Malachi Reese felt his head starting to pound as the flight crossed east toward the Urals, rushing toward a group of four MiG-27s that had just taken off from Nizhni Tagil. The planes were fighter-bombers, old but fully capable of dropping several tons’ worth of munitions on any number of targets, military or civilian.
At the moment it wasn’t clear where the MiGs were headed or even if they were part of the coup; their unit had not been ID’d earlier and so escaped the general jamming and confusion campaign. The Art Room was trying to sort it all out, but at the moment their orders were to shoot the MiGs down.
Train had the two lead F-47Cs, both of which were armed with Sidewinders and AMRAAMs. Malachi had the second half of the group, which were flying with laser-guided Pave-ways for ground attack if needed, along with a pair of Sidewinders each. Malachi would take over as Train’s wingman when the flight closed to attack. The computer would handle the two planes configured for ground attack, basically holding them as reserves against these relatively weak opponents.
The lead planes were at 60,000 feet, moving at Mach 2; they’d intercept the MiGs in about five minutes.
“I want to go to active radar to get us an attack vector,” Riddler told Train. He needed permission because the radar would make it easier for the MiGs and other Russian assets to detect them. Thus far they had not been seen by the defenses.
“Roger that,” said Train. “You awake over there, Mala-chi?”
“Wide awake.”
“Get into Two and take my wing on my mark. Go to auto-flight first.”
The step-by-step instruction was unnecessary, but Malachi took no offense. He took control of his fighter as Riddler activated the radar in Bird Four. The precise plot found the MiGs slightly closer and faster than they had thought, moving at 500 knots at flight level twenty-five degrees to the south of Bird One’s nose. The planes were flying a combat trail; from above it would look like a somewhat disjointed string.
“No data on weapons,” said Riddler. “Still looking for their radar. Negative on that.”
The MiGs gave no indication that they “saw” the Birds’ radar or even knew the planes existed. Malachi’s hand tensed on his control stick. Missing his music, he started to play a vintage Clash song in his head, “Police on My Back,” as mixed and rehashed by XtaVigage, thrash rappers from Miami.
“Bandits are beginning a turn east,” said Riddler. “Accelerating.”
Malachi had them on his screen, four red triangles that moved in slow staccato in the lower right quadrant.
“Stay with me, Malachi.”
“On you.”
They traded quick updates on speed and position, accelerating slightly. They were beyond visual range; the AMRAAMs could be launched at will.
“They may be heading back to their base,” said Riddler. “Getting data now on instructions, voice instructions. They may have an order to return back.”
“Whacker, ask Desk Three if we’re cleared to shoot them down. I want a direct yes.”
“Yeah.”
“Hang tight, guys,” said Riddler. “Hang tight. Their altitude is dropping.”
Malachi leaned forward in his seat as they continued to close the distance on the bandits. Whacker had opened a small pop-up target data screen on the main flight view; the computer had designated and locked its tracking mode on the bandits. A white box at the center of the screen plotted where Malachi should be in the formation; he was pushing forward a little too fast and a little high, and the computer began blinking the box to scold him.
“Break off the attack,” said Riddler. “We have confirmation that they’re returning to base.”
“Desk Three says not to fire,” said Whacker.
“Shit,” said Malachi.
“Enough of that,” said Train. “We’ll maintain our course eastward and make sure they do land. Get me a vector to their base.”
77
As Rubens started to tell Telach he needed to talk to the Bird strike team, something exploded in the right corner of the picture on the screen at the front of the Art Room. Realizing he was seeing the assassination attempt, Rubens stopped and focused on the screen, where a video feed from a CIA-planted video fly covering part of the courtyard was now being displayed. The view was partly blocked off and delayed a second and a half because of all the encryption and the routing, but it was clear enough for him to see Perovskaya standing a few feet from where the bullet had hit, his arms jerking up out of shock.
For a moment, Rubens worried that there would be another shot. Then the bodyguards started to move, pushing the defense minister back into the car and out of the frame.
“Lia and Dean got the assassin,” said Rockman, nearly shouting. “He got the shot off, but they got him. He’s down.”
Rubens turned to Hadash nearby. “Tell President Marcke to ask to speak to Perovskaya. Otherwise, they’ll kill him. He was the target — if Kurakin wants him dead it must be to our advantage that he’s alive. Quickly.”
Hadash started to relay the message. On the screen behind him, cars whipped by. The video transmission suddenly stopped — the Russians must’ve turned on a wide-spectrum jammer.
Rubens turned to Telach. “Where’s the Bird strike force?”
She hot-keyed a sitrep map onto the now-blank main screen. It showed the four-plane flight almost over the Urals.
“Put up the Wave Three target. And the laser facilities themselves.”
The planes were sixty-three miles to the southwest of one site and another hundred miles farther west of the other. The command bunker, the target of the Wave Three mission, was in the middle.
Take the two sites. Now.
“Telach, what channel is the Bird commander on?”
“What’s going on?” asked Hadash.
“Two-two-alpha,” said Telach.
“Listen in,” Rubens told him.
78
“He had a way to use the air shaft,” Dean told Lia. “It runs along this wall somewhere.”
“How do you know?” asked Lia.
“Because if he chose his spot according to what the best sight line was, he would have gone higher.”
“Maybe he thought there were people there.”
“There weren’t, remember?”
“Maybe this door was easier to fix.”
“Nah.” Dean looked at the wall where the air shaft would be. It seemed solid, but maybe there was a trapdoor or something. He put his ear against it and began banging with his fist, looking for a hole.
“No,” said Lia.
“They’ll be waiting at the exits.”
“The roof?”
“Check with your gizmo.”
She fiddled with her screen while Dean looked for a hollow spot. There didn’t seem to be one, nor was there a closet.
So what was the dead bastard thinking? Maybe it did have to do with the door or the interior; maybe there
