Plan of Attack

“Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it.”

“See that you do.”

“One more matter for you, sir,” Houser said. “I wanted to ask you about the vice commander’s vacancy here at headquarters. We talked about moving me here to get some combat command time before we—”

“Everything’s on schedule, Gary,” Samson said. “The vacancy is still there. I need a firm commitment from the Pentagon about my fourth star and taking over Air Combat Command or STRATCOM. Once I hear for sure, I’ll install you here as the vice, so you’ll automatically take command when I leave. Don’t worry about it. It’s in the bag.”

“Yes, sir.” Houser didn’t sound convinced.

“I don’t think this recent flap with McLanahan will spoil things,” Samson added. “To the command, I jump in McLanahan’s shit; to Washington, I tone it down a little. A lot of folks like the son of a bitch. He’s still being considered for national security adviser, for Christ’s sake. The politicians like getting their pictures taken with a real-life aerial assassin. We’re below their radar screen, and we need to stay that way.

“Just keep McLanahan on a short leash. This nonsense about the Russians gearing up their bomber fleet has got to stay in this command, understand me? If word gets out, the politicians will wonder why we’re not doing something about it, and then we’ll look like jerks. If we play it cool, eventually McLanahan will resign to go work for Thorn, or he’ll resign to be with his family on the coast, or he’ll be shipped off to Dreamland and put back in his genie’s bottle until the next war, like his mentor, Elliott.”

“Yes, sir. I agree. You won’t have to worry about McLanahan, sir.”

Samson pulled out a cigar, lit it, then waved it at the door to dismiss Houser. The Air Intelligence Agency commander practically bowed before he headed out.

“I’ll get that order to gin up the fly-stores going right now, sir,” Zoltrane said, picking up a phone to his office.

Samson nodded as he puffed away. “It’s bad enough dealing with the Russians, Offutt, and Washington,” Samson muttered. “Now I have to deal with my own subordinate officers who might be ready to start rolling around on the deck during the storm, knocking guys into the ocean and wrecking my ship.”

“Sir, to be perfectly honest with you, I give McLanahan kudos for giving us that analysis so quick,” Zoltrane admitted as he waited for the secure connection to go through. “Part of the problem is that our guys are hesitant to upchannel their reports for fear of being labeled a crackpot or a nuisance. We want guys to give us educated opinions, and we want them soonest. McLanahan’s only been on the job a short time, but he put together a pretty good analysis of Russian bomber capabilities and potential.

“And Trevor Griffin shocked the hell out of me. The guy’s…what? In his mid to late forties? He climbs aboard an unmanned B-52 bomber, flies halfway around the world, then climbs into a high-tech Spam can and lets himself be dropped out of the damned bomb bay. Fuckin’ incredible. And he made it out of Turkmenistan, too, after the Russians attacked — that’s even more incredible. Maybe we should—”

“What? Let him have some satellites and maybe even some field operatives and send them into Russia looking for supersecret Backfire bombers?” Samson asked. “How the hell can you hide a Backfire bomber? And we know damned well the Russians aren’t modernizing Backfires — they’re scrapping them. McLanahan couldn’t possibly have collected enough information from that raid on Bukhara to come up with valid conclusions that warrant additional intel missions. He’s guessing, Charlie. We don’t waste our time or resources on guesses. We need some hard evidence before we can take a field-intel-ops plan to Air Combat Command or the Pentagon. And that goes triple for a proposed operation into Russia. McLanahan is guessing, plain and simple, and he wants to rub our noses in the fact that he’s here against his will.”

“He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to pull shit like that, sir,” Zoltrane said, adding the word “sir” to distance himself from his own remark and defer to whatever his boss told him. He really didn’t know McLanahan that well, and he certainly knew his reputation — he was not about to defend the guy before he personally saw him in action. “He seems like a straight shooter to me.”

“I worked with him long enough at Dreamland to know that he’s a sidewinder, Charlie,” Samson said. “He’s quiet and hardworking, but when he decides he wants to do something, he’ll step over anyone to do the job — and if there aren’t enough bodies and careers piled up high enough to get him to where he want stobe, he’ll create more. The sooner we get his ass out of the Air Force — for good this time — the better.”

966th Information Wing Headquarters, Lackland Air

Force Base, San Antonio, Texas

A short time later

So how was your first battle-staff meeting?” Trevor Griffin asked when he met Patrick back in his office. The grin on his face told Patrick that he already knew the answer to that one.

“Just peachy,” Patrick said dryly.

“If you want me to take those briefings and catch some spears for you, say the word,” Griffin said. “I’m used to the abuse.”

“Nah, I can handle it,” Patrick said, grateful that at least he hadn’t been singled out for extra-special abuse. He smiled and asked, “What’s the matter — you don’t want to go jumping around with the Battle Force anymore?”

“Hey, I’ll do that mission again in a heartbeat — just don’t tell my wife I said that,” Griffin said. “Your guys out there are cosmic. You should be proud of the team you built. If they need me, I’m in.”

Patrick liked it when Griffin said “your guys,” even though he knew it wasn’t true. “You’re a Tin Man now and forever, Tagger — they’ll be calling on you, I guarantee it. So anything else pop up while I was in the staff meeting?”

“Not a thing.”

Patrick loosened his tie. “What about that missile launch that DSP discovered?”

“We’re waiting for word from the air attache’s office in Geneva,” Griffin responded. “According to the Conventional Forces in Europe treaty, Kazakhstan and Russia are supposed to inform the United Nations if they conduct any tests on missiles with a range longer than five hundred kilometers. There was nothing on the schedule for that missile DSP detected.” The DSP, or Defense Support Program, satellites were supersensitive heat-detecting satellites in geosynchronous Earth orbit, designed to warn of ballistic-missile launches. DSP could pinpoint the launch point, report on the missle’s track and speed, and predict its impact point with a fair amount of accuracy. The satellites were designed to warn of intercontinental-ballistic-missile attack but had been amazingly effective in warning friendly forces of Iraqi SS-1 SCUD surface-to-surface missile attacks during the 1991 Persian Gulf War and had provided a good amount of warning time in the missile’s projected target area. “Naturally, Russia denies that it was one of theirs and told us to contact Kazakhstan; Kazakhstan said they don’t have big missiles like that and recommended we talk to the Russians.”

Patrick punched instructions into his computer, called up the DSP data on those rocket launches, and studied them for a moment. “Apparently launched north of Bratsk,” he muttered. “Any ICBMs based at Bratsk?”

“Not that anyone knows about,” Griffin replied. “Mobile SS-25s at Irkutsk and Kansk and silo-based SS-24s at Krasnoyarsk. They could have set up a new SS-25 ‘shell-game’ racetrack out there — it would be worth a look with a SAR or photo-satellite pass.”

“I’m going to need an update of all the Russian land-based missile forces, especially the mobile ones,” Patrick said. “What do we have to help us on that?”

“We dedicate an entire office to doing just that,” Griffin responded. “Six guys and girls in the Seventieth Intelligence Wing at Fort Meade do nothing else but download the latest satellite imagery from the National Reconnaissance Office and track down every Russian SS-24 ‘Scalpel’ and SS-25 ‘Sickle’ road-or rail-mobile missile in the Russian inventory. They study the rail and roadways and monitor every known secure garage where the missiles are sent on exercises. They also keep an eye out for cheating, monitor arms-control compliance, and study the ways the Russians try to decoy or camouflage their missile shelters.”

“Oh?”

“We believe that the Russians are doing a deliberate poor-mouth routine to delay deactivating their biggest and best nuclear weapons, claiming they don’t have the money to dismantle and destroy some weapons,” Griffin explained. “The Scalpel is a perfect example. The SS-24 is a copy of our ‘Peacekeeper’ ICBM, which was originally designed to be rail-mobile but was converted to silo-launched basing. Like Peacekeeper, the SS-24 has a range of