost contact with the four Trinities. Can I fight Scarecrow Oscar One, sir?"
  
  "It's not a station or S-19 threat, it's not at our altitude or orbit, and we don't have visual identification," Kai said. "Negative. Don't fight. Launch more Trinity to get those ASAT missiles now."
  
  
  ON BOARD THE RUSSIAN SPACE PLANE "ELECTRON"
  IN THE SAME TIME
  
  
  They couldn't have chosen a better time, and Colonel Mikhail Galtin knew that it was as much fate and luck as intended, but it didn't matter -it had to work out perfectly. After four orbits intersecting with the Armstrong Space Station's orbit, but at a lower altitude and with an offset of about sixty kilometers, it was in an ideal position to arrive at the exact location to hit the US space station's defensive missiles. He knew he had seconds to act... But seconds were an eternity for Hobnail's laser weapon.
  
  As soon as the American anti-satellite weapons were launched from the Armstrong space station, Galtin's Elektron fire control radar began to track them from a distance of a hundred kilometers: six American interceptors are nothing more than a guided missile engine with a seeker on it, but simple and effective as an anti-satellite and anti-missile weapons. That the interceptors were fired from the station itself was interesting: the report that President Joseph Gardner had destroyed all of the Kingfisher constellation weapon modules was not entirely true. Apparently there were others attached to the military space station and fully operational.
  
  Doesn't matter. Fate provided him with an ideal position to intercept the interceptors. Galtin marveled at the attendant good fortune, marveled at the audacity of his president, Gennady Gryzlov, in ordering this attack, marveled at the thought of what was about to happen. Russia was about to attack a space plane belonging to perhaps the most powerful nation on Earth. They attacked a $3 billion spacecraft with American civilians on board. It was cheeky. There was no other term for it: assertive. To say that the stakes in the war for control of space have just been upped would be a huge understatement.
  
  Gultin lifted the red protective cover of the weapon arming switch and flipped the switch underneath it from SAFE to ARMED. Now the attacking computer was under control. In a few seconds it would all be over. Three spaceships and six rockets moving at speeds of tens of thousands of kilometers per hour hundreds of miles above the earth would intersect at this point in space. It was nothing less than a breathtaking sight. Science, politics, sheer courage and, yes, luck have all been on the side of the Russian Federation right now.
  
  Attack.
  
  
  ON BOARD THE S-19 MIDNIGHT SPACE PLANE
  IN THE SAME TIME
  
  
  As soon as she heard the "red wasp" warning, Gonzo fired up the main rocket engines. "What is this? What's happened?" Ann Page asked. "What is a "red wasp"?"
  
  "Russian anti-satellite weapons," Gonzo replied. "Our only hope is to overtake, surpass or outwit him. Everyone lower your visors, secure them and make sure you have your oxygen on. Sondra, check on Agent Clarkson." Gonzo and Ann began making checklists in preparation for a possible showdown.
  
  "Midnight, be aware we've lost contact with the four interceptors we launched on Wasp," Kai radioed. "Two are still tracking. We have an unknown pop-up target above and to your right, about forty miles, does not appear to be on an interception course."
  
  "This is a Russian spaceplane," Ann said. "We have been informed that the Russians have used a laser aboard at least one of their Electrons. It has shot down a satellite and is likely attacking the Trinity interceptors."
  
  "Damn," Gonzo swore. "Armstrong, it's midnight. Our passenger said it was a scarecrow, probably an electron, and it shoots...
  
  "Gonzo, maneuver!" Kai interrupted. "A wasp on your tail! Maneuver!"
  
  Gonzo immediately fired up the thrusters, throwing the spaceplane into a sharp lateral maneuver, then fired up another set of thrusters that propelled it "up" - away from Earth. She then began to roll back, maneuvering to point her nose against the direction of flight in order to present the smallest possible airfoil for...
  
  ... and halfway through the maneuver, the Wasp anti-satellite missile struck. It had a small ten-pound fragmentation warhead that ignited the jet fuel and Bohm's oxidizer leaking from the ruptured fuel tanks, causing an explosion that pierced the spacecraft through and through.
  
  "He hit! He hit!" shouted Valerie. "The first wasp hit the spaceplane!" The command module crew watched the electro-optical image of the crashed spaceplane in horror as a monstrous explosion filled the screen.
  
  "Second Wasp missile intercepted and destroyed," Henry Lathrop reported in a low voice over the intercom. "The goal is clear."
  
  "Boomer"?" Kai radioed.
  
  "I'm done in five minutes," Boomer said.
  
  "Did you take a pre-breath?"
  
  "Yes, I have," Boomer replied. "Not my leader."
  
  "Trev, find out if there's anyone on the station in spacesuits taking a pre-breath."
  
  "Get ready," Trevor Sheil replied. A moment later: "Sorry, Kai. We have three in spacesuits, but none of them breathed before."
  
  "Give them oxygen immediately," Kai said. On the radio, he said, "Looks like you're the one, Boomer. We don't see anyone alive from here, but go and have a look. Don't forget to install your towing gear."
  
  "Understood," Boomer said. A few minutes later: "We are ready to start." As soon as it separated from the station, it obtained the coordinates of the last location of the Midnight Spaceplane and began to make its way to it - fortunately, as the S-19 approached Armstrong in preparation for docking, they were all in the same orbit, so it was just a matter of maneuvering into lateral to it rather than launching into another orbit with a different altitude or direction.
  
  "Valery, activate the Kingfisher constellation and get Starfire online as soon as possible," Kai said. "It's time for a little hunting." He called the headquarters of the US Space Command from his console. "General, we have lost an S-19 spaceplane," he said when the secure channel was connected. "The Vice President was on board. We are checking to see if there are any survivors, but so far everything looks like a total loss."
  
  "Oh my God," General George Sandstein groaned. "I will notify the White House immediately."
  
  "Requesting permission to attack all the fucking Russian space forces, General," Kai said angrily.
  
  "Negative," Sandstein said. "Do nothing but protect yourself. Do not shoot until you are fired upon."
  
  "I'd say they fired on us, General," Kai said. "I don't know if the target was a spaceplane or if it was a station and the spaceplane got in the way. Either way, we were attacked."
  
  "Let me notify the president first and see what his response is, Kai," Sandstein said. "In the meantime, I authorize you to activate all of your defensive weapons systems and begin launching the Trinity modules you have stored on the station back into orbit. You have a spaceplane with you right now, don"t you?"
  
  "Yes, S-29," Kai replied. "This is a search for survivors, and then we need to unload supplies here and for the ISS."
  
  "What other spaceplanes are available?"
  
  "Two S-19s will be available in a few days, and we have two S-9s that could be ready in a few weeks," Kai said as he checked his spacecraft's status readings. "General, I have ten armories in orbit, which puts most of the Russian anti-missile forces at gunpoint, and they will be activated shortly. I have begun the process of disconnecting the Starfire maser device from the Skybolt, but my commands must reconnect it. It should be ready soon. I ask permission to destroy any Russian anti-satellite installation that comes within range."
  
  "I understand the intent of 'lay waste', Kai," Sandstein said. "I want to get permission from the White House before you start bombarding Russian targets from space. Your orders are to defend your station with everything you have and await further orders. Repeat my last, General Raydon."
  
  Kai hesitated and even considered not answering; instead, "Understood, General," he said at last. "General Sandstein, this is the Raydon Station Director aboard the Armstrong. I copied: my orders are to defend the station with everything we have and wait for further orders."
  
  "I'll be in touch, Kai," Sandstein said. "It will not go unavenged. Get ready." And the connection was interrupted.
  
  "Damn," Kai swore. "The Vice President of the United States may have just been blown into space junk and I should just 'stand by'.   He checked his monitors. "Valery, what is the status of the Kingfishers in orbit?"
  
  "Six out of ten are already connected to the network, the rest are expected in about an hour," said Valerie Lucas.
  
  It was only a fifth of the entire constellation, but it was better than what they had just a few minutes ago. "Place ground targets based in Russia and China within range of our ground attack capabilities."
  
  "Understood you." A moment later, a list of targets appeared on the display of the main command center, as well as a list of available weapons that could protect against them. The list included targets other than anti-missile: any militarily significant target was on the list, and when the Kingfisher weapons workshops or the Armstrong space station went out of range, the target would disappear, only to be replaced by another that crossed the weapon's horizon somewhere. in another part of the world. With only ten armories plus the Armstrong space station, the list of targets was very short, but every few minutes a new potential target appeared, stayed for two to four minutes, and then disappeared again.
  
  One line in the target list changed color from green to yellow. "Xichang Spaceport," Kai remarked. "What is going on in Xichang?"
  
  "The S-500 Avtocrat search radar in the echo-Foxtrot range from the Sichan Cosmodrome covered us," Kristin said. "Ever since the Russians set up the S-500s in China, they have tracked and sometimes recorded us on radar as we passed overhead. I think it's just a calibration or training - it's just a long distance scan. Nothing ever happens."
  
  " 'Locked us up', huh?" Kai muttered. "Anything other than a simple scan?"
  
  "From time to time we get a beep from the 30N6E2 India-Juliet missile guidance radar, as if they fired a missile at us," Christine said, "but all signals disappear within a few seconds, even search ones, and we do not detect an engine plume or a missile in the air "Obviously they don't want us to think they're aiming an interceptor at us, using radar or optics or whatever. It's all a game of cat and mouse, sir - they send us radar signals to try and scare us, and then they go silent. This is bullshit."
  
  "Bullshit, huh?" Kai said. "Please let me know if this happens again."
  
  "Yes sir," Christina replied.
  
  Kai was silent for a few moments, thinking hard. "Christine," he said, "I need some detailed shots of this S-500 unit. Give me a pinpoint SBR scan from our big radar. Maximum resolution."
  
  Christine Rahill hesitated for a moment, then commented, "Sir, a spotlight scan might-"
  
  "Do it, Miss Rahill," Kai said flatly. "Scanning with a narrow beam, maximum resolution".
  
  "Yes, sir," Christina said.
  
  There was silence for about sixty seconds; then: "Sir, S-500 target tracking radar detected, seems to be aimed at us," Christine said. "Only azimuth, altitude and range - no uplink signals." That was exactly what she was worried about: if the S-500 battery found they were being tracked by the radar from the Armstrong, they might think they were under attack and might retaliate.
  
  "Pick a target and go to battle, Cristina," Kai ordered. "Keep scanning."
  
  There was some confusion in Christina's voice: this, of course, was not such a big deal, not worth the target's identification badge. "Uh... designate the target Golf One, sir," she replied after typing commands into the attack computer. "Target is blocked in the attacking computer."
  
  "Command, this is Operations," Valerie reported. "I confirm that Golf-one's target has engaged. Two Hummers from Kingfisher 09 ready, one left, forty-five seconds before exiting the kill zone."
  
  "Confirmed," Kai said. "Christine, alert me if the target designation changes."
  
  "Wilco, sir," Christina said. Her palms were beginning to sweat a little; it was beginning to look like a prelude to-
  
  Suddenly, the identification signal changed from TARGET TRACK to ROCKET TRACK. The shift was instantaneous, and it didn't linger on the scoreboard for more than a second or two, but it was enough for Kristin to yell out, "Command, I've got a tr-"
  
  "Combat, command, batteries fired at Golf One," Kai ordered. "I repeat, the batteries are dead."
  
  "Batteries are low, you got it," Valerie said. "Combat, Golf One Target, Combat!"
  
  The Kingfisher Weapons Garage, located almost four thousand miles from the Armstrong - although the Armstrong space station was much closer to the target, the rockets took time and distance to return to the Earth's atmosphere, so the Kingfisher weapons garage, located further , coped with the task - rebuilt on a computer-set course, and two orbital maneuvering vehicles were thrown out of the weapons garage at an interval of thirty seconds. The OMVs rolled over until they were tail-first, and their descent rockets worked. The burns didn't last very long, slowing the spacecraft by only a few hundred miles per hour, but it was enough to change their trajectory from Earth orbit to the atmosphere, and the OMVs flipped back so that their heat shields were exposed to the advancing atmosphere.
  
  As the spacecraft entered the upper atmosphere, the glow from friction burning the air changed colors until it became white hot, and streams of superheated plasma trailed behind each vehicle. Tiny hydraulically operated vanes and thrusters in the rear of the OMV body helped the spacecraft make S-turns in the sky, which not only helped increase the time it took to decelerate, but also confuse any spacecraft tracking radars of its intended target. One of the steering blades on the second OMV failed, causing it to go out of control, mostly burning up in the atmosphere, while what was left collapsed into the Siberian wilderness.
  
  At 100,000 feet, the protective covers around the OMVS ripped open, revealing a 200-pound tungsten carbide projectile with millimeter-wave radar and an infrared target in the nose. He followed the control signals from his weapons garage until the radar locked on to the target, then refined his aim by comparing what he saw with his sensors to images of the targets stored in memory. It took only a fraction of a second, but the images matched, and the warhead aimed at its target - a transport-mounted launcher of the S-500 anti-aircraft missile system. He hit the target, moving at a speed of almost ten thousand miles per hour. The warhead didn't need an explosive warhead-an impact at that speed was akin to an explosion of two thousand pounds of TNT, completely destroying the launcher and everything else within a five-hundred-foot radius.
  
  "Golf target - one destroyed, sir," Christina reported a few moments later, her voice muffled and hoarse - it was the first time she'd destroyed anything in her entire life, let alone another human being.
  
  "Good job," Kai said in a stony tone. "Trev, I want a two-man team to get into space suits and start breathing preparations, moving into a six-hour emergency standby watch. The rest of the off-duty crew can leave combat posts. Everyone, eyes and ears open - I think we will be busy. What is the status of Starfire? How much more?"
  
  "I don't know, sir," Casey Huggins of the Skybolt module replied. "Maybe an hour, maybe two. I'm sorry sir, but I just don't know."
  
  "As soon as possible, Miss Huggins," Kai said. He pressed a button on his communications console. "General Sandstein, urgently."
  
  
  KREMLIN
  MOSCOW RUSSIAN FEDERATION
  A little while later
  
  
  "Those American bastards hit my spaceport with a rocket from outer space!" Zhou Qiang, President of the People's Republic of China, boomed over a secure voice conference call. "I'm about to order an immediate launch of a nuclear ballistic missile against Hawaii! If they kill a hundred Chinese, I'm going to kill a million Americans!"
  
  "Calm down, Zhou," Russian President Gennady Gryzlov said. "You know as well as I do that if you launch an ICBM or anything like it anywhere near the United States or its possessions, they will strike back with everything they have against both of our nations. Now they are within a hair's breadth of pulling the trigger thanks to your attack on Guam."
  
  "I don't care!" Zhou snapped. "They will regret the loss of one Chinese a thousand times, I swear it!"
  
  "My commanders on the ground say that your S-500 battery has been fixed on the space station by missile guidance radar," Gryzlov said. "This is true?"
  
  "Then I assume you know that the Americans are targeting the S-500 launcher with their microwave weapon?"
  
  "I know they scanned you with a simple synthetic aperture radar, Zhou, a spaceborne radar installed on the station itself," Gryzlov said. "I have technicians and scouts on the ground, remember? They know exactly what you were scanned with. It was not a directed energy weapon. They obviously wanted to push you into an answer, just like your stupid, poorly trained people did."
  
  "So they are now trying to push us to expand the conflict, turn it into a nuclear exchange?" Zhou asked. "If so, they are doing well!"
  
  "I said, Zhou, calm down," Gryzlov repeated. "We will respond, but we have to be patient and plan it together."
  
  "This is all because of your reckless attack on their spaceplane, isn"t it?" Zhou asked. "You tell me to be calm, but then you do something crazy like destroy one of their space planes! We tracked those fighters and your anti-satellite weapons. Which one of us is crazy now? Do you want to ban unauthorized spacecraft from flying over Russia? It's even crazier! What's got into your head, Gryzlov? You are even more unbalanced than that idiot Truznev before you."
  
  "Don"t talk to me about insane warfare, Zhou!" Gryzlov objected. "We are lucky that we are not at war with the United States after that crazy General Zu attacked Guam!"
  
  "I could say the same about your father"s cruise missile attack against the United States!" Zhou fired back. "Ten thousand, fifteen thousand Americans evaporated? One hundred thousand wounded? Your father was-"
  
  "Be careful, I warn you, Zhou," Gryzlov spat threateningly. "Be careful what you say next if it even remotely touches my father." There was complete silence on the other end of the line. "Listen to me, Zhou. You know as well as I do that the only American non-nuclear weapons that can reach our spaceports and other anti-satellite launch sites are either cruise missiles launched from penetrating bombers or weapons launched from their military space station or armories," continued Gryzlov. "The military space station is key because it controls all the armories, uses its space radar for surveillance and targeting, and has a Skybolt laser that can't be defended against. It must be disabled or destroyed before the Americans use their weapons."
  
  "Disabled? Destroyed? How?" Zhou asked.
  
  "We must choose the ideal time when the maximum number of Russian and Chinese anti-satellite weapons can be launched simultaneously," Gryzlov said. "There are self-defense weapons on the station, but if we can crush them, we could be successful. My secretary of defense and chief of the general staff will inform me when the American space station is in an ideal position, and then we must attack immediately. The station's orbit is well known. They changed it recently for testing the Starfire microwave laser, and they might change it again, but we'll watch and wait. When the orbit stabilizes, we will attack with everything that is in range.
  
  "But I need your commitment, Zhou: when I say attack, we attack with all weapons within reach at the same time," Gryzlov continued. "This is the only way we can hope to disable or destroy a military space station so that it cannot strike back at us, because if it does, it can destroy any target on the planet at the speed of light."
  
  There was a very long silence on the other end of the secure connection; then: "What do you want, Gryzlov?"
  
  "I need an accurate description, capability, status and location of every ASAT weapon system in your arsenal," Gryzlov said, "including your ASAM submarines. And I need to establish a direct secure connection to every facility and submarine so that I can launch a coordinated attack on the US military space station."
  
  "Nĭ t ā m ā de fēng?" Zhou shouted in the background. Gryzlov knew enough Chinese swear words to understand that he had said "Are you fucking crazy?" Instead, he stammered from the interpreter: "The President strongly objects, sir."
  
  "Russia has a lot more anti-satellite weapons than China, Zhou - if I sent you a tiny piece of our data, you would be quickly overwhelmed," Gryzlov said. "Besides, I don't think that your military or your space technicians have the ability to coordinate the launch of dozens of interceptors scattered over thousands of miles, belonging to two nations, at one point in space. We have much more experience in orbital mechanics than in China."
  
  "Why don't I just give you all the launch codes for all of our nuclear ballistic missiles, Gryzlov?" Zhou asked mockingly. "In any case, China is dead."
  
  "Don't be a fool, Zhou," Gryzlov said. "We need to act, and act quickly, before the Americans can put more weapons depots in orbit and reactivate the Skybolt laser, if you believe this college student microwave laser replacement free electron laser bullshit. Provide me with these data - and it is better that they be accurate and reliable - and I will determine the exact moment when the maximum number of anti-satellite weapons will be within range to strike at Armstrong ... and then we will attack.
  
  "And then what, Gryzlov? Wait for American nuclear missiles to rain down on our capitals?"
  
  "Kenneth Phoenix is a weakling, like all American politicians," Gryzlov spat. "He attacked that S-500 facility knowing that we would strike back. The minute he fired the microwave laser from the station, he knew the station would be a target. He did both, thinking that we would not answer. Now I have responded by destroying his spaceplane, and he has a choice: risk an intercontinental thermonuclear war over this, or give up the military space station for the sake of peace. He is predictable, cowardly, and likely to be emotionally crippled. He is nothing. There is no threat to any of our countries other than nuclear war if the Armstrong space station is destroyed, and I don't believe that Phoenix or anyone else in America has the guts for any kind of war, let alone nuclear war." .
  
  Zhou didn't say anything. Gryzlov waited a few moments, then said, "Decide now, Zhou, damn you! Decide! "
  
  
  TEN
  
  
  The god of war hates those who hesitate.
  
  - EURIPID
  
  
  
  IN EARTH ORBIT, THIRTY MILES FROM ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION
  A little while later
  
  
  From about a mile away, Boomer and Ernesto could only see a dense cloud of white gas, as if a cumulus cloud had escaped the Earth's atmosphere and decided to float in Earth's orbit. "Still nowhere to be seen, Armstrong," Boomer reported. "Just a very large cloud of frozen fuel, oxidizer and debris."
  
  "Accepted," Kai replied. "Get as close as you can, but keep an eye on the fuel and oxidizer - don't get close enough to ignite it. Even a single spark of static electricity in this mess can set it off."
  
  "Understood you."
  
  It took a few minutes for the gap to close, but the cloud still obscured the scene. "I'm about fifty yards from here," Boomer said. "It's as close as I dare to get. I can't make out anything. Ernesto, do you see anything there?"
  
  "Negative," said Ernesto. "That's pretty tight... Wait! I see it! I can see midnight! It looks like the right wing and part of the tail were torn off, but the fuselage and cockpit look intact!"
  
  "Thank God," Boomer said. "I'm going there to take a look." He unbuckled himself and returned to the airlock. For long exposure spacewalks, in addition to wearing an EEAS for greater protection from micrometeors and debris and for better temperature control, Boomer donned a lightweight, non-pressurized spacesuit that resembled a jumpsuit, then donned a large backpack-like device called a primary life support system. or PLSS, and connected EEAS and umbilical cords to it for environmental protection. The backpack contained oxygen, power, carbon dioxide scrubbers, environmental controls, communications, and a device called the "SAFER", or Simplified EVA, which was a smaller version of a manned vehicle maneuvering device that allowed tethered astronauts to navigate independently. in space. The SAFER was only supposed to be used in an emergency, to get an untethered astronaut back on the spacecraft-well, it was definitely an emergency. "How do you hear, Ernesto?" - he said on the radio.
  
  "Loud and clear, Boomer."
  
  "The cockpit hatch is closed," Boomer said after checking the evidence. "Let's depressurize the air lock." A few minutes later: "Opening the cargo bay hatch." He unlocked and opened the hatch and stepped inside the cargo hold, secured himself with a cable, then closed and sealed the hatch behind him.
  
  The cargo bay was still mostly full because they were carrying all the supplies for the International Space Station and still had some unshipped supplies for Armstrong. Boomer took out a hundred-yard cargo strap used to transport items to the space station, made sure the end of the strap was securely attached to the spaceplane, attached the strap to the clip on his backpack's harness, and unhooked from the cargo hold tether. "Leaving the cargo bay," he reported, then got up and climbed out of the cargo bay and headed for the Midnight spaceplane, the cargo strap unwinding behind him.
  
  A few minutes later, he entered the fuel oxidizer cloud - fortunately, the SAFER engines used inert gases for propulsion, so there was no danger of an explosion - and he could clearly see the spaceplane. Up close, the damage looked worse, but the fuselage and cockpit looked intact. "I'm about twenty yards from midnight," Boomer reported. "I'm going inside." Using tiny puffs from SAFER, he moved towards Midnight's cockpit...
  
  ...and through the cockpit windows he saw Jessica Faulkner and Vice President Ann Page still sitting upright and strapped in, their heads bowed as if they were dozing in an airliner seat, but not moving. "I see Gonzo and the vice president," Boomer said. "They are strapped in and stand upright. I can't see if their eyes are open." He took out a flashlight and tapped gently on the Midnight's cockpit visors, but there was no answer. "Their suits look intact and I can see the LEDs on their suit status panels - hell, they might be-"
  
  And just at that moment, Vice President Ann Page raised her head, then her right hand, as if waving. "The VP is alive!" Boomer said. "I think she is waving to me!" He realized that it could just be the movement of the spaceship, but he had to cling to whatever shred of hope he could. "Gonzo is still not moving, but the vice president is conscious! The electricity is off. The airlock hatch and cockpit look solid - no signs of damage or decompression. We have to get them back to the station."
  
  He rose above Midnight to look at the cargo hold. "The right side of the fuselage at the wing attachment point looks badly damaged." He maneuvered around the cargo hold on the right side. "Damn," he muttered a few moments later. "It looks like the passenger module has been damaged. Get ready. I will see if I can check on the passengers."
  
  Aboard the Armstrong space station, Brad McLanahan held his breath. He knew that Sondra was on that spaceplane and switched to the passenger module to allow the vice president to fly in the cockpit.
  
  "Brad," Jodie radioed from UC Pauley - no one from the Project Starfire team left their station after Stacey Ann Barbeau's explosive accusations. "I heard everything. Isn't... isn't your friend Sondra...?"
  
  "Yes," said Brad.
  
  "Prayers," Jody breathed.
  
  Boomer was able to peer through a breach in the hull and passenger module. "There isn't enough space for me to get into the module," he said. He shone his flashlight on Sondra and the Secret Service agent. "They're unconscious, but I can see the indicators on their suit status bar and their visors are down and look blocked. We-"
  
  And at that moment, as Boomer swept the beam of his flashlight across the visor of her helmet, Sondra raised her head. Her eyes were open and wide with fear. "Holy crap, Sondra is alive!" Boomer yelled. "The Secret Service agent doesn't move, but as far as I can tell, her suit is intact! We might have four survivors here!"
  
  "Perfect!" Kai radioed. He and the rest of the team watched Boomer's progress through video and audio feeds from cameras installed on Boomer's PLSS. "Come back here on a double. We will widen the gap to get into the passenger module and then we can pick up passengers and then access the cockpit through the airlock."
  
  "Understood you." Boomer made his way to the front of the Midnight Spaceplane, found the reaction control nozzle on the nose, and secured the weight strap inside it. He then attached the ring on his backpack's harness to the belt and moved back to the S-29 Shadow spaceplane, zipping the belt up. A few minutes later, he passed through the Shadow's airlock, installed the PLSS in a reloading and resupply cradle, and returned to the Shadow's cockpit.
  
  "Great job, comandante," said Ernesto after Boomer buckled up. They exchanged fist blows. "Do you think we can get them out and get them to the station, boss?"
  
  "Not sure," Boomer said, taking a few seconds for his breathing and heart rate to start to return to normal. "The passenger module was definitely damaged, but the cockpit looked undamaged. I saw LEDs on their suits, but I couldn't tell if they were signal lights or what. We may be able to get messages to the VP on how to open the airlock or cockpit visors, and then hopefully they can survive the transfer. Let's get back to the station."
  
  It took them half an hour of careful maneuvering to tow the damaged S-19 midnight spaceplane back to the Armstrong space station. Crew members were already at the ready with more weight straps and cutters, and the arms of the remote manipulator were stretched out as far as they could to do whatever was necessary. Boomer docked the S-29 with the station.
  
  "Good job, Boomer," Kai radioed, studying images of the damaged S-19 Midnight and the crew members working to gain access to the passenger module. "I ordered the S-29 to be refueled and to unload as much cargo as possible. We can use one of the airlocks as a pressure chamber. I want you and your leader to stay on the spaceplane. We have about three hours before we arrive at the next database, so if you need to get out and use the wicks, do it now." Ernesto waved his hand, indicating that this was what he wanted. The Wicks, or WCS, was the waste containment system, or space toilet, on the Armstrong space station.
  
  "Understood," Boomer said. "Which duck blind are we approaching?"
  
  "The worst," Kai said. "Delta Bravo One. Downtown. Right in the middle." Boomer was well acquainted with what they were: Moscow and St. Petersburg. They had overlapping circles of destruction from several anti-satellite targets that covered the area from the Barents Sea to the Gulf of Azov. "Because the Russian orbital section is disconnected and we do not have our own maneuvering module, we cannot move the station to a less dangerous orbit."
  
  "Ernesto leaves to use the "wicks" &# 8197;" Boomer announced as Ernesto began to unfasten himself. "I want to control the gas station. I need someone on site to monitor the malfunctions."
  
  "We're running out of spaceplane crew, Boomer," Kai said. He turned to station manager Trevor Sheil. "Trev, do you want to put on a suit and-"
  
  "Send in Brad McLanahan," Boomer said. "He is not busy. Hell, he's practically a spaceplane pilot already."
  
  Brad had been silent since the Russian satellite downed the C-19 Midnight, watching out the window at the workers surrounding the Midnight and hoping to catch a glimpse of Sondra, but he beamed when he heard his name. "I bet I will!" he said excitedly over the intercom.
  
  "Go to the airlock - someone will help you become an ace," said Kai. "You must be in a full suit and on oxygen. We don't have time to dress you in LCVG." The LCVG, or Liquid Cooling and Ventilation Clothing, was a form-fitting suit with water tubes running through it to absorb heat from the body. "Trev, help Brad get to the airlock." Trevor led Brad to the hatch leading to the storage and processing module. Since he would not be wearing an LCVG, it was relatively quick and easy to put on the ACES suit, gloves, and boots, and in just a few minutes, Brad was on his way to the tunnel connecting the S-29 Shadow spaceplane to the station.
  
  On his way to the docked spaceplane, Brad passed Ernesto Hermosillo on his way to the Galaxy module. "Hey, good news about Sondra, man," Ernesto said, punching Brad. "I hope she will be all right. We'll find out soon, amigo."
  
  "Thank you, Ernesto," said Brad.
  
  The technician helped Brad through the docking tunnel, and Brad went through the airlock to the cockpit. Boomer held out his umbilical cords to him. "Hi Brad," Boomer said over the intercom. "Everything that can be done for Sondra and the others is being done. My guess is that she and the Secret Service agent will have to spend the night in an airlock under pure oxygen pressure. They may be unconscious for a while, but if they survived the attack with their suits intact, they should get out of it."
  
  "Thank you Boomer," said Brad.
  
  "Thanks for doing this, Brad," Boomer said. "This is nothing more than a simple babysitting job, but the rules I myself wrote say that one person must be at the controls of the S-29 during refueling in space, in a spacesuit and on oxygen. The spaceplanes Black Stallion and Midnight require both crew members because they are not as automated as Shadow. I want to control the gas station and maybe hit him in the head, and Ernesto is on his way to the Weeks, that's why you're here.
  
  "Shadow is highly automated, so it will tell you verbally and on this screen what's going on," Boomer continued, pointing to a large multi-function display in the middle of the dashboard. Checklist items were highlighted in yellow, then several substrings of the computer's actions, the yellow line turned green, and finally the end result with a small yellow button on the touchscreen asking if the computer could continue. "If something happens, it will notify you and wait for confirmation, which you do by pressing the soft key that appears. In most cases, it will simply fix the problem itself, notify you that it has been fixed, and wait for confirmation. If he can't fix it himself, he'll let you know. Just tell me if this happens and I will ask the technicians to work on it. Like I said, you babysit kids, except that 'baby' is smarter and bigger than you. Any questions?"
  
  "No".
  
  "Fine. I can hear the computer if it announces something. I won't be far. Just call if-"
  
  And at that moment they heard: "Armstrong, this is Midnight One, do you hear?"
  
  "Gonzo?" Kai called out. "It's you?"
  
  "Yes," said Gonzo. Her voice was hoarse and cracked, as if she was trying to speak with a large weight on her chest. "If you can hear me, report. Miss Vice President?
  
  "I... I hear you... Gonzo." The Vice President replied in the same low, husky voice and slow intonation. "I... I can't breathe properly."
  
  "Help is coming, ma'am," Gonzo said. "Agent Clarkson" No answer. "Agent Clarkson?" Still not a word. "Sondra?"
  
  "Loud... and... and clear," Sondra replied weakly. Brad took a deep breath, the first in many tense moments. "I'll... I'll try to check on Clarkson."
  
  "We have energy until Midnight," Trevor reported. "We will check the condition of the spacecraft hull, then find out if we can make the transition through a pressurized tunnel or we will have to go into outer space. Their breathing suggests their suits may not be getting oxygen from the spaceplane, so we'll have to hurry to see if we can...
  
  "Command, surveillance, I have detected multiple missile launches!" Christine Rahill called over the intercom of all stations. "One launch from Plesetsk, one from Baikonur! Computational launch is being tracked now... get ready... now a second launch from Baikonur has been detected, I repeat, two launches since... now a rocket launch from Xichang has been detected, team, this is a launch of four rockets... now a fifth rocket has been detected, this time from the Wenchang Cosmodrome on island of Hainan. This is the launch of five rockets! No prior notice of any launches."
  
  "Combat posts, crew," Kai ordered over the intercom. "All crew to take up their combat posts."
  
  Aboard the Shadow spaceplane, Boomer flew through an airlock faster than Brad had ever seen anyone move through space, with incredible agility for a human in free fall, sat in the pilot's seat, buckled his umbilical cords, and began strapping himself in. . "What should I do, Boomer?" Brad asked. "Should I go out and let Ernesto-"
  
  "Too late," Boomer said. "The outer hatches of the airlock automatically close when we go to combat posts, preparing for our separation from the station. They will stop refueling and unloading cargo, and as soon as they do, we will be on our way."
  
  "You mean return to orbit?"
  
  "Yes," Boomer said as he hurriedly buckled up and answered the computer's notifications. "We're taking off as fast as we can. There's a paper checklist velcroed to the bulkhead at your right knee. Strap it to your hip. Follow along with the computer as you go through each element. When it asks you to confirm and you agree that it followed the steps correctly, go ahead and tap the button on the screen. If it fails or you get an error, please let me know. He will adjust the speed of each section depending on how quickly you confirm each action, but he also knows that we are at combat posts, so he will try to go through quickly. Check your umbilical cords and oxygen and buckle up as tight as you can - this can be a tricky ride."
  
  "This doesn't appear to be the trajectory of a ballistic missile," said Observation Officer Christine Reyhill, examining her two computer monitors. "The first two rockets are ready... they look like they are going into orbit, commanding, repeating, orbital flight paths."
  
  "Russian spaceplanes," Valerie guessed. "A volley of five near-simultaneous launches."
  
  "What is the status of Starfire?" Kai asked.
  
  "Still working on it," said Henry Lathrop. "I don't know yet how long it will last."
  
  "As soon as possible, Henry," Kai said. "Valerie, how are things with Kingfishers and Hydra?"
  
  Kingfisher 9 has lost two Mjolnir rounds, and the three Trinity modules on the station have used up a total of six anti-satellite rounds," Valerie reported. "All other modules on the station are ready. Six of the ten Trinity modules in orbit are ready. Hydra ready, about thirty lines left."
  
  A few minutes later: "Command, the first two rockets appear to have launched a payload into orbit, presumably space planes," Christine reported. "Their orbits don't match ours."
  
  "They may have payload support modules that will take them into transition orbit," said Trevor Scheil. The Payload Auxiliary Module was an additional booster stage attached to the uppermost payload section that could launch that payload into another orbit at the right time without having to expend its own propellant. "We should expect these spaceplanes to move into interception orbits within one to ten hours."
  
  Kai Rydon looked around the command module and noticed that Brad was not in his usual position, attached to the bulkhead in the command module. "McLanahan, where are you?" he asked over the intercom.
  
  "Mission commander's seat on Shadow," Boomer replied.
  
  "Say again?"
  
  "He kept the chair warm while Ernesto had to take a break from The Weeks, and now that we're in combat, he's chained to him," Boomer said. "So far, he seems to be pretty good at everything."
  
  "Unblock the airlock," Kai said. "Get your guide back there."
  
  "We don't have time, General," Boomer said. "By the time Ernesto puts on his cards again, we will be saying goodbye. Don't worry. Brad is fine. It seems to me that he has already begun training for the mission commander."
  
  Kai shook his head - there were too many things going on that were out of his control, he thought regretfully. "How soon are you off, Boomer?"
  
  "The cargo bay doors are closing, General," Boomer said. "Maybe two minutes. I'll give you advice."
  
  "Command, missiles three and four are also in orbit," Christina reported about a minute later. "Russian payloads one and two are in orbit. No further activity from any ground facilities." That changed just a few moments later: "Command detected a number of high-performance aircraft flying from the Chkalovsky Air Base near Moscow. Two, maybe three planes in the air."
  
  "An anti-satellite aircraft to launch," Trevor said. "They collect the press in full court."
  
  "Give it to space command, Trev," Kai said. "I don't know for sure who the target is, but damn it, I'm willing to bet it's us. Christine, I'm assuming their goal is to reach our altitude and appropriate orbit in order to intercept us. I need orbit forecasts for all these Russian spaceplanes - I need to know exactly when they will go into interchange orbits."
  
  "Yes sir," Christina replied. "Now I'm calculating." A few minutes later: "Command, observation, assuming they want to move to our orbital angle and altitude, I expect the Sierra Tri spacecraft to reach the Hohmann transfer orbit launch point in twenty-three minutes, reaching our altitude and orbital plane in seven minutes. Sierra One will do the same in forty-eight minutes. We are still working on three other spacecraft, but they could all be in our orbit in less than four hours. I will calculate where they will be relative to us when they enter our orbit."
  
  "Four hours: about that time we'll be flying over Delta Bravo One," Valerie pointed out, referring to the orbital display on the main monitor. "They timed it perfectly: they would have five spacecraft, supposedly armed, in our orbit as we passed over the anti-satellite missile ranges in Moscow and St. Petersburg."
  
  "Trevor, I want to move the station as high as possible, as quickly as possible," Kai said. "We will change our trajectory as much as possible, but I want to increase the height as much as possible - maybe we will be able to get beyond the reach of the S-500. Use every drop of fuel we have left, but get us out of the danger zone."
  
  "Understood," Trevor replied, then leaned over to work on his workstation.
  
  
  THE WHITE HOUSE
  WASHINGTON, DC
  A little while later
  
  
  President Kenneth Phoenix hurried into the White House Situation Room, gesturing for the rest of the audience to take their seats. His face was gray and haggard, and he had grown a beard in a day, the result of staying awake and sitting at his desk, waiting for news from his vice president, chief adviser, and friend. "Someone talk to me," he ordered.
  
  "The Russians have put into orbit what are believed to be five Electron spaceplanes," National Security Adviser William Glenbrook said. CIA Thomas Torrey, plus a few aides at the telephones A large monitor in the front of the room was divided into several screens, one of which showed the commander of the US Strategic Command, Admiral Joseph Eberhart, and the commander of the US Space Command, General of the Air Force George Sandstein , join the meeting via videoconference "They also launched fighter jets that are believed to be carrying anti-satellite missiles similar to the one that shot down the VP's spaceplane."
  
  "Get Gryzlov on the phone right now," Phoenix ordered. "What else?"
  
  "We need to know within minutes if spaceplanes will pose a threat to the Armstrong space station," Glenbrook continued. "Personnel aboard Armstrong can predict when space planes will need to adjust their orbit to match the station's trajectory, or if they enter an orbit that intercepts the station."
  
  "Gryzlov on the line, sir," the communications officer reported a few minutes later.
  
  Phoenix grabbed the phone. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Gryzlov?" he broke.
  
  "It"s not very pleasant to have so many unidentified armed enemy spaceships overhead, is it, Phoenix?" - said the translator. "I'm sure your orbital mechanics will inform you very soon, but I'll tell you myself now to save you the trouble: your military space station will intersect with all our space planets and anti-satellite weapons in about three hours, at which time I will order my space forces to bring down your military space station."
  
  "What?"
  
  "You have three hours to evacuate the station and save the lives of your people," Gryzlov said. "I simply won"t let this monster fly over Russia again as long as its weapons are in effect - as we just saw in China, the space station and the weapons it controls pose a big threat to Russia."
  
  "Evacuate the space station?" Phoenix retorted. "There are fourteen men and women on board! And how am I supposed to do it in three hours?"
  
  "That's not my concern, Phoenix," Gryzlov said. "You have your spaceplanes and unmanned commercial passenger spacecraft, and I was told that the station has emergency lifeboats that can keep personnel alive long enough to be picked up and transported back to Earth or transferred to the International Space Station . But that's none of my concern, Phoenix. I want guarantees that the space weapon is deactivated and the best way I can think of to do this is to destroy the space station."
  
  "The Armstrong Space Station is a US property and a military facility," Phoenix said. "Attacking this would be like attacking any other US military base or aircraft carrier. This is an act of war."
  
  "Then so be it-go ahead and announce it, Phoenix," Gryzlov said. "I assure you, Russia and her allies are ready for war with America. I consider the fact that America has been flying over Russian territory with weapons for many years an act of war - now, finally, something will be done about it. I am doing nothing more than defending Russia from the rampaging American war machine that was trying to disguise itself as a college student experiment. Well, I've been fooled. I won't be fooled again."
  
  "Have you thought about what would happen if the station didn't completely collapse on re-entry, Gryzlov? How many people on earth will die from the falling debris and the core of the MHD generator?"
  
  "Of course I thought about it, Phoenix," Gryzlov said. "The station will be hit over the western part of Russia. We predict it will fall harmlessly in western China, Siberia, or the North Atlantic. And if it doesn't crash before it reaches North America, it will probably crash in western Canada or the western United States, where there is little population. It fits, doesn't it? Since all nations are responsible for their own spaceships, no matter how they are returned, your monster can be returned right to your doorstep.
  
  "Three hours, Phoenix," Gryzlov continued. "I suggest you tell your astronauts to hurry up. And one more thing, Phoenix: if we find any space-based weapons launched against any targets in Russia, we will consider this the beginning of a state of war between our two nations. You started this battle when you fired a directed energy weapon - the price you will pay is the loss of this space station. Do not exacerbate the suffering that will befall you and your people by unleashing a thermonuclear war." And the connection was interrupted.
  
  "Damn that bastard!" - Phoenix shouted, throwing the phone back on the stand. "Fred, move us to DEFCON three. I want to know every possible place in the US where this station could fall."
  
  "Yes, sir," the secretary of defense replied, and his aide picked up the phone. DEFCON, or State of Defense Readiness, was a phased system for increasing the readiness of the US military for nuclear war. Since the American Holocaust and the Chinese People's Liberation Army Navy's use of a nuclear depth charge in the South China Sea, the US has been in DEFCON Stage 4, one step higher than in peacetime; DEFCON One was the most dangerous level, which meant the inevitability of a nuclear war. "Do you want to issue an evacuation order in areas of potential impact, sir?"
  
  The president hesitated, but only for a moment: "I'm going to go on national television and radio and explain the situation," he said. "I'm going to lay this out to the American people, tell them about the chances of the station going into North America, tell them we're doing everything we can to make sure that doesn't happen, and let them decide if they want to evacuate or not. How long will it take for him to come back, Fred?"
  
  "About fifteen minutes, sir," Hayes replied. "The normal flight time for an ICBM from launch to impact is about thirty minutes, so half of that would be about right."
  
  "I think with less than four hours to evacuate, most Americans would have stayed put," National Security Adviser Glenbrook said.
  
  "I just hope we don't create a panic," the President said, "but a few incidents or panicked people would have been better than Americans being killed by falling debris, and we didn't warn them that this was going to happen." He turned to Admiral Eberhart. "Admiral, what does Gryzlov have in western Russia that could disable the space station?"
  
  "Primarily air-launched anti-satellite missiles and the S-500S anti-aircraft missile, sir," Eberhart replied. "Both Moscow and St. Petersburg deployed one S-500 battery each. Each battery has six launchers; each launcher has four missiles plus four reloads that can be installed within an hour. There are two bases near Moscow and St. Petersburg where MiG-31Ds fly, each with about twenty interceptors."
  
  "And it could hit the space station?"
  
  "The station is at maximum missile altitude, if what we know about the S-500 is true," Eberhart said. "The station is within the maximum range of an air-launched anti-satellite missile."
  
  "Can we move the space station to a higher orbit?"
  
  "It's being done right now, sir," Eberhart said. "Station director Kai Raidong has ordered the station to be raised to the highest altitude it can reach before it runs out of fuel. They are also trying to change its orbit to avoid passing over Moscow and St. Petersburg, but that could take too long."
  
  "What else do we have to stop these missiles from launching?" the President asked.
  
  "In western Russia: not much, sir," Hayes replied. "We have one submarine with guided cruise missiles in the Baltic Sea that can hit the anti-satellite air bases in St. Petersburg, and that's it. We can easily destroy the base, but this is just one base, and our submarine will subsequently become dog meat for Russian anti-submarine patrols - the Russians definitely control the Baltic Sea. The cost of losing a submarine would be twice as much as losing a Russian base."
  
  "Plus we risk starting a nuclear exchange if these cruise missiles are found," Glenbrook added. "We were lucky that an attack from space did not lead to the same."
  
  "So we have no options?" the president asked. "The space station is history?"
  
  "We have one option, sir: to attack air bases and anti-satellite missile sites from space," Glenbrook said. "The station has defensive weapons, but it can also attack ground targets, as we saw at that missile range in China. They may not get all the sites, but they can get enough of them to save themselves."
  
  "And start World War III?" Secretary of State James Morrison protested, his eyes wide with fear. "Did you hear Gryzlov, Bill - the guy just threatened the president of the United States with nuclear war! Does anyone here think the guy isn't crazy enough to do this? I would be surprised if he wasn't heading for the underground command bunker right now. Sir, I propose to immediately remove these students and all non-essential crew members from the military space station and allow the rest of the team to fend off any incoming missiles as much as possible. If the station looks like it will be overloaded, the rest of the team should evacuate."
  
  "I disagree, sir," Secretary of Defense Hayes said. "To answer your question, Jim: I think Gryzlov is crazy and paranoid, but I don't think he's crazy enough to start a nuclear war even if we destroy all of his anti-satellite bases from space. Gryzlov is young and has a long and comfortable life ahead of him. His father was killed in an American counterattack - that must be weighing him down. I think he cares more about political survival and maintaining his wealth than starting a nuclear war. Besides, its strategic nuclear forces are no better than ours."
  
  "Common spelling?"
  
  "Through DEFCON Three, we are placing all of our few remaining nuclear-capable bombers and fighters on nuclear alert and deploying as many ballistic and cruise missile submarines as possible on patrol," said the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, having kind of tablet computer. "It would take one to three days to put our bombers on alert, three to seven days for fighters, and one to three weeks to put available submarines into action. Secretary Hayes is right about the numbers, sir: American and Russian forces are roughly equal in size. We have more surface ships and ballistic missile submarines; they have more aircraft and land-based ballistic missiles."
  
  "After Gryzlov's threat, we would have to assume that they are bringing their nuclear forces to a higher level of readiness as we speak," Hayes added. "Maybe even more than ours."
  
  The President was silent for several long moments, looking into the faces of his advisers. Finally, "I want to speak directly to General Raydon," he said.
  
  Moments later, after a secure videoconference line was set up: "General Raydon is listening, Mr. President."
  
  "First of all: the status of the vice-president and the crew of the spaceplane."
  
  "We were working on getting inside the passenger module, but I canceled the EVAs when those electrons started," Kai replied. "Still no response from any of them."
  
  "How much oxygen do they have?"
  
  "A few more hours, if their suits or the environmental systems of the spaceplane were not damaged. We've looked at the readings on their suits, and we think they're still getting oxygen from the ship, not just from their own suits. If it turns out that this is not the case, they don"t have much time left."
  
  The President nodded grimly. "Here"s the situation, General: Gennady Gryzlov says outright that he wants to shoot down the Silver Tower," he said. around Moscow and St. Petersburg, my question is: can you survive the attack on the space station?"
  
  "Yes sir, we can," Kai replied immediately, "but not for long. We have sixteen anti-satellite weapon encounters and about thirty Hydra COIL laser encounters. We also have sixteen engagements with our armories in orbit, but the chances of them being able to defend the station are very high. Once they are used up, we will have to rely on refueling and rearming."
  
  "And then Gryzlov could strike at our resupply space planes and commercial cargo spacecraft," the president said.
  
  "That's why I recommend that we attack any ASAT sites we can with our Mjolnir missiles," Kai said. "Our nine remaining armories are within range of an ASAT facility every twenty to thirty minutes . armories, plus fifteen from the station's armories. That would have done quite a bit of damage to Gryzlov's anti-satellite forces."
  
  "Gryzlov threatened nuclear war if we attack any of his bases in Russia."
  
  Kai's expression became first surprised, then serious, and finally angry. "Mr. President, this matter is well above my level of pay," he said, "but if someone threatens the United States with nuclear war, I propose that every effort be made to present him with his head on a platter."
  
  The President took another look at the expressions on his advisers' faces - they ranged from outright fear to determination, emptiness and confusion. He got the distinct impression that they were all glad they didn't have to make a decision. "Secretary Hayes," the president said a few moments later, "connect us to DEFCON Two."
  
  "Yes, sir," the Secretary of Defense replied, reaching for the phone.
  
  "General Raydon, I authorize you to attack and destroy any Russian anti-satellite installations that pose a threat to the Armstrong space station," the President said grimly. "You will also use any available weapon to defend the station from attack. Keep us updated ".
  
  
  ON BOARD THE ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION
  IN THE SAME TIME
  
  
  "Yes sir," Kai replied. Over the intercom of the entire station, he said: "All personnel, this is the director, the President of the United States has authorized us to attack any Russian bases that pose a threat to us, and use all the weapons at our disposal to protect the station. This is exactly what I intend to do. I want Casey Huggins to get oxygen and become an ace, and I want life support to teach her how to use a lifeboat."
  
  "General, I'm almost done reconnecting the Starfire," Casey replied. "An hour, maybe less. If I stop, you may not have time to prepare it in time."
  
  Kai thought about it for a moment; then, "Okay, keep up the good work, Casey," he said. "But I want you to be on oxygen now, and as soon as you're done, I'll put a spacesuit on you."
  
  "I can't work in an oxygen mask, sir," Casey insisted. "When I'm done, I'll put on a space suit."
  
  Kai knew it wasn't good, but he really wanted Starfire to be activated again. "Okay, Casey," he said. "As fast as you can."
  
  "Yes, sir".
  
  "What is our next blind duck?" Kai asked.
  
  "Chinese S-500 test site on Hainan Island," announced Christine Reyhill. "In range of the Kingfisher - Two in five minutes. The Yelizovo Air Base, the MiG-31D base, the S-500 range at Yelizovo and the S-500 range at the Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky naval base will be within range shortly thereafter, also for Kingfisher-Two."
  
  "One trinity against each of the S-500s and one against the air base, Valerie," Kai said.
  
  "Yes sir," said Valerie. "Combat, designate ground targets for-"
  
  "Command, surveillance, the first Electron spaceplane, Papa One seems to be changing course," Christina said. "It's accelerating... looks like an orbital maneuver, sir. It looks like it will be in the opposite direction to ours, and slightly offset - I can not determine the height yet. I expect Papa Two to accelerate to transfer orbit in a few minutes. Papa Three is due to take off in fifteen minutes. I can"t say about the fourth and fifth yet."
  
  "Boomer, do you have enough fuel to transfer to the ISS, dock, and then return to us?" Kai asked.
  
  "Get ready. I'll check," Boomer replied. A moment later: "Yes, General, there is, but not enough to return later without refueling. How much fuel and oxidizer is still in the station?"
  
  Trevor checked his testimony. "Twenty thousand pounds JP-8 and ten thousand 'bomb'." "
  
  "Should be enough, unless I have to maneuver a lot," Boomer said. "I would feel better if we could organize a resupply mission-"
  
  "Missile launch detected by SBIRS, sir!" Christine called out over the intercom. SBIRS, or Space-Based Infrared Surveillance System, was the US Air Force's latest infrared satellite system, capable of detecting and tracking missiles and even aircraft by their hot engine or exhaust fumes. "Pop-up targets over Novosibirsk. Two... three launches, definitely heading for interception, no ballistic launches. Interception in six minutes!"
  
  "It looks like they moved some MiG-31s to central Russia," Trevor said.
  
  "Set targets, papa-Six, Seven and Eight, Combat," Valerie said.
  
  "We've been spotted by target tracking radar...switching to missile guidance radar... Missile launch, S-500... Four interceptor salvo, seven minutes to intercept!" Christina reported. "Missile tracking... Another salvo of four, the second launcher, looks like... the third salvo of S-500 launchers, looks like a ring of S-500 launchers around Novosibirsk! I count... the fourth salvo, sixteen S-500s are approaching from Novosibirsk! Nineteen interceptors approaching, crew!"
  
  "That's more than we've ever done with exercise," Trevor said.
  
  "The state of our defensive weapons, Valerie," Kai asked.
  
  "Everything is green, sir," Valerie replied. "Sixteen hits on the Kingfisher on the keel, plus about thirty rounds on the Hydra."
  
  "How high are we, Trev?"
  
  "Two hundred and fifty seven," Trevor replied. "The maximum range of the S-500 should be five hundred miles. We're going to be close."
  
  "Four minutes on Wasp interceptors," Christina said.
  
  "Batteries on all weapons are dead, Valerie," Kai said.
  
  "Understood, sir, the batteries are released, combat, ready for combat is allowed."
  
  "Understood, purely for-"
  
  "Baits!" Henry Lathrop screamed. "The warheads on the S-500 missiles are divided into two - no, three, three apiece!"
  
  "Can you tell them apart, Henry?"
  
  "Not yet - still too far away," Henry said. "When they get within three hundred miles, I will first check them with an infrared sensor if there is a difference in temperature, and then with an electro-optical sensor if there is a visual signal."
  
  "Three minutes on the Wasps."
  
  "The missiles have gone," announced Henry Lathrop. "Two Trinities are out, tracking. The next launch is in ten and twenty seconds." Exactly ten seconds later: "The missiles have gone. Good trail on the first salvo - damn, lost control on the second Trinity in the second battle, fired the third salvo on the second pass ... fourth salvo on the third incoming, good trail ... good trail after the first salvo, the interception looks good ... Hydra is ready for all runs, good track, get ready... Out for the first interception... now."
  
  At that moment, all the lights on the Armstrong space station became more than twice as bright as normal, then flickered and went out. Several computer terminals went blank for a moment, but after a few seconds, an automatic reboot began. "What was it?" Kai shouted. The intercom was dead. "What's happened?" The crew remained calm, but they looked at momentarily useless displays and gauges, then at each other-and some estimated the distance to the lifeboat's sphere hatch. "What do you have, Valerie?"
  
  "I think it was an electromagnetic pulse, sir!" Valerie screamed. "I think that Wasp interceptor had a nuclear warhead on the warhead!"
  
  "Damn," Kai swore. He looked at all the monitors around him. Luckily, they didn't burn out-the Armstrong space station was well shielded from cosmic radiation-but the power surge reset all of their computers. "How soon will everything be restored?"
  
  "Most will recover in ninety seconds," Trevor called through the command module, "but a synthetic aperture radar can take three minutes or more."
  
  "Are you still in contact with Trinity?"
  
  "I haven't received anything until my computers are rebooted, sir," Valerie said. "About a minute. I hope EMP destroyed the Wasp interceptors as well as all of our equipment."
  
  It was an excruciatingly long wait, but soon the command module began to come back to life as computers rebooted and other systems rebooted. "One Wasp missile remains on the way!" Henry screamed as useful information began to appear on his computer monitor. "All S-500 missiles are still on course, about two minutes before interception!"
  
  "Shoot that Wasp missile, Valerie!" Kai shouted.
  
  "Trinity away!" Valerie said. "Hydra is not online yet - we cannot confirm an interception with Hydra in this battle! Trinity will attack the S-500 in fifteen seconds!"
  
  "Crew, report damage to command," Trevor said over the intercom. "Casey?"
  
  "I just got my test computer back up and running," said Skybolt's Casey. "Another forty minutes."
  
  "It's too long," Kai said. "Casey, turn on the oxygen supply, put on your spacesuit, and head to your assigned lifeboat."
  
  "No! I can do it in time!" Casey fired back. "I'll hurry. I can do it!"
  
  Kai slammed his fist into the air in front of him. "Hurry up, Casey," he finally said.
  
  "Coming out to intercept on the third Wasp," Henry said. Trinity on S-500 missiles - we're launching against everything on the screen, including what could be a decoy. Wasp interception in three ... two ... one..." The lights flashed bright again, then most of the lights and the displays in the command module went out...
  
  ... but this time, not all computer monitors started to restart automatically. "Trinity's fire control computer hasn't rebooted," Henry called out to the others in the Command Module. "I have to do a hard reset."
  
  "Starfire fire control is rebooting," Christina said. "I have to do a hard reset on the Hydra."
  
  "Command, engineering, a complete reset of the station's environment and attitude control computers is in progress," the engineer officer reported. "Switching to back-up environmental control, but I can't track if they've reappeared. I will receive a report in-"
  
  At that moment, a strong tremor passed through the entire station, and the crew members felt a slight negative rotation. "Are we hit?" Kai asked.
  
  "All readings are still blank," Trevor said. "Pass a message to other modules to look through the windows for damage." A second later they felt another tremble, and the station began to rotate in the other direction. "Do we have anything, Valerie? Something definitely hits us."
  
  "I have to take control of Hydra's fire control back in a few seconds," Valerie replied. At this point, most of the module and intercom lights returned.
  
  "... hear me, Armstrong," they heard over the radio. "It's Shadow, how can you hear me? End."
  
  "Now loud and clear, Boomer," Kai said. "Continue".
  
  "Solar array number seven and the farm directly on board solar array number two were damaged," Boomer said. "The station started a slight negative roll. Are your positioning systems working?"
  
  "We are doing a complete reset," Trevor said. "We don't know the status yet."
  
  "The radar is working again," Christina reported. "The goal is clear. No contacts. We have three fights left in Kingfishers on the Farm."
  
  "I got another indication of a malfunction on the Hydra," Henry reported. "I'm doing another full reboot." Kai looked at Trevor and Valerie, and their expressions silently conveyed the same message: we're running out of defensive weapons and we haven't reached the deadliest part of orbit.
  
  "Gonzo? How do you hear?
  
  "Loud and clear, General," Gonzo replied, her voice almost normal. "We received oxygen and data from the station, but now it is turned off."
  
  "We'll get it back to you as soon as we can, Gonzo," Kai said. "Stay fastened. These attacks have crippled the station a bit and our attitude control systems are down right now, but we will get them back soon."
  
  "Yes, sir".
  
  "Latest news about these spaceplanes?"
  
  "Electron One" is in an orbit similar to ours, about a thousand miles away," Christina reported. "There is no contact on fourth and fifth. Second and third seem to be in the same orbit and at the same altitude as ours, but the orbit is different from ours. They will be closest to us in about an hour..." She turned to Kai and added, "About five minutes before we fly over DB-One."
  
  "The Russians timed the launch of these spaceplanes to the nanosecond," Valerie exclaimed.
  
  "Maybe we'll get lucky and shoot down their own spaceplanes," Kai said. On the intercom, he said: "Attention at the station. I want all off-duty personnel to be in space suits. Rehearse the lifeboat evacuation procedures and make sure you are ready to board the lifeboats as soon as I issue the warning. We only have a few skirmishes left with our defensive weapons, and the Hydra still hasn't returned. Casey, time's up. I want you to put on your space suit immediately. Someone from life support, help her."
  
  "Thirty minutes to DB-One," Christina reported.
  
  "Hydra status?" Kai asked.
  
  "Still in place," Henry said. "I will do another full reboot. Trinity's fire control has been restored, but station rotation could cause interceptor launch problems."
  
  "Command, this is Jessop on life support," the call came in a few minutes later.
  
  "Go on, Larry," Trevor replied.
  
  "I can't open the hatch to the Skybolt module. It looks like it's locked from the inside."
  
  Kai's eyes flashed in surprise. "Casey, what are you doing?" it boomed over the intercom.
  
  "I can fix it!" Casey radioed. "I almost made it through before the last outage! Just a few more minutes!"
  
  "Negative! Get out of this module right now! "
  
  "I can fix this, sir! It's almost ready! A bit more-"
  
  "Radar contact, spaceship," Christine interjected. "Same altitude, different orbit, range four hundred and fifty miles! It will fly by at a distance of fifty miles!"
  
  "Status of the Trinities and the Hydra?" Kai asked.
  
  The Hydra looks like it's about to show up," Henry said. "About ten minutes before we're ready. The Trinity's are ready, but due to the rotation of the station, they may have to use extra fuel to set up an interception...
  
  "Second radar contact, spaceship," Christina reported. "Crossing orbit, range four hundred and eighty miles, passing about thirty miles!"
  
  "Start the Trinity initiation ceremony, Valerie," Kai ordered.
  
  Trinity is ready, launch confirmation is being shown," Valerie said. "The computers need to adjust the launch to rotate the station."
  
  "Three hundred miles on the first spaceship."
  
  "Trinity one in the distance... Trinity two on the way," Henry said. A moment later: "Trinity off course... hold on, retracing course... Getting back on course, good run... Trinity 3 and 4 away... good tr-" Suddenly there was a loud BUCK! The station shook and several alarms sounded. Trinity Four crashed into the solar panel!" Henry called out. "Trinity Five is coming!"
  
  "The batteries are not fully charged," said Alice Hamilton from the engineering module. "The discharge rate is low, but other solar panels cannot compensate for this."
  
  "Turn off non-essential equipment," Kai said. "Casey, get out of this module now! I'm going to turn it off!"
  
  "Hydra reports ready!" Henry said.
  
  "Radar contact with a spacecraft!" Christina said. "Same orbit, four hundred miles and slowly approaching."
  
  "Lost contact with the first and second Trinity!" Henry shouted. "Perhaps he was shot down by a laser from that Electron!"
  
  "Two hundred miles and approaching spaceplane one."
  
  "Engage the Hydra," Kai ordered.
  
  "Understood you, battalion commander, readiness for battle with the Hydra!" Valerie said.
  
  "Battle replicas," Henry said. "The Hydra is firing!"
  
  "Rocket launch detected!" Christina reported. "Several S-500 launches from an airbase near Chkalovsky!"
  
  "Direct hit on spaceplane one!" Henry reported. "Killed him! Switching direction to target number two!"
  
  "Team, engineering, battery down to seventy-five percent," the technician said. "You can fire two more, maybe three more shots at the Hydra! Our solar panels only half charge the batteries - it will take hours to fully recharge them, even if you don"t fire any more weapons!"
  
  Kai thought quickly; then, "Get that second Hydra spaceplane and use all the Trinity we have left on the third spaceplane," he said.
  
  Just at that moment, they heard Casey shout: "Everything is ready! All is ready!"
  
  "Casey? I told you to get out of this module!"
  
  "All is ready!" she repeated. "Try it!"
  
  "Hydra attacks the second spaceplane!" Henry reported. This time, the lighting in the command module dimmed significantly.
  
  "Hydra is disabled!" Valerie said. "He drained his batteries below forty percent and turned himself off!"
  
  "The second spaceplane is still arriving."
  
  "Try, General!" Casey said over the intercom.
  
  "Valerie?"
  
  "Starfire has complete continuity," Valerie said. She looked at Kai, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. "Permission to turn on the MHD, General."
  
  "Go," Kai said. On the intercom, he said: "Engineer, team, I allow you to deploy MHD."
  
  "Engineering copies," Alice confirmed. A moment later, the light dimmed again. "The batteries are down to twenty-five percent."
  
  "It's a pity we can't connect the MHD generator to the station," Kai said. "We'd have all the energy we'll ever need."
  
  "We'll do that next time," Trevor said.
  
  "MHD at twenty-five percent," Alice said.
  
  "Spaceplane Two is approaching a hundred miles," Christina said. "I'm picking up the target tracking radar from that spaceplane - it's fixed on us somehow. Spaceplane number three is approaching two hundred miles. Several S-500 missiles are still approaching."
  
  "Galaxy module case high temperature warning!" Alice reported. "Temperature keeps rising!"
  
  "Everyone in the Galaxy module, get in your lifeboats!" Kai shouted. "Move! Engineer, make sure the Galaxy module...
  
  "The temperature of the case is on the limit!" Alice reported this about thirty seconds later.
  
  "Lifeboat number one is sealed," Trevor reported.
  
  "Second lifeboat, fix it now! Second lifeboat, you-"
  
  Suddenly, alarms went off throughout the command module. "The galactic module housing is damaged," Alice said. Kai looked at Trevor, who shook his head - the second lifeboat was still not pressurized. "Module pressure dropped to zero."
  
  "Spaceplane two is moving away from us," Christina said. "Spaceplane number three is approaching a hundred miles."
  
  "Hobnail is on target," Colonel Galtin reported to his command post. "Requesting permission to engage in combat."
  
  "Permission received," the dispatcher said. "The second electron had a successful attack. Good luck."
  
  I don't need luck, Galtin thought - I have an electron and a nail. A second later, the radar signaled an approach, and Galtin pressed the button to turn on the Hobnail laser.
  
  "Attention, the hull temperature in the command module is rising!" Alice screamed. "It will reach the limit in twenty seconds!"
  
  "Lifeboats!" Kai shouted. "Move!" But no one moved. Everyone stayed where they were...since Kai hadn't unbuckled from his seat, they weren't going to either.
  
  "MGD one hundred percent!" Alice reported.
  
  "Valerie, go!"
  
  "Combat, Starfire, enter! Shoot!"
  
  The first sign that something was wrong was the sour smell of burning electronics, even though Gultin was sealed in his suit. The second was the startling scene where his dashboard sparkled, arced, and finally caught fire, all in the blink of an eye. The third was a warning beep in his headphones, indicating a complete system failure, although he could no longer see the status of any of his systems. The last thing he encountered was his space suit filling with smoke, then he briefly felt the oxygen in his suit explode...
  
  ... a few seconds before his spaceplane "Electron" exploded into a billion fragments and scattered like a fiery spear through space; then the oxidizer was used up and the fire went out on its own.
  
  "The third spaceplane has been destroyed," Christina said. "Still approaching several S-500 missiles, about sixty seconds."
  
  "The hull temperature is stabilizing," Alice reported. "MGD and Starfire are in the green zone. Batteries are ten percent discharged. When five percent is reached, the station will shut down so that the remaining battery power can power lifeboat launching mechanisms, air pumps, emergency lights and alarms, and life-saving beacons."
  
  "Can we get the rest of the S-500s with the power we have left?" - Asked Trevor.
  
  "We have no choice but to try," Valerie said.
  
  "No, not missiles - S-500 radar and control truck," Kai said. "Maybe it will disable the missiles."
  
  Valerie hastily called the last known S-500 installation site at Chkalovsky Air Base, northeast of Moscow, and used the Armstrong space station's powerful radar and optoelectronic sensors to scan the area. The S-500 transport and installation launchers were moved to the south side of the airport in three firing points located at a great distance from each other, but the radar truck, command vehicle and truck with energy and hydraulic generator were in the same place as before cataloged. The trucks were positioned on a free section of a large aircraft parking ramp, where long lines of Antonov-72, Ilyushin-76 and -86 transport aircraft lined up; further down the ramp, five MiG-31D anti-satellite launch aircraft stood in two rows, each carrying a 9K720 anti-satellite missile waiting to be loaded on board. "Goal achieved!" Cristina screamed.
  
  "Fight, shoot!" Valerie ordered.
  
  "Starfire busy!" Henry screamed...
  
  ... and in just a few seconds, all power to the command module was completely cut off, leaving only the emergency exit lights. Kai pressed a button on his console and an alarm sounded along with the computerized words "All personnel to the lifeboats immediately! All personnel to the lifeboats immediately!"
  
  The maser beam from the Armstrong space station fired in less than two seconds... but traveling at five miles per second, the beam was able to sweep almost the entire length of Chkalovsky Air Base before dying out.
  
  The S-500's command, propulsion and radar pods sparkled as the beam passed over them, and a moment later their fuel tanks exploded, setting them all on fire. Next were the transport planes, which burst one by one like overripe melons, instantly turning hundreds of thousands of gallons of jet fuel into huge fire mushrooms. The same fate awaited the MiG-31D fighter jets, powered by ten exploding 9K720 solid rocket boosters, which launched several rockets that swept across the sky for miles - and spread radioactive material from the micronuclear warheads of two of the rockets. The beam disabled the base of operations building, destroyed several more parked and taxiing aircraft, and then blew up several aircraft in the maintenance hangars, destroying each hangar with a spectacular fireball.
  
  Casey heard the alarm and hurriedly began to unfasten herself from her seat in the Skybolt module. There was no lifeboat in the Skybolt module, but she knew the closest one was in the engineering module, right "above" her. She put on her emergency oxygen mask, then looked up and saw Larry Jessop, the life support guy, peering through the hatch window, waiting for her. She smiled and was about to open the hatch...
  
  ...when a powerful explosion rocked the station. The destruction of the S-500 command and control towers at Chkalovsky resulted in the cancellation of the guidance of all 9K720 missiles ... with the exception of the first four, which were launched and recorded at the Armstrong space station using their own terminal guidance sensors. All four received direct hits, and the fourth missile hit the Skybolt module directly.
  
  Casey turned around and saw nothing but the planet Earth below her through a gaping, sparkling hole that had been Starfire's microwave cavity and Skybolt a few seconds earlier. She smiled and thought that this was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her life. As she watched, the spectacular blues and whites of the spinning planet beneath her feet slowly faded into shades of grey. It wasn't as pretty as before, but she still admired her home planet right there - she even thought she could see her home, and she smiled as she thought that next time she'd go home and see her parents, brothers and sisters and tell them about this incredible adventure. She smiled, her mum and dad's faces smiling back at her, and she felt happy and a little euphoric until her vision went black a second later as the last oxygen left her body.
  
  S-500S rockets crashed into the Armstrong space station. Boomer and Brad watched in absolute horror as the modules were either knocked down or torn off as the station began spinning through space. "Midnight, this is the Shadow," Boomer radioed. "Hang on guys. I'll be there in a minute. We will carry you through the cockpit and through the opening in the fuselage."
  
  For several long moments there was no answer; then a sleepy, weary voice radioed, "I don't think... even... a great spaceplane pilot... Hunter 'Boomer' Noble could... could fit this show," Vice President Ann Page said. "Save fuel. Raise the lifeboats. I'm... I'm hypoxic, I can't see... can't see any lights on Gonzo's suit... Save fuel and... and get the lifeboats out, Boomer. That's an order."
  
  "I'm not in your chain of command, Ms. Vice President," Boomer said. "Hold on. Stay with me ".
  
  "Brad?" they heard. "Brad, can you...can you hear me?"
  
  "Sondra!" Brad exclaimed. "We're going to meet you! Hold on!"
  
  There was silence for a long time, and Brad's mouth quickly went dry. Then they heard the thinnest voice: "Brad?"
  
  "Sondra, don't worry," Brad said. "We'll be there as fast as we can!"
  
  "Brad? I... I'm sorry. I..."
  
  "Sondra!" Brad screamed. "Hold on! We will save you! Hold on!" But as they watched the damaged space station spin away, they knew it would be impossible to try to save it.
  
  
  DESERT OF BLACK ROCKS
  NORTH OF RENO, NEVADA
  ONE WEEK LATER
  
  
  Defying federal orders, thousands of cars of all kinds were parked on the edge of the Black Rock Desert in northwestern Nevada at the terminus of Highway 447 to witness what no one believed they would ever see in their lives. The Black Rock Desert was the site of the world-famous Burning Man festival, where thousands of artists, adventurers, and free spirits of the counterculture gathered each summer to celebrate freedom and life...but this day on the playa will be the epitome of death.
  
  "I think it's a homecoming," said Brad McLanahan. He sat in a sun lounger on the roof of a rented van. Next to him on one side was Jodie Cavendish, on the other was Boomer Noble, and behind them, clearly separating himself from the rest, was Kim Jong Bae. They had just completed a series of press interviews with dozens of news agencies who had come to witness this incredible event, but now they broke away from the reporters a few minutes before the scheduled time to have some alone time.
  
  Jody turned to Jung Bae and put her hand on his leg. "It's all right, Jerry," she said. Jong Bae lowered his head. He had been crying since they arrived at the beach and refused to talk to anyone. "It is not your fault".
  
  "This is my fault," Jung Bae said. "I'm responsible for this." And for the millionth time after practice shooting, he said, "I'm so sorry, guys. I am so sorry ".
  
  Brad reflected on the events of the past week. Realizing that they could not rescue the people trapped in the midnight spaceplane, he and Boomer returned to the area where three lifeboats had been dropped before Russian S-500 missiles hit the station. Boomer stepped out of the cockpit, donned his spacesuit, went into the cargo hold, and jettisoned the last few remaining pieces of cargo overboard. With Brad at the helm of the Shadow spaceplane, he maneuvered them to each of the lifeboats, and Boomer directed them into the cargo hold. Having connected oxygen, power and communication cables, they made the transition to the transfer orbit and entered the orbit of the International Space Station.
  
  It took almost two days, but they finally rendezvoused with the ISS. The skymasters brought in two station technicians in commercial spaceships to turn on the station and bring in supplies, and they used robot arms to attach the lifeboats to the docking stations. All of Armstrong's crew had to spend the night in an airlock under pure oxygen pressure to avoid nitrogen narcosis, but after that they were all deemed airworthy and returned to Earth the next day.
  
  Brad's smartphone issued a warning. "The time has come," he said.
  
  They watched and waited. Soon they were able to see what looked like a star that was getting brighter and brighter in the cloudless Nevada sky. It got brighter and brighter, and everyone who was parked on the playa thought they could actually feel the heat from the object... and then suddenly there was a terrible deafening sound, like a thousand guns firing at the same time. The windshields of the car cracked and the cars rocked on their wheels - Brad thought he was going to be pushed right off the roof of the van.
  
  The star turned into an impressive fireball that grew and grew, leaving a trail of fire for a hundred miles, until the ball began to fall apart. A second later, another powerful explosion was heard, and twenty miles to the north, viewers saw a massive fireball at least five miles in diameter, followed by a rapidly growing mushroom cloud of fire, sand and debris. They saw a huge wall of sand and smoke thousands of feet high hurtling toward them, but just when they thought they should retreat inside their vehicles, the wall began to dissipate, and luckily it was gone long before how to reach them.
  
  "Bye, Silver Tower," Boomer said. Jung Bae was openly and loudly sobbing behind them, sobbing in unbearable pain at the thought of his friend Casey Huggins in that whirlpool. "It was nice flying with you, old chap."
  
  
  SAN LUIS OBISPO COUNTY REGIONAL AIRPORT
  NEXT EVENING
  
  
  After watching the last flight of the Armstrong space station, Brad McLanahan and Jody Cavendish gave a few more media interviews in Reno and San Francisco, then they took the turbine P210 Silver Eagle back to San Luis Obispo. Night has already fallen. They had just driven the plane into the hangar and were unloading a few pieces of luggage when Chris Wall appeared at the hangar door. "You must be Staff Sergeant Vol," Jody said, holding out her hand. After a moment, Chris took it. "Brad told me a lot about you."
  
  Chris shot a questioning look at Brad. "Yes, a lot," said Brad.
  
  "I'm sorry about your friends," Chris said. "I'm glad you're back, Brad. Have you had enough space travel for a while?"
  
  "At the moment," Brad admitted. "But I'm coming back. Definitely."
  
  "Did you end all media business for a while too?"
  
  "Definitely not anymore," Jody said. "I can't wait for our lives to get back to normal. Hell, I can't even remember what's normal."
  
  "Do any of you need anything?" Chris asked. "The team will return in the morning. When you feel fit, you can start training."
  
  "He's back to his normal activities," Jody said. "Perhaps from now on I will join him."
  
  "That would be great," Chris said. "Ready to go back to the apartment?"
  
  "We'll unload and then I'll close it," Brad said. "I'll wipe it off tomorrow."
  
  "I'll take you back to Poly Canyon and then I'll go to the hotel," Chris said. "See you in the morning. I think we will update your callsign then." He gave Brad and Jodie a half-smile that was wide by Wohl's standards, and then he shoved his hands into his pockets to escape the growing cold, turned on his heel and...
  
  ... stumbled directly on the knife held by Yvette Korchkova, which sank deep into his stomach. He had enough strength and means to headbutt his attacker before falling to the pavement, clutching his stomach.
  
  "Fucking bastard," Korchkova cursed, holding her bleeding forehead. "Fucking bastard." Brad pushed Jody behind him. "We meet again, Mr. McLanahan. Thank you so much for letting the world know where you will be. Tracking you down was child's play."
  
  Brad dragged Jody to the back of the hangar, then went to the toolbox and found a crescent-shaped wrench. "Call 911," he told her. Turning to Korchkov, he said: "Sv ä rd, or whatever the hell your name is, if you don't want to be caught, you'd better leave. Security cameras have been set up at this location and Vol's troops will be here any minute."
  
  "I know where all of Sergeant Major's assistants are, Brad," Korchkov said. "They are a few hours away and I will be gone long before the police arrive. But my mission will be completed."
  
  "What mission? Why are you following me?"
  
  "Because your father made a terrible enemy in Gennady Gryzlov," Korchkov said. "He ordered the destruction of all your father's property, and you are at the top of the list. And I must say that after the devastation you caused near Moscow last week, he will have an even greater burning desire to see you dead."
  
  "The police are on their way," Jody called out.
  
  "They will be too late," Korchkov said.
  
  "Well, then go and get me, bitch," Brad said, waving at her. "Do you like doing it up close and personal? Then hug me, bitch."
  
  Korchkova moved like a cheetah, despite the wound on her forehead, and Brad was too late. He partially deflected the knife with a wrench, but the blade sliced through the left side of his neck. Jodie screamed as she saw a trickle of blood form between Brad's fingers as he tried to stop the bleeding. The wrench fell out of his hand as the room began to spin.
  
  Korchkov smiled. "Here I am, handsome space traveler," she said. "Where are your hard words now? You must have gotten a little weak after your space travels, no?" She raised the knife so Brad could see it. "Hug me goodbye."
  
  "Here's your hug, bitch," said a voice behind her, and Chris Wohl hit Korchkova on the head with a broom. She turned and was about to stab him again, but Chris fell to the floor and froze.
  
  "Finish bleeding and die, old man," Korchkov said.
  
  "He's not an old man-he's a sergeant major," Brad said just before the adjustable wrench crunched down on the back of Korchkov's head. She fell. Brad slammed the wrench hard on the hand holding the knife, pushed the blade away, then continued to hit her in the face with the wrench until he no longer recognized him. He collapsed on top of his battered body as Jody ran up to him, rolled him away from Korchkov, and pressed her fingers into the gash in his neck.
  
  Brad opened his eyes to the sound of the sirens outside the hangar and found Jody still leaning over him, her hands pressed to his bleeding neck. "Brad?" she asked. "Oh my God..."
  
  "Hi," he said. He smiled weakly at her. "Who said I can't have a good time with my girlfriend?" And he, fortunately, again fell into an unconscious state.
  
  
  EPILOGUE
  
  
  Every house has a skeleton.
  
  - ITALIAN PROVERB
  
  
  
  SCION AVIATION INTERNATIONAL HEADQUARTERS
  St. George, Utah
  A FEW DAYS LATER
  
  
  Brad was at the head of the Cyber Infantry unit when the straps began to slowly retract towards the ceiling, and a moment later Patrick McLanahan was dragged away from the robot. His body was as pale as a sheet and he was thinner than Brad could ever remember, but he wasn't as bony as he feared - he looked wiry, with good muscle tone under the snowy skin. His head was supported by a pillow attached to his own straps. Doctors and nurses rushed to him, injecting drugs and attaching sensors all over his body. They put an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose with a microphone inside.
  
  Patrick turned and opened his eyes, looking at Brad, and he smiled. "Hi son," he said. "I'm glad to see you in person, and not through an optoelectronic sensor."
  
  "Hi, dad," said Brad. He turned slightly to the right. "I would like to introduce you to Jody Cavendish, my friend and one of my Starfire team leaders. Jody, please meet my father, General Patrick S. McLanahan."
  
  Patrick closed his eyes and even tilted his head slightly. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Cavendish," he said. "I've heard a lot about you."
  
  "I'm honored to meet you, sir," Jody said.
  
  "I'm sorry about Casey Huggins and Starfire," Patrick said. "You did an amazing job."
  
  "Thank you, sir."
  
  Patrick looked at Brad. "So you're going back to school," he said. "I'm not sure if you can do any work with all the ads that are going around you guys."
  
  "We look forward to fast news cycles and short memory spans," Brad said. "California Polytechnic University is a great place. We have lost the space station. We are not heroes."
  
  "In my eyes, that's who you are," Patrick said.
  
  It didn't take long. When Patrick was hung upstairs, the old CID was taken away and a new one was wheeled in to take its place. Patrick's body was lowered inside, the straps released and the rear hatch closed. Jody was in awe as SID stood up, moved his arms and legs as if awakening from a slumber, then held out his hand to her. "It was nice meeting you, Miss Cavendish," Patrick said in his electronically synthesized voice. "I look forward to seeing you again."
  
  "We're coming next weekend to decorate your room," said Brad. "I got a bunch of your Air Force stuff out of storage. We will make this place feel like home."
  
  "I can't guarantee I'll be here, Brad," Patrick said, "but you can do whatever you want. I would like that." Brad hugged his father and he and Jodie left.
  
  Minutes after they left, with the CID connected to power, nutrients, environmental protection, and data communications, former President Kevin Martindale entered the room. "You really allowed Miss Cavendish to visit us," he remarked. "I am surprised".
  
  "She promised to keep it a secret," Patrick said. "I believe her."
  
  "It's a shame that Phoenix lost the election to Barbeau," Martindale said. "This could be the end of many government contracts."
  
  "There are a lot more clients out there," Patrick said. "We have many more projects to launch."
  
  Martindale shook his finger at Patrick. "Very smart of you, I must say," he said. "Gives Brad news articles and data on orbital solar power plants and microwave lasers. You really made your son believe that Starfire was his idea."
  
  "I tossed ideas - he had to work with them," Patrick said.
  
  "Right, right," said Martindale. "But when the idea came to fruition, it was so smart of you to secretly and discreetly send experts to him, point him to Cavendish, Kim, Huggins and Egan and invite Sky Masters to support him with this grant."
  
  "My son is a true leader," said Patrick. "He may be a terrible student of aerospace engineering, but he is a good pilot and a great leader. All I did was put the resources at his disposal - he had to put them together and build it. He did a good job."
  
  "But you used your son to create illegal directed energy space weapons in violation of international law," Martindale said. "Very, very smart. It worked. Unfortunately it was destroyed by the Russians, but it proved the value of microwave lasers. Good job, general." Martindale smiled and asked, "So what else do you have in store for young Bradley, may I ask?"
  
  "Now we have to deal with President Stacey Ann Barbeau," Patrick said. "She will undoubtedly give up the space initiative. But the good thing is that she wants to build bombers, aircraft carriers, armory ships, hypersonic weapons and everything unmanned. I'm sure Brad can design and test most of these things. I will get to work on it right now."
  
  "I'm sure you will, General McLanahan," said Martindale with an evil smile. "I'm sure it will."
  
  
  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  
  
  Information about Cane-Ja was taken from the book "Street Tricks" by Mark Shuey Sr. and Mark Shuey Jr., No Canemasters.com.
  
  The P210 Silver Eagle, a Cessna P21ўCenturion modified with a turboprop (minus many of the high tech items I added to it), is a product of O&N Aircraft, Factoryville, PA, www.onaircraft.com.
  
  Angel Flight West is a true charity that matches recipients in need of medical or humanitarian assistance with pilots who donate their aircraft, the cost of fuel and their skills to get them where they need them for medical reasons or for support, at absolutely no cost to passengers. . I flew Angel Flight West for four years and I think that may have been the main reason I became a pilot: to use my skills to help others. Find out more at www.angelflightwest.org.
  
  
  ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  
  
  Dale Brown is the author of numerous New York Times bestselling books, starting with Flights from Old Dog in 1987, and most recently Tiger's Claw. A former captain in the US Air Force, he can often be found driving his own plane in the skies of Nevada.
  
  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dale Brown
  Shadow team
  
  
  DEDICATION
  
  
  This novel is dedicated to all those who make the often difficult decision to do one simple thing: dare. When you see it happen, it's more exhilarating than a space launch and twice as powerful.
  
  
  COMPOSITION OF CHARACTERS
  
  
  
  AMERICANS:
  
  
  JOSEPH GARDNER, President of the United States
  
  KEN T. PHOENIX, Vice President
  
  CONRAD F. CARLYLE, National Security Adviser to the President
  
  MILLER H. TURNER Secretary of Defense
  
  GERALD VISTA, Director of National Intelligence
  
  WALTER CORDUS, White House Chief of Staff
  
  STACEY ANNE BARBO, Senior US Senator from Louisiana, Senate Majority Leader; Colin Morna, her assistant
  
  GENERAL TAYLOR J. BANE, US Marine, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff
  
  GENERAL CHARLES A. HUFFMAN, Chief of Air Staff
  
  AIR FORCE GENERAL BRADFORD CANNON, Commander, US Strategic Command (STRATCOM)
  
  GENERAL OF THE ARMY KENNETH LEPERS, Commander, US Central Command (CENTCOM)
  
  Major General Harold Beckman, Commander of the Fourteenth Air Force; also Commander, Joint Functional Component Command Space (JFCC-S) U.S. Strategic Command
  
  Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan, Commander, High-Tech Aerospace Weapons Center (HAWC), Elliot AFB, Nevada
  
  Brigade General DAVID LUGER, HAWC Deputy Commander
  
  COL MARTIN TEKHAMA, new commander of HAWC
  
  Major General REBECCA FURNESS, Commander, First Air Forces (air operations), Battle Mountain Reserve Air Base (ARB), Nevada
  
  BRIGAD GENERAL DAREN MAYS, Air Force Operations Officer, 111th Bomber Wing Commander and EB-1C Mission Commander
  
  MAJOR WAYNE MACOMBER, Deputy Commander (Ground Operations), First Air Combat Force, Battle Mountain AFB, Nevada
  
  MASTER SERGEANT OF THE MARINE CORPS CHRIS VOL, Sergeant of the First Air Force
  
  U.S. Army National Guard Captain CHARLIE TURLOCK, CID Pilot
  
  CAPTAIN Hunter "Boomer" NOBL, Commander XR-A9 Black Stallion, Elliot Air Force Base, Groom Lake
  
  U.S. Navy LIEUTENANT COMMANDER LIZETTE "FRENCHI" MOULIN, commander of the XR-A9 spacecraft
  
  USMC MAJ JIM TERRANOVA, XR-A9 Mission Commander
  
  ANNE PAGE, Ph.D., former US Senator, astronaut and space weapons engineer
  
  Air Force Master Sergeant VALERIE "FINDER" LUCAS, Armstrong Space Station Sensor Operator
  
  
  IRANIANS:
  
  
  GENERAL HESARAK AL-KAN BUJAZI, leader of the Persian military coup
  
  AZAR ASIA KAGEV, presumptive heir to the Peacock Throne of Persia
  
  LIEUTENANT COLONEL PARVIZ NAJAR AND Major MARA SAIDI, adjutants of Azar Kagev
  
  COLONEL MOSTAFA RAHMATI, Commander of the Fourth Infantry Brigade, Tehran-Mehrabad Airport
  
  MAJOR KULOM HADDAD, Head of the Boujazi Personal Security Team
  
  MASUD NOSHAR, Lord High Chancellor of the Kagewa Royal Court and Marshal of the Court Military Council
  
  AYATOLLAH HASSAN MOHTAZ, Supreme Leader of the Islamic Republic of Iran in Exile
  
  
  RUSSIAN:
  
  
  LEONID ZEVITIN, President of the Russian Federation
  
  PETER ORLEV, head of the presidential administration
  
  ALEXANDRA KHEDROV, Minister of Foreign Affairs
  
  IGOR TRUZNEV, head of the Federal Security Bureau
  
  ANATOLY VLASOV, Secretary of the Russian Security Council
  
  MIKHAIL OSTENKOV, Minister of National Defense
  
  GENERAL KUZMA FURZIENKO, Russian Chief of the General Staff
  
  GENERAL NIKOLAY OSTANKO, Chief of Staff of the Russian Army
  
  GENERAL ANDREY DARZOV, Chief of Staff of the Russian Air Force
  
  WOLFGANG ZIPRIES, a German laser engineer working with the Russian Air Force
  
  
  WEAPONS AND ABBREVIATIONS
  
  
  9K89 is a small Russian surface-to-surface missile.
  
  ARB - Air Force Reserve Base
  
  ATO - the order of setting tasks in the air
  
  The BDU-58 Meteor is a precision-guided vehicle designed to protect payloads from heating during re-entry; can carry about 4,000 pounds
  
  CIC - Combat Information Center
  
  Kunass - a person of Cajun ethnicity
  
  E-4B - National Airborne Operations Center
  
  E-6B Mercury - US Navy air communications and command post aircraft
  
  EB-1D-B-1 Lancer bomber modified into a long-range unmanned supersonic attack aircraft
  
  ETE - estimated travel time
  
  FAA Part 91 - Rules Governing Private Pilots and Aircraft
  
  FSB - Russian Federal Security Bureau, successor to the KGB
  
  HAWC - Center for High-Tech Aerospace Weapons
  
  ICD - Implantable Cardioverter Defibrillator
  
  Ilyushin - Russian tanker aircraft in flight
  
  MiG - Mikoyan-Gureyvich, Russian manufacturer of military aircraft
  
  OSO - Offensive Systems Officer
  
  RQ-4 Global Hawk - high-altitude long-range unmanned reconnaissance aircraft
  
  SAR, Synthetic Aperture Radar; also search and rescue
  
  Skybolt - laser for space-based missile defense
  
  SPEAR is an electronic network intrusion protection system with a flexible response to self-defense
  
  sun-synchronous - the orbit of the Earth, in which the satellite passes over the same place at the same time of day.
  
  Tupolev - Russian twin-engine jet bomber
  
  USAFE - United States Air Force in Europe
  
  VFR - Visual Flight Rules
  
  Vomiting comet - an aircraft used to perform parabolic flights to simulate weightlessness
  
  XAGM-279A SkySTREAK (tactical attack with rapid use of PGVM, or "Swift") - air-launched hypersonic strike missile, weighing 4000 pounds, 12 feet long, 24 inches in diameter; uses a solid rocket engine to propel the rocket up to Mach 3, then switches to a JP-7 jet engine powered by jet fuel and compressed atmospheric oxygen for Mach 10 flight; inertial and high-precision GPS navigation; the satellite data link operator is reprogrammed halfway through; maximum flight range along a ballistic profile 600 miles; after acceleration to Mach 10, it launches a high-precision warhead with a millimeter-wave radar and an infrared targeting terminal with automatic target recognition or target selection by a remote satellite data operator; without a warhead; two can be on board the EB-1C Vampire bomber in the aft bomb bay; four are transported inside or four outside on the EB-52 Megafortress; four are transported inside a B-2 stealth bomber
  
  XR-A9 - single-stage space plane "Black Stallion", launched into orbit
  
  
  EXTRACTS FROM REAL WORLD NEWS
  
  
  
  STRATFOR MORNING INTELLIGENCE REPORT January 18, 2007 12:16 GMT - CHINA, United States
  
  US intelligence agencies believe China destroyed an aging Feng Yun 1C meteorological satellite in polar orbit as part of a successful anti-satellite weapon test (ASAT). Jan. 11, China Daily reported on Jan. 18, citing an article published in the Jan. 22 issue of Aviation Week & Space Technology. US intelligence agencies are still trying to verify the results of the ASAT test, which would mean China has a major new military capability...
  
  ... A new cloud of debris orbiting the Earth indicates what would happen if two space powers clashed in conflict. Especially in the case of the United States, space assets have become too important an operational tool to be ignored any longer during the war.
  
  
  
  STRATFOR DAILY INTELLIGENCE REPORT April 3, 2007 - USA/IRAN:
  
  US attacks against Iran would not have resulted in a decisive military defeat for Tehran and would have been a political mistake, General J. Baluyevsky, Chief of the Russian General Staff, said. He added that the United States could harm Iran's military, but not win the conflict right away.
  
  
  
  STRATFOR INTELLIGENCE SUMMARY, September 7, 2007
  
  - Cooperation between the Russian Federal Security Service and the Iranian Interior Ministry will enhance the security of Iran's borders, said Victor Shlyakhtin, First Deputy General Director of the Russian Federal Security Service and Border Guard Service, according to an IRNA report. Shlyakhtin is in Iran to inspect Iranian-Russian projects in the regions of the Iranian province of Sistan-Baluchistan, which border Afghanistan and Pakistan.
  
  
  
  RED OCTOBER: RUSSIA, IRAN AND IRAQ
  
  - STRATFOR
  
  Geopolitical Intelligence Report, September 17, 2007-Copyright No Strategic Forecasting Inc.
  
  "...The Americans want the Russians not to provide fighter jets, modern command and control systems, or any other military systems that the Russians have developed. First of all, they want the Russians not to provide the Iranians with any technology related to nuclear weapons.
  
  So it's no coincidence that the Iranians said over the weekend that the Russians had told them they would do just that.
  
  ...[Russian President Vladimir] Putin could join the Iranians and put the United States in a much more difficult situation than it would otherwise be. He could achieve this by supporting Syria, arming militias in Lebanon, or even creating significant problems in Afghanistan, where Russia maintains a degree of influence in the North...
  
  
  
  STRATFOR INTELLIGENCE SUMMARY, OCTOBER 25, 2007, No STRATFOR INC.
  
  - During Russian President Vladimir Putin's October 16 visit to Tehran, Iran's Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei asked him to send Russian experts to help Iran figure out how Israel blocked Syrian radars ahead of the September 6 air raid, a Hezbollah source told Stratfor. Iran wants to fix a problem with Syrian radars failing because Iran uses similar equipment, the source added.
  
  
  
  RUSSIA, IRAN: THE NEXT STEP IN DIPLOMATIC TANGO
  
  - STRATFOR
  
  Global Intelligence Summary October 30, 2007 No. 2007 Stratfor, Inc. - ... Russia has a well-oiled strategy of using the interests of its Middle Eastern allies for its own political purposes. Iran is the ideal candidate. This is a powerful Islamic state that is embroiled in a showdown with the United States over its nuclear program and Iraq. Although Washington and Tehran constantly clash in the public sphere with military rhetoric, they need to deal with each other for their own strategic interests.
  
  Russia, meanwhile, is waging its own turf war with the United States, which involves a number of thorny issues, including national missile defense, Cold War treaty revisions, and Western intervention in Russia's periphery. By demonstrating that Moscow has some real influence with the Iranians, Russia gains a useful trump card in negotiations with the United States...
  
  
  
  ALTAI OPTICAL-LASER DIRECTORY, December 28, 2007
  
  - The Research Institute of Precision Instrumentation [of the Russian Federation] has established a branch of satellite tracking called the Altai Optical Laser Center (AOLS) near the small Siberian town of Savvushka. The Center consists of two facilities, one of which is currently operational and the other is planned to be operational in 2010 or after that date.
  
  The current site has a laser rangefinder for accurate orbit determination, and for the first time in Russia, a telescope with a 60 cm aperture is equipped with an adaptive optics system for high-resolution satellite imaging. The second site will be equipped with a 3.12-meter satellite imaging telescope, broadly similar to that used by the United States in Hawaii.
  
  ...Successful implementation of a 3.12-meter AOLS system would enable satellite imagery with a resolution of 25 cm [9.8 inches] or higher at a distance of 1000 km [621 miles].
  
  
  
  PROLOGUE
  
  
  Do not be too timid and scrupulous in your actions. All life is an experiment. The more experiments you do, the better.
  
  - RALPH WALDO EMERSON
  
  
  
  Over EASTERN SIBERIA
  FEBRUARY 2009
  
  
  "Ready...ready...ready...start climb, now," the ground controller radioed.
  
  "Accepted," replied the pilot of the Russian Mikoyan-Gurevich-31BM long-range interceptor of the Russian Federation. He gently lowered the control stick and began to apply power. Two Tumanski R15-BD-300 engines, the most powerful engines ever fitted to a jet fighter, roared once as the afterburners fired, then quickly came to life as the engines' fuel turbopumps picked up powerful air currents rushing in, converting air and fuel into unbridled power and acceleration.
  
  The pilot's gaze darted back and forth from the power gauges to a display that showed two crossed arrows with a circle in the middle, like an instrument landing system. He made soft, almost imperceptible control actions so that the crossed needles remained in the center of the circle. His contributions must have been tiny, because the slightest slip now, when his nose is almost forty degrees above the horizon and he is climbing, could disrupt the even flow of air into the engine intakes, causing the compressor to overshoot or stall. The MiG-31, known in the West as the "Foxhound", was not a machine that could forgive - it regularly killed sloppy or inattentive crew members. Designed for speed, it required precise control at the outer limits of its impressive performance.
  
  "Crossing ten thousand meters...Mach two tenths...fifteen thousand...forty degrees heading...Airspeed is dropping a little," the pilot intoned. The MiG-31 was one of the few aircraft that could accelerate on a steep climb, but for this test flight they were going to take it above the service ceiling of twenty thousand meters, and then its performance was significantly reduced. "We are passing twenty kilometers, the airspeed is below Mach 2... We are passing twenty-two kilometers... get ready... We are approaching the initial speed and altitude..."
  
  "Keep him in the center, Yuri," said the Mig sitting in the back seat over the intercom. The needles have moved slightly towards the edge of the circle. Tonight, the circle represented their target, relayed to them not by a powerful MiG-31 phased array radar, but by a network of space surveillance radars around the Russian Federation and relayed to them by a nearby data relay aircraft. They will never see their target and will probably never know if their mission was a success or a failure.
  
  "It's getting less responsive... Harder to fix," breathed the pilot. Both crew members were wearing spacesuits and pressure helmets that covered the entire face, like astronauts, and as the height of the cabin increased, the pressure in the spacesuit increased to compensate, making it difficult to move and breathe. "How much......longer?"
  
  "Ten seconds... nine... eight..."
  
  "Come on, you old pig, climb," the pilot grumbled.
  
  "Five seconds... Rocket ready... tree, two, adin... fire! Run!"
  
  The MiG-31 was at an altitude of twenty-five thousand meters above the Earth, the flight speed was one thousand kilometers per hour, the nose was at an altitude of fifty degrees above the horizon, when the ship's computer issued the command to launch, and a single large rocket was fired away from the fighter. Within seconds of ejection, the rocket's first-stage rocket engine caught fire, a huge column of fire erupted from the nozzles, and the rocket disappeared from view in the blink of an eye.
  
  Now it's time to fly for yourself, not for the mission, the pilot reminded himself. He returned the throttles slowly, carefully and at the same time began a slight roll to the left. The roll helped reduce lift and reduce overspeed, and would have helped lower the nose without exposing the crew to negative Gs. The pressure started to ease off, it became a little easier to breathe - or was it just because their part of the mission was...?
  
  The pilot lost concentration for only a fraction of a second, but that was enough. The moment it allowed a one-degree side-slip, the fighter flew through the shattered supersonic air created by the large rocket's exhaust tail, and the airflow through the port engine was nearly cut off. One engine coughed, gurgled, and then began to screech as fuel continued to pour into the burner tanks, but no more hot exhaust gases were pushed out.
  
  With one engine running and the other on fire, with a lack of air to restart the stalled engine, the MiG-31 aircraft was doomed. But the missile she fired worked flawlessly.
  
  Fifteen seconds after the first stage engine fired, it separated from the rocket and the second stage engine fired. Speed and height increased rapidly. Soon the rocket was five hundred miles above the earth, traveling at over three thousand miles an hour, and the second stage engine separated. Now there is a third stage. High above the atmosphere, it didn't need any control surfaces to maneuver, relying instead on tiny nitrogen-gas thrusters to maneuver. The radar in the nose of the third stage activated and began to look at a precise point in space, and a second later it aimed at its target.
  
  The rocket did not have enough speed to begin a circle around the Earth, so as soon as the second stage separated, it began its long fall, but it did not need to go into orbit: like an atmospheric anti-tank missile, it fell along a ballistic trajectory to a calculated point in space, where her prey will be in seconds. The predicted trajectory, programmed long before launch by ground controllers, was soon verified by the onboard guidance computers: the target's orbit had not changed. The interception went exactly as planned.
  
  Twenty seconds before impact, the third stage deployed a circular composite net fifty yards wide - well above the atmosphere, the net was unaffected by air pressure and remained round and strong despite speeds of several thousand miles per hour. The net was insurance against a close miss... But this time it was not needed. Because the third stage was securely locked to the target and required little to no hard maneuvering due to launch accuracy and flight path, the third stage made a direct hit on its intended target.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  "Collision, sir," the technician reported. "Telemetry from the tested item was not received."
  
  The Commanding General, Chief of Staff of the Russian Air Force Andrey Darzov, nodded. "But what about the flight path? Did the wrong launch options affect this?"
  
  The technician looked confused. "Uh...no sir, I don't think so," he said. "The launch seemed to go perfectly."
  
  "I disagree, sergeant," Darzov said. He turned to the technician and gave him an angry look. The angry look was bad enough, but Darzov had shaved his head to better show his extensive combat injuries and burns all over his head and body, and he looked even more intimidating. "This missile is very off course, and it may have mistakenly targeted and attacked an off course satellite."
  
  "Sir?" asked the technician, bewildered. "The target is... uh, the American space-based Pathfinder satellite? It was-"
  
  "Was that what we got into, sergeant?" - Asked Darzov. "Why, this was not at all in terms of flight tests. A terrible mistake has occurred and I will make sure it is fully investigated." His features softened, he smiled, then squeezed the technician's shoulder. "Be sure to write in your report that the missile is off course due to side slip in the launcher - I'll take care of the rest. And the target was not the American SBSS, but our target Soyuz spacecraft, launched into orbit last month. Is that clear, sergeant?
  
  
  CHAPTER FIRST
  
  
  It is better to be cruel if there is violence in our hearts than to put on a cloak of non-violence to cover impotence.
  
  - MAHATMA GANDHI
  
  
  
  ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION
  IN THE SAME TIME
  
  
  "All right, suckers, let's stick your head out - just a little bit," Captain Hunter "Boomer" Noble muttered. "Don't be afraid, it won't hurt at all." It was the second day of their new patrol, and so far they had not succeeded, except for the constant headache from hours of watching touchscreen monitors.
  
  "Hang in there, sir," Air Force Master Sergeant Valerie "The Seeker" Lucas said cheerfully. "You anticipate and this negative energy only keeps their heads down."
  
  "It's not negative energy, Seeker, whatever it is," Boomer said, rubbing his eyes. "It's that TV picture - it's killing me." Hunter rubbed his eyes. They were looking at a high-definition widescreen image of suburban southeastern Tehran, in what used to be the Islamic Republic of Iran but is now referred to by many around the world as the Democratic Republic of Persia. The image taken by the telescopic electro-optical camera aboard the US Air Force RQ-4 Global Hawk unmanned reconnaissance aircraft, orbiting sixty thousand feet above the city, was fairly stable, but each shaking, no matter how random, was felt by Boomer as another a pinch of sand thrown into the eyes.
  
  The two were not seated at a console in a conventional terrestrial combat control center, but in the main combat control module of the Armstrong space station, two hundred and seventy-five miles above Earth in an orbit tilted forty-seven degrees to the east. Noble and Lucas were among four additional personnel brought on board to carry out a mission to monitor and command US Air Force air combat forces over the Democratic Republic of Persia. Although Boomer was a space veteran, he had several dozen orbital flights and even spacewalks to his credit, hovering in zero gravity while staring at a monitor was not what he joined the Air Force for. "How long are we at the station?"
  
  "Just five more hours, sir," Lucas said, smiling and shaking her head in mock disbelief as Noble groaned at her answer. The Seeker was an eighteen-year-old US Air Force veteran, but she still looked barely older than the day she enlisted in January 1991, when Operation Desert Storm began, and she loved her profession as much as she did back then. . The images of laser and television-guided bombs flying through windows and into ventilation shafts fascinated and thrilled her, and she began basic training two days after graduating from high school. She attended every high-tech school and optronic sensor course she could find, quickly becoming an all-round expert in remote sensing and targeting systems. "Apart from the propulsion system, environmental and electronic systems, the most important systems in strategic intelligence are patience and an iron backside."
  
  "I'd rather fly myself," Boomer said irritably, settling back into his bulkhead mounting position in front of the large monitor. He was slightly taller than the average American astronaut, for whom most of the instruments on the space station were apparently intended, so he found that almost everything on the station was sufficiently wrong in size, height, or orientation to annoy him. Although the twenty-five-year-old test pilot, engineer and astronaut was a space veteran, he spent most of his time in space strapped into a comfortable spaceplane safety seat at the controls rather than floating in zero gravity. "All these remote-controlled things are for birds."
  
  "Are you calling me 'bird', sir?" she asked with mock disapproval.
  
  "I'm not advocating anything, Master Sergeant - I'm giving my personal opinion on this particular procedure," Boomer said. He pointed to the screen. "The picture is really good, but this radar-guided thing is driving me crazy."
  
  "It's a SAR reticle, sir," Seeker said. "It is driven by synthetic aperture radar and highlights any large vehicle or device that appears in the sensor's field of view and matches our search parameters. If we didn"t have it, we would have to manually scan every car in the city - that would really drive you crazy."
  
  "I know what it is, master sergeant," Boomer said, "but can"t you get it to stop thrashing and fluttering and shaking across the screen so much?" The monitor displayed a rectangular box that frequently appeared and disappeared in the scene. When it appeared, the box would surround the vehicle, adjust its size to match the vehicle, and then if it matched the programmed size parameters, a beep would sound and the camera would zoom in so people could see what the computers had detected . But it only stayed focused on one vehicle for five seconds before running the full area scan again, so Boomer and Seeker had to look at the screen almost constantly and be ready to hit the HOLD button to study the image before the computer shut down again. . "It gives me a hell of a headache."
  
  "I think it"s incredible that he does what he does, sir," Seeker said, "and I"m more than willing to put up with some hesitation if it helps us find -" And at that moment, the computer fixed another car, which just appeared in the parking lot next to a group of residential buildings. A second later, Seeker pressed the hold button. "Hey, we caught one!" she called. "It's Katyusha...no I think it's a Ra'ad rocket! We made them round up!"
  
  "You are my suckers," Boomer said, momentarily forgetting his supposed headache. He glanced at the monitor, but was already busy checking that the Global Hawk's target coordinates were loading correctly. The live image was incredibly detailed. They watched as four men carried a large rocket, resembling a large artillery shell with ribs, from the garage to the back of a Toyota pickup truck - it must have been very heavy, because it seemed to be difficult for them to carry. The pickup truck had a large steel frame stand mounted in the pickup frame, with a round stand on top. The men placed the missile on the back of the truck, then two of them jumped up and began to lift the missile as hard as they could towards the launcher.
  
  "Don't give it up guys," Seeker said. "You don"t want to ruin our fun, do you?" She turned to Boomer. "How much more, sir?"
  
  "Target coordinates loaded," Boomer said. "Now the countdown begins. How much time do we have?"
  
  "Once they put it in the launcher, it can be up and running in less than a minute."
  
  Boomer looked up and looked at the monitor. Several children ran up to the truck to look at the work of the terrorists - at first they were driven away, but after a few moments they were allowed to take a closer look. "Looks like it's 'Career Day' in Tehran," he said grimly.
  
  "Get out of there, kids," Seeker muttered. "It's not safe for you there."
  
  "Not because of us," Boomer said coldly. He pressed the transmitter button on his console. "The Ripper Calls Genesis".
  
  "I'm right here, Boomer," Lt. Gen. Patrick McLanahan replied, "standing" on the bulkhead behind Boomer and looking over his shoulder. A twenty-one-year Air Force veteran and three-star general, he was commander of Elliot Air Force Base, Groom Lake, Nevada, home of the Advanced Aerospace Weapons Center, or HAWC. HAWC developed the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane, along with countless other airborne weapons and aircraft, but it was leaders like Patrick McLanahan who saw the potential of these experimental devices and deployed them in crises when America or its allies would otherwise suffer. huge losses or even defeat. Short, burly but not bulky, with disarming blue eyes and a quick smile, Patrick McLanahan looked nothing like the energetic, determined, daring globe-crossing aerial bombing expert and master tactician his reputation portrayed. Like Boomer and Seeker, McLanahan was becoming a veteran astronaut, his third flight to the Armstrong space station in as many months.
  
  "We have a good option, sir," Boomer said, nodding at his monitor. "This time, too, not a small homemade Kassam or Katyusha." Boomer studied the face of the young three-star Air Force general, noticing that his eyes darted back and forth across the monitor - Boomer thought he was looking not only at the rocket, but also at the children huddled around a makeshift launcher for a terror weapon. "Master Sergeant thinks it's Raad's missile."
  
  Patrick didn't seem to hear him, but after a few moments he nodded excitedly. "I agree, Seeker," he said. "A Hezbollah weapon based on a Russian battalion-level combat missile. 200 pound warhead, simple but usually effective barometric fuze, mid-air burst with back-up percussive detonation, one hundred yard radius or more, usually filled with glass, ball bearings, and pieces of metal, as well as powerful explosives to increase the number of wounded. A real weapon of terror." He shook his head. "But there are too many civilians around. Our report says there are no civilian casualties and minimal collateral damage. Choose another target, Boomer, one with fewer outsiders. We will have many opportunities..."
  
  "We don't see many Raad missiles, sir," Seeker said. "This is not a homemade missile - this is a short-range combat ballistic missile."
  
  "I know, master sergeant, but our orders are specific and-" At that moment, the rebels drove the kids off again, more forcefully this time, as another rebel connected the ignition wires to the missile's tail, finally preparing to launch. "Now," Patrick snapped. "Take it off."
  
  "Yes sir," Boomer replied enthusiastically. He entered commands into his computer, checked the computer's responses, then nodded. "Let's go... Rocket countdown ends... Doors open... Ready... Ready... Now launch the rocket." He checked the countdown timer. "Don't let anyone blink because it won't take long."
  
  Over the Caspian Sea, 220 miles north of Tehran, an EB-1D Vampire unmanned bomber opened the combined front and center bomb bay doors and fired a single large missile. The D-Model Vampire was a modified USAF B-1B strategic bomber converted by the High-Tech Aerospace Weapons Center into a long-range unmanned flying battleship. It was capable of autonomously steering itself from takeoff to its final stop using a reprogrammable flight plan, or it could be controlled by satellite remote control, like a big multi-million dollar video game, from a laptop computer located almost anywhere.
  
  The missile that Vampire had just fired was an even more advanced weapon designed by HAWC engineers. Its unclassified designation was XAGM-279A "SKYSTRIK", but anyone who knew anything about this missile - and there were only a few people on the entire planet who did - called it "Swift". It resembled a cross between a bullet and a manta ray, with a pointed carbon-fiber nose and a bullet-like front, leading to a thin, flat fuselage and a pointed tail. After stabilization in the atmosphere, four solid rocket engines fired, propelling the weapon to well over Mach 3 and 100,000 feet in just a few seconds.
  
  Within eight seconds, the engines burned out, and a wide, flat, oval air intake opened under the rocket. The supersonic air was absorbed and compressed into the shape of the now-empty rocket motor cases, mixed with jet fuel, and ignited by high-energy pulses of laser energy. The resulting energy propelled the missile to more than ten times the speed of sound in just a few seconds, and the missile covered the distance between launch point and target in the blink of an eye, climbing 200,000 feet as range descended. The rocket burned all of its jet fuel in just a few seconds, quickly descended, and began descending back through the atmosphere. Once the outer surface temperature was within safe limits, the bullet-shaped front part separated from the spent propulsion section, which automatically shattered to pieces a moment later.
  
  Small stabilizers extended from the front, and it became a supersonic lander, heading towards its target with the help of an onboard navigation computer, refined with global positioning system signals. Fifteen seconds before impact, the protective dome detached, revealing a combination of millimeter wave radar and infrared scanner, and the warhead began transmitting video signals via satellite to the Boomer and Seeker in Dreamland. The turn signal on the video image was a few yards away, but the Seeker used a trackball and rolled the turn rectangle back on the pickup truck, which sent turn correction signals to the warhead.
  
  The video image from the warhead was clear all the way to impact. Patrick caught a glimpse of a young man, no older than fifteen or sixteen, wearing a mask and carrying an AK-47 that looked almost as big as himself, who looked directly at the approaching weapon milliseconds before the image faded. Patrick knew that the warhead had been programmed to explode a tenth of a second before impact, breaking the warhead into thousands of small super-velocity fragments, increasing the weapon's effective range to about forty to fifty yards.
  
  "Direct hit!" Boomer screamed happily. He looked at the control monitor and clapped his hands. "Total time from detection to impact: forty-eight point nine seconds. Less than a fucking minute left!"
  
  "It's more like a Maverick missile-or a sniper's bullet-only fired from two hundred miles away!" the Seeker exclaimed. She switched back to the Globalhawk image of the target area and zoomed in to get a closer look at the site of the Swift warhead's impact. "Pretty good city weapon effects, sir, exactly what you were hoping for. A really decent size hole, about fifteen or twenty feet in diameter - it looks like the center has been punched through the concrete roof of the garage a floor below - but I don't see any damage to nearby buildings, except for a few broken windows. Even a 250-pound bomb of small diameter could penetrate the walls of the building facing the explosion site."
  
  "Since there is no explosive warhead on the Swift, there is nothing there that could cause any collateral damage," Boomer said. "We put just enough shaped explosives in the warhead to blow it apart in milliseconds before impact, and this was done both to increase the effect of the weapon a little, and to destroy as much evidence as possible. All they have to find are tiny pieces-"
  
  "Oh... my... God," the Seeker breathed. She zoomed out to take a little more look at her surroundings. Just outside the apartment complex were crowds of people, perhaps two dozen or so, lying on the sidewalk and street, while others helped them, desperately calling for help. "What the hell happened here? Where did these people come from, and why are they lying on the ground like this? Are they from an apartment complex...?"
  
  Swift must have detonated the Raad missile warhead, Boomer said. They all studied the image carefully as the Seeker manually controlled the camera and zoomed in. "But what is going on? These people were not even close to the site of the explosion, but they are staggering as if they were hit. Was it shrapnel from a Ra'ad warhead? The Swift has no explosive - it's all kinetic energy. Persian army approaching? What's happening...?"
  
  "A cloud of chemical weapons," Patrick said.
  
  "What...?"
  
  "It looks like some kind of cloud of chemical weapons spreading from the target area," Patrick said. He pointed to the monitor. "No more than thirty feet from us. Here is a small part of the cloud ... Look, it does not rise like a cloud from an explosion or from high temperature, but moves horizontally, blown by air currents." He took a closer look. "Not twitching...it's hard to tell but it looks like he's rubbing his eyes and face and he's having trouble breathing. I bet it's the blistering substance... lewisite or phosgene. Mustard gas would take longer to incapacitate someone, even in high concentrations...look, now someone is falling on the other side of the street. God, there must have been several liters of CW in the warhead."
  
  "My God," the Seeker breathed. "I have been handling remote sensors for almost twenty years and I have never seen anyone die from a chemical weapons attack."
  
  "I have a feeling that the powers that be will not like this," Patrick said.
  
  "Should we recall the Vampire, sir?"
  
  "Hell no," Patrick said. "We still have three more Swifts on board, and another Vampire is loaded and waiting to be shipped to Mosul. Keep scanning for new rebels. Congratulations Boomer. Break through the sky worked perfectly. Nail down a few more rebels for us."
  
  "You understand, sir," Boomer said happily.
  
  
  ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION
  A little while later
  
  
  Unfortunately, Patrick was absolutely right. Images of the Global Hawk were broadcast to several ground locations as well as the Silver Tower, including the Joint Chiefs of Staff operations center in Washington, and it was from there that he received his first call just moments later: "Genesis, this is Rook." It was from the duty officer at the JCS operations center. "Get ready, please." A moment later, the Air Force Chief of Staff, General Charles A. Huffman, appeared on the videoconference channel, looking slightly pale himself, but still very angry.
  
  Huffman, a tall, dark-haired, very young man with rugged, athletic features-more like a linebacker than a running back, Boomer thought-was typical of a new breed of leader in the American military. In the five years since the air strike by Russian nuclear cruise missiles on the continental United States, known as the "American Holocaust", which killed several thousand people, injured hundreds of thousands, destroyed several air force bases and almost all American bombers long-range troops were decimated, the military ranks were swelled with energetic young men and women who wanted to defend their country, and many officers were promoted well below their core zones and appointed to important command posts years before that was possible. Also, because senior leaders with extensive combat experience remained at the head of tactical units or high commands, often officers with less direct combat experience were placed in more administrative and training positions-and since the office of the chief of staff was primarily concerned with equipping and training its forces rather than leading them into battle, it seemed like a good match.
  
  The same was true for Huffman: Patrick knew he came from a logistics background, command pilot, Air Force wing and license plate commander, and former Air Force Materiel Command commander with over fifteen thousand flight hours on various cargo, transport aircraft and communications aircraft in two conflicts, and with extensive experience in supply, resource management, testing and evaluation. As a former head of materiel command, Huffman was the figurehead of operations at the top-secret High-Tech Aerospace Weapons Center at Elliot Air Force Base, though this relationship was primarily administrative and logistical-in operational terms, HAWC commanders reported to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff or Secretary of Defense at the Pentagon, National Security Adviser at the White House, or-at least under former President Kevin Martindale-directly in front of the President himself.
  
  Patrick had never worked in logistics, but he knew that logistics officers like to keep their world as tidy, orderly, and organized as possible. Although they learned to expect the unexpected, they greatly preferred to anticipate, predict, and manage the unexpected, and so anything unexpected was not welcomed. However, he knew Huffman, and he knew that's how Huffman likes it: no surprises. "McLanahan, what the hell happened there?"
  
  "Calling Genesis, please repeat," 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 network and could be eavesdropped.
  
  "We're safe here, McLanahan," Huffman boomed. "What the hell is going on? What's happened?"
  
  "We shot down a rebel rocket launcher and apparently detonated its chemical warhead, sir."
  
  "What did you hit him with?"
  
  "XAGM-279 with a kinetic warhead, sir," Patrick replied, using the Skystreak's experimental model number instead of its name to confuse any eavesdroppers. "It contains almost no explosives-just enough to shatter a warhead."
  
  "What is XAGM-279? An experimental missile with high-precision guidance?
  
  That's it for communications security, Patrick thought, shaking his head. Five years after the American Holocaust and seven years after 9/11, many people have forgotten or abandoned the tight security measures that were put in place in the aftermath of those two devastating attacks. "Yes sir" was all Patrick said.
  
  "Launched from that unmanned B-1?"
  
  "Yes, sir." Anyone who listened to this conversation-and Patrick didn't kid himself that any number of agencies or divisions around the world could do it so easily-could piece together their entire operation by now. "Two days ago I informed the staff about the operation."
  
  "Dammit, McLanahan, you warned of minimal collateral damage, not dozens of dead women and children lying in the street!" Huffman was crying. "That was the only way we could sell your idea to the president."
  
  "The weapon did little to no collateral damage, sir. The cause of all these civilian casualties was the chemical warhead on the rebel rocket."
  
  "Do you believe anyone cares a little about this?" Huffman said. "This is a big mistake, McLanahan. The press will have a great day to discuss this." Patrick remained silent. "Well?"
  
  "I don't think my task force or my responsibility should be concerned about what enemy weapons do to civilians, sir," Patrick said. "Our job is to track down rebels who fire rockets at population centers in Tehran and destroy them."
  
  "Kagev members in the Turkmen rebel network and Bujazi spies in Mokhtaz"s security force have informed us that the rebels can use weapons of mass destruction at any time, McLanahan," Huffman said. Patrick suppressed another exasperated sigh: Huffman had just uncovered two highly classified intelligence sources-if anyone was eavesdropping, those sources were dead in just a few days, maybe hours. "You should have adjusted your tactics accordingly."
  
  "Tactics have been adjusted, sir - I have been ordered to reduce the number of bombers on the station from three to one," Patrick replied. - you, he added to himself. "But we don't have enough information about the city to deal effectively with the number of registered launchers. I recommend we launch two more bombers so we can track down more launchers before the insurgents actually start bombarding the city with chemical warheads."
  
  "Are you crazy, McLanahan?" Huffman objected. "The President will probably order the shutdown of the entire program because of this! The last thing he will do is send more bombers there. Whatever the case, we will spend a week defending ourselves against allegations of releasing these chemical warheads. You will immediately withdraw your aircraft, then prepare to interrogate the CEO and probably all national security personnel. I want a full incident report on my desk in an hour. It's clear?"
  
  "Yes, sir."
  
  "And after the briefing is over, get your ass off the damn space station," Huffman said. "I don't know why my predecessor let you go up there, but you don't have the right to trudge up to that floating pile of pipes whenever you feel like it. I need you here - if only so that you personally answer to the national command for another mistake in judgment."
  
  "Yes, sir," Patrick replied, but by the time he spoke, the transmission was over. He broke off the videoconference, thought for a moment, then said, "McLanahan calling Mace."
  
  Another window opened in the opposite bottom corner of Boomer's large multifunctional screen, and he saw an image of Brigadier General Daren Mace, operations officer and second in command of the Air Force Assault Wing at Battle Mountain Reserve Air Force Base in northern Nevada. The Battle Mountain Air Wing was the home base and central control point for the long-range unmanned bombers, although HAWC commanders could also issue instructions to the bombers.
  
  "Yes, general?" Mace replied. Only a few years older than Patrick, Darren Mace was a veteran B-1B Lancer OSO strategic bomber, or offensive systems officer, and bomber wing commander. His experience in assault systems and the capabilities of the B-1 led to him being selected as head of the Air Force's long-range supersonic attack fleet.
  
  "Recall the damned vampires," Patrick ordered colorlessly.
  
  "But, sir, we still have three more Swifts aboard the Vampire, and he has at least two more hours to get back to Batman Air Force Base in Turkey," Boomer interjected. "Intelligence informed us that-"
  
  "The operational test went well, 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 softly, head down, his voice sounding utterly exhausted.
  
  "Yes, sir," replied the experienced bomber navigator. He entered instructions from the keyboard on his computer console. The Vampire is on its way back to Batman Air Base in Turkey, sir, within forty-five minutes. How about follow-up sorties?"
  
  "Keep them in the hangars until I give the order," Patrick replied.
  
  "What about our shadow, sir?" Darren asked.
  
  Patrick looked at another monitor. Yes, it was still there: a Russian MiG-29 Fulcrum jet fighter, one of several that had hung next to the bomber since it began patrolling, always within a mile or two of the Vampire without taking any action. no threatening movements, but certainly capable of attacking at any second. He certainly had a front row seat for the SkySTREAK presentation. The Vampire Bomber took several photographs of the fighter jet with its high-resolution digital camera, so detailed they could almost read the pilot's name stenciled on the front of his flight suit.
  
  "If he targets the Vampire, shoot him down immediately," Patrick said. "Otherwise, we"ll let it-"
  
  At that moment, they heard a computer synthesized voice announce, "Attention, attention, rocket launch! The SPEAR system is activated!"
  
  Patrick shook his head and sighed loudly. "The game is on, team," he said. "The battle starts today and it has little to do with Persia." He turned to the computer screen of the Battle Mountain command center. "Cover that bastard, Darren," Patrick radioed.
  
  "He's hurt, sir," Daren said.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  As soon as the Vampire bomber detected a missile launch, its latest and most powerful self-defense system was activated: ALQ-293 SPEAR, or Electronic Self-Defense Rapid Response System. Large sections of the EB-1D Vampire's composite shell were redesigned to act as an electronically scaled antenna that could transmit and receive many different electromagnetic signals, including radar, laser, radio, and even computer data code.
  
  As soon as the Miga radar was detected, the SPEAR system immediately classified the radar, studied its software and developed a method to not only jam its frequency, but also interact with the radar's digital control itself. Once the missile launch was detected, SPEAR sent commands to the MiG fire control system to command the missile to immediately switch to infrared homing mode, then cut off the digital guidance link from the fighter. The missiles automatically disabled their airborne radars and activated their infrared homing system, but they were too far away from the Vampire bomber to be detected by the heat-seeking sensor, and the missiles fell harmlessly into the Caspian Sea without finding their targets.
  
  But the SPEAR was not ready. After the missiles were hit, SPEAR sent digital instructions to the MiG-29 via the fire control system to begin shutting down the aircraft's computer-controlled systems. One by one, navigation, engine control, flight control, and communications went off by themselves.
  
  In the blink of an eye, the pilot found himself sitting in an absolutely silent and dark glider, as if he were sitting on a ramp at his home base.
  
  To his credit, the veteran pilot didn't panic or eject - he didn't get out of control, not yet, but just... well, blacked out. There was only one thing left to do: turn off all the switches to reset the computers, then turn everything back on and hope he could start his damaged plane again before it crashed into the Caspian Sea. He switched his checklist to the "BEFORE POWER ON" pages and began shutting down every system on the plane. His last view from the window was of a large American B-1 bomber swerving to the left, waving goodbye to the Russian, and flying off to the northwest, picking up speed quickly and out of sight.
  
  No one in the Russian Air Force has ever completed a series of checklists faster than him. He descended from forty-two thousand feet to four thousand feet over the Caspian Sea before he was able to shut down his jet, turn it back on, and the engines started up again. Fortunately, no matter what evil spirits had inhabited his MiG-29, they were no more.
  
  For a brief moment, the Russian pilot of the MiG thought about chasing an American bomber completely silent to radar and planting a cannonball round in its tail - he would still be blamed for almost crashing his plane, so why not leave in the glow glory? - but after a moment's thought, he decided it was a stupid idea. He didn't know what caused the mysterious blackout - was it some kind of American weapon or a glitch in his own plane? In addition, the American bomber no longer fired any missiles that could be "mistaken" for an attack against it. It was not a war between Americans and Russians...
  
  ... though he felt it could certainly turn into one at any moment.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  "Let's wrap things up and then get ready to go back to HAWC, Boomer," Patrick said after they were sure the EB-1C Vampire bomber was making it back safely to Batman Air Force Base in Turkey. His voice sounded very tired, and his expression seemed even more tired. "Great job. The system seems to be working fine. We have proven that we can control drones with Silver Tower. This should provide us with some maintenance funding for at least another year."
  
  "General, it's not your fault that the damn rebels had a bunch of kids when the Skystreak attacked, or that they loaded that Raad missile with poisonous gas," Hunter Noble replied, looking worriedly at Master Sergeant Lucas.
  
  "I know, Boomer," Patrick said, "but it still doesn't make it any easier to watch innocent men, women and children die like this."
  
  "Sir, we're here, the Vampire is loaded, the Skystreaks are working fine, and no doubt there are these poison gas warhead raads somewhere else," Boomer said. "I think we should stay and-"
  
  "I hear you, Boomer, but we checked the system - that was the purpose of the mission," Patrick said.
  
  "Our other goal was to try and control a few bombers and a few combat operations," Boomer reminded him. "We've had enough trouble getting permission and funding to do this mission - getting approval for another mission to do what we could do on this flight will be even more difficult."
  
  "I know, I know," Patrick said wearily. "I'll ask, Boomer, but I don't count on it. We need to analyze the data, prepare a summary report, and inform the chief. Let's get down to it."
  
  "But sir-"
  
  "Meet me back here in ten, Boomer," Patrick finally said, pulling out of his anchor position and heading for the sleeper.
  
  "It looks like he took it hard," Seeker said after the general left the control module. Boomer didn't answer. "It kind of shocked me too. Is your general health okay?
  
  "He's had a tough trip here," Boomer said. "Each entry into orbit was difficult for him, but he continues to fly here. I think the last push took a lot of his strength. He probably shouldn't be making those trips anymore."
  
  "It could have been watching these people get killed like that," Seeker said. "I have seen the aftermath of a guided missile attack many times, but somehow a biochemical weapon attack... is different, you know? More cruel." She looked at Boomer curiously, unable to read his rather expressionless expression. "Did it shock you too, Boomer?"
  
  "Well..." And then he shook his head and added, "No, it's not, Seeker. All I want to do now is hunt down more bad guys. I don't understand why the general wanted to end this so quickly."
  
  "You heard the chief, sir," the Seeker said. "The general wanted to send two other bombers."
  
  "I know, I know". Boomer examined the module. "What we can do aboard this station is amazing, Sergeant, really amazing - we should be allowed to do it. We need to convince the powers that be that we can get the Air Force on its toes. We can't do that if we take our planes out when a small child ten thousand miles away is caught in the crossfire. I can"t believe the general"s eyes are clouded like that."
  
  Master Sergeant Lucas looked sternly at Boomer. "Do you mind if I say something, sir?" she finally asked.
  
  "Go straight ahead, Seeker...or is it 'Master Sergeant' now?"
  
  "I haven't been with HAWC that long - not as long as you," Lucas said, ignoring the sarcastic remark, "and I don't know General McLanahan that well, but this guy is a goddamn hero in my book. He spent almost twenty years risking his ass in battles all over the world. He was kicked out of the Air Force twice but returned because he is dedicated to his country and service."
  
  "Hey, I'm not going to defame the guy-"
  
  The "guy" you are referring to, sir, is a three-star general in the US Air Force and commands the largest and most highly classified aerospace research center in the US military," Lucas interrupted hotly. "General McLanahan is nothing short of a legend. He's been shot, shot, blown up, beaten, ridiculed, arrested , demoted and called names by every name in the book. already... seven years? Eight? You are a talented engineer, skilled pilot and astronaut-"
  
  "But?" I asked.
  
  "-but you're not in the league of generals, sir-far, far away from that," Lucas continued. "You are inexperienced and have not demonstrated the same level of commitment as the general. You are not qualified enough to judge a general - in fact, in my opinion, sir, you have not earned the right to speak of him in this way."
  
  "Like you are talking to me right now?"
  
  "Write about me if you like, sir, but I don't like you overestimating the general like that," Lucas said decisively. She logged out of her console and separated herself from the bulkhead with an indignant jerk and a loud growl! Velcro. "I'll help you download the sensor data and prepare a report for the general, and then I'll be happy to help you prepare the Black Stallion for undocking...so you can head home as soon as possible, sir." She said the word "sir", more like the word "mutt", and this blow did not escape Boomer.
  
  With Seeker's annoyed and irate help - not to mention they didn't interact much while working - Boomer was really done quickly. He uploaded his data and findings to the general. "Thank you, Boomer," McLanahan answered over the radio. "We plan to have a video conference in about ninety minutes. I learned that the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the National Security Adviser were going to be present. Relax for a while and get some rest."
  
  "I'm fine, sir," Boomer replied. "I'll hide in the Skybolt, get my email and check on my girlfriends."
  
  'Girlfriends'...plural?'
  
  "I don't know - we'll see what the emails say," Boomer said. "None of them like me disappearing for days and weeks, and I certainly can't tell them that I've been destroying terrorists the hell out of space."
  
  "They probably wouldn't believe you if you told them."
  
  "The ladies I hang out with can't tell a space station from a gas station - and I love that," Boomer admitted. "They don't know or don't care what I do for a living. All they want is attention and a good time in the city, and if they don't get that, they drift apart."
  
  "Sounds lonely."
  
  "That's why I always prefer to have more than one on the hook, sir," Boomer said.
  
  "Maybe fireworks if they ever bump into each other, huh?"
  
  "We connect all the time, sir," Boomer said. "No bragging, just a fact. Like I said, all they want is attention and they get even more attention if people see them arm in arm with another hot babe. Besides, if there is ever any conversation..."
  
  "Wait, wait, I know this, Boomer: 'If there's any conversation, you don't have to interfere'," Patrick put in with a laugh. Meet me at the command module in sixty minutes so we can rehearse our dog and pony show."
  
  "Yes sir," Boomer replied. Before McLanahan hung up, he asked, "Uh, General?"
  
  "Continue".
  
  "I'm sorry if I went overboard earlier."
  
  "I expect you to share your professional opinion and point of view with me at any time, Boomer, especially on a mission," Patrick said. "If you were out of line, I wouldn't hesitate to let you know."
  
  "I got pretty pissed watching these bastards set up a missile with a damn chemical warhead on it. All I wanted to do was blow some more."
  
  "I hear you. But it is much more important that we launch this program. We both know that we will have to face criticism for what happened in Tehran - launching more missiles would not help us."
  
  "Maybe killing a few more terrorists would keep them low and hiding in their burrows for a few more days."
  
  "We have an incredible weapon at our disposal, Boomer-let's not let the power go to our heads," Patrick said patiently. "It was an operational test, not a real mission. I know it's tempting to play Zeus with a few SkySTREAK missiles, but that's not what we're here for. See you here in sixty."
  
  "Yes sir," he replied. Just before the general logged out, Boomer noted to himself that the general looked even more tired than he had at any time since the beginning of this foray into the space station - perhaps a combination of monitoring the release of chemical weapons and monthly flights into space began get on his nerves. Boomer was half his age, and sometimes the stress of traveling, especially recent fast turns, high-G approaches, and the many sorties they flew, wore him down quickly.
  
  Boomer swam back to the crew bay, retrieved his wireless headphones and video eyes, and swam to the Skybolt laser module on the "bottom" of the station. The Skybolt was the most powerful and therefore the most controversial piece of station technology, a multi-gigawatt free electron laser powerful enough to pierce Earth's atmosphere and melt steel in seconds. Connected to the Silver Tower's radar and other sensors, the Skybolt could hit targets the size of a car and burn through the top armor of all but the most modern main battle tanks. Classified as "weapons of mass destruction" by all of America's adversaries, the United Nations has called for the deactivation of the weapon for years, and only America's veto power in the Security Council has kept it alive.
  
  Ann Page, Skybolt's developer, operator, and chief advocate, was on Earth preparing to testify to Congress on why weapons funding should continue, and Boomer knew that very few others on the station had ever come close to this thing-" The Skybolt was powered by an MHDG, or Magnetohydrodynamic Generator, which used two small nuclear reactors to quickly send a jet of molten metal back and forth through a magnetic field to produce the enormous amount of power required by the laser, and no amount of shielding and Ann's assurances could dispel anyone's or fears - it means that he often went into the module to calm down a little. The Skybolt module was about a quarter the size of the main station modules, so it was relatively cramped inside and crammed with pipes, wires, and lots of computers and other components, but the soft hum of the MHDG drive circulators and excellent computers and communications equipment made it Boomer's favorite place to he could seclude himself from the others for a while.
  
  Boomer plugged his headphones and video eyes into the module's computers, logged in, and began downloading e-mail. While headphones and goggles were a problem, there was very little privacy in the Silver Tower, even in the huge modules, so the only semblance of privacy came down to the space between the ears. Everyone assumed that if the personnel of the top-secret, high-tech Aerospace Weapons Center were aboard the space station, then all incoming and outgoing transmissions of any kind were recorded and monitored, so "confidentiality" was an empty idea at best.
  
  It's good that he bothered to put on the gear because the video emails from his girlfriends were definitely not meant for public viewing. Chloe's video was typical: "Boomer, where the hell are you?" It began with Chloe sitting in front of her videophone and taking pictures of herself. "I'm starting to get tired of you disappearing like this. No one in your unit would tell me a damn thing. That sergeant who answers the phone should be fired, faggot." Chloe called any man who didn't immediately hit on her a "faggot", believing that being gay was the only reason any normal man wouldn't want to fuck her right away.
  
  She paused for a moment, her features softening a bit, and Boomer knew the show was about to begin: "You better not be with that blond, spiky-haired bitch, Tammy or Teresa or whatever the hell her name is. You're at her place, aren't you, or did you two fly off to Mexico or Hawaii, didn't you? You two just fucked and are checking email while she is taking a shower, right?" Chloe set the videophone down on the table, unbuttoned her blouse, and pulled her big, firm breasts out from under her bra. "Let me just remind you, Boomer, what are you missing here." She sensually put her finger in her mouth, then circled her nipples with it. "Get your ass back here and stop hanging out with those stinky bottle-blonde sluts." She smiled seductively, then hung up.
  
  "Crazy bitch," Boomer muttered as he continued to scroll through the messages, determined to find her as soon as he got back. After previewing additional messages, he stopped and immediately entered the code to access the satellite Internet server. Another benefit of the new US space initiative, centered on the Armstrong space station, was the forthcoming availability of near-universal Internet access through a constellation of more than one hundred low-orbit satellites that provided global low-speed Internet access, plus ten geostationary satellites that provided high-speed broadband access. to the Internet in most of the Northern Hemisphere.
  
  "No IP address, no extensions, no active server public ID - must be a call from outer space," came a response from John Masters moments after a videophone connection was established to the secure address provided. John Masters was vice president of Sky Masters Inc., a small, high-tech R&D company that developed and licensed a variety of cutting-edge aerospace technologies, from microsatellites to space boosters. Masters, a scientist and engineer with several Ph. "Thanks for calling me back, Boomer."
  
  "No problem, John."
  
  "How are things up there?"
  
  "Great. Fine."
  
  "I know you can't talk about it on the satellite server, even if it's encrypted. Just wanted to make sure you're all right."
  
  "Thank you. I'm fine ".
  
  There was a short pause; then: "You sound a little depressed, my friend."
  
  "No".
  
  "Fine". Another pause. "So. What do you think of my proposal?"
  
  "That's extremely generous, John," Boomer said. "I'm not sure if I deserve this."
  
  "I wouldn't suggest it if I didn't think you would."
  
  "And I can work on whatever I want?"
  
  "Well, we hope we can get you to help out with other projects," Masters said, "but I want you to do what you do best: think outside the box and create fresh, innovative, and mind-blowing projects. I'm not trying to play or anticipate the development of the aerospace market, Boomer - I'm trying to shape it. This is what I want you to do. You will answer to no one but me, and you can choose your team, your protocols, your design approach, and your timelines - within reason, of course. You unsettle me with your ideas and I will support you until the end."
  
  "And this is a rough budget figure for my lab...?"
  
  "Yes?" I asked.
  
  "Is this for real, John?"
  
  "It's just a starting point, Boomer is the bare minimum," Masters chuckled. "You want it in writing, just say so, but I guarantee you will have a generous budget to build a team to research and evaluate your projects."
  
  "Even so, it's not enough for the whole division. I will need-"
  
  "You don't understand, Boomer," Masters interjected excitedly. "This money is only for you and your team, and is not distributed to all employees in your division, existing projects, or specific programs or technologies approved by the company."
  
  "Are you kidding!"
  
  "I'm serious as a heart attack, brother," Masters said. "And it's not because of things like company-wide expenses, compliance mandates or security, but because of the costs associated with your team and project. I believe in giving our best engineers the tools they need to get the job done."
  
  "I can not believe this. I have never even heard of a small company like this investing that kind of money."
  
  "Believe it, Boomer," Masters said. "We may be small, but we have investors and a board of directors who think big and expect big things to happen."
  
  "Investors? Board of Directors...?"
  
  "We all obey someone, Boomer," Masters said. "I ran my company on my own with a hand-picked board of directors and everything was fine until projects got smaller and money got tight. There were a lot of investors who wanted to be part of what we were doing here, but nobody wants to invest hundreds of millions of dollars in a one-man show. We're public and I'm not the president anymore, but everyone knows I'm the guy who works miracles."
  
  "I don't know..."
  
  "Don't worry about the board, Boomer. You report to me. Mind you, I'm going to make you work for every cent. I'm going to expect big things from you, and I'll be bugging your ears about what I know or find about government RFPs, but like I said, I don't want you to wait for some sausage in The Pentagon will tell us what they might want - I want us to tell them what they want. So what do you say? Are you in business?
  
  "I'm thinking about it, John."
  
  "Fine. No problem. I know your Air Force obligations expire in eight months, right?" Boomer suggested that John Masters knew this until the day his educational obligations to the Air Force for pilot training ended. "I guarantee that before then they will offer you regular commissions along with a big bonus. They may try to stop you by claiming you have a critical specialty, but we'll deal with that when and if we need to. I have enough Air Force contracts and enough Pentagon buddies to put some pressure on them to respect your decisions. After all, you are not going to go to work for an airline, be a consultant or a lobbyist - you will work for a company that creates next generation equipment for them."
  
  "Sounds tempting."
  
  "I bet it is, Boomer," said John Masters. "Don't worry about anything. One more thing, mate. I know I'm older than you, maybe old enough to be your father if I started really early, so I can give you a little warning."
  
  "What is it, John?"
  
  "I know trying to tell you to be calm and play it safe and maybe not fly on missions as often is like trying to tell my golden retriever to stay away from the lake, but I wouldn't want a future VP of the company on research and development has become a shooting star, so calm down, okay?"
  
  "Vice President?"
  
  "Oh, did I say that out loud?" The masters are unperturbed. "You shouldn't have heard this. Forget I said it. Forget that the board considered this but didn't want me to reveal it. It's time to go before I tell you about the other thing the board has been spinning... oops, almost did it again. Later, Boomer."
  
  
  OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT, KREMLIN, MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION
  A little while later
  
  
  The hall was loudly brought to attention when President of the Russian Federation Leonid Zevitin quickly entered the conference room, accompanied by his chief of staff Pyotr Orlev, Security Council Secretary Anatoly Vlasov; Minister of Foreign Affairs Alexandra Khedrov; and the head of the Federal Security Bureau, Igor Truznev. "Take your seats," Zevitin ordered, and the officers already in the room were General Kuzma Furzienko, chief of staff; General Nikolai Ostanko, Chief of Staff of the Ground Forces; and General Andrey Darzov, Chief of Staff of the Air Force, shuffled over to their chairs. "So. I instructed our fighter jet to attack an unmanned American bomber if it fired a missile, and since we're meeting so quickly, I assume it happened and we did. What's happened?"
  
  "An American B-1 bomber successfully launched a missile from across the Caspian Sea, which reportedly destroyed a Hezbollah unit preparing to launch a missile from a residential complex in southeast Tehran," General Darzov replied. "The missile took a direct hit on the starting squad, killing the entire crew..." He paused, then added, "Including our Special Forces adviser. Then the bomber-"
  
  "Wait, general, wait a second," Zevitin said impatiently, raising his hand. "They launched a rocket from over the Caspian Sea? You mean a cruise missile, not a laser-guided bomb or a TV-guided missile?" Many around the table narrowed their eyes, not because they didn't like Zevitin's tone or question, but because they weren't used to someone with such a distinct Western accent at a secret meeting in the Kremlin.
  
  Leonid Zevitin, one of Russia's youngest leaders since the fall of the Tsars, was born outside St. Petersburg, but was educated and spent most of his life in Europe and the United States, and therefore had almost no Russian accent if he didn't want to. or did not need it, for example, when he spoke to the citizens of Russia at a political rally. Often appearing around the world with starlets and royalty, Zevitin comes from the world of international banking and finance, not politics or the military. After decades of old, boring political bosses or bureaucratic henchmen as president, the election of Leonid Zevitin was seen by most Russians as a breath of fresh air.
  
  But behind the secret walls of the Kremlin, he was something completely different than just expensive silk suits, impeccable hair, a jet-setter style and a million dollar smile - he was a puppeteer in the great old Russian tradition, just as cold, calculating and devoid of any -any warm personality traits, like the worst of his predecessors. Since he had no political, apparatus, military or intelligence experience, no one knew how Zevitin thought, what he wanted, or who his allies or captains in the government were - his henchmen could be anyone, anywhere. This caused much of the Kremlin to be taken by surprise, suspicious, silent and at least openly loyal.
  
  "No, sir - the missile flew faster than Mach 4, which is the maximum speed at which our fighter's radar can track a target. I would describe it as a very high speed guided missile."
  
  "Then I'm assuming you compared launch time and exposure time and got a number?"
  
  "Yes, sir." There was pain in his eyes - no one could tell if it was because the general was afraid to give the president bad news, or because he was being lectured by this young playboy with a foreign accent.
  
  "But you don't believe in the number you calculated," Zevitin said for the Air Force Chief of Staff. "Obviously, this weapon was something we didn't expect. What was the speed, general?"
  
  "Medium speed, Mach five point seven."
  
  "Nearly six times the speed of sound? This news made every security officer lean back in their chair. "And it was an average speed, which means that the maximum speed was Mach ... ten? Do the Americans have an attack missile that can fly at Mach 10? Why didn't we know about this?"
  
  "Now we know, sir," General Furzienko said. "The Americans made the mistake of using their new toy with one of our wingtip fighters."
  
  "Obviously they were not concerned enough with our fighter to cancel their patrol or attack," Zevitin suggested.
  
  "It was what the Americans call an 'operational check', sir," Air Force Chief of Staff Gen. Andrey Darzov said. A short, battle-worn Air Force bomber pilot, Darzov preferred to shave his head baldly because he knew how it frightened many people, especially politicians and bureaucrats. He had noticeable burn scars on the left side of his neck and on his left arm, and was missing the fourth and fifth fingers of his left hand, all from injuries sustained during the bombing of Engels Air Base, Russia's main bomber base, a few years earlier, when he served as commander of a long-range aviation division.
  
  Darzov wanted nothing but bloody retribution for the total devastation inflicted on his headquarters during the surprise attack on Engels, and vowed revenge on the commander of the US Air Force who planned and carried out this ... Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan.
  
  Under the former chief of staff of the armed forces turned president, Anatoly Gryzlov, who wanted revenge on the United States as much as Darzov did, he soon got his opportunity. Just a year later, Andrey Darzov was masterminding a plan to modify Russian Tu-95 Bear, Tu-26 Backfire and Tu-160 Blackjack long-range bombers with aerial refueling probes to give them the range to strike the United States. It was a daring, ambitious plan that succeeded in destroying most of the United States' long-range bombers and the control centers of more than half of its land-based nuclear-tipped ICBMs. The devastating attack killed more than 30,000 people, injured or made thousands more sick, and soon became known as the "American Holocaust."
  
  But Darzov did not listen to his sworn enemy Patrick McLanahan to the end. When McLanahan's counterattack destroyed an almost equivalent number of Russia's most powerful silo and mobile intercontinental ballistic missiles, someone had to take the blame - apart from then Russian President General Gryzlov, who was killed in a US airstrike on his Ryazan underground command center - and it was Darzov. He was accused of deciding to place all Ilyushin-78 and Tupolev-16 tanker aircraft at one isolated air base in Siberia, Yakutsk, and of not providing sufficient security there, which allowed McLanahan and his air force to forces to capture the base and use the huge amount of fuel stored there, which was used by McLanahan's bombers to track down and destroy the Russian nuclear deterrent on the ground.
  
  Darzov was demoted to a one-star general and sent to Yakutsk to oversee the clearing and eventual closure of this once-vital Siberian base-because in an attempt to destroy McLanahan's bombers on the ground, Gryzlov ordered an attack on Yakutsk with low-yield nuclear weapons. Although only four of the dozens of nuclear warheads penetrated McLanahan's missile shield around the base, and all of them were fired from high altitude to minimize fallout, most of the base was severely damaged and its heart was leveled and uninhabitable. There was much speculation that the General Staff hoped that Darzov would fall ill from the lingering radioactivity so that they would be spared the chore of taking out the popular, smart young general. An officer.
  
  But Darzov not only did not die, he did not stay long in virtual exile in Siberia. In terms of health, Darzov and his loyal senior staff survived using radioactive decontamination equipment left behind by the Americans when their personnel were evacuated from Yakutsk. In terms of career and prestige, he survived without succumbing to despair when it seemed like the whole world was against him.
  
  With the financial and moral support of a young investment banker named Leonid Zevitin, Darzov restored the base and soon put it back into operation instead of preparing it for demolition and abandonment. The move revitalized the Russian oil and gas industry in Siberia, which relied on the base for much-needed support and supplies, and the government was making huge profits from Siberian oil, much of which was sold to Japan and China via new pipelines. The young commander of the base attracted the attention and gratitude of the richest and most successful investment banker in Russia, Leonid Zevitin. Thanks to Zevitin's sponsorship, Darzov was returned to Moscow, promoted to a four-star general, and eventually appointed by the newly elected President Zevitin as chief of staff of the air force.
  
  "The Americans took the initiative and showed a new hypersonic air-to-ground weapon," Furzenko said. "It shows how overconfident they are, and this will be their weakness. And not only that, but they spent a missile worth several million dollars, destroying a truck and a homemade rocket worth a few dollars."
  
  "It seems to me that they have every right to be overconfident, General - they can quickly and accurately destroy any target from a distance of two hundred miles as easily as a child shooting at a tin can with a .22-caliber rifle from a distance of twenty meters" Zevitin said. Many of the generals furrowed their brows, both in confusion at some of Zevitin's Western terms and in an attempt to understand his heavily accented Russian. "In addition, they did it right in front of our eyes, knowing that we would observe and evaluate the effectiveness of weapons. It was a demonstration in our favor and also a very effective weapon of terror against the Islamists." Zevitin turned to Darzov. "What happened to the fighter that was tracking the B-1 bomber, Andrei?"
  
  "The pilot landed safely, but most of the aircraft's electronic equipment was completely disabled," the Air Force Chief of Staff replied.
  
  "How? Their terahertz weapon again?"
  
  "Perhaps, but the American so-called T-beam weapon is a broad-range subatomic weapon that destroys electronic circuits at ranges exceeding six hundred kilometers," Darzov replied. "No other stations have reported any failures. The pilot reported that as soon as he fired his missiles, his fighter ... just shut down."
  
  "You mean, the missile went off on its own."
  
  "No, sir. The entire plane shut down on its own, as if the pilot had turned everything off at once."
  
  "How is this possible?"
  
  "Maybe a terahertz weapon was able to do that," Darzov said. "We won't know until we look at the error logs of the fighter's computer. But my guess is that McLanahan deployed his 'netrusion' system on the Dreamland bombers and probably all of his planes and spaceships."
  
  'Netrusia'? What is this?"
  
  "The ability to 'hack' enemy computer systems through any sensor or antenna that receives digital signals," Darzov explained. "We don't fully understand the process, but bombers can transmit a signal that is picked up and processed like any other digital instruction or message. An enemy signal could be false targets on the radar, confusing coded messages, flight control inputs, or even electronic commands to aircraft systems..."
  
  "For example, an order to stop work," Zevitin said. He shook his head. "Supposedly, he could have ordered Mig to fly straight down or in a circle - fortunately, he only ordered him to stop. It must be nice to be so rich that you can create such wonderful toys to load into your planes." He nodded. "Looks like your old friend is still in the game, huh General?"
  
  "Yes, sir," said Darzov. "Patrick McLanahan". He smiled. "I would welcome the opportunity to fight him again and repay him for imprisoning my men and women, taking over my base and stealing my fuel. However, as far as I understand, he may not be here for much longer. The new administration doesn't like him at all."
  
  "If McLanahan had even a shred of political savvy, he would have resigned the moment the new president was sworn in," Zevitin said. "Obviously, that didn't happen. Either McLanahan is more committed - or dumber - than we thought, or Gardner isn't going to fire him, which means he might not be the buffoon we think he is." He looked at the generals around him. "Forget McLanahan and his high-tech toys that will never be made - he is the best they have, but he is only one person, and he is locked in this terrible desert base in Nevada instead of being in the White House now , which means that no one else has the opportunity to listen to it." Speaking to Truznev, head of the Federal Security Bureau, the successor organization to the KGB, he asked: "What about your 'advisor' in Iran? Did you get him out of there?"
  
  "What's left of him, yes, sir," the FSB chief replied.
  
  "Fine. The last thing we need is for some enterprising American or Persian investigator to find Russian clothing or weapons mixed in with a bunch of Iranian body parts."
  
  "He was replaced by another agent," Truznev said. He turned angrily to Alexandra Khedrov, the Foreign Minister. "Giving these Hezbollah bastards weapons like 9K89 is a waste of time and money and will hurt us in the long run. We must stop supplying them with such advanced rockets and allow them to return to firing homemade Katyushas and mortars at Persian collaborators."
  
  "You agreed with General Furzienko's recommendation to send the Hornet missile to Iran, director," Zevitin said.
  
  "I agreed that the Hornet missile should be used to attack Persian army and air force bases with high-explosive fragmentation and mine-laying warheads, sir," Truznev said, "and not just to fire them indiscriminately at city. The launch point was at the very edge of the missile's maximum range to hit the Doshan Tappeh Air Base, which they told us was the target they were going to hit. The Hezbollah crew also reportedly delayed launching the rocket - they even let the kids come and watch the launch. This has been reported many times."
  
  "We will obviously have to instruct the insurgents to adjust their tactics now that we know about these new American weapons," General Darzov said.
  
  "Will you also instruct them not to add their own poisonous brew to the warhead?" Truznev asked.
  
  "What are you talking about, director?"
  
  "Hezbollah militants loaded the warhead of a Hornet missile with some mixture of chemical weapons, similar to mustard gas, but much more effective," the head of the FSB said indignantly. "The gas killed a dozen people on the street and injured several dozen others."
  
  "They made their own mustard gas?"
  
  "I don"t know where the hell they got it, sir - Iran has a lot of chemical munitions, so they may have stolen it or secretly stored it," Truznev said. "This substance worked when an American missile hit. But the bottom line is that they violated our directives and attacked an unauthorized target with an unauthorized warhead. There are only a few truck-launched missiles that have the fuses needed to carry out a chemical attack - it won't be hard for the Americans to find that we have supplied the Iranians with Hornet missiles."
  
  "Put Mokhtaz on the phone now," ordered Zevitin. Chief of Staff Orlev was instantly at the phone.
  
  "Now that Pasdaran has enlisted foreign fighters from all over the world to join this damned jihad against the Bujazi coup," Truznev said, "I don"t think the clerics have very tight control over their forces." Iran's defense minister - and the highest-ranking member of the former Iranian government who survived the Islamist bloody purge in Bujazi - was proclaimed president-in-exile, and he called on all the Muslims of the world to come to Iran and fight against the new military-monarchist government. The anti-Persian uprising grew rapidly, spurred on by tens of thousands of Shiite Muslim fighters from around the world who responded to the fatwa against Bujazi. Many insurgents were trained in the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps of Iran, Pasdaran, so their combat effectiveness was even higher. Within days of Mokhtaz's call to arms, most of the cities of new Persia were embroiled in heavy fighting.
  
  But part of the chaos in Persia was due to the fact that the leader of the coup, General Khesarak al-Qan Bujazi, inexplicably refused to form a new government. Bujazi, the former chief of staff and former commander of the paramilitary internal defense forces that fought the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, led a spectacularly successful coup, killing most of Iran's theocratic rulers and sending the rest to flee to neighboring Turkmenistan. Bujazi, along with former Chief of Staff Hossein Yasini, regular military officers and supporters of one of Iran's former royal families, the Kagewas, were supposed to take control of the capital Tehran and form a government. A name was even chosen - the Democratic Republic of Persia, indicating the clear direction the people wanted to take - and the country was now referred to by its historical name "Persia" instead of "Iran", which was the name that Reza Shah Pahlavi had ordered to use in 1935. Only the supporters of the theocracy still used the name "Iran".
  
  "But I don't think we should stop arming the rebels," General Darzov said. "Every successful attack against the Persians will weaken them. We need patience."
  
  "And every time the jihadists launch another rocket into the city and kill innocent women and children, the rebels suffer the same fate - they are weakened, like Russia, General," Foreign Minister Alexandra Khedrov said. Tall, dark-haired, and as curvy as any woman in the highest echelons of the Russian government could be, Alexandra Khedrov was the highest-ranking woman ever to serve in the Kremlin. Like Zevitin, she worked in international finance, but as a lifelong resident of Moscow and a married mother of two, she didn't have the reputation of her boss. Serious and quick-witted, without extensive political connections, Khedrov was widely considered the brains behind the presidency. "We look even worse if we are seen supporting child killers."
  
  She turned to Zevitin. "Mokhtaz must find a way to subdue the jihadists, Mr. President, without relieving pressure on Bujazi and Kagev to surrender and evacuate the country. We cannot be seen as supporting mass murder and instability - it makes us look unbalanced ourselves. If Mohtaz continues down this path, the only thing we have is to support Bujazi."
  
  "Buzhazi"?" Zevitin asked, bewildered. "Why support Buzhazi? He turned to the Americans for help."
  
  "It was our fault - he acted out of desperation and we were not there for him when he needed us, so he turned to McLanahan," Khedrov explained. "But Washington has inexplicably not given its support to Bujazi, and this creates an opportunity for Russia. We covertly support Mokhtaz because Russia is benefiting from instability in the region with higher oil prices and greatly increased arms sales. But if we end up backing the loser, we must reverse course and support the one I believe will end up being the winner: Boujazi."
  
  "I don't agree, minister," Darzov said. "Bujazi is not strong enough to destroy Mohtaz."
  
  "Then I suggest you leave your planes and laboratories and look at the world as it really is, General," Khedrov said. "Here's the real question, Mr. President: who do you want to defeat, Boujazi or Mohtaz?" That's who we should support. We support Mohtaz because the chaos in the Middle East keeps America from interfering in our affairs in our own spheres of influence. But is is theocratic Iran the best choice for Russia? We know Boujazi. We both met with him; we supported him for many years, before, during and after his removal from the post of chief of staff. We still supply each other with intelligence information, although he carefully guards information about the American presence in Iran, which is more expensive to obtain, it may be time to increase the level of contact with him."
  
  The phone next to Orlev vibrated, he picked up the phone and after a few moments put it on standby. "Mohtaz on the line, sir."
  
  "Where is he?" I asked.
  
  "The Iranian Embassy in Ashgabat, Turkmenistan," Orlev replied, anticipating the question.
  
  "Fine". When Ayatollah Mokhtaz and his advisers fled Iran, he unexpectedly holed up in the Russian embassy in Ashgabat, demanding protection from the forces of Bujazi and the so-called monarchist death squads. This generated a lot of curiosity and questions from much of the rest of the world. It was well known that Moscow was an ally of Iran, but would they go so far as to protect the old regime? What if elections were held and the theocrats were rejected? Will the clerics and Islamists become an albatross around Russia's neck?
  
  As a concession to the rest of the world, Zevitin forced Mokhtaz to leave the embassy, but tacitly guaranteed his safety with Russian FSB units stationed in and around the Iranian compound. At first, he thought the Islamist would not leave the embassy - or worse, threaten to reveal Russia's involvement in Iran if he was expelled - but fortunately it never came to that. He knew that Mohtaz could always show this card in the future, and he needed to decide what to do if he tried to play it.
  
  Zevitin picked up his phone. "President Mokhtaz, this is Leonid Zevitin."
  
  "Please be ready for His Excellency, sir," a voice with a thick Persian accent said in Russian. Zevitin rolled his eyes impatiently. It's always been a game with weaklings like Mohtaz, he thought - it's always been damn important to try to get the smallest advantage by making the other side wait, even for something as simple as a phone call.
  
  A few moments later, the voice of a young interpreter said, "Imam Mokhtaz is on the line. Please identify yourself."
  
  "Mr. President, this is Leonid Zevitin calling. I hope you are well ".
  
  "Praise the Lord for his mercy, that's right."
  
  No attempt at courtesy, Zevitin noted-again, typical of Mokhtaz. "I wanted to discuss the recent American air attack in Tehran on a suspected Hezbollah rocket launcher."
  
  "I don't know anything about it."
  
  "Mr. President, I warned you against allowing rebels to equip missiles with weapons of mass destruction," Zevitin said. "We specifically chose the Hornet missile because it is used all over the world and it will be more difficult to trace it back to Russia. The only missile force known to have the technology to plant chemical warheads on them was Russia."
  
  "I don't know the details of what freedom fighters are doing in their fight against crusaders, infidels and Zionists," the translator said. "All I know is that God will reward all who respond to the call of holy retribution. They will earn a place at His right hand."
  
  "Mr. President, I urge you to keep your forces under control," Zevitin said. "Armed resistance to foreign occupation is acceptable to all nations, even using unguided rockets against alleged supporters, but the use of poison gas is not. Your rebellion risks causing a backlash from the populace if-"
  
  Zevitin could hear Mokhtaz's screams in the background before the interpreter had even finished speaking, and then the flustered young man had to strain to keep up with the Iranian cleric's sudden tirade: "This is not a mutiny, damn your eyes," the interpreter said much in a calmer voice than Mohtaz. "The proud Iranians and their brothers are reclaiming a nation that was illegally and immorally taken from us. This is not a rebellion - this is a holy war for freedom against oppression. And in such a struggle, any weapon and any tactic is justified in the eyes of God." And the connection was broken.
  
  "Fucking bastard," Zevitin swore, not realizing until it was too late that he had said it in English, and slammed the phone down on the hook.
  
  "Why bother with this crazy fanatic, sir?" asked Foreign Minister Khedrov. "This man is crazy. He doesn't care about anything other than taking back power - he doesn't care how many innocent people he has to kill to do it. He attracts foreign jihadists from all over the world and most of them are even crazier than him."
  
  "Do you think I care about Mohtaz or anyone else in this damned country, minister?" Zevitin asked hotly. "At the moment, it is better for Russia that Mokhtaz is alive and incites the Islamists, urging them to go to Iran and fight. I hope that the country will fall apart, which is almost certain if the rebellion grows."
  
  "I would like Bujazi to turn to us, and not to McLanahan, when he wanted support for his rebellion - Mokhtaz and that monarchist bitch Kagev would be dead now, and Bujazi would be firmly at the helm, and we would be on his side" , - said Khedrov, throwing a disapproving look at the head of the Federal Security Bureau, Truznev. "We should have recruited him the moment he showed up in the Iranian people's militia."
  
  "Buzhazi has completely disappeared from our radar screens, Minister," Truznev said dismissively. "He was disgraced and practically sentenced to death. Iran has moved into the Chinese sphere of influence..."
  
  "We sold them a lot of weapons."
  
  "After oil prices went up, yes - they bought Chinese crap because it was cheaper," Truznev said. "But then we quickly discovered that many of these weapons ended up in the hands of Chechen separatists and drug traffickers on our own borders. China stopped its support for Iran a long time ago because they support the Islamists in Xinjiang and East Turkestan - Chinese Islamic rebels fought government forces with their own damned weapons! The theocrats in Iran are completely out of control. They do not deserve our support."
  
  "Good, good," Zevitin said wearily, shaking hands with his advisers. "These endless arguments get us nowhere." Turning to Truznev, he said: "Igor, get me all the data you can get about this American hypersonic missile and get it quickly. I don't need to know how to counter this - not yet. I need enough information to make Gardner believe I know all about this. I want to prove that this is a threat to world peace, regional stability, the balance of arms, blah blah blah. Same with their damned space station Armstrong. And I'd like to get an update on all the new US military technology. I'm tired of hearing about it after we ran into it in the field."
  
  "Argue with the Americans, huh, Mr. President?" - the chief of the general staff Furzienko asked sarcastically. "Perhaps we can go to the Security Council and say that the sunlight reflecting off their station's radar arrays keeps us awake at night."
  
  "I don't need sarcastic remarks from you today, General - I need results," Zevitin said caustically. "The Americans have settled in Iraq, and they may have a foothold in Iran if Bujazi and the Kagev succeed in forming a government friendly to the West. Along with US bases in Central Asia, the Baltics, and Eastern Europe, Iran is adding another section of the fence around us. Now they have this damn space station that flies over Russia ten times a day! Russia is actually surrounded-" And with that, Zevitin slammed his palm on the table with force. "-and this is completely unacceptable!" He looked each of his advisors in the eye, his gaze resting on Truznev and Darzov for a moment before leaning back in his chair and rubbing his forehead in annoyance.
  
  "This hypersonic missile surprised us all, sir," Truznev said.
  
  "Bullshit," retorted Zevitin. "They need to test run this thing, don't they? They can't do it in the underground lab. Why can't we watch their missile tests? We know exactly where their high-speed hypersonic missile development test sites are - we should be at all of these test sites."
  
  "Good espionage costs money, Mr. President. Why spy for the Russians when the Israelis and Chinese can offer ten times the price?"
  
  "Then maybe it's time to cut some of the salaries and costly pensions of our so-called leaders and put the money back into getting quality intelligence," Zevitin said scathingly. "Back in the days when Russian oil was only a few dollars a barrel, Russia once had hundreds of spies infiltrating deep into all the nooks and crannies of American weapons development - we once had almost unhindered access to Dreamland, their most highly classified facility . And wherever we didn't penetrate ourselves, we could buy information from hundreds of others, including the Americans. The task of the FSB and military intelligence is to get this information, and since the Gryzlov administration we have done nothing but whine and moan about being surrounded and possibly attacked again by the Americans." He paused again, then looked at the Chief of Staff of the Armed Forces. "Give us a report on the state of affairs in the Phanar, General Furzienko."
  
  "One unit on full alert, sir," replied the chief of staff. "The mobile anti-satellite laser system was very successful, shooting down one of the American spaceplanes over Iran."
  
  "What?" exclaimed Chief of Staff Orlev. "So what the Americans said was true? Was one of their spaceplanes shot down by us?"
  
  Zevitin nodded to Furzienko when the latter took a cigarette out of his desk drawer and lit it, wordlessly giving him permission to explain himself. "Project Phanar is a top-secret mobile anti-satellite laser system, Mr. Orlev," explained the chief of military staff. "It is based on the Kavaznya anti-satellite laser system developed in the 1980s but significantly modified, improved and improved."
  
  "Kavaznya was a huge building, powered by a nuclear reactor, if I remember correctly," Orlev noted. He only found out about it in high school, at the time the government said there had been an accident and the factory had been shut down to improve safety. It wasn't until he took over as chief of staff that he learned that Kavaznya had actually been bombed by a single American B-52 Stratofortress bomber, a heavily modified experimental model of the "test bed" known as the "Megafortress" crewed by none other than Patrick McLanahan. who was then just an Air Force captain and crew bombardier.McLanahan's name has come up many times in connection with dozens of events around the world in the two decades since that attack, to the point that Darzov and even Zevitin seemed to be obsessed with the man , his high-tech machines and his circuits. "How can such a system be mobile?"
  
  "Twenty years of research and development, billions of rubles and a lot of espionage - good espionage, not like today," Zevitin said. "Go on, general."
  
  "Yes, sir," said Furzienko. "Phanar's design is based on the Israeli tactical high-energy laser program and the American airborne laser program, which installs a chemical laser on large aircraft such as the Boeing 747 or the B-52 bomber. It is capable of destroying a ballistic missile at a distance of up to five hundred kilometers. It's not as powerful as the Kavaznya was, but it's portable, easy to transport and maintain, durable and reliable, extremely accurate, and if held long enough on a target, it can destroy even a well-shielded spacecraft hundreds of kilometers away in space. ... like the new American Black Stallion spaceplane."
  
  Orlev's jaw dropped. "So the rumors are true?" Zevitin smiled, nodded, then took another deep drag on his cigarette. "But we denied that we had anything to do with the loss of the American spaceplane! The Americans must understand that we have such weapons!"
  
  "And so the game begins," said Zevitin, smiling and finishing his last cigarette. He crushed a cigarette butt in an ashtray, as if demonstrating what he intended to do to anyone who dared to oppose him. "We'll see who wants to play and who doesn't. Go on, general."
  
  "Yes, sir. The system can be disguised as a standard 12 meter tractor-trailer and can be driven almost anywhere and mixed with normal commercial traffic. It can be set up and ready to fire in less than an hour, it can produce about a dozen bursts per charge, depending on how long the laser has been firing at a single target, and most importantly, it can be dismantled and relocated within a few minutes after the shooting."
  
  "Just a dozen lines? Doesn't sound like much fighting."
  
  "Of course, we can take more fuel with us," Furzienko said, "but Phanar was never designed to counter a large number of spaceships or aircraft. Due to overheating, the system can only operate for a maximum of thirty seconds at a time, and a single fuel load allows the laser to operate for a total of about sixty seconds. The next salvo can be fired thirty to forty minutes after refueling, depending on whether the fuel comes from a fire engine or a separate support vehicle. Most spacecraft in low Earth orbit will be well below the horizon before they start firing again, so we figured it would be best not to try to fire too many fires at the same time.
  
  "In addition, everything else in the convoy also increases in size - guards, provisions, spare parts, power generators - so we decided to limit the additional laser fuel to one truck. With one fire command vehicle, one supply and control vehicle, one refueling and resupply vehicle, and one support and crew vehicle, it can still move fairly anonymously on open roads anywhere without attracting attention. We brought it back to Moscow for additional tests and updates. It will take some time to complete this."
  
  "I think you have had enough time, General," Zevitin said. "Americans need to see how vulnerable their precious space station and spaceplanes can be. I want this system to be up and running now."
  
  "If I had more engineers and more money, sir, I could finish the three that are under construction within a year," Furzienko said. He glanced at General Darzov. "But it looks like General Darzov's Lightning project is getting a lot of attention, and I'm afraid our resources are being wasted."
  
  "Darzov made several strong arguments in favor of Lightning, General Furzienko," Zevitin said.
  
  "I'm afraid I don't know what Lightning is, Mr. President," Alexandra Khedrov said. "I guess it's not a very good watch manufacturer. Is this a new secret weapon program?"
  
  Zevitin nodded to Andrey Darzov, who stood up and began: "Lightning is an air-based anti-satellite weapon, Madam Minister. This is just a prototype weapon, which is a combination of a Kh-90 hypersonic cruise missile reprogrammed to fly at extreme altitudes, with a combination of ramjet and jet propulsion, allowing it to fly at an altitude of up to five hundred kilometers above the Earth. The system was first developed by the Americans in the 1980s; we had a similar system, but it was canceled many years ago. Since then, the technology has improved a lot."
  
  "Lightning is a big step back," Furzienko said. "The laser system has proven its value. Air-launched anti-satellite weapons were rejected many years ago because they were unreliable and too easy to detect."
  
  "With all due respect, sir, I disagree," Darzov said. Furzienko turned to glare at his subordinate, but it was difficult to look at the man's rather disturbing wounds and he was forced to look away. "The problem with stationary anti-satellite weapons, as was found in the case of the Kavaznya anti-satellite laser, is that they are too easy to attack, even with numerous and complex anti-aircraft weapon systems protecting them. Even the mobile laser system we have developed is vulnerable to attack because it requires a lot of support and takes so long to set up, fuel and aim. We saw how quickly the Americans were able to attack a laser facility in Iran - fortunately, we had time to move the real system and build a decoy in its place. Lightning can be transferred to many air bases in the target's path and can attack from different angles.
  
  "A MiG-29 fighter or a Tupolev-16 light bomber launches one Molniya missile, or two missiles can be carried by a Tupolev-95 or Tupolev-160 heavy bomber," Darzov continued. into position using ground or airborne radars, and then the missiles are fired.Lightning uses a solid rocket engine to accelerate to supersonic speed, where it then uses a ramjet to accelerate to eight times the speed of sound and climb to a predetermined altitude.Once in range of the target, it uses its on-board sensors to track the target and fires the third stage rocket motor to initiate the interception.It uses precision thrusters to get within firing range, then fires the high-explosive fragmentation warhead.We can also mount a nuclear or X-ray laser warhead on the weapon, depending on the size of the target."
  
  "X-ray laser? What it is?"
  
  "An X-ray laser is a device that collects and focuses X-rays from a small nuclear explosion and produces extremely powerful long-range energy beams that can penetrate even through heavily shielded spacecraft up to two hundred kilometers," Darzov said. "It is designed to disable a spacecraft by scrambling its electronics and guidance systems."
  
  "The use of nuclear weapons in space will create problems in the international community, general," Khedrov said.
  
  "The Americans had a nuclear reactor flying over Russia for decades and no one seemed to notice, Aleksandra," Zevitin said bitterly. "X-ray laser is just one option - we will only use it if it is deemed absolutely necessary."
  
  "The nuclear reactor aboard the US space station is for power generation only, sir," Khedrov said. "Yes, the laser was used as an offensive weapon, but the reactor is viewed differently..."
  
  "This is still an atomic device," Zevitin argued, "which is expressly prohibited by the treaty-a treaty that the Americans casually ignore!"
  
  "I agree with you, sir," Khedrov said, "but after the nuclear air attacks against the United States by President Gryzlov-"
  
  "Yes, yes, I know...America is getting a pass and the world is waiting in fear for what Russia will do next," Zevitin said, disappointment in his voice. "I'm sick of double standards." He shook his head, then turned back to General Darzov. "What is the status of the anti-satellite missile program, General? Can we deploy the system or not?"
  
  "Additional underground testing of the Molniya prototype was very successful," Darzov continued. "The techs and engineers want to do more testing, but I guess he's ready for battle now, sir. We can make improvements and refinements over the years and improve it, but I think it's ready as is and I recommend deploying immediately."
  
  "Excuse me, sir," Furzienko interjected, looking in confusion at Minister of National Defense Ostenkov, "but General Darzov is not in charge of Lightning. This is a secret project that is still controlled by my R&D bureau."
  
  "No more, General," Zevitin said. "I instructed General Darzov to develop strategies to combat the American space station and space planes. He will report directly to me and Minister Ostenkov."
  
  Furzienko's mouth opened and closed in confusion, then hardened in obvious anger. "This is outrageous, sir!" he blurted out. "It is an insult! The Chief of Staff is responsible for organizing, training and equipping the armed forces, and I should have been informed of this!"
  
  "Now you are being informed, General," said Zevitin. "Phanar and Lightning belong to Darzov. He will keep me informed of his actions and make recommendations to the National Security Bureau, but he only receives orders from me. The further away from your chain of command he operates, the better." Zevitin smiled and nodded in understanding. "A little lesson we've learned from our friend General Patrick Shane McLanahan over the years, huh?"
  
  "I believe this man is obsessive, compulsive, paranoid and probably schizophrenic, sir," Darzov said, "but he is also brave and smart, two traits I admire. His unit is extremely efficient because it operates quickly and audaciously with a small number of highly motivated and energetic forces wielding the latest technological innovations. McLanahan also seems to completely disregard most rules, conventional conventions, and chains of command, and acts recklessly, perhaps even recklessly. Some say he is crazy. All I know is that he gets the job done."
  
  "Until you yourself go crazy," Zevitin warned.
  
  "Unfortunately, I agree with Minister Khedrov, sir: the world community will not consider nuclear weapons in space as a defensive weapon," National Defense Minister Ostenkov said.
  
  "The world community looks the other way and closes its eyes and ears while the Americans put a nuclear reactor into orbit above their heads and fill the sky with satellites and space planets - I really don"t give a damn about their opinion," Zevitin said angrily. "Americans should not be allowed to freely enter and exit space as they please. Our mobile ground laser destroyed one and almost destroyed another of their space planes - we almost destroyed their entire operational fleet. If we can destroy everything they have left, we can undermine their military space program and maybe give us a chance to catch up again." He glared fiercely at Ostenkov. "Your job is to support the development and implementation of Phanar and Lightning, Ostenkov, and not to tell me what you think the world will say. It's clear?"
  
  "Yes, sir," said Ostenkov. "The anti-satellite missile is ready for operational tests. It may be the most feared weapon in our arsenal since the Kh-90 hypersonic cruise missile that Gryzlov successfully used to attack the United States. It can be quickly and easily deployed anywhere in the world, faster than a spacecraft can be launched or moved into orbit. We can transport Lightning anywhere and run only a small risk of detection until it fires."
  
  "And then what?" Orlev asked. "The Americans will strike back with everything they have. You know they consider space as part of their sovereign territory."
  
  "That's why we need to use Phanar and Lightning carefully - very, very carefully," Zevitin said. "Their usefulness as a weapon depends more on quietly destroying American space assets, rather than trying to completely destroy them. If it is possible to make it look like their space station, spaceplanes and satellites are unreliable or wasteful, the Americans will shut them down themselves. This is not a plan of attack or a game of cat and mouse - it is a game of irritation, quiet degradation and growing insecurity. I want to beat the crap out of Americans."
  
  'Put a bug in the shit', sir? Orlev asked. "What does it mean?"
  
  "That means attacking the Americans with mosquito bites, not swords," Zevitin said this time in Russian, until now not realizing that he had switched back to English in excitement. "Americans don't fail. If it doesn't work, they'll throw it away and replace it with something better, even if it's not their fault. Not only will they abandon something that doesn't work, but they will blame everyone else for the failure, spend billions of dollars blaming someone else for taking the blame, and then spend billions more trying to find a solution that won't work. often inferior to the first." He smiled, then added, "And the key to this work is President Joseph Gardner."
  
  "Of course, sir-he is the President of the United States," Orlev remarked, embarrassed.
  
  "I'm not talking about the office, but about the person himself," said Zevitin. "He may be the commander-in-chief of the most powerful military force in the world, but what he does not command is the most important path to success: self-control." He looked at the advisors around him and saw mostly blank expressions. "Thank you all, thank you, that's all for today," he said dismissively, reaching for another cigarette.
  
  Chief of Staff Orlev and Foreign Minister Khedrov were left behind; Orlev didn't even try to suggest to Khedrov that he and the president be allowed to talk in private. "Sir, I have the impression, which I share, that the staff is bewildered by your intentions," Orlev said pointedly. "Half of them see you hand over power to the Americans; others think you are ready to go to war with them."
  
  "Good... This is good," said Zevitin, taking a deep puff on his cigarette, then exhaling noisily. "If my advisors leave my office guessing-especially in opposite directions-they won't have a chance to formulate a counterstrategy. Besides, if they're confused, the Americans certainly should be." Orlev looked worried. "Peter, we can't beat the Americans in a military confrontation just yet - we'd bankrupt this country by trying. But we have many opportunities to counter them and deprive them of victory. Gardner is the weak link. He needs to be pissed off. Enrage him enough and he will turn his back on even his most trusted advisers and loyal compatriots." Zevitin thought for a moment, then added: "He needs to be pissed off right now. Attack on our fighter... He must know how angry we are that they shot down our fighter with a low yield nuclear device."
  
  "But... the fighter was not shot down," Orlev reminded him, "and the general said that the weapon was not a nuclear T-beam weapon, but-"
  
  "For God's sake, Peter, we're not going to tell the Americans what we know, but what we believe," Zevitin said with irritation in his voice, but with a smile on his face. "My reports say they shot down our fighter jet with a T-Ray nuclear device without provocation. This is an act of war. Connect Gardner to the phone immediately."
  
  "Should Minister Khedrov make contact and-?"
  
  "No, I will protest directly to Gardner," Zevitin said. Orlev nodded and picked up the phone from Zevitin's desk. "This is no ordinary phone, Peter. Use the 'hot line'. Both voice and data at the same time." The emergency hotline between Washington and Moscow was upgraded after the 2004 conflicts to provide voice, data, and video communications between the two capitals, as well as teletype and facsimile communications, and allowed for more satellite channels, making it easier for leaders to reach each other. "Minister Khedrov, you will file a formal complaint with the United Nations Security Council and also with the US State Department. And I want every media outlet on the planet to report the incident immediately."
  
  Orlev first called the Foreign Ministry, then contacted a Kremlin liaison officer to set up a hotline for the president. "Sir, this could backfire," Orlev warned as he waited for the connection. "Our pilot undoubtedly initiated the attack by opening fire on an American bomber-"
  
  "But only after the bomber launched its hypersonic missile," Zevitin said. "This missile could go anywhere. The Americans were clearly the aggressors. The pilot was fully justified by firing his rockets. It turns out he was right, because the missile the Americans fired at Tehran carried a chemical warhead."
  
  "But-"
  
  "First reports may not be accurate, Peter," Zevitin said, "but that doesn't mean we can't protest this incident now. I believe Gardner will take action first and then check the facts. Wait and see."
  
  Alexandra Khedrov gazed silently at Zevitin for a long time; then: "What's all this about, Leonidas?" You just want to annoy Gardner? For what? He's not worth the effort. He's probably self-destructing without you all the time... Like you said, 'nagging' him. And, of course, you can't want Russia to support the Iranians. As I said before, they are just as likely to turn their backs on us after they get their country back."
  
  "It has absolutely nothing to do with Iran, Alexandra, and everything has to do with Russia," Zevitin said. "Russia will no longer be surrounded and isolated. Gryzlov, of course, suffered from megalomania, but because of his crazy ideas, Russia began to be feared again. But in its absolute fear or pity, the world began to give the United States everything they wanted, and that was to surround and try to crush Russia again. I won't let that happen."
  
  "But how will the deployment of these anti-space weapons achieve this?"
  
  "You don't understand, Alexandra - the threat of war against the Americans will only strengthen their resolve," Zevitin explained. "Even a spineless dude like Gardner will fight with his back against the wall - at least he will set his dog out of the McLanahan junkyard on us, no matter how much he resents his strength and determination.
  
  "No, we must make the Americans themselves believe that they are weak, that they must cooperate and negotiate with Russia in order to avoid war and disaster," Zevitin continued. "Gardner's hatred - and fear - of McLanahan is the key. To look like the brave leader he can never be, I hope Gardner sacrifices his greatest general, dismantles his most advanced weapon systems, and forgoes important alliances and defensive commitments, all on the altar of international cooperation and world peace."
  
  "But why? For what purpose, Mr. President? Why risk war with the Americans like that?"
  
  "Because I will not tolerate Russia being surrounded," Zevitin said sharply. "Just look at the damned map, Minister! Every former Warsaw Pact country is a member of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization; almost every former Soviet republic has some kind of NATO or American base."
  
  Zevitin went over to light another cigarette, but in blind anger he threw it across the table. "We are rich beyond our fathers' dreams, Alexandra, and yet we can't spit without Americans complaining, measuring, analyzing or intercepting it," he exclaimed. "If I wake up and see that damned space station rushing through the sky - my Russian sky! - again, I'm going to scream! And if I see another teenager on the streets of Moscow watching an American TV show or listening to Western music because he or she has free Internet access, courtesy of the American organization Space Domination, I will kill someone! Enough! Enough! Russia will not be surrounded and we will not be forced to submit to their space toys!
  
  "I want the skies of Russia cleared of American spacecraft, and I want our airwaves cleared of American broadcasts, and I don't care if I have to start a war in Iran, Turkmenistan, Europe, or in space to do This!"
  
  
  ON BOARD THE ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION
  A little while later
  
  
  "Stallion Zero-Seven is ready to fly, sir," Master Sergeant Lucas reported.
  
  "Thank you, Master Sergeant," Patrick McLanahan replied. He flipped a switch on his console: "Have a nice trip home, Boomer. Let me know how the module release experiments and the new re-entry procedure work."
  
  "Will do, sir," replied Hunter Noble. "It's strange that you're not on board, flying in a jet plane."
  
  "At least this time, you can pilot it, right?"
  
  "I had to arm wrestle Frenchy for it and it was close - but yes, I won," Boomer said. He caught an annoyed look into the cockpit rearview camera of US Navy Lieutenant Commander Lisette "Frenchie" Moulin, an experienced F/A-18 Hornet combat pilot and NASA space shuttle commander and pilot. She recently qualified as the commander of the XR-A9 Black Stallion spacecraft and was always looking for another chance to pilot the Bird, but this time none of her arguments worked on the Boomer. When Patrick flew to and from the station - which has been quite common lately - he usually chose Boomer in the back seat.
  
  A few minutes later, the Black Stallion separated from the docking bay aboard Armstrong's space station, and Boomer carefully steered the ship away from the station. When they were far enough away, he maneuvered into position to fire the relay, flying tail first. "The countdown checklists are complete, we are moving into the final automatic hold of the countdown," he announced over the intercom. "To touchdown about six hundred miles. Ready for this, Frenchy?"
  
  "I have already reported that my checklists are complete, Captain," Moulin replied.
  
  Boomer rolled his eyes in mock annoyance. "Frenchie, when we get home, we need to sit in a nice bar somewhere on the Strip, drink expensive champagne and talk about your attitude - to me, to service, to life."
  
  "Captain, you know perfectly well that I'm engaged, I don't drink, and I love my job and my life," Moulin said in the same raspy monotone that Boomer absolutely hated. "I might also add, if you haven't figured it out by now, that I hate this call sign and I don't particularly like you, so even if I was free drinking alcohol and you were the last man on earth with the most big dick and long tongue this side of Vegas, I wouldn't be seen dead in a bar or anywhere with you."
  
  "Oh, Frenchy. It's cruel ".
  
  "I think you are an outstanding spaceship commander, engineer and competent test pilot," she added, "but I find you a disgrace to the uniform and often wonder why you are still in Dreamland and still a member of the Air Force." U.S.A. I think your prowess as an engineer seems to overshadow the parties, the casino hangouts, and the constant stream of women in and out of your life - mostly outside the company - and frankly, I resent that."
  
  "Don't hold back, Commander. Tell me how you really feel."
  
  "Now when I report 'checklist completed' Captain, as you well know, this indicates that my station is in order, that I have studied and tested everything I could on your station and the rest of the ship and found this to be optimal , and that I am ready for the next evolution."
  
  "Oooh. I like it when you speak the naval dialect. 'Squared away' and 'evolution' sound so nautical. It's also a little weird when it comes from a woman."
  
  "You know, captain, I tolerate your nonsense, because you are from the Air Force, and this is an Air Force unit, and I know that Air Force officers always behave casually with each other, even if there is a big difference in rank between them," Moulin said. "You are also the commander of the spaceship, which makes you responsible even though I am higher in rank than you. So I'm going to ignore your sexist remarks on this mission. But that certainly doesn't change my opinion of you as a person and as an Air Force officer - in fact, it confirms it."
  
  "Sorry. I didn't hear all of this. I was busy sticking pencils in my ears so as not to listen to you."
  
  "Can we follow the test flight plan and just do it, Captain, without all that macho macho bullshit?" We are already thirty seconds late from the scheduled start time."
  
  "Okay, okay, Frenchy," Boomer said. "I was just trying to act like we were part of a team and not serving on the separate decks of a nineteenth-century navy ship. Forgive me for trying." He pressed the control button on his flight stick. "Get me out of this, Seventh Stallion. Start the descent with the electric drive."
  
  "Initiating powered descent, stop powered descent..." When the computer did not receive a canceling order, it began: "Starting recording from orbit in three, two, one, now." Laser Pulse Detonation Rocket System, or LPDRS, pronounced like "leopards" activated and went to full power. By burning JP-7 jet fuel and a hydrogen peroxide oxidizer with other chemicals and superheated laser pulses to increase specific impulse, the four LPDRS Black Stallion engines produced twice the thrust of all the engines aboard the Space shuttle orbiters combined.
  
  As the spacecraft slowed down, it began to descend. Typically, at a certain speed, Boomer would turn off the main engines and then move the spacecraft using the engines into a nose-high position for direct flight and prepare for the "entry interface", or first atmospheric impact, and then use airbreaking - scraping off the shielded lower part with the atmosphere - to slow down before landing. However, this time the Boomer continued to fly tail first, with the LPDRS engines running at full power.
  
  Most spacecraft couldn't do this for long because they didn't have enough fuel, but the Black Stallion spaceplane was different: because it refueled while flying at the Armstrong Space Station, it had as much fuel as it would have if it had taken off into orbit, which meant that his engines could run much longer during the return. While airbreaking was much more economical, it had its own set of hazards, namely high frictional temperatures that built up on the underside of the spacecraft, so the crew tried another method of reentry.
  
  As the Black Stallion slowed even more, the angle of the descent became steeper until it looked like they were pointing straight up. The flight and engine control computers adjusted the power to maintain a constant 3 G of braking force. "I hate to ask," Boomer grumbled as he overcame the g-forces that pressed his body back into the seat, "but how are you doing there, Frenchie? Still optimal?
  
  "Green, Captain," Frenchie replied, forcing herself to breathe through her clenched throat muscles to keep her abdominal muscles tight, which raised the blood pressure in her head. "All systems in green, station check completed."
  
  "Very detailed report, thank you Monsieur Moulin," Boomer said. "Here I am also optimal."
  
  Flying at Mach 5, or five times the speed of sound, and just before re-entry at an altitude of about sixty miles, Boomer said, "Ready to begin payload separation." Now his voice sounded much more serious, because this was a much more critical phase of the mission.
  
  "Understood, there is a payload split ... The program is running," Moulin replied. The cargo bay doors on the top of the Black Stallion's fuselage opened and powerful engines pushed the BDU-58 container out of the bay. The BDU-58 "Meteor" container was designed to protect up to four thousand pounds of payload during atmospheric descent. After passing through the atmosphere, the Meteor can fly up to three hundred miles to a landing site or drop its payload before hitting the ground.
  
  This mission was designed to show that Black Stallion spaceplanes can quickly and accurately land long-range reconnaissance aircraft anywhere on planet Earth. Meteor will launch a single AQ-11 Night Owl unmanned reconnaissance aircraft at an altitude of about thirty thousand feet near the Iran-Afghan border. Over the next month, Night Owl will monitor the area with infrared and millimeter-wave radar for signs of Muslim insurgents or Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps or al-Quds convoys crossing the border , smuggling weapons or supplies from neighboring countries.
  
  After the meteorite container was removed, Boomer and Frenchy continued their powered descent. The atmosphere caused the spaceplane to decelerate much faster, and soon the LPDRS thrusters slowed down to maintain a maximum deceleration of 3 Gs. "Hull temperature is within normal limits," Moulin reported. "I definitely like these controlled descents."
  
  Boomer handled the g-forces, reached out and patted the top of the dashboard. "Good spaceship, nice spaceship," he cooed softly. "She likes those downhill runs too-all that belly heat is not pleasant, is it, honey? Did I tell you, Frenchie, that the Leopard engines were my idea?"
  
  "Only about a million times, Captain."
  
  "Oh yeah".
  
  "The air pressure at the surface has risen to green... The computers are keeping the reaction control system safe," Moulin reported. "Mission-adaptive control surfaces are in test mode... Tests completed, MAW system responding to computer commands." The MAW system, or Mission Adaptive Wing, was a series of tiny actuators on the fuselage that essentially turned the entire body of the spaceplane into a lifting device-computers shaped the skin as needed to maneuver, climb or descend, give the aircraft greater slipperiness or rapid deceleration. Even when flying backwards, the MAW system allowed full control of the spaceplane. With active atmospheric control, Boomer himself took control of the Black Stallion, turned so that they flew forward like a normal aircraft, then manually guided the ship through a series of steep, high-angle turns to increase speed while maintaining sink rate and case temperature under control.
  
  At the same time, he maneuvered to get into position for landing. This landing promised to be a bit more difficult than most because their landing site was in southeastern Turkey at a joint Turkish-NATO military base in a city called Batman. Batman AFB was the base of the Joint Special Forces Task Force during the 1991 Gulf War, when US Army Special Forces and Air Force Pararescue Troops flew undercover missions throughout Iraq. After the war, it was returned to Turkish civilian control. In an effort to increase cooperation and improve relations with its Muslim brothers in the Middle East, Turkey banned NATO offensive military operations from Batman, but America convinced the Turks to allow reconnaissance and some strike aircraft from Batman to hunt down and destroy rebels in Iran. It was now one of the most important forward airbases for US and NATO forces in the Middle East, Eastern Europe and Central Asia.
  
  "Crossing sixty thousand feet, atmospheric pressure in the green zone, ready to intercept the 'leopards'," Moulin reported. Boomer chuckled - attaching the leopards and switching to air turbojet mode were automatic, like most operations on a spaceplane, but Moulin always tried to guess in advance when the computer would begin the procedure. Pretty, yes - but in general it was also correct. Of course "We're still in 'manual' mode, captain," Moulin reminded him, "The system won't restart the engines automatically."
  
  "You're really good at this, aren't you, Frenchy?" Boomer quipped.
  
  "That's my job, captain."
  
  "You're never going to call me 'Boomer', are you?"
  
  "Unlikely, captain."
  
  "You don't know what you're missing, Frenchy."
  
  "I will Survive. Ready to restart."
  
  Part of her charm was definitely the chase. Maybe she was so businesslike in bed too - but that would have to wait until they sat down in tandem. "I turn off the engines, the turbojet engines come to life." There was now enough oxygen in the atmosphere to stop the use of hydrogen peroxide to burn jet fuel, so Boomer reopened the movable lugs on the engine intake ports and started the engine start sequence. Moments later, the turbojets were idling and ready to fly. Their flight path had passed over central Europe and Ukraine, and they were now over the Black Sea, heading southeast towards Turkey. Along with maintaining low body temperatures, accelerated descent procedures allowed them to deorbit much faster - they could descend from an altitude of two hundred miles to an initial approach position called "high gate" in less than a thousand miles, while a normal descent with airbreaking could take almost five thousand miles.
  
  Below sixty thousand feet, they were in Class A positive control airspace, so they now had to follow all normal air traffic control procedures. The computer has already entered the appropriate frequency into UHF Radio Number One: "Ankara Center, this is the Seventh Stud, due attention, one hundred and twenty miles northwest of Ankara, passing flight level five-four-zero, requesting activation of our flight plan. We will be MARS with a Four-One chevron."
  
  "Seventh group, Ankara center, stay out of Turkish air defense identification zone until detected by radar, signal one-four-one-seven is normal." Boomer read all the instructions.
  
  At that moment they heard on their secondary encrypted radio: "Stallion seven, chevron four-one on blue two."
  
  Boomer asked Frenchy to listen to the air traffic control frequency, then switched to the auxiliary radio station: "Four-One, this is the Seventh Stallion." They exchanged challenge and response codes to verify each other's identity, even though they were on an encrypted channel. "We took off from Batman because we heard from the Ankara ATC that they are not allowing any aircraft to cross their air defenses, even those with established flight plans. We don't know what's going on, but usually it's because an unidentified aircraft or vessel has invaded their airspace or waters, or some Kurds have fired some mortars across the border, and they're shutting everything down until they sort it out. . We're approaching the Fishtail rendezvous point. I propose to go there parallel to the point, then head towards the MK.
  
  "Thanks for staying up to date, Four-One," Boomer said with obvious relief in his voice. Using the enhanced descent profile severely depleted their fuel reserves - right now they were almost out of fuel, and by the time they reached their starting approach point at Batman AFB they would have an emergency fuel supply and they would be out of fuel, to fly somewhere else. Their nearest alternative landing site was Mi-hail Kog#259;lniceanu Airport near Constanta ţa, Romania, or simply "MK" for short, the first US military base established in a former Warsaw Pact country.
  
  When the two planes were linked via a secure transceiver, their multi-function displays showed them each other's location, the route they were to follow to the rendezvous point, and the turning points they would need to get into position. The Black Stallion reached its initial mid-air refueling point fifteen minutes early, at four hundred knots and thirty thousand feet, so the Boomer began a series of tight turns to shed excess airspeed. "I love it, punching holes in the sky, flying the fastest manned plane on the planet."
  
  "One calls the Seventh Stallion," Boomer heard over his encrypted satellite transceiver.
  
  "It's God on GUARD," he remarked caustically. "Forward, One."
  
  "You are cleared to transition to MK," said Patrick McLanahan from the Armstrong space station. He monitored the progress of the spaceplane from the command module. "The crews are ready to ensure the safety of the Black Stallion."
  
  "Should someone at home look over my shoulder from now on?" - he asked.
  
  "I confirm it, Boomer," Patrick replied. "Get used to it."
  
  "Understood you."
  
  "Any idea why Ankara didn"t let anyone in, sir?"
  
  "This is Genesis. Still negative," interjected David Luger. "We're still testing."
  
  Eventually the Black Stallion was able to slow down and descend to its proper position, five hundred feet below and half a mile astern of the tanker. "The seventh stage is set, the checklist is complete, you are in sight, ready," Boomer reported.
  
  "Understood, Seven, this is Chevron Four-One," replied the gunner at the rear of the tanker. "I read you loud and clear, just like me."
  
  "Loud and clear."
  
  "Understood you. I see you too." On the intercom, he said, "Boom descending to contact position, crew," and he steered the refueling vehicle into position, its own steerable wings using wire to stabilize it in the flow of the large tanker. Radio again: "Seven cleared to position before contact, Four-One ready."
  
  "Seventh is going up," Boomer said. He opened the sliding doors on the top of the fuselage behind the cockpit, then smoothly brought the spaceplane into position before contact: aligned with the center line of the tanker, the top of the windshield at the center seam of the lighting control panel. The huge belly of a converted Boeing 777 filled the windshield. "Seventh" in pre-contact position, stabilized and ready, this time only JP-7," he said.
  
  "Copying pre-contact and ready, JP-7 only, cleared to enter contact position, ready four-one," boom operator said. He extended the nozzle and turned on the blinking "maneuver" indicator - a signal to move the receiver to the desired position. Boomer barely had to move the controls because the plane was so light-almost as if just by thought, he gently steered the Black Stallion forward and up. When the maneuver indicator became constant, Boomer held his position, again, as if only by the power of thought, and the boom operator inserted the nozzle into the socket. "Contact, four-one."
  
  "Seven has made contact and shows fuel consumption," Boomer confirmed. "I'm very glad to see you boys."
  
  "We are the crew of the Cabernet, sir," the tanker pilot said.
  
  It took KS-77 ten minutes to ferry thirty thousand pounds of jet fuel to the Black Stallion. "Let's start moving west, Four-One," Boomer said. "We are starting to get too close to Krasnodar." Krasnodar on the eastern coast of the Black Sea had a large Russian air base, and although they were well outside their own or anyone else's airspace, it was best not to overfly such areas without warning. Along with their large air defense radar and numerous batteries of long-range surface-to-air missiles, Krasnodar was one of the largest fighter bases in the entire world, with at least three complete air defense fighter wings based there, including one with Mikoyan's MiG-29- Gurevich "Fulcrum", considered one of the best interceptors in the world.
  
  Even four years after the American retaliatory attacks in Russia, nerves throughout the region were still on edge, and operators were ready to do anything to get fighters into the air and activate air defense systems. Fortunately, there was no sign of any air defense activity behind them. "It's best to turn right."
  
  "Going straight for two-seven-zero," the tanker pilot reported. Boomer skillfully banked behind the modified Boeing 777 as they began to turn south, maintaining contact through the turn.
  
  They were just on a new course when the tanker gunner said, "Well guys, looks like we have a guest. Seven, your three o'clock, damn close."
  
  "What's the matter, Frenchy?" Boomer asked, concentrating on staying in the refueling area.
  
  "Oh shit...it's a Russian MiG-29," Moulin said nervously, "three hours, less than half a mile, right at the tip of our wing."
  
  "See if he has a wingman," Boomer said. "Russians don't fly single ships too often."
  
  Moulin scanned the sky, trying to remain calm, trying to look as far back as she could. "Got him," she said a moment later. "At seven o'clock, about a mile away." The one at three o'clock moved closer, getting her attention. In her fifteen-year career in the Navy, she had never seen a MiG-29, except for those in service in Germany, and even then on static display, not in flight. It could have been a clone of the Navy's F-14 Tomcat carrier-based fighter, with wide wings, a massive fuselage, and a large nose for its large fire control radar. This one was striped in green, light blue and gray camouflage, with a large white-blue-red Russian flag on the vertical stabilizer - and she could clearly see one long-range missile and two short-range air-to-air missiles hanging from the left wings of a moment. "It's loaded on a bear, that's for sure," she said nervously. "What are we going to do?"
  
  "I'm going to finish refueling," Boomer said, "and then we're going to start landing at MK. This is international airspace; sightseeing is allowed. Let Genesis and Odin find out what's going on there."
  
  Boomer heard Frenchie talking to someone on walkie-talkie number two, but a moment later she stopped: "That jerk is coming at three o'clock," she said nervously.
  
  "How are we doing with gasoline?"
  
  "Three-quarters full."
  
  "Do we have enough reserves to get to MK?"
  
  "A lot of".
  
  "I want to replenish them just in case. How close is the MiG now?"
  
  "He's right at the tip of our right wing," Frenchy said. "Are you going to pass out, captain?"
  
  "No. I show him how it's done. No doubt he wants to see into the future too." But the little game didn't end there. The MiG-29 continued to approach until Boomer soon heard the roar of its engine and vibration outside the cockpit. "Okay, now he's starting to piss me off. How are we with gasoline?
  
  "Almost complete."
  
  "Where is the wingman?"
  
  Moulin began to shift in her seat to turn fully to the left again ... but soon discovered that this was not necessary, because the second MiG had moved in and was now directly at the left window of the tanker pilot's cockpit, close enough for its engine exhaust to and jets of water shook the left wing of the tanker, barely noticeable at first, but soon more strongly as the MiG approached.
  
  "Seven, this is Four-One. It's getting harder to keep it under control. What do you say to that?"
  
  "Bastard," Boomer muttered. "Time to finish." On the radio, he said, "Four-One, let's switch off and-"
  
  But at that moment, the second MiG to the left of the tanker's cockpit turned on the afterburner, its exhaust gases were only a few yards from the leading edge of the tanker's left wing, as a result of which the wing first strongly jerked down, then up, causing the tanker to roll to the right. "Break, break, break!" the barrage operator yelled over the radio. Boomer immediately slowed down, pressed the voice command button, and said, "Brake speed seventy!" The Mission Adaptive Wing system immediately set maximum drag, applying thousands of high-speed brakes across the surface of the spaceplane and allowing it to sink quickly...
  
  ...and it didn't happen too fast because the tanker pilot, struggling with the controls of his plane and at the same time pushing full combat power and a thirty-degree climb angle, when he heard the "lift off" signal, over-adjusted and is now furiously fell to the left, being in the grip of a complete power outage and on the verge of a spin. Boomer could have sworn he was about to be face to face with the boom operator when he saw the tanker's tail drop lower and lower towards him. "Come on Chevron, recover, damn it, recover...!"
  
  The KC-77 tanker seemed to be pirouetted at the end of the still-extended refueling boom, lurching left and right as if grabbing the sky for support, its wings fluttering like those of a giant osprey in climb, except that the tanker didn't was gaining altitude, and was preparing to roll over and get out of control at any second. Just when Boomer thought he was about to roll over onto his back and dive uncontrollably into the Black Sea, he stopped his dying hesitation, his left wing remained lowered, and his nose began to crawl towards the horizon. As the plane's nose dropped below the horizon, the right wing slowly, painfully began to sink. When the tanker disappeared from view, she was almost at the level of the wings, with a steeply lowered nose, but quickly regained the lost airspeed.
  
  "Chevron guys, are you okay?" Boomer radioed.
  
  A few moments later, he heard a high, squeaky, husky male voice saying, "I got it, I got it, damn it, I got it... Seven, this is Four-One, we're fine. Damn, damn, I thought we were done. We are at twelve thousand feet. We are fine. One engine burned out, but now we are restarting."
  
  Boomer scanned the sky and saw that two MiG-29s had joined high above him, heading east. He could almost hear them laughing over their walkie-talkies at how they scared the Americans. "You bastards!" he shouted into his oxygen visor and moved the throttles forward to maximum afterburner.
  
  "Noble! What are you doing?" Moulin called out as her breath returned from the sudden thrust in her chest from the overload. But it soon became obvious what he was doing - he was flying straight into the middle of the MiG formation. By the time she could scream, they were past two MiGs less than a hundred yards above them, at over seven hundred miles an hour! "God, Noble, are you out of your mind?"
  
  Boomer sent the Black Stallion into a steep sixty-degree climb, continuing to accelerate. "We're going to see if they like to crossbreed with other street cats or if they just pick big fat tabbies," he said. The threat warning receiver blared-the MiGs had hitherto operated without radar, which was why they had been able to sneak up on them so easily, but now they had the big N-019 radar on and were searching. Boomer leveled off at forty thousand feet, returned the controls to combat power, and switched his multifunction display to the threat image that gave him the best view of the situation. "Watch my fuel and let me know when we get close to the MK fuel bingo, Frenchie."
  
  "Stallion, this is One," Patrick McLanahan radioed from the Armstrong space station. "We have just received a threat alert. You have two MiGs behind you! Where are you going?"
  
  "I'm going to drag these guys as far east as possible to keep them away from the tanker," Boomer said, "and I'm going to teach them a lesson on how to handle a black stallion and especially his tanker."
  
  "Do you understand what you're doing, Boomer?" Patrick asked.
  
  "I hope these guys shoot me General," Boomer said, "and then I'm really going to shed tears in their eyes. Any more questions, sir?
  
  There was a short pause, during which Moulin was sure that the general would curse himself to the bone and literally jump from the ceiling of the command module in pure anger at Noble's teenage antics. To her shock, she heard McLanahan's reply: "No, Boomer. Just try not to scratch the paint."
  
  "Fifteen minutes to refuel at this speed and heading, KA," Moulin reported. "Stop this shit and turn us around!"
  
  "Five more minutes and we'll turn around, Frenchy," Boomer said, then muttered, "Come on, cowardly bastards, shoot already. We're right in your sights and we don't interfere - take it -"
  
  At that moment, the two "batwing" symbols on the threat warning display, representing Mig's search radars, began to flash. "Attention, attention, missile alert, six hours, twenty-three miles, MiG-29K..." This moment was followed by: "Attention, attention, missile launch, missile launch, AA-12!"
  
  "Let's go, Frenchie, hold on to your bloomers," Boomer said. He turned the throttles to maximum afterburner, then said: "Leopards in touch."
  
  "Leopards in touch, stop the leopards... leopards activated," the computer replied, and both crew members were thrown back into their seats as the engines of the laser-pulse detonation rocket system fired into full turbojet mode-with the throttles already running at full afterburner. , instead of gradually increasing them, they got almost the full power of a turbojet in just a few seconds. Airspeed jumped from just below Mach 1 to Mach 2, then 3, then 4 in the blink of an eye. Then he began a steep climb, then maintained his pitch input until they were heading straight up, passive fifty, then sixty thousand feet.
  
  "Missiles...still...tracked," Moulin grumbled after nearly seven Gs. "Still...closing..."
  
  "I'm almost... done... with those assholes, Frenchie," Boomer grumbled back. He brought power back to Mach 4 and kept pushing the control stick until they flipped over. He rolled vertically, his nose now pointing down almost vertically, then glanced at the threat display. As he had hoped, the two MiGs were still transmitting radar energy looking for him-an AA-12 missile, a copy of America's AIM-120 advanced medium-range air-to-air missile, guided by its own airborne radar.
  
  "I wonder where I went guys? You'll know in a second." Boomer directed the Black Stallion to a point in space where he believed the MiGs would be in one or two heartbeats - at his relative speed, the MiGs seemed to be hovering in space, although the threat display showed that they were flying almost twice faster than sound. As soon as he caught a glimpse of the black dots below him, he rolled to the left until he was right between two Russian planes. He had no idea if he had timed the move correctly, but now it was too late to worry...
  
  The flashes were little more than imperceptible blurs as he flew right between them, missing only fifty yards from the nearest one. As soon as he passed them, he set the throttles to idle, cut off the LPDRS engines to save fuel, used the MAW system to help the spaceplane level off without breaking into pieces - at their current speed, they would have reached the Black Sea in just eight seconds without Mission technology. Adaptive Wing - and started a tight left turn in case the AA-12 missiles were still tracking...
  
  ...but he didn't have to worry about the missiles, because a moment later they saw a great flash of light above them, then another. He straightened up, let the g-forces subside, and scanned the sky. All they could see were two black clouds above them. "Payback is a bitch, right, comrades?" Boomer said as he headed west again.
  
  They had to catch up with the tanker again and refuel because they reached emergency fuel conditions in just a couple of minutes with the LPDRS engines running. The crew of the tanker was jubilant, but Moulin was even more calm and businesslike than usual - she said nothing more than the obligatory shouts. "Are you guys okay, Four-One?" Boomer asked.
  
  "We have a lot of loose dentures," the tanker pilot said, "but it's better than the alternative. Thank you, stallion."
  
  "You can thank us by giving us a little more gas so we can get to MK."
  
  "As long as we have enough fuel to fly to the nearest runway, you can take the rest," the tanker pilot said. "And don't even think about buying drinks for any other gas station anywhere in the world - we don't need your money anymore. Thanks again, Seventh Stallion."
  
  Less than an hour later, the two planes rendezvoused and landed at Constanta ţa-Mihail Kogălniceanu Airport in Romania. The airport was fifteen miles from Constanta ţa and nine miles from the city's famous Mamaia Beach on the Black Sea, so it was rarely affected by the icy fog that shrouded the coastal city in winter. The United States Air Force constructed an aircraft parking ramp, hangars, and maintenance and security facilities on the northeast side of the airfield, and upgraded the airport's control tower, radar and communications, and the civilian airport terminal. Along with membership in NATO and the European Union, the investments made by the United States in Romania have quickly transformed the area, previously known only for its bustling seaport and historical landmarks, into a major international business, technology and tourism destination.
  
  The two planes were brought to the security zone by a small convoy of armored Humvees and parked together in the largest hangar. The crews often hugged and shook hands during the disembarkation. They discussed their mission together and then separately, promising to meet for dinner and drinks later at Constanţa.
  
  The debriefing of Noble and Moulin took considerably longer than that of the tanker crew. It took nine grueling hours to report to the maintenance and reconnaissance crews, Patrick McLanahan at the Armstrong space station, Dave Luger in Dreamland, and undergo their routine post-flight medical checks. When they were finally released, they went through Romanian customs at a civilian airport, then took a shuttle bus to the Best Western Savoy Hotel in Constanța ţa, where the US military had a temporary accommodation contract.
  
  During the winter, the Black Sea coast was not at all busy, so with the exception of a few airline crews from Romania, Germany, and Austria and a few surprised businessmen unaccustomed to the large number of parties in Constantinople in the winter, the Americans were left to fend for themselves. The tanker crew was already having fun and buying drinks for everyone who wore wings, especially foreign female flight attendants. Boomer was also ready, but to his surprise he saw Lisette heading for the elevator to her room. He freed himself from the arms of the two handsome blond flight attendants, promising that he would be back soon, and hurried after her.
  
  He barely made it past the closing elevator doors. "Hey Frenchie, are you going to bed so soon? The party is just getting started and we haven't had dinner yet."
  
  "I am defeated. I'm done for today."
  
  He looked at her with concern. "You didn't say much after our little skirmish with the Russians," he said. "I'm a little-"
  
  Suddenly, Moulin turned to face him and struck him in the jaw with a clenched right fist. It wasn't such a strong blow, but it was still a fist - it hurt, but mostly from surprise. "Hey, why did you do that?"
  
  "You bastard! You are a moron!" she screamed. "Because of you, both of us could have been killed there today!"
  
  Boomer rubbed his chin, still looking at her with concern; then he nodded and said, "Yes, I could. But no one is pushing near my tanker." He smiled, then added, "Besides, you have to admit, Frenchie, it's been a hell of a ride."
  
  Moulin looked like she was about to hit him again, and he was determined to let her do it if it made her feel better... But to his surprise, she rushed forward in the elevator, threw her arms around his neck, smothered him with a kiss, and snuggled up to him, pushing him against the wall.
  
  "You're damn right Boomer, it's been one hell of a ride," she breathed. "I have flown aircraft from aircraft carriers in two wars and have been shot dozens of times and have never been as excited as I am today!"
  
  "God, Moulin..."
  
  "Frenchman. Call me Frenchie, damn it," she ordered, then silenced him with another kiss. She didn't let him breathe for a long time.
  
  "You were so quiet on the way back and during the debriefing, I was afraid you were going into some kind of shell-shocked fugue, Frenchie," Boomer said as Moulin started kissing his neck. "You have a really funny way of showing your excitement."
  
  "I was so excited, so turned on, so damned turned on, I was embarrassed to show it," Moulin said between kisses, her hands quickly finding their way south of his waist. "I mean, two fighter pilots died, but I was so energized that I thought I was going to come in my damn flight suit!"
  
  "Damn it, Frenchie, that"s one of your weird sides that I never-"
  
  "Shut up, Boomer, just shut up," she said as the elevator slowed to their floor. By that time, she had already practically unbuttoned the zipper and buttons on it. "Just take me to my room and fuck my brains out."
  
  "But what about your fiancé é and your-?"
  
  "Boomer, I said shut the fuck up and fuck me and don't stop until morning," Moulin said as the elevator doors opened. "I'll explain it to... that... oh shit, whatever his name is, in the morning. Remember, captain, I'm higher in rank than you, so this is an order, mister!" It was obvious that giving orders was as exciting for her as flying a hypersonic spaceplane.
  
  
  CHAPTER TWO
  
  
  People are much more pleased when they are crushed by a monstrous siege of failure than when they are triumphant.
  
  - VIRGINIA WOLF
  
  
  
  ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION
  IN THE NEXT MORNING
  
  
  The Command Module was the center of activity aboard the Armstrong Space Station, and it was here that Patrick McLanahan attended a videoconference with selected members of President Gardner's National Security Staff: Conrad F. Carlyle, National Security Adviser to the President; Gerald Vista, Director of Central Intelligence, who remained in office from the Martindale administration; Marine General Taylor J. Bain, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; Charles A. Huffman, Chief of Staff of the Air Force; and Air Force General Bradford Cannon, Commander of the US Armed Forces. Strategic Command and-until Congress and the Pentagon work out the details-commander of all U.S. theater space operations and responsible for training, equipping, and directing all space combat missions. Hunter Noble - eyes slightly hazy from sleep deprivation, both due to the time difference and Lisa Moulin - was connected to a teleconference via satellite from the command post at Constant ţa Air Force Base.
  
  Patrick and Master Sergeant Valerie Lucas hovered in front of a widescreen high-definition teleconference monitor, velcroed to the bulkhead of the command module with sneakers. Patrick cut his hair short, but Lucas's longer hair fell loose on either side of the crossband of her headphones, giving her an odd wolverine look. "Space Station Armstrong is online and safe, sir," Patrick announced. "This is Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan, Commander, Advanced Aerospace Weapons Center, Elliot Air Force Base, Nevada. USA with me. Air Force Master Sergeant Valerie Lucas, non-commissioned officer in charge of this station and sensor operator on duty during the attack in Tehran. Joining us via satellite from Constanta ţa, Romania, is Air Force Captain Hunter Noble, Head of Manned Space Flight and Hypersonic Weapons Development at the High-Tech Aerospace Weapons Center. He was the officer in charge of the Tehran attack and the designer of the SkySTRIK missile used in the attack. He returned to Earth yesterday after completing a mission to land a reconnaissance aircraft over eastern Iran, which we will inform you about later."
  
  "Thank you, General," said General Taylor Bain of the "Golden Room," also known as the "Tank," the Joint Chiefs of Staff conference center on the second floor of the Pentagon. As with most officers in the post-Holocaust United States, Bain was young for a four-star Marine officer, with dark brown hair cut high and tight, a ready smile, and warm gray eyes that radiated trust and determined sincerity. "Welcome everyone. I assume you know everyone here. Joining us from the White House is National Security Adviser Conrad Carlyle, and from Langley, Director of Intelligence Gerald Vista.
  
  "First, I want to say that I am delighted and, frankly, more than a little overwhelmed to speak with you, General McLanahan, aboard a facility that, just a few short years ago, was considered at best a relic of the Cold War and, at worst, a floating money pit. ' continued Bain. "But now we are looking at the possibility of allocating hundreds of billions of dollars in the next five budgets to create a space force based on the same weapons system. I am convinced that we are witnessing the beginning of a new direction and future for the US military. Captain Noble, I have been briefed on your incident yesterday, and while we need to discuss your judgment skills, I am impressed with how you handled yourself, your crew, your fellow pilots, and your ship. I think this was another example of amazing features being developed and the future path we are on really looks incredible. But we have a long way to go before we embark on this journey, and the events of the last few days will be decisive.
  
  "First, we are going to hear a briefing from General McLanahan on the Armstrong space station and its recent operational tests, as well as the Captain Noble incident over the Black Sea. We will discuss a few other issues, and then my staff will prepare our recommendations to the Department of Defense and homeland security officials. I'm sure it will be a long uphill fight, both at the Pentagon and on Capitol Hill. But whatever comes next, Patrick, I'd like to say 'Job well done' to you and your fellow airmen - or more correctly, fellow 'astronauts'. Please continue ".
  
  "Yes sir," Patrick began. "On behalf of everyone aboard the Armstrong Space Station and our support crews at Battle Mountain RAF, Elliot Air Force Base, and Peterson Air Force Base in Colorado, thank you for your kind words and continued support."
  
  Patrick pressed a button that presented the photographs and drawings in a separate window to the videoconference audience as he continued: "First a brief overview: the Armstrong space station was built in the late 1980s and early 1990s. It is a military version of NASA's much smaller Skylab space station, built from the spent fuel tanks of Saturn-I and Saturn-IV rockets connected together on a central keel structure. Four of these tanks, each with over thirty thousand cubic feet of free space inside, form the bulk of the station. Over the years, other modules have been attached to the keel for specialized missions or experiments, along with larger solar panels to increase power generation for the expanding station. We can accommodate up to twenty-five astronauts at the facility for a month without restocking.
  
  "The station hosts several advanced U.S. military systems, including the first space-based ultra-high-resolution radar, advanced space-based global infrared sensors, advanced space-based global communications and high-speed computer networks, and the first space-based anti-missile laser system, codenamed 'Skybolt', designed to shoot down intercontinental ballistic missiles from space. The station's space-based radar is a sophisticated radar system that scans the entire planet once a day and can detect and identify motorcycle-sized objects, even underground or underwater.
  
  "The destruction of our strategic command and control systems and missile defense facilities as a result of Russian Federation air attacks on the United States highlights the need for a reliable and modern operating base for a wide range of vital defense activities, and the Armstrong Space Station is such a facility," Patrick continued. . "Currently, the station is the central hub for collecting and distributing data from a network of satellites in high and low Earth orbits, connected together in a global intelligence and communications system, continuously transmitting a wide range of information to military and government users around the world in real time. The station and its supporting reconnaissance satellites can track and identify targets on the surface, in the sky, on water or under water, underground or in space, and it can direct manned and unmanned defenders against them, similar to a space-based multifunctional combat control system.
  
  "The current systems aboard the Armstrong space station provide it with other important capabilities that complement its primary military function," continued Patrick. "In the event of war or natural disaster, the station can serve as an alternative national center of military operations, similar to Air Force E-4B or Navy E-6B Mercury airborne command posts, and can communicate with ballistic missile submarines, even when deep submerged. It can connect to radio and television channels and the Internet around the world to broadcast information to the public; act as a nationwide air, sea or land traffic control center; or serve as the central coordinating center for the Federal Emergency Management Agency. The station supports the International Space Station, acts as a space rescue and repair service, supports numerous scientific research and educational programs and, I believe, is an inspiration for the general awakening of youth around the world to space exploration.
  
  "Currently there are twelve system operators, technicians and officers on the Armstrong Space Station who are arranged very much like a combat team aboard an airborne command post or sensor operators aboard a radar aircraft. Additional crews are brought on board as needed for specialized missions - the station has room for a dozen more employees and can be quickly and easily expanded with additional modules delivered by the shuttle, the SR-79 Black Stallion spaceplane, the Orion crew expedition ship or remotely manned launch vehicles -"
  
  "Excuse me, General," National Security Advisor Carlisle interjected, "but how is it possible to deliver additional modules to the station in a spaceplane or remotely piloted vehicles?"
  
  "The quickest and easiest way is to use inflatables, Mr. Carlisle," Patrick replied.
  
  "Inflatable"? You mean not rigid like a balloon?"
  
  "Like a balloon, only a very high-tech balloon. The technology is based on NASA's 'Transhab' experiments a decade ago, when inflatable modules were proposed for the International Space Station. The walls of our models are primarily made of an electroreactive material that is as flexible as cloth until current is applied and struck when it hardens into a material that resists impact a thousand times better than steel or Kevlar; this material is backed up by other non-electroreactive materials that are still many times stronger than steel or Kevlar. Inflatable structures give just enough to absorb the energy from the impact without damage - you can't break through the walls of these things.
  
  "The material is lightweight and packs up easily for launch and then easily and remotely inflates in just a few hours. We have already installed small inflatable modules on spaceplanes and Orion, and the technology is reliable. We have not yet raised the module with a full crew, but it is in development. Future space stations and possibly even habitation modules on the Moon or Mars are likely to be inflatable." Carlisle didn't look convinced at all, and neither did several of the other members, but he made no other comment.
  
  Patrick took a sip of water from a bottle velcroed to the bulkhead and was surprised to find a streak of nervous sweat on his upper lip. How many briefings, he thought, had he given in over two decades of military service? Not one, he wryly reminded himself, from outer space before! Briefing four-star generals was nerve-wracking enough, but doing it while flying at over seventeen thousand miles an hour and over two hundred miles above the Earth made it even more challenging.
  
  "The Armstrong Space Station is the ultimate expression of taking 'height' and is, I believe, the centerpiece of America's stated goal of maintaining access to and control of space," Patrick continued. "This and the Black Stallion spaceplanes form the backbone of what I call the US Space Defense Command, an integrated unified services command that manages all space-based offensive and defensive capabilities and supports theater ground command with reliable, high-speed communications, intelligence, attack, and transport services from space. . Our mission will be to-"
  
  "This is very interesting, General McLanahan," National Security Adviser Carlisle interjected with an ironic and rather puzzled look on his face, "and as interesting as the idea was when you first proposed it last year, there is still a long way to go before this kind of organization is created. years - we don't have time to bring back Buck Rogers right now. Can we move on to discussing operations in Iran, General Bain?"
  
  "Of course, Mr. Counselor. General McLanahan?"
  
  "Yes, sir," Patrick said without any expression - he was used to being ignored, interrupted and ignored whenever he voiced his idea about the US Space Defense Command. "Along with all the other advanced technological capabilities of this station, my staff has recently added another one: the ability to control remotely piloted tactical aircraft and their weapons from space. We have demonstrated the ability to control the EB-1C Vampire unmanned supersonic bomber completely from this station during all phases of flight, including multiple aerial refueling and deployment of hypersonic precision weapons, in real time and with full man-in-the-loop control. Our communications and networking capabilities are fully and rapidly scaling and expanding, and I envision the ability to control an entire air force of potentially hundreds of combat drones, from small reconnaissance micro-drones to giant cruise missile tractors, directly from the Armstrong-reliably and practically unapproachable."
  
  Patrick taped his briefing notes to the bulkhead. "I hope you all have received my follow-up report on the use of the XAGM-279 SkySTREAK hypersonic precision-guided cruise missile in Tehran," he said. "The attack was a complete success. The performance test was terminated due to unintentional and unfortunate losses caused by the detonation of a warhead believed to be for chemical weapons on a target missile. The casualties were caused by the unexpected detonation of a chemical warhead on an attacking insurgent's missile, not a SkySTRIK missile, and therefore...
  
  "And as I stated in my comments on the McLanahan report," Air Force Chief of Staff Gen. Charles Huffman intervened, "I believe that SkySTRIK was an inappropriate weapon to use and could adversely affect our efforts to de-escalate the conflict in Iran and reach a settlement through negotiations between the warring parties. Iran was not the right place to test this weapon, and it seems to me that General McLanahan twisted his proposal and the potential effects of the weapon in order to dramatize his system. Shooting a Skystreak at its limited range in Nevada wouldn't have the same "wow" effect as running into a rebel pickup truck. Unfortunately, his magic show resulted in the deaths of dozens of innocent civilians, including women and children, from poison gas."
  
  Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Bain shook his head, then looked straight ahead into the videoconference camera. "General McLanahan?" His brows furrowed as he looked at the image of Patrick on the videoconference screen: Patrick was taking another long sip from the squeeze bottle and seemed to be having some difficulty sticking the bottle to the bulkhead. "Do you bother to answer?"
  
  Patrick nodded, bringing his hand to his mouth to catch a drop of water. "Sorry, sir. Even tasks as simple as drinking water require a little extra concentration here. Almost everything requires conscious effort."
  
  "Understood, Patrick. I've ridden the Vomit Comet a couple of times, so I know what weightlessness can do to a person, but it's not like living the experience 24/7 at all." The Vomit Comet was a modified C-135 cargo plane that flew on a roller coaster-like trajectory that allowed passengers to be in zero gravity for several seconds during a steep descent. "Any comments on General Huffman's report?"
  
  "I didn't think it was necessary for me to respond with a resounding denial, sir," Patrick said, "but to be absolutely clear: General Huffman's analysis is absolutely wrong. I assembled the SkySTREAK operational test exactly as described in the air missions general's order: a highly accurate air strike group to support Persian counter-insurgency operations with minimal collateral loss or damage. We have not deviated one iota from the ATO line.
  
  "I'd like to point out a few other points as well, if I may, sir." He didn't wait for permission to continue: "SKYSTRIK has been approved by the general's operational headquarters, along with eight other task forces and units that operate over Tehran and other cities of Free Persia. So far, SkySTRIK has been the only unit to successfully engage any insurgents, although all other units have access to Global Hawk sensor imagery, the Armstrong Space Station automated surveillance system, and even SkySTRIK downlinks. . In short, sir, SkySTRIK works.
  
  "And the civilian casualties?"
  
  "The result of the detonation of the rebel warhead, sir - it was not caused by an explosion in the sky."
  
  "It was caused by your rocket, McLanahan," Huffman interjected. "You have been informed of the possibility of WMD use by insurgents in Tehran and have been instructed to refrain from doing so and request an extended target analysis before engaging in combat. You failed to do so, resulting in unnecessary civilian casualties."
  
  "As I understand it, sir, we limited the number of casualties by destroying the Raad missile before the rebels had a chance to launch it."
  
  "Anyway, McLanahan, you didn't follow my instructions," Huffman said. "Technology has nothing to do with it. But due to your error in judgment, the entire program may be closed."
  
  "I'm not quite ready to close anything yet, Charlie," General Bain said. "My headquarters and I have reviewed the report presented by General McLanahan and your response, with particular attention to the issue of collateral casualties among civilians. My intelligence agency has reviewed all of the Global Hawk surveillance footage and the space station's own sensor network. Everyone concluded that it would be possible to determine with certainty that the missile did indeed carry a chemical warhead, and that nearby innocent civilians were at risk if the missile was hit and the warhead detonated and activated." Huffman smiled and nodded confidently...
  
  ...until Bain glanced at the Air Force Chief of Staff, raised his hand and continued, "...if General McLanahan had time to study high-resolution freeze-frames for at least ninety seconds while sitting at a table in air force bases Langley, Beale, or Lackland, instead of flying around the planet Earth at seventeen thousand five hundred miles an hour, or if he had taken the time to consult with expert analysts on the ground; and if he wasn't a three-star general and air force tactics officer and air weapons expert, and he wasn't expected to make command decisions like that. However, had he taken the time to ask, or decided not to attack, we believe that the loss of life would have been much higher had the missile dispersed its deadly payload as intended.
  
  "Civilian deaths are unfortunate and something we want to avoid at all costs, but in this case we believe that General McLanahan made the right decision in accordance with his rules of engagement and is not responsible for the loss of life. Consequently, the command headquarters will not convene a commission of inquiry on this matter unless other evidence is presented, and will not consider the case closed. General McLanahan is able to continue his patrols over Iran as directed and the original plan with additional patrols added back to the package, and the joint headquarters recommends that National Command allow him to do so.
  
  "On a personal note, I would like to thank General McLanahan and his crews for a job well done," Bain added. "I have no idea what the hardships of working and living in space might be like, but I imagine the stress levels will be enormous and the operating conditions challenging to say the least. You and your people are doing a great job in difficult circumstances."
  
  "Thank you, sir."
  
  "That concludes my part of the videoconference. Mr. Carlisle, any comments or questions?" Patrick looked at the picture of the National Security Adviser, but he was busy talking on the phone. "Well, looks like Mr. Carlisle is already busy with something else, so we'll log out. Thank you, everyone-"
  
  "Wait a minute, General Bane," Conrad Carlisle interrupted. "Get ready." Carlisle shifted his chair to the side, the camera panned back, widening the view to three seats at the White House board table ... and a moment later, United States President Joseph Gardner took his seat next to Carlisle, along with White House Chief of Staff Walter Cordus, tall but a rather thin man who seemed to be constantly frowning.
  
  Cameras - any cameras, even relatively cheap ones for video conferencing - pleased Joseph Gardner. Dark-haired, lean, square-jawed, he had that strange, almost mystical appearance that defied any attempt by anyone to classify him by ethnicity - at the same time he looked Italian, Iberian, black Irish, Hispanic, even round-eyed Asian - and so they all liked him. He radiated tremendous self-confidence at every turn, and his dark green eyes seemed to radiate power like laser beams. Just a couple of years after his two terms at the U.C. The Senate, everyone knew it was meant for more and better.
  
  A Florida native and descended from a long line of Navy veterans, Gardner has always been a big believer in a strong navy. Nominated by then-President Kevin Martindale to be Secretary of the Navy in his first term, Gardner doggedly pursued a massive expansion of the Navy, not only in its traditional maritime roles, but in many non-traditional ones such as nuclear warfare, space, tactical aviation and missile defense. He argued that just as the Army was the primary service of America's ground forces and the Marine Corps was the support service, the Navy should be the leader in maritime warfare and tactical aviation and the Air Force the service of support. His rather radical "non-standard" ideas caused a lot of skepticism, but, nevertheless, attracted a lot of attention and favorable support from Congress and the American people ...
  
  ... even before the complete devastation of the American Holocaust, in which Russian long-range bombers armed with nuclear-tipped cruise missiles destroyed all but a handful of American nuclear-capable ICBMs and long-range strategic bombers. In just a few hours, the U.S. Navy suddenly became the only service capable of projecting U.S. military power around the world, and at the same time, virtually the only custodian of the U.S. nuclear deterrent, which was considered absolutely vital to the very survival of the United States of America in its weakened state. condition.
  
  Joseph Gardner, "the engineer of the American navy of the twenty-first century," was suddenly considered a true visionary and savior of the nation. During Martindale's second term, Gardner was nominated and unanimously confirmed as Secretary of Defense, and he was universally recognized as the de facto vice president and national security adviser rolled into one. His popularity soared, and few around the world doubted that he would be the next President of the United States.
  
  "Greetings, gentlemen," Gardner said, positioning himself in the same way in front of the videoconference camera. "Thought it might be worth checking out your little chat here."
  
  "Welcome, Mr. President," said Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Taylor Bain. He was visibly disturbed by this unexpected interruption of his meeting, but tried his best not to show it. "We would be happy to start the briefing again, sir."
  
  "There is no need for that," the president said. "I have information relevant to the purpose of this meeting and I thought the best and most efficient way to get it to you would be to just storm in."
  
  "Welcome anytime, sir," Bain said. "Please continue. The word is yours."
  
  "Thank you, Taylor," the President said. "I just spoke on the phone with Russian President Zevitin. General McLanahan?"
  
  "Yes, sir."
  
  "He claims that you fired a missile at one of his reconnaissance aircraft in international airspace, and when the missile missed, you seriously damaged the aircraft with powerful radioactive beams called T-waves, or something like that. He also claims that a missile fired from one of your planes killed several dozen innocent civilians in Tehran, including women and children. Would you like to explain?"
  
  "He's lying, sir," McLanahan replied immediately. "All this is not true."
  
  "This is true?" He picked up a piece of paper. "I have a copy of the Air Force Chief of Staff's summary of the incident, which seems to say pretty much the same thing. So, both the President of Russia and the Chief of the General Staff are lying, and you are telling me the truth, General? Is this what you want me to believe?"
  
  "We have just discussed the incident and the issues raised by General Huffman, sir," Bane said, "and I have ruled that McLanahan acted properly and as directed and was not responsible for the loss of civilian lives-"
  
  "And as for Zevitin or anyone else in the Kremlin, sir," McLanahan intervened, "I wouldn't believe a word they said."
  
  "General McLanahan, dozens of innocent Iranians have died from chemical weapons, and a Russian reconnaissance pilot has been badly wounded by radiation fired at him by one of your bombers," the President retorted. "The world thinks that you are starting another war with Russia in the Middle East and are demanding answers and responsibility. Now is not the time for your bigoted attitude." Patrick shook his head and turned away, reaching for his water bottle, and the president's eyes widened in anger. "Is there anything else you want to tell me, general?" Patrick turned back to the camera, then looked at his outstretched hand in confusion, as if he'd forgotten why he held it out. "Is something wrong with you, McLanahan?"
  
  "N- no, sir..." Patrick replied in a hushed voice. He missed the water bottle, groped for it, grabbed it, then applied too much force to pry it off the Velcro and sent it spinning modulo.
  
  "What? I can not hear you. Gardner's eyes narrowed in confusion as he watched the water bottle fly out of sight. "What is happening there? Where are you, general? Why are you moving like that?"
  
  "He's at the Armstrong space station, sir," General Bane said.
  
  "At the space station? Is he in orbit? Are you kidding me? What are you doing up there?"
  
  "As commander of his task force operating from space, I have authorized General McLanahan to oversee the operation from the space station," Bane explained, "just like any commanding officer would take command of his forces from a forward command ship or-"
  
  "On the bridge or CIC of the destroyer, yes, but not on the damn space station!" President Gardner fired back. "I want him to get off this thing immediately! For God's sake, he's a three-star general, not Buck Rogers!"
  
  "Sir, if I may, can we discuss the issue of an air strike on a rebel rocket launcher and actions against a Russian aircraft?" General Bane said, looking worried as Valerie Lucas checked on Patrick. "We reviewed the intelligence data and we determined-"
  
  "It couldn't be a very thorough check if the incident happened just a couple of hours ago, General," the President said. He turned to the national security adviser sitting next to him. "Conrad?" I asked.
  
  "This is a preview of the same sensor data from the Global Hawk unmanned reconnaissance aircraft and space station radars that General McLanahan and his team saw before the attack, sir," Carlisle replied. "General Bain and his experts at the Pentagon reviewed the images as if they had been asked before the attack whether the target was legal under the rules of engagement established by us in accordance with the attack order, as required, if there is any uncertainty regarding security for non-combatants due to weapon exposure or collateral damage. The videoconference was called as a preliminary review of the incident to determine if a more detailed investigation would be warranted."
  
  "And what?" I asked.
  
  "General Bain ruled that while General McLanahan could have foreseen civilian casualties, his order to engage was justified and appropriate based on the information available, the threat of more civilian deaths at the hands of the insurgents, and his authority under the plan of attack." Carlisle replied. "He recommends to the Secretary of Defense and you that no further investigation be required and that McLanahan be allowed to continue the operation as planned with a full complement of missile carriers instead of one."
  
  "This is true?" The President paused for a moment, then shook his head. "General Bain, you are telling me that you think it is right for McLanahan to attack the target knowing that there are so many non-combatting civilians nearby and that such an attack is in the letter and spirit of my Executive Order authorizing the hunting of insurgents in Iran?" he objected. "I think you grossly misinterpreted my orders. I thought I was very clear and specific: I do not want any civilian casualties. Did you not understand this, General Bane?"
  
  "So it was, sir," Bane replied, his jaw tightening and his eyes narrowed in reprimand, "but with the information that General McLanahan had at the time, and with the threat posed by those rebel missiles, I felt that he was fully justified in making the decision-"
  
  "Let's get this straight here and now, General Bane: I am the supreme commander and I make the decisions," the President said. "Your job is to follow my orders, and my orders were to prevent civilian casualties. The only correct order in this case was to refrain due to the large number of civilians around this launcher. Even if they were ordered to leave the immediate area, you should have foreseen that they would be close enough to be injured or killed by the explosion. They-"
  
  "Sir, there was no explosion, at least none caused by us," Bane protested. "The SkySTRIK missile is a pure kinetic energy weapon, it was designed to -"
  
  "I don't care what it was designed for, General McLanahan knew there were civilians in the immediate vicinity, and according to General Huffman, you were informed that some missiles could have chemical weapons on them, so it's obvious to him should have abstained. End of discussion. So what's the story of McLanahan firing a missile at a Russian fighter jet? Do McLanahan bombers carry air-to-air missiles?"
  
  "This is the standard defensive armament for the EB-1D Vampire aircraft, sir, but McLanahan does not-"
  
  "So why did you open fire on that Russian spy plane, General McLanahan?"
  
  "We didn't fire any missiles, sir," McLanahan replied as firmly as he could, nodding to Lucas that he was fine, "and it wasn't a spy plane: it was a MiG-29 tactical fighter."
  
  "What was that doing up there, McLanahan?"
  
  "Spying on our bomber over the Caspian Sea, sir."
  
  "I understand. Shadowing...as inside, scouting? Am I interpreting this correctly, general?" Patrick rubbed his eyes and swallowed hard, licking his dry lips. "We're not detaining you, are we, General?"
  
  "No, sir."
  
  "So the Russian plane was just doing reconnaissance after all, right?"
  
  "In my opinion, no, sir. It was-"
  
  "So you fired a missile at him and he fired back, and then you hit him with some kind of radioactive beam, right?"
  
  "No, sir." But something wasn't right. Patrick looked at the camera but seemed to be having trouble focusing. "This...we don't..."
  
  "So what happened?"
  
  "Mr. President, the MiG opened fire on us first," Boomer intervened. "The vampire was just defending himself, nothing more."
  
  "Who is this?" the President asked the National Security Adviser. He turned to the camera, his eyes bulging in anger. "Who are you? Name yourself!"
  
  "I'm Captain Hunter Noble," Boomer said as he got to his feet, staring in shock at the picture of Patrick being helped by Lucas, "and why the hell don't you stop harassing us? We are just doing our job!"
  
  "What did you tell me?" boomed the president. "Who the hell are you to talk to me like that? General Bane, I want him fired! I want him fired!"
  
  "Master Sergeant, what's going on?" Bane shouted, ignoring the president. "What's going on with Patrick?"
  
  "He's having trouble breathing, sir." She found the nearest intercom switch: "Medical team to the command module! Emergency!" And then she ended the video conference by pressing a key on the communication control keyboard.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  "McLanahan is having a heart attack?" exclaimed the president after the space station video cut off. "I knew he wasn't supposed to be in this thing! General Bane, what medical facilities do they have up there?"
  
  "Basic, sir: only a medically trained technician and first aid equipment. We never had a heart attack on a US military spacecraft."
  
  "Great. Just fucking great." The President ran a hand through his hair in obvious frustration. "Can you get a doctor there immediately, any medicines and equipment?"
  
  "Yes, sir. The Black Stallion spaceplane could rendezvous with the space station in a couple of hours."
  
  "Get on with it. And stop these bombing flights over Iran. No more cruise missile firing until I know for sure what happened."
  
  "Yes, sir." Communication with Bane for the videoconference has been interrupted.
  
  The President leaned back in his chair, loosened his tie and lit a cigarette. "What a bunch, damn it," he breathed. "We are killing a bunch of innocent civilians in Tehran with a hypersonic missile fired from an unmanned bomber controlled from a military space station; Russia is angry with us; And now the hero of the American Holocaust is having a goddamned heart attack in space! What's next?"
  
  "The McLanahan situation could be a blessing in disguise, Joe," Chief of Staff Walter Cordus said. She and Carlisle had known Joseph Gardner since their college days, and Cordus was one of the few people allowed to address the president by his first name. "We have been looking for ways to cut funding for the space station, despite its popularity in the Pentagon and on Capitol Hill, and maybe this is it."
  
  "But it has to be done delicately - McLanahan is too popular with people to be used as an excuse to shut down his favorite program, especially since he has been touting it around the world as the next big thing, an impenetrable fortress, the ultimate watchtower . blah blah blah," the President said. "We need to get some congressmen to raise the issue of safety on this space station, and whether it needs to be serviced in the first place. We will have to 'leak' this incident to Senator Barbeau, the Armed Services Committee and a few others."
  
  "It won't be difficult," Cordus said. "Barbeau will know how to stir things up without hitting McLanahan."
  
  "Fine. After this hits the press, I want to meet with Barbeau in private to discuss strategy." Cordus did his best to hide his discomfort at this order. The president noticed the warning tension of his friend and top political adviser and quickly added, "Everyone will lend a hand for money as soon as we begin to implement the idea of destroying this space station, and I want to control the begging, whining and arm-twisting."
  
  "All right, Joe," Cordus said, not convinced by the President's hasty explanation, but also unwilling to press the matter. "I'll set everything up."
  
  "You will do this." He took a deep puff on his cigarette, crushed it, then added, "And we need to get our ducks out quickly, in case McLanahan loses his temper and Congress kills his program before we can share his budget."
  
  
  CHAPTER THREE
  
  
  Man does what he is; he becomes what he does.
  
  - ROBERT VON MUSIL
  
  
  
  AZADI SQUARE, OUTSIDE MEHRABAD INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, TEHRAN, DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF PERSIA
  A FEW DAYS LATER
  
  
  "No bread, no peace! No bread, no peace!" the protesters chanted over and over. The crowd, now numbering about two or three hundred people, seemed to grow larger and exponentially louder every minute.
  
  "If they don"t have bread, where do they get so much energy to stand here and protest?" Colonel Mostafa Rahmati, commander of the Fourth Infantry Brigade, muttered as he studied the security barriers and watched the crowds draw closer. Just two weeks earlier, Rahmati, a short, rather round man with thick dark hair that seemed to thickly cover every inch of his body except the top of his head, was the executive officer of the transport battalion, but due to the disappearance of commanders - presumably killed by the rebels, although no one could rule out desertion - in the army of the supposed Democratic Republic of Persia, promotion was fast and urgent.
  
  "More smoke," one of Rahmati's lookouts reported. "Tear gas, not an explosion." After a few seconds, they heard a loud bang! strong enough to shatter the windows of the airport office building he and his senior staff were in. The lookout looked shyly at his commander. "Small explosion, sir."
  
  "I understand," said Rahmati. He didn't want to show any displeasure or annoyance - two weeks ago he wouldn't have been able to tell the difference between a grenade explosion and a loud fart. "Watch the lines carefully - this could be a red herring."
  
  Rahmati and his staff were on the top floor of an office building that once belonged to Iran's Ministry of Transport at Mehrabad International Airport. After the military coup and the start of the Islamist insurgency against the military government in Iran, the coup leaders decided to take over the Mehrabad airport and set up a hard security perimeter around the entire area. Although most of the city east of Tehran University was left to the rebels, the capture of the airport proved to be a wise decision. The airport was already eminently secure; the open spaces around the field were easy to patrol and defend; and the airport could remain open for receiving and sending cargo by air.
  
  Also, it was often pointed out that if the rebels ever got the upper hand - which could happen any day - it would be a lot easier to get the hell out of the country.
  
  The windows rattled again, and heads turned further southeast along Mer'raj Avenue, northeast toward Azadi Square, about two kilometers away, where another plume of smoke suddenly rose, this time topped with a crown of orange fire. Explosions, arson, deliberate accidents, chaos, and frequent suicide bombings were commonplace in Tehran, and none were more common than the area between Mehrabad Airport, Azadi Square, and the famous Freedom Tower, formerly the "Gateway to Iran." . The Freedom Tower, first named the Shahyad Tower, or Royal Tower, in honor of the 2500th anniversary of the Persian Empire, was built in 1971 by Shah Reza Pahlavi as a symbol of the new, modern Iran. The tower was renamed after the Islamic Revolution and, like the US embassy, was seen more as a symbol of a declining monarchy and a warning to people not to accept Western enemies of Islam. The square became a popular venue for anti-Western demonstrations and speeches, and thus became a symbol of the Islamic revolution, which is probably why the marble-lined monument to Iran's last monarchy was never demolished.
  
  Since the whole area was heavily fortified and well patrolled by the military, trade began to revive here, and even some luxury goods such as restaurants, cafes and cinemas reopened. Unfortunately, they were often targeted by Islamist insurgents. A few brave supporters of the theocracy held a rally in Azadi Square from time to time. To their credit, the military did not crack down on these rallies and even took steps to protect them from counter-protestants who threatened to become too violent. Bujazi and most of his officers knew that they had to do everything possible to demonstrate to the people of Persia and to the whole world that they were not going to replace one kind of oppression with another.
  
  "What is happening there?" I asked. Rahmati asked as he scanned the avenue for more signs of an organized rebel advance. Every insurgent attack of late has been preceded by a smaller, innocuous-looking attack nearby that diverts the attention of police and military patrols just enough to allow the insurgents to create even more chaos elsewhere.
  
  "Looks like that new ExxonMobil gas station off Sai-di Highway across from Meda Azadi Park, sir," the lookout reported. "A large crowd is running towards Azadi Avenue. The smoke is getting thicker - perhaps underground tanks are burning."
  
  "Damn it, I thought we had enough security there," Rahmati swore. The station was the government's first experiment in allowing foreign investment and partial ownership of businesses in Persia. With the world's fourth-largest oil reserves, oil companies around the world have sought to move into the newly liberated country and take advantage of its wealth, almost untouched for decades after the West imposed an embargo against the theocratic Iranian government after the 1979 US embassy was seized. It was much, much more than a simple gas station - it was a symbol of a revived Persia in the twenty-first century.
  
  Everyone understood this, even soldiers like Rahmati, whose main goal in life was to take care of himself. He came from a privileged family and joined the army for its prestige and advantages after it became apparent that he was not smart enough to become a doctor, lawyer, or engineer. After Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini's revolution, he saved his own skin by swearing allegiance to the theocrats, denouncing his fellow officers and friends in Pasdaran i-Engelab, the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, and renouncing most of his family's hard-earned wealth in the form of bribes and tribute. . Although he hated the theocracy for taking everything he had, he did not join the coup until it was obvious that it would succeed. "I want a reserve platoon to go with the firemen to put out these fires," he continued, "and if any protesters come close, they should push them back north of Azadi Avenue and northwest of the square, even if they have to break through several skulls. I don't want-"
  
  "If you were going to say 'I don't want this to get out of hand', Colonel, then cracking skulls is not the best way to achieve this," came a voice from behind him. to attention when the leader of the military coup, General Khesarak al-Kan Bujazi, entered the room.
  
  The struggle to liberate his country from theocratic and Islamist rule has aged Bujazi well beyond his sixty-two years. Tall and always slender, he now struggled to eat enough to maintain a healthy weight amid his twenty-hour duties a day, infrequent and meager meals, and the need to constantly be on the move to confuse his enemies - both within his team and and outside - who hunted him tirelessly. He still sported a close-cropped beard and mustache, but shaved his head so he wouldn't waste time maintaining his former cascading gray locks in good condition. Although he had changed from his military uniform to a French-style Gatsby suit and shirt, he wore an unadorned military-style coat and polished paratrooper boots under his trousers, and carried a PC9 nine-millimeter automatic pistol in the shoulder strap under his jacket. "How were you," he ordered. The rest of the room relaxed. "Report, Colonel."
  
  "Yes, sir". Rahmati quickly listed the most serious events of the past few hours; then: "Sorry about that outburst, sir. I'm just a little upset, that's all. I placed extra people at this station just to prevent this from happening."
  
  "Your disappointment sounded like an order to strike back at anti-government protesters, Colonel, and that won't help the situation," Boujazi said. "We will deal harshly with the criminals, not with the protesters. It's clear?"
  
  "Yes, sir."
  
  Boujasi looked at his brigade commander carefully. "Looks like you need some rest, Mostafa."
  
  "I'm fine, sir."
  
  Boujasi nodded, then looked around the room. "Well, you can"t lead your brigade from here all the time, can you? Let's go see what happened there." Rahmati swallowed, then nodded, reluctantly following the general to the door, wishing he had agreed to take a nap. Navigating the streets of Tehran-even in broad daylight, within the Bujazi-controlled section of the city, and escorted by a full platoon of battle-hardened security forces-has never been a safe or expedient move.
  
  Each two-kilometer block from the airport to Meda Azari Park was a maze of concrete and steel lanes designed to slow down the heaviest vehicles; there was a new checkpoint every three blocks, and even Bujazi's motorcade had to be stopped and inspected each time. Bujazi didn't seem to mind at all, taking the opportunity to greet his soldiers and a few of the townsfolk outside. Rahmati didn't want to get that close to anyone, preferring instead to keep his AK-74 assault rifle at the ready. As they approached the park and the crowd grew larger, Boujazi strode down the street, shaking hands with those who offered their hand, waving to others, and shouting a few words of encouragement. His bodyguards had to quicken their pace to keep up with him.
  
  Rahmati had to give the guy credit: the old warhorse knew how to control a crowd. He fearlessly made his way into the crowd, shaking hands with those who could just as well hold a gun or a bulletproof vest trigger, talking to journalists and testifying in front of television cameras, taking pictures with civilians and military men, kissing babies and old toothless women, and even acted as a traffic inspector when fire engines tried to enter the area, dispersing the crowd and directing confused motorists away. But now they were only a few blocks away from the gas station fire, and the crowd was getting thicker and much more restless. "Sir, I suggest we interview security patrols and find out if any witnesses saw what happened or if any security cameras were in operation," Rahmati said, implying that this would be a good place to do so.
  
  Bujazi did not seem to hear him. Instead of stopping, he kept walking, heading straight for the largest and noisiest crowd on the northwest side of the park. Rahmati had no choice but to stay with him, rifle at the ready.
  
  Boujasi did not turn around, but seemed to sense the brigade commander's unease. "Put your weapons away, Mostafa," Bujazi said.
  
  "But sir-"
  
  "If they wanted to shoot me, they could have done it two blocks before we looked each other in the eyes," Bujazi said. "Tell the guards to get their weapons ready too." The team leader, an incredibly young Air Force major named Haddad, must have heard him, because the bodyguards' weapons were gone by the time Rahmati turned to relay the order.
  
  The crowd visibly stiffened as Boujazi and his bodyguards approached, and the small group of men, women, and even a few children quickly grew. Rahmati was not a policeman or an expert on crowd psychology, but he noticed that as more spectators came closer to see what was happening, the rest were pushed further and further forward, towards the source of danger, making them feel trapped. and fear for your life. As soon as panic set in, the crowd quickly and suddenly turned into a crowd; and when any soldier or armed individual felt that his life was in danger, shooting began and the number of casualties increased rapidly.
  
  But Bujasi seemed oblivious to the obvious: he continued to march forward-not threateningly, but not with any false bravado or friendliness; all business-like, but not confrontational, like a soldier, or cheerful, like a politician. Did he think that he would drop in to his friends and discuss the problems of the day, or sit down to watch a football match? Or did he think he was invulnerable? Whatever his mental state, he misunderstood this crowd. Rahmati began to think about how he was going to get to his rifle...and at the same time tried to decide which way he could run if this situation completely went to hell.
  
  "Salam alaikom," Bujazi called when he was about ten paces from the growing crowd, raising his right hand in salute and also to show that he was unarmed. "Is anyone hurt here?"
  
  A young man no older than seventeen or eighteen stepped forward and pointed at the general. "What does the damned soldier care if someone...?" And then he stopped, his finger still outstretched. "You! Khesarak Buzhazi, the new emperor of Persia! The reincarnation of Cyrus and Alexander himself! Should we kneel before you, or is a simple bow enough, my lord?"
  
  "I asked if there was anyone...?"
  
  "What do you think of your empire now, General?" - asked the young man, pointing to the clouds of acrid smoke swirling nearby. "Or is it 'Emperor' Bujazi now?"
  
  "If no one needs help, I need volunteers to keep others away from the blast, find witnesses and collect evidence before the police arrive," Boujazi said, diverting his attention - but not completely - from the high-profile arson message. He found the oldest person in the crowd. "You, sir. I need you to call for volunteers to secure this crime scene. Then I need-"
  
  "Why should we help you, lord and master, sir?" shouted the first young man. "You were the one who brought this violence on us! Iran was a peaceful and safe country until you came in and massacred everyone who did not agree with your totalitarian ideas and seized power. Why should we cooperate with you?"
  
  "Peacefully and safely, yes - under the heel of clerics, Islamists and lunatics who killed or imprisoned anyone who disobeyed their orders," Boujazi said, unable to avoid being drawn into a debate he knew would not lead to to victory. "They betrayed the people, as they betrayed me and everyone in the army. They-"
  
  "So that"s the point, isn"t it Mr. Emperor: you?" - said the man. "You don't like the way your former friends, the clerics, treated you, so you killed them and seized power. Why do we care what you say now? You will tell us everything to stay in power until you are done raping the country, and then you will fly straight from your very conveniently located new headquarters at Mehrabad Airport."
  
  Boujasi was silent for a few moments, then nodded, which surprised everyone around. "You are right, young man. I was angry because of the death of my soldiers who worked so hard to get rid of the radicals and psychos in the Basij and get something from themselves, their unit and their lives." After Boujazi was fired as chief of staff following attacks by American stealth bombers on their Russian-made aircraft carrier a few years earlier, he was demoted to commander of the Basij-e-Mostazefin, or Mobilization of the Oppressed, a group of civilian volunteers. , who denounced neighbors, acted as lookouts and spies, and roamed the streets terrorizing others into conforming to and cooperating with the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps.
  
  Bujazi cleared the Basij of bandits and mob instigators and reorganized the remaining ones into the Internal Defense Force, a true military reserve force. But their success challenged the dominance of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, and they acted in an attempt to discredit-or, preferably, destroy-the fledgling Bujazi National Guard forces. "When I found out that it was the Pasdarans who organized the attack on my first operational reserve unit, framing it as a Kurdish rebel action, just to hurt and discredit the Internal Defense Forces, I got angry and lashed out.
  
  "But the Islamists and terrorists that the clerics have brought into our country are the real problem, son, not the pasdaran," Bujazi continued. "They have emptied the minds of this nation, stripped them of all common sense and decency, and filled them with nothing but fear, contempt, and blind obedience."
  
  "So what is the difference between you and the clerics, Bujazi?" shouted another young man. Rahmati could see that the crowd was getting bolder, louder and not afraid to come closer every second. "You kill the clergy and overthrow the government - our government, the one we have elected! - and replace it with your junta. We see your troops break down doors, burn down buildings, steal and rape every day!"
  
  The crowd loudly expressed their consent, and Boujazi had to raise his hands and say to be heard: "First of all, I promise you that if you present me evidence of theft or rape by any soldier under my command, I will personally put a bullet in his head." he shouted. "No tribunal, no secret trial, no hearing - bring me evidence, convince me, and I will bring the guilty person to you and execute him with my own hands.
  
  "Secondly, I am not forming a government in Persia, and I am not a president or emperor - I am the commander of the resistance forces temporarily in place to quell violence and establish order. I will remain in power long enough to eradicate the rebels and terrorists and oversee the formation of some form of government that will draft a constitution and enact laws to govern the people, and then I will retire. That is why I opened my headquarters in Mehrabad - not for a quick getaway, but to show that I am not going to take legitimate government positions and call myself President."
  
  "This is what Musharraf, Castro, Chavez and hundreds of other dictators and despots said when they staged their coups and took over the government," the young man said. "They said they fought for the people and would leave as soon as order was established, and before you knew it, they took their posts for life, put their friends and thugs in positions of power, suspended the constitution, seized banks, nationalized all businesses , took away land and wealth from the rich and shut down all media that opposed them. You will do the same in Iran."
  
  Boujasi studied the young man for a moment, then looked carefully at the others around him. He noted that these were some very good points - this guy was very smart and well-read for his age, and he suspected that most of the others were the same. He was not here among the usual homeless children.
  
  "I judge a man by his actions, not by his words-both friend and foe," Boujazi said. "I could promise you peace, happiness, security and prosperity, like any politician, or I could promise you a place in heaven, like the clergy, but I will not. All I can promise is that I will fight tooth and nail to prevent the rebels from tearing our country apart before we have a chance to form a government of the people, whatever that government is. I will use all my skills, training and experience to keep this country safe until the people's government gets back on its feet."
  
  "That sounds like beautiful words to me, Mr. Emperor, the ones you just promised not to use."
  
  Boujasi smiled and nodded, looking directly into the eyes of those who seemed the most angry or incredulous. "I see a lot of you have cell phone cameras, so you have video proof of what I'm saying. If I were the dictator you think I am, I would confiscate all those phones and send you to jail."
  
  "You could do it tonight, after breaking into our houses and dragging us out of bed."
  
  "But I won't," Bujazi said. "You can freely send a video to anyone on the planet, post it on YouTube, sell it to the media. The video will document my promise to you, but my actions will be the ultimate proof."
  
  "How can we send any videos, old man," the young woman asked, "when the power is only on for three hours a day? We will be lucky if the phones work for a few minutes every day."
  
  "I read publications, I browse the Internet and I hide in blogs, just like you," Boujazi said. "The American Satellite Global Wireless Internet System works well even in Persia - let me remind you that it was blocked by the clergy to try to prevent you from receiving contrary news from the outside world - and I know that many of you enterprising young people have built generators with foot switch to charge your laptops when the power goes out. I may be an old man, young lady, but I am not completely out of touch with reality." He was pleased to see a few smiles appear on the faces of those around him - at last, he thought, he began to speak their language.
  
  "But I remind you that power is out due to rebel attacks on our power generators and distribution networks," he continued. "Somewhere there is an enemy who doesn"t give a damn about the people of Persia - all they want is to take back power for themselves, and they will do it in any way they can think of, even if it hurts or kills innocent citizens. I took power away from them and allowed the citizens of this country to communicate with the outside world again. I allowed foreign investment and aid to return to Persia, while the clergy shut themselves off from the rest of the world for more than thirty years and accumulated the wealth and power of this nation. This is the action I'm talking about, my friends. I have absolutely nothing to say, and these actions would speak louder than a thousand peals of thunder."
  
  "So when will the attacks stop, General?" asked the first person. "How long will it take to drive out the rebels?"
  
  "I think long after I'm dead and buried," Boujazi said. "So then everything will depend on you. How long do you want it to take, son?"
  
  "Hey, you started this war, not me!" boomed the man, shaking his fist. "Don't put this at my feet! You say you'll be dead long before this is over - well, why don't you just go to hell now and save us all a ton of time!" Several people in the crowd blinked at the man's outburst of rage, but did not say or do anything. "And I'm not your son, old man. My father was killed on the street outside the shop my family has owned for three generations, during a firefight between your troops and the Pasdarans, right in front of my eyes, my mother and my little sister."
  
  Bujazi nodded. "I regret. Then tell me your name."
  
  "I don"t feel like telling you my name, old man," the young man said bitterly, "because I see that you and your forces are just as capable of arresting me or shooting me in the head as the Passdarans are rumored to be. "
  
  'According to what you have?' Do you doubt that the Pasdarans kill anyone who opposes the clerics?"
  
  "I saw a lot of violence and bloodlust on both sides in the shootout in which my father was killed," the young man continued, "and I see very little difference between you and the clergy, except perhaps for the clothes you wear. Are you right or justified in your actions just because the Americans broke in and helped you temporarily drive the Pasdarans out of the capital? When you are driven out, will you then become the new rebels? Will you start a war on the innocent because you think you are right?"
  
  "If you really believe that I am no better or worse than the Revolutionary Guards, then no words will ever convince you otherwise," Boujazi said, "and you will blame your father"s death on any convenient target. I am sorry for your loss." He turned and surveyed the others around him. "I see a lot of angry faces here on the street, but I also hear some extremely intelligent voices. My question to you: If you're so smart, what are you doing here, just standing around doing nothing? Your fellow citizens are dying and you are doing nothing, going from attack to attack, shaking your fists at my soldiers, while the rebels move on to the next target."
  
  "What should we do, old man?" another man asked.
  
  "Follow your head, follow your heart and take action," Bujazi said. "If you truly believe that the clergy are in the best interests of the nation, join the rebels and fight to drive me and my people out of the country. If you believe in the monarchists, join them and create your own rebellion in the name of Kagev, fighting both the Islamists and my soldiers, and return the monarchy to power. If you think that my words and actions make sense, put on your uniform, take a rifle and join me. If you don't want to join anyone, at least keep your damn eyes open and when you see your family or your neighbors being attacked, take action...any action . Fight, inform, help, protect - do something and don't just stand around and complain about it."
  
  He scanned their faces one more time, letting them look straight into his eyes and him into theirs. Most of them did just that. He saw real strength in this group and it gave him hope. They were worth fighting for, he decided. No matter which side they chose, they were the future of this land. "This is your country, dammit...it's our country. If it's not worth fighting for, go somewhere else before you become another victim." He paused, letting his words sink in; then: "Now I need your help securing this crime scene. My soldiers will set up a perimeter and secure the area, but I need some of you to help the rescuers find the victims, and the police to collect evidence and interview witnesses. Who will help?"
  
  The crowd stopped, waiting for someone to make the first move. Then the first young man stepped forward and said to Bujazi: "Not for you, emperor. Do you think that you are somehow different from the rebels roaming the streets? You are worse. You're just a pretentious old man with a gun. It doesn't make you right." And he turned and walked away, followed by the others.
  
  "Damn, I thought I got through to them," Boujazi told Colonel Rahmati.
  
  "They're just a bunch of losers, sir," said the brigade commander. "You asked what they are doing here on the streets? They create problems, that's all. As far as we know, they are the ones who blew up that gas station. How do we know they are not rebels?"
  
  "They are rebels, Mostafa," Bujazi said.
  
  Rahmati looked stunned. "They are? How do you know... I mean, we should arrest them all right now!"
  
  "They are rebels, but not Islamists," Bujazi said. "If I had a choice of who I would want to take to the streets right now, it would definitely be them. I still think they will help, but not in the way I might expect them to." He looked in the direction of the still-burning gas station at the remains of a smoldering delivery truck that had blown dozens of meters across the street. "Stay here and keep your weapons out of sight. Set the perimeter. I want no more than two soldiers at any intersection, and they should be placed on opposite corners, not together."
  
  "Why, sir?"
  
  "Because if there are more of them, the whistleblowers will not approach them - and we need information, and quickly," Boujazi said. He walked towards the smoking truck. Rahmati followed, not wanting to sound even more frightened than he already was, but Bujazi turned and growled, "I said stay here and set up a perimeter." Rahmati was only too glad to comply.
  
  A fire truck pulled up to the burning hulk, and two very young looking firefighters - probably the children of dead or injured real firefighters, a common practice in this part of the world - began to put out the fire using a gentle jet of water from an old fire truck left in stock. It was supposed to be a long and painstaking job. Boujasi walked around the fire truck, far enough away from the smoke that he didn't choke on it, but was mostly out of sight. Now that the cleanup work had begun, the crowds began to disperse. Another, larger fire brigade attacked the flames at the gas station itself, which was still very hot and ferocious, quickly raising huge plumes of black smoke into the sky. It was incredible to Bujasi that the flames seemed to absorb even such a huge amount of water - the fire was so intense that the fire seemed to-
  
  "Good speech there, General," he heard a voice behind him.
  
  Boujasi nodded and smiled - he guessed right. He turned and formally nodded to Her Highness Azar Asiya Kagev, heir presumptive to the Peacock Throne of Persia. He glanced behind the young woman and spotted Captain Mara Saidi, one of Azar's royal bodyguards, standing modestly by the lamppost, skillfully blending into the chaos around them. Her jacket was unbuttoned, and her hands were folded in front of her, apparently covering her weapon from prying eyes. "I thought I saw the captain there in the crowd and I knew you would be around. I'm assuming the major is nearby with a sniper rifle or RPG, right?"
  
  "I guess he"s armed with both weapons today - you know how he likes to come prepared," Azar said, bowing back, not bothering to point out the location where her internal security chief, Parviz Najjar, was hiding - just in case a little rendezvous Boujazi was indeed a trap here. She couldn't afford to trust this man-alliances in Persia were changing so quickly. "I promoted Najjar to Lieutenant Colonel and Saidi to Major for their bravery in getting me out of America and back home."
  
  Bujazi nodded approvingly. Azar Asia Kagev, the youngest daughter of Peacock Throne pretender Mohammed Hassan Kagev, still missing since the start of the Bujazi coup against Iran's theocratic regime, had just turned seventeen but had the self-confidence of a grown man twice her age, not to mention about the courage, combat skills and tactical foresight of an infantry company commander. Boujasi couldn't help but notice that she was also transforming into a woman very beautifully, with long shiny black hair, graceful curves beginning to show through her slender figure, and dark, dancing, almost mischievous eyes. Her arms and legs were covered, not with a veil, but with a white blouse and "chocolate chip" sports trousers to protect from the sun; her head was covered, but not with a hijab, but with the "rag" of the TeamMelli World Cup team.
  
  But his eyes were also automatically drawn to her hands. Every second generation of Kagew males-perhaps women too, but they were probably discarded as newborns so they wouldn't grow up with some kind of handicap-suffered from a genetic defect called bilateral thumb hypoplasia, or absence of the thumb on both hands. As a child, she had a polling operation that left her index fingers functioning like thumbs, leaving her with only four fingers on both hands.
  
  But instead of being a hindrance, Azar made deformity a source of strength, hardening her from a very young age. She more than made up for her perceived weakness: it was rumored that she could outplay most men twice her age and was an accomplished pianist and martial artist. Azar reportedly rarely wore gloves, allowing others to see her hands as both a symbol of her heritage and a red herring for her opponents.
  
  Azar has lived secretly in the United States of America since the age of two, under the protection of her bodyguards Najjar and Saidi, who posed as her parents, separated from her real parents for security reasons, who were also in hiding as guests of the US State Department. When the coup took place in Bujazi, the Kagevs immediately gathered their council of war and set off back to Iran. The king and queen, who were supposed to be in hiding but ran the website, appeared regularly in the media criticizing the theocratic regime in Iran and openly vowed to one day return and take over the country - are still missing. and allegedly killed by Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps or al-Quds terrorist forces with the help of Russians and Turkmens. But Azar did make it to Iran, using her intelligence, her natural leadership skills - and a lot of help from the US military and a small army of armored commandos - to join the royal military council and their thousands of cheering followers.
  
  "I'm impressed, your highness," Boujazi said as he removed his helmet and poured some water over his face before taking a long sip. "I was looking for you, but you fit perfectly into the crowd. Obviously, the others had no idea who you were because no one was trying to create a protective shield around you when I got close. You hid your moon well."
  
  "I've been roaming around the city trying to listen to these young people to find out what they want and what they expect," Hazard said. Her American accent was still strong, making her Farsi difficult to understand. She removed the Iranian national football team's headband to reveal the long, waist-length ponytail, mun, typical of Persian royalty for centuries. She tossed her hair, glad to be freed from her self-imposed but traditional bonds. Major Saidi stepped towards her with a look of horror on her face, silently urging her to hide her bag before anyone on the streets noticed. Azar rolled her eyes in mock annoyance and tied her ponytail back under the rag. "They know me as one of the displaced, that's all - just like them."
  
  "Except for a hundred armed bodyguards, a military council, a secret military base that exceeds the gross national product of much of Central Asia, and a few hundred thousand followers who will gladly stand in front of the machine guns to see you again on Takht-i-Tavus, Peacock Throne ".
  
  "I would give everything I have to convince you and your crews to join me, Khesarak," she said. "My followers are loyal and selfless, but there are still too few of us, and my followers are loyalists, not fighters."
  
  "What do you think is the difference between a so-called loyalist and a soldier, your highness?" - Asked Buzhazi. "When your country is in danger, there is no difference. In times of war, citizens become fighters or they become slaves."
  
  "They need a general... they need you."
  
  "They need a leader, Your Highness, and that person is you," Bujazi said. "If half of your loyalists are as smart, fearless, and brave as the gang you were hanging around with, they could easily take control of this country."
  
  "They won't go after the girl."
  
  "Probably not... But they will follow the leader."
  
  "I want you to lead them."
  
  "I'm not taking sides here, your highness - I'm not in the business of forming governments," Boujazi said. "I'm here because Pasdaran and the rebels they sponsor are still a threat to this country, and I will hunt them down until every last one is dead. But I'm not going to be president. John Elton said: 'Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.' I know that my strength comes from my army, and I don't want the people to be ruled by their military. It should be the other way around."
  
  "If you don't want to be their president, be their general," Azar said. "Lead your army under the banner of Kagewa, train our loyalists, recruit more fighters from the civilian population, and let us reunite our nation."
  
  Boujasi looked seriously at the young woman. "What about your parents, highness?" - he asked.
  
  Azar swallowed at the unexpected question, but the steel quickly returned to her eyes. "Still not a word, General," she replied firmly. "They are alive - I know it."
  
  "Of course, Your Highness," Bujazi said softly. "I have heard that your military council will not approve of you leading your forces until you are of age."
  
  Azar chuckled and shook her head. "For centuries, the age of majority was fourteen-Alexander was fourteen when he led his first army into battle," she spat. "As throwing weapons became more advanced, and weapons and armor thicker and heavier, the age of majority - a word derived from majour, regimental commander - was increased to eighteen, because any junior could not lift a sword or wear armor. What significance does this have in the modern world? These days, a five-year-old can use a computer, read a map, talk on the radio, and understand patterns and trends. But my respected advice, consisting of old men in stuffed shirts and cackling old women, will not allow anyone under eighteen to lead an army, especially one that is female."
  
  "I recommend that someone gather your battalion commanders, appoint a commander, get his approval from your war council, and organize ... as soon as possible," Bujazi warned. "Your raids are completely uncoordinated and seem to have no other purpose than random killing and mayhem that keep the population on edge."
  
  "I have already told this to the council, but they do not listen to the little girl," Azar complained. "I'm just a figurehead, a symbol. They would rather argue about who has seniority, who has more followers, or who can attract more recruits or cash. All they want from me is a male heir. Without the king, the council will not make any decisions."
  
  "Then be Malika."
  
  "I don't like being called 'Queen', General, and you know it, I'm sure," Azar said hotly. "My parents are not dead." She spoke those last words angrily, defiantly, as if trying to reassure herself as well as the general.
  
  "It's been almost two years since they disappeared, your highness - how long are you going to wait? Until you're eighteen? Where will Persia be in fifteen months? Or until a rival dynasty asserts its claim to the Peacock Throne, or until some strong man takes over and puts all the Kagew to flight?"
  
  Obviously, Azar was already asking herself all these questions, because she was hurt by the fact that she did not have any answers. "I know, General, I know," she said in a thin voice, the saddest he had ever heard from her. "That is why I need you to appear before the military council, join us, take command of our loyalists and unite the anti-Islamist forces against Mohtaz and his bloodthirsty jihadists. You are the most powerful man in Persia. They would have approved without hesitation."
  
  "I'm not sure if I'm ready to be a commanding general in a monarchist army, your highness," Bujazi said. "I need to know who the Kagev people are before I support them." He looked gloomily at Azar. "And until your parents show up, or until you"re eighteen-maybe not even then-the war council speaks for the Kage..."
  
  "And they can't even decide whether to raise the royal flag before or after morning prayers," Azar said in disgust. "They argue about court protocol, rank and petty procedures, not about tactics, strategies and goals."
  
  "And you want me to take orders from them? No thanks, your highness."
  
  "But if there was a way to convince them to support you, if you announced that you would form a government, Khesarak-"
  
  "I told you, I'm not in the business of forming governments," Bujazi snapped. "I destroyed the clerics, the corrupt Islamist leadership and the Pasdaran thugs they hired because they are the true obstacles to freedom and law in this country. But may I remind you that we still have our elected Majlis-i-Shura, which supposedly has constitutional powers to exercise control and form a representative government? Where are they? Hiding, that's what. They are afraid that they will become a target for murder if they stick their little heads out, so they prefer to watch in their comfortable villas surrounded by bodyguards as their country is torn apart."
  
  "Sounds like you just want someone to ask you to help them, doesn't it General? Do you crave honor and respect from a politician or a princess pleading for help?"
  
  "What I want, Your Highness, is that the people who supposedly run this country get off their fat asses and take over," Boujazi said hotly. "Until the Majlis, your so-called military council, or anyone else decides they have the guts to quell the Islamist uprising, take charge, and form a government, I will continue to do what I do best, hunt down and kill. as many enemies of Persia as possible to save innocent lives. At least I have a goal."
  
  "My followers share your vision, General..."
  
  "Then prove it. Help me do my job until you can reason with your war council."
  
  Azar wanted to argue for her people and their struggles, and for her own legitimacy, but she knew she had run out of answers. Bujazi was right: they had the will to oppose the Islamists, but they simply failed to do their job. She nodded meekly. "All right, General, I'm listening. How can we help you?"
  
  "Tell your loyalists to join my army and commit themselves to obey my orders for two years. I will train and equip them. After two years, they are free to return to you with all the equipment and weapons they can carry on their backs."
  
  Azar's eyebrows rose in surprise. "A very generous offer."
  
  "But they must swear during their two-year call to obey my commands and fight for me to the end, and then a little more, on pain of death - not any council of war, court or tribunal, but me. If they are caught passing information to anyone outside of my ranks, including you, they will die in humiliation and disgrace."
  
  Azar nodded. "What else?"
  
  "If they do not join my army, they must agree to provide me with clear, timely and useful information, on a permanent basis or upon request, and to support my army with everything they can provide - food, clothing, shelter, water, money, supplies. whatever," Boujazi continued. "I have directed the dissemination of information about my security service to make it easier for your people to send them notes, photographs or other information, and I will provide you with secret correspondence and secure voice and email addresses that you can use to provide us with information.
  
  "But you must help us, all of you. Your loyalists may follow Kagev like you, but they will help me, or they will stand by while my people and I fight. They will either accept that I fight for Persia and I deserve their full support, or they will lay down their arms and stay off the streets - no more raids or bombings, no roaming gangs and no more killings that serve only to terrorize the innocent and encourage the Pasdarans and Islamists to increase their attacks on civilians."
  
  "It's going to be... difficult," Hazard admitted. "I just don't know all the resistance leaders out there. I honestly doubt anyone on the council knows all the cells and their leaders."
  
  "You attend war council meetings, don"t you?"
  
  "I am allowed to attend general meetings of the war council, but I am not allowed to vote, and I am not recommended to attend strategic meetings."
  
  Boujasi shook his head in annoyance. "You are probably the smartest person in this council meeting - why you were not allowed to participate is a damn mystery to me. Well, that's your problem, your highness. I tell you that your supporters are part of the problem, not part of the solution. I don't know if the man with the gun on the other side of the block is an Islamist or one of your supporters, so I'm going to blow his head off anyway before he tries to do the same to me. It's not the way I want it, but that's how I'll play if I have to."
  
  "I'm sorry I can't be of any more help, General."
  
  "You can, Your Highness, if you just travel back to the twenty-first century, as I know you can," Boujasi said, putting his helmet back on and tightening the straps.
  
  "What?" I asked.
  
  "Come on, highness - you know exactly what I'm talking about," Bujazi said irritably. "You are a smart woman and also a born leader. You've lived in America for most of your life and you've obviously learned that the old ways won't work anymore. You know as well as I do that this court of yours and this so-called council of war is what hinders you. You have voluntarily imprisoned yourself in this six-hundred-year-old cage called your "court" and you have pledged to cede power to a bunch of spineless cowards, half of which are not even in this country now, am I right?" He could tell by the expression on her face that he was.
  
  Boujasi shook his head in disappointment that quickly turned to disgust. "Forgive me for saying this, Your Highness, but get your royal head out of your pretty little ass and get on with the program before we all die and our country turns into a mass graveyard," he said angrily. "You are the only one here on the streets, Azar. You can see the problems and are smart enough to formulate an answer, but you don't want to take responsibility. Why? Because you don't want your parents to think you're taking their throne? Azar, for God's sake, it's the twenty-first century, not the fourteenth. Besides, your parents are either dead or cowards themselves if they haven't shown themselves in almost two...
  
  "Shut up!" Azar screamed, and before Bujazi could react, she spun around and kicked him hard in the solar plexus with her right foot, knocking the breath out of him. Boujasi dropped to one knee, more embarrassed at being taken by surprise than offended. By the time he got to his feet and was able to take at least half a normal breath, Mara Saidi was covering Azar by pointing an automatic pistol at him.
  
  "Nice hit, your highness," Bujazi grumbled, rubbing his stomach. Apparently, he guessed that one of her adaptations to hand defects was her ability to fight with her feet. "The rumors said you could take care of yourself - I see it's true."
  
  "The meeting is over, General," he heard the voice of a man behind him. Bujazi turned and nodded to Parviz Najjar, who ran out of hiding in the blink of an eye and pointed another machine gun at him. "Go fast."
  
  "After both of you lower your weapons," they heard another voice scream. They all turned to see Major Kulom Haddad hiding behind the back of a smoldering truck, with an AK-74 machine gun pointed at Najjar. "I'm not going to repeat myself!"
  
  "Everyone, lower your weapons," Bujazi said. "I think we both said what we had to say here." Nobody moved. "Major, you and your men stand back."
  
  "Sir-"
  
  "Colonel, captain, stand back too," Azar ordered. Slowly, reluctantly, Najjar and Saida obeyed, and as their weapons were out of sight, Haddad lowered his. "There are no enemies here."
  
  Boujasi took his first full deep breath, smiled, nodded respectfully again, then held out his hand. "Your highness, it was a pleasure talking to you. I hope we can work together, but I assure you, I am going to keep fighting."
  
  Azar took his hand and also bowed her head. "It was a pleasure talking to you too, General. I have a lot to think about."
  
  "Don't take too long, your highness. Salam alaikom." Boujazi turned and walked back to his men, with Haddad and two other soldiers carefully hidden nearby, covering his back.
  
  "Peace be with you, general," Azar called after him.
  
  Boujazi half turned to her, smiled and called out, "Unlikely, Your Highness. But thanks anyway."
  
  
  WHITE HOUSE RESIDENCE
  IN THE SAME TIME
  
  
  Chief of Staff Walter Cordus knocked on the door of the President's Lounge on the third floor of the family's White House residence. "Sir? She is here."
  
  President Gardner looked up over his reading glasses and put down the papers he was going through. He had a big flat-screen TV on, showing a boxing match, but the sound was muted. He wore a white shirt and business trousers with a loose tie-he rarely wore anything other than business attire in the minutes before bed. "Fine. Where?"
  
  "You said you didn"t want to meet in the West Wing, so I had her brought to the Red Room-I thought it was appropriate."
  
  "Cute. But she asked to see the Negotiation Room. Bring her here."
  
  Cordus took a step into the living room. "Joe, are you sure you want to do this? She is the chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, probably the most powerful woman in the country, apart from Angelina Jolie. It must remain a business..."
  
  "It's a business, Walt," Gardner said. "I'll be there in a few minutes. Did you get those notes I asked you for?"
  
  "They're already on their way."
  
  "Fine". Gardner returned to studying his papers. The chief of staff shook his head and left.
  
  A few minutes later, Gardner walked down the Central Corridor, now wearing a suit jacket, straightening his tie as he went. Cordus intercepted him and handed him the folder. "Immediately after printing. Do you want me to-?"
  
  "No. I think we're done for today. Thanks Walt." He rushed past the Chief of Staff and entered the Negotiation Room. "Hello Senator. Thank you for meeting me in this unholy hour."
  
  She stood beside a huge mahogany table made in the American Grant Office, and lovingly ran her long fingers over the cherry-colored inlaid elements. The steward placed the tray of tea on the coffee table at the other end of the room. Her eyes widened and there was this magnetizing smile as she saw Gardner enter the room. "Mr. President, it is certainly a great honor and privilege for me to be with you tonight," said Senator Stacy Ann Barbeau in her famous silky Louisiana accent. "Thank you very much for the invitation." She stood up, hugged the President and exchanged polite kisses on the cheek. Barbeau was dressed in a white business suit with a plunging neckline, which unobtrusively but effectively emphasized her breasts and cleavage, accentuated for the evening by a shimmering platinum necklace and dangling diamond earrings. Her red hair bounced as if on a motor to the beat of her smile and fluttering eyelashes, and her green eyes glowed with energy. "You know you can contact me anytime, sir."
  
  "Thank you, senator. Please. He pointed to a Victorian sofa and, taking her by the hand, led her to it, then took the ornate chair to her right, facing the fireplace.
  
  "I hope you will convey my best wishes to the first lady," said Barbeau, settling down on the couch just like that. "Is she in Damascus, if I'm not mistaken, at an international conference on women's rights?"
  
  "Quite right, Senator," the President said.
  
  "I would like my duties in the Senate to allow me to attend," Barbeau said. "I sent my senior staff member Colleen to attend and she brought a resolution of support from the entire Senate, which the first lady will present to the delegates."
  
  "Very thoughtful of you, Senator."
  
  "Please sir, could you call me 'Stacey' here in the privacy of the residence?" Barbeau asked, giving him one of her dazzling smiles. "I think we've both earned the right to take a break and be free from the formalities of our offices."
  
  "Of course, Stacey," Gardner said. He didn't suggest she call him "Joe" and she knew enough not to ask. "But the pressure never really lets up, does it? Not in our line of work."
  
  "I've never considered what I do to be 'work', Mr. President," Barbeau said. She poured him a cup of tea, then leaned back and sipped hers cross-legged. "Of course, it's not always pleasant, but doing people's business is never a chore. I guess stress is part of what makes a person feel alive, do you agree?"
  
  "I always thought you thrived under pressure, Senator," Gardner commented. He suppressed a grimace after taking a sip of tea. "Actually, so to speak, I think you enjoy creating it a little."
  
  "My responsibilities often require me to do things that go beyond what most people would call 'political'," Barbeau said. "We do whatever we need to in the best interests of our constituents and our country, don't we, Mr. President?"
  
  "Call me Joe. Please."
  
  Barbeau's green eyes lit up and she tilted her head, never taking her eyes off him. "Well, thank you for the honor... Joe."
  
  "Not at all, Stacey," Gardner said with a smile. "You are right, of course. No one likes to admit it, but the end often justifies the means if the end is a safer nation." He picked up the phone on Monroe's desk. "Could you have the libation table moved to the Meeting Room, please?" He hung up. "It's past nine o'clock, Stacey, and I'm not in the mood for tea. I hope you don't mind."
  
  "Not at all, Joe." The smile returned, but it was more introspective, more restrained. "Maybe I'll just join you."
  
  "I know what can convince you." The steward brought a table on wheels with several crystal decanters. Gardner poured himself a glass of dark Bacardi on ice and poured Barbeau to drink. "I thought I read in People magazine that you prefer the Creole mom, right? I hope I understood everything correctly ... bourbon, madeira and a dash of grenadine with a cherry, right? Sorry, we only have red cherries, not green ones."
  
  "Sometimes you really surprise me, Joe," she said. Their glasses touched, their eyes met. She tasted hers, her eyes sparkling again, and she took another sip. "My God, Mr. President, some intelligence work, even after hours, and a skilled hand at the bar. I'm impressed again."
  
  "Thank you". Gardner also took a long sip of his drink. "Not as sophisticated as a Creole mom, I'm sure, but when you're a Florida politician, you better know your rum. To your health". They clinked glasses and sipped their drinks again. "Do you know where the touching of glasses comes from, Stacey?"
  
  "I'm sure not," Barbeau replied. "I didn't even know it had an origin. So it's not just a cute little noise maker?"
  
  "In medieval times, when opponents met to discuss the terms of treaties or alliances, when they drank after the conclusion of the negotiations, they poured some of the contents of their bowls into each other's bowls to show that none of them was poisoned. The custom has become a sign of friendship and camaraderie."
  
  "Wow, how exciting," said Barbeau, taking another sip, then running her tongue over her full lips. "But I certainly hope you don't see me as an adversary, Joe. I'm not like that at all. I have been a fan of yours for many years, as was my father. Your political skills are only surpassed by your intelligence, charm and true devotion to the service of the nation."
  
  "Thank you, Stacey." He glanced over Barbeau's body as she took another sip. Even when she seemed to be focused on enjoying her drink, she noticed that he was looking her over...again. "I knew your father when we served in the Senate together. He was a powerful man, very strong-willed and passionate in his aspirations."
  
  "He considered you one of his most trusted friends, even though you and he were then on opposite sides of the political and ideological aisle," Barbeau said. "After I was elected to the Senate, he often reminded me that if I wanted a frank conversation with the other side, I should not hesitate to come to you." She paused, adopting a rather thoughtful expression. "I wish he was still here now. I could use his strength and wisdom. I love him so much."
  
  "He was a fighter. Strong opponent. You knew what he was capable of, and he was not afraid to tell you. He was a damn good man."
  
  Barbeau placed her hand on Gardner's and shook it. "Thank you, Joe. You are a sweet man." She took a moment to stare at him intently, then allowed her lips to part slightly. "You...looks very much like I remember him in my younger, more ardent years, Joe. We had a diner in Shreveport very similar to this one and spent endless hours together, just like this one. I wanted to talk politics and he wanted to know who I was dating."
  
  "Dads and daughters always stick around, don"t they?"
  
  "He made me tell him my deepest secrets," she said, a mischievous smile spread across her face. "I could not refuse him anything. He made me tell him everything - and I was a very naughty girl as a child. I dated the guys of all the politicians. I wanted to know everything about politics: strategy, planning, fundraising, candidates, issues, alliances. They wanted..." She paused, giving him another sly smile and a wink of her eyes. "... well, you know what they wanted." Gardner swallowed hard, imagining what they got from her. "It was a mutually beneficial relationship. Sometimes I think my daddy gave me some of these dates just so I could be his spy - the Cajun political version of your daughter's exile, I guess."
  
  Gardner chuckled and unconsciously let his eyes wander over her body again, and this time Barbeau allowed herself to show that she noticed, smiled and blushed - she was one of those women who could blush anytime, anywhere, in any situation, at will. He leaned back in his chair, wishing that this meeting could begin soon so they could focus on other things if the opportunity presented itself. "So, Stacey, we both know the problem we're facing. What is the White House's position on the Armed Services Committee? Will we squabble over the military budget or can we come to an agreement and show a united front?"
  
  "Unfortunately, I'm afraid, Joe, we're more confused than ever," Barbeau replied. She withdrew her hand, watching the sudden pain of loss darken his face. "Is this all confidential, Mr. President?"
  
  "Certainly". He touched her arm and her eyes fluttered. "At both sides. Strictly confidential."
  
  "My mouth is sealed." Barbeau smiled, then pressed her red lips together, made a closing motion with her long fingers, and thrust the invisible key into the vast hollow between her breasts. Gardner took it as open permission to look at her breasts this time, and he did so generously. "The committee is in turmoil, Joe. They are, of course, concerned about the health and well-being of General McLanahan. Have you heard anything else about him?"
  
  "Not so much. The doctors initially told me not to expect him to return to duty for several months. Something like a heart attack."
  
  This matched what her sources at Walter Reed National Medical Center had told her, she thought-until Gardner lied to her. It was a good sign. "For such a strong young man who suddenly passed out like that, the stress of living on this space station and flying back and forth on the Black Stallion spaceplane so many times must be enormous, much more than anyone could have imagined."
  
  "McLanahan is a tough guy, but you're right - even though he's in his fifties and has a family history of heart disease, he was incredibly fit. Shuttle astronauts typically go a few days between liftoff and return-McLanahan has made five round trips to the space station in the past four weeks. This is unprecedented, but for the past few months this has been the norm. We are restricting travel to the space station and are in the process of conducting a thorough medical examination of all participants. We need answers about what happened."
  
  "But that's just my point of view, Joe. McLanahan is hardy and strong, especially for a middle-aged man, and he is a combat veteran and national military figure - my God, he is a hero! - which, I'm sure, is regularly tested for suitability. However, he was still incapacitated and God knows what kind of injuries he sustained. This calls into question the safety and usefulness of the proposed military space plan. For heaven's sake, Joe, why are we risking good people on a project like this? I agree with you that it's modern, exotic and exciting, but it's a technology that just hasn't been perfected and probably won't be perfected in the next ten years - not to mention the fact that it's four-fifths fewer planes and one tenth of the payload for the same money. If a strong guy like General McLanahan passes out while operating this thing, is it safe for the other crew members?"
  
  "What does the committee think, Stacey?"
  
  "It's simple and logical, Joe," Barbeau said. "It's not about impressing people with global internet access or half-meter resolution photos of every person's backyard, it's about creating value and advantage for our nation's defense. As far as I can tell, the spaceplanes only benefit the handful of contractors assigned to the project, namely Sky Masters and their supporting companies. We have a dozen different space boosters with a proven track record that can do the job better than the Black Stallion." She rolled her eyes. "For God's sake, Joe, who else is McLanahan in bed with?"
  
  "Of course not Maureen Herschel anymore," Gardner chuckled.
  
  Barbeau rolled her eyes in mock disbelief. "Oh, that terrible woman-I will never understand why President Martindale chose her out of all people to be his vice president," Barbeau retorted. She looked curiously, then playfully at Gardner over the rim of her glass, then asked, "Or was the cold fish just for public consumption, Joe?"
  
  "We became close friends because of the demands of the job, Stacey, just business. All the rumors about us are completely false."
  
  Now he's lying, Barbeau thought, but she expected nothing less than a complete and blatant denial. "I fully understand how working conditions in Washington bring two people closer together, especially those who seem to be complete opposites," Barbeau said. "Combine power politics with a brewing war in the Middle East and long nights in briefings and planning sessions and sparks can fly."
  
  "Not to mention that McLanahan was clearly not up to the task at home," Gardner added. They both laughed and Gardner took the opportunity to shake hands with Barbeau again. "He was too busy playing space cadet to pay any attention to her." He fixed Barbeau with a deep, serious look. "Look, Stacey, let's get straight to the point, okay? I know what you want - you've been after it ever since you set foot on the Ring Road. With most Air Force bomber bases destroyed by the Russians during the Holocaust 04 nuclear attacks, Barksdale Air Force Base is the natural home for a new fleet of long-range bombers -"
  
  "If the Pentagon doesn"t keep pouring money into that dusty desert base in Battle Mountain, the black programs in Dreamland-another Nevada base that"s basically out of congressional oversight, I could point to-or the space station."
  
  "It's no secret that McLanahan's stock has skyrocketed since his counterattacks against Russia," Gardner said, "and his favorite projects have been drone bombers in Battle Mountain, high-tech laser devices in Dreamland, and now a space station. This gave Martindale an excuse to point something out and brag to the American people about what he developed and supported..."
  
  "Despite the fact that President Thomas Thorne was the one who authorized their construction, not Martindale," said Barbeau.
  
  "Unfortunately, President Thorne will always be known as the president who allowed the Russians to launch a sneak attack against the United States that killed 30,000 men, women, and children and wounded a quarter of a million more," Gardner said. "It doesn't matter that he was as interested in high-tech toys as Martindale was: Thorne will always be thought of as the weaker president.
  
  "But the question is, Stacey, what do we think is in the best interests of the American people and national defense - these fancy spaceplanes that can"t carry as much cargo as Secret Service suburbs, or proven technologies like stealth bombers, unmanned combat aircraft and aircraft carriers? McLanahan convinced Martindale that spaceplanes were better, even though he used drone bombers almost exclusively in his attacks on Russia-"
  
  "And as you've pointed out many times, Joe," Barbeau added, "we can't afford to put all our eggs in one basket again. The Russian attack was so successful because the bombers were all in a small handful of undefended bases, and if they weren't all in the air they were vulnerable to attack. But carrier battle groups deployed in bases around the world or far out to sea are well equipped to defend themselves and are far less vulnerable to surprise attack."
  
  "Quite right," Gardner said, nodding with satisfaction that Barbeau had mentioned aircraft carriers. "That's the point I've been trying to get across all these years. We need a combination of forces - we can't throw all the money for new weapon systems on one untested technology. A carrier battle group costs no more than what McLanahan suggests we spend on these spaceplanes, but they are much more versatile and have proven themselves well in combat."
  
  "The Senate Armed Services Committee needs to hear this argument from you and your administration, Joe," Barbeau said, stroking his arm once more and leaning in sympathetically, revealing her ample cleavage even further. "McLanahan was a war hero to avenge the Holocaust in America, but that was in the past. Many senators may be afraid to cross McLanahan for fear of backlash if the American people question why they don't support America's most famous general. But with McLanahan's silence, if they get the President's direct support, they'll be more inclined to break ranks. Now is the time to act. We have to do something, and it has to happen now while McLanahan... well, with all due respect, while the general is out of the game. Undoubtedly, the committee's confidence in the spaceplane program has been shaken. They are much more inclined to compromise."
  
  "I think we need to get together on this, Stacey," Gardner said. "Let's develop a plan that both the committee and the Pentagon will support. We must show a united front."
  
  "That sounds great, Mr. President, really great."
  
  "So I have the full support of the Senate Armed Services Committee?" Gardner asked. "I have allies in the House of Representatives that I can turn to as well, but Senate support is critical. Together, united, we can stand before the American people and Congress and make a compelling argument."
  
  "What if McLanahan comes out of this? He and this ex-senator, science-obsessed astronaut Ann Page are a formidable team."
  
  "McLanahan is out - he will most certainly resign or be forced to leave."
  
  "This man is a bulldog. If he gets better, he will not retire."
  
  "If he doesn't do it for his own good, he will because I will order him to do it," Gardner said. "And if he still resists, I will make sure the world understands how dangerous this man has been over the years. He is unmanageable - the world just doesn't know about it. For heaven's sake, this man killed dozens of innocent civilians in Tehran."
  
  "He did?" She hated to let it slip that the US Senate Majority Leader didn't know something, but there was nothing she could do about it. It was a surprise, and she didn't like surprises. Could Gardner bring her up to date? "When?" I asked.
  
  "On the same mission that we discussed when he had this episode, on an operational test mission that he flew from the Armstrong space station," Gardner replied. "He fired a rocket that fired a chemical weapon near an apartment building in Tehran, killing dozens of people, including women and children, and then he attacked a Russian spy plane with some kind of death ray - probably to cover up an attack on Tehran."
  
  Thank God Gardner turned out to be a talker. "I had no idea...!"
  
  "That's not half of what this prankster does, Stacey. I know of a dozen different criminal violations and direct military actions for which he has been responsible over the years, including the attack that likely prompted Russian President Gryzlov to plan atomic attacks against the United States."
  
  "What?"
  
  "McLanahan is an unguided cannon, a real wild card," Gardner said bitterly. "He attacked Russia absolutely without permission; he bombed the base of Russian bombers simply out of personal revenge. Gryzlov was a former Russian bomber pilot - he knew it was an attack against him, a personal attack. Gardner was on a roll-it was better than the Congressional Research Service, Barbeau thought. "That's why Gryzlov targeted bomber bases in the United States - not because our bombers posed any major strategic threat to Russia, but because he was trying to get McLanahan."
  
  Barbeau's mouth was open in shock...but at the same time, she was teasing, even horny. Damn it, she thought, McLanahan seemed like such a baby boy scout-who the hell knew he was some independent action hero? This made him more attractive than ever. What else was hidden under this incredibly quiet, unassuming appearance? She had to shake off her sudden reverie. "Wow..."
  
  "The Russians are afraid of him, that's for sure," Gardner continued. "Zevitin wants me to arrest him. He demands to know what he was doing and what he intends to do with the space station and these space planets. He's crazier than hell and I don't blame him."
  
  "Zevitin sees the space station as a threat."
  
  "Of course he knows. But that's the only fucking benefit of this thing? It's costing us two carrier battlegroups to maintain that thing there...for what? I have to assure Zevitin that the space material is not a direct offensive threat to Russia, and I don't know exactly what this thing can do! I didn't even know McLanahan was on board that thing!"
  
  "If this is just a defense system, I see no reason not to tell Zevitin everything there is to say about the space station, if that would help defuse the tension between us," Barbeau said. "The McLanahan situation may have resolved itself."
  
  "Thank God," Gardner grumbled. "I'm sure for every crime that I know McLanahan is guilty of, there are ten more that I don't know about ... yet," Gardner continued. "He has weapons at his disposal from dozens of different black research programs that I don"t even fully know about, and I was the fucking secretary of defense!"
  
  She looked closely at Gardner. "McLanahan will certainly retire of his own accord, or you can retire him for medical reasons," she said. "But from the outside, he can be even more dangerous for us."
  
  "I know, I know. That is why Zevitin wants to be jailed."
  
  "If I can help you put pressure on McLanahan, Joe, just tell me," Barbeau said earnestly. "I will do everything in my power to convert him, or at least make him think about what his opinion means to others in government and around the world. I'll make him understand that this is personal and not just business. I will destroy him if he persists, but I am sure I can convince him to see it our way."
  
  "If anyone can convince him, Stacey, it's you."
  
  They looked into each other's eyes for a long time, each silently asking questions and answering them, which they did not dare to voice. "So, Stacey, I know this isn't your first time at the residence. I assume you've seen Lincoln's bedroom before?"
  
  Barbeau's smile was hot as a fire, and she shamelessly looked Gardner up and down with a greedy look, as if she were appraising him in a pickup bar. She slowly rose from her seat. "Yes, I saw it," she said in a low, husky voice. "I played there as a little girl when my father was in the Senate. Then it was a children's playroom. Of course, now it has a completely different meaning - still a playroom, but not for children."
  
  "This is still the best fundraising event in town - twenty-five grand per night per person is the current rate."
  
  "It"s too bad that we stoop to such tasteless actions, isn"t it?" - Asked Barbeau. "It ruins the feel of this place."
  
  "The White House is still a home," Gardner said absently. "It's impossible for me to see this as more than just a workplace. I haven't seen a tenth of the rooms here yet. They told me there were thirty-five bathrooms - I saw three. To be honest, I don't have much desire to explore this place."
  
  "Oh, but you have to, Joe," Barbeau said. "I think you will understand when you get through the tumultuous first few months in office and get a chance to relax."
  
  "If McLanahan can stop talking shit, maybe I could."
  
  She turned, arms outstretched, looking around the room. "I asked Mr. Cordus if we could meet here in the Meeting Room because I don't remember ever being here, even though it's right next door to Lincoln's bedroom. But the history of this place is so strong that you can feel it. The Negotiation Hall was used as a meeting room of the Cabinet of Ministers, a reception and waiting room, and also as the president's office. Historically, this has been the place in the White House where real political business has been done, even more so than the Oval Office."
  
  "I've had a few informal meetings here, but it's mostly used by the staff."
  
  "Staff are usually too busy to appreciate the energy that flows through this room, Joe," Barbeau said. "You should take the time to feel it." Still holding her arms outstretched, she closed her eyes. "Imagine: Ulysses S. Grant holds his half-drunk cabinet meetings here, followed by a card game and arm wrestling matches with his friends; Teddy Roosevelt nails animal skins to walls; Kennedy signs the Nuclear Test Ban Treaty here, and then a few days later seduces Marilyn Monroe in the same place, right down the hallway from where his wife and children slept."
  
  Gardner stepped behind her and placed his hands lightly on her waist. "I've never heard this story before, Stacey."
  
  She took his hands and wrapped them around her waist, pulling him closer. "I just came up with the last one, Joe," she said in a whisper, so softly that he pressed his cheek against hers and pulled her close to him to hear. "But I'm willing to bet it happened. And who knows what a man like Kevin Martindale was doing here after his divorce - a divorce that was supposed to ruin his political career but only made it stronger - with all his Hollywood starlets constantly coming and going from here at any time of the day? " She took his hands, tracing them around her belly, then took his fingers and gently lifted them up to her breasts, tracing her nipples. She felt his body tense up and could practically hear his mind humming as he tried to decide what to do with her sudden advance. "He probably had a different bitch here every night of the year."
  
  "Stacey..." She felt Gardner's breath on her neck, his hands gently caressing her breasts, barely touching...
  
  Barbeau turned to him and roughly pushed him away. "Martindale was an idiot, Joe, but he served two terms as president and two terms as vice president and became a fucking integral part of the White House - and he managed to fuck Hollywood starlets here! What are you going to do to beat this, Joe?"
  
  Gardner froze in shock. "What the hell is wrong with you, Stacey?" he finally managed to blurt out.
  
  "What do you want, Mr. President?" Barbeau asked loudly. "What is your game plan? Why are you here?"
  
  "What are you talking about?"
  
  "You are the President of the United States of America. You live in the White House... but only used three bathrooms? Do you know what has been done in this room, in this house, in the vast history of this place? Do you have a three-star general under your command who has twice the voter approval rating of you, has an equally heart condition, and is still in uniform? Is there a space station in orbit around the planet that you don't need and is it still there? You have a woman in your arms, but you touch her like some sweaty, lovestruck teenager on his first date trying to move to second base? Maybe all you really did with Maureen Herschel was "business", right?"
  
  Gardner was excited, then angry, then outraged. "Look, Senator, this is not a fucking game. You are hot as hell, but I came here to discuss business."
  
  "You've been honest with me ever since I called you to this meeting, Joe - don't lie to me now, damn it," Barbeau snapped, stepping back from him and glaring at him with her green eyes. Her sudden change of image, from seductress to barracuda, startled him. "I didn't have to threaten you to invite me to the residence; I didn't drag you down that hallway to this room. We are not children here. We're talking about joining forces to do important work, even if it means going over to the Russians and ruining a distinguished military career. What do you think we should have done - shake hands about this? Sign contract? Cross our hearts and hope to die? Not for your life. So, if you don't want to do that, let me know right now and we'll both go back to our offices and duties and forget this meeting even happened."
  
  "What is this shit?"
  
  "And I don't need to play innocent waif, Gardner. I know that's how politics is played in Louisiana - don't tell me you've never played it like that in Florida or Washington. We're going to do it right here, right now, or you can just turn your tail and crawl back to your nice, safe, cozy apartment down the hall. What will it be?" When he didn't answer, she sighed, shook her head, and tried to get around him...
  
  ... but when she felt his hand on her chest and his hand on her chest, she realized that he was in her hands. He pulled her closer, wrapped his other hand around her head and pulled her lips to his, kissing her deeply, rudely. She returned the kiss just as insistently, her hand finding his crotch, massaging it impatiently. Their lips parted and she smiled at him confidently, confidently. "It won't be enough, Mr. President, and you know it," she said. She smiled at his mocking expression, this time grimly, confidently, and his mouth dropped open as he realized she meant what she wanted. "Well?" I asked.
  
  He frowned at her, then moved his hands back to her chest, then to her shoulders, pushing her down. "Let's make a deal, Senator," he said, leaning back against Grant's conference table to calm himself.
  
  "Good boy. Come here." She knelt down and quickly began to unfasten his belt and pants. "My God, my God, look what we have here. Are you sure you don't have a bit of a badass in you, Mr. President?" He didn't answer as she began her energetic, rhythmic manipulations.
  
  
  CHAPTER FOUR
  
  
  The person who needs to be persuaded to act before they act is not a person of action.... You must act as you breathe.
  
  - GEORGE CLEMENCEAU
  
  
  
  ON BOARD THE ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION
  NEXT MORNING EAST COAST TIME
  
  
  "Live from the Armstrong Space Station, orbiting more than 200 miles above Earth, we are joined by a man who needs no introduction: Air Force Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan," began the host of the morning cable news show. "General, thank you for joining us today. The question everyone wants answered is, of course, how are you, sir?"
  
  There was a delay of a second or two due to the satellite relay, but Patrick was used to waiting those few seconds to make sure he wasn't talking through the host. "Nice to be with you, Megyn," Patrick replied. He was velcroed to the station commander's console as usual, dressed in his signature black flight suit with black emblem. "Thank you for inviting me to the show again. I'm fine, thank you. I feel pretty good."
  
  "All of America is glad to see you on your feet, General. Did they figure out what exactly happened?"
  
  "According to Navy Capt. George Summers of Walter Reed National Medical Center, who ran all my tests remotely from here, this is called long QT syndrome, Megyn," Patrick replied. "This is a rare prolongation of electrical activation and inactivation of the ventricles of the heart caused by stress or shock. Apparently, apart from vision, this is one of the most common disqualifying conditions in the astronaut corps."
  
  "So you were disqualified from flying ever again?"
  
  "Well, I hope I won't," Patrick said. "Officially, I'm not really an astronaut in the conventional sense. I hope the documents determine that disability due to long QT syndrome is most likely to occur during space travel and will not prevent me from doing all other flights."
  
  "You really did have a history of heart disease, is that correct?"
  
  "My father did die of heart problems, yes," Patrick replied grimly. "Dad suffered from what they used to call 'heart flutter' and was being treated for anxiety and stress. Long QT is inherited. Obviously in my father's case it was the police department and running the family business that led to this; in my case, it was a flight into space."
  
  "And he died at about the same age as you are now?"
  
  For a moment, a cloud passed over Patrick's face, which was clearly visible to millions of viewers around the world. "Yes, a couple of years after leaving the Sacramento Police Department and opening a McLanahan store in Old Town Sacramento."
  
  "Shameless gag for your family tavern, eh General?" - asked the owner, trying to revive the conversation.
  
  "I'm not at all ashamed of McLanahan in Old Town Sacramento, Megyn."
  
  "Another stub. Fine. Okay, that's enough General, you did a fantastic job," said the host, laughing. "Was this heart disease already noted in your records, and if so, what did you do while making repeated flights to the Armstrong space station?"
  
  "I have my family history in my medical records," Patrick replied, "and twice a year I have an Air Force First Class flight medical, plus pre- and post-spaceflight checks, and no problems have been found before. Even though long QT syndrome is a common disqualifying disease in the astronaut corps, I wasn't specifically tested for it because, like I said, I'm not technically an astronaut - I'm a unit commander and an engineer who just happens to ride research vehicles. of my unit when I feel it is necessary."
  
  "So, do you think that your lack of astronaut training and screening contributed to this disease?"
  
  "Megyn, one of the things we're trying to prove with the Black Stallion spaceplane and the Armstrong space station program is to make space more accessible to ordinary people."
  
  "And it looks like the answer might be, 'No, they can't', right?"
  
  "I don't know everything there is to know about long QT syndrome, Megyn, but if it's usually only found in combat aviators over 50 who have to fly into space frequently, maybe we can test for it and rule out only those who show a predisposition to this disease," said Patrick. "I don't see why this should disqualify everyone."
  
  "But does that disqualify you?"
  
  "I'm not ready to give up yet," Patrick said with a confident smile. "We have incredible technology at our disposal, and new, better technologies are being developed every day. If I can, I will keep flying, trust me."
  
  "You haven"t seen enough of the battles yet and haven"t orbited the Earth enough times yet, General?" - said the presenter with a cheerful laugh. "As far as I understand, you have been to the station several times in the last few months alone. That's more than a NASA astronaut goes into space in their entire career, right? John Glenn has flown into space only twice."
  
  "Pioneers like Senator John Glenn will always be the inspiration our future astronauts need to muster the courage and resilience to carefully prepare for a spacewalk," Patrick replied, "but, as I said, one of the goals of our military space programs - get more access to space. I don't consider episodes like mine a failure. It's all part of the learning process."
  
  "But you also have to think about yourself and your family, don't you, General?"
  
  "Of course-my son sees me more on TV than in person," Patrick said bravely. "But no pilot likes to lose their wings, Megyn - we have an inborn aversion to doctors, hospitals, scales, eye charts, sphygmomanometers, and anything else that might prevent us from flying..."
  
  "All right, General, here you have confused me. Sphygmo... sphygmo... What is that, one of your high-tech laser guns?"
  
  "Blood pressure monitor".
  
  "ABOUT".
  
  "It will depend on the flight papers, but you can bet I will fight the disqualification all the way," Patrick said. A beep from his comm-headphones caught his attention and he turned, briefly activated his command monitor and read the display. "Sorry Megyn, I have to go. Thank you for inviting me to this morning." The host was able to choke out a confused and startled "But General, we're live all over-!" before Patrick ended the call. "What do you have, master sergeant?" he asked over the command module's intercom.
  
  "COMPSCAN on target, sir, and she says it's a serious problem, although we may have nothing on our hands but a major glitch," Master Sergeant Valerie "The Seeker" Lucas replied. COMPSCAN, or Comparative Scan, collected and compared radar data and infrared images during sensor scans and alerted the crew whenever there was a significant congestion of personnel or equipment in a specific target region - thanks to the power and resolution of Armstrong space radar and other satellites and drones, the target region could be the size of a continent, and the difference between comparative scans could be as little as four or five vehicles.
  
  "What is the purpose?"
  
  "Soltanabad, an airfield on a highway about a hundred miles west of Mashhad. Image taken recently by the new Night Owl reconnaissance drone that Captain Noble has just launched." The seeker reviewed the intelligence dossier in the area before continuing: "Last year, the Air Force attacked once a Vampire bomber with runway cratering ammunition because it was suspected it was being used to deliver weapons and supplies. Islamists operating from Mashhad. The highway section of the base was reopened by the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, reportedly to deliver humanitarian aid. We put the entire base on a 'watch' list and launched a Night Owl over the area to make sure they weren't repairing ramps and taxiways and flying around with military vehicles."
  
  "Let's see what they're doing," Patrick said. Moments later, an incredibly detailed image of the spot from above appeared on his monitor. It clearly showed a four-lane highway with distance markers, taxi lines, and landing zone markings that looked like a typical military airstrip, only cars and trucks were moving along it. Both the north and south sides of the highway/runway featured wide paved areas with aircraft taxiways, large aircraft parking areas, and the remains of bombed-out buildings. Many of the destroyed buildings were demolished and replaced by several tents of various sizes, some bearing the stamp of the Red Crescent humanitarian aid organization. "Do these tents look like they have open sides to you, master sergeant?" Patrick asked.
  
  Seeker peered closer at the image, then zoomed in until it began to lose resolution. "Yes, sir," she replied, unsure why the general had asked - it was pretty clear to her. According to an agreement between the United Nations, the Persian occupation forces of Bujazi and the Iranian government-in-exile, large tents set up in certain combat areas to serve refugees or others traveling through the Iranian deserts were to have open sides during reconnaissance flights so that all the sides could look inside, or they could be identified as enemy firing points and attacked.
  
  "Looks like a big shadow on the other side, that's all," Patrick said. "This photo was taken at night, right?" Lucas nodded. "The sides look open, but the shadows on the ground from nearby searchlights make it look like... I don"t know, they just look wrong to me, that"s all." He enlarged the former aircraft parking ramps again. Both paved areas were littered with dozens of bomb craters ranging in width from a few yards to over a hundred feet, with huge chunks of concrete billowing up from their edges. "I think it still looks broken. How old is this image?
  
  "Only two hours, sir. There was no way they could have plugged all those funnels and moved planes over in two hours."
  
  "Let's see how the computer compares scan results." The image split first into two, then into four, then into sixteen shots of the same location, taken over several days. The images looked identical.
  
  "Looks like a glitch-false alarm," Seeker said. "I'll reset the images and take a look at the comparison options for -"
  
  "Wait a minute," Patrick said. "What did the computer say changed?" A moment later, the computer drew rectangles around several craters. The craters were exactly the same - the only difference was that the rectangles weren't precisely oriented the same way in all images. "I still don't understand what COMPSCAN is labeling."
  
  "Me too, sir," the Seeker admitted. "Perhaps it's just a FOV calculation error."
  
  "But in this part of the world, we are in sync with the sun, right?"
  
  "Yes, sir. We are exactly over Tehran at the exact same time - approximately 2 am local time - every day."
  
  "So the field of view should be the same, except for minor changes in the position of the station or sensor, which the computer has to correct," Patrick said.
  
  "Obviously something is screwed up in the setup procedure, sir," the Seeker said apologetically as she anchored at her terminal to get started. "Don't worry, I'll fix everything. I'm sorry about that, sir. These things need to be recalibrated - a little more often than I thought, obviously. I should probably take a look at the station's attitude gyroscope readings and fuel consumption readings to see if there's a major shift going on - maybe we'll have to make a rough alignment change, or just throw out all the old attitude adjustment readings and come up with new ones. I'm sorry, sir."
  
  "No problem, master sergeant," Patrick said. "From now on, we will know to look for these things more often." But he continued to look at the images and comparison windows of the computer. The flags disappeared when Lucas erased the old comparative data, leaving very clear images of bomb craters on ramps and taxiways. He shook his head. "Space radar pictures are amazing, Seeker - like I can measure the thickness of these concrete blocks raised by bombs. Amazing. I can even see the colors of the different layers of concrete and where the steel mesh has been applied. Cool."
  
  "SBR is incredible, sir - it's hard to believe that this technology is almost twenty years old."
  
  "You can clearly see where the concrete ends and the road base begins. It's-" Patrick stared at the images, then put on his reading glasses and took a closer look. "Can you enlarge this image for me, Seeker?" he asked, pointing to a large crater on the south side of the highway.
  
  "Yes, sir. Get ready."
  
  A moment later, a crater filled the monitor. "Fantastic detail, all right." But now something was bothering him. "My son loves 'I'm a Spy' and 'Where's Waldo?' "Maybe one day he'll be an image analyst."
  
  "Or he will develop computers that will do it for us."
  
  Patrick chuckled, but he still felt awkward. "What is wrong with this picture? Why did the computer ring the bell?"
  
  "I'm still checking, sir."
  
  "I spent a short but insightful period as a unit commander in the US Air Force Air Reconnaissance Office," Patrick said, "and the only thing I learned about interpreting multispectral overhead images was not to let my mind fill in too many gaps."
  
  "Analysis 101, sir: Don't look at what isn't there," Seeker said.
  
  "But never ignore what is there, but something is wrong," Patrick said, "and there is something wrong with the location of these craters. They are different... But how?" He looked at them again. "It seems to me that they are rotated, and the computer said that they have moved, but-"
  
  "It's impossible for a crater."
  
  "No... Unless it's craters," Patrick said. He zoomed in again. "Maybe I'm seeing something that isn't there, but these craters look too perfect, too uniform. I think they are baits."
  
  "Decoy craters? I have never heard of such a thing, sir."
  
  "I've heard of every other kind of bait - planes, armored vehicles, troops, buildings, even airstrips - so why not?" Patrick noticed. "This may explain why COMPSCAN marks them - if they are moved and not placed in exactly the same place, COMPSCAN marks it as a new target."
  
  "So you think they rebuilt this base and are secretly using it right under our noses?" Lucas asked, still unconvinced. "If this is true sir, then space radar and our other sensors must have picked up other signs of activity - vehicles, tire tracks, warehouse piles, security personnel patrolling the area..."
  
  "If you know exactly when a satellite will pass overhead, it's relatively easy to fool it - just cover the equipment with radar-absorbing cloaks, erase the tracks, or disguise them as other targets," Patrick said. "All these tents, trucks and buses could hold a whole battalion and hundreds of tons of supplies. As long as they unload planes, get people and vehicles out of the area, and clear the area for two to three hours between our sorties, they are safe."
  
  "So, all our equipment is practically useless."
  
  "Against whoever does this, yes - and I'm willing to bet it's not Islamist clerics or even the remnants of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps," Patrick said. "There is only one way to find out: we need eyes on the ground. Let's prepare a report for STRATCOM and I'll add my recommendations for action...but first I want Rascal to come up with a plan." While Lucas began uploading sensor data and adding his observations-and reservations-about activity in Soltanabad, Patrick selected the command channel on his encrypted satellite communications system. "One - Scoundrel."
  
  A moment later, an image of a large, blond, blue-eyed, strong-looking man appeared on Patrick's monitor. Macomber was the new ground commander of the combat force based at Elliot Air Force Base in Nevada, replacing Hal Briggs, who was killed while hunting for medium-range mobile ballistic missiles in Iran a year earlier. Macomber was only the second person to ever lead the Battle Force. He needed to take high positions, and this, according to Patrick, will never happen.
  
  Macomber was not Patrick's first choice for commanding the Scoundrel (which was Hal's call sign and is now the new unclassified call sign of the Combat Force). To put it mildly, Macomber had serious problems with power. But he somehow managed to use this personality glitch to get himself into increasingly difficult situations in which he was eventually able to adapt, overcome and succeed.
  
  He was kicked out of a public high school in Spokane, Washington due to "behavioral incompatibility" and sent to the New Mexico Military Institute in Roswell in the hope that round-the-clock military discipline would fix him. Sure enough, after a difficult first year, it worked. He graduated from high school near the top of his class both academically and athletically and won an Air Force Academy nomination in Colorado Springs, Colorado.
  
  Although he was a linebacker for the Falcons national football team, where he earned his nickname "Zipper", in his senior year he was expelled from the team for aggressive play and "personality conflicts" with several coaches and teammates. He used the extra time - and probation - to improve his grades and graduated with honors again, earning a Bachelor of Science degree in physics and a place to train as a pilot. He again dominated his undergraduate pilot training class, graduating top of his class, and won one of six F-15E Strike Eagle pilot positions awarded right out of flight school-almost unheard of for a first lieutenant at the time.
  
  But then again, he couldn't keep his drive and determination in check. The F-15 Eagle air superiority fighter is a completely different bird with an attack systems operator, large radar, proper long-range fuel tanks and ten thousand pounds of ammunition on board, and for some reason Wayne Macomber couldn't figure out that the plane's body was flexing. in unnatural directions when an F-15E Strike Eagle pilot loaded with bombs tries to engage in dogfight with another fighter. It didn't matter that he was almost always a winner - he won victories by bending expensive aircraft bodies, and eventually...eventually...he was asked to leave.
  
  But he did not remain an orphan for long. One organization in the Air Force welcomed and even encouraged aggressive action, out-of-the-box thinking, and dangerous leadership: Air Force Special Operations. However, to his dismay, the unit that most wanted a brute "Strike" was the Tenth Combat Weather Squadron at Hurlbert Field, Florida: because of his physical background, the Air Force quickly made him a Combat Weather Parachutist. He received the coveted green beret and air force commando parachute wings, but he still hated being called a "weatherman."
  
  Although he and his squadron mates were always ridiculed by other commando units for being "combat weather forecasters" or "marmots", Macomber soon fell in love with the profession, not only because he liked the science of meteorology, but also because that he parachuted from excellent planes and helicopters, carried a lot of weapons and explosives, learned how to equip airfields and observation posts behind enemy lines and how to kill the enemy at close range. Zipper made over one hundred and twenty combat jumps over the next eight years and quickly rose through the ranks, eventually taking command of a squadron.
  
  When Brigadier General Hal Briggs planned the attack and occupation of Yakutsk Air Base in Siberia as part of Patrick McLanahan's retaliatory operation against Russia after the Holocaust in America, he turned to the only nationally recognized expert in the field to help plan operations behind enemy lines: Wayne Macomber . At first, Vack didn't like taking orders from a guy eight years his junior, especially one who was higher in rank, but he quickly appreciated Briggs' skill, intelligence, and courage, and they made a good team. The operation was a complete success. Macomber received the Silver Star for rescuing dozens of military personnel, both Russian and American, by placing them in fallout shelters before Russian President Gryzlov's bombers attacked Yakutsk with nuclear-tipped cruise missiles.
  
  "I'm sending you the latest pictures of the air base on the highway in northeast Iran, Wayne," Patrick said. "I think it's being secretly repaired, and I'm going to ask you to let me in, inspect it, and put it back into disrepair-permanently."
  
  "Ground operation? Just in time," Macomber replied hoarsely. "Almost all I've done since you brought me here is sweat, either in PT or trying to squeeze into one of those damn tin woodcutters union suits."
  
  "And complains."
  
  "Sergeant Major talking about me again?" Marine Master Sergeant Chris Wall was the non-commissioned officer in charge of the Rascal, the Air Force Ground Group, and one of the highest ranking members of the unit. Although Macomber was the commander of the Rascal, everyone knew and understood that Chris Wall was in charge, including Macomber, a fact that really annoyed him. "I wish that son of a bitch retired like I was supposed to, so I could choose my first shirt myself. He is ready to be released into the pasture."
  
  "I'm the Air Force Commander, Wayne, and even I wouldn't dare say that to the Staff Sergeant's face," Patrick said, only half in jest.
  
  "I told you, General, that as long as Wol is around, I will have to carry his unit and his luggage with me," Zipper said. "All he does is follow Briggs." Patrick couldn't for a second even remotely imagine Vol's moping, but he didn't say that. "Guys die in special ops, even in tin can suits like the robot he was in - he better get used to it. Dismiss him, or at least transfer him so I can spin this division my way. "
  
  "Wayne, you're in charge, so be in charge," said Patrick, who didn't like the way the conversation was going. "You and Chris can make a great team if you learn to work together, but you're still in charge whether you use him or not. I expect you to get your team ready to take off and fight as soon as possible. If things aren't set up the way you want for the next operation, put Vol in charge until-"
  
  "I lead a unit, a general, not a bum," retorted Macomber, using his personal term "bum" instead of the Air Force acronym NCOIC, or "responsible non-commissioned officer."
  
  "Then lead it, Wayne. Do whatever you need to do to complete the mission. Chris Wall, the infantry's cybernetic devices and the Tin Woodman's armor may be part of the problem or part of the solution - you decide. These people are professionals, but they need a leader. They know Chris and will follow him to hell - you have to prove you can lead them along with the NCOs."
  
  "I'll make them line up, General, don't worry about it," Macomber said.
  
  "And if you haven't already, I would advise you not to use that 'no cock' expression in the presence of Vol, otherwise you two might be standing before me bloody and broken. Fair warning."
  
  Macomber's expression gave absolutely no indication that he understood or agreed with McLanahan's warning. It was unfortunate: Chris Wall did not tolerate most officers below the flag rank and was not afraid to risk his career and freedom to deal with an officer who did not show due respect to a veteran non-commissioned officer. Patrick knew that if the situation was not properly resolved, the two would go to war. "It would be a lot easier if I didn"t have to train in the Tin Woodman costume."
  
  'The outfit', as you call it, allows us to go to hotspots that no other special forces team would ever think of," Patrick said.
  
  "Excuse me, General, but I can't think of a hotspot I ever thought of not going into," Macomber said irritably, "and I didn't wear long underwear."
  
  "How many men would you need to go and destroy the airfield, Major?"
  
  "We don't 'destroy' airfields, sir - we do reconnaissance or disrupt enemy air operations, or we build our own airfields. We do air strikes if we want to-"
  
  "Combat forces are destroying them, Major," Patrick intervened. "Remember Yakutsk?"
  
  "We didn't destroy this airfield, sir, we occupied it. And we brought in a hundred guys to help us make it."
  
  "The fighting forces were ready to destroy this base, Major - if we couldn"t use it, the Russians weren"t going to do it either."
  
  "Destroy the airfield?" The skepticism in Macomber's voice was evident, and Patrick felt a heat rise under the collar of his black flight suit. He didn't want to waste time arguing with a subordinate, but Macomber needed to be made aware of what was expected of him, not just arrested for being a junior officer. "How can a handful of lightly armed men destroy an airfield?"
  
  "That's what you're here to learn, Wayne," Patrick said. "When we first talked about taking command, I told you that I need you to think outside the box, and roughly in this case, this means not just learning how to use the gadgets that you have at your disposal, but embracing and expanding the technology and developing new ways to use it. Now I need you to brief me quickly because I have an airfield in Iran that I might want to destroy...tomorrow."
  
  "Tomorrow? How could this happen, general? I just now found out about the location of the target - if we hurry, we can leave the base by tomorrow, and this is without intelligence and without rehearsing how to attack the target! You can't successfully infiltrate a military base without intelligence and practice runs! It will take me at least a week to just...
  
  "You don't hear what I'm telling you, Major: you need to start thinking differently here," Patrick insisted. "We locate targets and attack them, period-little or no rehearsal, no strategic intelligence, no primary intelligence received along the way, no joint support packages and small but mobile and high-tech ground units with minimal but devastating air support. I told you all this when I first told you about Rascal, Wayne..."
  
  "I assumed you received information and orders from higher headquarters, sir," Macomber protested. "You mean you start the operation without collecting strategic information from-?"
  
  "We don't get any help from anyone, and we're up and running anyway, Zipper," Patrick put in pointedly. "Are you finally catching the picture?" Patrick waited a moment and got no response - given Macomber's fickle, almost frenzied nature, the silence was truly overwhelming. "Now I know you're used to Air Force Special Operations tactics and methodology, and I know you're a good operator and leader, but you have to get comfortable with the lake program. I know PT technology is important, but knowing the equipment and resources we have is more important. This is not only a job, but also a way of thinking. Understand?"
  
  "Yes, sir," Macomber said-probably the first real hint of acceptance Patrick felt from this guy. "It seems to me that I still need Vol"s help if I"m going on a mission...tomorrow?"
  
  "Now you get the idea, Major."
  
  "When can I get the information you have, sir?"
  
  "I'm posting it now. I need an action plan in place, ready to report back to the powers that be in an hour."
  
  "In one hour...?"
  
  "Something wrong with this connection, Major?"
  
  "No, sir. I heard you. One hour. One more question?"
  
  "Hurry up".
  
  "What about my request to change the unit's call sign, sir?"
  
  "Not again, Major..."
  
  "That was Briggs' call sign, sir, and I need to change that name. Not only do I hate it, but it reminds the guys of their dead ex-boss and it distracts them from the mission."
  
  "Bill Cosby once said that if it was up to him, he would never choose a name for his kids - he would just send them outside and let the neighborhood kids call him," Patrick said.
  
  "Which Bill?" I asked.
  
  "When it's time to change the unit's name, Major, the entire unit will come to me with a request."
  
  "This is my unit, sir."
  
  "Then prove it," Patrick said. "Immediately get them ready to launch, teach them how to use the tools I went out of my way to use, and show me a plan - put together as a whole - that will get the job done and win immediate approval. Get to work, Major. Genesis is out." He broke the connection by hitting the button with such force that it almost tore him off his Velcro perch. For God's sake, Patrick thought, he never realized how lucky he was to work with the men and women under his command, and not with real prima donnas like Macomber. He could have been one of America's finest special ops commandos, but his interpersonal skills needed a major reassessment.
  
  Taking an irritated sip of water from the tube, he reopened the satellite link: "One calls the Condor."
  
  "Condor in touch, safe," replied the senior controller at the Joint Functional Component Space Command Center (JFCC-Space) at Vandenberg Air Force Base, California. "Saw you on the news a while ago. You looked... Fine, sir. Glad to see that you are feeling well. This Megyn is a fox, isn"t she?"
  
  "Thanks Condor, but unfortunately I never saw the host, so I'll have to take your word for it," Patrick replied. "I have an urgent reconnaissance/assessment alert and a request to report ground missions to the boss."
  
  "Understood, sir," the senior controller replied. "Ready to copy when you're ready."
  
  "I have discovered a possible clandestine re-establishment of an illegal Iranian air base in the Persian Republic, and I need 'eye-only' confirmation and tasking authority for closure if confirmed." Patrick quickly laid out what he knew and what he suspected about the airbase on the Soltanabad highway.
  
  "Understood, sir. Submitting to JFCC space is IN PROGRESS now." The DO, or Deputy Commander of Operations of the Joint Functional Component Command-Space, would report to their commander after evaluating the request, examining force availability, collecting intelligence, and calculating a rough timeline and expected damage. This took a lot of time, but probably kept the commander from flooding requests for support. "We should get a response message soon if the DO wants to act. How are you feeling, sir?"
  
  "Just great, Condor," Patrick replied. "Of course, I would like to upload my requests directly to STRATCOM or even SECDEF," Patrick said.
  
  "I hear you, sir," the dispatcher said. "I think they are afraid that you will bury them with the data. Besides, no one wants to give up their kingdoms." In a confusing and rather nasty mix of responsibilities, mission assignment and coordination of air missions involving the Armstrong space station and HAWC B-1 and B-52 unmanned bombers flying over Iran had to be handled through two different major commands, both of which reported directly to the president through staff. Homeland Security: JFCC-Space in California, which relayed information to the US. Strategic Command (STRATCOM) at temporary headquarters in Colorado and Louisiana; and US Central Command (CENTCOM) at MacDill Air Force Base in Florida, which directed all military operations in the Middle East and Central Asia. The various intelligence services of CENTCOM and STRATCOM dealing with plans and operations will review the data separately, make their own recommendations and present them to the secretary of defense and the national security adviser to the president, who will then make recommendations to the president.
  
  "I don't understand why these reports have to go to STRATCOM," grumbled Patrick. "CENTCOM is the commander of the theater of operations-they have to get reports, make a plan of action, get approvals, and then task everyone else for support."
  
  "You don't need to convince me, sir - if you ask me, your reports should go directly to the Department of Defense," the senior controller said. There was a short pause; then: "Get ready for the Condor, Odin. Glad to talk to you again, General."
  
  A moment later, "Condor One, safe," came the voice of Fourteenth Air Force Commander, Air Force Major General Harold Backman. US Air Force Fourteenth Air Force Commander Backman wore the "double hat" as the Combined Forces Command Space Component, or JFCC-S, a unit of the US Strategic Command (which was destroyed during Russian air attacks against the United States and rebuilt at various locations around the country ).
  
  JFCC-S was responsible for planning, coordinating, equipping and executing all military operations in space. Before McLanahan, his Center for High-Tech Aerospace Weapons and XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplanes, "Space operations" usually meant deploying satellites and monitoring the space activities of other nations. No more. McLanahan gave JFCC-Space the opportunity for global impact and ultra-fast mobility, and to be honest, he didn't feel like they weren't up to the task yet.
  
  "One here, security confirmed," Patrick said. "How are you, Harold?"
  
  "Deep in business as usual, sir, but better than you, I suppose. The duty officer said he saw you on TV, but you abruptly ended the interview without warning. Are you okay?"
  
  "I received a COMPSCAN warning and responded to it immediately."
  
  "If it scared one of my controllers to death, it will cause the superiors to panic, you understand that, right?"
  
  "They have to learn to relax. Did you receive my data?"
  
  "I'm looking at it right now, Mook. Give me a sec". Moments later: "My intelligence chief is reviewing this now, but to me it just looks like a bombed-out air base on a highway. I take it you don't think so?"
  
  "I think these craters are bait, Harold, and I'd like a few of my guys to go over there and take a look."
  
  Another small pause. "Khorasan province, just a hundred miles from Mashhad, is an area controlled by Mohtaz and his Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps," Backman said. "Within armed response distance from Sabzevar, where many Passdarans must be hiding. If Soltanabad is really empty, you will still be at the epicenter of the storm if the bad guys notice you - and if it is active, as you said, it will be a meat grinder. I guess you want to go there with just a couple of your robots, right?"
  
  "I confirm."
  
  "That's what I thought. Can't your gizmos up there give you more detailed images?"
  
  "Our only other option is a direct overflight from satellite or drone, and that will definitely alert the bad guys. I'd like to take a look first before I plan to blow this place up and a small squad would be the quickest and easiest. "
  
  "How fast?"
  
  "I haven't looked at the orbital geometry, but I hope we can launch them within four, in seven they'll be on the ground, in eight they'll be back in the air, and be back home within twelve."
  
  "Days?"
  
  "Watch".
  
  "Shit," Beckman swore. "Damn incredible, sir."
  
  "If my guys were based here, Harold, as I would like to do, as I have informed you and STRATCOM, I might be able to get out of there and return home in four hours."
  
  "Damn confusing. I'm all for it, Mook, but I think this idea just hits too many minds here on the good old planet Earth. You know that National Command has instructed us to limit all spaceplane flights to resupply and emergencies only, right?"
  
  "I consider this an emergency, Harold."
  
  "I know what you want... But is it really urgent?"
  
  Patrick suppressed a flare of anger at being questioned about his judgment, but he was used to being questioned by everyone in second and third place, even those who knew and loved him. "I won"t know for sure until I send some of my guys there."
  
  "I don't think it will be allowed, sir. Do you still want me to ask a question?"
  
  Patrick answered without hesitation: "Yes."
  
  "OK. Get ready." The wait wasn't long at all: "Okay, Mook, STRATCOM management says you can point your guys in that direction, but no one puts their boots - or whatever the hell your robots are wearing - on the ground, and none the aircraft does not cross any lines on any charts without permission from CENTCOM."
  
  "Can I load some Black Stallion spaceplanes and put them into orbit?"
  
  "How many of them and what are they loaded with?"
  
  "One or two with operators, staggered and in different orbits, until I can get the hourly time right; one or two cover planes equipped with high-precision weapons; perhaps one or two decoys to be used as back-ups in orbit; and one or two Vampire bombers flown in from Iraq, ready to destroy the base if we find it operational."
  
  "This number of spaceships can be a challenge, and an armed spaceship can break the deal."
  
  "The more I can throw and the more support I get into orbit, the sooner it'll be over, Harold."
  
  "I got it," Backman said. This time the pause was longer: "Okay, approved. No one crosses any political boundaries in the atmosphere without permission, and do not release weapons for re-entry until the green light is given." He chuckled, then added, "God, I sound like the fucking commander of the battleship Galactica Adama or something. I never thought that in my life I would have approved an attack from space."
  
  "It should be like this from now on, my friend," Patrick replied. "I will send you the full package plan within the hour, and the air mission order to move the spacecraft will be sent to you earlier. Thanks Harold. One came out."
  
  Patrick's next video conference call was to his command and control area at Elliot Air Force Base: "Macomber notified us that you have assigned him a ground operation in Iran and that he has little time to plan, so we are already connected," his deputy said. commander, Brigadier General David Luger. "The two navigators worked together for over two decades, first as fellow crew members of the B-52G Stratofortress, and then were assigned to the High-Tech Aerospace Weapons Center as Aircraft and Weapons Flight Test Engineers. Tall, lean, calm and thoughtful, both in character, so in appearance, Luger's best quality was that he acted as Patrick McLanahan's conscience whenever his short-tempered, determined, driven side threatened to destroy all sanity. The guy is fast and pretty well organised."
  
  "I knew you'd be into this, mate," Patrick said. "Surprised by the news from Zipper?"
  
  "Surprised? How about "thunderstruck"?" Luger is unperturbed. "Everyone in the Airborne is doing their best to avoid this guy. But when he gets down to business, he succeeds."
  
  "Any thoughts on Soltanabad?"
  
  "Yeah, I think we should skip the pre-tests and just hit a couple of gaps in the sky or meteorites with powerful explosives down there, instead of wasting time bringing in a combat force," Luger replied. "If the Iranians are hiding something there, our guys will land right on them."
  
  "As much as I love blowing things up, Texas," Patrick replied, "I think we should take a look first. If these craters are really bait, then they are the best I have ever seen, which means...
  
  "They are probably not Iranians," Luger said. "You think maybe Russians?"
  
  "I think Moscow would love nothing more than to help Mokhtaz destroy the Bujazi army and place a few brigades there as a reward," Patrick said.
  
  "Do you think this is what Zevitin wants to do?"
  
  "An AMERICA-friendly state in Iran would be totally unacceptable," Patrick said. "Mokhtaz is a psycho, but if Zevitin can convince him to allow Russian troops into Iran to help defeat the Bujazi army - or for any other reason, such as protection from American aggression - Zevitin will be able to send troops in opposition to American dominance in the region. At the very least, he can put pressure on President Gardner to withdraw his support for former Soviet bloc countries that are moving into the American sphere of influence."
  
  "All this geopolitical nonsense is giving me a headache, Mook," Dave said with feigned fatigue. Patrick could see that Dave's attention had drifted away from the videoconference camera. "I've got the first draft of the plan ready - I'll upload it to you," he said, typing the instructions into his computer.
  
  "Okay, Mook, here are the preliminary status reports," Luger continued a moment later. "We have two Black Stallions that will be available within four hours, along with dedicated tankers and enough fuel and supplies for orbital missions, and three will be available in seven hours if we cancel some training missions. Macomber says he can boot up in time for launch. How do you want to build the order of air tasks?"
  
  Patrick did a quick mental calculation, counting back from the moment he wanted the Black Stallion to take off and leave Persian airspace. "I would certainly like to have decoys, backups, more information and more rehearsals for Whack and the ground forces, but my main concern is to inspect this base as soon as possible without attracting the attention of the Islamic Revolutionary Guards," he said. "I'll see if I can get permission to put in two studs right now. If we launch in four hours, we'll be over the target by midnight to 1am local time - let's call it 2am to be on the safe side. We do reconnaissance for a maximum of an hour, take off before sunrise, refuel somewhere over western Afghanistan and head home."
  
  The 'duty officer' voices preliminary assumptions for an air mission order," Luger said. The "duty officer" was a central computer system based at the Advanced Aerospace Weapons Center that linked all the various departments and laboratories around the world and could be securely accessed by any HAWC member anywhere in the world - or, in the case of the Armstrong space station, around it. "The biggest question mark we have right now is support for the KC-77 air refueling tanker. Our nearest XR-A9 refueling tanker is located at Al Dhafra Air Base in the United Arab Emirates, from where it is a two hour flight to the nearest possible refueling point over Afghanistan. If everything worked absolutely perfectly - they loaded the tanker without a hitch, got all the diplomatic and air traffic clearances in a timely manner, and so on - they would have reached a possible rendezvous point over western Afghanistan just as the Black Stallion ran out of fuel. ".
  
  "And when was the last time our mission went absolutely flawlessly?"
  
  "I don't remember this ever happening," Luger assured him. "There are several emergency landing sites in the area that we can use, but they are very close to the Iranian border and we will need a lot of ground support to secure the base until fuel arrives. We can deploy recovery crews to Afghanistan to assist in case the stallion has to make an emergency landing, or we can delay the mission for a couple of days..."
  
  "Let's move forward with this plan," Patrick said. "We will present everything as it is and use as many contingency funds as we can - I hope we don"t need any of them."
  
  "You got it, Mook," Dave said. "I need... to be around, Patrick... I have a call from your flight doctor from the Walter Reed. He wants to talk to you."
  
  "Plug me in and stay on the line."
  
  "Understood you. Get ready..." A moment later, the video image split in two, with Dave on the left side and an image of a rather youthful man in a Navy work uniform, the blue digital camouflage uniform typical of all military personnel in the United States since the American Holocaust . "Go on, captain, general on line, safety."
  
  "General McLanahan?"
  
  "How do you do, Captain Summers?" Patrick asked. U.S. Navy Captain Alfred Summers was Chief of Cardiovascular Surgery at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center and the person responsible for Patrick's case.
  
  "I saw your interview this morning," the surgeon said irritably, "and with all due respect, General, I was wondering where did you get your medical degree?"
  
  "I take it you had some problems with what I said to the interviewer?"
  
  "You said it like long QT syndrome could be cured with a couple of aspirins, sir," Summers complained. "It's not that easy and I don't want my staff to be blamed if your flight status request is denied."
  
  "Who blames, captain?"
  
  "Frankly, sir, the vast majority of Americans who consider you a national treasure that should not be neglected for any reason," the doctor replied. "I'm sure you understand what I mean. In short, sir, long QT syndrome is an automatic denial of flying privileges - there is no appeal process."
  
  "My staff have reviewed the condition, Captain, as well as the medical history of several astronauts who were disqualified from spaceflight but still retained airman status, and they told me that the condition is not life threatening and may not be serious enough to warrant a refusal to - "
  
  "As your physician and leading expert on this disease in the United States, General, let me clear this up for you, if I may," Summers interjected. "The syndrome was most likely caused by what we call myocardial stretching, when severe overloads deform the heart muscles and nerves and create electrical disturbances. The syndrome obviously lay dormant all your life until you flew into space, when it manifested itself in full force. I'm curious that you apparently experienced some symptoms during some or possibly all of your space flights, but then they subsided again until you had a simple videoconference confrontation - I would assume it was just as intense like flying through space, or maybe just tense enough to act as a trigger for another full blown episode."
  
  "The White House and the Pentagon can do it, Doctor," Patrick said.
  
  "Without a doubt, sir," Summers agreed. "But don't you see the danger in this state, General? The stress of that simple video conference episode, combined with your repeated orbital flights, caused power outages that eventually led to arrhythmias. It was so severe that it caused heart fibrillation, or an irregular heartbeat, a real thermal 'flutter' which, like a cavitation pump, means there isn't enough blood going to the brain, even if the heart hasn't stopped. It goes without saying, sir, that any kind of stress now could trigger a new episode, and without constant monitoring, we have absolutely no way of knowing when and how severe it will be. Allowing you to remain in flight status would jeopardize every mission and every piece of equipment under your control."
  
  "I suppose you were going to add, "not to mention your life," eh, Captain?" Added by Patrick.
  
  "I believe we are all concerned with your welfare first, sir-I may be wrong about that," Summers said dryly. "Your life is at risk every minute you spend up there. I can't stress it too much."
  
  "I got it, I got it, doctor," Patrick said. "Now let's get past the dire warnings. What is the treatment for this condition?"
  
  "'Treatment?' You mean other than avoid stress at all costs?" Summers asked with obvious annoyance. He sighed loudly. "Well, we can try beta-blockers and close monitoring to see if any electrical abnormalities reappear, but this course of treatment is only recommended for patients without syncope-those who have never passed out from this condition before. In your case, sir, I would highly recommend an implantable ICD cardioverter defibrillator."
  
  "You mean the pacemaker?"
  
  "ICDS is much more than just a pacemaker, sir," Summers said. "In your case, the ICD will perform three functions: carefully monitor the condition of your heart, shock your heart in case of fibrillation, and give corrective signals to restore a normal rhythm in case of any tachycardia, hypocardia or arrhythmia. Modern devices are smaller, less intrusive, more reliable, and can monitor and report on a wide range of bodily functions. They are extremely effective in correcting and preventing electrical anomalies of the heart."
  
  "Then it doesn"t affect the status of my flight, right?"
  
  Summers rolled his eyes in annoyance, utterly frustrated that this three-star general hadn't given up on regaining flying status. "Sir, as I'm sure you understand, installing an ICD is a disqualification for all flying duties except FAA Part 91, and even then you would be limited to solo VFR daytime flights," he said, stunned simply by the fact that anyone who had an episode like this man might even consider flying. "After all, it is an electrical generator and transmitter that can momentarily cause serious heart injury. I cannot think of a single aircrew member, military or civilian, who would be allowed to retain airman status after receiving the ICD."
  
  "But if they're so good, what's the problem?" Patrick asked. "If they fix the deviations, I'll be ready to leave."
  
  "They are good, much better than in years past, but they are not reliable, sir," Summers said. "Approximately one in ten patients experience pre-syncope or syncope episodes-dizziness, drowsiness, or loss of consciousness-when the ICD is activated. Three out of ten feel uncomfortable enough to make them stop what they are doing-truck drivers, for example, will feel scared or uncomfortable enough to pull over to the side of the road, or executives in meetings will get up and leave the room. You can't pull over on an airplane, especially a spaceplane. I know how important flying is to you, but it's not worth-"
  
  "Not worth risking my life?" Patrick interrupted. "Again, Doctor, with all due respect, you are wrong. Flying is essential to my work and is also an important skill and source of personal enjoyment. In my current position, I would be inefficient."
  
  "Would you rather be dead, sir?"
  
  Patrick looked away for a moment, but then shook his head decisively. "What other alternatives do I have, doctor?"
  
  "You don't have them, General," Summers said sternly. "We can give you beta-blockers and constant monitoring, but it's not as effective as the ICD and you'll still be limited in flight duties. It's almost guaranteed that you'll have another long QT episode within the next six months, and you're more likely to get some degree of disability similar or perhaps more severe than what you've experienced before. Whether you are in space or at the controls of an aircraft, you are an instant danger to yourself, your crewmates, innocents in the path of your flight and your mission.
  
  "General McLanahan, in my expert opinion, your current job, or just about any military position I can think of, is too stressful for a man in your condition, even if we install an ICD. More than any treatment or adjustment, you need rest now. Unless there is a history of drug abuse or injury, long QT syndrome is almost always caused by physical, psychological, and emotional stress. The damage done to your heart by your position, responsibilities, and space travel will last for the rest of your life, and as we have seen, the stress of just one simple video conference was enough to trigger a syncope episode. Take my advice: install an ICD, retire and enjoy your son and family."
  
  "There must be other options, other treatments," Patrick said. "I'm not ready to retire. I have an important job and maintaining flying status is a big part of it - no, it's a big part of who I am."
  
  Summers looked at him for a long time with a stern and annoyed expression. "Bertrand Russell once wrote: "One of the symptoms of an impending nervous breakdown is the conviction that someone"s work is terribly important," he said, "except in your case, you will not have a nervous breakdown - you will be dead."
  
  "Let's not get too dramatic here, captain..."
  
  "Listen to me carefully, General McLanahan: I'm not being dramatic - I'm being as honest and open with you as I can," Summers said. "In my opinion, you have suffered unknown but severe damage to your heart muscles and myocardium as a result of your space flight, which causes episodes of QT interval prolongation, causing arrhythmia and tachycardia, leading to pre-syncoptosis and syncoptosis. Is that undramatic enough for you, sir?"
  
  "Captain-"
  
  "I haven't finished, sir," Summers interjected. "The chance that, even with rest and medication, you will have another syncopal event in the next six months, more serious than the previous one, and without observation and immediate medical attention, your chances of survival are twenty percent at best. With ICD, your chances of surviving the next six months go up to seventy percent, and after six months, you have a ninety percent chance of surviving."
  
  He paused, waiting for an argument, and after a few minutes of silence continued: "Now, if you were any other officer, one who has not met with the Vice President of the United States accompanied by the Secret Service, I would simply advise you that I would recommend your commander to put you in the hospital for the next six months. I will-"
  
  "Six months!"
  
  "I will still advise your commander that way," Summers continued. "Whether you decide to install an ICD is your decision. But if you insist on not installing an ICD and you don't have 24/7 monitoring, you have little chance of surviving the next six months. No. Am I making myself clear to you, sir?" Patrick momentarily looked like a rapidly deflating balloon, but Dave Luger could see his despondency quickly change to anger-anger for what, he wasn't quite sure yet. "It seems to me that the final decision is yours. Have a nice day, general." And Summers walked out of the videoconference, shaking his head sadly, certain that the three-star general wasn't going to follow his orders.
  
  As soon as Summers left the conference, Patrick leaned back in his chair, took a deep breath, then stared at the conference room table. "Oh shit," he breathed after several long moments of silence.
  
  "Are you okay, Muk?" Dave Luger asked.
  
  "Yes, I think so," Patrick replied, shaking his head in mock confusion. "I always thought it was Will Rogers who said that quote about mental illness, not Bertrand Russell."
  
  Dave laughed - this was a guy he knew, cracking jokes at a time when most sane men would be on the verge of tears. "I think Mark Twain was right when he said, 'It's not about what you know, it's about what you know you don't'."
  
  "It wasn't Mark Twain, it was Josh Billings."
  
  "Who?" I asked.
  
  "Doesn't matter," Patrick said, becoming serious again. "Dave, I need to learn all about long QT syndrome and the treatment of cardiac arrhythmias before I can make a decision about what I can and can't handle. There are probably a dozen companies doing research on modern ICDs or whatever the next generation of these devices will be - I should be aware of the latest advances before I decide to install any old technology. John Masters probably has an entire lab dedicated to treating heart disease."
  
  "I'm sorry to say that, buddy, but you just got in touch with probably the best cardiologist in the country, ready to answer any of your questions, and you practically blew him off."
  
  "He wasn't ready to help me - he was standing by, ready to punch me into my medical pension," Patrick said. "I have to deal with it my way."
  
  "I'm worried about how much time you have to make this decision, Patrick," Dave said. "You've heard the paper: Most patients with this condition either start ongoing follow-up and take medication, or get an ICD right away. The rest will die. I don't see what more research you need to do on this."
  
  "I don't know either, Dave, but that's how I always do it: I check them myself, using my own sources and methods," said Patrick. "Summers may be the best cardiologist in the army, maybe even in the country, but if so, then my own research tells me so. But guess what, bro, what do guys like Summers do with heart attack victims who are on active duty and who are still alive?"
  
  "They're firing them, of course."
  
  "They send them into retirement," echoed Patrick, "and then they're cared for by the Veterans Administration or private doctors paid in part by the government. Summers does what he always does: discharges sick guys and sends them to VA. Most of his patients are so grateful to be alive that they never consider retirement."
  
  "Aren't you glad you're still alive, Muk?"
  
  "Of course I am, Dave," Patrick said, giving his longtime friend a frown, "but if I'm going to hit, I'm doing it on my own terms, not Summers. In the meantime, perhaps I will learn something else about the condition and possible treatments that these documents do not know, something that will allow me to maintain my flying status. Maybe I am -"
  
  "Patrick, I understand that flying is important to you," Luger said sincerely, "but it"s not worth risking your life for-"
  
  "Dave, I risk my life almost every time I take off in a combat aircraft," Patrick interrupted. "I'm not afraid to lose my life because of..."
  
  "The enemy... an external enemy," Dave said. "Hey Patrick, I'm just playing devil's advocate here - I'm not arguing with you. You do what you want. And I agree: it is worth risking your life using your skills, training and instincts to fight an adversary who seeks to destroy the United States of America. But the enemy we're talking about here is you. You cannot outwit, outwit or outwit yourself. You are not equipped or trained to control your own body that is trying to kill you. You must approach this battle like any battle you have ever prepared for..."
  
  "That's exactly what I intend to do, Dave," Patrick said decisively. "I'm going to study it, analyze it, consult with experts, collect information and develop a strategy."
  
  "Great. But while you're at it, take off your pilot status and go to the hospital for 24/7 monitoring. Don't be stupid."
  
  This last remark took Patrick by surprise and he blinked in surprise. "You think I'm being stupid?"
  
  "I don't know what you're thinking, man," Luger said. He knew Patrick wasn't stupid and he regretted saying it, but the only thing his longtime friend had taught him was to say what was on his mind. Patrick was scared, and that was his response to fear, just like it had been in the cockpit of a strategic bomber for so many years: fight the fear, focus on the goal, and never stop fighting, no matter how dire the situation may seem.
  
  "Look at it from the doc's point of view, Mook," Luger continued. "I heard the doctors tell you that this thing is like a hair-triggered time bomb. It might not work at all, but most likely it could work in the next ten seconds while we're standing here arguing. Damn it, I'm afraid you might piss me off while I'm arguing with you right now and there's nothing I can do from here but watch you die."
  
  "My chances of dying here in Earth orbit are only slightly above average because of this heart thing - we could be torn to pieces at any moment and sucked into space by a hypersonic fragment the size of a pea, and we will never know about it," - said Patrick.
  
  "If you're not sure about the ICD, then go ahead and research it; talk to John Masters or about a dozen smart people on our list and think about it," Dave said. "But do it from the safety of a private hospital room where doctors can look after you." Patrick's eyes and features remained determined, stoic, impassive. "Come on, Muk. Think Bradley. If you continue to fly without an ICD, you may die. If you don't strain, you will probably live on. What's the question?"
  
  "I'm not going to give up, Dave, and this is . I'm here to do important work, and I...
  
  "Job ? Mook, are you willing to risk hurting yourself with a job? This is important, of course, but dozens of young and strong guys can do it. Give the task to Boomer, or Raydon, or even Lucas - whoever else. Haven't you figured it out yet, Patrick?"
  
  "Find out what?"
  
  "We are expendable, General McLanahan. We are all disposable. We are nothing but 'politics by other means'. When it comes down to it, we're just cool A-type military divas, fanatical military men in ill-fitting monkey suits, and no one in Washington cares if we live or die. If you screw up tomorrow, twenty other tough asses will take your place - or, more likely, Gardner could just as easily order us to close the day after you die and spend the money on new aircraft carriers. But there are those of us who you care about, your son tops the list, but you don't pay attention to us because you're focused on work - a job that doesn't care one iota about you.
  
  Luger took a deep breath. "I know you dude. You always say you're doing this because you don't want to order another pilot to do something you haven't done yourself, even if the pilots are trained members of the test team, the best of the best. I always knew it was bullshit. You do it because you love it, because you want to be the one to pull the trigger to take down the bad guys. I understand it. But I don't think you should be doing this anymore, Mook. You are risking your life needlessly - not by piloting a virtually untested machine, but by exposing yourself to stresses that could kill you long before you reach the target area."
  
  Patrick was silent for a long time; then he looked at his old friend. "I think you know what it's like to face your own mortality, don't you Dave?"
  
  "Unfortunately, yes," Luger said. As a young bombardier navigator on a secret mission to destroy the former Soviet Union's ground-based laser complex at Kavazna, Dave Luger was captured by the Russians, interrogated, tortured and imprisoned for several years, then brainwashed into believing he was Russian. aerospace engineer. The effects of this treatment affected him emotionally and psychologically-the stress caused him to suddenly enter a state of suspended fugue that left him virtually incapacitated with fear for minutes, sometimes hours-and he voluntarily retired from active flight many years ago. "It was a hell of a ride... But there are other rides."
  
  "Don't you miss flying?" Patrick asked.
  
  "Hell no," Dave said. "When I want to fly, I fly one of the combat drones or my RC planes. But I have enough things going on that I no longer have the desire to do."
  
  "I'm just not sure how it will affect me," Patrick admitted honestly. "I think I would be fine - no, I"m sure I would be - but will I always demand another flight, another mission?"
  
  "Mook, you and I both know that manned aircraft follow the path of the dinosaurs," Dave said. "Do you suddenly have some romantic notion about aviation, some weird idea of 'breaking your sulky ties' that somehow makes you forget about everything else? Since when did flying become more than just "plan a flight, then execute the plan" for you? Man, if I didn't know you, I'd swear you cared more about flying than Bradley. That's not that Patrick Shane McLanahan I knew."
  
  "Let's leave it, okay?" Patrick asked irritably. He hated it when Luger (or his former girlfriend, Vice President Maureen Herschel) brought up the issue of his twelve-year-old son Bradley, believing it to be an overused argument to try to get Patrick to change his mind about something. "Everyone is worried about my heart, but no one stops arguing with me." He made sure Luger smiled as he added, "Maybe you're all trying to bring me down. Change the subject, damn it, Texas. What's going on at the lake?
  
  "The rumor mill is running, Mook," Dave said. "Guess who might be back at HAWC?"
  
  "Martin Tehama," Patrick replied. Dave blinked in surprise - this was a guy who was rarely surprised by anything. "I saw a strange email address in CC from the Department of Defense and checked who was in that office. I think he will be reinstated as HAWC commander."
  
  "With your buddy at the White House? Without a doubt." Air Force Colonel Martin Tehama was named commander of the Advanced Aerospace Weapons Center following the departure of Major General Terrill "The Digger" Samson, bypassing Patrick McLanahan. A respected test pilot and engineer, Tehama wanted to curb the "extracurricular" activities that HAWC often engaged in - such as using experimental aircraft and weapons in "operational test flights" around the world - and get back into the serious business of flight testing. When Patrick left his White House adviser position, he took command of HAWC, ousting Tehama. He hit back by giving members of Congress a ton of information about HAWC's covert missions. "After Summers submits a full report on your condition, he will reappear and take over as soon as you announce your retirement - or the president announces you are retiring for medical reasons."
  
  "President and Senator Barbeau will use my heart to cancel the Black Stallion program, citing health issues, and their errand boy, Tehama, will promptly shut it down within a few months."
  
  "Not even that long, Mook," David said. "The Senate is saying they're going to push the White House into faster action to shut us down."
  
  "Barbeau wants his bombers, that's for sure."
  
  "It's not just about her, it's about the fact that she has the loudest voice," Dave said. "There are lobbyists for every weapon system imaginable - aircraft carriers, ballistic missile submarines, special operations, whatever you want to call it. President Gardner wants at least four more carrier battle groups, maybe six, and he'll probably get them if the space program is cancelled. Everyone has their own plans. The spaceplane lobby is practically non-existent, and your injury just casts a shadow over the program, which pleases other lobbyists to no end."
  
  "I hate this political shit."
  
  "Me too. I'm surprised you lasted so long in the White House. You were definitely not made to wear a suit, listen to nonsensical speeches, spend weeks testifying before another congressional committee, and be duped by lobbyists and so-called experts."
  
  "Accepted," Patrick said. "In any case, the intensity has been increased, and Tehama will increase it even more - right in front of our noses. All the more reason to carry out this mission in Soltanabad, return the crew safe and sound and get good intelligence - and all this until tomorrow morning. The Russians are up to something in Iran - they can't be content with just sitting in Moscow or Turkmenistan and watching Iran become democratic or fall apart."
  
  "I do it," Dave said. "The air mission order will be ready by the time you get the green light. I will send you the orbital game plan and the full force schedule immediately. Genesis is out."
  
  
  CHAPTER FIVE
  
  
  Honesty is praised, but it is starving.
  
  - DECIMUS JUNIUS JUVENALIS
  
  
  
  HIGH-TECH AEROSPACE WEAPONS CENTER, ELLIOT AFB, NEVADA
  A little while later
  
  
  "It's ten times more boring than playing video games," complained Wayne Macomber, "because I can't even play that thing."
  
  "There's a pretty deep washout ahead, Bach," said US Army National Guard Captain Charlie Turlock. "It deviates from the target, so eventually we will have to get out. We have to-"
  
  "I see it, I see it," Macomber grumbled. "Wol, clear these railroad tracks again."
  
  "Acknowledged," Marine Corps Sergeant Major Chris Wall replied in his usual raspy whisper. A moment later: "The rails are clear, Major. The satellite reports that the next train, twenty-seven miles east, is moving in our direction at twenty-five miles per hour."
  
  "Acknowledged," Macomber replied, "but I keep seeing my three o'clock return, five miles away, somewhere right in front of you. She appears for a second and then disappears. What the hell is this?"
  
  "Negative contact, sir," Wol radioed.
  
  "That's crazy," Macomber muttered, knowing that both Turloc and Ox could still hear him, but he didn't care one bit. That's not how he envisioned mission planning... Though he had to admit it was pretty damn cool.
  
  Incredible as the spaceplane was, even the passenger module was a rather nifty device. It served not only to transport passengers and cargo inside the Black Stallion, but also as a docking adapter between the spaceplane and the space station. In an emergency, the module could even be used as a lifeboat for the spacecraft's crew: it had thrusters to make it easier to lift the repair ship into orbit and keep it upright during reentry; small wings for stability in case it gets thrown overboard in the atmosphere; oxygen was enough for six passengers to live up to a week; sufficient protection to survive a re-entry if the module was jettisoned during the re-entry; and float/impact cushioning parachutes and bags that will cushion the module and its passengers when hitting the ground or water. Unfortunately, all this protection was available only to passengers - the crew of the Black Stallion had no way to get inside the module after takeoff, except by going into outer space in orbit and using the transfer tunnel.
  
  Macomber and Vol were wearing the full Iron Man armor system, a lightweight suit made from BERP, or ballistic electron-reactive technology material, that was completely flexible like cloth but protected the wearer by instantly hardening to a strength one hundred times that of steel. on impact. The suit was completely sealed, providing superior protection even in harsh or hazardous environments, and was complemented by an extensive array of electronic sensors and communications that relayed data to the wearer via helmet visor displays. The Tin Woodman system was further enhanced with a micro-hydraulic exoskeleton that gave the wearer superhuman strength, agility, and speed by enhancing their muscular movements.
  
  Charlie Turlock-"Charlie" was her real name, not a call sign, the young woman, given a boyish name by her father-was not dressed in a tin woodcutter suit but simply a flight suit over a thin layer of thermal underwear; she rode in the cargo hold behind their seats. She wore a standard HAWC flight helmet that displayed sensor and computer data on an electronic visor similar to Tin Man's sophisticated displays. Fit, athletic, and slightly above average height, Turlock seemed out of place in a unit full of large, muscular commandos-but she brought with her some of her years in the Army Research Laboratory's Infantry Transformation Combat Lab that more than made up for her smaller physical size.
  
  All three were watching a computer animation of their planned infiltration of the Soltanabad Highway airfield in Persia. The animation used real-time imagery from satellite sensors to draw an ultra-realistic view of the terrain and cultural features in the target area, complete with predictions of things like personnel and vehicle movements based on past information, lighting levels, weather forecasts, and even soil conditions. The three commandos of the fighting force were distributed about fifty yards apart, close enough to quickly support each other if necessary, but far enough apart not to betray each other if they were discovered or engaged by a single enemy patrol.
  
  "Now I can see the barrier, one point six miles away," Charlie reported. "Now we are moving over the reservoir. 'Goose' reports that there are thirty minutes of flight left." Goose was the GUOS, or Grenade Launched Unmanned Surveillance System, a small bowling pin-sized flying drone launched from a backpack launcher that transmitted visual and infrared images to the commandos over a secure data link.
  
  "That means we're behind," Macomber grumbled. "Let's break this down a bit."
  
  "We're right on schedule, sir," Ox whispered.
  
  "I said we were behind, Sergeant Major," hissed Macomber. "The drone will run out of fuel and we will still be inside the damn complex."
  
  "I have another goose ready," Charlie said. "I can run it-"
  
  "When? When will we get close enough for the Iranians to hear it?" Macomber growled. "Anyway, how noisy are those things?"
  
  "If you came to my demonstrations, Major, you would know," Charlie said.
  
  "Don't be rude to me, captain," spat Macomber. "When I ask you a question, give me an answer."
  
  "They won't hear anything beyond a couple of hundred yards from the ignition of the engine," Charlie said, not hiding her annoyance at all, "unless they have sound sensors."
  
  "If we had the relevant information before starting this mission, we would know if the Iranians have audio sensors," Macomber grumbled a little more. "We need to plan on delaying the launch of the drone until we are within two miles of the base, not three. Do you understand that, Turlock?"
  
  "Understood," Charlie confirmed.
  
  "The next one I need..." Macomber stopped when he noticed that the target indicator had reappeared at the very periphery of his electronic visor's field of view. "Damn it, here it is again. Wol, did you see that?"
  
  "I saw it that time, but it disappeared," Vol replied. "I'm scanning this area...negative contact. Perhaps just a short-term glow of the sensor."
  
  "Wol, there is no such thing as 'sensor arcing' in my book," Macomber said. "Something ahead of you is causing this return. Get to work."
  
  "Understood," Vol replied. "Let's deviate from the course." He used a small mouse with a wheel to change the direction of the animation, waiting every few meters for the computer to add available detail and give him more warnings about what lay ahead. The process was slow due to all the wireless computer activity, but it was the only means they had available to rehearse their operation and prepare for flight at the same time.
  
  "We're supposed to be commandos - there's no such thing as a 'track' for us," Macomber said. "We have a goal and a million different ways to achieve it. It must be easy with all these beautiful pictures floating in front of us - why does this give me a headache? Neither Turloc nor Vol responded-they had become accustomed to Macomber's complaints. "Is there anything else, Vol?"
  
  "Get ready."
  
  "Looks like tire marks right after the wash," Charlie reported. "Not a very deep vehicle the size of a Hummer."
  
  "It's something new," Macomber said. He checked the source data tags. "Fresh intelligence uploaded from just the last fifteen minutes of SAR from low altitude. Perimeter patrol, I would guess."
  
  "No sign of vehicles."
  
  "That's the reason we do it, isn't it, children? Perhaps, after all, the general was right." It sounded to both Vol and Turlock as if Macomber hated to admit that the general might be right. "Let"s go ahead and see what-"
  
  "Crew, this is the MC," the mission commander, Marine Maj. Jim Terranova, interrupted over the intercom. Run your checklists before takeoff and get ready for the report."
  
  "Understood, S-One obeys," Macomber replied ... except, as he himself noted with no small shock, that his words came out of an instantly parched, hoarse throat and vocal cords, hardly enough breath for the words to break from his lips.
  
  If there was one thing that the guys at the Advanced Aerospace Weapons Center and the Air Force were really good at, Macomber figured it out early, it was definitely computer simulation. These guys were simulating everything - for every hour of real flight time, these guys probably worked out twenty hours in advance on a computer simulator. The machines ranged from simple desktop computers with photorealistic displays to full-scale aircraft mock-ups that did everything from hydraulic fluid drips to smoke and catch fire if you did something wrong. Everyone was involved in this: aircraft crews, maintenance, security, combat personnel, command post, even the administration and support staff regularly conducted exercises and simulations.
  
  A significant percentage of all personnel at Elliot AFB and Battle Mountain AFB, probably a tenth of the approximately five thousand at both locations, were dedicated exclusively to computer programming, and other private and military computer centers connected around the world provided the latest codes, procedures, and devices. ; and at least a third of all the code these top-secret super-geeks wrote 24/7 was purely simulation-related. It was his first real space trip, but the simulations were so realistic and plentiful that he really felt like he'd done it dozens of times before...
  
  ...until just now, when the mission commander announced that there was less than an hour left before takeoff. He was so busy preparing to approach and infiltrate Soltanabad - only three hours to prepare when he required at least three days to train in a combat weather squadron! - that he completely forgot that they were going to fly into space to get there!
  
  But now this frightening reality has hit us with all its might. He wasn't going to just load his gear into a C-17 Globemaster II or C-130 Hercules for a multi-day flight to some isolated airstrip in the middle of nowhere - he was going to be tossed nearly a hundred miles into space, then blasted through the atmosphere into hostile airspace before landing in the desert of northeastern Iran, where, quite possibly, a whole brigade of fighters of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, the elite of the terrorist army of the former theocratic regime, could be waiting for them.
  
  In the time it would normally take him to just arrive at his first transfer base on the way to his destination, this mission would have been completed! This simple fact was absolutely amazing, almost unbelievable. The time compression was almost unbearable to understand. And yet, here he is, sitting in a real spaceship - not a simulator - and the clock is ticking. By the time the sun rises again, this mission will be over and he will be summing it up. It would go into low earth orbit, fly half the globe, land in Iran, survey it, take off again, enter low earth orbit again, and hopefully land at a friendly base...
  
  ... or he would be dead. There were a million unforeseen and non-simulating things that could kill them, along with a hundred or so simulated things that they practiced as they faced day in and day out, and even when they knew something bad was about to happen, sometimes they couldn't handle it. Either everything will be fine, or they will be dead... or a hundred other things could happen. Whatever happened, it all had to happen now.
  
  Macomber certainly sensed danger and uncertainty... but as so often happened, the frantic pace of any activity involving McLanahan and everyone in the High-Tech Aerospace Weapons Center and the Air Force quickly drove all other feelings of fear out of his mind. It seemed like a dozen voices-some human, but most computerized-talked to him at the same time, and all needed confirmation or action, otherwise the speech quickly changed to "demanding." If he didn"t respond quickly enough, the computer would usually denounce him, and be quite annoyed. a human voice-usually the mission commander, but sometimes Brigadier General David Luger, the second-in-command himself, if that was critical enough-repeated the demand.
  
  He was used to acting and succeeding under intense pressure - that was the common denominator for any special operations commando - but this was something completely different: because at the end of all the sometimes chaotic training, they were going to send his ass into space! Terranova seemed to have made the announcement just moments before, when Macomber felt the Black Stallion come into motion as four Laser Pulse Rocket System engines, or "leopards", at full turbofan thrust, easily propelled the aircraft to takeoff. - the four-mile Dreamland dry bed lake landing strip.
  
  Zipper was not afraid to fly, but takeoffs were definitely the most terrifying phase of flight for him - all this power is behind them, engines running at full power absorb tons of fuel per minute, the noise is deafening, the vibration is the strongest, but the plane is still moving relatively slowly. He had flown many Black Stallion missions in the simulator and knew that the performance figures even with the spacecraft still in the atmosphere were impressive, but he was definitely on pins and needles in this part.
  
  The initial takeoff from the Dry Lake Bed airstrip at Elliott Air Force Base was truly spectacular - a powerful push as the turbofan LPDRS engines went to full combat thrust, then a high-angle, rapid climb at over ten thousand feet. per minute after a short run. The first few seconds of run-up and take-off seemed normal...but that was it. At full combat power in turbojet mode, the four LPDRS engines developed a hundred thousand pounds of thrust each, optimized by solid-state laser igniters that superheated the jet fuel before ignition.
  
  But high-performance takeoffs were nothing new for Whack, or for most commandos and others who flew into and out of enemy airstrips. He flew several huge C-17 Globemaster II and C-130 Hercules transport aircraft where they had to take off at top speed to get out of range of shoulder-fired enemy anti-aircraft missiles close to the runway, and these aircraft were many times larger and far less high-tech than the Black Stallion. There was nothing more frightening than the sensation of a screeching, five hundred thousand-pound C-17 Globemaster III cargo plane on its tail, clinging to every foot of relief.
  
  The Tin Woodman's outfit actually helped his body take some of the g-forces and even gave him a little extra pure oxygen when he felt his heart and breathing rate jump a little. Because the thrust was so powerful and the air so dense at low altitudes, the laser igniters had to be "pulsed" or quickly turned off and on again to avoid exploding the engines. This created a distinctive "string of pearls" in the Nevada skies that conspiracy theorists and the "Lake Hunters" - the guys who snuck into top-secret test sites in hopes of photographing the top-secret plane for the first time - have associated with the Air Force"s Aurora hypersonic spy plane.
  
  They had a short flight at high subsonic speed over the Pacific coast to a refueling area, and then a rendezvous with an Air Force KC-77 tanker. The secret of the Black Stallion spaceplane program was in-flight refueling, when they received a full load of jet fuel and oxidizer just before entering orbit - instead of launching from zero altitude in the densest part of the atmosphere, they began flying into space from twenty-five thousand feet and three hundred knots in much less dense air.
  
  Refueling always seemed to take forever on every aircraft that Whack had ever flown, especially the large intercontinental transport aircraft, but the Black Stallion took even longer because they actually needed three refuelings in a row: the first was for refueling. fuel tanks, because they did not take off with a full load and needed to be refueled immediately; the second - for filling large containers with borohydride tetroxide oxidizer - BOHM, nicknamed "boom"; and a third for one more refueling of the propellant tanks just prior to pressurization into space. Filling the JP-7 jet fuel tanks was fairly quick each time, but filling the large BOHM fuel tanks took over an hour because the mixture of boron and improved hydrogen peroxide was thick and soupy. It was easy to feel the XR-A9 getting heavier and noticeably slower as the tanks filled up, and at times the pilot had to turn on the afterburners on the big LPDRS engines to keep up with the tanker.
  
  Macomber spent time checking the intel updates downloaded to his on-board computers in their target area and studying maps and information, but he began to get frustrated because there seemed to be very little new data coming in and he became bored. It was dangerous. While they did not need to pre-breathe oxygen prior to this flight, as they would if they were about to put on a pressure suit, they could not remove their helmets during refueling operations; and unlike Vol, who could take a nap anywhere and anytime, like right now, Macomber couldn't sleep before a task. So he reached into his personal bag attached to the bulkhead and...
  
  ...to Turlock's stunned amazement, pulled out a ball of red yarn and two knitting needles, on which some of the knitted material was already strung! He found it remarkably easy to manipulate the needles in the Tin Woodman's armored gloves, and he soon picked up speed and almost reached his usual working pace.
  
  "Crew, this is S-Two," Turloc said over the intercom, "you guys won't believe this."
  
  "What is this?" asked the spacecraft commander, US Navy Lieutenant Commander Lisette "Frenchie" Moulin, concern in her voice. There was usually very little conversation during mid-air refueling-whatever was said over the ship's open intercom was usually emergency. "Do we need a disconnect...?"
  
  "No, no, SC, not an emergency," Charlie said. She leaned forward in her seat to get a better look. Macomber sat ahead of her, on the opposite side of the passenger module, and she tightened her harness so she could see his knees completely. "But it's definitely shocking. The Major seems to be...knitting."
  
  "Say again?" Jim Terranova asked. The Black Stallion spaceplane purred for a moment, as if the commander of the spaceship was momentarily so stunned that he almost flew out of the refueling zone. "Did you say 'knit'?" Knitting...as inward, ball of yarn, knitting needles... knitting ?"
  
  "I confirm," Charlie said. Chris Wall, who was sitting next to Macomber, woke up and stared at Macomber for a few seconds, surprise visible even through his Tin Woodman helmet and flak jacket, before he fell back to sleep. "He's got needles, a red ball of yarn, 'purl one with two', the whole show. Martha motherfucking Stuart is right here."
  
  "Are you kidding me?" Terranova exclaimed. "Does our local big-assed snake-eating commando knit?"
  
  "He looks sooo cute too," Charlie said. Her voice changed to that of a small child, "I can"t tell if he makes a cute doily, or maybe it"s a warm and cozy sweater for his French poodle, or maybe it"s-"
  
  In a blurry motion that Turloc had never actually seen, Macomber pulled another knitting needle from his bag, turned to his left, and threw it at Turloc. The needle whistled past the right side of her helmet and plunged three inches into the headrest of her seat.
  
  "Why, you bastard...!" Turlock exclaimed, pulling out the needle. Macomber waved his armored fingers at her, grinning under his goggle-eyed helmet, then turned and went back to his knitting.
  
  "What the hell is going on there?" Moulin asked angrily.
  
  "Just thought that since the captain was talking baby talk, maybe she wanted to try knitting too," said Zipper. "Do you want another, Turlock?"
  
  "Take off that helmet and I'll give it back to you - right between your eyes!"
  
  "You assholes stop this - maintain radio discipline," Moulin ordered. "The most important part of refueling is in the air, and you assholes fart like snotty kids. Macomber, do you really knit?"
  
  "What if this is who I am? It relaxes me."
  
  "You have not received permission from me to bring knitting supplies on board. Take that shit away."
  
  "Come back here and do me, Frenchie." There was silence. Macomber glanced at Vol-the only one on the spaceship who could probably force him if he wanted to-but he looked like he was still asleep. Zipper was sure it wasn't, but he didn't make the slightest move to intervene.
  
  "You and I are going to have a little talk when we get home, Macomber," Moulin said ominously, "and I'll explain to you in terms that I hope you can understand the powers and responsibilities of a spaceship commander - even if it takes a quick kick under butt to clear it up."
  
  "Looking forward to it, Frenchy."
  
  "Fine. Now stop the farce, remove all unauthorized equipment in the passenger module, and stop the intercom chatter, or this flight is aborted. Does everyone understand this?" There was no answer. Macomber shook his head, but put his knitting aside as instructed, smiling at the feel of Turloc's glare on the back of his helmet. The rest of the refueling was done with just normal calls and responses.
  
  After the refueling was completed, they cruised north along the coast for about an hour at supersonic speed, flying in loose formation with the KC-77 - now it was easy for the tanker to keep up with the Black Stallion, since the spaceplane was so heavy. They reconnected to the tanker to resupply JP-7, which did not take long, and then the tanker headed back to base. "Orbit checklist programmed for hold, crew," Terranova reported. "Notify me when your checklist is complete."
  
  "S-One, Wilco," growled Macomber. Another checklist. He called up an electronic checklist on his helmet's electronic data visor and used an eye-over cursor and voice commands to mark each item, which was mostly about securing loose items, checking the oxygen panel, pressurizing the cabin, blah blah blah. It was a common job that a computer could easily check, so why do people do it themselves? Probably some touching human engineering thing that made the passengers feel like they were someone other than what they really were: passengers. Zipper waited for Turlok and Wol to fill out their checklists, mark him complete, then said, "MS, S-One, checklist completed."
  
  "Accepted. The checklist is completed here. Crew, prepare to enter orbit."
  
  It all sounded very mundane and rather boring, just like the endless simulator sessions they made him do, so Macomber started thinking about the target area in Soltanabad again. Updated satellite images again confirmed the presence of heavy truck tire marks, but did not show what it was - whoever was there was very good at hiding the vehicles from satellite view. The Goose drones weren't much better than the space radar network at detecting very small targets, but perhaps they needed to stay away from the highway runway and send the Goose drones first to take a look in real time before...
  
  ... and suddenly the LPDRS engines fired up, not in turbojet mode, but now in hybrid rocket mode, and Macomber was suddenly and violently thrown back into the here and now. No simulator could prepare you for a push - it was like hitting a practice sled for a football tackle, except it was completely unexpected, the sled hit you, not the other way around, and the power of the impact was not only maintained, but increased with every second. Soon it seemed to him that the entire line of attack fell on him, which was soon joined by the line of defense. Zipper knew he could call up data on their altitude, speed, and G-levels, but all he could do was just focus on breath control to fight the effects of the G-force and not pass out.
  
  The G-forces seemed to last for an hour, although he knew that the launch into orbit took only seven or eight minutes. When the pressure finally eased, he felt exhausted, as if he had just finished running up the steps of the Academy Stadium before football season or running through the Iraqi desert with a hundred-pound backpack.
  
  Apparently his labored breathing was loud enough to be heard over the intercom, because a few moments later Charlie Turlock asked, "Still wanting to fart with your knitting needles, Macomber?"
  
  "Bite me".
  
  "Get your puke bag ready, Major," Charlie continued cheerfully, "because I won't clean up after you if you throw up in the module. I bet the macho commandos didn't take motion sickness medication."
  
  "Stop talking and start your 'Post Orbital' checklists," Moulin said.
  
  Macomber's breathing quickly returned to normal, more from embarrassment than willpower. Damn, he thought, it hit him too suddenly and much harder than he expected. A return to routine would no doubt take his mind off his nausea, and the Air Force was nothing if not driven by checklists and routine. He used his eye tracking system to call up the appropriate checklist by looking at the tiny icon in the top left corner of his electronic visor and saying...
  
  ...but instead of giving the command, all he could manage was a lump of bile in his throat. Scanning the electronic visor with his eyes suddenly gave him the worst case of dizziness he had ever experienced - it felt like he was being hung upside down by his ankles from a rope a hundred feet above the ground. He couldn't stop the sensation of spinning; he lost all sense of up and down. His stomach churned as the rotation intensified, a thousand times worse than the worst of the rotations and tilts he had ever had at the worst all night party of his life...
  
  "Better take the Major's helmet off, Frenchy," Charlie said, "because it looks like he's about to ruin dinner."
  
  Fuck you, Turlock, Macomber wanted to say, but all that came out was a gurgle.
  
  "You are helmet-free, S-One, the pressure level in the module is green," Moulin said. "Hope you kept a bag of vomit handy-vomiting in zero gravity is the most disgusting thing you've ever seen in your life, and you might be too sick to do your job."
  
  "Thank you so much," Macomber said through clenched teeth, trying to delay the inevitable until he removed the damned Tin Woodman's helmet. Somehow he managed to unfasten his helmet - he had no idea where he had gone. Unfortunately, the first bag he could reach wasn't from motion sickness-it was a personal bag containing his knitting supplies. To his shock and dismay, he quickly discovered that the weightless vomit was not behaving as he expected: instead of filling the bottom of his bag with a disgusting but controlled lump, it curled back into a smelly, dense cloud right back into his face. , eyes and nose.
  
  "Don't let it out, Zipper!" he heard Turlok scream behind him. "We'll spend the next hour clearing vomit from the module." That small image did nothing to calm his stomach, nor did the awful smell and warm vomit feeling spread across his face inside the bag.
  
  "Relax, big guy," he heard a voice say. It was Turlock. She unfastened the straps and held him by the shoulders, calming the convulsions and helping him tie the sack around his head. He tried to pull her hands off, but she resisted. "I said relax, Punch. It happens to everyone, whether it's drugs or not."
  
  "Get away from me, bitch!"
  
  "Shut up and listen to me, jerk," Charlie insisted. "Pay no attention to the smell. The smell is the trigger. Get it out of your mind. Do it or you'll be a vegetable for at least the next three hours. I know you tough commandos know how to control your senses, your breathing, and even your involuntary muscles to endure days of discomfort in the field. Hal Briggs continued to fight for several minutes after being shot dead by the Iranians..."
  
  "To hell with Briggs, and to hell with you too!"
  
  "Be careful, Macomber. I know that you can do it. Now is the time to enable everything you have. Concentrate on the smell, isolate it and throw it out of your mind."
  
  "You don't know shit..."
  
  "Just do it, Wayne. You know what I'm talking about. Just shut up and do it, or you'll be just as drunk as if you were on a three-day binge."
  
  Macomber was still insanely angry at Turlock for being by his side at this most vulnerable moment, taking advantage of him, but what she said made sense - she obviously knew something about the agony he was experiencing. . Smell, right? He had never thought so much about his sense of smell - he had been trained to be hypersensitive to sight, sound, and an indefinable sixth sense that always warned of imminent danger. Smell was usually a confusing factor that could not be ignored. Turn it off, blow. Turn it off.
  
  Somehow it worked. He knew that mouth breathing cut off the sense of smell, and when he did, most of the nausea was gone. His stomach was still knotting in painful knots and waves of raging convulsions, as hard as if he had been stabbed in the stomach, but now the cause of those terrible spasms was gone, and he regained his composure. The disease was unacceptable. He had a team counting on him, a mission to complete-his damn weak stomach wasn't going to let his team and his mission down. Several pounds of muscle and nerve endings couldn't control him. The mind is the master, he reminded himself, and he was the master of the mind.
  
  Moments later, as his stomach emptied and the scent disappeared from his mind, his stomach quickly began to return to normal. "Are you okay?" Charlie asked, handing him a napkin.
  
  "Yes". He accepted the napkin and began to clean up, but stopped and nodded. "Thank you Turlock."
  
  "I'm sorry about the shit I told you about knitting."
  
  "I get it all the time."
  
  "And you usually smash someone"s head for bullying you, except that it was me and you didn"t mean to smash my head?"
  
  "I would if I could contact you," Vak said. Charlie thought he was serious until he smiled and chuckled. "Knitting relaxes me and it gives me a chance to see who gets into my shit and who leaves me alone."
  
  "Sounds like a fucked up lifestyle, boss, if you don't mind what I'm saying," Charlie said. He shrugged. "If you're okay, drink some water and stay on pure oxygen for a while. Use the vacuum cleaner to clean up any bits of vomit you see before we get back or we'll never find them and they'll turn into projectiles. If they stick to our equipment, the bad guys will smell it from a few meters away."
  
  "You're right, Tur-Charlie," Vack said. As she headed back to her seat, he added, "You're all right, Turlock."
  
  "Yes, I am, boss," she replied. She found his helmet stuck somewhere in the cargo hold at the back of the passenger module and returned it to him. "Just don't forget about it." She then unplugged the vacuum cleaner from the charging station and handed it to him as well. "Now you really look like Martha Stewart, boss."
  
  "Take your time, captain," he growled, but smiled and picked up the vacuum cleaner.
  
  "Yes, sir." She smiled, nodded, and returned to her seat.
  
  
  RETRACT OF THE PRESIDENT, BOLTINO, RUSSIA
  A little while later
  
  
  They didn't always meet like this to make love. Both Russian President Leonid Zevitin and Foreign Minister Alexandra Khedrov loved classic black-and-white films from around the world, Italian cuisine and rich red wine, so after a long day at work, especially when there was a long trip ahead, they often stayed after the rest of the staff They broke up and spent some time together. They became lovers soon after they first met at an international banking conference in Switzerland almost ten years ago, and even as their responsibilities and public visibility increased, they still managed to find time and opportunity to date.
  
  If any of them were bothered by the whispered rumors about their romance, they didn't show it. Only the tabloids and celebrity blogs talked about it, and most Russians paid little or no attention to it-certainly no one in the Kremlin would ever speak louder about such things and such influential people than a quiet thought. Khedrov was married and the mother of two adult children, and they realized long ago that their lives, as well as the lives of their wife and mother, now belong to the state, and not to themselves.
  
  The presidential dacha was as close to security and privacy as anything else they could ever expect in the Russian Federation. Unlike the official presidential residence in the Senate building in the Kremlin, which was rather unassuming and utilitarian, Zevitin's dacha outside Moscow was modern and stylish, suitable for any international business executive. Like the man himself, this place revolved around work and business, but it was hard to tell at first glance.
  
  After flying to Boltino from the President's private airport located nearby, visitors were taken to the residence by limousine and escorted through the spacious foyer to the large living and dining room, which is dominated by three large fireplaces and is furnished with luxurious leather and oak furniture, works of art from around the world, framed photographs of world leaders and mementos from his many celebrity friends, while floor-to-ceiling windows offer breathtaking panoramic views of the Pirogovskoye Reservoir. Special guests will be invited to ascend the double curved marble staircase to the bedrooms on the second floor, or descend to the large Roman-style baths, indoor pool, thirty-seat high-definition cinema and game room on the ground floor. But all this still made up only a part of the area of the room.
  
  A guest dazzled by the magnificent view outside the large room would have missed the dark, narrow dome on the right side of the foyer, almost resembling a closet without doors, on whose curved walls hung small and unimpressive paintings lit by rather dim LED spotlights. But if someone were to enter the dome, they would be immediately, but covertly, subjected to electronic X-ray screening for weapons or listening devices. His facial features would be scanned and the data passed through an electronic identification system that was capable of detecting and filtering out disguises or impostors. After a positive identification, the hidden door inside the dome will be opened from the inside and you will be admitted to the main part of the cottage.
  
  Zevitin's office was as large as the living room and dining room combined, large enough that a group of generals or ministers could confer with each other on one side and not be heard at a meeting of presidential advisers of the same size on the other - inaudible except for audio - and video recording devices installed throughout the territory, as well as on the streets, blocks and roads of the surrounding countryside. At the Zevitin table, inlaid with walnut and ivory, eight people could dine, while there was room for elbows. Videos and television reports from hundreds of different sources played on a dozen high-definition monitors located in the office, but none of them were visible unless the president wanted to view them.
  
  The president's bedroom upstairs was ostentatiously furnished: the bedroom adjoining the office complex Zevitin used most of the time; she was also the one Alexandra preferred, the one she thought best reflected the man himself-still as majestic, but warmer and perhaps more luxurious than the rest of the mansion. She liked to think that he did it just for her, but that would be foolish arrogance on her part, and she often reminded herself that she shouldn't indulge any of this around this man.
  
  They crawled under the silk sheets and duvet of his bed after dinner and movies and just hugged each other, sipping tiny glasses of brandy and talking in low, intimate voices about everything except the three things that both worried about the most: government, politics, and finance. Telephone calls, official or otherwise, were strictly forbidden; Alexandra couldn't remember ever being interrupted by an assistant or a phone call, as if Zevitin could somehow instantly plunge the rest of the world into a coma while they were together. From time to time they touched each other, exploring each other's silent desires and mutually deciding without words that tonight was for communication and relaxation, and not for passion. They had known each other for a long time, and she had never thought about the fact that perhaps he did not satisfy his needs or desires, or he ignored her. They hugged, kissed and said goodnight, and there was no hint of tension or dissatisfaction. Everything was as it should be...
  
  ...so it was doubly surprising for Alexandra to wake up to something she'd never heard in this room before: a phone ringing. The alien sound made her sit up abruptly after the second or third ring; soon she noticed that Leonid was already on his feet, the bedside lamp was on, the tube was pressed to his lips.
  
  "Go on," he said, then listened, looking at her. His eyes were not angry, mocking, embarrassed or frightened, as she was sure hers were. He obviously knew exactly who was calling and what he was going to say; like a playwright watching the rehearsal of his latest work, he patiently waited for what he already knew would be said to be said.
  
  "What is this?" she asked with her lips.
  
  To her surprise, Zevitin reached out to the phone, pressed the button and hung up, turning on the speakerphone. "Repeat the last one, General," he said, catching and holding her gaze with his.
  
  General Andrey Darzov's voice, crackling and fading from time to time due to interference, as if he was speaking at a great distance, was still distinctly audible: "Yes, sir. The command posts of the KIK and the measurement department detected the launch of an American spaceplane over the Pacific Ocean. It flew over central Canada and was safely placed into low Earth orbit while above Canada's Arctic ice pack. If it stays on its current trajectory, its target is definitely eastern Iran."
  
  "When?" I asked.
  
  "They can start revisiting in ten minutes, sir," Darzov replied. "It may have enough propellant to reach the same target area after re-entry after a full orbit, but this is doubtful without aerial refueling over Iraq or Turkey."
  
  "Do you think they found it?" Khedrov didn't know what "it" was, but she assumed that since Zevitin had let her eavesdrop on the conversation, she would find out soon enough.
  
  "I think we should assume they did, sir," Darzov said, "although if they had accurately identified the system, I'm sure McLanahan would have attacked it without hesitation. They may have just detected activity there and are introducing additional intelligence gathering facilities to verify."
  
  "Well, I'm surprised it took them so long," Zevitin remarked. "Their spaceships fly over Iran almost every hour."
  
  "And those are just the ones we can accurately detect and track," Darzov said. "They may have a lot more that we can't identify, especially drones."
  
  "When will he be within range of our strike, general?"
  
  Khedrov's mouth opened, but under Zevitin's warning gaze, she said nothing. What the hell were they thinking...?
  
  "By the time the spaceplane crosses the base horizon, sir, they'll be less than five minutes from landing."
  
  "Damn it, the speed of this thing is mind-boggling," Zevitin muttered. "It"s almost impossible to move fast enough against him." He thought quickly; then: "But if the spaceplane stays in orbit instead of returning, it will be in an ideal position. We only have one good chance."
  
  "Quite right, sir," said Darzov.
  
  "I assume your people are preparing to attack, General?" Zevitin asked seriously. "Because if the spaceplane successfully lands and deploys its Tin Woodman ground force-which we must assume they will have on board-"
  
  "Yes sir, we must."
  
  "We won't have time to pack up and get out of Dodge."
  
  "If I understand you correctly, sir-yes, we certainly would have lost the system because of them," Darzov admitted, not knowing what or where "Evasion" was, but not bothering to show his own ignorance. "The game will be over."
  
  "Understood," Zevitin said. "But if it doesn"t return and stays in orbit, how long will you have to activate it?"
  
  "We have to detect it with optoelectronic surveillance sensors and laser rangefinders as soon as it crosses the horizon, at a distance of about eighteen hundred kilometers, or about a four-minute drive," Darzov replied. "However, for accurate tracking, we need a radar, and it is limited to a maximum range of five hundred kilometers. Thus, we will have a maximum of two minutes at its current orbital altitude."
  
  "Two minutes! Is this enough time?
  
  "Hardly," said Darzov. "We will have radar tracking, but we still need to hit the target with an airborne laser, which will help calculate focus corrections in the optics of the main laser. This should take no more than sixty seconds, provided the radar remains active and the proper calculations are made. This will give us a maximum of sixty seconds of exposure."
  
  "Will it be enough to turn it off?"
  
  "This should, at least in part, be based on our previous fights," Darzov replied. "However, the optimal time to attack is when the target is directly overhead. As the target approaches the horizon, the atmosphere becomes thicker and more complex, and the laser optics cannot compensate for this quickly enough. So-"
  
  "The window is very, very small," Zevitin said. "I understand, General. Well, we must do our best to make sure the spaceplane stays in this second orbit."
  
  There was a noticeable pause; then, "If there is anything I can do to help, sir, please feel free to contact me," Darzov said, obviously not at all sure what he could do.
  
  "I'll keep you posted, General," Zevitin said. "But for now, you can join the fight. I repeat, you are allowed to join the fight. Written authorization will be sent to your headquarters via secure email. Let me know if anything changes. Good luck".
  
  "Fortune favors the bold, sir. We cannot lose if we give battle to the enemy. Exit."
  
  As soon as Zevitin hung up, Khedrov asked: "What did it all mean, Leonid? What's happening? Was it because of the Phanar?"
  
  "We are going to create a crisis in space, Alexandra," Zevitin replied. He turned to her, then ran the fingers of both hands through his hair, as if clearing his thoughts completely to start over. "The Americans think they have unlimited access to space - we're going to throw them some obstacles and see what they do. If I know Joseph Gardner, and I think I do, I think he's going to hit the brakes on McLanahan's vaunted space powers, and hit them hard. He would destroy one of his own, just to prevent someone else from having a victory that he could not claim himself."
  
  Alexandra rose from the bed, kneeling in front of him. "Are you so sure about this man, Leonid?"
  
  "I'm sure I figured this guy out."
  
  "What about his generals?" she asked quietly. "What about McLanahan?"
  
  Zevitin nodded, silently acknowledging his own uncertainty about this very factor. "The American War Dog is on a leash and appears to be injured ... at the moment," he said. "I don't know how long I can expect this leash to last. We have to encourage Gardner to take McLanahan out of action ... or be prepared to do it ourselves." He picked up the phone. " Put me on to US President Gardner's hotline immediately."
  
  "You are playing a dangerous game, aren't you?" - Asked Khedrov.
  
  "Of course, Alexandra," said Zevitin, running the fingers of his left hand through her hair as he waited. He felt her hands slither from his chest down to his waist, soon tugging at his underwear and then caressing him with her hands and mouth, and though he heard the beeps and clicks of the satellite system rapidly transferring the call to the hotline in Washington, he didn't stop her. "But the stakes are so high. Russia cannot allow the Americans to claim dominance. We have to stop them and this is our best chance right now."
  
  Alexandra's efforts soon increased in both gentleness and perseverance, and Zevitin hoped that Gardner was busy enough to let him spend a few more minutes with her. Knowing the American President for what he was, he was well aware that he could be distracted in this way.
  
  
  ON BOARD AIRCRAFT NUMBER ONE OVER THE SOUTH EAST OF THE UNITED STATES
  IN THE SAME TIME
  
  
  Relaxing in his newly upholstered armchair at his desk in the executive suite aboard the first Air Force aircraft, en route to his Oceanfront South White House complex near St. a female Air Force staff sergeant who had just brought a pot of coffee and some wheat crackers into the office. He knew that she knew that he was testing her, because from time to time she glanced at him and a faint smile appeared. He had a newspaper in his lap, but he leaned just enough to watch it discreetly. Yes, he thought, she was in no hurry to unpack his things. Damn what an ass...
  
  Just when he was about to make his move and invite her to bring those boobs and ass to his big table, the phone rang. He was tempted to hit the do not disturb button, cursing himself for not doing so after finishing his last staff meeting and settling in, but something told him he should answer the call. He reluctantly picked up the phone. "Yes?" I asked.
  
  "President of the Russian Federation Zevitin is calling you on the 'hotline', sir," the liaison officer replied. "He says it's urgent."
  
  He held the mute button on the receiver, groaned loudly, then winked at the flight attendant. "Come back in ten minutes with fresh materials, okay, master sergeant?"
  
  "Yes, sir," she replied enthusiastically. She stood at attention, puffing out her chest in front of him, before giving him a mischievous look, slowly turning on her heel and walking away.
  
  He knew he had her hooked, he thought happily as he released the button. "Give me a minute, Signals," he said, reaching for a cigarette.
  
  "Yes, sir."
  
  Damn, Gardner cursed to himself, what the hell does Zevitin want now? He pressed the bell button to call his chief of staff, Walter Cordus. He was going to revise the policy he had set, answering calls from Zevitin immediately, he thought - he started talking to him almost daily. Ninety and a half seconds later, a cigarette: "Connect it, signals," he ordered, extinguishing the cigarette.
  
  "Yes, Mr. President." A moment later, "President Zevitin is on the line, security, sir."
  
  "Thank you, signals. Leonid, this is Joe Gardner. How are you doing?"
  
  "I'm fine, Joe," Zevitin replied in a not very pleasant tone. "But I'm worried, man, really worried. I thought we agreed."
  
  Gardner reminded himself to be on the lookout as he spoke to this guy-he looked so American that he might be talking to a California congressional delegation or some Indiana labor leader. "What are you talking about, Leonid?" The chief of staff entered the president's office, picked up the disabled internal telephone so he could listen, and turned on his computer to begin taking notes and issuing orders if needed.
  
  "I thought we agreed that we would be notified whenever you fly manned space planes, especially to Iran," Zevitin said. "This is really worrisome, Joe. I'm hard at work trying to defuse the situation in the Middle East and keep the hardliners in my government in line, but your activities with the Black Stallions only serve-
  
  "Wait, Leonid, wait," Gardner interrupted him. "I have no idea what you're talking about. What are the missions on the black stallion?"
  
  "Come on, Joe, do you think we can"t see it?" Do you think it"s invisible? We spotted it as soon as it crossed the horizon over the Greenland Sea."
  
  "Is one of the spaceplanes flying over Greenland?"
  
  "Now it's over southwestern China, Joe, according to our space surveillance and tracking systems," Zevitin said. "Come on, Joe, I know you can't talk about current secret military missions, but it's not hard to guess what they're going to do, even if it's the Black Stallion spaceplane. Orbital mechanics are as predictable as sunrise and sunset."
  
  "Leonid, I-"
  
  "I know you can't confirm or deny anything - you don't need to, because we know what's going to happen," Zevitin continued. "Obviously, in the next orbit, in about ninety minutes, it will be directly over Iran. We expect it to begin deorbiting maneuvers in about forty-five minutes, which will bring it directly over the Caspian Sea when its atmospheric thrusters and flight controls become active. Obviously you're on a mission to Iran, Joe. I thought we had an agreement: hands off Iran while we push for a diplomatic solution to the military coup and assassination of elected Iranian officials."
  
  "Hold on, Leonid. Just a second." Gardner pressed the mute button. "Summon Conrad here," he ordered, but Cordus had already pressed the button to call the National Security Advisor. Gardner released the mute button. "Leonid, you're right, I can't talk about any ongoing operations. You just have to-"
  
  "Joe, I'm not calling to discuss anything. I point out to you that we can clearly see one of your spaceplanes in orbit right now, and we had no idea you were about to launch it. After everything we've discussed over the past few weeks, I can't believe you could do this to me. When they find out about this, my cabinet and the Duma will think I've been fooled and demand that I take action or I'll lose all support for our joint efforts and rapprochement that took me months to develop. You cut the ground out from under me, Joe."
  
  "Leonid, I have an important meeting and I need to finish what I"m doing first," the president lied, getting to his feet impatiently and resisting the urge to yell outside the door for Carlisle and Cordus to tell him what the hell was going on. "I assure you, we are not taking any action against Russia anywhere, in any way-"
  
  "'Against Russia?' That sounds like a disturbing ambiguity, Joe. What does it mean? Are you starting an operation against someone else?"
  
  "Let me clear my desk and finish this briefing, Leonid, and I'll bring you up to date. I will-"
  
  "I thought we agreed, Joe: only necessary flights until we have a treaty governing military flights in space," Zevitin insisted. "As far as we can tell, the spaceplane is not going to dock with the space station, so this is not a logistical mission. I know things are bad in Iran and Iraq, but bad enough to cause widespread fear by launching the Black Stallion? I think not. This is a complete disaster, Joe. I am going to be destroyed by the Duma and the generals-"
  
  "Don't panic, Leonid. There is a rational and absolutely harmless explanation. I'll call you back as soon as I can, and-"
  
  "Joe, you'd better be frank with me, otherwise I won't be able to rein in the leaders of the opposition and some of the more powerful generals - they will all demand explanations and a decisive answer in the same spirit," Zevitin said. "If I can't give them a plausible answer, they'll start looking for it themselves. You know I'm hanging on here by a thread. I need your cooperation or everything we've been working on will collapse."
  
  "I'll call you right back, Leonid," Gardner said. "But I assure you, I swear on my honor, that nothing is happening. Absolutely nothing ".
  
  "So our ambassadors and observers on the ground in Tehran need not worry about another hypersonic missile hitting the ceiling at any moment?"
  
  "Don't even joke about it, Leonid. It will not happen. I'll call you back". He hung up impatiently, then wiped sweat from his upper lip. "Walter!" he shouted. "Where the hell are you? Where is Konrad?
  
  The two advisers ran into the chief's office a few moments later. "Sorry, Mr. President, but I've been uploading the latest spacecraft status report from Strategic Command," National Security Adviser Conrad Carlyle said. "It should be on your computer." He accessed the computer on the president's desk, opened the secure file vault, and took a quick look at the contents. "Okay, it's right here... Yes, General Cannon, commander of US Strategic Command, authorized the launch of the spaceplane about four hours ago, and the mission was approved by Secretary Turner."
  
  "Why wasn"t I notified about this?"
  
  "The mission is described as 'routine', sir," Carlisle said. "A crew of two, three passengers, six orbits around the Earth and return to Elliot Air Force Base, total flight duration of ten hours."
  
  "What is this, a fucking jaunt? Who are these passengers? I ordered only the main missions! What the hell is going on? I thought I landed all the spaceplanes."
  
  Carlisle and Cordus exchanged puzzled expressions. "I... I'm not aware of the no-fly order, sir," Carlisle replied weakly. "You have withdrawn the SkySTRIK bombers from their patrols, but not the space..."
  
  "I had a deal with Zevitin, Konrad: no more spaceplane launches without first notifying him," Gardner said. "He's crazy about the launch, and so am I!"
  
  Carlisle's brows furrowed as his mouth opened and closed in confusion. "I'm sorry, Joe, but I'm not aware of any agreement that we made with Zevitin to inform him about anything related to spaceplanes," he said at last. "I know that he demanded it - he rants and raves in all the media of the world that spaceplanes are a danger to world peace and security because they can be mistaken for an intercontinental ballistic missile, and he demands that we notified him before the launch of one of them - but there was no official agreement on -"
  
  "Didn't I tell Cannon to make sure these spaceplanes and any space weapons didn't enter sovereign airspace, even if that meant leaving them on the ground?" The President boomed. "They had to always remain outside the airspace of any country. Didn't I give that order?"
  
  "Well... Yes sir, I believe you did," Cordus replied. "But spaceplanes can easily fly over the country's airspace. They can-"
  
  "How can they do this?" the President asked. "We have airspace limited from the surface to infinity. Sovereign airspace is all airspace over a nation."
  
  "Sir, as we discussed earlier, under the Outer Space Treaty, no nation can restrict access to or travel in outer space," Carlisle reminded the president. "Legally, space begins a hundred kilometers from the surface of the Earth. A spaceplane can rise into space fairly quickly when over friendly countries, open ocean or pack ice, and once there it can fly without violating anyone's sovereign airspace. They do it-"
  
  "I don"t give a fuck what the outdated contract says forty years ago!" boomed the President. "For many months we have been in discussions with Zevitin and the United Nations to come up with a way to reduce the anxiety felt by many around the world about the operation of space planes and stations without limiting our own access to space and without disclosing classified information. Until we figured something out, I made it clear that I didn't want spaceplanes flying around unnecessarily making people nervous and interfering with negotiations. Important missions only, and that meant resupply and national emergencies - I had to personally approve all other missions. Am I wrong, or have I not approved any other spaceplane flights lately?"
  
  "Sir, General Cannon must have considered it important enough to start this flight without-"
  
  "Without my approval? Does he think he can just fly off into space without anyone's permission? Where is the emergency? Is the spaceplane going to dock with the space station? Who are these three passengers? Do you even know?"
  
  "I'll contact General Cannon, sir," Carlisle said, picking up the phone. "I'll get all the details right away."
  
  "This is a fucking nightmare! This is getting out of control!" boomed the President. "I want to know who is responsible for this and I want his ass to come out! Can you hear me? If war isn't declared or aliens aren't attacking, I want whoever's responsible for this shit to be sent to canned food! I want to talk to Cannon myself!"
  
  Carlisle put his hand over the phone while he waited and said, "Sir, I suggest we speak to General Cannon. Keep it at arm's length. If it's just a training flight or something, you don't want to be perceived as skydiving, especially after you just spoke to the President of Russia."
  
  "This is serious, Konrad, and I want it to be clear to my generals that I want these spaceplanes to be under tight control," the President said.
  
  "Are you sure you want to handle it this way, Joe?" Cordus asked in a low voice. "Stretching your hand past Secretary Turner to humiliate a four-star general is bad manners. If you want to beat someone up, choose Turner - he was the ultimate authority on that spaceplane launch."
  
  "Oh, I"ll give Turner my opinion too, you can bet that," the president said angrily, "but Cannon and that other three-star guy-"
  
  "Lieutenant General Backman, Commander of the CENTAF."
  
  "Doesn't matter. Cannon and Backman have been fighting me too hard and for too long over McLanahan's space defense idea, and it's time to get them back in service - or better yet, get rid of them. They are the last of the Pentagon Martindale brain trust and they need space materials because it strengthens their empires."
  
  "If you want them to leave, we will get rid of them - they all serve to the pleasure of the commander in chief," Cordus said. "But they are still very powerful and popular generals, especially among congressmen who support the space program. They may advance their own agendas and programs as long as they are in uniform, but like disgraced and disgruntled retired generals, they will attack you openly and personally. Don't give them a reason."
  
  "I know how the game is played, Walter - damn it, I made most of the rules," the president said hotly. "I'm not afraid of generals, and I don't have to worry about tiptoeing around them - I'm the fucking commander in chief. Connect Turner to the line immediately." He reached out and snatched the phone from the National Security Adviser's hands. "Signals, what the hell is going on? Where is Cannon?
  
  "Get ready sir, he should be in touch any minute now." A few moments later: "The gun is here, fixed."
  
  "General Cannon, this is the President. Why the hell did you let this spaceplane launch without my permission?"
  
  "Uh... good afternoon, sir," Cannon began, puzzled. "As I explained to the Secretary of Defense, sir, this is a location-only flight while we await final approval of the mission inside Iran. With a spacecraft in orbit, if we get approval, it would be easy to bring in a team, do their job, and then get them out again. Had it not been approved, it would have been just as easy to get them back to base."
  
  "I specifically ordered no spaceplane to cross foreign borders without my permission."
  
  "Sir, as you know, once the spaceplane is above the sixty-mile threshold, it is-"
  
  "Don"t hang this nonsense about the Outer Space Treaty on my ears!" boomed the president. "Should I spell it out for you? I don't want spaceplanes in orbit unless it's for space station support or it's an emergency, and if it's an emergency, it better be serious as hell! The rest of the world thinks we're getting ready to launch attacks from space... which is apparently exactly what you're planning behind my back! "
  
  "I'm not hiding anything from anyone, sir," Cannon protested. "Without orders to the contrary, I launched spaceplanes at my own discretion with strict orders that no one should cross any sovereign airspace. This is my standing general order from the Secretary of Defense. These instructions were carried out exactly."
  
  "Well, I'm revoking your authority, General," said the President. "From now on, all movements of any spacecraft will require my express permission before being executed. Am I being clear, General? You better not even launch a rat into space without my permission!"
  
  "I understand, sir," said Cannon, "but I do not recommend that course of action."
  
  "ABOUT? Why not?"
  
  "Sir, maintaining this level of control over any military asset is dangerous and wasteful, but it is even more important for space launch systems," Cannon said. "Military units need one commander to be effective, and that must be a theater commander with instant and constant access to information from the field. Spaceplanes and all of our space launch systems are designed for maximum speed and flexibility, and in an emergency they will lose both if Washington remains in ultimate power. I strongly advise against taking operational command of these systems. If you are unhappy with my decisions, sir, then let me remind you that you can fire me and appoint another theater commander to oversee spaceplanes and other launch systems."
  
  "I am well aware of my authority, General," Gardner said. "My decision stands."
  
  "Yes, sir."
  
  "So, who the hell is on board this spaceplane, and why wasn"t I briefed on this mission?"
  
  "Sir, along with the two flight crew members, there are three members of General McLanahan's Air Force Ground Operations Unit aboard the spaceplane," Cannon replied flatly.
  
  "McLanahan? I should have guessed," spat the president. "This guy is the definition of a loose cannon! What did he think? Why did he want to launch that spaceplane?"
  
  "They were tentatively placed in orbit pending approval for a reconnaissance and interdiction mission inside Iran."
  
  "'Prepositioned'? You mean you sent a spaceplane and three commandos over Iran without my permission? On your sole basis?"
  
  "I have the authority to pre-position and deploy forces anywhere in the world to support my standing orders and fulfill the duties of my command, sir," Cannon said irritably. "Spaceplanes were specifically ordered not to enter any foreign airspace without permission, and they fully complied with this order. If they are not given permission to continue with their plan, they will be ordered back to base."
  
  "What nonsense is all this, General? This is the spaceplane we're talking about - loaded with McLanahan's armed robots, I guess, right?"
  
  "That's not bullshit, sir - that's how this command and all major theater commands usually operate," Cannon said, struggling to contain his anger and frustration. Gardner was a former Secretary of the Navy and Secretary of Defense, for God's sake - he knew that better than anyone...! "As you know, sir, I issue pre-deployment and deployment orders for thousands of men and women around the world every day, both to support routine day-to-day operations and to prepare for emergency missions. They all operate within existing orders, procedural doctrine and legal restrictions. They will not back down one iota until I give a direct order to execute, and that order will not be given until I get the go-ahead from the national command - from you or the secretary of defense. It doesn"t matter if we are talking about one spaceplane and five employees or an aircraft carrier battle group with twenty ships, seventy aircraft and ten thousand personnel."
  
  "You seem to believe that spaceplanes are just little clockwork toy airplanes that no one notices or cares about, General," the President said. "You might think it's common to send a spaceplane over Iran or a carrier battle group off someone's coast, but I assure you, the whole world is deathly afraid of them. Wars started with much smaller forces. It is obvious that your attitude towards the weapons systems under your command must change, General, and I mean now." Cannon received no response. "Which members of McLanahan's combat force are on board?"
  
  "Two tin woodcutters and one from CID, sir."
  
  "Jesus... This is not a reconnaissance team, this is a bloody strike team! They can take on an entire infantry company! What were you thinking, general? Did you really think that McLanahan was going to fly with such powers all this way and not use them? What the hell were McLanahan's robots going to do in Iran?"
  
  "Sensors have picked up unusual and suspicious activity at a remote airbase on a highway in eastern Iran that was previously used by the Iranian Revolutionary Guards," Cannon said. "General McLanahan believes the base is being secretly reopened either by the Iranians or the Russians. His satellite imagery cannot give him accurate enough images to tell for sure, so he requested a three-man combat squad to inspect and, if necessary, destroy the base."
  
  "Destroy the base?" boomed the President, angrily tossing the receiver into his open hand. "My God, he authorized McLanahan to send an armed spaceplane over Iran to destroy a military base and I didn't know about it? Is he sane?" He picked up the phone: "And when were you going to tell the others about McLanahan's little plan, General - after the Fourth World War started?"
  
  "The McLanahan Plan has been passed to us here at Strategic Command and my operations staff is reviewing it and will make a recommendation to the Secretary of Defense," Cannon replied. "We have to make a decision at any moment-"
  
  "I will make the decision for you right now, General: I want this spaceplane to land at their home base as soon as possible," the President said. "You understand me? I don't want these commandos deployed, or this spaceplane landing anywhere but Nevada or wherever the hell it comes from, unless it's a life-and-death emergency. And I don't want anything to launch, eject, or otherwise leave this spaceship that could be seen as an attack on anyone... nothing. Am I being very clear, General Cannon?"
  
  "Yes, sir."
  
  "And if this spaceplane crosses even one political boundary anywhere on the planet under that damned sixty-mile altitude limit, you will lose your stars, General Cannon... all of them!" The President continued ardently. "You have overstepped your authority, General, and I bloody hope I don't have to spend the rest of my first term in office explaining, correcting, and apologizing for this colossal oversight. Now get down to business."
  
  The President hung up the phone, then took his seat, seething with anger. After a few moments of mumbling to himself, he snapped, "I want the cannon to fire."
  
  "Sir, he technically has the authority to move his assets anywhere on normal assignments," National Security Adviser Carlisle said. "He doesn't need permission from the National Defense Department - from you or the Secretary of Defense - for day-to-day operations."
  
  "But we usually inform the Russians before moving any weapon systems that could be mistaken for an attack, right?"
  
  "Yes, sir, it's always a prudent precaution," said Carlisle. "But if a theater commander needs to deploy his assets in preparation for a real mission, we don't have to say anything to the Russians. We don"t even have to lie to them and tell them it"s a training mission or something like that."
  
  "Part of the problem with these spaceplanes, Konrad, is that they fly too fast," Chief of Staff Cordus said. "Even if it was a normal mission, they scattered all over the world in the blink of an eye. We need to put tighter controls on these guys."
  
  "If Cannon was up to something, something important, he should have told me or Turner before launching this spaceplane," the president said. "Walter is right: these spaceplanes are too fast and too dangerous to just launch at any time, even for a perfectly peaceful, innocuous, routine mission - which it certainly wasn't. But I thought I'd made it clear to everyone that I didn't want spaceplanes to take to the air unless it was an emergency or a war. Am I wrong about this?"
  
  "No, sir, but apparently General Cannon took this as a pretty serious sign, because he acted very quickly. He-"
  
  "It doesn't matter," the president insisted. "The Russians have spotted him and I'm sure they're radioing the Iranians, Turkmens and half of the spies in the Middle East to keep them on the lookout for combat forces. Concert failed. The Russians are going crazy, and so will the United Nations, our allies, the media, and the American people once they know about it-"
  
  "Which is likely to happen any minute," Cordus added, "because we know that Zevitin is on the run and leaking his information to the European press, which is itching to chastise us on the most trivial matter. For something this big, they're going to have a great day. They will roast us alive for the next month."
  
  "Just when things were starting to calm down," the President said wearily, lighting another cigarette, "Cannon, Backman, and especially McLanahan managed to stir things up again."
  
  "The spaceplane will be on the ground before the press can tell, Joe," the chief of staff said, "and we will simply refuse to confirm or deny any of the Russian claims. This thing will die out soon enough."
  
  "It's better that way," Gardner said. "But just in case, Konrad, I want the spaceplanes to land until further notice. I want them all to stay where they are. No training, no so-called routine missions, nothing." He looked around the room and, raising his voice just enough to show his annoyance and let anyone outside the room hear, asked, "Is that clear enough for everyone? No more unauthorized missions! They stay on the ground, and that's all!" There was a chorus of muffled "Yes, Mr. President" responses.
  
  "Find out exactly when this spaceplane will be on the ground so I can notify Zevitin before anyone impeaches or kills his ass," the president added. "And find out from the flight papers when McLanahan can leave this space station and be flown back to Earth so I can fire his ass too." He took a deep drag on his cigarette, put it out, then reached for his empty coffee mug. "And when you leave, ask that flight attendant to bring me something hot."
  
  
  CHAPTER SIX
  
  
  It is difficult to overcome one's passions, and impossible to satisfy them.
  
   - MARGUERITE DE LA SABLIÈRE
  
  
  
   On BOARD SPACE PLANE XR-A9 BLACK STALLION
   IN THE SAME TIME
  
  
  "Two minutes to re-entry, crew," Major Jim Terranova announced. "The countdown has started. The first automatic countdown hold after one minute. Let me know when your checklist is complete."
  
  "S-One," you got it, Macomber replied.
  
  "How are you feeling, Zipper?" Terranova asked.
  
  "Thanks to plenty of pure oxygen, a little transcendental meditation, ditching obsessive electronic checklists, and the mind-numbing routine of doing even more damned checklists, I feel pretty good," Macomber replied. "I wish this thing had Windows."
  
  "I'll put it on my wish list, but don't count on it anytime soon."
  
  "It's quite an impressive sight guys," said Frenchy Moulin. "This is my eleventh orbital flight and I never get tired of it."
  
  "It looks almost the same after the first orbit," grumbled Chris Wall. "I've been to the station three times and it just seems to me that you're standing on a really tall TV tower and looking down."
  
  "Only a senior sergeant could have minimized a spectacle like this," Moulin said. "Ask to spend a couple of nights at the station, Bach. Bring lots of data cards for your camera. It's pretty cool. You will find yourself waking up at any time of the night and planning your window time for the day ahead just to take a picture."
  
  "I doubt it very much," Macomber said dryly. He received a notification beep in his helmet. "I'm getting another data dump from NIRTSats guys." NIRTSats, or Need It Right This Second satellites, were small "microsatellites" no larger than a refrigerator, designed to perform a specific task, such as surveillance or relaying communications from low Earth orbit. Because they were smaller, had less fuel for the positioning engines, and had substantially less shielding from solar radiation, NIRTSAT satellites remained in orbit for very short periods of time, typically less than a month. They were launched from aircraft aboard orbital boosters or launched into orbit from Black Stallion spaceplanes. A constellation of four to six NIRTSAT satellites has been launched into an eccentric orbit designed to maximize coverage of Iran, making several passes over Tehran and major military bases across the country since the start of the military coup . "Finish your checklists and let's go through the new stuff before we get crushed again."
  
  "I don't think we'll have time if we don't delay the other orbit," Terranova said. "You'll have to review the data after we land."
  
  "Look, we've got time... We'll pick the time, MC," Macomber said. "We have already started this mission without any proper mission planning, so we need to review this new data immediately."
  
  "This is not another argument," Moulin said irritably. "Listen S-One, just run your checklists and get ready to re-enter. You know what happened the last time you didn't pay attention to flying: your stomach gave you a little warning."
  
  "I'll be ready, SC," Macomber said. "Ground team, complete your checklist, report completion, and let's move on to a new data dump. S-One is complete." Moments later, Turlock and Vol reported completion, while Macomber reported that the passengers were ready to return. Moulin accepted the call and, tired of arguing with the zumi again just before the important phase of the flight, said nothing more.
  
  Macomber carefully opened the new satellite data file, using voice commands instead of the faster but dizzy eye-tracking system, allowing the data to spill over into the old imagery so he could see changes in the target area. What he received was a confused jumble of images. "What the hell...looks like the data is corrupted," he said over a private intercom that allowed him to speak to members of the ground team without disturbing the flight crew. "Nothing is in the right place. They will have to be sent again."
  
  "Wait one, sir," said Vol. "I look at the computer-generated frames in two pictures and they match." As far as Macomber understood them-meaning he knew next to nothing about them-the frames were computer-generated marks that aligned each image to known fixed landmarks, which compensated for differences in camera angle and axis of the photograph and allowed for more accurate comparison of images. "I recommend that you do not delete the new data yet, sir."
  
  "Do it quickly. I will smash the headquarters cage." Macomber cursed into his helmet, then switched to a secure satellite network. "The bastard is calling Genesis. Resend the latest TacSat images. We've got trash here."
  
  "Get ready, rascal." God, I really hate that callsign, Macomber complained to himself. A few moments later: "Scoundrel, this is Genesis, set code Alpha nine, repeat Alpha nine. I confirm."
  
  "What? Is this an interrupt code? Thundered Macomber. "Are they telling us we won"t come in?"
  
  "Shut up, S-One, until we sort this out," Moulin barked. "MS, did you pass authentication?"
  
  "I confirm - I just received it," Terranova said. "Mission has been cancelled, crew. We are ordered to remain in our current orbit until we receive a flight plan change to a transfer orbit that will take us back for refueling and landing as soon as possible. Cancellation of the checklist of the re-entry procedure ... "Leopards" are protected, the checklist is canceled ".
  
  Macomber slammed his fist into his arm and immediately regretted it - it felt like he had punched through a steel wall. "What the hell is going on? Why didn't we get permission? This is bullshit-"
  
  "Scoundrel, this is Genesis." This time it was David Luger himself, calling from the combat control area to HAWC. "This data dump was valid, Scoundrel, I repeat, valid. We're reviewing this, but it looks like it's hot in the landing zone."
  
  "Well, that's the reason we're going there, isn't it, Genesis?" Macomber asked. "Let's go in there and we'll take care of the business."
  
  "Your mission was canceled by the White House, Zipper, not by us," Luger said, the tension in his voice obvious. "They want you guys to come home immediately. Now we are calculating the return schedule. Looks like you'll have to stay up for at least one more day before we can-"
  
  "One more day! You must be mocking me!"
  
  "Get ready, rascal, get ready-"
  
  There was a second's pause, followed by many cipher clicks and chirps on the frequency; then another voice called, "Scoundrel, stallion, this is One." It was from McLanahan, from the Armstrong space station. "Reconnaissance satellites pick up strong India-Juliet radar signals coming from your target area. Looks like a long range search radar. Now we are analyzing."
  
  "Radar, huh?" Macomber commented. He again began to study the new NIRTSat images. Sure enough, it was the same air base on the Soltanabad Highway ... but now all the funnels were gone and several semi-trailers, troop and supply trucks, helicopters and a large fixed-wing aircraft were parked on the ramp. "Looks like you were right, Odin. Those bastards are rioting again."
  
  "Listen to me guys," McLanahan said, and his tone of voice, even over encrypted satellite communications, was clearly very ominous. "I don't like the way it smells. You would be safer if you deorbited, but you are ordered to return to base, so we must keep you there."
  
  "What's the problem, sir?" Moulin asked. "Is there something you don"t tell us about?"
  
  "You are crossing the target horizon in eleven minutes. We are trying to figure out if we have enough time to take you out of orbit and land in Central Asia or the Caucasus instead of flying over Soltanabad."
  
  "Central Asia! Do you want us to land where...?"
  
  "Press it, bang!" Moulin shouted. "What's going on, Odin? What do you think is down there?"
  
  There was a long pause; McLanahan then replied simply, "Stallion One-One."
  
  He couldn't have given a more explosive response. Stallion number one is an XR-A9 black stallion that was shot down over Iran in the early days of a military coup when the Air Force tracked down and destroyed Iranian medium-to-long-range mobile ballistic missiles that threatened not only anti-theocratic insurgents, but all of Iran's neighbors. The spaceplane was not brought down by a surface-to-air missile or a jet fighter, but by an extremely powerful laser, similar to the Kavaznya anti-satellite laser created by the Soviet Union over two decades ago ... which appeared not over Russia, but in Iran.
  
  "What shall we do, sir?" Moulin asked, fear in her voice. "What do you want us to do?"
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  "We're working on it," said Patrick from the Armstrong space station. "We are trying to figure out if we can start landing right now to stay out of line of sight, or at least out of radar coverage."
  
  "We can translate right now and get ready," Terranova said.
  
  "Do it," Patrick said immediately. Then he spoke, "Duty Officer, put me through to the President of the United States, immediately."
  
  "Yes, General McLanahan," replied the computer-synthesized female voice of Dreamland's virtual "Duty Officer." A moment later: "General McLanahan, your call is being forwarded to the Secretary of Defense. Please get ready."
  
  "I want to speak to the President of the United States. This is urgent ".
  
  "Yes, General McLanahan. Please get ready." Another long moment later: "General McLanahan, your 'urgent' request has been forwarded to the President's Chief of Staff. Please get ready."
  
  It was probably the best thing he was going to do, Patrick thought, so he didn't redirect the duty officer any more. "Inform the chief of staff that this is an emergency."
  
  "The 'urgent' request has been upgraded to an 'emergency' request, General. Please get ready."
  
  Time is running out, Patrick thought. He thought about simply ordering the Black Stallion's crew to declare an in-flight emergency - there were dozens of crashes on each flight that could constitute a real emergency without crap - but he needed to make sure the Stallion had somewhere to land. before ordering them to deorbit.
  
  "This is Chief of Staff Cordus."
  
  "Mr. Cordus, this is General McLanahan. I'm-"
  
  "I don't like it when your computerized employees call me, the general, and the president too. If you want to speak to the president, show some simple courtesy and do it yourself."
  
  "Yes, sir. I am aboard the Armstrong space station and I...
  
  "I know where you are, General - my staff watched the live feed with great interest until you suddenly interrupted it," Cordus said. "When we give you permission for a live interview, we expect you to complete it. Could you tell me why you cut it like that?"
  
  "I believe the Russians have placed some sort of anti-missile weapon, possibly the same laser that shot down the Black Stallion over Iran last year, at an isolated air base on a highway in Iran that was once used by the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps." Patrick replied. "Our sensors picked up new activity at the base and alerted us. Now our unmanned reconnaissance aircraft pick up extremely powerful radar signals from the same location, which are consistent with the laser detection and tracking system against the spacecraft. I believe the Russians will attack our Black Stallion spacecraft if it passes over us while still in orbit, and I need permission to deorbit the spacecraft and deviate it from the target area."
  
  "Do you have positive evidence that the Russians are behind this? How did you know that?"
  
  "We have satellite imagery showing the base is now fully active, with planes, trucks and vehicles that look similar to the vehicles we found in Iran, from where we believe the laser that shot down the Black Stallion was fired. ". Radar signals confirm this. Sir, I need permission to divert this flight immediately. We can get it to deorbit and maneuver as best we can, using everything but emergency fuel until it hits the atmosphere, and then we can fly away from the target area to an alternative landing site."
  
  "The President has already ordered you to land the spaceplane back to the United States at his home base, General. Didn't you copy that order?"
  
  "I did, sir, but following this order means flying a spaceplane over the target's base, and I believe it will be attacked if we do so. The only way we can protect the crew right now is to de-orbit the spaceplane to keep it as low above the horizon as possible until we can...
  
  "General, I don't understand a word of what you just said," Cordus said. "All I understand is that you have a strong premonition that your spaceplane is in danger and you are asking the president to cancel the order he just gave. This is right?"
  
  "Yes sir, but I must stress the extreme danger-"
  
  "I got this part loud and clear, General McLanahan," Cordus said, irritation evident in his voice. "If you start descending the spaceplane, will you violate anyone"s airspace, and if so, whose?"
  
  "I don"t know exactly, sir, but I would say that the countries of Eastern Europe, the Middle East-"
  
  "Russia?"
  
  "Perhaps, sir. Extreme West of Russia".
  
  "Moscow?" I asked.
  
  Patrick paused, and as he did, he heard the Chief of Staff say something under his breath. "I don"t know if it will be below the sixty-six-mile limit, sir, but depending on how fast and how successfully we maneuver-"
  
  "I will take it as consent. Perfect, just perfect. Your spaceplane de-orbiting right over the Russian capital would look damn sure like an ICBM attack, wouldn"t it?" He didn't wait for an answer. "This is exactly the nightmarish scenario that the president was afraid of. He's going to rip your throat out, McLanahan. He paused for a moment; then: "How much time does the President have to make this decision, General?"
  
  "About five minutes, sir."
  
  "For God's sake, McLanahan! Five minutes? You are all in crisis!" shouted Cordus. "But poor planning on your part is not an emergency on our part!"
  
  "Lives may be at stake, sir."
  
  "I am well aware of this, general!" Cordus couldn't resist. "But if you had bothered to wait and get White House and Pentagon approval for this plan before launching the spaceplane, none of this would have happened!" He muttered something else under his breath; then: "I will immediately convey this request to the president. In the meantime, stay on the line because you will have to explain all this to the national security adviser so that he can properly advise the president, because I doubt that you have the ability to explain this to him clearly enough for him to be satisfied - or to he even listened to you if you tried. Be ready ".
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  "Team, be aware we are doing a y-shift in preparation for deorbit. Get ready." Using her multi-function display and piloting skills, Moulin used the Black Stallion's hydrazine engines to turn the spaceplane so it flew tail first. The maneuver took almost two minutes - a record for her. The crew members in the passenger module felt the same way, and even Macomber's stomach didn't complain. "Maneuver completed, Genesis. When do we start going down? When can we launch 'leopards'?"
  
  "We need to find out if you can reach a safe landing strip if you deorbit right now," Dave Luger interjected. "We're also looking for a tanker that can fill you up in case you can't get to a suitable airport, and we need White House permission to land you over national borders."
  
  "What do you need?" Macomber objected. "You think the Russians are going to shoot us with a fucking laser and you need permission to get us the hell out of here?"
  
  "We're doing the calculations, Major-step in and let us do our job," Luger said sternly, unaccustomed to being yelled at by a field officer. However, the tone of his voice made it clear that he, too, was not very pleased with the circumstances. "Get ready."
  
  "Do it, Frenchie," Macomber said over the intercom. "Get us the hell out of here."
  
  "I can't do this without authorization, S-One."
  
  "Damn it, you can't. You're the commander of the spaceship - you made that very clear to me, remember? Show some of your powers and get us the hell out of here! "
  
  "I can't just throw us out of the sky without knowing where we'll end up when we re-enter the atmosphere," Moulin said. "I need to know where we will be when we resume atmospheric flight, what will be our best flight range, which runway we will approach, what is the terrain, what is the length of the runway, what is the political, diplomatic and security situation -"
  
  "For God's sake, Frenchy, stop asking questions and press the damn button!" Macomber screamed. "Don't wait for some politician to wave or give us the finger - just do it!"
  
  "Shut up and get ready, Macomber!" Moulin shouted. "We can't just stop and turn off the engine. Just hold your tongue, okay?"
  
  "We will cross the horizon of the target area in about two minutes," Terranova reported.
  
  "We briefed several recovery, spare and emergency bases in Eastern Europe, India and the Western Pacific," Macomber insisted. "We know we have alternatives. Just declare an emergency and land on one of them."
  
  "We have already passed most of the safe emergency bases," Terranova said. "The alternative landing sites we chose were designed to deal with orbital failure, re-entry engines or alternative landing sites if we start deorbiting but are not cleared to enter the target area. Now we have passed this stage. If we still didn't deorbit by now, the plan was to fly over the target area, change orbits if we had enough fuel, or stay in orbit until we could land back in Dreamland. We can't just go and turn a dime the other way."
  
  "So we screwed up," Turloc said. "We must fly over the target area immediately."
  
  "Not necessarily, but the longer we delay the launch of Leopards, the fewer options we have," Terranova said. "We can always use more energy and descend faster in the atmosphere, trying to stay as low as possible to the horizon, then once we are back in the atmosphere we can use the rest of the available fuel to get off the tracking radar."
  
  "Then do it!"
  
  "If we use up all our energy and don't have enough fuel to get to a suitable landing site, we're done for," Moulin said. "This bird slides a little better than a damn brick. I'm not going to give up all our opportunities if we don't have a plan! Besides, we don't even know if there is a Russian anti-satellite laser there. This could all just be a bad case of paranoia."
  
  "Then there is another option..."
  
  "No way, MS."
  
  "What's the last option?" Macomber asked.
  
  "We are dropping the passenger module," Terranova said.
  
  "What?"
  
  "The passenger module is designed to be its own descent vehicle and lifeboat..."
  
  "I will not release the module except in an emergency," Moulin insisted. "In no case".
  
  "There is no way we can go down by ourselves!" Macomber was crying.
  
  "Simulation says it's possible, although we've never really tested it," Terranova said. "The passenger module is equipped with its own reaction control system, high-tech heat shields, better than studded parachutes and cushion bags for landing, a pretty good environmental protection system -"
  
  "Pretty good' not good enough, MC - there's no armor on the captain," Chris Wall chimed in.
  
  "It will work, master sergeant."
  
  "I don't throw anything overboard and that's it," Moulin interjected. "This is just a last resort. I'm not even going to consider it until all this fear-mongering comes true. Now everyone shut up for a minute." Command channel: "Genesis, Odin, what do you have for us?"
  
  "Nothing," Patrick replied. "I spoke to the chief of staff and he is going to speak to the president. I'm waiting to speak to the secretary of defense or the national security adviser. You'll have to-"
  
  "I get it!" Suddenly Dave Luger intervened. "If we now deorbit and use max-G maneuvers to lower altitude, we should have enough power to fly to Baku on the Caspian coast of Azerbaijan. If not, you can get to Neftchala, which is the base of the border and coastal patrol of Azerbaijan. Turkey and the United States are expanding the runway there, and you may have enough runway to do it. The third option is "
  
  "Drop the passenger module into the Caspian Sea, then drop the Hairpin into the Caspian Sea, or eject before hitting the water, depending on how out of control we get," Moulin intoned.
  
  "Get ready, stallion," Patrick said after a short pause. "Genesis, I'm studying the latest images of the affected area and come to the conclusion that the trucks and installation in Soltanabad are almost identical to those we saw in Kaboudar Akhang in Iran. I believe the Russians have set up their mobile anti-missile laser in Soltanabad. Can you confirm?
  
  "General, are you sure this Russian threat is real? If we do this, there will be no turning back."
  
  "No, I'm not sure about any of this," Patrick admitted. "But the signs look exactly like the One-One stallion. Genesis?"
  
  "I'm double-checking, One," Dave Luger said. "Remember, they tampered with the installation at Kaboudar Ahang to suck out the fighting force. They could do the same again."
  
  "We'll know in about sixty seconds, crew," Terranova said.
  
  "We can't wait," Patrick finally said. "Stallion, this is Odin, I order you to deorbit, enter the interface profile at maximum speed and attempt an emergency landing in Baku or Neftchala, Azerbaijan. Genesis, upload the flight plan to the Black Stallion and make sure it's completed. You hear?"
  
  "One, I get it, but are you sure about this?" Moulin asked. "It doesn't make any sense."
  
  "Just do it, Frenchy," Macomber said. "If he's wrong and things go awry, we could swim in the damn polluted Caspian Sea with caviar. Big deal. Been there, done it. If he's right, we'll still be alive in an hour. Do it ".
  
  "Flight plan loaded," Luger reported. "Awaiting execution."
  
  "Stallion, let me know when you'll be performing deorbit procedures."
  
  "What are you waiting for, Frenchy?" Macomber screamed. "Let us down! Launch rockets!"
  
  "I don't want to crash into the Caspian Sea," Moulin said. "If we fail, we will have no choice but to refuse-"
  
  "Damn it, Frenchie, let us down now!" Macomber screamed. "What happened to you?"
  
  "I don't trust General McLanahan, that's why!" Moulin screamed. "I don't believe any of this!"
  
  "Stallion, I'm sure it's a trap," Patrick said. "I think we stumbled upon a Russian anti-missile laser weapon facility in Iran. If you don't get out of there by any means possible, their laser will burn through your thermal protection and destroy the spaceship. I don't want to take that risk. Get the spaceship out of orbit and get out of there."
  
  "Now, we are crossing the target horizon," Terranova said.
  
  "Stallion, that was an order to take the spacecraft out of orbit," Patrick said. "Your objection has been noted. I take full responsibility. Now do it."
  
  "I'm sorry, sir, but I've copied valid and confirmed National Command orders to the contrary: stay in orbit until we are able to return to Groom Lake," Moulin said. "These orders supersede yours. We stay. Host, delete the deorbit flight plan and reload the previous one."
  
  "Frenchie"
  
  "Do it, MC," Moulin said. "That's an order. I will keep this orientation to save fuel for the engines, but we remain in orbit and this is final."
  
  After that, the radios and intercoms became very quiet, Luger and McLanahan broadcasting to the crew and to each other a continuous stream of threat warnings from the radar and updated reconnaissance images. Time seemed to stretch endlessly. Finally, Macomber said, "What the hell is going on, Genesis, and how soon are we going to get out of this shit?"
  
  "Four minutes and ten seconds before we return below the horizon of the target area," Dave Luger replied.
  
  "I'm sorry, Odin," Moulin said, "but I had to make a decision. I follow orders."
  
  "I hope I'm wrong, SC," Patrick replied. "You did what you thought was right. We'll talk about it after you're safe at home."
  
  "How are we doing at the landing site in Baku, Genesis?" Terranova asked.
  
  "You will lose it in thirty seconds. You won't have enough power to fly to the Warrior Forward Operating Base in Kirkuk, Iraq after you re-enter the atmosphere - Herat, Afghanistan is your best bet, but you still have to fly over Soltanabad. Another option could be the deserts of southern Turkmenistan - we can quickly send a special forces team from Uzbekistan to help you."
  
  "Are you suggesting we land in Turkmenistan, sir?"
  
  "I didn't say land, MC."
  
  Terranova swallowed. The Luger was obviously meant to be "thrown the plane overboard" - to allow it to make an emergency landing in the desert. "What is the next interrupt base?"
  
  "Karachi and Hyderabad behind it."
  
  "We are ready to open fire on the 'leopards'," Terranova said. "Ten second checklist hold. Should I set the re-entry to maximum deceleration?"
  
  "We are not going to descend from orbit," Moulin said. "The Russians would not dare to shoot at us. Leonid Zevitin is not crazy. This guy can dance, for God's sake!" The radios sparkled with low chuckles. But she glanced at her camera aft of the cockpit and nodded to Terranova, silently ordering him to program the computers for maximum speed and altitude reduction. "I mean, think about it all: no man who can dance would be crazy enough to-"
  
  Suddenly, they heard, "Attention, attention, laser detected...attention, attention, case temperature is rising, stations two hundred and fifty to two hundred and ninety... Attention, case temperature is approaching operating limits...!
  
  "Laser Cafe!" I ordered. exclaimed Patrick McLanahan. "They attack from extreme distance. Stallion, get out of there now! "
  
  "Initiate deorbit procedures!" Moulin shouted. Crew, prepare for immediate de-orbit! The Leopards' engines are speeding up!"
  
  "... a warning about the rise in temperature of the hull, stations from two hundred and seventy to two hundred and ninety ... Attention, attention ...!"
  
  The crew was thrown back into place as the laser-pulse rocket system's engines fired at full power. The enormous power of the hybrid rocket engines immediately and abruptly slowed down the Black Stallion aircraft, and it quickly began its fall to Earth. Macomber yelped as the g-force increased rapidly, far beyond anything he had experienced before. Soon he could no longer muster the strength to make any sound at all - it took all his concentration to get enough air into his lungs to keep from fainting.
  
  "Crossing twenty-eight thousand feet per second," Terranova said amid almost constant warning messages. " Ninety miles high... Leopards at ninety percent power, three point zero Gs..."
  
  "Go to one hundred and ten percent power," Moulin wheezed through the pressure.
  
  "That's over five Gs, SC," Terranova said. "We'll have to keep it up for-"
  
  "Do it, MC," Moulin ordered. "The crew, SC, will get really uncomfortable for a few minutes. Get ahead of events as much as you can." Moments later, her words were interrupted by the feeling that her chest was about to explode as the g-force nearly doubled. Cries of pain and surprise were evident. "Hold on...for...the crew..."
  
  "Five point three tenths of RP," Terranova breathed. "Jesus... We drive twenty-five kilometers, we drive eighty miles..."
  
  "Oh God, how much more?" someone muttered - it was impossible to make out who was speaking now.
  
  
  STRATEGIC AIR FORCE ALTERNATIVE OPERATIONS CONTROL CENTER, POLDOSK, RUSSIAN FEDERATION
  IN THE SAME TIME
  
  
  After the destruction of the Engels air base near Saratov and the American bombing of the underground command center at Raazan, Air Force Chief of Staff General Andrey Darzov restored an old civil defense shelter and reserve forces recovery center southwest of Moscow called Poldosk to be used as an evacuation and reserve command post. There was no air base or even space for a large heliport, but there were underground rail lines adjoining the facility, plenty of fresh water (as fresh as one would expect in the Greater Moscow area)...
  
  ... and - more importantly, Darzov believed - it was close enough to a large number of city dwellers that even a lunatic like the commander of the American bombers, Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan, might think twice before bombing the place.
  
  Thanks mainly to modern high-speed data transmission and communication facilities, Poldosk today serves another purpose: as a monitoring and control center for the Molniya air-launched anti-space missile and Fanar anti-space laser defense systems. Sitting in a simple room with four computers, Darzov kept in touch with his forces in the field via secure high-speed Internet and voice over IP. The command center was completely mobile, could be assembled in less than an hour and deployed elsewhere in about the same time, and in an emergency it could be controlled from a single laptop computer and a secure cell or satellite phone anywhere in the world.
  
  This evening the main attention was paid to Soltanabad. Unfortunately, the Americans found the Phanar so quickly - it must have been blind luck, or perhaps some members of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps became traitors and denounced them to the coup leader Khesarak Bujazi or the Americans. But he installed Phanar in Soltanabad precisely because so many American spacecraft circled the area so often. It was, as the Americans put it, "a goal-rich environment."
  
  Darzov frowned when he saw the new readings and pressed the SEND button on the computer keyboard: "Forward, this is the Goalkeeper. Tell the status. You stopped the attack... why?"
  
  "We had full opto-electronic guidance on the target, and we opened fire as ordered, General," replied the chief engineer and project manager in Soltanabad, Wolfgang Zypries. "But a few seconds after we launched the attack, we lost contact." Cypries was a German laser engineer and scientist and formerly a colonel in the German Air Force. Unknown to him, Zypris's longtime girlfriend was a Russian spy who hacked into his home computer and smuggled volumes of classified material to Moscow. When his girlfriend told him who she was and that the German Milit ärischer Abschirmdienst, or counterintelligence group of the Military Security Service, was on his tail, he allowed himself to be transported to Russia. Darzov immediately provided him with everything he wanted-money, a house, and all the women he could handle-to work on improving and mobilizing the Kavaznya anti-space laser system. After more than five years of work, he has achieved more success than even Darzov dared hope.
  
  "The spacecraft appears to be rapidly descending," Cypris continued. "We suspect our optics were blinded when the spacecraft fired its relay rockets."
  
  "You informed me that this could happen, Colonel," Darzov said. To avoid detection, they decided to use a telescopic electro-optical acquisition and tracking system and keep their deep space tracking radar on standby. They aimed at the American spaceplane seconds after it crossed the horizon and tracked it with ease. As they had hoped, it did not begin its descent through the atmosphere, although a highly magnified image showed that it did turn in the right direction to start slowing down, flying tail first. It was still in an ideal position, and Darzov ordered the attack to begin.
  
  The next stage of laser exposure was to hit the target with a more powerful laser to measure the atmosphere and make corrections to the optics of the main laser, which allowed it to more accurately focus on the target before firing the main chemical oxygen-iodine laser. Darzov and Zypris decided, since the spacecraft was deployed into position to fire its rockets, to use the main laser to make their own adjustments to start firing faster.
  
  "The crew obviously expected an attack," Cypries said, "because they fired their propulsion engines a few seconds after our laser hit. We were able to maintain contact for about fifteen seconds, but the optics were still well focused, so we were probably only using sixty percent of the power on their body. Then the optoelectronic system turned off the lock. They must be crushing their crew members like bugs inside this thing - they slow down three times faster than usual. I track them with infrared scanners, but this is not accurate enough for the main laser, so I need permission to use the main radar to re-capture and destroy."
  
  "Are they still at a distance and high enough to engage?"
  
  "They are at a height of one hundred and thirty kilometers, have a range of one thousand six hundred kilometers, are rapidly descending below seven thousand eight hundred meters per second - they are descending like a stone, but they are within the range of the laser," Zypris assured him. "The design of this spacecraft must be incredibly strong to withstand this kind of load. They'll enter the atmosphere soon, but right now they won't be able to leave fast enough. I'll get it for you, general."
  
  "Then permission has been obtained to continue the attack, Colonel," Darzov said immediately. "Have a good hunting".
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  "Five point seven tenths of a G... twenty-two kilometers per second... seventy-five miles... five point nine tenths of a Gs..." It seemed like it took Terranova an eternity to give each reading. "Come seventy miles...sixty-five miles, reach entry interface, crew, leopards off." The g-load suddenly eased, followed by a chorus of groans and swearing from across the spaceship. Macomber couldn't believe he hadn't passed out from such prolonged pressure. He still felt drag forces as the spaceplane continued to lose power, but it wasn't nearly as bad as when the Leopards were firing. Crew, report.
  
  "Guys, are you okay?" Macomber addressed the others in the passenger module. "Sing louder."
  
  "T-Two, I'm fine," Turloc said weakly.
  
  "Three, okay," Vol replied, sounding like nothing had happened. That Marine bastard must have been fast asleep all this time, Macomber thought.
  
  "S-One" is fine too. KA, the passengers are fine, the back seat is all green. It was a great ride."
  
  "Understood," said Moulin. "The laser looks like it has a broken lock at the moment. We have begun maneuvering according to the position of the entry interface." The Black Stallion began to turn nose first again, then rose to forty degrees above the horizon for re-entry, exposing its lower heat shields to the advancing atmosphere to shield the ship from frictional heat. "Moderator, let"s briefly talk about the approach."
  
  "Accepted," Terranova said. "We passed the final leveling cylinder for Baku, so I programmed Herat, Afghanistan, as our landing site. We're still on a peak descent profile, and Herat is pretty close-about 1,300 miles-so we have enough power to get to base. In sixty seconds, the airflow pressure will be strong enough for the adaptive surfaces on the spike to take effect, and we will disable the reaction control system, go to the maximum drag profile and divert to the east over Turkmenistan to stay clear of Soltanabad. Once we're over 100,000 feet, we can transition to atmospheric flight, turn off the leopards, start the turbojets, and descend on a normal approach profile."
  
  "How much gas do we have, MC?" Macomber asked.
  
  "After we start the turbojets, we will have less than an hour of fuel left, but we will be descending at about Mach 5, so we will have enough energy to get rid of it before we need the turbojets," Terranova answered. "We'll start fixing the engines and get ready to fix the 'leopards', so when we -"
  
  "Attention, search radar, twelve o'clock, nine hundred and sixty miles, India-Juliet strip," the computerized voice of the threat warning receiver suddenly rang out. A second later: "Attention, attention, target tracking radar, twelve o'clock, nine hundred and fifty miles ... attention, attention, pulse-Doppler target tracking radar, twelve hours, nine hundred and forty miles ... attention, attention, laser detected, twelve o'clock .. .Attention attention...!"
  
  "They hit us with radar almost a thousand miles away?" Terranova fired. "This is impossible!"
  
  "This is the Kavaznya radar, crew," said Patrick McLanahan. "The range of this thing is incredible, and now it's mobile."
  
  "Attention, warning, emergency cooling system activated...attention, attention, hull temperature rising, station one hundred and ninety..."
  
  "What shall we do, Odin?" Lisa Moulin cried on the radio. "What should I do?"
  
  "The only choice you have is to rotate the spacecraft so that the laser energy doesn't focus on any one point for too long," Patrick said. "Use the reaction control system to make a throw. Once your flight adaptation system is up and running, you can use the maximum bank angle to get away from the laser and change course as much as possible to avoid the laser hitting you. Dave, I need you to get the vampires out of Batman's airbase and destroy that laser object! I want Soltanabad to turn into a smoking hole!"
  
  "They're on their way, Odin," Luger replied.
  
  But as the seconds ticked by, it became obvious that nothing Moulin could do would work. They almost constantly received overheating warnings from dozens of places on the hull, and some began to report leaks and loss of structural integrity. On one occasion, Moulin accidentally looked directly into a laser beam piercing through the windshield of the cockpit and was partially blinded, although both had their dark visors down.
  
  Terranova finally turned off threat warnings - they no longer benefited them. "Frenchie, are you okay?"
  
  "I can't see anything, Jim," Moulin said over a "private" intercom so that the crew members in the passenger compartment couldn't hear. "I took a look at the laser beam for a split second and all I see are big black holes in my vision. I screwed up. I killed us all."
  
  "Keep shooting, Frenchie," Terranova said. "We will do it".
  
  Moulin began moving the side stick back and forth, using the thrusters to turn the spacecraft. Terranova provided her with a constant stream of advice when she went too far. Temperature warnings were almost constant, no matter how hard she tried. "We have to drop the passenger module," Moulin said, still on a "private" intercom. "Perhaps they have a chance."
  
  "We were well past the g-force and overboard speed limits, Frenchie," Terranova said. "We don't even know if they'll survive even if we slow down enough - we've never dropped a module before."
  
  "There is only one way to find out," Moulin said. "I'm going to start a power descent to try and slow us down enough to reset the passenger module. We use every drop of fuel we have left to slow our fall. I will need your help. Tell me when we're on the verge of a breakdown." She gently straightened her wings, then with Terranova's help she turned the Black Stallion so that they flew tail first again. On full intercom, she said, "Crew, prepare for maximum rocket return, powered descent profile. The Leopards are on the line."
  
  "What?" I asked. Macomber asked. "Are you shooting 'leopards' again? What-?"
  
  He didn't have time to finish his question. Moulin activated the engines of the laser-pulse detonation rocket system and immediately brought them to a descent and then to a maximum power, far exceeding the normal overloads for passengers and crew. Their speed dropped drastically - they were still flying at over Mach 5, but it was more than half the speed they normally flew at. Everyone in the passenger module received such a strong and unexpected G-force hit that they immediately lost consciousness. Jim Terranova passed out too...
  
  ...so did Lisa Moulin, but not before she opened the cargo bay doors at the top of the XR-A9 Black Stallion's fuselage, unlocked the mounting bolts holding the module in the cargo bay, raised the red-labeled switch, and activated it...
  
  ... and at the very moment that the doors were fully opened, the mounting bolts unfastened, and the module's descent rockets fired, the Black Stallion used up every pound of fuel remaining in its tanks ... and it was torn apart by a Russian laser and exploded.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  "Target destroyed, General," reported Wolfgang Cypries of Soltanabad. "A significant loss of speed is shown, many large targets are likely debris, and radar and visual contact are quickly lost. The ultimate kill."
  
  "I understand," General Andrey Darzov replied. Many of the technicians and officers in the room raised their fists in triumph and let out low cheers, but he silenced them with a warning look. "Now I suggest that you get out of there as quickly as possible - the Americans have undoubtedly sent a strike team to destroy this base. They could be there in less than an hour if they start from Iraq."
  
  "We'll be out of here in thirty minutes, General," Cypris said. "Exit".
  
  Darzov interrupted the connection, then activated another and said: "Mission accomplished, sir."
  
  "Very well, General," Russian President Leonid Zevitin replied. "What do you think their reaction will be?"
  
  "They are certainly launching B-1 drone bombers from Batman Air Base in Turkey equipped with hypersonic missiles to attack and destroy the base in Iran," Darzov said. "They could be in firing position in less than an hour - even thirty minutes if they had the plane ready to launch. The target will be hit in less than a minute."
  
  "My God, this is incredible - we need to get our hands on this technology," Zevitin muttered. "I'm assuming' your people are getting their asses out of this base."
  
  "They have to be far enough away before the Americans attack - I assure you, they feel these hypersonic missiles on the backs of their heads even now."
  
  "I bet it is. Where was the spaceplane when it went down, General?"
  
  "About a thousand kilometers northwest of Soltanabad."
  
  "So, by any chance, this is happening... over Russia?"
  
  There was a short pause while Darzov checked his computer maps; then: "Yes, sir, it is. One hundred kilometers northwest of Machakala, the capital of the province of Dagestan, and three hundred kilometers southeast of the Tupolev-95 bomber base at Mozdok.
  
  "And the wreckage?" I asked.
  
  "Impossible to say, sir. It will probably be scattered for thousands of kilometers between the Caspian Sea and the Iran-Afghan border."
  
  "It's a pity. Keep a close eye on this debris and let me know if any of them reach the ground. Order the search party of the Caspian Sea Flotilla to begin searching immediately. Have our radar stations alerted our air defense systems?"
  
  "No, sir. Conventional air defense and air traffic radar systems would not be able to track a target at that height and moving at that speed. Only a specialized space tracking system could do this."
  
  "So, without such a radar, we wouldn"t know that something happened yet, would we?"
  
  "Unfortunately not, sir."
  
  "When do you expect the wreckage to be detected by conventional radar?"
  
  "We are no longer tracking the debris as we disable the Phanar radar system in Soltanabad," Darzov explained, "but I would imagine that within a few minutes we could start collecting larger fragments as they re-enter the atmosphere. I will order our air defense facilities in Dagestan to immediately report the discovery of debris."
  
  "Very well, general," Zevitin said. "I wouldn"t want to complain too soon about the latest American attack against Russia, would I?"
  
  
  ON BOARD THE FIRST AIRCRAFT
  IN THE SAME TIME
  
  
  "My God, Mr. President," said the female senior sergeant, rising from her knees and beginning to rebutton her uniform blouse, "you certainly get my vote."
  
  "Thank you, master sergeant," said President Gardner, watching her rearrange as he buttoned up his fly. "I think there is a vacancy in my ... staff for someone as qualified as you." She smiled at the obviously ambiguous expression. "Interested?"
  
  "Actually, sir, I was waiting for a vacancy at the Officers' Training School," she replied, looking eagerly at the commander-in-chief from head to toe. "I was told that the slot might not open for another eighteen months. I completed my bachelor's degree and only applied last semester. I am very determined to get my commissions."
  
  "What was your degree sweetie?"
  
  "Political science," she replied. "I'm going to get a law degree and then I'd like to go into politics."
  
  "We could certainly use someone with your... enthusiasm in Washington, Master Sergeant," the President said. He noticed that the CALL indicator on the phone was flashing-an urgent call, but not so urgent as to cancel the DND order. "But OTS is in Alabama?"
  
  "Yes, sir."
  
  "This is too bad, dear," the president said, feigning disappointment - the last thing he wanted was for this someone to show up in Washington. Maxwell Air Force Base in Alabama would be ideal-far enough from Washington to avoid the rumors, but close enough to Florida that she could sneak down when he was at his estate in Florida. "Of course, I would like to work with you more often, but I admire your dedication to service. I'm sure I've heard of an OTS slot being opened in the next class and I think you'll fit in perfectly. We'll be in touch."
  
  "Thank you very much, Mr. President," the steward said, smoothing down the rest of her hair and uniform, then left without even looking back.
  
  That's how he liked them, Gardner thought, as he took a sip of his juice and began to sort out his heartbeat and thoughts: bold and aggressive enough to do whatever was necessary to gain an advantage over everyone else, but wise enough to get back to work and avoid getting emotional. involvement were the real forces in Washington. Some did it because of talent, brains, or political connections - there was nothing wrong or unusual about those who did it on their knees. Plus, she understood, as he did, that both of their careers would be over if their little date ever got out, so it was beneficial for both of them to do what the other wanted and, more importantly, keep their mouths shut. on lockdown about it. This one was going to go very far.
  
  A second later, his mind quickly refocusing on the upcoming events and route, he pressed the "DO NOT DISTURB" button. Moments later, his chief of staff and national security adviser knocked, looked through the peephole to make sure the president was alone, waited a moment, then entered the room. Both had cell phones to their ears. Air Force One could act as its own cell phone base station, and unlike passengers on commercial airliners, there were no cell phone restrictions aboard Air Force One-users could turn on as many terrestrial cell towers as they pleased. "What's happening?" the President asked.
  
  "Either nothing ... Or the shit has just flared up, Mr. President," Chief of Staff Walter Cordus said. "Air Force Headquarters Europe received a call from the Sixth Joint Air Operations Center in Turkey to confirm the departure of an EB-1C Vampire bomber with two scramble launchers from Batman Air Base in southern Turkey ... the same ones that we landed after the missile attack in Iran. The USAF has reached out to the Pentagon for confirmation as there was no air mission order for any bombing missions from Batman."
  
  "You mean McLanahan bombers?" The answer was written on Cordus' frightened face. "McLanahan ordered two of his bombers to take off ... after I ordered them to land? What the hell is going on?"
  
  "I don't know yet, sir," Cordus said. "I told the US Air Force that no bombers were allowed to launch for any reason, and I ordered them to refuse permission to launch. I'm calling McLanahan and his deputy Luger in Nevada, trying to figure out what's going on."
  
  Are the bombers armed?
  
  "We don't know that either, sir. This mission was completely unauthorized."
  
  "Well, we have to assume that it is - knowing McLanahan, he would have left weapons on his planes, even if they were all grounded, unless we specifically ordered him not to, and even then he could do it." . Just keep them down until we figure out what's going on. What's the story with the spaceplane? Is he still in orbit?"
  
  "I'll check as soon as McLanahan picks up, sir."
  
  "It better be like this, or I'll nail his skin to my bathroom door," the President said, taking another sip of orange juice. "Listen, about the 'meet and greet' in Orlando..." And then he heard Carlisle curse into his phone. "What, Conrad?" I asked.
  
  "The B-1 bombers have taken off," the national security adviser said. The president's jaw dropped in surprise. "The tower controller at the air base told the crew to stay put, but there are no crew on these planes - they are remotely controlled from Elliot Air Force Base in Nevada -"
  
  "McLanahan".
  
  "McLanahan is still aboard the space station, so his second in command, Brigadier General Luger, is in charge of the Elliott bombers," Carlisle said. "I have to call Secretary of Defense Turner to order Luger to get these bombers back on the ground. Je-sus...!"
  
  "He's out of control!" the president snapped. "I want him to leave this space station and be taken into custody immediately! Send a damn US Marshal in there if you have to!"
  
  "Send a US Marshal - into space?" Cordus asked. "I wonder if this has ever been done before...or could we ask the marshal to volunteer to do it?"
  
  "I'm not kidding, Walter. McLanahan needs to be shut down before he starts another damn war between us and Russia. Find out what the hell is going on and do it fast. Zevitin will be on the phone, again, before we know it, and I want to assure him that everything is under control."
  
  
  COMBAT CONTROL AREA, BATTL MOUNTAIN RESERVE AFB, NEVADA
  IN THE SAME TIME
  
  
  "Headbanger Two-One" flight of two is at flight level three-one-o, due attention, flypoint nine-one, thirty minutes to start point," the mission commander reported. "Due treatment" meant they stopped everything normal air traffic control procedures and flew without official flight accompaniment or civil aviation monitoring...because they were going to war.
  
  Two officers sat side by side in a separate "BATMAN" section, or command and control area, at Battle Mountain Reserve Air Force Base in northern Nevada, seated at what appeared to be an ordinary computer workstation that could have been used by a security guard or securities day trader.. .except for jet fighter style joysticks. On either side of the officers were two recruited technicians with their own computer monitors. The men and women in the room spoke into their microphones in muffled voices, bodies barely moving, eyes flickering from monitor to monitor. Only the occasional tap of a finger on a keyboard or a hand moving a cursor with a trackball made anyone believe that something was really happening.
  
  The two officers piloted two unmanned EB-1C Vampire supersonic "flying battleships" that launched from their forward operating base in eastern Turkey via northern Iran. Three high-resolution monitors showed front and side views of the lead bomber, while other monitors showed performance, systems, and armament readings from both aircraft. Although the two bombers were fully airworthy, they were usually entirely computer controlled, responding autonomously to commands entered before takeoff and deciding on their own what to do to complete the mission. The ground crew monitored the progress of the flight, made changes to the flight plan if necessary, and could take control at any time, but all decisions were made by computers. Technicians monitored the aircraft's systems, monitored the electromagnetic spectrum for threats, and reviewed incoming intelligence along the flight route that could affect the mission.
  
  "Genesis copies," David Luger replied. He returned to the combat headquarters area at Elliot Air Force Base in south-central Nevada, observing the progress of the mission on electronic "big boards" the size of the wall in front of him. Other displays showed enemy threats detected by all aircraft and satellites of the High-Tech Aerospace Weapons Center and other Allied sensors operating in the region. But Luger's attention was drawn to two other displays: the first had the latest satellite imagery of the target area in eastern Iran...
  
  ... and the second was about satellite space tracking data, which at the moment was empty.
  
  "They're dismantling laser equipment in a hell of a big rush," Dave commented. "They must have guessed that we would send bombers to blow the hell out of this base. I'm not sure we'll get there in time, Muk."
  
  "Pick them up, Dave," said Patrick McLanahan. He also oversaw the mission from the command module on the Armstrong space station. "Pull up the tanker to meet the bombers on the way back, but I want those missiles on the way before the Russian cockroaches run away."
  
  "Got it, crap. Get ready. Cutthroat, this is Genesis. One wants the bombers to attack before the target dissipates. Raise the bombers and report on the status of the support tankers."
  
  "The tankers are already taxiing out, Dave," said Battle Mountain Air Force Commander Major General Rebecca Furness. "He'll be in the air in five minutes."
  
  "Understood you. One wants as many vampires as possible."
  
  "As soon as the tanker is at the maximum safe distance, we accelerate the Vampires to one and two tenths of Mach - this is the maximum launch speed of the Skystreaks. The best we can do with the current mission parameters."
  
  "I suggest you wipe out an hour of tanker fuel and raise the Vampires now," Luger said.
  
  "Negative - I'm not going to do it, Dave," Rebecca said. Rebecca Furness was the first female US Air Force combat pilot and the first female commander of a tactical air combat unit. When the Air Force's Rebecca B-1B Lancer reserve unit in Reno, Nevada, was shut down and the bombers transferred to the High-Tech Aerospace Weapons Center for conversion into manned and unmanned "flying battleships," Furness agreed. She now commanded five tactical squadrons at a new reserve base in Battle Mountain, Nevada, consisting of converted B-52 and B-1 manned and unmanned bombers, QA-45C stealth attack aircraft and KC-76 aerial tankers. "We'll get them, don't worry."
  
  Luger looked again at the latest satellite image of the Highway Air Base in Soltanabad, Iran. It was only five minutes ago, but it already showed how several large trucks had disappeared, and what looked like a whole battalion of workers was dismantling the rest. "We're running out of time, ma'am. The cockroaches quickly scatter."
  
  "I know, Dave, I see the pictures too," Rebecca said, "but I don't risk losing my bombers."
  
  "Like we lost the Stallion?"
  
  "Keep your mouth off Dave - I know what's going on here and I'm just as mad about it as you are," Rebecca snapped. "But may I remind you that our bombers are the only long-range strike aircraft we currently have, and I'm not going to risk them on...an unsanctioned mission." That wasn't an exaggeration, and Dave Luger knew it: since the American Holocaust, Russian cruise missile attacks on American bomber bases and ICBMs four years earlier, the only long-range bombers surviving were a handful of foreign-deployed bombers and converted B-52 and B-1 bombers based in Battle Mountain.
  
  Furness's bombers soon suffered losses themselves. All Battle Mountain bombers were sent to the Russian air refueling base in Yakutsk, Siberia, from where Patrick McLanahan led attacks on nuclear ballistic missile bases across Russia. When the American bombers were discovered, then Russian President General Anatoly Gryzlov attacked the base with nuclear-tipped cruise missiles. Half the strength was lost in the devastating attack. The remaining bombers successfully attacked dozens of Russian missile bases, destroying the bulk of their strategic nuclear forces; McLanahan himself, aboard one of the last EB-52 Megafortress battleships, attacked and killed Gryzlov in his underground bunker southeast of Moscow during a grueling twenty-hour mission that took him across the entire territory of the Russian Federation.
  
  After the conflict, Rebecca Furness was given command of the few remaining Air Force bombers; consequently, no one knew better than she what an incredible responsibility was placed on her. The surviving aircraft and a few unmanned stealth bombers built since the American Holocaust were the only long-range airborne aircraft left in the American arsenal - if any bombers are ever built again, it could take decades to rebuild the strength of the armed forces. strength to a reasonable level.
  
  "Ma'am, I'm sure the strike mission will be approved as soon as national command gets our report on what happened to our spaceplane," Dave said. "This mobile Kavaznya laser represents the biggest threat our country is currently facing - not only to our spacecraft, but possibly to everything that flies." He paused, then added, "And the Russians just killed five of our best, ma'am. It's time for a little revenge."
  
  Rebecca was silent for a long time; then, shaking her head, she said dryly, "Three 'ma'ams' from you in one conversation, General Luger - I think this is a first for you." She entered some instructions into her computer. "I give permission to change the thirty-minute bingo fuel supply."
  
  "One calls for Headbanger, I said push them, General Furness," Patrick intervened from the Armstrong space station. "Get them up to Vmax, then slow them down to one and two tenths to release the weapon."
  
  "What if they don"t make it to the air refueling site on the way back, General?" she asked. "What if there was a navigation error? What if they can't connect the first time? Let's not lose sight of-"
  
  "Pick them up, general. That's an order."
  
  Rebecca sighed. She could legally ignore his order and make sure her bombers were safe-that was her job-but she certainly understood how much he wanted retribution. She turned to her vampire flight crew and said, "Increase them to one point five, recount the bingo fuel at the air refueling checkpoint, and advise."
  
  The crew complied, and a moment later reported: "Headbanger-two group is now at flight level three-one-o, on course, speed one and five tenths of Mach, due attention, green, twenty minutes to the starting point. Bingo, the ARCP station is out of fuel; we have ten minutes of spare fuel left. We should catch up for a few more minutes after we get the tanker's updated ETE."
  
  "It"s ten minutes after the second bomber got stuck on the arrow, right?" Rebecca asked. The gloomy, ash- pale expression and silent "no" on the technician's face told her that they were up to their necks in shit.
  
  
  CHAPTER SEVEN
  
  
  There are no unharmed soldiers in a war.
  
  - JOSE NAROSKI
  
  
  
  ON BOARD THE ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION
  A FEW MINUTES LATER
  
  
  "McLanahan is here, safe."
  
  "McLanahan, this is the President of the United States," boomed Joseph Gardner. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
  
  "Sir, I-"
  
  "That's a direct order, McLanahan: Deploy those bombers now."
  
  "Sir, I would like to present my report to you before-"
  
  "You won't do a damn thing except what I tell you to do!" the president snapped. "You violated the direct order of the commander in chief. If you want to avoid a life sentence, you better do what I tell you. And that spaceplane better still be in orbit, or I swear to God, I...
  
  "The Russians shot down the Black Stallion spaceplane," Patrick quickly put in. "The spaceplane is gone and is considered lost with all souls."
  
  The President was silent for a long time; then: "How?"
  
  "A mobile laser, the one we think shot down our spaceplane over Iran last year," Patrick replied. "That was what the Russians were hiding in Soltanabad: their mobile anti-space laser. They brought it to Iran and installed it in an abandoned Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps base that we thought was destroyed - they even placed fake bomb craters on it to fool us. The Russians have set up a laser in the perfect spot to attack our spacecraft flying over Iran. They received the second biggest prize of all: another Black Stallion spaceplane. The location suggests that their real target was the Armstrong space station."
  
  Silence again on the other end of the line...but not for long: "McLanahan, I'm so sorry about your people..."
  
  "There were also two women on board, sir."
  
  "... and we're going to get to the bottom of this," the President continued, "but you violated my orders and launched these bombers without permission. Unroll them immediately."
  
  Patrick glanced at the remaining time: seven plus minutes. Could he have kept the president for so long...? "Sir, I have received permission to launch a spaceplane into standard orbit from STRATCOM," he said. "We suspected what the Russians were up to, but we were waiting for permission to enter. Our worst fears were confirmed..."
  
  "I gave you an order, McLanahan."
  
  "Sir, the Russians are packing up and moving the laser and their radar out of Soltanabad as we speak," he said. "If they are allowed to slip away, this laser will become a huge threat to every spacecraft, satellite and aircraft in our inventory. There are only a few minutes left before the launch, and it will all be over in less than a minute. Only four high-precision missiles with kinetic warheads - no collateral damage. It will remove components that have not yet been moved. The Russians can't complain about the attack, because then they would admit to sending troops to Iran to kill the Americans, so there would be no international reaction. If we can send Bujazi's troops there to begin a forensic examination as soon as possible after the attack, we might find evidence that...
  
  "I said deploy those bombers, McLanahan," the President said. "That's an order. I'm not going to repeat myself. This conversation is recorded and witnessed, and if you do not comply, it will be used against you in your court martial."
  
  "Sir, I understand, but I ask you to reconsider," Patrick pleaded. "Five astronauts aboard the spaceplane were killed. They are dead, torn apart by this laser. It was an act of war. Unless we get direct evidence that Russia has launched direct offensive military action against the United States of America, they will get away with murder and we will never be able to avenge their deaths. And if we don't destroy, damage or disable this laser, it will show up somewhere else and kill again. Sir, we must...
  
  "You are violating a direct order from the Commander-in-Chief, General McLanahan," the President interrupted. "I'm giving you one last chance to comply. Do this and I'll let you retire quickly and quietly, without a public hearing. Refuse and I will strip you of your rank and send you to prison for hard labor for life. Do you understand me, general? Last chance...what will it be?-"
  
  There are six minutes left. Can he get out of trouble with a "squeaky radio"? He decided that now he was far, far beyond that line: he had no choice. Patrick interrupted the transmission. Ignoring the stunned expressions on the faces of the technicians around him, he said, "McLanahan calls Luger."
  
  "Just got on the phone with the secretary of defense, Mook," Dave said from Elliot Air Force Base through their subcutaneous global transceiver system. "He ordered the immediate recall of the vampires."
  
  "My phone call is superior to yours, mate: I just got a message from the president," Patrick said. "He ordered the same. He offered me a nice quiet retirement or a lifetime of breaking big rocks into small ones at Leavenworth."
  
  "I will convert them-"
  
  "Negative... They continue," Patrick said. "Bomb that base to hell."
  
  "Mook, I know what you're thinking," Dave Luger said, "but it might be too late. The latest satellite image shows that at least a quarter of the vehicles have already disappeared, and that was more than ten minutes ago. In addition, we have already run out of fuel on the vampires, and there is a fuel emergency - they may not reach the tanker before they go out. It's a win-win scenario, Mook. It's not worth risking your career and your freedom. We have lost this. Let's back off and get ready to fight the next one."
  
  "'Next' could be an attack on another spaceplane, a satellite, a spy plane over Iran, or the Armstrong space station itself," Patrick said. "We have to stop this, now."
  
  "Too late," Luger insisted. "I think we missed it."
  
  "Then we'll leave them a little business card in the rearview mirrors if that's the best we can do," Patrick said. "Grab him."
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  "He's going to what?"
  
  "You heard me, Leonidas," the President of the United States said over an Air Force One hotline, just minutes after communications with the space station were cut - he had to drop a string of epithets within a full sixty seconds of as the line cut off before he could talk to anyone else. "I think McLanahan is going to launch an air strike on a place called Soltanabad in northeast Iran. He insists that you set up a mobile anti-space laser there and used it to shoot down his Black Stallion spaceplane just a few minutes ago."
  
  Russian President Leonid Zevitin was furiously typing instructions on a computer keyboard to Russian Air Force Chief of Staff Darzov, warning him of an impending attack and ordering him to take fighter jets into the air to try to stop American bombers. "It's incredible, Joe, just incredible," he said in his most convincing, sincere, indignant tone. "Soltanabad? In Iran? I have never heard of this place! We don"t have any troops anywhere in Iran other than those guarding our temporary embassy in Mashhad and that"s there because our embassy in Tehran has turned into hell and Mashhad is now the only safe place in the whole country thanks to Bujazi."
  
  "I'm just as stunned as you are, Leonidas," Gardner said. "McLanahan must have gone mad. He must have suffered some sort of head injury when he had that heart attack. He's unstable!"
  
  "But why is an unbalanced officer flying supersonic bombers and hypersonic missiles, Joe? You may not be able to get to McLanahan, but you can shut down his activities, right?"
  
  "Of course I can, Leonid. This is being done as we speak. But these bombers can fire multiple missiles. If you have any forces on the ground, I suggest that you withdraw them as soon as possible."
  
  "I thank you for calling Joe, but we don't have forces in Iran, period." He noticed that there was still no answer from Darzov - hell, he better get that laser out of there, otherwise their game would be over. "And we certainly don't have some magical super-laser that can shoot down a spacecraft orbiting the Earth at seventeen thousand miles per hour and then vanish like smoke. The United Nations investigated these reports last year and came up with nothing, remember?"
  
  "I guess they said there were inconclusive results because-"
  
  "Because President Martindale wouldn't let them interview anyone in Dreamland, and Boujazi and his crazy rebel rebels wouldn't let them access the wreckage or the supposed location where the laser was supposedly installed," Zevitin said. "The bottom line is, there's not a single shred of evidence pointing to some goddamn super-laser. McLanahan is apparently creating fear in Congress, in the media and among the American public in order to keep his costly and dangerous covert programs afloat."
  
  "Well, it will be stopped very quickly," Gardner said. "McLanahan is done. That bastard hung up and ordered the attack to continue."
  
  "Hung up?" It was perfect, Zevitin thought happily. McLanahan was going to be not only removed, but also portrayed as crazy ... his own commander in chief! No way were his supporters in the army or Congress going to support him now! He suppressed his glee and continued in a low, ominous voice, "This is crazy! Is he crazy? You cannot let this continue! This unbalanced, rebellious man must be stopped, Joe. You make a lot of people here really scared. Wait until the Duma and Cabinet hear about another hypersonic missile attack in Iran. They are going to put in their pants."
  
  "Convince them not to worry, Leonidas," Gardner said. "McLanahan is finished, as is his private military."
  
  "Turn it off, Joe," Zevitin insisted. "Stop it all - the space station, those hypersonic missiles, the drone bombers with their death-radiating beams - before it's too late. Then let's come together and present to the world a united, peaceful, cooperating front. This is the only way we are going to ease the tension here."
  
  "Don't worry about anything," Gardner insisted. "Just in case your Caspian Sea ships happen to be nearby, you could let them know that the bombers can launch high-speed missiles."
  
  "Joe, I'm concerned about the backlash in Iran if these missiles hit the area," Zevitin said. "The last thing I remember is that this base was used by the Red Crescent to deliver humanitarian aid, and United Nations monitors -"
  
  "Oh no," Gardner groaned. "It's a fucking nightmare."
  
  "If McLanahan blows up this base, he will kill dozens, possibly hundreds of innocent civilians."
  
  "Damn," Gardner said. "Well, I'm sorry, Leonid, but McLanahan is out of control at the moment. There is nothing more I can do."
  
  "I have one radical suggestion, my friend - I hope you don't think I'm crazy," Zevitin said.
  
  "What do you have for-?" And then Gardner stopped, because he soon realized it himself. "You mean you ask my permission to-?"
  
  "That's the only way, Joe," Zevitin said, almost unable to contain his astonishment at the direction this conversation was taking. "You know it, and I know it. I don't believe that even a jaded schizoid like McLanahan would ever dare launch rockets at a humanitarian aid airfield, but I can't think of any other way to stop this madness, can I?" There was no answer, so Zevitin quickly continued: "Besides, Joe, the bombers are unmanned, right? No one will be harmed on your part and we will save many lives." There was a very long pause. Zevitin added, "Sorry, Joe, I shouldn't have come up with such a crazy idea. Forget what I said-"
  
  "Wait, Leonidas," Gardner interrupted him. A few moments later: "Do you have any jets nearby, Leonid?" he heard the question of the President of the United States.
  
  Zevitin almost doubled over, not believing his ears. He swallowed his shock, quickly regained his composure, then said, "I don't know, Joe. I'll have to ask my Air Force Chief of Staff. We usually patrol the area, of course, but since our MiG was shot down by a McLanahan bomber with an EMP T-shaped nuclear launcher, we have retreated a little."
  
  "I understand," Gardner said. "Listen to me. My national security adviser informed me that the bombers had taken off from Batman Air Base in Turkey and were no doubt heading straight for a launch point over the southern Caspian Sea. We can't tell you more because we just don't know."
  
  "I understand," Zevitin said. He could hardly believe it - Gardner had actually told him where the bombers had started from and where they were heading!
  
  "We also don"t know their weapons, but we assume that they have the same hypersonic cruise missiles that they used before, so the launch point is a couple of hundred miles from Soltanabad."
  
  "I agree with your assumptions, Joe," said Zevitin, trying to hide the surprise in his voice and remain calm and serious. "We can look for them where you suggest. But if we find them... Joe, should I continue? I think this is the only way to avoid disaster. But it should be your decision, Mr. President. Tell me what you would like me to do."
  
  Another pause, but shorter this time: "Yes, Leonidas," Gardner said, clearly overcome with intense anger. "I hate to do this, but that McLanahan bastard left me no choice."
  
  "Yes, Joe, I understand and agree," Zevitin said. "What about the T-wave weapon? Will they use it again to attack our fighters?"
  
  "You have to assume that they will do it and start the attack from the maximum distance," Gardner said. "I'm sorry, but I can't control it either."
  
  "I know that this is not your doing, my friend," Zevitin said as solemnly as he could, despite his jubilation. Damn it, now this guy was giving him suggestions on how to successfully attack his own people! "We will do our best to prevent a catastrophe. I will contact you soon with updates."
  
  "Thank you very much, my friend."
  
  "No, thank you for the responsible notice, my friend. I don't know if I can make it in time, but I will do my best to avoid making the awkward situation worse. Wish me good luck. Goodbye." Zevitin hung up the phone...then suppressed the urge to have a little victory dance around the table. He grabbed the receiver again and asked to be connected to Darzov immediately. "Status, General?"
  
  "We are moving as fast as we can," Darzov said. "First of all, we are prioritizing the main components - radar, laser camera and adaptive optics. Fuel tanks and power generators will have to wait."
  
  "Do you have any fighters patrolling over the Caspian, General?"
  
  "Of course, sir."
  
  "Are you following American B-1 bombers?"
  
  "I have a whole squadron of MiG-29s in the air to try and keep up with them," Darzov said. "Unmanned Vampires are much faster than conventional B-1 Lancers, so we have equipped several fighters with Molniya missiles adapted to operate at a reduced range using the MiG-29 fire control radar. They might be able to shoot down their hypersonic strike missiles if they can be fired-"
  
  "I have just received permission from the President of the United States for you to shoot down the bombers," Zevitin said happily.
  
  "Did the President of the United States order us to shoot down his own bombers?"
  
  "He doesn"t consider them his bombers-to him they are McLanahan bombers now, and they might as well be invading Martians," Zevitin said. "Do it. Shoot them down... but after they launch their missiles."
  
  "After?" Darzov asked incredulously. "Sir, if we can"t get our equipment out in time, or if they target Phanar"s main components, we could lose billions of rubles of precious equipment!"
  
  "Do your best, general," Zevitin said, "but let those missiles launch and hit the base. Do you have shielding tools in place as we discussed earlier?"
  
  "Yes, sir, of course," Darzov replied. "But we also have..."
  
  "If any part of the Phanar is hit, your first priority is to get it out of there while you continue to prepare the ground as planned," Zevitin continued breathlessly, "because a few minutes after the missiles hit, I'm going to tell the whole world about it . The world's media will want to see it for themselves, and it's important that they see it right away. Do you understand me, general?"
  
  "Yes, sir," Darzov replied. "I will do as you ask. But I hope we don't sacrifice our most important assets for the purposes of simple public relations."
  
  "You will do what I tell you, for any reason I think of, General, whether you understand it or not," Zevitin snapped. "Just make sure that when the media hits Soltanabad - and I'm going to work really hard to make that happen - they see nothing but senseless destruction or I'll blow your ass off. Am I being clear?
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  "Sir, we're picking up the locator beacon signal!" Shouted Master Sergeant Lucas from her post in the Armstrong Space Station Command Module. "It's from the passenger module."
  
  "Oh my God, they did it," Patrick said breathlessly. "Is there any data yet?"
  
  "Nothing yet... Yes sir, yes we are receiving location and environmental data!" Lucas said. "She is whole! Stabilizers are deployed and everything is under computer control! Telemetry reports that the passenger module is still under pressure!"
  
  "Good God, this is a miracle," Patrick said. "Moulin and Terranova must have ejected the module just before the Black Stallion was destroyed. Rebecca -"
  
  "We are preparing two more vampires for launch to provide air cover for the evacuation," said Rebecca Furness. "They'll be in the air in twenty minutes."
  
  "Dave-"
  
  "Right now we are in talks with Special Operations Command about launching a CSAR mission from Afghanistan, Muk," said Dave Luger. "Once we know where they can land, they will launch. We hope they land in western Afghanistan. At the air base in Herat, the Pave Hawk is on standby. We're trying to reassign a pair of Predators and Reapers to fly over the area." The MQ-1 Predator and MQ-9 Reaper were unmanned reconnaissance aircraft, each configured to carry air-to-surface strike missiles; both were controlled via satellite from control stations in the United States.
  
  "Sixty seconds to launch," Dave Luger reported. "Airspeed returns to one and two tenths of Mach." He was alone at the command console in Batman, but he still lowered his voice, as if he didn't want anyone else to hear as he continued, "Musk, now is the perfect time to deploy them."
  
  "Go on," Patrick McLanahan replied.
  
  His voice sounded just as determined and confident as when he first made the decision to attack-it at least made him feel a little better. If Patrick showed the slightest hesitation in his decision, Dave vowed that he would deploy the bombers on his own to make sure the planes made it to the refueling checkpoint and also save Patrick's career.
  
  In a few seconds it would be too late...
  
  Over the command network, he said: "I understand you, Odin, I understand you, continue. Forty five seconds. No threats, no surveillance radar. Flight speed is stable at Mach 2. Thirty seconds...twenty...ten, doors open on Headbanger Two-One...rocket one goes...doors open on Two-Two...rocket two leaves, doors close...rocket one moving away from Two-Two ... missile two leaving, doors closing, flight safe, heading west towards ARIP."
  
  "How are the vampires doing with fuel, Dave?" Patrick asked.
  
  "We will do it-with difficulty," Luger replied. "If the connection goes smoothly, Two-One will be able to climb the boom, refuel with spare fuel, turn off the cycle, and Two-Two will start refueling, and he will have ten minutes to drain the tanks."
  
  "Good job, Cutthroat," Patrick breathed out in obvious relief. No response from Rebecca Furness-it wasn't over, at least not anytime soon, and he knew she was still angry that her decision had been overturned.
  
  "Thirty seconds to impact ... Airborne speed ten point seven mach, all green ... Scramjet engine burnout, warhead coasting ... Flight controls active and responsive, steering OK ... twenty TGs , the data link is active". All of them watched as a composite mmradar and infrared image came to life, showing Russian transport planes and helicopters on the runway, several rows of people passing boxes and packages from different parts of the base to waiting trucks, several large buildings of an unidentified appearance on trailers ...
  
  ... and several large tents with clearly visible Red Cross and Crescent logos on the roofs. "Jesus!" Dave Luger gasped. "They look like humanitarian aid tents!"
  
  "Aim at the big trailers and portable buildings!" Patrick shouted. "Stay away from these tents!"
  
  "We got it, Odin," Rebecca said. She had command override authority and could take control of the targeting from the weapons officer, but she didn't need to - the weapons officer smoothly aimed the reticle on the four largest trailers. SkySTREAK millimeter-wave radar was able to view the outer steel skin of each truck and confirmed that the trailers under the reticle were indeed tight, not hollow or less tightly packed, as might be the case with a partially empty cargo trailer. Otherwise, the trailers all looked the same and were looked after by the same number of workers.
  
  "Five seconds... targeting locked... launcher initiated." The final image from the SkySTREAK missiles showed almost direct hits on the center of each trailer...all but one, which deviated from the target and landed in an empty spot somewhere near the target trailer. A computer assessment of the area of damage, about fifty feet in diameter, showed nothing but a few soldiers with rifles and boxes, and perhaps one lone person standing nearby, probably a warden - the fire did not touch any of the relief tents. "Looks like one missed, but it ended up in a clearing next to the trailer."
  
  "Nice shot, Cutthroat," Patrick said. "Those trailers looked identical to the ones that attacked Stud One-One."
  
  "They looked like a billion other trailers around the world - there's no way of knowing what we've got, sir," Rebecca Furness said with obvious annoyance in her voice. "We haven't seen any radar arrays or anything that looks like laser fuel storage tanks or laser optics. We could hit anything...or nothing."
  
  "Our first priority is to organize an operation to rescue the passenger module and search for any wreckage and remains of the Black Stallion and its crew," Patrick said, ignoring Furness's annoyed remarks. "I want the combat force team to be immediately sent to Afghanistan along with all the support aircraft that we have available. I want drones and NIRTSats ready to deploy immediately to search all possible trajectories for survivors or debris. Revoke all the resources we have to search. I want the progress update to be in one hour. Do you hear, Thug?"
  
  "Be ready, Odin," Rebecca replied, concern in her voice. Patrick immediately returned his attention to the mission status monitors...and immediately saw a new threat: a swarm of missiles raining down on the Vampire bombers. "We conducted a long-range sweep with LADAR after the turn and spotted them," she said. LADAR, or laser radar, was a system of electronic laser emitters embedded throughout the fuselage of Vampire bombers that instantly "painted" a high-resolution image of everything around the aircraft at a distance of one hundred miles, then compared the three-dimensional picture with a catalog of images for immediate identification. "Look at the speed of these things-they must be moving faster than Mach 7!"
  
  "Countermeasures!" Dave Luger shouted. "Knock them out of the sky!"
  
  But it soon became clear that it was too late. Traveling at over fourteen miles per second, the Russian missiles covered the distance long before the microwave emitters of the Vampire bombers could activate, lock in, and disable their guidance systems. Three of the four hypersonic missiles landed direct hits, sending both bombers quickly spiraling into the Caspian Sea.
  
  "Damn it," Dave swore. "Looks like the Russians have a new toy for their MiGs. Well, I guess we don't have to worry about the bombers getting to their tanker, do we, Rebecca?"
  
  "We've just lost a quarter of our remaining B-1 bombers, Dave," radioed Rebecca Furness from Battle Mountain AFB. "This is no laughing matter. We only have two vampires in Batman right now.
  
  "Get them in the air to provide air cover for the CSAR guys from Herat, Rebecca," ordered Patrick. "Use active LADAR to scan for intruders. If anyone comes within a hundred miles of your planes, fry them."
  
  "With pleasure, Mook," said Rebecca. "I'm ready for a little payback. They will be ready to taxi in about fifteen." But after only a few minutes, she called back: "One, this is Headbanger, we have a problem. Security forces are parked in front of the hangar preventing the Vampire from taxiing out. They are ordering us to shut down or they will put the plane out of action."
  
  Patrick was instantly on a secure videoconference line, but was preceded by an incoming call: "General McLanahan, you are either insane or suffering from some kind of mental disorder," Defense Secretary Miller Turner said. "This is an order directly from the commander-in-chief: withdraw all your forces immediately. You are removed from command. Am I being clear?
  
  "Sir, one of my Black Stallion spaceplanes was shot down by a Russian anti-satellite laser based in eastern Iran," Patrick said. "We have indications that the passengers may have survived. I want air cover..."
  
  "General, I sympathize, but the president is furious and won't listen to any argument," Turner said. "For God's sake, you hung up! Do you expect him to listen to you now?"
  
  "Sir, the passenger module is intact and will be on the ground in less than fifteen minutes," Patrick said.
  
  "What? Do you mean that someone ejected from the spaceplane...?"
  
  "The passenger module is being dropped and is intended to be used as a lifeboat for space station crew members," Patrick explained. "It can survive a re-entry, fly itself to the landing site, glide safely to land, and rescue the crew. The module is intact, sir, and we hope the crew is safe. We're targeting a possible landing zone right now, and once we figure out the exact landing site, we can send a rescue team there right away - that's the only advantage we'll have over the enemy. But it would take at least ninety minutes for the rescue team and air cover to arrive at the recovery area. We must start immediately."
  
  "General, you have already violated direct orders from the president," Turner said. "You are already on your way to prison, do you understand that? Don't make it worse by arguing. Last Time: Lights Out. I order General Backman to take command of all your forces. I am telling you-"
  
  "And I tell you, sir," interrupted Patrick, "that most of the Middle East and Central Asia saw the Black Stallion fall to Earth, and the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, al-Quds forces, all the terrorists who flooded Iran after military coup, and the Russians will probably be on their way to the crash site to take whatever they can find. We need to get all the aircraft and the combative search and rescue team in the air as possible to find survivors before the enemy does."
  
  "Central Command will coordinate this, McLanahan, not you. You are ordered to retreat. Take no further action at all. You won't do or tell anyone. You are relieved of your command and will be placed under arrest as soon as you can leave this station."
  
  For the second time that day, Patrick hung up on a civilian military leader. His next call was directly to General Kenneth Lepers, the four-star army general in charge of US Central Command, the main combatant command that controls all military operations in the Middle East and Central Asia, to try to convince him to let the bombers take off.
  
  "General McLanahan, your ass is in real danger right now," the deputy lepers said. "The General has been ordered not to speak to you and this call will be reported to the Secretary of Defense. I advise you to settle this matter with SECDEF before the whole world cuts you off." And he hung up.
  
  Patrick's next call was to Rebecca Furness at Battle Mountain Air Force Base. "I was just about to call you, sir," Rebecca said. "I'm sorry about the Black Stallion. I wish we could do more."
  
  "Thank you, Rebecca. I'm sorry about your vampires."
  
  "It's not your fault, sir." It was, she reminded herself: if he hadn't ordered the launch on this unauthorized mission, she would still have her bombers. But the Vampires were unmanned and the Black Stallion wasn't, so she didn't feel the need to rub salt in the wound. "We had to scan for bandits - I made the decision to act absolutely silently. I do not know how the Russians found out about our arrival and when, but they will return everything in full, I guarantee that " .
  
  "Are you still getting stopped by the sky cops?"
  
  "I confirm. We have disengaged as ordered and are holding our positions inside the hangar."
  
  Patrick thought for a moment; then: "Rebecca, I tried to call General Lepers at CENTCOM to get his permission to launch Vampires, but he won't talk to me. I would guess that if I tried to call STRATCOM I would get the same answer."
  
  "Cannon is a good guy," Rebecca commented. "The rest think you're after their work." Or nuts, she added to herself.
  
  "If we don't get some air cover, the Pasdarans will tear our guys and possibly the CSAR troops apart," Patrick said. "I 'm going to get these security forces out of the hangar. I want you to be ready to launch as soon as they leave. "
  
  "But you said the Lepers wouldn"t talk to you, and you haven"t talked to SENTAFF yet, so who"s going to-?" Furness was silent for a moment, then simply said, "This is crazy. sir".
  
  "The question is, Rebecca: will you launch?"
  
  The pause was very, very long; just when Patrick was about to repeat himself or wondered if Furness was dialing the secretary of defense on the other line, she said, "Get them out of the way of my ships, general, and I'll launch."
  
  "Thank you, General." Patrick hung up, then spoke, "One calls Genesis."
  
  "Keep going, Mook," Dave Luger replied through their subcutaneous global transmitter.
  
  "Get those security guys away from the bombers."
  
  "They've moved, Mook. Exit. Luger turned to his command radio, "Saber, this is the Genesis."
  
  
  BATMAN AIRBASE, REPUBLIC OF TURKEY
  IN THE SAME TIME
  
  
  "Saber is copying Genesis, go ahead," said Air Force First Lieutenant James "J.D." Daniels, commander of the Combat Forces Ground Operations Team codenamed Saber. Daniels was sent to Batman Air Force Base to secure the EB-1C Vampire bombers. and also because the base was an isolated, well-equipped place to train with new CID pilots in real-world scenarios.As a technical sergeant, the thirty-year-old tall, brown-eyed, brown-haired son of an Arkansas rancher was one of the first Combat Force commandos to be tested in as an infantry cybernetic device pilot.After being wounded from radiation sickness while fighting at the Yakutsk Air Base in Russia after the Holocaust in AMERICA, Daniels used his recovery time to complete his bachelor's degree, then entered the Officers' Training School and received an officer's rank.He was now a senior officer training and, with the exception of Charlie Turlock herself, a permanent expert on the CID weapons system.
  
  "I have a task for you, Saber, but you may not like it," Dave Luger said. "One wants to launch vampire bombers."
  
  "Yes, sir. A minute ago, we were ready to take off, but the guys from the Security Forces appeared in the hangar, and the planes closed by themselves. The base commander has ordered us to assist the security forces and protect them from any remotely controlled actions on your part against the aircraft. We have confirmed the orders. Sorry sir. What exactly do I not like?"
  
  "One of our spaceplanes was shot down in eastern Iran and there are survivors. We need air cover for a rescue mission. The NCA still says no. We still want to launch the vampires."
  
  "Why is the NCA not approving the mission, sir?"
  
  "I don't know why, Saber, but we think the NCA is concerned that our actions against Iran are instilling fear and intimidation for everyone in the region."
  
  "Sir, I have received a confirmed order to retreat - both us and the Vampires. The base commander ordered us to help keep you safe. You are asking me to disobey these orders."
  
  "I know, Saber. I cannot order you to disobey valid orders. But I tell you that the spaceplane survivors will be caught and captured or killed if we do nothing."
  
  "Who shot down the spaceplane, sir?"
  
  "We believe the Russians did it, Saber."
  
  "Yes sir," said Daniels. It was enough for him. Daniels spent a year in the hospital recovering from radiation poisoning that occurred when the Russian Air Force used tactical nuclear weapons to destroy their own Yakutsk air base, which was being used by McLanahan and the air force to track down and destroy Russian mobile intercontinental ballistic missiles that were preparing to deliver a second nuclear attack. attack on the United States. He endured severe dehydration, nausea for days on end, incredible pain, and eventually a liver transplant - but he survived, won the right to return to active duty, retrained for field operations, returned to the fighting force, and assumed command of the Criminal Investigation Group.
  
  He won, then lost, then took back everything he ever wanted to do in his life except one thing: avenge what the Russians did to him, his comrades, and his own people in Yakutsk.
  
  "Are you still there, Saber?"
  
  "I'm sorry, sir, but I have an order," Daniels said in a deep, monotonous voice, quite different from his usually energetic, upbeat tone. "If these planes moved, my team and I would do everything in our power to protect the security forces from harm. Good night, sir."
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Genesis calls Headbanger."
  
  "Go on, Dave," Rebecca Furness replied.
  
  "Get ready."
  
  "I can not. My ground crews say the sky police are still blocking the hangar and taxiways."
  
  "Anyway, be prepared."
  
  "Did you order your guys to take out the sky cops?"
  
  "No, ma'am, I didn't. The base commander ordered the combat force group to assist the security forces and protect them from unauthorized aircraft movement, and this is what they will do."
  
  This is crazy, Rebecca told herself for the hundredth time, absolutely crazy. She turned to her operations officer, Brigadier General Daren Mace, "Daren, fire them up and send the vampires out immediately." She closed her eyes and imagined herself standing before a court-martial, sentenced to imprisonment for the rest of the best years of her life; then, thinking of her fellow airmen on the ground in Iran being pursued by the Pasdarans and Muslim rebels, she opened her eyes and said, "No way to stop."
  
  "Yes, ma'am," Mace said. He adjusted the microphone on his headphones and said, "Thug, fire them up and fire them up now. Stop for nothing. I repeat, stop for nothing."
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  "I confirm, Panther, the Armed Forces are still working, both aircraft," the head of the Air Force Security Group reported to the headquarters of the NATO base. It was creepy enough that the APU would start and stop on its own, but ten times more creepy when the engines did the same. The crew commanders and assistants of each aircraft were outside the hangars, according to the order of the base commander.
  
  "This is Panther. Connect the fucking senior crew commander," ordered the base commander, a colonel in the Turkish army, in very good English.
  
  "Get ready, Panther." The SF officer handed over his radio to the chief of the crew, an Air Force technical sergeant. "He's the base commander, and he's on edge."
  
  "Technician Sergeant Booker listening, sir."
  
  "I ordered these planes to be shut down, and I mean completely shut down - the Armed Forces too."
  
  "Yes sir, I know, but you also ordered us not to turn on the ground power units, and without power, the command center on Battle Mountain can"t talk to the planes, so I think that"s why the APU-"
  
  "Sergeant, I am giving you a direct order: I want these planes to come to a complete stop, immediately, or I will have you arrested!" the base commander shouted. "I don't care that no one can talk to the planes - I don't want anyone to talk to the planes! Now disable those APUs, and do it now! "
  
  "Yes, sir," Booker said, and returned the radio to the SF officer.
  
  "First detail here, Panther."
  
  "I just ordered this tech sergeant to completely disable these aircraft, including the APU - the power plants in the tail," the base commander said. If they do not obey immediately, place them all under arrest." Mallory swallowed hard, then gestured to his team members, a sign that read "Get ready for action." "Do you understand me, First Squad?"
  
  "Yes sir, I know."
  
  "What is this tech sergeant doing right now?"
  
  "He walks up to the other crew leaders...he points to the planes...they put on gloves like they're getting ready to go to work."
  
  They were obviously in no hurry, the security officer thought, the Colonel was going to have a shitty fit if they didn't get their rear lines in order. Of course, a few moments later, the base commander called: "What the hell are they doing? Are these planes closed already?"
  
  "The answer is no, sir. They're just standing there talking right now, sir," Mallory replied. "One of them has a walkie-talkie and the other has a checklist. Maybe they are discussing closing the APU from here."
  
  "Well, go and find out why they take so damn long."
  
  "Understood, Panther. Get ready." He holstered the radio and went to the crew commanders. Three male and one female crew commanders saw him approaching... and then, without looking back, headed for the hangar of their final unit, which served as the headquarters of the Air Force. "Hey, you assholes, get back here and turn off these power units, Colonel's order." Just when he was about to yell at them again, to his complete surprise, they started running towards the hangar! "Where the hell are you going?" he shouted. He pulled his radio from its holster. "Panther, crew leaders are running towards their headquarters building!"
  
  "What are they?" shouted the commander of the base. "Arrest those sons of bitches!"
  
  "Understood, sir. Break. Control Squad One, Red Alert, Boost Zone Alpha Seven, repeat, Red Alert, Alpha-" Then Mallory heard a sound much louder than the APU, and a moment later realized what it was. His hand was trembling, he raised the radio again: "Control, unit one, be aware, the items in the Alpha Seven hangars are starting the engines, I repeat, starting the engines! Request alert on Code Nine-Nine, full response, repeat, full -"
  
  And then he saw them coming out of the hangar that the crew commanders had just run up to, racing like midfielders from hell... And he almost fell backwards in shock, surprise and a frantic attempt to get the hell out of there. He had seen them before, of course, but usually they just walked or were folded or turned around next to a truck or helicopter - and never ran straight at him!
  
  "Sabers four and five answer!" one of the robots controlled by cybernetic infantry devices said in a loud, computer-synthesized voice. "Say status!" Mallory was still on all fours, cowering in terror, as the first robot ran straight towards him. Both surrounded him in a matter of moments. They were wearing huge backpacks and had what looked like grenade launchers slung over their shoulders, pointing straight at him. "Group leader, I repeat: report status!"
  
  "I... uh... the bombers... They started the engines!" Mallory stuttered. The muzzle of the grenade launcher was only a few feet from his nose. "Get that weapon out of my face!"
  
  The robot ignored the order. "They already taxied out?" the robot yelled at him. Mallory couldn't answer. "Five, report to Alpha Seven-Two, I'm taking over Alpha Seven-One. Protect the security force units." The second robot nodded and ran away, just like a soccer player escaping from the crowd, except that he disappeared in the blink of an eye. "Are you injured, group leader?"
  
  "I...no," Mallory said. He struggled to his feet. "Infiltrate these hangars and find some way to disable these..."
  
  At that moment, they heard an incredibly loud roar of aircraft engines and a monstrous release of jet exhaust from the open rear of both occupied shelters. "Bombers are taxiing out!" - said the robot. "Fifth, the bombers are moving! Protect the security forces!"
  
  "No! Stop the bombers! Find some way...!" But the robot has already sped off to the entrance to the hangar. Well, he thought, the bombers weren't going anywhere, and if for some reason the Hummers didn't stop them, the robots certainly could. "Unit number one, CID units are heading inside the hangars. Help them if you can, but keep an eye on them and let them know if-"
  
  At that moment, Mallory saw an object flying out of a nearby hangar. At first he thought it was a cloud of smoke, or perhaps some kind of explosion... and then, a second later, he realized that it was the Hummer that was standing inside, blocking the hangar! A moment later, the robot ran out of the hangar, clutching a security officer in each hand, carrying him out as easily as someone could carry a beach towel. Right behind him, a B-1 bomber took off from the hangar and raced down the throat to the main taxiway.
  
  "What the hell is going on?" Mallory called out. "What's happened? What are you...?" But the robot continued to approach. It grabbed the commander of the security forces group with a crushing blow and in the blink of an eye threw him a hundred yards to the side, finally knocking the three stunned officers into a heap near the security fence surrounding the squad area. The robot leaned over them, as if protecting them from something. "What the hell are you doing? Leave me alone!"
  
  "The bomber is handing over its microwave weapon system," the robot said. "I had to get the Humvee out of the hangar before it exploded, and then I evacuated you. At close range, MPW can be lethal and I had to leave or else it could have destroyed my electronics as well."
  
  "What are you talking about?" Mallory struggled to get a better look. "The second bomber is also moving! They are taxiing for takeoff!" He fumbled for the radio, realizing he'd dropped it when the robot grabbed him. "Call security!" he said to the robot. "Warn the base commander! Get units on the taxiways and runways before these things can get into takeoff position!"
  
  "Understood," the robot replied. "I'll call him and then see what I can do to stop them." And the robot stood up and disappeared, running at astonishing speed, the muzzle of the grenade launcher turning back and forth in search of targets. He climbed over the twelve-foot fence surrounding the detachment area-he had just noticed that the gate across the mouth was wide open-and was out of sight a few seconds later.
  
  "What the hell are these things doing? Who controls these things, ten-year-olds?" Mallory ran back to the first hangar and found his radio. "Control, detail one, the bombers are taxiing. Two CID units are after us. They said the bombers were transmitting some kind of microwave weapon."
  
  "Control, Knifepoint west, bombers crossing Foxtrot taxiway en route to Runway One-Nine," another security force radioed. "I park my car in the middle of the Alpha taxiway at the intersection with the hotel taxiway. I'm going to dismount. Those bastards are coming here damn fast!" Mallory and other Security Force officers ran down the throat to the main taxiway to see what was going on...
  
  ... and as soon as they reached the Alpha taxiway, they saw a Humvee take off to the north, and B-1 bombers roar past it! "Knife point to the west, Knife point to the west, do you hear?" Mallory radioed as he watched the nearly five thousand-pound Hummer hit the ground and roll across it like a child's toy. "What's happened? Say status!
  
  "Those robots threw my Hummer off the taxiway!" an officer radioed moments later. "They don't try to stop them - they help them escape!"
  
  "Those bastards!" Mallory swore. "I knew something strange was going on! Control, detail one, these robots are going into battle with our security units!"
  
  "Item number one is the Panther," the base commander interrupted. "I don't care what you have to do, but don't let those bombers get off the ground! Can you hear me? Stop those bombers! Then put this whole contingent of thugs under arrest! I want some cigarette butts and I want them now! "
  
  But as he listened, Mallory saw the first B-1 unmanned bomber lift off the ground and streak across the night sky, leaving four long afterburners in its wake, followed by a second just a few seconds later. "Ho-lee, shit," he yelled loudly as double afterburner blasts swept over him. "What the hell is going on?"
  
  It took almost a minute for the noise to die down enough for him to speak over the radio: "Control, Panther, Squad One, the bombers have started, I repeat, they have started. All available Patrol and Response units, report to the Alpha Seven Special Forces area with restraints and vehicles. Command, notify the base hospital and all command units that a special security operation has begun." His ears were buzzing, and his head seemed about to explode from tension and sheer disbelief in what had just happened. "Inform all responding units that there are two CID robots that assisted the bombers in launching and they are armed and dangerous. Do not approach the criminal investigation units, only report and observe. You hear?"
  
  The two bombers were just bright spots in the night sky, and those signals soon faded as the afterburners were turned off. It was unbelievable, Mallory told himself over and over, just unbelievable. Those Saber guys must have been nuts or high, he thought, wiping sweat from his forehead. The robot guys must have been crazy... Or maybe the robots were taken over by terrorists? Maybe they weren't the air force after all, but fucking Muslim terrorists, or maybe Kurdish terrorists, or maybe...?
  
  And then he realized that he did not think about all this, but shouted it at the top of his lungs! It seemed that his skin was about to burst into flames, and his head was ready to explode! What in the name of all that is holy was going on? He turned...
  
  ... and then he saw the outline of one of the robots, about thirty yards away, moving slowly towards him. He held the walkie-talkie to his suddenly sweating lips, "Control, unit number one, one of the CID units is heading towards me, and I'm joining the fight," he said, wiping another trickle of sweat from his eyes. "Request reinforcements, Alpha Seven and Taxiway Alpha, get reinforcements here now." He drew his pistol from its holster, but was unable to muster enough strength to lift it. The burning sensation intensified, completely obstructing his vision and causing a severe headache, the pain finally causing him to fall to his knees. "Management... Management, how do you copy?"
  
  "Sorry, Sergeant Mallory, but there is no one here right now to answer your call," he heard an unfamiliar voice. "But don't worry. You and your friends will wake up in a nice cozy cell and you won't give a damn about the whole world." The robot moved menacingly towards him, the muzzle of the grenade launcher aimed right between his eyes... but then, just before his vision was completely closed in a cloud of stars, he saw the robot wave goodbye to him with its huge armored, but incredibly lively fingers. "Good night, Sergeant Mallory," he heard over a walkie-talkie somewhere on the ground, and then everything went dark.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  "One, Headbanger, Genesis, this is Saber, we are in control of the base," Lieutenant Daniels reported a few minutes later. The non-lethal microwave emitters transmitted a strong sensation of heat, pain, disorientation, and eventually unconsciousness, but did no real harm to the human target. a booze bar, so he's not as talkative as he used to be."
  
  "Understood," said Patrick McLanahan from the Armstrong space station. "Thank you, Saber."
  
  "With pleasure, sir," Daniels replied. "Maybe we can all share a cell in Leavenworth together."
  
  "Or Supermax if we're not so lucky," Rebecca added.
  
  "We received a coded locator beacon and a status dump from the Black Stallion's passenger module," Luger said. west of Herat, Afghanistan."
  
  "God bless".
  
  "There is no indication yet if anyone has made it inside, but the module is intact and still under pressure. We have an army special forces team in Herat preparing for a rescue operation."
  
  "The bombers will reach their maximum launch position in sixty minutes, and overhead in ninety minutes, unless they are attacked again by Russian fighters," said Rebecca Furness. "This time we'll be on the lookout."
  
  "It will probably take the SWAT team the same amount of time to get to the helicopter if they get permission to launch," Luger added.
  
  "I'll talk to the commander myself," Patrick said. "I don't have many connections with the army, but I'll see what I can do."
  
  "Wait a minute, wait a minute - did you guys forget something?" Rebecca Furness intervened. "We have just captured the Turkish-NATO military base by force and ignored the direct orders of the commander in chief. You guys act like it's nothing special. They're coming for us, all of us - even the general, even though he's on the space station - and they're going to send us to jail. What do you suggest we do about it?"
  
  "I propose to rescue our crew members on the ground in Iran, then hunt down any parts of that anti-space laser that the Russians fired at us, General Furness," Patrick said immediately. "Everything else is background noise for now."
  
  'Background noise'? Are you calling the actions of the Turkish and US governments - perhaps our own military - chasing us just 'background noise'? We'll be lucky if they just send an infantry battalion to get us out of here. Are you going to continue to disregard orders and destroy anyone who gets in your way, General? Are we going to fight against our own people now?"
  
  "Rebecca, I'm not ordering you to do anything - I'm asking," Patrick said. "We have crew members in Iran, the Russians are firing lasers, and the president is doing nothing about it other than ordering us to retreat. Now, if you don't want to help, just say so, call off the vampires, and call the Pentagon."
  
  "And tell them this, Patrick - why did you make me launch these planes?" You're two hundred miles up in a space station, maybe on the other side of the planet. I'm ready, General. I screwed up. My career is over."
  
  "Rebecca, you did what you did because we have friends and fellow warriors on the ground in Iran and we wanted to save and protect them if possible," Patrick said. "You did it because you had forces standing by and ready to respond. If we had followed orders, the survivors would have been captured, tortured, and then killed - you know that, and I know that. You acted. This is more than I can say about the Pentagon and our commander in chief. If we are going to lose our freedom, I would rather it be because we were trying to make sure our fellow airmen kept theirs."
  
  Rebecca was silent for a long moment, then shook her head sadly. "I hate it when you're right, General," she said. "Maybe I can tell them that you threatened to blow me up with a Skybolt if I didn't do as you ordered."
  
  "Maybe they'll laugh so hard they'll forget what we did."
  
  "We need a plan, General," Rebecca said. "The Turks are going to send troops to take back Batman Air Base, and if they don't, there's an entire US airborne division in Germany that could fall on our heads in half a day. We've only got three CID and four Tinkers at Batman, plus security and maintenance. And we all know that Battle Mountain and probably Elliott will be next."
  
  "We need to move the Air Force to Dreamland," Patrick said. "We can hold this base much easier than Battle Mountain."
  
  "Do you hear what you're saying, Patrick?" Rebecca asked incredulously. "You conspire to organize and direct the US military against the orders of the commander in chief, illegally place them under your own command without any authority, and directly oppose and engage the US military. This is a mutiny! This is treason! You won't go to jail, Patrick - you could be executed!"
  
  "Thanks for the legal primer, Rebecca," Patrick said. "I hope it doesn't come to that. Once the survivors are rescued and the Russian anti-space laser is destroyed, or at least discovered, this will all be over. I understand if you don't want to do what I suggest, Rebecca. But if you want to take combat aircraft and help, you cannot stay on Battle Mountain. They might drive up outside to grab you while we're talking."
  
  Every participant in the secure videoconference could see the anguished look on Rebecca Furness's face. Of all of them, she probably had the most to lose in this, and it was obvious that she didn't want to. But just a moment later, she nodded. "Everything is fine. For ten cents, for a dollar - from twenty to life. Maybe the military tribunal will take pity on me because I am a woman. I'll send the planes on their way immediately, Dave. Make room for me."
  
  "Yes, ma'am," Dave Luger of Elliot Air Force Base replied. Then: "What about the personnel and equipment at Batman Air Force Base, Mook? The Turks and our own guys can wait for them to return... Unless Turkey tries to shoot them down when they enter Turkish airspace again."
  
  "I have an idea for them, Dave," Patrick said. "It will be risky, but this is our only chance..."
  
  
  PRIVATE RESIDENCE OF LEONID ZEVITIN, BOLTINO, RUSSIA
  IN THE SAME TIME
  
  
  "Calm down, Your Excellency," said Leonid Zevitin. He was in his private office with Foreign Minister Alexandra Khedrov, making phone calls and sending secure emails to military and diplomatic units around the world, alerting them to events unfolding around Iran. The phone call from Iran's Supreme Leader Hassan Mohtaz came much later than expected, but that's no doubt because it was probably very dangerous for anyone to wake the guy up with bad news.
  
  "Calm down yourself? We were attacked - and it's because of you! ' shouted Mohtaz. "I allowed you to place your weapons on my land because you said it would protect my country. She did just the opposite! Four bombs have destroyed one of the bases of my Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, and now my air defense forces tell me that American bombers are flying freely in our skies!"
  
  "There are no bombers over Iran, Your Excellency - we took care of that," Zevitin said. "Regarding your base: remember that Russia paid to refurbish and camouflage this base so we can use it temporarily, and we have agreed that it will be handed over to you after we are done with it..."
  
  "And now you are done with it because the Americans destroyed it!" Mohtaz said. "Now will you leave us a smoking hole in the ground?"
  
  "Calm down, Mr. President!"
  
  "I want anti-aircraft weapons, and I want them now!" Mokhtaz screamed. "You told me that six S-300s and a dozen more Tor-M1 missile systems were awaiting preliminary checks in Turkmenistan. How long ago was that, Zevitin? Eight, ten weeks? How long does it take to unpack a few rocket launchers, turn them on and see if all the pretty lights come on? When are you going to keep your promises?"
  
  "They will be delivered, Mr. President, don't worry," Zevitin said. He did not want to supply missiles, especially the advanced S-300 strategic air defense system, until he was sure that he could not get any new concessions from US President Joseph Gardner in return. Zevitin was perfectly willing to let Mohtaz rant and rage if he could get the Americans to agree not to send troops into Poland or the Czech Republic, or agree to veto any resolution in the United Nations that might allow Kosovo to secede from Serbia in return. These negotiations were at a critical stage, and he was not going to let Mohtaz spoil them.
  
  "I want them now, Zevitin, or you can take all your planes, tanks and radars back to Russia!" Mokhtaz said. "I want S-300 and Tor to defend Mashhad tomorrow. I want to set up an impenetrable shield of missiles around this city when I return in triumph with my exiled government."
  
  "That's impossible, Your Excellency. It takes time to properly test these advanced weapon systems before deployment. I will ask Minister Ostenkov and Chief of Staff General Furzienko to inform your military advisers about-"
  
  "No! No! No more briefings and waste of time!" Mokhtaz screamed. "I want them deployed immediately, or I will make sure the whole world knows about your duplicity! What would your American friends say if they knew that you agreed to sell Iran anti-aircraft missiles, chemical weapons and anti-personnel missiles?"
  
  "You agreed not to share any information..."
  
  "And you agreed to provide me with anti-aircraft missiles, Zevitin," Mokhtaz interjected. "Break your promises any further and we're done. Your infantry and tanks can rot in Turkmenistan, I don't care." And with that, the connection was interrupted.
  
  
  UNITED NATIONS REFUGEE CAMP TORBAT-I-JAM, IRAN
  A little while later
  
  
  "Easy, girl, you're hurt. Don't move, okay?"
  
  Captain Charlie Turlock opened her eyes...and immediately what little she had was dispelled by a cloud of stars as the pain shot through her small of back, through her spine, and into her brain. She gasped, the pain doubled, and she screamed loudly. She felt a cool hand touch her forehead. "Oh my God, my God...!"
  
  "Believe it or not, girl, your screams of pain are music to my ears," the man said, his strong Irish accent gradually becoming clearer and in a way soothing, "because if you didn"t scream like that, I would believe that your spine is broken. Where does it hurt, girl?
  
  "My back...my lower back," Charlie breathed. "It feels like... like my whole back is on fire."
  
  "On fire... It's funny, girl," the man said. "I'm not at all surprised." Charlie looked at the man in confusion. Now she could see the stethoscope dangling from his neck. He was very young, like an older teenager, with short reddish-blonde hair, bright green eyes and an ever-present smile, but there was deep concern in his eyes. The glare of the single lightbulb upstairs hurt her eyes, but she was grateful that at least her eyes were working. "Could you say that you are an angel from heaven... or maybe a fallen angel?"
  
  "I don"t understand, Doctor...Doctor..."
  
  "Miles. Miles McNulty," the man replied. "I'm not a doctor, but everyone here believes I am, and for now, that's enough for all of us."
  
  Charlie nodded. The pain was still there, but she began to get used to it and found that it even subsided a little if she moved that way. "Where are we, Mr. McNulty?" she asked.
  
  "Oh come on girl, you make me feel like an old man by calling me what they call me an old man," Miles said. "Call me Miles, or Vuz if you like."
  
  "Wootz?" I asked.
  
  "Some of the doctors gave me this nickname after I got here - I think I would get a little dizzy to see the shit that is going on here: blood, rotten water, injuries, infant death, hunger, damn evil, which who can hurt another person in the name of God," Miles said, his youthful features hard and gray for a moment.
  
  Charlie chuckled. "Sorry". She was pleased when his smile returned. "I will call you Miles. I'm Charlie."
  
  "Charlie? I know I've been here in the desert for a while, girl, but you don't look like "Charlie" to me."
  
  "Long story. Someday I will tell it to you."
  
  "Love to hear it, Charlie." He found a vial in his jacket pocket and shook out some pills. "Here. These are just OTC NSAIDs - all the painkillers I dare to give you until I do some more tests to find out if you have internal bleeding or something is broken."
  
  A large armored arm reached out and completely wrapped around the man's arm-Charlie couldn't turn her head, but she knew who it was. "I'll take a look at them first," he heard Chris Wall's electronically synthesized voice.
  
  "Ah, that speaks," Miles said. He removed his hand and the pills back. Vol unfastened his helmet, flexing his neck. "I'm sorry to say, buddy, but you looked better in a helmet," he quipped, smiling broadly until he saw Vol's warning look. He put the pills back into the vial, shook it, took one out and put it in his mouth. "I'm trying to help the lady, not hurt her." The ox let him give Charlie three pills and a sip of water.
  
  "How do you feel?" Vol asked.
  
  "It's not bad if I don't... move," she said, choking on a wave of pain. "I can't believe we made it." Vol's warning look reminded her not to talk about what they'd just been through. "How long have we been here?"
  
  "Not for long," Vol replied. "About an hour."
  
  "Where is the Third?" I asked. Wol pointed to Charlie's left. Charlie's mouth went dry instantly. Pain forgotten, she followed the gaze of the large Marine next to her...and she saw another Tin Woodman, Wayne Macomber, lying on another table next to her, as if he had been placed on a funeral stretcher. "He is dead?" she asked.
  
  "No, but he was unconscious for a while," Vol said.
  
  "I asked your comrade if there's a switch here, or a latch, or a can opener to pry it open and check - I'm not even sure if it's 'it' or the machine'.
  
  "We have to get out of here as soon as possible," Vol said.
  
  "I think I'd like to take a look at the lassi, if you don't mind," Miles said to Vol. "Ten minutes to check you out first, huh?"
  
  "Five minutes".
  
  "It's all right, it's all right." He turned to Charlie, smiling confidently. "I hate doing this when you're in pain, girl, but it will help me isolate the damaged areas. Ready?"
  
  "I think yes".
  
  "There is a girl from the game. I'm going to try not to worry you too much myself, so try to move with me as much as possible - you're the best judge of what "too much" is, right? We'll start at the head and work our way down. Ready? Go." With surprising gentleness, McNulty examined her head, turning it very carefully, leaning as low as possible with the flashlight to look behind her head and neck without causing her to turn her head too much.
  
  "Well, I don't see anything sticking out," Miles said after a few minutes. "You have a funny amount of bruises and cuts, but nothing critical yet. I have seen much worse here."
  
  "Where are you from, Miles?"
  
  "I'm from the back porch of God: Westport, County Mayo." He didn't need to specify "Ireland". "And you?" I asked. Charlie averted her eyes and lowered them, and Ox shifted his posture, not too much, just enough so that everyone was aware of his presence and did not allow the conversation to go into undesirable territory. "Ah, it's alright girl, I thought so anyway. The only whites in these parts are aid workers and spies, and you're not dressed like a nurse."
  
  "Where are we?"
  
  "You are here at Torbat-e-Jam, a United Nations refugee camp originally set up for the poor fleeing the Taliban in Afghanistan and now used by other poor fellows fleeing Muslim insurgents," Miles said. "I volunteered to help deliver a shipment of food and supplies about six months ago, but when the doctor's assistant went missing, I stayed. A doctor went missing about a month ago - if the Taliban or al-Quds need a doctor, they don't send for one, they take one - so I fill in for him until the next flight arrives. No one says when it will be, so I play document and help as best I can. I'm missing a few more than the doc, but I think I'm starting to get comfortable with it."
  
  "Make Bat-i-Jam?"
  
  "Iran," Miles said. "Here they still call it 'Iran' - the insurgency hasn't gone that far yet, so they don't call it 'Persia' yet, although the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps and al-Quds forces are getting pretty nervous, as if the rebels are on their heels. Not much, we are about sixty kilometers from the border."
  
  "Inside Iran?"
  
  "I'm afraid so, girl," Miles said. "About two hundred kilometers from Mashhad, the capital of the province of Khorasan."
  
  "God, this is the last place we want to be," Charlie groaned. She tried to get up off the hard plywood board she was lying on and nearly fainted from a surge of pain that eclipsed everything else she had felt since waking up. "I'm not sure I can still do it," she told Vol. "Where is my... briefcase?"
  
  "Right here," Vol said, without pointing out where or what they were actually talking about.
  
  "You're not in shape to go anywhere, girl, and neither is your friend-at least as far as I can tell," Miles said.
  
  "I'll do it," Charlie said. "How far are we from the crash site?"
  
  "About ten kilometers," Miles replied. "What is this thing... the Mercury Chariot? It's not exactly an airplane, is it - more like a tin can with balloons on it. He was badly burned, but intact."
  
  "How did you find us?"
  
  "It wasn"t a problem, girl - we saw you shoot through the sky and hit the Earth like lightning from Zeus himself!" Miles said, his eyes twinkling as the memory of seeing the sight returned. "Like the biggest meteor ever seen! You must have left behind you a tail of fire fifty kilometers long if it was an inch long! It was a miracle to see three human beings still recognized as such in the wreckage, and even more amazing to find you still alive! We nearly pissed our pants watching you rush straight at us - we thought the good Lord was going to end all our suffering right here and now, on the spot - but you missed. Finding you alive was nothing short of a miracle."
  
  "Unfortunately, that means the Passdarans probably saw us too."
  
  Miles nodded. "They don't show up too often, but they're definitely sniffing around in that direction, that's for sure. The sooner we get you guys out of here, the better for all of us. You must be healthy enough to travel after the pain medication has taken effect. It won't be easy, but I think you can handle it." He turned to the Tin Woodman lying next to her. "Now this gentleman, I'm still not so sure. Can you tell me how to... unlock it, unscrew it, slide the bolt back, whatever, so I can take a look and check it? "
  
  "We don't have time, Miles," Charlie said. "We'll carry it." Suppressing the pain, she managed to sit up in her bunk. "We're leaving now, Miles. I want to thank you for everything you have done for us."
  
  "I'll be sad to see you go Charlie, but honestly, I'd rather you weren't there when the Pasdaran or al-Quds thugs hunt you down here." He looked closely at Vol and the Tin Woodman's suit. "I feel like I've been reading about these things recently, haven't I? American Anti-Terrorist Organization." Charlie didn't answer. "Oh, I understand-you could have told me, but then you would have had to kill me, right?" She laughed, causing her back to throb, but she still welcomed the humor. "Okay, no more questions, Charlie. I'll go out and see if the coast is clear. Good luck girl."
  
  "Thank you". She winced in pain as she began to pull up, but the medication McNulty had given her must have taken effect, because this time the pain wasn't debilitating. After McNulty left, Charlie lowered her voice and said, "One, fourth stallion."
  
  "We hear you loud and clear, Fourth," Patrick McLanahan replied through the subcutaneous global transceiver system. Every member of the Air Force has been implanted with a communication and data transmission system in their bodies for the rest of their lives, ostensibly for situations like this, but really to allow the government to track the whereabouts of every member of the force throughout their lives. "Thank God you're alive. We read that the Fifth is with you."
  
  "I confirm that he is alive, but still unconscious," Charlie said. Wol began putting on his helmet as he prepared to leave. "I'm going to mount a horse and we -"
  
  Suddenly McNulty ran back into the tent, out of breath. "Soldiers, right outside the camp," he said desperately. "There are hundreds of them."
  
  "One, haven"t we been picked up yet?" Charlie radioed.
  
  "Man, this is Genesis," Dave Luger intervened. "We have a CSAR team on the way from Herat, within ninety minutes. We're launching cover planes from Batman Air Force Base in Turkey, but they'll take about the same amount of time. What is your situation?"
  
  "Getting tense," Charlie said. "We will call you when we are safe. The fourth stallion is out." Charlie walked over to a large box lying on the dirt floor. "Got backpacks or rifles, Five?"
  
  "Negatively," Wol replied. "Sorry".
  
  "It's all right - you've had a lot to do," Charlie said. "Let's move."
  
  Miles pointed to the large box Vol carried with him when he entered the camp. "Is this your weapon?" Now is the perfect time to take them out, girl."
  
  "Not really," Charlie said. "CID one, deployment."
  
  As Miles watched in amazement, the box began to move, rapidly changing size and shape, like a magician's wand turning into a bouquet of flowers. In a matter of seconds, the large but nondescript metal box transformed into a ten-foot-tall robot almost bursting out of the tent, with smooth black "skin," a bullet-shaped head with no visible eyes or ears, and large, fully articulated arms, legs, and fingers.
  
  "CID One, pilot," Charlie said. The robot assumed a forward leaning stance, similar to the sprinter's starting block, but with one leg and both arms extended back. Grimacing in pain, Charlie walked around the robot and climbed up on his outstretched leg, using his arms as handrails. She punched in a code on a tiny keypad somewhere behind the robot's head, a hatch on its back opened and she slipped inside. Luke closed...
  
  ... and a moment later, to the Irishman's amazement, the robot came to life and stood up, resembling an ordinary person in everything except its appearance - its movements were so smooth, fluid and realistic that Miles immediately found that he had forgotten that it was a machine!
  
  Charlie lifted the still unconscious Wayne Macomber. "Now is a very bad time to be out of it, Zipper," she said. She activated the cybernetic infantry device's millimeter-wave radar and scanned the area outside the tent. "It looks like they are trying to surround us," she said. "The south side looks like our best escape route-only one truck is parked there."
  
  "How about a slight deviation to the north and west?" Ox asked as he studied the radar image data being fed back to him by CID Charlie. "Looks like the machine gun section is deploying on the north side. I can use one of them."
  
  "Sounds tempting." She extended her fist and he hit it back with his own. "As one handsome Australian actor once said in a movie: 'Open the hell.'
  
  "I'm on the road. Better provide him with some cover." The ox ran out of the front of the tent. Charlie knocked Miles to the ground and covered him with his body just as a hail of machine gun fire blew the tent to shreds.
  
  "Jump in, Miles," Charlie's electronically synthesized voice said. Still hunched over, she pushed the motionless body in her arms to the side, far enough to create a space between her body and the Tin Woodman. He hesitated, still stunned by what he had just seen. "You can't stay here. The Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps will think you are one of us."
  
  "Can you carry both of us?"
  
  "I can carry twenty of your kind, Miles. Go." He lay across her arms and she rolled Macomber back onto him and tightened her grip, holding him securely. "Hold on."
  
  But when she got up, something was obviously wrong - Miles felt a high frequency vibration inside the car, and Charlie's gait was unsteady. "What's happened?" he screamed.
  
  "CID is damaged," Charlie said. "It must have been because of the accident."
  
  "I understand," Wol said over the radio. Charlie could see his location on her electronic visor as he moved quickly through the lines of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, stopping briefly at each troop buildup. "Get out with all your might. I will be by your side in a moment."
  
  The next few minutes were sheer torture. The ox briefly diverted some of their fire, but it returned to full strength just moments after Charlie burst out of the tent, seemingly aiming at them. The sounds were deafening. They were engulfed in clouds of smoke, occasional flashes of fire, and incessant gunfire. McNulty screamed as a bullet hit his left leg and screamed again as the devastating explosion knocked Charlie off his feet. In a few moments they were back on their feet, but now the smooth rhythm of running was replaced by an awkward limp, like a car with a flat tire and a bent rim.
  
  Ox ran alongside Charlie, in his right hand he had a Chinese Type 67 machine gun, in his left a metal can of cartridges. "Can you travel, captain?"
  
  "It's not for long".
  
  "What the hell is going on?" they heard.
  
  "Hit!" Fortunately, Macomber was awake, though his voice sounded sluggish and woozy. "Are you okay?"
  
  "I feel like my head has been split open," Macomber said hoarsely. Charlie suspected a concussion. "Am I alive?"
  
  "For now, I hope it stays that way," Charlie said. "You can go?"
  
  "Do I still have legs?" I don"t feel anything down there."
  
  "Stay where you are and try not to move - you will crush the other passenger."
  
  "Another passenger?"
  
  Charlie tried to run, but things were definitely getting worse. A rocket-propelled grenade exploded behind her, sending them flying again. "The power has already dropped to forty percent," Charlie said as Ox helped them up. "My main hydraulic system has failed and I cannot move my right leg."
  
  "Can you keep moving?"
  
  "Yes, I think so," Charlie said. Using her right leg as a crutch, she limped forward as Volk fired suppressively with his machine gun until he ran out of ammo. He was half supporting and half carrying Charlie, and they were able to climb the low ridge faster. They could easily see their pursuers below, who were slowly advancing as more and more units joined in the pursuit.
  
  Charlie lowered Macomber and McNulty to the ground, then left CID. "It's getting ready to shut down," she said. "It's done. There is just enough energy left to start erasing the firmware. As soon as we move away, it will automatically self-destruct."
  
  "They don't seem to be sure where we are," Vol said, scanning the desert below them with his night vision optics. He enlarged some details. "Let's see... Infantry... infantry... Yeah, there's one, another machine gun crew. I'll be right back ". He sped off into the darkness.
  
  Macomber struggled to his hands and knees. "Okay, I'm starting to tell up from down," he said. "Who is our guest?"
  
  "Miles McNulty, UN Emergency Relief Officer," Charlie replied, elaborating on the details.
  
  A few minutes later, Vol came running back with an even larger weapon than the first, a Russian DShK heavy machine gun with a huge drum magazine on top, as well as a wooden box with other magazines. "It looks like they brought some kind of anti-aircraft weapons with them - they were clearly expecting a company. How are you, Major?"
  
  "Excellent, Sergeant Major," Macomber replied. He looked at McNulty. Charlie was busy wrapping around his leg with a piece of cloth torn from her uniform. "The passenger is injured. Where is the cavalry?
  
  "At least sixty microphones out."
  
  "Where are we going?"
  
  "East, to the border with Afghanistan," Charlie said. "About thirty miles from here. Hilly and fairly open area. There are no towns or villages for fifty miles."
  
  "How are you doing with food, senior sergeant?" Macomber asked.
  
  "A reduction of up to thirty percent."
  
  "Here-I can"t use it yet." He unfastened one of his round batteries from his belt and replaced it with one of Vol's more depleted batteries. "Can we use the CID box to charge our batteries?"
  
  "Not when it's in off mode, Bach," Charlie said.
  
  "Can't we connect to a power source or a telephone pole?" Macomber asked. Charlie looked at him in surprise. "Hey, I've been studying these things - maybe I don't like them, but I read manuals. We're not going to follow the highway, but if we spot a breaker box or checkpoint, I think I can install a jumper. Let's start-"
  
  "I hear helicopters," Vol said. He used his night vision and enhanced hearing systems to comb the sky, pinpointing the location of an incoming aircraft. "Two light reconnaissance helicopters, about three miles from here," he said, raising a DShK machine gun.
  
  "Let's spread out," Macomber said. But he soon discovered that it was almost impossible: Charlie was still in pain from her injuries, and McNulty was badly injured and in shock, so he had to carry them both, although he was still not one hundred percent himself, so that things were moving slowly. Wol was about ten yards away from them, close enough to support them if they were attacked, but not close enough that one explosive round fired from a helicopter could destroy them all at once.
  
  They had only run a few hundred yards along the ridge when the Ox called out, "Get cover!" Macomber found the largest piece of rock nearby and hid his charges behind it, and then himself, standing between the helicopters and the rest to protect them as much as possible with his armored body. The Tin Woodman's armor system featured an electronically actuated material that remained flexible but hardened instantly upon impact with the protective shield, a hundred times stronger than sheet steel.
  
  Macomber could hear approaching helicopters through his own enhanced hearing system, but his eyes were unable to focus on the electronic displays. "I can't see them, Vol."
  
  "Stay where you are." A moment later, he opened fire with a DShK machine gun, the flash from the muzzle of a large 12.7-millimeter cannon illuminating an area ten yards in diameter around him. They heard a loud metallic screech as several bullets pierced the turbine engine of the first helicopter and held it firmly, then there was an explosion as the engine shattered into pieces. Seconds later, they heard more explosions as a second reconnaissance helicopter opened fire on Vol's position. He managed to jump to the side just in time to avoid the full force of the Iranian 40mm rocket fire.
  
  Wol opened fire on the second helicopter, but the fire soon ceased. "Stuck... Damn, cartridge stuck in chamber... won't fire." He was surprised that the gun fired as many shots as it did-it looked like it was fifty years old and hadn't been cleaned half as often. He dropped his weapons and scanned the area for other Pasdaran units nearby so he could grab another machine gun, but the three remaining units held back, blindly bombarding the ridge with occasional rifle and mortar fire, content to let the scout helicopter do a bit of the fighting for them.
  
  "The infantry units are retreating and there is still one helicopter overhead," Wohl reported. "I'm ready to throw stones." He wasn't kidding - the micro-hydraulic powered exoskeleton in the Tin Woodman combat system gave him enough power to hurl a five-pound rock almost two hundred yards with enough force to do some damage, which could put him in range of a reconnaissance helicopter if if he could rush to him, jump up and accurately time the throw. He found a rock the size of a softball and prepared to do just that...
  
  ...but then another helicopter picked up by its sensors, and this time it wasn't a small scout. He would have recognized this silhouette anywhere: "We still have problems, ma'am," Vol said. "Looks like a Mi-24 Hind helicopter is coming." The Russian-built Mi-24, NATO codename Hind, was a large attack helicopter that could also carry up to eight fully equipped soldiers inside. It carried a huge array of weapons ...
  
  ... the first of which opened fire a second later, from over three miles away. Vol immediately darted away from the rest of his team, then stopped to make sure the anti-tank guided missile was still following him. It was, and he realized that the helicopter itself was also following him, which meant that the helicopter crew had to keep an eye on him so as not to fire a missile at him. Fine. It must have been an older guided missile, probably an AT-6 direct-fire radio-controlled missile.
  
  The ox waited for another heartbeat, then charged at full speed towards the nearest group of Pasdaran ground pursuers. He could no longer see the missile, but he remembered that the AT-6's flight time was somewhere around ten seconds when fired at maximum range. This meant that he had a matter of seconds to do so. This Pasdaran unit was an armored vehicle with a heavy machine gun on top that opened fire as it approached. Several projectiles hit the target, but not enough to slow him down. Now he was between the armored personnel carrier and the helicopter-of course, Vol thought, the gunner of the Hind should have moved the missile aside. His mental stopwatch stopped at zero...
  
  ...just as an AT-6 spiral anti-tank missile crashed into a Pasdaran armored personnel carrier, turning it into an impressive fireball. The ox was thrown up from the concussion. The damn shooter from Pasdaran got so fixated on the target that he lined up and hit his own guys!
  
  Vol staggered to his feet, alive and mostly unharmed, except that his eyes and throat were clogged with oily smoke. The entire left side of his helmet, along with most of his sensors and communications, was damaged by the blast. He had no choice but to remove his helmet. The explosion also damaged his hearing, and the acrid smoke burned his eyes and throat. He was easy prey. His first step was to get away from the burning cars behind him that could illuminate him...
  
  ...but before he could move, machine gun fire pierced the ground in front of him, and a large Mi-24 Hind attack helicopter flew in front of him and stopped, the chin-mounted 30mm cannon pointed straight at him. His armor would have protected his body, but it would have been useless for him without a head. Wol had no idea if they would accept the surrender, but if they were distracted long enough, it might give the others a chance to escape, so he raised his hands. The Mi-24 began to descend for landing, and he could see the clamshell crew doors opening on both sides, and the soldiers ready to dismount as soon as the big helicopter landed ...
  
  ... and at that moment there was a flash of fire to the right of the attack helicopter, followed by a large column of smoke, more fire, an explosion and a grinding of metal, and then a large helicopter turned to the left and it crashed into the ground. The ox darted away just as the helicopter began to fall apart as a result of several more powerful explosions. He was about to return to the others when he saw several vehicles, including an armored personnel carrier, approaching. The lead car, a pickup truck with a machine gunner in the back, was flying a flag, but he couldn't see it yet. He thought about running away from where he had last left Turlock, Macomber and the Irishman... Until he saw the cars turning to his left towards cover.
  
  The ox at maximum speed rushed to the car, which was in the tail of a column of six cars, the machine gunner of which covered the rear of the formation. Other vehicles wouldn't fire at their own vehicles, and hopefully he could get to the machine gunner, disable him, and take the gun away before he could fire. Only a hundred yards left to go...
  
  ...and then he saw Turlock come out of his hiding place with his hands up. Did she give up? It might have been a good time, after all - if they'd focused on them, he'd have a better chance of getting to the last pickup truck and...
  
  ... but then, as he got closer, Vol realized that Turlock was not raising his hand in surrender, but waving at him, gesturing to come back! Why did she do it? Now she was pointing to the lead car, the one with the flag...
  
  ... and Wol finally understood what she was trying to tell him. The flag carried by the car featured the green, white and red stripes of the Islamic Republic of Iran, but the central symbol was not the "red tulip" stylized word "Allah", but the profile of a lion with a sword and the rising sun behind it - a flag representing the pre-revolutionary era and opposition to Islamists.
  
  Chris ran over to Turlock and Macomber, watching closely to make sure none of the shooters had their weapons pointed at him. "Not returning calls, Sergeant Major?" Turlock asked, pointing to her ear, pointing to his subcutaneous transceiver system.
  
  "I got a bell out there," Vol said. He nodded towards the newcomers. "Who are these guys?"
  
  "These are the Bujazi people," Charlie said. "General McLanahan did call Bujazi and ask for help."
  
  "They came right on time. Good thing they brought Stinger missiles with them."
  
  "They didn't shoot down the Hind, Sergeant Major." Charlie pointed to the sky and they saw the contrail of a very large aircraft high overhead. "Congratulations from the general. They will be at the station for another two hours."
  
  "Outstanding. This should give us enough time to cross the border."
  
  "The general suggests that we return to Tehran with these guys," Charlie said. "They'll bring a helicopter to pick us up and the Vampires will cover us."
  
  "I don't think it's such a hot idea, ma'am."
  
  "I will explain". She did... And Vol couldn't believe what he had just heard.
  
  
  CHAPTER EIGHT
  
  
  You don't keep yourself out of the world by standing guard, but by attacking and getting a good thrashing on your own.
  
  - GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
  
  
  
  CAPITOL HILL, WASHINGTON, DC.
  A little while later
  
  
  "Honestly, Brit, I don't care what the Russians say," said Senate Majority Leader Stacey Ann Barbeau. She was on the second floor of the Senate, commonly used by reporters to "spy" on senators for commentary on the way to a speech or between committee meetings. "They have been claiming all sorts of things for many months and none of them have been proven. While I consider Leonid Zevitin a capable and outspoken leader, the statements made by his Foreign Minister Alexandra Khedrov seem more blunt and pompous every time we see her on the news. President Zevitin is certainly not like that at all, which naturally brings me to the obvious question: who is telling the truth there in the Kremlin these days, and who is lying and for what purpose?"
  
  "But tomorrow there is a key vote in the Senate on funding the US military," the reporter insisted, "and in the midst of all this debate about where to spend money on the army, members of President Zevitin"s cabinet seem to take great pleasure in raising the alarm about yet another future confrontation. Are these two actions connected, and if so, for what purpose?"
  
  "I'm sure I don't know what's on the mind of a Russian, even one as pro-Western, secular and charming as Leonid Zevitin," Barbeau said. "I would think that they would like to avoid saber-rattling while we in Congress are trying to determine the right direction for the greatest military force in the world."
  
  "But this is more than just saber-rattling, Senator," the reporter continued. "There's definitely something moving, Senator, and I'm not just talking about the unrest in Iran, but American military activity, right? Simply put, ma'am: it seems we can't deviate from our own path. The civil war in Iran threatens to turn the entire Middle East into hell, and yet we are doing next to nothing but sending reconnaissance drones over the region; oil prices are skyrocketing; the economy is sinking like rock; Russia accuses us on a daily basis of killing civilians, bombing a civilian aid base in Iran, and creating turmoil and chaos around the world, especially with the Armstrong space station and our space planes; the space program seems reliable and essential one day, and completely ineffective the next. We even have the famous and well-loved three-star American general, essentially the hero of the American Holocaust, stuck in space because no one can tell us if he's healthy enough to return home. My question, madam, is what is going on in the world that the White House and the Pentagon have told Congress, and what are you going to do about it?"
  
  Barbeau gave him her most endearing, mind-blowing smile, recapturing the phrase "making love on camera" to millions of viewers as she replied, "Oh sir, what a terrible picture of doom and gloom you are painting here this morning! Let me assure you and all of you in your audience around the world that the United States Congress is working very closely with the president and his department officials not only to deal with current and future crises as they rear their ugly heads, but to chart a course for America's military that is unrivaled, forward-looking, adaptable, scalable and accessible. Less than five years have passed since the Holocaust in America, and three different governments have had to deal with the world as it became after those terrible attacks on our land. We are making progress, but it will take time."
  
  "So, tell us how you think the debate will play out, Senator. What do we have on the table?
  
  "The most important question for us right now is simply this: what forces would be best suited to replace the land-based long-range strategic bombers and intercontinental ballistic missiles that were destroyed during the Holocaust?" Barbeau replied, still beaming despite his stern, worried, determined expression. "President Thorne favored land-based and sea-based tactical air forces, both manned and unmanned, along with missile defense systems. President Martindale advocated the same thing, but, as his special adviser General Patrick McLanahan argued, also sought to "skip a generation," as he said, and create a fleet of spaceplanes that could hit any target anywhere in the world at astonishing speed, launch satellites into orbit when needed and deliver troops and equipment anywhere in the world within hours.
  
  "As a former secretary of defense, Joseph Gardner supported these ideas and encouraged the development of the Armstrong space station, the entire space-based complex and the Black Stallion spaceplane," continued Barbeau. Internet access provided by our space program has no doubt truly changed all of our lives and brought our world together-but it has also suffered a series of major setbacks. McLanahan, are not yet mature enough to serve America."
  
  "So where does this get us, Senator?" - asked the presenter.
  
  "President Gardner met with leadership and proposed a more reliable, familiar, proven combination of weapons systems," Barbeau said. "He wants to take the best concepts put forward by previous administrations and combine them into a comprehensive program to quickly create a robust force to meet the needs of the country."
  
  "And what are those concepts, Senator?"
  
  "I can't give you any details, Brit, or soon a lot of very angry gentlemen will be on my heels," Barbeau said sweetly. "But in a nutshell, we have individual services that do what services do best, that has served the nation and the world so well over the past three generations, but also takes into account changes in technology and our vision for the future: fully funded and maintain an expanded and reinforced army and marine corps as the dominant ground and special operations forces; fully support the Navy as the dominant naval and air force; and the Air Force as the dominant global support and space defense force."
  
  "The Air Force would not be the dominant air force in the US arsenal? It doesn't feel right."
  
  "Details are still to be worked out, and of course I'm sure we'll adjust and rebuild as needed to provide the absolute best force we can put together," Barbeau began, "but it seems to President Gardner and us in Congressional leadership that there is wasteful and costly duplication between the Air Force and the Navy regarding tactical air forces. It all comes down to the basic idea, Brit, that Navy planes can do everything that Air Force planes can, but Air Force planes can't do everything that Navy planes can do, which is take off and land on an aircraft carrier, which, as everyone readily admits, is the undisputed definition of power projection in the modern world."
  
  "And the president, as we all know, is a big supporter of the navy, being a former secretary of the navy."
  
  "This is a duplication of force, plain and simple, and now is the time to address this issue if we are to have a reliable, mature fighting force for the twenty-first century," Barbeau said. "We are trying to think ahead. The Air Force is the acknowledged expert in long-range strategic attack and rapid resupply, and the Navy has no such equivalent capability - it makes sense to outsource this mission to the Air Force and the Navy to train and equip tactical fighter planes for theater commanders around the world."
  
  "Will your voters in Louisiana object to this plan, senator?"
  
  "I represent the finest, most patriotic, and most paramilitary people in the country, Brit: the good people from Barksdale Air Force Base near Bossier City, Louisiana, bomber city, USA," Barbeau said. "But even staunch bomber supporters like myself have seen for years a shift coming: a shift from World War II land-based bombers to the importance of global coverage, rapid mobility, drones, space technology and, most importantly, information warfare. The Air Force has been and will continue to be a leader in these areas. We have been expecting this for years, and President Gardner and I believe the time has come to shape our twenty-first century forces with this new reality in mind."
  
  "But the battles are just getting started, aren't they, senator?"
  
  "Thanks to President Gardner's strong leadership and his unwavering promise to work closely with Congress, I think fighting will be kept to a minimum. Together we will win. The alternative is too terrible to consider."
  
  "Does this mean we will see the end of Black Stallion spaceplanes and military space stations watching us 24/7?"
  
  The Black Stallion is certainly a remarkable technological achievement, but as we have seen with a man like General McLanahan, it has its risks," said Barbeau, and a serious look of concern darkened her features for a moment. "My heart fell when I learned of General McLanahan's illness, and we're doing everything we can to get him home safely.But here's what worries me, Brit: Patrick...General McLanahan...is a powerful man.You know stories as well as and I, Brit..."
  
  "The ones in which heads of state and visiting generals urge McLanahan to tear the phone books of their respective capitals in half?" added the reporter with a laugh. "I thought it was a White House Press Office rumor."
  
  "These are not rumors, I assure you!" Barbeau exclaimed. "I've seen it with my own eyes - Patrick can tear a DC phone book in half just as easily as you or I could tear a page out of your little notebook. And yet he was still shot down by something hard to detect, diagnose, or treat, something so debilitating that it could endanger the lives of every member of our space crew. There is great concern that the injury affected more than just his heart."
  
  The reporter's mouth dropped open in surprise. "I haven't heard anything about it, Senator. Could you explain? What exactly do you mean?"
  
  "I'm sure it's all just speculation and nonsense," Barbeau said dismissively, acting as if she'd said something completely unintentional but capturing every viewer's attention by looking directly into the camera for a brief moment. "But we really need to fully understand what happened to him. We are indebted to him because he is truly a national treasure, a hero in every sense of the word.
  
  "But the fundamental question remains: can we afford to put off the military future of our country while we study this terrible catastrophe?" Barbeau asked decisively, first looking at the reporter and then straight into the camera, straight into the hearts of the viewers. "As responsible caretakers of our military, sworn to build the best possible force to protect our homeland and way of life, the answer is simple and clear: the Space Defense Force is not ready, and so we must turn to proven systems that we know will work. This is our work today, and with the cooperation of the President and the House of Representatives, we are going to do it. The American people expect nothing less from us."
  
  Stacey Ann Barbeau answered more questions from a crowd of reporters until finally the Senate press gallery staff and a Barbeau aide shooed them away and let her go. On her way to a nightly meeting in the committee conference room, she received a cell phone call: "I thought you were praising McLanahan too much, Stacey Ann," said President Joe Gardner. "His ass will soon turn into grass here."
  
  "All the more reason to sing his praises, Mr. President," said Barbeau, greeting supporters and colleagues during the walk and conversation. "I advise you to do the same, Mr. President: let your Minister of Defense, experts, Russian and anti-war media vilify him, not us."
  
  "You won't say that when you hear what just happened, Senator."
  
  Barbeau's mouth went dry instantly. "What happened, Mr. President?" she asked, turning with a puzzled expression to her assistant, Colin Morna. When they got to the conference room, Morna immediately sent everyone else out so Barbeau could talk in private.
  
  "McLanahan lost, and I mean completely," Gardner said. She caught a hint of triumph in his voice, as if he had finally got what Barbeau didn't have and was expecting some payment for sharing it with her. "His men took over the Turkish airbase, captured the base commander and most of the staff with their controlled robots, then undertook another air mission over Iran."
  
  Barbeau froze and her mouth dropped open in complete shock before she exclaimed, "What!" Her expression was so unsettling that her assistant, Colin Morna, thought she was having a heart attack. "I... I don't believe it..."
  
  "What do you think of your knight in shining armor now, Stacey?" the President asked. "But you didn't hear the best part. When the authorities sent several security units from the Incirlik Air Base to arrest McLanahan's men, they disappeared. The planes and most of their property disappeared. We have no idea where they are."
  
  "They...they must be on their way back to the States, Mr. President..."
  
  "Not that anyone knows, Stacey," Gardner said. "McLanahan stole about four experimental stormtroopers and moved them somewhere. We hope they're on their way back to Dreamland, their main base in south-central Nevada just north of Vegas. If so, McLanahan could be charged with conspiracy and sedition against the US government. How about those apples? What does your hero look like now?
  
  "I... I just can't believe it, Mr. President," Barbeau breathed. Hell, after what she just said to the media, all those nice things about McLanahan...God, this could be her undoing! "We need to meet and discuss this immediately, Mr. President. We need to develop a unified position, both for Congress and for the press."
  
  "We are getting all the information we can, and we will prepare a briefing for the leadership, which will be held first thing in the morning," the President said. "McLanahan will die, I promise you, as will his entire team. He won't be as popular after people find out what he did. We no longer have to look like we are destroying the national hero - he is destroying himself."
  
  "We need all the facts first, Mr. President," Barbeau said, her brain working feverishly as she tried to make sense of this explosive news. "Why exactly did he launch these bombers? McLanahan doesn't do anything without a reason."
  
  "It doesn't matter to me in the slightest, Stacey," Gardner said. "He disobeyed orders, ignored my authority, and now he launched military strike operations overseas, stole military equipment, moved and commanded military forces without authority, and opposed our own and allied military forces. As far as we know, he could be planning a military coup against the government or even preparing a military strike on Washington. He must be stopped!"
  
  "Whatever our answer, Mr. President, I suggest that we first find out everything we can, discuss it carefully, formulate a plan and implement it together," repeated Barbeau. "I know that the responsibility for your armed forces lies with the executive branch, but it would be easier to do what we have to do if we agreed in advance on this together."
  
  "I agree," said the President. "We should meet and discuss strategy, Senator, after we present our findings. This night. Private meeting in the Oval Office."
  
  Barbeau rolled her eyes in annoyance. The man's greatest general had just hijacked some bombers and taken over a Turkish air base, and all the man could think of was flirting with the Senate Majority Leader. But she was suddenly put on the defensive, especially after her statements to the press, and the president had the upper hand. If she wanted to have any chance of maintaining her position in the negotiations over space force assets that would no doubt be released soon, she had to play his game... for now. "The Senate is on a tight schedule, Mr. President, but I'm sure I can...squeeze you in," Barbeau said, closing the phone.
  
  "What the hell happened?" asked her assistant, Colin Morna. "You look pale as a ghost."
  
  "It might be the worst thing imaginable...or it might be the best," she said. "Set up a meeting with the president after the last meeting on the agenda tonight."
  
  "Tonight? It's five o'clock and you have a meeting at seven with a law firm that represents the defense and technology industry lobby. It was supposed to last until nine. What does the president want? What's happening?"
  
  "We all know what he has in mind with the President. Set it up."
  
  "It's going to be another late night and Armed Services Committee hearings start tomorrow, you'll be working overtime. What's so important that the President wants to meet so late? Does he still want to take McLanahan to the woodshed?"
  
  "Not just the woodshed - he wants to drive the whole damn ax into his chest," Barbeau said. She brought her up to speed quickly, and soon Morna's expression was even more stunned than her own. "I don't know exactly what happened, but I think I know McLanahan: he is the epitome of good manners. If he attacked something in Iran, he probably had intelligence that something bad was going on and didn't get the green light to fix it, so he did it himself. Gardner should encourage him, not take over. But the President wants to show that he is still in charge and in control, so he is going to destroy McLanahan." She thought for a moment; then: "We need to find out exactly what happened, but not from Gardner's point of view. We need our own information about it. McLanahan is not crazy. If we come to his aid, then perhaps we will emerge victorious in the end."
  
  "Now you want McLanahan to win, Stacey?" Morna asked.
  
  "Of course I want him to win, Colin, but I want him to win for me, not just for himself or even for the country!" Barbo said. "He is a real hero, a knight in shining armor, as Gardner put it. Gardner's pride is hurt and he doesn't think clearly. I need to find out what's on his mind, even if it means doing bad things to him whenever the first lady is on the road, but then we need to find out what really happened and plan our own strategy. I have to keep an eye on the prize, honey, which is getting contracts and benefits for my buddies in Louisiana."
  
  "What if he really went crazy?"
  
  "We need to find out what happened to McLanahan and what he was doing in Iran, and quickly," Barbeau said. "I'm not going to blindly side with the president and oppose McLanahan, unless the guy is really crazy, which I seriously doubt. Press the horn and find out everything you can about what happened. Do you still keep in touch with his space playboy buddy...what"s his name?"
  
  "Noble Hunter"
  
  "Oh yes, charming Captain Noble, young space cowboy. You need to pump information out of him, but not pretend that this is so. Are you still fucking with him?"
  
  "I'm one of a very long line of East Coast jerks Hunter Noble."
  
  "You can think of something better than this, child," said Barbeau, patting her on the back and then gently on her ass. "Don't just be another companion - be his follower, his confidant. Tell him that the Senate Armed Services Committee is looking into what's going on in Dreamland, and you'd like to help. Warn him. Maybe he will share some useful information."
  
  "It's going to be hard to meet a guy if he's flying in space, stuck in this base in the desert...or in prison."
  
  "We may have to plan a study trip to Vegas soon so you can really put pressure on him. Maybe I can join too." She paused, enjoying the thought of having a threesome with an "Air Force playboy." "Tell him that if he cooperates, we can keep his tight young ass out of jail." She smiled and added, "And if he doesn't cooperate, get me some dirt on the boy that I can use against him. If he doesn't behave, we'll use him to start dismantling McLanahan and the rest of the characters in Dreamland."
  
  
  TEHRAN AIRPORT MEHRABAD, TEHRAN, DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF PERSIA
  EARLY EVENING OF THE SAME DAY TEHRAN TIME
  
  
  The cortege of armored Mercedes sedans and limousines raced along Me'Raj Avenue towards Mehrabad International Airport, without encountering obstacles on the roads. Throughout the motorcade's route, General Bujazi ordered his troops to demolish checkpoints and barricades just before the motorcade's arrival, let it through, then hurriedly set them back up. The presence of large numbers of troops throughout western Tehran kept citizens and insurgents away from major highways that night , so few were able to see the emergency procedures.
  
  The motorcade passed the main terminal where Bujazi had set up his headquarters and instead drove quickly down the taxiway to a row of Iran Air hangars. Here the guards seemed ordinary, almost invisible - unless you had night vision goggles and a map showing the location of dozens of sniper and infantry units scattered around the airport.
  
  A lone unmarked white Boeing 727 stood in front of one of the hangars, its gangway guarded by two security men in suits and ties. The lead sedan stopped just below the foot of the air stairs, and four men in dark business suits, dark caps that looked like chauffeur hats, white shirts, dark ties, dark trousers and boots, with submachine guns in their hands, got out and took up places around the stairs and in nose of the aircraft. One after the other, two long limousines pulled up to the foot of the gangway, and from other sedans, eight more similarly dressed and armed security agents disembarked to guard the tail and starboard side of the aircraft. Several people stepped out of each limousine, including an elderly man in military uniform, a young woman surrounded by bodyguards, and men and women in Western-style business suits and Iranian-style high-collar jackets.
  
  After a few moments, all the people ran up the ladder and climbed into the jet liner. The security men remained in their positions until the plane's engines started, and then they returned to their sedans. Large armored vehicles formed a bubble on all sides of the airliner as it taxied down the empty taxiways to the main runway, and minutes later the jet was airborne. The limousines moved to a safe fenced area behind the Iran Air hangars and were parked near a shabby-looking repair garage. The Mercedes sedans made a quick patrol of the ramp and hangar perimeters, then were parked in the same fenced area as the limousines. Minutes after the drivers and security personnel got out and locked their cars, workers got out, wiped the dirt off the vehicles with towels, and covered each of them with elastic-bottomed nylon covers. The lights were extinguished, and soon the airport was as tense as it had been since the beginning of the mutiny.
  
  A group of security agents walked up the parking ramp to the main terminal building, guns slung over their shoulders, most smoking, all talking little. The security guard at the terminal entrance checked their IDs and they were allowed to enter. They went through the passenger concourse to a door marked CREW ONLY, checked their IDs again and were cleared. The other agents inside took their weapons, unloaded and cleaned them, and the group walked down the dimly lit corridor and into the conference room.
  
  "I think everyone played their part as well as one could expect," said the first "guard", General Khesarak al-Qan Bujazi. "It"s nice to see how the other half lives, eh, Chancellor?"
  
  "I found it inconvenient, unconvincing, unnecessary, and if these aircraft engines damaged my hearing, I will hold you personally responsible, General Buzhazi," said Massoud Noshar, Lord High Chancellor of the Kagewa Royal Court, indignantly. He was tall and thin, in his forties, with long and slightly curly gray hair, a grey-streaked goatee, and long, delicate-looking fingers. Although Noshar was young and appeared to be in good health, he was obviously unaccustomed to great physical exertion, out of breath from walking fast and climbing stairs instead of taking the elevator. He took off his jacket and cap and took off his tie as if they were burning his skin with acid, then snapped his fingers to one of the other men in dark suits, one of his real guards, who went for his ankle-length fur and leather coat. "It was nothing more than a petty parlor game that didn"t fool anyone."
  
  "We better hope it worked, Lord Chancellor," said another of the guards, Princess Azar Asiya Kagev. Instead of handing over her weapon to a guard, she unloaded and cleaned it herself, then began to dismantle the weapon in the field for inspection and cleaning. "The rebels are penetrating deeper and deeper into our network every day."
  
  "And we also capture and kill more of them every day, Your Highness," Noshar reminded her. "God and time are on our side, princess, don't be afraid." Finally, his attention was drawn to the dismantling of the weapon in front of him. "What the hell are you doing, your highness?" - What is this? Noshar asked in bewilderment as Azar's deformed but apparently skilled fingers manipulated the weapon's seemingly hidden levers and pins. He glanced uncertainly at the princess who was working with the submachine gun and nodded to the bodyguard, who approached the princess, politely bowed at the waist, then reached out his hand to take the parts of the gun from her hands. She gave him a stern expression and shook her head slightly, and he bowed again and backed away. A few seconds later, the submachine gun lay disassembled in front of her on the table.
  
  "You must not take unknown weapons into battle, Lord Chancellor," Azar said. "How do you know if this thing will work when you want it to? How do you even know if it's been uploaded if you don't bother to check?"
  
  "We wore these things for show to fool any insurgents who might be watching us," Noshar said. "I don't care what form it is in. That's why we have trained guards with us. Princesses are not supposed to handle dangerous weapons."
  
  "It's not dangerous now, Lord Chancellor - I think it's in good shape," Azar said. She began to collect weapons. In less than thirty seconds it was reassembled, loaded, cocked and cocked, and she slung it over her shoulder. "I don't carry guns for show."
  
  "Very impressive, Your Highness," Noshar said, hiding his surprise behind a bored and unimpressed expression. He turned to Bujazi. "We're wasting time here. Now that we've played out your charade, General-having put the princes in considerable danger, I'll insist-shouldn't we get down to business?"
  
  "Let's go," Boujazi replied, using the same haughty country club tone as Noshar. "I asked you to come here to talk about coordinating our efforts against Mohtaz and his foreign rebels. Yesterday's shootout with what turned out to be your assassination squad should never happen again. We need to start working together."
  
  "The blame was entirely yours, General," Noshar said. "Your troops prevented our freedom fighters from identifying themselves. They had just returned from a successful raid on a rebel hideout when your men opened fire. My people found more than three dozen explosive devices ready for use on the streets, including a dozen suicide vests and explosives disguised as anything from phones to baby carriages."
  
  "Noshahr, I have been monitoring the bomb factory for several days now," Boujazi said. "We were waiting for the master bomb maker to arrive to load these bombs. What good is it to kill a bunch of low-level, ignorant worker bees and let the top bomb maker get away? Now it will take us another month or more to find a new factory, and by then they will have made another three dozen or more bombs to use against us."
  
  "Don't change the subject, Buzkhazi," Noshar snapped. "Your unit's surprise attack cost us the lives of six of our best agents. We demand reparations, and we demand that you withdraw your troops from the slums and alleys and limit your activities to avenues, highways and the airport. Or, better yet, place yourself and your troops under the command of the military council, which is the legitimate government of Persia, and we will ensure that you no longer interfere with our anti-terrorist missions."
  
  "We share equal responsibility for their deaths, Lord Chancellor," Azar said.
  
  "You don"t have to apologize for the mistakes of the war council, Azar-"
  
  "You will address Her Highness properly, Buzkhazi!" Noshar ordered. "Don"t you dare talk to the princess like she"s a commoner!"
  
  "She is not my princess, Noshahr," Boujazi said, "and I also do not take orders from imaginary generals or defense ministers like you!"
  
  "How dare you! Shahdokht is the rightful heir to the Peacock Throne of Persia and you will address her as such and give her due respect! And I will remind you that I am the appointed chancellor of the Kagewa court, the royal minister of war, and the marshal of the military council! Have some respect for the office, even if you don't respect yourself!"
  
  "Nochard, a year ago you hung out in the casinos of Monaco and made up stories about the leading anti-Pasdaran freedom fighters, trying to fuck rich old ladies for their money," Boujazi said. "Meanwhile, your loyalists were being captured and tortured because you couldn"t keep your drunken mouth shut about their identities and whereabouts-"
  
  "This is absurd!" Noshar hissed.
  
  "Pasdaran's spies in Monaco, Singapore and Las Vegas have been getting a constant stream of information about your network just by sitting next to you in the casinos, bars and brothels you frequented, listening to you tell your wild stories about the liberation of Iran alone ".
  
  "You peasant! You are a cheeky puppy! How dare you talk to me like that!" Noshar exclaimed. "I serve the king and his queen, lead twenty million loyalists around the world, equip and organize a fighting force of half a million people, and ensure the safety of the royal treasury for the past twenty years! You are little more than a thief and murderer, disgraced by your own words and actions for two decades, demoted and humiliated by the government you served and then betrayed. You have been rejected by your fellow citizens and driven by nothing less than fear of the next bloody rampage you will resort to, like the hideous massacre at Qom. You dare to call yourself a Persian!"
  
  "I don"t call myself what you call yourself, Noshar!" - shouted Buzhazi. He turned to Azar, his eyes sparkling. "I will have nothing to do with you or your so-called court, princess, as long as he is in power. I'm not in the mood to play dress-up, kings and castles."
  
  "General-"
  
  "Sorry princess, but this is a huge waste of my time," Bujazi said angrily. "I have to wage war. This idiot who calls himself a marshal and minister of war doesn't know which end of his rifle to aim at the enemy. I need fighters, not parrots. I have work to do."
  
  "General, please stay."
  
  "I'm leaving. Good luck to you and your cute little court jesters, princess."
  
  "General, I said stay!" Azar shouted. She tore off her dark cap, letting her long uniform fly into the air. The Persians in the room were stunned by the sudden appearance of the symbol of royalty among them...all but Boujazi, who was instead taken aback by the young woman's commanding tone: half drill sergeant, half disapproving mother, half field general.
  
  "Shahdokht...Highness...my lady..." Noshar murmured, his gaze fixed on the dark shiny flowing locks as if a golden scepter had just appeared before his eyes, "I think it"s time for us to leave and-"
  
  "You will stay and shut your mouth, Chancellor!" Azar snapped. "We have important business to discuss."
  
  "We can't do business with this... this terrorist!" Noshar said. "He"s just a staggering old megalomaniac fool-"
  
  "I said we need to discuss the matter with the general," Azar said. This time, the word "we" that escaped her lips had a different meaning: it no longer referred to him, but clearly indicated the imperial "we" that meant her alone. "Shut up, Chancellor."
  
  "To be... quiet...?" Noshar gurgled, his mouth opening and closing indignantly. "Forgive me, Shahdokht, but I am the Lord High Chancellor of the royal court, the king's representative in his absence. I have the full and sole right to negotiate and make agreements and alliances with friendly and allied forces."
  
  "Not anymore, Chancellor," Azar said decisively. "It has been a year since anyone heard or saw the king and queen. In the meantime, the court was ruled by appointed servants who, though faithful, do not think of the interests of the people."
  
  "I ask your forgiveness, Shahdokht-!"
  
  "It's true, Chancellor, and you know it," Azar said. "Your primary purpose was to organize, secure, and house the court in preparation for running the government after the return of the king and queen. You've done an excellent job with this, Chancellor. The Court is safe, secure, well run, well funded and ready to govern this country when the time comes. But right now, people don"t need an administrator - they want a leader and a general."
  
  "I am the rightful leader, Shahdokht, until the king returns," Noshar insisted. "And as Minister of War and Marshal of the War Council, I am the Commander-in-Chief of our armed forces. Others are not allowed."
  
  "You are mistaken, Chancellor...I am," Azar said.
  
  "You? But it's... it's extremely irregular, Shahdokht," Noshar said. "The announcement of death or renunciation has not yet been made. A council consisting of myself, the religious leaders and representatives of the eleven royal houses is to be convened to investigate the likely whereabouts of the king and queen and decide what action to take. It is impossible and unsafe to do this in time of war!"
  
  "Then, as the heir apparent, I will make the announcement myself," Hazard said.
  
  "You!" Noshar repeated. "You... I mean... forgive me for saying that, Shahdokht, but this is an insult to the memory of your blessed father and mother, our beloved king and queen. Perhaps they are still in hiding, or perhaps they are wounded and recovering, or even captured. Our enemies may be waiting for you to do such a thing and then reveal that they are still alive, hoping to sow confusion in us and start a rebellion against the court and the royal family. You can't... I mean, you shouldn't do this, Shahdokht...
  
  "I am no longer Shahdokht, Chancellor," Azar said. "From now on, you will call me Malika."
  
  Noshar swallowed, his eyes bulging. He glanced furtively at his bodyguards, then back at Azar, studying her carefully, trying to decide if she meant what she just said and if she would back down or compromise if she came face to face. "I... I'm afraid I can't let that happen, princess," he said, finally gathering his courage. "I am responsible to the king and queen for guarding the court. In their absence and without guidance from the Council of the Royal Houses, I fear I will not be able to do as you wish."
  
  Azar lowered her eyes, nodded, and even seemed to sigh. "Very well, Chancellor. I understand your point of view."
  
  Noshar felt relieved. He would certainly have to deal with this young Americanized upstart, and soon - she obviously had aspirations far beyond her years, and this could not be tolerated. But he was willing to act like a supportive and protective uncle, all in order to better look after her while he...
  
  "I see it's time to take back the throne," Azar said. In one blurry motion, she suddenly raised a German-made Heckler & Koch HK-54 submachine gun and fastened it to her hip... Aiming it straight at Masoud Noshar's chest. "You are under arrest, Chancellor, for disobeying my authority." She turned to the Persian bodyguards behind Noshar. "Guards, place the chancellor under arrest."
  
  "This is absurd!" Noshar screamed, more in shock and surprise than anger. "How dare you?"
  
  "I dare because I am Malika, the chancellor," Azar said confidently, "and the throne has been vacant for quite some time." She looked past Noshar at the bodyguards, their weapons still slung over their shoulders. "Guards, place the chancellor under arrest. He is forbidden to make any contact with the outside world."
  
  "They will not follow you, Azar Asiya," Noshar said. "They are loyal to me and the king and queen, the rightful rulers of Persia. They won't follow a spoiled, bewitched brat from America."
  
  Azar glanced around the conference room, noting that neither Lieutenant Colonel Najjar nor Major Saidi, her longtime aides, raised their weapons-it was off the shoulder, but still with the safety catches pointing at the floor. The same goes for Khesarak Boujazi and his bodyguard, Major Haddad, and the commander of the infantry brigade based at Mehrabad Airport, Colonel Mostafa Rahmati, both of whom accompanied them on this sabotage mission. She was the only one with a weapon raised.
  
  "I've given the order, Master Sergeant: Arrest the Chancellor," Azar commanded. "Do not allow any external communications. If he resists, tie him up and gag him." Still no one moved.
  
  "Master Sergeant... All of you, it"s time for you to make a decision," Azar said, gazing at each of them intently, hoping the hell her hands wouldn"t start shaking. "You can follow Chancellor Noshar and continue this so-called revolution as you have done for the past year, or pledge allegiance to me and the Peacock Throne and follow me in the transformation of this country into a free Persian republic."
  
  "Follow you?" Noshar chuckled. "You are just a girl. You may be a princess, but you are not a queen - and you are certainly not a general. Loyalists will not follow a girl into battle. What will you do if no one wants to recognize you as queen?"
  
  "Then I will renounce my title and join General Bujazi's forces," Azar replied, to everyone's utter amazement. "The time has come to join forces and fight as one nation, and if this is not done under the banner of Kagewa, it will be done under the flag of the general. If you are ready to take me and my followers, General, we are ready to join you."
  
  "There will be no need for this," Khesarak Bujazi said ... and, to everyone's great surprise, he took off his submachine gun from his shoulder, held it in front of him at outstretched arms ... and knelt down on one knee in front of Azar. "Because I hand over command of my forces and swear allegiance to Malika Azar Asiya Kagev, rightful queen of Persia and mistress of the Peacock Throne."
  
  Azar smiled, silently praying that she wouldn't collapse in surprise or burst into tears herself, then nodded. "We are pleased to accept your pledge of allegiance, Khesarak al-Kan Bujazi." She kissed him on the forehead, then put her hands on his shoulders. "Stand up, sir, take up your weapons and take charge of the Ministry of War and the military council of the royal court of Kagewa, as well as the command of the combined forces of the Democratic Republic of Persia ... Marshal Bujazi."
  
  "Thank you, Malika," Bujazi said. He turned to Noshar. "My first official act will be the proposal to appoint Masud Noshar as Deputy Minister of War, Vice Marshal of the Army and my representative at court. Do you accept?"
  
  "Do you want me to serve under you?" Noshar asked, even more shocked than before. "You take my position and then you want me back? Why?"
  
  "The Queen has a good understanding of people, Noshahr," Boujazi said. "If she says that you have served the court well as chancellor and have prepared it to lead the country when the time comes, I believe her. I want you to keep doing your job, the one you're the best at. Prepare the court for a constitutional monarchy and supply my troops. I need someone to represent me in Tehran because I will be on the streets putting down this uprising and restoring security to the country. This is what I'm good at. And as vice marshal, you will report to me. Screw it up and you'll have to deal with me. Do you accept?"
  
  For a moment it seemed to Bujasi that Noshar was about to say something rude or insulting; instead, he did what Bujasi never thought he would do: he saluted. "Yes sir, I accept."
  
  "Very well, Vice Marshal. I want a meeting of the military council to be scheduled immediately." He turned to Azar. "Malik, with your permission, I would like to appoint Lieutenant Colonel Najjar as my Chief of Staff and promote him to the rank of full colonel. Major Saidi will remain your adjutant."
  
  "Permission granted, marshal," Azar said.
  
  "Thank you Malika. Colonel, work with Vice Marshal Noshar to arrange a meeting of the military council. Major Haddad is hereby promoted to lieutenant colonel and will be in charge of security." Addressing Azar, he said: "Malika, I would like you to attend the meeting of the military council and contribute to the resources and personnel that we could recruit from the streets of Tehran and nearby cities and villages. We will need any help we can find to make this work."
  
  "With pleasure, marshal," Azar said.
  
  "Thank you, Malika," Bujazi said. "If you'll excuse me, Malika, Vice Marshal Noshar, I'd like to show you something first before we continue that might affect our planning. Colonel Najjar, take command."
  
  Hazard walked alongside Buzhazi through the airport terminal to the exit. "You made a very dramatic gesture there, marshal," she said. "Never thought I'd see you on your knees in front of anyone, let alone me."
  
  "I had to do something to surpass your great gesture, highness," Bujazi said. "Besides, if all this fancy court stuff is what your people know and expect, I guess I had to play along. Were you really going to give up your throne and join my ragtag band of bandits?"
  
  "Did you mean what you said about surrendering your troops to me and swearing allegiance?" They smiled together, knowing each other's answer. "Do you think we can pull this off, Khesarak?" she asked.
  
  "Well, until today, I gave us no more than one chance in ten to win," Bujazi said honestly. "Things have improved a lot since then. Now I'm giving us maybe one in five chance."
  
  "Really? 100% improvement so fast? We haven't done anything yet, except perhaps rearranging the sun loungers on the sinking ship! We have the same forces as before, the same resources - maybe better organization and a little extra motivation. What else has changed besides our names, titles and allegiance?"
  
  They went outside and were escorted to a nearby Iran Air hangar by security guards. After their identities were confirmed, Bujazi stepped aside to let Hazard through. "What else has changed?" he asked with a smile. "Let's just say something from above fell into our laps."
  
  "What...?" Azar entered the hangar......and immediately ran into a ten-foot humanoid robot that had what looked like a cannon on its shoulders. The robot approached her with amazing speed and agility, examined them all for a moment, then stood at attention and in a loud computer synthesized voice shouted: "Attention, ten huts!", Then repeated it again in Farsi. He stepped aside...
  
  ... showing that the hangar contained two sleek, pitch-black, massive American bombers inside. Azar recognized them as Air Force B-1 bombers, except that the cockpit windows were hermetically sealed. The floor of the hangar was crammed with cars, cargo containers of every size and description, and perhaps two hundred American airmen in general-purpose uniforms, standing at attention.
  
  "The way you were," Azar said. Americans, both men and women, relaxed. Many approached the newcomers, introducing themselves with greetings and handshakes.
  
  A few moments later, a tall man in strange full-body dark gray armor that Bujasi recognized as the American "Tin Woodman" combat system, without a helmet, approached, stood in front of Kagew and Bujazi, and saluted. "General Bujazi?" he said through the built-in electronic translator of his tin woodcutter suit. "Major Wayne Macomber, USAF, Unit Commander."
  
  Bujazi returned his greeting, then shook hands. "Thank you, major. Allow me to introduce Her Highness Azar Asiya Kagev..." He paused spectacularly with a sly wink and nod, then added, "Queen of Persia."
  
  Macomber's eyes widened in surprise, but he came to his senses quickly enough, drew himself to attention again, and saluted. "Nice to meet you, Your Highness." She held out her hand and he shook it, his armored hand dwarfed by hers. "Never met a queen before."
  
  "I have met the Tin Woodman before, and it gives me great pleasure and comfort to know that you are here," Azar said in such perfect English, such American that it surprised him. "Welcome to Persia, Major."
  
  "Thank you". He turned his hand and looked down at hers. "Hypoplastic thumb. Great fix job. My little sister has it too. Bilateral?
  
  "Yes, Major," Azar replied rather awkwardly. "You surprise me. Most of the people I greet look at my hand and then look away pretending not to notice."
  
  "Ignorance, that's all, ma'am," Macomber said. "It's good that you don't hide it. My sister doesn't hide it either. She pisses people off, but that's her plan. She still has a terrible tennis backhand."
  
  "You should have seen me at the shooting range, Major."
  
  The big commando smiled and nodded, it was his turn to be surprised. "Looking forward to it, ma'am."
  
  "Me too, Major." She looked at the other commando in the Tin Woodman combat armor systems approach. "Hello, Sergeant Major Vol," she said, holding out her hand. "It's good to see you again."
  
  "Thank you, your highness," Wol said. "I'm glad to see you too." He glanced at Bujazi. "I hope your new title doesn't mean bad news about your parents."
  
  "I hope so too, Sergeant Major," Azar said, "but the situation has forced me to promote, and so we continue." Vol nodded approvingly, but still gave Bujasi a warning look.
  
  The ten-foot robot approached them. Macomber motioned to her and said, "Ma'am, I'd like to introduce you to my second in command, US Army Reserve Captain Charlie Turlock, who pilots the robotic infantry cybernetic combat system she helped develop. She's on patrol right now, so she can't come out to greet you properly. Captain, meet the Persian queen Azar Kagev."
  
  "I'm glad to meet you too, Captain," Azar said, shaking hands with the giantess, amazed at her gentle touch, despite the size of the mechanical hand. "My Minister of War and Commander of my Armed Forces, Marshal Khesarak Bujazi."
  
  "Nice to meet you, your highness, marshal," said Charlie from CID. Macomber's eyes widened at Bujazi's new title. "All patrols report security, sir. Excuse me, but I will continue with my assignment." The robot saluted and hurried away.
  
  "Incredible, absolutely incredible," Hazard said. "Thank you so much for the outstanding work you have done tracking down the Pasdaran's mobile missiles. But now I'm confused. Marshal Bujazi asked you to come to Tehran?"
  
  "We've had some... problems, you could say, with our accommodation in Turkey," Macomber explained. "My commanding general, Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan, contacted General-uh, Marshal Boujazi, and he offered to take us in until we sorted out our situation."
  
  "McLanahan? A general on a space station?"
  
  "Let"s go somewhere and talk, okay?" Macomber suggested. They passed through the hangar, greeting more airmen, and took a quick tour of the EB-1 Vampire bombers before entering an office near the hangar's main floor. Macomber spoke as if to nothing; a moment later, the phone rang right next to him. He picked up the phone and handed it to Azar. "This is for you, your highness."
  
  Azar picked up the phone, trying to act like sudden and mysterious phone calls were perfectly normal for her. "This is Queen Azar Asiya Kagev of Persia," she said in English. "Who is it please?"
  
  "Your Highness, this is Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan. How are you doing tonight?"
  
  "I'm fine, General," she replied, trying to sound formal and coherent, though her senses were confused as she tried to keep up with the amazing otherworldly technology she encountered here at breakneck speed. "We were just talking about you."
  
  "I've been listening, I hope you don't mind," Patrick said. "We are keeping a close eye on our troops around the world."
  
  "I understand," Azar said. "I hope you have recovered from your spaceflight injuries. Are you in Persia?
  
  "No, right now I'm over southern Chile aboard the Armstrong space station," Patrick said. "Your highness, I had a little trouble, and I turned to General Bujazi for help. I apologize for not informing you first, but time was running out."
  
  "You and your forces are always welcome in Persia, General," Azar said. "You are a hero and champion for all free Persians, and we consider you our brother in arms. But maybe you can explain what's going on."
  
  "We believe that Russia has brought military forces into Iran and is working with the theocratic regime to exert influence in the region."
  
  "Well, of course they have, General," Azar said matter-of-factly. "Don"t tell me this is a surprise for you?" His rather embarrassed pause gave her all the answer she needed. "The Russians have for years promised substantial military and economic assistance to the theocratic regime in exchange for presence and pressure to stop supporting anti-Russian separatist movements inside the Russian Federation and its near abroad, such as in Kosovo, Albania and Romania. Russia has enjoyed its most favored nation status for decades."
  
  "We knew that Russia was using Iran, along with the conflict in Iraq, to divert the United States from its other activities on the periphery," Patrick said, "but we didn't know that their involvement was so widely known and accepted."
  
  "The help that Iran has received from the Russians is reportedly more than what the United States is providing to any other country in the region, with the possible exception of Israel," Azar said. "It was very important not only to keep the theocrats in power, but also to support the Iranian people. Unfortunately, most of that aid went to the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps and their massive arms buildup, which they used to quell any dissent in our country. But has anything else changed recently? Is Russia playing a different game?"
  
  "We believe the Russians brought a new weapon, a powerful mobile anti-space laser, to Iran and used it to destroy one of our spacecraft," Patrick said. "Major Macomber, Captain Turlock, and Sergeant Major Vol survived such an attack."
  
  "You mean, one of the space planes I've heard so much about?" Azar asked. "They were flying in one of them in space when that laser hit it?"
  
  "Yes, your highness. I would like help to track down this Russian weapon and neutralize it."
  
  "I don't think it's going to be very difficult," Hazard said. She handed the phone to Bujazi, who switched it to speakerphone and asked Major Haddad to translate for him.
  
  "Marshal Bujazi?"
  
  "Greetings, General McLanahan," Boujazi relayed through Haddad.
  
  "Hello marshal. I see you got a promotion."
  
  "And I judge from your unexpected call, the sudden appearance of such a large force at my doorstep, and the alarming lack of information from your military or foreign ministries that your career has not enjoyed such a success," Boujazi said. "But you helped me when I was on the run, and I hoped one day to do the same for you. So. Did the Russians shoot down your spaceplane?"
  
  "Can you help us find this laser, Bujazi?"
  
  "Certainly. I'm sure we can find it quickly if my people don't already know where it is."
  
  "You sound pretty confident."
  
  "General, we don't have the automatic distrust of the Russians that you do-in fact, we have more reason to distrust the Americans," Bujazi said. "We are Russia's neighbors and our borders have been secure for decades; we bought a lot of weapons and received significant military, economic, industrial and commercial assistance from Russia, which was extremely important to us during all the years of the trade embargo with the West; we even still have a mutual defense treaty that is in full force."
  
  "So you say you worked with the Russians, marshal," Patrick asked in surprise, "including supplying them with information about our activities in Iran?"
  
  "General McLanahan, sometimes the depth of American naivete strikes me," Boujazi said. "We have to live here; you simply influence events here in America's national interest, sometimes from the relative comfort of a combat personnel room - or a space station. Of course, we supply Russia with information, in the same way that we supply you with information about Russia's activities and help you when you are faced with ... say, domestic political problems?" Again, no response from Patrick.
  
  "We all have our own needs, activities and agendas," Boujazi continued. "We hope that such cooperation enriches all of us and is mutually beneficial, but in the end, our own goals must be solved first, right?" Silence again. "General McLanahan? Are you still there?"
  
  "I'm still here."
  
  "I'm sorry to have upset or disappointed you, General," Bujazi said. "You saved my life and helped me defeat the Pasdarans in Qom and Tehran, and for that I will help you until my last days. All you had to do was ask. But you should not be so surprised to know that I would extend a similar courtesy to any other country that aids my cause, including your opponents. So. Do you want to locate this Russian mobile laser system? Very good. I will contact you immediately through Major Macomber when I know his exact location. It is acceptable?"
  
  "Yes, it is, Marshal," Patrick said. "Thank you. What about my people back in Tehran?"
  
  Boujasi turned to Azar and spoke in a low voice for a few moments; then: "The Queen wishes to give all possible help and comfort to you and your people. In return, she hopes you will help us when the time is right."
  
  "So I need to worry about a Russian attack on this place, Bujazi?" Patrick asked.
  
  "Patrick, I think I've made myself clear enough for you," Boujazi said through his translator. "I hope you're not one of those idealists who believe that we help each other because we believe it's right, or because one side is inherently good and the other evil. You brought your troops into Tehran for reasons that are not entirely clear to me yet, but I know that we did not invite you. We'll find out soon enough, with God's help. Until then, I will do what I must for the sake of our nation and our survival. You will do what you must, for the sake of your people, your cause, and yourself. Hopefully all these things are mutually beneficial." And he hung up without even saying goodbye.
  
  "Is everything all right, sir?" Macomber asked through his subcutaneous transmitter after he apologized to Boujazi and Hazard.
  
  "Major, I think we need to trust Bujazi, but I just can't bring myself to do it," admitted Patrick. "He may be a patriot, but first of all he knows how to survive. When he was chief of staff and commander of the Pasdaran, he was fully prepared to sink an American aircraft carrier and kill thousands of sailors, just to prove how tough he thought he was. I think he wants to get rid of the theocracy and Pasdaran, but I think he'll do whatever he needs to, including fucking us both in order to survive. You'll have to make a call."
  
  "Yes, sir," said Macomber. "I will let you know".
  
  "Well, Major?" Bujazi asked through an electronic translator when Macomber returned. "What does your commander say? Does he still trust me?
  
  "No sir, he doesn't," Macomber said.
  
  "So. What should we do?"
  
  Macomber thought for a moment; then: "We'll take a little ride, marshal."
  
  
  CHAPTER NINE
  
  
  Never argue with a man who has nothing to lose.
  
  - BALTHAZAR GRACHIAN
  
  
  
  Over SOUTH-CENTRAL NEVADA
  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING
  
  
  "Here's the latest, folks, so listen up," said SEAL team leader US Navy Lt. Mike Harden. The fifteen members of his SEAL platoon, all pre-oxygenated in the cargo hold of their C-130 Hercules cargo plane, stopped looking at the maps and turned their attention to him. "Our guy inside tells us that this place is practically deserted. It has a total of twenty members of the Security Forces, mostly concentrated in the main computer center next to the headquarters building. The combat headquarters area is deserted, and only a skeletal security force, about six people, is stationed there. The hangars were closed for a couple of days. This is verified by our own outdoor observation. So, our goal remains the four main offices in the headquarters building: one branch in each of them is sent to the security operations center, the combat control zone, the communications center and the mission control center. Bravo Squad is right behind us, and they'll take over the hangars and weapons storage area.
  
  "Our guy inside says he only saw one of those CID-controlled robot units that patrol the hangars and weapons storage area. We know that they had a total of six carers. One was sent to Iran, two to Turkey, and one surrendered when the Rangers attacked Battle Mountain, so there are two left, and we have to assume they're both in Elliott. Also missing are about a dozen Tin Woodman units.
  
  "Remember, only use normal ammo against the Security Forces guys if they open fire on you - don't waste ammo on the seeds or the Tin Woodman units." He raised a 40mm grenade launcher. "This is our best hope to disable these things: microwave pulse generators that look like a direct hit from fucking lightning. They tell us that this should shut down all their systems immediately. Possibly fatal to the guy inside, but that's his problem if he chooses to fight. These guys are fast, so stay alert and concentrate your fire. Have questions?" There were none. "Everything is fine. We have about five minutes left. Get ready to kick some zumi's ass." There was a muffled "Wow!" in oxygen masks.
  
  It seemed like only a minute had passed when Harden was notified by the cockpit crew that the jump zone was two minutes away. The SEALs quickly disconnected from the aircraft's oxygen system, hooked up to portable oxygen tanks, got to their feet and held tight to the rails as the rear cargo ramp was lowered. Before the ramp was down, the red light changed to green, and Harden led his platoon into the icy darkness. Less than twenty seconds after Harden's jump, all sixteen men deployed their parachutes. Harden checked his parachute and oxygen supply, made sure his infrared marker light was working so the others could follow him in the dark, then began following the steering directions with a wrist-mounted GPS.
  
  It was HAHO, or jump from a great height - the first jump. From twenty-seven thousand feet, the team could swim about thirty miles from the jump point to their destination: Elliot Air Force Base, nicknamed "Dreamland." By order of the President of the United States, two units of SEALs were ordered to attack the base, neutralize infantry cybernetic devices and Tin Woodman units patrolling the base, capture all base personnel, and secure the aircraft, weapons, computer center, and laboratories.
  
  The wind was a bit changeable, definitely different from the forecast, which probably explained the hurried jump. Harden found himself manipulating his canopy in several rather drastic maneuvers to get on course. Each turn increased the horizontal speed, so that meant they would have to move a little more once they were on the ground. They were supposed to fly for about ten minutes.
  
  When Harden finally got on course, he began looking for landmarks using his binocular night vision goggles. He quickly saw that things didn't quite go as planned. The first visual target was Groom Lake, a large dry lakebed south of the base into which most of Elliott's twenty-thousand-foot runway was built. It soon became apparent that they had gone too far west-they had jumped too early. The GPS said they were right on course, but the landmarks weren't lying. They planned for this contingency, but Harden was going to give the flight crew a good thrashing when the mission was over. He surveyed the surrounding area during his exploration of the target before jumping and was confident he could find a good landing spot, even if it had to be at the very bottom of a dry lake.
  
  He couldn't get all the way to the dry lake bed, but he was able to find a level area about fifty yards north of the dirt road. The landing turned out to be much more difficult than he expected - again, the GPS lied about the direction of the wind, and he landed with the wind instead of against it, which increased his ground speed and landing power. Luckily, they were wearing HAHO cold weather long jump gear, and the extra impact force was mostly absorbed. He formed a team in less than three minutes, and it took them less than five to remove and stow parachutes, harnesses, and additional cold-weather gear, and to check and prepare weapons, communications, and night vision systems.
  
  Harden checked his GPS and indicated the direction they were heading, but the chief assistant officer, who had a backup GPS, waved his hand and pointed in a different direction. They put their GPS receivers side by side, and sure enough, their readings were completely different...in fact, they were about three miles apart!
  
  This explained that they had veered off course and landed in the wrong direction based on the GPS winds: their GPS receivers had been tampered with. Harden knew that GPS jammers were being developed, but a jammed GPS receiver could be ignored and alternative navigation methods immediately used until significant errors were made. On the other hand, the fake GPS receiver seems to work as expected. Even the C-130 GPS receivers have been counterfeited. He had to remember that they were up against a unit that was developing and testing next-generation weapons of all kinds, top-secret materials that the rest of the world probably wouldn't see for years but that would revolutionize warfare when it hit the streets.
  
  The platoon leader took out a lenticular compass, ready to take a few sights on the ground and double-check their position on his map, but he must have been knocked off during the speed landing because the dial of the compass rotated as if it were connected to an electric motor. Harden would not be surprised if the eggheads here also invented a way to jam or fake compasses! He figured that since they landed west of the edge of the dry lake bed, they would simply move east until they found the lake, then they would move north until they found the inner perimeter fence. He indicated the direction of their movement again, ignoring all requests, and trotted away.
  
  They removed their cold-weather gear and left their parachutes, which made them much lighter to carry, but Harden soon found himself wiping sweat from his eyes. God, he thought, it must have been below zero here in the high desert, but he was sweating to death! But he ignored it and continued...
  
  "Upwind," he heard in his headphones. He fell on his stomach and scanned the area. It was a code word for a team member in trouble. He crawled back in his direction of travel and found the platoon leader lying on his back while AOIC was checking him out. "What the hell happened?" he whispered.
  
  "He just passed out," said the assistant officer in charge. He wiped sweat from his face. "I don't feel too well either, lieutenant. Would they use nerve gas on us?"
  
  "Stay where you are," someone said over the secure FM tactical radio.
  
  Harden looked at the line of seals scattered across the desert. "Radios locked!" he whispered. AOIC relayed the message back to the others. He instructed to only use the code words on the walkie-talkies on this mission, unless they were in a firefight and the entire team was compromised.
  
  The platoon leader sat down. "Are you feeling well, chief?" Harden asked. The chief signaled that he was ready, and they again prepared to advance. But this time, Harden felt dizzy-the minute he stood up, a warm, dry heat washed over him, as if he had just opened the door of a hot oven. The feeling subsided as he knelt down. What the heck...?
  
  And then he realized what it was. They were informed of an incident in Turkey where the Dreamland boys used a non-lethal microwave weapon to knock out base security personnel - they reported that it was like intense heat, like their skin was on fire, and soon their brains were so jumbled, that they lost consciousness. "Crocodile, crocodile," Harden said in his whisper, the code word for "enemy nearby."
  
  "Just stay where you are and don't move," they all heard in their headphones.
  
  Damn, the guys from the Air Force found their FM frequency, deciphered the encryption procedure and talked on their channel like a whisper! He turned and waved his hand to switch to the secondary frequency, and the word was passed on to the others. Meanwhile, Harden took out his satellite phone and connected to the secure channel of another SEAL unit: "Silver, this is Opus, the crocodile."
  
  "Did you know," they heard in their headphones on the new channel, "that there are no words that rhyme with "silver" and "opus" just like "orange"?" he said.... .........
  
  Harden wiped sweat from his eyes. Communication discipline completely forgotten, he angrily switched back to whispering, "Who the hell is this?"
  
  "Ah, ah, ah, lieutenant, beading, beading," the voice said again, using the old code word for inappropriate broadcasts. "Listen guys, the exercise is over. We've already taken out another unit headed for the departure line and weapon storage area - you guys did a lot better than they did. We have several nice comfortable rooms prepared for you. Stand with your hands up and we'll take a little ride back to base. We have a truck on the way to come pick you up."
  
  "Fuck you!" Harden screamed. He crouched low and surveyed the area, ignoring the growing pain spreading throughout his body... And then he saw him, a huge robot, less than twenty meters in front of him. He raised his rifle, removed the safety catch, and fired a grenade. There was a terrifying flash, the air filled with the smell of high-voltage electricity, and he felt millions of ants crawling over his body...but the sensation of heat faded, replaced by bone-chilling cold as his sweat-soaked uniform quickly radiated body heat into the cold night air.
  
  He ran back to his people. "Everything is fine?" he whispered. They all signaled that they were all right. He checked his GPS receiver - it was completely dead, but the platoon leader's compass was working properly again, and he quickly plotted their location on his map, got directions to their destination and set off.
  
  Along the way, they passed a robot. It looked as if his limbs, torso and neck were twisted in different and very unnatural directions at the same time, and it smelled like a shorted and burned out electric drill. Harden felt sorry for the guy inside at first-he was an American and a soldier, too, after all-but he wasn't about to stay around to check on him in case he was just stunned.
  
  It was completely dark when they approached the inner perimeter fence, a fifteen-foot-tall double-layered mesh topped with barbed wire. The absence of lights around the fence meant either dogs or infrared sensors, Harden knew. He gave the order to the team to break up into squads and launch an attack on ...
  
  ...and at that moment he heard a buzzing sound like a high speed fan and he looked up. Through his night vision goggles, he saw a garbage can-sized object about twenty feet in the sky and only thirty or forty yards away, with a wide round casing at the bottom, long legs, and two metal arms that held white flags-and, incredibly, , it had an illuminated LED display on top that read "DO NOT SHOOTING, JUST SPEAK, WE LISTEN".
  
  "What the hell is this?" Harden asked. He waited until the flying robot was about ten yards away, then shot it down with a single burst from his MP5 submachine gun. He was sure he had hit her, but she managed to fly down more or less under control, landing awkwardly a few yards away, still seeing the scrolling LED message. He moved his whispering sound to his lips. "Who is this?" I asked.
  
  "This is Brigadier General David Luger," the voice on the other end of the line answered. "You know who I am. This must be over, Lieutenant Harden, before anyone else is hurt or killed."
  
  "I have orders to take you into custody and secure this base, sir," Harden said. "I will not leave until my mission is completed. On instructions from the President of the United States, I am ordering you to deactivate all of your base's defenses and surrender immediately."
  
  "Lieutenant, there are a dozen more drones flying overhead with stun grenades right now," Luger said. "We can see you and each of your fifteen comrades, and we can hit each of them with a stun grenade. Watch carefully. In front of you, right by the fence." A moment later, he heard a faint metallic chime! the sound is almost directly overhead...and a second later there was an amazing flash of light, followed a moment later by an incredibly loud crack! a sound and then a pressure wall like a hurricane wind lasting a fraction of a second.
  
  "It was about a hundred yards from us, Lieutenant," Luger said. The ringing in Harden's ears was so loud he could hardly hear it on the radio. "Imagine what it would be like just five yards away."
  
  "Sir, you're going to have to get me and all my people out because we're not going anywhere," Harden said, letting his hearing settle a little. "If you do not want to be held responsible for the injury or killing of fellow Americans, I urge you to follow my orders and surrender."
  
  There was a long pause on the line; then Luger said in a sincere fatherly voice, "I really admire you, lieutenant. We were honest when we said that you were more advanced than the rest of the SEALs. They gave up the first time we hit them with a microwave emitter, and they even gave us your identity when we captured them - that's how we knew who you were. You guys did a good job. I know you didn't want to kill Staff Sergeant Henry. He was a sergeant piloting the CID."
  
  "Thank you sir, and no, I didn't mean to kill anyone, sir," Harden said. "We were briefed about this microwave weapon your robots are carrying and we knew we had to disable it."
  
  "We developed the microwave disruptor grenade because we were afraid that the CID technology would fall into the hands of the Russians," Luger said. "I didn't think it would be used by our own against our own."
  
  "I'm sorry, sir, and I take it upon myself to personally inform his next of kin." He had to keep him talking for as long as he could. The main occupying force, the Marine security company from Camp Pendleton, was due to arrive in less than thirty minutes, and if this Luger guy changed his mind about attacking more Marines, he might be delayed long enough for the rest to arrive. "Should I go back and help the staff sergeant?"
  
  "No, lieutenant. We'll deal with that ".
  
  "Yes, sir. Could you explain how-?"
  
  "No time for explanations, lieutenant."
  
  "Yes, sir." Time was running out. "Look, sir, nobody wants that. Your best bet is to stop fighting, hire a lawyer, and do it the right way. There should be no more attacks. This is not the one we should be fighting. Let's stop all this right now. You are the unit leader here. You are in charge. Give the order, have your men lay down their arms and let us in. We won't harm anyone. We are all Americans, sir. We are on the same side. Please sir stop this."
  
  Another long pause followed. Harden truly believed that Luger would back off. This was all crazy, he thought. Take courage and stop it, Luger! he thought. Don't be a hero. Stop it or...
  
  Then he heard a buzzing sound above his head-the little scavenger robots were returning-and then Luger said, "The pain will be worse this time, but it won't last very long. All the best, lieutenant."
  
  Harden jumped to his feet and yelled, "All squads, fire grenades for added effect and run for the fence, go, go, go!" He raised his MP5, loaded an explosive grenade into the breech of the grenade launcher, put it in place and raised the weapon to...
  
  ... and it seemed to him that his whole body instantly burst into flames. He screamed... And then everything quickly, thankfully, went dark.
  
  
  WHITE HOUSE CABINET, WASHINGTON, DC.
  LATER THE SAME MORNING
  
  
  "I can"t believe this... I fucking can"t believe this!" President Joseph Gardner groaned. Secretary of Defense Miller Turner briefed him and a handful of Senate and Congressional leaders on their efforts to apprehend Air Force members and secure their weapons, and the information wasn't good. "They defeated and captured two SEAL teams in Dreamland? I can not believe this! What about other locations?"
  
  "The SEAL team sent to Battle Mountain encountered light resistance and managed to capture one of their manned robots, but the robot appears to have either become disabled or damaged and abandoned," Turner said. "The plane and most of the personnel have disappeared; the SEALs captured about a hundred people without resistance. The FAA was unable to track any of the planes due to heavy interference or incapacity, and therefore we do not know where they went."
  
  "Disabled'? What the hell is this?"
  
  "Apparently next generation aircraft based in Dreamland and Battle Mountain are not just jamming enemy radars, but actually using radars and associated digital electronic systems to inject things like viruses, false or conflicting commands into the radar electronics. , decoys, and even code changes," National Security Adviser Conrad Carlyle replied. "They call it 'netruding' - network intrusion".
  
  "Why wasn"t I informed about this?"
  
  "This was the first time this has been used on McLanahan aircraft deployed in the Middle East," Carlisle said. "He disabled a Russian fighter jet by ordering it to shut down. Most digital radar systems in use today, especially civilian ones, have no way of blocking these intrusions. It can do this through all sorts of systems, such as communications, the Internet, wireless networks, even weather radar. Also, because many civilian networks are connected to military systems, they can inject malicious code into the military network without even attacking the military system directly."
  
  "I thought he fired a missile at a fighter!"
  
  "The Russians claimed he fired a missile, but he used this new 'netrusion' system to force the MiG to shut down," Carlisle explained. "McLanahan had heart problems before he could explain what happened, and after that we took the Russians at their word about the incident."
  
  "How can he send a virus through the radar?"
  
  "Radar is simply reflected radio energy, timed, decoded, digitized and displayed on a screen," Carlyle said. "Once the frequency of the radio signal is known, any kind of signal can be sent to the receiver, including a signal containing a digital code. Currently, radio energy is mostly displayed and distributed digitally, so the digital code enters the system and is processed like any other computer command - it can be processed, stored, reproduced, distributed over the network, whatever. "
  
  "Jesus..." Gardner breathed out. "You mean they may have already infected our communications and tracking systems?"
  
  "Once McLanahan decided to enter this conflict, he could order attacks," Miller said. "Every digital electronic equipment in use that receives data from radio waves or is networked to another system that is there could be infected almost instantly."
  
  "These are all electronic systems that I know about!" exclaimed the president. "Damn it, my daughter's pocket slot machine is connected to the internet! How could this happen?"
  
  "Because we ordered him to find a way to do it, sir," replied the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Taylor Bain. "It's an incredible force multiplier, which was important when almost every long-range attack aircraft in our arsenal was destroyed. Every satellite and every aircraft, including its unmanned aerial vehicle and the Armstrong space station, is capable of electronic netrusion. It can infect computers in Russia from space or simply from a drone flying within Russian radar range. He can prevent the outbreak of war, because the enemy will either never know of his approach, or will be powerless to respond."
  
  "The problem is, he can do this to us now!" the President exclaimed. "You need to find a way to protect our systems from these kinds of attacks."
  
  "It's under development, Mr. President," Carlisle said. "Firewalls and antivirus software can protect computers that already have them installed, but we are developing ways to address security gaps in systems that are not normally considered vulnerable to network attacks, such as radar, electronic surveillance such as electro-optical cameras, or passive electronic sensors.
  
  "The other problem," Bain added, "is that, as the division that developed and designs netrusion systems, the High-Tech Aerospace Weapons Center was at the forefront of developing countermeasures to them."
  
  "So the guys who use this thing are the ones who know how to defeat it," the president said in disgust. "Great. It helps." He shook his head in annoyance, trying to collect his thoughts. Finally, he turned to the two congressmen in the Oval Office. "Senator, Representative, I brought you here because this has become a very serious issue and I need leadership advice and support. Most of us in this room think McLanahan is out of his mind. Senator, you seem to think differently."
  
  "I believe, Mr. President," said Senator Stacy Ann Barbeau. "Let me try to talk to him. He knows that I support his space program and I support him."
  
  "It's too dangerous, senator," the president said. "One person died and several more were injured by McLanahan and his weapons."
  
  "A frontal attack by armed forces will not work if you are not going to make an invasion on D-Day, Mr. President," said Barbeau, "and we cannot drive him into Dreamland when he has spaceplanes, drones and bombers, roaming a thousand square miles of desert, patrolled by devices no one had ever heard of before. He won't wait for me. Besides, I think I might have people inside me who can help. They are just as concerned about the well-being of the general as I am."
  
  No other comments were made-no one else had any other suggestions, and certainly no one else was willing to put their heads in the tiger's mouth like the fur seals had done. "Then it's decided," the president said. "Thank you for this undertaking, Senator. I assure you all, we will do our best to ensure your safety. I'd like to speak to the senator alone for a minute. Thank you all ". The White House chief of staff took them all out of the cabinet, while Gardner and Barbeau moved to the president's private office adjoining the Oval Office.
  
  Before the door closed, Gardner's arms wrapped around her waist and he pressed against her neck. "You're a hot macho bitch," he said. "What is this crazy idea? Why do you want to go to Dreamland? And who is this guy that you say you have inside of you?"
  
  "You'll find out soon enough, Joe," Barbeau said. "You sent SEALs and they didn't - the last thing you want to do is start a war there. Your survey scores will drop even further. Let me try it my way first."
  
  "Okay sweetie, you got it," Gardner said. He let her turn in his arms, then began to run his hands over her breasts. "But if you succeed-and I have no doubt you will-what do you want in return?"
  
  "We already have a lot planned, Mr. President," Barbeau said, squeezing her nipples even tighter with his hands. "But I'm interested in one thing that Carlisle was talking about: the idea of netrusion."
  
  "What about this?"
  
  "I want it," said Barbeau. "The network war mission goes to Barksdale - not the Navy, not STRATCOM."
  
  "Do you understand all these things?"
  
  "Not all, but I will do it in a very short time," Barbeau said confidently. "But I do know that Furness has all the bombers and UAVs in Battle Mountain that use netrusion technology - I want them in Barksdale, along with all the network warfare equipment. All this. Downsize or even eliminate the B-52s if you wish, but Barksdale is fighting a web war for everything that flies - drones, B-2s, satellites, space-based radars, everything."
  
  The fingers on Barbeau's nipples tightened. "Are you talking about saving the space station?" Gardner asked. "These five billion I want to spend on two aircraft carriers."
  
  "The space station can fry, I don't care - I need the technology behind it, especially space-based radar," Barbeau said. "The space station is dead anyway - people think it's McLanahan's orbital graveyard and I don't want to be associated with that. But the nuts and bolts behind the station is what I want. I know that STRATCOM and Air Force Space Command will want to use netrusion aboard their reconnaissance, airborne command posts and spacecraft, but you have to agree to fight it. I want the Eighth Air Force in Barksdale to control netrusia."
  
  The president's hands began their service again, and she realized that he was in her hands. "As you say, Stacey," Gardner said absently. "To me, this is complete nonsense - what the bad guys around the world understand is a fucking carrier battle group parked on their coastline, in their faces, and not network attacks and computer magic. If you want that damn computer virus thing, you're welcome. Just get Congress to agree to stop funding the space station and give me at least two of my aircraft carriers and you can get your cyberwar crap."
  
  She turned to him, letting her breasts press tightly against his chest. "Thank you, baby," she said, kissing him hard. She put her hand on his crotch, feeling him bounce at her touch. "I would do our deal the normal way, but I need to catch my plane to Vegas. I will have McLanahan in jail by tomorrow night ... or I will expose him as a rampaging lunatic so brutally that the American people will demand that you arrest him."
  
  "I'd like to give you a big parting gift too, honey," Gardner said, playfully patting Barbeau on the back, then sitting down at his desk and lighting a cigar, "but Zevitin is going to call in a few minutes and I have to explain to him that I still in control of this mess with McLanahan."
  
  "To hell with Zevitin," said Barbeau. "I suspect that everything McLanahan said about the Russians planting a superlaser in Iran and firing on the spaceplane is true, Joe. McLanahan may be going too far by ignoring your orders, attacking without permission and then fighting the seals, but Zevitin is up to something here. McLanahan doesn't just go crazy."
  
  "Don't worry about anything, Stacey," Gardner said. "We have a good connection with Moscow. All they want is assurance that we're not trying to lock them up. McLanahan makes the whole world nervous, not just Russians, and it's bad for business."
  
  "But it's good for getting congressional votes for new carrier battle groups, honey."
  
  "Not if we have a rogue general on our hands, Stacey. Take McLanahan out, but do it quietly. He can ruin everything for us."
  
  "Don't worry about anything, Mr. President," said Barbeau, winking at him and shaking her hair. "He's falling... anyway."
  
  Barbeau met her chief of staff, Colin Morna, outside the executive suites hotel, and they hurried over to a waiting car. "Trip complete, Senator," Morna said as they drove back to her office on Capitol Hill. "I have billing codes for the entire trip from the White House and they even gave us clearance for C-37 - Gulfstream Five. That means we can take eight guests to Vegas with us."
  
  "Perfect. I received a verbal agreement from Gardner to relocate and centralize all Department of Defense network warfare units to Barksdale. Find out what kind of contractors and lobbyists we need to organize in order to achieve this, and invite them to Vegas with us. It should bring tears to their eyes."
  
  "You got it right, Senator."
  
  "Fine. So, what about your hard-bodied boyfriend, Hunter Noble? He's the key to this trip to Las Vegas while McLanahan is on this space station. What did you dug up on him?"
  
  "You've had him in your sights since day one, Senator," Colin said. "Our Captain Noble seems to be stuck in junior high school. For starters, in high school, he got pregnant a woman six years older than him-a school nurse, I think."
  
  "Where I come from, this happens every year, honey. The only virgin in my hometown was an ugly twelve year old girl."
  
  "He was expelled, but it didn't matter because he already had enough credits to finish high school two years early and go to engineering school," Colin continued. "Looks like his way of celebrating graduation is to get some woman pregnant, because he did it again in college and graduate school. He married a third, but the marriage was annulled when another fling came to light."
  
  "McLanahan, he definitely isn't," Barbeau said.
  
  "He is an outstanding pilot and engineer, but he seems to have real problems with authority," Morna continued. "He gets high marks on his performance reports for doing the job, but terrible marks for leadership and military bearing."
  
  "That won't help - now he sounds like McLanahan again," Barbeau said dejectedly. "What about the juiciest one?"
  
  "That's enough," Morna said. "He lives in the bachelor quarters at Nellis Air Force Base-only six hundred square feet of living space-and has been warned by base security on numerous occasions about noisy parties and visitors coming and going at all hours of the day and night. He's a regular at the Officers' Club in Nellis and earns a pretty decent bar bill. He rides a Harley Night Rod motorcycle and has been repeatedly cited for speeding and exhibitionistic driving. The license was recently returned after a three-month disqualification for unsafe driving - apparently decided to drive a T-6A air force training aircraft along the runway."
  
  "That's good, but I need real juicies, baby."
  
  "I saved the best for last, Senator. The list of visitors allowed to visit the base is as long as my arm. Several people - wives of married men, a couple of famous bisexuals, several prostitutes - and one was the wife of an Air Force general. However, visits to the base seem to have dwindled a bit last year...mostly because he has loan signing rights at three very large casinos in Vegas totaling one hundred thousand dollars."
  
  "What?"
  
  "Senator, this man hasn't paid for a hotel room in Vegas for over two years - he's on the "you" with managers, doormen and concierges throughout the city and enjoys free rooms and meals almost every week," Colin said. "He enjoys blackjack and poker and is often invited backstage to hang out with dancers, boxers and headliners. Usually there is at least one in tow, and often two or three ladies."
  
  "One hundred thousand!" Barbo noticed. "He beats every Nevada legislator I know!"
  
  "The bottom line, Senator: He works hard and plays hard," Colleen concluded. "He keeps a low profile, but has committed some pretty high-profile misdeeds that have apparently been hushed up because of the work he does for the government. He is regularly contacted by defense contractors who want to hire him, some offer incredible salaries, so that probably makes him overconfident and contributes to his mindset that he doesn't have to play the Air Force games."
  
  "Sounds like a guy living on the edge - and that's exactly what I like about them," said Barbeau. "I think it's time to pay Captain Noble a little visit - in his native habitat."
  
  
  CHAPTER TEN
  
  
  Achievement is everything, glory is nothing.
  
  - JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE
  
  
  
  MASHHAD, ISLAMIC REPUBLIC OF IRAN
  THAT NIGHT
  
  
  The city of Mashhad - "City of Martyrs" in English - in the northeast of Iran was the second largest city in Iran and, since it was the shrine of the eighth Imam Reza, it was the second largest Shiite holy city in the world, second only to Qum in importance . More than twenty million pilgrims visit the Imam Reza shrine every year, making it as remarkable and spiritual as the Haji, the pilgrimage to Mecca. Nestled in a valley between the Kuh-e-Mayuni and Ajdar-Kuh mountain ranges, the area has experienced bitterly cold winters but is pleasant most of the rest of the year.
  
  Located in the interior of Iran, Mashhad was of relatively little military or strategic importance until the Taliban regime in Afghanistan came to power in the 1980s. Fearing that the Taliban would try to export their brand of Islam to the west, Mashhad was turned into a counter-insurgency stronghold, with the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps operating several strike teams, reconnaissance units, fighter-bombers and helicopter assault units from Imam Reza International Airport.
  
  When Khesarak Bujazi's military coup took place, the importance of Mashhad quickly increased even more. The remnants of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps were pursued all the way from Tehran to Mashhad. However, Bujazi barely had the resources to maintain his tenuous control over the capital, so he had no choice but to let the survivors flee without making a determined effort to eliminate the commanders. With surviving IRGC commanders roaming freely around the city, and with a very large influx of Shiite pilgrims that hardly abated even during the growing violence, Pasdaran had many recruits to choose from in Mashhad. From the mosques, from the markets and malls, and from every corner of the street, the call for jihad against Bujazi and the Kagewa impostors spread everywhere and quickly spread.
  
  Inspired by the powerful spiritual aura of the city and the fortified power of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, the Acting President of Iran, the head of the Guardian Council and a senior member of the Assembly of Experts, Ayatollah Hassan Mokhtaz, dared to return from his exile in Turkmenistan, where he lived under the protection of the Russian government. At first there was talk of all of Iran's eastern provinces breaking away from the rest of the country and Mashhad becoming the new capital, but the instability of the coup and the inability of Bujazi and the Kagews to form a government postponed such discussions. Perhaps all Mohtaz had to do was call the believers to jihad, keep raising money to fund his rebellion, and wait-Tehran could be back in his hands on its own soon enough.
  
  Three full divisions of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, numbering more than one hundred thousand people, were based in Mashhad and its environs, almost the entire surviving composition of the elite troops of the front. Most of the Pasdaran forces, two divisions, were infantry, including two mechanized infantry brigades. There was one aviation brigade with counter-insurgency aircraft, attack helicopters, transports and air defense battalions; one armored brigade with light tanks, artillery and mortar battalions; and one Special Operations and Intelligence Brigade, which conducted subversion, assassination, espionage, surveillance, interrogation, and specialized communications missions such as propaganda broadcasts. In addition, another thirty thousand Al-Quds paramilitaries were deployed in the city itself, acting as spies and informants for Pasdaran and the theocratic government-in-exile.
  
  The headquarters of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps and the strategic center of gravity was the Imam Reza International Airport, located just five miles south of the Imam Reza shrine. However, all tactical military units at the airport were redeployed to make room for a new arrival: the S-300OMU1 Favorit air defense regiment from the Russian Federation.
  
  The S-300 strategic air defense system was considered one of the best in the world, equal to the American PAC-3 Patriot missile system. The S-300 battery consisted of a long-range 3D-scan acquisition radar, a target engagement and missile guidance radar, and twelve trailers, each loaded with four missiles, as well as maintenance, crew support, and security vehicles. One such battery was installed at the airport, another to the northwest, and a third to the west of the city. The S-300 missile was effective against targets flying up to thirty feet above the ground, up to one hundred thousand feet, at speeds up to Mach 3, out to one hundred and twenty miles, and deadly even to low-flying cruise missiles and theater ballistic missiles.
  
  The S-300s were supplemented by the Tor-M1 air defense system, which were tracked armored vehicles that fired eight high-velocity, short-range, radar-guided anti-aircraft missiles from vertical launch tubes. The Tor-M1 was designed to protect mobile command vehicles, vehicle assembly areas, refueling areas, and ammunition depots from attack helicopters, drones, and low-flying subsonic tactical bombers. Although the Tor-M1 had a crew of three, it was designed as a "set it and forget it" system, allowing for fully autonomous combat, or it could be connected to the S-300's fire control system to form an integrated air defense system. Together they formed an almost impenetrable shield around Mashhad.
  
  On that day, Mashhad was one of the most well-defended cities on planet Earth...and it was about to be tested.
  
  About two hours before dawn, the first warning was received from the long-range air defense radar of the second S-300 battery, located thirty miles northwest of Mashhad: "Alarm, alarm, alarm, this is the Siver battery, a high-speed low-altitude target is approaching, azimuth two "eight-zero, range one hundred and fifty, speed nine-six-five, height nine-zero."
  
  "Sivir, this is the Center, accepted," replied the tactical officer, Captain Sokolov. His tactical display showed three low-altitude, high-speed targets heading towards Mashhad. "Contact, sir," he reported to the regimental commander. "Looks like a bomb run across the terrain, right where you thought they would be."
  
  "Absolutely predictable," said Colonel Kundrin, commander of the air defense regiment, confidently. As if he had a premonition that something might happen this morning, he was dressed and at his post in the regimental air defense command center on the top floor of the Reza International administration building a few hours earlier. "Planes may change over the years, but the tactics remain the same. We have placed this battery in an ideal position - the bomber is trying to camouflage in the terrain in the valley, but the mountains descend directly to the place where we have placed this battery. A fatal flaw in their mission planning. He can't keep going straight, and if he pops out from behind the ridges, he'll expose himself even more."
  
  "Too fast and too low for a B-2 stealth bomber-that must be a B-1 bomber," Sokolov suggested. "And they didn"t launch their hypersonic cruise missiles either."
  
  "I don't think they have stealth bombers left after President Gryzlov and General Darzov masterfully bombarded their bases and caught the fools off guard on the ground," Kundrin said. "Besides, we're not dealing with the US Air Force - it's just McLanahan, a general who went crazy in space. He's probably fired all his missiles by now. Tell the Syveer to open fire at optimal range and be sure to keep an eye on the trailing aircraft. If he has more than one bomber, he either follows a close trail or attacks from another direction. I don't want anyone to slip inside."
  
  Sokolov gave the order. "Engagement order confirmed, sir, fifteen seconds left...wait one! Sir, the Zapat Battery is reporting a new enemy target approaching, azimuth two-five-zero, range one hundred, altitude one hundred, speed eight hundred and seventy and increasing!" Zapat was the westernmost battery, located fifty miles west of Mashhad.
  
  "I knew it! Predictable, everything is too predictable," Kundrin said happily. "Looks like we've placed this number three battery in the perfect spot too-covering the Binalud Ridge to the west of the city. If I were planning an attack on an airport, I would flatten myself along the ridge, then go around the end of the ridge and fire missiles right on deployment. That's exactly what McLanahan did - and we were in exactly the right place to pin him down! His bomb bays will be open, and his radar signature will be huge! Tell Zapata to join the fight when he's ready!"
  
  Each battery had three missile trailers separated by several miles but linked to each other by a microwave data link, each carrying four 48N6 vertical-launch interceptor missiles that had already been hoisted into position. Once the order to attack was given and the proper mode of attack was set-launching from the optimum distance-the battle was almost automatic. Once the target was in range, the nitrogen catapult propelled the missile out of the launch tube to a height of about thirty feet, and the rocket engine kicked in, accelerating the missile to over a mile per second in less than twelve seconds. Three seconds later, a second missile was automatically fired, guaranteeing defeat. The S-300 missiles climbed to a height of only twenty thousand feet, heading for the predicted interception point.
  
  "Status?" asked the regimental commander.
  
  "The batteries are hitting targets, four missiles are in the air," Sokolov reported. "Targets make only minimal evasive maneuvers and create little interference. Reliable fixation."
  
  "The last act of overconfidence," Kundrin said. "In any case, they have no room to maneuver. Too bad those are drones, huh, Captain?"
  
  "Yes, sir. I'm concerned about these T-waves, or whatever they are hitting our fighter with."
  
  "We'll see in a moment, right?"
  
  "Missiles are tracking perfectly... Targets are making slightly more aggressive maneuvers... Channel switching away from interference, still fixed at... three... two... one... now."
  
  There were no other reports from the tactical officer, which confused the regimental commander. "TAO, report!"
  
  "Sir... sir, both missiles are reporting ground contact!" Sokolov said in a low, embarrassed voice. "Negative warhead explosion. Complete miss!"
  
  "Drain your batteries and start again!" shouted Kundrin. "Distance to target and bearing?"
  
  "Processing the second volley... The third rocket has been launched... The fourth rocket has been launched," Sokolov said. "Distance to target nine-zero, bearing steady at two-eight-zero."
  
  "What about the third battery? Status?"
  
  "The third battery has entered the fray..." And then his voice broke off with a sharp breath.
  
  Kundrin jumped up from his seat and stared at the display. It was unbelievable... "Did they miss?" he exclaimed. "Another hit to the ground?"
  
  "Third battery again enters the battle ... Launch of the third missile ... missile four ..."
  
  "Can you tell me the distance and bearing to the target of the third battery?"
  
  "Range eight-zero, bearing steady at two-five-zero."
  
  "It... it doesn't make sense," Kundrin said. "The coordinates of both targets didn"t change even though they were attacked? Is there something wrong..."
  
  "Sir, the missiles of the second and third batteries of the second defeat also show a hit on the ground!" Sokolov said. "All battles are skipped! The second battery turns on again. Third Battery-"
  
  "The answer is negative! All batteries are in place!" Kundrin screamed. "Prohibit automatic activation!"
  
  "Repeat the last one, sir?"
  
  "I said, all batteries are charged, disable automatic activation!" shouted Kundrin. "We are on the mekon!"
  
  "Was I warned? You mean jammed, sir?"
  
  "They broadcast decoys on our displays and make us shoot ghosts," Kundrin said.
  
  "But we have full countermeasures and anti-jamming algorithms, sir," Sokolov said. "Our systems are in perfect working order."
  
  "They don't jam us, damn it," Kundrin said. "Something within our system. Our computers think they are processing real-world targets."
  
  The telephone of the command network rang; Only the commander of the regiment could answer it. "Center".
  
  "This is Raiette." It was General Andrei Darzov himself, calling from Moscow. "We copied your retaliatory attack notification, but now we see that you have canceled all tasks. Why?"
  
  "Sir, I think we are being guided-we are responding to decoys generated by our own sensors," Kundrin said. "I blocked automatic replies until..."
  
  "Sir, two S-300 batteries and a Tor are receiving automatic commands to engage in combat and are preparing to launch!" Sokolov shouted.
  
  "I didn"t give such orders!" shouted Kundrin. "Cancel these orders! All batteries are in place!"
  
  "Center, are you sure these are decoys?" - Asked Darzov.
  
  "Every rocket launched so far has hit the ground," Kundrin said. "None of our units have reported visual, optoelectronic or noise contact, even though the targets are at very low altitudes."
  
  "Second S-300 battery launches on numerous new incoming high-speed targets!" Sokolov reported. He ran up and pushed the liaison officer out of the way, pushing his earphones over him. "Siver and Zapat batteries, this is the TAO Center, the batteries are in place, I repeat, the batteries are in place! Ignore computer readings!" He hurriedly entered the date and time code for authentication - but as he did so, he watched more S-300s and Tor-M1s launch missiles. "All units, this is the TAO Center, stop launching! I repeat, stop the launch!"
  
  "Stop launching those damned craft, Captain, now!" shouted Kundrin. Now more targets appeared on the display - they flew exactly on the same trajectories, speed, altitude and azimuth as the first sets of targets! Soon the first battery, a C-300 company at Reza International Airport, began firing missiles. "Rayette, this is the Center, we are detecting new approaching enemy targets, but they are flying at exactly the same speed, height and trajectory as the first opponents! We recommend that you stop all responses and go to standby mode for all sensors. I'm sure we're being deceived."
  
  There was a long pause, during which the command network crackled and popped up due to the changing cipher decryption routines; then: "Center, this is Rayetka, turn Phanar. I repeat, unfold Phanar. Get ready to authenticate the job."
  
  "Repeat the last, Raiette?" - Asked Kundrin. For God's sake, the regimental commander was crying to himself, I just recommended to the guy that we close everything - now Darzo wants to release the biggest cannon and the biggest sensor they had! "Repeat, Raiette?"
  
  "I said deploy the Phanar and get ready for authentication when completing the task," came the response order. It was followed by an authentication code.
  
  "I understand, Raietka, I am moving the Phanar to a firing position, preparing to verify the authenticity of entering the battle." Darzov must be falling into despair, thought Kundrin. Phanar, the spaceship-fighting laser, was probably their last chance. The anti-aircraft artillery units scattered around Mashhad had no chance against the fast, low-flying bombers. He picked up the command network phone of his regiment: "Security service, this is the Center, take the Phanar to the firing position and tell the crew to prepare for a collision with enemy aircraft." He gave the security commander an identification code to move the trucks.
  
  "Sir, we managed to get all units to respond to the order to limit weapons," Sokolov said. "We only have twenty percent of our primary ammo left."
  
  "Twenty percent!" Hell, they spent eighty percent of their missiles on ghosts! "They better reload, damn it!"
  
  "Now we are in the process of recharging, sir," Sokolov continued. "Tor-M1 installations will be ready within fifteen minutes and S-300 installations will be ready within an hour."
  
  "Get on with it. A real attack can happen at any moment. And make sure they don't respond to any other targets unless they have opto-electronic confirmation!" Kundrin rushed to the exit, down the corridor, through the emergency exit and up the roof of the administration building. From there, using night vision binoculars, he could observe the progress of the security units.
  
  Four Phanar trucks were just coming out of their hiding places. They were hidden in a tunnel that ran under the runways, allowing vehicles to travel from one side of the airport to the other without having to go around the runways. They were heading to a firefighting training area on the north side of the runways, which had a number of old fuel tanks arranged to look like an airliner that could be filled with spent jet fuel and set on fire to simulate an airliner crash. The command vehicle was just now deploying the huge electronically scanned radar antenna and data link mast that would allow the radar to connect to the S-300's fire control network.
  
  Kundrin's secure walkie-talkie crackled to life: "Center, this is Rayetka," Darzov spoke up. "Status".
  
  "Phanar's deployment is in full swing, sir," Kundrin replied.
  
  "Center", this is "DAO", Sokolov radioed.
  
  "Get ready, TAO," Kundrin said. "I'm talking to Raiette".
  
  "Are they setting up at the southeast site as instructed?" - Asked Darzov.
  
  Southeast site? There was a fighter alert pad on the southeast side, but it was still used by Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps tactical attack helicopters and also as a secure parking area for Russian transports. They were never instructed to use it to use a laser against a spacecraft. "The answer is no, sir, we are using the north site for firefighting drills, as instructed."
  
  "Accepted," Darzov said. "Go on."
  
  A moment later, the TAO burst through the door to the observation post on the roof. "Stop, sir!" he shouted.
  
  "What the hell is going on, Sokolov? What are you doing up here?"
  
  "Authentication from Rayetka - it was invalid!" Sokolov said. "The order to deploy the Phanar was invalid!"
  
  "What?" A dull chill ran through Kundrin's head. He assumed that because the man on the radio was using the correct codename and was on the correct encrypted frequency, he was who he said he was and gave the actual order - he didn't wait to see if the authentication code was verified...
  
  ... and he realized that he had just informed whoever was on the other end of that channel the exact location of the Phanar!"
  
  He feverishly raised the radio to his lips, "Security, this is the Center, cancel the deployment, get those trucks back to cover!" he shouted. "I repeat, take them to-!"
  
  But at that very moment, there was a flash of light, and a millisecond later, an incredibly deafening explosion, followed by several more in quick succession. The first jolt knocked Kundrin and Sokolov off their feet, and they crawled frantically away as crushing waves of damp heat crashed down on them. There was nothing they could do but curl up into protective balls and cover their ears as the explosions continued one after another.
  
  It seemed like it lasted for an hour, but it was actually over in less than twenty seconds. Kundrin and Sokolov, their ears ringing from the deafening noise, crawled up to the ruined facade of the administrative building and looked out over the runways . The entire area north of the runways was engulfed in fire, centered on the firefighting training area. The fire on the panel itself-apparently from the burning chemicals used by the laser-seemed so hot and intense that it was radioactive. The Alert aircraft parking area to the southeast was also hit, with every helicopter and vehicle on fire.
  
  Then they heard them, and in the bright reflections of the fires they soon saw them, as clearly as during the day: a pair of American B-1 bombers flying straight down the runway. They apparently knew that all air defense units had been ordered to disable their systems and not open fire. The first flapped its wings as it flew past the administration building, and the second actually deployed the ailerons, flying less than two hundred feet above the ground. Having finished their little air show, they turned on the afterburner, took off into the night sky and soon disappeared from view.
  
  
  LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
  IN THE SAME TIME
  
  
  Stacey Ann Barbeau loved casinos and spent quite a bit of time at them along the Mississippi River in Louisiana and the Gulf Coast in neighboring Mississippi. But it was the first time in many years that she had been to a big Las Vegas casino, and she was impressed. Now it was much more than gambling halls - it was spectacular places, sensory bombardment not only with lights and colors and sounds, but with scenery, landscaping, architecture and art that were truly amazing. The last time she'd been here, the scenery had seemed gaudy, almost Disney-like. No more. It was definitely elegant Las Vegas - bright, a little gaudy, loud and extravagant, but elegant nonetheless.
  
  "You know what I like best about these places, honey - you can be completely anonymous so easily, even in those clothes," Barbeau told her assistant Colin Morna as they exited the hotel elevators through a wide, sweeping corridor and passed on the luxurious red carpet of a very large Italian-themed casino on the Strip in Las Vegas. She wore a silver cocktail dress, diamond earrings and necklace, and a mink stole, but apart from the frequent and appraising glances, she felt as if she were just another part of the landscape. "So where is the 'Playgirl'?"
  
  "Private poker room at the back," Morna said. She took out what looked like a massive ruby-encrusted brooch and pinned it to Barbeau's dress. "That's all you need to get in."
  
  "It's ugly. Do I have to wear this?"
  
  "Yes. This is an Identification and Tracking Transponder - RFID, or Radio Frequency Identification Tag," Morna said. "They've been following us since I picked him up half an hour ago while you were getting dressed. They track all your movements; they send information to all cashiers, croupiers, managers, security guards, hotel staff, and even slot machines about who you are, what you play or do, and - more importantly, I'm sure, how much money is left in your account. Security staff monitor you with their cameras and automatically compare your description to their database to keep an eye on you while you are on site. I think if you took a wrong turn or two more than once or twice somewhere in this place, they would send a couple of guys from the hotel business after you to point you in the right direction."
  
  "I like the sound of hospitality boys," Barbeau cooed. "Though I don"t really like the idea of being tagged like a brown bear in the woods."
  
  "Okay, keep this to yourself, because it's your room key, access to your credit line, your payment card, and your entry ticket to all shows and VIP rooms - again, you don't need to know anything, because these the guys will accompany you wherever you want to go. Anywhere ."
  
  "But they don't know who I am, do they?"
  
  "I would assume they know exactly who you are, Senator," Morna said, "but this is Vegas-here you are who you want to be. Tonight you're Robin Gilliam from Montgomery, telecoms and oil, married but single here."
  
  "Oh, do I have to be from Alabama?" she asked calmly. Morna rolled her eyes. "Doesn't matter. So how did I get into this private poker room if I'm not who I say I am?"
  
  "A fifty thousand dollar line of credit is the best way to get started," Morna said.
  
  "Did you use payment codes from the White House for this trip to get a line of credit at the casino? Smart girl."
  
  "It's just to get us out the door, Senator - don't really use any of this, or the Sergeant-at-Arms will crucify you," Morna said.
  
  "Oh, to hell with him - he's an old weirdo," Barbeau said.
  
  Morna rolled her eyes, silently hoping she was joking. Careers in Washington ended much less frequently. "All is ready. Management is as attentive as it is discreet. They will take good care of you. I will be in the room next to yours if you need me and I have a bought and paid casino employee who will tell me exactly where you are at all times."
  
  "Thank you, but I don't think I'll need a wingman today, dear," Barbeau said in her man-killing voice. "Captain Hunter 'Boomer' Noble will sink as easily as catching a catfish in a barrel."
  
  "What are you planning to do, Senator?"
  
  "I plan to show Captain Noble the best way to get promoted in the United States Air Force, which is very simple: don't cross the United States Senator," she said confidently. She puffed out her chest and pushed the mink aside. "I'll show him a couple of advantages of being pleasing to me rather than opposing me. Are you sure he's here?"
  
  "He checked in last night and played poker all day," Morna said. "He"s doing pretty well too - he"s moved up a bit."
  
  "Oh, I'll make sure he gets up, it's all right," Barbeau said. "Trust me".
  
  "I know where his apartment is - it's right down the hall from ours - and if he takes you there, my boyfriend will tell me," Morna continued.
  
  "Were there any other ladies with him?"
  
  "Only a few people who briefly looked at the table - he did not invite any of them to his room."
  
  "We'll look at that score, shall we?" Barbo said. "Don't wait for me, honey."
  
  Just like Colin said, the casino staff knew she would come without saying a word. As Barbeau left the casino's main hall and headed for the ornate gold entrance to the private poker room, a man in a tuxedo with a comms earpiece in one ear smiled, nodded, and said, "Welcome, Miss Gilliam," as she passed.
  
  As she approached the door, she was greeted by a tall, handsome man in a tuxedo and a woman in a tuxedo and skirt carrying a tray of drinks. "Welcome, Miss Gilliam," the man said. "My name is Martin and this is Jesse, who will be your escort for the rest of the evening."
  
  "Well, thank you, Martin," Barbeau said in her best southern accent. "I am completely taken by this extraordinary level of attention."
  
  "Our goal is to help you in every way possible to have the best evening as a hotel guest," said Martin. "Our motto is 'Anything' and I'll be here to make sure all your wishes come true tonight." The waitress handed her a glass. "Southern comfort and lime, I presume?"
  
  "Quite right, Martin. Thank you, Jesse."
  
  "My job is to make you feel comfortable, book any dinner or show you like, give you a seat at whichever gaming table you prefer, and introduce you to each other while you're at private hall. If there is anything you would like - anything - please feel free to tell Jesse or me."
  
  "Thank you, Martin," Barbeau said, "but I think I'd like to just... you know, wander around a bit to get comfortable. It's all right, isn't it?"
  
  "Certainly. Whenever you need anything, just contact us. You don't have to look for us - we'll look after you."
  
  It was a very safe feeling, thought Barbeau, to know that she was being watched every second. She took her drink and started pacing the room. It was chic and ornate, but not overly ostentatious; there was only a slight tang of cigar smoke, not too bad, almost pleasant and reassuring. In the back room, several sports games were shown on huge widescreen flat screen monitors with women who certainly didn't look like the spouses hanging on the shoulders of both male and female spectators.
  
  What happens in this place, Stacey thought as she takes a sip of her drink, will definitely stay in this place.
  
  After a short hunt, she finally found him at the back of the card table: Hunter Noble, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, with a single thick gold chain around his neck, an old-fashioned metal POW bracelet on one wrist, and a black nylon velcro strap on the other wrist. with a closed protective valve for the watch. He had an impressive stack of chips in front of him and there were only two players and a dealer at the table with him - and the other players definitely looked uneasy, their stacks of chips were much lower than his, as if they were disappointed that they were beaten by this young punk . One of the other players had a cigarette in an ashtray next to him; Noble also had an ashtray next to him, but it was clean and empty.
  
  Now that she saw him in his "native habitat," she liked what she saw. He was the perfect cross between lean and muscular-a naturally toned body without the need to lift a lot of weight, unlike McLanahan's stocky musculature. His hair was cut short and styled naturally without the need for mousse, which must have been the most unmanly thing Stacey had ever seen in her life. His movements were slow and light, though she caught a quick glance at him as cards and chips began to fly across the table in front of him. He certainly didn't miss much...
  
  ... and at that moment his gaze settled on her ... And he didn't miss anything either. He smiled that mischievous boyish smile and his quick eyes twinkled, and she instantly felt herself being visibly stripped again-then, just as quickly, his attention returned to the game.
  
  Shortly thereafter, Barbeau saw Martin watching the croupier counting Noble's winnings. He saw him ask Martin a question, the host answered, and soon he was slowly walking over to her table with a drink and a cigarette in his hand. "Forgive me, Miss Gilliam," he said, speaking very formally but with the same mischievous smile, "but I took the liberty of asking Martin who you were and thought I should introduce myself. My name is Hunter Noble. I hope I didn't interfere."
  
  Barbeau took a sip of her drink, but looked at him over the rim of her glass, making him wait while she looked at him. He just stood patiently in front of her with his playful boyish smile on his face, standing casually but defiantly, as if he had no doubt that she would invite him to sit down. Well, damn it, she thought, the guy makes a living flying hypersonic spaceplanes - a simple woman will not scare him. "Of course not, Mr. Noble. Could you sit down?" Barbeau responded just as formally, enjoying the game of strangers.
  
  "Thank you, I'd love to." He sat down in the chair next to her, put down his drink, then leaned over to her. "Senator Barbeau? It's you?"
  
  "Captain Hunter 'Boomer' Noble," she said in reply. "Nice to meet you here, sir."
  
  "Nothing special, Senator. Did you track me down here?"
  
  "I don't understand what you mean, captain," Barbeau said. "It so happens that the assistant manager of the hotel here is a friend of mine, and he invited me to this wonderful VIP lounge when I arrived in the city." She looked him up and down again. "Where is your RFID tag, Captain?"
  
  "I don"t wear these things-I like to tip in cash, and I can open my own room door without Big Brother"s help."
  
  "I think it's funny to be under constant surveillance. Because of this, I feel completely safe."
  
  "You'll get tired of this," he said sullenly. "You're here to shut down Dreamland, aren't you Senator?"
  
  "I'm here to talk to the SEALs who tried to attack this place, talk to General Luger about his actions and report back to the president," she replied.
  
  "Then why are you here? Are you spying on me?"
  
  "Well, Captain Noble, you sound like someone who has something to hide," Barbeau said. "But I'm frankly surprised to find a young Air Force captain who makes less than seventy thousand dollars a year before taxes here in the VIP gambling hall, where the price of admission is usually a fifty thousand dollar casino line of credit, with such a big stack of chips in front of him."
  
  "Playing poker for money is not against Air Force bylaws, Senator. None of them spend a significant portion of my bachelor's income at home on playing cards. Do you investigate guys who spend that much on cars or cameras?"
  
  "I don't know anyone who was blackmailed by bookmakers or loan sharks because they were buying camera equipment," Barbeau said. "Being an avid gamer certainly looks...how should I say, indecent? For someone in a job as demanding as yours, to be such a gambler - or perhaps even a gambler? "Some may find this very suspicious."
  
  "I'm not addicted to gambling," Boomer said defensively. The senator's eyes gleamed; she knew she'd struck a nerve. "But why this farce, Senator? Why this campaign to destroy the program? You are against the Black Stallion and the space station - fine. Why take political opposition so personally?"
  
  "I'm not opposed to the XR-A9 project, Captain," said Barbeau, sipping her drink. "I think it's a wonderful technology. But the space station has many very strong opponents."
  
  "Like Gardner."
  
  "Many adversaries," repeated Barbeau. "But some of the technology you use is of great interest to me, including the Black Stallion."
  
  "Not to mention that we managed to earn a few points from people in the White House and dozens of defense contractors."
  
  "Don't try to play politics with me, captain - my family invented this game and I learned from the best," Barbeau said.
  
  "I see it. You are more than willing to ruin a military career for your own political gain."
  
  "You mean General McLanahan? The perfect example of a smart, driven guy stepping into political waters that were beyond his understanding," she said evasively, taking another sip. She finally began to feel relaxed, immersed in an atmosphere in which she was very comfortable...but not just comfortable: one in which she was in control. McLanahan had destroyed himself, and since Hunter Noble had taken care of him, he was going to be the next to fall.
  
  Captain Hunter Noble was cute, and obviously smart and talented, but that was business and he would be just another one of her victims... after she had some fun with him!
  
  "He'll be fine - as long as he backs off and lets me tell the White House what's best for the Air Force," Barbeau continued casually. "McLanahan is a war hero, for God's sake, everyone knows that. Very few people know what happened in Dreamland and Turkey." She snapped her fingers, flicking her wrist. "It can be tucked under the carpet like this. With my help and with his maximum cooperation, he will get off with a general military tribunal and the loss of his pension. But then he can go on with his life."
  
  "Otherwise, you'll let him rot in prison."
  
  Stacey Ann Barbeau leaned forward, giving him a good look at her breasts under the silver plunging neckline. "I'm not here to make anyone miserable, captain, least of all you," she said. "In truth, I would like to have your help."
  
  "My help?"
  
  "After McLanahan, you are the most powerful person associated with the space project," she said. "The General is finished if what he did in Dreamland and Turkey leaks out. I don't think he will cooperate with me. It leaves you."
  
  "What is this, a threat? Are you going to try to destroy me too?"
  
  "I don't want to attack you, captain," she said in a low voice. She looked him straight in the eyes. "Honestly, you totally won me over." She saw the surprise on his face and realized that she took him by the balls. "You have attracted me since the first time I saw you in the Oval Office and when I saw you here looking at me like you were-"
  
  "I didn't look at you," he said defensively, not too convincingly.
  
  "Oh yes, you were, Hunter. I felt it. You did it too." He swallowed but said nothing. "What I'm trying to say, Hunter, is that I could take your career in a whole new direction if you would let me. All you have to do is let me show you what I can do for you."
  
  "My career is just wonderful."
  
  "In the Air Force? It's good for eggheads and neanderthals, but not for you. You're smart, but you're smart and in control. These are special qualities. In the military, they'll be overwhelmed with layers of old-school shit and endless, faceless bureaucracy - not to mention the possibility of dying in combat or in space piloting the lowest cost aircraft.
  
  "I suggest you get out of this hellish existence called ranching, Hunter," Barbeau continued in a low voice, putting as much sincerity into it as she could. "How do you think other men and women rise above Pentagon corporate mediocrity and improve their future?"
  
  "The General did this by being dedicated to the mission and to his teammates."
  
  "McLanahan did it as Kevin Martindale's whipping boy," Barbeau said firmly. "If he died on any of the missions he sent him on, Martindale would just find another mindless robot to activate. Is this what you want? Do you just want to be McLanahan's sacrificial lamb?" Again, Boomer didn't answer-she could see the wheels of doubt spinning in his head. "So, who's watching over you, Hunter? McLanahan can't do it. Even if he doesn't go to jail, he'll have a federal conviction and less than an honorable discharge on his record. You, too, will languish there if you blindly follow idealists like McLanahan."
  
  He didn't say it, but she knew what he was asking himself: how do I get out of this? He was clay in her hands, ready for the next step. "Come with me, Hunter," she said. "I'll show you how to rise above the swamp that McLanahan dragged you into. I will show you the real world, the one that is beyond space planes and mysterious missions. With my help, you can dominate the real world. Just let me show you the way."
  
  "And what do I need to do?"
  
  She gazed into his eyes, took a deep breath, then gently placed her hand on his left thigh. "Just trust me," she said. "Give yourself into my hands. Do as I tell you and I will take you places, introduce you to the most powerful people who really want to hear what you have to say, and guide you through the real corridors of power. This is what you want, isn't it?" She could feel those rock-hard thighs bouncing at her touch, and she couldn't wait for those long legs to straddle her. He was practically gasping for air like a marathon runner at the end of a race. "Go".
  
  He stood up and she smiled and took his hand as he helped her to her feet. He's mine, she thought... Mine.
  
  She felt a little dizzy as she got to her feet - one glass of whiskey after she'd been half a day off food in preparation for this trip had finished her off. After she dealt with Hunter Noble, she vowed to treat herself and Colin to a late-night dinner in the suite and toast to her success. First Gardner, then McLanahan, and now this muscular military astronaut with a strong body.
  
  "Can I help you, Miss Gilliam?" Jessie, the waitress, asked her, appearing out of nowhere. She held out her hand as if to help her stand.
  
  "No thanks, Jesse, I'm fine," Barbeau said. She watched as Martin approached and looked like he was about to physically restrain Noble, who followed her cautiously, but she raised her hand. "Mr. Noble and I are going for a walk together," she said. "Thank you, Martin."
  
  "If you need anything, Miss Gilliam, just pick up the phone or give a signal - we'll be right there," Martin said.
  
  "Thank you very much. I'm having a great time," Barbeau said cheerfully. She tipped him fifty dollars, then went to the door. Hunter opened the door for her; Martin took the door away from him and she noticed him giving Noble a stern warning look...and he didn't tip him either. Well, she thought, maybe Playgirl's reputation was a little tarnished here. That would be another weakness of his that would be worth exploring if he wasn't cooperating.
  
  They walked together without talking until they reached the elevator, and then she took him by the thin waist, pulled him closer and kissed him hard. "I've wanted to do this since the first time I saw you," she said, hugging him tightly. He whispered something back, but the music in the elevator seemed a little loud and she couldn't hear him.
  
  On their floor, they were met by the floor attendant. "Welcome, Mr. Noble, Miss Gilliam," she said gleefully, apparently alerted by the hotel's ubiquitous security system of their arrival. "Is there anything I can do for you tonight? Anything?"
  
  "No, I took care of everything myself," Barbo heard her own voice, reaching between his legs and stroking him. "But if you want to join us a little later, honey, that would be great, just great." And then she heard her own giggle. Did she just giggle? This Southern comfort affected her more than she thought. Never party on an empty stomach, she reminded herself.
  
  Passing Colin's room, she pretended to stumble a bit and knocked on her door, just to warn her of her return, and then they were at the door to the room. "You just relax and let me drive for now, big boy," she said, starting to pull his shirt out of his pants before he opened the door. "I'll show you how we love to have fun by the river."
  
  
  PRIVATE RESIDENCE OF THE PRESIDENT, BOLTINO, RUSSIA
  A FEW HOURS LATER
  
  
  "Why didn't you return my calls, Gardner?" President Leonid Zevitin thundered. "I've been trying for several hours now."
  
  "I have my problems, Leonidas," said President Joseph Gardner. "As if you hadn't noticed, I have to deal with a little mutiny here."
  
  "Gardner, McLanahan bombed Mashhad, Iran!" Zevitin was crying. "He destroyed several Russian transports and killed hundreds of men and women! You said he would be forcibly taken under control! Why haven't you dealt with him yet?"
  
  "I was informed of the attack," Gardner said. "I was also briefed on the target, an anti-space laser that was supposedly used to shoot down one of our spaceplanes. You don't happen to know anything about this, do you, Leonidas? What were all these Russian personnel and vehicles doing in Mashhad?"
  
  "Don't change the subject!" - shouted Zevitin. "The Duma will be meeting soon and they are going to recommend a permanent change in the military position, including the call for ready reserves, the mobilization of ground forces and strategic aviation, and the dispersal of mobile ballistic missiles and submarine forces. Was that your plan from the start, Gardner, to make McLanahan act like a lunatic, attacking targets all over the planet and forcing us to react like we're about to start a world war? Because that's exactly what it looks like!"
  
  "You think I'm in cahoots with McLanahan? This guy is nuts! He's completely out of control! He attacked the US military, took over a top-secret military base, and stole several highly classified planes and weapons. No one contacts him for almost half a day - we think he may have committed suicide on the space station."
  
  Well, thought Zevitin, this was the best news he had heard in a long time. "No one will believe any of this," he told Gardner. "You have to give me something I can say to my cabinet and leaders in the Duma, Joe, or this thing could get out of hand. How did he do that attack on Mashhad, Joe?"
  
  "That's what they call 'netrusia', Leonid," Gardner said. Zevitin's eyes widened in surprise - the American president was really going to tell him! "Some McLanahan aircraft and spacecraft are equipped with a system where they can not only jam radar and communications, but actually inject fake code and signals into an enemy system. They can reprogram, disable or control computers, invade networks, introduce viruses, all that egghead shit."
  
  "It's amazing!" Zevitin exclaimed. Yes, it's amazing that you're telling me all this! "Is that how the bombers flew over Mashhad?"
  
  "They made the air defenses around the city respond to decoys," Gardner said. "The air defense guys apparently turned off their missile systems so they wouldn't shoot at something that wasn't there, and that allowed the bombers to slip in. McLanahan also hacked into their encrypted radio transmissions and gave them false orders, which allowed the bombers to locate the laser system and attack it."
  
  "If all this is true, Joe, then we should make a deal to exchange this technology," Zevitin said, "or at least promise not to use it except during a declared war. Can you imagine if this technology fell into the wrong hands? It could devastate our economies! We could be thrown back to the Stone Age in the blink of an eye!"
  
  "It was all the McLanahan assholes at Dreamland who came up with this stuff," Gardner said. "I'm going to shut down Dreamland and shoot that McLanahan bastard. I think he left the space station and went back to Dreamland. He's been ignoring my orders for too long and doing what he pleases. I have a girlfriend, a powerful senator, who will try to expose McLanahan and when she does, I will have his ass against the wall."
  
  "Who's a senator, Joe?"
  
  "I'm not ready to reveal the name."
  
  "That will give credibility to my arguments before the Duma, Joe."
  
  There was a short pause; then: "Senator Stacey Ann Barbeau, Majority Leader. She went to Dreamland to try and meet up with McLanahan or Luger to try and defuse this situation."
  
  Is the Senate Majority Leader spying for him? It couldn't be better. Zevitin's mind raced forward. Would he dare to offer it...? "You don't want to do this, Joe," he said carefully. "You don't want to expose yourself or Barbo any more. McLanahan is a very popular person in your country, isn't he?"
  
  "Yes, unfortunately it is."
  
  "Then let me suggest this idea, Joe: both over the Black Sea and over Iran, let us do it for you."
  
  "What?" I asked.
  
  "You told us where and when those bombers would be, and we took care of them for you; you told us about the spaceplane and put them in a position where we could strike-"
  
  "What? What did you do with the spaceplane...?"
  
  "Get McLanahan out into the open," Zevitin continued, almost out of breath. "Let Senator Barbeau tell us where he is. I will send a team to punish him."
  
  "You mean a Russian mercenary group?"
  
  "You don't want McLanahan's blood on your hands, Joe," Zevitin said. "You want to get him out of the way because he is much more than just a nuisance to you - he is a danger to the whole world. He needs to be stopped. If you have a person inside, ask him or her to contact us. Tell us where he is. We'll do the rest, and you don't have to know anything about it."
  
  "I don't know if I can do it..."
  
  "If you have seriously considered taking him personally, then you are serious about the danger he poses not only to world peace, but to the security and very existence of the United States of America. This man is a pure threat. He is a wild dog that needs to be put down."
  
  "That's exactly what I said, Leonid!" Gardner said. "McLanahan not only crossed the line, but I think he became completely out of control! He brainwashed his people into attacking US troops... or maybe he used that "netrusion" crap to brainwash them. He must be stopped before he destroys the entire country!"
  
  "Then we are of one mind, Joe," Zevitin said. "I'll give you a number to call, a secure and discreet reset, or you can code the message through the hotline. You don't have to do anything other than tell us where he is. You don't need to know anything. It will be completely refuted."
  
  There was a long pause on the line; then: "Okay, Leonid. Convince your people that America does not want war and has no plans against Russia and we will work together to stop McLanahan." And he hung up.
  
  It was too good to be true! Zevitin exclaimed to himself. Two leading politicians in the United States were going to help him kill Patrick McLanahan! But to whom to entrust this project? Not his own intelligence bureau - too many shaky alliances, too many unknowns for this kind of work. The only person he could trust was Alexandra Khedrov. There were certainly agents in her ministry who could do the job.
  
  He went to his bedroom adjoining his administrative office. Alexandra sat alone in bed in the dark. Speakerphone was on; he hoped she would listen and be ready to advise him. She was a valuable adviser and a person he trusted more than anyone else in the entire Kremlin. "So, my love," said Zevitin, "what do you think? Gardner and Barbeau are going to tell us where McLanahan is! I need you to put together a team, send them to Nevada and be ready to strike." She was silent. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, her head was down to touch her knees, her arms were wrapped around her legs. "I know, love, this is a disgusting thing. But this is an opportunity we cannot miss! Do not you agree?" She remained motionless. "Expensive...?" Zevitin flipped the light switch... and saw that she was unconscious! "Alexandra! What's happened? Are you all right?"
  
  "I can help you with this, Mr. President." Zevitin turned around ... and saw in his closet, hidden by darkness, a figure in a dark gray uniform, which was a combination of a flight suit and body armor ... an iron woodman's combat armor system, he realized. In his hands was a large weapon, a combination of a sniper rifle and a cannon. "Hands up".
  
  He did as he was told. "Who are you?" Zevitin asked. He took a step back... to the light switch, which, if he could turn it off and on quickly, would send an alarm to his security team. "You're one of McLanahan's tin lumberjacks, aren't you?"
  
  "Yes," the man said in an electronically synthesized voice.
  
  "McLanahan sent you to kill me?"
  
  "No," Zevitin heard a voice saying. He turned...and there, wearing another Tin Woodman battle armor but no helmet, was Patrick McLanahan himself. "I thought I'd do it myself, Mr. President."
  
  Zevitin spun, pushed McLanahan away, rushed to the light switch and managed to turn it off, then back on. McLanahan watched impassively as Zevitin flicked the switch furiously up and down. "A very impressive feat to sneak past my guards into my private residence and into my bedroom," Zevitin said. "But now you have to fight your way through a hundred trained commandos. You will never succeed."
  
  Maclanahan's armored left arm shot up, closed around Zevitin's wrist and squeezed. It seemed to Zevitin that his hand was completely torn from his hand, and he fell to his knees in pain, screaming in agony. "There were about sixty-two guards there, and we took care of them all on our way here," McLanahan said. "We also bypassed your security system's connection to the military base in Zagorsk - they will think that everything is fine."
  
  'Netrusia', I suppose that's what you call it?
  
  "Yes".
  
  "Brilliant. The whole world will know about it by tomorrow, and soon we will tell the rest of the world about it when we reverse engineer the technology."
  
  Maclanahan's right hand shot up and closed around Zevitin's neck. His face was completely expressionless, devoid of emotion. "I don't think so, Mr. President," he said.
  
  "So. Are you an assassin now? The great air general Patrick Shane McLanahan became a common assassin. It wasn't enough for you to betray your oath and disobey your commander-in-chief, right? Now you're going to commit the greatest mortal sin and ruin someone's life just because of a personal vendetta?"
  
  McLanahan just stood there, expressionless, staring straight into Zevitin's grinning face; then he nodded and simply replied, "Yes, Mr. President," and he effortlessly squeezed his fingers together until the body in his hands was completely limp and lifeless. The two Americans stood there for a minute, watching the blood splatter the polished wood floor and the body twitch several times, until finally McLanahan released the body from his grasp.
  
  "I didn't think for a second that you would do this, boss," Major Wayne Macomber said in his electronic voice.
  
  Patrick went into the closet and took out his helmet and electromagnetic railgun. "I didn't think about anything else for a long time, Zipper," he said. He put on his helmet and raised his rail pistol. "Go home".
  
  
  MAIN LODGE, THERMONT NAVY SUPPORT BASE (CAMP DAVID), MD
  IN THE SAME TIME
  
  
  It's all going to hell, President Joseph Gardner told himself. But it's not my fucking fault. McLanahan must go as soon as possible. If he had to make a deal with the devil to do it, so be it.
  
  He walked out of his private office back into the bedroom of the President's residence at Camp David, where he found his guest - the master sergeant he had aboard the first Air Force plane - standing at the bar at the far end of the room, dressed only in an almost transparent negligee, wide open to the very bottom, with seductively laid hands behind her back. Damn it, he thought, this was one of the hottest future Air Force officers! "Hi honey, sorry it took so long, but it couldn't wait. Get us a drink, okay?"
  
  "Fix it yourself, you fucking bastard," he heard, "then go shove it up your ass." Gardner turned sharply...
  
  ...and found himself standing in front of none other than Senator Stacey Ann Barbeau! "Stacey!" he blurted out. "How the hell did you get here?"
  
  "Congratulations from General McLanahan," he heard. He turned the other way and saw a figure in some sort of futuristic body armor and helmet standing against the wall. He heard a sound behind him and saw another figure wearing head-to-toe body armor and a helmet, carrying a huge rifle, enter the room.
  
  "Who you are?" the President exclaimed. "How did you get here?" He finally found out who they were. "You tin lumberjacks of McLanahan! Did he send you to kill me?"
  
  "Pay no attention to them, Joe!" Barbo was crying. "What did it all mean? Did you make a deal with Zevitin to have Russian agents kill McLanahan?"
  
  "This is starting to look like a damn good idea, Stacey, don"t you think?" Gardner asked. "That's exactly what I was afraid of - McLanahan is going to kill all his enemies and take over the government!"
  
  "So, to plan your exit strategy, you bring a chick to Camp David, have fun with her for a while, and then make a deal with the Russian president to kill an American general?"
  
  Gardner turned sharply. "Help! Help me!" he shouted. "I'm in the room, and there are armed men! Come here! Help! "
  
  One of the armored figures stepped towards Gardner, put a hand around his neck and squeezed. Gardner's vision exploded into a cloud of stars from sudden intense pain. All his strength immediately left his body and he collapsed to his knees. "They are all out of action at the moment, Mr. President," the armored figure said. "No one hears you."
  
  "Get away from me!" Gardner whimpered. "Do not kill me!"
  
  "I have to kill you myself, you piece of shit!" shouted Barbeau. "I wanted to get McLanahan out of the way, maybe embarrass or embarrass him if he didn't cooperate, but I didn't mean to kill him, you stupid idiot! And I certainly wasn't going to make a deal with the Russians to do it!"
  
  "It's McLanahan's fault," Gardner said. "He's crazy. I had to do it."
  
  The figure that grabbed Gardner by the neck released him. Gardner collapsed to the floor, an armored figure standing over him. "Listen to me carefully, Mr. President," the figure said in a strange computer voice. "We have a tape of you confessing to colluding with the Russians to shoot down US bombers and the Black Stallion spaceplane, and colluding with the Russian President to infiltrate Russian agents into the country to assassinate an American general."
  
  "You can't kill me!" Gardner was crying. "I am the President of the United States!"
  
  The figure slammed an armored fist right next to the president's head, then two inches down, punching through the maple floor and the concrete base of the bedroom. Gardner screamed again and tried to run, but the figure grabbed him by the throat, bringing his helmeted face close to the president's. "I can easily kill you, Mr. President," the figure said. "We stopped the Navy SEALs, we stopped the Secret Service, and we stopped the Russian Air Force - we can certainly stop you. But we are not going to kill you."
  
  "Then what do you want?"
  
  "Amnesty," the figure said. "Complete freedom from prosecution or investigation for anyone involved in actions against the United States or its allies from Dreamland, Battle Mountain, Batman, Tehran and Constanta. Complete resignations and honorable discharges for all who do not wish to serve under you as their commander in chief."
  
  "What else?"
  
  "That's all," another figure said. "But to ensure that you do what we say, the Tin Woodcutters and CID units will disappear. If you cross our path or anything happens to any of us, we will come back and finish the job."
  
  "You can't stop us," said the first Tin Woodman. "We will find you wherever you try to hide. You will not be able to track or locate us because we can manipulate your sensors, computer networks and communications in any way we choose. We will track all your conversations, your emails, your movements. If you betray us, we will find you and you will simply disappear. Do you understand, Mr. President?" He looked at the two women in the room. "That goes for the two of you too. We don't exist, but we'll be watching you. You all."
  
  
  EPILOGUE
  
  
  He who falls himself never cries.
  
  - TURKISH PROVERB
  
  
  
  LAKE MOHAVE, NEVADA
  A FEW WEEKS LATER
  
  
  The boy cast a line into Mojave Lake from his position on top of a rocky outcropping next to a long, wide boat ramp. Mojave Lake wasn't really a lake, just a wide stretch of the Colorado River south of Las Vegas. It was a popular winter haunt for seasonal residents, but even now, in early spring, they could feel the onset of the summer heat, and the place had a buzz that people were itching to leave. Not far from the boy stood his father in shorts, sunglasses, nylon running sandals and a Tommy Bahama embroidered shirt, typing on a laptop in the shade of a covered picnic area. Behind him, in the RV park, the Snowbirds were breaking up their campground and getting ready to move their trailers, campers and SUVs to a milder climate. Soon only the most hardened desert lovers will be left behind to endure the brutally hot summer in southern Nevada.
  
  Amidst the hustle and bustle of the campsite, the man heard the sound of a heavier-than-usual car. Without turning around or showing any sign of noticing, he exited his current program and called another. By pressing a key, the remote wireless network camera on the telephone pole was activated and began to automatically track the newcomer. The camera focused on the license plate of the car, and after a few seconds it captured the letters and numbers and identified the owner of the car. At the same time, a wireless RFID sensor, located in conjunction with the camera, reads the encoded identification signal transmitted from the vehicle, confirming its identity.
  
  The car, a dark H3 Hummer with tinted windows all around except for the windshield, was parked in the white gravel lot between the marina restaurant and the launch ramp, and three men got out. Everyone was wearing jeans, sunglasses and boots. One man in a brown safari-style vest stayed by the car and began to survey the area. The second man was wearing an unbuttoned white business shirt with the collar open and the sleeves rolled up, while the third man was also wearing an open brown safari-style vest.
  
  A man at a picnic table received a tiny beep in his Bluetooth wireless headset telling him that a tiny millimeter wave sensor installed in the park had detected that one of the men was carrying a large metal object - and it wasn't a tackle box either. The second man in the vest stopped about a dozen paces from the picnic area next to the ramp to the launching ramp next to the garbage can and began surveying the area like the first. A third man approached the man at the picnic table. "Is it hot enough for you?" - he asked.
  
  "That's nonsense," said the man at the picnic table. He put down his laptop, got to his feet, turned to the newcomer and removed his sunglasses. "They say it will exceed a hundred by May, and will remain above a hundred and ten throughout June, July, and August."
  
  "Great," said the newcomer. "Reducing the number of visitors, huh?" He looked past the man at the boy who was fishing at the boat ladder. "Damn, I can't believe how tall Bradley is getting."
  
  "Now he will be taller than the old man any day now."
  
  "Without a doubt". The newcomer held out his hand. "How the hell are you, Patrick?"
  
  "Just great, Mr. President," said Patrick McLanahan. "You?" I asked.
  
  "Great. Boring. No, I'm sick of it," replied former President of the United States Kevin Martindale. He looked around. "Pretty dark place you have here, Muk. This is not San Diego. It's not even Vegas."
  
  "The desert is breathtaking, especially if you come here in late winter and experience a gradual change in temperature," said Patrick.
  
  "Are you planning to stay?"
  
  "I don't know, sir," Patrick said. "I bought a house and an airport hangar at Searchlight. I don't know if I'm ready to assemble yet. The place is growing. I am currently homeschooling Bradley, but the schools here are said to be getting better as more and more people move to the area."
  
  "And John Masters is just off Highway 95."
  
  "Yes, and he pesters me almost every day to come to work for him, but I'm not sure," admitted Patrick.
  
  "This desperate astronaut Hunter Noble signed up with him. I heard that he is already vice president. But I'm sure they'll find a place for you if you want it."
  
  "Been there, done it."
  
  "There's one more thing we've both done before, Patrick," Martindale said.
  
  "I thought that sooner or later you would show up about this."
  
  "You have Tin Woodcutters and TIEs, don"t you?"
  
  "What?" I asked.
  
  "You're a terrible liar," Martindale said with a laugh.
  
  "Is there any point in trying to lie? I'm sure your intelligence network is good..."
  
  "As good as the one you reportedly made? I doubt it. I doubt it very much," the former president said. "Listen, my friend, you are still needed. The country needs you. I need you. Besides, what you hid is the property of the government. You can't keep it to yourself." Patrick gave him a direct look-only a fleeting one, but the meaning was loud and clear. "Okay, you can probably keep it to yourself, but you shouldn't just put it on the back burner. You can do a lot of good things with it." Patrick didn't say anything. Martindale took off his sunglasses and wiped them on his shirt sleeve. "Have you heard the latest news about Persia?"
  
  "About the new president being assassinated?"
  
  "When this hits the news, the whole Middle East will go crazy again, and Mohtaz will resurface from under the rock he was hiding under when the Russians left, and will again claim the presidency. The people want Queen Azar to take control of the government before new elections are held, but she is pushing for Prime Minister Noshar to take charge."
  
  "She is right".
  
  "Noshar is a bureaucrat, a bean counter. He cannot run the country. Azar or Bujazi should take charge under emergency powers until elections are held."
  
  "He'll be all right, sir. If this is not the case, Azar will go to parliament and recommend someone else. Boujazi will categorically not do that."
  
  "Do you think she will ask Sakez, the Deputy Prime Minister?"
  
  "I hope not. He made too many trips to Moscow to suit me."
  
  Martindale nodded in understanding. "I knew you were following this stuff," he said. "By the way, about Moscow - what do you think of this Zevitin replacement, Igor Truznev, the former head of the FSB?"
  
  "He's a bloodthirsty thug," Patrick said. "He's doing a little quiet purge there. They say that the next person to be "reassigned" to Siberia will be Khedrov."
  
  Martindale smiled and nodded. "Even I haven"t heard it yet, Patrick!" he said excitedly. "Thanks for the tip. I owe you ".
  
  "Don't mention it, sir."
  
  "Too bad about Zevitin, huh?" Martindale commented. "A skiing accident," they said. I heard this tree popped out of nowhere and nearly took his head off. Poor bastard. Have you heard anything else about it?" Patrick had no comments. "It's funny that this happens around the same time that Bujazi attacks Mashhad and you suddenly come back from Armstrong. I guess weird things do happen in threes, right?"
  
  "Yes, sir."
  
  "Yes. Of course they do it." Martindale put his arm around Patrick's shoulders. "You see, my friend, you cannot leave business behind," he said. "It's in your blood. I can name a couple of hundred hotspots in the world and you will tell me something interesting about each of them."
  
  "Sir, I"m not interested-"
  
  "Mongolia," Martindale intervened. He smiled as he saw Patrick's eyes light up. "Yeah, you know something. What is this?"
  
  "I heard that General Dorjiin will be replaced as chief of staff because he is too friendly with the United States," Patrick said.
  
  "So now he can run for president, right?"
  
  "No, because he was born in Inner Mongolia - China - and as a young officer declared his allegiance to Beijing," Patrick said. "But his son will run."
  
  Martindale clapped his hands. "Damn, I forgot about Mirena Dorjiin...!"
  
  "Muren."
  
  Muren. Right. He graduated from Berkeley two years ago with a master's degree, right?"
  
  "Double Ph.D. Economy and government".
  
  Martindale nodded, pleased that Patrick passed the two little tests he gave him. "See? I knew you were aware of all this!" Martindale exclaimed happily. "Come back, Patrick. Let's join forces again. We'll set the world on fire."
  
  Patrick smiled, then looked at his son fishing and said, "See you, Mr. President," and went out to join his son on a warm spring morning.
  
  
  CONFIRMATIONS
  
  
  Thanks to fellow author Debbie Macomber and her husband Wayne for their generosity.
  
  
  AUTHOR'S NOTE
  
  
  Your comments are welcome! Email me at readermail@airbattleforce.com or visit www.AirBattleForce.com to read my essays and comments and get the latest updates on new projects, tour schedules and more!
  
  
  about the author
  
  
  DALE BROWN is the author of numerous New York Times bestsellers, starting with Old Dog Run in 1987. The former US Air Force captain can often be seen driving his own jet in the Nevada skies.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dale Brown
  Unholy forces
  
  
  COMPOSITION OF CHARACTERS
  
  
  
  AMERICANS
  
  
  PATRICK S. MCLANAHAN, USAF Lt. Gen. (Ret.), Partner and President, Scion Aviation International
  
  KEVIN MARTINDALE, former President of the United States, silent owner of Scion Aviation International
  
  JONATHAN COLIN MASTERS, PhD, Head of Operations Sky Masters Inc.
  
  HUNTER NOBL, Vice President of Engineering, Sky Masters Inc.
  
  JOSEPH GARDNER, President of the United States
  
  KENNET T. PHOENIX, Vice President
  
  CONRAD F. CARLYLE, National Security Adviser
  
  MILLER H. TURNER Secretary of Defense
  
  WALTER CORDUS, White House Chief of Staff
  
  STACEY ANNE BARBAU Secretary of State
  
  USMC GENERAL TAYLOR J. BANE, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff
  
  US ARMY MAJOR GENERAL CHARLES CONNOlly, division commander in northern Iraq
  
  US ARMY COL JACK T. WILHELM, Senior Officer, 2nd Regiment, Allied Air Force Base Nakhla, Iraq
  
  ARMY Lt. Col. MARK WEATHERLY, Regimental Executive Officer
  
  ARMY MAJOR KENNET BRUNO, Regimental Operations Officer
  
  USAF LIEUTENANT COLONEL GIA "BOXER" CAZZOTTO, Commander, 7th Air Expeditionary Squadron
  
  CHRIS THOMPSON, President and CEO of Thompson Security, a private security company based at Allied Air Base Nakhla, Iraq
  
  FRANK BEXAR, privately contracted intelligence officer
  
  CAPTAIN CALVIN COTTER, USAF, Deputy Regimental Air Traffic Control Officer
  
  MARGARET HARRISON, director of private contract drones
  
  RES FLIPPIN, Private Contract Meteorological Officer
  
  
  TURKS
  
  
  KURZAT HIRSIZ, President of the Republic of Turkey
  
  AYSE AKASH, Prime Minister of the Republic of Turkey
  
  HASAN JIZEK, Minister of National Defense of the Republic of Turkey
  
  GENERAL ORHAN SHAHIN, Secretary General of the Turkish National Security Council
  
  MUSTAFA HAMARAT, Minister of Foreign Affairs of Turkey
  
  FEVSI GUKLU, Director of the National Intelligence Organization
  
  GENERAL ABDULLA GUZLEV, Chief of Staff of the Armed Forces of the Republic of Turkey
  
  GENERAL AYDIN DEDE, Deputy Chief of Staff
  
  MAJOR AIDIN SABASTI, liaison officer, US 2nd Regiment, Allied Air Base Nakhla, Iraq
  
  MAJOR HAMID JABBURI, Deputy Liaison Officer
  
  GENERAL BESIR ÖZEK, Commander of the Gendarma (Turkish National Internal Security Forces)
  
  Lt. GENERAL GUVEN ILGAZ, Deputy Commander, Gendarma
  
  Lt. GENERAL MUSTAFA ALI, Gendarma Shift Commander
  
  
  IRAQIS
  
  
  ALI LATIF RASHID, President of the Republic of Iraq
  
  COLONEL YUSUF JAFFAR, Commander, Allied Air Base Nakhla, Tall Kaif, Iraq
  
  MAJOR JAFAR OSMAN, Iraqi company "Maqbara" ("grave"), commander of the 7th brigade
  
  COLONEL NURI MAVLAUD, liaison officer of the Second Regiment
  
  ZILAR "BAZ" (HAWK) AZZAWI, Iraqi PKK rebel leader
  
  SADUN SALIH, Assistant Squad Leader Azzawi
  
  
  WEAPONS AND ABBREVIATIONS
  
  
  
  ABBREVIATIONS AND TERMINOLOGY
  
  
  AMARG - Aerospace Maintenance and Regeneration Group ("Boneyard"), a US Air Force facility near Tucson, Arizona that stores, dismantles and remanufacture parts from disabled aircraft
  
  AOR - Area of Responsibility
  
  AQI - Al-Qaeda in Iraq, the Iraqi offshoot of Osama bin Laden's terrorist organization
  
  "combat rattle" - personal equipment necessary for combat operations
  
  bullseye - a designated point from which information about the range and bearing to the target can be transmitted on open frequencies without disclosing one's own position
  
  C4I - Command, Control, Communications, Computers and Intelligence
  
  Çankaya is the seat of the Government of the Republic of Turkey
  
  CHU - Container Housing Unit, a mobile living space resembling a shipping container used by US soldiers in Iraq
  
  Chuville - an area with a large number of Chu
  
  DFAC - Dining room
  
  ECM - Electronic Countermeasures
  
  EO - Electro-optical sensors that can electronically propagate or enhance optical images
  
  FAA - Federal Aviation Administration, US Aviation Regulatory Agency
  
  FOB - Forward Operating Base, military base near or on enemy territory
  
  Fobbits is a slang term for staff and support staff.
  
  Fobbitville is slang for the headquarters building.
  
  FPCON - Troop Protection Condition, Enemy or Terrorist Threat Level Assessment for Military Installation (formerly THREATCON)
  
  GP - Primary Target (gravity bomb or vehicle)
  
  IA - Iraqi Army
  
  IED - Improvised Explosive Device
  
  IIR - infrared imaging sensor, thermal sensor with sufficient resolution for imaging
  
  ILS - Instrument Landing System, a radio beam system that can guide aircraft to land in difficult weather conditions
  
  IM - instant messaging, transferring text messages between computers
  
  IR - Infrared
  
  Clicks - kilometers
  
  The KRG is the Kurdistan Regional Government, a political organization governing the autonomous Kurdish region in northern Iraq.
  
  LLTV - Low Light TV
  
  LRU - Linear interchangeable units, components of aircraft systems that can be easily removed and replaced on the flight line in the event of a malfunction
  
  Mahdi is a slang term for any foreign fighter
  
  Adaptive Technology for Tasks - A system for automatically shaping aircraft surfaces to provide greater flight control capabilities
  
  Modes and Codes - Settings for various Aircraft Identification transponder radios
  
  MTI - Moving Target Indicator, a radar that tracks moving vehicles on the ground from a great distance
  
  Netrusion - transmission of false data or programming into an enemy computer network using digital communications, data channels or sensors
  
  NOFORN - No foreign; security classification that restricts foreign citizens' access to data
  
  PAG - Congress for Freedom and Democracy, alternative name for the PKK
  
  PKK-Party Karker in Kurdistan, Kurdistan Workers' Party, a Kurdish separatist organization seeking to create a separate nation from the ethnic Kurdish regions of Turkey, Iran, Syria, and Iraq; designated as a terrorist organization by several nations and organizations
  
  ROE - Rules of Engagement, Procedures and Restrictions for a Combat Operation
  
  SAM - surface-to-air missile
  
  SEAD - Suppression of enemy air defenses using jamming and weapons to destroy enemy air defenses, radars or command and control facilities
  
  triple-A - anti-aircraft artillery
  
  
  Weapon
  
  
  AGM-177 Wolverine - autonomous attack cruise missile, air or ground-based
  
  CBU-87 Combined Action Ammunition - air-dropped weapon that spreads anti-personnel and anti-vehicle mines over a wide area
  
  The CBU-97 Sensor Fuze Weapon is an air-dropped weapon that can detect and destroy multiple armored vehicles simultaneously over a wide area
  
  CID - Cybernetic Infantry Device, controlled robot with increased strength, armor, sensors and combat capabilities
  
  The Cobra gunship is a US Army second-generation light helicopter equipped with weapons.
  
  The CV-22 Osprey is a medium transport aircraft that can take off and land like a helicopter, but can then turn its propellers and fly like a fixed wing aircraft.
  
  JDAM - Joint Direct Destruction Ammunition, a kit for attaching to gravity bombs that provides them with near-precision targeting using global positioning system navigation information
  
  KC-135R is the latest tanker aircraft of the Boeing 707 family.
  
  Kiowa is a light helicopter equipped with advanced sensors used to detect targets by combat helicopters.
  
  MIM-104 Patriot - American-made ground-based anti-aircraft missile system
  
  SA-14 - second-generation Russian-made anti-aircraft missile with manual launch
  
  SA-7 - Russian-made first-generation anti-aircraft missile with manual launch
  
  Slingshot - a powerful laser defense system for aircraft
  
  Stryker - eight-wheeled multi-purpose armored personnel carrier of the US Army
  
  The Tin Woodman is a soldier equipped with advanced body armor, sensors, and power-enhancing systems to enhance his combat capabilities.
  
  The XC-57 "Loser" is a flying wing aircraft originally designed for the USAF's next generation bomber, but converted to a multi-role transport aircraft when the project lost a contract tender.
  
  
  EXTRACTS FROM REAL WORLD NEWS
  
  
  
  BBC NEWS ONLINE, 30 OCTOBER 2007:
  
  ...Tensions between Turkey and the Iraqi Kurdish region have been steadily rising in the months leading up to the current crisis triggered by PKK attacks that have killed about forty Turkish troops in recent weeks.
  
  ... In May, Turkey was outraged when a US-led multinational force handed over security control in three provinces of Iraqi Kurdistan and quickly raised the Kurdish flag instead of the Iraqi one.
  
  ... "You don't need 100,000 [Turkish] troops to take over," said a senior Iraqi Kurdish politician. "What they are clearly planning to do is stage a major invasion and take control of the main land routes inside Iraqi Kurdistan leading into the border mountains on the Iraqi side."
  
  ...There are rumors in Kurdish circles that the Turks may also try to bomb or otherwise neutralize two Iraqi Kurdish airports, in Erbil and Sulaymaniyah, which Ankara claims allowed PKK fighters to find safe haven.
  
  ... "The Turks could destroy them or bomb them, as they did in the past. What they offer is more than that. They talk about a large-scale military invasion that makes people extremely, extremely nervous and anxious. Many people worry that Turkey's ambitions may extend beyond the destruction of the PKK..."
  
  
  
  BBC NEWS ONLINE, 18 JANUARY 2008:
  
  ...Turkey has been threatening military action against the PKK since the rebels have intensified their attacks on Turkish troops, putting enormous public pressure on the government here to respond with force. Last month, the government allowed the military to carry out cross-border operations [in Iraq] against the PKK when necessary.
  
  The air strikes on Sunday night were the first major sign of this.
  
  ...Ankara claims to have tacit US approval for its operations in accordance with the agreement reached in Washington last month by Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdogan and President George W. Bush.
  
  "I believe the US has provided actionable intelligence and the Turkish military has taken action," Turkish Foreign Ministry spokesman Levent Bilman told the BBC...
  
  
  
  "TURKISH TROOPS DESTROY 11 REBELLIONS IN THE SOUTH-EAST OF TURKEY NEAR THE BORDER WITH IRAQ-ASSOCIATED PRESS", MARCH 12, 2007-ANKARA, TURKEY:
  
  Turkish troops have killed 11 Kurdish rebels during clashes in southeastern Turkey near the border with Iraq, a private news agency reported Wednesday. The fighting comes two weeks after Turkey's eight-day invasion of northern Iraq to drive out PKK rebels who have been fighting the Turkish government since 1984.
  
  ... Some Turkish nationalists fear that the expansion of cultural rights could lead to a split in the country along ethnic lines. They are concerned that Turkish Kurds might be encouraged by the US-backed Kurdish region in northern Iraq, which has its own government and militias...
  
  
  
  FORECAST FOR THE SECOND QUARTER 2008, No STRATFOR.COM, APRIL 4, 2008:
  
  Regional trend: Turkey is emerging as a major regional power and in 2008 will begin to exert influence throughout its periphery, especially in northern Iraq...
  
  Turkey feels strong not only in northern Iraq, but also in the nearby Balkans and Caucasus, where it seeks to mentor newly independent Kosovo and newly oil-rich Azerbaijan...
  
  
  
  "IRON MAN IS THE NEW FACE OF MILITARY CONTRACTORS", JEREMY SU, SPACE.COM, MAY 6, 2008:
  
  When superhero Tony Stark isn't donning his Iron Man armor to take down villains personally, he's offering the US military new gadgets to fight the war on terror.
  
  ...Individuals and companies may not be as visible as the drones hovering in the skies of Afghanistan and Iraq, yet their role has risen just as dramatically during recent conflicts.
  
  ...No one questions the fact that the United States could not fight the war now without the involvement of military contractors...This means that military contractors have also gone beyond the mere sale of military equipment. Now they manage supply lines, feed troops, build base camps, advise on strategy, and even fight as private security forces...
  
  
  
  "IRAN: AMERICAN-IRAQI DEAL WILL 'ENLAVE' Iraqis - RAFSANJANI," STRATFOR.COM JUNE 4, 2008:
  
  Iran's Expediency Council chairman Akbar Hashemi Rafsanjani said on June 4 that the Islamic world would try to block a long-term security deal between Iraq and the United States, saying the terms of the deal would "enslave" the Iraqis, the Associated Press reported. Rafsanjani said that the US-Iraqi deal would lead to a permanent occupation of Iraq, and that such an occupation is dangerous for all states in the region...
  
  
  
  OUTLOOK FOR THE THIRD QUARTER, STRATFOR.COM, JULY 8, 2008:
  
  ...Regional trend: Turkey is emerging as a major regional power and in 2008 will begin to exert influence throughout its periphery, especially in northern Iraq...Turkey is getting bolder on the international stage: sending troops to northern Iraq, mediating Israeli-Syrian peace talks, promoting energy projects in the Caucasus and Central Asia and makes itself felt with its influence in the Balkans...
  
  
  
  "IRAQI PARLIAMENT CALLS MEETING ON KIRKUK", ASSOCIATED PRESS, JULY 30, 2008:
  
  ...Tensions escalated Monday after a suicide bombing in Kirkuk during a Kurdish protest against an election law that killed 25 people and injured more than 180.
  
  Kirkuk is home to Kurds, Turkmen, Arabs and other minorities. After the Kirkuk bombing, dozens of angry Kurds stormed the offices of a Turkmen political party that opposes Kurdish claims to Kirkuk, opening fire and burning cars amid accusations that their rivals were responsible. It was reported that nine Turkmen, or ethnic Turks, were wounded.
  
  Turkish Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdogan, who defends the rights of Turkmens, called on the Iraqi authorities to express concern over the incidents in Kirkuk and offered to send a plane to bring the wounded to Turkey for treatment, the Office of the President of Iraq said...
  
  
  
  "TURKEY IS CONCERNED BY KIRKUK CITY", ASSOCIATED PRESS, AUGUST 2, 2008:
  
  Baghdad - The Turkish government has expressed concern over the Iraqi city of Kirkuk, where ethnic Turks have become embroiled in a territorial dispute, an Iraqi official says.
  
  An unidentified Iraqi Foreign Ministry official said Turkish Foreign Minister Ali Babikan had contacted Iraqi Foreign Minister Hoshyar Zebari about the situation in the city, Kuwaiti news agency KUNA reported on Saturday.
  
  The province of Kirkuk demanded that the city become part of Iraqi Kurdistan, while Turkey strongly opposed such a move.
  
  Although the city has the largest concentration of ethnic Turks in Iraq, Saeed Zebari's spokesman said that any attempt to resolve the dispute would be made solely by Iraq.
  
  Zebari said that any outside attempts to intervene in the dispute would not be welcomed by Iraq, a KUNA spokesman said.
  
  
  
  "FIRST LASER SHOT", WIRED, DANGER ROOM, AUGUST 13, 2008:
  
  Boeing today announced the first-ever test of a real-world ray gun that could be a "plausible deniability" covert strike method for US Special Forces.
  
  In tests conducted earlier this month at Kirtland Air Force Base, New Mexico, Boeing's advanced tactical laser -- a modified C-130H aircraft -- "fired its high-energy chemical laser through a beam steering system. The beam control system has detected a ground target and directed the laser beam at the target as indicated by the ATL combat control system..."
  
  
  
  "A RECORD NUMBER OF US CONTRACTORS IN IRAQ", CHRISTIAN SCIENCE MONITOR, PETER GRIER, AUGUST 18, 2008:
  
  Washington-The US military has been dependent on private contractors ever since the Sutlers sold paper, bacon, sugar, and other luxuries to Continental Army troops during the Revolutionary War.
  
  But the scale of contractor use in Iraq is unprecedented in US history, according to a new congressional report that may be the most detailed official record of the practice. As of early 2008, according to the Congressional Budget Office (CBO), at least 190,000 private employees were working on US-funded projects in the Iraqi theater of war. This means that for every U.S. military uniform in the region, there was also a contract, a ratio of 1 to 1.
  
  ...critics of military outsourcing say the real problem is flexibility and command and control of private workers...
  
  
  
   " C -300 CURIOSITY ANKARA ," STRATEGIC FORECASTING INC., AUGUST 26 , 2008:
  
   ...Turkey is in the process of acquiring several variants of the Russian S-300 air defense system, Turkish daily Today's Zaman reported on August 25...
  
  ...If Turkey succeeds in this acquisition, Ankara's subsequent work will require two important approaches. The first is reverse engineering, where key components are taken apart and their inner workings are closely examined. The second is training in electronic warfare against real systems ...
  
  
  
  "TURKISH ARMY SEEKS TO EXPAND POWERS", ASSOCIATED PRESS, ANKARA, TURKEY - OCTOBER 10, 2008:
  
  Turkey's leaders met on Thursday to discuss increasing the military's powers to fight Kurdish insurgents after a spate of attacks, some of which came from rebel bases in northern Iraq.
  
  Turkey's parliament on Wednesday already voted to extend the military's mandate to conduct operations against Kurdish rebels in northern Iraq, including cross-border ground operations.
  
  But the military has requested additional powers to fight the Kurdistan Workers' Party, or PKK, insurgency. Thursday's meeting focused on expanding the options available to the military and police...
  
  
  
  PROLOGUE
  
  
  
  Outside EL AMADIA, DAHUK PROVINCE, REPUBLIC OF IRAQ
  SPRING 2010
  
  
  The dilok, or traditional wedding celebration, had been going on for hours, but no one seemed to be the least bit tired. The men danced on large defahs, or skeletal drums, and tapped to folk music played with amplified zurna and timburs, while other guests cheered them on.
  
  Outside it was a warm, dry, clear evening. Groups of men stood in groups here and there, smoking and drinking from small cups of thick coffee. Older women and girls in colorful dresses and scarves carried trays of food to them, their sons or younger brothers helped them with lanterns.
  
  After serving the men outside the wedding reception, the woman carried the tray down the road behind the traffic lights, her ten-year-old son leading the way to two Toyota pickup trucks half-hidden by trees, one on each side of the road leading to the farm. The boy shone his flashlight on the pickup truck to his left, right in the eyes of his older brother. "May Allah bless and greet you! Caught you sleeping again!" he shouted.
  
  "I was not!" said the brother, much louder than he had intended.
  
  "Hani, don't do this. Now your brother won't be able to see in the dark for a while," the boy's mother scolded him. "Go get your brother something tasty and tell him you're sorry. Let's go, Mazen," she said to her husband, "I have more coffee for you."
  
  The husband placed his AK-47 on the front bumper of the truck and accepted the treat gratefully. He was dressed for celebration, not for guard duty. "You are a good woman, Zilar," the man said. "But next time, send your lazy brother here to do the work for you. It was his idea to place a guard at the entrance." He could feel her pained expression. "I understand. He's busy recruiting again, no? His own daughter's wedding and he can't stop?
  
  "He feels very strongly-"
  
  "I know, I know," the husband interrupted, placing his hand gently on his wife's cheek to comfort her. "He is a patriotic and staunch Kurdish nationalist. Good for him. But he knows that militias, police and military monitor such events, take photos from drones, use sensitive microphones and tap phones. Why does he continue? He risks too much."
  
  "However, I thank you again for agreeing to be on duty here for security purposes," the wife said, removing his hand from her face and kissing it. "It makes him feel better."
  
  "I haven't picked up a rifle in years since I left the Peshmerga militias in Kirkuk. I find myself checking the fuse every three seconds."
  
  "Oh, are you, my husband?" The woman walked over to the AK-47 leaning against the bumper and examined it with her fingers.
  
  "Ah, Los Angeles, tell me I'm not..."
  
  "You did". She pushed the safety lever back to the "safe" position.
  
  "I'm glad your brothers aren't around to see you do it," her husband said. "Perhaps I need more lessons from the former Supreme Commune of Women Commanders."
  
  "I need to raise a family and take care of the house - I devoted my time to the independence movement of Kurdistan. Let the young women wrestle a little for a change."
  
  "You can embarrass any young woman - on the shooting range and in bed."
  
  "Oh, and how do you know about the skills of young women?" she asked playfully. She put the weapon back and walked over to her husband, wiggling her hips seductively. "I have many more lessons that I would rather teach you, husband." He kissed her. "So, how long are you going to keep my eldest son here?"
  
  "Not for long. Maybe another hour." He nodded towards his son, who was busy shooing his little brother away from a few leftover baklava on a tray. "It's nice to be here with Neaz. He takes this task very seriously. He-" The man stopped because he thought he heard a bicycle or small scooter approaching, a kind of low humming sound that indicated speed but not power. There were no lights on the road or highway behind her. He frowned, then placed his coffee cup in his wife's hand. "Take Honey back to the community center."
  
  "What is this?"
  
  "Probably nothing." He looked back at the dirt road and saw no sign of any movement - no birds, no rustling trees. "Tell your brother I'm going to wander around for a bit. I will tell the others." He kissed his wife on the cheek, then went to get his AK-47. "I'll be ready to come in after I get..."
  
  Out of the corner of his eye, high to the west, he caught it: a short flash of yellow light, not solid like a searchlight, but flickering like a torch. Why he did this he wasn't sure, but he pushed his wife aside, into the trees next to the gate. "Lie down!" he shouted. "Lie! Stay-"
  
  Suddenly, the ground vibrated, as if a thousand horses had scattered right next to them. The face, eyes, and throat of the husband were clogged with clouds of dust and dirt that appeared out of nowhere, and stones were thrown in all directions. The wife screamed as she saw her husband literally disintegrate into pieces of human flesh. The pickup truck was similarly torn apart before the gas tank exploded, sending a massive fireball into the sky.
  
  Then she heard it-a terrible sound, incredibly loud, lasting only a fraction of a second. It was like a giant growling animal standing over her like a chainsaw the size of a house. The sound was followed a moment later by the loud whistle of a jet flying overhead, so low she thought it might be landing on a dirt road.
  
  In just a few heartbeats, her husband and two sons were dead before her eyes. Somehow, the woman got to her feet and ran back to the wedding reception, thinking of nothing but warning the other members of her family to run for their lives.
  
  "The advantage is clear," radioed the lead pilot of a three-ship A-10 Thunderbolt II bomber. He braked hard to make sure he was far enough away from the other aircraft and the terrain. "Two, cleared in hot pursuit."
  
  "Good approach, leader," the pilot of the second A-10 Thunderbolt radioed. "Second in action." He checked the infrared video display of the AGM-65G Maverick missile, which clearly showed two pickup trucks at the end of the road, one on fire and the other still intact, and with a light touch of the control stick, he moved in next to the second pickup truck. His A-10 was not modified with a dedicated infrared sensor module, but the "poor man's FLIR" video from the Maverick rocket did the job perfectly.
  
  Night firing cannons are usually undesirable, especially in such hilly terrain, but what pilot wouldn't take the risk for a chance to fire the incredible GAU-8A Avenger cannon, a 30mm Gatling gun that fired huge depleted uranium projectiles at nearly four thousand rounds per minute? Also, since the first target burned well, it was now easy to see the next target.
  
  When the Maverick's reticle dropped to thirty degrees, the pilot lowered the aircraft's nose, made final adjustments, announced over the radio, "Guns, guns, guns!" and pulled the trigger. The roar of that big cannon firing between his legs was the most incredible sensation. In one three-second dash, almost two hundred huge shells flew to their target. The pilot focused on the pickup truck in the first second, firing fifty rounds at it for another spectacular explosion, then raised the nose of the A-10 to allow the remaining one hundred and thirty rounds to pierce the road towards the fleeing terrorist target.
  
  Careful not to become fixated on the target, and orienting himself very well in the surrounding terrain, he braked hard and changed direction to the right to gain the set altitude. The maneuverability of the American-made A-10 was amazing - it did not deserve its unofficial nickname "Warthog". "Two clear. Three, hot-cleaned."
  
  "Third is on fire," replied the pilot of the third A-10 in line. He was the least experienced pilot in the four-ship formation, so he had no intention of doing a cannon run... but it should have been just as exciting.
  
  He focused the target - a large garage near the house - on the Maverick missile's targeting screen, pressed the "lock" button in the throttle sector, said "Rifle one" on the radio, turned his head to the right to avoid the bright light of the rocket engine, and pressed the button "launch" on the control stick. An AGM-65G Maverick missile flew off the launch rail on the left wing and quickly disappeared from view. He selected the second missile, moved the reticle to the second target - the house itself - and fired the Maverick from the right wing. After a few seconds, he was rewarded with two bright explosions.
  
  "The host has a visual image, it looks like two direct hits."
  
  "Third is clear," he radioed as he climbed up and turned toward his scheduled rendezvous point. "Four, cleared in hot pursuit."
  
  "Four copies, flying fast," the fourth A-10 pilot confirmed. Perhaps its attack profile was the least exciting and was not even normally performed by the A-10, but the A-10s were new members of the fleet and their full capabilities had yet to be explored.
  
  The procedure was much simpler than his wingmen's: keep the control switches installed at station four and eight; follow the directions of the GPS navigation to the unblocking point; main arming switch to "arm" position; and press the release button on the control handle at the pre-planned release point. Two thousand-pound GBU-32 GPS-guided bombs are dropped into the night sky. The pilot didn't have to fix anything or risk diving into the terrain: the gun-guidance kits used GPS satellite navigation signals to guide the bombs to their target, a large building near the farm that was advertised as a "community center" but, according to intelligence sources, was the main gathering and recruiting place for PKK terrorists.
  
  Well, not anymore. Two direct hits destroyed the building, creating a massive crater over fifty feet in diameter. Even flying fifteen thousand feet above the ground, the A-10 was shocked by two explosions. "The fourth is free. The weapon panel is safe and sound."
  
  "Two good infiltrates," radioed the lead pilot. He did not see any secondary explosions, but the terrorists may have moved a large cache of weapons and explosives that was reportedly stored in the building. "Muhtesem! Great job, Lightning. Check the security of the arming switches, and don't forget to turn off the ECM and turn on the transponders at the border, or we'll blow you to pieces like they do with those PKK scum back there. See you at the rendezvous anchor."
  
  A few minutes later, all four A-10 Thunderbolts, the Turkish Air Force's newly acquired combat aircraft, returned safely across the border. Another successful anti-terrorist operation against insurgents hiding in Iraq.
  
  The woman, Zilar Azzawi, groaned in agony when she awoke some time later. Her left hand was in terrible pain, as if she had broken her finger in the fall... And then she realized with shock that her left hand was gone, torn off to the middle of her forearm. Whatever killed her husband and sons and destroyed the truck almost succeeded in killing her. Her PKK commando training took over and she managed to tie a strip of fabric from her dress around her arm as a tourniquet to stop the bleeding.
  
  The entire area around her was in flames, and she had no choice but to stay where she was, on the side of the road, until she could get her bearings. Everything around her, with the exception of this small stretch of dirt road, was on fire, and she had lost so much blood that she didn't think she could get far even if she knew which way to go.
  
  Everything and everyone was gone, completely destroyed - the buildings, the wedding reception, all the guests, the children...my God, the children, her children...!
  
  Azzawi was helpless now, hoping to just stay alive...
  
  "But, God, if you let me live," she said aloud, over the sounds of death and destruction around her, "I will find those responsible for this attack, and I will use all my strength to raise an army and destroy their. My previous life is over - they took my family away from me with cruel indifference. With your blessing, God, my new life will begin right now and I will avenge all who died here tonight."
  
  
  APPROACH TO JANDARMA PUBLIC ORDER COMMANDOS BASE, DIYARBAKIR, REPUBLIC OF TURKEY
  SUMMER 2010
  
  
  "Kanak Two-seven, Diyarbakir tower, three-zero-zero wind at eight knots, ceiling of one thousand kilometers per hour, visibility five in light rain, runway three-five, cleared for normal category ILS approach , the security status is green".
  
  The pilot of a US-made KC-135R tanker/cargo aircraft acknowledged the call, then pressed the targeted passenger support system. "We will land soon. Please return to your seats, make sure your seat belts are securely fastened, clear your tray tables and remove all hand luggage. Tesekkur ederim. Thank you ". He then turned to the boom operator/flight engineer sitting behind the co-pilot and yelled across the cockpit, "Go see if he wants to land, master sergeant." The engineer nodded, took off his headphones and headed aft to the cargo hold.
  
  Although the KC-135R was primarily an air-to-air refueling aircraft, it was often used to carry both cargo and passengers. The cargo was at the front of the cavernous saloon-in this case, four pallets filled with crates secured with nylon mesh. Behind the pallets were two economy passenger seat trays, designed for twelve people, bolted to the floor so that the passengers sat facing backwards. The flight was noisy, smelly, dark and uncomfortable, but a valuable power-enhancing aircraft like this was rarely allowed to fly without a full load.
  
  The crew engineer squeezed around the cargo and approached the dozing passenger at the end of the first row on the port side. The man had long and rather disheveled hair, sideburns that had grown in a few days, and he wore fairly ordinary street clothes, although anyone traveling in military aircraft had to wear either a uniform or a business suit. The engineer stood in front of the man and lightly touched his shoulder. When the man awoke, the master sergeant signaled to him, and he got up and followed the master sergeant into the space between the pallets. "Sorry to disturb you, sir," the boom operator said after a passenger removed the yellow soft foam earplugs everyone was wearing to protect their hearing from noise, "but the pilot asked to see if you would like to sit in the cockpit for the landing."
  
  "Is this normal procedure, master sergeant?" asked the passenger, General Besir Ozek. Özek was the commander of the Gendarma Genel Komutanligi, or Turkish National Paramilitaries, which combined the national police, the border patrol and the national guard. As a trained commando as well as the commander of a paramilitary unit in charge of homeland security, Ozek was allowed to wear longer hair and sideburns in order to better move in and out of his undercover role and more unobtrusively observe those around him.
  
  "No, sir," the boom operator replied. "No one is allowed in the cockpit except for the flight crew members. But..."
  
  "I requested that I not be singled out for this flight, Master Sergeant. I thought it was clear to everyone on the team," Ozek said. "I want to be as discreet as possible on this trip. That's why I decided to sit in the back with other passengers."
  
  "Excuse me, sir," the boom operator said.
  
  Ozek inspected the cargo pallets and noticed that several passengers turned around to see what was happening. "Well, I guess it's too late now, isn't it?" - he said. "Go". The gunnery operator nodded and escorted the general to the cockpit, glad that he didn't have to explain to the aircraft commander why the general hadn't accepted his invitation.
  
  It had been many years since Ozek had been inside a KC-135R Stratotanker refueling aircraft, and the cockpit seemed a lot cramped, noisy and smelly than he remembered. Ozek was an infantry veteran and did not want to understand what attracted men to aviation. The life of a pilot was subject to forces and laws that no one saw or fully understood, and this is not the way he ever wanted to live. The upgraded KC-135R was a good aircraft, but the airframe had been in service for over fifty years-this one was relatively young, only forty-five years old-and was beginning to show its age.
  
  However, aviation seemed to be all the rage in the Republic of Turkey these days. His country had just purchased dozens of surplus tactical fighters and bombers from the United States: the beloved F-16 Fighting Falcon fighter-bomber, also built under license in Turkey; the A-10 Thunderbolt close air support attack aircraft, nicknamed the "Warthog" because of its clumsy, utilitarian appearance; combat helicopter AH-1 Cobra; and the F-15 Eagle jet fighter for air superiority. Turkey was well on its way to becoming a world-class regional military power thanks to the desire of the United States to shed battle-tested but aging technology.
  
  The barrier operator handed the general headphones and pointed to the instructor's seat between the two pilots. "I know you didn't want to be disturbed, General," the pilot said over the intercom, "but the seat was open and I thought you'd like the view."
  
  "Of course," Ozek replied simply, making a note to himself to remove the pilot from duty when he returned to headquarters; there were many men and women in the Turkish Air Force who knew how to follow orders waiting to pilot tankers. "What is the security status at the airport?"
  
  "Green, sir," the pilot reported. "No change for over a month."
  
  "The last PKK activity in this area was only twenty-four days ago, Captain," Ozek said irritably. The PKK, or Kurdistan Karker Party, or Kurdistan Workers' Party, was a banned Marxist military organization that sought the formation of a separate state of Kurdistan, formed from parts of southeastern Turkey, northern Iraq, northeastern Syria, and northwestern Iran, in all of which the Kurdish ethnic majority. The PKK has used terrorism and violence, even against large military bases and heavily defended sites such as civilian airports, to try to keep itself in the public eye and pressure individual states to come up with a solution. "We must always remain vigilant."
  
  "Yes, sir," the pilot confirmed in a hushed voice.
  
  "Are you not doing a maximum performance approach, Captain?"
  
  "Uh...no, sir," the pilot replied. "The security status is green, the ceiling and visibility are low, and the tower said we were cleared for the approach in the normal category." He swallowed, then added, "And I didn't mean to upset you or the other passengers by descending at maximum performance."
  
  Ozek would have scolded this idiotic young pilot, but they had already begun their instrument approach and it would soon be very busy. Maximum performance takeoffs and landing approaches have been designed to minimize the time spent in the lethal range of shoulder-fired anti-aircraft guns. The PKK has occasionally used Russian-made SA-7 and SA-14 missiles against Turkish government aircraft.
  
  However, the likelihood of such an attack today was small. The ceiling and visibility were quite low, which limited the time available for the shooter to attack. In addition, most attacks were made against large helicopters or fixed-wing aircraft during the takeoff phase because the thermal signature that the missiles were targeting was much brighter - during the landing approach, the engines ran at lower power settings and were relatively cool. , which meant that the missiles were harder to lock into and could more easily be jammed or trapped.
  
  The pilot took a chance that Ozek didn't like it - especially since he was only doing it to try to impress the senior officer - but now they were in a quandary, and aborting the approach at such a moment, near the mountains in bad weather , was not an ideal choice. Ozek leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, showing his anger. "Go on, captain," he said simply.
  
  "Yes, sir," the pilot replied with relief. "Co-pilot, please before performing the glide path interception checklist." To the pilot's credit, Ozek thought, he was a good pilot; he would be a good addition to the crew of some airline, because he was not going to stay in the Turkish Air Force for very long.
  
  Unfortunately, this apathetic attitude in the army became more and more common these days as the conflict between the Turkish government and the Kurds continued to escalate. The Kurdistan Workers' Party, or PKK, changed its name to PAG, or Congress for Freedom and Democracy, and avoided using the term "Kurdistan" in its literature and speeches in an attempt to appeal to a wider audience. These days, they held rallies and published documents promoting the adoption of new human rights laws in order to alleviate the suffering of all the oppressed people in the world, and not advocate armed struggle solely for a separate Kurdish state.
  
  But it was a ploy. The PKK was stronger, richer and more aggressive than ever. Due to the US invasion and destruction of Saddam Hussein's regime in Iraq, as well as the Iranian civil war, Kurdish rebels fearlessly staged cross-border raids into Turkey, Iraq, Iran and Syria from numerous safe camps, hoping to capitalize on the chaos and confusion and establish a solid base. in every country. Every time Turkish troops responded, they were accused of genocide and politicians in Ankara ordered the military to stop the persecution.
  
  This only gave the PKK courage. The latest parody: the appearance of a female terrorist leader. Nobody knew her real name; she was known as Baz, or "Hawk" in Arabic, because of her ability to strike quickly and unexpectedly, yet seemingly fly away and elude her pursuers so easily. Her emergence as the main pro-independence Kurdish force and the lukewarm reaction of the Turkish and Iraqi governments to her call for a bloody war worried General Gendarma.
  
  "Let's go to glide path interception," the co-pilot said.
  
  "Slow down," the pilot said.
  
  "Here it is," the co-pilot replied, and he reached just above the pilot's right knee and turned the wheel gear switch to the "down" position. "Transfer in progress ... Three greens, no yellow, push button test pump light on, transmission off and locked."
  
  The pilot took his eyes off the level indicator just long enough to check the gear indicators and press to press the "gear hyd" indicator to check. "Checking, transmission off and blocked."
  
  "On the course, on the glide path," said the co-pilot. "Two thousand feet to decision altitude." The co-pilot reached out and tapped discreetly on the airspeed indicator, silently warning the pilot that his airspeed had dropped a little - with the general in the cockpit, he didn't want to point out even the slightest mistake. Their speed dropped by only five knots, but the tiny errors seemed to snowball into the instrument approach, and it was better to spot them and fix them right away than to let them create big problems later.
  
  "Tesekkur eder," the pilot replied, acknowledging the trick. A simple "understood" meant that the pilot himself had discovered his mistake, but gratitude meant that the co-pilot made a good approach. "There are a thousand left."
  
  Filtered sunlight began to filter through the cockpit windows, followed a moment later by sunlight filtering through the widely scattered clouds. Ozek looked out and saw that they were exactly in the center of the runway, and the visual approach lights indicated that they were on the glide slope. "The runway is in sight," the co-pilot announced. The ILS gunners began to dance a little, which meant that the pilot was looking out the window at the runway instead of following the level indicator. "Keep approaching."
  
  "Thank you". Another good catch. "Five hundred to decision height. Follow the 'before landing' checklist and..."
  
  Ozek, focusing on the window rather than the instruments, saw it first: a white, curling line of smoke emerging from the intersection ahead and to the left, inside the airport's perimeter fence, heading straight for them! "Arrow!" shouted Ozek, using the Russian nickname "Zvezda" for the shoulder-launched SA-7 rocket. "Turn right now!"
  
  To his credit, the pilot did exactly as Ozek ordered: he immediately turned the yoke sharply to the right and turned all four throttles to full combat power. But he was much, much too late. Ozek knew that now they had only one chance: that it was indeed an SA-7 missile, and not the newer SA-14, because the old missile needed a bright hot spot to aim, while the SA-14 could track any source of heat, even sunlight reflecting off a lantern.
  
  In the blink of an eye, the rocket disappeared - it flew a few meters from the left wing. But there was something else wrong. A horn sounded in the cockpit; the pilot desperately tried to turn the KC-135 to the left to level it out and maybe even level it back on the runway, but the plane didn't respond - the left wing was still high in the sky and there wasn't enough aileron power to bring it down. Even with the engines running at full power, they completely stalled, threatening to go into a tailspin at any moment.
  
  "What are you doing, captain?" Ozek screamed. "Dip your nose and align your wings!"
  
  "I can't turn around!" the pilot shouted.
  
  "We can't get to the runway - align the wings and find a place for an emergency landing!" Ozek said. He looked out the co-pilot's window and saw the football field. "Here! Football field! This is your landing spot!"
  
  "I can control it! I can do it ...!"
  
  "No, you can't - it's too late!" Ozek shouted. "Put your nose down and head for the football field or we'll all die!"
  
  The rest happened in less than five seconds, but Ozek watched it in slow motion. Instead of trying to lift the stalled tanker back into the sky, the pilot eased back pressure on the controls. Once he did, and the engines were at full combat power, the ailerons responded immediately and the pilot was able to straighten the aircraft's wings. With a low nose, airspeed increased rapidly and the pilot had enough impact to raise the nose almost to the landing position. He moved the throttles to idle, then to "cut-off" just before the big tanker hit the ground.
  
  Ozek was thrown forward almost onto the center console, but his shoulder and waist belts held up, and he regretfully thought that he had experienced harder landings before ... and then the nose gear came down with a roar, and the Turkish general felt like he was completely broken in half. The front gearbox broke, and dirt and turf poured through the windshield like a tidal wave. They punched through a football goal post, then crashed through a fence and several garages and storage areas before stopping at the base's gym.
  
  
  CHAPTER FIRST
  
  
  
  WHITE SANDS MISSION FACILITY, New MEXICO
  IN THE NEXT MORNING
  
  
  "Masters Two-Two, this is White Sands." The portable radio crackled to life, breaking the quiet morning air. "Takeoff cleared, runway one-zero, wind calm, altimeter two-nine-nine-seven. Threat state red, repeat red, reread."
  
  "Understood, Masters Two-Two, takeoff cleared, runway one-zero, threat state red."
  
  The large, rather strange-looking aircraft started its engines and prepared to enter the active runway. It somewhat resembled the B-2 Spirit "flying-wing" stealth bomber, but was significantly more bulging than the ICBM, suggesting a much greater payload capacity. Instead of engines built into the fuselage, the aircraft had three engines mounted in the rear of the fuselage on short pylons.
  
  As the strange "winged guppy" plane taxied over the holding line onto an active runway, about a mile to the west, a man in a cloth cap, balaclava, thick green protective jacket, and heavy gloves hoisted a MANPADS launcher, or man-portable air defense missile, over his right shoulder. complex. He first inserted a vegetable-can-sized device into the bottom of the launcher that provided cooling argon gas for the infrared seeker and battery power for the device.
  
  "Allah Akbar, Allah Akbar," the man said in a low voice. Then he got to his feet and pointed his weapon eastward, toward the gradually increasing sound of the plane's engines as it picked up speed for takeoff. There was still not enough light to see the aircraft from that distance, so the rocket man lowered his night vision goggles over his eyes, carefully adjusting his head position so that he could still aim the MANPADS through his mechanical sights. He activated the weapon by pressing and releasing the built-in safety and drive lever. He could hear the gyroscopes in the missile's guidance bay turning, even over the noise of an airliner rumbling over the desert.
  
  As soon as he focused on the green-and-white image of the receding jet, he heard a low growling sound in his headphones, indicating that the MANPADS infrared sensor had just picked up the jet's engine exhaust. Then he pressed and held the "uncage" lever and the detection signal grew louder, telling him that the missile was tracking a good target.
  
  He waited until the plane was airborne, as if he had shot it down while it was still on the ground, the crew could probably have brought the plane to a safe stop on the runway and put out the fire quickly, minimizing casualties. The most vulnerable moment was five seconds after takeoff, because the aircraft was slowly accelerating and its landing gear was on the way; if it had an engine failure, the crew would have had to respond quickly and accurately to avoid disaster.
  
  Now the time has come. He whispered another "Allahu Akbar", raised the launcher so that the target was in the lower left corner of the mechanical sight, held his breath so as not to inhale the rocket exhaust, then pulled the trigger.
  
  The small ejection engine fired the rocket from the barrel about thirty feet into the air. As soon as the rocket began to fall, its first-stage solid rocket motor fired and the rocket headed towards its target, while the sensor was securely fixed. Then the rocket man lowered his shields and watched the battle with glee through his night vision goggles, and a moment later saw the rocket explode in a cloud of fire. "God damn Akbar," he muttered. "It was cool" .
  
  But the counterattack is not yet over. As soon as the sound of the explosion reached him a second later, the rocket man suddenly felt a strong burning sensation all over his body. He dropped the used launcher to the ground, confused and disoriented. It felt like his entire body was suddenly engulfed in flames. He fell to the ground, hoping to put out the flames by rolling, but the heat grew stronger by the second. There was nothing he could do but curl up into a protective ball and close his eyes, hoping to avoid being blinded or burned alive. He screamed as the flames spread, consuming him...
  
  "Wow, boss, what happened?" he heard a voice in his headphones. "Are you okay? We are on our way. Hold on!"
  
  The man found his chest heaving and his heart pounding from the sudden surge of adrenaline in his blood, and he found it difficult to speak for a few moments...but the intense burning sensation suddenly stopped. Finally, he stood up and dusted himself off. There was no evidence that anything had happened to him, except for the terrible memory of that intense pain. "No... Well, maybe... well, yes," replied the rocket scientist, Dr. Jonathan Colin Masters, uncertainly. "Maybe a little bit".
  
  John Masters had just turned fifty, but he still looked and probably always will look like a teenager with his fine features, big ears, awkward body movements, wry smirk and naturally tousled brown hair under headphones . He was the COO of Sky Masters Inc., a small defense research and development company he founded that has been developing absolutely cutting-edge aviation, satellites, weapons, sensors, and advanced materials technologies for the United States for the past twenty years.
  
  Although he no longer owned the company that still bore his name-the company was now run by a board of directors led by his ex-wife and business partner, Helen Kaddiri, and had a young company president, Dr. Kelsey Duffield-and was wealthy enough to travel the world for the rest of his life, if he wanted to, John liked to spend time either in the lab developing new gadgets or testing them out in the field. No one really knew if the board of directors allowed him to do things like fire live missiles from MANPADS or stay out of the missile range during testing just to play a trick on him...or because they hoped he would be pulverized. his own inventions, which has almost happened many times over the years.
  
  Several Humvees and support vehicles, including an ambulance, drove up, just in case, illuminating John with headlights and searchlights. The man jumped out of the first Hummer at the scene and ran towards it. "Are you okay, John?" Hunter "Boomer" Noble asked. Boomer was a twenty-five-year-old vice president in charge of aircraft weapons development for Sky Masters Inc. A former US Air Force test pilot, engineer and astronaut, Boomer once had an enviable job designing exotic systems for aircraft, and was then able to fly the finished product himself. Flying in the revolutionary XR-A9 Black Stallion single-stage spaceplane, launched into orbit by a black stallion, Boomer has orbited more times in the past two years than the rest of the US astronauts combined in the past ten years. "God, you scared us there!"
  
  "I told you, I'm fine," John said, grateful that his voice wasn't as shaky as it had been a few minutes earlier. "I think we went a little too far with the emitter power, huh, Boomer?"
  
  "I set it to the lowest power, boss, and I checked and rechecked it," Boomer said. "Probably you were too close. The laser has a range of fifty miles - you were less than two when you were hit. It's probably not a good idea to run your own tests, boss. "
  
  "Thanks for the tip, Boomer," John replied weakly, hoping no one would notice his shaking hands. "Great job Boomer. I would say that the test of the Slingshot automatic anti-missile weapon was a complete success."
  
  "Me too, Boomer," said another voice behind him. Two men approached us from another Hummer, dressed in business suits, long dark coats and gloves to protect us from the morning chill. They were followed by two more men similarly dressed, but their coats were open... making it easier for them to access the automatic weapons slung from the harness below. A man with long salt-and-pepper hair and a goatee shook his finger at John and continued, "You almost killed yourself, John...again."
  
  "Nah...it went exactly as planned, Mr. President," John replied.
  
  The man, former President of the United States Kevin Martindale, rolled his eyes in disbelief. A figure in the Washington establishment for decades, Martindale served six terms in Congress, two terms as vice president, and one term as president before being removed from office; he then became only the second person in the history of the United States to be voted for again.
  
  He also had the distinction of being the first vice president ever divorced during his tenure, and he was still a confirmed bachelor often seen in the company of young actresses and sportswomen. Even though Martindale was in his sixties, he was still sternly handsome, confident and almost devilish looking with his goatee and long wavy hair adorned with two curly silver locks of the famous "photographer's dream" that automatically appeared on him. on his forehead whenever he was angry or emotional.
  
  "He still enjoys participating in his own trials, Mr. President - the more outrageous the better," said the man next to him, retired Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan. Shorter than Martindale, but considerably more heavily built, McLanahan was as much a legend as Martindale, except in the dark world of strategic dogfighting. He served five years as a navigator and bombardier for the B-52G Stratofortress in the United States. Air Force before being selected to join a top-secret research and development unit known as the High-Tech Aerospace Weapons Center, or HAWC, based at an uncharted Nevada desert air base known as "Dreamland."
  
  Led by its cocky and slightly out of control first commander, Lieutenant General Bradley James Elliot, HAWC has been tasked by the White House to carry out covert missions around the world to prevent the enemy from escalating a conflict into a full-scale war, using cutting-edge experimental technology that will not be used by any other military forces. for many years, if ever.
  
  HAWC's specialty was modifying old aircraft with new systems and technologies to make them operate like nothing anyone had ever seen, and then using weapons brought in by HAWC for secret real-world testing programs to quickly and discreetly suppress potential adversary. Most HAWC missions are never known to the public; pilots chosen to test fly a brand new aircraft will never know not only that they were not the first to fly it, but that the aircraft had already been used in combat; the families of dozens of dead aviators and engineers, both military and civilian, will never know what really happened to their loved ones.
  
  Due to Elliot's single-minded determination to dominate, as well as the incredible capabilities of HAWC, which far exceeded the expectations of any civilian or military commander, the unit often initiated responses to new threats without the full knowledge or permission of anyone. This ultimately led to distrust and finally outright condemnation from Washington and the Pentagon establishment, which sought to isolate and even undermine HAWC.
  
  During his fourteen years at HAWC, McLanahan, the most experienced and proven pilot and systems operator, was alternately praised, punished, promoted, fired, rewarded and dishonored. Although many considered him America's most heroic general since Norman Schwarzkopf, McLanahan left the Air Force as quietly as he appeared on the scene, with no fanfare, praise or thanks from anyone.
  
  Kevin Martindale, both vice president and president, has been HAWC's biggest supporter and has known over the years that he can rely on Patrick McLanahan to get the job done, no matter how incredible the odds are. Now that they had both retired from public life, it was no surprise to John Masters to see them standing side by side here in the deserts of New Mexico at a secret weapons testing site.
  
  "Congratulations again, Dr. Masters," Martindale said. "I take it you can fit this Slingshot laser self-defense system into any aircraft?"
  
  "Yes sir, we can," Boomer said. "All it takes is a power source and a twelve-inch open access panel through the aircraft's pressure tank for the infrared detection and beam direction sensor. We can install and calibrate the device in a matter of days."
  
  "Does it form a protective cocoon around the entire plane, or does it just point the beam towards the missile?"
  
  "We focus the beam on the enemy missile to save energy and maximize the destructive effect of the laser beam," John explained. "Once the infrared seeker detects a missile launch, it sends out a beam of high power concentrated laser energy along the same axis for milliseconds. Then, if the system can figure out an approximate launch point, it will automatically hit the enemy launch pad to try and knock out the bad guy."
  
  "What was it like being hit by a laser beam, John?" Patrick asked.
  
  "Like being dipped in boiling cooking oil," John replied with a faint smile. "And that was at the lowest power level."
  
  "What else can this laser do, John?" asked Martindale. "I know that HAWC has deployed offensive laser systems in the past. Is the slingshot the same?"
  
  "Well, sir, the laser, of course, is only for self-defense," John replied sarcastically.
  
  "Just like the XC-57 is no longer a bomber, right John?"
  
  "Yes, sir. The US government does not approve of its defense contractors creating offensive weapons and using technology in a way that could damage relations with other countries or violate any laws. As such, the laser system is quite limited in range and capability - mainly for use against tactical anti-aircraft systems and their operators."
  
  "This leaves a lot open to interpretation," Patrick noted. "But you could turn the knob and increase the power a bit, right?"
  
  "As far as you know, Mook, the answer is no," John said.
  
  The former president pointed to the sky in the direction of the departing aircraft, which was just at that moment entering the downwind mode, approaching for landing. "Pretty risky to use one of your new big planes to test the system, isn't it, doc?" asked Martindale. "It was a real Stinger missile that you fired at your own plane, I take it? Your shareholders cannot be too happy risking a multi-million dollar aircraft in this manner."
  
  "Of course I wanted to shed tears in your eyes, Mr. President," John replied. "What directors and shareholders don't know won't hurt them. Also, this XC-57 'Loser' is unmanned."
  
  "'Loser', huh?" Patrick McLanahan commented. "Not the coolest name you've come up with, John."
  
  "Why the hell do you call it that?" asked Martindale.
  
  "Because he lost the next generation bomber competition," John explained. "They didn't need a drone; they wanted it to be more stealthy and faster. I was payload and range oriented, and I knew I could arm it with hypersonic counter weapons, so we didn't need stealth.
  
  "Also, I've been designing and building drones for years - just because they didn't like it doesn't mean it couldn't be considered. Shouldn't the next generation bomber be the next generation? The design was not even considered. Their loss. Then, to top it all off, I was banned from building an airplane for ten years."
  
  "But you built it anyway?"
  
  "It's not a bomber, Mr. President - it's a multipurpose vehicle," John said. "It's not meant to be dropped; it is designed to put something into it."
  
  Martindale shook his head sadly. "To tap dance around the law... Who else, I know, likes to do it?" Patrick didn't say anything. "So you use an unmanned aerial vehicle - it's not a bomber - to test a laser that's not an offensive weapon, but then put yourself in the line of fire to test its effect on a human? It makes sense to me," Martindale said dryly. "But you certainly made my eyes water."
  
  "Thank you, sir."
  
  "John, how many Losers do you have flying right now?" Patrick asked.
  
  "There are only two others - we built three for the NGB competition, but stopped work on the second and third when our design was rejected," John replied. "This is still a research and development program, so it was a low priority ... until you called, Mr. President. We are considering installing our system on commercial aircraft as well as high-tech airframes."
  
  "Let's take a closer look at this, John," said Martindale.
  
  "Yes, sir. I'll have him fly up slowly so we can have a look, then I'll bring him in to land. Look at this span - you won't believe it." He took his walkie-talkie and tried to contact his control center, but the laser beam fried it. "I forgot to take it out of my pocket before the test," he said shyly, smiling at the others' muffled chuckles. "So I lose more phones. Boomer...?"
  
  "I got it, boss," Boomer said. "Low and slow?" John nodded and Boomer winked and radioed the RV.
  
  A few moments later, the XC-57 appeared on the final approach. It leveled off just fifty feet off the ground, flying surprisingly slowly for such a large bird, as if it were a huge cork tree drifting smoothly in a light breeze.
  
  "Like a pregnant stealth bomber with engines on the outside," commented Martindale. "It looks like it could fall from the sky at any moment. How do you do it?"
  
  "It doesn't use any conventional flight controls or lifting devices - it flies using task-adaptive technology," Masters said. "Nearly every square inch of the fuselage and wings can be either a lift or a brake. It can be manned or unmanned. About sixty-five thousand pounds of payload, and it can take up to four standard cargo pallets.
  
  "But the unique loser system is a fully integrated cargo handling system, including the ability to move containers inside during flight," Masters continued. "It was Boomer's first idea when he got on board and we struggled to convert all production aircraft to include that. Boomer?
  
  "Well, the problem I've always seen with cargo planes is that once the cargo is inside, you can't do anything to the plane, the space, or the cargo," Boomer said. "They're all wasted once it's loaded on board."
  
  "It's cargo on a cargo plane, Boomer. What else are you going to do with it?" asked Martindale.
  
  "Maybe it's a cargo plane in one configuration, sir," Boomer replied, "but move the cargo and insert the modular container through the belly opening, and now the cargo plane becomes a tanker or surveillance platform. It's based on the same concept as the Navy littoral combat ship that's all the rage right now - one ship that can take on different missions depending on what hardware modules you put on board."
  
  "Plug and play? So simple?"
  
  "It wasn't easy to integrate the weight and balance, the fuel system and the electrical systems," acknowledged Boomer, "but we think we've fixed the bugs. We transfer fuel between different tanks to keep the balance. I don't think it would have been possible at all without a mission adaptation system. The loser can lift cargo or mission modules inside through the cargo hatch or bottom hatch-"
  
  "Hatch in the belly?" Martindale interrupted him with a wink. "You mean the bomb bay?"
  
  "It's not a bomb bay, sir, it's a cargo hatch," John protested. "It used to have a bomb bay, and I didn"t think it would be right to just seal it-"
  
  "So it became a cargo hatch," the former president said. "Understood, doc."
  
  "Yes sir," John said, feigning annoyance at having to constantly remind people of his point of view. "The Boomer system automatically arranges the modules as needed for the mission, connects them and turns them on, all with the help of remote control. He can do the same while flying. When a module is needed or one of them is used up, the cargo handling system can replace it with another."
  
  "What modules do you have available, John?" asked Martindale.
  
  "We create new ones every month, sir," John said proudly. "Right now we have in-flight refueling modules along with wingtip hose pods that are mounted on the ground and can refuel probe-equipped aircraft. We also have laser radar modules for air and ground surveillance with a satellite data link; infrared and electron-optical observation modules; and an active self-defense module. We're pretty close to building a netrusion module and a Flighthawk control system - launching, routing and maybe even refueling and rearming FlightHawks from a loser."
  
  "Of course, we would also like to create attack modules if we could get permission from the White House," Boomer put in. "We are doing well with high-powered microwave and laser-guided energy technologies, so this could happen sooner rather than later - if we can convince the White House to let us continue."
  
  "Boomer is very motivated to say the least," John added. "He won't be happy until he sends Loser into space."
  
  Martindale and McLanahan looked at each other, each instantly reading the other's thoughts; then they gazed at the otherworldly spectacle of a massive failed plane skimming down the runway in slow motion like a flying saucer.
  
  "Dr. Masters, Mr. Noble..." President Martindale began. Just at that moment, the XC-57 Loser suddenly accelerated with a powerful roar of its engines, gaining altitude at an incredibly steep angle and disappearing from view within a few moments. Martindale shook his head, startled again. "Where can we go to talk, boys?"
  
  
  CHAPTER TWO
  
  
  The road to Hell is easy to travel.
  
  -BION, 325-255 BC.
  
  
  
  OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT, ZANKAYA, ANKARA, Türkiye
  IN THE NEXT MORNING
  
  
  "Shut the damn door before I start crying like a damn baby," said Kurzat Hirsiz, President of the Republic of Turkey, wiping his eyes once more before removing his handkerchief. He shook his head. "One of the dead was two years old. Completely innocent. Probably couldn't even pronounce 'PKK'."
  
  Slender, oval-faced and tall, Hirsiz was a lawyer, scientist and macroeconomist, as well as the head of the executive branch of the Republic of Turkey. He served as Executive Director of the World Bank for many years and lectured around the world on economic solutions for developing countries before being appointed Prime Minister. Popular all over the world, as well as in his homeland, he received the largest percentage of the votes of the members of the Grand National Assembly in the history of the country when he was elected president.
  
  Hirsiz and his top advisers have just returned from a press conference at Zankaya, the presidential residence in Ankara. He read a list of the names of the dead, which had been given to him minutes before the televised briefing, and then answered a few questions. When a reporter told him that one of the victims was a toddler, he suddenly broke down, burst into tears, and abruptly stopped the pressure. "I want names, phone numbers and some details about all the victims. I will call them personally after this meeting," Hirsiz's assistant picked up the phone to give orders. "I will also attend the services of each of the families."
  
  "Don't feel embarrassed when you snap like that, Kurzat," said Ai &# #351;e Akas, the prime minister. Her eyes were also red, although she was known in Turkey for her personal and political toughness, which her two ex-husbands would no doubt testify to. "It shows that you are human."
  
  "I just hear the PKK bastards laughing at me crying in front of a room full of reporters," Hirsiz said. "They win twice. They take advantage of both a flaw in security procedures and an oversight in controls."
  
  "This just confirms what we have been telling the world for almost three decades - the PKK is and always will be nothing but a deadly slime," intervened Gen. Orhan Şahin, secretary general of the Turkish National Security Council. Şahin, an army general, coordinated all military and intelligence activities between Çankaya, the military headquarters in Baskanligi and the six main Turkish intelligence agencies. "This is the most devastating and dastardly PKK attack in years since the 2007 cross-border attacks, and by far the most audacious. Fifteen dead, including six on the ground; fifty-one wounded - including Gendarma commander General Ozek himself - and the tanker aircraft is completely lost."
  
  The President returned to his desk, loosened his tie and lit a cigarette, which was the signal for everyone else in the office to do the same. "What is the status of the investigation, General?" Hirsiz asked.
  
  "At full speed, Mr. President," Shaheen said. "Initial reports are alarming. One of the airport's deputy security chiefs did not respond to orders to return to his post and cannot be located. I hope he's just on vacation and checks in shortly after he hears the news, but I'm afraid we'll find it was an inside job."
  
  "Oh my God," Hirsiz muttered. "The PKK is infiltrating our divisions and offices deeper and deeper every day."
  
  "I think there is a very high possibility that PKK agents have infiltrated the very office of the Gendarma, an organization tasked with protecting the country from these bloodthirsty bastards," Shaheen said. "My guess is that Ozek"s travel plans were leaked and the PKK targeted this plane specifically to kill him."
  
  "But you told me that Ozek was going to Diyarbakir with a sudden inspection!" Hirsiz exclaimed. "Is it possible that they have infiltrated so deeply and are so well organized that they can send an elimination squad with an anti-aircraft missile from the shoulder so quickly?"
  
  "This should be an inside job, not just one person - this base should be filled with insurgents in deep cover, in positions of high trust, ready to be activated and deployed within hours with specific attack objectives."
  
  "This is the level of complexity that we feared but expected, sir," said Gen. Abdullah Guzlev, chief of staff of the Turkish armed forces. "The time has come for us to respond in kind. We can't be satisfied with just playing defensively, sir. We must go against the PKK leadership and destroy them once and for all."
  
  "In Iraq and Iran, I presume, General?" Prime Minister Akas asked.
  
  "That's where they hide, Madam Prime Minister, like the cowards they are," snapped Guzlev. "We'll get an update from our undercover agents, find a few nests containing as many bloodthirsty bastards as we can, and take them down."
  
  "What exactly will this accomplish, General," Foreign Minister Mustafa Hamarat asked, "besides further angering our neighbors, the global community, and our supporters in the United States and Europe?"
  
  "Excuse me, minister," Guzlev said angrily, "but I don"t really care what someone on another continent thinks while innocent men, women and children are being killed-"
  
  Guzlev was interrupted by a phone call, which was immediately answered by the head of the presidential administration. The assistant looked dumbfounded as he hung up. "Sir, General Ozek is in your waiting room and wants to speak to the Homeland Security!"
  
  "Ozek! I thought he was in serious condition!" Hirsiz exclaimed. "Yes, yes, bring him here immediately and bring an orderly to keep an eye on him at all times."
  
  It almost hurt to look at this man as he entered the office. His right shoulder and right side of his head were tightly bandaged, several fingers on both hands were taped together, he was limping, his eyes were swollen, and the visible parts of his face and neck were covered with cuts, burns, and bruises, but he stood up straight and refused any -or help from Ç the old orderly who came for him. Ozek stood at attention in the doorway and saluted. "Let me speak to the president, sir," he said, his voice hoarse from breathing jet fuel and aluminum.
  
  "Of course, of course, General. Get your feet up and sit down, man!" Hirsiz exclaimed.
  
  The President led Ozek to the sofa, but the commander of the Gendarma raised his hand. "Excuse me, sir, but I have to get up. I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to get up again," Ozek said.
  
  "What are you doing here, general?" Prime Minister Akas asked.
  
  "I found it necessary to show the people of Turkey that I am alive and doing my duty," Ozek said, "and I wanted national security officials to know that I had developed a plan of retaliation against the leadership of the PKK. Now is the time to act. We must not delay."
  
  "I am impressed with your dedication to our country and your mission, General," the Prime Minister said, "but first we must-"
  
  "I have a full ozela tim brigade equipped and ready for immediate deployment." The Ozel tim, or Special Teams, were an unconventional warfare unit of the Gendarma intelligence agency, specially trained to operate near or in many cases inside Kurdish towns and villages to identify and neutralize rebel leaders. They were among the most trained commandos in the world - and they had an equally infamous reputation for brutality.
  
  "Very well, General," Hirsiz said, "but have you found out who is behind the attack? Who is the leader? Who pulled the trigger? Who gave the order for this attack?"
  
  "Sir, it hardly matters," Ozek said, his eyes wide with surprise that he had to answer such a question. His gaze and rather wild features, along with his wounds, made him look anxious and excitable, almost wild, especially when compared to the other politicians around him. "We have a long list of known PKK fighters, bomb makers, smugglers, financiers, recruiters and sympathizers. Homeland security and border defense forces can detain the usual suspects and conduct interrogations - let me and Ozel Tim take care of the ringleaders."
  
  President Hirsiz looked away from the irascible general. "Another attack inside Iraq... I don't know, General," he said, shaking his head. "This is something that needs to be discussed with the US and Iraqi governments. They have to-"
  
  "Forgive me for saying this, sir, but both governments are ineffective and don't care about Turkey's security," General Ozek said angrily. "Baghdad is quite willing to let the Kurds do whatever they want as long as oil revenues flow south. The Americans are withdrawing troops from Iraq as quickly as they can. Besides, they didn't lift a finger to stop the PKK. Even though they talk over and over again about the global war on terror and call the PKK a terrorist organization, other than tossing us a few photos or phone interceptions from time to time, they haven"t done a damn thing to help us."
  
  Hirsiz fell silent, puffing his cigarette anxiously. "Besir is right, sir," said Guzlev, chief of the military staff. "This is the time we have been waiting for. Baghdad is clinging with all its might to keep its government intact; they don't have the strength to secure their own capital, let alone the Kurdish border. America has stopped replacing combat brigades in Iraq. There are only three brigades in northern Iraq, centered in Erbil and Mosul - there is almost no one on the border."
  
  Guzlev paused, noticing that no one objected to his comments, then added: "But I'm suggesting something more than just the participation of special groups, sir." He looked at Minister of Defense Hassan Jizek and Secretary General of the National Security Council Shaheen. "I'm proposing a full scale invasion of northern Iraq."
  
  "What?" Exclaimed President Hirsiz. "Are you kidding, general?"
  
  "That is out of the question, General," Prime Minister Akas immediately added. "We would be condemned by our friends and the whole world!"
  
  "For what purpose, general?" Foreign Minister Hamarat asked. "We are sending thousands of soldiers to root out several thousand PKK rebels? Are you suggesting that we occupy Iraqi territory?"
  
  "I propose to create a buffer zone, sir," Guzlev said. "The Americans helped Israel create a buffer zone in southern Lebanon that was effective in keeping Hezbollah fighters out of Israeli territory. We must do the same."
  
  Hirsiz looked at his Minister of Defense, silently hoping to hear another voice of opposition. Hassan?
  
  "It's possible, Mr. President," said the Secretary of Defense, "but it wouldn't be a secret, and it would be extremely expensive. The operation would require a quarter of our entire armed forces, perhaps up to a third, and this would certainly entail calling in reserve forces. It would take months. Our actions would have been noticed by everyone - primarily by the Americans. Whether we succeed depends on how the Americans respond."
  
  "General Shaheen?"
  
  "The Americans are in the process of an extended troop drawdown across Iraq," said the secretary general of the Turkish National Security Council. "Because it's relatively quiet here, and the Kurdish autonomous government is better organized than the central government in Baghdad, there are still perhaps 20,000 American troops in northern Iraq helping guard oil pipelines and installations. It is planned that during the year their number will be reduced to only two combat brigades."
  
  "Two combat brigades for all of northern Iraq? It doesn't seem realistic."
  
  "Stryker brigades are very powerful weapon systems, sir, very fast and agile - they should not be underestimated," Shaheen warned. "However, sir, we expect the Americans to hire private contractors to provide most surveillance, security, and support services. This is in line with President Joseph Gardner's new policy of resting and restoring the ground forces while he increases the size and power of his navy."
  
  "Then it's possible, sir," Defense Minister Jizek said. "The Iraqi Kurdish Peshmerga forces have the equivalent of two infantry divisions and one mechanized division concentrated in Mosul, Erbil and the oil fields of Kirkuk - a third of our forces, which are within marching distance of the border. Even if the PKK has the equivalent of a full-fledged infantry division, and the United States throws all its ground forces against us, we still have parity - and, as Suntsu wrote, if your forces are equal in numbers: attack. We can do it, Mr. President."
  
  "We can mobilize our forces within three months when Ozel Tim has reconnoitered enemy positions and prepared to interfere with private contractors carrying out surveillance in the border region," General Ozek added. "The mercenaries hired by the Americans exist only to make money. If a fight is brewing, they will run for cover and hide behind regular military forces."
  
  "What if the Americans stand up and fight to help the Kurds?"
  
  "We move south and crush the rebel camps and Kurdish opposition forces until the Americans start threatening action, then cut off contact and create our buffer zone," Ozek said. "We have no desire to fight the Americans, but we will not let them dictate the terms of our sovereignty and security." He turned to Foreign Minister Hamarat. "We convince them that a no-fly buffer zone patrolled by the United Nations will increase security for all parties. Gardner doesn't want a ground war, and he certainly doesn't care about the Kurds. He will agree to anything as long as it stops the fight."
  
  "It may be true, but Gardner will never admit it publicly," Hamarat said. "He will openly condemn us and demand a complete withdrawal of troops from Iraq."
  
  "Then we play for time until we root out all the PKK rat nests and bug the border region," Ozek said. "With six divisions in northern Iraq, we can clear this place in just a few months while we promise to leave. We can destroy the PKK so much that they are ineffective for a whole generation."
  
  "And we look like butchers."
  
  "I don"t care what others might call me as long as I don"t have to worry about my innocent sons or daughters being killed in a damn playground by a plane shot down by the PKK," Defense Minister Jizzakh said bitterly. "It's time to act."
  
  "We need to deal not only with the PKK, sir, but also with the security situation on the Kirkuk-Ceyhan pipeline," added Chief of Military Staff Guzlev. "The Iraqi Peshmerga are still not sufficiently trained or equipped to protect the pipeline on their side of the border. We have invested billions of lira in this pipeline, and the Iraqis still cannot properly defend their part and will not allow any outside force other than the Americans to provide assistance. We can earn three times what we get in transportation fees if we can convince oil producers in northern Iraq, including our own companies, to increase production, but they won't because the pipeline is too vulnerable to attack."
  
  President Hirsiz stubbed out his cigarette in an ornate ashtray on his desk, then returned to his seat. He was silent for several long moments, lost in thought. Rarely have national security officials been so divided, especially when it comes to the PKK and their vicious insurgent attacks. The unexpected appearance of Besir Özek in his office just hours after the disaster should have united their resolve to end the PKK once and for all.
  
  But national security officials-and himself, Hirsiz had to admit-were conflicted and divided, and the civilian military leadership wanted a peaceful, diplomatic solution, as opposed to a call for direct action from uniformed commanders. To confront the Americans and world public opinion with a divided council was an unwise move.
  
  Kurzat Hirsiz rose to his feet again and stood straight, almost at attention. "General Ozek, thank you for coming here and reaching out to me and the national security staff," he said officially. "We will discuss these options very carefully."
  
  "Sir..." Ozek jerked forward in shock, forgetting his wounds and wincing in pain as he struggled to keep his balance. "Sir, with all due respect, you must act quickly and decisively. The PKK - no, the world - needs to know that this government is taking these attacks seriously. Every moment we delay only shows that we are not committed to our homeland security."
  
  "I agree, General," Hirsiz said, "but we must act thoughtfully and carefully, and in close consultation with our international allies. I will instruct General Sahin to develop a plan for special teams to track down and capture or eliminate PKK fighters who may have planned and led this attack, and to aggressively investigate the possibility of spies in the Gendarme.
  
  "I will also instruct Foreign Minister Hamarat to consult with his American, NATO and European counterparts and inform them of the Security Council's outrage at this attack and the demand for cooperation and assistance in capturing the perpetrators." He grimaced inwardly at the incredulous expression on General Ozek's face, which only emphasized his weakness, the precariousness of his position. "We will act, General," Hirsiz quickly added, "but we will do it wisely and as a member of the global community. This will further isolate and marginalize the PKK. If we act recklessly, we will be seen as no better than terrorists."
  
  "... Global community?" Ozek muttered bitterly.
  
  "What did you say, general?" Hirsiz broke. "Do you have something you would like to tell me?"
  
  The wounded officer of the Gendarma briefly but openly frowned at the President of the Republic of Turkey, but quickly straightened up as best he could, assumed a stern but neutral expression and said: "No, sir."
  
  "Then you are dismissed, General, with the sincere gratitude of the National Security Council and the Turkish people and relief that you are alive after this treacherous and vile attack," Hirsiz said, his caustic tone definitely not matching his words.
  
  "Allow me to escort the general to temporary quarters, sir," said Guzlev, chief of staff of the armed forces.
  
  Hirsiz looked inquiringly at his military chief of staff, finding no answers. He glanced at Ozek, wincing inwardly again at his horrendous wounds, but finding himself wondering when would be the best time to let the wild, raging bull go before him. The sooner the better, but not before he reaps the full propaganda benefits of his incredible survival.
  
  "We will reconvene the national security officers in twenty minutes at the Council of Ministers conference center to map out a response, General Guzlev," the president said cautiously. "Please go back to that time. Disbanded."
  
  "Yes, sir," Guzlev said. He and Ozek stretched to attention for a moment, then moved towards the door, Guzlev carefully holding Ozek's less injured arm for support.
  
  "What in the world made Özek go all the way to Ankara after he barely survived the plane crash?" - Foreign Minister Hamarat asked incredulously. "Oh my God, the pain must have been unbearable! Once I had a small fracture in my wing, and after that I was sick for weeks! This man was pulled from the burning wreckage of a downed plane just a few hours ago!"
  
  "He is angry and out for blood, Mustafa," Prime Minister Akas said. She walked over to Hirsiz, who still seemed to be standing at attention, as if Ozek had taken her in his arms. "Pay no attention to Guzlev and Ozek," she added in a whisper. "They are out for blood. We have already talked about the invasion many times and rejected it every time."
  
  "Maybe this is the right time, Aisi," Hirsiz whispered back. "Guzlev, Jizek, Ozek and even Shaheen for it."
  
  "You are not seriously considering this, are you, Mr. President?" Akas whispered back with an incredulous hiss. "The United States will never agree. We would be pariahs in the eyes of the world..."
  
  "I'm starting to not care what the world thinks of us, Ice¸e," Hirsiz said. "How many more funerals do we need to attend before the world lets us do something about the rebellious Kurds there?"
  
  
  NAHLA ALLIED AIR BASE, TALL KAIF, NEAR MOsul, IRAQ
  TWO DAYS LATER
  
  
  "Nala Tower, Heir One-Seven, nine miles from target, request visual approach to runway two-nine."
  
  "Scion One-Seven, Nakhla tower, you are number one, landing cleared," the observing Iraqi army controller replied in very good English, but with a thick accent. "Recommend Enhanced Arrival Procedure 3 to Nala, Base is in Bravo Force Defense, Cleared for Enhanced Arrival Procedure 3, Confirm."
  
  "Negative, Nala, Scion of One-Seven requests permission to view for two-ninth."
  
  The Supervisor wasn't used to anyone not following his instructions exactly, and he poked his microphone button and fired back, "Successor One-Seven, Nala Tower, visual approach not allowed under FPCON Bravo conditions." Under FPCON, or Force Protection Condition (formerly called "Threat Condition" or THREATCON), Bravo was the third highest level indicating that operational intelligence had been received about the possibility of an attack. "You will be performing the third procedure. You understand? I admit."
  
  A telephone rang in the background, and the deputy tower controller picked up the receiver. A moment later, he handed the phone to the dispatcher: "Sir? Deputy base commander for you."
  
  The supervisor, even more annoyed at being interrupted while he was working on an inbound flight, snatched the phone from his deputy. "Captain Saad. I have an incoming flight, sir, can I call you back?"
  
  "Captain, allow this incoming aircraft to create a visual pattern," he heard the familiar voice of an American colonel. The second-in-command of the base was apparently listening on the tower's frequency, waiting for this flight. "This is his funeral."
  
  "Yes, Colonel." Why an American special mission aircraft risked being fired upon without following a highly efficient arrival procedure was not clear, but an order is an order. He handed the phone to his second in command, sighed, and touched the microphone button again: "Successor One-Seven, Nala Tower, you are cleared for visual approach and flight path to runway two-nine, wind two-seven zero at twenty-five knots with gusts up to forty, RVR four thousand, FPCON Bravo active, landing cleared."
  
  "Scion One-Seven, cleared for view, and overhead at two-ninth approach cleared."
  
  The duty officer picked up the emergency phone: "Station one, this is the tower," he said in Arabic. "I have an aircraft on final approach and I cleared it for visual approach and procedure."
  
  "Repeat?" asked the dispatcher at the airport fire station. "But we are at FPCON Bravo."
  
  "Order of the American Colonel. I wanted to put you guys on notice."
  
  "Thank you for calling. The captain will probably send us to our 'hotspots' on Taxiway Delta."
  
  "You are allowed to use the Delta preposition." The boss hung up. He then made a similar call to base security and the hospital. If an attack was coming-and this was the perfect opportunity for one-the more warnings he could give, the better.
  
  In his binoculars, the observer from the tower looked for the plane. He could see it on his turret's radar display, but not yet visually. It was about six miles off target, approaching straight, but offset to the west, seemed to line up downwind on Runway 29 - and it was ridiculously slow, as if set to land with a few more minutes. Did this guy have any death wish? He reported the plane's position to security and emergency services so they could move to a better position...
  
  ...or get out of the way of the crash, just in case the worst happens.
  
  Finally, at a distance of three miles, he saw it - or rather, saw a part of it. It had a wide, bulbous fuselage, but could not see the wings or tail. It had no visible passenger windows and a strange paint color - something like a medium bluish gray - but the hues seemed to change depending on background clouds and light levels. It was extraordinarily difficult to maintain visual observation of this.
  
  He checked the radar display of the BRITE tower, Mosul's local approach control radar repeater, and indeed the plane was flying at only ninety-eight knots - about fifty knots slower than normal approach speed! The pilot not only turned himself into an easy target for snipers, but was also going to drown out the plane and crash. In winds like this, a sudden gust of wind can quickly turn this guy upside down.
  
  "Heir One-Seven, Nala Tower, are you having difficulty?"
  
  "Tower, one-seven, negative," the pilot replied.
  
  "Accepted. You are cleared to board. We participate in FPCON Bravo. I admit."
  
  "Successor One-Seven copies FPCON Bravo and allows landing."
  
  Stupid, just plain stupid. The supervisor watched in amazement as the strange aircraft made a standard left turn downwind on the west side of the runway. It resembled an American stealth bomber, except that its engines were on the rear of the fuselage and it appeared to be much larger. He expected to see RPGs or Stingers flying across the sky at any second. The plane swayed a few times in gusty winds, but for the most part it maintained a very stable flight path despite its incredibly slow airspeed-it was like watching a tiny Cessna in the diagram instead of a 200,000-pound plane.
  
  Somehow, the plane managed to completely bypass the rectangular traffic pattern without crashing or being bombarded from the sky. The turret observer could not see any deployed flaps. He maintained this ridiculously low airspeed all the way through the pattern until the short finale, when he slowed down to exactly ninety knots and then dropped as easily as a feather on the numbers. He turned easily off the first taxiway; he had never seen a fixed-wing aircraft land at such a short distance.
  
  "Tower, Heir One-Seven is free of active," the pilot reported.
  
  The warden had to recover from the shock. "Understood, One-Seven, stay on this frequency, report the security cars that are visible directly ahead, they will lead you to the parking lot. Be careful with fire trucks and safety cars on taxiways. Welcome to Nala."
  
  "Understood, Tower One-Seven, security vehicles in sight," the pilot replied. Several armed Hummers with machine gunners in turrets equipped with 50-caliber machine guns or 40mm rapid-fire grenade launchers surrounded the plane, and a blue Suburban drove ahead with flashing blue lights and a large yellow "Follow me" sign. "Have a good day".
  
  The convoy escorted the aircraft to a large aircraft shelter north of the control tower. The Hummers turned around the shelter as the Suburban drove inside and the controller stopped the plane. The set of airstairs was towed to the aircraft, but before it was in place, a hatch under the cockpit behind the nose leg opened and personnel began descending the airstair.
  
  At the same time, several people got out of the Humvee and stood at the tip of the left wing of the plane, one of them was clearly upset. "Dude, they weren't joking - it's hot in here!" exclaimed John Masters. He looked around the aircraft shelter. "Hey, this hangar has air conditioning - let"s turn it on!"
  
  "Let's contact the base commander first, John," suggested the second person outside, Patrick McLanahan. He nodded at the Hummer below them. "I think it's Colonel Jaffar and our contact is right there."
  
  "Jaffar looks furious. What did we do this time?"
  
  "Let's go and find out," Patrick said. He approached the Iraqi colonel, bowed slightly, and held out his hand. "Colonel Jaffar? I'm Patrick McLanahan."
  
  Jaffar was slightly taller than Patrick, but he lifted his chin, puffed out his chest, and raised himself on tiptoe to look taller and more important. When he was satisfied that the newcomers were paying attention, he slowly raised his right hand to his right eyebrow in salutation. "General McLanahan. Welcome to Nala Air Base," he said in very good English, but with a heavy accent. Patrick saluted back, then held out his hand again. Jaffar slowly took it, smiled faintly, then tried to squeeze Patrick's hand in his. When he realized it wouldn't work, the smile disappeared.
  
  "Colonel, allow me to introduce Dr. Jonathan Colin Masters. Dr. Masters, Colonel Yusuf Jaffar, Iraqi Air Force Commander, Allied Air Base Nakhla." Jaffar nodded, but did not shake John's hand. Patrick shook his head slightly in annoyance, then read the name badge of the young man standing next to and behind Jaffar. "Mr Thompson? I'm Patrick-"
  
  "General Patrick McLanahan. I know who you are, sir - we all know who you are." A tall, impossibly young-looking officer behind Jaffar stepped forward, grinning from ear to ear. "Nice to meet you, sir. Chris Thompson, President of Thompson International, Security Consultants." He shook Patrick's hand with both of his, shaking it excitedly and shaking his head in disbelief. "I can't believe it...General Patrick McLanahan. I actually shake hands with Patrick McLanahan."
  
  "Thank you, Chris. This is Dr. John Masters. He-"
  
  "Hey doc," Thompson said without looking away or letting go of Patrick McLanahan's hand. "Welcome, sir. It is a real honor for me to meet and welcome you to Iraq. I will-"
  
  "Please stop your chatter, Thompson, and let's get down to business," Jaffar said impatiently. "Your reputation certainly precedes you, General, but I must remind you that you are a civilian contractor and must abide by my rules and regulations and the rules of the Republic of Iraq. Your government has asked me to give you all the courtesy and assistance I can, and as a fellow officer, I owe it honorably, but you must understand that Iraqi law - that is, in this case, my law - must be respected at all times. Is that clear, sir?
  
  "Yes, Colonel, everything is clear," said Patrick.
  
  "Then why did you disobey my instructions regarding the arrival and approaches to Nala?"
  
  "We thought it was necessary to assess the state of the threat ourselves, Colonel," Patrick replied. "Arriving at peak performance would tell us nothing. We decided to take a risk and create a visual approach and scheme."
  
  "My headquarters and I assess the threat status at this base every hour of every day, General," Jaffar said angrily. "I issue orders that govern all personnel and operations at this base to ensure the safety of everyone. They should not be neglected for any reason. You cannot take risk at any time for any reason, sir: the responsibility always lies with me, and this is inviolable. Break my law again and you will be asked to complete your assignments at another base. Is that clear, sir?
  
  "Yes, Colonel, that's clear."
  
  "Very good". Jaffar put his hands behind his back, puffing out his chest again. "I think you are very lucky that you did not come under enemy fire. My security forces and I combed the entire area within a radius of ten kilometers outside the base for threats. I assure you, you were in little danger. But that doesn't mean you can-"
  
  "Sorry, but we really got under fire, Colonel," John Masters interjected.
  
  Jaffar's eyes flashed at being interrupted, then his mouth opened and closed in confusion, then hardened with indignation. "What did you say, young man?" he growled.
  
  "We've been hit by ground fire a total of one hundred and seventy-nine times while within ten miles of the base, Colonel," John said. "And forty-one of the shots were fired from inside the base."
  
  "This is impossible! This is ridiculous! How could you know that?"
  
  "It's our job here, Colonel, to assess the state of the threat at this and other Allied air bases in northern Iraq," Patrick said. "Our aircraft is equipped with instruments that allow us to detect, track, identify and pinpoint the source of attacks. We can localize, identify and track gunfire up to nine millimeters." He held out his hand and John slipped the folder into it. "Here is a map of the origin of all the shots we found. As you can see, Colonel, one of the most powerful volleys - a six-shot burst from a 12.7mm cannon - was fired from this base. From the training ground of the security forces, to be exact." He took a step towards Jaffar, his blue eyes fixed on the Iraqi. "Tell me, colonel: who is now at that training ground? What caliber anti-aircraft weapons do you have here in Nala?" Jaffar's mouth twitched again in confusion. "Whoever did this, I expect they will be placed under arrest and charged with deliberately targeting Allied aircraft."
  
  "I... I'll take care of it... personally, sir," Jaffar said, sweat beading on his forehead. He bowed slightly as he stepped back. "I'll deal with it immediately, sir." He almost ran into Thompson in his rush to get away.
  
  "What a dumbass," John said. "I hope we don't have to put up with his shit here every day."
  
  "He's actually one of the most competent commanders in northern Iraq, doc," Thompson said. "He expects a lot of ass kisses and kneeling. But he's not one to get things done - he just breaks heads when one of his subordinates doesn't get the job done. So, is it true that you are detecting and tracking attacks against your aircraft?"
  
  "Absolutely," John replied. "And we can do a lot more too."
  
  "We'll let you know the details as soon as we get your security clearance, Chris," Patrick said. "It will make your eyes water, trust me."
  
  "Cool," said Thompson. "The Colonel may act like a preening peacock, but when he finds the jokers who shot at you, he will surely bring down the hammer on them."
  
  "Unfortunately, it wasn't just some assholes at the range - we found several other places both inside the base and just outside the perimeter," John said. "The Colonel may be the best in the area, but that's not enough. He has sappers inside the barrier."
  
  "As I wrote to you when you told me you were coming, sir," Thompson said, "I believe FPCON here should be Delta-active and constant contact with terrorists. In the eyes of Baghdad, Jaffar looks bad because he is taller than Bravo. But my boys and army security act like it's Delta. So, if you follow me, sir, I will show you around your premises and offices and give you a little introduction to the base."
  
  "If you don't mind, Chris, we would like to define our area of responsibility and schedule our first series of flights," said Patrick. "I would like to complete the first task tonight. The support staff will prepare our premises."
  
  "This night? But you've just arrived here, sir. You must be defeated."
  
  "One hundred and seventy hits on our plane, and a quarter of them from the territory of this base - we need to get down to business," Patrick said.
  
  "Then we need to go to the operations department and see Colonel Jack Wilhelm," Thompson said. "Officially, he is the second in command under Jaffar, but everyone knows who is really in charge, and this is him. He's usually located at the Triple-C Command Center."
  
  They were all crammed into another armored white Suburban with Thompson at the wheel. "Nakhla, which means "bumblebee" in Arabic, used to be the letter "U". Air Force Supply Base S.," he said, driving along the departure line. They saw rows of cargo planes of all sizes, from C-5 Galaxys to bizjets. "During Saddam's time it was set up to suppress the ethnic Kurdish population and it became one of the largest Iraqi military bases in the country. They say it was the base where the chemical weapons that Saddam used against the Kurds were stored, and so it's a prime target for the Kurdish rebels we deal with from time to time, along with AQI al-Qaeda in Iraq - the Shiite rebels and foreign jihadists.
  
  "Early this year, Nakhla was officially handed over from US control to the Iraqi military. However, the Iraqis still don't have much air force, so they called it the 'allies' air base. The United States, NATO and the United Nations are leasing facilities and an airstrip from the Iraqis."
  
  "We create it and then get paid to use it," commented John. "Fabulous".
  
  "If we didn't pay to use it, we would still be considered an 'occupation force' in Iraq," Thompson explained. "This is the policy of withdrawing troops from Iraq.
  
  "The main fighting unit here in Nala is the Second Brigade, nicknamed the 'War Hammer'," Thompson continued. "Second Brigade is the Stryker Combat Brigade, part of I Corps, Second Division, from Fort Lewis, Washington. This is one of the last divisions to complete a fifteen-month rotation - all other divisions work for twelve months. They support the Iraqi army with intelligence, information and training. They are scheduled to be withdrawn within three months when the Iraqis take full control of security in northern Iraq."
  
  "Chris, do we really have half of all American vehicles somewhere in the Middle East?" Patrick asked.
  
  "I would say that half of the Air Force vehicles are either on theater ground or flying back and forth, and the real number is probably closer to three-quarters," Thompson said. "And this does not include the charters of the civilian reserve and contract soldiers."
  
  "But it will still take a year to withdraw our forces?" John asked. "It doesn't seem right. It didn"t take that long to get our stuff out of Iraq after the first Gulf War, did it?"
  
  "Another plan, doc," Thompson said. "The plan is to take everything out of Iraq, with the exception of property at two air bases and the embassy complex in Baghdad. After the first Gulf War, we left many things in Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, Qatar and the United Arab Emirates, and we had heightened security measures so that we could move freely. It took over a year to get all of our stuff out of Saudi Arabia when the US asked to leave the country and we just took it down the highway to Kuwait. Here we ship all of our possessions either home or to new bases in Romania, Poland, the Czech Republic and Djibouti."
  
  "Still, it can"t take that long to get out, can it?"
  
  "We've been working on this non-stop day and night for almost a year, and another year has been really optimistic," Thompson admitted. "It depends mainly on the security situation. The coup in Iran completely closed the Persian Gulf for a year, and several rail lines and highways in and out of the country were not safe, so we had to wait for more favorable conditions. Things urgently needed elsewhere could be taken out by plane, but taking a whole C-5 Galaxy or C-17 Globemaster just to take out one or two M1A2 battle tanks did not make sense. And we are not going to leave more than two thousand armored vehicles here." He looked at Patrick. "That's why you're here, isn't it, sir? Improve the security situation?"
  
  "We'll try," Patrick said. "Obviously the Iraqis can't handle the security situation and it wouldn't be politically correct for US troops, who aren't needed in the country anyway, to provide security, so they're offering contracts to private companies to do the job."
  
  "Well, you're certainly not alone, sir," Thompson said. "Contractors do almost everything here these days. We still have a Marine unit here in Nakhla that flies in support of Iraqi missions, and from time to time a SWAT unit or a SEAL team comes and goes, but other than that, the troops here do almost nothing but collect equipment and waiting to be taken home. Much of training and security, intelligence, catering, transportation, communications, construction, demolition, recreation, all of this is the responsibility of American contractors."
  
  "After the Holocaust, it was easier and faster in AMERICA to hire and retrain veterans than it was to train new recruits," Patrick said. "If you want to do more with less, you have to outsource support functions and let active duty soldiers take on specialized missions."
  
  "I didn't hear about Scion aircraft until the Army announced you were on your way here," Thompson said. "Where are you guys based from?"
  
  "Las Vegas," Patrick replied. "In essence, this is a group of investors who have purchased several high-tech, but surplus aircraft from various companies and offered their services to the Pentagon. I was offered a job after I retired."
  
  "Looks like the same deal with my company," Chris said. "We are a group of former and retired military technicians and engineers in physical training, communications and data protection. We still wanted to serve after leaving, so we formed a company."
  
  "Do you like it so far?"
  
  "Honestly, I started the business because I thought the money was going to be good-all those stories about companies like Blackwater Worldwide getting these big contracts were really attractive," Chris admitted. "But this is business. Contracts may seem tempting, but we spend money acquiring the best staff and equipment we can find and delivering the best solution at the lowest cost. I can tell you that I have not seen a dime of profit from the business, except for what it costs me to survive. If there is a profit, it is immediately returned to the business, which allows us to provide more services or provide a service at a lower cost."
  
  "Just the opposite of the military," John Masters said. "The military is spending every penny of its budget so that the budget is not cut next year. Private companies save or invest every penny."
  
  "So you don"t have any problems with these other companies, do you?" Patrick asked.
  
  "I see some of these snake-eating ex-special forces guys roaming the base," Thompson said, "and they"re all dressed up in top-notch outerwear, brand new weapons, the latest equipment and mind-blowing tattoos. Many of these guys just want to look cool, so they spend a lot of their own money on the latest and greatest. My company is mostly made up of computer scientists, former law enforcement officers, private detectives and security guards. They pretty much ignore us. We get into trouble from time to time when my guys deny them access, but we sort it out in the end."
  
  "This doesn't sound like a good way to go to war, Chris."
  
  Thompson chuckled. "I hope this is not a war," he said. "War should be left to the professionals. I would be just as happy to support professionals."
  
  The base was huge and very much like a small army post in the United States. "This place doesn't look too bad," commented John Masters. "I used to be sorry that you guys were sent so far away, but I have seen army posts and worse in the States."
  
  "We never had a regular Burger King or McDonald's like some superbases," Thompson said, "and if we did, the Iraqis probably would have shut them down anyway after they took over. Most of the troops here are still sleeping in the CHUS, because we never had time to build regular housing units. Of course, there are no families here, so it will never compare to any regular overseas base like Germany or England. But the weather is a little better and the locals are less hostile...at least a little less".
  
  "Chus?"
  
  "Container housing units. They are little more than a commercial truck trailer. We can accommodate them if we need space, but as the army builds up we have more space, so they're all on the ground floor for now. That's where we'll hide your boys. They are nicer than they look, trust me - linoleum floors, fully insulated, air conditioning, Wi-Fi, flat screen TVs. Two chu share a 'wet chu' - a restroom. Much better than latrines."
  
  A few minutes later they came to a twelve-foot-tall fence of jersey concrete walls and reinforced corrugated metal sheet topped with coils of barbed wire. A few feet behind this wall was another twelve-foot-mesh fence topped with barbed wire, heavily armed K-9 civilian security officers prowling between the fences. There was fifty feet of open space behind the mesh fence. Surrounding all this was a simple, square-looking, three-story building with a sloping roof, several satellite dishes and antennas on top, and absolutely no windows. There were security towers thirty feet high at the corners of the building. "Is this the headquarters building... or a prison?" John asked.
  
  "Command and Control Center, or Triple Sea," Thompson said. "Some call it Phobbitville - the home of the 'Phobbits', the guys who never leave the FOB, or Forward Operating Base - but these days we're doing fewer and fewer missions offline, so most of us can be considered phobbits. Roughly in the geographic center of the base - the bad guys would need a fairly large mortar to get to it from outside the base, though they'll be lucky and launch a makeshift pickup-launched rocket here about every couple of weeks."
  
  "Every couple of weeks?"
  
  "I'm afraid so, doc," Thompson said. He then smiled mischievously at John and added, "But that"s what you have to decide here... right?"
  
  Security at the entrance to Triple-C was tight, but it was still far less than what McLanahan and Masters had to put up with in Dreamland for so many years. There were no military security officers there at all; Thompson's civilian contractors ran everything. They became a little more respectful of Patrick after checking his papers - most of them were ex-military or retired; and three-star generals, even retired ones, had earned their respect-but still seemed to conduct quick, sometimes rude searches with an enthusiasm bordering on sadism. "God, I think I need to go to the bathroom to see if these guys ripped off any important parts," John said as they passed the last inspection station.
  
  "Everyone is treated the same, which is why a lot of guys just end up huddled here instead of going back to their friends," Thompson said. "I think they made it a little thicker because the boss was here. Sorry for that." They came out into a wide passage, and Thompson pointed to a corridor on the left. "The western corridor is the path to the various units that make up the Troika-S - operational air traffic control, communications, data, transport, security, intelligence, interagency and foreign relations, and so on. Upstairs, above them, are the commanders' offices and meeting rooms. The east corridor is DFAC, break rooms and administrative offices; above them are emergency platforms, bunk rooms, bathrooms, showers and so on. The northern corridors contain computers, communications, backup power generators, and a physical installation. At the center of it all is the command center itself, which we call 'The Tank'. Follow me ". Their IDs were checked and they were once again searched at the entrance to the Tank - this time by an army sergeant, their first meeting with a military security officer - and they were let inside.
  
  The tank did resemble the Battle Control Center at Elliot Air Force Base in Nevada. It was a large auditorium-like room, with twelve large high-definition flat screens surrounding an even larger screen at the back of the room, with a narrow stage for human speakers. On either side of the stage were rows of consoles for various departments that fed data to display screens and commanders. Above them was a closed observation area for VIPs and specialists. In the middle of the room was a semicircular row of consoles for section chiefs, and in the center of the semicircle were chairs and displays for the Iraqi brigade commander, which were empty, and his second-in-command, Colonel Jack Wilhelm.
  
  Wilhelm was a large, bear-like man, resembling a much younger dark-haired version of retired army general Norman Schwarzkopf. It looked like he was chewing on a cigar, but it was actually a microphone from his headset, mounted very close to his lips. Wilhelm leaned forward over his console, giving orders and directions as to what he wanted to display on the screens.
  
  Thompson maneuvered to get into Wilhelm's line of sight, and when Wilhelm spotted the security man, he gave him an inquiring frown and pushed the earpiece away from his ear. "What?"
  
  "The Scion Aviation guys are here, Colonel," Thompson said.
  
  "Leave them at Chuvil and tell them I'll see them in the morning," Wilhelm said, rolling his eyes and putting the earpiece back on.
  
  "They want to start tonight, sir."
  
  Wilhelm moved the earpiece in annoyance again. "What?"
  
  "They want to start tonight, sir," Thompson repeated.
  
  "Start what?"
  
  "Start observing. They say they are ready to take off right now and want to brief you on their proposed flight plan."
  
  "They do, don't they?" Wilhelm spat. "Tell them we have a briefing scheduled tomorrow morning at 0700, Thompson. Put them to bed and-"
  
  "If you have a few minutes to spare, Colonel," Patrick said as he approached Thompson, "we'd like to fill you in now and hit the road."
  
  Wilhelm turned in his seat and scowled at the new arrivals and their interference...and then turned slightly pale when he recognized Patrick McLanahan. He slowly got to his feet, his eyes fixed on Patrick as if sizing him up for a fight. He turned slightly to the technician sitting next to him, but his eyes never left Patrick's. "Get Weatherley here," he said, "and have him check the sorties log and brief the reconnaissance patrol. I'll be back in a few minutes ". He took off his headphones, then held out his hand. "General McLanahan, Jack Wilhelm. Nice to meet you ".
  
  Patrick shook his hand. "The same, Colonel."
  
  "I didn't know you were on that flight, General, otherwise I would never have authorized the VFR scheme."
  
  "It was important that we did it, Colonel - it told us a lot. May we brief you and your staff on our first mission?"
  
  "I assumed that you would want to rest and clean up for the rest of the day and evening," Wilhelm said. "I wanted to show you around the base, show you Triple-C and the operations center here, meet the staff, eat delicious food-"
  
  "We'll have plenty of time for that while we're here, Colonel," Patrick said, "but we got under enemy fire along the way and I think the sooner we start the better."
  
  "Enemy fire?" Wilhelm looked at Thompson. "What is he talking about, Thompson? I was not informed."
  
  "We are ready to brief you on this right now, Colonel," Patrick said. "And then I would like to schedule an orientation and calibration flight for tonight to start looking for the sources of this ground fire."
  
  "Excuse me, General," Wilhelm said, "but your operations need to be carefully scrutinized by headquarters and then conflicts with every department here at Triple C resolved. This will take much longer than a few hours."
  
  "We sent you our operational plan and a copy of the contract from the Air Force Civilian Reinforcement Agency a week ago, Colonel. Your staff should have had enough time to study this."
  
  "I'm sure they have, General, but my briefing with headquarters is scheduled for 05:30 tomorrow morning," Wilhelm said. "You and I were supposed to meet at zero-zero seven hundred to discuss this. I thought that was the plan."
  
  "That was the plan, Colonel, but now I'd like to start our first mission tonight, before our other planes arrive."
  
  "Other plans? I thought we just got one."
  
  "As soon as we came under enemy fire on our way here, I requested and received permission from my company to bring in a second operational aircraft with some more specialized cargo and equipment," Patrick said. "It will be another plane the size of a loser-"
  
  "'Jonah'?"
  
  "Sorry. Nickname for our aircraft. I'll need a hangar for that, and berths for twenty-five additional staff. They'll be here in about twenty hours. When it arrives, I will need-"
  
  "Excuse me, sir," interrupted Wilhelm. "Can I have a word or two with you?" He pointed to the front corner of the tank, motioning for Patrick to follow him; the young Air Force lieutenant wisely left his nearest console when he saw the colonel's warning look as they approached.
  
  As soon as they got to the console to talk in private, Patrick lifted a finger, then reached out to touch a tiny button on a nearly invisible earpiece in his left ear canal. Wilhelm's eyes widened in surprise. "Is this a wireless cell phone earphone?" he asked.
  
  Patrick nodded. "Cell phones are banned here, Colonel? I can take it outside-"
  
  "They ... they must be muted so that no one can receive or make calls on them - protection from improvised remote detonation devices. And the nearest cell tower is six miles away."
  
  "This special unit is encrypted, secure, resistant to interference, quite powerful for its size," said Patrick. "We will consider upgrading your jamming devices or replacing them with directional sensors that will accurately locate both sides of a conversation." Wilhelm blinked in confusion. "So it's okay if I take this?" Wilhelm was too stunned to answer, so Patrick nodded his thanks and pressed the call button. "Hi Dave," he said. "Yes... Yes, let him make the call. You were right. Thank you." He touched the earpiece again to end the call. "Sorry to interrupt, Colonel. Do you have a question for me?"
  
  Wilhelm quickly pushed the confusion out of his mind, then planted his fists on his hips and leaned towards Patrick. "Yes sir, I know who the hell do you think you are?" Wilhelm said in a low, muffled, growling voice. He towered over McLanahan, jutting out his chin as if to defy anyone who tried to hit him, and piercing him with a hard, straight stare. "This is my command center. No one gives me orders here, not even Haji, who is supposedly in charge of this fucking base. And nothing comes within a hundred miles of us unless they first get my approval and clearance, even a retired three-star. Now that you're here, you can stay, but I guarantee the next son of a bitch who doesn't get my permission to enter will be kicked out of this base so fast and hard that he'll be looking for his ass in the Persian Gulf. Do you hear me, General?"
  
  "Yes, Colonel, I know," Patrick said. He didn't look away, and the two men locked eyes. "Are you done, Colonel?"
  
  "Don't have anything to do with me, McLanahan," Wilhelm said. "I read your contract, and I've dealt with thousands of you civilian supplements, or contractors, or whatever the hell you call yourself now. You may be a high tech guy, but from what I understand, you're still just one of the chefs and bottle washers around here.
  
  "With all due respect, General, this is a warning: as long as you are in my sector, you obey me; you go beyond, I will give you hell; you disobey my orders and I will personally shove your balls down your throat." He paused for a moment, then asked, "Do you want to tell me something now, sir?"
  
  "Yes, Colonel." Patrick gave Wilhelm a smile that almost infuriated the army colonel, then continued, "A phone call from division headquarters awaits you. I suggest you take this." Wilhelm turned around and saw the communications officer on duty approaching him at a trot.
  
  He looked at McLanahan's smile, gave him a glare, then went to the nearest console, put on his headphones, and logged in. Wilhelm. What?"
  
  "Prepare for division, sir," said the communications technician. Wilhelm looked at McLanahan in surprise. A moment later, "Jack? Connolly is listening." Charles Connolly was a two-star army general based in Fort Lewis, Washington who commanded a division sent into northern Iraq.
  
  "Yes, sir?"
  
  "I'm sorry, Jack, but I only heard about this myself a few minutes ago and thought I'd better call you myself," Connolly said. "This contractor assigned to carry out aerial surveillance missions on the Iraqi-Turkish border in your sector? There is a VIP on board: Patrick McLanahan."
  
  "I'm talking to him right now, sir," Wilhelm said.
  
  "Is he already there? Crap. Sorry about that, Jack, but this guy has a reputation for just showing up and doing whatever he pleases."
  
  "That won't happen here, sir."
  
  "Look, Jack, treat this guy with kid gloves until we figure out exactly how much horsepower he has on his back," Connolly said. "He"s a civilian and a contractor, yes, but the Corps told me he works for some tough guys who can make a few career-changing phone calls very quickly, if you know what I"m getting at."
  
  "He just told me that he will bring another plane here. Twenty-five more personnel! I'm trying to destroy this base, sir, not to gather more civilians here."
  
  "Yeah, I was told that too," Connolly said, his sullen tone making it obvious that he was no more in the know than the senior officer of the regiment. "Listen, Jack, if he seriously violates one of your directives, I will support you one hundred percent if you want him to get out of your base and away from you. But he's Patrick fucking McLanahan, and he's a three-year-old pensioner. Corps says give him enough rope and he'll end up hanging himself - he's done this before, that's why he's out of shape no more."
  
  "I still don't like it, sir."
  
  "Well, deal with it however you like, Jack," the division commander said, "but my advice is: bear with this guy for now, be nice to him, and don't piss him off. If you don't, and it turns out there's a lot of power behind this guy, we'll both be on our toes.
  
  "Just focus on your work, Jack," Connolly continued. "Our task is to transfer this theater of operations to the regime of a civilian peacekeeping operation. Contractors like McLanahan will be the ones who risk their asses. Your job is to get your soldiers home safe and sound with honor - and of course, to put me in a good light in the process."
  
  From the tone of his voice, Wilhelm thought, he wasn't exactly joking. "Understood, sir."
  
  "Anything else for me?"
  
  "The answer is no, sir."
  
  "Very good. Go on. Separate."
  
  Wilhelm ended the connection, then looked back at McLanahan, who was on his cell phone. If he had the technology to disable all of their cell-interference devices - the ones set to disable remote-controlled improvised explosive devices - he must have top-notch engineers and money behind him.
  
  On the console, Wilhelm spoke: "Officer on duty, convene the operations headquarters right now in the main meeting room to discuss the plan for monitoring the Heir."
  
  "Yes, sir".
  
  McLanahan ended his conversation when Wilhelm took off his headphones and walked over to him. "How did you know the department would call me, McLanahan?"
  
  "Lucky Guess".
  
  Wilhelm frowned at this answer. "Of course," he said, shaking his head dismissively. "Doesn't matter. The staff will get us up to speed right away. Follow me". Wilhelm led Patrick and John out of the Reservoir and upstairs to the main briefing room, a glass-enclosed, soundproof meeting room that overlooked the consoles and central computer screens in the Reservoir. One by one, the staff officers arrived with briefing notes and flash drives containing their PowerPoint presentations. They didn't waste time greeting the two officers who were already in the room.
  
  Wilhelm got a bottle of water from a small fridge in the corner, then sat down in an armchair in front of the windows overlooking the Tank. "So General, tell me about this international Scion Aviation organization you work for," he said as they waited for the others to arrive and prepare.
  
  "There isn't much to tell," Patrick said. He got a bottle of water for John and for himself, but didn't sit down. "Established just over a year ago-"
  
  "About the same time you resigned because of the commercial?" Wilhelm asked. Patrick didn't answer. "How are you doing with that?"
  
  "Wonderful".
  
  "There was some gossip that President Gardner wanted to hold you accountable for some of the things that happened in Iran."
  
  "I don't know anything about it."
  
  "Right. You knew that I was going to receive a secure satellite call from my headquarters ten thousand miles away, but you do not know if you are the subject of a White House and Justice Department investigation." Patrick didn't say anything. "And you know nothing about the rumors that you were involved in the death of Leonid Zevitin, that it was not a skiing accident?"
  
  "I'm not here to respond to crazy rumors."
  
  "Of course not," Wilhelm chuckled wryly. "So. The money must be good enough to keep you in the game as you travel the world with a goddamn heart condition. Most guys would be sitting by the pool in Florida collecting their retirement money and seeking a divorce."
  
  "My heart is fine as long as I'm not traveling in space."
  
  "Right. So how is the money in this business of yours? I understand that the mercenary business is booming." Wilhelm feigned panic, as if he was afraid he had offended a retired three-star general. "Oh my god, I'm sorry, General. Do you prefer to call it 'private military company' or 'security consultant' or what?"
  
  "I don't give a shit what you want to call it, Colonel," Patrick said. Several field officers preparing for their briefing glanced at their boss, some with humor on their faces, others with fear.
  
  Wilhelm smiled slightly, pleased that he had won a promotion from his VIP. "Or is it just another name for 'Night Stalkers'? That's the name of the organization you were rumored to be in a few years ago, right? I remember something about those Libyan raids, am I right? When was the first time you got kicked out of the Air Force?" Patrick didn't answer, which brought another smile from Wilhelm. "Well, I personally think 'Scion' sounds a lot better than 'Night Stalkers'. More like a real security consultant attire than a goofy kids cartoon superhero show." No answer. "So, how is the money, General?"
  
  "I believe you know exactly what the contract is for, Colonel," Patrick said. "It's not classified."
  
  "Yes, yes," said Wilhelm, "now I remember: one year, with an option for another three years, for a whopping ninety-four million dollars a year! I think it's the biggest theater deal, unless your name is Kellogg, Brand and Root, Halliburton or Blackwater. But I meant, General, what's your share? If I don't get a star in the next couple of years, I might stop working, and if the money's all right, maybe you can use a private like me at Scion Aviation International. How about this, General, sir?"
  
  "I don't know, Colonel," Patrick said without any expression. "I mean, what are you doing here besides acting like a big fucking drummer?"
  
  Wilhelm's face turned into a mask of rage, and he jumped to his feet, nearly cracking a water bottle in his fist in anger. He stepped within inches of Patrick, face to face again. When Patrick didn't try to push him away or back off, Wilhelm's expression changed from fury to a crocodile smile.
  
  "Good idea, General," he said, nodding. He lowered his voice. "What I'm going to do from now on, General, is to make sure you do what you're contracted to do, no more, no less. You will stumble, which only the hair of a red cunt is worth, and I will make sure that your contract with a nice rich bitch is terminated. I have a feeling you won't be here for long. And if you put any of my people in any danger, I will solve your little heart problem by tearing it out of your chest and stuffing it down your throat." He half turned to the others in the room. "Is my damn briefing ready, Weatherly?"
  
  "We are ready, sir," one of the officers immediately replied. Wilhelm gave Patrick another taunt, then sped off to his seat in the front row. Several field officers and company officers lined up on one side, ready to march. "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Lieutenant Colonel Mark Weatherly, and I'm the executive officer of the regiment. This briefing is classified, NO secrets, confidential sources and methods involved, the premises are secure. This briefing will focus on the results of the Regimental Headquarters Study of the Surveillance Plan presented by Scion Aviation International for -"
  
  "Yes, yes, Weatherly, we're not getting any younger here," Wilhelm interrupted him. "A good general here doesn't need all that air warfare college dog and pony routine. Let's get to the point."
  
  "Yes, sir," said the operations officer. He quickly brought up the desired PowerPoint slide. "The takeaway, sir, is that we're just not familiar enough with the technology used by Scion to know how effective it will be."
  
  "They made it clear enough, didn't they, Weatherly?"
  
  "Yes, sir, but... to be honest, sir, we don't believe it," Weatherly said, glancing nervously at McLanahan. "One aircraft to patrol over twelve thousand square miles of land and over one hundred thousand cubic miles of airspace? This would require two global hawks - and global hawks can't scan the sky, at least not yet. And this is in MTI's most wide-ranging surveillance mode. Scion proposes to always have half a meter image resolution throughout the patrol area... with one aircraft ? It can't be done."
  
  "General?" Wilhelm asked with a slight smirk on his face. "Do you bother to answer?" Turning to his staff officers, he interrupted himself by saying, "Oh, sorry ladies and gentlemen, this is retired Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan, vice president of Scion Aviation. Perhaps you have heard of him?" The dumbfounded expressions and droopy jaws of the others in the room showed that they certainly did. "Today he decided to surprise us with his majestic presence. General, my operations headquarters. The word is yours."
  
  "Thank you Colonel," Patrick said, rising to his feet and giving Wilhelm an annoyed look. "I'm looking forward to working with you guys on this project. I could talk about the technology developed by Dr. Jonathan Masters to improve the resolution and range of ground and air surveillance sensors, but I think it would be better to show you. Clear the airspace for us tonight and we'll show you what we can do."
  
  "I don't think that's possible, General, because of the operation we just found out about tonight." Wilhelm turned to the very young, very nervous-looking captain. "Kotter?"
  
  The captain took a cautious step forward. "Captain Calvin Cotter, sir, director of air traffic management. We've just learned of a planned Iraq operation for which they've requested reinforcements, sir. They are heading to a village north of Zahuk to raid a suspected Kurdish bomb-making and smuggling facility, presumably a fairly large tunnel complex that connects several villages and runs under the border. They requested continuous surveillance support: dedicated Global Hawks, Reapers, Predators, Strykers, the works, and close air and artillery support from the Air Force, Marine Corps, and Army. The spectrum is saturated. We... Excuse me, sir, but we just don't know how your sensors will interact with everyone else."
  
  "Then get all the other drones out and let us provide all the support," John Masters said.
  
  "What?" Wilhelm thundered.
  
  "I said don't waste all that gas and flight time on all those drones and let us do all the surveillance support," John said. "We have three times the image resolution of the Global Hawk, five times the image resolution of the electro-optical sensor, and we can provide you with better and faster air command for ground support. We can relay communications, act as a LAN router for thousands of terminals...
  
  "A thousand terminals?" someone exclaimed.
  
  "More than three times as fast as the sixteenth flight, which isn't that hard to beat anyway," John said. "Listen, I hate to disappoint you guys, but you've been using the latest generation of materials here almost from day one. Block ten global hawks? Some of you probably weren't even in the military when they started using these dinosaurs! Predator? Do you still use a low light TV? Who uses LLTV more...Fred Flintstone?"
  
  "How do you propose to connect all these different aircraft to your communication network and Tank...by today?" Wilhelm asked. "It takes days to bind and validate a resource."
  
  "I said, Colonel, you are using outdated technology-of course, items made ten or more years ago take so long," John replied. "Currently, in an otherwise civilized society, everything is plug and play. You simply turn on your planes, bring them into range of our plane, turn on the equipment, and the job is done. We can do it on the ground, or if the planes aren't co-located, we can do it in flight."
  
  "Sorry kids, but I have to see this before I believe it," Wilhelm said. He turned to another officer. "Harrison? Do you know anything about what they are talking about?"
  
  An attractive red-haired woman stepped forward, sidestepping Kotter as he hurriedly retreated. "Yes, Colonel, I have read about instantaneous high-speed broadband for remotely piloted aircraft and their sensors, but I have never seen how it is done." She looked at Patrick, then quickly stepped off the platform and held out her hand. Patrick stood up and allowed his hand to be shaken enthusiastically. "Margaret Harrison, sir, former Air Force Special Operations Squadron 3. I'm a contractor running drone operations here in Nala. I am very pleased to meet you, sir, a real pleasure. You are the reason I joined the Air Force, sir. You are real-"
  
  "Let that man go and let's get this damn briefing over, Harrison," Wilhelm interrupted. The woman's smile faded and she quickly returned to her seat on the platform. "General, I'm not going to risk sacrificing a mission using unknown and untested technology."
  
  "Colonel-"
  
  "General, my AOR is the entire province of Dahuk plus half of the provinces of Ninewa and Erbil," Wilhelm protested. "I am also tasked with supporting operations throughout northern Iraq. Operation Zahouk is just one of about eight offensive operations that I have to monitor on a weekly basis, plus another six minor operations and dozens of incidents that occur daily. You want to endanger the lives of thousands of Iraqi and American soldiers and dozens of aircraft and ground equipment just to fulfill your rich contract, and I'm not going to let that happen. Kotter, when is the next window open?"
  
  "The air support window for the Zahoek raid ends in twelve hours, which is 3 pm local time."
  
  "Then you can do your test, General," Wilhelm said. "You can sleep all night. Harrison, what kind of drones can you let the general play with?"
  
  "Operation Zahuk uses our Division's dedicated Global Hawk and all but one Reaper and Predator Regiment, sir, and will be out of service and ready to fly for at least twelve hours after landing. I could make available the "Global Hawk" from the south."
  
  "Take care of it. Kotter, reserve airspace for as long as it takes them to install." Wilhelm turned to the security contractor. "Thompson, take the general and his team to support and put them to bed."
  
  "Yes, Colonel."
  
  Wilhelm got to his feet and turned to McLanahan. "General, you can ask the staff here for anything else you need. Submit your aircraft maintenance requests to the flight line guys as soon as possible. See you at dinner tonight." He headed towards the door.
  
  "Sorry Colonel, but I'm afraid we'll be busy," Patrick said. "But thanks for the invitation."
  
  Wilhelm stopped and turned around. "As you 'consultants' are very hardworking, General," he said decisively. "I'm sure you will be missed." Weatherley called those present to their attention as Wilhelm walked out the door.
  
  As if released from invisible chains, all the employees rushed to Patrick to introduce themselves or re-introduce themselves. "We can't believe you're here from all the godforsaken places, sir," Weatherly said after the handshake.
  
  "We all assumed that you died or had a stroke or something like that when you suddenly disappeared from the Armstrong space station," Kotter said. "Not me - I thought President Gardner secretly sent an FBI capture team on a space shuttle to finish you off," Harrison said.
  
  "Really great, mugs."
  
  "It's Margaret, you dill," snapped Harrison with a smile. Again to McLanahan: "Is it true, sir - did you really ignore the order of the President of the United States to bomb that Russian base in Iran?"
  
  "I can't talk about it," Patrick said.
  
  "But you did take over that Russian base in Siberia after the American holocaust and used it to attack those Russian rocket launchers, right sir?" Asked Reese Flippin, an impossibly thin, impossibly young-looking private contractor with a strong southern accent and buck teeth. "And the Russians fired nuclear missiles at that base and you survived there? Damn it...!" And while the others were laughing, the accent completely disappeared, even the teeth seemed to return to their normal position, and Flippin added: "I mean, outstanding, sir, absolutely outstanding." The laughter got even louder.
  
  Patrick spotted a young woman in a desert gray flight suit and gray flight boots gathering her laptop and notes, standing apart from the others but watching with interest. She had short dark hair, dark hazel eyes and a mischievous dimple that came and went. She looked somewhat familiar, as did many of the Air Force officers and aviators Patrick knew. Wilhelm did not introduce her. "I'm sorry," he said to the others crowding around him, but suddenly he didn't care. "We have not met. I'm-"
  
  "Everyone knows General Patrick McLanahan," the woman said. Patrick was surprised to note that she was a lieutenant colonel and wore the wings of a command pilot, but her flight suit had no other patches or unit designations, only empty Velcro squares. She held out her hand. Gia Cazzotto. And in fact, we met."
  
  "We have?" You moron, he told himself, how could you forget her? "Sorry, I don't remember."
  
  "I was in the 111th Engineer Squadron."
  
  "Oh," was all Patrick could say. The 111th Bomber Squadron was a B-1B Lancer heavy bomber unit of the Nevada National Guard that Patrick deactivated and then re-established as First Combat Wing at Battle Mountain Reserve AFB in Nevada-and since Patrick didn't remember it, he personally selected every member of the Combat Air Force. Air Force, it quickly became apparent to him that she had not been selected. "Where did you go after... after..."
  
  "After you shut down the security unit? It's okay to say sir," Cazzotto said. "Actually, I did okay - perhaps closing the division was a blessing in disguise. I went back to school, got my master's degree in engineering, then got a position at Factory 42, piloting vampires heading for Battle Mountain."
  
  "Well, thank you for that," Patrick said. "We couldn't have done this without you." The 42nd Air Force Plant was one of several federally owned manufacturing facilities occupied by contractors. Located in Palmdale, California, Plant 42 was known for producing aircraft such as the Lockheed B-1 bomber, the Northrop B-2 Spirit stealth bomber, the Lockheed SR-71 Blackbird and F-117 Nighthawk stealth fighters, and the space shuttle.
  
  After the shutdown of production lines, factories often carried out work on the modification of existing airframes, as well as research and development work on new projects. The Air Force B-1 bomber, redesignated the EB-1C Vampire, was one of the most complex upgrade projects ever undertaken by Factory 42, with the addition of mission-adaptive technology, more powerful engines, laser radar, state-of-the-art computers and guidance systems, as well as the ability to use a wide range of weapons, including air-launched anti-missile and anti-satellite missiles. Ultimately, it was an unmanned aerial vehicle with even better performance.
  
  "And you still fly B-1s, Colonel?" Patrick asked.
  
  "Yes sir," Gia replied. "After the American Holocaust, they removed a dozen bones from AMARC and we repaired them." AMARC, or the Aircraft Maintenance and Remanufacturing Center, known to everyone as the "Bone Cemetery," was a huge complex at Davismontan Air Force Base near Tucson, Arizona, where thousands of aircraft were taken to storage and dismantled for parts. "They're not exactly vampires, but they can do a lot of the things you guys did."
  
  "Are you flying out of Nala, Colonel?" Patrick asked. "I didn't know they had a B-1 here."
  
  "Boxer is the commander of the 7th Air Expeditionary Squadron," explained Chris Thompson. "They are based in different places - Bahrain, the United Arab Emirates, Kuwait, Diego Garcia - and are ready to perform tasks when they are needed by coalition forces in the theater of operations. She's here for today's operation in Iraq - we'll keep her B-1 ready just in case."
  
  Patrick nodded, then smiled. "Boxer'? Your callsign?"
  
  "My great-grandfather came to the US to Ellis Island," Gia explained. "Cazzotto was not his real name - it was Inturrigardia - what's so complicated about that? - but the immigration officers could not pronounce it. But they heard other children call him cazzotto, which means 'strong blow', and they gave him that name. We don"t know if he was constantly beaten or if he was the one who delivered the blows."
  
  "I saw her on a punching bag at the gym; she deserves that callsign," Chris said.
  
  "Understood," Patrick said, smiling at Gia. She smiled back, their eyes met...
  
  ... which gave those around them the opportunity to act. "When can we see that plane of yours, sir?" Harrison asked.
  
  "He can really do everything you said...?"
  
  "You are taking command of all military units in Iraq...?"
  
  "Alright boys and girls, alright, we've got work to do," Chris Thompson interjected, raising his hands to stop the flood of questions raining down on Patrick. "You'll have time to pester the general later." They all jostled to shake Patrick's hand again, then gathered up their flash drives and documents and left the briefing room.
  
  Gia was the last to leave. She shook Patrick's hand, holding it in hers for a moment longer. "Very nice to meet you, sir," she said.
  
  "It's the same here, Colonel."
  
  "I prefer Gia."
  
  "Okay, Gia." He was still squeezing her hand as she said it, and he felt a momentary surge of warmth in her-or was it his own hand suddenly sweaty? "Not a Boxer?"
  
  "You can't choose your own callsigns, can you, sir?"
  
  "Call me Patrick. And the demolition guys didn't have call signs when I was in .
  
  "I remember my former operations officer at 111 had several names for you to choose from," she said, then smiled and left.
  
  Chris Thompson grinned at Patrick. "She's pretty, Murphy Brown style, huh?"
  
  "Yes. And wipe that smirk off your face."
  
  "If it makes you uncomfortable, of course." He continued to smirk. "We don't know much about her. We hear it on the radio from time to time, so it still flies. She comes to do tasks from time to time, like tonight, and then goes back to another command center. She rarely stays longer than a day."
  
  Patrick felt a sudden stab of disappointment, then quickly pushed the unpleasant feeling aside. Where did it come from...? "B-1s are great aircraft," he said. "I hope they resurrect more from AMARC."
  
  "Footmen love bones. They can engage as quickly as fighters; loiter for a long time, like a Predator or a Global hawk, even without refueling in the air; they have improved sensors and optics and can transmit a lot of data to us and other aircraft; and they have as much precision payload as F/A-18 aircraft." Thompson noticed the calm, slightly thoughtful expression on Patrick's face and decided to change the subject. "You are a real inspiration to these guys, General," he said. "These are the most excited people I've ever seen since I've been here."
  
  "Thank you. It's contagious - I feel energized too. And call me Patrick, okay?"
  
  "Can't guarantee I'll be doing this all the time, Patrick, but I'll try. And I'm Chris. Let's get you settled."
  
  "I can not. John and I have a lot of work to do before tomorrow's test flight this afternoon. The staff will prepare cabins for us, but I will probably take a nap on the plane."
  
  "It's the same here," John added. "Of course it wouldn't be the first time."
  
  "Then we will ask the support service to bring food to the plane."
  
  "Fine. Chris, I'd like clearance to be in the Reservoir when the Zahuk operation starts."
  
  "The Colonel doesn't normally allow off-duty personnel to be in the Tank during an operation, especially one this big," Chris said, "but I'm sure he'll let you listen from here."
  
  "It will be wonderful".
  
  "In any case, I'm not sure if I want to be even closer to Wilhelm," John said. "I was sure he was going to knock out the light for you, Mook...twice."
  
  "But he didn't, which means he has some common sense," Patrick said. "Maybe I can work with him. Let's see".
  
  
  CHAPTER THREE
  
  
  In one hand he holds a stone, and in the other he shows bread.
  
  -TITUS MACTIUS PLAUTOUS, 254-184 BC
  
  
  
  NAKHLA ALLIED AIR BASE, IRAQ
  
  
  Thompson took Patrick and John back to the hangar, where the crew chiefs and support team unloaded bags and serviced Loser. This gave Thompson the opportunity to closely inspect the aircraft. "This thing is beautiful," he remarked. "Looks like a stealth bomber. I thought you were just going to do some reconnaissance."
  
  "That's what we were hired for," Patrick said.
  
  "But is it a bomber?"
  
  "He was a bomber."
  
  Thompson spotted technicians working under the plane's belly and saw a large hole. "What is this, a bomb bay? Does this thing still have a bomb bay? "
  
  "This is the module's access hatch," said John Masters. "We don"t remove anything from this - we load and unload modules through them."
  
  "The loser had two bomb bays, similar to a B-2 stealth bomber, only much larger," Patrick explained. "We combined two compartments into one large compartment, but kept both lower doors. Then we divided the compartment into two decks. We can move mission modules across and between decks and maneuver each module either up or down through module hatches, all by remote control."
  
  "Flying wing reconnaissance aircraft?"
  
  "The flying wing design is well suited for use as a multi-role long range aircraft," said John Masters. "Airliners of the future will be flying wings."
  
  "Scion aircraft are designed as multifunctional platforms; we connect different mission modules to perform different tasks," said Patrick. "This aircraft can be a tanker, cargo aircraft, electronic warfare, photo reconnaissance, communications relay, command and control - even several of these functions at the same time.
  
  "Right now we are set up for ground moving target indication, ground target identification and tracking, aerial surveillance, data communications and command and control," continued Patrick. "But if we brought different modules, we can load them and perform different missions. Tomorrow we will install aerial surveillance emitters upstairs."
  
  Then he stepped under the plane and showed Thompson a large hole in his belly. "Here we will pause the ground target emitter module to identify and track the ground target. All modules are 'plug and play' via the ship's digital communications suite, which transmits data via satellite to end users. The other modules we have installed are for very large area networks, threat detection and response, and self-defense."
  
  'Response to the threat'? Do you mean attack? "
  
  "I can't really get into this system because it's not part of the contract and it's still experimental," Patrick said, "but we'd like to do a little more for the bad guys than just trap their guns."
  
  Patrick raised Chris through the ranks and turned him into a loser. The cockpit looked spacious and comfortable. The instrument panel consisted of five wide monitors with a few conventional "steam" gauges hidden almost out of sight. "Pretty nice flight deck."
  
  "Aircraft commander and mission commander ahead, as usual," Patrick said. He put his hand on the side seat behind the co-pilot's seat. "We have a flight engineer here who oversees all ship systems and mission modules."
  
  Chris pointed to the counter behind the boarding ramp. "You even have a galley here!"
  
  "Head washing too; it will come in handy on those long flights," John said.
  
  They ducked through a small hatch at the rear of the cab, went down a short narrow passageway, and out into a room quite crammed with cargo containers of all sizes, leaving only narrow passages to bypass. "I thought you contractors flew airplanes with bedrooms and gold-plated cranes," Chris quipped.
  
  "I've never even seen a golden crane, let alone fly with them on a plane," said Patrick. "No, every square foot and every pound must count." He pointed to half of the cargo module, the thinnest one Chris could see installed on the plane. "This is a container for our luggage and personal belongings. Each of the twenty-five people we took on this flight had no more than twenty pounds of luggage, including their laptops. Needless to say, we will be visiting your Commissariat frequently during this deployment."
  
  They had to maneuver around a large gray torpedo-shaped object that occupied most of the middle of the aircraft. "This must be the antenna that will stick out from the top, I presume?" Chris asked.
  
  "That's it," Patrick said. "This is a laser radar module. The range is classified, but we can see well into space, and it's powerful enough to see even underwater. Electronically scanned laser emitters "paint" images of everything they see millions of times per second with three times the resolution of the Global Hawk. There is another one below that is configured to search for ground targets."
  
  "Looks like a rocket," Chris remarked. "And that hole at the bottom still looks like a bomb bay to me." He looked at Patrick with a curious expression. 'Response to the threat', huh? Maybe you still have not moved away from the business of strategic bombers, General?
  
  "Our contract includes monitoring and reporting. As the colonel said: no more, no less."
  
  "Yes, that's right, General - and when I open a bag of potato chips, I can only eat one," Chris quipped. He looked around. "I don't see any passenger seats on this thing. Have you destroyed them yet?"
  
  "If you're going to report us to the FAA for not having approved seats and seat belts for every passenger - yes, Chris, we've already removed them," Patrick said.
  
  "God, you're really screwing up the image of your aviation contractors, sir," Chris said, shaking his head. "I always thought you guys lived big."
  
  "Sorry for breaking your bubble. There are two extra cockpit seats and a few engineer seats in some modules on the upper and lower decks, which we share depending on who needs a real break, but everyone brings sleeping bags and foam mats and stretches anywhere. I personally prefer a luggage cargo container - quiet and very well padded."
  
  "I think our container facilities will look luxurious by comparison, sir," said Chris. "You don"t have radar operators on board?"
  
  "The only way we can fit all of this inside the aircraft is if we leave the radar operators, weapons controllers and combat staff officers on the ground and feed them the information over a data link," Patrick said. "But that's the easy part. We can connect to any network fairly quickly, and we can send data to just about anyone in the world-from the White House to commandos in a spider hole-using a variety of methods. I will show it to you in the briefing room tonight."
  
  As technicians swarm around the plane like ants, Thompson soon felt he was in the way. "I'm heading back to the Reservoir, Patrick," he said. "Call if you need anything."
  
  He didn't see Patrick again until nine o'clock that evening. Thompson found him and John Masters in a conference room overlooking the Tank, sitting in front of two large wide-screen laptops. The screens were divided into many different windows, most of which were dark, but some displayed video images. He took a closer look and was surprised to see what turned out to be a video feed from an aerial platform. "Where is this image coming from, sir?" - he asked.
  
  "This is Kelly Two-Two, the Reaper on his way to Zahuk," Patrick replied.
  
  Thompson looked at the laptops and realized they didn't have data connections plugged in-the only cords going to them were from AC adapters. "How did you get the channel? You are not connected to our data stream, are you?"
  
  "We've launched the loser and are scanning data links," John said. "When it intercepts the data link, it connects to the data link."
  
  "Your Wi-Fi hotspot thing, right?"
  
  "Exactly".
  
  "And do you have a wireless connection here?"
  
  "Yeah."
  
  "How? We prohibit wireless networks inside Triple-C and the tank must be shielded."
  
  John looked at Patrick, who nodded his head for an explanation. "By turning to one side, you can use the shield to block everything," John said. "Turn it the other way and the shield can be used to collect things."
  
  "A?"
  
  "It's difficult and not always reliable, but we can usually penetrate most metal shields," John said. "Sometimes we can even make the shielding act like an antenna for us. Penetrating active electromagnetic shields is harder, but you rely on metal tank walls, reinforced concrete, and physical distance to protect Triple-C. It all works in our favor."
  
  "You'll have to explain to my physical security guys how you did it."
  
  "Certainly. We can help you fix it too."
  
  "Hack into our system and then have us fix the leak, General?" Thompson asked, only a little sarcastically. "A hell of a way to make a living."
  
  "My son grows out of his shoes every six months, Chris," Patrick said with a wink.
  
  "I'll present it," Thompson said. He didn't feel comfortable knowing that it was apparently so easy to tap into their data links. "Who else are you connected to?"
  
  John looked back at Patrick, who nodded in agreement. "Almost the entire operation," John said. "We have the entire command radio network on VHF and VHF and intercom here at Triple-C, connected to the global network established by the Stryker battle group, and we are receiving instant messages between task force, brigade and theater controllers. action."
  
  "IMS?"
  
  "Instant Messaging," Patrick said. "The easiest way for controllers to communicate information, such as target coordinates or image analysis, to other users who are on the same network but cannot exchange data links is through regular instant messages."
  
  "Like my daughter texting her friends on her computer or mobile phone?"
  
  "That's right," Patrick said. He widened the window, and Thompson saw a stream of chat messages-combat controllers describing the target area, sending geographic coordinates, and even passing jokes and commenting on the ball game. "Sometimes the simplest procedures are the best."
  
  "Cool". When the instant messaging window was moved so that Chris could see it, another window opened underneath and he was surprised...to see himself peeking over Patrick's shoulder! "Hey!" he exclaimed. "Are you connected to my video surveillance system?"
  
  "We didn't try to do it - it just happened," John said, grinning. Thompson didn't look surprised. "This is not a joke, Chris. Our system is looking for all remote networks to connect to, and it found this one too. This is just a video system, although we have encountered some other security related networks and denied access."
  
  "I would appreciate it if you would deny access to all of them, General," Thompson said stonyly. Patrick nodded to John, who typed in some instructions. The video stream has disappeared. "That was unwise, General. If there are any security issues after that, I will have to consider you as a likely source of the hack."
  
  "Understood," Patrick said. He turned to look at the head of security. "But obviously there is some kind of gap, because someone at the Nala airbase is shooting at the planes of friendly countries. Since we have been hired to enforce security throughout this sector, I can claim that I can legally access something like video streams."
  
  Thompson looked worriedly at McLanahan, his mouth frozen. After a few rather chilly moments, he said, "The Colonel said you were the kind of guy who would rather ask for forgiveness than permission."
  
  "That's how I achieve more, Chris," Patrick said matter-of-factly. But a moment later he got to his feet and came face to face with Thompson. "I apologize for that, Chris," he said. "I didn't want to seem so flippant about security issues. This is your job and your responsibility. I will notify you the next time we encounter something like this again and I will get your permission before I can access it."
  
  Thompson realized that if Patrick had hacked into a security system once, he could just as easily do it again, with or without his permission. "Thank you sir, but frankly I don't believe it."
  
  "I'm serious, Chris. You tell me to shut it down and it's done... period."
  
  What if he didn't turn it off? Thompson asked himself. What defenses did he have against the private contractor? He vowed to immediately find the answer to this question. "I'm not going to argue about it, sir," Chris said. "But you're here to help me keep this sector safe, so you can come back if you think it's important to your job. Just tell me when you get back why and what you found."
  
  "Made. Thank you ".
  
  "What other areas related to security have you been able to access?"
  
  "Colonel Jaffar's Internal Security Net."
  
  Cold sweat broke out under Chris's collar. "Internal security? It has no internal security personnel. You mean his personal bodyguards?"
  
  "Maybe that's what you think, Chris, but it seems to me that he has a whole shadow J headquarters - operations, intelligence, logistics, personnel, training and security," John said. "They do everything in Arabic and we don't see foreigners in it."
  
  "This means that he has his own people in charge of all the units of the regiment and the command structure," Patrick summarized, "so he is aware of everything that you are doing, plus he has a whole J-staff operating in the back plan, parallel to the functions of the headquarters of the regiment. He turned to Chris and added, "So if, for example, something happens to Triple-C..."
  
  "He could immediately take control and continue operations on his own," Chris said. "Damn scary."
  
  "It might be suspicious, or it might be smart of him," John said. "He might even argue that your status-of-forces agreement allows him to have his own separate command staff."
  
  "Besides," Patrick added, "you guys are trying to wind down military operations in Iraq and turn them over to the locals; it might just contribute to it. There is no reason to automatically think that something nefarious is going on."
  
  "I've been in security long enough to know that if the oh shit indicator starts to twitch, something bad is going on," Chris said. "Can you reconnect to Jaffar's network and let me know if you see anything out of the ordinary, sir?"
  
  "I'm sure we can tie it up again, Chris," Patrick said. "We'll let you know."
  
  "I feel embarrassed that I rebuked you for breaking into our security systems and then asked you to spy for me, sir."
  
  "No problem. We are going to work together for a while and I tend to act first and ask questions later."
  
  A few minutes later, the mission briefing began. It was very similar to the mission briefings that Patrick gave in the Air Force: timekeeping, overview, weather, current intelligence, the status of all units involved, and then briefings to each unit and department on what they were going to do. All participants sat at their posts and briefed each other on the intercom system while displaying PowerPoint or computer slides on screens at the rear of the tank and on separate displays. Patrick saw Gia Cazzotto behind one of the consoles farthest from the platform, taking notes and looking very serious.
  
  "Here is a summary of the Iraqi army operation, sir," began Combat Major Kenneth Bruno. "The Iraqi Seventh Brigade is deploying the entire Maqbara heavy infantry company, about three hundred riflemen, along with Major Jafar Osman himself as part of a headquarters unit. Macbar's company is probably the only purely infantry unit of the Seventh Brigade - everyone else is focused on security, police and civil affairs - so we know it's a big deal.
  
  "The target, which we call the Parrot reconnaissance facility, is a suspected hidden tunnel complex north of the small village of Zahuk. The contact time is three hundred zero-zero hours local time. Osman will deploy two platoons of Iraqi troops to secure around the city to the east and west, while two platoons will enter the tunnel network from the south and clear it."
  
  "What about the north, Bruno?" Wilhelm asked.
  
  "I think they hope they will run north so the Turks will take care of them."
  
  "Are the Turks involved in this matter at all?"
  
  "The answer is no, sir."
  
  "Did anyone tell them that the IVR was going to operate close to the border?"
  
  "This is the work of the Iraqis, sir."
  
  "Not when we have guys on the ground."
  
  "Sir, we are not allowed to contact the Turks about the Iraq operation without permission from Baghdad," Thompson said. "This is considered a breach of security."
  
  "We'll take a look at this shit," Wilhelm spat. "Communication, link up the division - I want to speak to the general directly. Thompson, if you have any backstage contacts in Turkey, give them a call and informally suggest that something might happen in Zahuk tonight."
  
  "I'll take care of it, Colonel."
  
  "Make it happen," Wilhelm snapped. "Turks must be nervous as hell after what just happened to them. Okay, what about Warhammer?"
  
  "The mission of Warhammer is to support the Iraqi army," Bruno continued. "Airborne, Special Operations Squadron 3 will fly two MQ-9 Reapers, each equipped with an infrared image sensor, a laser designator, two 160-gallon external fuel tanks and six laser-guided AGM-114 Hellfire missiles. On the ground, Warhammer will send a second platoon, Bravo Company, to scout behind Iraqi lines. They will be stationed south, east and west of Macbar's company and watch. The main task of the strikers is to fill in the picture of the combat space and provide assistance if necessary. The unit sends its Global Hawk to keep an eye on the entire combat space."
  
  "The key word here is watch, kids," Wilhelm interjected. "With weapons in this operation will be tight, you know? If you come under fire, take cover, identify, report and wait for orders. I don't want to be accused of filming friendly matches even if IA turns around and shoots us. Go on."
  
  "In Nala, Warhammer has two Apache helicopters from the Fourth Aviation Regiment, armed, fueled and ready to fly, loaded with missiles and Hellfires," said Bruno. "We also have the Seventh Air Expeditionary Squadron, one B-1B Lancer bomber on Foxtrot Patrol Orbit Colonel Cazzotto acting as Air Combat Controller."
  
  "Real gangbang, it's all right," Wilhelm growled. "That's all we need to get the Air Farce to yell and start dropping JDAMs on the IAS - they can stomp on our Strykers when they turn their tails and run." Patrick waited for Gia's reaction, but she lowered her head and continued to take notes. "Good: safety. What is the situation at the base, Thompson?"
  
  "Bravo for the time being, Colonel," Chris answered, pressing the phone to his ear, "but an hour before we open the gate and turn around, we automatically depart for Delta."
  
  "Not good enough. Go to the Delta right now."
  
  "Colonel Jaffar wants to be notified prior to any change in THREATCON level."
  
  Wilhelm looked at the Thompson station and his mouth tightened when he saw that he was not there. He turned to his deputy. "Send Jaffar a message telling him I recommend running THREATCON now," he said, "then do it, Thompson. Don't wait for his approval." Weatherly got straight to the point. They saw Wilhelm inspecting the tank. "Where the hell are you, Thompson?"
  
  "Upstairs, on the observation deck, checking where the general is."
  
  "Get your ass over here where you belong, send us to THREATCON Delta, then assign someone to look after the contractors. I need you at your damn post."
  
  "Yes, Colonel."
  
  "General, where is your plane and your guys?" Wilhelm asked, looking up at the observation deck. "It's better to take them out."
  
  "The plane and all my technicians are in the hangar," Patrick replied. He was glad to see Gia looking up at him too. "The aircraft is on external power and in full communication."
  
  "What the hell that means," Wilhelm snapped, glaring at McLanahan. "I just want to make sure you and your stuff don't get in my way when we break out."
  
  "We're all in the hangar as requested, Colonel."
  
  "I'm not asking for anything here, General: I order and it is carried out," Wilhelm said. "They stay in place until zero-zero three hundred unless I say otherwise."
  
  "Understood".
  
  "Intelligence service. Who is causing the most concern there, other than our allies, the Haji, Bexar?"
  
  "The biggest threat in our sector continues to be a group calling itself the Islamic State of Iraq, based in Mosul and led by Jordanian Abu al-Abadi," said Frank Bexar, the regiment"s privately contracted intelligence officer. "The Iraqis think that the network of tunnels near Zahuk is its stronghold, which is why they send such a large force. However, we ourselves do not have credible intelligence that al-Abadi is there."
  
  "Hajji must have some pretty solid information, Bexar," Wilhelm growled. "Why don't you do it?"
  
  "The Iraqis say he's out there and they want him dead or alive, sir," Bexar replied. "But Zahuk and the countryside are controlled by the Kurds, and al-Qaeda is strongest in cities like Mosul. I do not believe that al-Abadi would have been allowed to have a "stronghold" in the area.
  
  "Well, obviously he does, Bexar," Wilhelm snapped. "You need to strengthen your contacts and interact with haji so we don't suck ass all the time in terms of intelligence. Anything else?"
  
  "Yes, sir," Bexar replied nervously. "The other biggest threat to the coalition forces is the ongoing conflict between Turkey and the Kurdish guerrillas operating in our AOR. They continue to cross the border to attack targets in Turkey and then retreat back to Iraq. Although the Kurdish rebels do not pose a direct threat to us, periodic Turkish retaliatory attacks across the border against PKK insurgent hideouts in Iraq have sometimes put our forces in danger.
  
  "The Turks told us that they have about five thousand troops deployed along the Turkish-Iraqi border adjacent to our AOR. This is consistent with our own observations. The Gendarma had carried out several retaliatory raids in the last eighteen hours, but nothing too great-a few of their commando strike units had gone off their leashes in search of vengeance. Their latest intelligence shows that the rebel leader, whom they call Baz, or Hawk, an Iraqi Kurd, possibly a woman, is organizing daring raids on Turkish military installations, possibly including the sinking of a Turkish tanker in Diyarbakir."
  
  "Woman, huh? I knew the women here were ugly, but tough too?" Wilhelm remarked with a laugh. "Are we getting current information from the Turks about their troop movements and anti-terrorist operations?"
  
  "The Turkish ministries of defense and internal affairs are pretty good at providing us with direct information about their activities," Beksar said. "We even phoned some of their air raids to secure the airspace."
  
  "At least you dealt with the Turks, Behar," Wilhelm said. The intelligence contractor swallowed hard and finished his briefing as quickly as he could.
  
  After the end of the last briefing, Wilhelm stood up, took off his headphones and turned to face his battle headquarters. "Okay, kids, listen carefully," he began sharply. Employees defiantly took off their headphones to listen. "This is an IA show, not ours, so I don't want any heroics, and I'm damn sure I don't want any slips. This is a big operation for the Iraqis, but a chore for us, so do it nicely, smoothly, and according to the instructions. Keep your eyes and ears open and your mouths closed. Limit voice activity reports to urgent ones only. When I ask you to watch something, you'd better put it on my screen a nanosecond later, or I'll come and feed you breakfast through your nostrils. Stay alert and let's put on a good show for IA. Get on with it."
  
  "The real Omar Bradley," John Masters quipped. "A real soldier of soldiers."
  
  "He is very highly regarded in the division and corps and will probably get a star soon," said Patrick. "He's tough, but he seems to handle the ship well and get the job done."
  
  "I just hope he lets us do what we do."
  
  "We will do it with him or in spite of him," Patrick said. "Okay, Dr. Jonathan Colin Masters, draw me a picture of this crowd and confuse me."
  
  The young engineer raised his hands like a neurosurgeon examining a brain he was about to operate on, picked up an imaginary scalpel, then began typing on his computer keyboard. "Prepare to be amazed, my friend. Prepare for defeat."
  
  
  NEAR INTELLIGENCE TARGET PARROTH, NEAR ZAKHOUK, IRAQ
  A FEW HOURS LATER
  
  
  "I expected to see Central Station or Tora Bora, not the Hobbit House," grumbled Army First Lieutenant Ted Oakland, commander of a platoon of four Stryker infantry fighting vehicles. He studied the field of view about a mile ahead with his night thermal imaging system, which was a repeater of the gunner's sights. The southern entrance to the so-called al-Qaeda tunnel citadel was a tiny adobe hut that a twenty-ton Stryker could smash through with ease. This did not quite match the information they received from the locals and their Iraqi counterparts, who variously described it as a "fortress" and a "stronghold".
  
  Oakland switched from a thermal image to an overhead view taken by the battalion's armed MQ-9 Reaper drone flying eight thousand feet overhead. The picture clearly shows the deployment of Iraqi troops around the hut. There was a cluster of huts in the area, as well as outbuildings and small paddocks for livestock. At least eight platoons of Iraqi regular troops made slow progress in the area.
  
  "It's pretty quiet out there, sir," the gunner remarked.
  
  "For the main stronghold of the bad guys, I would agree," Oakland said. "But the way the Iraqis clumsily work their way through is a miracle that the entire province hasn"t fled yet."
  
  In fact, the presence of the Stryker reconnaissance platoon probably alerted the bad guys even more than the Iraqis. The platoon consisted of four Stryker armored personnel carriers for the infantry. The twenty-ton vehicles had eight wheels and a 350-horsepower turbodiesel engine. They were lightly armed with 50-caliber machine guns or 40mm rapid-fire grenade launchers remotely controlled from inside the vehicles. Because they were designed for mobility rather than lethal force, the Strykers were lightly armored and could barely withstand normal squad-level machine-gun fire; however, on the outside, these vehicles were covered in plate armor - cage-like steel tubes designed to divert much of the energy from a rocket-propelled grenade explosion, making them look super-heavy.
  
  Despite their clunky looks and low-tech wheel sizes, the Strykers have brought a real twenty-first century capability to the battlefield: network compatibility. The Strykers could create a WAN hub for miles around so that everyone, from an individual vehicle to the President of the United States, could track their location and status, see everything the crew could see, and relay target information to everyone else in the networks. They have brought an unprecedented level of situational awareness to every mission.
  
  Along with the commander, driver, and gunner, the Strykers carried six dismounted squad leaders or assistant commanders, two security soldiers, and three reconnaissance infantry. Oakland ordered a dismount to check the terrain ahead on foot. While security teams set up a perimeter around each vehicle and observed the area through night vision goggles, the squad leader and reconnaissance soldiers advanced cautiously along their intended route, checking for booby traps, cover, or any sign of the enemy.
  
  Although they were marching behind the Iraqis and shouldn't have made contact, Oakland kept the dismounted there because the Iraqi soldiers often did things that made absolutely no sense. They found "lost" Iraqi soldiers - men walking in the wrong direction, mostly away from the enemy line - or soldiers taking a break, eating, praying or urinating away from their units. Oakland often assumed that the main task of his platoon behind the main force was to steer the Iraqis in the right direction.
  
  But today the Iraqis looked like they were making good progress. Oakland was certain that this was because it was a relatively large-scale operation, because Macbar's company was leading the way, and because Major Othman was on the battlefield rather than hiding under the abaya whenever the operation began.
  
  "About fifteen microphones before contact," Oakland said to the platoon's secure network. "Be alert." Still no sign that they've been found. This, Oakland thought, would either go relatively well, or they'd run into an ambush. The next few minutes will show...
  
  
  CENTER FOR COMMAND AND CONTROL, NAKHLA ALLIED AIR BASE, IRAQ
  IN THE SAME TIME
  
  
  "I'm impressed, John, really impressed," said Patrick McLanahan. "The mechanism works as advertised."
  
  "Did you expect anything less?" John Masters retorted smugly. He shrugged, then added, "Actually, I'm surprised myself. Connecting the shelf equipment to the network was a bigger hurdle than connecting our own sensors, and everything went pretty smoothly."
  
  "That might be bad: it shouldn't be so easy to tie up the regiment's net," Patrick remarked.
  
  "Ours aren't nearly as easy to crack as the regimental ones," John said confidently. "It will take an entire army of Sandra Bullox to crack our cipher." He pointed to one empty window on his laptop monitor. "Global hawk Division is the only player that hasn't been hooked up yet."
  
  "Perhaps I was responsible for this," admitted Patrick. "I told Dave we'd be ready to start watching tonight, and he probably passed it on to President Martindale, who probably passed it on to corps headquarters. The department may have reassigned the "Global Hawk."
  
  "It's not your fault - it's Wilhelm's fault," John said. "If he let us fly, we would be on him like stink on shit. Well, they have a lot of eyes up there without that."
  
  Patrick nodded, but he still looked worried. "I am concerned about the northern part of these tunnels," he said. "If any AQI escapes, we need to keep an eye on them so we can send the Turks to capture them, or use the Reaper to deal with them." He brought the window from John's laptop to his display, studied it for a moment, typed in a few commands on the keyboard, and spoke. "Miss Harrison?"
  
  "Harrison. Who is this?"
  
  "General McLanahan".
  
  He could see the drone contractor looking around in confusion. "Where are you, General?"
  
  "At the top, on the observation deck."
  
  She looked up and saw him through the large slanted panes of the window. "Oh hello sir. I didn't know you were on that network."
  
  "Officially I am not, but Chris said that everything is in order. I need to ask you something ".
  
  "Yes, sir?"
  
  "You've got Kelly Two-Two on post in the southern part of the operation, and Kelly Two-Six ready to go as cover. Could you move Two-Two north to cover the north entrance to the tunnel, and move Two-Six to cover the south one?"
  
  "Why, sir?"
  
  The Global Hawk is not on station, so we don't have any coverage in the north."
  
  "I would have to fly the Reaper within maximum missile range of the Turkish border, and that requires permission from the Corps and probably the State Department. We could load weapons from Two-Six and ship them upstairs."
  
  "It will most likely be over by then, lieutenant."
  
  "That's right, sir."
  
  "If we can bring attention to this, I would feel a little more relieved," Patrick said. "How about we send Two-Two to the maximum distance until I contact the Corps?"
  
  "I'll have to disable Two-Six so he can take off," Harrison said. "Get ready." Patrick switched to the Nala airbase approach radar image and found it to be relatively free of traffic, no doubt because the airspace had been closed as a result of operations to the north. A moment later: "Airspace says we can take off when we're ready, sir. Let me get permission from the combat major."
  
  "It was my idea, lieutenant, so I would be happy to call him and explain what I meant."
  
  "You shouldn't be on this network, sir," Harrison said, looking at Patrick and giggling. "Also, if you don't mind, I'd like to take credit for your idea."
  
  "I'll take the blame if there's any confusion, lieutenant."
  
  "No problem, sir. Be ready." She disconnected the connection, but Patrick was able to eavesdrop on her conversation with Major Bruno and the conversation between Bruno and Lieutenant Colonel Weatherly about the launch. They all agreed that moving the Reaper was a good idea as long as it didn't violate any international agreements, and soon Kelly Two-Six was in the air and Two-Two was heading north to take up patrol orbit near the Turkish border. .
  
  "Whoever's idea it was to move the Reaper north... Wow," Wilhelm said over the tank net.
  
  "Harrison's idea, sir," Weatherly said.
  
  "I spent a great 'hoo' on a contractor?" Wilhelm said, feigning self-loathing. "Oh, well, I know that we should throw a bone to the mercenaries from time to time. I warn you in advance, Harrison."
  
  "Thank you, Colonel."
  
  "Is this his way of giving out praise?" John asked. "What a nice guy."
  
  The picture of the operation looked much better when the Reaper entered patrol orbit near the Turkish border, although it was still too far south to completely fill the picture. "That was a good idea, sir," Harrison told Patrick, "but the ROE restrictions still can't give us an idea of where the tunnel is supposed to exit. I'll check out the Global Hawk."
  
  "We would shut down this entire area in seven ways on Sunday with a loser," John said. "Wait for these guys to see us in action."
  
  "I really want you to change that name, John."
  
  "I'll do it, but first I want to poke the face of the Air Force into it for a while," John said gleefully. "I can not wait".
  
  
  INTELLIGENCE TARGET - PARROT
  AFTER A SHORT TIME
  
  
  "There they go, sir," said the gunner aboard Lieutenant Oakland's Stryker, studying the image of the tunnel entrance through his infrared sights. Several bright flashes of light flashed across the screen, followed by the sound of an explosion a second later. "Looks like the forward platoons are on the move."
  
  Oakland looked at his watch. "And just in time. I am impressed. It would be difficult for us to complete an operation of this magnitude on time." He flipped a switch on his monitor, checking the areas around each of his Strykers deployed around that area, then turned on his microphone. "Weapons at the ready and stay alert, boys," he radioed to his platoon. "OVR in motion". The leader of each section pressed yes.
  
  Once they had all registered, Oakland sent an instant message to Tank in Nala, announcing the movement of friendly forces. He switched briefly to the Macbar Company command radio network and was greeted with a maddening and completely incomprehensible cacophony of excited shouts in Arabic. He quickly turned it off. "Good radio discipline, folks," he said under his breath.
  
  "They're coming in, sir," the Stryker gunner said. He and Oakland watched as a squad of eight Iraqi soldiers approached the building. Two soldiers used grenade launchers to blast the door, showering themselves with pieces of wood and stone because they got too close.
  
  "Come on guys, where is your intro team?" Oakland said out loud. "You should know that the guys who blew the door will not be able to enter unhindered. One squad breaks open the door while another squad, shielded from light and shock, sneaks in. My seven year old knows this." But he soon saw the sergeant reorganize his infiltration team and get the infiltration team out of the way, so that after a brief stuttering step, the operation seemed to be moving forward.
  
  Back at the Tank, Patrick and John watched the action over the Stryker and UAV links... Except that Patrick was not watching the raid on the supposed tunnel entrance, but further north along the Iraqi-Turkish border. The view from the MQ-9 Reaper infrared scanner displaying the image showed gentle hills punctuated by high rocky cliffs and deep wooded valleys.
  
  Margaret Harrison, the regiment's reaper liaison officer, told him over the intercom . "Reapers are designed to look down at a pretty steep angle, not across the horizon."
  
  "Accepted," Patrick replied. "Just a few more seconds." He touched another key on his keyboard and said, "Mr. Bexar?"
  
  "Bexar is listening," replied the privately hired intelligence officer.
  
  "This is McLanahan."
  
  "How are you, general? Do you have the right to be online now?"
  
  "Mr Thompson said everything was fine. I have a question."
  
  "I don't personally know your security clearance, General," Bexar said. "I'm assuming you're top secret or you wouldn't be able to attend the briefing, but until I check, I'll have to refrain from answering any questions that might compromise operational security."
  
  "Understood. Are you informed that the Turks have five thousand troops in the area immediately adjacent to the regiment's area of responsibility?"
  
  "Yes, sir. The equivalent of two mechanized infantry brigades, one each in Shirnak and Hakkari provinces, plus three "Gendarma" battalions."
  
  "That's a lot, isn't it?"
  
  "Given recent events, I don't think so," Bexar said. "Over the past couple of years, they have been trying to approximate the level of the military forces of the United States and Iraq. In the past, the gendarmes maintained a much larger force in southeastern Turkey depending on the level of PKK activity. The problem is that we do not always receive regular updates on the movements of the Gendarmes."
  
  "Why is this?"
  
  "The Turkish Ministry of Interior is quite reserved - the NATO treaty does not oblige them to share information, as the Ministry of Defense does."
  
  "But the movement of mechanized infantry in this area is a relatively new development?"
  
  "Yes".
  
  "Interesting. But my question is, Mr Bexar, where are they?"
  
  "Where is who?"
  
  "Where are all these Turkish forces? A mechanized infantry brigade is quite difficult to hide."
  
  "Well, I suppose..." The question apparently took the intelligence officer by surprise. "They... could be anywhere, General. I assume they are garrisoned in provincial capitals. As for the gendarmes, they can easily elude our observation in this area."
  
  "Kelly Two-Two has been scanning the border for the past few minutes and I haven't seen any sign of any vehicles at all," Patrick said. "And according to my maps, Two-Two looks directly at Uludere city, right?"
  
  "Get ready." A moment later, after checking the telemetry readings from the Reaper's infrared image sensor: "Yes, General, you're right."
  
  "We look at the city, but I don't see any lights or even any signs of life there. Am I missing something?
  
  There was a short pause; then: "General, why are you asking about Turkey?" The Turks are not involved in this operation."
  
  Yes, thought Patrick, why am I looking at Turkey? "Just curious, I guess," he finally replied. "I'll let you get back to work. I'm sorry for-"
  
  "Harrison, what is Two-Two looking at?" Wilhelm asked over the intercom. "He's looking fifteen miles in the wrong direction, damn it. Check your ground surveillance plan."
  
  Patrick knew he had to intervene himself - it wasn't Harrison's idea to look across the border into Turkey. "I just wanted to take a look over the border, Colonel."
  
  "Who is this?"
  
  "McLanahan".
  
  "What are you doing on my network, general?" Wilhelm thundered. "I said you could watch and eavesdrop, not talk, and I"m damn sure I didn"t authorize you to direct my sensor operators!"
  
  "Sorry Colonel, but I had a strange feeling about something and I had to check it out."
  
  "Better to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission, eh General?" Wilhelm chuckled. "I heard it about you. I don't care about your 'weird feelings', McLanahan. Harrison, get this Reaper to cover..."
  
  "You're not even going to ask what I wanted to see, Colonel?"
  
  "I'm not like that, because nothing in Turkey interests me at the moment. In case you forgot, General, I have an intelligence platoon on the ground operating in Iraq, not Turkey. But since you brought it up, who the hell were you...
  
  "Rocket launch!" someone intervened. On the monitor displaying images from Kelly Two-Two, dozens of bright streaks of fire arced across the night sky - from overseas in Turkey!
  
  "What the hell is this?" Wilhelm broke down. "Where does it leave from?"
  
  "This is a volley of rockets from Turkey! ' shouted Patrick. "Get your people out of there, Colonel!"
  
  "Shut the hell up, McLanahan!" Wilhelm screamed. But he jumped up in horror from his seat, studied the image for a few moments, then pressed the button of the regimental network and shouted: "All Warhammer players, all Warhammer players, this is Warhammer, artillery is approaching you from the north, in the opposite direction, now get out of Parrot! "
  
  "Repeat?" one of the reconnaissance sections responded. "Say again, Warhammer!"
  
  "I repeat, all Warhammer players, this is Warhammer, you have twenty seconds to change direction away from the Parrot target, and then five seconds to take cover!" Wilhelm screamed. "Artillery is approaching from the north! Move! Move!" Over the tank's intercom, he yelled, "Somebody call the fucking Turkish army to the line and tell them to stop firing, we have troops on the ground! Get the ambulance helicopters in the air and get reinforcements there immediately!"
  
  "Send a B-1 across the border to these launch points, Colonel!" Patrick said. "If there are any other launchers, they can-"
  
  "I said shut up and get out of my net, McLanahan!" Wilhelm broke down.
  
  The Stryker reconnaissance patrols moved quickly, but not as fast as the incoming missiles. It took two dozen rockets just ten seconds to travel thirty miles and shower the Zahouk Tunnel Complex area with thousands of anti-personnel high-explosive and anti-vehicle mines. Some of the mines exploded a few yards overhead, showering the area below them with white-hot tungsten pellets; other mines detonated on contact with the ground, buildings or vehicles with a high-explosive fragmentation warhead; and yet others were on the ground, where they exploded when disturbed or automatically after a certain period of time.
  
  The second bombardment came just moments later, aimed several hundred yards west, east, and south of the first target area, intended to catch anyone who might have escaped the first bombardment. It was the attack that caught most of the retreating members of the American reconnaissance platoon. The mines penetrated the light top armor of the Strykers from above, ripping them apart and leaving them open to other high-explosive munitions. Many of the dismounted who escaped the massacre inside their vehicles died from submunitions that exploded overhead or underfoot as they tried to flee for their lives.
  
  In thirty seconds it was all over. Stunned employees watched it all in absolute horror, broadcast live from Reaper and Predator drones high above.
  
  
  WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, DC.
  AFTER A SHORT TIME
  
  
  President Joseph Gardner was exiting his computer in a private office adjoining the Oval Office and was just reaching for his jacket to get it over with and head to the residence when the phone rang. It was his national security adviser, longtime friend and former assistant secretary of the navy, Conrad Carlyle. He pressed the speaker button. "I was just about to wrap up, Conrad. It can wait?"
  
  "I wish I could, sir," Carlisle said over a secure cell phone, probably in his car. His friend rarely called him "sir" when they were talking one-on-one, unless it was an emergency, and that immediately caught the President's attention. "I'm on my way to the White House, sir. Reports of Turkey's cross-border attack on Iraq".
  
  Gardner's heart rate dropped by several percentage points. Neither Turkey, nor even Iraq, posed a strategic threat to him right now-even what was happening in Iraq rarely caused long sleepless nights. "Are any of our guys involved in this?"
  
  "Heap".
  
  The heart rate has recovered again. What the hell happened? "Oh shit". He could almost taste that glass of iced rum he'd been thinking about back at the residence. "Are they already created in the Situation Room for me?"
  
  "No, sir."
  
  "How much information do you have?"
  
  "Very little".
  
  Time for a drink before the action really kicks off. "I'll be in the Oval Office. Come and get me."
  
  "Yes, sir".
  
  Gardner put some ice cubes in an old Navy coffee mug, splashed some Ron Caneca rum into it, and took it to the Oval Office. A crisis was brewing somewhere, and it was important for viewers around the world to look out the windows and see the President of the United States hard at work-but that didn't mean he had to deprive himself of that.
  
  He switched the TV in the Oval Office to CNN, but so far there has been nothing on any incident in Turkey. He could get feeds from the situation room in his office, but he didn't want to leave the Oval Office until the emergency had been broadcast on worldwide television and everyone could see that he was already watching it.
  
  It was all about the image, and Joe Gardner was a master at presenting a specific, carefully crafted image. He always wore a collared shirt and tie except at bedtime, and if he wasn't wearing a jacket, his sleeves were rolled up and his tie slightly loosened to give the impression that he was working hard. He often used the speakerphone, but when others could see him, he always used the handset so that everyone could see how he was talking businesslike. He also never used fine china cups, preferring heavy, thick navy blue coffee mugs for all his drinks because he thought they made him look more manly.
  
  Besides, like Jackie Gleason on TV with his cup filled with booze, everyone would assume that he drinks coffee.
  
  White House Chief of Staff Walter Cordus knocked on the Oval Office door, waited the necessary few seconds in case there was any sign of protest, then entered himself. "I got a call from Conrad, Joe," Cordus said. He was dressed in jeans, a sweatshirt and boat shoes. Another longtime friend and ally of Gardner, he was always available on the blink of an eye and was probably hiding somewhere in the West Wing instead of being at home with his wife and imposing bunch of kids. He looked at the flat-screen TV hidden in the closet. "Is there anything already?"
  
  "No". Gardner raised his mug. "Drink something. I'm almost one ahead of you." The chief of staff obediently poured himself a mug of rum, but, as usual, did not drink a drop.
  
  It wasn't until Carlisle burst through the Oval Office doors with a briefing folder that something appeared on CNN, and it was just a scroll at the bottom of the screen mentioning a "shooting incident" in northern Iraq. "This looks like a friendly fire incident, sir," Carlisle said. "An army platoon supported an Iraqi infantry company in clearing a suspected entrance to an al-Qaeda tunnel in Iraq when the area was fired upon by Turkish medium-range unguided rockets."
  
  "Shit," the President muttered. "Bring Stacey Ann here."
  
  "She's on her way, and so is Miller," Carlisle said. Stacey Ann Barbeau, a former US Senator from Louisiana who was as ambitious as she was flamboyant, was recently confirmed as the new Secretary of State; Miller Turner, another longtime friend and confidant of Gardner, was secretary of defense.
  
  "Losses?"
  
  "Eleven killed, sixteen wounded, ten in critical condition."
  
  "Yes".
  
  Over the next ten minutes, one by one, the presidential advisers or deputies infiltrated into the Oval Office. Barbeau was the last to arrive, looking like she was ready for a night on the town. "My staff is in contact with the Turkish embassy and with the Turkish Foreign Ministry," she said, heading straight for the coffee tray. "I'm expecting a call from each of them soon."
  
  "The death toll has risen to thirteen and is expected to rise, sir," Turner said after receiving a call from an army corps commander. "They can't say the target was the platoon itself, but it looks like the Iraqis and the Turks were after the same target."
  
  "Then if our guys were supporting the Iraqis, how did they get hit?"
  
  "Contractors conducting the initial assessment say that the second round of missiles was intended to catch all the survivors escaping from the target area."
  
  "Contractors?"
  
  "As you know, sir," National Security Adviser Carlisle said, "we have been able to significantly reduce our military forces in uniform in Iraq, Afghanistan and many other advanced areas around the world, replacing them with civilian contractors. Almost all non-operational military functions - security, intelligence, maintenance, communications, the list goes on - are carried out by contractors these days."
  
  The President nodded, already moving on to other details. "I need the names of the victims so I can call the families."
  
  "Yes, sir".
  
  "Did any of these contractors get hurt?"
  
  "No, sir."
  
  "Numbers," the president said lazily.
  
  The phone on the President's desk rang, and Chief of Staff Walter Cordus picked up the phone, listened, then handed it to Barbeau. "Turkish Prime Minister Akash himself, Stacey, has joined from the state."
  
  "That's a good sign," Barbeau said. She activated the translator on the president's computer. "Good morning, Madam Prime Minister," she said. "This is Secretary of State Barbeau."
  
  At the same moment, another phone rang. "Turkish President Hirsiz is on the line for you, sir."
  
  "He better have some explanation," Gardner said, picking up the phone. "Mr. President, this is Joseph Gardner."
  
  "President Gardner, good evening," Kurzat Hirsiz said in very good English, his voice quite trembling with concern, "I"m sorry to disturb you, but I just heard about the terrible tragedy that happened on the border with Iraq, and on behalf of of all the people of Turkey, I wanted to immediately call and express my sadness, regret and grief to the families of the men who died as a result of this terrible incident."
  
  "Thank you, Mr. President," Gardner said. "So what the hell happened?"
  
  "An unforgivable mistake on the part of our internal security forces," Hirsiz said. "They have received information that Kurdish PKK rebels and terrorists have concentrated in a tunnel complex in Iraq and were planning another attack on a Turkish airport or military airfield, larger and more destructive than the recent attack in Diyarbakir. The information came from very reliable sources.
  
  "They said that the number of PKK fighters was in the hundreds in the tunnel complex, which is very extensive and crosses the Iraqi border in a wide area. It was determined that we did not have enough time to muster sufficient forces to destroy such a large group in such a dangerous area, so it was decided to attack using rocket fire. I gave the order to attack personally and therefore it is my fault and my responsibility."
  
  "For God's sake, Mr. President, why didn't you tell us first?" Gardner asked. "We are allies and friends, remember? You know that we have forces in the area, operating day and night to secure the border area and hunt down insurgents, including the PKK. One quick phone call that would have alerted us and we could have withdrawn our forces without alerting the terrorists."
  
  "Yes, yes, I know it, Mr. President," Hirsiz said. "But our informant told us that the terrorists would soon be on the move, and we had to act quickly. There was no time-"
  
  "No time? Thirteen dead Americans who only served in a supporting role, Mr. President! And we don't even have an Iraqi casualty tally yet! You should have found the time!"
  
  "Yes, yes, I agree, Mr. President, and it was a terrible omission, which I deeply regret and for which I personally apologize," Hirsiz said, this time with obvious irritation in his voice. There was a short pause; then: "But let me remind you, sir, that we have not been briefed about the Iraqi operation by either you or the Iraqi government. Such notice would also have prevented this accident."
  
  "Don't start shifting the blame now, Mr. President," Gardner snapped. "Thirteen Americans are dead because of your artillery barrage, which was aimed at Iraqi territory, not Turkish soil! This is unforgivable!"
  
  "I agree, I agree, sir," Hirsiz said stonyly. "I don't dispute it, and I don't seek to place blame where it shouldn't. But the tunnel complex was under the Iraqi-Turkish border, terrorists amassed in Iraq, and we know that insurgents live, plot and stockpile weapons and supplies in Iraq and Iran. It was a legitimate target, no matter which side of the border. We know that the Kurds in Iraq are harboring and supporting the PKK, and the Iraqi government is doing little to stop them. We have to act because the Iraqis won't."
  
  "President Hirsiz, I'm not going to get into an argument with you about what the Iraqi government is doing or not doing with the PKK," Gardner said irritably. "I want a full explanation of what happened, and I demand a promise from you to do everything in your power to ensure that this does not happen again. We are allies, sir. Catastrophes like this can and should be avoided, and it seems that if you would do your duty as an ally and friendly neighbor of Iraq and communicate better with us, it could..."
  
  "Bir saniye! Excuse me, sir?" Hirsiz said. There was a long pause on the other end of the line, and Gardner heard someone in the background say the word sik, which, according to the computer translator, meant "head of the penis." "Forgive me, Mr. President, but as I explained to you we thought we were attacking PKK terrorists who just recently killed almost two dozen innocent men, women and children in a major Turkish city.The Zahuk incident was a terrible mistake for which I take full responsibility and sincerely apologize to you, the families of the victims and the people of America, but that doesn't give you the right to demand anything from this government."
  
  "No reason to be obscene, President Hirsiz," said Gardner, so flustered and angry that veins popped out of his forehead. He noticed that Hirsiz did not deny or dispute this claim, or was surprised that Gardner knew about it. "We will conduct a full investigation into this attack, and I look forward to your maximum cooperation. I want to have full confidence from you that in the future you will communicate better with us and your NATO partners so that attacks like this do not happen again."
  
  "This was not an attack against your troops or Iraqis, but against alleged PKK insurgents and terrorists, sir," Hirsiz said. "Please choose your words more carefully, Mr. President. It was an accident, a tragic mistake that occurred in the defense of the homeland of the Turkish Republic. I take responsibility for the terrible accident, sir, not the assault.
  
  "All right, Mr. President, that's all right," Gardner said. "We will contact you shortly regarding the arrival of judicial, military and criminal investigators. Good night, sir."
  
  "I am yi akşamlar. Good night, Mr. President."
  
  Gardner hung up the phone. "Damn it, you'd think he lost thirteen people!" - he said. "Stacey?"
  
  "I picked up a bit from your conversation, Mr. President," Barbeau said. "The prime minister was apologizing, almost over the top. I felt that she was sincere, although she clearly views this as an accident for which they only share responsibility."
  
  "Yes? And if it was an American rocket attack and Turkish troops died, we would be crucified not only by Turkey, but by the whole world - we would be given all the blame, and then some others," Gardner said. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed an irritated hand over his face. "Okay, okay, to hell with the Turks for now. Someone screwed up here and I want to know who and I want some asses - Turkish, Iraqi, PKK or American, I don't care, I want some asses." He turned to the Minister of Defense. "Miller, I'm going to appoint a chairman to lead the investigation. I want it to be public right to your face, rude, hard and straight forward. This is the highest death toll in Iraq since I've been in office, and I don't want this administration to get bogged down in Iraq." He glanced for a moment at Stacey Barbeau, who made a very slight gesture with her eyes. Gardner immediately understood this and approached Vice President Kenneth T. Phoenix. "Ken, how about this? You definitely have experience."
  
  "Absolutely, sir," he replied without hesitation. Kenneth Phoenix, at only forty-six, could have been one of America's fastest-growing political stars - if only he hadn't worked so hard. Law degree from UCLA, four years as a Judge Advocate in the United States Marine Corps, four years in the office of the U.S. Attorney for the District of Columbia, then in various offices of the Department of Justice before being appointed Attorney General .
  
  In the years following the horror of the American Holocaust, Phoenix worked tirelessly to reassure the American public and the world that the United States of America would not slide into martial law. He was ruthless with lawbreakers and persecuted anyone, regardless of political affiliation or wealth, who sought to profit from the victims of Russian attacks. He was just as ruthless in his dealings with Congress and even the White House to ensure that individual rights were not violated as the government set to work to rebuild the nation and restore its borders.
  
  He was so popular with the American people that there was talk of his nomination for President of the United States against another very popular man, then-Secretary of Defense Joseph Gardner. Gardner changed party affiliations due to his differences with the Martindale administration, a move that hurt his chances of winning. But in a fit of political genius, Joseph Gardner asked Phoenix to be his running mate, even though they weren't in the same party. The strategy worked. The voters took this move as a strong sign of unity and wisdom, and they won by a landslide.
  
  "Do you think, Mr. President, is it a good idea to send the Vice President to Iraq and Turkey?" asked the chief of staff. "It's still pretty dangerous out there."
  
  "I've been monitoring the security situation in Iraq and I think it's safe enough for me," Phoenix said.
  
  "His words make sense, Ken," the president said. "I thought about your qualifications and experience, not about your safety. I'm sorry."
  
  "Don't, sir," Phoenix said. "I will do it. It is important to show how seriously we take this attack - to all players in the Middle East, not just the Turks."
  
  "I don't know..."
  
  "I'll keep my head down, sir, don't worry," Phoenix said. "I will assemble a team from the Pentagon, the Department of Justice and National Intelligence and leave tonight."
  
  "Today ?" Gardner nodded and smiled. "I knew I picked the right guy. Okay, Ken, thanks, you're in. Stacey will get all the permits you need in Baghdad, Ankara, and anywhere else the investigation takes you. If we need you back in the Senate to break the tie, maybe I'll send the Black Stallion spaceplane after you.
  
  "I would love to ride one, sir. Send one for me and I will take it."
  
  "Be careful what you wish for, Mr. Vice President." Gardner got to his feet and began to pace. "I know I said I want to withdraw our forces from Iraq in sixteen months, but it took longer than I thought. This incident highlights the dangers our troops face there every day, even when we are not in direct contact with the enemy. It's time to talk about reducing our forces more quickly and withdrawing more of them. Thoughts?"
  
  "The American people will certainly agree, Mr. President," Secretary of State Barbeau said, "especially after the news of this catastrophe breaks out this morning."
  
  "We've talked about this possibility many times, sir," National Security Adviser Carlisle said. "One mechanized infantry brigade in Baghdad on a twelve-month rotation; one training regiment on a six-month rotation; and we often conduct joint exercises with units deployed from the States for no more than a month or two throughout the country. Daily security and surveillance provided by private contractors, with infrequent special forces missions throughout the region as needed."
  
  "I think it sounds good," the president said. "One soldier died and it's front page news, but it takes at least six contractors to die before anyone notices. Let"s work out the details and make a plan without delay." Addressing his other advisers, he said, "OK, I want an update on the attack in Iraq at the headquarters briefing at 7 am. Thank you all ". As soon as the group left the Oval Office, the president asked, "Secretary Barbeau, can I have a word with you in the office?"
  
  After the door closed, the president poured the former Louisiana senator a bourbon and water. They toasted each other, then she kissed him lightly on the lips, careful not to smudge him too much with lipstick-after all, the first lady was upstairs in the residence. "Thanks for Phoenix's recommendation, Stacey," Gardner said. "Good choice - it'll get him out of here for a change. He always gets in the way."
  
  "I agree - sometimes he is too curious," Barbeau said. She pouted her lower lip. "But I would like you to consult me first. I can name a dozen more qualified people from our party who could lead the team."
  
  "Walter informed me that there were rumors in Washington that Phoenix was being relegated too far into the background and undermining its political future," Gardner said.
  
  "Well, that's what usually happens to vice presidents."
  
  "I know, but I need to keep him on the list of candidates when I run for a second term, and I don"t want furious party bosses to encourage him to leave so he can run himself," Gardner said, pouring himself another mug. Puerto Rican rum with ice. "It's a good high-profile assignment that will please his supporters, but this is outside the country where there is not much media; this will show that I am serious about investigating the incident, but nothing will come of it, so if someone gets hurt, it will be him; but more importantly, this is a topic that will quickly disappear from the public eye because it concerns dead American soldiers. Send the names of your experts to Phoenix and let's see if he accepts any of them."
  
  "Perhaps," Barbeau said, her eyes sparkling with intrigue, "the vice president will forget to crouch or put on a bulletproof vest, and that's how we need a new vice president."
  
  "God, Stacey, don't even joke about that shit," Gardner breathed. His eyes lifted in surprise at her words; he waited for her to smile and laugh away the dark thought, but he wasn't shocked to see that she didn't.
  
  "I would never wish any harm on the sweet and hardworking Kenneth Timothy Phoenix," she said. "But he's walking into danger, and you need to think about what we'll do if the worst happens."
  
  "Of course, I would have to appoint a replacement for him. I have a list."
  
  Barbeau placed the bourbon on the table and slowly, teasingly, approached the president. "Am I on your list, Mr. President?" she asked in a low, passionate voice, running her fingers under the lapels of his jacket, caressing his chest.
  
  "Oh, you're on many lists, dear.' But then I'd have to hire a local taster, wouldn't I? "
  
  She didn't stop-and, he noticed, she didn't refute his joke either. "I don't want to be hereditary, Joe-I know I can earn it myself," she said in a low, rather sing-song voice. She looked at him with her beautiful green eyes...and Gardner saw nothing but menace in them. She kissed him lightly on the lips again, her eyes opening and staring straight into his, and after the kiss she added, "But I'll take it in any way I can."
  
  The President smiled and shook his head sadly as she walked towards the door. "I don't know who's in more danger, Miss Secretary of State: the vice president in Iraq ... or whoever gets in your way right here in Washington."
  
  
  RESIDENCE OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE REPUBLIC OF TURKEY
  IN THE SAME TIME
  
  
  "How dare he?" Turkish National Defense Minister Hasan Cizek was furious when President Hirsiz picked up the phone. "It is an insult ! Gardner must apologize to you, and do it now! "
  
  "Calm down, minister," Prime Minister Ayse Akas said. With her, Hirsiz and Cizek were all the national security personnel: General Secretary of the Turkish National Security Council General Orhan Şahin, Minister of Foreign Affairs Mustafa Hamarat, Chief of Staff of the Armed Forces General Abdulla Guzlev and Fevsi Güclu, Director of the National Intelligence Organization, which carried out all internal and external reconnaissance operations. "Gardner was upset and bad thinking. And he heard this obscenity. Are you crazy?"
  
  "Don't apologize for this drunk Lech, prime minister," Foreign Minister Mustafa Hamarat said. "The President of the United States should not lash out at a head of state and an ally-I don't care how tired or frustrated he is. He lost his head during the crisis and it was wrong."
  
  "Everyone, calm down," President Kurzat Hirsiz said, raising his hands as if in surrender. "I didn't take offense. We made the necessary call and apologized-"
  
  "Crawling is more like it!" Jizek spat.
  
  "Our missiles killed a dozen Americans and probably several dozen Iraqis, Hassan; perhaps a little groveling is warranted here." Hirsiz frowned at the Minister of National Defense. "Everything will show what he says or does next." He turned to the Secretary General of the National Security Council. "General, are you absolutely sure that your information was accurate, applicable, and an immediate response was required?"
  
  "I'm sure, sir," he heard a voice. He turned around and saw General Besir Ozek, commander of the Gendarma, standing at the door of his office, with a frightened assistant behind him. Ozek removed all the bandages from his face, neck and arms, and the sight was truly repulsive.
  
  "General Ozek!" Hirsiz blurted out, momentarily shocked by the general's presence and then nauseated by his appearance. He swallowed hard, narrowing his eyes at the disgust he felt, and then ashamed of letting others see it. "I didn't call you, sir. You don't feel well. You should be in the hospital."
  
  "We also didn't have time to notify the Americans - and if we had, the information would have been leaked to PKK supporters and the opportunity would have been lost," Ozek continued, as if the president hadn't said a word.
  
  Hirsiz nodded, turning away from Ozek's horrific wounds. "Thank you, General. You're fired".
  
  "If I can speak freely, sir: my heart is breaking from what I just heard," Ozek said.
  
  "General?"
  
  "I'm sick of how many times I've heard the President of the Republic of Turkey apologize like a little boy caught feeding a goldfish to a cat. With all due respect, Mr. President, it was disgusting."
  
  "That's enough, General," Prime Minister Akas said. "Show some respect."
  
  "We did nothing more than protect our nation," Ozek said angrily. "We have nothing to apologize for, sir."
  
  "Innocent Americans died, General..."
  
  "They thought they were after al-Qaeda in Iraq terrorists, not the PKK," retorted Ozek. "If the Iraqis had any brains, they would know as well as we do that the tunnel complex was a PKK hideout, not al-Qaeda."
  
  "Are you sure about that, general?"
  
  "Yes, sir," Ozek insisted. "Al-Qaeda insurgents hide and operate in the cities, not in the countryside like the PKK. If the Americans had bothered to find out about it - or if the Iraqis had cared - this incident would not have happened."
  
  President Hirsiz fell silent and turned away to think, and also not to look at the terrible wounds of Ozek. "However, General, the incident has caused anger and outrage in Washington, and we must be conciliatory, apologetic and cooperative," he said after a few moments. "They will send investigators and we must help them investigate."
  
  "Sir, we can't let this happen," Ozek shouted. "We cannot allow the Americans or the international community to stop us from defending this nation. You know as well as I do that the focus of any investigation will be our mistakes and our policies, not the PKK or their attacks. We must act now. Do something, sir!"
  
  The Prime Minister's eyes flashed with anger. "Like you, General Ozek!" she called. The veteran Gendarme officer's eyes lit up, making his appearance even more intimidating. The Prime Minister raised a finger at him to silence his anticipated line. "Say no more, General, or I will order Minister Jizek to relieve you of your post and personally remove your rank from your uniform."
  
  "If everyone we hit were PKK terrorists, few people outside of our country would care about this hit," Ozek said. "Our people would see this for what it really was: a major victory against the PKK, not an example of military incompetence or racism."
  
  "Minister Jizek, you are relieving General Ozek of command," Akas said.
  
  "I recommend staying calm, Madam Prime Minister..." Jizek hissed. "There was a terrible accident, yes, but we were only doing our duty to protect our country..."
  
  "I said I want Ozek fired!" shouted the prime minister. "Do it now!"
  
  "Shut up!" President Hirsiz screamed, almost pleading. "Everyone, please shut up!" The President looked as if his inner struggle was about to tear him apart. He looked at his advisers and seemed to find no answers. Turning back to Ozek, he said in a low voice, "Many innocent Americans and Iraqis were killed tonight, General."
  
  "I'm sorry, sir," Ozek said. "I take full responsibility. But will we ever know how many PKK terrorists we killed tonight? And if the Americans or the Iraqis running this so-called investigation ever tell us how many terrorists were killed, will we ever get a chance to tell the world what they did to the innocent Turks?" Hirsiz didn't answer, just stared at a dot on the wall, so Ozek braced himself at attention and turned to leave.
  
  "Wait, General," Hirsiz said.
  
  "You are not going to consider this idea, Kurzat!" Prime Minister Akas said, her mouth dropped open in surprise.
  
  "The general is right, Aisi," Hirsiz said. "This is another incident for which Turkey will be vilified..." And at these words, he leaned over, grabbed his chair with both hands and knocked it over with a quick push: "And this makes me sick! I am not going to look Turkish men and women in the eye and make new promises and excuses! I want this to end. I want the PKK to be afraid of this government...no I want the Americans, the Iraqis, the whole world to be afraid of us! I'm tired of being everyone's scapegoat! Minister Jizek!"
  
  "Sir!"
  
  "I want to have an action plan on my desk as soon as possible outlining the operation to destroy the PKK training camps and facilities in Iraq," Hirsiz said. "I want to minimize civilian casualties, and I want it to be fast, efficient and thorough. We know that the whole world will fall on us, and practically from the first day there will be pressure to withdraw troops, so the operation must be fast, effective and massive."
  
  "Yes, sir," Jizek said. "With pleasure".
  
  Hirsiz walked up to Ozek and put his hands on the general's shoulders, this time not afraid to look into his badly wounded face. "I swear," he said, "never to allow one of my generals to take responsibility for an operation that I authorized. I am the commander in chief. When this operation begins, General, if you are ready for it, I want you to lead the force that will strike at the heart of the PKK. If you are strong enough to get out of a crashed plane and then come here to Ankara to confront me, you are strong enough to crush the PKK."
  
  "Thank you, sir," Ozek said.
  
  Hirsiz turned to the other advisors in the room. "Ozek was the only one who gave his opinion to the president - this is the kind of person I want to have as my adviser from this day forward. Develop a plan to defeat the PKK once and for all."
  
  
  CHAPTER FOUR
  
  
  Argument does not require reasons or friendship.
  
  -IBICUS, 580 B.C.
  
  
  
  NAKHLA ALLIED AIR BASE, IRAQ
  TWO DAYS LATER
  
  
  The voices in the Tank were much more subdued than before; no one spoke except to inform or make a remark. If they weren't busy doing anything else, department heads, operators, and specialists sat right in their seats and stared straight ahead -no talking to comrades, no sipping, no sign of idleness.
  
  Colonel Wilhelm entered the battle headquarters room, took his place at the front console and put on his headphones. Without turning to face his headquarters, he spoke over the intercom: "We have been ordered to suspend all operations except logistics, intelligence and intelligence. No IA combat support until further notice."
  
  "But it's all done by contractors, sir," someone remarked over the intercom. "What are we going to do?"
  
  "We're going to train in case Turkey goes wrong," Wilhelm replied.
  
  "Are we at war with Turkey, sir?" asked the senior officer of the regiment, Mark Weatherby.
  
  "Negative," Wilhelm replied colorlessly.
  
  "Then why are we retreating, sir?" asked Regimental Operations Officer Kenneth Bruno. "We didn't screw up. We have to smash the Turks to hell for-"
  
  "I asked the same questions and made the same comments," Wilhelm interrupted, "and the Pentagon also told me to be quiet, so now I'm telling you to be quiet. Listen and give the word to your troops:
  
  "We are constantly in the power protection mode "Delta". If I see you in the sun without your full battle rattle and you're not dead yet, I'll kill you myself. This base will be sealed tighter than a flea chute. Grief befalls anyone who is seen without identification, visible and displayed in the proper place, and this includes senior personnel and especially civilians.
  
  "From now on, this base has been placed on martial law - if we are not allowed to defend the Iraqi army that lives and works with us, we will fucking defend ourselves," Wilhelm continued. "We will not sit back with our thumbs up our asses - we will continue to train for as long as we are allowed until we are relieved. Next, Triple-C will be transmitted to IA as soon as -"
  
  "What?" someone exclaimed.
  
  "I said shut up," Wilhelm snapped. "Official message from the Pentagon: We are not going to get relief. We're closing the store and handing Triple-C over to Internal Affairs. All combat forces are withdrawing from Iraq ahead of schedule. Homeland Security is taking over." It was the day that many in that room were praying for, the day they were going to leave Iraq for good, but, strangely enough, no one celebrated. "Well?" Wilhelm asked, looking around the tank. "Aren't you Mokes happy?"
  
  There was a long silence; then Mark Weatherly said, "It makes us look like we're running, sir."
  
  "It makes us look like we can't take the hit," someone else chimed in.
  
  "I know it is," Wilhelm said. "But we know differently." It didn't seem to convince anyone - the silence was palpable. "We will remove all classified materials, which I understand will, in the absence of detailed instructions, make up the majority of our equipment, but the rest will be handed over to the Iraqi army. We will still be here to train and assist the IA, but not in combat operations. It's not clear yet if their idea of 'security operations' matches ours, so we might still see some action, but I wouldn't bet on that. Where's McLanahan?"
  
  "I'm ready, Colonel," Patrick replied over the command network. "I'm in the hangar."
  
  "The main task of the regiment now is to support the contractors," Wilhelm said, his voice dead cold and impassive, "because all surveillance and security will be carried out by them. The army now is just the power plant that we were in pre-unification Korea, and we will probably be reduced to even smaller numbers than before we left completely. General McLanahan, rendezvous with Captain Cotter and ascertain airspace coordination with logistics flights, drones, and your spy planes."
  
  "Yes, Colonel."
  
  "McLanahan, meet me at the hangar in five. Everyone else, the executive director will meet with you to discuss the removal of the secret equipment and the start of the training program. Oh, one more thing: Second Platoon's memorial service is tonight; tomorrow morning they will be sent by plane to Germany. That's all ". He tossed the headphones on the table and walked out without even looking at anyone else.
  
  The XC-57 was moved to a large outdoor tent so that the air-conditioned hangar could be used to prepare the dead members of Second Platoon for their departure from Iraq. A C-130 Hercules transport aircraft delivered the aluminum transfer cases from Kuwait and they were unpacked in preparation for loading. Tables with the remains of soldiers in body bags were lined up, and medical staff, mortuary and registry volunteers, and fellow soldiers walked up and down the rows to help, pray for them, or say goodbye. A refrigerated truck was set up nearby to store the remains of more seriously wounded soldiers.
  
  Wilhelm found Patrick standing next to one of the body bags while a volunteer waited to close the bag. When Patrick noticed the regimental commander standing opposite him, he said, "Specialist Gamaliel came in last night before the mission. He said he wanted to know what it was like to fly heavy bombers and space planes. He told me that he always wanted to fly and was thinking about joining the Air Force so he could go into space. We talked for about fifteen minutes and then he left to join his platoon."
  
  Wilhelm looked down at the mangled and bloody body, said a wordless thank you, soldier, then said aloud, "We need to talk, general." He nodded to the waiting soldiers, who reverently finished zipping up the body bag. He followed Patrick along a line of body bags, then into a secluded part of the hangar. "Vigitals will be flying in later today in the CV-22 Osprey," he said.
  
  "Vice President Phoenix. I know".
  
  "How the hell do you learn all this so quickly, McLanahan?"
  
  "He flies in our second XC-57, not Osprey," Patrick said. "They're afraid the Osprey is too big a target."
  
  "You guys must be pretty well connected to the White House to pull this off." Patrick didn't say anything. "Did you have anything to do with the decision to stop hostilities?"
  
  "You knew you were winding down combat operations, Colonel," Patrick said. "The Zakho incident only hastened things. As for how I know certain things...it's my job to know or learn something. I use every tool at my disposal to collect as much information as possible."
  
  Wilhelm took a step towards Patrick...but this time it wasn't threatening. It was as if he had a serious, direct, and urgent question that he didn't want others to hear, in case it might betray his own fears or confusion. "Who are you guys?" he asked in a low voice, almost a whisper. "What the hell is going on here?"
  
  For the first time, Patrick softened his opinion of the regimental commander. He certainly knew what it was like to lose men in battle and lose control of the situation, and he understood how Wilhelm felt. But he has not yet deserved an answer or an explanation.
  
  "I'm sorry about your loss, Colonel," Patrick said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a plane arriving."
  
  The second failed XC-57 aircraft landed at the Allied Nala Air Base at 8 pm local time. This was preceded by a tilt-rotor CV-22 Osprey transport aircraft, which the press and local dignitaries were told was to carry the vice president. The CV-22 performed a standard "high-performance" arrival-a high-speed dash to base from high altitude followed by a tight circle over base to reduce speed and altitude-and ran into no difficulty. By the time security forces escorted the Osprey to the hangar, the XC-57 had already landed and taxied safely to another part of the base.
  
  Jack Wilhelm, Patrick McLanahan, John Masters, Chris Thompson, and Mark Weatherly, all in identical civilian attire-blue jeans, boots, a plain shirt, sunglasses, and a brown vest very similar to what Chris Thompson's security forces usually wore-stood next to the XC-57 as the vice president descended the gangplank.
  
  The only one in uniform was Colonel Yusuf Jaffar, the Iraqi commander of the Nakhla Allied Air Base. He was in his usual gray desert combat uniform, but this time he wore a green beret with many medals pinned to his blouse, black ascot boots, polished boots, a pistol holster and a .45 automatic pistol. He didn't say anything to anyone except his assistant, but he seemed to be watching Patrick as if he wanted to talk to him.
  
  No one but Jaffar saluted as Vice President Kenneth Phoenix set foot on the ground. Phoenix was dressed much like the other Americans - it looked like a group of civilian guards. Several more men and women came out dressed in similar fashion.
  
  Phoenix looked around, smirking at the sight of it, until his eyes finally landed on a familiar face. "Thank God, I recognize someone. I started to feel like I was having a strange dream." He walked over to Patrick and held out his hand. "Good to see you, General."
  
  "I'm glad to see you too, Mr. Vice President. Welcome to Iraq."
  
  "I would like it to happen under happier circumstances. So now you work for the "dark side": evil defense contractors." Patrick didn't answer. "Introduce me to everyone."
  
  "Yes, sir. Colonel Yusuf Jaffar, Allied Air Base Commander Nala."
  
  Jaffar did not lower his salute until he was introduced, and then he stood at attention until Phoenix held out his hand. "Nice to meet you, Colonel."
  
  Jaffar shook hands with him as stiffly as he had risen. "I am honored that you have visited my base and my country, sir," he said in a loud voice, his words clearly well rehearsed. "Es-salam alekum. Welcome to the Republic of Iraq and to the Nakhla Allied Air Base."
  
  "Es-salam alekum," Phoenix said in a remarkably good Arabic accent. "I'm sorry about your loss, sir."
  
  "My people served with honor and died as martyrs in the service of their country," Jaffar said. "They sit at the right hand of God. As for those who did it, they will pay dearly." He pulled himself to attention and turned away from Phoenix, ending their conversation.
  
  "Mr. Vice President, Colonel Jack Wilhelm, Regimental Commander."
  
  Phoenix held out his hand, and Wilhelm took it. "I am very sorry for your losses, Colonel," he said. "If you need anything, anything, call me directly."
  
  "At the moment, my only request is your presence at the Second Platoon transfer ceremony, sir. It will be in a couple of hours."
  
  "Of course, Colonel. I will be there ". Wilhelm introduced the rest of his command, and the Vice President introduced the rest who had come with him. Chris Thompson then led them to the waiting armored vehicles.
  
  Before Patrick got into the armored Suburban, Jaffar's aide approached him and saluted. "My apologies for the interruption, sir," the assistant said in very good English. "The Colonel wishes to speak with you."
  
  Patrick looked at Jaffar, who was partly turned away from him. "Can it wait until our briefing with the VP is over?"
  
  "The Colonel will not be attending the briefing, sir. Please?" Patrick nodded and motioned for the driver to pull away.
  
  The Iraqi drew himself to attention and saluted as Patrick approached him. Patrick returned his greeting. "General McLanahan. I apologize for the interruption."
  
  "You won't be attending the briefing with the Vice President, Colonel?"
  
  "It would be an insult to my commander and chief of staff of the Iraqi army if I attended such a meeting before them," Jaffar explained. "These protocols must be respected." He glared at McLanahan, then added, "I think your commanders and diplomats in Baghdad would be offended in this way."
  
  "It's the vice president's decision, not ours."
  
  "Does the VP care little about such protocols?"
  
  "He's here to find out what happened and how our government can help sort things out rather than follow protocols."
  
  Jaffar nodded. "I understand".
  
  "He might think that your absence from the briefing is a breach of protocol, Colonel. After all, he is here to help Iraq and the Iraqi army."
  
  "Is that right, General?" Jaffar asked, a razor-sharp note in his voice. "He comes uninvited to our country and expects me to attend a briefing that our president has not yet heard?" He pretended to consider his point of view, then nodded. "Please convey my apologies to the Vice President."
  
  "Certainly. I can update you later if you prefer."
  
  "That would be acceptable, General," Jaffar said. "Sir, may I have permission to inspect your reconnaissance aircraft as soon as possible?"
  
  Patrick was a little surprised: Jaffar showed no interest in their activities at all in the short time he was there. "There are some systems and devices that are classified and I can't-"
  
  "I understand, sir. I guess you call it NOFORN - no foreign nationals. I completely understand."
  
  "Then I would be happy to show it to you," said Patrick. "I can brief you on today's reconnaissance flight, show you the aircraft before the pre-flight inspection, and review unclassified data as it becomes available to show you our capabilities. I will have to get permission from Colonel Wilhelm and my company, but I don't think that will be a problem. Nineteen hundred hours in your office?"
  
  "That's acceptable, General McLanahan," Jaffar said. Patrick nodded and held out his hand, but Jaffar drew himself to attention, saluted, turned on his heels and walked quickly to the waiting car, followed by his assistant. Patrick shook his head in confusion, then jumped into the waiting Hummer, which took him to the Command Post.
  
  Wilhelm was waiting for him in the conference room overlooking the Reservoir. Mark Weatherly introduced the Vice President to some of the staff and explained the layout of the Triple-C and the tank. "Where is Jaffar?" Wilhelm asked in a low voice.
  
  "He won't come to the briefing. Said it would offend his commanding officers if he spoke to the vice president first."
  
  "Damned hajji - it had to be for his good," Wilhelm said. "Why the hell didn"t he tell me himself?" Patrick didn't answer. "What were you two talking about?"
  
  "He wants to take a tour of Loser, get a briefing on our capabilities, and see the next recon mission."
  
  "Since when is he interested in all this?" Wilhelm growled. "Exactly today, of all days, right after we got our asses kicked and Washington crawled up and down our backs."
  
  "I told him that I need your permission first."
  
  Wilhelm was about to say no, but he just shook his head and muttered something under his breath. "He has the right to be in the Tank during all operations - for God's sake, we leave the command post open for him, although he has never been there - so I think I have no choice. But he won't be able to see the NOFORN material."
  
  "I told him the same thing and he understands. He even knew the term."
  
  "Probably saw it in the movie and likes to repeat it at every opportunity. I bet it got stuck in his throat." Wilhelm shook his head again, as if erasing the entire conversation from his head. "Are you still going to present your theory to the vice president?"
  
  "Yes".
  
  "Only you can put two and two together and get five. This is your funeral. Okay, let's get this over with." Wilhelm nodded to Weatherly, who interrupted his speech and motioned for the Vice President to take a seat.
  
  Wilhelm stood awkwardly on the dais while everyone was seated. "Mr. Vice President, distinguished guests, thank you for this visit," he began. "Your presence so soon after the tragedy of last night sends a clear and important message not only to the regiment, but to all participants in this conflict. My staff and I are ready to assist you in your investigation.
  
  "I know that there are many important people - the Prime Minister of Iraq, the Ambassador, the Commander of the Coalition Forces in Iraq - who are waiting to greet you, who will be very angry to learn that you have come here instead of going to the headquarters of the base, to meet them," Wilhelm continued, "but General McLanahan and I thought you needed to hear us first. Unfortunately, the base commander, Colonel Jaffar, will not be here."
  
  "He said why not, Colonel?" the vice president asked.
  
  "He told me it would be against protocol to speak to you before his superior officers did, sir," Patrick replied. "He sends his regrets."
  
  "It was his people who were killed and his homeland was attacked. What difference does it make who hears from us first?"
  
  "Do you want me to bring him back here, sir?"
  
  "No, let's continue," Phoenix said. "Right now, I don"t really care about stepping on the heels, except for those responsible for killing our soldiers, and then I will make sure that this bastard is destroyed.
  
  "Okay, gentlemen, I wanted to get this briefing from you because I know the Iraqis, Kurds and Turks want to brief me soon, and I know they're going to turn it their way; I wanted to hear from you the first word. The Turks say they do nothing but protect their homeland from the PKK and that the bombing was a tragic but simple mistake. Let's hear your opinion."
  
  "Understood, sir." The electronic display behind Wilhelm came to life, showing a map of the border region between northern Iraq and southeastern Turkey. "Over the last year or so, they have increased their border forces in the Gendarme, including special forces battalions, as well as several more air units, to help deal with cross-border incursions by the PKK. They also sent several units of the regular army to the southwest, perhaps one or two brigades."
  
  "A lot more than normal deployments, I guess?" asked the vice president.
  
  "Much more, sir, even considering the recent PKK terrorist attacks in Diyarbakir," Wilhelm replied.
  
  "And what do we have on this side?"
  
  "Together with the Iraqis, sir, about a third of their forces and a small part of the air force," Wilhelm replied. "The biggest threat is their tactical air force in the region. The Second Tactical Air Force Command is based in Diyarbakir, which is responsible for the defense of the border regions of Syria, Iraq and Iran. They have two wings of F-16 fighter-bombers and one wing of F-4E Phantom fighter-bombers, plus one new wing of two A-10 Thunderbolt close air support aircraft and one wing of F-15E Strike Eagle fighter-bombers recently acquired from United States as redundant equipment."
  
  "Surplus F-15s is the craziest thing I've ever heard," the vice president said, shaking his head. "Are they still not defeated in battle?"
  
  "I suppose so, sir," Wilhelm said. "But with the recent reduction of US Air Force fighters in favor of Navy and Marine carrier-based tactical fighters, there are a lot of good American weapons on the export market."
  
  "I know, I know - I fought hard to stop the outflow of such high-tech stuff," Phoenix said. "But President Gardner is a true military expert, as well as a big supporter of the Navy, and Congress has firmly supported his plans for transformation and modernization. The air force has been hose-gunned, and countries like Turkey are reaping the benefits. If we can't convert F-22s for carrier operations, Turkey will probably get Raptors too. Okay, the soap box is over. Please continue, colonel. What other threats do you face?"
  
  "Their larger anti-aircraft systems, such as Patriot missiles, triple-A large-caliber radar-guided missiles and British Rapier surface-to-air missiles, are directed against Iran and Syria," Wilhelm continued. "We can expect them to move some systems further west, but of course Iraq is not a threat from the air, so I think they will keep their SAMs deployed against Iran and Syria. Small guns and Stinger hand rockets can be found anywhere and are widely used by armored battalions.
  
  "Turkish Gendarma paramilitaries are deploying several special operations battalions, mainly to hunt down and destroy PKK rebel and terrorist units. They are well trained and we consider them the equivalent of a Marine reconnaissance unit - light, fast, mobile and deadly."
  
  "Their commander, General Besir Özek, was severely wounded in the last major PKK attack in Diyarbakır," Patrick added, "but he is apparently on his feet and leading his forces in search and destroy operations in the border areas. He is undoubtedly the one who carried out the rocket attack on Zakho."
  
  "I definitely need to talk to him," the vice president said. "So, Colonel, what is your explanation for all this activity?"
  
  "It's not my job to analyze, sir," Wilhelm said, "but they are preparing to attack the PKK. They support the Gendarme with a regular military force, demonstrating strength. The PKK will dissipate and not protrude; the Turks would hit a few bases and then everything would return to relative normality. The PKK has been doing this for over thirty years - Turkey cannot stop them."
  
  "Sending regular military forces is something they haven't done before," Phoenix said. He looked at Patrick. "General, you suddenly became silent." He looked back at Wilhelm. "There seems to be some disagreement here. Colonel?
  
  "Sir, General McLanahan is of the opinion that this buildup of Turkish forces in the region is a prelude to a full-scale invasion of Iraq."
  
  "Invasion of Iraq?" Phoenix exclaimed. "I know they have done many cross-border raids over the years, but why a full invasion, general?"
  
  "Sir, precisely because they have carried out many raids and failed to stop or even slow down the number of PKK attacks, this will prompt them to organize an all-out offensive against the PKK in Iraq - not only against strongholds, training bases and supply depots along the border, but also on the Kurdish leadership itself. I think they will want to solve the PKK problem with one lightning strike and kill as many people as possible before American and international pressure forces them to leave."
  
  "Colonel?"
  
  "The Turks simply don't have the manpower, sir," Wilhelm said. "We are talking about an operation similar in scale to Desert Storm - at least two hundred and fifty thousand troops. In total, the Turkish army has about four hundred thousand people, mostly conscripts. They would need to commit one-third of their regular forces, plus another half of their reserves, to this one operation. It would take months and billions of dollars. The Turkish army is simply not an expeditionary force - it is created for counter-insurgency and self-defense operations, not for invading other countries."
  
  "General?"
  
  "The Turks would fight on their own soil and fight for self-preservation and national pride," Patrick said. "If they deployed half of their regular and reserve forces, they would have about half a million troops at their disposal, and they have a very large pool of trained veterans to use. I see no reason why they would not order a full mobilization of all forces in order to have a chance to destroy the PKK once and for all.
  
  "But the new game-changing factor here is the Turkish Air Force," continued Patrick. "In years past, the Turkish armed forces were mainly an internal counter-insurgency force with a secondary role as NATO's baffle against the Soviet Union. Its navy is good, but its tasks are mainly to protect the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles and patrol the Aegean Sea. The air force was relatively small because it relied on the support of the US Air Force.
  
  "But in just the last two years, the situation has changed, and now Turkey has the largest air force in Europe, with the exception of Russia. They bought a lot more than surplus F-15s, sir - they bought all sorts of surplus attack aircraft that didn't meet carrier requirements, including A-10 Thunderbolt tactical bombers, AC-130 Specter and Apache gunships, along with weapons like missiles." Patriot surface-to-air missiles, AMRAAM air-to-air missiles, and Maverick and Hellfire precision air-to-ground missiles. They manufacture F-16 fighter jets under license right in Turkey; they have as many squadrons of F-16s available for action as we had in Desert Storm, and they will all be fighting right at home. And I wouldn't dismiss their air defenses so easily: they can very easily use their Patriots and Rapiers to counter any move on our part."
  
  Vice President Phoenix thought for a moment and then nodded to both men. "You both make convincing arguments," he said, "but I tend to agree with Colonel Wilhelm." Phoenix looked at Patrick warily, as if expecting an objection, but Patrick said nothing. "I find it very hard to believe that-"
  
  At that moment, the phone rang, and it was as if a klaxon had gone off - everyone knew that no phone calls were allowed during this briefing, unless it was extremely urgent. Weatherly picked up the phone ... and a moment later the look on his face made everyone in the room take notice.
  
  Weatherly walked over to a nearby computer monitor, read the dispatch silently with trembling lips, then said, "A high priority message from the department, sir. The State Department has notified us that the President of Turkey may declare a state of emergency."
  
  "Damn, I was afraid something like this could happen," Phoenix said. "We may not be able to meet with the Turks to investigate the shelling. Colonel, I need to speak to the White House."
  
  "I can install it right now, sir." Wilhelm nodded to Weatherley, who immediately telephoned the communications officer.
  
  "I will get information from the ambassador, the Iraqis and the Turks, but my recommendation to the president will be to increase border controls." The Vice President turned to Patrick. "I still can't believe that Turkey invaded Iraq with 3,000 US troops in the way," he said, "but obviously things are changing fast and we will need to pay attention to that. I presume that's what your pregnant stealth bomber is for, General?"
  
  "Yes, sir".
  
  "Then I'd get it ready for launch," Phoenix said as Wilhelm gestured for him to have his White House connection ready, "because I think we're going to need it...soon. Very soon". Weatherly motioned for him to have his communications set ready, and he and the Vice President departed.
  
  Patrick stayed behind Wilhelm as everyone else left the conference room. "So what do you mean, general?" Wilhelm asked. "Are you planning to send your pregnant stealth bomber over Turkey this time, and not just over our sector? It will really calm the nerves of everyone here."
  
  "I'm not going to send a loser through Turkey, Colonel, but I'm also not going to let the Turks relax," Patrick said. "I want to see what the Turks have in mind if any aircraft gets too close to the border. We know they will strike back hard against any PKK ground incursions. What will they do if it starts to look like the United States is too much rummaging around with planes on their side of the border?"
  
  "Do you think that makes sense, McLanahan? This could heighten the tension here even more."
  
  "We have a lot of dead soldiers in your hangar, Colonel," Patrick reminded him. "I want to make sure the Turks know that we are very, very angry at them right now."
  
  
  Over SOUTH-EASTERN TURKEY
  FOR THE NEXT EVENING
  
  
  "Contact, I mark the target bravo!" the MIM-104 Patriot tactical command officer shouted in Turkish. "I think it's the same one that came and went with us." The Turkish army's Patriot AN/MPQ-53 radar system identified the aircraft and showed the target to Patriot combat management system operators. The tactical control officer quickly determined that the target was right on the border between Iraq and Turkey, but since it had no contact with Turkish air traffic controllers and did not transmit any transponder beacon codes, this was seen as a violation of the thirty-mile protected Turkish air defense buffer zone; it was too low to be on approach to any airfields in the region and far from any established civil airlines. "Sir, I recommend designating a bravo target as hostile."
  
  The tactical director checked the radar display-no doubt about it. "I agree," he said. "Design the Bravo target as hostile, transmit warning messages on all civil and military emergency response and air traffic control frequencies, and prepare to engage." The director of tactics picked up the receiver of a secure telephone connected via microwaves directly to the commander of the Air Defense Sector of the Fourth Border Defense Regiment in Diyarbakır. "Kamyan, Kamyan, this is Ustura, I have identified the Bravo target as hostile, ready."
  
  "Ustura, is this the same pop-up target you've been watching for the last two hours?" - asked the commander of the sector.
  
  "We think so, sir," said the tactical director. "This is almost certainly a drone in reconnaissance orbit, judging by the speed and flight path. We weren't able to get accurate altitude data before, but it looks like it went up to a higher altitude to get a better view of the north."
  
  "Civil transportation?"
  
  "We broadcast warning messages every time a target appeared, and we are now broadcasting emergency response and air traffic control on all civil and military frequencies. No answers at all. If the pilot hasn't turned off his radios completely, that's the enemy."
  
  "I agree," said the air defense commander. He knew that some air defense sectors in busier areas were using multi-colored lasers to visually warn pilots when they were leaving restricted airspace, but he didn't have that courtesy-and he really didn't want to use it, even if he had. Any innocent pilot foolish enough to fly in the area during this spate of fighting deserved to get their ass shot. "Be ready". He ordered his liaison officer: "Connect me to the second regiment in Nakhla and Ankara."
  
  "Second Regiment in line, sir, Major Sabasti."
  
  That was fast, thought the Sector Commander-usually direct calls to the American Command and Control Center would be filtered and redirected several times before being connected, taking several minutes. "Sabasti, this is Kamyan. We are not showing any US air missions in the buffer zone scheduled for tonight. Can you confirm an American flight along the border?"
  
  "I'm looking at the sector map now, sir," the liaison officer replied, "and the only aircraft in the buffer zone has been pre-approved to you, clearance number Kilo-Juliet-two-three-two-one operating in the Peynir area."
  
  "We are watching an aircraft at low altitude, which appears up and down outside the range of radar. Is this not an American or Iraqi plane?"
  
  "I show three American and one Iraqi reconnaissance aircraft in the air, sir, but only one is in the buffer zone."
  
  "What is this?"
  
  "His call sign is Guppy Two-Two, an American reconnaissance aircraft operated by private security contractors." He read out the plane's coordinates and the location of its orbit box - everything was exactly as agreed before, inside Peinier's buffer zone, but forty miles from the pop-up target.
  
  "What plane is this, Major?"
  
  "I'm sorry sir, but you know I can't tell you that. I have seen it with my own eyes, and I know that this is an unarmed reconnaissance aircraft."
  
  "Well, Major, perhaps you can tell me what it is not," said the sector commander.
  
  "Sir..."
  
  "Who the hell are you working for, Major, Americans or Turkey?"
  
  "I beg your pardon, sir," the voice interrupted. "This is an American translator. I work for Mr. Chris Thompson, Thompson Security, Second Regiment, Allied Air Base Nakhla, Iraq."
  
  "I know who the hell you are and where you are," snapped the sector commander. "Are you monitoring my radio messages?"
  
  "Mr. Thompson says that the status-of-forces agreement between the United States, Iraq and Turkey allows monitoring of routine and emergency radio traffic between military units participating in the agreement," the translator said. "He says you can check it with your Foreign Office if necessary."
  
  "I am well aware of the agreement."
  
  "Yes, sir. Mr. Thompson wants me to tell you that specific information regarding systems involved in operations inside Iraq is only permitted under the status-of-forces agreement. The agreement allows the observer to see the aircraft that will be used and follow it throughout the mission, but it cannot reveal any other details."
  
  "Thompson, I'm going to shoot down an unidentified aircraft violating the buffer zone of Turkish airspace," the sector commander said. "I wanted more information to make sure I didn't attack an American or Iraqi plane. If you want to play word games or shake the status-of-power agreement in my person instead of helping me verify the identity of that target, so be it. Major Sabasti."
  
  "Sir!"
  
  "Inform the Americans that we are tracking an unknown aircraft in the buffer zone and that we consider it hostile," the sector commander said in Turkish. "I recommend to them that all allied aircraft and ground patrols remain at a sufficient distance, and reconnaissance aircraft may want to clear the patrol site."
  
  "I'll relay the message immediately, sir."
  
  "Very good". The sector commander cut off the link with an angry knife stab. "Ankara already on the line?" he thundered.
  
  "Ready, sir."
  
  "It's Matt," the voice replied. The sector commander knew that Mat, which means "checkmate" in Turkish, was the operations officer of the chief of staff of the armed forces. "We're tracking your radar contact and the liaison officer at Nahla told us that you've contacted them for coordination and identification and they say it's not one of them. Recommendation?"
  
  "Engage in combat immediately, sir."
  
  "Be ready". Those two damned terrible words... But a moment later: "We agree, Kamen. Proceed according to the instructions. Out."
  
  "Kamyan copies, activated in accordance with the instructions. Stone out." The sector commander switched to his tactical channel: "Ustura, this is Kamian, follow the instructions."
  
  "Ustur is copying, engage as instructed. Ustur is leaving." The director of tactics hung up. "We have been ordered to engage in combat as instructed," he announced. "Are there any changes in the trajectory or height of the target? Any response to our broadcasts?"
  
  "No, sir."
  
  "Very good. Get in the fight."
  
  "I understood 'to fight.' The tactical control officer reached out, lifted the red cover, and pressed a large red button that activated the alarm on all four Patriot line batteries scattered across southeastern Turkey. Each battery of the line consisted of four Patriot platoons, each with one Patriot Advanced Capability-3 (PAC-3) launcher with sixteen missiles, plus another sixteen missiles ready to be loaded. "Join the fight."
  
  "I understand 'to fight,'" the tactical control assistant repeated. He checked the location of the target with the deployed batteries of the Patriot battalion, chose the one closest to the enemy and pressed the button to communicate with this battery. "Ustura two, Ustura Two, this is Ustura act, act, act."
  
  "Two instances 'work'. There was a short pause, and then the status report of the second firing battery changed from "standby" to "active", which meant that the missiles of the battery were ready to fire. "Second battery reports that the status is "working", ready for battle.
  
  "Accepted". The tactical control officer continued to press the warning signal as he watched the readings from his computer. From that moment on, the entire attack was controlled by the computer - there was nothing people could do but disable it if they wanted to. Moments later, the Battle Control Computer reported that it had assigned one of the platoons located west of the mountain town of Beitusebap to join the battle. "Fifth platoon activated...First missile fired." Four seconds later: "Second missile removed. The radar is active."
  
  Patriot missiles flying at over 3,000 miles per hour took less than six seconds to reach their prey. "One direct missile hit, sir," the tactical assistant reported. A moment later: "Second missile hits second target, sir!"
  
  "Second target?"
  
  "Yes, sir. Same altitude, rapidly decreasing airspeed... Direct hit on the second opponent, sir!"
  
  "There were two planes there?" the tactical director thought aloud. "Could they fly in formation?"
  
  "Perhaps, sir," the tactical control officer replied. "But why?"
  
  The tactical director shook his head. "It doesn't make sense, but whatever they are, we got them. It could have been debris from the first hit."
  
  "It looked very big, sir, like a second plane."
  
  "Well, whatever it was, we still got merde. All good work. Those two targets were south of the border, but within the security buffer, right?"
  
  "Actually, sir, for a brief moment it was in Turkish airspace, no more than a few miles, but definitely north of the border."
  
  "Then a good kill." The director of tactics picked up another phone connected to the Gendarma headquarters in Diyarbakır, where someone was supposed to be in charge of organizing a search party for debris, victims and evidence. "Kuruk, this is Ustura, we entered the battle and destroyed the enemy aircraft. Now I am transmitting the coordinates of the interception of the target.
  
  "It certainly didn't take them long," said John Masters. He was in Tank's observation room on the second floor, watching the battle on his laptop. "Two minutes since we changed the height of the target to downed. It's fast."
  
  "Maybe we didn't hit the decoy fast enough...they could see the target even after the first 'hit' by the Patriot," said Patrick McLanahan.
  
  "I tried to simulate debris by holding the image for a few more seconds," John said. "I slowed it down a lot."
  
  "Let's hope they think they hit them both," Patrick said. "Okay, so we know that the Turks have moved their patriots closer to the Iraqi border, and we know that they are serious - they will not hesitate to open fire, even on something as small as a predator or a hawk."
  
  "Or a netrusion decoy," said John Masters gleefully. "We were easily able to hack into the Patriot system's combat control system and plant a drone-sized target in their system. Once we got the decoy high enough, they reacted like it was a real enemy."
  
  "When they go there and don't find any wreckage, next time they'll be curious and on their guard," Patrick said. "What else do we know from this battle?"
  
  "We also know that they can see and engage in combat up to a thousand feet above the ground," John said. "It's pretty good on some pretty rough terrain. They may have modified the Patriot's radar to improve its jamming and low-altitude detection capabilities."
  
  "Let's hope that's all they've done," Patrick said. He touched the intercom button. "Did you see the battle, Colonel?"
  
  "I confirm," Wilhelm replied. "So, the Turks really sent their patriots to the west. I'll notify the department. But I still don't think Turkey will invade Iraq. We need to give them all the information we have about PKK movements, reassure them that our troops and the Iraqis are not going to retaliate, and allow the crisis level to cool down."
  
  
  NORTH OF BEITUSEBAP, REPUBLIC OF TURKEY
  FOR THE NEXT EVENING
  
  
  A detachment of eight Iraqi Kurdish guerrillas used the tactics of a sniper team-self-taught, reading books, using the Internet, and studying information passed to them by veterans-to get to their target: crawling tens of miles, sometimes an inch at a time, without getting up for any reason. above the knee; changing camouflage on clothes every time the terrain changed; taking care to erase any sign of their presence as they lugged heavy backpacks and rocket-propelled grenade barrels behind them.
  
  One of the militants, a former Erbil police officer named Sadun Salih, broke off a piece of a fig chocolate bar, tapped the boot of a man in front of him, and held it out. "Last detail, Commander," he whispered. The man made a "quiet" movement in response-not with his left hand, but with a cancer-like device attached to her wrist where her hand would normally be. The rake then deflected with an open palm and the fighter threw candy at him. She nodded her thanks and continued on her way.
  
  They brought only five days' worth of food and water for this reconnaissance patrol, but due to all the activity in the area, she decided to stay. The food they brought ran out three days ago. They reduced their daily rations to absurdly low levels and began to subsist on food they found in the field-berries, roots, and insects, sometimes receiving handouts from a sympathetic farmer or shepherd they dared approach-and sipping stream water filtered through dirty scarves.
  
  But now she knew what all the military activity was about, and it was much more than just Jandarma bands of thugs attacking Kurdish villages seeking revenge for the Diyarbakir attack: the Turkish army was building these little fire bases in the countryside. Did Türkiye introduce regular armed forces to reinforce the Gendarma?
  
  They changed their plan for reconnaissance patrols because of the spectacular double rocket launches they saw last night. They were used to seeing Turkish artillery and aerial bombardments of Kurdish villages and PKK training camps, but these were not artillery shells - they were guided, high-performance missiles that maneuvered during climb, not along a ballistic flight path, and they exploded high in the sky. The Turks had new weapons on the ground and apparently had something to do with all this base-building activity along the Turkish-Iraqi border. It was up to her and her squads to check it out.
  
  Along with water and camouflage, the most important help to the fighters was the preservation of night vision. The fighters all wore red-lensed goggles, and the closer they got to their target, the more often they had to use them in order not to ruin their night vision, because the perimeter of their target was illuminated by rows of outward-facing portable searchlights that plunged the camp outside into complete darkness. It was an interesting tactic, the squad leader thought: the Turkish army certainly had night vision technology, but they didn't use it here.
  
  It might have been a trap, but it was definitely an opportunity they couldn't pass up.
  
  The squad leader, Zilar Azzavi, gestured for her riflemen to move forward. As they spread out and began to settle in, she scanned the perimeter through her binoculars. Between each portable searchlight was a sandbag firing nest, separated from each other by about twenty yards. Seventy yards to her right was a sandbag-and-board truck entrance, blocked off by a troop truck, the right side of which was covered by a solid wall of green plywood panels forming a simple movable gate. Between the sandbag emplacements was a single layer of thin metal fencing, five feet high, supported by light stakes. It certainly wasn't a permanent camp, at least not yet.
  
  If they were going to take advantage, now is the time.
  
  Azzawi waited for her team to be ready, then took out a simple Korean-made travel radio and pressed the microphone button once, then pressed it twice. Moments later, she received two clicks in response, followed by three clicks. She clicked her walkie-talkie three times, put it away, then touched the arm of the two men on either side of her with a soft "ready" signal.
  
  She lowered her head, closed her eyes, then said "Mal ēsh - nothing matters" in a low, calm voice. She paused for a few more heartbeats, thinking of her dead husband and sons-and in doing so, the rage within her blew the energy of the jet engine through her body, and she stood up smoothly and lightly, raised her RPG-7 grenade launcher, and fired at the gun mount from bags of sand in front of her. As soon as her shell hit, the other members of her squad opened fire on other gun emplacements, and within seconds the entire area was wide open. At that moment, two other squads under the command of Azzawi on opposite sides of the base also opened fire with rocket-propelled grenades.
  
  Now the lights that prevented the attackers from seeing the base area gave them an advantage because they could see the survivors and other Turkish soldiers preparing to repel the attack. Azzawi's sniper teams began to take them down one by one, forcing the Turks to retreat further from the perimeter into the darkness of their camp. Azzavi tossed the grenade launcher aside, took out a walkie-talkie and shouted: "Ala tūl! Move!" She raised her AK-47 assault rifle, shouted, "Ilha'ūn ī! Follow me!" - and ran to the base, firing from the hip.
  
  There was no alternative but to dash across the illuminated no man's land to the base - they were easy targets for anyone inside. But without her backpack and RPG launcher, and with a rush of adrenaline mixed with fear coursing through her body, the fifty yard run seemed easy. But, to her surprise, there was little resistance.
  
  There were several bodies in the destroyed gun nests, but she saw no sign of items such as mine fuses, anti-tank weapons, heavy machine guns or grenade launchers, only light infantry weapons. Obviously, they didn't expect much trouble, or they didn't have time to prepare properly. That assumption was reinforced moments later when she found construction equipment, concrete, lumber for molds, and tools in piles nearby.
  
  In less than five minutes of sporadic combat, Azzawi's three squads met. All three moved forward with relative ease. She congratulated each of her fighters with handshakes and motherly touches, then said, "Loss report."
  
  "We have one dead, three wounded," said the commander of the first squad. "Seventeen prisoners, including an officer." Another squad leader reported the same.
  
  "We have four wounded and eight prisoners," said Salih, Azzawi's assistant squad leader. "What is this place, Commander? It was too easy."
  
  "First things first, Sadoon," Azzawi said. "Put up guards around the perimeter in case their patrols come back." Salih ran away. She said to the commander of the second section: "Bring the officer to me," wrapping her face in a scarf.
  
  The prisoner was a captain in the Turkish army. He held the gaping wound on his right bicep with his left hand, and blood flowed freely from it. "Bring the first aid kit here," Azzawi ordered in Arabic. In Turkish, she asked, "Name the unit and the target here, captain, and quickly."
  
  "You bastards almost shot my fucking arm off!" he shouted.
  
  Azzawi raised her left hand, letting the sleeve of her hijab slide down to reveal a makeshift prosthesis. "I know exactly what it is, captain," she said. "Look what the Turkish Air Force did to me." Even in the semi-darkness, she could see the soldier's eyes widen in surprise. "And it's much better than what you did to my husband and sons."
  
  "You... you Baz!" breathed the officer. "The rumors are true...!"
  
  Azzawi removed the scarf from her face, revealing her dirty yet proud and beautiful features. "I said the name, unit and mission, Captain," she said. She raised her rifle. "You must understand that I have no desire or ability to take prisoners, captain, so I promise you that I will kill you right here and now if you do not answer me." The officer lowered his head and began to tremble. "Last Chance: Name, Unit and Mission". She raised the weapon to her hip and released the safety catch with a loud click. "Very good. Peace be with you, Captain-"
  
  "Good good!" shouted the officer. It was clear that he was not a trained or experienced field officer-probably an armchair jockey or a last-minute lab rat. "My name is Ahmet Yakis, 23rd Signal Company, Delta Platoon. My mission was to make a connection, that's all."
  
  "Means of communication?" If it were just a communications relay node, this could explain the weak security and poor preparedness. "For what?"
  
  Just at that moment, assistant squad leader Azzawi Sadun Salih ran up. "Commander, you should see this," he said breathlessly. She ordered the prisoner to be bandaged and kept safe, then ran away. She had to jump over a lot of cables stretched throughout the camp, and she saw a large truck carrying what looked like a large steel container, to which most of the cables were attached. They climbed the bundle of cables up a slight rise to a large fence covered in camouflage netting.
  
  Inside the railing, Azzavi found a large transport truck with a squat, square steel hull on a platform, as well as two antenna masts lowered onto the truck's deck and folded into a road march configuration. "Well, here are the communications antennas that the captain said he installed," Azzawi said. "I think he was telling the truth."
  
  "Not really, Commander," Salih said. "I recognize this equipment because at home I was guarding an American convoy with similar things, which was prepared to protect against an Iranian attack on Iraq. This is called an array of antenna masts, which transmits microwave command signals from the radar to missile launch sites. There is an electric generator in the back of that truck ... for the Patriot anti-aircraft missile battery."
  
  "Missile battery 'Patriot'?" Azzawi exclaimed.
  
  "They must be the advance team setting up the base station for the Patriot missile battery," Salih said. "They will bring a huge flat-screen radar and control station and will be able to control several launchers scattered for miles. The whole thing is very portable; they can operate anywhere."
  
  "But why, for heaven's sake, are the Turks installing an anti-aircraft missile system here?" Azzawi asked. "If the Kurdish government in Iraq has somehow not created an air force for itself, who are they protecting themselves from?"
  
  "I don't know," Salih said. "But whoever it was, they must have been flying over Turkish territory and the Turks were shooting at them last night. I wonder who it was?
  
  "I really don't care who they are - if they fight the Turks, that's enough for me," Azzawi said. "Let's take these vehicles home. I don't know what value they have, but they look brand new and we might be able to use them. At least we won't have to walk that far to get home. Good job today, Sadoon."
  
  "Thank you, commander. I am pleased to serve under such a strong leader. I'm sorry we didn't do so much damage to the Turks though..."
  
  "Every little cut weakens them a little more," Zilar said. "We are few, but if we keep making these small cuts, we will eventually succeed."
  
  
  ZANKAYA K Ö ŞK Ü, ANKARA, REPUBLIC OF TURKEY
  LATER THE SAME DAY
  
  
  "The initial reports were true, sir," General Orhan Sahin, secretary general of Turkey's National Security Council, said as he ran a hand through his dark sandy hair. "PKK terrorists stole several components of a battery of Patriot surface-to-air missiles, including a group of antenna masts, a power generator and cables."
  
  "Unbelievable, just unbelievable," President Kurzat Hirsiz muttered. He convened his National Security Council for an update on planning for an operation in Iraq, but the situation seemed to be getting worse by the day and threatened to spiral out of control. "What's happened?"
  
  "Early last night, a PKK platoon, reportedly led by a terrorist commando they call Hawk, attacked a Patriot headquarters that was being set up near the town of Beitusebap," Shaheen said. "The terrorists killed five, wounded twelve and tied the rest. All of our soldiers and technicians are registered - they did not take prisoners, which means that it was probably just an observation group or patrol, and not a strike group. They escaped with the main components of a Patriot missile battery that were truck-mounted for ease of deployment, parts that allow headquarters to communicate with remote launchers. Fortunately, the staff car itself and the rocket transporters-launchers were not there."
  
  "Am I supposed to feel relieved about this?" Hirsiz screamed. "Where was the security? How could this happen?"
  
  "The base was not yet fully equipped, so there were no fencing or barriers around the perimeter," Sahin said. "Only provisional security forces were on site - the rest were sent to help search for debris from the clash that had taken place the previous night."
  
  "My God," Hirsiz breathed. He turned to Prime Minister Akas. "We have to do it, Aisi, and do it now," he told her. "We must speed up the operation in Iraq. I want to declare a state of emergency in the country. You must persuade the Grand National Assembly to declare war on the Kurdistan Workers' Party and all its affiliated groups throughout the neighboring region of Turkey and issue an order to call up reservists."
  
  "This is crazy, Kurzat," Akas said. "There is no reason to declare a state of emergency. Whoever spread this rumor should be thrown into prison. And how can you declare war on an ethnic group? Is this Nazi Germany?
  
  "If you don't want to participate, prime minister, you should resign," National Defense Minister Hasan Jizek said. "The rest of the cabinet is on the president's side. You are on your way to getting this operation fully started. We need the cooperation of the National Assembly and the Turkish people."
  
  "And I don't agree with this plan, and neither do the legislators I spoke to behind closed doors," Akas said. "We are all disgusted and frustrated by the PKK attacks, but invading Iraq is not the way to solve the problem. And if anyone should retire, minister, it's you. The PKK has infiltrated the Gendarma, stolen valuable weapons, and are rampaging across the country. I'm not going to retire. It looks like I'm the only voice of reason here."
  
  "Cause?" Jizek was crying. "You stand there and call for meetings and negotiations while the Turks are being killed. Where is the reason for this? He turned to Hirsiz. "We're wasting time here, sir," he growled. "She will never obey. I told you she was a brainless ideological idiot. She would rather oppose than do the right thing to save the Republic."
  
  "How dare you Jizek?" Akas screamed, stunned by his words. "I am the prime minister of Turkey!"
  
  "Listen to me, Aisi," Hirsiz said. "I can't do this without you. We have been together for too many years in Ankara, in the National Assembly and in Zankaya. Our country is under siege. We can't just talk anymore."
  
  "I promise you, Mr. President, I will do everything in my power to make the world aware that we need help to stop the PKK," Akas said. "Don't let your hatred and frustration lead you to bad decisions or rash actions." She stepped closer to Hirsiz. "The Republic is counting on us, Kurzat."
  
  Hirsiz looked like a man who had been beaten and tortured for several days. He nodded. "You're right, Aisi," he said. "The Republic is counting on us." He turned to the chief of the military staff, General Abdulla Guzlev: "Do it, General."
  
  "Yes, sir," said Guzlev, went to the president's desk and picked up the phone.
  
  "What to do, Kurzat?" Akas asked.
  
  "I am accelerating the deployment of the armed forces," Hirsiz said. "We will be ready to start the operation in a few days."
  
  "You cannot launch a military offensive without a declaration of war by the National Assembly," Akas said. "I assure you, we don't have votes yet. Give me more time. I'm sure I can convince-"
  
  "We won't need votes, Ice" Hirsiz said, "because I'm declaring a state of emergency and dissolving the National Assembly."
  
  Akas's eyes popped out of their sockets in complete shock. "What are you...?"
  
  "We have no choice, Ice ¸e."
  
  "We? Do you mean your military advisers? General Ozek? Are they your advisors now?"
  
  "The situation calls for action, Hey, not talk," Hirsiz said. "I was hoping that you would help us, but I am ready to act without you."
  
  "Don't do it, Kurzat," Akas said. "I know the situation is serious, but don't make any hasty decisions. Let me enlist the support of the Americans and the United Nations. They like us. The American Vice President will listen. But if you do that, we will lose all support from everyone."
  
  "I'm sorry, Aisi," Hirsiz said. "It's done. You can inform the National Assembly and the Supreme Court if you like, or I will."
  
  "No, this is my responsibility," Akas said. "I will tell them about the agony you are experiencing at the death of so many Turkish citizens at the hands of the PKK."
  
  "Thank you".
  
  "I will also tell them that your anger and frustration have made you insane and bloody," Akas said. "I will tell them that your military advisers are telling you exactly what they want you to hear, instead of what you need to hear. I'll tell them you're out of your mind right now."
  
  "Don't do it, Aisi," Hirsiz said. "It would be disloyal to me and Turkey. I do it because it needs to be done and that is my responsibility."
  
  "Isn't that, as they say, the beginning of madness, Kurzat: to insist that you have duties?" Akas asked. "Is this what all dictators and strong men say? This is what Evren said in 1980 or Tagma &# 231; said before him when they dissolved the National Assembly and seized the government in a military coup? Go to hell ".
  
  
  CHAPTER FIVE
  
  
  Don't wait for a light to appear at the end of the tunnel - go there and light the damn thing yourself.
  
  -DARA HENDERSON, WRITER
  
  
  
  NAKHLA ALLIED AIR BASE, IRAQ
  THE NEXT DAY
  
  
  "There is total chaos and confusion out there in Ankara, Mr. Vice President," Secretary of State Stacy Ann Barbeau said from her office in Washington over a secure satellite videoconference. Vice President Ken Phoenix also attended a meeting with Iraqi leaders and the US ambassador in Baghdad; and Colonel Jack Wilhelm, commander of US forces in northern Iraq, at Nakhla Allied Air Base near the northern city of Mosul. "The Turkish Prime Minister herself called our ambassador to the carpet for kicking ass due to an apparent violation of airspace by an American aircraft, but now he sits and waits in the reception area under heavy security due to some noise due to security."
  
  "What do they say at the embassy, Stacey?" Phoenix asked. "Do they keep in touch with the ambassador?"
  
  "Cellular service is currently off, but outages have been the norm for several days after the emergency rumors, Mr. Vice President," Barbeau said. "Government radio and TV described numerous demonstrations both for and against the Hirsiz government, but they were mostly peaceful, and the police deal with it. The soldiers were quiet. There was some shootout incident at the Rose Palace, but the presidential guards say the president is safe and will deliver an address to the nation later today."
  
  "That's pretty much what I was told at the embassy here in Baghdad," Phoenix said. "Baghdad concerned about confused news but has not raised its alert level."
  
  "I need an explanation of what happened on the Iraqi-Turkish border, Colonel Wilhelm," Barbeau said. "The Turks claim they shot down an American reconnaissance drone over their territory and they are going crazy."
  
  "I can assure everyone that all American aircraft, unmanned or otherwise, are accounted for, ma'am," Wilhelm said, "and we haven't missed a single plane."
  
  "Does this include your contractors, Colonel?" Barbeau asked pointedly.
  
  "That's right, ma'am."
  
  "Who controls the reconnaissance aircraft operating along the border? Is that the Scion Aviation international organization?"
  
  "Yes ma'am. They operate two large and fairly high-tech long-range reconnaissance aircraft, and they bring in smaller drones to complement their activities."
  
  "I want to speak to a representative right now."
  
  "He's ready, ma'am. General?
  
  "'General'?"
  
  "The Scion guy is a retired Air Force general, ma'am." Barbeau's eyes blinked in confusion, obviously she didn't have that information. "Most of our contractors are retired or ex-military."
  
  "Well, where is he? Doesn't he work there with you, Colonel?"
  
  "Usually he does not operate from the Command and Control Center," Wilhelm explained, "but on the flight line. He connected his aircraft to the Triple-C network and to our few remaining funds."
  
  "I have no idea what you just said Colonel," Barbeau complained, "and I hope the Scion guy can figure it out and give us some answers. Connect it to the line now."
  
  Just at that moment, a new window opened on the videoconference screen, and Patrick McLanahan, wearing a light gray vest over a white collared shirt, nodded at the camera. "Patrick McLanahan, Scion Aviation International, safe."
  
  "McLanahan?" Stacey Barbeau exploded, partially rising from her seat. "Patrick McLanahan is a defense contractor in Iraq?"
  
  "I'm glad to see you too, Miss Secretary of State," Patrick said. "I assumed Secretary Turner briefed you on Scion management."
  
  He suppressed a smile as he saw Barbeau struggle to control his senses and voluntary muscles. He had last seen her less than two years ago, when she was still a senior senator from Louisiana and chair of the Senate Armed Services Committee. Patrick, who secretly returned from the Armstrong Space Station, where he was under virtual house arrest, supervised the loading of Barbeau aboard an XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane from Elliot Air Force Base in Nevada to Patuxent River Naval Air Station in Maryland - a flight that took less than two hours.
  
  Of course, Barbeau didn't remember any of this, because Patrick had Hunter "Boomer" Noble seduce and then euthanize her in a luxurious Las Vegas hotel-casino suite in preparation for her brief space flight.
  
  Patrick's armored tin lumberjacks and Device commandos cybernetic grunts then smuggled her to the Presidential compound at Camp David, subdued the U.S. Secret Service and security forces, and staged a confrontation between her and President Joseph Gardner over the future of the men and women who made up the U.S. Space Defense Force. which the president was willing to sacrifice to make peace with Russia. In exchange for not disclosing Gardner's secret dealings with the Russians, the President agreed to allow any McLanahan subordinate who did not want to serve under Gardner to honorably leave the military...
  
  ... and Patrick ensured that the President's cooperation continued, taking with him all the remaining forces of six tin men and two infantry cybernetic warfare systems, as well as spare parts, weapons kits, and plans for their production. Advanced systems to enhance the effectiveness of armored infantry have already proven that they can defeat the Russian and Iranian armies, as well as US Navy SEALs and infiltrate the most heavily guarded presidential residences in the world - Patrick knew he had reliable support in case the president trying to get rid of his problem with McLanahan.
  
  "Is there a problem here, Miss Secretary?" Vice President Phoenix asked. "I know you've met General McLanahan before."
  
  "I assure you, we have prepared all the proper notices and applications - I did them myself through the Air Force Civil Support Agency," Patrick said. "There was no conflict with -"
  
  "Can we please end this?" Stacey Ann Barbeau suddenly blurted out indignantly. Patrick smiled to himself; he knew that a seasoned political professional like Barbeau knew how to stay in the here and now, no matter how much she was shocked. "General, it is good to see you healthy and vigorous. I should have known that retirement would never mean a rocking chair on the porch for someone like you."
  
  "I think you know me too well, Miss Secretary."
  
  "And I also know that you don't hesitate to step right into the boundaries, and sometimes overstep them a foot or two in your quest to get the job done," Barbeau continued bluntly. "We have received complaints from Turks about stealth aircraft, possibly unmanned aircraft, flying over Turkish airspace without permission. Forgive me for saying this, sir, but your fingerprints are all over this. What exactly did you do?"
  
  "Scion's contract is to provide integrated surveillance, intelligence gathering, reconnaissance and data relay services on the Iraqi-Turkish border," Patrick said. "Our main platform for this function is the XC-57 Multi-Purpose Transport Aircraft, which is a turbofan-powered manned or unmanned aircraft that can be equipped with various modules to change its functions. We also use smaller drones that ...
  
  "Get to the point, General," snapped Barbeau. "Did you cross the Iraqi-Turkish border or not?"
  
  "No, ma'am, we didn't do that - at least not with any of our planes."
  
  "What the hell does that mean?"
  
  "The Turks fired on a decoy that we entered into their Patriot detection and tracking computers through their phased array radar," he said.
  
  "I knew it! You really provoked the Turks to launch their rockets!"
  
  "Part of our contract intelligence mission is to analyze and classify all threats in this area of responsibility," explained Patrick. "After the attack on the Second Regiment in Zakho, I consider the Turkish army and border guards a threat."
  
  "I don't have to remind you, General, that Turkey is an important ally in NATO and in the whole region - they are not enemies," Barbeau said vehemently. It was clear to everyone who she thought the enemy really was. "The Allies are not swapping each other's radars, forcing them to spend $2 million worth of missiles chasing ghosts, or sowing fear and mistrust in an area that is already experiencing a critical level of fear. I won"t let you derail our diplomatic efforts just so you can test some new device or make some money for your investors."
  
  "Madam Secretary, the Turks have moved their Patriot batteries further west against Iraq, not just Iran," Patrick said. "Have the Turks told us about this?"
  
  "I'm not here to answer your questions, General. You are here to answer my questions...!"
  
  "Madam Secretary, we also know that the Turks have long-range artillery systems like those they used to attack the Second Regiment at Zakho," Patrick continued. "I want to see what the Turks are planning. The shakeup in their high military command, and now the loss of communication from the embassy, tells me that something is going on, something serious, perhaps. I recommend to us-"
  
  "Forgive me, General, but I'm not here to listen to your advice either," Secretary of State Barbeau interjected. "You are a contractor, not a cabinet or state member. Now listen to me, General: I need all your tracking data, radar images, and everything else you've collected since your company signed the contract. I want-"
  
  "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I can't give it to you," Patrick said.
  
  "What did you say to me?"
  
  "I said, Madam Secretary, I can't give you any of this," Patrick repeated. "The data belongs to US Central Command - you will have to ask them for it."
  
  "Don't play games with me, McLanahan. I'll have to explain what you did to Ankara. It looks like this will be another case of contractors overstepping their bounds and acting too independently. Any costs incurred by the Turks for your actions will come from your own pocket, not the US Treasury."
  
  "It will be up to the court to decide," Patrick said. "In the meantime, the information we collect belongs to Central Command or whoever they designate to receive it, such as the Second Regiment. Only they can decide who gets it. Any other information or resources not covered by a contract with the government belongs to Scion Aviation International and I cannot disclose it to anyone without a contract or a court order."
  
  "You want to play tough games with me, mister, fine," snapped Barbeau. "I will sue you and your company so quickly it will make your head spin. In the meantime, I am going to recommend to Secretary Turner that you terminate your contract so that we can prove to the Turkish government that this will not happen again." Patrick didn't say anything. "Colonel Wilhelm, I'm going to recommend to the Pentagon that you resume security operations along the border zone until we can hire another replacement contractor. Stay tuned for further instructions on this matter."
  
  "Yes, ma'am." Barbeau ran the back of her hand across her camera, and her image disappeared. "Thank you, General," Wilhelm said angrily. "Here I am at an impasse. It will take me weeks to send a replacement, return and unpack the equipment, and organize patrols again."
  
  "We don't have weeks, Colonel, we have days," Patrick said. "Mr. Vice President, I'm sorry about the diplomatic row I caused, but we've learned a lot. Türkiye is preparing for something. We have to be ready for it."
  
  "Like what? What is your theory of the invasion of Iraq?"
  
  "Yes, sir".
  
  "What happened that made you think this invasion was imminent?"
  
  "A lot has happened, sir," Patrick replied. "Scion's own analysis shows that the Turks now have twenty-five thousand 'Gendarma' paramilitaries within a three-day march from Mosul and Erbil, and another three divisions - one hundred thousand regular infantry, armor and artillery - within a week's march."
  
  "Three divisions?"
  
  "Yes sir, that's almost the same number of troops as the United States had in Iraq at the height of Operation Iraqi Freedom, except the Turks are concentrated in the north," Patrick said. "This ground force is supported by the largest and most advanced air force between Russia and Germany. The heir believes they are ready to strike. The recent resignation of the Turkish military leadership and this very recent confusion and loss of contact with the embassy in Ankara confirm my concerns."
  
  There was a long pause on the line; Patrick saw the vice president lean back in his chair and rub his face and eyes-in confusion, fear, doubt, disbelief, or all four, he couldn't tell. Then: "General, I didn't know you that well when you were in the White House," Phoenix said. "Most of what I know is what I heard in the Oval Office and in the study room, usually during someone's angry tirade directed at you. You have a reputation for two things: pissing off a lot of people... and doing timely, correct analysis.
  
  "I'm going to speak with the president and recommend that Secretary of State Barbeau and I visit Turkey to meet with President Hirsiz and Prime Minister Akash," he continued. "Stacey can be in charge of apologizing. I'm going to ask President Hirsiz what's going on, what he thinks, what his political and security situation is, and what the United States can do to help. The situation is clearly out of control, and simply declaring the PKK a terrorist organization is not enough. We must do more to help the Republic of Turkey.
  
  "I'm also going to recommend, General, that you be allowed to continue your surveillance operations on the Iraqi-Turkish border," Phoenix continued. "I don't think he'll buy it, but if Colonel Wilhelm says it'll take weeks to get back in position, we don't have much of a choice. Obviously, there will be no more action against the Turks without special permission from the Pentagon or the White House. Clear?"
  
  "Yes, sir".
  
  "Fine. Colonel Wilhelm, Secretary of State Barbeau is not in your chain of command, and neither am I. You must complete your final set of orders. But I would recommend getting on the defensive and being prepared for anything, just in case the general's theory comes true. I don't know how many warnings you will get. Sorry for the confusion, but sometimes that's how it happens."
  
  "That's how it goes most of the time, sir," Wilhelm said. "Message understood."
  
  "I will be in touch. Thank you gentlemen." The Vice President nodded to someone off-camera, and his worried, conflicted expression disappeared.
  
  
  OVAL OFFICE, WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, DC.
  AFTER A SHORT TIME
  
  
  "Patrick McLanahan in Iraq!" screeched Secretary of State Stacey Ann Barbeau as she entered the Oval Office. "I just spoke to him on a conference call with Phoenix and the army. McLanahan is in charge of aerial reconnaissance throughout northern Iraq! How the hell could this guy show up in Iraq and we didn't know about it?"
  
  "Relax, Stacey Ann, relax," said President Joseph Gardner. He smiled, loosened his tie, and leaned back in his chair. "You look even prettier when you're angry."
  
  "What are you going to do with McLanahan, Joe? I thought he would disappear, move into some apartment in Vegas, play with his kid, go fly fishing or something. Not only has he not disappeared, but now he is muddying the waters between Iraq and Turkey."
  
  "I know. I got a briefing from Conrad. That's what this guy, Stacey, does. Don't worry about him. Sooner or later he will go too far, again, and then we can bring him to justice. He no longer has his high-tech air force to fight for him."
  
  "Did you hear what he said to me? He refuses to hand over his mission data to the State Department! I want him thrown in jail, Joe!"
  
  "I said relax, Stacey," Gardner said. "I'm not going to do anything that will get McLanahan's name back in the press. Everyone forgot about it, and I prefer this way. We will try to take him to federal court for posting some fake radar images to deceive the Turks and we will turn him into a media hero again. We'll wait until he does something really bad and then we'll pin him down."
  
  "This guy is bad news, Joe," Barbeau said. "He humiliated us both, shit on us and poked us in the nose. Now he's got some big government contract and he's flying around northern Iraq." She paused for a moment, then asked, "Does he still have those robots he...?"
  
  "Yes, as far as I know, he still has them," the president said. "I haven't forgotten about them. I have a task force at the FBI that's going through police records around the world looking for witnesses. Now that we know he's working in Iraq, we'll expand our search there. We'll get them."
  
  "I don't understand how you can let him keep these things. They belong to the US government, not McLanahan."
  
  "You know damn well why, Stacey," Gardner said irritably. "McLanahan has enough dirt on both of us to end our careers in the blink of an eye. Robots are a small price to pay for his silence. If the guy was destroying cities or robbing banks with them, I'd prioritize finding them, but the FBI task force didn't report any sightings or get any clues about them. McLanahan is being smart and keeping these things under wraps."
  
  "I can't believe he has such powerful weapons as these robots and armor or whatever it is and he didn't use them."
  
  "Like I said, he's smart. But the first time he exposes these things, my task force will jump on him."
  
  "Why are they taking so long? The robots were ten feet tall and as strong as tanks! He used them to kill the Russian president at his private residence and then used them to break into Camp David!"
  
  "There are only a few of them, and from what I've been told, they're rolling up and pretty easy to hide," the president said. "But I think the main reason they didn't do that is because McLanahan has a few powerful friends who are helping to steer investigators aside."
  
  "Like who?"
  
  "I don't know... yet," Gardner said. "Someone with political clout, powerful enough to get investors to buy high-tech gadgets like this spy plane, and smart enough on Capitol Hill and the Pentagon to win government contracts and get around technology export laws."
  
  "I think you should terminate his contracts and send him to pack. This man is dangerous."
  
  "He doesn"t interfere with us, he does work in Iraq that allows me to withdraw troops from there faster - and I don"t want to wake up one morning and find one of these robots standing above me in my bedroom," Gardner said. "Forget McLanahan. In the end, he'll screw up, and then we can take him out...quietly."
  
  
  HEADQUARTERS IN JANDARMA PROVINCE, VAN, REPUBLIC OF TURKEY
  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING
  
  
  The eastern regional headquarters of the Turkish Internal Security Forces, Jandarma, was located near Van Airport, southeast of the city and close to Lake Van. The main headquarters complex consisted of four three-story buildings forming a square with a large courtyard, cafeteria and seating area in the center. Across the parking lot to the northeast was a single square four-story building that housed the detention center. To the southeast of the headquarters were barracks, a training academy, sports fields and shooting ranges.
  
  The headquarters building was located right on Ipek Golu Avenue, the main thoroughfare connecting the city to the airport. As the headquarters was subjected to numerous attacks by passers-by-usually rocks or debris were thrown at the building, but occasional pistol or Molotov cocktail shots were fired at the window-the sides of the complex facing Avenue to the northwest, Summerbank Street to the south west and Ayak Street to the northeast, were enclosed by a ten-foot reinforced concrete wall, decorated with paintings and mosaics, and some graphite against the Gendarma. All the windows on the other side were bulletproof glass.
  
  No such defensive walls existed on the southeast side; the sounds of gunfire at firing ranges day and night, the constant presence of police and Gendarme trainees, and the large open distance between the building and the main buildings meant that the perimeter was simply a twelve-foot illuminated reinforced mesh fence topped with barbed wire, patrolled by cameras and patrols on pickup trucks. . The area around the complex was light industry; the nearest residential area was an apartment complex four blocks away, occupied mostly by Gendarma officers, academy staff and instructors.
  
  The academy trained law enforcement officers from all over Turkey. Graduates were assigned to city or provincial police departments, or stayed on for further training to become Gendarme officers, or took advanced courses in riot control, special weapons and tactics, bomb disposal, anti-terrorism operations, intelligence, drug interdiction, and dozens of other specialties. . The academy had one hundred staff and teachers, and the number of resident students was about a thousand.
  
  Along with shootings from gun ranges, protesters have been another constant sight at the Gendarma compound in Van. The pre-trial detention center held about five hundred prisoners, mostly suspected of being Kurdish rebels, smugglers and foreigners captured in the border areas. The institution was not a prison and was not designed for long-term imprisonment, but at least a fifth of the prisoners were there for more than a year, awaiting trial or deportation. Most of the protests were small - mothers or wives holding posters with pictures of their loved ones demanding justice - but some were larger and some escalated into violence.
  
  The demonstration that began that morning began on a large scale and grew rapidly. A rumor spread that the gendarme had captured Zilar Azzawi, the notorious leader of the Kurdish terrorists nicknamed Hawk, and tortured her for information.
  
  The protesters blocked Ipek Golu Avenue and blocked all the main entrances to the Gendarma office. The gendarmes responded quickly and with force. The academy outfitted all the students in riot gear and surrounded the two main buildings, concentrating forces on the detention center in case a mob tried to break into the building and free Azzawi and the other prisoners. Traffic was diverted around the protest site along Sumerbank and Ayak streets to other highways to avoid a complete closure of traffic to Van Airport.
  
  The chaotic situation and the withdrawal of students, faculty, staff and most of the security forces to the main street where the protesters were located made it too easy to enter the building from the southeast.
  
  The dump truck passed through the exterior and interior service gates on Somerbank Street with ease, then sped past the weapons range and through the sports fields. A handful of guards gave chase and opened fire with automatic weapons, but nothing could stop it. The truck drove right into the building of the barracks of the academy ...
  
  ...where 3,000 pounds of powerful explosives packed in a junkyard were detonated, destroying a three-story student barracks and heavily damaging the main academic building nearby.
  
  
  STATE COMMUNICATION FACILITY, ZANKAYA, ANKARA, Türkiye
  AFTER A SHORT TIME
  
  
  "Today, I regret to announce that I am declaring a state of emergency in the Republic of Turkey," said President Kurzat Hirsiz. He read out his statement from the State Communications Center in Zankaye in an impassive, wooden voice, not even looking up from his newspaper. "The PKK"s dastardly attack this morning on the Gendarma regional headquarters in Van, which killed at least twenty people and injured dozens, forces me to respond urgently.
  
  "With immediate effect, local and provincial law enforcement agencies will be supplemented by regular and reserve military personnel," he continued, still not looking up from his prepared statement. "They exist only to assist in security operations. This will allow local and provincial police to make arrests and investigate crimes.
  
  "I must report that several threats from the PKK have been received through radio messages, coded newspaper announcements and Internet postings calling on followers and sympathizers around the world to rise up and strike at the Republic of Turkey. Our analysts have concluded that the messages are designed to activate dormant cells across the region to launch concentrated attacks on government installations across the country.
  
  "After the incident in Van, I am forced to take these threats seriously and respond with force. Therefore, I am ordering the temporary closure of all government offices in Turkey, the imposition of a strict dusk to dawn curfew in all cities and towns, and mandatory 100% body and vehicle searches by security personnel.
  
  "The next steps I have ordered require the help and cooperation of the public at large. Because of the risk of unknowingly spreading terrorist instructions, I ask that all newspapers, magazines, radio, television and all private media voluntarily stop publishing any advertisements, articles or notices submitted by anyone who is not a reporter or editor of a publication, or if the source of the information is not verified or personally known. My intention is to avoid a total shutdown of the media. It is imperative that the transmission of coded messages to sleeper cells be completely stopped and my government will contact all channels to make sure they understand the importance of their prompt and thorough cooperation.
  
  "Finally, I ask that all ISPs in the Republic of Turkey and those who provide services to Turkey voluntarily install and update filters and redirectors to block access to known and suspected terrorist websites and servers. This should not lead to a massive denial of internet services in Turkey. E-mail, commerce and access to regular sites and services must continue as normal - only those servers known to host terrorist or anti-government sites will be shut down. We will closely monitor all ISPs available to the public in Turkey to ensure access to legitimate sites is not affected."
  
  Hirsiz nervously took a sip of water from a glass outside the cell, his hand was visibly trembling, his eyes did not look into the camera. "I sincerely apologize to the people of Turkey for having been forced to take these actions," he continued after a long, uncomfortable pause, "but I feel like I have no choice and I ask for your prayers, patience and cooperation. My government will work tirelessly to stop the terrorists, restore security and order, and return our nation to normalcy. I ask the citizens of Turkey to be vigilant, to help government officials and law enforcement, and to be strong and brave. Our nation has been through this before and we have always come out stronger and wiser. We will do it again. Thank you ".
  
  Hirsiz threw away the pages of his statement when Prime Minister Ais Akas approached him. "This is the hardest speech I've ever given," Hirsiz said.
  
  "I was hoping you'd change your mind, Kurzat," she said. "It's not too late, even now."
  
  "I have to do it, Aisi," Hirsiz said. "It's too late to change course now."
  
  "No, it's not. Let me help you do it. Please." The assistant handed the note to Akas. "Perhaps this will help: the American embassy is requesting a high-level meeting in Erbil. Vice President Phoenix is in Baghdad and wants to attend along with the Secretary of State."
  
  "Impossible," Hirsiz said. "We can't stop it now." He thought for a moment. "We cannot meet with them: a state of emergency has been introduced in the country. We cannot guarantee the safety of the president or our ministers in Iraq."
  
  "But if you were indeed present, I'm sure they will offer substantial military, technical and economic assistance if they meet with us - they rarely come empty-handed," Akas said. "The US ambassador has already sent a message to the Foreign Office about compensation for Patriot missile launches."
  
  "Compensation? For what? What did they say?"
  
  "The Ambassador, speaking on behalf of Secretary Barbeau, said that an unarmed reconnaissance aircraft flown by a private firm contracted to provide surveillance of the northern Iraqi border area inadvertently emitted what they called 'random electronic interference' which caused us to launch these missiles. Patriot. The ambassador was very apologetic and said that he was authorized to offer substantial compensation or replacement of the missiles, and also offered to help provide information on any unknown vehicles or persons crossing the border into Turkey." Hirsiz nodded. "This is a great opportunity, Kurzat. You can have a meeting and then lift the state of emergency after the US Vice President makes an agreement. You save face and there will be no war."
  
  "Rescued by the Americans again, yes, Ice ¸e?" Hirsiz said dispassionately. "Are you sure they'll want to help?" He motioned to an assistant, who handed him a secure cell phone. "The schedule has been moved, General," he said after speed dialing. "Move your troops and get your planes in the air, now!"
  
  
  CENTER FOR COMMAND AND CONTROL, NAKHLA ALLIED AIR BASE, IRAQ
  THAT EVENING
  
  
  "Looks like the wheels are getting ready to roll off the wheels in Turkey, doesn"t it?" Chris Thompson said. He sat at the control desk of the director of security in Tank, watching news reports about security measures going on in the Republic of Turkey on one of the big screens in front of Tank, which was always tuned to the American news channel. Reports reported police and military clashes with protesters on the streets of Istanbul and Ankara. "Hirsiz is crazy. State of emergency? Sounds like a military coup to me. I wonder if he's still in power? "
  
  "Take it easy, Thompson," said Jack Wilhelm, who was sitting at his console nearby. "We can all see what's going on. Bring the eighth sensor forward and magnify the image by ten-X. He studied the image of three delivery trucks driving down the road, the cargo sections visibly swaying around corners. "They're moving pretty fast, wouldn't you say? Zoom in fifteen times, get the description, pass it to IA. Who do they have in the area, Major Jabburi?" The Turkish liaison officer spread out his charts and logbooks, then picked up the phone. "Come on, Major, we don't have a whole day ahead of us."
  
  "The border patrol unit is moving in the opposite direction, about ten miles from here, sir," Major Hamid Jabburi, deputy liaison officer of the Turkish army, replied after a long delay. "They were notified about the investigation of the vehicles. They asked us to keep watching and let us know if they apply."
  
  "Of course - what else do we need to do here other than serve IA?" Wilhelm grumbled. "A monkey can do the job." At that moment, Patrick McLanahan approached the brigade commander. "Speak of the devil. I have to admit, General, your pregnant stealth bomber is a killer. We get the same number of views across the sector with a quarter of the gliders; we save network bandwidth, fuel and personnel; and the ramp and airspace are less congested."
  
  "Thank you Colonel. I will pass this on to John and his engineers."
  
  "You will do this". Wilhelm pointed to the television monitor. "So, have you talked to the VP about the shit going on in Turkey?"
  
  "He's on his way to Erbil to meet with Iraqi, Kurdish and possibly Turkish leaders," Patrick said. "He said he would get an update from us when he landed."
  
  "Still think Türkiye will invade?"
  
  "Yes. Now more than ever. If Hirsiz does not support the war, the only legal way he can start it is to dissolve the National Assembly and order it in person."
  
  "I think this is crazy, General," Wilhelm said. "The attack on Zakho was a big mistake, that's all. The military is involved because the generals want to show who is in charge and get the Kurds, Iraqis and Americans to sit down at the negotiating table."
  
  "I hope you're right, Colonel," Patrick said. "But they have great forces there, and there are more of them by the hour."
  
  "It's a show of strength, that's all," Wilhelm insisted.
  
  "Let's see".
  
  "Let's say they do intrude. How far do you think they will go?"
  
  "Hopefully they can just take over Dahuk Province and then stop," Patrick said. "But with these forces, they rush to the border, they can capture the Erbil International Airport, lay siege to the city and half of the province of Erbil, and force the Kurdish government to flee. After that, they can march all the way to Kirkuk. They could say it is to protect the CPC pipeline from Kurdish rebels."
  
  "Besiege" - I hear you, general," Wilhelm said, chuckling and shaking his head. "Have you ever been under siege, general, or are you just bombing places that are out of sight?"
  
  "Have you ever heard of a place called Yakutsk, Colonel?" Patrick asked.
  
  Wilhelm's jaw dropped, first in shock-from himself-and then in shame. "Oh... Oh, hell, General, I'm sorry," he said softly. He had definitely heard of Yakutsk, the third largest city in Russian Siberia...
  
  ... and the location of a major airbase that was used as a forward tanker base to refuel Russian long-range bombers involved in the American Holocaust, the nuclear attack on the United States that killed thirty thousand people, wounded almost a hundred thousand, and destroyed almost everything American long-range manned bombers and land-based intercontinental ballistic missiles, just six years earlier.
  
  Patrick McLanahan devised a plan to retaliate against Russia's ground-based nuclear missiles by landing a group of Tin Woodman and Cyber Infantry Device commandos in Yakutsk, capturing the base, and then using it to organize precision air raids by American bombers on Russian territory. Russian President Anatoly Gryzlov retaliated against his own air base ... with nuclear-tipped cruise missiles. Although Patrick's defenses stopped most of the cruise missiles and allowed most of Patrick's bombers and tankers to escape, thousands of Russians and all but a handful of American ground crew members were burned.
  
  "When did you acquire this habit of speaking first and thinking later, Colonel?" Patrick asked. "Is it just being in Iraq, or have you been working on the technique for a long time?"
  
  "I said I was sorry, General," Wilhelm said irritably, addressing himself again directly. "I forget who I'm talking to. And I could blame it on the fact that I spent almost eighteen months in this hole - it could drive anyone into hysterics or worse. This is my third deployment to Iraq, and I've never done a good job-never. They change it every couple of months anyway: we're here to stay, we're leaving, we're staying, we're leaving; we are fighting foreigners, we are fighting Sunnis, we are fighting Shiites, we are fighting al-Qaeda; now we may be fighting the Turks." He paused, looked at Patrick apologetically, then added, "But I won't blame it on anything other than being an asshole. Once again, sir, I'm sorry. Forget I said it."
  
  "It's forgotten, Colonel." Patrick looked at the sector's summary map, then at the news coverage of the unrest in Turkey. "And you made your point: if the Turks go to Erbil and Kirkuk, they won't 'besiege' them - they'll raze them to the ground and kill hundreds of thousands of people in the process."
  
  "Understood, sir," Wilhelm said. "The final solution to their Kurdish problem." There was an intercom signal, and Wilhelm touched the microphone button: "Go ... got it ... Roger, I'll tell him. Warhammer is out. Listen carefully, ladies and gentlemen. The unit has notified us that the Vice President will leave for Erbil in about an hour to meet with members of the Kurdistan Regional Government in the morning. It will fly through our sector before being handed over for the Erbil approach, but Baghdad will control the flight and they will follow normal VIP and diplomatic flight procedures. General, I was ordered-"
  
  "I can monitor the VP's flight path in detail for any signs of movement," Patrick interjected. "Just give me the waypoints and I'll set everything up."
  
  "Can you do this and keep an eye on our sector?" Wilhelm asked.
  
  "If I had two more losers here, Colonel, I could watch all of Iraq, southeast Turkey and northwest Persia around the clock, and I would still have a spare ground force," Patrick said. He touched his protected earpiece. "Boomer, did you understand the last one?"
  
  "Already setting it up, sir," replied Hunter Noble. "The loser we got airborne right now can track his flight inside Erbil province, but I guess you want to follow the vice president all the way from Baghdad, right?"
  
  "Company A"
  
  "That's what I thought. We'll have loser number two at the station... in about forty minutes."
  
  "As soon as possible, Boomer. Move the first loser to the south to monitor the VP's flight, then place the second one on the observation track to the north when it's airborne."
  
  "Understood you."
  
  "So we can watch it fly from Baghdad all the way to Erbil?" Wilhelm asked.
  
  "No, we will be able to track and identify every plane and every vehicle that moves in the seven Iraqi provinces, from Ramadi to Karbala and everywhere in between, in real time," Patrick said. "We will be able to track and identify every vehicle that approaches the VP's plane before takeoff; we will be able to watch his plane taxi out and control all other planes and vehicles in his vicinity. If there is any suspicious activity prior to his departure or arrival in Erbil, we can alert him and his security."
  
  "With two planes?"
  
  "We can almost do it with one, but for the accuracy we need, it's better to split the coverage and use the highest possible resolution," Patrick said.
  
  "Pretty cool," Wilhelm said, shaking his head. "Wish you guys were around a few months ago: I missed my youngest daughter's high school graduation last year. This is the second time I miss something like this."
  
  "I have a son who is about to start high school and I can't remember the last time I saw him at a school play or football game," Patrick said. "I know what you feel".
  
  "Excuse me, Colonel," the Turkish liaison officer, Major Jabburi, interjected over the intercom. "I have been advised that the Turkish Air Force Air Transport Group is sending five Gulfstream VIP transport aircraft from Ankara to Erbil to participate in joint talks between the United States, Iraq and my country starting tomorrow. The plane is in the air and will be within our range in about sixty minutes."
  
  "Very well," Wilhelm said. "Captain Cotter, let me know when you get your flight plan."
  
  "I understand now, sir," replied Cotter, the regimental air traffic control officer, a few moments later. "Origin confirmed. I will contact the Iraqi Foreign Minister and clarify his itinerary."
  
  "First put it on the big board, then make the call." A blue line arced across the main large-screen monitor, heading straight from Ankara to Erbil's northwestern international airport, about eighty miles to the east, passing just east of the allied Nala air base. Although the flight path was curved rather than straight, the six hundred mile "great circle" route was the most direct flight path from one point to another. "Looks good," Wilhelm said. "Major Jabburi, make sure IAD has a flight plan too, and make sure Colonel Jaffar is up to date."
  
  "Yes, Colonel."
  
  "Well, at least the parties are talking to each other. Maybe the whole thing will settle down eventually."
  
  Over the next twenty minutes, the situation calmed down considerably, until: "Guppies Two-Four in the air," Patrick reported. "He will be at the station in fifteen minutes."
  
  "That was fast," Wilhelm remarked. "You guys don't bother with getting those things up in the air, do you, General?"
  
  "It is unmanned, already loaded and fueled; we just enter the flight plans and sensors and let it go," said Patrick.
  
  "No restrooms to empty, no packed lunches to fix, no parachutes to set up, right?"
  
  "Exactly".
  
  Wilhelm just shook his head in amazement.
  
  They observed the progress of the Turkish VIP aircraft as it headed towards the Iraqi border. There is nothing unusual about flying: flying at thirty-one thousand feet, normal airspeed, normal transponder codes. With about twelve minutes left before the plane crossed the border, Wilhelm ordered: "Major Jabburi, check again that the Iraqi air defense forces are aware of the approaching flight from Turkey and they do not have weapons."
  
  "The Jabburi is offline, sir," Weatherly said.
  
  "Find his ass and bring him back here," Wilhelm barked, then Wilhelm switched his command channel: "All Warhammer units, this is Alpha, a Turkish VIP plane is arriving in ten minutes, all air defense stations are reporting the presence of weapons directly to me. "
  
  Weatherly switched one of his monitors to a map of the position and status of all air defense units along the border zone. The units consisted of Avenger mobile air defense vehicles, which were "Humvee" equipped with a guided turret that contained two reloadable bays with four Stinger heat-seeking anti-aircraft missiles and a 50-caliber heavy machine gun, along with electro-optical sensors and a channel data transmission, allowing you to connect the tower to the air defense radars of the second regiment. The Avengers were escorted by a cargo Hummer with maintenance and security forces, spare parts and ammunition, provisions, and two missile reload bays.
  
  "All Warhammer advertising units are reporting weapon shortages, sir," Weatherly said.
  
  Wilhelm checked the monitor, which showed all Avenger units with solid red icons indicating they were operational but not ready to attack. "Where is your second loser, general?" he asked.
  
  "Three minutes to patrol." Patrick put the XC-57 badge on the tactical display so that Wilhelm could see it among all the other markers. "We pass flight level three-five-zero, climb to four-one-zero, far enough from the incoming Turkish flight. We will start scanning the area soon."
  
  "Show me the Vice President's flight."
  
  Another icon began to blink, this time far to the south, over Baghdad. "He just took off, sir, about thirty minutes early," Cotter reported. The flight data reading showed a very rapid increase in altitude and a relatively low ground speed, indicative of maximum climb from Baghdad International. "It appears to be aboard a CV-22 tiltrotor, so it will be well behind the Turkish Gulfstream by the time it arrives," he added. "ARRIVAL TIME, forty-five minutes."
  
  "Understood you."
  
  Everything seemed to go on as usual, which always bothered Patrick McLanahan. He scanned all the monitors and gauges, looking for a clue as to why something might be wrong. So far, nothing. The second XC-57 reconnaissance aircraft reached its patrol area and began a standard oval patrol. Everything looked...
  
  Then he saw this and pressed the intercom button: "The Turkish plane is slowing down," he said.
  
  "What? Repeat, General?
  
  "Gulfstream. The speed has dropped to three hundred and fifty knots."
  
  "Is he preparing to descend?"
  
  "So far from Erbil?" Patrick asked. "If he had made a normal landing approach, it might make sense, but what Turkish plane would have flown into the heart of Kurdish territory on a normal landing approach? He did the approach with maximum performance - he did not start the descent until thirty miles, maybe less. Now he's out by about a hundred. He, of course, also drifts south. But its height-"
  
  "Bandits! Bandits! It was Hunter Noble tracking data from a second XC-57. "Several high-speed aircraft approaching from Turkey, heading south at low altitude, fifty-seven miles, Mach one hundred and five! "The tactical display showed many tracks of aerial targets moving south of Turkey. "Many heavy vehicles have also been found on the A36 highway and-" His voice was suddenly cut off in a harsh roar of static...
  
  ... so was the tactical display. The entire screen was suddenly filled with glittering colored pixels, junk symbols, and waves of static. "Say again?" Wilhelm screamed. "Where are these vehicles? And what happened to my board?"
  
  "Lost contact with Loser," Patrick said. He began typing instructions on the keyboard. "Boomer...!"
  
  "I'm switching now, boss, but the data link is almost completely down and I've slowed down to sixty kilometers an hour," Boomer said.
  
  "Will it switch automatically?"
  
  "If it detects a data link drop, it will happen, but if the signal processors are blocked by interference, it may not happen."
  
  "What the hell is going on, McLanahan?" Wilhelm screamed, jumping to his feet. "What happened to my photo?"
  
  "We are jammed on all frequencies - UHF, VHF, LF, X, Ku- and Ka-bands and microwave," Patrick said. "And extremely powerful. We're trying-" He trailed off, then looked at the regimental commander. "Turkish Gulf Stream. This is not a VIP aircraft - it must be a jamming aircraft."
  
  "What?"
  
  "Electronic jammer - and it shut down the entire network," Patrick said. "We let it fly right over us and it's powerful so we can't cut through the interference. Frequency hopping doesn't help - it burns through all the frequencies."
  
  "God, we're down here blind." Wilhelm switched to the regimental command channel: "To all Warhammer units, to all Warhammer units, this is...!" But his voice was drowned out by an incredibly loud squeal coming from all the headphones that couldn't be turned off. Wilhelm dropped his headphones before the sound ruptured his eardrums and everyone else in the Tank was forced to do the same. "Damn, I can't get through to the Avengers."
  
  Patrick activated his secure cell phone. "Boomer..." But he quickly had to take the earpiece out of his ear because of the noise. "Get ready, Colonel," Patrick said. "Noble will turn off the intelligence system."
  
  "Closing this? Why?"
  
  "The interference is so strong that the data link between us and the XC-57 is completely out of order," Patrick said. "The only way we can get this up and running again is by shutting down."
  
  "What good will it do?"
  
  "A fail-safe mode for all losers is to switch to secure laser communications, and as far as we know, no one has the ability to jam our laser communications," Patrick said. "As soon as we restore power, the system will immediately default to a clear and more secure communication channel. The laser is in line-of-sight, not transmitted from the satellite, so we will lose a lot of opportunities, but at least we will get a picture back ... at least we should ".
  
  The system reboot took less than ten minutes, but the wait was excruciatingly long. When the picture finally returned, they saw only a small part of what they were used to seeing - but it was still terrible enough: "I have three groups of approaching aircraft - one each in the direction of Mosul, Erbil, and the third, I assume, is towards Kirkuk," said Hunter Noble. "There are a lot of high-speed planes ahead, a lot of slow-moving aircraft behind them."
  
  "This is an air attack," Patrick said. "Naval aviation to disable radar and communications, then tactical bombers to destroy airfields and command posts, close air support to keep watch, and then paratroopers and cargo planes for ground attack."
  
  "What about Nala?" Weatherly asked.
  
  "The western congestion is passing to the west of us - I assume they will target Mosul instead of us."
  
  "Negative - suppose we're next," Wilhelm said. "Weatherly, organize a team and have them relay the order to everyone to seek shelter. Do it in any way you can - turn on megaphones, car horns or yell like crazy, but take the regiment to cover. Contact the Avengers by radio to-"
  
  "I can't, sir. Scout reconnaissance aircraft is back on the air, but our communications are still being jammed."
  
  "Damn," Wilhelm swore. "Alright, let's hope the Avengers find good places to hide because we can't warn them. Get started." Weatherly hurried away. "McLanahan, what about the vice president?"
  
  "We have no way to contact his plane while we are in a predicament," Patrick said. "Hopefully, as soon as he switches to our frequency, he hears interference and decides to turn back to Baghdad."
  
  "Is there any way you can bring down this Gulfstream or whatever it is up there?" Wilhelm asked.
  
  Patrick thought for a moment, then headed for the exit. "I'm heading for the departure line," he said, adding, "I'll get your communications back." Patrick hurried outside, hopped into one of the Hummers assigned to his team, and sped away.
  
  He found the relegation line in total chaos. Soldiers stood on Hummers shouting warnings; some had loudspeakers; others simply honked their horns. Half of Scion Aviation International's technicians stood around, unsure whether to leave or not.
  
  "Get in cover, now!" Patrick yelled as he screeched to a halt outside the hangar, jumped out and ran towards the command center. He found that John Masters and Hunter Noble were still sitting at their consoles, trying unsuccessfully to resist the furious interference. "Are you guys crazy?" Patrick said as he started to grab the laptops. "Get the hell out of here!"
  
  "They're not going to bomb us, Mook," John said. "We are Americans and this is an Iraqi air base, not a rebel stronghold. They go for-"
  
  At that moment, he was interrupted by triple sonic booms that swept right over his head. It seemed that the hangar was a giant balloon that filled with air in the blink of an eye. Computer monitors, lamps, and shelving flew off tables and walls, light bulbs shattered, walls cracked, and the air suddenly became hazy as every speck of dust in the entire room was blown free by excess pressure. "Hello god...!"
  
  "I hope it was a warning. Don't try to launch any planes or the next run will be a bomb launch," Patrick said. Under a table with one of the laptops displaying a laser radar image from an XC-57, he studied it for a few moments, then said, "John, I want that Turkish plane to be shot down."
  
  "With using what? Spittoons? We don't have any anti-aircraft weapons."
  
  "The loser does. Slingshot."
  
  "Slingshot?" John's eyes narrowed in confusion, then understanding, followed by calculation, and finally agreement. "We have to get close, maybe within three miles."
  
  "And if the Turks catch the loser, they will surely shoot him down ... and then they will come for us."
  
  "I hope they don't want to mess with us - they're after the Kurdish rebels," Patrick said. "If they wanted to bomb us, they would have done it already." It didn't sound very convincing, even to himself; but after another moment of reflection, he nodded. "Do it".
  
  John cracked his knuckles and began issuing instructions, changing the XC-57's programmed flight path to enter the Turkish aircraft's parking area, then having it fly behind and below it on its own, using its laser radars to pinpoint the station . "I don't see any escort," Boomer said, examining an ultra-detailed laser radar image of the area around the Turkish aircraft as the XC-57 approached. "This is a lone ship. Pretty self-confident, right?"
  
  "What is this plane?" Patrick asked.
  
  "I can't see it yet - though it's smaller than the Gulf Stream."
  
  "Less?" That sense of impending doom returned, crawling up and down Patrick's spine. "It has a lot of power for an aircraft smaller than the Gulfstream."
  
  "Within a ten mile radius," John said. "I'll hit him from five miles. Still trying to dismantle the engine nacelles." The XC-57 quickly closed the distance.
  
  "I don't see any gondolas - this is not a passenger plane," Patrick said. As he got closer, he could see more detail: a small, twin-engined bizjet, but with three compartments under each wing and one compartment under the belly. "Definitely not civilians," he said. "Grab all you can, John, and shoot as soon as you..."
  
  Before he could finish, suddenly the Turkish plane turned sharply to the left and began a rapid climb - and its rate of turn was not the same as that of a large passenger aircraft such as the Gulfstream. From this close range, with his full profile displayed on the laser radar image, his personality was unmistakable: "Oh crap, it's an F-4 Phantom fighter! Boomer shouted. "F-4 with jamming capability? No wonder they didn't bring escorts with them - he can probably escort himself."
  
  "Hit, John," shouted Patrick, "and get the loser out of there! The "Phantom" must have protective weapons!"
  
  "Hit, Boomer!" John said as he furiously dialed commands to call XC-57.
  
  "Slingshot activated!" Boomer said. "Full power. A range of six miles...it won't be enough."
  
  "Don't worry - he will shorten this distance very quickly," Patrick said ominously. "Start a quick descent, John - the F-4 may not want to descend. Put him on deck."
  
  "Going to the bottom!" John Masters said. Using the XC-57's "adaptive wing" technology, which turned almost every surface of the aircraft into a lifting device, the XC-57 descended at over ten thousand feet per minute, and only its composite construction kept it from falling apart.
  
  "Communication restored," the technician reported. "All interference disabled."
  
  "He's slowing down," Boomer said. "Three miles...he should be feeling hot just about..." And at that moment, the laser radar image showed two missiles leaving each wing of the Turkish F-4E. "Sidewinders!" he shouted. But a few seconds after the start of the flight, the Sidewinder rockets exploded. "The slingshot killed them both," Boomer said. "The laser is redirecting to the Phantom. It is still slowing down even though it is on the decline."
  
  "I think we hit something vital," John said. The image, enlarged by the laser radar, clearly showed smoke coming from the right engine of the fighter. "He has to break with it. It's five thousand feet above the ground - fighter jets don't like to fly near mud."
  
  "Two miles and still getting closer," Boomer said. "Come on, aptal, game over."
  
  "Aptal?"
  
  "It means 'idiot' in Turkish," Boomer said. "I thought if we were going to face the Turks, I better learn some Turkish."
  
  "I leave it to you to learn the bad words first," John said. He returned to the chase unfolding on his laptop. "Come on buddy, it's over, it's-" That's when a lot of warning messages appeared on John's laptop. "Damn, engines number one and two are shutting down... The hydraulics and electrical system are in disrepair! What's happened?"
  
  "He got within shooting range," Patrick said. In daylight, in clear skies... the XC-57 was doomed, and everyone knew it.
  
  "Come on baby," John urged his creation, "you"ll be fine, just keep going..."
  
  And as they watched, they saw a puff of smoke from the front of a Turkish F-4 Phantom, the canopy popped up and the rear ejection seat took off into the sky. They waited for the front seat to leave...but as they watched, the altitude numbers continued to decrease, finally showing zero seconds later. "Caught him," Boomer said quietly, without a hint of joy or triumph-seeing any airman die, even an enemy, was never something to celebrate. "He must have been really hurt when the Slingshot was aimed at his face at full power, but he wasn"t about to let Loser get away."
  
  "Can you bring her back, John?" Patrick asked.
  
  "I don't know," John said. "The lower laser array of the radar does not retract - this is a lot of resistance, and we have one engine left. We are also losing gas. Only thirty miles left to go - it will be close."
  
  There were a lot of crossed fingers, but the XC-57 is back. "Good job, John," Patrick said from his Hummer parked at the end of the runway as he peered through binoculars at the plane. She and John watched as Loser prepared for a direct run. The crippled bird trailed a long, dark trail of smoke, but its flight path was fairly steady. "I didn"t think she would survive."
  
  "Me too," John admitted. "This landing does not promise to be pleasant. Make sure it's clear to everyone - I don't know what type of braking or directional control we have left and this could..."
  
  "Scion, this is Third!" Boomer yelled over the command channel of the radio. "Approaching aircraft from the south, extremely low altitude!" Patrick turned around and scanned the sky...
  
  ... and at that moment John shouted: "God damn it!" Two massive clouds of fire burst onto the front of the XC-57. The plane seemed to just hover in the air for a few moments; then another explosion, and the plane turned nose over and dived straight into the ground. There wasn't enough fuel in the tanks to start a big fire.
  
  John Masters' eyes practically popped out of their sockets in confusion. "What happened to my-"
  
  "Get down, John!" Patrick screamed, knocking him to the ground. Two US-made F-15E Eagle fighter-bombers flew overhead at low altitude, heading north towards Turkey.
  
  John tried to get to his feet. "Those bastards hit my-"
  
  "I said get down!" Patrick screamed. A moment later, a series of eight powerful explosions thundered right down the center of the runway, the nearest of which was only a few hundred yards away. Both men felt as if their Hummer had rolled over right on top of them. They were showered with debris and smoke, screaming and pressing their hands to their ears as the monstrous concussions blew the air out of their lungs. Chunks of concrete whizzed past them like bullets and then rained down on them. "Get in the Hummer, John! Hurry up!" Both men climbed in just as more and more chunks of concrete rained down on top of them. They had no choice but to crawl across the floor as far as they could and hope the roof would hold up. The windows shattered and the big Hummer rocked on its wheels before they too exploded.
  
  A few minutes later, John was still writhing on the floor of the Hummer, covering his ears and swearing loudly. Patrick could see a small trickle of blood seeping between the fingers covering John's left ear. Patrick turned on his portable radio to ask for help, but he couldn't hear anything and could only hope his message got through. He climbed onto the roof of the Hummer to inspect the damage.
  
  Pretty good bombing, he thought. He saw eight explosion marks, probably a thousand pounds, each no more than five yards from the center line of the runway. Luckily they didn't use piercing bombs that cratered the runway, but only general purpose high explosive bombs, and the damage wasn't all that great - the detonations blew holes, but didn't lift large chunks of steel reinforcement to the surface. This was relatively easy to fix.
  
  "Dirt?" John struggled to get out of the Hummer. "What's happened?" He was screaming because his head was ringing so much that he couldn't hear his own voice.
  
  "A little payback," Patrick said. He got off the Hummer and helped John sit up while he examined his head for other injuries. "Looks like your eardrum burst and you got some pretty good cuts."
  
  "What the hell did they hit us with?"
  
  "F-15E Strike Eagles are dropping high-explosive GPS rounds-another military surplus bought from the good old United States of America," Patrick said. Despite being one of the best fighter-bombers in the world, capable of both bombing and air superiority in the same mission, the F-15Es could not land on an aircraft carrier and so they were mothballed or sold as surplus to nations. allies of America. "They have marked out the runway quite well, but it can be repaired. It doesn't look like they hit Triple C, the hangars, or any other buildings."
  
  "How do you mean 'damn fools' in Turkish?" John Masters asked, slapping his hammer in obvious anger. "I think I'll borrow Boomer's phrase book and learn some choice Turkish curses."
  
  A few minutes later, Hunter Noble pulled up in a Humvee ambulance. "Guys, are you all right?" he asked as the paramedics took care of Patrick and John. "I thought you were gone."
  
  "It's good that these teams were good," said Patrick. "A quarter of a second longer and a quarter-degree heading error and we'd be right under that last one."
  
  "I don't think this is the end," Boomer said. "We track several tardigrades throughout the area; the nearest one is twenty miles to the east, heading this way."
  
  "Let's go back to the hangar and see what we have left," Patrick said sullenly. "We will need to get an update on the third loser and which mission modules we can use." They all got into their Hummers and sped off towards the departure line.
  
  By the time they stopped at the infirmary to drop John off and then reached the hangar, Patrick's ringing in his ears had subsided enough that he could function fairly normally. When the interference stopped, they were again in full reconnaissance and relay communications with the first XC-57, which returned to a new patrol orbit southeast of the Allied Nala Air Base, within laser radar range of the three major cities of northern Iraq - Mosul, Erbil and Kirkuk, which were attacked.
  
  Patrick ran a visibly trembling hand over his face, studying the reconnaissance display. The adrenaline coursing through his veins began to subside, leaving him tired and nervous. "Are you all right, sir?" Hunter Noble asked.
  
  "I'm a little worried about John. He looked pretty bad."
  
  "You look pretty shabby too, sir."
  
  "I'll be ok". He smiled at Boomer's worried expression. "I forgot what it was like to be under such bombardment. It really scares you."
  
  "Maybe you should get some rest."
  
  "I'll be all right, Boomer," Patrick repeated. He nodded at the young pilot and astronaut. "Thank you for being so worried."
  
  "I am aware of your affairs of the heart, sir," Boomer said. "The only thing worse than coming back from space is being nearly destroyed by a string of thousand-pound bombs. Maybe you shouldn't push your luck."
  
  "Let's get the vice president safe and sound and get a clear picture of what's going on, and then I'll go take a nap." It didn't ease Boomer's anxiety one iota, and it showed on his face, but Patrick ignored it. "Do any jets bother the loser?"
  
  There's no point in arguing with the guy, Boomer thought - he was going to work his ass off, plain and simple. "No," he replied. "Every fighter within a fifty mile radius set it on fire, but no one attacked. They also don't bother our drones."
  
  "They know that most of the planes flying here are unarmed reconnaissance planes, and they're not going to waste ammunition," Patrick suggested. "Damn disciplined. They know that there is very little resistance to what they are doing right now."
  
  "There are a lot of tardigrades approaching and several convoys of vehicles are heading our way," Boomer said. They kept a close eye on several dozen low-speed aircraft, mostly circling near Kirkuk and Erbil. However, one plane was heading west directly to Nala. "Are there any modes and codes for this?" Patrick asked.
  
  "No," Boomer replied. "He is very short and fast. There is no connection yet. The laser radar image shows it as a two-seat C-130 turboprop, but it changes speed from time to time, slower than a tactical airlifter should. He may have mechanical problems."
  
  "Do we have contact with the Avengers?"
  
  "I think they're all talking to Colonel Wilhelm in the Tank again."
  
  Patrick opened a command channel: "Scion One calls Warhammer."
  
  "It's good to see you're still with us, Scion," Wilhelm said from his command console in the Tank. "You're still screaming into the microphone. For your bell to ring there?"
  
  "I advise you to ask your Avengers to verify the validity of visual identification before entering combat, Warhammer."
  
  "The Turks just bombed the hell out of my airstrip, Scion, and their cars are heading over here. We have received reports of three separate columns of armored vehicles. I'm not going to let them just drag themselves into this base without killing a few first. "
  
  "He who approaches from the east may not be a Turk."
  
  "Then who do you think it is?"
  
  "Not through an open channel, Warhammer."
  
  Wilhelm was silent for a few moments; then: "Understood, offspring." He didn't know who or what McLanahan was thinking, but the guy was on fire; better help him keep his lane. "Break. All Warhammer units, this is Alpha, mind you, we don't have planes that are allowed to approach the base and we wouldn't be able to land them here if there were, but I want to get positive visual IDs of all arriving planes. I repeat, I need a positive EO or a direct visual identifier. The IR and no modes and codes are not, I repeat, not good enough." He paused for a moment, rethinking his next order, then continued, "If you don't have a valid identification, report heading, speed, altitude, and type, but ignore it. If you are not clear, shout but hold your weapon tightly, if you do not have a positive ID, this is a bandit. Warhammer is out."
  
  It didn't take long for the first report to come in: "Warhammer, this is Piney One-Two," the easternmost division of the Avenger reported. "I have visual contact with a single scarecrow ship, one-five-zero degrees bullseye, heading west, one hundred and eighty knots, base altitude minus one-eight, negative modes and codes." The "base" altitude was two thousand feet, which meant the plane was two hundred feet above the ground. "Looks like Winner Two-Two."
  
  "Oh, thank you, Lord," Wilhelm muttered under his breath. How many goddamn drinks and dinners will I owe McLanahan after this is all over...? "Understood, once or twice. Continue patrolling, weapons at the ready. All Warhammer units, this is Alpha, incoming aircraft, weapons at the ready until it hits the ground, then return to FPCON Delta. Weatherly, take command here. I'm heading for the departure line. Thompson, send your guys in there to intercept this incoming message, and I want security as tight as a mosquito in the ass. Airmail, let this guy in and make sure there are no tails behind him. Thompson, hand him over to Alpha Security." He dropped his headphones and rushed to the door.
  
  He found McLanahan and Chris Thompson in a secure aircraft parking area, a section of an aircraft apron surrounded by exhaust barriers in front of a large hangar. Thompson deployed his security forces along the south taxiway and the ramp leading from the taxiway to the apron. Wilhelm's eyes narrowed as he saw McLanahan. The head of the retired general and the backs of his hands were covered with wounds from flying fragments. "You should be in the infirmary, General," he said.
  
  McLanahan was wiping his face, head, and hands with a large white dampened towel, which was already dirty from his care. "It can wait," he said.
  
  "How long? Until you pass out?"
  
  "I dropped John off at the medic and asked them to examine me."
  
  Bullshit, Wilhelm thought, but didn't say it out loud. He shook his head sadly, not wanting to argue with the boy, then nodded to the east. "Why does he come here?"
  
  "I don't know".
  
  "Not too smart if you want my opinion." Wilhelm took out a walkie-talkie. "Second, this is Alpha. Where is the nearest convoy of vehicles?"
  
  "Twenty kilometers north, still coming."
  
  "Understood you. Keep watching, let me know when they are within ten kilometers." Not yet within range of missiles from the shoulder, but the approaching aircraft was in mortal danger if it was spotted by Turkish warplanes.
  
  A few minutes later, they heard the characteristic heavy, high-speed "boom-boom-boom" sound of a large rotary-wing aircraft. The CV-22 Osprey, with a tilted propeller, flew low and fast over the base, made a sharp left turn on the transition to vertical flight, then hovered along the line of security vehicles along the ramp to the apron and landed. He was directed inside a secure parking lot, where he locked himself up.
  
  Thompson's security forces redeployed throughout the aircraft parking area while Wilhelm, McLanahan and Thompson closed in on the Osprey. The rear cargo ramp opened and three US Secret Service agents wearing body armor and armed with machine guns stepped out, escorted by Vice President Kenneth Phoenix.
  
  The Vice President was wearing a Kevlar helmet, goggles, gloves, and body armor. Wilhelm approached him, but did not salute - he was already sufficiently distinguished. Phoenix started to take off his protective gear, but Wilhelm waved him to stop. "Keep that device running just in case, sir," he shouted over the roar of the twin propellers overhead. He escorted the Vice President to an armored Humvee waiting for him, and they all boarded and sped off to the conference room on the top floor of the Tank.
  
  Once they were safe inside and under guard, Secret Service agents helped Phoenix remove his protective gear. "What's happened?" Phoenix asked. He looked at Wilhelm's grim face, then at McLanahan. "Don't tell me, let me guess: Türkiye."
  
  "We detected an air attack, but they sent a jamming plane, which deprived us of eyes and ears," Wilhelm said. "Damn good coordination; they were clearly ready to strike and were just waiting for the right opportunity."
  
  "It was me wanting to meet everyone in Erbil," Phoenix said. "I didn't think I'd be their cover for the invasion."
  
  "If it wasn't for you, sir, it would have been someone else - or they could have staged something, as I believe they staged that Van attack," Patrick said.
  
  "Do you think it was set up?" Chris Thompson asked. "Why? It was a classic PKK."
  
  "It was a classic PKK - too classic," Patrick said. "What struck me was the timing. Why a daytime attack, no less than in the morning, when all the staff and guards are awake and on alert? Why not attack at night? They would have more chances of success and more losses."
  
  "I thought they were pretty successful."
  
  "I guess it was set up to keep the barracks low on students," Patrick said. "They made sure the actual death toll was low and just inflated the figure for the media-enough for the president to declare a state of emergency."
  
  "If Turkey has a president," Phoenix said. "A message from our ambassador in Ankara said that the president was 'conferring with his political and military advisers.' The Ministry of Foreign Affairs will not say anything more, and no one answered the call of the President to the Prime Minister and the President of Turkey. On television, he looked like a robot; maybe he was pressured, even drugged."
  
  "Sir, before we waste any more time trying to figure out what the Turks are going to do next, our first priority is to get you out of here and back to Baghdad - preferably back to the States," Wilhelm said. "Your Secret Service may have better options, but I recommend-"
  
  "I'm not ready to leave yet, Colonel," Phoenix said.
  
  "I beg your pardon, sir?" Wilhelm asked incredulously. "We're in the middle of a gunfight, sir. They just bombed that base! I can't guarantee your safety - I don't believe anyone can right now."
  
  "Colonel, I came here to meet with Iraqis, Turks, Kurds and Americans to try and resolve the PKK situation," Phoenix said, "and I will not leave until my boss tells me to." Wilhelm was about to say something, but Phoenix stopped him with a raised hand. "That's enough, Colonel. I need access to a telephone or radio to contact Washington, and I will need...
  
  At that moment the bell rang and Wilhelm rushed to the phone. "Go."
  
  "Several high-altitude aircraft approaching from the north, sir," Mark Weatherly reported. "Lower speed, possibly turboprops. We suspect these are vehicles, possibly disembarking paratroopers. The Iraqi army is also reporting new communications interference. We haven't picked it up yet."
  
  "Keep watching and advising," Wilhelm said. He thought for a moment, then added, "Advise all Warhammer units to keep their weapons ready, for self-defense only, and call the Avengers back to base."
  
  "Sir? Say it again -"
  
  "We're not at war with the damned Turks, Weatherly," Wilhelm interrupted. "Our intelligence says we are already outnumbered by at least ten to one, so they can just drive right over us if they get mad enough. I'll make it clear to them that they can buzz about Iraq all they want, but they're not going to take this base. Call off the Avengers and all other Warhammer units that are out of sight. As soon as they return behind the fence, we move into a full defensive position, ready to repel all attackers. Got it?"
  
  "Understood, sir."
  
  "Advise Jaffar and tell him that I want to meet with him and his company commanders about what to do if the Turks invade," Wilhelm said. "They might want to fight, but we're not here to get into a shooting war." He looked at the vice president. "Still want to stay here, sir? It can get dangerous."
  
  "Like I said, Colonel, I'm on a diplomatic mission," Phoenix said. "Maybe when the Turks realize I'm here, they'll have less of a chance to start shooting. I might even be able to start ceasefire negotiations from here."
  
  "I would feel better if you were at least in Baghdad sir," Wilhelm said, "but you have a good and positive voice and I could use some positive vibes here right now."
  
  The phone rang again and Wilhelm picked up the receiver.
  
  "The weather is fine here, sir. We have a problem: I called Jaffar's office - he's not here. No one from the leadership of the OVR is answering the phone."
  
  "Ask Mavlud or Jabburi where they went."
  
  "They aren't here either, sir. I tried to get through to Jabburi on the radio: no one answers. He moved away from the Tank before the attacks even started."
  
  Wilhelm looked out of the conference room window onto the main floor of the Tank; of course, the Turkish liaison officer's console was empty. "Find some Hajji at the head and tell him to come here in double order, Weatherly." He hung up. "Thompson?"
  
  "I'm checking, Colonel." Chris Thompson has already turned on his portable radio. "Security reports that a convoy of military buses and trucks left the base about an hour ago, Colonel," he said a moment later. "They had people and equipment, appropriate permits, signed by Jaffar."
  
  "No one thought to notify me about this?"
  
  "The gate guards said it looked like a routine and they had orders to do so."
  
  "Did any of your guys see any Iraqi soldiers anywhere?" Wilhelm thundered.
  
  "I'm checking, Colonel." But one could tell by watching Thompson's incredulous expression what the answer was: "Colonel, IA headquarters is free."
  
  "Empty?"
  
  "Just a couple of soldiers busy removing hard drives and memory chips from computers," Thompson said. "Looks like they've passed out. Do you want me to stop these guys and interrogate them?"
  
  Wilhelm ran a hand over his face, then shook his head. "Negative," he said wearily. "This is their base and their materials. Take pictures and statements, then leave them alone." He practically dropped the phone back on the hook. "Damn unbelievable," he muttered. "A whole brigade of the Iraqi army just picks up and leaves?"
  
  "And right before the attack," Thompson added. "Could they sniff it out?"
  
  "It doesn't matter-they're gone," Wilhelm said. "But I can tell you one thing: they won't be returning to this base unless I know about it first, that's for sure. Tell it to your guys."
  
  "It will be done, Colonel."
  
  Wilhelm turned back to the Vice President. "Sir, do you need any more reasons to return to Baghdad?"
  
  At that moment, an alarm sounded. Wilhelm picked up the receiver and turned to the displays at the front of the tank. "What now, Weatherly?"
  
  "The nearest Turkish armored column approaching from the north is ten kilometers from here," Weatherly said. "They've spotted Piney Two-Three and are holding position."
  
  Wilhelm ran as fast as he could down to his console, the others following him. Video footage from the Avenger anti-aircraft unit showed a dark green armored vehicle flying a large red flag with a white crescent moon. His machine guns were raised. An XC-57 laser radar image showed other vehicles lined up behind him. "Second, third, this is Alpha, armament at the ready, position to march down the road."
  
  "Agreed, Warhammer, we're on the move," the Avenger's commander replied, making sure his weapons were safe and his Stinger missiles and 20mm Gatling gun barrels pointed skyward and not at the Turks.
  
  "Can you retreat or turn around?"
  
  "I confirm both."
  
  "Very slowly, back up, turn around, and then return to base at normal speed," Wilhelm ordered. "Keep your guns pointing away from them. I don't think they will bother you."
  
  "I hope you're right, Alpha. Only two or three copies, on the go."
  
  It was a tense few minutes. Because the camera aboard the Avenger was only pointing forward, they lost the video feed, so they couldn't see if the crews of the Turkish armored personnel carriers were preparing any anti-tank weapons. But the XC-57 image showed the Turkish vehicles holding position as the Avenger turned around and then following it from about a hundred yards away as it headed back to base.
  
  "Here they come," Wilhelm said, taking off his headphones and tossing them on the table in front of him. "Mr. Vice President, at the risk of stating the obvious, you will be our guest in the near future, kindly provided by the Republic of Turkey."
  
  "Well done, Colonel," said Ken Phoenix. "The Turks know they can blow us up, but they hold back. If we had struck back, they would certainly have attacked."
  
  "We are allies, right?" Wilhelm said sarcastically. "Somehow I almost forgot about it. Plus, it's easy not to hit back if you have little to no way to retaliate." He turned to Chris Thompson. "Thompson, cancel the order to withdraw forces, but close the base, get everyone up and secure the gate and perimeter. I want a strong presence, but a minimal amount of visible weapons. Nobody shoots unless they shoot at him. Weatherly, keep an eye on the other Avengers arriving, let them know we have guests, weapons at the ready. I think the Turks will let them through."
  
  In less than an hour, a group of two Turkish armored personnel carriers was parked at each main entrance to the Nakhla Allied Air Base. They looked very unwelcoming, with their weapons raised, and the foot soldiers remained near their vehicles with rifles on their shoulders ... but they did not allow anyone to approach. The base was definitely closed.
  
  
  CHAPTER SIX
  
  
  Failing to recognize opportunities is the most dangerous and common mistake one can make.
  
  -MAY JAMISON, ASTRONAUT
  
  
  
  OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT, ZANKAYA, ANKARA, Türkiye
  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING
  
  
  "This is the third call from Washington, sir," the assistant said, hanging up. "This time the Secretary of State herself. Her voice sounded angry."
  
  President Kurzat Hirsiz waved an aide to shut up, then said into the phone, "Go on with your report, general."
  
  "Yes, sir," Gen. Abdulla Guzlev said over a secure satellite phone. "The first division advanced as far as Tall Afar, northwest of Mosul. They surrounded the military airbase and seized the pipeline and pumping station in Avgani. The Iraqis can still cut off the flow from the Baba Gurgur fields to the east and transfer oil from the southern fields, but the oil from the Kuale field is safe."
  
  Amazing, Hirsiz thought. The invasion of Iraq went better than expected. "The Iraqi army didn"t secure the pipeline or the pumping station?" he asked.
  
  "No, sir. Only private security companies and they didn't fight back."
  
  This was really great news; he expected the Iraqis to vigorously defend the pipeline and infrastructure. The oil flowing through the Kirkuk-Ceyhan pipeline accounted for 40 percent of Iraq's oil revenues. Indeed, an interesting development... "Very well, General. Your progress has been amazing. Well done. Go on."
  
  "Thank you, sir," continued Guzlev. "The second division advanced all the way to Mosul and captured the southern Kayyar airport. Our air force bombed the airstrip at Nakhla, an Iraqi air base north of the city, near Tall Kaif, and we surrounded the airfield. We are currently landing transport and armed patrol aircraft at Kayyara South Airport."
  
  "Was there any resistance from Iraqis or Americans in Nakhla?"
  
  "Americans don't fight back; however, we are not in contact with any Iraqi forces based there."
  
  "Not in touch?"
  
  "It looks like they left the base and retreated to Mosul or Kirkuk," Guzlev said. "We are on the alert in case they suddenly appear, but we believe that they have simply taken off their uniforms and are hiding among the population."
  
  "It might become a problem later, but hopefully they will remain hidden for a while. And the forces of General Ozek?"
  
  "The two Gendarma divisions operating in the east faced stronger resistance than the other two divisions, mostly facing Peshmerga guerrillas," Guzlev replied, "but they surrounded Erbil"s northwestern airport."
  
  "We were expecting resistance from the Peshmerga - that's why we decided to send two Gendarma divisions to the east, with the remaining three divisions ready to move out if necessary," Hirsiz said. The Peshmerga, which in Kurdish means "those who look death in the face," began as Kurdish freedom fighters who fought Saddam Hussein"s army against his brutal attempts to force the Kurdish minority out of the oil-rich areas of northeastern Iraq, which the Kurds consider part of the future. state of Kurdistan. After the US invasion of Iraq, the Peshmerga fought Saddam's army side by side with the US. strength. With years of American training and assistance, the Peshmerga have become an effective fighting force and protector of the Kurdish regional government.
  
  "We are still outnumbered if what our intelligence says is the full strength of the Peshmerga," Guzlev continued. "We must move two gendarme divisions south to reinforce the supply lines and keep the last one in reserve. If General Ozek's forces firmly hold and control Highways 3 and 4 to and from Erbil, plus clear the approaches to the airport, we will have a solid line of defense from Erbil to Tall Afar and we can drive the Peshmerga into the mountains to east of Erbil.
  
  "Then I will give the order," Hirsiz said. "In the meantime, I will be negotiating a ceasefire with the Iraqis, the Kurds and the Americans. We will eventually come to some kind of buffer zone agreement, including multinational patrols and monitoring, and we will eventually withdraw..."
  
  "And when we retreat, we will destroy every last stinking PKK training base we find," Guzlev said.
  
  "Absolutely," Hirsiz said. "Do you have a casualty report?"
  
  "Casualties have been minimal, sir, except that General Ozek is reporting 2% casualties as he moves through areas predominantly populated by Kurds," Guzlev said. With Gendarme divisions of about twenty thousand men each, the loss of four hundred men in one day was a serious problem; these three reserve divisions of the Gendarmes were badly needed. "We have no difficulty in evacuating the dead and wounded back to Turkey. Aviation losses were also minimal. The worst was the loss of a transport plane flying out of Erbil to bring more supplies - it may have been shot down by enemy fire, we're not sure yet. A heavy transport helicopter was lost due to mechanical problems and an RF-4E electronic jamming aircraft was shot down by an American reconnaissance aircraft."
  
  "American reconnaissance aircraft? How can a spy plane shoot down one of ours?"
  
  "Unknown, sir. The intelligence systems officer reported that they were attacked, which he described as high levels of radiation."
  
  "Radiation?"
  
  "This is what he said moments before he lost contact with the pilot. The pilot and aircraft were lost."
  
  "Why the hell are the Americans bombarding us with beam weapons?" Thundered Hirsiz.
  
  "We have been careful to minimize casualties, military and civilian, on both sides, sir," Guzlev said. "Divisional commanders are under strict orders to tell their men that they can only fire if fired upon, except for known or suspected PKK terrorists they find."
  
  "What kind of forces are you facing, General? What units are you engaging in combat with?"
  
  "We are facing light resistance across the region, sir," Guzlev reported. "The Americans didn't fight us. They have taken up strong defensive positions inside their bases and are continuing unmanned aerial reconnaissance, but they are not attacking and we do not expect them to be."
  
  "That's right, General - make sure your units remember this," Hirsiz warned. "We have no indication that the Americans will attack us until we attack them. Don't give them a reason to come out and fight."
  
  "I update my generals every hour, sir. They know," admitted Guzlev. "The Iraqi army seems to have disappeared, probably fled towards Baghdad or just took off their uniforms, hid their weapons and will wait it out like they did when the Americans invaded in 2003."
  
  "I don't expect them to fight either, General; they don't like the PKK any more than we do. Let them hide."
  
  "PKK terrorists are on the run trying to reach larger cities," Guzlev continued. "It will take hard work to dig them up, but we will do it. We hope to keep them in the countryside so they don't run away to Erbil or Kirkuk and mingle with the population. The Peshmerga remain a significant threat, but they do not yet engage us in battle - they are fierce defenders of their cities, but they do not attack us. This may change."
  
  "It will take a diplomatic solution with the Kurdish regional government to find some way that allows us to look for PKK terrorists without fighting the Peshmerga," Hirsiz said. "Washington called all night demanding an explanation. I think now is the time to talk to them. Go on, general. Tell your people: job well done. Good luck and happy hunting."
  
  "Really great news, sir," said General Orhan Zahin, secretary general of the Turkish National Security Council. "Better than expected. No one opposes us, except for a few Peshmerga fighters and PKK terrorists." Hirsiz nodded, but said nothing - he seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. "Don't you agree, sir?"
  
  "Of course," Hirsiz said. "We expected to get bogged down in the mountains, but without organized opposition, northern Iraq is wide open...especially Erbil, the capital of the Kurdistan Regional Government, which refuses to crack down on the PKK."
  
  "What do you mean, sir?"
  
  "I'm saying that if we crush Erbil, we can get the KRG to help us hunt down the PKK terrorists," Hirsiz said. "Everyone knows that companies owned by the KRG cabinet and senior management are sending money to the PKK. Maybe it's time to make them pay the price. Destroy these businesses, close the CPC pipeline, close border crossings and airspace to anything or anyone associated with the KRG and they will beg to help us." He turned to Defense Minister Jizek. "Get a list of targets in Erbil that will specifically target KRG resources and work with General Guzlev to add them to his list of targets."
  
  "We have to be careful with mission creep, sir," Jizek said. "Our goal is to create a buffer zone in northern Iraq and clear it of the PKK. The attack on Erbil goes far beyond this goal."
  
  "It's another way to destroy the PKK is to enlist the help of the Iraqis," Hirsiz said. "If they want to end our attacks and our occupation, they will help us destroy the PKK, as they should have done years ago." Jizek still looked worried, but he nodded and took notes for himself. "Very good. Now I'm going to go talk to Joseph Gardner and see if he's willing to help us."
  
  
  OVAL OFFICE, WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, DC.
  SOME TIME LATER, EARLY EVENING
  
  
  The phone next to the elbow of Chief of Staff Walter Cordus beeped, and he immediately picked up the receiver. "Call from Ankara, sir," he said. "Signals say it's from the president himself."
  
  "At last," said President Joseph Gardner. He sat at his desk watching cable news coverage of the invasion of Iraq with his National Security Adviser Conrad Carlyle, Secretary of Defense Miller Turner, and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, U.S. Marine Corps Gen. Taylor J. Bain. The videoconference was attended by Vice President Kenneth Phoenix from Nakhla Allied Air Force Base in Iraq and Secretary of State Stacey Barbeau from Aviano Air Force Base in Italy, where she went instead of continuing on to Iraq from Washington. "Connect it." He thought for a moment, then shook his hand. "No, wait, I'll make him wait and see how he likes it. Tell him to wait for me and I'll talk to him in a minute."
  
  Gardner turned to the others in the Oval Office. "Okay, we've been watching this shit fly all day. What do we know? What do we say to the person on the other end of the line?"
  
  "Obviously the Turks are after the PKK hideouts and training camps and are taking great care not to cause Iraqi or American casualties," National Security Adviser Conrad Carlyle said. "If that's really the case, we're telling our guys to lay low and stay out of this. We then tell the Turks to pull back in case there are unforeseen consequences."
  
  "Sounds reasonable to me," Gardner said. "They're going pretty deep into Iraq, aren't they, much further than their usual cross-border raids?" Everyone in the Oval Office and on the videoconferencing monitors nods. "Then the question is, are they going to stay?"
  
  "They'll be here long enough to take out any PKK insurgents they find, and then I'm sure they'll leave," Secretary of State Stacey Ann Barbeau said over her secure videoconference line from Italy. "We must call on the United Nations to monitor as soon as possible in case Kurzat Hirsiz is no longer in charge and the Turkish army wants to riot."
  
  "They won't do it on my watch, Stacey," Gardner said. "I will not tolerate a bloodbath as long as American soldiers are there and the Iraqis are not strong enough to protect their own people. They can crack down on their own Kurdish rebels in their own country if they want to, but they are not going to commit genocide in front of American soldiers."
  
  "I think they will agree to international monitors, Mr. President," said Secretary of State Stacey Ann Barbeau, "but they will want to create a buffer zone in northern Iraq with 24-hour international surveillance looking for PKK activity."
  
  "I can live with that too," Gardner said. "All right, Walter, turn on Hirsiz."
  
  A few moments later: "Mr. President, good afternoon to you, this is President Hirsiz. Thanks for talking to me sir."
  
  "I'm very happy to see that you're all right," Gardner said. "We have not heard anything from you since the declaration of a state of emergency in the country. You have not returned any of our calls."
  
  "I beg your pardon, sir, but as you can see, things are very serious here, and I have been busy almost continuously. I'm assuming this call is about our current anti-terrorism operations in Iraq?"
  
  Gardner's eyes bulged in disbelief at what he had just heard. "No sir, I'm talking about your invasion of Iraq!" Gardner exploded. "Because if it was just an anti-terrorist operation, I'm sure you would tell us when, where and how you were going to start it, wouldn't you?"
  
  "Mr. President, with all due respect, there is no need for such a tone," Hirsiz said. "If I may remind you, sir, it was a lack of respect like this that caused this animosity between our countries in the first place."
  
  "And may I remind you, Mr. President," Gardner retorted, "that Turkish warplanes are bombing bases and installations manned by the Americans? May I also remind you that I sent Vice President Phoenix and Secretary of State Barbeau on a diplomatic mission to Iraq to meet with their counterparts, and Turkey used that meeting as a smoke screen to attack positions inside Iraq, putting the Vice President in mortal danger? The Vice President is an emissary of the United States of America and my personal representative. You have no right to start hostilities when at the same time you..."
  
  "I don't need your reminders, sir!" Hirsiz interrupted. "I don't need lectures about when Turkey can take military action against the terrorists who threaten our people! The Republic of Turkey will do everything necessary to protect our land and our people! It is America and Iraq that must help us defeat the terrorists! If you do nothing, then we must act alone."
  
  "I'm not trying to lecture anyone, sir," Gardner said, holding back his anger, "and I agree that Turkey or any other nation can take any steps necessary to protect its own interests, even preventive military action. . All I ask, sir, is to inform Washington first and ask for advice and assistance. This is what allies do, am I right?"
  
  "Mr. President, we had every intention of notifying you before the start of hostilities, if time permits," Hirsiz said. Gardner rolled his eyes in disbelief but said nothing. "But that did not happen".
  
  "That's the same thing you said before the attack on the border that killed more than a dozen Americans," the president intervened. "You obviously don't feel the need to consult Washington in a timely manner."
  
  "I'm sorry, Mr. President, but what I'm telling you is true - there is tremendous pressure on us to act before another death occurs," Hirsiz said. "But this time we have shown extreme caution to minimize civilian casualties. I ordered my Minister of Defense to inform and constantly remind our divisional commanders that only PKK terrorists should be targeted. We have taken extraordinary steps to minimize civilian casualties."
  
  "And I acknowledge those efforts," Gardner said. "To my knowledge, not a single American or Iraqi has been killed. But there were injuries and significant losses and damage to equipment and structures. If hostilities continue, there may be bloodshed."
  
  "However, to my knowledge, sir, there has already been a significant, deliberate and egregious loss of equipment by Turkey - and at least one death caused by American forces."
  
  "What? Americans? Gardner stared in surprise at his national security adviser and secretary of defense. "I was assured that none of our combat units engaged in combat with anyone, let alone Turkish troops. There must have been an error."
  
  "So you deny that an American Flying Wing reconnaissance aircraft was in orbit over northern Iraq with orders to use beam weapons to shoot down a Turkish combat support aircraft?"
  
  "Flying wing... reconnaissance aircraft... beam weapon...?"
  
  "We have been watching this plane flying near the Turkish border for many days now, sir," Hirsiz said. "Although it resembles an American stealth bomber, our intelligence analysts assured our government that it was an unarmed reconnaissance aircraft owned and operated by a private United States Army contractor. Air Force Attaché &# 233; at the American embassy in Ankara admitted that this was true.
  
  "Apparently our analysts were wrong and your ambassador lied to us because the crew of the combat support aircraft reported that they were attacked by the same aircraft," Hirsiz continued. "A surviving crew member reported that the so-called reconnaissance aircraft actually fired what he called beam weapons; he reported that he felt intense heat, strong enough to kill the pilot and destroy the aircraft. Do you deny that such an aircraft operated during our operations over Iraq, Mr. President?"
  
  The President shook his head in confusion. "Mr. President, I know nothing about such an aircraft, and I certainly did not order any American aircraft to attack anyone, let alone an Allied aircraft," he said. "I will find out who it was and make sure that such actions do not happen again."
  
  "This is little consolation for the family of the pilot who died in the attack, sir."
  
  "I will find those responsible, Mr. President, and if this was a deliberate attack, they will be punished, I promise," Gardner said. "What are Turkey's intentions in Iraq, sir? When are you going to start withdrawing troops?"
  
  "Retreating? Did you say 'retreat', sir?" Hirsiz asked in a high, theatrically incredulous voice. "Türkiye is not withdrawing troops, sir. We will not leave until every single PKK terrorist is killed or captured. We didn"t start this operation and risk thousands of lives and billions of valuable equipment just to turn around before the job was done."
  
  "Sir, Turkey has committed an act of armed aggression against a peaceful country," Gardner said. "You can hunt terrorists, sir, but you do it in foreign territory, terrorizing innocent civilians and damaging the property of a sovereign state. This cannot be allowed."
  
  "And how are our actions different from the American attack on Iraq, Mr. President?" Hirsiz asked. "It's your doctrine, isn't it, to hunt down and destroy terrorists wherever they are, at any time of your own choice? We do the same."
  
  Joseph Gardner hesitated. The bastard was right, he thought. How could I object to Turkey's invasion of Iraq when that's exactly what the United States did in 2003? "Um...Mr. Buchou, you know it's not the same..."
  
  "It's the same, sir. We have the right to defend ourselves, just like America does."
  
  Luckily for the president, Walter Cordus was holding a postcard with "UN" scrawled on it. Gardner nodded in relief, then spoke, "The difference, sir, is that the United States got permission to invade Iraq from the United Nations Security Council. You weren't looking for that kind of approval."
  
  "We've been seeking this approval for many years, sir," Hirsiz said, "but we've always been denied. The best thing you or the United Nations could ever do is declare the PKK a terrorist organization. We were authorized to name them, but they could kill Turks with impunity. We decided to take matters into our own hands."
  
  "America has also been offered assistance by many other countries in trying to track down al-Qaeda terrorists and jihadists," Gardner said. "This surprise attack looks more like an invasion than an anti-terrorism operation."
  
  "Are you offering help, Mr. President?" Hirsiz asked. "That would certainly hasten our progress and ensure a faster retreat."
  
  "Mr. President, the United States has repeatedly offered to help track down PKK terrorists in the past," Gardner said. "We have been providing intelligence, weapons and financial resources for years. But the goal was to avoid open warfare and violations of sovereign borders - to prevent exactly what happened, and what other disasters might occur if hostilities did not stop."
  
  "We are grateful for your assistance, sir," Hirsiz said. "Türkiye will always be grateful. But this was simply not enough to stop the terrorist attack. It's not America's fault. The ruthless PKK forced us to act. Any help you can provide in the future would of course be extremely helpful and greatly appreciated."
  
  "We would love to help you track down the terrorists, Mr. President," Gardner said, "but as a token of goodwill, we would like to ask if the United Nations peacekeeping force can replace the Turkish ground forces, and could you allow international observers and staff to law enforcement to patrol the Turkish-Iraqi border."
  
  "I'm sorry, Mr. President, but this is not good at all," Hirsiz said. "We are convinced that the United Nations is an ineffective force and has made no progress in any area of the world where its peacekeepers are deployed. In fact, we believe that such forces would be biased against Turkey and in favor of the Kurdish minority, and that the hunt for PKK terrorists would take a backseat. No sir, Türkiye will not accept peacekeepers at this time."
  
  "I hope you and Prime Minister Akas will be ready to discuss this matter, sir? By the way, I expected to hear from the Prime Minister. She is all right? We have not seen her or heard of her."
  
  "I think you'll find that the prime minister is as firm on this issue as I am, Mr. President," Hirsiz said flatly, ignoring Gardner's questions. "International observers would only exacerbate the security situation, cultural, ethnic and religious tensions in the region. I'm afraid there is no room for compromise at the moment."
  
  "I understand. I also want to discuss Vice President Phoenix," Gardner continued. "He was forced to evade Turkish military aircraft and ground forces while flying to Erbil for our scheduled talks."
  
  "This is an unfortunate case, sir. I assure you, no attempt was made to attack any aircraft at all. As far as we know, the PKK does not have an air force. Where is the vice president now, sir?"
  
  "The vice president is effectively a prisoner of the Turkish army and air force at the Iraqi air base at Tall Kaif, north of Mosul," Gardner said after considering carefully whether he should disclose the information. "It is surrounded by Turkish troops and has been repeatedly fired upon by Turkish warplanes. He definitely fears for his safety. I demand that all Turkish forces evacuate the area and allow the Vice President to leave the base and proceed to his next destination."
  
  "His next destination?"
  
  "His original destination: Erbil," Gardner said. "The Vice President still has a mission: to negotiate a settlement between Iraq, America, the Kurdish regional government and Turkey to suppress the PKK and restore peace, security and order in the border region."
  
  "Lovely goals, these are," Hirsiz said dismissively. There was a significant pause on the other end of the line; then: "Mr. President, I'm sorry, but the security situation is completely unstable and uncertain throughout northern Iraq and southern Turkey. No one can guarantee the safety of the vice president in cities, especially those controlled by Kurds and infested with the PKK."
  
  "So you will keep the vice president in jail in Iraq? Is that what you want to tell me, sir?"
  
  "Of course not, sir," Hirsiz replied. "I only think about the security of the vice president, nothing else." Another long pause followed; then: "I swear on my honor that I will see to it that the Vice President is safely escorted to the Turkish border under heavy guard, in full cooperation with your secret security service, and from there he can be escorted to the American air base at Incirlik for return to the United States. I also promise that Turkish forces will not interfere in the slightest if the Vice President decides to go to Baghdad. But since Turkish troops have not advanced further south than Mosul, I cannot guarantee its safety. Traveling right now is just not recommended, I'm afraid."
  
  "Let me be clear on this, Mr. Hearses-are you telling me that you are going to dictate the terms, routes, and procedures by which the Vice President of the United States of America can move around a sovereign country that is not yours?" Gardner asked incredulously. "Let me advise you, sir: I am going to send the vice president or anyone else whenever I want, anywhere, to Iraq or any other friendly country, and I swear to God if I see or receive any instructions to that anyone makes even a gesture in his direction with the slightest thought of harm, I will see to it that he is pressed ten feet into the ground. Am I being clear, sir?"
  
  "Rough and noisy as ever, but I get it," Hirsiz said in a completely neutral tone.
  
  "Make sure you do it, sir," said President Gardner. "And when can I expect to speak directly with the prime minister about the state of emergency and start a dialogue to resolve the issue of the withdrawal of troops from Iraq?"
  
  "Prime Minister Akas is understandably very busy, sir, but I will convey your request to her immediately. I thank you for talking to me, sir. Please keep us in your prayers, and until we speak again-"
  
  "Tell me, Mr. Hearses," Gardner interrupted, "is Prime Minister Akas still alive, and if so, is she still in power?" Are generals now in command in Turkey, and are you president only in name?"
  
  Another long pause; then: "I'm offended by your insinuations, sir," Hirsiz said. "I have nothing more to say to you. Have a good day". And the connection was terminated.
  
  "Bastard," Gardner breathed, hanging up. "Who does he think he's talking to?" He paused, firing with red-hot intensity, then almost screamed, "What the hell was that about a stealth bomber flying over Turkey with a damn beam weapon? What was it?"
  
  "There is only one unit that flies a reconnaissance aircraft like the one described by Hirsiz: Scion Aviation International," Defense Secretary Miller Turner said.
  
  "You mean... the McLanahan Organization?" Gardner asked incredulously. "He brought beam weapons into Iraq?"
  
  "I don't know anything about radiation weapons. He certainly was not authorized to bring any offensive weapons into Iraq or anywhere else," Turner said. "But if anyone has a high-tech weapon like this, it"s McLanahan."
  
  "I've had enough - get him out of here and do it today." Gardner pointed his finger at his secretary of defense like a dagger. "Get his ass out of Iraq and get him to the STATES now. I want his contracts canceled and all funds owed to him and his company frozen until I direct justice to investigate him and his activities." Turner nodded and picked up the phone. "Perhaps we will get more cooperation from the Turks if we start an investigation into McLanahan."
  
  "McLanahan briefed me on what happened, Mr. President," said Vice President Phoenix from Nala Allied Air Force Base. "The Turks jammed the base to hell - they cut off all communications and data transmission channels from sensors. McLanahan used a defensive laser aboard his unmanned reconnaissance aircraft to..."
  
  "Protection laser? What the hell is this? He shot a Turkish plane with a laser...?"
  
  "Just to get the Turkish plane to turn off the jamming," Phoenix said. "He didn't know he was going to kill the pilot. The Turks ended up shooting down a spy plane."
  
  "So he needs it," the president said. "He should have known that the laser would harm the pilot; he tested this thing, didn't he? He is still responsible for the pilot's death. I want him to be detained and charged."
  
  "If he hadn"t turned off this interference, I could have flown right into the center of the Turkish attack," Phoenix said. "He acted responsibly against an unknown theater attack, doing exactly what he was contracted to do."
  
  "He wasn't hired to kill people, Ken," the president said. "No American is responsible for killing anyone in Iraq, let alone an ally. We should be there to help and train, not shoot people with lasers. McLanahan has done what he always does: he uses whatever force he commands to solve the problem, no matter what happens or who he kills or injures while doing it. If you want to testify on his behalf, Ken, be my guest, but he will answer for what he did." Phoenix received no response. "Miller, how soon can you get McLanahan back to the States?"
  
  "Depending on what the Turks do, I can send a plane from Baghdad and pick it up tonight."
  
  "Do it".
  
  Turner nodded.
  
  "Mr. President, Colonel Wilhelm here in Nala keeps all his forces inside the base," Vice President Phoenix said. "Here, outside the base, there is a company-sized detachment of Turks, but everyone is trying to keep a low profile. We even gave the Turks food and water."
  
  "It just shows me that the Turks don't want war, unless you're a PKK member with a card in hand," the president said. "What is the Iraqi army doing? I hope they don't stick out either?"
  
  "Very low, Mr. President - in fact, they evacuated the base and are nowhere to be found."
  
  "What?"
  
  "They just got up and left the base," Phoenix said. "Everyone left and they destroyed everything they couldn't carry."
  
  "Why? Why, for heaven's sake, would they do this?" boomed the President. "Why the hell are we there helping them when they take off and run at the first sign of trouble?"
  
  "Mr. President, I would like to go to Baghdad and speak with the President and Prime Minister of Iraq," Vice President Phoenix said. "I want to find out what's going on."
  
  "God, Ken, haven"t you had enough action for a while?"
  
  "I think not, Mr. President," said Phoenix, smiling. "Besides, I like to fly this ingenious device with an inclined propeller. Marines don't fly slowly and leisurely unless they really have to."
  
  "If you're serious about traveling, Ken, meet with the army commander and your secret service staff and figure out the safest way to get you to Baghdad," the president said. "I don't like that you're at the center of an invasion, but being right there in the country might help. I don't trust the Turks as much as I can, so we'll rely on our own guys to get you safe and sound to the capital. I just hope the Iraqis don't give up on us either, otherwise it could be bad there. Keep me posted and be careful."
  
  "Yes, Mr. President."
  
  "Stacey, I would like to send you to Ankara or Istanbul as soon as possible, but we may have to wait until things settle down," the president said. "How about meeting with representatives of the NATO alliance in Brussels - together we can put enough pressure on Turkey to force them to withdraw their troops."
  
  "Good idea, Mr. President," said Barbeau. "I'll take care of it right now."
  
  "Fine. Tell the Turkish prime minister that the suspect in the downing of their spy plane will be in our custody for a few hours; that should make them a little more enjoyable."
  
  "Yes, Mr. President," said Barbeau and hung up.
  
  "Miller, let me know when McLanahan is on his way back to the States so I can brief Ankara," the president said. "I'd like to offer them a few gingerbread before I have to start putting the spokes in the wheels, and McLanahan should be a good gingerbread man in conclusion. Thank you all."
  
  
  CENTER FOR COMMAND AND CONTROL, NAKHLA ALLIED AIR BASE, IRAQ
  AFTER A SHORT TIME
  
  
  "I said it's too dangerous, masters," said Jack Wilhelm irritably. He was at his console in the Reservoir, studying the little information that came to him. "The Turks stopped all aerial reconnaissance and restricted the movement of troops in and around the base. Everything is too stressful right now. If we try to go outside to the crash site, they might get scared. Besides, you still don't look your best."
  
  "Colonel, a quarter of a billion dollars worth of equipment is piled up there, less than two miles from the fence," John Masters claimed. "You can't let the Turks and the locals just get away with this. Some of this is classified."
  
  "This is a crash site, masters. It was destroyed-"
  
  "Colonel, my planes are not made of flimsy aluminum - they are composite. They are a hundred times stronger than steel. The loser flew slowly and approached the ground. There is a good chance that some systems and avionics survived the impact. I have to go there to recover what I can before-"
  
  "Masters, I have orders that no one should leave the base, including you," Wilhelm insisted. "The Turkish army is in control of the situation there and I am not going to risk a confrontation with them. They allow the import and export of food, water and supplies - this is enough for me now. We're trying to negotiate with the Turks for access to the wreckage, but they're pissed because you used this to shoot down one of their planes. So stop pestering me until they cool off and start talking to us, okay?"
  
  "Every box they haul from the crash site costs me money, Colonel."
  
  "I'm sorry about your money, doc, but I really don't give a shit right now," Wilhelm said. "I know you helped me by shooting down that reconnaissance plane, but right now we have no choice."
  
  "Then I will go there and try my luck with the Turks."
  
  "Doc, I'm sure the Turks would love to have a little chat with you right now," Wilhelm said. "They would have your lasers, all the top secret black boxes, the guy who designed and built them all, and the one who used them to shoot down one of their planes and kill one of their soldiers. If you don't like the taste of truth serum or don't like having your nails pulled out with pliers, I think you're safer behind bars." This caused John Masters to swallow, become whiter than he had looked before, and shut up. "I thought not. I think we're damn lucky they don't require us to hand you over to them right now. I'm sorry about your stuff, doc, but stay where you are." He watched John turn away and couldn't help feeling a little pity for him.
  
  "I think you scared him, Colonel," Patrick McLanahan said. He stood with Director of Security Chris Thompson next to Wilhelm's console. "Do you really think the Turks would torture him?"
  
  "How the hell do I know, General?" Wilhelm growled. "I just wanted him to stop pestering me until I figured everything out and until someone in Washington or Ankara ordered to stop all this. But the destruction of this "Phantom" will not please the Turks. He studied one of the data screens with traffic updates. "Are you still bringing one of your planes in tonight? Haven't you already lost enough planes?"
  
  "It's not an XC-57, it's a regular 767 cargo plane," Patrick said. "It has already been purified and manifested by the Turks."
  
  "Why bother? You know your contract will be terminated, right? Shooting down this Phantom - no more, no less with a laser - will land you in hot water. You will be lucky if the Turks do not intercept him and force him to land in Turkey."
  
  "Then I'll still need a cargo ship to start getting my things out of the country now that they've shot down the Loser."
  
  "It's your decision, General," Wilhelm said, shaking his head. "I think the Turks approved the flight only to intercept it, force it to land in Turkey, confiscate everything you are taking to Iraq, and hold the cargo and your plane hostage until you pay reparations for the Phantom and probably you won't stand trial for murder. But it's your choice." Mark Weatherly approached Wilhelm and handed him a note. He read it, shook his head wearily, then handed it back. "Bad news, General. I have been ordered to hold you in your quarters until you can fly back to the States. Your contract has been canceled by the Pentagon, effective immediately."
  
  "The Phantom Incident?"
  
  "He doesn't speak, but I'm sure that's why," Wilhelm said. "From what we have seen, the Turks are being extremely careful not to attack us or non-PKK Iraqis. This restraint may be weakening now that they have lost the plane and the pilot, and Washington needs to do something to show that we do not want to get into a shootout with the Turks."
  
  "And I'm that guy."
  
  "A high-ranking retired bomber commander turned mercenary. I hate to say this, General, but you are the poster child of retribution."
  
  "I'm sure President Gardner was too happy to serve you, Mook," added John Masters.
  
  "Sorry, General." Wilhelm turned to Chris Thompson. "Thompson, do you mind taking the general to his squad? I don"t even know if you"ve ever slept in it before - I always found you in the hangar or in your plane - but that"s where I have to keep you now."
  
  "Do you mind if I go with him, Colonel?" John asked.
  
  Wilhelm waved to him and turned back to his console, and the group went to the living area.
  
  The residential area - Chuvil - seemed almost deserted. No one said anything as they walked along the rows of steel containers until they found the one reserved for Patrick. "I'll have your things brought here, sir," Chris said. He opened the door, turned on the light and looked around the room. There was an inner room to keep sand and dust out. Inside was a small galley, a table and chair, guest chairs, a cupboard, storage shelves and a sofa bed. "We have enough space, so you have both Chu and Wet-Chu in the middle. We have equipped the second CHU as a conference room for you and your guys; this side is your personal space. You have full Internet access, phone, TV, everything you need. If you need anything else, or if you want another seat closer to the departure line, just give us a call."
  
  "Thank you, Chris. Everything will be fine ".
  
  "Once again, Patrick, I'm sorry things are going this way," Chris said. "You were trying to get our communications back and our data channels back, not kill the guy."
  
  "This is politics coming into its own, Chris," Patrick said. "The Turks feel completely justified in what they are doing and they don't know or care why we opened fire on their plane. The White House does not want the situation to get out of control -"
  
  "Not to mention the President would love to molest you, Mook," added John Masters.
  
  "There's nothing we can do about it here," Patrick said. "I will fight as soon as I get to the states. Do not worry about me ".
  
  Thompson nodded. "No one has thanked you for what you have done, but I will. Thank you sir," he said, then left.
  
  "Great, just great," John Masters said after Thompson left CHU. "The Turks are about to dig through the wreckage of the loser, and you are stuck here under house arrest with the President of the United States ready to turn you in to the Turks as a berserk warmonger. They swell. What do we do now?"
  
  "I have no idea," Patrick said. "I'll contact the boss and let him know what's going on - if he doesn't already know."
  
  "I bet Pres..." Patrick suddenly raised his hand, which startled John. "What?" John asked. "Why do you...?" Patrick put his finger to his lips and pointed to the room. John furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. Rolling his eyes in annoyance, Patrick found a pencil and paper in the table and wrote: I think CHU are bugged.
  
  "What?" John exclaimed.
  
  Patrick rolled his eyes again, then wrote: No mention of the president. Only random conversations.
  
  "Okay," John said, not quite sure if he believed it, but ready to play along. He wrote, fixed the error?
  
  Video only, if they have one, Patrick responded in writing. John nodded. Patrick wrote: Tell Zipper and Charlie on the freighter and the rest of the crew in Las Vegas what happened to Loser...and me.
  
  John nodded, gave Patrick a sad look, then said, "Okay, Mook, I'll go back to the hangar, send messages, check the first loser, and then go to bed. It was a really lame day. Call me if you need anything."
  
  "Thank you. See you later ".
  
  Jack Wilhelm pressed a button on his console and took off his headphones, listening to the recording a few minutes after Chris Thompson returned from Cheuville. "I hardly heard anything, Thompson," he said.
  
  "They started to be very careful about what they said, Colonel," Chris Thompson replied. "I think they suspect they are being tapped."
  
  "The guy is smart, that's for sure," Wilhelm said. "Can we confiscate the paper they write messages on before they destroy them?"
  
  "Of course, if we want them to find out they are being tapped."
  
  "Too bad you didn't put a video bug there instead of just audio. There's so much high-tech equipment here and you can't install one simple crib camera? Thompson didn't say anything - he could have easily set the video bug, but he was uncomfortable setting the audio bug in the General's NC; video error was too big. "He mentioned 'boss' and then Masters said it like he was going to say 'president'," Wilhelm commented. "President of what?"
  
  "Company, I guess," Thompson said. He paused, then awkwardly added, "I don't feel entitled to eavesdrop on the general's NC, Colonel."
  
  "I received an order directly from the Chief of Staff of the Army, who received it through the Attorney General and the Secretary of Defense, to collect information on McLanahan's activities, including wiretapping and wiretapping, until the FBI and the State Department take over," Wilhelm said. "They're after this guy, that's for sure. The President wants his head on a platter. They ordered his freighter to be searched and every piece of equipment on board checked against the official manifest. If he's bringing in any unauthorized material, they want to know about it. I don't think the Turks will let him land here, but if he does, Washington wants to be searched for unauthorized weapons."
  
  "What kind of weapon?"
  
  "How the hell should I know, Thompson? You have a declaration - if it is not there, then it is smuggling. Confiscate it."
  
  "Is nobody here going to support McLanahan at all? The guy is just trying to do his job. He saved our hide during the attack and probably also saved the Vice President's hide."
  
  "McLanahan will be all right, Thompson, don't worry about him," Wilhelm said. "Besides, we have orders, and they come from the very top. I won't let guys like McLanahan ruin my career. Submit the records to the department as soon as possible."
  
  "Hey big guy."
  
  "Dad?" Nothing compares to your son's voice saying "Daddy," Patrick thought; it always made him tremble. "Where are you?"
  
  "Still in Iraq."
  
  "ABOUT". Bradley James McLanahan, who had just turned thirteen, was still a child of few words-like his old man, Patrick guessed. "When are you coming home?"
  
  "I don't know for sure, but I think it will happen soon. Look, I know you're getting ready for school, but I wanted to..."
  
  "Can I try football this year?"
  
  "Football?" It was something new, thought Patrick. Bradley played football and tennis and was adept at water skiing, but had never shown any interest in contact sports before. "Of course, if you want, as long as you get good grades."
  
  "Then you should tell Aunt Mary. She says I will be hurt and my brains will turn into mush."
  
  "Not if you listen to the coach."
  
  "Will you tell her? Here." Before Patrick could say anything, his little sister Mary was on the line. "Patrick?"
  
  "Hi Mar. How are you-"
  
  "You're not going to let him play football, are you?"
  
  "Why not, if he wants his grades too-"
  
  "His grades are okay, but they could be better if only he would stop daydreaming and journaling and drawing spaceships and jet fighters," his sister said. Mary was a pharmacist, with good grades for medical school if she had time between raising Bradley and two of her own. "Did you ever see a football game in high school?"
  
  "No".
  
  "These players are getting bigger every year, their hormones are raging, and they have more physical strength than self-control skills. Bradley is more of a bookworm than an athlete. Besides, he just wants to do it because his friends are going to try out and some of the girls in his class are going to try out for cheerleading."
  
  "It has always motivated me. Look, I need to talk to-"
  
  "Oh, I received an email this morning saying that the automatic deposit from your company has been canceled since last week. No explanation. I'm overdrawn, Patrick. It will cost me fifty dollars plus any other penalties from whoever I wrote the checks to. Can you work this out so I don't get bogged down with check payments?"
  
  "This is a new company, Mary, and there may be problems with the salary." His entire salary from Scion went to his sister to help with expenses; his entire Air Force retirement went to the Bradley Trust Fund. His sister didn't like it because the payments from Scion were irregular depending on whether the company had a contract and had the money to pay top management, but Patrick insisted. It made Bradley more of an underdog than he wanted, but it was the best deal he could make right now. "Give it a week or so, okay? I will get all charges dropped."
  
  "Are you coming home soon? Steve wants to go to the Casper rodeo next month."
  
  And there was no room for a third child in the trailer they took with them on those trips, Patrick thought. "Yeah, I think I'll be home by then and you guys can go. Let me speak to..."
  
  "He runs to catch the bus. He's always drawing, or scribbling, or writing in his notebook, and I have to tell him dozens of times to move or he'll miss the bus. Everything is fine?"
  
  "Yeah, I"m fine, but there was a little incident recently and I wanted to tell Bradley and you about it before-"
  
  "Fine. There is so much on the news lately about Iraq and Turkey and we think of you every night when we watch the news."
  
  "I think about you guys all the time. But early this morning-"
  
  "This is cute. I have to run, Patrick. This morning I am interviewing several pharmacy technicians. Steve and the kids convey their love. Bye bye". And the connection was interrupted.
  
  This was how most of their phone conversations went, he thought as he hung up: a very short conversation with his son, a complaint and a request from his sister or brother-in-law-usually a request for family time unrelated to the Bradleys-followed by a hurried farewell. Well, what did he expect? He had a teenage son, who for most of his life was either dragged around the country or left with relatives; he didn't see his father very often, only read about him in the newspapers or on television, usually accompanied by scathing criticism of dubious involvement in some near-catastrophic global disaster. His relatives certainly cared for Bradley, but they had their own lives and often viewed Patrick's antics as a means to escape the mundane family life at home.
  
  He made several calls to Scion headquarters in Las Vegas about his salary; they assured him that "the check was in the mail", although it was always transferred electronically. He was then connected to Kevin Martindale, former President of the United States and the silent owner of Scion Aviation International.
  
  "Hi, Patrick. Heard you had a rough day."
  
  "Rough as sandpaper, sir," Patrick said. One of the code words that Scion Aviation International employees were taught to use was sandpaper - if it was used in any conversation or correspondence, it meant they were under pressure or bugged.
  
  "Understood. I regret the termination of the contract. I'll try to sort it out from here, but it doesn't look good."
  
  "Don't you know, I'm going to be arrested?"
  
  "Sometime tomorrow or the day after tomorrow. I have not seen the warrant, but I expect it to be served soon."
  
  "The Turks jammed the hell out of us. We had to stop the plane."
  
  "Don't worry about it, just do what they tell you and keep quiet. You should send your cargo plane to another location. Iraq will not be safe."
  
  "We'll need this to start packing."
  
  "It's risky. The Turks will want it. They may try to capture it as it flies through their airspace."
  
  "I know".
  
  "It's your choice. Anything else for me?"
  
  "Some kind of mess with the salary. The deposit that was made a few days ago has been withdrawn."
  
  "No confusion," Martindale said. "Our accounts have been securely frozen. I'm working on it too, but now we have several departments and the White House doing it, so it will take longer. Try not to worry about it."
  
  "Yes, sir". And the call ended abruptly. Well, it won't be possible to sleep now, Patrick thought, so he turned on his laptop. As soon as he started going online and reading news from the outside world, he got a call. "McLanahan is listening."
  
  "Patrick? I just heard! Thank God you're fine."
  
  It sounded like his sister Mary was calling him back, but he wasn't sure. "Mary?"
  
  "It's Gia Cazzotto, stupid... I mean, stupid, sir," said the voice of Lieutenant Colonel Cazzotto, commander of the Seventh Air Expeditionary Squadron, with a laugh. "Who is Mary? Some young engineer in a lab coat and big glasses who turns into Marilyn Monroe when she pulls a hairpin out of her hair?"
  
  Patrick's laugh was much more strained and high-pitched than he intended. "No, no, no," he said, embarrassed by the sudden dryness in his mouth. "Mary is my sister. Lives in Sacramento. I just spoke to her. Thought she was calling back."
  
  "Of course, of course, of course, I"ve heard it before," Gia said. "Look, Patrick, I just heard about the attack on Nala and I wanted to make sure you're all right."
  
  "Jon and I have bells rung, but we're fine, thanks."
  
  "I'm in Dubai right now, but I got permission to come as soon as they let the staff come north," she said. "I want to see you and find out what happened."
  
  "That would be great, Boxer, really great," said Patrick, "but I might be leaving soon."
  
  "Let's go?"
  
  "Let's go back to Washington. Long story."
  
  "I have plenty of time, Patrick. Lay it on me."
  
  "Not 'long' as in time, but 'long' as in ... a lot of things I can't talk about."
  
  "Gotcha." There was a slightly awkward pause; then: "Hey, our seventh plane just arrived here in the United Arab Emirates today, and we received our eighth plane today in Palmdale. This one has a lot of weird stuff in the forward bomb bay, and I figured it must be one of yours. "
  
  "Did you take it to the graveyard?"
  
  "No, it was at the flight depot in Tonopah." The Tonopah Proving Ground was an air base in southern Nevada used to test secret weapons before aircraft were sent to active duty. "It has all sorts of fuel lines running here and there through bomb bays, and what looks like a car-building robot with arms and claws all over the place."
  
  "We had B-1 bombers that could recover, rearm, refuel and re-launch FlightHawk cruise missiles in flight. This must be one of them."
  
  "Damn yourself! This is great. Maybe we can put that system back together again."
  
  "I'm sure I can ask John Masters of Sky Masters Inc. send you diagrams.
  
  "Great. Any other cool stuff like that, send them in too. I no longer have Air Force purchasing officers and state employees hang up when I call to ask about getting money for stuff - they seem to be really interested in building bombers these days."
  
  "Probably because they take everything else from the Air Force, except for tankers and transports."
  
  "I'm sure". There were a few more moments of silence; then Gia said, "I hope you don't mind me calling."
  
  "I'm glad you did, Gia."
  
  "I also hope you don't mind me calling you Patrick."
  
  "I'm glad you did it. Besides, that's my name."
  
  "Don't tease me... Unless you really want to."
  
  A high-pitched screeching sounded in Patrick's ears and he felt his face flush as if he was uttering a curse in the presence of his holy grandmother. What the hell was that? He just blushed...? "No...no..."
  
  "You don't want to tease me?"
  
  "No... I mean, I really want to-"
  
  "Do you really want to tease me? Oh well done."
  
  "No...God, Boxer, you're making me stupid."
  
  "I also like to flirt a little sometimes, but I prefer teasing rather than flirting."
  
  "All right, Colonel, all right, that's enough."
  
  "Are you promoting me now, General?"
  
  "If you have to," Patrick said. A chuckle escaped like a stifled donkey's roar.
  
  "Hi, Patrick".
  
  "Yes?"
  
  "I really want to see you. What about you? Do you want to see me?"
  
  Patrick felt the blush on his cheeks turn into a warm spot in his chest, and he breathed it in, letting it fill his entire body. "I would really like that, Gia."
  
  "Mary is really your sister and not Mrs. McLanahan?"
  
  "Really my sister. My wife, Wendy, passed away a few years ago." That was only true if you thought being nearly beheaded by a crazed female Russian terrorist in Libya could be considered a "pass" but he wasn't about to discuss it with Gia now.
  
  "Sorry to hear that. Can't I go up there?"
  
  "I... don't know how long I'll be here," Patrick said.
  
  "But you can"t tell me what or why?"
  
  "Not on the phone." There was an awkward pause on the line, and Patrick hurriedly said, "I'll find out by tomorrow night, Gia, and then we'll arrange to meet." He paused, then asked, "Uh, Mr. Cazzotto isn't here, is he?"
  
  "I was wondering if you would ask," Gia said with a pleased note in her voice. "Most of the guys I meet ask about their spouse afterward."
  
  "Then?"
  
  She laughed. "If you want me to describe it to you in detail, cowboy, make yourself comfortable."
  
  "I understand the picture."
  
  "In any case, until I digress: I had a husband, but not since I returned to the Air Force and was assigned to the Forty-two plant. He is still in the Bay Area with our teenagers, a boy and a girl. Do you have children?"
  
  "A boy who just turned thirteen."
  
  "Then you know how hard it is to be away."
  
  "Yes". There was another pause, as if they were silently acknowledging the new connection between them; then Patrick said, "I'll let you know what's going on and tell you all about it when we see each other."
  
  "I'll be waiting for news from you."
  
  "One more question?"
  
  "I have all night for you."
  
  "Where did you get my mobile number? It's not published."
  
  "Oooh, secret number? Well, then I feel privileged. I called Scion Aviation and your friend David Luger gave me this. Thought you wouldn't mind."
  
  "I owe him."
  
  "In a good way, I hope."
  
  "In a very good way."
  
  "Perfect. Good night, Patrick." And she hung up.
  
  Well, thought Patrick as he hung up, this is turning into a very strange day - lots of surprises, both good and bad. Time to rear up and see what tomorrow has in store-
  
  Just at that moment there is a knock on the door. "Patrick? It's me," he heard John Masters say. "I brought the report on the number one loser you wanted to see."
  
  "Come in, John," Patrick said. He didn't ask to see any report...what happened? He heard the outer door open and close, and then the inner door open. "It could wait until tomorrow morning, John, but for now you-"
  
  He looked at the doorway and saw none other than Iraqi Colonel Yusuf Jaffar, commander of the Allied Nala Air Base!
  
  Patrick put his finger to his lips, and Jaffar nodded that he understood. "How about a cup of coffee, John? It happens instantly, but it's okay." He pulled out a notebook and wrote: ????
  
  "Sure, Mook, I'll try," John said. On the paper he wrote, New Client. Patrick widened his eyes in surprise and stared at Jaffar, who was just standing in the doorway with his hands behind his back, looking impatient. "Here is the report," he said. "Loser number one is code one. There are a bunch of spare parts on the freighter that we don't need right now - we'll need room to start hauling out our gear. The loser can take a lot of it, but we'll need more space."
  
  "We'll worry about it when the cargo ship arrives," Patrick said. He wrote: Hire offspring? John nodded. Patrick wrote: When? Why?
  
  John wrote: Tonight. Protect Iraq from Turkey.
  
  How? Patrick wrote.
  
  Take Nakhla, John wrote.
  
  I don't see how, said Patrick.
  
  Jaffar's eyes widened with impatience. He snatched the pencil from John's hands and wrote: My base, my country, my home. Help or get out. Decide. Now.
  
  
  Over SOUTH TURKEY
  A FEW HOURS LATER
  
  
  "Center of Ankara, Heir to Seven-Seven, level, flying at three-three zero over the Afsin checkpoint, Simak checkpoint estimated in twenty-six minutes."
  
  "Successor of Seven-Seven, copies from the Ankara Center, good evening. Expect the transfer to Mosul five minutes before Simak."
  
  "The seventh offspring - Seven spears."
  
  The radios fell silent for a few minutes until it sounded: "Successor of Seven-Seven, switch to the frequency of rendezvous with Diyarbakir VHF one-three-five point zero point five."
  
  It was a rather unusual request - they were well above the airspace of the local approach control tower - but the pilot did not argue: "Understood, Ankara, the Scion Seven-Seven is moving into approach to Diyarbakir." He changed the frequency, then: "Diyarbakir approach, Heir Seven-Seven, level, flight level three-three zero."
  
  A voice with a strong Turkish accent answered in English: "Successor Seven-Seven, this is Diyarbakir approach, descend and maintain altitude one hundred and seven thousand feet, turn left, heading three-four-five, vectors to Irgani junction, altimeter reads two nine nine eight."
  
  "Let's go," the pilot said across the cockpit, taking a deep, cleansing breath to control his rapidly growing arousal. He pressed the intercom button: "They just directed us to the ILS entry on Diyarbakir, sir."
  
  "Question it, but choose a vector," David Luger said over an encrypted satellite link from Scion headquarters in Las Vegas. "We are ready".
  
  "Understood you." On the radio, the pilot said: "Uh, Diyarbakir, Seven-Seven, why vector? We are operating a priority international flight as scheduled, destination Tall Kaif."
  
  "Your passage through Turkish airspace has been canceled by the Turkish Ministry of Defense and Border Security, Seven-Seven," the approach controller said. "You are instructed to follow my vectors for approach and landing at Diyarbakir. Once your aircraft, crew and cargo have been checked, you will be cleared to proceed to your destination."
  
  "This is wrong, come in for a landing," the pilot protested. "Our flight did not start or end in Turkey and we filed a flight plan. We are not subject to verification while we are only flying over your airspace. If you wish, we can leave your airspace."
  
  "You are instructed to follow my Diyarbakir approach vectors or you will be considered an enemy aircraft and we will respond accordingly," the controller said. "fighters stand ready to intercept you and escort you to Diyarbakir if you do not obey. I admit."
  
  "Approaching, we are turning on your course and descending," the pilot replied, "but I will report to my headquarters and inform them of your threat. We will submit in protest."
  
  "I was told to notify you that the American consulate has been notified of our actions and will meet with you in Diyarbakir for inspection and interviews," the inspector said after a long pause. "They will stay with you the entire time you are on the ground and will oversee all of our enforcement activities."
  
  "It's still wrong, come in for a landing," the pilot continued. "You can't distract us like that. It is illegal ". On the intercom, the pilot asked, "Do you want us to keep descending, sir?"
  
  "One more minute," Dave Luger said. The Boeing 767 cargo plane was actually a test aircraft for the high-tech sensors and transmitters fitted to the XC-57. Most of them were still installed, including the possibility of network intrusion or "disability" - sending digital instructions to an enemy computer or network by entering a code into the return signal of a digital receiver. Once the appropriate digital frequency was discovered, Luger could remotely send computer instructions to the enemy network, which, if not detected and protected by a firewall, could be distributed throughout the enemy computer network around the world like any other common piece of data.
  
  "The Diyarbakir radar is not digital, so we will have to operate in the old fashioned way," Luger continued. Netrusion only worked with digital systems - if the enemy had older analog radar systems, it wouldn't work. "You guys buckle up tight - this could be a problem." Both the pilot and co-pilot have tightened their seat belts and shoulder harnesses as tightly as possible and are still within reach of all controls.
  
  Suddenly, the radio frequency exploded in a rumbling waterfall of squeals, pops, and hisses. The voice of the Turkish dispatcher was heard, but it was completely unintelligible. "Okay, guys, the radar is jammed," Luger said. "You are cleared for direct Nala, descend smoothly to seventeen thousand feet, maintain speed. We are monitoring your threat alert receiver." The pilot swallowed hard, turned around, dropped power, and turned his nose until the airspeed reading was right at the hairdresser's speed limit. At a given airspeed and descent rate, they lost sixteen thousand feet in less than six minutes.
  
  "Okay guys, here's the situation," Dave radioed after they leveled off. "They just launched a couple of F-16s from Diyarbakir, which is bad news. I can jam the approach radar, but I don't think I can jam the fire control radars on planes - that's really bad news. We think the F-16 has infrared sensors to determine your location - that's really really bad news. They've also deployed some Patriot missile batteries to the area you're about to fly through - that's really, really - well, you get the picture."
  
  "Yes, sir. What's the plan?
  
  "We're going to try and do a little low-level terrain masking while I try to connect to the Patriot surveillance system," Luger said. "Turkish F-16s on the front lines have digital radar and data links and I think I can get inside, but I will have to wait until the data link is active and it may take a while for the Patriot to see you."
  
  "Uh, sir? It's dark outside and we can't see anything from outside."
  
  "Perhaps this is the best thing to do," Luger said. The co-pilot furiously took out his aviation route charts for the area they were flying in and laid them out on a protective screen. "I think the F-16s will try to send Patriot fire control radar vectors at you until they can pick them up with either their radar or infrared."
  
  "Accepted". Over the ship's intercom, the pilot said, "Mr Macomber? Miss Turlock? Climb into the cockpit, please?"
  
  Moments later, retired Air Force Special Operations Officer Wayne "Zipper" Macomber and former Army National Guard engineer Charlie Turlock entered the door and took their seats. Macomber, a former Air Force Academy football star and Air Force Special Operations meteorologist, found it a little difficult to squeeze his large, muscular body into the port side jump seat. On the other hand, Charlie-her real name, not the nickname given to her by her father who thought he was going to have a son-it was easy to nestle her lean, toned, athletic body in the recline jump seat between the pilots. Both newcomers put on their headphones.
  
  "What the hell is going on, Gus?" Wayne asked.
  
  "The situation that Mr. Luger informed us about? It happens. The Turks want us to land at Diyarbakir and are probably going to send fighter jets after us."
  
  "Is Luger-"
  
  "Trying to break into their air defense and data systems," the pilot said. "We jammed the proximity control radar and began to evade them, but Mr. Luger cannot disable their analog systems; he must wait for the digitally processed signal to arrive."
  
  "I didn't understand it when Luger first said it, and I don't understand it now," Macomber grumbled. "Just don"t let us crash or get hit, okay?"
  
  "Yes, sir. Thought you'd like to know. Buckle up tight - it's going to be embarrassing."
  
  "Are all your passengers buckled up?" David Luger asked.
  
  "You just turn off those Turkish radars or I'll come back and haunt you for all eternity, sir," Zipper radioed.
  
  "Hi, Zipper. I will do everything in my power. Is Charlie strapped in too?"
  
  "I'm ready to fly, David," Charlie replied.
  
  "Excellent, Charlie."
  
  Even when faced with the perilous journey ahead, Charlie turned around to see a satisfied smirk on Macomber's face. "Excellent, Charlie," he mimicked. 'Ready to fly, David'. The general wants to be sure that his beloved is safely hidden. How nice."
  
  "Bite me, Hit me," she said, but she couldn't help but smile.
  
  "Ready guys?"
  
  "As ready as we'll ever be," said the pilot.
  
  "Fine. Descend right now to eleven thousand feet and fly on a one-five-zero course."
  
  The pilot pushed the yoke forward to start the descent, but the co-pilot extended his hand to stop him. "The minimum drop height in this area is thirteen four."
  
  "The elevation in your sector is twelve hours, twenty-two miles. You will be above everything else... Well, almost everything else. I will guide you around the high ground until your moving map begins to show the terrain." The pilot gulped again, but pushed the controls forward to begin his descent. The moment they descended fourteen thousand feet, a computerized female voice in the terrain advisory and warning system roared, "Highlands, pull up, pull up!" and the cockpit GPS moving map display began flashing amber, first in front of them and then to their left, where the terrain was highest.
  
  "Great job guys," Luger radioed. "On your moving map, you should see the valley at your position for the hour. Floor nine or seven. Take over this valley. Stay at the eleven thousand level for now." The pilots saw a very narrow band of darkness surrounded by flashing yellow and now red rectangles, the red marking the area above their altitude.
  
  "What is the width, sir?"
  
  "That's wide enough for you. Just watch the turbulence." At that very moment, the crew was thrown from their seat belts by wave after wave of turbulence. The pilot struggled to maintain heading and altitude. "It's...getting...worse," the pilot grumbled. "I don't know if I can keep it."
  
  "This valley should be fine until you reach the border in about eighteen minutes," Luger radioed.
  
  "Eighteen minutes! I can't keep this up for-"
  
  "Get up!" Luger interrupted. "Full power, hard climb to thirteenth, heading two-three-zero, now!"
  
  The pilot pushed the throttles to full throttle and pulled back on the controls as hard as he could. "I can't apply! Location-"
  
  "Turn around now! Hurry up!" The pilots had no choice but to turn, tug on the controls until the plane hovered on the very edge of the stall... and pray. The flashing red blocks on the terrain warning display touched the very tip of the aircraft icon...they were seconds away from disaster...
  
  ... and then at that moment the color changed from red to yellow, signifying that they were within five hundred feet of the ground. "Oh Jesus, oh God, we made it..."
  
  And at that moment, a flash of fire shot past the cockpit windows, less than a hundred yards ahead of them. An eerie yellow flash of light filled the cockpit, as if the world's largest flashbulb had just gone off right in front of them, and the pilots even felt a surge of heat and pressure. "What was it?" shouted the co-pilot.
  
  "Heading two-three-zero, eleven thousand feet," Luger reported. "Everything is fine? I admit."
  
  "What was it?"
  
  "Sorry guys, but I had to do this," Luger said.
  
  "Do what?"
  
  "I've taken you to the kill zone of a Patriot missile battery."
  
  "What?"
  
  "This is the only way I could get the data rate for the Patriot and between the Patriot and the F-16," Luger said.
  
  "God damn it... We almost got hit by a Patriot missile... ?"
  
  "Yes, but only one thing - they must be trying to save the missiles," Dave said. "Maybe they just launched it as a warning, or it could have been a decoy missile."
  
  "How about a little warning the next time you hold us at gunpoint, sir?" Macomber broke down.
  
  "No time for chatter, Zipper. I've blocked the Patriot's data link frequency, and I'm waiting for them to start talking to the F-16. Once they do, I can turn them both off. But I need you to be on top, right on the edge of Patriot commitment. If I keep you too low, the F-16 may switch to its infrared sensor and not use the Patriot radar. That means I'll have to give him another good look at you. Fly on a one-nine-zero course and climb twelve thousand. Fifteen minutes to the border with Iraq."
  
  "He's crazy," the 767 pilot muttered, undoing the knots in his hands and fingers. He began a gentle ascent and a turn to-
  
  "Okay, guys, the Patriot is back and it's got you, seven hours, twenty-nine miles," Dave said a few moments later. "Still in sector scan mode... Now it"s in target tracking mode... Come on guys, what are you waiting for...?"
  
  "If he verbally controls the movement of the F-16, he can get into range of his IR sensor without using a data link, right?" asked the pilot of the freighter.
  
  "I was hoping you wouldn't think about it," Luger said. "Fortunately, most Patriot radar technicians are not air traffic controllers; their job is to make the system do its job. Okay, get down to eleven thousand and let's hope that as you go down, they will..." A moment later: "Got it! Datalink active. A couple more seconds... Come on, baby, come on... Got it. Turn quickly on a course of one-six-five, keep moving until eleven thousand. F-16 is on your six o'clock, fifteen miles and is coming, but it must swerve to your right. You will have the Iraqi border at eleven o'clock, about thirteen minutes."
  
  The picture just kept getting better and better. "Okay, guys, the F-16s are close to six miles, but they're way to your right," Luger said a few minutes later. "He is pursuing a target sent to him by a Patriot battery. Down to ten thousand."
  
  "What happens when he gets into range of his IR sensor and we are not there?" asked the pilot of the freighter.
  
  "I hope he thinks his sensor is defective."
  
  "Successor of Seven-Seven, this is Yukari One-One-Three Second Flight, Air Defense Fighter-Interceptors of the Turkish Republic Air Force," they heard on the UHF emergency security frequency. "We are at your six o'clock position and are in radar contact with you. Your orders are to rise to seventeen thousand feet, lower the landing gear and turn right on a course of two-nine-zero, straight for Diyarbakir."
  
  "Go ahead and answer him," Dave said. "Keep this course. Your radar flash will follow his orders."
  
  "Yukari, this is Heir Seven-Seven, we are turning around and gaining altitude," the pilot of the cargo ship radioed. "Take care of your weapons. We are unarmed."
  
  "Successor Squad, leader Yukari One-One-Three will join you on the left side," the F-16 pilot radioed. "My wingman will remain at your position at six o'clock. You will see our control light. Don't be scared. Continue your turn and climb as ordered."
  
  "He's six miles from the ghost target," Dave said. "Hang in there guys. There are eight minutes left to the border."
  
  Another sixty seconds went by without any radio communication until: "Heir flight, what is your altitude?"
  
  "One hundred and four thousand," said Dave Luger.
  
  The Scion of Seven-Seven is giving one hundred and four thousand for one hundred and seven thousand, the pilot of the freighter replied.
  
  "Turn on all your outside lights immediately!" - ordered the Turkish fighter pilot. "Everyone turn on the lights!"
  
  "Our lights are on, Yukari's flight."
  
  "He's two miles from the decoy," Dave Luger said. "He probably has his pilot light on and only looks at..."
  
  The cargo ship pilots waited, but heard nothing. "Heir base, this is Seven-Seven, do you understand?" No answer. "Heir Base, Seven-Seven, do you hear?"
  
  The co-pilot's mouth dropped open in shock. "Oh shit, we've lost our downlink to HQ," he breathed. "We are dead meat."
  
  "Great. The perfect time for all this high-tech equipment to go into action," Zipper complained. "Get us out of here, Gus!"
  
  "We're heading straight for Nala," the pilot said as he pushed the throttle forward. "I hope these guys don't shoot us if we cross the border."
  
  "Let's try that terrain masking thing again," the co-pilot suggested. The terrain shown on the moving map display in the cockpit still showed some hills, but it quickly smoothed out as we moved south. "We can go down to nine-seven in a few miles, and in twenty miles we can go all the way to-"
  
  At that moment, the cockpit was filled with an intense white light coming from the left side, hot and bright as noon. They tried to see whoever it was, but they couldn't look anywhere in that direction. "God damn it!" the pilot shouted. "I am blinded by the flash, I cannot see-"
  
  "Stand up, Gus!"
  
  "I said I can't take control, I can't see anything, damn it," said the pilot. "Ben, get behind the wheel...!"
  
  "Seven-Seven offspring, this is Yukari One-One-Three, second flight, we have you in sight," the Turkish fighter pilot radioed. "You will immediately retract the landing gear and turn right onto heading two-nine-zero. You are being tracked by Turkish batteries of surface-to-air missiles. Submit immediately. The use of deadly force was authorized."
  
  "Your light blinded the pilot!" - radioed the co-pilot. "Don't shine it in the cockpit! Turn that thing off!"
  
  A moment later, the lights went out... And a second later, a second burst of cannon fire followed from the twenty-millimeter nose cannon of the Turkish F-16. The muzzle flare was almost as bright as an inspection spotlight, and they could feel the thick supersonic projectiles slicing through the air around them, the shockwaves bouncing off the windows of the Boeing 767's cockpit just a few dozen yards away. "That was the last warning shot, Scion of Seven-Seven," said the Turkish pilot. "Follow my instructions or you will be shot down without further warning!"
  
  "What the hell are we supposed to do now?" - Asked Zipper. "We are sunk."
  
  "We have no choice," said the co-pilot. "I am turning..."
  
  "No, keep moving towards Nala," Charlie said. She reached out and flipped her rotary transmission switch from "intercom" to "UHF-2". "Yukari Flight One-One-Three, this is Charlie Turlock, one of the passengers on Scion Seven-Seven," she radioed.
  
  "What the hell are you doing, Charlie?" Macomber asked.
  
  "Playing the cards of gender and sympathy, hit - they are the only ones we have left," Charlie said from the cockpit. On the radio, she continued, "Flight Yukari, we are an American cargo aircraft on a peaceful and authorized flight to Iraq. We are not a military aircraft, we are not armed, and we have no hostile intentions against our allies, the people of Turkey. There are nineteen souls on board this flight, including six women. Let's continue our flight in peace."
  
  "You must obey immediately. This is our last order."
  
  "We're not going to turn around," Charlie said. "We are almost at the Iraqi border, and our transmissions on the international emergency security channel are certainly monitored by listening posts from Syria to Persia. We are an unarmed American cargo plane flying legally over Turkey. There are nineteen souls on board. If you shoot us down now, bodies and debris will fall in Iraq and the world will know what you did. You may think that you have valid orders or a good reason to open fire, but you will be responsible for your own judgment. If you believe your leaders and want to follow their orders to kill us all, fine, but you must pull the trigger. Now our lives are in your hands."
  
  A moment later, they saw, then felt, a tongue of white-hot flame rush past their left cockpit windows, the only afterburner plume from an F-16 fighter. "He is moving around, maneuvering behind us," said the co-pilot. "Crap; Oh shit ...!" They could feel the presence of the jets behind them, practically feel the adrenaline and sweat from the bodies of the Turkish pilots as they turned to kill. Seconds passed...
  
  ... then more seconds, then a minute. Nobody breathed for what seemed like an eternity. Then they heard, "Successor Seven-Seven, this is Mosul Approach Control on GUARD frequency, we're showing you your planned border crossing. If you hear Mosul approaching, turn on modes three and C to normal and call me on two-four-three point seven. Confirm immediately."
  
  The co-pilot replied hesitantly, and everyone else let out a collective sigh of relief. "Dude, I thought we were done," Macomber said. He reached out and patted Charlie on the shoulder. "You did it, dear. You talked us out of this. Good job ".
  
  Charlie turned to Macomber, smiled, nodded her thanks... and promptly threw up on the cabin floor in front of him.
  
  
  NAKHLA ALLIED AIR BASE, IRAQ
  AFTER A SHORT TIME
  
  
  "Are you eggheads crazy?" Colonel Jack Wilhelm exploded as Wayne Macomber and Charlie Turlock were escorting other passengers and crew off a Boeing 767 cargo plane as soon as it was parked at the base. "Don't you understand what's going on there?"
  
  "You must be Colonel Wilhelm," Macomber said as he reached the bottom of the airstairs. "Thank you for the warm welcome in Iraq."
  
  "Who are you?"
  
  "Wayne Macomber, Head of Security, Scion Aviation International," Wayne replied. He did not offer Wilhelm his hand, which further angered the regimental commander. The two men were about the same height and weight, and they immediately began to evaluate each other. "This is Charlie Turlock, my assistant." Charlie rolled her eyes but said nothing. "I'm going to drain the dragon - and maybe change my underwear after this flight - and then I need to talk to the general and head egghead John Masters."
  
  "First of all, you are not going anywhere until we check your documents and cargo," Wilhelm said. "You're not even supposed to get off that damn plane before customs checks."
  
  "Customs? This is an American plane landing on an American base. We do not deal with customs."
  
  "You are a private jet stationed at an Iraqi base, so you need to be cleared at customs."
  
  Macomber looked at Wilhelm. "I don't see any Iraqis here, Colonel, just private security ... and you." He took the folder from the pilot's hand. "Here are our documents, and here is the pilot. He'll do all the customs crap on you and whatever the Iraqis want to take with them. We don't have time for customs. Let's do our thing. You stay away from us and we will stay away from you."
  
  "I've been ordered to inspect this plane, Macomber, and that's what we'll do," Wilhelm said. "The crew remains on board until the completion of the check. Thompson and his men will conduct the inspection, and you'd better cooperate with them, or I'll send you all to the brig. Clear?"
  
  Macomber looked like he was about to protest, but he gave Wilhelm a slight nod, smiled, and handed the packet back to the pilot. "Ben, go with Gus." Wilhelm was about to protest, but Macomber said: "The pilot was injured during the flight. He needs help. Do it quickly guys," and motioned for the others to follow him back up the air stairs. They were followed by two of Thompson's security personnel and a German Shepherd dog on a leather leash. A group of Thompson's security guards began to open the cargo doors and luggage compartment hatches to begin their inspection.
  
  Inside the aircraft, one security officer began to inspect the cockpit while another seated Macomber and the other passengers in their seats and inspected the interior of the aircraft. In the forward section of the cabin of a Boeing 767 cargo aircraft behind the cockpit, on one side, there was a removable galley and toilet, and on the other side, next to the front door, were two fiberglass containers with the inscription "LIFE RAFT" and reinforced tape seals wrapped around them with the inscription DEPT OF DEFENSE. Behind them was a forward-facing removable passenger seat tray with seating for eighteen passengers. Behind them were eight semi-circular cargo containers, four on each side of the aircraft, with narrow aisles between them, and behind them was a baggage tray covered with nylon mesh and secured with nylon straps.
  
  The second security officer raised the radio to his lips: "I counted eighteen crew and passengers, two life raft containers, a galley and toilet, and eight A1N cargo containers. The life raft inspection seals are secure."
  
  "Understood," was the reply. "The number of passengers is being checked. But the manifest lists only six A1Ns." The officer looked at the passengers suspiciously.
  
  "No wonder it took so long to get here - we're overwhelmed," Macomber said. "Who brought the extra containers? Is that all your makeup back there, Charlie?"
  
  "I thought it was your knitting, Zipper," Turloc replied.
  
  "I'm going to walk down the aisle with K-9," the security officer said. "Don't make any sudden movements."
  
  "Can I go pee first?" Macomber asked.
  
  "After the toilet has been inspected and the K-9 has passed through the cabin," the officer replied.
  
  "How long it will be going on?"
  
  "Just cooperate." The guard began to lead the dog down the aisle, touching the seat pockets and gesturing under and between the seats, indicating where he wanted the dog to sniff.
  
  "Cute dog," Wayne said as the dog approached him.
  
  "No talking to K-9," the officer said. Macomber smiled, then frowned back.
  
  "The cabin is free," said the first security officer. He began looking around the galley and lavatory, finishing in a few minutes.
  
  "Come on man, I'm going to explode here."
  
  "No talking," said the second officer. It took another three minutes to complete K-9. "You can get up and leave the plane," the second officer announced. "You must go directly to the officer outside who will check your passports and identification papers. Leave all things on the plane."
  
  "Can I use the jar first?"
  
  The second guard looked like he was about to say no, but the first guard waved his hand. "I will look after him," he said. Macomber rushed to the toilet while the others left. The second officer continued his inspection at the rear of the cabin among the cargo containers.
  
  It was a controlled bedlam outside of the plane. Security officers used forklifts to unload containers from cargo bays underneath the aircraft, which the K-9s sniffed. The crew could see K-9s standing in front of some of the containers; they were tagged and moved to a separate area of the nearby hangar. Another officer checked each passport with its holder, then made each person wait with others nearby, under the watchful eye of an armed security officer.
  
  Chris Thompson came up a little later and looked at the group of passengers. "Where's Macomber?"
  
  "Still in the closet," Charlie Turlock replied. "He's not a very strong pilot."
  
  Thompson looked up at the air stairs. "Chuck? What's going on up there?"
  
  "Lots of grunts and moans and brown clouds," replied the first security officer who was waiting for Macomber.
  
  "Hurry him up." Thompson turned back to Charlie. "Could you help me with the declaration, miss?" he asked. "There are a few inconsistencies that I hope you can clear up for me."
  
  "Certainly. I am familiar with everything on board." She followed Thompson to various container piles.
  
  Upstairs in the cabin, the first security officer said, "Come on, mate."
  
  "Almost done". The officer heard the sounds of flushing, then running water, and the toilet door was unlocked. Even before the door was fully opened, the unbearable smells inside caused the officer to suffocate. "God, buddy, what the hell were you eating on that-"
  
  Macomber hit him once in the left temple with his right fist, rendering him unconscious without a sound. He quickly dragged the officer forward, placed him on the cabin floor, closed the door, then returned to the cabin and ripped off the protective tape around the first life raft container.
  
  Outside the plane, Thompson pointed to various piles of containers. "They are clear and consistent with the declaration," he told Charlie, "but these do not match here." He pointed to a large pile of containers across the taxiway in the hangar, now under armed guard. "The dogs were either warned about drugs or explosives in them, and they also did not comply with the declaration. The declaration does not mention that you are importing explosives."
  
  "Well, it's certainly not drugs," Charlie said. "There is a great explanation for all these undocumented containers."
  
  "Fine".
  
  Charlie pointed to the square containers. "These are CID battery packs," she explained. "There are four pairs of battery packs in each case. Each pair is attached to the recesses behind the hips. These other containers also have battery packs, but they are for Tin Man devices. They are worn in pairs on the belt."
  
  "Criminal investigation? Tin Woodman? What is this?"
  
  "CID stands for Infantry Cybernetic Device," Charlie said matter-of-factly. "CID is a manned combat robot. The Tin Man is the nickname for a commando who wears armor called BERP, or Ballistic Electronic Propulsion Process. The suit has an exoskeleton that gives the commandos enhanced strength, and the BERP material makes it invulnerable to... well, any infantry and squad level weapons and even some light artillery. Those things over there are sets of tasks for the criminal investigation units, some of which contain grenade launchers and UAV launchers." She smiled at Thompson's shocked expression. "Do you understand all this?"
  
  "Are you... are you kidding, miss?" Thompson stuttered. "Is this some kind of joke?"
  
  "This is not a joke," Charlie said. "Look. I'll show you." She turned to a large, irregularly shaped device the size of a refrigerator and said, "CID One, activate." In front of Thompson, who could not believe his eyes, the device began to unfold piece by piece, until a few seconds later a ten-foot robot appeared in front of him. "This is a criminal investigation." She turned and pointed to the top landing of the air stairs. "And this is the Tin Woodman." Thompson looked and saw a man dressed from head to toe in sleek dark gray clothing, wearing a multi-faceted bullet-shaped helmet with no eyes, a belt with two round devices attached to it, thick knee-high boots and gloves with thick mittens reaching to the elbows.
  
  "CID One, pilot," she said. The robot crouched, stretched its leg and both arms back, and a hatch opened on its back. "Have a nice day," Charlie said, patting Thompson on the shoulder, then climbed up the outstretched leg into the robot. The hatch closed, and a few seconds later the robot came to life, moving just like a human with incredible fluidity and animation.
  
  "Now, sir" - the robot spoke in a male voice through a hidden speaker with a low electronically synthesized voice - "order your people not to interfere with me or the Tin Woodman. We don't intend to harm you. We are going to-"
  
  At that moment, someone inside the plane called out, "Stop or I'll send my dog!" The tin woodcutter turned inside the cargo hold, and immediately shots were heard. Thompson saw the Tin Woodman flinch, but he didn't fall.
  
  "Oh my god, that wasn't a good idea," said the woman inside the CID robot. Zipper really hates being shot at.
  
  The Tin Woodman raised no weapons, but Thompson saw a bright flash of light briefly illuminating the aircraft's cargo hold. No more shots were heard. The Tin Woodman jumped off the plane onto the runway as easily as he stepped off the curb. He called one of the guarded men and pointed at the plane. "Terry, get dressed. José, come on board." He conducted an electronic search on his list of radio frequencies stored in the memory of the on-board computer. "General? Bay here."
  
  "Hi Zipper," Patrick replied. "Welcome to Iraq".
  
  "We've dropped trou and this shit is bound to hit the fans very soon. Do something to calm the grumblers if you don't want to have to fight."
  
  "I'm on my way to the ramp. I'll ask the Masters, Noble and the rest of the Scion guys to help you. I'm sure we'll meet Colonel Wilhelm there soon."
  
  "Without a doubt. We deal with-"
  
  "Stand!" yelled the security officer guarding the passengers, raising his MP5 submachine gun.
  
  "Excuse me for a second, General," Macomber radioed. Once again, the Tin Woodman did not move or even look at the officer, but Thompson saw blue lightning shoot out of the Tin Woodman's right shoulder and hit the security officer right in the chest, knocking him unconscious immediately.
  
  The tin woodcutter approached Thompson. The other security officers around them froze in surprise; some retreated and ran to warn others. None of them even dared to reach for their weapons. The Tin Woodman grabbed Thompson by the jacket and lifted him off the ground, poking his armored head straight into Thompson's face. "Charlie asked you to tell your people that we won't hurt anyone here as long as you leave us alone?" Thompson was too stunned to answer. "I suggest you get your head out of your ass, get on the radio and tell your people and the army guys to stay in their barracks and leave us alone, otherwise we might hurt someone. And it would be better if they didn't break any of our things, given the way they operate these forklifts." He abandoned Thompson and let him get away.
  
  Macomber electronically scanned the radio frequencies detected by his CID sensors and compared them to the list uploaded by the international Scion Aviation team in Nala, selected one, then spoke, "Colonel Wilhelm, this is Wayne Macomber. Can you hear me?"
  
  "Who is this?" Wilhelm answered a moment later.
  
  "Are you deaf or just dumb?" Macomber asked. "Just listen. My men and I unload our equipment onto the ramp and prepare to fly. I don't want to see any of your people anywhere in sight, or we're going to rip off a new one for you. You understand me?"
  
  "What the hell did you say?" Wilhelm thundered. "Who is this? How did you get to this frequency?"
  
  "Colonel, this is Charlie Turlock," Charlie interrupted on the same frequency. "Excuse Mr. Macomber's expression, but he's had a long day. What he meant to say is that we're here on the ramp starting our new contract operations, and we'd appreciate it if your people didn't show up here. Would that be okay? There was no answer. "Great job, Zipper," Charlie radioed. "Now he's furious and he's going to bring the whole regiment."
  
  "Not if he's smart," Wayne said. But he knew that was exactly what he would do. "You and José, put on your backpacks and be ready. Terry, let's pack up the rail guns and get ready to rumble."
  
  Charlie hurried to the hangar where the backpacks of weapons were stacked, followed shortly by another CID unit, and they selected and attached large backpack-like devices to each other. The backpacks carried 40mm grenade launchers, each with twin movable barrels that could fire in virtually any direction no matter which way they were pointed, and could fire a variety of munitions, including HE, anti-tank, and anti-personnel. Zipper and another Tin Woodman discovered and assembled their weapons-massive electromagnetic rail tracks, each of which electrically fired a thirty-millimeter depleted uranium shell thousands of feet per second faster than a bullet.
  
  It didn't take long for Wilhelm to arrive in the Humvee. He pulled up right in the parking area, far enough away to have a good view of the scene. As he dazedly surveyed the area in disbelief, three soldiers with M-16s jumped out of the Humvee, one hid behind the Humvee, and the other two fanned out and took cover behind nearby buildings.
  
  "Warhammer, this is Alpha, those Scion guys are not under arrest," Wilhelm said over the Hammer's radio. "They are unloading their planes. There is no security at all. They deployed unidentified robot-like units with visible weapons. Get the First Battalion out here for a double. I want-"
  
  "Hold on, Colonel, hold on," Macomber interrupted on the command frequency. "We don't want to quarrel with you. Calling in troops and starting a firefight will only piss off the Turks on the outside."
  
  "Warhammer moves to Delta".
  
  But on the secondary channel, Macomber continued, "You can change channels all day long, Colonel, but we'll still find it. Look, Colonel, we won't bother you, so don't bother us, okay?"
  
  "Sir, a car is approaching, five o'clock!" one of the soldiers shouted. A Hummer was approaching Macomber's position.
  
  "Don't shoot Colonel, it's probably McLanahan," Macomber radioed.
  
  "Shut the hell up, whoever you are," Wilhelm radioed, pulling a .45 pistol from its holster.
  
  The rookie stopped and Patrick McLanahan came out with his hands up. "Calm down, Colonel, we're all on the same side here," he said.
  
  "Damn it!" cried Wilhelm. "Sergeant, take McLanahan into custody and place him in Triple C under guard."
  
  "Carefully!" one of the soldiers shouted. Wilhelm had just caught a blurry movement out of the corner of his eye - and, as if by magic, a gray-suited figure who had been near the hangar appeared from the sky right next to the soldier closest to McLanahan. In an instant, he snatched the M-16 rifle from the soldier's frightened hands, bent it in half and returned it to him.
  
  "Now stop this shit, all of you," Macomber called out, "or I'll smash the next M-16 on someone's head."
  
  The other armed soldiers raised their weapons and aimed them at Macomber, but Wilhelm held up his hands and shouted, "The weapons are strong, the weapons are strong, put them down." It was only then that he noticed that one of the large robots had appeared right next to him, crossing the twenty or thirty yards between them with incredible speed and stealth. "God...!" he breathed, amazed.
  
  "Hi Colonel," Charlie said in her electronically synthesized voice. "Good call. Let's chat, okay?"
  
  "McLanahan!" cried Wilhelm. "What the hell is going on here?"
  
  "Mission change, Colonel," Patrick replied.
  
  "What mission? Whose mission? Your mission is over. Your contract has been cancelled. You are under my jurisdiction until someone takes your ass back to Washington."
  
  "I have a new contract, colonel, and we are going to launch it right now."
  
  "New contract? With whom?"
  
  "With me, Colonel," the voice said, and to Wilhelm's surprise, Iraqi Colonel Yusuf Jaffar stepped out of the back seat of Patrick's Hummer, followed by Vice President Ken Phoenix and two Secret Service agents.
  
  "Jaffar... I mean, Colonel Jaffar... what's the matter? What's happening?"
  
  "Gen. McLanahan's company has been hired by the government of the Republic of Iraq to provide ... shall we say, specialized services," Jaffar said. "They will be based here in Nala, under my supervision."
  
  "But this is my base...!"
  
  "You are mistaken, sir. This is an Iraqi airbase, not an American one," Jaffar said. "You are guests here, not homeowners."
  
  "McLanahan can't work for you! He is American".
  
  "Scion Aviation International has received State Department approval to operate in three dozen countries around the world, including Iraq," Patrick said. "The original contract was a joint cooperation agreement with both US Central Command and the Republic of Iraq - I just reported to you. I now report to Colonel Jaffar."
  
  "But you're under arrest, McLanahan," Wilhelm protested. "You are still under my protection."
  
  "As long as the general is in my country and at my base, he is subject to my laws, not yours," Jaffar said. "You can do whatever you want with him when he's gone, but now he's mine."
  
  Wilhelm opened his mouth, then closed it and opened it again in total confusion. "This is crazy," he said at last. "What do you think you're going to do, McLanahan?"
  
  "Baghdad wants to help convince the Turks to leave Iraq," Patrick said. "They think the Turks will start ravaging the country trying to root out the PKK and then create a buffer zone along the border to make it harder for the PKK to come back."
  
  "All we're going to do is piss off the Turks and widen the conflict," Wilhelm said. "You're crazy if you think President Gardner will let you do that."
  
  "President Gardner is not my president and he is not Iraq," Jaffar said. "President Rashid is doing this because the Americans won't help us."
  
  "Help you? Can I help you with what, Colonel?" Wilhelm asked, almost pleading. "You want us to start a war with Turkey? You know how these Turkish invasions work, Colonel. They come, they attack some isolated camps and shelters, and they return home. This time they went a little deeper. So what? They are not interested in taking any land."
  
  "And General McLanahan will be here to make sure that doesn't happen," Jaffar said. "America will not interfere in this."
  
  "Are you going to replace my regiment with McLanahan and his robot planes and robot...whatever those things are?" Wilhelm asked. "His small company against at least four Turkish infantry divisions?"
  
  "They say Americans don't have much faith - they only believe in what's right under their noses," Jaffar said. "I saw that this is true for you, Colonel Wilhelm. But I look at the amazing planes and armaments of General McLanahan, and all I see are possibilities. Perhaps, as you say, the Turks won't take our land and kill innocent Iraqis, and we won't need a general's guns. But this is the largest group that has ever entered Iraq, and I am afraid that they will not stop at defeating several camps."
  
  Jaffar walked up to Wilhem and stood right in front of him. "You are a fine soldier and commander, Colonel," he said, "and your unit is brave and has sacrificed much for my people and my country. But your president is leaving Iraq."
  
  "That's not true, Colonel," Wilhelm said.
  
  "Vice President Phoenix told me that he was ordered to go to Baghdad and talk to my government about the Turkish invasion," Jaffar said, "including the creation of a security buffer zone in Iraq. Gardner not only condones this invasion, but is also willing to give up Iraqi soil to appease the Turks. This is unacceptable. I look at you and your forces here at my base and all I see is hardship for my people."
  
  He walked over to Patrick and looked at the Tin Woodman and the CID there on the ramp. "But I look at General McLanahan and his weapons and I see hope. He is ready to fight. It may be for the money, but at least he is willing to lead his people into battle in Iraq."
  
  Wilhelm's expression changed from anger to surprise to outright confusion. "I don't believe what I hear," he said. "I have a whole brigade here... And I'm supposed to do nothing in the midst of a Turkish invasion? I'm supposed to sit back and watch while you complete assignments and ship these... these tinker toys? Baghdad is going to fight with the Turks? Five years ago you didn't have an organized army! Two years ago, your unit didn't even exist."
  
  "Excuse me, Colonel, but I don't think you're helping yourself here," Vice President Phoenix said. He approached the army colonel. "Let's go to your command center, let me brief Washington on what's going on and ask for guidance."
  
  "You don"t buy this nonsense, do you, sir?"
  
  "I don't see that we have much choice now, Colonel," Phoenix said. He put a hand on Wilhelm's shoulders and led him back to his Hummer. "Sort of like watching your daughter go to college, isn't it? They are ready for a new life, but you are not ready to see them off."
  
  "So, General McLanahan," Yusuf Jaffar said after Wilhelm and his men left, "as you Americans say, the ball is now in your side. You know the desires of Baghdad. What are you going to do now?
  
  "I think it's time to check the real intentions of the Turks," said Patrick. "So far, everyone has been very cooperative, which is good, but they are still in your country with a lot of troops and aircraft. Let's see what they do when you start pushing."
  
  
  CHAPTER SEVEN
  
  
  Courage is the price that life takes to provide peace.
  
  -AMELIA EARHART
  
  
  
  NAKHLA ALLIED AIR BASE, IRAQ
  IN THE NEXT MORNING
  
  
  "Motion at the main gate, sir!" - the Turkish captain of the troops surrounding the Nakhla airbase heard on his portable radio. "The war machines are lining up for the exit!"
  
  "Bomb!" the captain scolded. "What's happening?" He threw his coffee out the window and got out of his armored personnel carrier. A Humvee with an American flag and a trailer drove into the capture zone, and another Humvee with a trailer was waiting for its turn outside. Machine guns and grenade launchers were installed in the gun turrets of each vehicle, but they still had canvas covers, they were fixed in the stowed position, and the gunners' places were not staffed.
  
  "Where do they think they are going?" asked the captain of the Turkish infantry.
  
  "Should we stop them?" the first sergeant asked him.
  
  "We have no orders to interfere with their activities unless they attack us," said the captain. "Other than that, we just observe and report."
  
  The Turks watched the first Hummer drive out, then drove away from the main gate and stopped to wait for the second. The Turkish captain approached the front passenger seat of the lead vehicle. "Good morning, sir," he said. He saw that it was a civilian. He knew that the Americans employed many civilians to work on their military bases, but to see one of them here was rather strange.
  
  "Good morning...er I mean jiünaydin," the man said in awkward but understandable Turkish. "How are you?"
  
  "Very well, sir," the captain said in a low voice. The American simply smiled and nodded. The Turk took the opportunity to look inside the Hummer. There were two civilians in the back seats, and in the very back seat, under a green tarpaulin, were a lot of supplies. One civilian passenger looked like a military man, and he was wearing strange equipment that looked like a scuba diver's wetsuit, covered by a jacket. He looked straight ahead and did not answer the Turk's gaze. The twenty-foot flatbed trailer was empty.
  
  The American held out his right hand. "John Masters".
  
  The Turkish captain frowned, but took his hand and shook it. "Captain Evren"
  
  "Nice to meet you," John said. He looked around. "Are you guys all right here? Can we offer you something?"
  
  "No, efendim," Evren said. He was waiting for some kind of explanation, but apparently this person was not interested in offering anything other than chatter. "May I ask where you are going, sir?"
  
  "I'm just driving."
  
  Evren looked at the flock of Humvees, then back at John with a hard expression. "At this hour and with trailers?"
  
  "Why not? I've been here in Iraq for a couple of weeks and I haven't seen anything in the countryside. Thought it best to do it while things are looking up."
  
  Evren did not understand even half of what the guy had just said, and he began to get tired of his stupid smile. "May I ask, please, where are you going, sir, and what do you intend to do with the trailers?" he repeated, much more insistently.
  
  "Very close." John drew a circle with his finger. "Around. Somewhere here."
  
  Evren began to get angry with the guy, but he did not have the authority to detain him. "Please be aware of other military vehicles, sir," he said. "Some of our larger vehicles have limited visibility for the driver. A collision with a main battle tank would be bad luck for you."
  
  The veiled threat seems to have had no effect on the American. "I'll tell the others," he said lazily. "Thanks for the tip. Now goodbye." And the convoy set off.
  
  "What shall we do, sir?" asked the first sergeant.
  
  "Let the checkpoints tell me their location as they pass," Evren said, "then send someone to follow them." The first sergeant hurried away.
  
  The Humvee drove around the base from the north side along the public highway. They passed a Turkish army checkpoint at one intersection, where they were stopped so that the soldiers could look inside the vehicles, but were not detained or searched. They drove north a couple more miles, then pulled off the highway and drove further north across a muddy open field. Ahead, they saw stakes driven into the ground with yellow "Caution" and "Do Not Enter" tape stretched between them, and a few hundred yards behind them was the wreckage of a Scion Aviation International XC-57 Loser. The Turkish missiles apparently missed aircraft directly, but proximity fuses detonated the warheads next to the fuselage-mounted engines, shearing off two of them and sending the aircraft to the ground, it landed on the left forward section, crushing most of the left wing and the left side of the nose, and a fire broke out, but the rest of the aircraft received what can be called moderate damage; most of the right side of the aircraft was relatively undamaged.
  
  A lone Russian IMR engineering vehicle was parked at the border with Lenta, with two Turkish soldiers serving as guards. The IMR had a rear-mounted crane and a bulldozer-like blade at the front. The soldiers gave up cigarettes and coffee and switched on walkie-talkies when they saw the convoy approaching. "Khair, khair!" one of them shouted, waving his arms. "Durun! Gidin!"
  
  John Masters climbed out of the Humvee and trudged through the mud towards the soldiers. "Good morning! Gunaydin!" he shouted. "How are you? Do any of you guys speak English?"
  
  "Don't come here! Don't stay!" shouted the soldier. Tehlikeli! It's dangerous here! Yasaktir! Forbidden!"
  
  "No, it's not dangerous at all," John said. "You see, this is my plane." He patted his chest. "My. It belongs to me. I'm here to take some parts with me and check it out."
  
  The first soldier waved his arms in front of his face in a cross motion, while the second raised his rifle, not pointing it, but making it visible to all. "No entry," the first one said sternly. "Forbidden".
  
  "You can't stop me from exploring my own plane," John said. "I have permission from the Iraqi government. You guys aren't even Iraqis. What right do you have to stop me?"
  
  "No entry," said the first soldier. "Leave. Get back." He took out his walkie-talkie and began to speak, while the second soldier raised his rifle to port in an obvious menacing gesture. When the first soldier finished radioing his report, he waved his arms as if trying to drive the teenager away, yelling, "Go away now. Siktir git ! Forward!"
  
  "I'm not leaving without looking at my plane... what have you guys done to my plane," John said. He walked quickly past both soldiers, then walked back to the plane. The soldiers followed him, shouting orders in Turkish, confused and angrier by the second. John raised his hands and walked back faster. "I won't be long guys, but I'm going to take a look at my plane. Leave me alone!" John ran to the plane.
  
  "Dur! Stop!" The second broad-shouldered raised his rifle to firing position, but did not aim at John, apparently to fire a warning shot. "Stop or I-"
  
  Suddenly, the rifle was snatched from his hands in the blink of an eye. The soldier turned around ... and saw a man dressed in a dark gray suit from head to toe, a helmet with no eyes straight out of a sci-fi comic, a frame of thin flexible tubes all over the skin, thick gloves and boots. "Aman Allahim...!"
  
  "Don't be rude," the figure said in electronically synthesized Turkish. "No weapons," he reached out with incredible speed and snatched the portable transmitter from the second soldier, "and no walkie-talkies. I will return them only if you show me that you can behave yourself." The Turks retreated, then began to run away when they realized that they were not going to be taken prisoner.
  
  "Let's go guys," John said as he walked towards the damaged XC-57. "See, I told you it wouldn't be so bad."
  
  "Scoundrel number one, it's Genesis," Patrick McLanahan radioed Wayne Macomber. "A couple of cars are heading your way, about ten minutes away." Patrick launched a small AGM-177 Wolverine unmanned attack aircraft that was delivered by Freighter 767. It looked like a cross between a cruise missile and a surfboard. It was usually air-launched, but had the ability to be launched from a truck-mounted catapult. The Wolverine carried infrared and millimetric imaging and targeting sensors so that it could autonomously locate, attack, and re-attack targets programmed for it. It had three internal weapon bays for attacking different types of targets, and could also attack a fourth target by flying into it in a kamikaze style. "Radar picked up the helicopter about ten minutes to the east," he added. "We don't know if it's heading here or just patrolling, but it's close."
  
  "Agreed, Genesis," Macomber replied. He waved the Humvees over. "Come on, we have a company, go there and help the egghead," he ordered. "I want to get out of here as soon as possible." Hummers pulled up and technicians began unloading power tools to begin opening the plane.
  
  "I'll be here at least all day, maybe for the next two days," John Masters said on the radio.
  
  "Masters, I'm not here to ferry the entire plane back to base," Macomber replied over the radio. "Grab all the classified materials and only the essential black boxes left intact, and let's get out of here. We operate openly, three hundred Turkish soldiers are following us and another fifty thousand in the area." This reminder seemed to make everyone work a little faster.
  
  "This helicopter is definitely heading your way," Patrick radioed. "In about seven minutes. The ground forces have increased in size - now there appear to be six vehicles, four armored personnel carriers and two armored vehicles. What does the plane look like?
  
  "Masters says it doesn't look too bad," Zipper said. "I think he would say that if it was nothing more than a smoking hole in the ground."
  
  "You are right about this. Okay, they're setting up roadblocks north and south of the highway and all six cars are heading your way."
  
  "Accepted".
  
  "No fighting unless absolutely necessary, Scoundrel. We are still friends, remember."
  
  "I know. Until now, I have been extremely cordial and sweet."
  
  "Now they should be in sight on the highway."
  
  Wayne turned to see a total of about twenty soldiers with rifles being unloaded from the trucks, armored personnel carriers on guard at the sides of the trucks and unloading their own equipment, and the same Captain Evren John, whom he spoke to at the main gate, was examining them through binoculars. "In sight. So far I see only infantry weapons. Scoundrel, that's one, we've got a bloodhound, get ready." A few minutes later, Zipper saw several soldiers and Captain Evren getting into their armored personnel carriers and slowly driving towards them. "Here they go."
  
  Evren's APC stopped about thirty yards in front of Zipper, and five soldiers dismounted, fanned out about six yards apart, and lay prone on the ground with their rifles raised. Zipper noticed that there was a man in the gunner's turret on the roof of the armored personnel carrier, and the barrel of a 12.5-millimeter machine gun was pointed directly at him; a Russian-made AT-3 "Sagger" anti-tank missile was mounted on the launch rail, aimed at one of the Humvees. The second armored vehicle moved away, turning sharply towards the XC-57.
  
  "You!" Evren shouted in English. "Raise your hands and turn around!"
  
  "Khair," Vzhik replied in Turkish through his electronic translator. "No. Leave us alone."
  
  "You are not allowed access to the aircraft."
  
  "We have permission from the Iraqi government and the plane's owner," Wak said. "This is a legitimate rescue operation. Leave us alone."
  
  "I repeat, raise your hands and turn around, or we will open fire."
  
  "I am American, I am unarmed, and I have permission from the Iraqi government. You are a Turkish soldier. I disobey your orders."
  
  Now Evren seemed to be bewildered. He took out his portable transmitter and spoke into it. "He's obviously reached the limit of his rules of engagement," Vak said over the command network. "That's where it starts to get interesting. Watch out for the second armored personnel carrier; he is covering my flank and heading your way."
  
  "Came in sight, First," came the reply from Charlie Turlock.
  
  "The helicopter is about five minutes away, rascal," Patrick said.
  
  "Accepted. Let's hope it's just TV news." Zipper thought for a moment. "I'm getting nervous about this machine gun and the Sagger rocket on this armored personnel carrier, guys," he said. "Everyone, find some cover away from the Humvee." Through his interpreter, he said, "Pull your weapons away immediately!"
  
  "You will surrender immediately or we will open fire!" Evren shouted back.
  
  "I'm warning you, put away your weapons and leave us alone, or I'm going to kill you," Zipper said. "I don"t care about this shit with NATO allies - put down your guns and leave, or you"ll all wake up in the hospital."
  
  Through the sensitive microphones built into the Tin Woodman's suit, Vak heard Evren say the word ates. There was a three-shot rifle burst, and all three bullets hit Macomber's left thigh. "God bless it," growled Macomber. "That guy shot me in the goddamn leg."
  
  "He was just trying to hurt you," Charlie said. "Calm down, Zipper."
  
  Evren was visibly startled to see that the figure was still standing, although he clearly saw that all the bullets had hit. "One more warning, buddy," shouted Zipper in Turkish. "If you don't drop your weapons, I'm going to play a little tune on your skull with my fists."
  
  He heard Evren say: "Hey, bebe, sikak!", which meant: "Twelve and the baby, go ahead," and Zipper radioed: "Into cover, knock out armored personnel carriers, now!" Just at the moment when the gunner of the 12.5 mm machine gun opened fire.
  
  Throwing out a stream of super-compressed air, Zipper took off into the air and landed on an armored personnel carrier. The gunner attempted to follow him as he swam towards him, nearly knocking himself out of the dome. After Zipper landed, he bent the barrel of the machine gun until the weapon exploded from the pressure of the unreleased gases. But he wasn't fast enough to stop the AT-3. A wire-guided missile derailed and hit one of the Humvees, sending it flying in a cloud of fire. "Everything is fine?" he contacted by radio.
  
  "It was clear to everyone," said John Masters. "Thanks for the warning".
  
  "Can I break some heads now, general?" Macomber asked.
  
  "I don't want anyone to get hurt, bastard, unless they attack John and the technicians," Patrick said. "Take only their weapons."
  
  "When are we going to end this 'Kumbaya' routine, sir?" asked Macomber in an undertone. "Scoundrel two, can you take out twelve point five and "Sagger" without causing harm..." But at that moment, there was a small explosion on the roof of the second armored personnel carrier, and the gunner jumped out of the dome, knocking out sparks and small flames from his uniform. "Thank you".
  
  "Don't mention it," Charlie said.
  
  The Turks opened continuous rifle fire on Vzhik as he jumped off the APC and approached Evren; they did not stop firing until Zipper grabbed Evren by the jacket and lifted him off the ground. "I politely asked you to leave us alone," Zipper said. "Now I'm going to be not so nice, Arcadas." As easy as tossing a tennis ball, the impact threw Evren a hundred yards through the air, almost to the highway. He then ran up and did the same to the other Turkish soldiers around him, who did not run away. "Is that okay, Genesis?"
  
  "Thank you for your restraint, scoundrel," Patrick replied.
  
  Macomber jumped onto another APC, but the Turkish troops had already fled...because they saw Charlie Turlock aboard a cybernetic infantry device guarding the other side of the crash site. She carried her own electromagnetic railgun and a backpack with a 40mm rocket launcher, which contained eight vertically launched rockets with high-explosive, anti-personnel bombs and smoke warheads, plus a backpack for reloading in a Hummer. "Is everything all right, Second?"
  
  "It's all clear to me," Charlie replied. She pointed to the east. "This helicopter is in sight. Looks like a standard Huey. I see a door shooter, but there is no other weapon."
  
  "If he points that gun anywhere near our guys, get it."
  
  "I already shot him. Looks like there was an operator at the door with him. Smile - you are filmed on a hidden camera.
  
  "Just wonderful. Hosts...?"
  
  "I don't even have all the access doors open yet, Wayne," John said. "It will take me at least an hour just to figure out what's what. It should not take long to extract the main components and LRU - a maximum of three hours. But I'd like at least eight hours to...
  
  "I don't know if you have eight minutes, even eight hours, but keep moving and we'll hold them back as long as we can," Zipper said.
  
  "Maybe if you'd helped us, we'd have finished faster," John suggested.
  
  Zipper sighed inside his armor. "I was afraid you would say that," he said. "Charlie, you have security. I'm going to be a mechanic for a while."
  
  "Understood you. This helicopter is entering our orbit. Looks like they're taking pictures. The door gunner doesn't track anything on the ground."
  
  "If it looks like he's about to fight, pin him down."
  
  "With pleasure".
  
  "We are engineers, not mechanics," John corrected him. "But you'll be a bomber."
  
  "Well, that's more like the truth," Zipper said.
  
  
  OVAL OFFICE, WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, DC.
  AFTER A SHORT TIME
  
  
  The President picked up the phone. "Hello President Hirsiz. This is President Gardner. What can I do for you today?"
  
  "For once, you can withdraw your fighting dogs, sir," said Kurzat Hirsiz from Ankara, "unless you are looking for war."
  
  "Are you referring to the incident at the crash site north of Mosul?" Gardner asked. "As far as I understand, three of your soldiers were wounded and two armored vehicles were damaged. That's for sure?"
  
  "Do you have an explanation for this deliberate attack?"
  
  "You will have to talk to the Iraqi government. The United States government had nothing to do with it."
  
  "It is not true. These... these things are American weapon systems. The whole world knows it."
  
  "The robot and armored commandos were experimental designs and they were never used directly by the US government," Gardner said, using a story he and his staff came up with the minute they got a call from Vice President Ken Phoenix of Nala. "They belong to a private company that the US Army has contracted to provide security for its forces in Iraq."
  
  "So they really work for the American government!"
  
  "No, because after the incident with your spy plane, their contract with my government was terminated immediately," Gardner said. "Then the company received a contract from the Iraqi government. They were working for the Iraqis when this incident happened. To be honest, I don't know at all why your troops ended up at the crash site. They didn't rob the plane, did they?"
  
  "I am outraged by such a hint, sir," Hirsiz said. "Turkish soldiers are not criminals. The aircraft was involved in the downing of a Turkish aircraft and the killing of a Turkish pilot; the troops simply guarded the plane until an official investigation could begin."
  
  "I understand. You should have better communicated your intentions to the Iraqis and to us. But that would be difficult in the midst of an invasion, wouldn"t it?"
  
  "So, is that your plan now, Mr. Gardner, to let the Iraqis take the blame for America's actions?"
  
  "Mr. President, your troops are on Iraqi soil, bombing Iraqi villages and killing Iraqi civilians-"
  
  "We only target PKK terrorists, sir, terrorists who kill innocent Turks!"
  
  "I understand, sir, and I agree that something needs to be done about the PKK, and the United States has promised more help to Turkey for that. But we do not approve of a full scale ground invasion of Iraq. I warned you about the unforeseen consequences.
  
  "As for the contractors in Nakhla, they work for the Iraqis and are not under our direct control, but we are still Iraqi allies and can stand up for you. The United States would be happy to sit down at the negotiating table with Turkey, the Kurdish regional government, and Iraq to promote an immediate ceasefire by all parties, including contractors; the schedule for the withdrawal of troops; and more comprehensive security measures on the Iraqi-Turkish border, including international monitors, to prevent PKK terrorists from crossing the border. But nothing will happen as long as Turkish troops are involved in combat operations inside Iraq, sir."
  
  "So this is a conspiracy: America uses these robots against Turkish troops, pretends they are not involved, but then offers to mediate negotiations as long as there is a ceasefire," Hirsiz said angrily. "Again, Turkey is a victim, forced to yield in everything, pushed aside and ignored. Then no one notices when another Turkish plane is shot down or another police station is smashed to smithereens."
  
  "Trust me, Mr. President, we want to help Turkey," Gardner said. "Türkiye is one of America's most important friends and allies. I understand your anger. We can send monitors, technology, even personnel to patrol the border. But nothing will happen as long as the fighting continues. They must stop immediately and Turkish troops must leave Iraq. There is no other way."
  
  "There is only one way we will agree to international observers along our border, Mr. Gardner: the Kurdistan Regional Government must disavow the PKK and all plans to form an independent state of Kurdistan," Hirsiz said. "The KRG should remove its flag from all public places, arrest PKK leaders and hand them over to us for trial, dismantle all PKK training bases and shut down all companies that support the PKK."
  
  "Mr. President, what you are asking is impossible," President Gardner said after a moment's hesitation. "The KRG governs the constitutionally permitted Kurdish region of northern Iraq. As far as I know, they never supported the PKK."
  
  "As long as the KRG exists and tries to separate its territory from the rest of Iraq, the PKK will use terrorism to try to achieve this," Hirsiz said. "You know as well as I do that some members of the leadership of the KRG have a business that secretly launders money and transports weapons and supplies from Iraq and abroad to Turkey. Many, not only Turkey, consider the Iraqi PKK a secret military wing of the KRG."
  
  "That's nonsense, Mr. President," Gardner insisted. "There is no relationship between the KRG and the PKK."
  
  "They both want an independent Kurdistan divided into the provinces of Turkey, Iraq, Persia and Syria," Hirsiz said angrily. "The Kurdistan Regional Government obviously does not want to openly recognize a terrorist group like the PKK, so they support them covertly and oppose any effort to shut them down. This will stop immediately! The KRG can govern the three Iraqi provinces of Dahuk, Erbil and Sulaymaniyah, but they must do so without advocating an independent Kurdistan or trying to expand into the Turkmen-majority western provinces. Otherwise, our offensive continues."
  
  Joseph Gardner ran a hand over his face in desperation. "So you will agree to negotiations, Mr. President?"
  
  "No negotiations until the KRG agrees to stop supporting the independent state of Kurdistan and agrees to condemn the PKK and bring its leaders to justice for crimes against humanity," Hirsiz said. "If Baghdad and Erbil cannot take control of the PKK in Iraq and get them to stop killing innocent Turks, we will get the job done. Good afternoon, sir." And he hung up.
  
  The President hung up. "People shouldn't be allowed to have so much fun," he muttered. He addressed his advisers in the Oval Office. "Tell the KRG to stop all plans for independence?" He snapped his fingers. "Of course we can do it. The only part of Iraq where everything is in order, and Hirsiz wants to be closed. Fabulous".
  
  "But he opened the door for negotiations, sir," Chief of Staff Walter Cordus said. "Always take a high position and hope that everyone will meet somewhere in the middle." The President looked sideways at him. "At least this is the beginning of negotiations."
  
  "I think you could call it that," the president said. "Did you hear all this, Ken? Stacey?
  
  "Yes, Mr. President," said Ken Phoenix from Nala Allied Air Base. "The Turkish Air Force is attacking the northeastern provinces of Iraq, especially the provinces of Erbil and Dahuk. I doubt that the KRG or Baghdad will negotiate while the Turks are attacking their towns and villages."
  
  "NATO is meeting later today to discuss a resolution directing Turkey to cease fire," said Secretary of State Stacey Ann Barbeau from Brussels, Belgium, headquarters of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization. "But the resolution has already been reduced to a request for a ceasefire. The Turks have significant support in the council here - they are sympathetic to the ongoing attacks by the PKK, despite Turkish attempts to provide the Kurds in Turkey with more aid, a stronger voice in government, and fewer cultural and religious restrictions. I don't think Turkey will face much pressure from NATO or the European Union."
  
  "They don't get much from Congress either," the president said. "Most don't understand the whole issue of Kurdistan, but they understand terrorism and right now they see the PKK as a problem. Turkey will end up lingering in Iraq and public opinion will change, especially if they try to expand the conflict."
  
  "And the last thing they need is an excuse to expand the conflict...which brings me back to McLanahan," Barbeau said caustically. "What the hell is he doing there, Mr. Vice President?"
  
  "He's apparently going to help the Iraqis defend themselves against the Turks," Phoenix replied. "This mission to his crashed plane was a test to see what the Turkish army would do. They seemed to do nothing until they went to the crash site. The Turks were getting ready to move or dismantle the aircraft and they tried to drive them off."
  
  "And McLanahan attacked."
  
  "I was watching the drone images coming over the scene," Phoenix said, "and I was listening to the audio as it happened. McLanahan's forces did not attack until the Turks did, and they even gave them a second warning after a soldier fired at the Tin Woodman commando. After it became obvious that the Turks were going to attack the workers, the Tin Woodman and the CID went to work."
  
  "And what is happening now?"
  
  "Some of the Turks surrounding the Nakhla Air Base here turned around near the crash site," Phoenix said. "Dr. Masters and his workers are still at the crash site, recovering black boxes and classified equipment. McLanahan's drones have spotted several Turkish ground units en route, but they fear the Turkish Air Force is attacking. The Turks lowered helicopters near this place and fired at them with several mortars in an attempt to scare them and force them to retreat."
  
  "You know, I don't have much sympathy for McLanahan right now," Gardner said. "He decided to turn the tail of the tiger, and now they can bite his ass off. We are trying to find ways to de-escalate the conflict and he just goes and finds new ways to escalate it."
  
  "We'll find out what happens next once Masters starts coming back here to Nala," Phoenix said. "There are about a hundred soldiers and six armored vehicles waiting for him on the highway, and I'm willing to bet they're furious."
  
  "I want our guys to stay away from this," the president ordered. "Americans should not interfere. This is McLanahan's fight . If his guys get hurt or die because of him, it"s his fault."
  
  "We should contact the Turkish prime minister and call for restraint, sir," Phoenix said. "The McLanahan guys are in the minority. Even with the Tin Woodman and SID on the loose, there is no way they can get through the Turkish army. The Turks will want some revenge."
  
  "I hope McLanahan is smart enough not to try to confront the Turks," the president said. "Stacey, contact the Akas office again, explain the situation and ask her to contact the Department of Defense so that the army can hold back."
  
  "Yes, Mr. President."
  
  "McLanahan interfered in a big way," the president said, moving on to other matters. "Unfortunately, it is his guys who will suffer for this."
  
  
  NEAR ALLIED AIR BASE NAKHLA, IRAQ
  AFTER A SHORT TIME
  
  
  "They are coming!" Charlie Turlock screamed. "Hit...?"
  
  "I understand," Wayne Macomber replied. He had kept his electromagnetic railgun at the ready ever since the first mortar round had been fired at them about an hour ago. Charlie Turlock's millimeter-wave radar system built into her CID robot scanned the skies around them for miles, allowing her to detect projectiles and instantly relay tracking and targeting information to Wayne's targeting computers.
  
  Charlie Turlock also carried her electromagnetic railgun, but all of her shells had already been used up to destroy the mortars, and her reload was detonated when the Sagger destroyed the first Humvee. The 40mm rockets in her pack might not have been fast enough to intercept the mortar rounds, but Macomber's railgun was more than capable. He simply raised his rifle, using his suit's powered exoskeleton as a platform for precise aiming, and followed the tracking information relayed from the CID. He didn't have much to supervise the mortar attack - the electromagnetic railgun projectiles flew dozens of times faster than a sniper rifle bullet and easily destroyed the projectile.
  
  Salvo! Charlie screamed. "Four more coming!"
  
  "Bastards," Zipper muttered. This was the first time they fired more than one at a time. He easily hit all four, but now there are problems. "I'm running out of ammo - I've got the last magazine, six more left," he said. "I will also need fresh batteries for my rifle and for myself."
  
  One of the technicians ran over to the remaining Hummer, searched it for a few moments, then ran over to Macomber. "There are no more fresh batteries left," he said. "We'll have to connect you."
  
  "Great," Zipper said. The technician unplugged the power cord from the storage compartment on the back of Macomber's suit, ran it back to the Hummer, and plugged it into a power outlet. "Charlie, you'll have to try to intercept some more ammo. I'm going to level up my power before we start moving. I have just enough charge in my gun to fire the last remaining rounds."
  
  "Understood," Charlie replied. "I did not see any of these projectiles explode, and on the projected track, you can see that they missed us. Maybe it's not live ammunition. They throw them up just to see what we'll do."
  
  "I'm glad we're giving them some entertainment," Zipper said. "Can you figure out the location of the attack?"
  
  "Have already done. They didn't move him. I can destroy them if you want, or drop a gas rocket on them."
  
  "I don't want these guys to lose their temper just yet, and we need to conserve ammo," Zipper said.
  
  "Another helicopter is coming, guys," Patrick McLanahan radioed. "This time from Turkey, the speed is higher. Maybe it's a warship. In about ten minutes."
  
  "Accepted," Wayne Macomber replied. "Okay, doc, time to pack up."
  
  "Patrick said ten minutes? I will take it ".
  
  "No, because in ten minutes we will be within range of missiles that a helicopter can carry, and then it will be too late," Zipper said.
  
  "Okay," John said ruefully. "We received a laser radar and satellite communication units. I think this should be enough. Too many things for one Humvee; we'll have to put it all in the trailer."
  
  It didn't take long for the group to gather their gear. Zipper walked ahead, holding his railgun high so that all the Turkish soldiers could see him. Charlie carried her spare rucksack in her armored left arm and an empty electromagnetic railgun in her right, hoping the mere sight of it might frighten some of the Turks. All the engineers were gathered in the surviving Humvee, and all their tools, equipment, and recovered boxes were in the trailer.
  
  "How soon will our help arrive, General?" Zipper asked over his secure command channel.
  
  "They look like they're changing formation, Zipper," Patrick asked. "Try to play for as long as possible."
  
  "What about that helicopter?"
  
  "A couple more minutes."
  
  "These numbers don't match, General," Zipper said grimly. Through the Turkish command channel he discovered, he said, "Listen, Captain Evren. We go out. We don't want to quarrel with you guys. We are going to return our things to the base. Make way."
  
  "No, Americans," Evren replied a moment later, surprised that his radio channel was being used by robots. "You will be detained and this equipment will be confiscated. You attacked members of my unit and myself. For this you should be punished."
  
  The impact stopped the convoy. "Captain, listen to me very carefully," he said. "You know what we can do. What you may not know is that we have an unmanned aerial vehicle circling overhead. If you don't believe me, look up." At this point, Patrick turned off and restarted the AGM-177 Wolverine engine he was holding in orbit over the area, causing a trail of brown smoke to be visible for a few seconds. "This is an attack drone, and it can destroy all your armored vehicles and your people with guided bombs. I'll have you fly over your lines before we move there, and when that's done, we'll take care of anyone still standing. Now step aside."
  
  "I have an order, American," Evren said. "You lay down your weapons, turn off the power of the robot and drone, and surrender. If you do not, we will attack."
  
  "There's an ID for this approaching helicopter, Zipper," Charlie said. "Combat ship "Cobra". More surpluses in the US. I don't see his weapon, but I'm willing to bet it's loaded for the "bear".
  
  "Last chance, captain," Zipper said. "Otherwise we will start shooting. Step aside ".
  
  "I won't. Surrender or be killed. In case you haven't noticed, we have our own air support. It's not as advanced as your drone, but I assure you it's deadly. After it attacks, there will be nothing left of you, which you say we need to take care of."
  
  "First I have to destroy that Cobra, Charlie," Zipper said. "Watch my back - they will definitely open fire when-"
  
  Suddenly Charlie yelled, "Rocket launch!"
  
  "Where from, Charlie?"
  
  "Behind us!" Just at that moment, they heard a loud BANG! Zipper and Charlie turned around just in time to see a spiral of white smoke shoot up and hit the Cobra. The helicopter began to roll sharply to the right, seemed to wobble, then began a downward spin in autorotation until it crashed into the ground in a hard but survivable crash.
  
  "Stop shooting! Don't open fire!" Zipper shouted through the Turkish command channel. On their separate channel, he radioed: "I hope it was you, Jaffar."
  
  "Yes, Macomber," Colonel Yusuf Jaffar replied over a separate command channel. His northern battalion shot down a Cobra gunship with a shoulder-fired Stinger missile. "Sorry we're late, but I guess you came early. Doesn't matter. We are all here and ready to fight the Turks."
  
  "I hope no one attacks anyone here," Zipper said. He gave Jaffar the frequency of the Turkish company, then said on this channel: "The warship "Cobra" was shot down by an Iraqi anti-aircraft missile, Captain Evren," he said. "The Iraqi Nakhla Brigade is advancing to this position." At that moment, he could see the Turkish troops on the right begin to fidget and rustle; they apparently got a visual representation of the northernmost battalion. "Captain Evren?"
  
  After a somewhat long and uncomfortable pause: "Yes, an American."
  
  "I'm not in command of the Iraqi army, and you really invaded their country," Wak said, "but my forces aren't going to attack unless we're attacked first. I also ask Colonel Jaffar not to attack. He overhears. He's going to escort my team back to Nala airbase. I urge everyone to remain calm and not pull the trigger. Captain, if you want to send a team to inspect a downed Cobra, you can do so. Colonel Jaffar, would that be acceptable?"
  
  "That would be acceptable," Jaffar replied.
  
  "Fine. Captain, we're moving out. Make way, and everyone stay calm."
  
  It was quite an impressive sight. Pulling off the main highway north of Nala, the Tin Woodman and forensic robot, now with rail guns on their shoulders, were driving a Humvee, a towing trailer full of spare parts and tools, across an open field. Turkish platoons were lined up on both sides of the highway in front of them. A full battalion of Iraqi infantry advanced from the northwest, and another Iraqi battalion advanced along the highway northeast of the base. They all converged at the intersection of two highways.
  
  Wayne found Captain Evren on the side of the highway, stopped and saluted him. The captain saluted back, but kept his eyes on the ten-foot CID striding towards him, also saluting. "My God...!"
  
  "Charlie Turlock, Captain Evren," Charlie said, holding out her large armored arm after lowering the salute. "How are you? Thank you for not shooting."
  
  Evren was stunned by the robot's flexibility and realistic movements. It took him several long, funny moments to take the robot's hand and shake it. "It...it is a machine, but it moves like a human...!"
  
  "Woman, if you don't mind," Charlie said.
  
  Colonel Jaffar arrived a few minutes later. Evren saluted, but Jaffar did not answer her. "So, you are in command of this company, Turk?"
  
  "Yes, sir. Captain Evren, Saya Company, 41st Security Division -
  
  "I don't care who you are or what unit you belong to, Turk," Jaffar said. "All I care about is when you come home and leave my country alone."
  
  "It depends on when Iraq stops protecting murderous Kurds who drive bombers into police buildings and kill innocent Turks, sir!"
  
  "I'm not here to listen to your political rants, Turk! I need to know when you will get your thugs out of my country!"
  
  Zipper looked at Charlie. She didn't have to move much, but a ten-foot robot simply raising its armored arms in surrender was enough to get everyone's attention. "Can't we all just get along?" - she said. She pressed her hands to her cheeks. "Cute, please?" The sight of a large combat robot acting like a shy schoolgirl made even the gruff Colonel Jaffar laugh, and hundreds of soldiers, both Turks and Iraqis, joined in the laughter.
  
  "Now is not the time or place for arguments, folks," Zipper said. "Why don't we take this back to base? If I'm not mistaken, it's almost lunch time. Why don't we all sit down, have a bite to eat and unload?"
  
  
  ERBIL, IRAQ
  IN THE SAME TIME
  
  
  "Where is my damn air?" General Besir Ozek screamed. "They are ten minutes late!" He snatched the microphone from the communications officer's hands. "Resim, this is the Sican one. Your squadron better get a grip or I'll go back there to kick your ass!"
  
  Ozek was in the cockpit of an ACV-300 command post vehicle that was part of the 3rd Division Headquarters Company that had smashed eastern Iraq. Ozek's forces were ordered to advance only as far as Erbil's northwestern airport, capture it for resupply and cut off trade with the Kurdistan capital and hold on, but he ordered a battalion of mechanized infantry to advance to the outskirts of the city proper.
  
  The battalion established a security perimeter on a large area that had been cleared of old buildings to make room for new high-rise housing, northwest of the city itself. He clearly saw around him any signs of a counterattack from the Peshmerga, the PKK, regular Iraqi forces or the Americans; so far, none of these militant organizations had truly threatened his army, but it was better to be safe than sorry. The peshmerga was the biggest threat. Reports differed on the size of the Peshmerga, but even the most optimistic estimates were twice as many as the four divisions Özek commanded, and they also had few armored vehicles.
  
  And there have been reports of growing resistance in Iraq. Like docile rats, the PKK was, of course, in deep hiding, but the Americans were starting to get restless and Iraqi units that had mysteriously disappeared right before the invasion began to reappear. Ozek has heard several reports of contact with US and Iraqi forces near Mosul, but so far no word of any casualties.
  
  Özek chose the area for other reasons as well: it was north of Sami Abdul Rahman Park, a memorial park for a murdered Kurdistan Regional Government official and PKK sympathizer; he was also within mortar range of the parliament building of the Kurdistan Regional Government, so Kurdish politicians should have a good view of his army advancing on their city.
  
  Ozek got out of the command post car and shouted: "Major!" A very young-looking infantry major quickly approached him. "Our broadcast is late, so you will have to stay a few more minutes."
  
  "We hit every target on the list, sir," the battalion commander said. "We attacked the top ten on the list again."
  
  Ozek pulled out a piece of paper from his jacket. "I made a new list. The Ministry of Defense was talking about an attack on businesses in Erbil that support the PKK... Well, until they give me official permission, I found a bunch of them myself. These are their addresses. Find them on the map and drop them."
  
  The Major studied the list and his eyes widened in surprise. "Uh sir, this address is inside the Citadel."
  
  "I know it," Ozek said. "It's a bazaar that has shops owned by some of the same guys we've already shot at. Why should they be left aside?"
  
  "But it's inside the Citadel, sir," repeated the Major. Erbil Citadel was an ancient stone wall in the center of the city, surrounding the archaeological ruins of the original city, which dates back to 2300 BC. Although the city was occupied by many peoples over the centuries, the Citadel was considered sacred ground by all of them, and some sections of it were a thousand years old. "What if we strike at archaeological sites?"
  
  "I'm not worried about a few adobe huts and cart paths," Ozek said. "I can look out from there and see the Kurdistan flag flying from inside this place, so I know the PKK is hiding there. I want these stores to be destroyed. Do it ".
  
  "With all due respect, sir," the major said, "our job is to eradicate the PKK. They can run and hide in cities, but they don't live in Erbil. Our intelligence and counterintelligence units inform us that the Peshmerga were following us, but they did not dare to make contact. We must not give them a reason to do so. We've already fired on targets in the city; the bombing of the Citadel could be the last straw."
  
  "I understand that you are afraid of the Peshmerga, Major," Ozek said. "During my career, I have often encountered them in the border areas. They are good in the mountains and in the outback, but they are nothing more than glorified partisans. They are not going to attack a regular army unit in a frontal attack. They never fought like anyone other than tribal enforcers. They are just as likely to fight each other as we are. In fact, I would welcome the chance to get a few of their battalions into action with us - to wipe out a few of their more brave units and the whole Kurdistan conglomerate could come together once and for all."
  
  "Yes, sir," said the major, "but may I recommend that we only blow smoke into the Citadel? You know how this place is revered by some, especially in the Kurdish region. They-"
  
  "I don't need a history lesson from you, Major," snapped Ozek. "Start immediately compiling this list. Same procedures as before: smoke to disperse the inhabitants and mark for accuracy, explosives to bring down the roofs, and white phosphorus to burn the place to the ground. Take care of it."
  
  As soon as he dismissed the artillery commander with a wave of his hand, a soldier ran up to him and saluted. "The gunship is moving into position, sir."
  
  "At the most damned time." He returned to the command post car and grabbed the radio microphone. "Change One-Eight, this is Sikan One, how do you read?"
  
  "Loud and clear, Sikan," the pilot of an AC-130H Specter gunship reported. "One minute before arriving at the station."
  
  "Show me Tango number one," Ozek said. The television monitor came to life, showing the sensor image transmitted from the warship. It showed a wide-angle image of southern Erbil, about eight hundred yards south of the Citadel. The sensor operator switched to a narrow field of view and zoomed in on the Erbil Bazaar from above. He followed the main thoroughfare south along the edge of the bazaar until he crossed the main street, then began counting the buildings as he continued south. "South of the bakery, north of the apartment building... This is the one," Ozek radioed. The sensor operator captured the headquarters of Masari Bank of Kurdistan, one of the largest banks in northern Iraq... and widely known for supporting the PKK through money laundering, international money exchange and fundraising around the world.
  
  "Resim is fixed and ready, Sikan," the pilot reported. The AC-130 entered a left orbit around the target, with a side-mounted information display and an instrument landing system, similar to control arrows, showing the pilot exactly where to position the aircraft.
  
  "Go on," Ozek said, then stepped out of the command vehicle and looked to the southeast. This was his first time seeing an AC-130 attack in person...
  
  ...and he felt a little disappointed. Most AC-130 attacks take place in the dark, when the flashes of the aircraft's 40mm cannon and 105mm howitzer light up the night like nothing else. He saw a howitzer hit and a plume of smoke rising into the sky before he heard a RUMBLING! about the gun and the explosion on the ground, and he regretted not staying to watch the hit on the screen - he had to wait for the video replay.
  
  He returned to the command vehicle and looked at the image from the sensor. The smoke still largely obscured the view, but the bank building looked ruined, as did parts of the bakery and apartment building across from the bank. The accuracy of this warship was amazing - the shot was fired from a height of more than twenty thousand feet!
  
  "Looks like a good shot, Resim," Ozek radioed. "No sign of anti-aircraft response. If you're ready to go, we have quite a few targets on the list. We will fire several mortar shells from our position on the north side of the city; they shouldn't matter to you. Let's take a look at Tango two."
  
  
  OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT, PINK PALACE, ANKARA, REPUBLIC OF TURKEY
  LATER THAT EVENING
  
  
  "This is the first encounter with an Iraqi military unit," National Defense Minister Hasan Jizek said as he entered President Kurzat Hirsiz's office. "A report from Tall Kaif, north of Mosul. The Nala-based brigade reappeared and re-occupied their base."
  
  "Has there been any contact with our forces?" Hirsiz asked.
  
  "Yes, sir. The helicopter pilot and crew member were injured when his plane was hit by an Iraqi man-portable air defense missile."
  
  Hirsiz waited, but that was all Jizek could say. "And it's all? Are there other victims? And what about the Iraqis?"
  
  "No loss, sir."
  
  "What were they doing, throwing water balloons at each other? What do you mean, there were no casualties?"
  
  "They didn't fight, sir," Jizek said. "Our unit allowed the Iraqis and American engineers who were on their reconnaissance plane back to Nakhla airbase."
  
  "They let them come back? Americans too? I ordered this plane to be dismantled and delivered back to Turkey! Were the Americans allowed to return to base with aircraft parts?"
  
  "The unit commander was about to stop them, but the armored commando and the robot threatened to retaliate with their weapons and from an orbital drone. Then the Iraqi brigade arrived. The unit commander saw that he was outnumbered and decided not to engage. The Iraqis and the Americans also did not join the battle. They entered the base and the security unit returned to their posts."
  
  The anger that Hirsiz felt at his orders being ignored quickly subsided and he nodded. "Probably it was a good decision on the part of the commander," he said. "Send 'good guy' to his parent unit."
  
  "Our unit there reports that the Americans have launched an unmanned combat aircraft to support their detailed inspection of the aircraft," Jizek said. "The head of the American private security service, McLanahan, explained that it was a long-range aircraft capable of firing several types of precision-guided and area-based munitions. Apparently it was delivered on that Boeing 767 cargo plane that eluded our interceptors."
  
  "McLanahan. Yes," Jizek said. "He is the wild card in all of this. Remember, he commanded a very advanced bomber unit in the United States Air Force, and he was known for some pretty daring and successful operations - many of which were apparently carried out without official sanction, if we can believe American media experts. Now, apparently, he works for the Iraqis. I would assume that if he says he has a cruise missile, then he does, and probably not one. The question is, what is the tool of the Iraqis now, would they use it against us?"
  
  "I hope we never find out," Jizek said. "However, I would like to take a look at this reconnaissance aircraft. The US Secretary of State said that our plane was disabled by a laser self-defense system, not a beam weapon. It had to be a powerful laser. If we could look at this system and rebuild it, we would be decades ahead of most European and all Middle Eastern armies."
  
  "I agree," Hirsiz said. "Try again to return this plane to Turkey. Deliver as many troops as possible tonight by helicopter. Send in the entire First Division if need be. They don't seem to have any problems in their area of responsibility; I am concerned about the Kurdish regions, not the Arab regions."
  
  "But what about the Iraqi Nakhla Brigade?"
  
  "Let's see if they're willing to risk getting into a fight over an American plane," Hirsiz said. "I think they might think twice. We may have to deal with an American robot and an armored commando, but how many of these things can they have? Let's find out. I think the aircraft and its technology will be worth it."
  
  "We have more information about the robot and the armored commando; we won't be as surprised as our smaller unit was and we'll be keeping an eye on their supposed unmanned attack aircraft," Jizek said. The assistant hurried with the message and gave it to him. "I managed to get hold of some details about the aircraft, the XC-57," he said as he read. "It entered the next generation bomber competition but was not selected, so it was redesigned into...lanet olsun!" he cursed.
  
  "What?"
  
  "The third brigade shelled Erbil," said Jizek, stunned. Hirsiz didn't react. "General Ozek, who personally commanded a mortar battalion, advanced to the outskirts of Erbil, less than a mile from the Kurdistan Parliament building, and began shelling the city with mortars," he continued. "He even fired shells at the Citadel, the ancient center of the city. For targets he could not reach with mortars, he called in an AC-130 attack helicopter and destroyed numerous targets in the south of the city with heavy cannon fire from above!"
  
  Instead of anger or surprise, Hirsiz smiled and leaned back in his chair. "Well, it looks like our skeleton-faced berserker has decided to strike Erbil for us," he said.
  
  "But how-" Jizek stopped, worry showing on his face. "The proposed list of targets that the Intelligence Directorate has compiled...?"
  
  "I gave it to Ozek," Hirsiz said. "He did exactly what I was hoping for." The look of concern on Jizek's face was replaced by an expression of obvious disbelief. "The Security Council was undecided whether we should escalate the conflict by attacking the capital of the Kurdistan Regional Government; Ozek did it for us."
  
  "This is a serious matter, sir," Jizek said. "Erbil is a city with a million people. Even when using precision firepower, which mortars are definitely not, innocent civilians will suffer. And the big howitzer on those AC-130s can destroy an entire building with one shot!"
  
  "A few civilian casualties will only help us," Hirsiz said. "This battle was too easy, too fruitless. The PKK and Iraqi army run and hide, the Peshmerga stay out of range, the Americans lock the gates to their bases, and the Iraqi people turn on their TVs and watch us drive through their streets. This is not a war, this is a parade... so far." Then a worried look appeared on his face. "Ozek didn"t attack any schools or hospitals, did he?"
  
  Jizek requested a more accurate list of hit targets and received them a few minutes later. "Kurdish bank...small mall...several shops inside the Citadel...memorial park...One mortar even fell next to the parliament building in the parking lot, close enough to smash a few windows-"
  
  "It was on the list, the parking space of a pro-PKK politician," Hirsiz said. "He followed the list to the last letter. Hitting the Citadel... It was his idea, but he borrowed an idea from that list. I'm sure the store was owned by the same businessman who owned the other stores in the city on the list. Ozek is intimidating and a bit crazy, but he is a fast learner."
  
  "The Security Council did not decide on an attack on Erbil because we wanted to see the reaction of the world first as the operation progressed," Jizek said. "So far, the reaction has been very calm... Surprisingly calm. Several outrages, mostly from militant Muslim groups and human rights organizations. It was a tacit endorsement of what we are doing. But now we have attacked directly the Iraqi people, the Kurds. You should have obtained the approval of the Security Council before giving such an order, Kurzat!"
  
  "I didn't order anything, Hassan," Hirsiz said. The Minister of National Defense looked unconvincing. "Don't believe me if you want, but I didn't order Ozek to bombard Erbil. I gave him the list, that's all. But I knew he would not disappoint." He looked at his watch. "I guess I should call Washington and explain everything to them."
  
  "Are you going to tell them that a rogue general carried out these attacks?"
  
  "I'm going to tell them exactly what happened: we were discussing attacking businesses and organizations known to be friendly to the PKK, and one of our division commanders took it upon himself to do just that." Hirsiz waved his hand at Jizek's incredulous expression and lit a cigarette. "In addition, you and the rest of the council now also have the opportunity to deny everything. If that doesn't get the Americans and Iraqis to come to our aid, you can blame Ozek and me." He became serious again. "Make sure Ozek gets back to the airport. If we encourage him too much, he will probably try to take over the whole city."
  
  "Yes, sir," Jizek said. "And we'll send a second division on these American planes."
  
  "Very good". Hirsiz picked up the phone. "I will call Gardner and set the stage with him and let him talk about the attack on Erbil."
  
  
  CENTER FOR COMMAND AND CONTROL, NAKHLA ALLIED AIR BASE, IRAQ
  LATER THAT EVENING
  
  
  "Just got off the phone with the President," Vice President Ken Phoenix said as he entered the Reservoir. Colonel Jack Wilhelm was sitting at his console in the front of the senior staff room, but next to him - in the real command chair - was Colonel Yusuf Jaffar. The tank was very crowded, because both the American and the Iraqi now sat at every control panel of the combat headquarters in the room. Also in the room were Patrick McLanahan, Wayne Macomber and John Masters. "He spoke to Turkish President Hirsiz and Iraqi President Rashid.
  
  "First of all, he wanted me to compliment you on a 'job well done' for your actions today. He said that while he doesn't think the risk was worth it, he thanks you all for showing restraint and courage. It was an explosive situation and you handled it well."
  
  "I also spoke with President Rashid," Jaffar said, "and he wished me to convey similar thoughts to everyone."
  
  "Thank you, Colonel. However, we still have a situation. Turkey wants access to the wreckage of the XC-57 in order to gather evidence for a criminal trial against Scion Aviation International. They are asking for permission for experts to inspect the aircraft, including what you removed from the aircraft, Dr. Masters."
  
  "This material is classified and proprietary to the company, Mr. Vice President," John said. "Letting the Turks to study it gives them a chance to reverse engineer it. That's why we risked our lives getting this junk out of there! They don't care about the lawsuit, they just want my technology. I will never let the Turks put their dirty paws on this!"
  
  "Perhaps you don't have a choice, Dr. Masters," Phoenix said. "At the time of the attack, Scion was a US government contractor. The government may have the right to order you to return the equipment."
  
  "I'm not a lawyer, sir, and I don't particularly like them, but I know a whole army of them," John said. "I'll let them deal with it."
  
  "I'm more concerned about what the Turks will do, Mr. Vice President," Patrick said.
  
  "I"m sure they will go to the World Court or NATO, possibly the International Court of Admiralty, file criminal charges and try to force you-"
  
  "No sir, I don't mean trial. I mean, what will the Turkish army do?"
  
  "What do you mean?"
  
  "Sir, do you expect the Turkish army to simply forget everything that happened here today?" Patrick answered. "They have twenty thousand soldiers scattered between the border and Mosul, and fifty thousand soldiers within a day's march from here. This is the first defeat they have suffered in their Iraqi operation. I think John is right: they need the systems on this plane and I think they will come back and take it."
  
  "They wouldn't dare!" Jaffar exclaimed. "This is not their country, this is mine. They won't do what they please!"
  
  "We're trying to prevent this conflict from escalating, Colonel," Vice President Phoenix said. "Honestly, I think we got lucky today. We took the Turks by surprise, along with the Tin Woodman and CID units. But if Jaffar's brigade had not appeared when it happened, or if the Turks had decided to attack at once instead of waiting for instructions, the results could have been much worse."
  
  "We'd be fine with them, sir," said Wayne Macomber.
  
  "I'm glad you think so, Mr. Macomber, but I don't agree," Phoenix said. "You yourself told me that you were low on ammo and energy. I appreciate the fear factor associated with the Tin Woodman and the CID, but these Turkish troops have marched almost two hundred miles through Iraqi territory. They weren't going to run away." Zipper lowered his eyes and said nothing in reply; he knew the vice president was right.
  
  "Mr. Vice President, I think General McLanahan may be right," Jaffar said. "I don't know about these secret things that Dr. Masters is talking about, but I know the generals on the ground and they don't take defeat well. Today we outflanked a small guard unit and forced them to retreat, but here they outnumber us.
  
  "The Turks have two brigades surrounding Mosul and deployed south of us," Jaffar continued. "The Iraqi army has enough units in hiding to hold them back should it become necessary. But my brigade is the only significant force opposing the two Turkish brigades to the north of us. It is there that I will concentrate my forces and prepare for any actions of the Turks." He stood up and put on his helmet. "General McLanahan, you will place your reconnaissance aircraft and ground teams in the northern sectors of approach, as far north as possible without making contact, and alert you to any Turkish advance."
  
  "Yes, Colonel," Patrick said. "I am also concerned about the Turkish Air Force, in particular the F-15E, A-10 and AC-130 attack helicopters of the Second Tactical Air Force based in Diyarbakir. If they decide to bring them in, they can destroy our forces."
  
  "What do you suggest, Patrick?" Vice President Phoenix asked.
  
  "Sir, you must convince President Gardner that we need to monitor Diyarbakir and plan to respond if the Turks launch a massive attack against us." Patrick pulled out a secure digital memory card in a plastic case. "This is my proposed reconnaissance schedule and attack plan. Our main reconnaissance platform is a constellation of microsatellites that Sky Masters Inc. can place into orbit to provide continuous coverage of Turkey. They can be up and running within hours. The attack plan is based on the use of specialized modules in our XC-57 aircraft, which can disrupt and destroy the command and control facilities in Diyarbakir."
  
  "I thought the XC-57 was just a transport and reconnaissance aircraft, Patrick," Phoenix said with a knowing smile.
  
  "Until we attack Diyarbakir, sir, that's all there is," Patrick said. "The attack will combine netrusion - a network intrusion - to confuse and overload their networks, followed by a powerful microwave weapon to destroy electronics aboard any aircraft or facility in operation. We can continue with bombing attacks if necessary."
  
  "Bomber attacks?"
  
  "Expeditionary Air Squadron 7," Patrick said. "This is a small unit of B-1B Lancer bombers, formed by an engineering group in Palmdale, California, which takes aircraft into flight storage and puts them back on alert. They currently have seven bombers deployed in the United Arab Emirates. They were used to perform emergency support missions for the Second Regiment and other army units in Iraq."
  
  "Is this an air force unit, Patrick?"
  
  "They have an Air Force designation, I believe they are organized under the command of a Mat & # 233; riel of the Air Force , and they are commanded by a Lieutenant Colonel of the Air Force," replied Patrick, "but most of the members are civilians ".
  
  "All military forces taken over by contractors, Patrick?" Phoenix chuckled wryly. He nodded grimly. "I don"t like the idea of bombing Turkey even if they hit us directly, but if this is the final version, it seems small and powerful enough to get the job done without causing a world war between NATO allies."
  
  "My thoughts are exactly the same, sir."
  
  "I will present your plan to Washington, Patrick," Phoenix said, "but let's hope we don't get close to that level of escalation." He turned to the Iraqi commander. "Colonel Jaffar, I know this is your country and your army, but I urge you to exercise the same restraint that you have shown today. We don't want to get into a shootout with the Turks. This deal with the secret boxes from those wreckage doesn't matter if lives are at stake."
  
  "With all due respect, sir, you are wrong on two counts," Jaffar said. "Like I said, I don't know about black boxes and don't care. But this is not about black boxes - this is about a foreign army invading my house. And today I did not show restraint towards the Turks. We outnumbered them; there was no reason to fight unless they wanted to. It was they who showed restraint, not me. But if the Turks return, they will come in large numbers, and then we will fight. General McLanahan, I expect a briefing on your deployment plan within the hour."
  
  "I'll be ready, Colonel," Patrick said.
  
  "Excuse me, sir, but I must prepare my troops for battle," said Jaffar, bowing to Vice President Phoenix. "Colonel Wilhelm, I must thank you for keeping Nala safe in my absence. Can I rely on you and your people to keep Nala safe during our deployment, as you have already done? "
  
  "Of course," Wilhelm said. "And I'd like to attend your deployment briefings if I could."
  
  "You are always welcome, Colonel. You will be notified. Good night." And Jaffar left, followed by Patrick, Wayne and John.
  
  "Do you still think this is a good idea, General?" Wilhelm asked before they left. "Jaffar is fighting for his country. What are you fighting for now? Money?"
  
  Jaffar froze, and they could see him clenching and unclenching his fists and straightening his back in indignation, but he didn't do or say anything. But Patrick stopped and turned to Wilhelm. "You know what, Colonel?" Patrick said with a slight smile. "The Iraqis didn't pay me a cent. Not a cent." And he left.
  
  
  CHAPTER EIGHT
  
  
  There are no great people in this world, only great challenges faced by ordinary people.
  
  -ADMIRAL WILLIAM FREDERICK HALSEY, Jr. (1882-1959)
  
  
  
  NEAR ALLIED AIR BASE NAKHLA, IRAQ
  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING
  
  
  Two teams of eight Turkish Special Forces Rangers bordo bereliler, or Bordeaux Bereliler, or Burgundy Berets, arrived at the station at about three in the morning. They made a perfect HALO parachute jump, or high altitude low opening parachute jump, to an area about five miles north of Tall Kaif. After landing and packing their parachutes, they confirmed their position, checked their personnel, weapons and equipment, and headed south. Once near a checkpoint about two miles from the XC-57 crash site, they split into reconnaissance teams of two and headed towards their individual targets.
  
  It took the Burgundy Berets less than thirty minutes to determine that all the intelligence relayed to them from Captain Evren's unit stationed outside Nala Allied Air Base was true: the Iraqis deployed four infantry platoons around the XC-57 crash site and set up machine-gun nests from bags with sand to protect it. The rest of the brigade was nowhere to be seen. Evren also said that the Americans are still at the base, undergoing training and conditioning, but also remain very inconspicuous.
  
  The Iraqis obviously expected something to happen, the Ranger platoon leader thought, but they put up nothing but token defense. They obviously weren't looking for a fight over a spy plane. The Rangers could have stopped their operation if the Iraqis had deployed any more forces in the area, but they didn't. The operation was still going on.
  
  The schedule was razor thin, but everyone executed it perfectly. Air units of the 1st and 2nd Divisions dispatched light infantry squadrons in UH-60 Black Hawk and CH-47F Chinook low-flying helicopters from six different directions, all converging in the Nala area under the protection of AH-1 Cobra attack helicopters. The helicopters landed under a blanket of interference across the entire electromagnetic spectrum that disabled all radar and communications other than the bands they wished to use. At the same time, ground forces were rushing towards them for reinforcements. In less than thirty minutes - in the blink of an eye, even on a modern battlefield - the four Iraqi platoons surrounding the XC-57 crash site were themselves surrounded ... and outnumbered.
  
  The Iraqi defenders, using night vision goggles, could see the red lines of Turkish laser markers crossing the field in front of them, and they crouched behind machine gun nests of sandbags and XC-57 debris. The attack could start at any moment.
  
  "Attention, Iraqi soldiers," they heard in Arabic over a loudspeaker aboard a Turkish armored infantry vehicle. "This is Brigadier General Ozek, commander of this task force. You've been surrounded, and I'm bringing in more reinforcements as I speak. I command you-"
  
  And at that moment one of the Chinook helicopters, which had just landed to unload the soldiers, disappeared in a huge fireball, followed by the Cobra gunship, which hovered a few hundred yards from patrol, and the Black Hawk helicopter, which just got airborne. The entire horizon to the north and northeast of the XC-57 crash site suddenly appeared to be on fire.
  
  "Karsi, Karsi, this is Kuvet, we are under heavy fire, the direction is unknown!" - radioed the commander of the task force of the second division. "Say it. End!" No answer. The general looked over his left shoulder at the third highway, along which his eastern battalion was to race to outflank the Iraqis ...
  
  ... and through his night vision goggles he saw an eerie glow on the horizon about three miles behind him - and the flicker of some very large objects, burning and exploding. "Karsi, this is Kuvet, say your name!"
  
  "Nice hit, Boomer," said Patrick McLanahan. The first AGM-177 "Wolverine" strike missile fired a CBU-97 sensor-fuzed munition at the lead vehicles of the easternmost battalion moving south as part of Operation Nala. Dropped from fifteen thousand feet, the CBU-97 dispenser fired ten submunitions, each firing four skits and laser and infrared seekers. As the submunitions fell towards the convoy of vehicles, they began to spin, and as they did so, they located and classified all the vehicles below. At just the right height, each cymbal exploded above the vehicle, raining down a molten drop of copper onto its prey. A drop of superheated copper easily penetrated the usually thinner upper armor of the Turkish vehicles, destroying every vehicle on the road within a quarter-mile radius.
  
  "Understood, General," said Hunter Noble. "Wolverine" maneuvers towards the western column for the second pass of GBU-97, and then attacks the troops closest to Nala, the 87th." The CBU-87 combined-action munition was a mine-explosive device that carried over two hundred bombs over a three thousand square foot rectangular area, effective against soldiers and light vehicles. the Iraqis will have problems with the Mosul brigades."
  
  "I hope we don't need it," Patrick said. "Let me know if-"
  
  "Problem, Patrick - I think we've lost the first Wolverine," Boomer chimed in. "Contact lost. He could have been shot down if he had been spotted on the radar as he made his attack."
  
  "Send a second Wolverine to the western battalion," Patrick ordered.
  
  "They are moving. But Jaffar's guys can make contact before he arrives."
  
  The eastern column of Turkish infantry vehicles was initially halted by the first Wolverine attack, but the survivors were soon on the move. As they raced forward to rendezvous with the Center Battalion, several Iraqi anti-tank teams, holed up in spider holes along the highway, opened fire, destroying five Hummers and an M113 armored personnel carrier. But the Iraqis soon came under intense fire from other Turkish forces, and they were trapped in their "spider holes". A line of three Hummers found three "spider holes" and quickly destroyed the first of them with fire from forty-millimeter automatic grenade launchers.
  
  "Waif hena! Wa'if hena! Stop!" the Turks shouted in Arabic. They stepped out of their Hummers, weapons raised. "Get out now, hands on...!"
  
  Suddenly, they heard a loud crack! and one of the Humvees exploded in the blink of an eye. Before the explosion died down, they heard another bang! and a second Hummer exploded, followed by a third. The Turks are sprawled on their stomachs in search of an enemy who has just blown up their vehicles...
  
  ... and moments later they saw who it was: a ten-foot-tall American robot with an incredibly large sniper rifle and a large backpack. "Time to get out," the robot said in electronically synthesized Turkish. He pointed a large rifle and ordered: "Drop your weapons." The Turks did as they were told, turned around and ran after their comrades. The Iraqis popped out of their spider holes, picked up the Turks' weapons and their remaining anti-tank missiles, and set off in search of new targets.
  
  "The Jaffar guys are doing pretty well on the east side," said Charlie Turlock. "I think the rest of this battalion is broken, thanks to Wolverine. How are things in the west, Zipper?"
  
  "Not so good," said Wayne Macomber. He "tanked" at every large armored vehicle that came within reach, but the column of Turkish vehicles approaching them seemed endless.
  
  "Help is needed?"
  
  "General?"
  
  "Second Wolverine in five minutes," Patrick said. "The first one was wearing a tango uniform. But we still have two companies in the east that I want to deploy first. We must hope that the Iraqis hold out."
  
  "Colonel Jaffar?"
  
  "I'm sorry I left such a small force at the reconnaissance plane," Jaffar radioed amid the loud engine noise and many people choking. "Some of our vehicles also broke down."
  
  Patrick could see where Jaffar's battalion was in relation to the four platoons guarding the XC-57, and like the second Wolverine, he wasn't about to do that before the Turks began their attack. "General, I'm closer," Charlie Turlock radioed. "Zipper and I together may be enough to at least hold the Turks back for a long time."
  
  "No, you have the east flank, Charlie; we don't want anyone to be delayed from this direction," said Patrick. "Martinez, I need you to get ahead of the Jaffar guys and get into the fight."
  
  "With pleasure, General," replied Ángel Martinez, commander of the Criminal Investigation Unit accompanying Yusuf Jaffar's battalion. Martinez was a jack-of-all-trades at Scion Aviation International: he went through police training; he repaired and drove trucks and construction equipment; he even knew how to cook. When they were looking for volunteers to send to Iraq, he was the first to raise his hand. During the long flight, Wayne and Charlie gave him ground school lessons on how to operate a cybernetic infantry device; when Wayne Macomber ordered him to mount after they arrived in Nala and were about to take out the local security forces, it was his first time actually piloting a CID.
  
  Now it was only his second time - and he was going to face a whole battalion of the Turkish army.
  
  "Listen here, Angel," Charlie radioed. "The armor and rail gun are great, but your main weapons aboard the CID are speed, mobility, and situational awareness. Your main weaknesses are massed platoon or company level weapons because they can quickly drain your strength. You must move so that the heavy weapons cannot focus their fire on you. Shoot, move, scan, move, shoot, move."
  
  "Charlie, you taught me this mantra for so long that I repeat it in my sleep," Martinez said. He raced ahead of Jaffar's battalion at breathtaking speed, over fifty miles an hour across an open field. "Target in sight."
  
  "The Turks are concentrating on the front platoons," Zipper said, "but the minute you open fire, they-"
  
  "Projectile away," Martinez said. He threw himself on the ground in a prone position, selected a Turkish armored personnel carrier in the scope and fired. The armored personnel carrier did not explode or even stop when hit by a tungsten steel alloy projectile, because a sausage-sized bullet went right through it as if it had never existed - but every person inside the vehicle was torn to pieces by fragments of the armored personnel carrier's thin steel fuselage, uncontrollably flying inside the car. "Damn, I must have missed," Martinez said.
  
  "No, but you have to remember to refer to the engine bay, transmission, magazine or tracks, not just the crew compartment," Zipper said. "Projectiles will easily pass through thin steel or aluminum. Every infantryman on board may be dead, but the vehicle may still fight if the driver or commander survives."
  
  "Got it, Zipper," Martinez said. As soon as he got up, they opened fire on him, including automatic 40mm grenade launchers. He dashed sideways for a hundred yards, looking for the source of those bullets. Soon he found it - not one, but two armored personnel carriers.
  
  "Angel, keep moving!" Charlie screamed. "Those two APCs lined you up!"
  
  "Not for long," Martinez called back. He took aim and fired straight through the front of one armored personnel carrier. It immediately trembled and stopped, and soon a fire broke out in the engine compartment. But Martinez couldn't enjoy the view because two more APCs were aiming at him. He immediately downloaded their location into his target computer's memory, took aim, and fired. But they were moving fast and he could only catch one before he had to run because the other was firing at him. "Guys, I have a feeling they expected to find us here," he said. "I'm being beaten."
  
  "Aim as you run and shoot as many as you can when you stop," Zipper said. "Don't aim until you're stopped."
  
  "Looks like they're probably after us," Charlie said. She fired four ballistic missiles from her backpack, which contained infrared and millimeter-wave radars, which aimed them at a group of four Turkish armored personnel carriers that appeared out of nowhere from the east. "At least it gives Jaffar"s troops a chance-"
  
  "Helicopters incoming, heading northwest, five miles!" shouted Patrick. "They look like warships escorted by a scout! Too low to see them further!" Before Martinez could search for the newcomers, the Turkish warship Cobra fired a Hellfire laser-guided missile.
  
  "Evasive moves, Angel!" Zipper screamed. Now, when the US-licensed but Turkey-built Kiowa Scout helicopter had to keep its laser on Martinez, it became an easy target for Macomber's railgun, and he blew the sensor panel on the helicopter's mast apart a second later... but not before a Hellfire missile hit Martinez in the left side of the chest.
  
  "Angel defeated! Angel defeated!" Zipper screamed. He tried to run towards him, but the battalion's continuous fire in front of Jaffar's security platoons pinned him to the ground. "I can't get to him," he said as he fired at the other approaching APCs, then reloaded his railgun. "I'm not sure how long we can hold these guys back. I have fifty percent of energy and ammo left."
  
  The Wolverine will be overhead in a minute," Patrick said. "More helicopters coming!"
  
  "I'm going to try to get to Martinez," Zipper said.
  
  "The Turks are too close, Wayne," Patrick said.
  
  "We may have to back off, but I'm not leaving without Martinez." Zipper fired a few more shots, waited for the return fire to subside, then said, "Here I am-"
  
  At that moment, several dozen flashes of light flashed from the west, and a few moments after that, Turkish armored vehicles began to explode like firecrackers. "Sorry I'm late again gentlemen," radioed Yusuf Jaffar, "but I'm still not used to your speed. I think you can get your comrade, Macomber."
  
  "On my way!" Zipper started the engines on the boots of his Tin Woodman armor and in three leaps he was at Martinez's side. At that moment, the ground in front of him began to sizzle and burst like water splattered on a hot pan as Wolverine began dropping bombs and anti-personnel mines on the Turkish troops. The air was thick with smoke and the screams of the trapped Turks. "Are you okay there, Angel?" Zipper knew from his biometric data link that Martinez was alive, but most of the robot's left side had been destroyed and he was unable to move or communicate. Zipper picked up the robot. "Hold on, Martinez. It can hurt a little on landing."
  
  As soon as he turned on the engines, a Hellfire missile fired from the Turkish warship Cobra exploded at the spot he had just left, and Zipper and Martinez were shot out of the sky like clay pigeons shot down by a birdshot.
  
  The BERP armor protected Zipper from the blast, but after he landed, he found all of his helmet's systems darkened and silent. He had no choice but to remove his helmet. Lighted by the nearby fires of burning cars, he could see Martinez lying about fifty yards away and ran over to him. But as soon as he approached within twenty yards, the ground exploded with large-caliber projectiles, bombarding the area around the robot. The warship "Cobra" approached within firing range and poured twenty-millimeter rounds on it. Zipper knew he was next. Without the power of his BERP armor, it would not have protected him.
  
  He looked around for a place to hide. The nearest Iraqi machine gun nest surrounding the XC-57 was about a hundred yards away. He didn't want to leave Martinez, but he couldn't carry him, so he ran. Damn it, he thought grimly, maybe running made it a little harder for the Cobra pilot to kill him. He heard the machine gun open fire and he tried to dodge and dodge a little, like he did when he was a football player at the Air Force Academy. Who knows how good these Turkish gunners are, he thought as he waited for the shells to explode at him. May be-
  
  And then he heard a terrible explosion, strong enough and close enough to knock him off his feet. He turned and looked up just in time to see a Cobra gunship crash into a field just a couple of dozen yards away. As the sound and feel of burning metal enveloped him, he jumped to his feet and ran. The heat and suffocating smoke had him ducking as he ran, and he could hear and feel the missiles and ammunition on the burning helicopter flying behind him. Wouldn't it be a bitch, he thought, to avoid turning a Cobra gunship into Swiss cheese only to get expended ammo from the helicopter? Of course it's my luck, he thought, that's exactly how I should-
  
  Suddenly it seemed to him that he had run headlong into a steel barricade. "Hey, hey, slow down there, Mr. Rabbit," he heard the electronic voice of a CID officer. It was Charlie who had fled from her position to the east. "Everything is clear with you. Take a moment. Have you lost your headgear?"
  
  "I've lost everything... The suit is dead," Zipper said. "Go and fetch Martinez." Charlie waited a few moments, shielding Zipper with her armor until the explosions stopped on the downed Cobra, then ran around the burning wreckage. She returned a few minutes later, carrying another CID unit. She then dragged Martinez with one hand while using the other to grab Macomber back to the security post near XC-57.
  
  "More warships are coming," Charlie said, raising her railgun and scanning the sky with CID sensors. "Most are after the Jaffar Brigade, but there are a couple who are after us." She paused for a moment, studying the electronic images of the battlefield. "I'll distract them," she said, then sped off east.
  
  Zipper peeked out from behind the sandbag bunker... and as he looked up into the sky, he saw the unmistakable flash of a rocket engine, he jumped to his feet and ran out of the bunker as fast as he could-
  
  He was instantly knocked down, blinded, stunned, half-fried, and bombarded with supersonic shrapnel when the missile landed just a few yards behind him. Unfortunately for him, he didn't pass out, so all he could do was lie on the ground in pain, his whole head like a coal briquette. But a few seconds later he was picked up from the ground. "W-Charlie...?"
  
  "My railgun is DOA," Charlie said as she ran. "I'm getting you out of-" She suddenly stopped, turned, and crouched, shielding Vack from the Cobra's deafening burst of cannon fire. "I'm going to lay you down and get this thing," she said. "He doesn't want you, he wants-" The Cobra pilot fired again. Zipper felt the high-caliber projectiles pushing him and Charlie as if they had their backs to a hurricane. "I ... I'm losing power," she said after the last shelling ended. "In the last explosion, something hit ... I think the battery. I don't think I can move." Cobra opened fire again...
  
  At that moment, they heard an explosion behind them, the cannon fire stopped, and they heard the sound of another helicopter crashing down. Neither of them moved until they heard the approaching cars. "Charlie?"
  
  "I can move, but it's very slow," she said. "Are you okay?"
  
  "I'm fine". Zipper wriggled painfully out of the mechanical hands of the criminal investigation unit and looked around for the Turks. "Stay where you are. We have a company." The cars were almost on them. He had no weapons, nothing with which he could fight. There was nothing he could-
  
  "Raise your hands and don't move," he heard a voice say...an American voice. Zipper did as he was told. He saw that the vehicle was an Avenger mobile air defense unit. He was approached by an army sergeant wearing night vision goggles, which he held up. "You must be a couple of Scion guys, because I've never seen anything like the two of you before."
  
  "Macomber, this is Turlock," Zipper said. "I have another guy there." The sergeant whistled and waved, and a few moments later an open-topped Hummer pulled up. Zipper helped load Charlie into the Humvee. When she was taken back to Nala, he took another Humvee, returned and found Martinez, ordered several soldiers to load it, and drove it back to the base as well.
  
  Martinez was unconscious, had several broken bones, and had some internal bleeding, and was taken to the infirmary for emergency surgery; Charlie and Zipper were examined and were fine, Zipper had several cuts, burns and bruises. She and Zipper were taken to a security post at the end of the runway, where two Humvees, a Stryker wheeled armored command post, and an Avenger unit were partially hidden by lightweight structures at the end of the runway and an instrument landing system transmitter building. Standing outside the Stryker, watching the battle through enhanced binoculars, were Patrick McLanahan, Hunter Noble, John Masters, Captain Calvin Cotter, an air traffic control officer, and Vice President Kenneth Phoenix with his Secret Service team.
  
  "Glad you guys are okay," Patrick said. He handed out water and energy bars. "That was close."
  
  "Why are you guys here?" Macomber asked.
  
  "The interference disabled all of our radars and most of our communications," Kotter said. "There is quite a bit of darkness in Triple-C. I can get a line-of-sight laser link from here."
  
  "What is that word, general?" Wayne asked. "How badly have we been hurt?"
  
  "They say it's all about to end," Patrick said. Wayne lowered his head dejectedly... Until Patrick added, "It's almost over and it looks like we won."
  
  "No shit?"
  
  "With the help of CIDS, you and the wolverines, we have almost completely stopped the Turks," said Patrick. "The Turks did not expect the Iraqis to fight so fiercely, and Jaffar's boys attacked them with fury. Then, when Wilhelm joined them, the Turks turned around and headed north."
  
  "I had a feeling that Wilhelm wasn't going to just sit back while Jaffar was going back and forth," Zipper said.
  
  "It was four brigades to two, plus you guys and cruise missiles, but that was enough for the Turks," Vice President Phoenix said. "I have a feeling that their hearts really were not involved in this. They came to Iraq to hunt down the PKK, not to fight the Iraqis and the Americans. Then they started fighting robots and armored soldiers firing Buzz Lightyear railguns and they split up."
  
  "I hope so, sir," Patrick said. "But I don't trust Hirsiz one iota. The PKK has already pushed him over the edge, and now we have defeated him. He will probably lash out. I don't think he will probably stop at bombing some supposedly PKK-friendly businesses in Erbil."
  
  "Looks like Jaffar will reinforce his forward battalions and start driving his casualties back to base," Cotter said as he stepped out of the Stryker and surveyed the area north of their position through binoculars. "Colonel Wilhelm and Major Weatherley will keep their battalions on the line in case...yeah! Kotter yelled as an incredibly bright flash of white light pierced the night sky, exactly where he was looking.
  
  The first flash was followed by hundreds of others, each brighter than the last, and then they heard the thunder of powerful explosions and the roar of superheated air. Clouds of fire rose hundreds of feet into the sky, and soon they felt the heat wash over them like ocean waves crashing onto a beach.
  
  "What the hell was that?" Phoenix was crying. He and John Masters helped Kotter, who was blinded by the flash, lie down on the ground and poured water over his face.
  
  "Smells like napalm or thermobaric bombs," Macomber said. He took Kotter's binoculars, readjusted the opto-electronic circuits so that the flashes would not blind him too, and scanned the area. "Je...sus..."
  
  "Who hit, Wayne?" Patrick asked.
  
  "Looks like two forward Jaffar battalions," Zipper said quietly. "God, that must be what hell looks like down there." He scanned the area around the explosion zone. "I don't see our guys. I will try to contact Wilhelm and-"
  
  Just at that moment, two huge bright flashes occurred, followed a moment later by two powerful explosions ... this time, behind them, inside the base. The crushing tremors threw everyone to the ground, and they crawled in search of any safety they could find. Two massive fiery mushroom clouds rose into the sky. "Get covered!" Patrick shouted over the chaos like a hurricane as smoke billowed over them. "Get under the Stryker!" Secret Service agents hauled Phoenix into his Humvee, while the rest crawled under the Stryker just as massive chunks of falling debris rained down on them.
  
  It took a long time for the lethal debris to stop falling, longer before anyone could breathe well enough through the suffocating clouds of dust and smoke, and even longer before anyone had the courage to rise and survey the area. There was a big fire somewhere in the center of the base.
  
  "Twice already I was too close to the bomb!" John Masters screamed. "Don"t tell me, Turkish bombers again, right?"
  
  "That would be my guess," Patrick said. "What did they crash into?"
  
  One of the crew members of the Stryker got out of his car, and when everyone else saw his eyes widen and his jaw drop, a chill of fear ran down their spines. "Holy crap," he breathed, "I think they just caught Triple-C."
  
  
  PINK PALACE, ZANKAYA, ANKARA, REPUBLIC OF TURKEY
  AFTER A SHORT TIME
  
  
  "What do you mean, they retreated?" President Kurzat Hirsiz asked. "Why did they retreat? They outnumbered the Iraqis five to one!"
  
  "I know it, Mr. President, I know," Defense Minister Hasan Jizek said. "But they didn't just fight the Iraqis. The American army helped them."
  
  "God...so we also fought the Americans," Hirsiz said. He shook his head. "It was bad enough that we decided to drag the Iraqis into the fray; I never expected the Americans to react too."
  
  "As well as two American robots and one of the armored commandos... Tin Woodman soldiers," Jizek added. "They also had two cruise missiles that attacked with bombs and anti-personnel mines."
  
  "What?" Hirsiz exploded. "How badly have we been hurt?"
  
  "Very bad, sir," Jizek said. "Perhaps twenty percent or more."
  
  "Twenty percent...in one battle?" there was a cry of a voice. It was Prime Minister Ais ¸e Akas. She has not appeared in public since the declaration of the state of emergency and the dissolution of the National Assembly, but has met with lawmakers most of the time. "Mr. President, what do you think you are doing?"
  
  "I didn't call you here, Prime Minister," Hirsiz said. "Besides, we did much worse with the Iraqis. What do you want? To resign, I hope."
  
  "Kurzat, please stop this madness now before it escalates into an all-out war with Iraq and the United States," Akas pleaded. "Finish it. Declare victory and take the troops home."
  
  "Not until the PKK is destroyed, Ace," Hirsiz said.
  
  "Then why are you attacking High High?" Akas asked. "There are few PKKs in this area."
  
  "There was a situation at this airbase that needed to be resolved," Hirsiz said.
  
  "I know about the American spy plane - you still let me watch TV even though you took away my phone and passport and keep me under 24/7 security," Akas said. "But why would you waste Turkish lives for a piece of burnt metal?" She looked at Jizek. "Or are the generals in command now?"
  
  "I'm still in charge here, prime minister, you can be sure of that," Hirsiz said.
  
  "So you gave the order to bomb Erbil?"
  
  "What do you want, prime minister?" Hirsiz asked irritably, looking for a cigarette.
  
  "I think you should let me meet Vice President Phoenix in Erbil or Baghdad."
  
  "I told you no," Hirsiz said. "In a state of emergency, the president has to make decisions about all actions, and I don"t have time to meet with Phoenix or anyone else until the crisis is resolved. Besides, Phoenix is still in Nala and it"s too dangerous for him to travel."
  
  "I will go not as an opponent of the war, but as the Prime Minister of Turkey, who, as you said, has little power during the war, when the National Assembly is dissolved and the military council replaces the cabinet," Akash said. She stopped and blinked in disbelief. "You said Phoenix is still in Nala? Is he at Nala Air Force Base? Isn"t that where the fighting is going on, where all these people died?" She saw Hirsiz and Jizek exchange glances. "Is there anything else? What?"
  
  Hirsiz hesitated to tell her, then shrugged and nodded to Jizek. "In any case, it will be in the news soon."
  
  "We bombed Nala Air Base," Jizek said. Akas' jaw dropped in amazement. "We targeted the headquarters of the Iraqi and US armed forces."
  
  "What are you? Bombed their headquarters? Akas screamed. "You are insane, both of you. Phoenix is dead?
  
  "No, he wasn't in the building at the time," Hirsiz said.
  
  "Lucky for you!"
  
  "I didn't start shooting Iraqis and Americans until they started shooting Turks!" Hirsiz screamed. "I didn"t start this war! The PKK is killing innocent men, women and children and no one is saying a word to us. Well, now they will talk to us, right? They will scream, complain and threaten me! I do not care ! I'm not going to stop until Iraq stops harboring the PKK and promises to help eradicate them. Maybe after a few Americans died in Iraq at our hands, they will talk to us about destroying the PKK."
  
  Akas looked at Hirsiz as if she were studying an oil painting or an animal in a zoo, trying to find some hidden understanding or meaning in what she saw. All she could see was hatred. He didn't even look back at her. "How many Americans were killed at the base, minister?"
  
  "Twenty or twenty-five, I don't remember; about a hundred wounded," Jizek replied.
  
  "My God..."
  
  "Hey, maybe it's a good idea for you to meet Phoenix and talk to Gardner," Cizek said. Hirsiz turned around, his eyes wide with surprise, his jaw clenched in anger. Jizek raised his hand. "Kurzat, I am afraid that the Americans will strike back - perhaps not militarily, not immediately, but with all other means at their disposal. If we don't start negotiations with them, they will most likely strike back. Declare a ceasefire, order our forces to hold positions, and allow Ais to proceed to Baghdad. In the meantime, we will replenish our forces, bring back our wounded and dead, and begin collecting intelligence on the whereabouts of the PKK and their supporters. We must be sure that we will not lose the support of our allies, but we do not have to give up everything we have achieved."
  
  Hirsiz's expression was a mixture of rage and confusion, and his head jerked back towards his two advisors as if it was out of control. "End? End now? Are we closer to destroying the PKK than we were five thousand lives ago? If we don't follow through with this, the five thousand soldiers who lost their lives will die for nothing."
  
  "I think we have shown the world our crisis, Kurzat," Akas said. "You have also shown the world, and especially the PKK and their Kurdish supporters, that Turkey can and will act to protect its people and interests. But if you let things get out of hand, the world will just think you're crazy. You don't want this to happen."
  
  Hirsiz studied both of his advisors. Akas could see that the president was looking more and more alone every second. He returned to his desk and sat down heavily, staring out the large picture window. The sun was just rising, and it looked like the day was going to be cold and drizzly, Akas thought, which should certainly make Hirsiz feel even more alone.
  
  "All I was trying to do was protect the Turkish people," he said quietly. "All I wanted to do was stop the killings."
  
  "We will do it, Kurzat," Akas said. "We will do this together-your cabinet, the military, the Americans and the Iraqis. We will involve everyone. You don't have to do it alone."
  
  Hirsiz closed his eyes, then nodded. "Declare an immediate ceasefire, Hassan," he said. "We already have a phased withdrawal plan: do the first and second phases."
  
  The Minister of National Defense's jaw dropped in surprise. "Second phase?" he asked. "But, sir, this is drawing troops back to the border. Are you sure you want to back off that much? I recommend to us-"
  
  "Ice &##184;uh, you can notify the foreign secretary that we want to immediately meet with the Americans and Iraqis to talk about international inspectors and peacekeepers to monitor the border," Hirsiz continued. "You may also notify the Speaker of the National Assembly that, pending a peaceful and successful withdrawal of troops from Iraq, I am lifting the state of emergency and reconvening Parliament."
  
  Ice Akas went up to Hirsiz and hugged him. "You made the right choice, Kurzat," she said. "I'll get to work immediately." She smiled at Jizek and hurried out of the president's office.
  
  Hirsiz stood for a long time at his table and looked out of the window; then he turned around and was surprised to see that his Minister of National Defense was still in his office. Hassan?
  
  "What are you doing, Kurzat?" Jizek asked. "Ceasefire: great.
  
  This will give us time to rearm, reinforce and regroup. But retreat all the way to the border before we have a chance to create a buffer zone and destroy the PKK?"
  
  "I'm tired, Hasan," Hirsiz said wearily. "We lost too many people..."
  
  "Soldiers died defending their country, Mr. President!" Jizek said. "If you retreat before the operation is completed, they will die in vain! You said so yourself!"
  
  "We will have other opportunities, Hassan. Now we have attracted the attention of the whole world. They will understand that we are serious when it comes to fighting the PKK. Now give orders."
  
  Jizek looked like he was going to continue arguing, but instead gave a curt nod and left.
  
  
  NAKHLA ALLIED AIR BASE, IRAQ
  AFTER A SHORT TIME
  
  
  "I suppose it could have been much worse for us," Colonel Jack Wilhelm said. He was again standing in their makeshift mortuary in the large aircraft hangar, overseeing the preparation of the remains of the soldiers who had died in action the night before. "Twenty-one soldiers killed at Triple C, including my operations officer, plus thirty-two more in action against the Turks, plus over two hundred wounded, two dozen in critical condition." He turned to Patrick McLanahan. "I'm sorry about Martinez, General. I heard that he died some time ago."
  
  "Yes. Thank you ".
  
  "Your guys and your devices did a great job, General. You really went through it."
  
  "Unfortunately not for our client," Patrick said. "The Iraqis have lost over two hundred and fifty."
  
  "But Jaffar and his men fought like wild cats," Wilhelm said. "I always thought this guy was a total bluff and bluster. He proved to be a good field commander and a stern warrior." His walkie-talkie beeped and he listened through the earpiece, answered and hung up. "The Turkish Prime Minister announced a ceasefire and said Turkish troops are retreating towards the border," he said. "Looks like it's all over. What the hell were the Turks thinking? Why did they start this?
  
  "Disappointment, anger, revenge: dozens of reasons," said Patrick. "Türkiye is one of those countries that just doesn't get any respect. They are not European, not Asian, not Caucasian, not Middle Eastern; they are Muslim but secular. They control major land and sea routes, have one of the largest economies and armies in the world, are powerful enough to take a seat on the United Nations Security Council, but they are still barred from the European Union and treated as if they were members of NATO. red-haired stepson. I think I would be disappointed too."
  
  "They may deserve respect, but they also deserve to get their asses kicked," Wilhelm said. "So, I'm guessing your contract is up...or is it? Maybe the Iraqis need you now more than ever?"
  
  "We'll stay for now," Patrick said. "I will recommend that we monitor the Turkish ceasefire and the withdrawal of troops, and we will probably stay here for some more time until the Iraqis create their own monitoring force. They have a small fleet of Cessna Caravans that have been modified for ground surveillance and communications relay, and there is talk of them leasing a number of drones."
  
  "So you might be out of a job soon?"
  
  "I think yes". Patrick took a deep breath, so deep that Wilhelm noticed. "It's a good job and good company of guys and girls, but I've been away from home for too long."
  
  "To tell the truth, it was nice to get out of the tank and lead a group of troops into battle again," Wilhelm said. "I've been watching my guys do this on video screens and computer monitors for far too long." He smiled slightly at McLanahan. "But this is a game of young people, right, general?"
  
  "I did not say that." Patrick nodded at the tables of body bags that were once again lined up in the hangar. "But I've been dealing with this for too long."
  
  "You pilots see the war in a completely different way than the soldiers on the ground," Wilhelm said. "For you, combat is computers, satellites and drones."
  
  "No, it's not."
  
  "I know you've done a lot and seen a lot, General, but this is different," Wilhelm continued. "You control systems, sensors and machines. We control the fighters. I don't see dead men and women here, general - I see soldiers who put on their uniforms, took a rifle, followed me and who fell in battle. I am not sad for them. I feel sad for their families and loved ones, but I am proud of them."
  
  
  PINK PALACE, ZANKAYA, ANKARA, REPUBLIC OF TURKEY
  THAT EVENING
  
  
  The phone on the president's desk rang. "Uh...Mr. President, Minister Dzhizek and General Guzlev to you, - stammering, the assistant to the president muttered.
  
  President Kurzat Hirsiz looked at his watch, then at the calendar on his computer. "Did we have a meeting scheduled, Nazim?"
  
  "No, sir. They--they say it's urgent. Very urgent."
  
  Hirsiz sighed. "Very good. Tell my wife I'll be a little late." He began to organize the papers on his desk, prioritizing the next day's tasks, when he heard the door to his office open. "Come in, gentlemen," he said absently as he continued to work, "but can we do this quickly? I promised my wife that I-"
  
  When he looked up, he saw Minister of National Defense Hasan Jizek and Chief of Military Staff General Abdullah Guzlev standing in the middle of the office, patiently waiting for him - and both men were dressed in green camouflage combat uniforms and shiny paratrooper boots, and both carried American-made M1911 pistols. 45 in polished black leather holsters.
  
  "What the hell is going on here?" Hirsiz asked incredulously. "Why are you in military uniform, Hasan, and why are you carrying weapons in the Pink Palace?"
  
  "Good evening, Kurzat," Jizek said. He waved his hand over his right shoulder, and several members of the presidential guard rushed in with Hirsiz's receptionist, shackled in plastic handcuffs. The guards grabbed Hirsiz and also shackled his wrists with plastic handcuffs.
  
  "What the hell is this?" Hirsiz screamed. "What are you doing? I am the President of the Republic of Turkey!"
  
  "You are no longer the president of Turkey, Kurzat," Jizek said. "I met with General Guzlev, the chiefs of staff and the Ministry of the Interior, and we decided that you were no longer competent to give orders. You yourself said so, Kurzat: you are tired. Well, your fatigue is a danger to the brave men and women on the ground who are risking their lives at the word of the President. We believe that you cannot be trusted to issue any more orders during a state of emergency. Prime Minister Akas is certainly not in the best shape. So, we have decided to take over the management instead of you."
  
  "What? What are you talking about? What the hell are you doing?"
  
  "You know what's going on here, Hirsiz," Jizek said. "The only question is, what will you do? Will you play the confused and struggling president, or will you take responsibility for your failures and act responsibly?"
  
  "What the hell are you talking about? Are you... are you going to stage a coup d"état?"
  
  "That won't be necessary," Jizek said. "In a state of emergency, you can appoint anyone as commander-in-chief of the armed forces. You appoint me and get a well deserved rest for a few years until you are well enough to resume your duties; I am canceling the order for the second phase of the withdrawal of troops, and we are consolidating our gains in Iraq."
  
  "This is madness! I will not obey! I will never leave my post! I am the President of Turkey! I was elected by the Grand National Assembly...!"
  
  "You swore an oath to protect the people of Turkey, but instead you stand by and do nothing but moan and drool while Iraqis and Americans kill thousands of soldiers," Cizek shouted. "I won't take it anymore. The only proper response is military, not political, and therefore the army must be free to end this crisis. You are afraid to unleash the army and the Gendarme: I am not. What will it be, Mr. President? Obey my orders and you and your family will be allowed to stay in a very comfortable residence in Tarsus or maybe even in Dipkarpaz, under very careful guard and seclusion-"
  
  "As your puppet?"
  
  "As President of the Republic, Hirsiz, you are taking the sound and urgent advice of your military advisers to put an end to the attacks on our country," Jizek said. "If you do not agree to this, you will have a terrible heart attack and we will permanently expel you and your family from Ankara."
  
  "You can't do this!" Hirsiz protested. "I didn't do anything wrong! You have no authority...!"
  
  "I swore an oath to defend this country, Hirsiz," shouted Jizek, "and I will not sit idly by while you undo all the achievements our brave soldiers have made for this country. You leave me absolutely no choice!"
  
  Hirsiz hesitated again, and Guzlev pulled out his .45 and pointed it at the president. "I told you he wouldn't do that, Hassan...!" - he said.
  
  Hirsiz's eyes bulged, his arms and shoulders went limp, and his knees trembled-it was as if all the fluids in his body had left him. "No, please," he whimpered. "I don't want to die. Tell me what to do."
  
  "Good decision, Hirsiz," Jizek threw some papers on the table. "Sign these papers." Hirsiz signed them without reading or even raising his head, except to find the signature line. "We will escort you to the national communication center, where you will personally address the people of the republic." In his hands was a bundle of papers. "That's what you say. It is important for you to reach out to the people of Turkey as soon as possible."
  
  "When will I be able to see my wife, my family...?"
  
  "First things first, Hirsiz," Jizek said. He nodded to an officer of the presidential guard. "Take him away." Hirsiz muttered something as he and his assistant were escorted out of the office under heavy military guard.
  
  Guzlev holstered his .45 with an irritated movement. "Dammit, I thought I was going to have to shoot that fucking bastard Jizek after all," he swore. "He's going to look like shit on TV."
  
  "So much the better," Jizek said. "If he can't or won't do it, I'll read it myself." He stepped towards Guzlev. "Cancel the order to withdraw the first and second phases and be ready to march on Erbil. If one Peshmerga fighter, Iraqi soldier or American - especially those robots and tin lumberjacks - sticks his head even an inch, I want the jet squadron to send them all straight to hell." He thought for a moment, then said, "No, I'm not going to wait for those robots and the Tin Woodmen to come after us. I want the Nala Air Base closed. Do they think they can kill a thousand Turks and just leave? I want this place razed to the ground, you understand me? Aligned!"
  
  "With pleasure, Hasan... I mean, Mr. President," Guzlev said. "With pleasure".
  
  
  NAKHLA ALLIED AIR BASE, IRAQ
  IN THE NEXT MORNING
  
  
  After a memorial service for the fallen soldiers of the Second Regiment, Patrick McLanahan, Jack Wilhelm, John Masters and Chief of Security Chris Thompson escorted Vice President Ken Phoenix to the departure line, where a newly arrived CV-22 Osprey rotorcraft was waiting to fly him to Bahrain.
  
  The Vice President shook hands with Wilhelm. "You did an outstanding job last night, Colonel," Phoenix said. "I'm sorry about your losses."
  
  "Thank you, sir," Wilhelm said. "I wouldn't want to be framed like this, but I'm glad the Turks have decided to call a ceasefire, back off and start negotiations. This will give us a chance to get our boys home."
  
  "I will feel better when you are all at home, safe," Phoenix said. "Thank you for leading these men and women so well."
  
  "Thank you, sir," Wilhelm said, saluting.
  
  Phoenix returned the greeting. "I'm not in your chain of command, Colonel," Phoenix said. "I don't appreciate the greeting."
  
  "You stood with my troops, you took on enemy fire, and you didn't start crying, whining, commanding us or getting in our way," Wilhelm said. "You deserve it, sir. If I may say so, you looked very... presidential."
  
  "Well, thank you, Colonel," Phoenix said. "That's high praise from you. Lousy policy, but a high score."
  
  "I'm glad I'm not in politics, sir," Wilhelm said. "Have a good trip."
  
  "Thank you, Colonel." Phoenix turned to Patrick and shook his hand. "I don't know when I'll see you again, Patrick," he said, "but I think you and your team did an extraordinary job last night."
  
  Thank you sir," Patrick said. "Unfortunately, I still don't think this is the end, but the ceasefire and the withdrawal of troops are definitely good news."
  
  "I have read your action plan against Diyarbakir," Phoenix said. "I don't think there's any chance that the president will approve of this, especially when he finds out it's coming from you. But I will talk to him about it."
  
  "We can get this up and running in less than a day and at least it will show that we are serious."
  
  "That's right," Phoenix agreed. "I would also like to talk to you about this company of yours and your incredible weapons systems like CID, the Tin Man and those electromagnetic railguns. I don't know why we don't exhibit thousands of them. He looked at Patrick with a puzzled expression, then added, "And I would like to know why you have them and not the US Army."
  
  "I'll explain everything, sir," Patrick said.
  
  "I doubt it," Phoenix said with a wry smile, "but I still want to talk to you about them. Goodbye, General."
  
  "Good luck, sir." The Vice President nodded, boarded the CV-22, and in a few moments the large twin propellers began to spin.
  
  At first it was difficult for Patrick to hear anything over the roar of the twin Osprey propellers at full VTOL power, but he heard and opened the radio. Wilhelm did the same at that very moment. "Go ahead, Boomer," he said.
  
  "Bandits!" The noble hunter screamed. At that moment, air raid sirens sounded. "Two formations of ten supersonic bombers just crossed the Turkish-Iraqi border, heading here in five minutes!"
  
  "Get the Osprey out of here!" Patrick screamed. He waved John Masters and Chris Thompson to follow him. "Get him the hell away from the base!"
  
  Wilhelm also shouted into his radio: "Shelter, shelter, shelter!" he shouted. "Everyone in the bomb shelters, now!"
  
  When they ran out into the open, they could still see the CV-22 as it took off and headed south. At first, its flight path looked perfectly normal - standard climb, gradual acceleration, smooth transition from vertical flight to turboprop. But moments later, the Osprey banked sharply to the left and dived toward the ground, and they heard the engines howl in protest as the large transport switched from turboprop to helicopter mode. He dodged left and right and approached the cluster of buildings in High Kaif low, hoping to hide in the jammed radar.
  
  But it was too late - Turkish missiles were already in the air. Turkish F-15s have already blocked the CV-22 at a distance of more than a hundred miles and fired two Turkish-designed AIM-54 missiles, ironically nicknamed "Phoenix", by Osprey. Formerly serving in the US Navy to provide long-range defense for a carrier battle group, the AIM-54s were the backbone of the US Navy's carrier-based air wings, capable of destroying large formations of Russian bombers before they could get within range of anti-ship cruise missiles. After it was decommissioned in 2004, the U.military's longest range, most destructive air-to-air missile inventory was put up for auction and the Turkish Air Force snapped it up.
  
  After launching the Phoenix missiles, they climbed to an altitude of eighty thousand feet at a speed of almost five times the speed of sound, and then began to dive into the target area, guided by the powerful radar of the Turkish F-15E. Within seconds of the collision, AIM-54 activated its own targeting radar to close in for destruction. One missile failed and self-destructed, but the second missile hit the right rotor disk of a CV-22 Osprey as the aircraft maneuvered to land in the parking lot. The right engine exploded, sending the aircraft into a strong left spin for several seconds before crashing to the ground and then flipping upside down from the force of the explosion.
  
  There, in Nala, total chaos reigned. Since the Command Post had already been destroyed, the main targets of the Turkish bombers were the airstrip and the barracks. Every hangar, including an XC-57 Loser's storage hangar and a makeshift mortuary containing the remains of fallen American and Iraqi soldiers, was struck by at least one 2,000-pound Joint Direct Attack bomb, an upgrade in satellite guidance over the conventional gravity bomb delivered by radar. This time, parking ramps and taxiways were damaged, which had not previously been attacked by the Turks during their initial invasion.
  
  The soldiers at Nala were on edge and ready for anything after the previous night's battle, so when the air raid siren sounded, the men immediately left the barracks doors and headed for the shelters . Several soldiers lingered too long to collect weapons or personal items and were killed by the bombs, while several other soldiers helping the wounded evacuate the building were caught in the open. In general, the losses were insignificant.
  
  But the devastation was complete. Within minutes, most of the Allied Nala air base was destroyed.
  
  
  SITUATION CENTER, WHITE HOUSE, Washington, DC.
  AFTER A SHORT TIME
  
  
  President Gardner hurried to the Situation Room, a high-tech conference room in the West Wing used for high-level national security meetings, and took his seat. "Take a seat," he said. "Someone talk to me right now. What's happened?"
  
  "Turkey has declared martial law and launched a series of air strikes across northern Iraq," National Security Adviser Conrad Carlyle said. "Turkish Defense Minister Jizek says he has been put in charge of the armed forces and ordered to launch a full-scale attack against the PKK and their supporters in Iraq and Turkey." An electronic map of northern Iraq was displayed on a large, wall-length computer monitor at the front of the room. "Twenty cities and towns were attacked by fighter-bombers, including Kirkuk, Erbil, Dahuk and Mosul. Attacks were made on three joint Iraqi-American military bases in Erbil, Kirkuk and near Mosul. Now there are reports of casualties. The bases only had a few minutes to alert." He paused long enough to get the president's full attention, then added, "And the vice president's plane is gone."
  
  "Gone?" the president shouted.
  
  "The Vice President flew to Baghdad minutes before the attack took place," Carlisle said. "The pilot was doing evasive maneuvers and looking for an emergency landing when they lost contact. The commander of the Allied air base, Nala, organized a search and rescue team, but this base was badly damaged and was almost destroyed. It had already been hit by a Turkish air raid last night. The Air Force search and rescue team is leaving from Samarra, but it will take them several hours to get there."
  
  "Good God," breathed the President. "Call Hirsiz, or Jizek, or whoever is really in charge in Ankara. I don't want any more Turkish planes flying over Iraq - not one! Where are the carriers? What can we get up there?"
  
  "We have Carrier Battle Group Abraham Lincoln in the Gulf," said Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Taylor Bain. "It won't be easy because of the distance, but we can start aerial patrols over Iraq with C4I E-2 Hawkeye radar aircraft and pairs of F/A-18 Hornet fighter jets in patrol orbits."
  
  "Do it," the president ordered. "Keep them over Iraq until they are attacked." Secretary of Defense Miller Turner picked up the phone to give the order.
  
  "Turkey has a very large air force, with a lot of surplus American combat aircraft and weapons," Carlisle said. "Some of them, like the F-15 Eagles, can match the Hornet."
  
  "If Turkey wants to get into a shootout with the United States, I'm ready to play," Gardner said angrily. "What about ground attack weapons? Tomahawks?"
  
  "Conventional sea-launched cruise missiles in the Persian Gulf are out of range," Bain said. "We would have to move the ships and submarines in the Mediterranean closer to be within range of the eastern Turkish air bases."
  
  "Any ships or submarines in the Black Sea?"
  
  "No submarines, according to the treaty," Bain added. "We have the only surface combat group patrolling the Black Sea, also under the treaty, and they have T-LAMs, but they are also the most vulnerable ships right now. We would have to assume that if the Turks wanted to fight, they would attack this group first."
  
  "What else do we have?"
  
  "We have several tactical aircraft based in various places in Europe - Greece, Romania, Italy, Germany and the UK, but these will not be fast strike options," Bain said. "Our only other option is conventionally armed B-2 Spirit stealth bombers launched from Diego Garcia. We have six surviving aircraft ready to take off."
  
  "Arm them and prepare them," the president said. "That's all we have? Six?"
  
  "I'm afraid so, Mr. President," Bain said. "We have two XR-A9 Black Stallion space planes that can launch precision weapons and they can be armed and hit targets within hours, and we also have some conventionally armed ICBMs that can hit targets quickly. in Turkey ".
  
  "Instruct them and prepare them too," Gardner said. "I don"t know what Ankara has in mind, or if they have anything in mind at all, but if they want to attack us, I want everything to be ready to go."
  
  The phone next to White House Chief of Staff Walter Cordus blinked and he picked it up. "The Prime Minister of Turkey welcomes you, sir."
  
  The President immediately picked up the phone. "Prime Minister Akas, this is President Gardner. What the hell is going on there? Twelve hours ago you announced a ceasefire. You have now attacked three American military bases! Are you out of your mind?"
  
  "I'm afraid that National Defense Minister Jizek and General Abdulla Guzlev might be Mr. President," she said. "Last night they arrested President Hirsiz, staged a military coup and took over the Presidential Palace. They were unhappy with the president's decision to retreat to the border before the PKK and their supporters were annihilated."
  
  "So why attack American bases?"
  
  "Revenge for the defeat near Tall Kaif," Akas said. "Two thousand Turks were killed or wounded in that battle. Jizek and the generals considered it cowardly to retreat to the frontier after such losses."
  
  "Are you still the prime minister, Mrs. Akas?"
  
  "No, I'm not like that," Akas said. "I've been allowed to use my cell phone, which I'm sure is tapped, but I can't travel freely or visit my office. Under the state of emergency, the National Assembly was dissolved. Jizek and the generals are responsible."
  
  "I want to talk to them immediately," Gardner said. "If you can get a message to Jizek, tell him that the United States is going to set up a no-fly zone in northern Iraq and I am warning them not to violate it or try to attack any of our planes, otherwise we will consider this an act of war and immediately Let's strike back. We are preparing all our military resources and will respond with everything we have. It's clear?"
  
  "That's clear to me, Mr. President," Akas said, "but I don't know if Jizek will take this as anything more than a clear threat of an imminent attack. Are you sure you want me to deliver this message, sir?"
  
  "I have no intention of attacking Turkey unless they violate Iraqi airspace again," Gardner said. "All our other answers will be by other means. But if Türkiye intends to fight, we will give them a fight." And he hung up.
  
  
  OUTSIDE TALL KAIF, IRAQ
  AFTER A SHORT TIME
  
  
  Two Hummers rushed to the crash site of the CV-22 and immediately surrounded the area with security forces, while Chris Thompson and a medic rushed towards the aircraft with a tilted propeller. Luckily, the Osprey fire suppression system brought the major fire to a halt and the Iraqi civilians put out the rest. They found the Vice President, the flight crew, and the Secret Service agent being treated by a local doctor while another Secret Service agent was covered in a rug. "Thank God you're alive, sir," Chris said.
  
  "Thank you to these people," said Ken Phoenix. "If they had not helped, we probably would have all died in the fire. What's happened?"
  
  "The Turks bombed the base - again," Chris said. "This time everything was practically destroyed. Several casualties; we have received sufficient warning. The Turks are conducting bombing raids throughout northern Iraq."
  
  "That's all about the ceasefire - if there ever was one," Phoenix said.
  
  "We are setting up an evacuation center here in the city," Chris said. "The Colonel plans to join friendly forces in Mosul. I'll get you out of here and then we'll figure out a way to get you to Baghdad."
  
  Ten minutes later they rendezvoused with some of the Nala survivors, including Patrick McLanahan, Hunter Noble, John Masters, and a handful of contractors and soldiers, most of them wounded. "Glad you came, Mr. Vice President," Patrick said.
  
  "Where is the colonel?"
  
  "Watching the evacuation," Patrick said. "He is going to send us to Mosul and wait for the convoy to leave. Almost every building that was still standing after last night is no longer standing."
  
  "Your aircraft, XC-57?"
  
  "They took over all the hangars, even the one we used as a mortuary."
  
  Ken Phoenix motioned for Patrick to come with him, and they moved away from the others. Phoenix reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic carrying case containing the secure digital card Patrick had given him. "What about this?" - he asked. "Can we still do this?"
  
  Patrick's eyes widened. He thought quickly and his head began to nod. "We will not have netrusion systems running," he said, "and I will have to check the status of Lancers in the UAE."
  
  "Find a phone and do it," Phoenix said. "I'm going to talk to the president."
  
  
  PRESIDENTIAL PALACE, ZANKAYA, ANKARA, Türkiye
  AFTER A SHORT TIME
  
  
  "What did he say?" Hasan Jizek screamed. "Gardner threatens war with Turkey?"
  
  "What did you expect to hear from him, Hassan?" Turkish Prime Minister Ais Akash asked. With them was the former chief of the general staff of Turkey, General Abdulla Guzlev. "You killed a lot of Americans today after Turkey declared a ceasefire! Did you expect him to say 'I understand' or 'Don't worry'?"
  
  "What I did was retribution for what he, his robots, and his Iraqi thugs did to my troops!" Jizek was crying. "They killed thousands!"
  
  "Calm down, Hasan," Akas said. "The president said he was going to set up a no-fly zone in northern Iraq and he doesn't want you to cross it. If you try, he will consider it an act of war."
  
  "He threatens war with Turkey? Is he crazy or just megalomaniac? He does not have enough forces in this part of the world to attack Turkey!"
  
  "Does he plan to use nuclear weapons against us?" - Asked Guzlev.
  
  "Hasan, shut up and think," Akas said. "We are talking about the United States of America. They may be less powerful due to the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, but they are still the most powerful military machine in the world. You can get away with attacking two or three bases in Iraq, but you can't stand up to the sheer force of their military might. They can raze this building to the ground in a hundred different ways in the blink of an eye. You know it. Why do you deny it?"
  
  "I do not deny it, but I will not back down from my mission until it is completed," Jizek said. "The United States will have to use its vaunted military power to stop me." He paused to think for a moment, then told Guzlev, "The fastest way he can establish a no-fly zone in northern Iraq is with carrier-based aircraft overflights from the Persian Gulf."
  
  "Yes," Guzlev said. "The Mediterranean and bases in Europe are too far away."
  
  "How long?"
  
  "Fighters, tankers, aircraft with radar - it will take several hours to brief them and get them ready for deployment, maybe longer, then at least an hour or two to fly to northern Iraq," Guzlev said.
  
  "That means we only have a few hours, maybe five or six, to act. Can we do it?"
  
  "About half of the forces are only being restored in Diyarbakir and Malatya," Guzlev said, glancing at his watch. "The other half are armed. If there are no delays or accidents... Yes, I think we can get them airborne again in five or six hours."
  
  "What are you going to do?" Akas asked.
  
  "I'm not going to violate the American no-fly zone; I'll just make sure my tasks are done before they install it," Jizek said. Speaking to Guzlev: "I want all available aircraft to be loaded and launched to strike at the final targets in Erbil, Kirkuk and Mosul. Every known or suspected PKK and Peshmerga base, every known PKK sympathizer and every Iraqi and US military base that could threaten the Turkish occupation of Iraq will be destroyed as soon as possible."
  
  
  OVER THE PACIFIC, THREE HUNDRED MILES WEST OF LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
  AFTER A SHORT TIME
  
  
  "Prepare for release," the mission commander said. He was on board Sky Masters Inc. Boeing DC-10 carrier aircraft high above the Pacific Ocean. "Let's make it good and I'll buy the first round."
  
  The aircraft, originally built by McDonnell Douglas Aircraft before that company was acquired by Boeing, has been heavily modified for many purposes, including aerial refueling and instrument testing, but its major modification has given it the ability to launch satellite boosters into space. The launch vehicle, called ALARM or Air Launched Alert Response Missile, resembled a large cruise missile. It had three solid rocket motors and folding wings to give it lift in the atmosphere. ALARM essentially used the DC-10 as its first stage engine.
  
  The signal boosters carried four satellites inside them. The satellites, called NIRTSats, or Need It Right This Second Satellites, were washing machine-sized, multipurpose reconnaissance satellites designed to stay in orbit for less than a month; they had very little maneuvering fuel and had to stay in one fixed orbit, with only a few minor orbital changes or realignments allowed. These satellites were put into orbit to serve field commanders in Afghanistan.
  
  "Damn amazing," said the mission commander, a US Air Force major from the 30th Space Wing at Vandenberg Air Force Base in California. "Less than twelve hours ago, I received the order to launch this constellation. Now we are going to do it. It usually takes the Air Force a week to do something like this."
  
  "That's why from now on, you should just contact us," the aircraft commander, a civilian working for Sky Masters Inc., proudly said.
  
  "Yeah, but you guys are too expensive."
  
  "You want the job done quickly and right, you have to pay for the best," said the pilot. "Besides, it's not your money, it's the Air Force's money."
  
  "Well, guys, no matter how you do it and no matter how much we pay you, it's worth it," said the mission commander.
  
  "We strive to please," the pilot said. He flipped a page on his multifunction display when he received the flashing message "Annunciation", read the incoming satellite message, returned it to the main navigation page, switched his intercom to "private" and spoke.
  
  "What was it?" the mission commander asked.
  
  "Nothing, just a quick request to release crews," the pilot said. The Air Force major didn't notice him, but the flight engineer sitting behind him suddenly took out maps and started typing on his flight planning computer. "How long until graduation?" the pilot asked.
  
  "Sixty seconds... now," the mission commander said. He checked his own multi-function display, which showed mission data. They were flying to a precise location and on a specific course that would put the alarm on the ideal trajectory for a successful deployment. Because the NIRTSats were so low on fuel, the closer they could put the booster into ideal orbit, the better.
  
  "Get ready, flight crew," the pilot said. "Report the completion of the checklists to the facilitator."
  
  "The flight deck is set up and ready to take off, MC," the flight engineer said.
  
  "Cabin deck ready, MC," reported the civilian in charge of the cabin after his Air Force colleague gave a thumbs up to watch the release. The cockpit of the modified DC-10 was divided into pressurized and non-pressurized compartments. The pressurized compartment contained a second ALARM amplifier suspended from cargo cables; the compartment could hold two alarms, plus one in an unpressurized compartment.
  
  The first emergency booster had already been loaded into the leaky launch bay, from where it was to be ejected into the slipstream under the DC-10. Upon release, his first solid rocket motor would fire and he would fly under, then ahead of the DC-10, then begin a steep climb. The engines of the second and third stages would fire in turn until the booster had reached orbital speed and was at the correct height in space-in this case, eighty-eight miles above the Earth-and then it would begin firing NIRTSAT satellites.
  
  "Get ready," the host said. "Five... four... three... two... one... roll." He waited for the brief pitch drop caused by the disconnection of the alarm booster from the DC-10 before the fuel and trim systems could restore the aircraft's balance. This has always been the hardest part of these releases; if the aircraft did not regain balance and began to pitch rapidly, and if the ALARM booster got into a disturbed slip flow, it could veer off course or get out of control. It was rare, but...
  
  Then the leader realized that he did not feel the movement of the serve. He looked at his multifunction display... and saw that the ALARM booster did not work! "Hey, what happened?" He checked his indicators... and saw that the pilot had disabled the launch. "Hey, you stopped the launch! You canceled the release! What's happening?"
  
  "We have received an order," said the pilot. "We're going to refuel, and then we're going to switch to another launch axis."
  
  "Orders? Another launch? You can't! It's an air force mission! Who told you to do this?"
  
  "Boss".
  
  "Which boss? Who? Hosts? He can't change this mission! I'm going to report to my command post."
  
  "You can tell them what we have done since launching this accelerator."
  
  "This booster, this mission belongs to the US Air Force! I won't let you take over the Air Force rocket."
  
  "I'm sorry to hear that from you, Major," the pilot said kindly... Just at the moment when the flight engineer reached out for the MC, put a taser to the Air Force officer's neck and pressed the switch, instantly knocking him unconscious.
  
  "How long will he stay outside, Jim?" the pilot asked.
  
  "I think a couple of hours."
  
  "Long enough," said the pilot. He clicked on the intercom, "OK, John, send him upstairs." Moments later, an Air Force technician assigned to supervise the launch entered the cockpit and he, too, was stunned unconscious by the flight engineer. "Okay, while the NIRTSats are being reprogrammed by Vegas headquarters via satellite, I need a potty break before we meet up with the tanker. Double check the new launch plan. All good work. Thanks for thinking along the way. After that, we all deserve a raise... unless we end up in jail, of course."
  
  "Where is the new challenge?" asked the launch deck technician.
  
  "Türkiye," the pilot said. "Looks like shit is in full swing there."
  
  
  MARDIN PROVINCE, SOUTH EAST Türkiye
  EARLY EVENING THE SAME DAY
  
  
  "Radar contact! Radar contact!" - shouted the officer of the tactical control, or TAO, of the Patriot anti-aircraft missile regiment located in the area. "Multiple incoming contacts, medium altitude, medium subsonic, heading straight for us. It will enter Syrian airspace in three minutes."
  
  The tactical director, or TD, studied the Patriot radar display. "Medium speed, no maneuvering, medium height - probably reconnaissance drones," he said. "How many?"
  
  "Eight. They are heading straight for our radar stations."
  
  "I don"t want to waste rockets on drones," he said, "but we have to close this sector." He thought for a moment, then said, "If they change altitude, join the fight. Otherwise, we will try to get them with anti-aircraft artillery."
  
  "What if they dive on our radars, sir?" asked TAO.
  
  "I don't know of any cruise missiles that are launched at vulnerable altitudes and then swoop down on their targets," the tactical director said. "Attack missiles will fly very low or very high. This is just what you need for anti-aircraft artillery. Hell, even the lousy Syrian gunners might have a chance to pin them down. Watch them for now. If they start accelerating or descending, we-"
  
  "Sir, Sector Four is also reporting several scarecrows approaching!" shouted the communications officer. This sector was the one that adjoined them to the east. "Eight more scarecrows, medium height, at medium subsonic speed, also headed for our radar points!"
  
  "Sixteen reconnaissance drones, all flying to Turkey at the same time ... and from where?" the tactical director said loudly. "Türkiye attacked all American bases this morning. There was no way they could launch so many drones so quickly. They must be launched from the air."
  
  "Or they could be decoys, like the last time we launched," TAO said.
  
  Sixteen targets...that meant thirty-two Patriots, because the Patriot always fired two missiles at each target to ensure a hit. Thirty-two patriots represented each launcher in the regiment. If they fired all the missiles at the drones or decoys, it would mean a huge waste of missiles and would leave them vulnerable until reloading, which would take about thirty minutes.
  
  The tactical director picked up the phone and relayed all the information to the Air Defense Sector Coordinator in Diyarbakir. "Shoot them down," the sector coordinator said. "They are in the attack profile. Check your systems for any signs of tampering."
  
  "Accepted," said the tactical director. "TAO, get ready for-"
  
  "Sir, they're going into orbit," the TAO shouted. "They are right along the border, some in Syria. It looks like they are orbiting."
  
  "Recon drones," the TD said in relief. "Keep watching. What about the scarecrows of the Fourth Sector?"
  
  "We're going into orbit too, sir," the TAO said.
  
  "Very good". TD needed a cigarette, but he knew that would be impossible until those creatures were out of his range. "Watch out for these things and..."
  
  "Bandits!" DAO suddenly shouted. "Four targets incoming, subsonic, extremely low altitude, forty miles range!"
  
  "Join the fight!" DAO immediately said. "Batteries are out! All batteries...!"
  
  "The drones are leaving their orbits, accelerating and descending!"
  
  Damn it, thought the director of tactics, they just went from alert to attack in the blink of an eye. "Give priority to high speed bandits," he said.
  
  "But the drones are coming!" DAO said. "Patriot prioritizes drones!"
  
  "I'm not going to waste missiles on drones," TD said. "Fast people are a real threat. Change your priorities and join the fight!"
  
  But that decision was obviously not going to stand because it soon became apparent that the drones were heading straight for the Patriot phased array radars. "Should I reprioritize, sir-"
  
  "Do it! Do it! TD said.
  
  The TAO was furiously inputting commands into its targeting computer, ordering the Patriot to attack closer, slower targets. "Patriot joins the fight!" he reported. "The speedboats are accelerating to supersonic speed... sir. The fourth sector reports that the drones have left their orbits, descending, accelerating and heading for our sector!"
  
  "Can they join the fight?" But he already knew the answer: one of the Patriot's radars couldn't hit the other because of the interference that created decoys that the combat computer could fire at. Only one radar could handle the fight. Their battery would have to hit all twenty-two targets...
  
  ...which meant they would run out of missiles by the time the Fleeters arrived! "Reprogram the combat computer to launch only one missile!" ordered the tactical director.
  
  "But we don"t have enough time!" said the tactical officer. "I would have to terminate this agreement and..."
  
  "Don't argue, just do it!" The DAO never typed as fast as it did then. He managed to reprogram the combat computer and reconnect the batteries ...
  
  ...but he couldn't do it fast enough and one radar was shot down by cruise missiles. The missiles, which were AGM-158A JASSMs, or Joint Air to Surface Standoff Missiles, were air-launched, turbojet-powered cruise missiles with 1,000-pound high-explosive fragmentation warheads and a range of over two hundred miles.
  
  Now one radar had to control the entire battle. Patriot radars did not scan like conventional mechanically scanned radars and did not need to be steered, but they did have a specific area of the sky that was assigned to them to avoid interference problems. The remaining radar, located at Batman Air Force Base sixty miles east of Diyarbakir, was assigned to look south into Iraq rather than west towards Diyarbakir. Following their current course-actually tracking Syria-they were at the extreme edge of radar airspace.
  
  "Order the Batman's radar to turn west-southwest to block that flight path," the tactical director ordered. DAO transmitted the order. The AN/MPQ-53 radar system was usually trailer-mounted, and although fairly easy to move to cover a new patch of sky, this was usually never done, especially when under attack. However, the Batman's location was different: even though the Patriot was designed to be mobile, the Batman's location was set semi-permanently, which meant that its radar array could be easily moved around as needed.
  
  "Radar reset, good trail for fast engines," the TAO reported a few minutes later. "Patriot joins the fight"-
  
  But at that moment, all radar readings went out. "What happened?" shouted the tactical director.
  
  "Batman's radar is off the air," TAO said. "Shot down by a cruise missile." Moments later: "Ground observers report two fast-moving aircraft at low altitude overhead from the east." It was now obvious what had happened: the switch of the radar to the west resulted in a decrease in the coverage area in the east. The two jets simply slipped through the radar gap between Batman and Van and attacked the radar.
  
  Now Diyarbakir was wide open.
  
  
  ON BOARD "FRACTURE ONE-NINE"
  IN THE SAME TIME
  
  
  "A turning point, this is the 109th, you've got a clean tail," Lieutenant Colonel Gia "Boxer" Cazzotto radioed the rest of her small squadron of B-1B Lancer bombers. "Let's take them, what do you say?"
  
  "Fracture One-Nine, this is Genesis," Patrick McLanahan radioed over their secure transmitter. "Are you getting the latest downloads?"
  
  "Bakai?"
  
  "Understood, I caught them," replied the offensive systems officer, or OSO. "The images are great - even better than from radar." He was viewing ultra-high resolution radar images of the Diyarbakır Air Base in Turkey taken by NIRTSat reconnaissance satellites just moments ago. Images uploaded from satellites could be processed by the AN/APQ-164 B-1 bombing system as if the image had been taken by the bomber's own radar. They were more than forty miles from the target, well outside the range of the low-altitude radar, but the OSO could see and calculate the target's coordinates well in advance of flying over the target.
  
  The OSO busied themselves collecting target coordinates and loading them into their eight remaining JASSM attack missiles, and once all the missiles had loaded the targets, they coordinated the launches in time and azimuth and let them fly. This time, the turbojet-powered cruise missiles flew low, avoiding known obstacles using inertial navigation with global positioning system updates. Six B-1 bombers fired eight JASSMs each, filling the skies with forty-eight stealth cruise missiles.
  
  There was no time to choose different warheads for the missiles, so they were all equipped with the same warheads with a thousand-pound fragmentation warhead, but some of them were loaded to explode on impact, while others were set to explode in the air after reaching their target coordinates. Airburst rockets were fired over aircraft stands, where powerful explosions destroyed everything for two hundred yards in all directions, while impact rockets targeted buildings, weapons storage areas, fuel depots and hangars. The OSOs were able to refine the missile's target using a real-time infrared data link, which gave crews an image of the target and allowed them to accurately aim the missile at the target.
  
  Genesis, this is a Fracture, a clean sweep," Cazzotto radioed. "All weapons are used up. How are we doing?"
  
  "We'll have the next NIRTSat uploads in about an hour," Patrick replied, "but from the images I got from the JASSMs, you did an excellent job. All Patriot radars disabled; I show you that climb and RTB are free. Good show."
  
  "See you...well, someday, Genesis," Gia said.
  
  "Looking forward to it, Fracture," said Patrick. And he really meant it.
  
  
  EPILOGUE
  
  
  Go crazy. Then deal with it.
  
  -COLIN POWELL
  
  
  
  OVAL OFFICE, WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, DC.
  IN THE NEXT MORNING
  
  
  "What the hell do you mean the United States attacked Turkey last night?" shouted President Joseph Gardner. In the Oval Office with him were his chief of staff, Walter Cordus; national security adviser Conrad Carlyle; and Secretary of Defense Miller Turner. "I did not give the order to attack! Who? Where...?"
  
  "The target was Diyarbakir, the main air base that Turkey used to carry out air strikes against Iraq," Turner said. "Six B-1B Lancer bombers launched from the territory of the United Arab Emirates-"
  
  "By whose authority?" the president boomed. "Who gave them the order?"
  
  "We are not sure sir..."
  
  "Not sure ? Six supersonic heavy bombers loaded with bombs take off from a base in the Middle East and bomb an air base in Turkey, and no one knows who authorized it? Who was the commander?
  
  "Her name is Cazzotto."
  
  "She? A female bomber wing commander?"
  
  "Apparently it's an engineering squadron, sir," Turner said. "They are pulling planes out of mothballs and putting them on alert again. They were tasked with providing air support for operations in Afghanistan and Iraq."
  
  "And they just took off and bombed Turkey? How is this even possible? Who ordered them to do this?"
  
  "Colonel Cazzotto refuses to speak other than to say that the man who expedited the mission will make contact," Turner said.
  
  "This is unacceptable, Miller," the president said. "Find this man and throw him in jail! This is madness! I'm not going to let six B-1 bombers fly around whenever someone wants to destroy a few buildings." He accepted the note from Cordus, read it, then crumpled it up and dropped it on his desk. "So what did they crash into?"
  
  "They destroyed two Patriot radar sites along the way," Turner said, "then they hit various military targets in Diyarbakir, including parked and taxiing aircraft, hangars, fuel depots and command and control centers. Very effective targeting. They used Joint Air to Surface strike missiles, which are high-precision conventionally armed subsonic cruise missiles. All planes returned safely."
  
  "And put up a stockade, I hope!"
  
  "Yes, sir. It looks like the Turks were preparing for a major air raid on Iraq. They had over a hundred tactical aircraft ready to take off at Diyarbakir. Looks like they were trying to suck up a bit before we set up a no-fly zone in northern Iraq."
  
  This softened the president's fury somewhat, but he shook his head. "I need some answers, Miller, and I want some asses!" he shouted. Cordus answered the flashing phone, stared at the President until he looked away, then nodded towards the door to the President's private office adjoining the Oval Office. "God, just what I need when the shit starts is a VIP."
  
  "Who is this?" Carlisle asked.
  
  "President Kevin Martindale".
  
  "Martindale? What does he want?
  
  "It amazes me, but he waited for an hour," Gardner said. "I will get rid of him. Answer me a few questions, Miller!" He entered his private office and closed the door. "I'm sorry, Mr. President," he said. "Something urgent happened."
  
  "It happens a lot in this business, Mr. President," said Kevin Martindale, standing up and shaking hands with his former secretary of defense. "I'm sorry for the unexpected visit, but there is something I should have told you."
  
  "Can it wait until lunch, Kevin?" Gardner asked. "You know, this whole Turkey business is threatening to come loose-"
  
  "It has to do with Turkey," Martindale said.
  
  "ABOUT? What about this?
  
  "Air strike on Diyarbakir last night."
  
  Gardner's eyes widened in shock. "Air strike...Jesus, Kevin, I found out about this two minutes ago! How do you know about this?"
  
  "Because I helped plan it," Martindale said. Gardner's eyes bulged even more. "I convinced the commander of Minhad Air Base in the United Arab Emirates, General Omeir, to let go of the bombers. He was in my debt." Gardner was absolutely dumbfounded. "Look, Joe, you have to promise me not to do this," Martindale continued. "Don't investigate Cazzotto, Omeir or anyone else."
  
  "Don't investigate? A group of six American supersonic bombers attacked an air base in Turkey, and I shouldn't be investigating?"
  
  "It would be better if you didn't, Joe," Martindale said. "Besides, the air strike probably stopped the war between us and Turkey. From what I've been told, we destroyed a quarter of the Turkish tactical air force in that single raid. They were preparing to hit Iraq again, probably destroying most of Erbil and Kirkuk."
  
  "Kevin... How the hell do you know all this?" Gardner asked. "What did you do?"
  
  Martindale looked at Gardner for a moment, then smiled and said quietly, "I'm Scion Aviation International, Joe. Have you heard of them?"
  
  The bulging incredulous expression returned. "Aviation of descendants? Scion... You mean the McLanahan organization? "
  
  "My outfit, Joe."
  
  "You...do you have robots...Tin Woodman...?"
  
  "Less than we had before, thanks to Hirsiz and Jizek," Martindale said, "but we still have the rest." He looked at Gardner and remained silent until the President looked back at him. "I know what you're thinking, Joe: you grab McLanahan in Iraq and force him to reveal where the other robots are, and then turn him over to Uzbekistan for the rest of his life. Do not do that ".
  
  "Why the hell shouldn't I?" Gardner said. "That's exactly what he deserves!"
  
  "Joe, you need to do what I did: stop fighting the guy and learn to work with him," Martindale said. "This man went there, planned an air strike against one of the most powerful countries in this region of the world, gathered the aircraft, weapons and satellite support he needed, and succeeded. Isn't that the guy you want to work for you?"
  
  "This guy sent these two iron men after me to Camp David and one of them grabbed my neck...!"
  
  "And I know why, Joe," Martindale said. "I have all the evidence tucked away just in case. Now it's not just McLanahan that you need to eliminate: now it's me and a small group of lawyers who know where all the copies of all this evidence are hidden ." He put a hand on Gardner's shoulder. "But I'm not here to threaten you, Joe," he continued. "I'm telling you, McLanahan doesn't want to fight you, he wants to fight for you, for America. He's got a gift, man. He sees the problem and moves heaven and earth to fix it. Why don't you want him on your side?"
  
  He patted Gardner on the shoulder, then took his coat back. "Think about it, Joe, okay?" he said, getting ready to leave. "And stop the investigation, or write it down, or classify it, do whatever. If this forces the Turks to retreat, all is well. You can even take credit for yourself. I will watch over you, Mr. President."
  
  
  PALMA JUMEIRA, DUBAI, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES
  A FEW DAYS LATER
  
  
  From the rooftop restaurant of the impressive new Trump International Hotel and Tower in Dubai, Patrick McLanahan and Gia Cazzotto were able to see the many incredible trunks, crowns, branches and breakwater of the Palm Jumeirah, one of the three palm islands, artificial islands and reefs that form one of the most unusual and one-of-a-kind residential and entertainment complexes in the world. In the form of a huge palm branch, it adds over three hundred miles to the coast of the Persian Gulf of the United Arab Emirates.
  
  Gia raised her glass of champagne to Patrick and he touched his glass to hers. "So, tell me, General," she asked, "how did you manage to find a hotel for yourself, me and your entire team in the most exclusive hotel in the world that cannot be booked?"
  
  "Very grateful boss," said Patrick.
  
  "Oh, very mysterious. Who is he? Or can't you tell? Does he sound like Charles Townsend's character, rich and powerful but who prefers to remain in the background?
  
  "Something like that".
  
  They stood and admired the view for a few moments; then she asked, "When are you coming back to the States?"
  
  "Tomorrow morning".
  
  "Can't you stay any longer?"
  
  "No". He looked at her, then asked, "When are you coming back to Palmdale?"
  
  "Day after tomorrow. I thought I was heading to Fort Leavenworth, but it all suddenly disappeared." She looked at him carefully. "You don"t happen to know why all those State Department and Defense Intelligence Agency investigators suddenly disappeared, do you?"
  
  "No".
  
  "Perhaps your Charlie became my guardian angel?" Patrick didn't say anything. She frowned derisively. "You don't talk much, do you, sir?" she asked.
  
  "I asked you not to call me 'sir' or 'general'."
  
  "Sorry, I can't help myself." She took a sip of champagne, then intertwined her fingers with his. "But maybe if you were doing something less general, I could get comfortable with it." Patrick smiled, leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips.
  
  "That's what I'm talking about, Patrick." She smiled mischievously at him, pulled him closer, then said before kissing him again, "But that's not all I'm talking about."
  
  
  UKURKA BORDER CITY, HAKKARI PROVINCE, REPUBLIC OF TURKEY
  THE SAME EVENING
  
  
  On the way through the Ukurcha border checkpoint on the Turkish-Iraqi border, a small crowd of well-wishers gathered, waving Turkish flags and cheering as the forward vehicles of the Turkish Gendarma Force returned to their homeland. Border guards held them back, while patrol dogs were led back and forth along the line.
  
  It had been a long, exhausting, and humiliating ride home, General Bezir Ozek thought as he stepped out of his armored vehicle as soon as he crossed the border, but it made the whole shameful debacle somewhat worth it. The commander of the border post saluted and a small ceremonial band played the Turkish national anthem. "Welcome home, general," said the commander.
  
  "Thank you, Major," Ozek said, "and thank you for this welcome."
  
  "Don't thank me - thank the people," said the major. "They heard that you were coming home and they wanted to welcome you and your people back from the victorious campaign against the PKK."
  
  Ozek nodded without saying what he really thought: his campaign had failed, interrupted by the coward Hasan Jizek. After an American air raid on Diyarbakir, Jizek disappeared completely, leaving the government wide open. Kurzat Hirsiz resigned and handed over power to Ais ¸e Akas, and the campaign to defeat the PKK was over. He spent the last week fighting off ambushes by PKK and Peshmerga guerrillas as they returned home.
  
  "Come, please, meet your well-wishers," said the major. He leaned over to Ozek and said, "All precautions have been taken, sir."
  
  "Thank you, Major," Ozek said. He turned to the crowd and waved his hand, and the crowd erupted in cheers. Well, he thought, that sounds real enough. He began to shake hands. Men and women looked at him with Google eyes, as if he were some kind of rock star. Hundreds of hands reached out to him.
  
  He was almost at the very end of the crowd when he noticed that one woman was waving to him with her right hand, and holding a child in her left. She was very attractive, which was further emphasized by the fact that she was breastfeeding the child, and only a light transparent blanket covered her bare breasts. He grabbed her free hand. "Thank you my dear, thank you for this welcome," he said.
  
  "No thanks, General," the woman said happily. "Thank you for your hard-fought battles."
  
  "I am doing my best to serve the people of Turkey, and especially beautiful women like you." He took her hand and kissed it. "This is a job I cherish, just as I will cherish meeting you."
  
  "Well, thank you, General." The thin blanket shifted slightly, and Ozek grinned at her breasts. Damn it, he thought, he's been in the field too long. "And," she said, blinking her eyes at him, "I also have work to do."
  
  The thin blanket fell, revealing a beautiful, firm, sexy breast...and a horribly mangled left shoulder, half of a left arm...and a wooden stick with a lobster-like end attached to the stump. "My job to avenge the people of al-Amadiyya is coming to an end, General, as is yours... thanks to Base."
  
  And with that, Zilar Azzavi pulled the dead man's trigger on the detonators connected to the twenty pounds of explosives hidden in the doll she carried as a baby, killing everyone within a twenty-foot radius.
  
  
  about the author
  
  
  DALE BROWN is the author of numerous New York Times bestselling books, including Edge of Battle and Shadow Command. The former US Air Force captain can often be seen driving his own aircraft in the skies of the United States.
  
  
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  Dale Brown
  Unholy forces
  
  
  COMPOSITION OF CHARACTERS
  
  
  
  AMERICANS
  
  
  PATRICK S. MCLANAHAN, USAF Lt. Gen. (Ret.), Partner and President, Scion Aviation International
  
  KEVIN MARTINDALE, former President of the United States, silent owner of Scion Aviation International
  
  JONATHAN COLIN MASTERS, PhD, Head of Operations Sky Masters Inc.
  
  HUNTER NOBL, Vice President of Engineering, Sky Masters Inc.
  
  JOSEPH GARDNER, President of the United States
  
  KENNET T. PHOENIX, Vice President
  
  CONRAD F. CARLYLE, National Security Adviser
  
  MILLER H. TURNER Secretary of Defense
  
  WALTER CORDUS, White House Chief of Staff
  
  STACEY ANNE BARBAU Secretary of State
  
  USMC GENERAL TAYLOR J. BANE, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff
  
  US ARMY MAJOR GENERAL CHARLES CONNOlly, division commander in northern Iraq
  
  US ARMY COL JACK T. WILHELM, Senior Officer, 2nd Regiment, Allied Air Force Base Nakhla, Iraq
  
  ARMY Lt. Col. MARK WEATHERLY, Regimental Executive Officer
  
  ARMY MAJOR KENNET BRUNO, Regimental Operations Officer
  
  USAF LIEUTENANT COLONEL GIA "BOXER" CAZZOTTO, Commander, 7th Air Expeditionary Squadron
  
  CHRIS THOMPSON, President and CEO of Thompson Security, a private security company based at Allied Air Base Nakhla, Iraq
  
  FRANK BEXAR, privately contracted intelligence officer
  
  CAPTAIN CALVIN COTTER, USAF, Deputy Regimental Air Traffic Control Officer
  
  MARGARET HARRISON, director of private contract drones
  
  RES FLIPPIN, Private Contract Meteorological Officer
  
  
  TURKS
  
  
  KURZAT HIRSIZ, President of the Republic of Turkey
  
  AYSE AKASH, Prime Minister of the Republic of Turkey
  
  HASAN JIZEK, Minister of National Defense of the Republic of Turkey
  
  GENERAL ORHAN SHAHIN, Secretary General of the Turkish National Security Council
  
  MUSTAFA HAMARAT, Minister of Foreign Affairs of Turkey
  
  FEVSI GUKLU, Director of the National Intelligence Organization
  
  GENERAL ABDULLA GUZLEV, Chief of Staff of the Armed Forces of the Republic of Turkey
  
  GENERAL AYDIN DEDE, Deputy Chief of Staff
  
  MAJOR AIDIN SABASTI, liaison officer, US 2nd Regiment, Allied Air Base Nakhla, Iraq
  
  MAJOR HAMID JABBURI, Deputy Liaison Officer
  
  GENERAL BESIR ÖZEK, Commander of the Gendarma (Turkish National Internal Security Forces)
  
  Lt. GENERAL GUVEN ILGAZ, Deputy Commander, Gendarma
  
  Lt. GENERAL MUSTAFA ALI, Gendarma Shift Commander
  
  
  IRAQIS
  
  
  ALI LATIF RASHID, President of the Republic of Iraq
  
  COLONEL YUSUF JAFFAR, Commander, Allied Air Base Nakhla, Tall Kaif, Iraq
  
  MAJOR JAFAR OSMAN, Iraqi company "Maqbara" ("grave"), commander of the 7th brigade
  
  COLONEL NURI MAVLAUD, liaison officer of the Second Regiment
  
  ZILAR "BAZ" (HAWK) AZZAWI, Iraqi PKK rebel leader
  
  SADUN SALIH, Assistant Squad Leader Azzawi
  
  
  WEAPONS AND ABBREVIATIONS
  
  
  
  ABBREVIATIONS AND TERMINOLOGY
  
  
  AMARG - Aerospace Maintenance and Regeneration Group ("Boneyard"), a US Air Force facility near Tucson, Arizona that stores, dismantles and remanufacture parts from disabled aircraft
  
  AOR - Area of Responsibility
  
  AQI - Al-Qaeda in Iraq, the Iraqi offshoot of Osama bin Laden's terrorist organization
  
  "combat rattle" - personal equipment necessary for combat operations
  
  bullseye - a designated point from which information about the range and bearing to the target can be transmitted on open frequencies without disclosing one's own position
  
  C4I - Command, Control, Communications, Computers and Intelligence
  
  Çankaya is the seat of the Government of the Republic of Turkey
  
  CHU - Container Housing Unit, a mobile living space resembling a shipping container used by US soldiers in Iraq
  
  Chuville - an area with a large number of Chu
  
  DFAC - Dining room
  
  ECM - Electronic Countermeasures
  
  EO - Electro-optical sensors that can electronically propagate or enhance optical images
  
  FAA - Federal Aviation Administration, US Aviation Regulatory Agency
  
  FOB - Forward Operating Base, military base near or on enemy territory
  
  Fobbits is a slang term for staff and support staff.
  
  Fobbitville is slang for the headquarters building.
  
  FPCON - Troop Protection Condition, Enemy or Terrorist Threat Level Assessment for Military Installation (formerly THREATCON)
  
  GP - Primary Target (gravity bomb or vehicle)
  
  IA - Iraqi Army
  
  IED - Improvised Explosive Device
  
  IIR - infrared imaging sensor, thermal sensor with sufficient resolution for imaging
  
  ILS - Instrument Landing System, a radio beam system that can guide aircraft to land in difficult weather conditions
  
  IM - instant messaging, transferring text messages between computers
  
  IR - Infrared
  
  Clicks - kilometers
  
  The KRG is the Kurdistan Regional Government, a political organization governing the autonomous Kurdish region in northern Iraq.
  
  LLTV - Low Light TV
  
  LRU - Linear interchangeable units, components of aircraft systems that can be easily removed and replaced on the flight line in the event of a malfunction
  
  Mahdi is a slang term for any foreign fighter
  
  Adaptive Technology for Tasks - A system for automatically shaping aircraft surfaces to provide greater flight control capabilities
  
  Modes and Codes - Settings for various Aircraft Identification transponder radios
  
  MTI - Moving Target Indicator, a radar that tracks moving vehicles on the ground from a great distance
  
  Netrusion - transmission of false data or programming into an enemy computer network using digital communications, data channels or sensors
  
  NOFORN - No foreign; security classification that restricts foreign citizens' access to data
  
  PAG - Congress for Freedom and Democracy, alternative name for the PKK
  
  PKK-Party Karker in Kurdistan, Kurdistan Workers' Party, a Kurdish separatist organization seeking to create a separate nation from the ethnic Kurdish regions of Turkey, Iran, Syria, and Iraq; designated as a terrorist organization by several nations and organizations
  
  ROE - Rules of Engagement, Procedures and Restrictions for a Combat Operation
  
  SAM - surface-to-air missile
  
  SEAD - Suppression of enemy air defenses using jamming and weapons to destroy enemy air defenses, radars or command and control facilities
  
  triple-A - anti-aircraft artillery
  
  
  Weapon
  
  
  AGM-177 Wolverine - autonomous attack cruise missile, air or ground-based
  
  CBU-87 Combined Action Ammunition - air-dropped weapon that spreads anti-personnel and anti-vehicle mines over a wide area
  
  The CBU-97 Sensor Fuze Weapon is an air-dropped weapon that can detect and destroy multiple armored vehicles simultaneously over a wide area
  
  CID - Cybernetic Infantry Device, controlled robot with increased strength, armor, sensors and combat capabilities
  
  The Cobra gunship is a US Army second-generation light helicopter equipped with weapons.
  
  The CV-22 Osprey is a medium transport aircraft that can take off and land like a helicopter, but can then turn its propellers and fly like a fixed wing aircraft.
  
  JDAM - Joint Direct Destruction Ammunition, a kit for attaching to gravity bombs that provides them with near-precision targeting using global positioning system navigation information
  
  KC-135R is the latest tanker aircraft of the Boeing 707 family.
  
  Kiowa is a light helicopter equipped with advanced sensors used to detect targets by combat helicopters.
  
  MIM-104 Patriot - American-made ground-based anti-aircraft missile system
  
  SA-14 - second-generation Russian-made anti-aircraft missile with manual launch
  
  SA-7 - Russian-made first-generation anti-aircraft missile with manual launch
  
  Slingshot - a powerful laser defense system for aircraft
  
  Stryker - eight-wheeled multi-purpose armored personnel carrier of the US Army
  
  The Tin Woodman is a soldier equipped with advanced body armor, sensors, and power-enhancing systems to enhance his combat capabilities.
  
  The XC-57 "Loser" is a flying wing aircraft originally designed for the USAF's next generation bomber, but converted to a multi-role transport aircraft when the project lost a contract tender.
  
  
  EXTRACTS FROM REAL WORLD NEWS
  
  
  
  BBC NEWS ONLINE, 30 OCTOBER 2007:
  
  ...Tensions between Turkey and the Iraqi Kurdish region have been steadily rising in the months leading up to the current crisis triggered by PKK attacks that have killed about forty Turkish troops in recent weeks.
  
  ... In May, Turkey was outraged when a US-led multinational force handed over security control in three provinces of Iraqi Kurdistan and quickly raised the Kurdish flag instead of the Iraqi one.
  
  ... "You don't need 100,000 [Turkish] troops to take over," said a senior Iraqi Kurdish politician. "What they are clearly planning to do is stage a major invasion and take control of the main land routes inside Iraqi Kurdistan leading into the border mountains on the Iraqi side."
  
  ...There are rumors in Kurdish circles that the Turks may also try to bomb or otherwise neutralize two Iraqi Kurdish airports, in Erbil and Sulaymaniyah, which Ankara claims allowed PKK fighters to find safe haven.
  
  ... "The Turks could destroy them or bomb them, as they did in the past. What they offer is more than that. They talk about a large-scale military invasion that makes people extremely, extremely nervous and anxious. Many people worry that Turkey's ambitions may extend beyond the destruction of the PKK..."
  
  
  
  BBC NEWS ONLINE, 18 JANUARY 2008:
  
  ...Turkey has been threatening military action against the PKK since the rebels have intensified their attacks on Turkish troops, putting enormous public pressure on the government here to respond with force. Last month, the government allowed the military to carry out cross-border operations [in Iraq] against the PKK when necessary.
  
  The air strikes on Sunday night were the first major sign of this.
  
  ...Ankara claims to have tacit US approval for its operations in accordance with the agreement reached in Washington last month by Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdogan and President George W. Bush.
  
  "I believe the US has provided actionable intelligence and the Turkish military has taken action," Turkish Foreign Ministry spokesman Levent Bilman told the BBC...
  
  
  
  "TURKISH TROOPS DESTROY 11 REBELLIONS IN THE SOUTH-EAST OF TURKEY NEAR THE BORDER WITH IRAQ-ASSOCIATED PRESS", MARCH 12, 2007-ANKARA, TURKEY:
  
  Turkish troops have killed 11 Kurdish rebels during clashes in southeastern Turkey near the border with Iraq, a private news agency reported Wednesday. The fighting comes two weeks after Turkey's eight-day invasion of northern Iraq to drive out PKK rebels who have been fighting the Turkish government since 1984.
  
  ... Some Turkish nationalists fear that the expansion of cultural rights could lead to a split in the country along ethnic lines. They are concerned that Turkish Kurds might be encouraged by the US-backed Kurdish region in northern Iraq, which has its own government and militias...
  
  
  
  FORECAST FOR THE SECOND QUARTER 2008, No STRATFOR.COM, APRIL 4, 2008:
  
  Regional trend: Turkey is emerging as a major regional power and in 2008 will begin to exert influence throughout its periphery, especially in northern Iraq...
  
  Turkey feels strong not only in northern Iraq, but also in the nearby Balkans and Caucasus, where it seeks to mentor newly independent Kosovo and newly oil-rich Azerbaijan...
  
  
  
  "IRON MAN IS THE NEW FACE OF MILITARY CONTRACTORS", JEREMY SU, SPACE.COM, MAY 6, 2008:
  
  When superhero Tony Stark isn't donning his Iron Man armor to take down villains personally, he's offering the US military new gadgets to fight the war on terror.
  
  ...Individuals and companies may not be as visible as the drones hovering in the skies of Afghanistan and Iraq, yet their role has risen just as dramatically during recent conflicts.
  
  ...No one questions the fact that the United States could not fight the war now without the involvement of military contractors...This means that military contractors have also gone beyond the mere sale of military equipment. Now they manage supply lines, feed troops, build base camps, advise on strategy, and even fight as private security forces...
  
  
  
  "IRAN: AMERICAN-IRAQI DEAL WILL 'ENLAVE' Iraqis - RAFSANJANI," STRATFOR.COM JUNE 4, 2008:
  
  Iran's Expediency Council chairman Akbar Hashemi Rafsanjani said on June 4 that the Islamic world would try to block a long-term security deal between Iraq and the United States, saying the terms of the deal would "enslave" the Iraqis, the Associated Press reported. Rafsanjani said that the US-Iraqi deal would lead to a permanent occupation of Iraq, and that such an occupation is dangerous for all states in the region...
  
  
  
  OUTLOOK FOR THE THIRD QUARTER, STRATFOR.COM, JULY 8, 2008:
  
  ...Regional trend: Turkey is emerging as a major regional power and in 2008 will begin to exert influence throughout its periphery, especially in northern Iraq...Turkey is getting bolder on the international stage: sending troops to northern Iraq, mediating Israeli-Syrian peace talks, promoting energy projects in the Caucasus and Central Asia and makes itself felt with its influence in the Balkans...
  
  
  
  "IRAQI PARLIAMENT CALLS MEETING ON KIRKUK", ASSOCIATED PRESS, JULY 30, 2008:
  
  ...Tensions escalated Monday after a suicide bombing in Kirkuk during a Kurdish protest against an election law that killed 25 people and injured more than 180.
  
  Kirkuk is home to Kurds, Turkmen, Arabs and other minorities. After the Kirkuk bombing, dozens of angry Kurds stormed the offices of a Turkmen political party that opposes Kurdish claims to Kirkuk, opening fire and burning cars amid accusations that their rivals were responsible. It was reported that nine Turkmen, or ethnic Turks, were wounded.
  
  Turkish Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdogan, who defends the rights of Turkmens, called on the Iraqi authorities to express concern over the incidents in Kirkuk and offered to send a plane to bring the wounded to Turkey for treatment, the Office of the President of Iraq said...
  
  
  
  "TURKEY IS CONCERNED BY KIRKUK CITY", ASSOCIATED PRESS, AUGUST 2, 2008:
  
  Baghdad - The Turkish government has expressed concern over the Iraqi city of Kirkuk, where ethnic Turks have become embroiled in a territorial dispute, an Iraqi official says.
  
  An unidentified Iraqi Foreign Ministry official said Turkish Foreign Minister Ali Babikan had contacted Iraqi Foreign Minister Hoshyar Zebari about the situation in the city, Kuwaiti news agency KUNA reported on Saturday.
  
  The province of Kirkuk demanded that the city become part of Iraqi Kurdistan, while Turkey strongly opposed such a move.
  
  Although the city has the largest concentration of ethnic Turks in Iraq, Saeed Zebari's spokesman said that any attempt to resolve the dispute would be made solely by Iraq.
  
  Zebari said that any outside attempts to intervene in the dispute would not be welcomed by Iraq, a KUNA spokesman said.
  
  
  
  "FIRST LASER SHOT", WIRED, DANGER ROOM, AUGUST 13, 2008:
  
  Boeing today announced the first-ever test of a real-world ray gun that could be a "plausible deniability" covert strike method for US Special Forces.
  
  In tests conducted earlier this month at Kirtland Air Force Base, New Mexico, Boeing's advanced tactical laser -- a modified C-130H aircraft -- "fired its high-energy chemical laser through a beam steering system. The beam control system has detected a ground target and directed the laser beam at the target as indicated by the ATL combat control system..."
  
  
  
  "A RECORD NUMBER OF US CONTRACTORS IN IRAQ", CHRISTIAN SCIENCE MONITOR, PETER GRIER, AUGUST 18, 2008:
  
  Washington-The US military has been dependent on private contractors ever since the Sutlers sold paper, bacon, sugar, and other luxuries to Continental Army troops during the Revolutionary War.
  
  But the scale of contractor use in Iraq is unprecedented in US history, according to a new congressional report that may be the most detailed official record of the practice. As of early 2008, according to the Congressional Budget Office (CBO), at least 190,000 private employees were working on US-funded projects in the Iraqi theater of war. This means that for every U.S. military uniform in the region, there was also a contract, a ratio of 1 to 1.
  
  ...critics of military outsourcing say the real problem is flexibility and command and control of private workers...
  
  
  
   " C -300 CURIOSITY ANKARA ," STRATEGIC FORECASTING INC., AUGUST 26 , 2008:
  
   ...Turkey is in the process of acquiring several variants of the Russian S-300 air defense system, Turkish daily Today's Zaman reported on August 25...
  
  ...If Turkey succeeds in this acquisition, Ankara's subsequent work will require two important approaches. The first is reverse engineering, where key components are taken apart and their inner workings are closely examined. The second is training in electronic warfare against real systems ...
  
  
  
  "TURKISH ARMY SEEKS TO EXPAND POWERS", ASSOCIATED PRESS, ANKARA, TURKEY - OCTOBER 10, 2008:
  
  Turkey's leaders met on Thursday to discuss increasing the military's powers to fight Kurdish insurgents after a spate of attacks, some of which came from rebel bases in northern Iraq.
  
  Turkey's parliament on Wednesday already voted to extend the military's mandate to conduct operations against Kurdish rebels in northern Iraq, including cross-border ground operations.
  
  But the military has requested additional powers to fight the Kurdistan Workers' Party, or PKK, insurgency. Thursday's meeting focused on expanding the options available to the military and police...
  
  
  
  PROLOGUE
  
  
  
  Outside EL AMADIA, DAHUK PROVINCE, REPUBLIC OF IRAQ
  SPRING 2010
  
  
  The dilok, or traditional wedding celebration, had been going on for hours, but no one seemed to be the least bit tired. The men danced on large defahs, or skeletal drums, and tapped to folk music played with amplified zurna and timburs, while other guests cheered them on.
  
  Outside it was a warm, dry, clear evening. Groups of men stood in groups here and there, smoking and drinking from small cups of thick coffee. Older women and girls in colorful dresses and scarves carried trays of food to them, their sons or younger brothers helped them with lanterns.
  
  After serving the men outside the wedding reception, the woman carried the tray down the road behind the traffic lights, her ten-year-old son leading the way to two Toyota pickup trucks half-hidden by trees, one on each side of the road leading to the farm. The boy shone his flashlight on the pickup truck to his left, right in the eyes of his older brother. "May Allah bless and greet you! Caught you sleeping again!" he shouted.
  
  "I was not!" said the brother, much louder than he had intended.
  
  "Hani, don't do this. Now your brother won't be able to see in the dark for a while," the boy's mother scolded him. "Go get your brother something tasty and tell him you're sorry. Let's go, Mazen," she said to her husband, "I have more coffee for you."
  
  The husband placed his AK-47 on the front bumper of the truck and accepted the treat gratefully. He was dressed for celebration, not for guard duty. "You are a good woman, Zilar," the man said. "But next time, send your lazy brother here to do the work for you. It was his idea to place a guard at the entrance." He could feel her pained expression. "I understand. He's busy recruiting again, no? His own daughter's wedding and he can't stop?
  
  "He feels very strongly-"
  
  "I know, I know," the husband interrupted, placing his hand gently on his wife's cheek to comfort her. "He is a patriotic and staunch Kurdish nationalist. Good for him. But he knows that militias, police and military monitor such events, take photos from drones, use sensitive microphones and tap phones. Why does he continue? He risks too much."
  
  "However, I thank you again for agreeing to be on duty here for security purposes," the wife said, removing his hand from her face and kissing it. "It makes him feel better."
  
  "I haven't picked up a rifle in years since I left the Peshmerga militias in Kirkuk. I find myself checking the fuse every three seconds."
  
  "Oh, are you, my husband?" The woman walked over to the AK-47 leaning against the bumper and examined it with her fingers.
  
  "Ah, Los Angeles, tell me I'm not..."
  
  "You did". She pushed the safety lever back to the "safe" position.
  
  "I'm glad your brothers aren't around to see you do it," her husband said. "Perhaps I need more lessons from the former Supreme Commune of Women Commanders."
  
  "I need to raise a family and take care of the house - I devoted my time to the independence movement of Kurdistan. Let the young women wrestle a little for a change."
  
  "You can embarrass any young woman - on the shooting range and in bed."
  
  "Oh, and how do you know about the skills of young women?" she asked playfully. She put the weapon back and walked over to her husband, wiggling her hips seductively. "I have many more lessons that I would rather teach you, husband." He kissed her. "So, how long are you going to keep my eldest son here?"
  
  "Not for long. Maybe another hour." He nodded towards his son, who was busy shooing his little brother away from a few leftover baklava on a tray. "It's nice to be here with Neaz. He takes this task very seriously. He-" The man stopped because he thought he heard a bicycle or small scooter approaching, a kind of low humming sound that indicated speed but not power. There were no lights on the road or highway behind her . He frowned, then placed his coffee cup in his wife's hand. "Take Honey back to the community center."
  
  "What is this?"
  
  "Probably nothing." He looked back at the dirt road and saw no sign of any movement - no birds, no rustling trees. "Tell your brother I'm going to wander around for a bit. I will tell the others." He kissed his wife on the cheek, then went to get his AK-47. "I'll be ready to come in after I get..."
  
  Out of the corner of his eye, high to the west, he caught it: a short flash of yellow light, not solid like a searchlight, but flickering like a torch. Why he did this he wasn't sure, but he pushed his wife aside, into the trees next to the gate. "Lie down!" he shouted. "Lie! Stay-"
  
  Suddenly, the ground vibrated, as if a thousand horses had scattered right next to them. The face, eyes, and throat of the husband were clogged with clouds of dust and dirt that appeared out of nowhere, and stones were thrown in all directions. The wife screamed as she saw her husband literally disintegrate into pieces of human flesh. The pickup truck was similarly torn apart before the gas tank exploded, sending a massive fireball into the sky.
  
  Then she heard it-a terrible sound, incredibly loud, lasting only a fraction of a second. It was like a giant growling animal standing over her like a chainsaw the size of a house. The sound was followed a moment later by the loud whistle of a jet flying overhead, so low she thought it might be landing on a dirt road.
  
  In just a few heartbeats, her husband and two sons were dead before her eyes. Somehow, the woman got to her feet and ran back to the wedding reception, thinking of nothing but warning the other members of her family to run for their lives.
  
  "The advantage is clear," radioed the lead pilot of a three-ship A-10 Thunderbolt II bomber. He braked hard to make sure he was far enough away from the other aircraft and the terrain. "Two, cleared in hot pursuit."
  
  "Good approach, leader," the pilot of the second A-10 Thunderbolt radioed. "Second in action." He checked the infrared video display of the AGM-65G Maverick missile, which clearly showed two pickup trucks at the end of the road, one on fire and the other still intact, and with a light touch of the control stick, he moved in next to the second pickup truck. His A-10 was not modified with a dedicated infrared sensor module, but the "poor man's FLIR" video from the Maverick rocket did the job perfectly.
  
  Night firing cannons are usually undesirable, especially in such hilly terrain, but what pilot wouldn't take the risk for a chance to fire the incredible GAU-8A Avenger cannon, a 30mm Gatling gun that fired huge depleted uranium projectiles at nearly four thousand rounds per minute? Also, since the first target burned well, it was now easy to see the next target.
  
  When the Maverick's reticle dropped to thirty degrees, the pilot lowered the aircraft's nose, made final adjustments, announced over the radio, "Guns, guns, guns!" and pulled the trigger. The roar of that big cannon firing between his legs was the most incredible sensation. In one three-second dash, almost two hundred huge shells flew to their target. The pilot focused on the pickup truck in the first second, firing fifty rounds at it for another spectacular explosion, then raised the nose of the A-10 to allow the remaining one hundred and thirty rounds to pierce the road towards the fleeing terrorist target.
  
  Careful not to become fixated on the target, and orienting himself very well in the surrounding terrain, he braked hard and changed direction to the right to gain the set altitude. The maneuverability of the American-made A-10 was amazing - it did not deserve its unofficial nickname "Warthog". "Two clear. Three, hot-cleaned."
  
  "Third is on fire," replied the pilot of the third A-10 in line. He was the least experienced pilot in the four-ship formation, so he had no intention of doing a cannon run... but it should have been just as exciting.
  
  He focused the target - a large garage near the house - on the Maverick missile's targeting screen, pressed the "lock" button in the throttle sector, said "Rifle one" on the radio, turned his head to the right to avoid the bright light of the rocket engine, and pressed the button "launch" on the control stick. An AGM-65G Maverick missile flew off the launch rail on the left wing and quickly disappeared from view. He selected the second missile, moved the reticle to the second target - the house itself - and fired the Maverick from the right wing. After a few seconds, he was rewarded with two bright explosions.
  
  "The host has a visual image, it looks like two direct hits."
  
  "Third is clear," he radioed as he climbed up and turned toward his scheduled rendezvous point. "Four, cleared in hot pursuit."
  
  "Four copies, flying fast," the fourth A-10 pilot confirmed. Perhaps its attack profile was the least exciting and was not even normally performed by the A-10, but the A-10s were new members of the fleet and their full capabilities had yet to be explored.
  
  The procedure was much simpler than his wingmen's: keep the control switches installed at station four and eight; follow the directions of the GPS navigation to the unblocking point; main arming switch to "arm" position; and press the release button on the control handle at the pre-planned release point. Two thousand-pound GBU-32 GPS-guided bombs are dropped into the night sky. The pilot didn't have to fix anything or risk diving into the terrain: the gun-guidance kits used GPS satellite navigation signals to guide the bombs to their target, a large building near the farm that was advertised as a "community center" but, according to intelligence sources, was the main gathering and recruiting place for PKK terrorists.
  
  Well, not anymore. Two direct hits destroyed the building, creating a massive crater over fifty feet in diameter. Even flying fifteen thousand feet above the ground, the A-10 was shocked by two explosions. "The fourth is free. The weapon panel is safe and sound."
  
  "Two good infiltrates," radioed the lead pilot. He did not see any secondary explosions, but the terrorists may have moved a large cache of weapons and explosives that was reportedly stored in the building. "Muhtesem! Great job, Lightning. Check the security of the arming switches, and don't forget to turn off the ECM and turn on the transponders at the border, or we'll blow you to pieces like they do with those PKK scum back there. See you at the rendezvous anchor."
  
  A few minutes later, all four A-10 Thunderbolts, the Turkish Air Force's newly acquired combat aircraft, returned safely across the border. Another successful anti-terrorist operation against insurgents hiding in Iraq.
  
  The woman, Zilar Azzawi, groaned in agony when she awoke some time later. Her left hand was in terrible pain, as if she had broken her finger in the fall... And then she realized with shock that her left hand was gone, torn off to the middle of her forearm. Whatever killed her husband and sons and destroyed the truck almost succeeded in killing her. Her PKK commando training took over and she managed to tie a strip of fabric from her dress around her arm as a tourniquet to stop the bleeding.
  
  The entire area around her was in flames, and she had no choice but to stay where she was, on the side of the road, until she could get her bearings. Everything around her, with the exception of this small stretch of dirt road, was on fire, and she had lost so much blood that she didn't think she could get far even if she knew which way to go.
  
  Everything and everyone was gone, completely destroyed - the buildings, the wedding reception, all the guests, the children...my God, the children, her children...!
  
  Azzawi was helpless now, hoping to just stay alive...
  
  "But, God, if you let me live," she said aloud, over the sounds of death and destruction around her, "I will find those responsible for this attack, and I will use all my strength to raise an army and destroy their. My previous life is over - they took my family away from me with cruel indifference. With your blessing, God, my new life will begin right now and I will avenge all who died here tonight."
  
  
  APPROACH TO JANDARMA PUBLIC ORDER COMMANDOS BASE, DIYARBAKIR, REPUBLIC OF TURKEY
  SUMMER 2010
  
  
  "Kanak Two-seven, Diyarbakir tower, three-zero-zero wind at eight knots, ceiling of one thousand kilometers per hour, visibility five in light rain, runway three-five, cleared for normal category ILS approach , the security status is green".
  
  The pilot of a US-made KC-135R tanker/cargo aircraft acknowledged the call, then pressed the targeted passenger support system. "We will land soon. Please return to your seats, make sure your seat belts are securely fastened, clear your tray tables and remove all hand luggage. Tesekkur ederim. Thank you ". He then turned to the boom operator/flight engineer sitting behind the co-pilot and yelled across the cockpit, "Go see if he wants to land, master sergeant." The engineer nodded, took off his headphones and headed aft to the cargo hold.
  
  Although the KC-135R was primarily an air-to-air refueling aircraft, it was often used to carry both cargo and passengers. The cargo was at the front of the cavernous saloon-in this case, four pallets filled with crates secured with nylon mesh. Behind the pallets were two economy passenger seat trays, designed for twelve people, bolted to the floor so that the passengers sat facing backwards. The flight was noisy, smelly, dark and uncomfortable, but a valuable power-enhancing aircraft like this was rarely allowed to fly without a full load.
  
  The crew engineer squeezed around the cargo and approached the dozing passenger at the end of the first row on the port side. The man had long and rather disheveled hair, sideburns that had grown in a few days, and he wore fairly ordinary street clothes, although anyone traveling in military aircraft had to wear either a uniform or a business suit. The engineer stood in front of the man and lightly touched his shoulder. When the man awoke, the master sergeant signaled to him, and he got up and followed the master sergeant into the space between the pallets. "Sorry to disturb you, sir," the boom operator said after a passenger removed the yellow soft foam earplugs everyone was wearing to protect their hearing from noise, "but the pilot asked to see if you would like to sit in the cockpit for the landing."
  
  "Is this normal procedure, master sergeant?" asked the passenger, General Besir Ozek. Özek was the commander of the Gendarma Genel Komutanligi, or Turkish National Paramilitaries, which combined the national police, the border patrol and the national guard. As a trained commando as well as the commander of a paramilitary unit in charge of homeland security, Ozek was allowed to wear longer hair and sideburns in order to better move in and out of his undercover role and more unobtrusively observe those around him.
  
  "No, sir," the boom operator replied. "No one is allowed in the cockpit except for the flight crew members. But..."
  
  "I requested that I not be singled out for this flight, Master Sergeant. I thought it was clear to everyone on the team," Ozek said. "I want to be as discreet as possible on this trip. That's why I decided to sit in the back with other passengers."
  
  "Excuse me, sir," the boom operator said.
  
  Ozek inspected the cargo pallets and noticed that several passengers turned around to see what was happening. "Well, I guess it's too late now, isn't it?" - he said. "Go". The gunnery operator nodded and escorted the general to the cockpit, glad that he didn't have to explain to the aircraft commander why the general hadn't accepted his invitation.
  
  It had been many years since Ozek had been inside a KC-135R Stratotanker refueling aircraft, and the cockpit seemed a lot cramped, noisy and smelly than he remembered. Ozek was an infantry veteran and did not want to understand what attracted men to aviation. The life of a pilot was subject to forces and laws that no one saw or fully understood, and this is not the way he ever wanted to live. The upgraded KC-135R was a good aircraft, but the airframe had been in service for over fifty years-this one was relatively young, only forty-five years old-and was beginning to show its age.
  
  However, aviation seemed to be all the rage in the Republic of Turkey these days. His country had just purchased dozens of surplus tactical fighters and bombers from the United States: the beloved F-16 Fighting Falcon fighter-bomber, also built under license in Turkey; the A-10 Thunderbolt close air support attack aircraft, nicknamed the "Warthog" because of its clumsy, utilitarian appearance; combat helicopter AH-1 Cobra; and the F-15 Eagle jet fighter for air superiority. Turkey was well on its way to becoming a world-class regional military power thanks to the desire of the United States to shed battle-tested but aging technology.
  
  The barrier operator handed the general headphones and pointed to the instructor's seat between the two pilots. "I know you didn't want to be disturbed, General," the pilot said over the intercom, "but the seat was open and I thought you'd like the view."
  
  "Of course," Ozek replied simply, making a note to himself to remove the pilot from duty when he returned to headquarters; there were many men and women in the Turkish Air Force who knew how to follow orders waiting to pilot tankers. "What is the security status at the airport?"
  
  "Green, sir," the pilot reported. "No change for over a month."
  
  "The last PKK activity in this area was only twenty-four days ago, Captain," Ozek said irritably. The PKK, or Kurdistan Karker Party, or Kurdistan Workers' Party, was a banned Marxist military organization that sought the formation of a separate state of Kurdistan, formed from parts of southeastern Turkey, northern Iraq, northeastern Syria, and northwestern Iran, in all of which the Kurdish ethnic majority. The PKK has used terrorism and violence, even against large military bases and heavily defended sites such as civilian airports, to try to keep itself in the public eye and pressure individual states to come up with a solution. "We must always remain vigilant."
  
  "Yes, sir," the pilot confirmed in a hushed voice.
  
  "Are you not doing a maximum performance approach, Captain?"
  
  "Uh...no, sir," the pilot replied. "The security status is green, the ceiling and visibility are low, and the tower said we were cleared for the approach in the normal category." He swallowed, then added, "And I didn't mean to upset you or the other passengers by descending at maximum performance."
  
  Ozek would have scolded this idiotic young pilot, but they had already begun their instrument approach and it would soon be very busy. Maximum performance takeoffs and landing approaches have been designed to minimize the time spent in the lethal range of shoulder-fired anti-aircraft guns. The PKK has occasionally used Russian-made SA-7 and SA-14 missiles against Turkish government aircraft.
  
  However, the likelihood of such an attack today was small. The ceiling and visibility were quite low, which limited the time available for the shooter to attack. In addition, most attacks were made against large helicopters or fixed-wing aircraft during the takeoff phase because the thermal signature that the missiles were targeting was much brighter - during the landing approach, the engines ran at lower power settings and were relatively cool . , which meant that the missiles were harder to lock into and could more easily be jammed or trapped.
  
  The pilot took a chance that Ozek didn't like it - especially since he was only doing it to try to impress the senior officer - but now they were in a quandary, and aborting the approach at such a moment, near the mountains in bad weather , was not an ideal choice. Ozek leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, showing his anger. "Go on, captain," he said simply.
  
  "Yes, sir," the pilot replied with relief. "Co-pilot, please before performing the glide path interception checklist." To the pilot's credit, Ozek thought, he was a good pilot; he would be a good addition to the crew of some airline, because he was not going to stay in the Turkish Air Force for very long.
  
  Unfortunately, this apathetic attitude in the army became more and more common these days as the conflict between the Turkish government and the Kurds continued to escalate. The Kurdistan Workers' Party, or PKK, changed its name to PAG, or Congress for Freedom and Democracy, and avoided using the term "Kurdistan" in its literature and speeches in an attempt to appeal to a wider audience. These days, they held rallies and published documents promoting the adoption of new human rights laws in order to alleviate the suffering of all the oppressed people in the world, and not advocate armed struggle solely for a separate Kurdish state.
  
  But it was a ploy. The PKK was stronger, richer and more aggressive than ever. Due to the US invasion and destruction of Saddam Hussein's regime in Iraq, as well as the Iranian civil war, Kurdish rebels fearlessly staged cross-border raids into Turkey, Iraq, Iran and Syria from numerous safe camps, hoping to capitalize on the chaos and confusion and establish a solid base. in every country. Every time Turkish troops responded, they were accused of genocide and politicians in Ankara ordered the military to stop the persecution.
  
  This only gave the PKK courage. The latest parody: the appearance of a female terrorist leader. Nobody knew her real name; she was known as Baz, or "Hawk" in Arabic, because of her ability to strike quickly and unexpectedly, yet seemingly fly away and elude her pursuers so easily. Her emergence as the main pro-independence Kurdish force and the lukewarm reaction of the Turkish and Iraqi governments to her call for a bloody war worried General Gendarma.
  
  "Let's go to glide path interception," the co-pilot said.
  
  "Slow down," the pilot said.
  
  "Here it is," the co-pilot replied, and he reached just above the pilot's right knee and turned the wheel gear switch to the "down" position. "Transfer in progress ... Three greens, no yellow, push button test pump light on, transmission off and locked."
  
  The pilot took his eyes off the level indicator just long enough to check the gear indicators and press to press the "gear hyd" indicator to check. "Checking, transmission off and blocked."
  
  "On the course, on the glide path," said the co-pilot. "Two thousand feet to decision altitude." The co-pilot reached out and tapped discreetly on the airspeed indicator, silently warning the pilot that his airspeed had dropped a little - with the general in the cockpit, he didn't want to point out even the slightest mistake. Their speed dropped by only five knots, but the tiny errors seemed to snowball into the instrument approach, and it was better to spot them and fix them right away than to let them create big problems later.
  
  "Tesekkur eder," the pilot replied, acknowledging the trick. A simple "understood" meant that the pilot himself had discovered his mistake, but gratitude meant that the co-pilot made a good approach. "There are a thousand left."
  
  Filtered sunlight began to filter through the cockpit windows, followed a moment later by sunlight filtering through the widely scattered clouds. Ozek looked out and saw that they were exactly in the center of the runway, and the visual approach lights indicated that they were on the glide slope. "The runway is in sight," the co-pilot announced. The ILS gunners began to dance a little, which meant that the pilot was looking out the window at the runway instead of following the level indicator. "Keep approaching."
  
  "Thank you". Another good catch. "Five hundred to decision height. Follow the 'before landing' checklist and..."
  
  Ozek, focusing on the window rather than the instruments, saw it first: a white, curling line of smoke emerging from the intersection ahead and to the left, inside the airport's perimeter fence, heading straight for them! "Arrow!" shouted Ozek, using the Russian nickname "Zvezda" for the shoulder-launched SA-7 rocket. "Turn right now!"
  
  To his credit, the pilot did exactly as Ozek ordered: he immediately turned the yoke sharply to the right and turned all four throttles to full combat power. But he was much, much too late. Ozek knew that now they had only one chance: that it was indeed an SA-7 missile, and not the newer SA-14, because the old missile needed a bright hot spot to aim, while the SA-14 could track any source of heat, even sunlight reflecting off a lantern.
  
  In the blink of an eye, the rocket disappeared - it flew a few meters from the left wing. But there was something else wrong. A horn sounded in the cockpit; the pilot desperately tried to turn the KC-135 to the left to level it out and maybe even level it back on the runway, but the plane didn't respond - the left wing was still high in the sky and there wasn't enough aileron power to bring it down. Even with the engines running at full power, they completely stalled, threatening to go into a tailspin at any moment.
  
  "What are you doing, captain?" Ozek screamed. "Dip your nose and align your wings!"
  
  "I can't turn around!" the pilot shouted.
  
  "We can't get to the runway - align the wings and find a place for an emergency landing!" Ozek said. He looked out the co-pilot's window and saw the football field. "Here! Football field! This is your landing spot!"
  
  "I can control it! I can do it ...!"
  
  "No, you can't - it's too late!" Ozek shouted. "Put your nose down and head for the football field or we'll all die!"
  
  The rest happened in less than five seconds, but Ozek watched it in slow motion. Instead of trying to lift the stalled tanker back into the sky, the pilot eased back pressure on the controls. Once he did, and the engines were at full combat power, the ailerons responded immediately and the pilot was able to straighten the aircraft's wings. With a low nose, airspeed increased rapidly and the pilot had enough impact to raise the nose almost to the landing position. He moved the throttles to idle, then to "cut-off" just before the big tanker hit the ground.
  
  Ozek was thrown forward almost onto the center console, but his shoulder and waist belts held up, and he regretfully thought that he had experienced harder landings before ... and then the nose gear came down with a roar, and the Turkish general felt like he was completely broken in half. The front gearbox broke, and dirt and turf poured through the windshield like a tidal wave. They punched through a football goal post, then crashed through a fence and several garages and storage areas before stopping at the base's gym.
  
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