well into the operational briefing, with an Air Force colonel Malachi didn’t recognize talking about “the asset limitation list.” Malachi saw Terry Gibbs, one of the other platform jocks, sitting in the second bank of seats. He slid behind him and poked him in the back.
“You’re big-time late,” whispered Gibbs.
“Some asshole parked in my spot,” said Malachi, pulling up the LCD video screen at the side of his chair. He flicked it on: channel A featured a map of the greater Moscow area, with red stars all around it. Malachi recognized the stars as defense installations without having to tap the screen for IDs.
“So like, I have to lose my day off because we’re going to bug the Russians again? Shit, Frenchie could have done it.” Frenchie was an Air Force captain named Steven Parlus.
“Take off the earphones and listen to what the colonel’s saying,” said Gibbs. “Look around. You’re not flying the platform. They want you on the Birds. Kelly’s unavailable and Duff asked for you. You missed Rubens.”
“The F-47s? Kick-ass.”
Malachi pulled out his ear buds and started paying serious attention. The F-47Cs, sometimes called Birds, were Mach 1.5–capable UFAVs, or unmanned fighting aerial vehicles, capable of carrying weapons as well as “mission pods”—signal and image — capturing gear. The remote planes were an outgrowth of Boeing’s successful F-45 program for the Air Force, which had provided considerable pointers for the satellite-controlled NSA force. They generally worked in packs or flights of four and required several remote pilots, along with a full relief team.
“This unit here is our prime concern,” said the colonel, tapping at a base northeast of Moscow. The legend identified the unit there as 593, a fighter aviation regiment of MiG-35 “Super Fulcrums.” The MiG-MAPO next- generation fighter was based on the MiG 1.42, itself a development of the MiG29.
“Yes,” said Malachi, as if he’d just hit a three-point shot at the buzzer. Those close enough to hear him snickered, and the colonel giving the presentation stopped speaking and looked toward him.
“Is there a question, Mr. Reese?” asked the colonel.
“No, sir,” said Malachi. “Just saying we’re going to kick their butts.”
“That’s not the idea, Reese,” said General Tonka, standing up from the front row. Tonka was another holdover from Space Command. “Russia is a member of NATO, an ally — no unauthorized dogfighting, no unauthorized anything.”
Tonka’s nickname was, naturally, Truck, though he was built like a slim walking stick. He’d flown combat in the Gulf. He gave the room one of his best stares, then turned back to Malachi and pointed at him. “I know you’re a cowboy, Reese. Don’t fuck up.”
“No, sir,” said Malachi. “Not on purpose.”
Two hours later, Malachi joined the flight crew in Control Bunker C, a separate underground facility with its own power supply, ventilation system, and communications network. It linked to the Art Room via three separate dedicated lines, each of which was always on. Malachi was second pilot, essentially the copilot in a four-man crew that also had a pilot, navigator/weapons officer, and radar/ECM man. They could control from two to eight planes with the help of a bank of computers and a dedicated satellite network. This could be augmented by J-STARS and AWACS aircraft; eventually, specially equipped Raptors and Strike Eagles would also be able to tie into the network.
“Look who the cat drug in,” said Train — officially known as Major Pierce Duff. Train had cut his teeth as a young lieutenant flying F-16s in the Gulf War and was regarded as one of the top remote pilots in the service. This was his team, and Malachi — or “Mal,” as they sometimes referred to him — swept his torso down as a gesture of respect.
Kind of.
“He was probably making it with some ho in the elevator,” said Riddler, who worked the radar and ECMs, or electronic countermeasures. Riddler’s real name was Captain George Thurston.
“Got me,” said Malachi. “Where’s Whacker?”
“Getting updated disks on the weapons sets,” said Train. “More programming code from your people.”
“Hey, I just work here. I’m not one of them,” said Malachi.
“Yeah, he’s a mutant alien form of fungus,” said Riddler.
“Actually, bacteria. I’ve evolved.” He slid into his station, which was dominated by a large flight stick. Most often the remote planes were directed through verbal or keyboarded commands. While the pilots could take direct control via the stick, the transmission delay could amount to more than two seconds, which made guiding the planes a difficult art. You had to think ahead, anticipating not just the plane but also the control lag. Combat situations were especially treacherous.
Naturally, Malachi prayed for one.
“The planes are due to be off-loaded at No?bitz, Germany, in four hours,” Train told him. “We have to be ready to take them off the ground as soon as they’re fueled.”
Nobitz was an airfield near Altenburg in the southern part of the country, once used by Soviet forces during the Cold War. It had obviously been chosen for security purposes, not proximity to the target area — it was a good hike from there just to the Russian border, let alone Moscow.
“We’re looking at a two-hour cruise to get on-station,” added Train. “We get there, we stagger back to tank. We’re looking at a twelve-hour window at the moment.”
Malachi whistled. That was a long time for the robots to stay aloft, even with refueling. It would also be a considerable strain for the crews.
“I want to run through a couple of mission bits on the simulator first,” explained Train, “practice ingress and egress and at least one refueling. Then we break, get a real brief, come back, and do it.”
“Sounds hot,” said Malachi. “What kinds of weapons are we carrying?”
“Still to be decided,” said Train. “Probably AIM-9s, AM-RAAMs, and Paveways, full mix.” So equipped, the planes could be used for either air-to-air or air-to-ground attacks.
“Hot dingers,” said Malachi.
“One more thing, dude,” said Major Duff, leaning over to Malachi’s station. “No music. For anybody.”
“Shit. Serious?”
“Serious. Whacker threatened to break out his Barry Manilow collection, and I just can’t live with that over the interphone circuit for twelve hours.”
“Agreed,” said Malachi, pulling out his ear bud.
55
Karr decided on his own authority to have the plane land at Kirov, not Moscow. He told the Art Room it was because of a peculiar challenge by an air controller, but the real reason was that he had doubts about Martin.
He’d checked Martin’s identity with the portable retina scanner and there was no question it was him. Karr had gone over Martin’s story with him several times; while it was obvious that he was hedging about what he had told the Russians, that was to be expected — no one wanted to admit he’d been broken, even if it was obvious. The details about Martin’s escape from the plane checked with what the technical experts had predicted, and there were no inconsistencies or inexplicable gaps.
Yet Karr was still bugged.
Normal procedure called for a transfer out of Moscow via an antiseptic protocol that minimized other contacts. But that would jeopardize one of the safe houses and possibly the people who had set it up. Karr had to get the team into Moscow right away, which implied further complications for holding Martin. He might end up with considerable knowledge of the network in the city, which presumably he hadn’t had as an equipment operator.
Karr couldn’t leave him in Kirov, however. He had no people there, not even CIA agents who might be roped into the job. There was no safe house. Foreigners were often monitored when they checked into hotels. And it would take quite a while to arrange a pickup.
What was it that made him feel uneasy? The fact that Martin didn’t seem all that happy in the first few minutes of the rescue?
