Plan of Attack

go-ahead,” Luger said. “Should I give the word?”

There was another long period of silence. Luger was about to ask the question again, but Patrick finally responded, “No. Everyone continues as planned.”

“Patrick…”

“No arguments this time,” Patrick interjected. “The brass signed off on the operation — and damn it, we’re going to complete it. Unless Gryzlov is confirmed dead or in custody by American officials, I’m not trusting him to make peace with the United States.”

“Muck, they may have signed off on the plan originally, but they’re changing it now,” David argued. “We have a decent alternative: The ground units move forward, and the air units get a chance to refuel and rearm at Eareckson.”

“It’s not a good alternative, Texas. The president is grasping at any options that would mean an end to hostilities. He still believes that Gryzlov was desperate when he attacked the United States, and that if everyone stops right now, we can have peace. Gryzlov doesn’t want peace — he wants to destroy the U.S. military, plain and simple. He obviously suspects we’re coming after him, and he’s telling the president anything he can think of to get us to stop.”

“I hear you, Patrick, but we have no choice,” Luger said. “You can’t send in a force this size and with this large an objective without an okay from the White House, and we don’t have it now.”

“I sure as hell can….”

“This is different, Patrick,” Luger argued. “Attacking Engels, Zhukovsky, Belgorod — those were all preemptive strikes designed to defend our own forces or to prevent an imminent attack from taking place.”

“So is this operation, Dave.”

“Ultimately yes, but the first step is definitely an invasion, not a preemptive strike,” Luger said. “There’s no defensive aspect to the operation — we take the offensive all the way. I want full authority to do this. We had it; now we don’t. We have no choice but to hold until we get the word to go.”

Again Patrick hesitated. Luger fully expected Patrick to give him an order to continue the current mission, and he was ready to obey the order. But to his surprise, Patrick said, “Very well. Make room for the Air Battle Force and the Marines to refuel and rearm at Eareckson. Let’s plan on getting a second and third ground contingent on their way as well.”

“Roger that, Muck. I don’t like it any more than you do, my friend, but I know we’re making the right decision.”

“We’ll see,” Patrick said simply. “McLanahan out.”

Near Shemya Island, Alaska

Several hours later

Eareckson Approach, Bobcat One-one flight of two, passing twelve thousand for eight thousand,” radioed Lieutenant Colonel Summer “Shade” O’Dea, the aircraft commander aboard Patrick McLanahan’s EB-52 Megafortress bomber. “Check.”

“Two,” responded Colonel Nancy Cheshire, the aircraft commander aboard the second aircraft in the flight, an AL-52 Dragon airborne-laser. The AL-52 Dragon was a modified B-52H bomber with a three-megawatt plasma- pumped electronic laser installed inside its fuselage, which could project a focused beam of laser energy powerful enough to destroy a ballistic missile or satellite at a range of three hundred miles, an aircraft at one hundred miles, or ground targets as large as an armored vehicle at fifty miles. Although the fleet of Dragons had grown to three in less than two years, the weapon system was still considered experimental — a fact that never stopped Patrick McLanahan.

Nancy Cheshire was the squadron commander of the Fifty-second Bomb Squadron from Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base, the home of all of the Air Force’s modified B-52 bombers — and, as Nancy reminded herself often, one of only two B-52 squadrons left in the world right now, after the nuclear decimation of Minot Air Force Base by the Russians. She was determined to do everything she could — use every bit of her flying skills and leadership ability, whatever it took—to make the Russians pay for what they’d done to America.

“Bobcat One-one flight, roger, radar contact,” the air-traffic controller at Eareckson Air Force Base responded. “Cleared for Shemya Two arrival, report initial approach fix inbound. Winds two-four-zero at twenty-one gusting to thirty-six, altimeter two-niner-eight-eight. Your wingman is cleared into publishing holding and is cleared to start his approach when you report safely on the ground.”

“One-one flight cleared for the arrival, will report IAF inbound. Two, copy your clearance?”

“Two copies, cleared for the approach when lead is down,” Cheshire responded.

“It’s an unusually nice day on Shemya,” O’Dea said on intercom. “The winds are only gusting to thirty-six knots. We’ve been cleared for the approach. Check in when ready for landing, crew.”

Patrick turned in his ejection seat and looked back along the upper deck of the EB-52 Megafortress. Six aft- facing crew seats had been installed for carrying passengers — aircraft-maintenance and weapon technicians from Battle Mountain and the Tonopah Test Range in Nevada. Six more technicians were seated on the lower deck. These twelve men and women were key in accomplishing their mission. Unfortunately, their mission was on hold, on order of the president of the United States himself.

“Lower deck ready,” one of the techs radioed.

“Upper deck ready,” another responded.

“MC ready for approach,” Patrick chimed in. “Aircraft is in approach and landing mode. Sixteen miles to the IAF. I’m going to do a few more LADAR sweeps of the area before the ILS clicks in.”

“Clear,” O’Dea said.

Patrick activated the Megafortress’s LADAR, or laser radar. Emitters facing in every direction transmitted electronically controlled beams of laser energy out to a range of three hundred miles, instantly “drawing” a picture of every object, from clouds to vehicles on the ground to satellites in near-Earth orbit. The composite LADAR images were presented to him on his main supercockpit display, a large two-foot-by-three-foot color computer monitor on the right-side instrument panel. Patrick could manipulate the image by issuing a joystick, by touching the screen, or by using voice commands. The attack computer would also analyze the returns and, by instantaneously and precisely measuring objects with the laser beams, compare the dimensions with its internal databank of objects and try to identify each return.

Immediately Patrick noticed a blinking hexagonal icon at the northernmost edge of the display, at the very extreme of the LADAR’s range. He zoomed his display so the contents of the hexagon filled the supercockpit display. The attack computer reported the contact as “unidentified aircraft.” “Shade, I’ve got an unidentified air target, two-thirty position, two hundred and seventy-three miles, low, airspeed four-eight-zero, three-five-zero- degree bearing from Shemya.”

O’Dea hit a button on her control stick. “Go around,” she ordered. The flight-control computer instantly advanced the throttles to full military power, leveled off, configured the Megafortress’s mission-adaptive skin to maximum climb performance, and started a climb. “Approach, Bobcat One-one is on the go,” she radioed. “Alert Eareckson. We may have unidentified aircraft inbound from the north at two-seven-zero miles. Break. Bobcat Two- two.”

“We’re looking for your target, lead,” Cheshire replied.

“Roger. We’re on the go.” On intercom, O’Dea said, “Crew, strap in tight and get on oxygen. Give me a vector, General.”

“Heading two-eight-zero, climb to fifteen thousand feet,” Patrick said. “LADAR coming on.” He activated the laser-radar system, this time focusing energy on the returns to the north after making a complete sweep of the skies and seas around them. “I’ve got numerous bogey out there, counting six so far. They’re right on the deck, accelerating past five hundred knots. I’d say they’re bad guys.” He switched over to the command channel. “Two- two, you have them yet?”

“Not yet, but we’re receiving your data and maneuvering to set up an orbit,” Cheshire responded. “Did you notify Eareckson?”

“Just approach control, not the units. Tell them to get everyone into shelters.” Patrick knew that it was a futile move — one or two bombs the size of the warheads that were dropped on Eielson or Fort Wainwright would obliterate Shemya Island, shelters and all. “Fire up the lasers, Zipper.”

“They’re already warming up, boss,” responded the AL-52 Dragon’s mission commander, Major Frankie