be reinstated as HAWC commander.”
“With his buddy in the White House? No doubt.” Air Force Colonel Martin Tehama was designated the commander of the High-Technology Aerospace Weapons Center after Major General Terrill “Earthmover” Samson’s departure, bypassing Patrick McLanahan. A well-respected test pilot and engineer, Tehama wanted to rein in the “extracurricular” activities HAWC often got involved with — such as using experimental aircraft and weapons in “operational test flights” around the world — and get back to the serious business of flight test. When Patrick left his White House adviser position he was awarded command of HAWC, bumping Tehama out. He retaliated by delivering reams of information on HAWC’s classified missions to members of Congress. “After Summers files a full report on your condition, he’ll reappear and take charge as soon as you announce your retirement — or the President announces that you’re being medically retired.”
“The President and Senator Barbeau will use my heart thing to cancel the Black Stallion program, citing health concerns, and their errand boy Tehama will promptly shut it down within months.”
“Not even that long, Muck,” David said. “The word from the Senate is that they’re going to push the White House to move quicker to shut us down.”
“Barbeau wants her bombers, that’s for sure.”
“It’s not just her, but she’s the loudest voice,” Dave said. “There are lobbyists for every weapon system imaginable — carriers, ballistic missile subs, special ops, you name it. President Gardner wants another four aircraft carrier battle groups at least, maybe six, and he’s likely to get them if the space program is canceled. Everyone’s got their own agenda. The spaceplane lobby is practically nonexistent, and your injury just casts a shadow on the program, which delights the other lobbyists no end.”
“I hate this political shit.”
“Me too. I’m surprised you lasted as long as you did working in the White House. You definitely weren’t made for wearing a suit, listening to meaningless speeches while wasting weeks testifying before another congressional committee, and being jerked around by lobbyists and so-called experts.”
“Copy that,” Patrick said. “Anyway, the heat’s been turned up, and Tehama will turn it up even more — right in our faces. All the more reason to accomplish this Soltanabad mission, bring the crew back safely, and get some good intel all before tomorrow morning. The Russians are up to something in Iran — they can’t be content to just sit in Moscow or Turkmenistan and watch Iran become democratic, or disintegrate.”
“I’m on it,” Dave said. “The air tasking order will be ready by the time you get the green light. I’ll send you the orbital game plan and the complete force timing schedule right away. Genesis out.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Integrity is praised and starves.
“It’s ten times more boring than playing video games,” Wayne Macomber complained, “because I can’t even
“Pretty deep wash ahead, Whack,” U.S. Army National Guard Captain Charlie Turlock said. “It angles away from the objective, so we’ll eventually have to get out. We should—”
“I see it, I see it,” Macomber grumbled. “Wohl, clear those railroad tracks again.”
“Roger,” Marine Corps Sergeant Major Chris Wohl responded in his usual gravelly whisper. A moment later: “Rails are clear, Major. Satellite reports the next train is twenty-seven miles to the east, heading in our direction at twenty-five miles an hour.”
“Copy,” Macomber responded, “but I keep on seein’ a return at my three o’clock, five miles, right in front of you somewhere. It’s there for a second and then it disappears. What the hell is it?”
“Negative contact, sir,” Wohl radioed.
“This is nuts,” Macomber muttered, knowing that both Turlock and Wohl could still hear him but not caring one bit. This was not how he envisioned doing mission planning…although he had to admit it was pretty darned cool.
As incredible as the spaceplane was, even the passenger module was a pretty nifty device. It served to not only carry passengers and cargo inside the Black Stallion but also as a docking adapter between the spaceplane and a space station. In an emergency the module could even be used as a spacecraft crew lifeboat: it had maneuvering thrusters to facilitate retrieval by repair spacecraft while in orbit and to keep it upright during re-entry; little winglets for stability in case it was jettisoned in the atmosphere; enough oxygen to allow six passengers to survive for as long as a week; enough shielding to survive re-entry if the module was jettisoned during re-entry; and parachutes and flotation/impact attenuation bags that would cushion the module and its passengers upon land or water impact. Unfortunately all this protection was only available to the passengers — there was no way for the Black Stallion’s flight crew to get inside the module after takeoff except by spacewalking while in orbit and using the transfer tunnel.
Macomber and Wohl were wearing a full Tin Man armor system, a lightweight suit made of BERP, or ballistic electronically reactive process material which was totally flexible like cloth but protected the wearer by instantly hardening to a strength a hundred times greater than steel when struck. The suit was completely sealed, affording excellent protection even in harsh or dangerous environments, and was supplemented with an extensive electronic sensor and communications suite that fed data to the wearer through helmet visor displays. The Tin Man system was further enhanced by a micro-hydraulic exoskeleton that gave the wearer superhuman strength, agility, and speed by amplifying his muscular movements.
Charlie Turlock—“Charlie” was her real name, not a call-sign, a young woman given a boy’s name by her father — was not wearing a Tin Man suit, just a flight suit over a thin layer of thermal underwear; her ride was in the cargo compartment behind their seats. She wore a standard HAWC flight helmet, which displayed sensor and computer data on an electronic visor similar to the sophisticated Tin Man displays. Trim, athletic, and of just slightly more than average height, Turlock seemed out of place with a unit full of big, muscular, commandos — but she brought something along from her years at the Army Research Laboratory’s Infantry Transformational Battle-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 satellite sensor images to paint an ultra-realistic view of the terrain and cultural features in the target area, complete with projections of such things as personnel and vehicle movement based on past information, lighting levels, weather predictions, and even soil conditions. The three Battle Force commandos were spread out approximately fifty yards apart, close enough to support one another quickly if necessary but far enough apart to not give one another away if detected or engaged by a single enemy patrol.
“I can see the fence now, range one point six miles,” Charlie reported. “Moving over the wash now. The ‘Goose’ reports thirty minutes of flight time left.” The “Goose” was the GUOS, or Grenade-launched Unmanned Observation System, a small powered flying drone about the size of a bowling pin, launched from a backpack launcher, that sent back visual and infrared images to the commandos by a secure datalink.
“That means we’re behind,” Macomber groused. “Let’s pick it up a little.”
“We’re right on schedule, sir,” Wohl whispered.
“I said we’re behind, Sergeant Major,” Macomber hissed. “The drone will be running out of fuel and we’ll still be inside the damned compound.”
“I’ve got another Goose ready,” Charlie said. “I can launch it—”
“When? When we get close enough for the Iranians to hear it?” Macomber growled. “How noisy are those things anyway?”
“If you’d show up for my demos, Major, you’d know,” Charlie said.
“Don’t give me any lip, Captain,” Macomber spat. “When I ask you a question, give me an answer.”
“Outside a couple hundred yards of engine ignition, they won’t hear a thing,” Charlie said, not disguising her
