Shadow Command

“Are they telling us we’re not going in?”

“Shut up, S-One, until we get this figured out,” Moulain snapped. “MC, did the authentication come in?”

“Affirmative — got it just now,” Terranova said. “The mission’s been scrubbed, crew. We’re directed to remain in present orbit until we get a flight plan change to a transfer orbit that will bring us back for a refueling and landing ASAP. Canceling re-entry procedure checklist…‘leopards’ secure, checklist canceled.”

Macomber punched a fist into his hand and was instantly sorry he did so — it felt as if he punched a steel wall. “What in hell is going on? Why didn’t we get a clearance? This is bull—”

“Rascal, this is Genesis.” This time it was David Luger himself, calling from the battle management area at HAWC. “That data dump was valid, Rascal, I repeat, valid. We’re looking it over, but it looks like the landing zone is hot.”

“Well, that’s the reason we’re going in, isn’t it, Genesis?” Macomber asked. “Let us drop in there and we’ll take care of business.”

“Your mission was scrubbed by the White House, Whack, not us,” Luger said, the tension obvious in his voice. “They want you guys back home right away. We’re computing a re-entry schedule now. It’s looking like you’ll have to stay up for at least another day before we can—”

“Another day! You’ve gotta be shitting me—!”

“Stand by, Rascal, stand by—”

There was a moment’s pause, with a lot of encryption clicking and chattering on the frequency; then a different voice called: “Rascal, Stud, this is Odin.” This was from McLanahan, up on Armstrong Space Station. “Recon satellites are picking up strong India-Juliet radar signals coming from your target area. Looks like a long- range search radar. We’re analyzing now.”

“A radar, eh?” Macomber commented. He started studying the new NIRTSat images again. Sure enough, it was the same Soltanabad highway airbase…but now all the craters were gone, and several semi tractor-trailers, troops and supply trucks, helicopters, and a large fixed-wing aircraft were parked on the ramp. “Looks like you were right, Odin. The bastards are setting the place up again.”

“Listen to me, guys,” McLanahan said, and the tone of his voice even over the encrypted satellite link was plainly very ominous indeed. “I don’t like the smell of this. You’d be safer if you deorbited, but you’ve been ordered to return to base, so we have to keep you up there.”

“What’s the problem, sir?” Moulain asked. “Is there something you’re not telling us?”

“You cross the target’s horizon in eleven minutes. We’re trying to compute if we have enough time to deorbit you and have you land in central Asia or the Caucasus instead of overflying Soltanabad.”

“Central Asia! You want us to land where…?”

“Button it, Whack!” Moulain shouted. “What’s going on, Odin? What do you think is down there?”

There was a long pause; then McLanahan responded simply: “Stud One-One.”

He could have not made a more explosive response. Stud One-One was the XR-A9 Black Stallion that was shot down over Iran in the early days of the military coup, when the Air Battle Force was hunting down and destroying Iranian medium- and long-range mobile ballistic missiles that threatened not only the anti-theocratic insurgents but all of Iran’s neighbors as well. The spaceplane was downed not by a surface-to-air missile or fighter jet but by an extremely powerful laser similar to the Kavaznya anti-satellite laser built by the Soviet Union over two decades earlier…that had appeared not over Russia, but in Iran.

“What do we do, sir?” Moulain asked, the fear thick in her voice. “What do you want us to do?”

* * *

“We’re working on it,” Patrick said from Armstrong Space Station. “We’re trying to see if we can start you down right now in time to stay out of line of sight, or at least out of radar coverage.”

“We can translate right now and get ready,” Terranova said.

“Do it,” Patrick said immediately. He then spoke, “Duty Officer, get me the President of the United States, immediately.”

“Yes, General McLanahan,” the computer-synthesized female voice of Dreamland’s virtual “Duty Officer” responded. A moment later: “General McLanahan, your call is being forwarded to the Secretary of Defense. Please stand by.”

“I want to speak with the President of the United States. It’s urgent.”

“Yes, General McLanahan. Please stand by.” Another long moment later: “General McLanahan, your ‘urgent’ request has been forwarded to the President’s chief of staff. Please stand by.”

That was probably the best he was going to do, Patrick thought, so he didn’t redirect the Duty Officer again. “Inform the chief of staff that it’s an emergency.”

“The ‘urgent’ request has been upgraded to an ‘emergency’ request, General. Please stand by.”

Time was running out, Patrick thought. He thought about just having the Black Stallion crew declare an inflight emergency — there were dozens of glitches occurring on every flight that could constitute a real no-shit emergency — but he needed to be sure the Stud had someplace to land before ordering them to drop out of orbit.

“This is Chief of Staff Kordus.”

“Mr. Kordus, this is General McLanahan. I’m—”

“I don’t like being called by your computerized staffers, General, and neither does the President. If you want to talk to the President, show us the simple courtesy of doing it yourself.”

“Yes, sir. I’m on board Armstrong Space Station, and I’m—”

“I know where you are, General — my staff was watching the live broadcast with great interest until you abruptly cut it off,” Kordus said. “When we give you permission to do a live interview we expect you to finish it. Mind telling me why you cut it off like that?”

“I believe the Russians have placed an anti-spacecraft weapon of some kind, possibly the same laser that downed the Black Stallion over Iran last year, in an isolated highway airbase in Iran once used by the Revolutionary Guard Corps,” Patrick responded. “Our sensors picked up the new activity at the base and alerted us. Now our unmanned reconnaissance aircraft are picking up extremely high-powered radar signals from that very same location that are consistent with the anti-spacecraft laser’s acquisition and tracking system. I believe the Russians will attack our Black Stallion spacecraft if it passes overhead still in orbit, and I need permission to deorbit the spacecraft and divert it away from the target area.”

“You have positive proof that the Russians are behind this? How do you know this?”

“We have satellite imagery showing the base is now completely active, with fixed-wing aircraft, trucks, and vehicles that appear similar to the vehicles we detected in Iran where we believe the laser that downed the Black Stallion came from. The radar signals confirm it. Sir, I need permission immediately to divert that flight. We can have it come out of orbit and maneuver it as much as possible with all but emergency fuel until it reaches the atmosphere, and then we can fly it away from the target area to an alternate landing site.”

“The President has already ordered you to land the spaceplane back in the United States at its home base, General. Did you not copy that order?”

“I did, sir, but complying with that order means flying the spaceplane over the target base, and I believe it will be attacked if we do so. The only way we can protect the crew now is to deorbit the spaceplane to keep it as low as possible on the horizon until we can—”

“General, I don’t understand a word of what you just said,” Kordus said. “All I understand is that you have a strong hunch that your spaceplane is in danger, and you’re asking the President to countermand an order he just issued. Is this correct?”

“Yes, sir, but I need to stress the extreme danger of—”

“I got that part loud and clear, General McLanahan,” Kordus said, the exasperation thick in his voice. “If you start bringing the spaceplane down, will you be overflying anyone’s airspace, and if so, whose?”

“I don’t know precisely, sir, but I’d say countries in eastern Europe, the Middle East—”

“Russia?”

“Possibly, sir. Extreme western Russia.”

“Moscow?”

Patrick paused, and when he did he could hear the chief of staff say something under his breath. “I don’t