Plan of Attack

so loudly that he barked like a dog. “What was that? Station check again! Report!”

“My God!” the electronic-warfare officer screamed. “Oh, my God…!”

“What is it? Report!”

“Igor…the bombardier…God, he’s been hit…Jesus, his entire body exploded!” the EWO screamed over the intercom. “I felt that second thud, and I looked over, and…oh, God, it looks like his body was blown in half from head to toe. Something came up from the bottom of the aircraft and blew Igor into pieces!”

“Copilot…?”

“Explosive decompression, two alternators and generators offline, and I feel a tremor in the fuselage,” the copilot reported.

“I have the airplane,” the pilot said. “I’m turning north.” He keyed the mike button. “Two, this is lead, I think we’ve been hit by ground fire. We’re taking evasive action north.”

“We’re thirty seconds to missile launch, lead,” the second Blackjack bomber pilot responded. “We’re not picking up any threats. We’ll stay on the missile run and rendezvous when—”

And the radio went dead.

The pilot strained forward in his seat to look as far to his left as he could — and he saw the second Blackjack bomber start a tail-over-head forward spin, flames tearing through the bomb bay, its burning wings breaking off and cartwheeling across the sky. “Oh, shit, two just got hit!” he cried out. “He’s on fire!” He shoved his control stick farther right. “We’re getting out of here!”

* * *

He’s turning, Top — don’t let him get away,” Hal Briggs radioed.

“I can see that, sir,” Sergeant Major Chris Wohl said. He was standing atop the MV-32 Pave Dasher tilt-rotor aircraft as it bobbed in the choppy and gently rolling Bering Sea, sixty miles north of Shemya Island. Wohl, along with one more commando in Tin Man battle armor and eight more commandos in advanced ballistic infantry armor seated in the cargo compartment, had raced across the Bering Sea to a spot where they predicted they could intercept any Russian attack aircraft returning from Alaska that might launch a similar attack against Shemya. The MV-32 crew then deployed its emergency-survival flotation bags, which resembled a gigantic raft surrounding the entire lower half of the tilt-jet aircraft, and set the aircraft down on the Bering Sea.

Wohl smoothly tracked the target through his Tin Man electronic visor display, which showed the Russian Blackjack bomber in a steep right turn. The display also showed the predicted impact point for one of his hypersonic electromagnetic projectiles, fired from his rail gun. Wohl’s microhydraulically powered exoskeleton covering his Tin Man electronic body armor allowed him to easily track the bomber while holding the large, fifty-eight-pound weapon. He lined up the impact reticle onto the radar depiction of the bomber as precisely as a conventional soldier would sight the main gun on an Abrams battle tank.

“Fire five,” he said, and he squeezed the trigger. A pulse of electricity sent a seven-pound aerodynamic depleted-uranium projectile out of the large rail-gun weapon at a muzzle velocity of over eighteen thousand feet per second. The heat generated by the projectile’s movement through the atmosphere turned it into blue-and-yellow molten metal, but the supersonic slipstream kept the bolus together, leaving a long, hot vapor trail in its wake. When the molten uranium hit the Blackjack bomber, the bolus cooled and decelerated. The collapsing supersonic cone caused the bolus to break apart, scattering thousands of pellets of red-hot uranium in a wide circular pattern through the Blackjack’s fuselage, like an immense shotgun blast.

The Blackjack was obviously hit, but it unsteadily continued its northbound turn. In a few seconds, it would be out of range. “Crap, not a fatal shot.”

“Don’t let it get away, Top,” Hal Briggs warned. He and another of his Tin Man commandos had returned to Shemya from Attu Island to help defend the island against the expected Russian attack. They had successfully shot both Kh-15 missiles out of the sky with their rail guns. The other Battle Force commandos, along with as many of the island’s personnel as they could carry in several trips with the MV-32, had evacuated Shemya for Attu.

“Don’t worry, sir,” Wohl responded. “Got it, Sergeant?”

“Roger that, sir,” responded the second commando in Tin Man armor, alongside Wohl. “Fire six.” Even at such a great distance, it only took three seconds for the projectile to hit. This time the shot had a more spectacular effect — the entire aft end of the fuselage sheared off the aircraft, sending the big bomber tumbling out of control.

“Good shooting, boys,” Hal Briggs said. “Control, splash two Blackjacks and a couple cruise missiles. Sensors are clear.”

“Copy that,” Patrick McLanahan responded. “Nice work. Glad you made it out there in time.”

“We couldn’t just sit out there on Attu and watch Shemya get blown to bits by those Russian muthas,” Hal said. “So what’s the plan now, boss?”

“You guys are on,” Patrick said. “I need you refueled, equipped, and on your way as soon as possible. We’re in the process of recovering all our planes and loading them up. The Dragons will be headed out from Dreamland in a couple hours.”

“All right!” Briggs exclaimed. “Those are my honeys! ”

“We’re going to launch everything we got and get some help from a few planes from off-station,” Patrick went on. “You’ll have as much backup as we can provide, but you guys are going to have to be the pointy end of the spear. Take those bastards down, and get the place ready for visitors.”

“You got it, boss,” Hal Briggs said. “Good to have you back on the team.”

“Good to be back, guys,” Patrick said proudly. “It’s damn good to be back.”

8

Ryazan’ Alternate Military Command Center,

Russian Federation

A short time later

First indications are confirmed, sir,” said Chief of the General Staff and Minister of State Security Nikolai Stepashin. “Two Tupolev-160s missing after they successfully attacked their targets on the Alaskan mainland. Presumably lost while making their final run on Eareckson Air Base in the Aleutians. Probably surviving fighter jets from Eielson or Elmendorf, deployed or dispersed to Eareckson because it’s the only surviving military base in Alaska.”

Gryzlov thought for a moment, then shook his head. “It has begun, Stepashin. American fighters who survived the attacks on the mainland would not deploy fifteen hundred kilometers out to a windswept island at the end of the Aleutians. I believe the counteroffensive has begun, Nikolai — McLanahan’s war.”

“Who, sir?”

“McLanahan. Thorn will send Patrick McLanahan and his modified long-range bombers into battle. They will deploy to Eareckson Air Base and launch attacks on us in the far east.”

“Perhaps the bombers were shot down by a Patriot or I-Hawk surface-to-air missile?…”

“We have been watching Eareckson Air Base for months — there was never any indication they were going to install Patriots on that rock. We would have seen it,” Gryzlov said. “No. I believe that McLanahan has been activated — his planes are already on Shemya, or soon will be. He will commence attacks on our Siberian bomber bases very soon — they may already be under way.”

“That’s crazy, sir,” Stepashin said. “Why attack bases in the far east? Why not Moscow, St. Petersburg, or any of dozens of active bases in the west?”

“Because McLanahan has discovered our secret — that we are using long-range bombers launched from Siberian bases,” Gryzlov said. “It was he that sent those small satellites over our bomber bases.” He thought hard for a moment, then said, “You must assume that all of our eastern sub bases will be attacked soon, probably first by long-range bombers launching cruise missiles, followed by commandos — if McLanahan is involved, they’ll probably use their Tin Man commandos in small groups.” He paused again, then corrected himself. “No —