Plan of Attack

launched so the warheads would not destroy each other after—

Suddenly the entire launch-control capsule heaved. The lights blinked, then went out, then came back one by one. The air became heavy, then hot, then seemed to boil with moisture and red-hot dust. The capsule banged against something solid — probably the bottom of the facility — and then bounced and shook like a bucking bronco. Both crew members screamed as their bodies were hurled against their restraints. Equipment, books, and papers started flying in every direction around the capsule, but Ellerby and Johnson didn’t notice as they fought to stay conscious against the tremendous pounding. The heat began to build and build….

And then it all exploded into a wall of fire, which mercifully lasted only one or two heartbeats, until everything went forever dark and silent.

Over Central Utah

That same time

Attention all aircraft on this frequency, this is Salt Lake Center, I have received an emergency notification from the U.S. Defense Department and the Department of Homeland Security,” the message on the radio said suddenly. “You are instructed to divert to the nearest suitable airport and land immediately. Any aircraft not in compliance within the next twenty minutes is in violation of federal air regulations and will be prosecuted, and you may be shot down by ground or airborne air-defense weapon systems without further warning.”

Patrick McLanahan, sipping on a bottle of cold water while at the controls of his own Aerostar 602P twin- engine airplane, nearly gagged when he heard that announcement. He immediately punched the NRST button on his GPS computer, which gave him a list of the nearest airports. Luckily, there were a lot to choose from in this area — a few minutes farther west, out over the vast high deserts of western Utah and eastern Nevada, and he’d be in big trouble.

His Aerostar was a rather small, bullet-shaped twin-engine plane, built for speed, with short wings that needed a lot of runway for takeoff, so he had to choose carefully or he might have trouble departing; Patrick also remembered that thousands of air travelers had been stranded for several days after they were grounded following the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001, and several hundred general-aviation aircraft were grounded for weeks if they were based near Boston, New York City, or Washington, D.C. The nearest airport to him now, Nephi Municipal, was only six miles away, which would take him about two minutes, but Provo Municipal was only twenty-eight miles farther north and would only take him an extra nine minutes to reach; it had a longer runway and better airport services. He figured he’d be much more likely to get a bus or train ride home from Provo than he would from Nephi.

The channel was clogged with voices, dozens of pilots all trying to talk at once. “All aircraft on this frequency, shut up!” the controller shouted. It took several such calls for the frequency to clear. “Everyone, listen carefully and cooperate. Don’t acknowledge my calls unless I ask you to, and keep all channels clear unless it’s an emergency — and by God, it had better be a big emergency.

“All VFR aircraft using radar flight following: Radar services are terminated, squawk VFR, and land immediately at the nearest suitable airfield,” the controller went on, struggling to remain calm and measured. “Aircraft below flight level one-eight-zero on IFR flight plans in VMC, remain VMC, squawk VFR, and land at the nearest suitable airfield immediately.” Patrick was on an IFR, or Instrument Flight Rules, flight plan, which meant his flight was being monitored by federal air traffic controllers. Because the controllers were responsible for safe aircraft and terrain separation, IFR pilots had to follow precise flight rules. All aircraft at or above eighteen thousand feet were required to be on such a flight plan.

Below eighteen thousand, pilots flying in good weather (called VMC, or “visual meteorological conditions”) had the option of filing an IFR flight plan or flying under VFR, or Visual Flight Rules, which allowed much more freedom. Pilots flying VFR were responsible for their own traffic and terrain separation, but could request radar service, called “flight following,” which controllers would provide if they weren’t too busy with their IFR responsibilities.

“IFR aircraft in positive control airspace, if you are so equipped and can ensure your own terrain and traffic separation, squawk VFR and proceed immediately to the nearest suitable airport for landing — I should be able to figure out which airport you’re headed for and change your flight plan.

“All other aircraft, I am going to be giving you initial vectors, so listen up. Approach controllers will be giving you further vectors for landing. Do not acknowledge radio calls, just do what I tell you to do. As soon as you descend below one-eight thousand feet in VMC, squawk VFR and proceed to the nearest suitable airport for immediate landing. Keep your eyes and ears open for traffic advisories and monitor GUARD for emergency messages.”

Patrick adjusted the autopilot for a quick descent, set his transponder to “1200,” which meant he was accepting responsibility for his own navigation and collision avoidance, pulled out his approach charts, and began running his checklists for landing. The Center frequency was hopelessly clogged with radio calls, despite the controller’s pleas, so Patrick tuned the radio to Salt Lake City radar approach control, checked in, and received approach instructions. Weather was good. He popped the speed brakes to increase his rate of descent, careful not to pull too much power off, because his engines were warm and a rapid descent plus low power settings might damage the Aerostar’s big-bore turbocharged engines.

He knew he should be concentrating on his plane, approach, and landing, but he couldn’t help it — he had to find out what had caused the air-defense emergency.

“McLanahan to Luger,” Patrick spoke into midair. His original subcutaneous transceiver had been removed —“hacked out” would be more accurate — by the Libyans two years earlier, but the new one, implanted into his abdomen to make locating and removing it more difficult, worked perfectly. All personnel assigned to the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center wore them for the rest of their lives, mostly so the government could keep track of them in case the need arose.

“Patrick!” Dave Luger responded. “Where the hell have you been?”

“On my way to Sacramento to meet up with my family,” Patrick said. “I’m in the Aerostar, about to land in —”

“Muck, all hell is breaking loose,” Luger said. “I’ve just launched four Vampires, five Megafortresses, and six tankers to escape orbits off the coast.”

“What?”

“Muck, the damned Russians actually did what you predicted — they launched a gaggle of Blackjack, Bear, and Backfire bombers and attacked with AS-17s and -19s, exactly like over Uzbekistan,” Luger said. “First they sent two Blackjack bombers in low-level and wiped out Clear Air Station in Alaska, then shot nuclear missiles at Fort Wainwright, Fort Greely, and Eielson—”

“What? Oh, Jesus…!”

“Looks like the targets were all ballistic-missile defense sites, Muck,” Dave went on. “Then they blasted a hole in the North Warning System radars with missiles from Backfires and drove about thirty Bear bombers through. They were caught by the Canadians about three hundred miles after feet-dry and started firing missiles. The Canucks got a couple, but DSP estimates at least fifty hypersonic cruise missiles are on their way.”

“Oh, shit!” Patrick swore. His throat and lips turned instantly dry, there was a buzzing sound in his ears, and his heart felt as if it were going to jump right out of his chest. He could not believe what he’d just heard — but then, he’d been so certain it would happen that he really wasn’t that surprised. “Wh- when will they hit?”

“First CONUS missile hits Minot any minute now,” Luger responded. “Looks like they’re going after ballistic- missile defense bases, bomber bases, missile launch-control facilities…and STRATCOM headquarters at Offutt.”

“My God…what about Washington…?”

“Not yet,” Luger responded. “Just Alaska and the Midwest bomber and missile bases. Where are you, Muck?”

“Getting ready to land in Provo, Utah.”

“It’d be safer for you here, and it won’t take you long in your Aerostar — maybe an hour and a half. Got enough gas to make it?”

“I just refueled in Pagosa Springs, so I have plenty of gas,” Patrick said, “but air-traffic control ordered all aircraft to land. I’ve got ten minutes to be on the ground.”