Shadow Command

the few unmanned stealth bombers built since the American Holocaust, were the only air-breathing long-range strike aircraft left in the American arsenal — if any bombers were going to be built ever again, it might take decades to build the force back up to credible levels.

“Ma’am, I’m sure the strike mission will be approved once the national command authority gets our report on what happened to our spaceplane,” Dave said. “That mobile Kavaznya laser is the biggest threat facing our country right now — not just to our spacecraft, but possibly to anything that flies.” He paused, then added, “And the Russians just killed five of our best, ma’am. It’s time for some payback.”

Rebecca was silent for a long moment; then, shaking her head, she said wryly, “Three ‘ma’ams’ out of you in one conversation, General Luger — I believe that’s a first for you.” She punched some instructions into her computer. “I’ll authorize a change to thirty minutes’ bingo fuel.”

“Odin to Headbanger, I said, push them up, General Furness,” Patrick interjected from Armstrong Space Station. “Take them up to Vmax, then slow them down to one point two for weapon release.”

“What if they don’t make it to the air refueling anchor on the way back, General?” she asked. “What if there’s a navigation error? What if they can’t hook up on the first go? Let’s not lose sight of—”

“Push ’em up, General. That’s an order.”

Rebecca sighed. She could legally ignore his order and be sure her bombers were safe — that was her job — but she certainly understood how badly he wanted retribution. She turned to her Vampire flight crew and said, “Push them up to one point five, recompute bingo fuel at the air refueling control point, and advise.”

The crew complied, and a moment later reported: “Headbanger flight of two now at flight level three-one-oh, on course, speed Mach one point five, due regard, in the green, twenty minutes to launch point. Bingo fuel at the ARCP is gone; we’re down to ten minutes’ emergency fuel. We should make up a few more minutes after we get the tanker’s updated ETE.”

“That’s ten minutes after the second bomber cycles on the boom, right?” Rebecca asked. The grim, ashen expression and silent no on the face of the tech told her that they were in really deep shit.

CHAPTER SEVEN

In war, there are no unwounded soldiers.

— JOSE NAROSKY

ABOARD ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

MINUTES LATER

“McLanahan here, secure.”

“McLanahan, this is the President of the United States,” Joseph Gardner thundered. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Sir, I—”

“This is a direct order, McLanahan: Turn those bombers around right now.”

“Sir, I’d like to give you my report before—”

“You’re not going to do a damned thing except what I order you to do!” the President snapped. “You’ve violated a direct order from the commander-in-chief. If you want to avoid life in prison, you’d better do what I tell you. And that spaceplane had better still be in orbit, or by God I’ll—”

“The Russians shot down the Black Stallion spaceplane,” Patrick quickly interjected. “The spaceplane is missing and presumed lost with all souls.”

The President was silent for a long moment; then: “How?”

“A mobile laser, the same one that we think shot down our spaceplane last year over Iran,” Patrick replied. “That was what the Russians were hiding at Soltanabad: their mobile anti-spacecraft laser. They brought it into Iran and set it up at an abandoned Revolutionary Guards Corps base, one we thought had been destroyed — they even placed fake bomb craters on it to fool us. The Russians set up the laser in a perfect spot to attack our spacecraft overflying Iran. They got the second-biggest prize of them all: another Black Stallion spaceplane. The positioning suggests their real target was Armstrong Space Station.”

Again, silence on the other end of the line…but not for long: “McLanahan, I’m very sorry about your men…”

“There were two women on board too, sir.”

“…and we’re going to get to the bottom of this,” the President went on, “but you violated my orders and launched those bombers without permission. Turn them around immediately.”

Patrick glanced up at the time remaining: seven-plus minutes. Could he stall the President that long…? “Sir, I had permission to launch the spaceplane into standard orbit from STRATCOM,” he said. “We suspected what the Russians were up to, but we were awaiting permission to go in. Our worst fears were confirmed…”

“I gave you an order, McLanahan.”

“Sir, the Russians are packing up and moving the laser and their radar out of Soltanabad as we speak,” he said. “If they are allowed to slip away, that laser will be an immense threat to every spacecraft, satellite, and aircraft in our inventory. We’re just a few minutes away from launch, and it’ll be over in less than a minute. Just four precision-guided missiles with kinetic-kill warheads — no collateral damage. It’ll take out the components that haven’t been moved yet. The Russians can’t complain about the attack because then they’d be admitting moving attack troops into Iran to kill Americans, so there won’t be any international backlash. If we can get Buzhazi’s troops in there to start a forensic search as soon as possible after the attack, we might uncover evidence that —”

“I said, turn those bombers around, McLanahan,” the President said. “That’s an order. I’m not going to repeat myself. This conversation is being recorded and witnessed and if you don’t comply it’ll be used against you in your court-martial.”

“Sir, I understand, but I ask you to reconsider,” Patrick pleaded. “Five astronauts aboard the spaceplane were killed. They’re dead, blasted apart by that laser. It was an act of war. If we don’t get direct evidence that Russia has commenced direct offensive military action against the United States of America, they’ll get away with murder and we’ll never be able to avenge their deaths. And if we don’t destroy, damage, or disable that laser, it’ll pop up somewhere else and kill again. Sir, we must—”

“You are in violation of a direct order from the commander-in-chief, General McLanahan,” the President interrupted. “I’ll give you one last chance to comply. Do it, and I’ll let you retire quickly and quietly without a public trial. Refuse, and I’ll strip you of your rank and throw you in prison at hard labor for life. Do you understand me, General? One last chance…which is it going to—?”

Six minutes left. Could he get away with the “scratchy radio” routine? He decided he was far, far beyond that point now: he had no choice. Patrick cut off the transmission. Ignoring the stunned expressions of the technicians around him, he spoke: “McLanahan to Luger.”

“Just got off the phone with the SECDEF, Muck,” Dave said from Elliott Air Force Base via their subcutaneous global transceiver system. “He ordered the Vampires recalled immediately.”

“My phone call trumps yours, buddy: I just heard from the President,” Patrick said. “He ordered the same thing. He offered me a nice quiet retirement or a lifetime breaking big rocks into little ones at Leavenworth.”

“I’ll get them turned—”

“Negative…they continue,” Patrick said. “Bomb the crap out of that base.”

“Muck, I know what you’re thinking,” Dave Luger said, “but it might already be too late. The latest satellite image shows at least a fourth of the vehicles already gone, and that was over ten minutes ago. Plus we’re already past bingo fuel on the Vampires and well into an emergency fuel situation — they might not reach the tanker before they flame out. It’s a no-win scenario, Muck. It’s not worth risking your career and your freedom. We lost this one. Let’s pull back and get ready to fight the next one.”

“The ‘next one’ could be an attack against another spaceplane, a satellite, a reconnaissance aircraft over Iran, or Armstrong Space Station itself,” Patrick said. “We’ve got to stop it, now.”