Рыбаченко Олег Павлович. Preventive War Of Stalin-12

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Preventive War Of Stalin-12

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Аннотация: t is already November 1942. It started snowing. Britain's colonial forces moved to Central Asia. But the Nazis noticeably slowed down their attack on Moscow. Despite the snow, Komsomol girls still fight only barefoot and in bikinis, and even the pioneer boys show off their bare heels, red from the cold.

PREVENTIVE WAR OF STALIN-12

ANNOTATION

It is already November 1942. It started snowing. Britain's colonial forces moved to Central Asia. But the Nazis noticeably slowed down their attack on Moscow. Despite the snow, Komsomol girls still fight only barefoot and in bikinis, and even the pioneer boys show off their bare heels, red from the cold.

. CHAPTER No. 1

It is already November 1942. The fighting slowed down slightly. It became colder and snow began to fall. It really has become scary to fight, especially for coalitions.

And the main offensive of the Axis powers was transferred to Central Asia, where the weather is relatively warm even at this time. Well, of course, you can use your colonial units very effectively.

The Komsomol girls made small, partisan forays. This was their tactic. And it had some effect.

Natasha also took part in the battles. Here is a flock of them in only a bikini attacking German troops.

The girls threw grenades with their bare toes. And they rushed to run away, flashing their bare heels, pink from the frost.

Natasha even sang enthusiastically to cheer up the beauties who were sad because of the not very successful course of the war;

When joining the Komsomol, they took an oath,

To honor the sacred Soviet flag...

The Komsomol members will be in time for the harvest,

Because the Fatherland is our mother!

The Wehrmacht hordes attacked ours,

A big, radiant country...

And the Krauts mixed the porridge with blood,

Summoning Satan into an alliance with the horns!

But the girls want to fight the enemy,

And with them a radiant cherub...

We are not embarrassed by the gloss-colored flame,

Let's conquer the vastness of the universe!

We are knights, although we are still girls,

Beautiful red blondes...

And the little voice is very clear,

Let's celebrate cosmic success!

For the glory of communism, wise Lenin,

He placed a holy seal on us...

Unfortunately, many generations will pass,

When we build a world of communism!

Stalin gave us the order to fight the horde,

To defeat the fascists in a fierce battle...

I carried the machine gun along with my backpack,

I studied at the institute only for five years!

Now barefoot girls in the cold,

Laughing and grinning, the proud run...

Biting, give me a rose, beauty,

Let there be comfort in the universe!

We are fighting barefoot near Moscow,

Why do beautiful girls need boots?

And the skies are so blue...

A fucking fascist gets kicked off his feet!

We are girls with incomparable beauty,

We have fire, an airy dream...

Love can be very strange sometimes

When you're with a guy like forever!

I kiss beautifully, I attack,

Throwing a grenade - the Tiger was blown up...

Your cold bare foot,

Warmed the flame, even if only for a moment!

And the Krauts got it very hard,

From girls with a fiery scythe...

Let's wind up believing in communism for miles,

With your bare female foot!

I fought bravely, I did not spare my life,

She performed such miracles...

And without embarrassment she beat the adversary,

May a victorious spring come!

What the Fuhrer accidentally forgot with us,

I wanted to get land, simple slaves...

But the Fritz miscalculated, you know extremely,

Considering Russians simply as brutes!

In response, grenades fly in an arc,

What a girl throws with her bare foot...

And the machine guns fire very accurately,

You are the Fuhrer without any, cover him!

We are cool Komsomol girls,

We will hold Moscow, you know that for sure...

And we will cross the line without preparation,

Let's even build a communism paradise!

There will be good in the holy Soviet country,

Radiant communism will arise...

And Hitler will receive retribution with a bayonet,

Let's overthrow rabid fascism!

We are such patriotic girls,

You can"t find us cooler, louder...

While we are barefoot, but sneakers are waiting,

After all, it"s not even twenty yet!

Such youth, and it is sweet,

We will find out and see the fumes in her...

Chocolate awaits us soon,

And just a crazy gift from God!

Love Christ, worship God,

When He comes soon with gifts...

For Easter there will be Easter cakes and eggs,

All who are resurrected - glory and honor!

So girls, wipe away your tears,

You guys shouldn"t mourn...

Believe me, the severe frosts will pass,

And believe me, we will become healthier!

When Berlin has girls under us,

We will walk barefoot through the streets...

Now we are kings and judges for the fascists,

And in the fields flax will ripen with gold!

This is how nimble girls sing so cool and beautifully, their breasts and thighs barely covered in cold weather with narrow strips of tissue.

Well, girls don"t give up and don"t give in. These are truly just written beauties.

And such graceful ones leave traces of their delicious and seductive legs.

Warriors are trivially charming. And just super class beauties.

The severity of the fighting is now in the south. Coalition troops have practically surrounded Ashgabat. And fierce battles are being waged for this city.

Both Turkmen pioneer boys and Russians fight here.

Akmal and Oleg - the first with black hair and dark from a tan, the second with blond hair, and even then almost black as a negative. Both boys were barefoot, wearing shorts, and red ties tied around their necks.

They fight with fury and great tenacity. They show their childish heroism and sing at the same time;

I'm a barefoot pioneer boy,

I love Russia, the holy Motherland...

We have become an example to our Fatherland,

Kindling passion, even unearthly!

With a grenade, I will rush furiously at the tank,

Don't be scared by the stream of machine gun fire...

The Fuhrer will receive a nickel from me -

Let there be fast work soon!

I am a Soviet pioneer for the people,

The wise Stalin personally gave us the order...

And Hitler is simply a freak,

Let our nerves be made of steel!

I believe that we will defeat the fascists,

More precisely, this is true, I know this for sure...

Above us there is a cherub of Jesus,

Will show you the way to quickly achieve heaven!

For the glory of our holy Motherland,

Barefoot girls will fight...

And you know the pioneer warrior is cool,

And the guys" voice is quite clear!

We will reach cosmic heights,

If there is no lethargy and laziness...

For us, Stalin himself seems to be like God,

And Lenin is radiant without mistakes!

I'm a pioneer, believe me, I'll come to Berlin,

The girls and I will have a dashing run...

And the Fuhrer will roast in hell,

Looks like the burgher was clearly drunk from beer!

We will glorify Rus' in Orthodoxy,

Although sometimes priests, alas, are corrupt...

But fight for her and don"t be afraid,

You are a brave pioneer boy, believe me!

I'm near Moscow, just a kid,

I was only ten years old then...

But he also showed the Krauts a feat,

He lathered the adversary's snout tightly!

And Stalingrad is like a nightmare for the Germans,

Graves grew there for the Nazis...

We struck the Wehrmacht,

Cherubs wear steel wings!

But the girl and I were barefoot,

And they raced through the snowdrifts with bare heels...

Warmed up afterwards with boiling water,

Into the imagination of communism they gave!

I shot at the Krauts with a simple gun,

And, believe me, he hit it very accurately...

After all, for me Suvorov is ideal,

And Hitler will soon be in a strong cage!

I would torture him and shoot him,

And you will be full forever, kids!

This is how the pioneers sing with great feeling and expression. And their song literally touches the heart and makes it tremble! This is truly something that cannot be compared with.

And the children shoot from machine guns. Black, red, and blond heads flash by, boys and girls fighting heroically. And it looks extremely cool.

The coalition continues to advance, but stumbles upon the simply incredible and amazing tenacity of the pioneer heroes.

Children here bring shells to the cannons, and belts to the machine guns. And they themselves fire. Their bare heels, slightly gray with dust, just flicker. These guys are really what we need.

Young warriors fight with great ferocity.

Oleg threw a grenade at an Arab in the British army and sang:

You see, the columns are built from books,

Heroes came out and became heroes...

Stalin sent the pioneers to waste -

We will open a winning account!

Akmal nodded and, throwing a grenade with his bare, childish foot, yelled:

- In the name of the immortal ideas of communism,

We see the future of our country...

And the red banner, bright fatherland,

We will always be selflessly faithful!

So the two boys fight with great effect and great enthusiasm, just like other children.

At the same time, Komsomol members are fighting, showing their outstanding aerobatics and unbending will.

They are both brave and skillful. And the warriors are extremely cool and unique. What can compare with the likes of them? If something is really equal to people like them?

The girls mow down the advancing columns of opponents and sing;

I am a Komsomol member, my song sounds,

I am proud that I was born in the century of October...

Stormy streams run in the spring,

We will not live for the Fatherland in vain!

When the Nazis moved to Rus',

The menacing trumpet sounded...

And you girl, be brave, don"t be a coward,

Dying in battle is nonsense!

And now I fight fiercely with the enemy,

I shoot accurately from a machine gun...

In the cold, a girl in a skirt, barefoot,

She is a bird of daring flight!

No, we will not surrender to the fascists, know that

For us, you are the only one, Mother Russia...

Let's build a wonderful paradise on the planet,

The Lord, the Most High God Messiah, will come!

And Lenin will be with us forever,

We forge a will stronger than military steel...

Komsomol members are in their youth,

And our father is comrade wise Stalin!

And I love barefoot in the snow,

Run, your heels flashing in the snowdrifts...

I'll cut off the fascist bastard's head,

Punishment awaits Hitler freaks!

Let us defeat this rabid fascism,

And soon you will be near Berlin...

So that cruel revenge does not come,

When the Fuhrer lies, with the gestures of a clown!

Loving Christ by joining the Komsomol,

Girls, boys - they promised together...

Fascism will be completely defeated

And we will see communism in the distance!

When we come to Berlin singing,

And we will raise the red flag over the city...

We will boldly sing a song about Christ,

Who will be with us today!

And Lenin, Stalin - you are in our hearts,

We walk in formation of Komsomol girls...

We will revive this communism in dreams,

And it will be a new Eden for people!

So beautifully and with the feeling of a beauty they took it and sang it. And it was very cool.

Well, the Komsomol girls - you are simply superwomen. Your class is the highest. And especially if they throw grenades with their bare feet and smash Nazi cars.

But at the same time, there are fighters on the German side.

Here Gerda is working with her crew on the Panther tank, firing accurate shells at the enemy. And the thirty-four was shot down.

Gerda stamps her bare feet and squeals:

- Glory to the Fatherland - glory,

Panther rod forward...

Divisions with a red flag -

Greetings to the Russian people!

And the warrior will take and shake her abs with her chocolate bars.

Charlotte also fired, smashed the Soviet cannon and said:

- Soak it, soak it,

Stalin the degenerate

Soak it, soak it,

Socialist and democrat!

Let's tear the world apart

A rabid vampire is with us...

He will writhe in hell

And hang out on the bitch!

Then Christina fired from the Panther"s barrel. The shell also flew out with great force and hit the Soviet mortar, killing the servants.

The girls will immediately jump on the tank and scream. This looked extremely cool.

And then Magda was the last one to shoot. She took it and broke through the Soviet bunkers, killing the infantrymen and squeaked:

The main thing, girls, is not to grow old in your heart,

Even if you do, then look forward!

This is how this magnificent beauty gave it away. And she chirped, showing her teeth.

Well, the team has gathered here - a fighting one, one might say.

Well, the girls are the coolest.

But they tortured the pioneer. They took the boy and began to dissolve him alive in acid. It really was cruel. Such is the unthinkable and deadly impact.

Well, the women here are really cool. These girls are pure bedlam and will get so angry that they won"t stop.

And dissolving a boy with acid is such capital cruelty.

And so they began to burn the pioneer with fire, and even set his hair on fire. These are bitches.

And in another place, German executioners interrogated a captured Komsomol member. Beautiful girl, stripped down to her panties. They tied my hands behind me and led me barefoot through the snow. And the police walked behind her and whipped her up with whips.

The girl left behind her graceful, barefoot footprints of beautiful, chiseled, feminine feet.

And it looked very cool and cool. This really was a girl. And her bare feet in the snow turned red like the feet of geese, and it looked so beautiful.

And the barefoot girl, under the blows of the whips, proudly straightening her figure and sticking out her chest, sang;

The Fatherland gave us a ray of freedom,

Endless ocean of love...

Let the peoples unite

After all, they have no other way...

Rus' is a universal torch for the entire planet,

Motherland: great love...

Even children laugh in happiness in it,

Even though sometimes blood flows like a stream,

At least sometimes blood flows!

There was fascism, dashed out with a bayonet,

We bravely defeated the Wehrmacht...

The planet even became quiet,

The stream of the steel horde is crushed,

The tide of the steel horde has been crushed!

But again the thunderstorms sparkle brightly,

A tornado is rushing, an evil hurricane...

Somewhere then children shed tears,

The ocean is groaning, the ocean is groaning,

And the ocean boils like a volcano!

We opened the planet to the nations,

The path to the heavenly worlds forever...

Deeds of heroism are sung,

Stalin is an eternal star...

Stalin is an eternal star!

There will be peace forever, believe in one,

Sacred communism will unite us!

And cherubs soar above us,

They crushed fascism forever,

Destroyed fascism forever!

And in Russia the banner of communism,

Will be above the planet forever...

The horde of capitalism will not come,

The country is painted red,

The country is painted red!

The Komsomol girl sang with great enthusiasm and intensity. And it looked so wonderful and cool. This is truly the warrior you need.

And of course they continued to torture her. They took me to the hut and tied me to a pole.

And they began to apply lighted cigarettes to her bare chest.

The girl moaned in pain, but did not say anything. She endured being roasted with fire.

Then they began to put out their cigarettes on the bare soles of their feet. And you chose the most sensitive points on the foot. The girls moaned in pain, and her dry, cracked lips whispered:

- I will not say! I will not say! I will not say!

Yes, she was an unbreakable beauty. And more and more new forces went into battle. The situation kept growing. The situation became very alarming and threatening.

Natasha said in rage:

- Let this bald Fuhrer die!

Zoya agreed:

- There is no place for the rain dragon on Earth!

This is how the girls performed. And they acted very aggressively and on a colossal scale.

And if they start, no one will stop them.

The pioneer boy Gulliver asked the girls:

- Will he fight?

They answered in unison:

We must, we must, we must believe in miracles,

Instead of whether I will or not,

Will! Will! Will!

And the girls took it and shook their bare, chiseled legs. And their gaze was very menacing.

The pioneer boy Gulliver then clenched his fists and began to sing;

To fight for the Motherland to the end,

As the radiant Stalin commanded us...

Let's make our hearts beat in unison,

Let our muscles be stronger than steel!

The heroic destiny of the fatherland,

To fight for my sacred Mother...

We have a lot of important things to do,

After all, Russians have always known how to fight!

Although just a pioneer boy,

But I will give a salute to my Fatherland...

And I will be the one who is younger, know the example,

I believe in Russia to live under communism!

We will build, believe me, a glorious world,

In which, believe me, there will be no poverty...

We celebrate a feast there for free,

And people remain happy forever!

Then the dream will fulfill its promise,

For the glory of radiant generations...

Stalin himself is burning as a bright star,

And our proletarian teacher Lenin!

And we believe in God too, believe us,

Pray to Christ without second thoughts...

Let the beast in the underworld of hell

We will be greeted with a good image from the icons!

Let us come to Christ under the party flag,

We will build socialism and communism...

I believe in the light, I will bring it hope,

So that everyone becomes a serious hero!

ALLIANCE OF THE CIA MOSADA AND THE RUSSIAN MAFIA

ANNOTATION

The thirst for joint profit pushes intelligence officers, various kinds of adventurers, and members of syndicates to commit crimes. And the Russian mafia is spreading its tentacles and creating branches almost all over the world. And there is a fierce struggle for the redistribution of spheres of influence.

PROLOGUE

Revenge is a kind of wild justice.

- SIR FRANCIS BACON

SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

APRIL 2016

"Ladies and gentlemen," the flight attendant said over the airliner's public address system, "let me be the first to welcome you to Patrick S. McLanahan International Airport in Sacramento, where it is eight o'clock five p.m. local time." She continued with the usual warnings about remaining seated with seat belts fastened and keeping an eye out for loose items in overhead bins as the airliner taxied to the designated gate.

One of the first class passengers, dressed in a business suit and a white Oxford shirt without a tie, looked up from his magazine in surprise. "They named Sacramento International after General Patrick McLanahan?" - he asked his comrade sitting next to him. He spoke with a very slight European accent, making it difficult to tell what country he was from from the other passengers sitting around them. He was tall, bald, but with a dark, well-groomed goatee, and ruggedly handsome, like a recently retired professional athlete.

The woman looked at him in surprise. "You didn"t know that?" - she asked. She had the same accent-definitely European, but other passengers within earshot had a hard time identifying it. Like her companion, she was tall, beautiful, but not sexy, with long blonde hair pinned up, an athletic figure and high cheekbones. She was wearing a business suit, tailored to look non-business, for travel. They definitely looked like a power couple.

"No. You've reserved a table, don't forget. Also, the airport code on the ticket still reads 'SMF' when it was Sacramento Metropolitan Field.

"Well, this is Sacramento-McLanahan Field now," the woman said. "Perfect fit if you ask me. I think it's a great honor. Patrick McLanahan was a true hero." The passengers across the aisle from the couple, although pretending not to eavesdrop, nodded in agreement.

"I don"t think we know half of what this guy has done in his career-it will all be classified for at least the next fifty years," the man said.

"Well, what we know is more than enough for his name to be listed at the airport in the city he was born in," the woman said. "He deserves his own monument at Arlington National Cemetery." More nods of agreement from those surrounding the couple.

The tribute to Patrick McLanahan in the terminal building continued after they left the plane. In the center of the main terminal stood a ten-foot bronze statue of Patrick on a six-foot pedestal, holding a high-tech flight helmet in one hand and a PDA in the other. The toe of the statue's right shoe glistened as passers-by rubbed it for good luck. The walls were covered with photographs of Patrick, depicting events throughout his military and industrial career. On display panels, children painted images of EB-52 Megafortress and EB-1C Vampire bombers with the words "BOMBS AWAY, GENERAL!" and THANK YOU FOR KEEPING OUT OF US, PATRICK!

While waiting at the baggage carousel for their luggage, the man nodded toward an electronic billboard. "There is an advertisement for this tour of the McLanahan family bar and house and its columbarium," he noted. "I'd like to see this before we go."

"We don"t have time," the woman pointed out. "The only flight from New York to Sacramento was late and we have to be in San Francisco by ten in the morning, the Graveyard doesn't open until nine, and the bar doesn't open until eleven."

"Rats," said the man. "Maybe we"ll go early and see if someone can open it for us." The woman shrugged her shoulders evasively and nodded.

They soon collected their luggage and headed to the car rental counter next to the luggage carousels. On the way, the man went into a gift shop and a few minutes later came out with a large shopping bag. "What did you get?" the woman asked him.

"Model airplanes," the man answered. "One is from an EB-52 Megafortress, the one General McLanahan used when he first attacked Russia, and the other is from an EB-1C Vampire, one of the bombers he used against the Russian President's bunker after the Holocaust in AMERICA." The massive attack of subatomic cruise missiles on American air defense bases, intercontinental ballistic missiles and long-range bombers was known throughout the world as the American Holocaust, during which more than fifteen thousand Americans died. Patrick McLanahan led a counterattack against Russian mobile ICBM installation sites and ultimately against Russian President Anatoly Gryzlov's underground command bunker, killing Gryzlov and ending the conflict.

"I thought you already had models of all McLanahan"s experimental aircraft," the woman remarked.

"I want it," said the man, smiling like a boy on Christmas morning, "but not so big!" The biggest of my models are 148 scale, but these bad boys are 124 scale! Twice as much as my others!"

The woman shook her head in mock disbelief. "Well, you'll have to carry them," was all she said, and they stood in line for a rental car to get to their hotel in downtown Sacramento.

The next morning they both got up early. They got dressed, had breakfast in the hotel dining room, returned to their room to pack their things, checked out, and left the hotel in their rental car at half past seven. The downtown streets of California's capital were quiet this weekend morning, with only a few people jogging and shopping.

The couple's first stop was Mclanahan's, a small bar and restaurant that had been popular with law enforcement officials since it opened at the turn of the twentieth century. A relative bought the property from Patrick McLanahan's sisters, the only surviving family members other than Patrick's son, Bradley, and turned the upstairs apartment into a small Patrick McLanahan museum. There was still a bar and restaurant on the ground floor, but the owner had hundreds of framed photographs and newspaper clippings depicting events in the life of Patrick McLanahan, as well as the lives of those who served in the United States Air Force during the Cold War. "Closed," the woman noted. "Doesn't open until eleven in the morning, We have to be in San Francisco by ten."

"I know, I know," said her companion. "Let"s try it in the columbarium."

The entrance to the newly renovated portion of Sacramento's Old City Cemetery had an access passage with a "CLOSED" sign above it, but the couple found the gate open and an elderly man wiping down a table next to an X-ray machine. The man smiled and nodded as the couple approached. "Good morning, guys," he greeted them cheerfully. "Sorry, but we won't be open for another hour or so."

The European made no attempt to hide his disappointment. "We have to be in San Francisco on important business by ten, and there will be no way for us to return. I wanted to see the general"s crypt so badly."

The caretaker nodded, a hint of regret flashing in his eyes, then asked, "Where are you from, sir?"

"I'm from Vilnius, Lithuania, sir," the man said. "My father was a colonel in the Lithuanian Air Force under General Palsikas when my country declared its independence from the Soviet Union, and he witnessed first-hand the events when the Russians invaded in response. He told many stories of the incredible battles fought by Patrick McLanahan, Bradley Elliott and the brave men of the secret task force code-named "Madcap Wizard" on behalf of my country. He talked about Patrick so often that I thought we were related." The caretaker smiled at this. "And now I"m here, standing next to his grave, trying to say goodbye to the real hero of our family, and I can"t." His face became dejected. "Well, have a nice day, sir," and he turned to leave.

"Wait," said the caretaker. The Lithuanian turned, his face brightened. "I"m a docent here at the memorial." He thought for a moment, then said, "I can take you to see the crypt. Just a sneak peek so we don't get a flood of people wanting to go inside, no photos out of respect-"

"That would be great, sir!" - exclaimed the Lithuanian. "Honey, did you hear that?" The woman seemed to be happy for her companion. "Just a glance, no touching, no photos. You made my day, sir!" The caretaker let the couple in and closed the gate behind them.

"I need to look in your bag," the caretaker said. The Lithuanian brought with him a large bag with airplane models. "Our X-ray machine is turned off and it will take a long time to warm it up-"

"Of course, of course," said the man. He picked up one of the large boxes. "Model EB-52 Megafortress. I already have one-"

"A few, you mean," the woman interjected with a smile.

"Yes, several, but not one of this size!" He dropped the box into his bag and picked up the second box. "Vampire EB-1. I can"t wait to put them together."

The caretaker smiled and nodded. "Here, guys," he said. He immediately began his memorized guided tour: "Old City Cemetery was established in 1849, at the beginning of the California Gold Rush, and is the final resting place of more than twenty-five thousand souls," he began. "The McLanahans were part of a large stream of fortune hunters and adventurers from Ireland. But they saw their small town of refuge growing rapidly and becoming wild, so they gave up hunting for gold and silver and turned to law enforcement to help maintain law and order. More than five hundred McLanahans were Sacramento City police officers, including nine police chiefs.

"This section of the cemetery, covering more than an acre, contains the remains of seven generations of McLanahans, including four city mayors, two Roman Catholic bishops, one state governor, three United States Congressmen, several generals and hundreds of men and women who served our country until the Civil War. . Patrick's father and mother were the last to be buried here because space eventually ran out, and then the family and the General Patrick McLanahan Memorial Foundation built a columbarium for the general and the remaining members of his family."

They came to a room with two rows of marble walls. On the wall to the left were crypts eighteen inches square, some of which were already decorated with markers; on the wall to the right was a large mural etched in marble with an American flag, several large American jet bombers flying toward the viewer from the direction of a central bald eagle, and the words of John Gillespie Magee Jr.'s sonnet "Flying High" written underneath the planes. "You will notice that each wall is eighteen feet high, eighteen inches thick, and the walls are eighteen feet apart," the docent said, "eighteen being the number of years the general served in the Air Force."

The caretaker pointed to the wall to the left, flanked by an American flag and next to it another blue flag with three silver stars. "This is the final resting place of General McLanahan," he said. The visitors looked on with wide eyes and awe. In the center of the top of the marble wall was a simple blue metal plaque in a silver frame with three silver stars on it. His wife Wendy's crypt is next to his grave on the right, but her urn is empty because her ashes were scattered at sea. By order of President Kenneth Phoenix, for the first year after the general's appointment, the columbarium was once guarded 24 hours a day by the military - the president wanted a special place for the general at Arlington National Cemetery in Washington, but the family did not want it. Once the separation of the McLanahan Columbarium from the rest of the cemetery was completed, the guards were removed. On special occasions such as Patrick's birthday, the anniversaries of some of his battles, or occasions such as Veterans Day, we have volunteer sentries here to honor the General and America.

"To the left of the General is the crypt of Patrick's brother, Paul, who was a Sacramento Police Department officer, wounded in the line of duty, and then restored by Sky Masters Inc. with high-tech limbs and sensors, and then became a member of a secret anti-terrorist task force called the 'Night Stalkers,'" the caretaker continued. "He was killed during a secret operation for a government contract in Libya; many facts of that operation are still classified. Other crypts in the top row are reserved for the General's two sisters and for several close friends of the General and his aides-de-camp, including Major General David Luger, who recently retired from active service, and Brigadier General Hal Briggs, who was killed in action, where plaque with a single silver star. The space directly below Patrick and Wendy's house is reserved for Patrick's son, Bradley, who is currently studying aerospace engineering at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo."

The assistant professor turned and pointed to the opposite marble wall. "The general has a very large family, so this wall was built to accommodate the remains of any other family members, friends of the general or fellow generals who wish to be buried here," he continued. "There are crypts here too, but until the first wall is filled in, this beautiful carved limestone diorama covers the face. The diorama will be dismantled and moved when..." Only then did the caretaker notice that the Lithuanian had placed his bag on the seat between the marble walls and pulled out boxes of airplane models. "What are you doing there, sir? Remember, no pictures."

"We're not here to take pictures, my friend," said the woman behind the caretaker. A split second later, a rag was pressed to the caretaker's mouth and nose. He struggled to free himself, but the woman was surprisingly strong. The caretaker gasped as he inhaled lungfuls of a very pungent chemical that smelled like mothballs. After a few seconds, he felt as if the columbarium was spinning, and his vision blurred, switching from color to black and white, and then began to explode in flashes of color. Thirty seconds later, the man"s legs gave out and he collapsed to the ground.

He stayed awake long enough to see the Lithuanian taking what looked like metal tools out of the model airplane boxes!

"This thing works great," the man said in Russian. "This thing works great."

"I'm getting a little dizzy myself," said the woman, also in Russian. She used a wet wipe to wipe off any remaining nerve agent from her fingers. "I"m getting a little dizzy myself from the dimethyltryptamine."

In a matter of seconds, the man assembled two crowbars and a wrench-like tool from parts in boxes. While he was gathering his tools, the woman left the columbarium and returned a moment later, rolling away a large decorative concrete planter. The man climbed onto the seeder, the woman handed him a crowbar and he began chipping away at the engraved marble stone covering the crypt of Lt. Gen. Patrick Shane McLanahan.

"The security cameras are on the way," the woman said. "Security cameras are everywhere."

"It doesn't matter," the man said. After breaking off several pieces of thin stone, he was finally able to remove the engraved stone from the crypt, revealing a steel panel with two very large bolts that secured it to the marble. Using a wrench, he began to unscrew the bolts. "Inform the sleeper teams that we will be on our way soon." The woman called from a burner mobile phone.

It didn't take long to open the crypt. Inside they found a simple cylindrical aluminum urn, as well as several letters sealed in clear, airtight containers and several military awards. The man picked up one of them. "A curse!" he swore. "I didn"t know the bastard received the Air Force Cross with Silver Star!" The star meant receiving the Air Force Cross, the Air Force's highest award other than the Medal of Honor, five times. "One of them should be for the murder of President Gryzlov. I guess they don't give out medals of honor to criminals."

"Let's get out of here," the woman said. "The network was put on alert."

In a few moments it was all over. The contents of the crypt were loaded into a shopping bag, and the two Russians left the cemetery, walking briskly back to their rental car, but not running, so as not to attract attention. They drove just a few blocks, into an area already noted for having no security systems or traffic cameras nearby, and changed into another car driven by a young man. Taking their time and avoiding any traffic lights or stop signs, they drove out of the city over the Tower Bridge into West Sacramento. They changed cars three more times in different parts of the city before settling in a deserted gravel parking lot with fruit stands west of Davis, California, where there are unlikely to be security cameras. The man approached a large dark sedan with diplomatic license plates. The window went down; the man carried the packages through the window and returned to his car. The black sedan drove down the driveway until it reached an exit that took them onto Interstate 80, heading west toward San Francisco.

"You are a complete fool, Colonel," said the elderly man in the front seat. He had long white hair carefully styled in waves, a thick neck, he was wearing a dark expensive suit and designer sunglasses, and he spoke without turning to address the people in the back seat. "You are a complete fool, Ilyanov," said a man named Boris Chirkov. Chirkov was the envoy in charge of the Russian consulate in San Francisco, coordinating all trade matters between the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the US State Department and businesses in the western United States. "You're risking too much."

"I follow the orders of President Gryzlov himself, Your Excellency," said the man in the back seat, Bruno Ilyanov. Ilyanov was a colonel in the Russian Air Force and, officially, a deputy air attaché assigned to the Russian embassy in Washington. Sitting next to him was a woman with jet-black hair, high cheekbones and an athletic build, dark eyes hidden behind sunglasses. "But I'm happy to follow these orders. These Americans, especially those from his hometown, treat McLanahan like a god. This is an insult to all Russians. The man who deliberately killed President Gryzlov's father and bombed our capital does not deserve praise."

"You are - or better said, you were before you touched these bags - the official military representative of the Russian Federation, Ilyanov," Chirkov said. "And you," he turned to the woman, "are a high-ranking security officer with diplomatic privileges, Korchkova. You will both lose your diplomatic credentials and be forced to leave this country permanently, and you will be banned from entering all North Atlantic Treaty Organization and NATO countries. Less than six months in the United States, in your first major Kremlin post abroad, and you are now nothing more than a common thief and vandal. Does your career mean so little to you?

"The President assured me that my future will be secure, sir," Ilyanov said. "Even if I am arrested, all the Americans can do is deport me, which I will gladly see, just to leave this corrupt and decrepit country."

Ilyanov was an idiot, Chirkov thought - Gennady Gryzlov was throwing people away like used napkins, and had been doing this for decades. But the global geopolitical situation was much more serious than Ilyanov"s brainless actions. This could completely destroy US-Russian relations, Chirkov thought, although, in truth, these relations were already quite bad. He knew that Gennady Gryzlov's father, Anatoly Gryzlov, had given orders that resulted in the deaths of tens of thousands of Americans and even hundreds of compatriots on Russian soil, and he had no doubt that his son was capable of such heinous acts. Although Chirkov was the fourth most senior member of the Russian diplomatic delegation to the United States, Gryzlov's family was much wealthier and more politically influential than his own. Whatever Gryzlov had in mind, other than grave robbing, Chirkov probably wouldn't have been able to stop him. But he had to try to dissuade him somehow.

Chirkov half turned around in his seat. "What else is President Gryzlov and Ilyanov planning?" he asked. "The desecration and looting of a crypt is bad enough."

"When this crypt contained the remains of the most bloodthirsty aggressor of Mother Russia since the time of Adolf Hitler, I was glad to take part in this," Ilyanov said. "McLanahan is a criminal who killed the president of my country. He doesn't deserve such an honor."

"This attack happened a long time ago, and it was during the war."

"The war started by McLanahan, sir, is completely unsanctioned and illegal," Ilyanov said. Chirkov sat motionless, suppressing the urge to shake his head. Former Russian President Anatoly Gryzlov avenged the attack led by Patrick McLanahan by firing waves of supersonic nuclear-tipped cruise missiles and nearly destroying America's entire ground-based nuclear deterrent-along with several thousand Americans-in what became known as the "American holocaust." "McLanahan's subsequent non-nuclear attack on Russia using the last remaining American long-range bombers was a response that left both countries with almost equal numbers of nuclear warheads. The final attack, led by Patrick MacLanahan himself, was directed against Gryzlov's alternate underground command post in Ryazan, a targeted strike that killed the Russian president.

Whoever was responsible for starting the bomber war that led to the American Holocaust and the attack on Ryazan, McLanahan or Gryzlov was debatable and probably pointless, but Gryzlov was certainly not an innocent bystander. A former general in command of Russia's long-range bomber force, he responded to an almost minor attack on Russian air defense sites by launching nuclear warheads and killing thousands of Americans in a surprise attack. These were not the actions of a sane person. When McLanahan captured a Russian air base in Siberia and used it to launch attacks on Russian mobile ballistic missile sites, Gryzlov ordered another nuclear cruise missile strike... but this time targeting his own Russian air base! His obsession with killing McLanahan led to the deaths of hundreds of Russians in Yakutsk, but McLanahan escaped and killed Gryzlov hours later by blowing up Gryzlov's backup and supposedly secret command post.

"Give me the urn and other items, Colonel," Chirkov insisted. "I will return them at an appropriate time and explain that you acted under the influence of strong emotions and were sent back to Moscow for grief counseling or something else that will hopefully gain you some sympathy."

"With all due respect, sir, I will not," Ilyanov said in a colorless voice.

Chirkov closed his eyes and shook his head. Ilyanov was a brainless henchman of Gennady Gryzlov and would probably die rather than give up the things he stole. "What will the President do with them, Colonel?" - he asked tiredly.

"He said he wanted to put the urn on his desk and use it as an ashtray," Ilyanov said, "and maybe pin McLanahan medals to his dresser whenever he peed." He deserves nothing less than his proper place of honor."

"You are behaving like a child, Colonel," Chirkov said. "I urge you to reconsider your actions."

"First President Gryzlov was forced to respond to McLanahan"s aggression or face new attacks and new killings," Ilyanov said. "McLanahan's actions may or may not have been authorized, but they were certainly authorized by President Thomas Thorne and his generals. This is just a small example of what President Gryzlov intends to do to restore the honor and greatness of the Russian people."

"What else are you planning to do, Colonel?" Chirkov repeated. "I assure you, you have already done enough."

"The presidential campaign against the memory of General Patrick McLanahan has just begun, Your Excellency," Ilyanov said. "He intends to destroy every institution that McLanahan has ever had anything to do with. Instead of celebrating and memorializing the life of Patrick McLanahan, America will soon curse his name."

Chirkov's encrypted cell phone beeped and he answered it without saying anything, then ended the call moments later. "The Federal Bureau of Investigation has notified the US Secretary of State about the robbery in Sacramento," he said in a toneless tone. "Your henchmen will probably be arrested within the hour. Eventually they will talk." He half turned around in his chair again. "You know that if the American FBI receives a warrant from a federal judge, they can enter your premises in Washington, and since your activities were not an official act, you can be arrested and prosecuted. Diplomatic immunity does not apply."

"I know, Your Excellency," said Ilyanov. "I really didn't think the Americans would be able to react so quickly, but I planned for it in case I was discovered. I had already arranged for a private jet to take me from Woodland, California to Mexicali and from there home via Mexico City, Havana, Morocco and Damascus. Diplomatic security forces are available to assist with local customs." He handed the consul a business card. "Here is the address of the airport; it is close to the motorway. Drop us off and you can continue to the consulate in San Francisco and we'll be on our way. You can deny any involvement in this matter."

"What else do you have planned in this escapade of yours, Colonel?" - Chirkov asked after he handed the card to the driver, who entered the address into the car"s GPS navigator. "I feel like this is much more serious than burglary."

"I will not jeopardize your diplomatic status or career by involving you in the further activities of the president, Your Excellency," Ilyanov said. "But you will understand it when you hear about the incidents, sir... I guarantee it." He pulled an aluminum urn from his large grocery bag, running his fingers over the three silver stars on the side and the U.S. Space Defense Force shield on the lid. "What a joke," he muttered. "Russia has had a real space defense force for almost a decade, while the unit has never been deployed except in McLanahan's twisted brain. Why were we so afraid of this man? He was nothing more than a work of fiction, both living and dead." He picked up the urn tentatively, and a puzzled expression appeared on his face. "You know, I've never seen cremated human remains before..."

"Please do not desecrate the remains of this man," Chirkov said. "Leave them alone. And reconsider leaving them with me. I can concoct some story in which you will not be involved, and the President's wrath will be directed at me and not at you. Russian thieves and hooligans did their job, but when they tried to sell them on the black market, we caught them and are holding them under arrest at the consulate. A sincere apology, the return of artifacts, promises to prosecute those responsible, and an offer to pay to repair the damage and restore the columbarium should be enough to satisfy Americans."

"I don"t want to involve you anymore, Your Excellency," Ilyanov repeated, "and I have no desire to return these things or restore the monument to this bastard himself. Hopefully, the improper disposal of these items will result in McLanahan's soul wandering the universe forever."

This, Chirkov thought, was exactly what he was afraid of.

Ilyanov raised the urn again. "This is a lot easier than I thought," he muttered, then unscrewed the cap. "Let's see what the great General Patrick Shane McLanahan looks like after taking his last bath in a sauna at a temperature of a thousand degrees Celsius."

Chirkov did not turn around to look, but looked straight ahead and tried to hide his disgust. But soon, after several long moments of silence, he became confused and turned to look over his shoulder...

... to see the face of a Russian Air Force colonel, white as the tablecloth on the consulate dining table, his mouth open as if he was trying to say something. "Ilyanov...?" The Colonel looked up, his eyes round and big as saucers, and now Chirkov saw Korchkov's face with the same shocked expression - very, very unusual for such a highly trained security officer and assassin. "What is this?"

Ilyanov was stunned into silence, his mouth still open. Shaking his head in complete bewilderment, he slowly tilted the open ballot box towards Chirkov...

... and then the Russian ambassador was able to see that the ballot box was completely empty.

ONE

Go to the edge of the cliff and jump off it. Build your wings on the way down.

- RAY BRADBURY

MCLANAHAN INDUSTRIAL AIRPORT, BATTLE MOUNTAIN, NEVADA

A FEW DAYS LATER

"Boomer, is this guy sleeping?" the flight surgeon monitoring the crew's physiological data transmission system radioed. "His heart rate hasn't changed a bit since we put him on the monitors. Is he fucking dead? Check on him, okay?"

"Understood," replied Hunter "Boomer" Noble, the pilot in command of the flight. He stood up from his seat, climbed back between the two adjacent seats in the cockpit, walked through the airlock between the cockpit and the cockpit and entered the small passenger compartment, designed for four people. Unlike the more conventional orange full-pressure suit worn by the flight's two passengers, Noble's tall, lanky, athletic body was clad in a form-fitting suit called an EEAS, or Electronic Elastomeric Sports Suit, that performed the same functions as a traditional spacesuit. suit, except it used electronically controlled fibers to compress the skin instead of pressurized oxygen, making it much easier for him to move around the cabin than the others.

Noble, his mission commander and co-pilot, retired U.S. Marine Corps pilot Lt. Col. Jessica "Gonzo" Faulkner, and two passengers were aboard the Midnight S-19 spaceplane, the second of three versions of the American single-stage orbital plane that revolutionized space travel when the first, S-9 Black Stallion, entered service in 2008. Only three S-19s were built, in favor of the larger experimental XS-29 Shadow spaceplanes. All versions of spaceplanes could take off and land on runways built for commercial airliners, but each had dedicated three-hybrid engines that could transform from air-powered supersonic turbofan engines to hypersonic ramjet engines to pure rocket engines capable of launch the vehicle into low-Earth orbit.

Boomer walked up to the first passenger and looked him over carefully before speaking. Through the visor of his space helmet, he could see that the passenger's eyes were closed and his hands were folded in his lap. The two passengers were wearing orange Advanced Crew Escape Suits, or ACES, which are pressurized suits designed to survive a loss of pressure in the passenger cabin or even in outer space.

Yes, Boomer thought, this is a cool cucumber - his first flight into space, and he was either asleep or on the verge of it, as if he were on a wide-body airliner getting ready to go on vacation to Hawaii. His companion, on the other hand, looked normal for a first space passenger - his forehead was glistening with sweat, his hands were clenched, his breathing was rapid, and his eyes darted to Boomer, then out the window, then to his companion. Boomer gave him a thumbs up and received one in return, but the man still looked very nervous.

Boomer turned back to the first passenger. "Sir?" - he asked over the intercom.

"Yes, Dr. Noble?" The first man answered in a low, relaxed, almost sleepy voice.

"Just checking on you, sir. The flight document says you're too relaxed. Are you sure this is your first time in orbit?"

"I can hear what they are saying. And I don"t think I can forget my first time, Dr. Noble."

"Please call me Boomer, sir."

"Thank you, I"ll do that." The man looked at his companion, frowning at the man's obvious nervousness. "Is ground control even concerned about my companion"s vital signs?"

"He's normal for a fat guy," Boomer said.

"What"?"

"Paddy is a rookie astronaut," Boomer explained. "Named after Don Puddy, the NASA guy who used to give shuttle astronaut candidates the good news that they had been accepted into the astronaut training program. Being hyper-nervous is natural even for veteran astronauts and fighter athletes - if I may say so, sir, it's a little creepy to see someone as relaxed as you seem."

"I"ll take that as a compliment, Boomer," the man said. "How long until takeoff?"

"The main window will open in about thirty minutes," Boomer replied. "We will complete the pre-takeoff check, and then I will ask you to go to the flight deck and take your seat for takeoff. Colonel Faulkner will sit on the jump seat between us. We will ask you to return to your seat here before we go hypersonic, but once we reach orbit, you can return to your seat if you wish."

"I"m perfectly happy to stay here, Boomer."

"I want you to get the full effect of what you're about to experience, and the cockpit is the best place to do that, sir," Boomer said. "But the g-force is quite high when we go hypersonic, and the jump seat is not loaded for hypersonic flight. But when you unbuckle yourself back into the cockpit, sir, it will be a moment you will never forget."

"We were on oxygen for an awfully long time, Boomer," the passenger asked. "At least a few hours. Will we have to stay at the station without oxygen?"

"No, sir," Boomer replied. "The station's atmospheric pressure is slightly lower than sea level pressure on Earth or the pressure in a spaceplane cabin-you'll feel like you're at about eight thousand feet, similar to the pressure in an airliner cabin. Inhaling pure oxygen will help remove inert gases from your body so that gas bubbles do not enter your blood vessels, muscles, brain or joints."

"Curves"? How can scuba and deep sea divers get it?"

"Quite right, sir," said Boomer. "Once we get to the station, you can take this off. For those of us who go on spacewalks, we revert to pre-breathing for a few hours because the pressure is even lower in spacesuits. Sometimes we even sleep in a sealed airlock with pure oxygen to make sure we get a good supply of nitrogen."

Takeoff did take place thirty minutes later, and soon they were flying north over western Idaho. "Speed one, sir," Boomer responded over the intercom. "Is this your first time flying supersonic?"

"Yes," said the passenger. "I didn"t feel anything abnormal."

"How about a second swing?"

"Did we just double the speed of sound? So fast?"

"Yes, sir," Boomer said, excitement evident in his voice. "I like to nerf the leopards at the start of each mission-I don't want to find out at mach ten or fifteen that there might be problems."

"'Leopards'?"

"My nickname for the turbofan-scramjet-laser pulse detonation hybrid engines, sir," Boomer explained.

"Your invention, I presume?"

"I was the lead engineer on a very large team of Air Force engineers and scientists," Boomer said. "I swear to God, we were like little kids in a candy store, even when the shit hit the fan-we treated the huge 'leopards' explosion like we threw a firecracker into the girls' bathroom in high school. But yes, my team developed 'leopards'. One engine, three different tasks. You'll see".

Boomer reduced the midnight spaceplane to mid-supersonic speed and soon turned south over Nevada, and Jessica Faulkner returned to help the passenger into the mission commander's chair on the right side of the cabin, buckle up and plug her suit's umbilical cord into the outlet, and then she unfolded the small seat between two seats in the cabin and secured. "Can you hear me, sir?" - asked Faulkner.

"Loud and clear, Jessica," the passenger responded.

"So, this was the 'first stage' of our three-stage orbital insertion, sir," Boomer explained over the intercom. "We are at thirty-five thousand feet, in the troposphere. Eighty percent of the Earth's atmosphere is below us, making it easier to accelerate when it comes time to enter orbit. But our tanker has conventional air-powered turbofan engines and is quite overloaded with all our fuel and oxidizer, so we have to stay pretty low. We'll meet in about fifteen minutes."

As promised, a modified Boeing 767 airliner with the words SKY MASTERS AEROSPACE INC on the sides came into view and Boomer maneuvered the midnight spaceplane behind the tail and flipped the switch to open the slipway doors overhead. "Masters Seven-Six, Midnight Zero-One, pre-contact position, ready, please bomb first," Boomer announced on the tactical frequency.

"Understood, Midnight, Seven-Six has stabilized pre-contact, we are ready for the "bomb", we are moving to the contact position, Seven-Six is ready," the computerized female voice answered.

"It"s remarkable-two planes flying over three hundred miles an hour, just a few feet apart," remarked a passenger in the mission commander"s seat.

"Want to know what's even more remarkable, sir?" - Boomer asked. "This tanker is unmanned."

"What?"

"Sky Masters provides a variety of contract services to militaries around the world, and the vast majority of their aircraft, vehicles and vessels are unmanned or optionally manned," Boomer explained. "There's a human pilot and a boom operator in the room at Battle Mountain watching us via satellite video and audio feeds, but even they don't do anything unless they have to-the computers do all the work and the humans just watch. The tanker itself is controlled by no one but a computer - they feed the flight plan into the computer, and it executes it from initial taxi to final stop without human pilots, like a Global Hawk spy plane. The flight plan can be changed if necessary, and it has a lot of fail-safe systems in case of multiple failures, but the computer controls this thing all the way from the launch taxi to the engine shutdown at home base."

"Amazing," said the passenger. "Afraid that your work will someday be transferred to a computer, Dr. Noble?"

"Hey, I'd help them design this thing, sir," Boomer said. "In fact, the Russians have been sending Soyuz cargo ships and unmanned Progress to the International Space Station for years, and they even had a replica of the Buran space shuttle that flew an entire space mission unmanned. I think I would prefer to have a flight crew if I were flying into orbit on a Russian spacecraft, but in a few years the technology will be so advanced that passengers will probably never notice."

While the passenger watched in fascination, the spaceplane slid under the tail of the tanker, and a long boom, controlled by small wings, descended from under the tail down towards the spaceplane. Guided by the green flashing lights and the yellow line painted under the tanker's belly, Boomer moved forward under the tail until the green lights went out and two red lights came on.

"How do you know when you're in the right position, Boomer?" asked the passenger.

"There's a certain 'pattern' between the bottom of the tanker and the frame of the windshield that you'll learn to recognize," Boomer replied. "It's not very scientific, but it works every time. You'll feel it and know if you're too close or too far away." even at night ".

"Do you do this at night?"

"Of course," Boomer said matter-of-factly. "Some missions require night operations, and of course, where we go, it"s always night." As he spoke, Boomer cut off a tiny portion of the power and all forward movement ceased. "Midnight Zero One, stabilized in contact position, ready for contact," he radioed.

"Understood, zero one," answered the computer with a female voice. A nozzle extended from the end of the arrow and a moment later they heard and felt a slight CLICK! when the tanker's nozzle slid into the slipway and settled into the tank for refueling. "Showing contact," said the computer voice.

"Contact confirmed," Boomer said. Over the intercom, he said, "All I do now is watch the turn signals and stay on the center line of the tanker."

"If the tanker is fully computerized, shouldn"t the receiving aircraft also be able to rendezvous using a computer?" - asked the passenger.

"It's possible-I just prefer to drive this thing myself," Boomer said.

"Impressing the VIPs on board, right?"

"After what you see today, sir," said Boomer, "me and my meager flying skills will be the least impressive thing you see on this flight."

"You said 'bomb', not 'fuel' " - said the passenger. "We don"t take fuel?"

"We first use a special liquid oxidizer called BOHM, or boron hydrogen metaoxide, the 'bomb' - essentially purified hydrogen peroxide," Boomer said. "Our engines use BOHM instead of liquid oxygen, when we go to pure rocket engines - it's impossible at least with current technology, supercool liquid oxygen from a tanker aircraft. The 'bomb' is not as good as cryogenic oxygen, but it is much easier to handle and much cheaper. We do not take on any 'bombs' before take off, to save weight; we take jet fuel last so we have the maximum to complete the mission."

Loading the thick oxidizer took over fifteen minutes, and several more minutes were required to clear the feed system of all traces of Bohm oxidizer before switching to the JP-8 jet fuel feed. As the jet fuel began to flow into the Midnight Spaceplane, Boomer felt noticeably relieved. "Believe it or not, sir, this was probably the most dangerous part of the flight," he said.

"What happened? Are you transporting Boma?" - asked the passenger.

"No - switching from BOHM to jet fuel in the tanker refueling system," admitted Boomer. "They flush the boom and plumbing with helium to flush out all the 'bomb' before the jet fuel gets through it. Boron additives in the oxidizer help create a much higher specific impulse than conventional military jet fuel, but mixing BOM and jet fuel, even in small quantities, is always dangerous. Typically, a laser is required to ignite the two mixtures, but any heat source, spark, or even vibration of a certain frequency can trigger them. The experiments we conducted at Sky Masters and Air Force test facilities resulted in some impressive explosions, but we learned a lot."

"Is that how you got your nickname 'Boomer'?"

"Yes, sir. Perfection requires mistakes. I cooked a ton of them."

"So how do you control this in engines?"

"Laser igniters operate in pulses, anywhere from a few microseconds to a few nanoseconds, to control detonation," Boomer explained. "The stuff works, believe me, and it's powerful, but the specific impulse lasts only a moment, so we can control the power..." He paused long enough for the passenger to turn his helmeted head towards him, then added, ".. . most part of time".

They could practically feel the second passenger in the back seat tense nervously, but the passenger in the front seat just grinned. "I hope," he said, "that I won"t feel anything if something goes wrong, Dr. Noble?"

"Sir, the uncontrolled explosion of the leopards is so strong," said Boomer, "that you will not feel anything... even in your next life." The passenger didn"t say anything, but simply took a big, nervous "SILP."

The transfer to JP-8 was much quicker, and soon Colonel Faulkner was helping the front seat passenger buckle into the back seat next to a clearly still nervous co-passenger. Soon everyone was seated and the team was ready for the next evolution. "Our tanker left," Boomer said, "and as planned, it dropped us off over southwestern Arizona. We'll turn east and start accelerating. Some of the sound boom we create may reach the ground and be heard below, but we try to do it in as large an uninhabited area as possible so as not to irritate the neighbors. We monitor the onboard computers as they fill out all the checklists and we're on our way."

"How long will it take?" - asked the first passenger.

"Not long at all, sir," Boomer replied. "As we said on the ground, you'll have to deal with positive g-forces for about nine minutes, but that's just a little more than what you'd feel if you were taking off aboard a high-speed bizjet, strapped into a dragster, or riding a really cool roller coaster. - except that you will feel them for a longer period of time. Your suit and the design of your seat will help you stay conscious - in fact, you may "blush" a little because the seat is designed to allow blood to flow into your brain rather than being pulled out due to g-forces, and the greater the pressure, the more blood will remain."

"How long will we have to stay in orbit before we can chase the space station?" asked the passenger. "I've heard that sometimes it takes a few days to establish a connection."

"Not today, sir," Boomer said. "The beauty of the spaceplane is that we are not tied to a launch pad located in one specific place on Earth. We can create our own launch window by adjusting not only the launch time, but also changing the approach angle and position relative to our target spacecraft. If we needed to, we could fly across the continent in just a couple of hours, refuel again, and line up in direct rendezvous orbit. But since we planned this flight so long ago, we could minimize the flight time, refuel and fly away, and save fuel, simply by planning when to take off, when and where to refuel, and being in the right place and heading into orbit correctly. By the time we complete our orbital launch and enter our orbit, we should be right next to the Armstrong space station, so there is no need to chase it or use a separate Hohmann transfer orbit. Get ready everyone, we are starting our turn."

The passengers barely felt it, but the S-19 Midnight made a sharp turn to the east, and they soon felt a constant pressure on their chests. As instructed, they sat with their arms and legs resting against the seats, without crossing their fingers or feet. The first passenger looked at his companion and saw that his chest in the partial pressure suit was rising and falling at an alarming rate. "Try to relax, Charlie," he said. "Control your breathing. Try to enjoy the ride."

"How is he, sir?" - Gonzo asked over the intercom.

"A little quick breathing, I think." A few moments later, as the overload steadily increased, he noticed that his companion's breathing had become more normal. "He looks better," he reported.

"That's because home base reports he's unconscious," Boomer said. "Don't worry - they're keeping a close eye on him. We'll have to keep an eye on him when he wakes up, but if he got the motion sickness shot as directed, he should be fine. I wouldn't want him blowing chunks into his oxygen helmet."

"I could do without that last detail, Boomer," the conscientious passenger grinned wryly.

"Sorry, sir, but this is what we need to be prepared for," Boomer said. He was amazed that the passenger seemed to have no difficulty breathing due to the g-forces, which now exceeded two Gs and steadily increased as he accelerated - his voice sounded as normal as it did back on Earth. "Battle Mountain can adjust his oxygen levels to keep him asleep until paramedics arrive."

"My home base won't like this," the passenger pointed out.

"It's for his own good, believe me, sir," Boomer said. "So that's it, we're approaching three fifty thousand feet and the Leopards are starting to switch from turbofan engines to supersonic ramjet engines, or scramjets. We call this 'splash' because the surge in each engine moves forward and vents supersonic air around the turbine fans into ducts where the air is compressed and mixed with jet fuel and then ignited. Because a scramjet engine has no rotating parts like a turbofan engine, the maximum speed we can achieve is about fifteen times the speed of sound, or about ten thousand miles per hour. Jet engines will start operating soon. We inert the fuel in the fuel tanks with helium to prevent unused gas from entering the fuel tanks. Stay ahead of GS."

This time, Boomer did hear some grunts and deep sighs over the intercom as moments later the engines went into full scramjet mode and the Midnight Spaceplane quickly picked up speed. "Five swings later... Six swings," Boomer announced. "Everything looks good. How are you doing there, sir?"

"Okay... okay, Boomer," the passenger replied, but now it was obvious that he was fighting the overload, squeezing his abdominal and leg muscles and drawing in more air into his chest, which should slow the flow of blood to the lower parts of his body and help holding it in his chest and brain, helping him stay conscious. The passenger looked at his companion. His seat automatically reclined about forty-five degrees, which helped keep his blood in his head since he couldn't do G-crunches while unconscious. "How... how much... longer?"

"I hate to break it to you, sir, but we haven't even gotten to the fun part yet," Boomer said. "Scramjet engines will give us maximum speed and altitude while still using atmospheric oxygen to burn fuel. We want to preserve our BOHM oxidizer for as long as possible. But at about sixty miles-three hundred and sixty thousand feet-the air becomes too thin to launch the scramjets, and we switch to pure rocket mode. You'll feel... then a little push. It won't last long, but it will be... noticeable. Get ready, sir. Another ninety seconds." Moments later, Boomer reported, "Leopard dive...dive complete, scramjets reporting complete shutdown and safety. Prepare to transfer to rocket, crew... Support me with turbo pump temperature and pressure readings, Gonzo... increase power, immediately... good ignition, rockets accelerating to sixty-five percent, fuel green, throttles rising..." The passenger thought that he was ready for this, but the breath left his lungs with a sharp "BAARK"! at that moment... "Good initial ignition, rated turbo pump pressure, all indicators are normal, get ready for 100% power, let's go... ready... ready... now."

It looked like a car accident. The passenger felt his body being pushed back into the seat - fortunately, the computer-controlled seat anticipated this by simultaneously leaning back, adjusting the cushioning and keeping his body weight from the sudden force. Midnight's bow seemed to point straight up, but this sensation lasted only a few moments, and soon he had no idea of up or down, left or right, forward or backward. For a moment he wished he could be unconscious like his comrade, unaware of all these strange, alien forces coursing through his body.

"One-six... one-seven... one-eight," Boomer announced. The passenger wasn't quite sure what it all meant. "We pass four-zero... five-zero... six-zero..."

"We...do...everything okay, Boomer?" - asked the passenger, struggling to suppress the growing darkness in his eyes, which indicated the beginning of loss of consciousness. He pretended to be a bodybuilder, tensing every muscle in his body, hoping to get enough blood to his head to keep himself from falling.

"We're in... the green zone, sir," Boomer replied. For the first time in this whole damn flight, the passenger thought, he could detect a hint of pressure or strain in Hunter Noble's voice. His tone was still measured, still brief and even formal, but there was definitely a note of worry in it that meant, even to a novice space traveler, that the worst was yet to come.

Damn, the passenger thought, if Hunter Noble-probably America's most frequently traveled astronaut, with dozens of missions and thousands of orbits under his belt-is having problems, what chance do I have? I'm so tired, he thought, trying to fight the damn overload. I'll be fine if I just relax and let the blood drain from my brain, right? It won't hurt me. The pressure is starting to make me feel a little nauseous, and for God's sake I don't want to puke into my helmet. I'll just relax, relax...

Then, a moment later, to his utter surprise, the pressure stopped, as if the turning screws in a vice that had been pressing down on his entire body simply disappeared after just a few minutes. Then he heard a surprising, completely unexpected question: "Are you all right there on this magnificent morning, sir?"

The passenger somehow managed to answer briefly and completely casually: "Is it morning already, Dr. Noble?"

"It"s already morning, sir," said Boomer. "We have a new morning at the station every ninety minutes."

"How are we doing? We are fine? We made it?"

"Check your details, sir," Boomer said. The passenger looked back and saw the man's hands floating about six inches above his still unconscious body, as if he was asleep, floating on his back in the ocean.

"Are we...are we weightless now?"

"Technically, the acceleration of gravity toward the Earth is equal to our forward speed, so we actually fall, but we never hit the ground. We're hurtling towards the Earth, but the Earth keeps shifting sideways before we hit it, so the end effect feels like weightlessness," Boomer said.

"What to say?"

Boomer grinned. "Sorry," he said. "I like to say that to Paddy. Yes sir, we are weightless."

"Thank you".

"We are currently flying at over Mach twenty-five and climbing an altitude of one hundred and twenty-eight miles to our final altitude of two hundred and ten miles," Boomer continued. "Rate adjustments are nominal. When we stop moving at orbital speed, we should be within ten miles of Armstrong at the appropriate speed, altitude and azimuth. This looks very cool sir, very cool. Welcome to outer space. You are officially an American astronaut."

A few moments later, Jessica Faulkner returned to the passenger compartment, her eyes still captivating behind the closed visor of her space suit helmet. The passenger had seen plenty of astronauts floating in zero gravity on TV and in movies, but it was as if he was seeing it in person for the first time-it was simply, completely unreal. He noticed that her movements were gentle and deliberate, as if everything she touched or was about to touch was fragile. She didn't seem to be grabbing onto anything, but she used a few fingers to lightly touch the bulkheads, ceiling, or deck to maneuver.

Faulkner first checked Spellman's condition by checking the small electronic panel on the front of his suit, which displayed conditions in the suit and the wearer's vital signs. "He looks fine and his suit is safe," she said. "As long as his gyros don't go off when he wakes up, I think he'll be fine." She walked up to the first passenger and gave him a very sweet smile. "Welcome to orbit, sir. How do you feel?"

"It was pretty hard when the rockets launched-I thought I was going to pass out," he replied with a faint smile. "But I'm fine now."

"Fine. Let's unstrap you, and then you can join Boomer in the cockpit for the approach. He might even let you dock it."

Dock the spaceplane? To the space station? I? I can not fly! I barely drove a car for almost eight years!"

Faulkner would unbuckle the passenger from their seat, using Velcro to keep the straps from dangling in front of them. "Do you play video games, sir?" - she asked.

"Sometimes. With my son ".

"It's just a video game-the controls are almost identical to game controllers that have been around for years," she said. "Actually, the guy who designed them, John Masters, probably did it on purpose - he was obsessed with video games. Besides, Boomer is a good instructor.

"So the secret to maneuvering in zero gravity is to remember that although you don't have the effects of gravity, you still have mass and acceleration, and they need to be counteracted very carefully, otherwise you'll end up being pushed off the walls," Faulkner said. "Remember that this is not the feeling of weightlessness that you experience when floating in the ocean, where you can move by oars - here any directed movement can be countered only by opposing the acceleration of the mass with an opposite and equal force.

"Once we're at the station, we use Velcro shoes and patches on our clothes to keep ourselves safe, but we don't have those yet, so you'll have to learn the hard way," she continued. "Very light, gentle movements. I like to just think about moving first. If you don't consciously think about a movement before performing it, you'll hit the ceiling when your core muscles are engaged. If you simply think about standing up, you will use more small muscles. You will have to overcome your mass to start moving, but remember that gravity will not help you change direction. Try it".

The passenger did as she suggested. Instead of using his legs and arms to push himself off the seat, he simply thought about standing up by lightly touching a few fingers of one hand to the rail or armrest of the seat... and to his surprise, he began to gently lift himself off the seat. "Hey! It worked!" - he exclaimed.

"Very good, sir," Faulkner said. "Are you feeling okay? The first time in zero gravity upsets the stomachs of many."

"I'm fine, Jessica."

"The balance organs in your ears will soon no longer have an 'up' or 'down' direction and will begin to send signals to your brain that do not correspond to what you see or feel," Faulkner explained. The passengers were briefed about all this at home, but they did not undergo any other astronaut training, such as simulating zero-gravity operation underwater. "It will be a little worse when you get to the station. A little nausea is normal. Get through it."

"I'm fine, Jessica," the passenger repeated. His eyes were wide, like a little child's on Christmas morning. "Oh my God, this is an incredible feeling - and at the same time incredibly strange."

"You're doing great, sir. Now what I'm going to do is step aside and let you maneuver towards the flight deck. I could try to get you into your seat, but if I'm not perfectly aligned and apply the right amount and direction of force, I'll throw you out of control, so it's best if you can do that. Again, just think about moving. Do not rush."

Her suggestions worked. The passenger completely relaxed his body and turned to face the hatch connecting the cockpit to the passenger compartment, and, almost touching nothing, he began to drift towards the hatch, and Boomer watched his slow progress over his right shoulder, a satisfied smile visible through his visor oxygen helmet. In the blink of an eye, the passenger floated straight to the cockpit hatch.

"You're a natural at it, sir," Boomer said. "Now Gonzo will disconnect your umbilical cord from the passenger seat and hand it to me, and I will connect it to the socket on the mission commander"s seat. You need to carefully hold on to the hatch while we reconnect you. Again, don"t kick or push anything - gentle touches." The passenger heard and felt the tiny blasts of conditioned air in his partial pressure suit cut off, and a connecting hose soon appeared. Boomer reached across the cabin and plugged it in. "Can you hear me okay, sir? Do you feel like the air conditioner is okay?"

"Yes and yes again."

"Fine. The hardest part to get into is the seat because it's quite a tight fit. The technique is to slowly, carefully bend at the waist and pull your hips toward your chest, as if you were doing an abdominal stretch. Gonzo and I will throw you over the center console to your seat. Don't try to help us. Okay, go ahead." The passenger did exactly as he was told, bending slightly, and in just a few unexpected bumps and turns he was over the very wide center console in the seat, and Faulkner fastened his knees and shoulder straps behind him.

"Are you sure we didn't bump into each other in the hallways at NASA astronaut training in Houston, sir?" - Boomer asked, his smile visible through the visor of his oxygen helmet. "I know veteran astronauts who get hot, sweaty and irritable doing what you just did. Very good. This is your reward for all this work." And he pointed outside the cabin...

... and for the first time the passenger saw it: the planet Earth spread out in front of him. Even through the relatively narrow cockpit windows, it was still wonderful to look at. "This... this is incredible... beautiful... Oh my God," he breathed. "I've seen all the photographs of Earth taken from space, but they just don't compare to what I've seen myself. It's great!"

"Worth all the hoops you had to jump through to get here, sir?" - Gonzo asked.

"I would do it a hundred times just to get a chance," the passenger said. "This is incredible! Damn, I'm running out of adjectives!"

"Then it's time to get back to work," said Boomer, "because it's getting a little busy around here. Take a look."

The passenger looked... and saw their destination in astonishing splendor. It was almost thirty years old, built largely using 1970s technology, and even to the untrained eye it was beginning to show signs of age, despite minor but fairly consistent upgrades, but it still looked stunning.

"The Armstrong Space Station, named after the late Neil Armstrong, of course, the first man to walk on the moon, but everyone who knows anything about it calls it the Silver Tower," Boomer said. "It began as a semi-secret Air Force program to combine and improve upon the Skylab space station project and President Ronald Reagan's Space Station Freedom Project. Liberty eventually became the American contribution to the International Space Station, and Skylab was abandoned and allowed to return and burn up in Earth's atmosphere, but the military-funded space station program continued in relative secrecy-as secret as you can keep a similar monster worth three billion dollars that orbits the Earth. It's essentially four Skylabs linked together and attached to a central truss, with larger solar panels and improved docking devices, sensors and maneuvering systems designed for military use rather than scientific research."

"It looks fragile-a little spindly, like these modules could fall off at any second."

"He's as strong as he needs to be here in free fall," Boomer said. "It's certainly not as strong as a building of this size on Earth, but then again, it doesn't have to be. All modules are equipped with small computer-controlled motors that connect all the parts together because the station rotates on its axis to keep the antennas pointed at the Earth."

"Is the silver coating supposed to actually protect against terrestrial lasers?" asked the passenger. "Has he ever been hit by a laser? I heard that Russia is hitting him with lasers every chance they get."

"It gets hit all the time, and not just from Russia," Boomer said. "So far it doesn't seem to have caused any damage; The Russians claim they are simply using lasers to monitor the station's orbit. It turns out that the silver material, a sputter-deposited aluminized polyimide, is a good shield against micrometeorites, solar wind and cosmic particles, as well as lasers, and is a good insulator. But the best thing for me is being able to see the station from Earth when the sun hits it directly - it is the brightest object in the sky other than the sun and moon, and can sometimes be seen during the day, and can even cast shadows at night."

"Why do you call it 'the station' instead of 'the station'?" asked the passenger. "I've heard a lot of you guys say it that way."

Boomer shrugged at the seat belts. "I don't know-someone started saying it that way in the early months of Skylab, and it stuck," he said. "I know that most of us think of it as more than just a collection of modules or even a workplace - it's more like an important or favorite destination. It's like I could say, 'I'm going to Tahoe.' 'I'm going to the station' or 'I'm going to Armstrong' just sounds... right."

As they approached the station, the passenger pointed towards the station. "What are those round things on each of the modules?" he asked.

"Lifeboats," Boomer replied. "Simple aluminum spheres that can be sealed and thrown overboard away from the station in the event of an accident. Each one seats five people and has enough air and water to last about a week. They cannot re-enter the atmosphere, but they are designed to fit in the cargo bay of any spaceplane, or they can be towed to the International Space Station and given to survivors. Each module has one; The Galaxy module, which is a combination of galley, gym, entertainment room and medical clinic, contains two lifeboats."

He pointed to the lowest central module, smaller than the others and attached to the "bottom" of the lower central module, pointing towards Earth. "So this is the creation of Vice President Page, huh?"

"Here we go, sir: XSL-5 'Skybolt', - said Boomer. "A free electron laser with a klystron, or electronic amplifier, powered by a magnetohydrodynamic generator."

"What"?"

"The power for the station is generated primarily by solar panels or hydrogen fuel cells," Boomer explained, "neither of which produces enough power for a multi-megawatt class laser. A nuclear reactor on Earth uses heat from the fission reaction to produce steam to spin a turbine generator, which is impossible on a space station because the turbine would act like a gyroscope and disrupt the station's control systems-even the flywheels on our exercise bikes do this. MHD is similar to a turbine-style power generator, but instead of spinning magnets creating a flow of electrons, MHD uses plasma spinning in a magnetic field. The power generated by the MHD generator is enormous, and the MHD generator has no moving or rotating parts that could affect the station's orbit."

"But the catch is...?"

"Creating plasma requires heating the ion-producing substances to high temperatures, much higher than steam," Boomer said. "In space there is only one way to produce this level of heat, and that is with a small nuclear reactor. Naturally, many people are wary of anything nuclear, and that goes doubly so if it's flying overhead."

"But nuclear reactors have been orbiting the Earth for decades, right?"

"The MHD generator was the first American nuclear reactor in space in twenty years, and it is much more powerful than anything else here," Boomer replied. "But the SOVIET launched nearly three dozen satellites that used small nuclear reactors to generate electricity using thermocouples until the USSR went bankrupt. They never shouted about their nuclear reactors, but when the US launched one MHD generator after the USSR canceled their program, they went berserk. Typically. And they're still screaming even though we haven't fired the Skybolt in ages."

The passenger studied the Skybolt module for a while, then remarked: "Ann Page designed this whole thing."

"Yes, sir," said Boomer. "She was just a young upstart engineer and physicist when she created the plans for Skybolt. Nobody took her seriously. But President Reagan wanted to build a Star Wars missile defense shield, and he spent a lot of money, and Washington was frantically looking for programs to launch so they could spend all that money before it went to some other program. Dr. Page's plans fell into the right hands at the right time; she got the money and they built the Skybolt and installed it on the Armstrong in record time. Skybolt was Dr. Page's child. She even talked her into doing partial astronaut training so she could go up on the shuttle to oversee the installation. They say she lost thirty pounds of 'executive spread' to get selected for astronaut training, and she never put it back on. When her baby spoke his first words, it shocked the world."

"And that was almost thirty years ago. Amazing."

"It's still a state-of-the-art device, but if we had the means we could probably improve its efficiency and accuracy significantly."

"But we could reactivate Skybolt now, couldn't we?" - asked the passenger. "Improve it, modernize it, yes, but fill it with fuel and launch it now or in a fairly short time?"

Boomer turned and looked at his passenger for a moment with some surprise. "You're serious about all this, aren't you, sir?" - he finally asked.

"I bet you do, Dr. Noble," the passenger replied. "I bet you do."

A few minutes later, they moved within a few hundred yards of the Armstrong space station. Boomer noticed that the passenger's eyes were getting bigger and bigger as they got closer. "It feels like you're in a tiny boat approaching an aircraft carrier, doesn't it?"

"That's exactly what it sounds like, Boomer."

Boomer took out a wireless device that actually resembled a familiar console game controller and placed it in front of the passenger. "Ready to do more than be a passenger, sir?" - he asked.

"Are you serious? You want me to take this thing to the space station?"

"We could run it automatically, and computers are great at that, but what's the fun in that?" He moved the controller in front of the passenger. "I have a feeling you will succeed."

He entered commands into the keypad on the center console and a target appeared on the windshield in front of the passenger. "Proper control moves the spaceplane forward, backward and side to side-we don't roll like an airplane, we just move sideways," Boomer continued. "The left controls are a little different: by turning the knob, the spacecraft rotates around its center, so you can point the nose in a different direction than the spaceplane; and you can adjust the vertical position of the spaceplane by pulling the handle to start vertically up or push down to move downwards. Manipulating the controls activates the thrusters-tiny rocket engines located throughout the spaceplane. We usually pay close attention to how much fuel the docking engines consume - another reason why the powers that be prefer us to use a computer for docking, as it tends to be better and more economical at docking than us mere mortals , - but for this flight we loaded a lot of extra fuel into the station to replenish the tanks before departure, and everything is in order.

"So, sir, your job is to manipulate the controls to hold the aiming reticle you see before you focus on the docking target on the station, which is that big 'zero' you see on the docking module. As you get closer, the director's lights will flash and you'll see more clues on what to do. Important note here: Remember that the station rotates along its long axis once every ninety minutes, so the antennas and windows are always pointed towards the Earth as it orbits, but as long as you follow the director's signals it will compensate for this. Remember also that you not only need to aim the spear at the target, but also align the spaceplane according to the direction of the searchlights, and also control the forward speed so as not to ram the space station and disrupt Midnight, which would be bad for everyone involved. "

"I"ll try not to do that," the passenger said weakly.

"Thank you, sir. As Jessica instructed you when moving in zero gravity, rough movements are bad, but minor movements and adjustments are good. We have found that thinking about the movement is usually enough to activate a measured, correct response in the small muscles. You seemed to have a good grasp of this concept when you sat down in your chair this morning, so I have every confidence that you will be able to do the same when maneuvering our spaceplane for docking." The passenger responded with a very noticeable nervous swallow.

"Your director's indicators tell you that you are approaching at twelve inches per second, you are thirty yards below, ten yards to the right, a distance of one hundred and thirty-three yards, and heading sixteen degrees to the left to level off," Boomer continued. "As we get within fifty yards, we will gradually reduce our closing speed, so that at five yards we will be less than three inches per second. You need to yaw less than one degree, exactly on course and altitude, and at a rate of less than one inch per second to hit the bull's-eye, or we'll abort the approach and try again."

"Do you want to alert the station, Boomer?" - Faulkner asked over the intercom. She was now sitting on the jump seat between Boomer and the passenger.

"I think we"ll be fine, Gonzo," Boomer replied.

Boomer could see the passenger swallow nervously, even through his suit and helmet. "Maybe we better not..." he said.

"I think you can do it, sir," Boomer repeated. "You have touch."

Boomer noticed that the passenger had straightened up and was gripping the control panel even tighter than before and placing his hand on his left arm. "Wait, sir," he said. "Wait. Just wait. Take a deep breath, then exhale slowly. Seriously. Take a deep breath, sir. Boomer waited until he heard the passenger take a deep breath, then let it out. "Very good. The key to this maneuver is visualization. Visualize the approach before you even touch the controls. Imagine what the controls will do when you touch them and activate them. Can you imagine what each control and input would do? , if you can't, don't activate it. Long before you take a step, be clear that what you are about to consider is what you really want to do. Map this out in your mind before you hit any switch. Never be surprised by what happens when you flip a switch. Expect that everything that happens when you press the switch is exactly what you intended; and if it doesn't, immediately determine why it didn't happen the way you wanted and fix it. But don't overreact. All reactions and counter-reactions must be thoughtful, measured and intentional. You need to know why you are moving the engine, not just where and how much. Let's do it, sir."

The passenger responded...by doing absolutely nothing, which Boomer thought was the best thing that could be done. Midnight was already approaching a near-perfect rendezvous point, and the passenger was well aware that the technology that had allowed him to get this far was likely far beyond his own meager capabilities, so he wisely decided to let the automated maneuver complete its evolution, learn what else was needed do - if anything at all - and then complete it if he can.

The Armstrong Space Station loomed closer and closer to the Midnight spaceplane, filling the tiny, narrow windshield with its imposing bulk and obliterating all other visual data...except for the important one, which was the computer-generated images on the multi-function display as in front of the aircraft's commander, and in front of the passenger. The correct positioning with the dock on the space station was obvious - it required some consideration as to which controls to touch and adjust to correct the movements of the spaceplane.

"I can"t start the lateral movement of the spaceplane," muttered the passenger, disappointment was heard in his voice. "I keep pressing the switch, but nothing happens."

"The fix you applied is there-you just have to let it happen, sir," Boomer said. His voice began to sound less warlike and more like that of a shaman or spiritual guide. "Pleasant, light, gentle, smooth inputs. Remember, just one gentle push of your thumb on the vernier controls generates hundreds of pounds of rocket thrust that changes the orbit of a spacecraft weighing hundreds of thousands of pounds, moving at twenty-five times the speed of sound, hundreds of miles above the Earth. Visualize the motion of the spacecraft and visualize the corrective actions needed to correct the flight path, then apply the necessary control inputs. Reacting without thinking is evil. Take command."

The passenger removed his hands from the controls, letting the controller float in front of him on a tether, closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. When he opened them, he discovered that all the data he had entered had indeed started to be logged. "How about this?" - he muttered. "I'm not a complete idiot."

"You're doing great, sir," Boomer said. "Remember that there is no atmosphere or road surface to create friction, and gravity would take several dozen turns to take effect, so any adjustments you make should be eliminated. This data here shows how much correction you have applied and in what direction, that is, how much you need to remove. Also remember how long it took to apply your inputs, so this will give you an accurate idea of when to use them."

Now the passenger was definitely in the zone. With the controller in his lap, oriented the same way as the spaceplane itself, he could barely touch the handles with his fingertips. As they approached the bull's eye, the forward speed decreased slightly, so that by the time the crosshairs hit the bull's eye, the forward speed was almost zero inches per second.

"Contact," Boomer announced. The passenger's shoulders visibly relaxed and he released the controller from his hands. "The latches are secure. The spaceplane is moored. Congratulations sir."

"Don"t do this to me again, do you mind, Dr. Noble?" the passenger asked, looking up and taking a few relieved breaths of air, then releasing the hand controller as if it were a radioactive weapon. "All I could think about was the disaster and how we were all stuck in orbit."

Boomer picked up another controller, identical to the first. "I had your back, sir," he said with a smile. "But you did a great job-I didn"t touch anything. I didn"t tell you this, but we usually need a forward speed of at least zero point three feet per second to get the docking mechanism to latch-they latch for you at a slower speed."

"This won"t ease my nerves one bit, Boomer."

"Like I said, sir, you have talent," Boomer said. "Gonzo is going to get us ready to transfer to the station. She'll get your companion ready first, and a few crew members from the station will move him first, and then we'll set off. We usually close the airlock from the flight deck while we're setting up the transfer tunnel, in case there's a leak or damage, but everyone's in the suits, so even if there's an accident or malfunction, we'll be fine."

Boomer and the passenger turned and watched as Faulkner pulled out a checklist, attached it to the bulkhead with Velcro, and got to work. "The Midnight spaceplane has a small cargo bay, larger than the S-9 Black Stallion but not nearly as large as the Space shuttle, but it was never really intended to dock or carry cargo or passengers - not really it was just a technology demonstration," Boomer explained. "We later turned it into a workhorse. There is an airlock in front of the passenger module that allows us to dock with Armstrong or the International Space Station and transport personnel or cargo back and forth without going into outer space."

"Go into space?" - repeated the passenger. He pointed to the cabin windows. "You mean you had to go there to get to the station?"

"It was the only way to get to the space station on the S-9 Black Stallion and the early S-19 Midnight," Boomer said. "Sky Masters designed an airlock between the cockpit and the cargo bay with a pressurized tunnel system, making it easier to get from the spaceplane to the station. The S-9 is too small for an airlock, so the transfer means a spacewalk. It's a short and sweet spacewalk. It was close, but certainly impressive."

"The cargo bay doors are opening," Gonzo reported. They could hear a quiet hum along the hull of the spaceplane. "The doors are completely open."

"Looks like your cargo bay doors are completely open, Boomer," a voice said over the intercom. "Welcome to Armstrong."

"Thank you, sir," Boomer replied. Addressing the passenger, he said: "This is Trevor Sheil, the station manager. All of the personnel on the Armstrong space station right now are contractors, although nearly all are former military personnel, with extensive space operations experience, and about half have worked at the station in the past. We open the cargo bay doors to release excess heat from the spaceplane." Over the intercom he said, "Pretty good approach, don"t you think, sir?"

"Don't make yourself cramp by patting yourself on the back, Boomer," Shale radioed.

"It wasn"t me or Gonzo: it was our passenger."

A long, rather awkward pause followed; Sheil then responded with a wooden "Got you."

"He didn"t seem happy," the passenger noted.

"Trevor didn't like the idea of you docking at Midnight, sir," Boomer admitted. "The station director, retired Air Force General Kai Rydon, approved the idea; they left it up to me."

"I would think it would be a bad idea to refuse your stationmaster, Boomer."

"Sir, I think I know and understand the reason you are doing all this," Boomer said as he watched the progress of attaching the transfer tunnel to the airlock. "You're here to make an important point, and I'm all for it. It's a huge risk, but I think it's a risk worth taking. If you are willing to do this, I am willing to do everything in my power to moisten your eyes and thereby moisten the eyes of the whole world. If I may say, sir, I just need you to have the courage to tell the world what you did on this trip and what you saw, over and over and over again, in every possible place, all over the world. Your words will push the world to become more excited about space travel than mine ever could." The passenger thought about it for a moment, then nodded.

"The transmission tunnel is connected and secured," Gonzo reported. "Sealing the airlock."

"So Gonzo is alone in the airlock, isolated from the cockpit and passenger module?" asked the passenger. "Why are you doing it?"

"So that we don't depressurize the entire spaceplane in case the tunnel fails or isn't sealed properly," Boomer replied.

"But then Gonzo...?"

"She's in a partial pressure suit and could probably survive the loss of pressure," Boomer said, "but she and Mr. Spellman would have to do a spacewalk to get to the station, which she did many times in training, but of course , Mr. Spellman would have had to endure on his own. It's dangerous, but she's done it before. Mr. Spellman would probably survive it just fine - he's a pretty healthy dude..."

"Oh my God," said the passenger. "It"s mind-boggling how many things can go wrong."

"We're working on it and constantly making improvements and training and training and training and then training some more," Boomer said. "But you just have to accept the fact that we are playing a dangerous game."

"Everything is ready to open the station," Sheil said.

"I understand you. Armstrong, "Midnight is ready to be opened from the station side," Boomer said. He pointed to the multi-function display on the instrument panel, which showed the air pressure in the spaceplane, on the station's docking module, and now inside the tunnel connecting them. The pressure in the tunnel showed zero. .. And just at that moment, the pressure inside the tunnel began to slowly rise. It took almost ten minutes for the tunnel to fully rise in pressure. Everyone was watching for any signs of pressure drop, indicating a leak, but it remained steady.

"The pressure is on, Boomer," Sheil reported.

"I agree," Boomer said. "Is everyone ready to even the score?"

"I'm fine, Boomer," Gonzo replied. "The second passenger too."

"Clearly to open it, Gonzo."

They felt a slight pressure in their ears as the higher pressure in the spaceplane cabin equaled the slightly lower pressure on the station, but it was not painful and only lasted a moment. A moment later: "The passage hatches are open, the second passenger is on the way."

"Got it, Gonzo," Boomer said. He began to unbuckle himself from his seat. "I'll unbuckle your seat belts first, sir," he told his passenger, "and then I'll go into the airlock while you unbuckle your seat belts, and I'll take you out and up." The passenger nodded but said nothing; Boomer noticed the rather distant expression on the first passenger's face and wondered what he was thinking so hard about. The hardest part was done - all he now had to do was hover around the large station, look around and be a space tourist until it was time to return home.

But after Boomer unfastened the seat belts on his knees and shoulders and was about to rise from his seat, a passenger held him by the arm. "I want to do this, Boomer," he said.

"What should I do, sir?"

The passenger looked at Boomer, then nodded his head to the right side of the cabin. "There. There."

The passenger could see Boomer's eyes flash through his helmet with disbelief, even alarm, but soon a satisfied smile appeared on his face. "Are you sure you want to do this, sir?" - he asked incredulously.

"Boomer, I'm doing some incredibly amazing things today," said the passenger, "but I know I'd be mad at myself if I came back to Earth having given it up." We've had enough oxygen, haven't we? There's no danger of getting 'kinks', is there?"

"Sir, a case of decompression sickness may be the least dangerous aspect of a spacewalk," Boomer said, mentally running through the checklist in his head to see what would prohibit it. "But to answer your question: yes, we"ve been pre-breathing pure oxygen for over four hours now, so we should be fine." It clicked, opening the ship-to-station intercom. "General Raydon? He wants to do it. Right now. From the cockpit and through the station airlock, not through a tunnel."

"Get ready, Boomer," another voice answered.

"This is the second guy at the station who seems annoyed by talking to you, Boomer," the passenger noted again with a smile.

"Believe it or not, sir, we talked about it too," Boomer said. "We really wanted you to have the full experience. That's why we put you in a full ACES advanced crew escape system suit instead of a more comfortable partial pressure suit - it's designed for short spacewalks or extravehicular activities. Are you sure your guys at home base will like what you"re going to do?"

"They may not like it at all, Boomer," said the passenger, "but they are down there, and I am up here. Let's do that ". As if to signal agreement, a moment later a mechanical arm emerged from a hatch on the other side of the docking module, carrying a lift chair-like device and two cables in a mechanical claw.

Boomer flicked a few switches, then checked his passenger's suit equipment and instrument readings before patting him on the shoulder and nodding confidently in approval. "I like the shape of your jib, sir," he said. "Go". Boomer hit the final switch, and with a few loud, heavy clicks and a loud whirring from the engines, the canopies on either side of the midnight S-19 spaceplane's cockpit opened wide.

Before the passenger could even realize it, Boomer stood up from his seat, completely free of the spaceplane with only one thin strap holding it to anything, looking like some otherworldly Peter Pan in his skintight space suit and oxygen helmet. He grabbed one of the cables on his remote control arm and connected it to his suit. "I'm back on my feet," he said. "Ready to go down." The robotic arm lowered the Boomer to the same level as the outside of the cabin on the passenger side. "I'm going to disconnect you from the ship, connect you to me and to the lift, and connect you to this umbilical cord, sir," Boomer said. In the blink of an eye it was done. "All is ready. How do you hear?

"Loud and clear, Boomer," the passenger responded.

"Fine". Boomer helped the passenger out of his seat, which was much easier than getting in because it was now completely open. "We can't stay outside for long because we're not very well protected from micrometeorites, cosmic radiation, extreme temperatures and everything else that comes with space, but it'll be a fun ride while it lasts. The umbilical cords are clear, Armstrong. Ready to rise." The robot's hand began to slowly lift them and move them away from the spaceplane, and then the passenger found himself floating freely in space above the docking module...

... and in a few moments the entire structure of Armstrong's space station lay spread out before them, gleaming in the reflected sunlight. They could see the entire length of the structure, seeing large laboratory, living, mechanical and storage modules both above and below the farm, and endless expanses of solar panels at both ends of the farm that seemed to stretch on forever - he could even see people watching at them through large viewing windows on some modules. "Oh... my... God," the passenger gasped. "This is wonderful!"

"That's true, but it's not nonsense," Boomer said. He grabbed the passenger's spacesuit from behind and pulled it so that it turned down...

... and the passenger saw planet Earth below them for the first time. They could all hear him gasp in utter amazement. "Good God!" - he exclaimed. "This is incredible! It's great! I can see almost the entire continent of South America down there! My God! It looks completely different than through the cockpit windows - now I can actually feel the heights."

"I think he likes it, General Raydon," Boomer said. He allowed the passenger to admire planet Earth for about a minute longer, floating freely in the air; then said: "We dare not stay here any longer, sir. Get us into this, Armstrong." With the passenger still facing Earth, the robot's arm began to retract back toward the space station, pulling the two men with it. Boomer lifted the passenger into an upright position just before approaching the large hatch. He swam to the hatch, unlocked and opened it, swam through the opening, strapped himself to the inside of the airlock, attached another strap to the passenger and carefully guided him into the station's airlock chamber. Boomer disconnected them both from the umbilical cords, let them out, then closed and battened down the hatch. He connected himself and the passenger to the umbilical cords in the airlock, waiting for the pressure to equalize, but the passenger was completely dumbfounded and did not say a word, even after the inner airlock door opened. The technicians helped the passenger remove his spacesuit, and Boomer pointed to the exit from the airlock.

As soon as the passenger exited the airlock, Kai Raydon, a trim, athletic man with silver crew-cut hair, chiseled features and expressive light blue eyes, stood at attention, raised the microphone of a wireless headset to his lips and spoke: "Attention to Station Armstrong, this is the director, for the notice of all personnel, the President of the United States of America, Kenneth Phoenix, is on board the station." Reydon, station manager Trevor Sheil, Jessica Faulkner and several other space station employees stood at attention as best they could, their toes hooked. behind the leg rests as frills and flourishes and then "Long Live the Chief" sounded over the station"s public address system.

TWO

The fear of death should be feared more than death itself.

- PUBLILIUS SYRUS

ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

"As are you, ladies and gentlemen," said President Kenneth Phoenix when the music ended. "I would kiss the deck if I knew which way it was." The assembled station personnel laughed, applauded, and cheered for several long moments.

"I"m Kai Rhydon, station director, Mr. President," Kai introduced himself, floating up to Phoenix and shaking his hand. "Welcome to the Armstrong Space Station and congratulations on having the courage to become the first sitting head of state to fly in Earth orbit, and now the first sitting head of state to walk in space. How are you feeling, sir?"

"I am completely shocked, General Raydon," Phoenix said. "I saw and did what I only dreamed of, thanks to you and your people. Thank you for giving me this incredible opportunity."

"We gave you an opportunity, like every president since Kevin Martindale, but you chose to take it," Kai said. "Many people say that this is all a political stunt, but the courage you showed today clearly tells me that this is much more than politics." He turned to those who were next to him. "Let me introduce Station Manager Trevor Sheil, Chief of Operations Valerie Lucas and, of course, you know Jessica Faulkner, our Director of Flight Operations." The President shook their hands, but at the same time discovered that this was not easy to do in zero gravity - a simple gesture threatened to throw him towards the ceiling.

"Dr. Noble and Colonel Faulkner did an excellent job getting me here, General Raydon," the President said. "An exciting journey. Where is Dr. Noble?

"He has some mission planning to do for your return, sir, and he also oversees the refueling and maintenance of the spaceplane," Raydon said. "Boomer is the director of aerospace development at Sky Masters Aerospace, which is the prime contractor for the Armstrong space station, and he probably has work for them too. He is also the chief pilot of the company's spaceplane and has six apprentices in his training program. He's a busy boy."

"Knowing him, Mr. President, he probably decided to take a nap," Jessica interjected with a smile. "He likes to present himself as the cool space jock, but he spent a week planning the flights and testing the spacecraft for this visit."

"Well, his work paid off," the president said. "Thank you all for an amazing trip."

"We have about an hour before your broadcast, so we have time for a tour and some light refreshments if you"d like."

"A tour would be great, General Raydon," Phoenix said. "But first I would like to check on Agent Spellman, my Secret Service associate."

"Trev?" - Reidon asked.

"Got it," Sheil said, raising the wireless microphone to his lips. A moment later: "Agent Spellman is conscious in sick bay, sir," Sheil responded. "Unfortunately, it doesn't handle unusual Gs very well. Physically, he was the most qualified member of your team to volunteer to go with you on this mission, Mr. President, but there is no direct correlation between athletic ability and your ability to work with abnormal pressure and kinesthetic sensations on your body. We'll have to consult with the aerospace medicine team to figure out the best way to return him to Earth. I don"t believe we"ve ever brought an unconscious person through re-entry before."

"He is a true sign of courage in this mission," Phoenix said. "The volunteering for this was well beyond the call of duty, and that says a lot for the Secret Service. Let me visit him first and then go on tour if there is time."

Rhydon led us through the connecting tunnel to the first module. "I'm sure Boomer and Jessica have explained zero-gravity travel to you in detail, sir," Raydon said. "You'll see some of the more experienced crew members flying around larger pods like Superman, but I've found that for beginners it's best to use one or two fingers to move around using the handrails and foot rests, and do it carefully and slowly ".

"I'm sure I'll have a few bruises to show off when I get home," Phoenix said.

They emerged from the connecting tunnel into what appeared to be a circular wall of cabinets, with a circular passage in the middle. "This is a data storage and processing module," Reidon explained. "Follow me". He floated gently up the center aisle, resting his hands on the edges of the cabinets, as the President and the others followed. The President soon discovered a dozen circular rows of cabinets arranged throughout the module like pineapple slices in a jar, with large man-sized gaps between them. "Supplies are brought in through airlocks at the top and bottom ends, collected or processed as needed, and stored here. The infirmary is in the module above us."

"I"m starting to get a little dizzy from all the references to "up" and "above,"" the president admitted. "I don"t have a sense of either."

" 'Up' and 'down' refer to the direction you want to go," Faulkner said. "You could have two crew members side by side, but one would be pointing one way and the other the other, so it's all relative. We use every surface of the modules to work, so you'll see astronauts 'hanging' from ceilings while others work on 'the floor,' although 'ceiling' and 'floor' are, of course, relative terms."

"You're not helping my dizziness, Gonzo."

"Let us know if your dizziness begins to manifest itself physically, sir," Jessica said. "Unfortunately, it's something that takes time to get used to and you won't be here that long. As we have said, it is not unusual to begin to experience some nausea shortly after moving in zero gravity."

"I'm fine, Jessica," the president said, but this time he wondered how long it would last.

On the way to the Galaxy, a combination galley, training module, office, clinic and entertainment module, the President stopped several times to shake hands with station personnel, and stopping and starting again greatly improved his maneuvering skills. Although Raydon announced that the President was on board, most of the technicians he met seemed completely shocked to see him. "Why do some of the men and women aboard the station seem surprised to see me, General?" Phoenix finally asked.

"Because I have decided not to inform the crew until I do so once you are through the airlock, sir," Raydon replied. "Only myself, Trevor, the Secret Service, a few officials at Sky Masters Aerospace, and the Midnight spaceplane crew and ground crew knew. I felt that safety was paramount for this event and it was too easy for station personnel to contact Earth. I expect the number of messages to family and friends will increase soon, but by the time word gets out you will be on TV all over the world."

"And the timing of your speech was chosen so that when you went on air, you were not within range of any known Russian or Chinese anti-satellite weapon for several orbits," Trevor Sheil said.

The President's eyes widened in surprise - this revelation definitely caught his attention. "Anti-satellite weapon?" he asked, amazed.

"We are aware of at least half a dozen sites in northwest and east Russia and three sites in China, sir," Raydon said. "This station has self-defense weapons - chemical lasers and short-range missiles - but Kingfisher's anti-missile and anti-satellite systems in Earth orbit are not yet fully operational, so the spaceplane had no protection and we did not want to take risks."

"Why didn"t they tell me about this!" - exclaimed the president.

"It was my challenge, sir," Raydon said. "Frankly, in my opinion, the threat from anti-satellite weapons is far down the list of life-threatening dangers you face on this mission-I didn't want to give you more to think about." The President tried to say something, but his mouth only opened silently. "By the time you leave, you'll only be within range of one object," Raydon continued, "and Boomer plans the plane's deorbital trajectory to avoid most of the others. You will be as protected from anti-satellite weapons as we can protect you."

"You mean you planned this trip under the assumption that some foreign government would actually try to attack a space plane or space station while I was on board?" The silence of Trevor and Raydon and the expressions on their faces clued Phoenix into his answer. The President could do nothing more than shake his head for a few moments, staring at a spot on the bulkhead, but then he looked at Raydon with a wry smile. "Are there any other threats that I have not been told about, General Raydon?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, the list is longer than my arm," Raydon said bluntly. "But I was notified that the President of the United States wanted to visit the Armstrong space station, and I was ordered to carry it out, and we succeeded. If my orders were to try to keep you from coming here, I think I could provide a very long list of very real threats to your family, your administration and members of Congress, which would result in the cancellation of this mission as well." He pointed to the end of the connecting tunnel. "This way, Mr. President."

Unlike the data storage and processing module and the tiny spaceplane cabin and passenger module, the Galaxy module was light, warm and airy. Along the walls of the module were a variety of pub-style desks and nightstands with ubiquitous footrests, a variety of computer monitors and laptops, exercise bikes, and even a dart board. But most of the station's personnel were huddled around the three-by-five-foot panoramic window, snapping pictures and pointing at Earth. A large computer monitor showed which part of the Earth the space station was passing over, and another screen showed a list of names who had reserved a window seat to film their hometown or some other Earthly landmark.

"Highly trained astronauts who had to bend over backwards to get here - and their main form of entertainment is looking out the window?" - the president noted.

"That, and sending emails and video chats with the guys at home," Raydon said. "We host many video chat sessions with schools, colleges, academies, Scouts, ROTs and Civil Air Patrol units, as well as the media, family and friends."

"This must be a very good recruiting tool."

"Yes, it is, both for the military and for getting kids to study science and engineering," Reidon agreed.

"So in some ways, me coming here may have been a bad idea," the president said. "If kids learn that any healthy person can fly to the space station-that they don't have to study advanced science to do it-maybe these kids will just become space tourists."

"There is nothing wrong with space tourism, Mr. President," Sheil said. "But we hope that children will want to develop and use newer and more advanced ways to go into space and perhaps fly it to the Moon or the planets of our solar system. We don't know what will spark the young imagination."

"Don't worry, Mr. President," Raydon said. "I think your presence here will have a very profound impact on people around the world for a very long time."

"Certainly; the kids will say, 'If that old fart can do it, I can do it,' eh, General?" the president is unperturbed.

"Whatever it takes, Mr. President," Valerie Lucas said. "Whatever it takes."

The President was surprised to find Agent Charles Spellman in a strange linen cocoon like a sleeping bag, velcroed vertically to the bulkhead - it looked like some kind of large insect or marsupial hanging from a tree. "Mr. President, welcome," said a very attractive dark-haired, dark-eyed woman in a white jumpsuit, skillfully swimming up to him and extending her hand. "I'm Dr. Miriam Roth, medical director. Welcome to the Armstrong Space Station."

The President shook her hand, pleased that his body control was steadily improving in zero gravity. "It"s very nice to meet you, Doctor," Phoenix said. To the Secret Service agent he asked, "How are you feeling, Charlie?"

"Mr. President, I'm so sorry about this," Spellman said, his deep monotone voice not hiding the depth of his distress. His face was very swollen, as if he had been in a street fight, and the faintest smell of vomit nearby was unmistakable. "I have never had seasickness in my life, motion sickness in the air or in a car - I haven"t even had a stuffy nose for years. But as that pressure hit me, I became dizzy, and before I knew it, the lights went out. It won't happen again, sir."

"Don't worry about it, Charlie-I've been told that when it comes to motion sickness, there are those who have and those who will," the president said. Turning to Roth, he asked, "The question is, can he get back to Earth without getting another episode?"

"I think he will agree, Mr. President," Miriam said. "He is certainly healthy, easily comparable to anyone at this station. I've given him a small shot of Phenergan, a long-used standard treatment for nausea attacks, and I want to see how he handles it. In about fifteen minutes or so, I"ll let him come out of his cocoon and try to move around the station." She gave Spellman a teasing frown. "I believe Agent Spellman did not take the medications I prescribed before takeoff as recommended."

"I don't like gunshots," Spellman said hoarsely. "Besides, I can"t take medication while on duty, and I never get sick."

"You've never been in space before, Agent Spellman," Miriam said.

"I'm ready to go right now, Doc. The nausea has passed. I am ready to return to my duties, Mr. President."

"You better do as the doctor says, Charlie," the president said. "We have a return flight in just a few hours, and I want you to commit to this one hundred percent." Spellman looked extremely disappointed, but he nodded without saying anything.

They walked through another connecting tunnel, this time longer, and entered a third module filled with computer consoles and high-definition widescreen monitors. "This is the command module, Mr. President, the upper central module on the station," Raydon said. He floated over to a large row of consoles manned by six technicians. Technicians hovered in front of their consoles in a standing position, their legs secured in place by leg supports; checklists, notepads and drink containers with straws sticking out were securely velcroed nearby. "This is a sensor fusion center. From here, we collect sensor data from thousands of civilian and military radars, satellites, ships, aircraft and ground vehicles and integrate it into a strategic and tactical picture of the global military threat. The Armstrong space station has its own radar, optical and infrared sensors that we can use to bring targets both in space and on Earth within range, but we mostly connect to other sensors around the world to create the big picture." .

He floated through the module to four small unmanned consoles behind two sets of three consoles and computer screens, also unmanned. "This is a tactical operations center where we use space-based weapons," Raydon continued. He placed his hand on the technician's shoulder and the man turned and smiled broadly at the President. "Mr. President, I would like to introduce you to Henry Lathrop, our Aerospace Weapons Officer." The two men shook hands, with Lathrop grinning from ear to ear. Lathrop was in his late thirties, short, very thin, wore thick glasses and sported a shaved head. "Henry, explain what you are doing here."

Lathrop's mouth hung open, as if he hadn't expected to say anything to the President-which he didn't-but just as Raydon was about to get worried, the young engineer pulled himself together: "Y-yes, sir. Welcome to the station, Mr. President. I'm an aerospace weapons officer. I control the station's weapons, designed to operate in space and in the Earth's atmosphere. We have some kinetic weapons available, but the Skybolt laser is inactive by order of the President, so my only weapon is the coil, or chlorine-oxygen-iodine laser."

"What can you do about it?" - asked the president.

Lathrop swallowed, panic appearing in his eyes now that he had to answer a direct question from the President of the United States. But he was in his element and recovered faster than before: "We can defend against space debris out to about fifty miles," Lathrop said. "We also use it to break up larger debris-the smaller the debris, the less of a danger it poses to other spacecraft."

"And you can use the laser to protect the station from other spaceships?"

"Yes, sir," Lathrop said. "We have radar and infrared sensors that can see incoming spacecraft or debris from about five hundred miles away, and we can connect to other military or civilian space sensors." He pointed to the computer monitor. "The system now operates in automatic mode, which means the COIL will automatically go off if the sensors detect a threat that meets certain parameters. We of course set it to manual when you arrived."

"Thank you for this, Mr. Lathrop," the president said. "So a laser can protect the station and break up space debris, but that's all? Didn"t you once have the ability to attack targets on Earth?"

"Yes, sir, we did it," Lathrop said. "The Skybolt laser was powerful enough to destroy light targets such as vehicles and aircraft, and disable or damage heavier targets such as ships. Kingfisher's weapons workshops stored guided kinetic charges that could engage spaceships or ballistic missiles, as well as precision guided missiles that could return to the Earth's atmosphere to strike targets on land or at sea."

"Do we still have those Kingfisher garages? I know President Gardner didn't approve of them-he used them more as a bargaining chip with the Russians and Chinese."

"President Gardner allowed seven garages to reenter the Earth's atmosphere and burn," Lathrop said. "A further thirteen garages have been recovered and are being stored at the station farm. Ten garages are still in orbit, but inactive. Spaceplanes periodically retrieve them, fuel them, maintain them, and put them back into orbit so we can study their long-term performance and make design changes, but they are not currently active."

"Is the coil laser different from VP Page's laser?" - Phoenix asked.

"Yes, sir, it is. We are prohibited from using any weapon with a range greater than sixty miles, and the Skybolt, a free electron laser, can hit targets in the Earth's atmosphere and surface at a distance of about five hundred miles, so it is currently inactive."

"Not activated?"

"Not active, but can be activated if necessary," Raydon said.

"In quite a short time?" the president asked.

"Henry?" - Kai asked.

"We would need some expertise from Sky Masters or other contractors," Lathrop said, "and a few days to get the MHD reactor up and running."

"And the order is from you, sir," Raydon added. "The Skybolt controversy almost cost us our entire military space program."

"I remember very well," Phoenix said. "I'm committed to fixing this. Please continue, Mr. Lathrop."

"The coil uses a mixture of chemicals to produce laser light, which is then amplified and focused," Lathrop continued. "We use different optics than the Skybolt free electron laser to focus and direct the laser beam, but the process is very similar. We use radar and infrared sensors to constantly scan around the station for objects that may pose a threat - we can detect and engage golf ball-sized objects. The normal maximum range of the coil is three hundred miles, but we have changed the laser setting by eliminating some of the reflectors that increase the laser power, so we are at the acceptable limit. "

"Can you show me how the sensors work?" - asked the president. "Perhaps conduct a simulated attack on a target on Earth?"

Lathrop looked panicked again and he turned to Raydon, who nodded. "Show the President how it's done, Henry," he said.

"Yes, sir," Lathrop said, excitement quickly appearing on his face. His fingers flew over the keyboard on the console. "From time to time we conduct exercises to attack a number of targets that are constantly monitored and prioritized." The largest computer monitor came to life. It showed a large area of Earth with the trajectory and position of the space station approaching the North Pole from eastern Siberia. There was a series of circles around several points in Russia.

"What are these circles, Mr. Lathrop?" - asked the president.

"We call them Delta Bravos, or duck blinds," Lathrop replied. "Locations of known anti-satellite weapons. The circles are the approximate range of the weapons there."

"We're getting awfully close to this, aren't we?"

"We fly over many of them in a day, located in Russia, China and several countries adjacent to them," Lathrop said. "This is, in particular, the Yelizovo airport, the base of the MiG-31D fighters, which, as we know, is equipped with anti-satellite weapons that they can launch from the air. They regularly patrol from there and even practice assault runs."

"They make?" - the president asked incredulously. "How do you know if this is a real attack or not?"

"We're scanning the missile," Kai explained. "We see the missile and we have less than two minutes to launch defensive weapons or hit it with lasers. We scan them and analyze any signals they transmit, and we can study them with radar and optoelectronics to find out if they are preparing to do something. They almost always track us with long-range radar, but from time to time they will hit us with target tracking and missile guidance radar."

"Why?"

"Try to scare us, try to get us to hit them with Skybolt or Earth assault weapons so they can prove how evil we are," Trevor said. "This is all Cold War cat-and-mouse nonsense. We usually ignore it."

"Still, it keeps us on our toes," Valerie added. "Command, this combat simulation target, designated Golf Seven, will be in range in three minutes."

"Prepare for a simulated engagement with a Skybolt," Raydon said. "Attention on station, simulated target engagement in three minutes. Command module operations. All crew members to go to combat stations and report. Secure all docks and hatches. Personnel, not on duty, report to damage control station, don suits and begin pre-breathing. Simulate midnight undocking."

"What does this mean, General?" - asked the president.

"Off-duty personnel have damage control responsibilities," Kai said. "Up here, that could mean a spacewalk to retrieve equipment or...personnel lost in space. Pre-breathing pure oxygen for as long as possible allows them to don the ACES suit and perform their rescue duties, even if it means going into outer space. They may need to perform many repairs and restoration operations in outer space. For the same reason, we also undock any spaceships we have on the station to use them as lifeboats in case of trouble - we would use the lifeboat spheres and wait for rescue by spaceplane or commercial transport. The President swallowed hard at these dark thoughts.

"Command, this is Operations, requesting permission to simulate the spin-up of the MHD," Valerie Lucas said from her place on the bulkhead, watching the simulated impact.

"Permission received, simulate the launch of the MHD, make all preparations to hit the simulated ground target." The President noted that it was like rehearsing a table play: everyone was saying their parts, but no one was actually moving or doing anything.

"I understand you. Engineering department, this is the operations department, simulate MHD launch, report activation and power level at fifty percent."

"Operations, Engineering, got you, simulated MHD spin-up," reported Engineer Officer Alice Hamilton. A few moments later: "Operations, Engineering, MHD simulated active, power level at twelve percent and rising."

"Command is an operation, MHD is simulated online."

"The command has been accepted. Fight, what is our conditional goal?"

"The simulated Golf Seven ground target is a deactivated radar on the ROSA line in western Greenland," Lathrop said. "The raw data from the sensors will come from the SBR. Prepare for a secondary sensor source to appear." His fingers flew over the keyboard again. "The simulated secondary sensor source will be USA-234, a radar imaging satellite that will be over the Golf Seven horizon in sixty seconds and will be within target range for three point two minutes."

"What does all this mean, General?" President Phoenix asked.

"We can shoot the Skybolt quite accurately with our own sensors," Kai explained. "SBR, or spaceborne radar, is our main sensor. The station is equipped with two X-band synthetic aperture radars to obtain images of the Earth. We can scan large areas of the Earth in 'stripmap' mode or use 'spotlight' mode to target a target and obtain precise images and measurements down to a few inches of resolution.

"But because we're shooting from such a long distance, covering hundreds of miles per minute, we can connect to any other sensors that happen to be in the area at the same time for even greater accuracy," Kai continued. "USA-234 is a US Air Force radar imaging satellite that takes radar images and transmits them to the National Reconnaissance Office in Washington. We are lucky enough to be an image user, so we can request that the satellite focus on that specific target. We can combine satellite imagery with our own to get a more accurate view of the target."

Lathrop entered a few more commands and a photo of the simulated target appeared on the large monitor to the left of the main monitor, a remote radar station with a large radome in the center, several communications systems pointing in different directions, and several long, low buildings surrounding the radome. "This is what it looks like in a recent photo from above," he said. Moments later, the photo disappeared and was replaced by another image, this one showing a dot surrounded by an H-shaped rectangle against a mostly black background. "This is a radar image from a reconnaissance satellite. The background is black because snow doesn't reflect radar energy very well, but the buildings are clearly visible."

"Operations, engineering, MHD at the simulated fifty percent level," Alice reported.

"Understood, engineer," said Valerie. "Combat, this is an operation, we are at fifty percent, simulating the open contours of the Skybolt, weapons at the ready, prepare for battle."

"Got it, Operation, I"m simulating the opening of the Skybolt"s activation circuits, weapons at the ready."

A few more moments later, the image changed again and it looked very similar to the photo they had seen, with a random cloud floating across the image. Lathrop used a trackball to precisely center the image on the screen. "And this is thanks to the station's telescopic electro-optical sensors added to the radar image," he said. "Operation, this is combat, positive identification of the simulated target Golf Seven, tracking established, we are locked and ready."

"Got you, boy," said Valerie. "Command, operations, we are focused on. State of MHD?"

"MHD at one hundred percent in ten seconds."

"Got it," Valerie confirmed. "I request permission to simulate the transfer of the Skybolt into a combat position and enter into battle."

"This is Command," Raydon said. "You can switch the Skybolt control to combat mode and simulate hitting a target. Attention station, this is the director, we are simulating hitting a ground target with the help of a "Skybolt."

"Understood, command, the Operations Department confirms that we are allowed to simulate hitting the target. Combat, operations, "Skybolt" is allowed to simulate entry into battle, the weapon simulates being fired."

"Understood, operatives, the imitation weapon has been released." Lathrop pressed one key on his keyboard, then looked up. "That"s it, Mr. President," he said. "The system will wait for the optimal time to fire, and then continue to fire until it detects that the target has been destroyed, or until we drop below the target horizon. In fact, in addition to the main laser, two lasers are involved: the first measures the atmosphere and makes adjustments to the mirror to correct atmospheric conditions that could degrade the quality of the laser beam; and the second tracks the target as the station flies past, and helps focus and accurately direct the main beam. "

"Thank you, Henry," Kai said. Lathrop looked extremely pleased as he returned to his console after nervously shaking the President's hand. "As you can see, Mr. President, only one tactical crew station is staffed because our Kingfisher weapons workshops have not been restored. But if that were the case, sensor fusion operators detect, analyze and classify any threats they see, and those threats are displayed on these four monitors that I use; Valerie, my chief of combat operations; an aerospace tactical weapons officer and a ground weapons officer. We can then respond with our own space-based weapons or direct a ground, sea or air-based response."

"What are these Kingfisher weapons workshops?" the president asked. "I remember President Gardner didn't like them."

"The Kingfisher weapon system is a series of spacecraft that we call 'garages' in low Earth orbit," Cai said. "The garages are controlled from here and can also be controlled from US Space Command headquarters on Earth. Garages are equipped with their own sensors, motors and control systems, and can be programmed to dock with a station for refueling and rearming. Each garage is equipped with three anti-satellite or anti-missile weapons and three precision ground attack weapons."

"I remember Gardner really hated these things," the president noted. "When that attack missed and destroyed the factory, I thought he was going to kill someone."

"Well, President Gardner didn't cancel the program, he just mothballed it," Kai said. "The full Kingfisher constellation has thirty-six Trinity garages in orbit, so that at any given time, every part of the Earth has at least three garages overhead, similar to a GPS navigation system. It"s all controlled right here or from US Strategic Command headquarters."

"General Rhydon, this is the part of the Space Defense Force that I never understood: why does it all revolve around the Earth?" President Phoenix asked. "This is very similar to the command centers that already exist on Earth, and in fact it looks identical to an aircraft's onboard radar warning and control system. Why put the same thing in space?"

"Because we are much safer here in space, which makes it an ideal location for any command center, sir," Raydon replied.

"Even with a list of dangers as long as your arm, as you put it, General?"

"Yes, sir, even with all the dangers of space travel," Raydon said. "An adversary is less likely to completely blind the United States with an orbital command center. The enemy could destroy a base, ship, or aircraft with an AWACS radar and we would lose that sensor, but we could get sensor data from anywhere or use our own sensors and quickly fill the gap. Additionally, since we orbit the Earth, we are less likely to be successfully attacked. Our orbit is known, of course, which makes it easier to find, track and target, but, at least in the short term, attacking this station is much more difficult than attacking a ground, ship or air command center. The bad guys know where we are and where we will be, but at the same time we know exactly when their known ASAT bases will become a possible threat if an attack is launched. We constantly monitor these famous sites. We are also checking for unknown attack bases and preparing to respond to them."

"I think in a broader sense, sir," Trevor Sheil said, "that staffing the station and making it an active military command post, rather than just a collection of sensors or laboratories, is important to the future of America's presence in space."

"How so, Mr. Sheil?"

"I liken it to the westward expansion of the United States, sir," Trevor explained. "At first, small groups of explorers set out and discovered the plains, Rocky Mountains, deserts and the Pacific Ocean. A few settlers ventured after them, attracted by the promise of land and resources. But it was not until the U.S. Army was dispatched and established camps, outposts, and forts that settlements and eventually villages and towns could be built and the nation's true expansion began.

"Well, the Armstrong space station is not just an outpost in Earth orbit, but a real military installation," Sheil continued. "We are much more than computers and consoles - we have twelve men and women on board who monitor and can control military operations around the world. I think this will encourage more adventurers, scientists and explorers to venture into space, just as the presence of the US Army fort was a great comfort to the settlers."

"Space is a lot bigger than the Midwest, Mr. Sheil."

"For us in the twenty-first century, yes, sir," Trevor said. "But to the eighteenth-century explorer who first saw the Great Plains or the Rocky Mountains, I bet he felt as if he was standing at the very edge of the universe."

The President thought for a moment, then smiled and nodded. "Then I think it's time to take it to the next level," he said. "I would like to speak with my wife and Vice President Page, and then get ready for my speech."

"Yes, sir," said Raydon. "We"ll put you in the director"s chair." The President carefully moved to Raydon's console and wedged his feet into the stirrups underneath, standing in front of the console but feeling as if he were floating on his back in the ocean. The large monitor in front of him came to life and he saw a tiny white light under the small lens at the top of the monitor and he knew he was online.

"You finally stopped looking around and decided to call us, huh, Mr. President?" - Vice President Anne Page asked, her face visible in the built-in window on the monitor. She was in her sixties, thin and energetic, with long hair that had been unashamedly allowed to remain naturally gray, tied into a knot at her collar. Until recently, with all the US budget cuts, Anne took on many tasks in the White House along with her vice presidential responsibilities: chief of staff, press secretary, national security adviser and chief policy adviser; she eventually delegated most of these additional responsibilities to others, but continued to serve as Ken Phoenix's closest political advisor and confidant, as well as White House Chief of Staff. "I started to get a little worried."

"Ann, this is an absolutely incredible experience," said Ken Phoenix. "It"s everything I imagined and so much more."

"Let it be known that I had one Supreme Court justice who was on hand 24/7 to administer the oath of office in case one of the thousands of things that could have gone wrong did go wrong," Anne said. . "I will continue to insist on this long after you return."

"A very wise decision," the president said. "But I'm fine, the flight was incredible and if I'm doomed to turn into a meteorite when I return, at least I know the nation will be in good hands."

"Thank you, sir."

"It was absolutely amazing, Anne," the president continued. "Dr. Noble, let me dock the spaceplane."

The Vice President blinked in surprise. "You did? Lucky. I've never done this, and I've flown space planes several times! How it was?"

"Like most everything else in space: just think of something and it will happen. It's hard to believe that we were flying at five miles per second, but we were talking about moving the spaceplane only a few inches per second. I didn't really have a sense of height or speed until we went into outer space and I saw the Earth underneath...

"What?" - I asked. Ann exclaimed, her eyes bulging in shock. "You did what?"

"Ann, you were the one who first told me about how you got to the station from the first space planes," the president said. "Doctor Noble mentioned it to me again when we landed, and I decided to go for it. It only lasted a couple of minutes."

The Vice President's mouth dropped open in surprise, and she had to physically shake herself out of her stunned silence. "I... I don't believe it," she finally said. "Are you going to report this to the press? They will flip... even more than they are already going to flip."

"Probably the same reaction when a sitting president took his first voyage on an ocean liner, or his first ride in a locomotive, or an automobile, or an airplane," the president said. "We've been flying in space for decades-why is it so hard to imagine the President of the United States traveling in space or going on a spacewalk?"

Vice President Paige momentarily returned to her near-catatonic state of complete disbelief, but shook her head in resignation. "Well, I'm glad you're okay, sir," Anne said. "I'm glad you're enjoying the trip, and the view, and"-she swallowed again in disbelief before continuing-"...the spacewalk, sir, because I think we're in for a real shitstorm when you get back." " The President openly encouraged Anne to speak her mind both publicly and privately, and she took every opportunity to do just that. "The cat has already been revealed - people from the station must have already called home to inform others that you have arrived, and rumors are spreading like wildfire. I'm sure the presser will be truly amazing." Like all astronauts, Anne referred to the Armstrong space station as "the station." "I hope you're ready for this."

"I, Anne," said the President.

"How do you feel?"

"Very good".

"Any dizziness?"

"Just a little," the president admitted. "When I was a child, I had a mild case of anoblephobia - the fear of looking up - and this is about what it sounds like, but it goes away quickly."

"Nausea? Nausea?"

"No," said the president. Anne looked surprised and nodded admiringly. "I feel like my sinuses are clogged, but that's all. I think it's because the liquids don't drain down like they normally would." Anne nodded - she and Phoenix's wife, a doctor, had talked in detail about some of the physiological conditions he might encounter even during a short stay on the station. She avoided talking about some of the psychological problems some astronauts faced. "It's annoying, but not bad. I feel myself good. I can't say the same about Charlie Spellman."

"Your Secret Service man who volunteered to go upstairs with you? Where is he?"

"Infirmary."

"Oh, God," Anne muttered, shaking her head. "Wait, the press will find out you"re there without your details."

"He looks better. I think he'll be fine for the return flight. Besides, I don"t think any assassins will get in here."

"True enough," said Anne. "Good luck with the press conference. We will watch."

The President was then paired with his wife Alexa. "Oh my God, good to see you, Ken," she said. Alexa Phoenix was ten years younger than her husband, a pediatrician who left his private practice, when President Joseph Gardner unexpectedly chose her husband as his running mate. Her olive complexion, dark hair and dark eyes made her look Southern European, but she was a South Florida surfer through and through. "I got a call from Sky Masters Aerospace and said that you had arrived at the station. How are you? How do you feel?"

"Okay, honey," the president replied. "A little stuffy, but no big deal."

"I see a little swelling in your face-you"re starting to get that space moon face," Alexa said, framing her face with her hands in a circle.

"Is this already noticeable?" - asked the president.

"I'm kidding," his wife said. "You look beautiful. Either way, it's a badge of honor. Will you be okay after the squeeze?"

"I feel good," the president said. "Wish me luck".

"I've wished you luck every hour of every day since I agreed to this crazy little trip of yours," Alexa said with a hint of annoyance in her voice. "But I think you"ll do great. Strike them down."

"Yes, ma'am. See you in Andrews. Love you".

"I will be there. Love you". And the connection was interrupted.

About fifteen minutes later, as Kai Raydon, Jessica Faulkner, and Trevor Sheil stood by his side, the world was treated to the most amazing sight most of them had ever seen: the image of the President of the United States in space. "Good morning, my fellow Americans, ladies and gentlemen who are watching this broadcast around the world. I am broadcasting this press conference from the Armstrong space station, orbiting two hundred miles above the Earth."

A small window on the monitor showed the White House press room... and the place turned into absolute bedlam. Several reporters jumped to their feet in absolute amazement, dropping their clipboards and cameras; several women and even a few men gasped in horror, holding their heads in disbelief or biting the knuckles they had put in their mouths to muffle their screams. Finally, one of the staffers spoke to reporters and motioned for them to return to their seats so the president could continue.

"I flew here just a few minutes ago aboard the Midnight Spaceplane, a spacecraft much smaller than the Space Shuttle but capable of taking off and landing like an airplane, and then launching itself into orbit and docking with Armstrong or the International Space Station." ", the president continued. "Needless to say, it has been an amazing journey. It has been said that planet Earth is nothing more than the spaceship itself, with all the resources it has always had and will ever have, that God has already loaded on board, and the view of our planet from space against the backdrop of billions of stars is truly makes you realize how important our commitment to protecting our spaceship called Earth really is.

"I am grateful to the staff aboard Armstrong and the folks at Sky Masters Aerospace for making my trip successful, safe and awe-inspiring," the President said. "With me is the station director, retired Air Force General and space veteran Kai Reidon; station manager and shuttle mission veteran Trevor Sheil; and the chief of flight operations and co-pilot aboard the spaceplane, retired Marine Colonel Jessica Faulkner. The spaceplane pilot, Dr. Hunter Noble, is busy planning our return, but I thank him for providing me with a unique and wonderful view, as well as many opportunities to experience the challenges of flying and working in space. Nowhere in the world will you find a more professional and dedicated group of men and women than those who run this establishment. It's been almost thirty years since this station began operating, but although it's starting to look its age and needs some modernization, it's still in orbit, still functioning, still contributing to our nation's defense and still cares about his crew.

"I must admit that my staff and I have been deliberately misleading the White House press corps over the past few days: I did want to hold a press conference, but I did not say where it would be," the president said with a slight smile. "I know there have been rumors that I was going to secretly travel to Guam to meet with residents and military personnel and inspect the renovations being done at Andersen Air Force Base following the attack by the People's Republic of China last year. But I had the opportunity to make this wonderful journey, and in consultation with my wife Alexa and my children, as well as Vice President Paige, who, as you know, is an experienced astronaut herself, my staff and the Cabinet , congressional leaders and my doctors, I decided to take the risk and do it. I'm heading back to Washington in just a few hours aboard the Midnight. I thank those I consulted for their advice and prayers and for keeping my trip a secret.

"The purpose of this trip is simple: I want America to return to space," the president continued. "Our work on the International Space Station and Armstrong has been outstanding over the years, but I want to expand on it. Mr. Sheil compared outposts in space to forts built on the American frontier to help settlers moving west, and I think that's a great comparison. America's future is in space, just as military expansion westward across North America was the key to America's future in the eighteenth century, and I want that future to begin now. I'm here, talking to you from space, to prove that an ordinary person with a little courage and heart, and a fairly trim waist and good genetics, can go into space.

"Armstrong Space Station is a military outpost and it needs to be replaced, but I want our return to space to be much more than just military-I want our return to include more scientific exploration and industrialization as well," - President Phoenix continued. "I have been briefed and reviewed plans for amazing systems and industries operating continuously in Earth orbit and beyond, and I urge Congress and the federal government to support and help private industry implement and advance these incredible innovations.

"For example, as you may know, space debris is a big problem for satellites, spacecraft and astronauts-even a tiny particle traveling at more than seventeen thousand miles per hour can cripple a spacecraft or kill an astronaut. I've seen patented plans by American companies to go into debris fields and use robots to retrieve large pieces of debris that cause damage. I've even seen plans for a space debris recycling program: spent or failed satellites and jettisoned boosters could be recovered, unused fuel removed, solar panels and electronics recovered and repaired, and batteries recharged and reused. They even talk about having a space facility in orbit that can repair spacecraft and return them to service - no need to waste time, energy, manpower and dollars to bring a satellite back to Earth when there is a crew on the space station ready to do so. work.

"These are just two of many projects that I have seen, and I have to tell you: after the briefings, and especially after I came here and made space travel, I feel like I am standing on the starting line of the great march to the west, taking the reins The government is in my hands, and my family, friends and neighbors are next to me, ready to start a new life and look forward to the future. I know there will be dangers, failures, disappointments, losses, injuries and death. It will cost a lot of money, both private and public, and I am going to cancel, delay, or cut a lot of other programs to make resources available for systems that I feel will take us well into the twenty-second century. But after coming here, seeing what's being done, and learning what can be done, I know it's critical-no, vital-that we start immediately.

"So my flight back to Washington leaves in a couple of hours. I want to check in with Special Agent Spellman, see how he's doing, have lunch with the dedicated staff aboard this facility, explore the area some more so I can work on my zero-gravity freefall technique, and then return to Earth, but I would be happy to answer a few questions from the White House Press Office in the White House Press Briefing Room in Washington." He looked at the monitor in front of him, at the slack jaws, the stunned expressions of the correspondents, and he had to suppress a smile. "Jeffrey Connors from ABC, why don't you start with us?" The correspondent rose unsteadily to his feet. He looked through his notes and realized that he hadn't written down anything other than the questions he'd assumed he'd ask about Guam. "Jeff?"

"Uh... Mister... Mr. President... how... how are you feeling?" the reporter finally muttered, "Any... any adverse effects from the launch and zero gravity?"

"I"ve been asked this question about a hundred times in the last couple of hours," the president responded. "Every now and then I feel a little dizzy, like I'm in a tall building, looking out the window and suddenly feeling like I'm falling, but it goes away quickly. I feel myself good. I think other newbies to free fall-zero gravity-don't do as well. My Secret Service unit, Special Agent Spellman, is in the infirmary."

"Excuse me, sir?" - Connors asked. The shocked, confused expressions of the other correspondents instantly disappeared as they smelled fresh blood in the water. "Is there a Secret Service agent up there with you?"

"Yes," the president confirmed. "Of course it is necessary, and the Earth's orbit is no different. Special Agent Charles Spellman volunteered to accompany me on this trip. This was far, far above the call of duty."

"But is he unwell?"

"If I may, Mr. President?" Kai Rhydon intervened. The President nodded and pointed to the camera. "I am retired Brigadier General Kai Rydon, formerly of the US Space Defense Force, and currently an employee of Sky Masters Aerospace and Station Director. The stresses of spaceflight affect people differently. Some people, like the President, can handle g-forces and weightlessness very well; others - no. Special Agent Spellman is in excellent physical condition, on par with anyone who has ever traveled before Armstrong, but his body has temporarily become intolerant to the forces and sensations he experienced. As the president said, he is recovering very well."

"Will he be able to handle the stress of returning to Earth?" asked another reporter.

"I would have to refer to our medical director, Dr. Miriam Roth," Kai said, "but Special Agent Spellman looks good to me. I think he will be fine upon his return after some rest and medication for his illness."

"Will he be given medicine?" - retorted another correspondent. "How is he going to perform his duties if he is drugged?"

"This is a standard drug used by almost all station personnel experiencing symptoms of space sickness," Kai said. It was clear that he was uncomfortable being the target of all these rapid-fire, rather accusatory questions. "Individuals taking Phenergan can continue to perform all of their normal activities for a very short time."

Now the correspondents were quickly tapping on their tablets or quickly scribbling something in their notebooks. President Phoenix could see the growing irritation on Kai's face and quickly intervened. "Thank you, General Raydon. How about Margaret Hastings from NBC?" - asked the president.

The well-known and longtime chief White House correspondent rose to her feet, her eyes narrowed so that millions of American television viewers recognized her as a veteran reporter ready to sink her claws into her. "Mr. President, I must say, I am still in a state of absolute shock," she said in the distinctive Boston accent she never lost despite years spent in New York and Washington. "I simply cannot understand the extraordinary level of risk to the nation that you took on by going to the space station. I"m just completely at a loss, I have no words."

"Miss Hastings, life comes with risks," the president said. "As I mentioned to Vice President Page, I'm sure many people felt that a sitting president should not have taken his first trip on a ship, locomotive, car or airplane - that it was simply too risky and the technology was so new that it was not worth the risk. the president's life is in unnecessary danger. But now all this has become routine. Theodore Roosevelt was the first president to fly in an airplane, less than ten years after Kitty Hawk. Americans have been flying in space for almost sixty years."

"But this is completely different, Mr. President!" - Hastings exclaimed. "Space is infinitely more dangerous than flying an airplane...!"

"You can say that now, Miss Hastings, in the second decade of the twenty-first century, when airplanes have been around for over a hundred years," the president interjected. "But at the beginning of the twentieth century, I am sure many realized that flying was infinitely more dangerous than riding in a carriage or on horseback, and certainly too dangerous to risk the life of the President when he could just as easily have boarded a carriage or a train. or a ship. But I know that space travel has advanced to the point that we need to use it to help our country and humanity grow, and the way I have chosen to do this is by going on this journey."

"But that's not your job, Mr. President," Hastings said indignantly, as if she were lecturing a little boy. "Your job is to lead the executive branch of the United States of America and be the leader of the free world. The location of this very important work is in Washington, DC, sir, not in outer space!"

"Miss Hastings, I have been watching you on television for years," the president responded. "I've seen your reports from chaotic, destroyed urban battlefields, from blood-soaked crime scenes, from disaster zones where marauders run through the streets, threatening you and your team. Are you saying that reporting from the eye of the hurricane was necessary for your job? You went out into a hundred and twenty mile an hour wind or put on a vest and a helmet and went out into the middle of a firefight for a reason, and I think the reason was to get across the message that you wanted to get across to your audience .

"Well, I do the same thing coming up here," Phoenix continued. "I believe that America's future is in space, and I wanted to highlight that by accepting the invitation to come here and do it. I wanted to experience what it was like to put on a spacesuit, fly in space, feel the g-forces, see the Earth from two hundred miles up, go into outer space, look at this magnificent..."

Shock and bedlam in the White House press room erupted again, and members of the press corps who had been seated jumped to their feet as if they had been pulled by strings by a puppeteer. "Walk into outer space?" they all exclaimed as if in unison. "Have you done a spacewalk...?"

"It lasted two, maybe two and a half minutes," the president said. "I left the cabin of the spaceplane, they lifted me onto the roof-"

"Were you in the cockpit of the spaceplane?" Hastings shouted.

"I had the opportunity to sit in the cockpit during the docking, and I took advantage of it," the president said. He immediately decided not to tell them that it was he who made the docking. "Vice President Page told me that the way they first had to transfer to the station from the early models of the spaceplane was through a spacewalk. We were prepared for this, and there was no more danger in it than in any other astronaut experience."

"But you are not an astronaut, Mr. President!" Hastings shouted again. "You are the President of the United States! You are not paid to take such risks! With all due respect, Mr. President...Are you completely crazy? "

"He's not crazy, Hastings," retorted Kai Rhydon, angered by her unprofessional outburst. "And now that he has the courage to go into orbit, he is, of course, an astronaut-a damn good one, as it turns out. He proved that any healthy, trainable, well-adjusted person could become an astronaut if he so desired, without years of physical training or scientific or engineering training."

The bedlam seemed to be subsiding, as if Raydon were a high school teacher telling his class to calm down and get to work, but the President could see the group of reporters getting pretty irritated and he was ready to call it a day. "Are there any other questions?" he asked.

Another famous TV presenter, sitting in the front row, rose to his feet. "Mr. President, these space industry proposals sound interesting, but they also seem expensive, as I'm sure everything related to space can seem. You've been campaigning for fiscal responsibility for over a year and paying for every new government program. How do you propose to pay for all this? You said you were going to cancel, postpone or cut other programs. Which ones exactly?"

"I plan to target programs that I believe are costly, unnecessary, bloated, outdated and wasteful, Mr. Wells," the president said. "I have a long list of proposals that I will present to the leadership of Congress. The three categories that make up eighty percent of the national budget-benefits, defense, and discretionary spending-all need consideration. Modernizing our nation's defense and preparing for the challenges of the twenty-second century is my absolute priority."

"So you're going to build space weapons while cutting Social Security, Medicare, Medicaid and the Affordable Care Act?" - asked the reporter.

"I want to stop adding new government entitlement programs, and I want to see real reforms to all entitlement programs so they can survive the century," the president responded. "I think we will be able to achieve cost savings when we make real reforms that we can use to modernize defense. The same can be said about the military themselves. One example would be a significant reduction in nuclear weapons in the US arsenal." He could see another flurry of tapping and scribbling as the digital recorders moved closer to the speakers set up in the press briefing room. "I am going to propose that we reduce the number of nuclear warheads on alert from the current level of about seven hundred to about three hundred."

The level of excitement in the press briefing room began to rise again. "But, Mr. President, don't you think that given what happened in the South China Sea and the Western Pacific - China detonated a nuclear depth charge, opened fire on ships, shot down our plane and attacked Guam, not to mention Russia's military resurgence, is now absolutely the wrong time to reduce our nuclear deterrent?"

"You answered your own question, Mr. Wells," the President said. "We currently have about seven hundred nuclear warheads ready to strike within hours, but what exactly did they prevent? Russia, China and other countries have responded by becoming stronger and bolder. And when we struck back, what weapons did we use to stop them? High-precision non-nuclear weapons launched from aircraft and spacecraft.

"I feel that nuclear deterrence is no longer relevant and must be radically reduced," the president repeated. "The Russians took care of many of the cuts during the American Holocaust, with, of course, a horrific loss of American lives. But there has been a lot of talk about replacing the bomber and ICBM fleet, and I'm not going to support that. I propose that the strategic nuclear submarine fleet be the only force on permanent nuclear alert, and it will be reduced so that only four strategic nuclear ballistic missile submarines are on alert, two in the Pacific and two in the Atlantic , and four more were ready to go to sea urgently. Notification. Several tactical air forces deployed on land and sea will be ready to bring the force to a nuclear readiness state within days if necessary."

Shocked, incredulous expressions appeared on the correspondents' faces again - reporters who were not responding to their editors on handheld devices made stunned comments to their colleagues, the noise level quickly increasing. The President knew this press conference was almost over, but he had a few more scoops to break: "Not all of the cuts will be defense related, but most will be," he continued. "I am proposing to reduce Army and Marine Corps personnel and weapon systems such as tanks and artillery, reduce the number of carrier battle groups to eight, and cancel future purchases of ships such as the Littoral Combat Ship and aircraft such as the F-fighter-bomber. 35 Lightning."

"But, Mr. President, do you feel like you are undermining the military at a time when we should be preparing the military to confront adversaries like China and Russia, both of which have attacked us repeatedly in recent years?" - asked the correspondent. "Are you going to replace these canceled weapon systems with something else?"

"Yes, in two key national security imperatives of the twenty-first and twenty-second centuries: space and cyberspace," the president responded. "I will propose that the bulk of America's long-range offensive military systems be deployed from space or Earth orbit, and that the bulk of our defensive military systems be deployed from cyberspace. The United States must dominate both areas, and I am going to make sure America does just that. If we don't handle this, we will quickly and inevitably lose, and it won't happen while I'm on duty. America will dominate space and cyberspace, just as we once dominated the world's oceans. This is my mission, and I will expect Congress and the American people to support me. Are there any other questions for me?"

"Yes, sir, I have many," said Margaret Hastings. "What exactly do you mean by 'dominance' in space and cyberspace? How are you going to dominate them?"

"First: no longer tolerating the actions that have been going on for the last several years and which are almost considered part of the cost of doing business," Phoenix said. "For example, I have been told that American companies, government agencies and military computers are detecting intrusions and direct attacks from governments around the world on a daily basis, either sponsored by a government organization or carried out directly by the government. This can no longer be tolerated. A computer attack will be treated like any other attack. The United States will respond appropriately to any cyberattack.

"I was also told that US reconnaissance satellites are being targeted with lasers to blind or destroy optics; that jammer satellites are put into orbit near our satellites to disrupt their operations; and that American GPS signals are jammed on a regular basis. I am told that several countries are targeting this very station daily with lasers, microwaves and other electromagnetic forms of energy to try to damage or disrupt work here. This can no longer be tolerated. Any such attack will be dealt with accordingly. We will closely monitor Earth's orbit for any signs of possible interference or attack by any nation or organization. An American satellite in orbit, as well as the orbit itself, is sovereign American territory, and we will protect it just like any other American resource."

"Excuse me, sir," Hastings said, "but did you just say that you consider low-Earth orbit to be American property? Are you saying that no other nation can put a spacecraft into orbit if the United States already has a satellite in that orbit?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying, Miss Hastings," Phoenix said. "The usual technique for attacking US space assets is to launch an anti-satellite weapon into the same orbit, pursue it and destroy it within range. That's how the Russians destroyed our Kingfisher weapons garage, disabling it with directed energy weapons, resulting in the death of an American astronaut. Any spacecraft launched into the same orbit as a US satellite will be considered a hostile act and will be treated as such."

The bedlam that had been growing and threatening to get out of control in the White House press briefing room had not abated this time, and the President knew that it probably would not for a very long time. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, thank you," the president said, ignoring the raised hands and shouted questions. "I think it's time to share a meal with the astronauts aboard the station..." He turned to Raydon, smiled and added, "... my fellow astronauts, and prepare to return to Washington. Good night from Space Station Armstrong, and may God bless the United States of America." He saw so much noise on the monitor that he doubted whether anyone had heard his all-clear signal.

"Good speech and good answers to questions, Mr. President," said Vice President Anne Page moments after her image reappeared on the monitor of the director's station in the command module. "Many veteran astronauts have trouble holding press conferences on Earth, not to mention just minutes after their first flight into space. I didn't leak any details of the military reorganization as you requested, so everyone in the world got it all at once. Even now the phones are ringing incessantly. Are you going to answer any calls to the station?"

Phoenix thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. "I'm going to call Alexa, and then I'm going to meet the space station crew, try their food, check on poor Charlie Spellman, explore the station a little more, and get ready for the flight back. We talked about answering a few questions that we expect reporters and heads of state to ask, and I'll leave you to handle those until I come back and check the documents. The last thing I want to do is spend the last couple of hours at the station talking on the phone."

"I hear you, sir," said Anne. "I will answer calls from heads of state, then the mainstream media. You like it up there. No more spacewalks, okay sir? Go through the docking tunnel like the rest of us, simple space travelers."

"If you insist, Miss Vice President," President Phoenix said with a smile. "If you insist."

THREE

The mere premonition of impending evil has placed many in a situation of extreme danger.

- MARCUS ANNEAS LUCANUS

WATERGATE HOTEL

WASHINGTON, DC

IN THE SAME TIME

"Of course I saw it!" former U.S. Senator, Senate Majority Leader and Secretary of State Stacy Ann Barbeau exclaimed over the phone, staring dumbfounded at the large high-definition television in her hotel room. "Bring the senior staff here now!"

Although she was in her early sixties, Stacy Ann Barbeau was still a beautiful, energetic, ambitious woman and a veteran of politics. But those in the know knew that Barbeau was no sweet Louisiana magnolia-she was a Venus flytrap, using her beauty and southern charms to disarm men and women, forcing them to lower their defenses and submit to her desires, willingly sandwiched between her ruby - red lips. The whole world had known for a decade that she had presidential ambitions, and now those ambitions had translated into a powerful, well-funded campaign that maintained a small but consistent lead in the race against incumbent President Kenneth Phoenix...

...a race that has just been shaken up by this unexpected press conference from outer space.

Barbeau's campaign headquarters in Washington occupied an entire floor of the Watergate Hotel and office building. She had just returned to her hotel room from a fundraising dinner and turned on the news to watch the press conference, full of energy and excitement about yet another successful performance. Now she stood in complete shock, listening to the stunned commentators trying to comprehend what they had just seen: the President of the United States addressing the world from Earth orbit.

Luke Cohen, Barbeau's campaign manager and top adviser, was the first to burst into her hotel room. "It had to be faked or CGI'd," he said breathlessly. Cohen, a tall, thin, good-looking New Yorker, was Barbeau's chief of staff during her years as Senate majority leader and secretary of state. "No President of the United States would ever be stupid enough to go into space, especially six months before an election!"

"Quiet, I"m listening," Barbeau said. Cohen turned to answer his cell phone while she listened to the commentary.

"CNN," Cohen said during the next pause. "They want five minutes."

"They can take two," Barbeau said. The assistant, whose only job was to write down every word that came out of Barbeau's mouth, burst into the room with a tablet computer at the ready. "This was the most brazen, sensational, dangerous and irresponsible election year stunt I have ever seen in thirty years of working in Washington," she was quoted as saying. "President Phoenix is risking the safety of the entire nation and the free world with his reckless actions. I seriously question his judgment, as do all Americans. For the good of the nation, as soon as he returns, he must undergo a series of medical and psychological examinations to ensure that he has not suffered any negative effects from traveling in space, and if any are found, he must resign immediately thereafter. of his post." The assistant pressed a button and the words were sent to Barbeau's chief speechwriter, who would prepare talking points for her and the campaign within minutes.

"Luke, assign a researcher to find out the symptoms of every known disease or affliction that astronauts may suffer from," Barbeau continued, "and then I want him to monitor every second of every public appearance of Phoenix to see if he exhibits any of these symptoms." Cohen immediately took out his cell phone and gave instructions. "So, what do you think the feedback will be?"

"I agree with your points, Ms. Secretary," Cohen said. "At first, I think most voters will think it's cool and exciting that the president would go into space and do a spacewalk and talk about his bravery and so on. But soon after that, perhaps by the time the morning talk shows start discussing it and people start learning more about the dangers and risks, they may question his judgment and his ability to hold office. The pressure to resign can be intense."

"If he thinks he's going to start gutting the military to pay for his fancy space weapons and cyberwarfare, he's sorely mistaken," Barbeau said. "Remove two carrier battle groups? Only over my dead body. I want to create more carrier battle groups, not destroy them! I want to visit shipyards, naval groups, air bases and veterans' groups and talk about what effect the elimination of two carrier battle groups will have on the economy as well as national defense. Reduce nuclear deterrent power by half? Cut tanks and fighters? Maybe he is already suffering from some kind of space illness. He just committed political suicide. I'm going to make sure he pays the price for this trick."

"I can't believe he started talking about entitlement reform," Cohen said. "It's fine to do this before the convention if you're in the primary race, but he's already got the nomination. Nobody challenges him."

"He will regret it too," Barbeau said caustically. "Find out how much one of these spaceplanes and this space station cost, and then find out how many people would be disadvantaged if everyone lost even ten percent of their benefits to pay for a spaceplane that ninety-nine-tenths of one percent of Americans will never even see, not not to mention the flight. Find out what it cost to fly his ass back and forth, and then calculate how much education, infrastructure and medical research we could have done if not for the President's pleasure trip."

Stacy Ann Barbeau walked to the large mirror in her room and examined her makeup. "Do you think you made history today, Mr. President?" - she said. "You think you're a big astronaut hero? You've made the biggest mistake of your political career, buster, and it's going to cost you dearly. I will take care of it." She looked at Cohen through the mirror. "Luke, make sure one of the makeup people is ready for me and that my TV studio is ready for broadcast, and tell CNN I'll be ready in five."

KREMLIN, MOSCOW

RUSSIAN FEDERATION

IN THE SAME TIME

"The man is really mad! This man is really mad!" Russian President Gennady Gryzlov boomed in front of the TV in his office in the Kremlin. "Phoenix thinks he's going to control all of outer space? He will soon realize how wrong he is!"

Gennady Gryzlov was only forty years old, the son of former President Anatoly Gryzlov, and his career largely paralleled that of his father. Gennady Gryzlov graduated from the Yuri Gagarin Air Force Academy and completed basic flight training at Baronovsky Air Base in Armavir and bomber flight training at Engels Air Base in southwest Russia before being selected to attend command school in Moscow just two years later. He wanted nothing more than to follow in his beloved father's footsteps, and was determined to do so without his family's extensive government and petrochemical industry connections.

But shortly after graduating from command school in Moscow, but before he returned to Engels Air Base to take command of the 121st Guards Heavy Bomber Regiment, a unit of Tupolev-160 Blackjack supersonic bombers, an event occurred that would change his life forever: Engels Air Force Base was attacked by an American EB-1C Vampire unmanned stealth bomber, a heavily modified B-1 Lancer supersonic bomber that destroyed dozens of Russian bombers awaiting orders to take off and destroy a nest of terrorists in Turkmenistan. Hundreds were killed in the air raid, including many of Gryzlov's closest friends and fellow aviators. Father and son were devastated and spent more than a month attending funerals and memorial services and planning how to rebuild the base and bomber force.

It was never officially revealed, but the elder Gryzlov told his son who he believed was planning the air raid: a US Air Force general named Patrick McLanahan, acting without orders or authority from the US White House or Pentagon. Both men turned their sadness at the destruction into a white-hot desire for revenge against McLanahan.

With the destruction of Engels Air Base, Gennady switched his attention from bomber flying and, with the help of his father, entered the Alexander Mozhaisky Military Space Academy in St. Petersburg, where a place was already reserved for him at the Cosmonaut Training Center in Star City. But his studies there were also interrupted. A unit of American bombers attacked a Russian defensive anti-aircraft battery in Turkmenistan...

...and, as it soon became clear, the raid was planned and ordered by Major General Patrick McLanahan, again without proper authority from his superior officers.

Gennady knew that this raid had pushed his father over the edge. President Gryzlov recalled all members of the bomber's crew and sent them to Belaya Air Base in Siberia for training. Gennady was able to use his father's influence to remain in Mozhaisk, but he closely monitored the activities of a huge number of long-range aircraft at Belaya and other bases such as Irkutsk, Aginskoye and Yakutsk, including the sleek Tu-22 Backfires, the reliable turboprop Bears "Tu-95, supersonic Tu-160 Blackjacks and Ilyushin-62 air tankers." Gennady knew that something big was about to happen.

At the end of the summer of 2004 this happened. Waves of Russian long-range bombers attacked US air defense sites and early warning radars in Alaska and Canada with AS-17 Krypton anti-radar missiles and AS-16 Otkat supersonic attack missiles, then launched AS-17 long-range hypersonic cruise missiles. X-19 Koala with low-yield nuclear warheads at intercontinental ballistic missile launch control centers, bomber bases and command and control bases in the United States. The United States lost almost its entire land-based ballistic missile production force, a significant portion of its strategic bomber fleet, and tens of thousands of military personnel, family members, and civilians in the blink of an eye.

It soon became known as the "American Holocaust."

Gennady was happy and delighted by the bravery of his heavy bomber crewmates, many of whom died over the United States and Canada, and was proud of his father for finally delivering the decisive blow against the Americans. He hoped McLanahan was under one of those nuclear warheads. In the meantime, all training at Mozhaisk was canceled and Gennady was ordered to report to Aginskoye Air Base in southern Russia to form a new bomber regiment, where the new Tu-160 Blackjack bombers, which were undergoing repairs and returning to service, would be sent. Russia was beginning to move to martial law, and Gennady was happy that he would not have to hang around at school while other brave Russian aviators fought face to face with the Americans.

Preparations for war with the United States had barely begun when the unthinkable happened. The Yakutsk air base in Siberia was overrun by a small force of American commandos, and the United States began flying long-range bombers and aerial tankers from the base. For days, American bombers swept across much of Russia from Yakutsk, hunting down and destroying Russian mobile ICBM launchers and underground launch control centers with ground-penetrating precision cruise missiles and bombs.

Gennady was not surprised to learn that the bomber force was commanded by none other than Patrick McLanahan.

President Anatoly Gryzlov was forced to make a fateful decision: destroy Yakutsk before the US Navy could destroy the mobile ballistic missile force, the backbone of Russia's strategic deterrent. He ordered bombers to launch nuclear-tipped AS-X-19 Koala cruise missiles at the American-occupied base, without prior warning that the Russians were still held there. Although most of the cruise missiles were shot down by American air-to-air missiles and the sophisticated airborne laser system carried by several B-52 bombers, a few managed to hit the base, killing hundreds, both Russians and Americans unlucky enough to reach the fortified underground shelters

Gennady felt sorry for his father, who was forced to make a terrible decision and kill the Russians to prevent the large-scale destruction of the nation's ICBM arsenal. He wanted so badly to be with his father and provide him with moral support, but the elder Gryzlov was undoubtedly safe in one of more than a dozen alternate command centers in western and central Russia. Gennady's greatest concern now was for his base and his regiment, and he ordered all non-essential personnel to take cover in fear of an American counterattack and hastening preparations for the Blackjack bombers that it was hoped would soon arrive.

Gennady was immersed in organizing his regiment and planning their actions when the next morning he received devastating news: an American bomber task force, consisting of modified B-1 and B-52 bombers, had broken through the complex air defense network in western Russia and attacked the Reserve Military command center of Ryazan, 120 miles southeast of Moscow. The devastation was complete... and Gennady's father, the center of his universe, the person he most wanted to emulate, was blown to dust. He immediately made arrangements to return to Moscow to be with his mother and family, but before leaving Aginskoye he learned that his mother, having heard the news about her husband, had committed suicide due to an overdose of sleeping pills...

... and, once again, he learned that the commander of the bomber task force that killed his father, and therefore his mother, was General Patrick McLanahan. The American Rogue pilot was promoted to Lieutenant General shortly after the attack and appointed Special Advisor to the new/former President of the United States, Kevin Martindale, tasked with rebuilding the Long Range Strike Force.

After that day, Gennady Gryzlov turned into a different person. He resigned and left the military. He has always had a high energy level, but now his personality has become more like that of a whirling dervish. He took control of his family's oil, gas and petrochemical companies and positioned them well when oil prices began to skyrocket at the end of the first decade of the twenty-first century, and he became one of the richest men in the Western Hemisphere. He remained a bachelor and became one of the most popular and recognizable playboys in the world, pursued everywhere by rich women and men. He turned his wealth, popularity and good looks into political capital and was quickly appointed Minister of Energy and Industry and Deputy Prime Minister of Russia, and then elected Prime Minister by the Duma, although he never served in the legislature, aspiring to higher office. He subsequently ran for president and was elected to office by more than 80 percent of voters in the 2014 election.

But now the face of the tall, handsome young man, undoubtedly the most photographed male face on planet Earth, was contorted with a mixture of disbelief, rage and determination. Sergei Tarzarov, the head of the presidential administration, ran into Gryzlov"s office when he heard the president"s screams. "Get Sokolov and Khristenko here for a double call," Gryzlov shouted to his chief of staff, his long dark hair flowing around his head as he paced around his office. "I want some answers, and I want them now!"

"Yes, sir," said Tarzarov and picked up the phone in the president"s office. Tarzarov was almost a generation older than Gryzlov, a thin and unremarkable man in a simple brown suit, but everyone in the Kremlin knew that the former intelligence officer and interior minister was the force behind the presidency, and had been so since his father took power. Gennady. "They saw the broadcast and are on their way, sir," he reported a few moments later.

"Of course, this smug, preening, ignorant bastard - I"ll show him how to make a statement to the world," Gryzlov snapped. "This was nothing more than an election year stunt. I hope it blows up in his face! I hope he gets killed by a fireball on his return. Then the American government will be in a state of complete chaos!"

"I"m receiving data from the Ministry of Defense," Tarzarov reported after checking his tablet computer. "Minister Sokolov has ordered the renewal of our space offensive and defensive forces, as well as the ground, air and naval forces that support space operations. He and General Khristenko will inform you as soon as they arrive."

"Why the hell didn"t we know that Phoenix was going to go to that space station?" - Gryzlov shouted. "We know what the bastard is doing almost before he knows it, and we have installations, listening devices, cameras and informants all over Washington. Invite Kazyanov here too. No, gather the entire security council here." Tarzarov made another phone call and reported that Viktor Kazyanov, Minister of State Security, Russia's top espionage and counterintelligence service, was also on his way to the president's office.

"Mr. President, Phoenix must be completely crazy to pull off such a stunt," said Defense Minister Gregor Sokolov, quickly entering the President's office a few minutes later. "If he wasn't damaged before he took off, cosmic radiation and lack of oxygen would surely get to him-if he really did everything he claimed to do, and it wasn't all an elaborate election-year hoax-then the American space program would become deader than she was after the Challenger space shuttle crash."

"Shut up, Sokolov," said Gryzlov. "The fact is he did it and I want to know how, I want to know why I didn"t know about it, and I want to know what we can do if he starts doing all the crap he says he did." , he's going to do - and I want to know it right now!"

Tarzarov walked up to Gryzlov, turned his back to the others in the room and said in a soft voice: "It"s completely normal to rant when neither I nor anyone else is in the room, Gennady, but when the national security personnel arrive, you need to keep your cool." hands." Gryzlov's head snapped towards the chief of staff and his eyes flashed, but when his angry face met Tarzarov's firm, warning gaze, he relaxed and nodded. "And don't make your comments personal. You need the support of your cabinet, not their indignation."

"I want answers, Sergei," Gryzlov said, lowering his voice, but only slightly. "I want the answers I should have gotten days ago!" But he turned away from Tarzarov, bowed his head slightly to Sokolov in apology, then returned to his desk and pretended to look at some dispatches on his tablet computer.

The meeting of Gryzlov's national security advisers began a few minutes later when Foreign Minister Daria Titeneva joined Gryzlov and others in a conference room adjacent to the president's office. Chief of the General Staff General Mikhail Khristenko spoke first, using a tablet computer to wirelessly display photographs and data slides on a large flat-screen computer monitor: "If you'll excuse me, sir: I've double-checked the records, and in fact the US Strategic Command, which controls all military -space operations, our embassy in Washington has informed through the office of the air attaché that they will launch the midnight S-19 spaceplane to the Armstrong space station."

Gryzlov looked as if he was about to explode again, but Tarzarov spoke first: "Minister Titenev?"

"I was not informed," replied Titeneva, a veteran of foreign affairs with dark hair and eyes and a plump but attractive body. "Emergency messages are sent to my office immediately, but regular messages are sent to my headquarters in charge of such matters, and they are included in the two summary reports that I receive every day. The spaceplane is sent to space stations or into orbit many times a month - such flights are considered routine."

"Perhaps your office should be notified every time such a flight occurs," Tarzarov suggested.

"This may be a good idea for the military, Mr. Tarzarov, but I see no reason why the Foreign Office should report it unless the military or national security believes that the flight could pose a threat to the Homeland or our allies," - said Titeneva, clearly hurt that the chief of staff defied her at a meeting of the full Security Council. "The main reason we required the United States to notify us of the flights at all is that launching it into orbit could resemble the launch of an intercontinental ballistic missile. They are of course under no obligation to provide us with a passenger list."

"You will instruct your office to notify you whenever one of these spaceplanes is about to launch, Minister," Gryzlov said angrily. "Then you will notify me immediately with details of departure and return dates and times, destination and destination. I won"t let these damned things just flit around overhead and not know anything about it!" He turned to the Minister of State Security. "Kazyanov, aren"t you tracking the whereabouts of the President of the United States?" he asked. "How the hell can the President of the United States broadcast television from space and apparently no one in this entire damn city knows anything about it?"

"We do our best to track the President of the United States, senior officials and senior Army officers, sir," replied Victor Kazyanov, a tall, bald and commanding-looking former Army colonel. Like the Director of National Intelligence in the United States, the newly created Department of State Security would integrate domestic, international, and military intelligence, presidential and embassy protection, and border security activities under a single cabinet-level officer who reported directly to the security council. .

However, intelligence agencies were extremely reluctant to share information and lost access to the president's office. It was well known that the directors of the Federal Security Service (once known as the Committee for State Security, or KGB), the Foreign Intelligence Service, the Presidential Security Service, and the Main Intelligence Directorate of the General Staff (the Main Intelligence Directorate, or GRU) reported directly to the president through the chief of staff. : very often Kazyanov was the last to learn something. "But we cannot know exactly where the American president is every minute of every day," Kazyanov said. "The entire American press believed that he was heading to Guam for this press conference, and that"s where we were waiting for him. If he is going to leave the capital for a while, we know about it."

"Well, I would say that he left the capital, wouldn"t he?" Gryzlov retorted mockingly. "Don"t you watch the White House and the Capitol all the time?"

"Any movement by the President, Vice President, Cabinet officials and their deputies, as well as senior military officers and representatives of the Ministry of Defense raises a warning from us, sir," Kazyanov said. "The President and any official who is traveling with a large contingent, or any information we receive about travel plans, is alarming. If they don't, we may not know about their movements. Obviously, this trip was kept in the strictest confidence, with minimal security protocols in place so as not to attract attention."

"It is critical that you develop a means of determining when one of these spaceplanes is about to fly and who and what is on board it, Kazyanov," Gryzlov said. "If they fly that regularly, perhaps their safety procedures are starting to fail. You should also think about ways to alert major US officials to the movements of them, beyond the size of their entourage. Be prepared to brief the council on your proposals at their regular meeting next week." It was obvious from the expression on his face that Kazyanov did not like being barked at, even by the president, but he nodded in agreement. Gryzlov turned back to General Khristenko. "Continue, General."

"Yes, sir," said the Chief of General Staff. He called up a silent replay of President Phoenix's press conference. "My staff has reviewed the video of the Phoenix press conference and several videos taken after the Phoenix press conference where he had dinner with several astronauts, and based on these preliminary images, my staff believes that this is indeed President Phoenix and he is on aboard a spacecraft in Earth orbit, experiencing true weightlessness, and appears very healthy and does not suffer from any of the negative effects of spaceflight or weightlessness. Other individuals in the video were identified as retired Brigadier General Kai Raydon, engineer and astronaut Trevor Sheil, and retired US Marine Corps Lt. Col. and astronaut Jessica Faulkner, a space plane pilot.

"Most likely, he really went into low-Earth orbit on the spacecraft that the US Strategic Command reported to our embassy, on the S-19 spaceplane, nicknamed 'Midnight,'" Khristenko continued, switching slides to a photo of the spaceplane. "It is carrying a crew two people and up to five thousand kilograms of cargo. It apparently has a pressurized module in the cargo compartment, which has room for as many as four passengers."

"I don"t care about its capacity, General," Gryzlov said caustically. "What threat does this spaceship pose to Russia?"

"This represents technology that we are still several years away from developing: the ability to take off from virtually any commercial runway in the world, fly into low Earth orbit, dock with space stations or perform various activities in space, enter the Earth's atmosphere and again land on any runway - and do it all again in just a few hours," Khristenko said. "It has a complex propulsion system using readily available jet fuel and a hydrogen peroxide oxidizer. It can dock with the space station and deliver supplies or personnel almost on demand. If it remained in the atmosphere, it could fly from its base in the western United States to Moscow in less than three hours."

"Three hours!" Gryzlov exclaimed. "And then drop nuclear weapons right on our heads!"

"As far as we know, sir, spaceplanes have only used non-nuclear weapons in space," Kazyanov said, "but one such weapon, the so-called "Thor"s Hammer," successfully entered the Earth"s atmosphere and destroyed a target on the ground."

"It was then that we spoke out in favor of enacting the Outer Space Conservation Treaty, sir," said Foreign Minister Titeneva. "The treaty prohibits any weapon based in space that can hit targets on Earth. Russia, China and all other space-capable countries have ratified the treaty, with the exception of the United States, although they appear to be complying with it."

"Damn it, Daria, I want weapons like this banned... just long enough for us to build them ourselves!" Gryzlov said. He ran his hand through his thick hair. "And we don"t have technology like this spaceplane?"

"We built a reusable spacecraft many years before the Americans built their Space shuttle," said Defense Minister Sokolov. "The Elektron spaceplane was launched into orbit by an SL-16 launch vehicle and could land on a runway - it was even armed with guided missiles. We have built several spacecraft, but their operational status is unknown. The Buran spaceplane was very similar to the American Space Shuttle. We built five of them and made one successful flight before the empire fell. Three more Burans are in various stages of completion; another completed spacecraft was destroyed in a ground accident."

"And look what happened: we allowed the Americans to gain an advantage over us in space," Gryzlov said. "So get them back into service and flying immediately, and if we built them once, we can build them again. I want as many of them as possible to go into production immediately."

"Phoenix is a fool if he really plans to degrade his army and navy in favor of space weapons," Sokolov said. "And he can create all the cyber weapons he wants while our troops take over his cities."

"It seems to me that Phoenix will not abide by any space treaty for long," Gryzlov said. "If he wants to industrialize space, he will want to protect it. If we can't get him to agree not to militarize space, and he wins re-election and continues with this plan, what do we have to resist such moves? What can we use to attack his spaceship?"

"Our most powerful anti-satellite weapon currently deployed is the S-500 Autocrat surface-to-air missile system, sir," Khristenko said. "Its maximum target altitude of five hundred kilometers and maximum range of seven hundred kilometers puts it within range of the US military space station. The system is mobile, easy to move and configure, so it can be fired and then moved to evade a counterattack or quickly put into orbit of a target. The S-500 is also very effective against hypersonic strike missiles, stealth aircraft, low-flying aircraft or cruise missiles and ballistic missiles. It is by far the most powerful surface-to-air missile system in the world."

"Finally, some good news," Gryzlov said.

"The only problem with the S-500 is that we have built very few of them so far, sir," Sokolov said. "There are only twelve batteries in service, located around Moscow, St. Petersburg and Vladivostok to protect against stealth aircraft and cruise missiles."

"Twelve?" Gryzlov objected loudly. "We must have twelve thousand of them! You will receive funding to build ten per month, and I want several of them stationed at every Russian military base in the world! I want this space station and all Western spaceships to be in Russia's crosshairs 24/7! Continue".

"The next viable anti-satellite system, and the most flexible, is the MiG-31D anti-satellite missile carrier," Khristenko said, changing the slide again. The slide featured a picture of a large, twin-tailed, muscular looking fighter jet. "Its maximum speed is almost three times the speed of sound, and its maximum altitude exceeds thirty thousand meters. It uses the 9K720 Osa missile, which is the same missile used on the Iskander theater ballistic missile. The MiG-31 is guided to its target by ground radar and launches the missile when it reaches an altitude of twenty thousand meters. The Osa rocket does not necessarily carry a micronuclear warhead, so one rocket would likely be enough to knock the US space station out of the sky. The Osa missile, controlled by the MiG-31 radar, is capable of hitting other air targets."

"This is good," Gryzlov said. "How many active ones do we have right now, General?"

"Right now there are only thirty anti-satellite missile carriers in service, sir," Khristenko replied. "Two squadrons in the west and one in the far east."

"When the hell did we stop making military equipment?" Gryzlov groaned. "What else?"

"The MiG-31 first took to the air more than forty years ago," Khristenko said. "Its radar has been updated, but not for several years in favor of newer fifth-generation fighters. In its anti-satellite role, the MiG-31's flight range is limited to only about eight hundred kilometers. But the 9K720 missile has a range of four hundred kilometers, sufficient to destroy any American spacecraft in low Earth orbit."

"Can we build more?"

"We currently have about two hundred and fifty MiG-31s in service, sir," Khristenko said. "About a hundred of them are active."

"More than half of the inventory is inactive?" Gryzlov complained again. "If our country is swimming in oil money, why do we let half our planes sit idle?" Khristenko did not answer. "Then convert all operational MiG-31s into anti-satellite missile carriers," Gryzlov said. "I assume you have other fighters that can take over the interceptor role from the MiG-31?"

"Of course, sir."

"I want a full report on the conversion, and I want an estimate of how long it will take to build more S-500s," Gryzlov ordered. "What about space assets?"

"We have a human-powered Soyuz cargo spacecraft and an unmanned Progress cargo spacecraft, sir, along with the medium-lift Proton and heavy-lift Angara rockets," Khristenko replied. "We have a lot of experience." in resupply missions to the International Space Station."

"And it's all? Supply missions? "

"Sir, Russia has been a significant supporter of the International Space Station, especially since the Americans stopped flying their shuttles," Sokolov said. "We did not need any other outpost in Earth orbit, since we have unrestricted access to the Russian orbital section of the ISS for scientific experiments."

"But this is not a Russian space station," Gryzlov said. "Do we even have any plans to build our own military space station? What happened to our own space station projects? We had several and now we have none?"

"Yes, sir," Khristenko replied. "The project is called the Orbital Manned Assembly and Experimental Complex. Before the International Space Station is decommissioned and allowed to re-enter the atmosphere, Russia will detach the modules of its Russian orbital section and install them on a central truss with solar panels and mounting engines. The station will be used to assemble spacecraft for flights to the Moon or Mars, conduct experiments and...

"When is this supposed to happen?"

"In about five years, sir," Sokolov replied.

"Five years? This is unacceptable, Sokolov!" - Gryzlov shouted. "I want to see the plans for this station improved. I want this to happen as quickly as possible!"

"But we have agreements with nine countries to use these modules on the International Space Station, sir," Foreign Minister Titeneva said. Gryzlov's eyes lit up at this interruption. "The partnership has already paid Russia for their use and support of the ISS. We can not-"

"Unless the United States reverses this overbearing plan to militarize and industrialize the Earth's orbit, all partnerships and agreements related to outer space are null and void," Gryzlov said. "You understand me? If Phoenix persists with this outrageous plan, Russia will strike back. Everyone here had better understand: Russia is not going to allow any one nation to dominate outer space. That bastard Kenneth Phoenix just issued a challenge: Russia accepts it, and we will respond... starting right now!"

Gryzlov closed the meeting with a wave of his hand, and soon he and Tarzarov were left alone. "I'm tired of constantly having to light a fire under the asses of these careerist bureaucrats," Gryzlov said, lighting a cigar. "We may need to update the list of alternate ministers again. Titenov's name is at the top of the list to be replaced. How dare she challenge my wishes? I don"t care what the protocols are-I want what I want, and it"s her job to get it for me."

"Now that you have given them their orders, let"s see how they react," Tarzarov suggested. "If they fail to get money from the Duma and start military construction projects, you have a good reason to replace them. Like I said, Gennady, don"t take this to heart."

"Yes, yes," Gryzlov said dismissively.

Tarzarov checked his smartphone for messages. "Ilyanov is here."

"Fine. Bring him here," said Gryzlov. A moment later, Tarzarov, carrying a box of items, escorted Bruno Ilyanov and Ivetta Korchkova into the president's office, then placed the box on the president's desk. "I heard you were successful, Colonel, even though your workers were arrested," he said, standing up from the table to greet them. Ilyanov was dressed in the uniform of the Russian Air Force. Without attempting to be discreet, Gryzlov ran his eyes up and down Korchkova's body as she approached. She was dressed in a dark business suit, tailored to highlight her curves and breasts, but she wore spiked high heels that were more suitable for a cocktail party than a business visit to the office of the Russian President. Korchkov responded to Gryzlov"s appraising gaze without any expression. He turned his attention back to Ilyanov and extended his hand. The Russian colonel took it, and Gryzlov held his hand, keeping Ilyanov close to him. "The capture of your people is unfortunate, Colonel," he said. "I hope they can hold their tongues."

"It doesn't matter, sir," Ilyanov said. "Our story will be confirmed. These are famous robbers and Russian nationalists who wanted revenge on General Patrick McLanahan. They gave the items to other unknown expatriates. If they talk and accuse me, I will deny everything. You can support their feelings, but start an investigation, fire me and offer to pay for the repairs. The ridiculously fast news cycle of the American media and general ignorance of everything except sex and violence will quickly sweep the entire episode away."

"It would be better that way, Colonel," Gryzlov warned. He returned to his desk, dumped the items from the box onto its lid, picked up the urn, weighed it, then looked at Ilyanov. "Empty?"

"Exactly so, sir," said Ilyanov. "What does it mean?"

"This means that someone has already flushed it down the drain," Gryzlov said caustically, "depriving me of the opportunity to do so." He looked through the remaining items. "So. This is all that remains of the great Patrick Shane McLanahan, the air killer," he said.

"Not quite everything, sir," said Ilyanov. "His immediate family. Two sisters and a son."

"I did not give the order to kill women, Colonel," Gryzlov said, looking at Korchkov again. He knew that the Russian beauty was a highly trained Vympel Special Forces commando, specializing in close range assassinations... intimately close range. "But all the rest of McLanahan's property goes to me. Have you found your son?

"He makes no attempt to hide his location, sir," Ilyanov said. "He regularly posts on social networks - the whole planet knows where he is and what he"s doing. We have not yet found any signs of security surrounding it."

"Just because he doesn"t post anything about the security service on Facebook doesn"t mean it doesn"t exist," Gryzlov said. "I hope you have chosen more reliable people for this task."

"There is no shortage of people willing to carry out these operations, sir," Ilyanov said. "We selected the best. They are now in position and ready to strike. My people will make it sound like my son committed suicide by drinking cocaine, and I'll make sure the details appear in every newspaper and television show in the world. I will also make it clear that the son became addicted to drugs and alcohol due to his father's neglect, and that the father had similar addictions and emotional problems."

"Very good," said Gryzlov. He took a deep drag on his cigar, taking advantage of the pause to once again look Korchkov up and down. "Why not send Captain Korchkov?" he asked. "I'm sure young McLanahan would have had a nice big smile on his face... moments before his life was cut short." Kortchkova remained completely impassive, her arms folded in front of her body, her feet almost shoulder-width apart in a very ready, athletic stance.

"The people I selected will not have any difficulties, sir," Ilyanov said. "Sending the captain back to the United States for McLanahan would be like using a sledgehammer to crack an egg."

"Just make sure it gets done, Colonel," Gryzlov said. "I've waited long enough to get my revenge on Patrick McLanahan. I want everything that belonged to him to be dead and destroyed. All that's left of him is his son and his reputation, and I want both to be destroyed."

"Yes, sir," said Ilyanov. "I will report my team's success tomorrow."

"It would be better if everything went well, Colonel," said Gryzlov. "I want the McLanahan name to be tarnished beyond repair." He glanced at Korchkova again, wondering whether to tell her to stay or contact her later, then waved his hand. "You have orders, Colonel. Do them." Ilyanov and Korchkov turned and left without saying a word.

"This is not the business of the President of the Russian Federation, sir," Tarzarov said after the two left.

"Perhaps not, Sergei," Gryzlov said, his face hard and sinister through a cloud of cigar smoke, "but this is certainly the work of Anatoly Gryzlov"s son. Once McLanahan's son is eliminated, I can fully focus on rebuilding our nation and putting it back on the path to greatness. We've been raking in money from natural resources and stuffing it under the mattress for too long, Sergei - it's time to start spending it and take our rightful place in the world as a true superpower."

CALIFORNIA POLYTECHNIC UNIVERSITY

SAN LUIS OBISPO, CALIFORNIA

IN THE SAME TIME

"Was that fucking awesome?" - Bradley McLanahan exclaimed. He and four other students were in their professor's office in the Reinhold Aerospace Engineering Building on the sprawling campus of California Polytechnic University at San Luis Obispo, known simply as Cal Poly, near California's central coast, watching television on one of the office computers. . "The President of the United States is orbiting the Armstrong space station! If he can do it, I sure as hell can do it!" The other students nodded in agreement.

Brad McLanahan was close to finishing his first year as an aerospace engineering student at Cal Poly. Everything in his life, from his body to his education and experiences, seemed to be only slightly above average. He was a little taller, heavier, and cuter than average, with blue eyes and blond hair that grew a little longer than most of the engineering students on campus. His grades were probably slightly above average, just enough to get him accepted into UC Poly's engineering college, which accepted less than a third of all applicants. Thanks to a generous trust and the benefits of his late parents' substantial life insurance policies, Brad was in a better financial position than most other students while attending college: he rode a nice bike to school from his off-campus home in San Luis Obispo and even occasionally flew in his father's turbine Cessna P210 Silver Eagle plane from a nearby airport, all the while knowing that he would not have college tuition or student loan bills due to his undergraduate or graduate studies. education.

"We couldn't have come at a better time for this, Brad," Lane Egan said. Fifteen-year-old Lane was from Roseburg, Oregon, graduated from homeschool high school after just two years with a GPA in the stratosphere, and was accepted into Cal Poly with a four-year scholarship. Small, a little chubby, with thick glasses-he looked like the classic Hollywood version of a nerd-Lane looked up to Brad as an older brother. Lane was a freshman in the College of Electrical Engineering, majoring in computer and microchip design and programming. "I hope Professor Nukage likes our proposal."

"I still think we should have gone with the space junk idea, Bradley," Kim Jong-bae said. Jung Bae-everyone called him "Jerry" because he liked Jerry Lewis movies, a nickname he used with pride-was from Seoul, United Korea, who, after two years of studying at Pohang University of Science and Technology, transferred to study in the United States. Tall and lean, he spent as much time on the basketball court as he did in the engineering lab. Jerry was a mechanical engineering student specializing in robotics and energy storage technology. "You know Nukaga: he"s not that interested in military affairs."

"Starfire is not a military program, Jerry," Casey Huggins said. Casey was also the recipient of a four-year scholarship her freshman year at Cal Poly. A water skiing accident when she was a little girl left her paralyzed from the waist down, so school became an important part of her life. She fought to keep her weight down by using a manual wheelchair around UCSC's very large, six-thousand-acre campus and participating in adaptive sports such as wheelchair basketball and archery. Casey was an electrical engineering student specializing in directed energy projects. "We use some military equipment, but this is not a military program." Jung Bae shrugged, not entirely convinced, but not wanting to provoke another argument.

"I like Jerry's space junk idea too, but especially after President Phoenix's little speech, I think we should stick to our proposal, folks," said Jodie Cavendish, brushing her long blonde hair off her shoulders and then nervously twirling it around her chest. . Jodie was from Brisbane, Australia, and although she looked like a tall, fit, blue-eyed surf girl from Southern California, lived very close to the ocean at home and loved sailing, surfing and kayaking, more than anything she loved learning and experimenting , and could be found either in the laboratory or in the library on the computer. She was close to completing her two-year student exchange scholarship program between Cal Poly and Queensland University of Technology, studying mechanical engineering with a major in advanced materials and nanotechnology. "Besides, we spent too much time rehearsing our chatter."

"Like Jodi said, I'm open to any idea, and we can come up with the space junk idea too-we're ready," Brad said. "But now, with this speech and this challenge, I think Starfire will be the winner."

"Are you there now, Mr. McLanahan?" - they heard a man's voice, and Toshuniko Nukaga, Ph.D., professor of aerospace engineering at California Polytechnic University, ran into the office. Born, raised and educated in Berkeley, California, Nukaga, known in academic circles as well as to his close friends as "Toby," did nothing slowly, whether it was racing bicycles, lecturing, or writing and presenting the next paper on the next breakthrough. in the world of aerospace science. Sixty-year-old Nukaga, retired from the aerospace industry, was one of the most sought-after experts in the design of new aircraft and spacecraft. He had a choice between serving on the board of directors or leading hundreds of companies and universities around the world, but chose to spend his remaining years of retirement in California's Central Valley, passing on his knowledge and passion for exploring and questioning conventional wisdom to a new generation of engineers and thinkers. .

"Good afternoon, Dr. Nukaga," Brad said. "Thank you for having us so late in the day."

By the time Brad finished speaking, Nukaga had checked his email on his desktop computer, taken his tablet computer out of his backpack, and put it on charge. He nodded, accepting the young man's gratitude, then leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingertips together to keep himself moving despite the fact that he was sitting. "You're welcome. Let's hear from your 'winner', Mr. McLanahan."

"Yes, sir," Brad said. "I recently learned that Sky Masters Aerospace in Nevada has issued a request for proposals for universities and companies on next-generation space projects. It appears that companies like Sky Masters are working with the Phoenix administration because the President just suggested the same thing in his address from the Armstrong Space Station. The Lords of the Sky want-"

"You said the President addressed the nation from a military space station?" - Nukaga asked incredulously. "Is it in orbit right now?"

"Yes, sir," Brad replied. "He also just finished a press conference. He felt pretty good, weightless and all. I guess his Secret Service guy didn't do so well."

"What the hell is the President of the United States doing on a military space station?" Nukaga remarked rather bitterly. "It seems extremely irresponsible to me. A thousand incidents could happen and he could contract a hundred diseases, some of which could affect his mind, and he is the commander-in-chief of a nuclear-armed military. This is madness". He was silent for a moment, then waved his hand, erasing the topic from his mind. "Please continue, Mr. McLanahan."

"We are requesting computer, mechanical and aerospace lab space and resources for twelve weeks this summer for a project that we hope can be launched into orbit and tested before the end of the year," Brad said. "We call it Project Starfire."

Nukagi's eyebrows rose in surprise. "I assume your name is Mr. McLanahan?"

"It was mine, sir," Lane Egan said proudly.

"Of course, Mr. Egan," Nukaga said, hiding a small smile behind two fingertips tapping his lips. At first he didn't trust the young man-a boy, actually-because his parents both had multiple doctorates and were very wealthy, aggressive, demanding research scientists, and he believed that Egan's success was largely due to the strong, driving influence of his parents. But this definitely turned out not to be the case. Although young Egan easily reverted to his teenage self from time to time, he was indeed a gifted young man who would undoubtedly soon acquire his own collection of doctorates, dwarfing the impressive achievements of his parents.

The professor wiped away all hints of a smile, became stony again, then said: "Indeed. So why don"t you continue with your presentation, Mr. Egan?"

"Yes, sir," Lane responded without missing a beat. Just like that, the teenager left, replaced by a serious young future scientist. "As you well know, sir, the idea of harvesting power from the Sun from a spacecraft in Earth orbit and transmitting the power back to Earth has been proposed for many years, but we think we have overcome the technical hurdles and can design a commercially feasible space-based solar power plant."

Nukaga looked at Casey and Jody. "Since you have Miss Huggins on your team, I assume that your spaceship uses some form of directed energy, such as microwaves," he remarked. "Miss Huggins?"

"Not really, sir," Casey said. "Most research into generating solar power in space has used microwaves or lasers to transmit electricity collected from the sun to Earth. Lasers have some political obstacles. Microwave ovens are very efficient and can transfer a lot of energy very quickly. But microwaves require a large rectenna, or transmitting antenna, at least a square kilometer in area, and an even larger rectenna, or receiving antenna, perhaps ten times larger than the transmitting antenna. Our partners around the world and we here at Cal Poly have developed a maser: a microwave laser. We are able to move and collimate the beam in the microwave spectrum so that a lot of energy can be squeezed into a smaller, more focused beam. It has some of the best microwave and visible light laser performance, uses much smaller antennas, and is much more efficient. In addition, maser rectifiers, which convert microwave energy into electricity, are smaller, quite portable and can be installed almost anywhere."

"In addition, sir, the major components and equipment for power generation are already installed on the Armstrong space station," Brad said. Nukaga looked at Brad and narrowed his eyes in disapproval at being interrupted, but allowed him to continue. "The Skybolt laser is a free electron laser pumped by a klystron driven by a magnetohydrodynamic generator. We can build a microwave cavity into the laser itself and use the collected electricity from Starfire to power the laser, so we don't need to use MHD. We can even use Skybolt's guidance and control systems."

"This monster should have been removed from orbit years ago and allowed to burn up upon re-entry," Nukaga said. He gave Brad another frown, as if the space-based laser belonged to him. "Do you see any problems with firing maser beams from space, Miss Huggins?" he asked.

"There are many potential political obstacles, sir," Casey responded. "The 2006 Outer Space Conservation Treaty aims to eliminate all offensive space weapons. In particular, it mentions directed energy systems capable of producing more than one megajoule of energy over a distance of more than one hundred kilometers. The Skybolt laser on the Armstrong space station hit targets in space, the atmosphere, and even on Earth at ranges well beyond a hundred kilometers, with much greater energy." Nukaga had a very sour expression on his face-obviously he knew very well what the laser did space-based, and was extremely dissatisfied with this.

"With the reactivation of the Skybolt missile defense laser aboard the Armstrong Space Station and the deployment of the Kingfisher space-based interceptors, the treaty was reintroduced and adopted by the United Nations General Assembly in 2010," Casey continued. "The Security Council sought to codify the treaty; The United States, under the Gardner administration, chose to abstain rather than veto it, and the treaty was passed. Although it has not been ratified by the U.S. Senate, the United States has-at least to date-chosen to abide by it. Therefore, if the concept of maser energy transfer is considered by the United Nations to be a potential space weapon, it could not be used unless the United States simply ignored the treaty."

"Which I sincerely hope is not done," Nukaga added. "What other challenges did you overcome on this project? Miss Cavendish, since you are an advanced placement student, why don"t you continue?" They all knew that Nukaga would never allow one member of the team to make such a presentation, so they all had to be equally familiar with the proposal and ready to make it at any time.

"Yes, sir," Jodi said. "The weight of standard silicon photovoltaic cells is simply a deal-killer-it would require hundreds of shuttle-sized spacecraft, which we don't have, except for some Russian spacecraft that we probably wouldn't be able to use, or expendable heavy-lift launch vehicles, to install enough photovoltaic panels on the spacecraft to do the job. But we and our partners have developed a solar cell capture technology using multi-latitude nanotubes deposited on a flexible conductive substrate that could allow a mile-long photovoltaic cell to be built for the same startup cost as a single foldable silicon solar cell designed to fit inside shuttle, with several times more power generation capacity."

For the first time during the meeting, Nukaga stopped fidgeting for a moment, and the change was instantly noticed by all the students, even young Lane. "Interesting," the professor commented, continuing to tap his finger. "An organic carbon nanotube that is more efficient than a silicon cell?"

"It's not a carbon nanotube, sir," Jodie said. She smiled, leaned forward, then said in a low, conspiratorial voice: "This is an optical antenna with an inorganic titanium dioxide structure of varying widths, consisting of nanotubes."

Nukagi's eyebrows quirked, just for a moment, but to the students around him it felt like a firecracker had gone off in the room. "Interesting," he repeated, although all the students could detect a slight breathiness in his voice. "Optical antenna".

"Yes, sir," Jodi said. "Using inorganic nanotubes, we have developed a way to convert sunlight into electricity with efficiency thousands of times greater than silicon solar cells. Even better, the structures are hundreds of times lighter and stronger than silicon solar cells."

He tried very hard to hide his surprise, but Toshuniko Nukagi looked as if he was about to slide out of his chair. "Interesting," he managed to repeat, but his finger tapping had stopped completely. "Did you fabricate such a structure?"

"I haven't done it yet, sir," said Jodie, "but I've talked and corresponded with researchers in Cambridge and Palo Alto, and we could do it here in our own laboratories, with the proper support. And, thanks to our team leader Brad, we have access to researchers all over the world."

"And what are the advantages of this inorganic nanotube structure, Mr. Kim?" Jerry seemed to be having a little trouble answering a question about an area of engineering that he wasn't as familiar with as some of the others, so Nukaga turned to Brad. "Perhaps you could help Mr. Kim, Mr. McLanahan?"

"The energy production is significantly greater than silicon solar cells, but at a much lower weight," Brad responded. "Plus, solar panels repair themselves."

"How do they do it?"

"Because the substrate on which the nanotubes are built is not a metal, but a flexible sol-gel material that not only allows electrons to flow from the nanostructure to the collection system more efficiently, but also acts as a shock absorber," Brad said. "If a solar cell is hit by orbital debris, the rupture is repaired electrochemically, like damaged skin. It forms a kind of scar tissue similar to human skin, which is not as photovoltaic as the original, but at least the matrix is still functional. Additionally, defense lasers aboard the Armstrong space station could be used to deflect debris that could seriously damage the nantenna arrays."

"Defensive lasers? I don"t think so," Nukaga remarked. "Continue".

"Titanium dioxide nanotubes are impervious to cosmic radiation and solar wind, and the sol-gel substrate can withstand large changes in temperature with minimal and transient changes in conductivity," Brad said. "The structures we can put together can be huge, perhaps extending for several kilometers. This will allow us to eventually fire multiple energy shots to different locations around the globe in the same orbit."

Nukaga was obviously not impressed with Brad's answer-it was a huge simplification of a very complex process that the team needed to work out before the university was asked to commit thousands or even millions of dollars for research. "And how will the Starfire deployment work?" - Asked Nukaga. He turned to Jerry. "Begin, Mr. Kim."

Jung Bae frowned, collecting his thoughts, but continued with a slight delay. "One of our requirements on this project was a size limit, sir," Jerry said. "The Midnight S-19, our preferred delivery vehicle for space-based components, can carry a payload of approximately nine thousand pounds in its cargo bay in a fairly small footprint. This was a problem at first. Even using expendable boosters along with spaceplanes, it would take many years, perhaps even decades, to build Starfire."

"And how did you decide this? Nine thousand pounds seems like a lot, but not when you have to build an entire spaceship from scratch."

"It wouldn't be from scratch, sir," Jerry said. "Our proposal specifies the use of the Armstrong Space Station, the International Space Station, or the Chinese... Chinese..." Once again, he had trouble retrieving his memory.

Nukaga looked at Brad, silently allowing him to help. "China Tiangong-2 space laboratory, sir," he said.

"What are these spaceships for? Mr. Egan?

"Because with the exception of Tiangong, the rest are obsolete and ready to be replaced by unmanned platforms, sir," Lane said. "Armstrong is almost thirty years old and ten years past its design life. The ISS is twenty years old and is approaching its design limit-its planned deorbit is scheduled in five years."

"And Tiangong-2?"

"The Chinese are expected to launch Tiangong-3 in just a few weeks, sir," Lane said. "We think they wouldn't mind using their lab for this project. If Starfire works as planned, we will be able to supply electricity to the most remote regions of China - even to the peaks of the Himalayas!"

"What other problems lie ahead? Miss Cavendish?

"It's a matter of getting nanotennas, capacitors, control equipment, microwave resonators, maser generators and related equipment to the station," Jodi said. "We estimate that we can get all the panels into orbit in just ten spaceplane flights, or four if we use expendable rockets."

"It seems incredible," Nukaga remarked. "How did you rate that, Miss Huggins?"

"This is based on Jody's estimate of the thickness of the nanten and the size of the cargo bay of the midnight spaceplane S-19, sir," Casey replied. "We calculated that one rolled-up nantenna array, five hundred meters long and thirty meters wide, could fit in the Midnight's cargo hold, which is well within the weight limits since the nanotube structure would be very light. Our original design provides a total of eight such panels. We would then need two more flights to bring in the additional equipment."

"That seems unrealistically optimistic, Miss Huggins. Mr. McLanahan?"

"We propose to use much of the equipment that is already aboard the Armstrong space station for this project, sir," Brad said. "Armstrong is particularly well suited to our project because it already has a lot of the beam steering equipment, capacitors and aiming systems we need for the maser. It's all already there - we don't need to run it, just update the software and some hardware. This is much better than having it all burn up after leaving orbit."

"It seems like a lot depends on whether the government will allow you to use their space station for your project," Nukaga noted.

"I contacted the guys at Sky Masters Aerospace, who are the caretakers of the Armstrong space station until they decide what to do with it," Brad said. "They are open to the Starfire project. They want to see our data and results before making a commitment, but they like the idea of purchasing a space station for themselves, privatizing it and getting it operational."

"I think Sky Masters Aerospace is a front for the Central Intelligence Agency or even a secret government spy unit," Nukaga said. "I get a bad taste in my mouth every time I hear that name." And yet he nodded, almost imperceptibly, but for the students it was a very good sign. "Tell me about the land part of your project, Mr. Kim," Nukaga said. "I've heard a lot about the parts in orbit, but very little about the ground systems and the problems you're working with."

Kim seemed at a loss to answer again, but after a moment he replied, "Sir, the ground data acquisition system includes a 200-meter steerable rectifier antenna, alternating current generators, positioning controls, environmental systems, and a method for either storing the direct current generated by the rectifier tube." , or integration of the output into the local electrical network."

"A two-hundred-meter straight pipe?" Nukaga noticed. "Not quite suitable for the Himalayas, is it, Mr. Egan?"

"The size of the forward antenna is based on the beam steering system currently on board the Armstrong space station, sir," Lane said. "This is a forty-year-old technology, it may have been updated several times, but not to modern standards. I haven't seen their code yet, but I'm sure I can improve the software to make pointing and focusing more accurate, and then we can build a smaller straight antenna. The maser beam does not expand as much as a microwave beam, and the propagation in the side lobes is much lower and tunable."

"Even so, sir, ground systems are much smaller than any other type of power plant," Brad interjected. "We use no natural resources other than sunlight, and one day of sunlight can produce more electricity than the entire world produces in an entire year."

"It will look good on the website, Mr. McLanahan, but I'm not interested in the advertising campaign right now," Nukaga said rather annoyed, now openly showing his displeasure at Brad's interference. He paused, thinking, then resumed tapping his finger. "And what progress have you made so far?" - he asked after a few moments.

"Jodie and Casey have developed plans for the nantenna and maser and can begin fabrication as soon as we receive laser and materials lab approval and funding," Brad responded. "They also have plans to miniaturize it so it can be placed on a spacecraft, but we are focused on demonstrating that an inorganic nanotube nanotene is technically feasible. They are confident they can do this by the end of the summer."

"End of summer?" Nukaga exclaimed. "Creating complex structures from nanotubes in just a few months of work?"

"I've been working on inorganic nanotubes for over four years, sir," said Jodie, "but mostly alone there in Australia. Brad sought me out based on my presentations over the years. He has brought our team together and he is still looking for experts and scientists from all over the world to help. Everything happens quickly."

Nukaga nodded slightly, then motioned for Brad to continue. "Jerry and I have plans to integrate control, power, environmental, communications and sensor systems, but we don't have a spacecraft, so we're still spread out," Brad said. "Lane already has software written for the spacecraft control systems and rectenna ground control systems, and is ready to start debugging and burning chips as soon as we get permission. He already has a software design sketch for the Armstrong beam control units, but Sky Masters haven't released their software to us yet, so this is just a preliminary sketch."

"And you did all this in your free time, between classes and other responsibilities?" Nakuga noticed. "And, with the exception of Mr. Kim, you are all first-years, right?"

"Jodie is a third-year student, sir," Brad replied. "Lane, Casey and I are freshmen."

Nakuga nodded slightly, clearly impressed. "Where do you intend to get the spaceship, Mr. McLanahan?"

"Sky Masters Aerospace in Battle Mountain, Nevada, sir," Brad replied. "I have already identified the Trinity module and loaned it out, and as soon as we have space for the laboratory, I can ship it to us. On it can't fly, but it's a real spaceship, not just a mock-up or scale model."

"Trinity?"

"This is one of several different versions of Sky Masters Aerospace's autonomous orbital maneuver vehicles that were used by the Space Defense Force several years ago," Brad explained. "He was launched into orbit by the midnight spaceplane. It has its own targeting sensors, or it can receive targeting data from the Kingfisher armory or the Armstrong space station; it can be autonomously refueled from an Armstrong or other unmanned service module; he can ...

" 'Targeting'? 'Weapons garage?'" Nukaga interrupted. "Are these all space weapons?"

"Well, Trinity is a multi-mission orbital module, but yes, sir, it is used in various types of space-based weapons," Brad said. He had hoped not to tell Nukuga that Trinity was a space weapon-the professor was a well-known and moderately activist anti-war guy-but in his excitement about presenting the project and getting the lab space, he said words that hopefully wouldn't kill the project.

Nukaga began to blink in some confusion. "I didn't know you were building space weapons, Mr. McLanahan," he said.

"We're not going to, sir," Brad said, his confidence fading quickly, like a slowly leaking bicycle tire. "Starfire is an orbital power plant based on the Armstrong space station. We felt that we had to not only design the components of the propulsion system, but also find ways to safely and efficiently deliver all the components into orbit using modern technology. We can demonstrate that if we-"

"I"m not at all comfortable working with a company that produces space weapons," Nukaga said tensely, looking at Brad accusingly. "If this company gets information about your Starfire and then decides to use the technology to develop more space weapons, this university will become complicit in the arms race in space. Technology that can direct maser energy to a direct antenna on Earth could certainly be used to disable a spacecraft or even destroy targets on the ground."

"Sky Masters Aerospace is offering a fifty million dollar grant for new orbital spacecraft technology, Dr. Nukaga," Brad said. "I think even just some of this would be extremely beneficial for the university. We hope that providing laboratory space and time in the directed energy laboratories and computer labs will demonstrate the university's commitment to the project and help secure a portion of this grant funds."

"Money is not the only consideration here, Mr. McLanahan," Nukaga retorted indignantly... but he looked away for a moment, silently acknowledging the fact that receiving a significant portion of the multimillion-dollar grant would certainly benefit the school-and his own prestige, of course. "How come you came across this Trinity module, Mr. McLanahan?" - he asked.

"My father used to be the chief operating officer of the company, sir," Brad said. "I worked there for a short time and I still have friends there. I keep in touch with the guys in the engineering and flight test departments and hope to work there someday."

" 'Was earlier'? Is your father retired?"

Brad swallowed hard, and when his mouth opened, no sound came out.

"His father was killed, sir," Lane said in a soft voice. Nukaga looked at the young man, then back at Brad's blank expression, still confused.

"Dr. Nukaga, Brad's father was General Patrick McLanahan," Casey said, the tone of her voice making it clear that she couldn't believe he didn't know-Bradley McLanahan, son of the great aerospace warrior General Patrick McLanahan, was something of a a minor celebrity on campus.

Nukaga finally realized what had just happened, but the look of shock and confusion on his face only lasted for a moment. "I...my apologies, Mr. McLanahan," he said finally, straightening up in his chair and looking over Brad's shoulder at a spot on the wall. "I did not know that". Still looking away, he cleared his throat, then pointed to the folder in Brad's hand. "I will review your project, present it to the project committee and update you as quickly as possible," he said as Brad handed him the folder. "Thank you all". The students shuffled to their feet and left. "Mr. Kim. A few words please."

"We'll be at Starbucks at the market, Jerry," Casey whispered to Jung Bae as they headed out. Jerry nodded, then returned to his seat.

Nukaga waited a few moments until he was sure there was no one in the waiting room; then: "I don"t think you prepared very well for this presentation, Mr. Kim," he said. "Every spring, I receive several dozen requests for sponsored summer lab space with just three spaces. The teams I invite to give a one-on-one presentation have spent hundreds of hours preparing and are all at the top of their games. But you didn't seem to be like that this afternoon. Can you tell me why, Mr. Kim?"

"I'm afraid I can't, sir," Jerry said. "Maybe a little stage fright."

"I don"t think so, Mr. Kim," Nukaga said. "If approval is granted, this will be your third sponsored lab project in two years at a school where only a third of engineering students get at least one. You are the best engineering student in South Korea and one of the brilliant minds in the world. I'm glad you chose Cal Poly, but you belong at MIT or Stanford."

Jerry looked away for a moment, then looked at Nukaga. "Actually, sir... you are the reason I'm here," he said. "I have followed your career for many years."

"Then why aren"t you in aerospace engineering, son?" - Asked Nukaga. "We could work side by side if you weren't on the engineering side of campus. In all the years you"ve been here, I"ve only had a few classes with you."

"Mechanical engineering was chosen for me by my corporate and government sponsors back home, sir," Jerry said. "Out of respect for them, I did not change my specialty. My second major was chosen for me by my parents, and my minor was supposed to be in a non-science field, so I chose business. But once I graduate and receive my credentials at home, I will be free to pursue other majors, and I intend to return here for my Master's and Doctorate degrees under your guidance."

"That would be amazing, Jung Bae," Nukaga said. "I can almost guarantee your acceptance. I'd even consider transferring to Stanford if you wanted to get a PhD there instead - they've been trying to get me to join their faculty for years and maybe even become dean of the college of engineering." Jerry's eyes widened in surprise and he broke into a very happy smile.

"But let's get back to this so-called Starfire project, son," Nukaga continued. "I'm confused. You're in grad school, but you're hanging out with a bunch of underclassmen. Mr. Egan is almost young enough to be your son. None of these kids are on your intellectual level. What gives? Even if you liked the project-which I don't think you do-why aren't you at least leading it? You have a newbie running it, and he"s not even the smartest on the team." Jerry shrugged and looked away. Nukaga paused, then winked conspiratorially at Jerry as the student's gaze returned to him. "Is this Miss Cavendish, Jung Bae? She's definitely a cutie. I would even volunteer to carry Miss Huggins in and out of her wheelchair, if you know what I mean."

Kim did not respond to personal remarks about his fellow students. He shrugged again, a childish gesture that Nukaga was beginning to find annoying for such a gifted student. "I... I respect Mr. McLanahan, sir," he finally answered.

"McLanahan? Respect, what's wrong with it? He's just a first-year aerospace engineering student with good but unremarkable grades. I didn't know he was Patrick McLanahan's son, but that hardly matters to me - in fact, it takes him down a notch as far as I'm concerned. His father was a rogue pilot who always seemed to avoid demotion, if not prison, after causing all sorts of heinous international incidents without proper orders. I myself am confident that it was his actions that precipitated the Russian air attack on the United States, which killed tens of thousands."

"Mr. McLanahan may not be the best engineering student at Cal Poly, sir, but he... knows how to build teams," Kim said. "Not only did he come up with the idea for Starfire, but he assembled an incredible team, walked us through Tuckman's four stages of group development-forming, storming, norming, and performing-and coached us through our presentation to you. If he doesn't understand something or faces a problem, he finds someone to explain the science to him and they always end up joining his team. As you will see when you read the presentation, sir, Mr. McLanahan has assembled a significant and very impressive list of students, teachers, scientists and engineers from around the world willing to contribute to the project."

"This is an engineering college, Jung Bae, not a fraternity," Nukaga said. "Mr. McLanahan would be wise to advise him to work a little harder on his grades and enjoy himself a little less." He frowned, then continued: "And I'm very wary of the connection between Mr. McLanahan and this military defense company in Nevada. I won't let Cal Poly's college of engineering become the cradle of some new technology of death and destruction - I don't care if they give us all fifty million dollars." It wasn't true, of course, but Nukaga stuck to principle and not political reality of the university. He thought for a moment, then nodded decisively. "I will review the proposal and present it to the committee," he said, "but I will also recommend approval of any resources that you need."

"Thank you very much, sir," Jerry said.

Nukaga nodded again, signaling that the meeting was over. Jerry rose to his feet, as did Nukaga. He extended his hand and Jerry shook it. "I will tell you that the main reason I recommend this project is because you are involved in it, Jung Bae," the professor said. "I wish your name was at the top of the list of project leaders, but for now you are enough on McLanahan"s team. I think your participation in the project will ensure that we receive a significant portion of the start-up capital from this Nevada defense contractor."

"Thank you again, sir," Jerry said, bowing.

"But I will also make a strong offer to you, Jong Bae: if it turns out that the Sky Masters aerospace division wants to use your technology as a weapon in any way, I strongly urge you to leave the team and report to me," Nukaga said. "Money or no money, I will not allow this university to become a weapons technology factory. There are enough universities in this country willing to prostitute themselves for little money, but I won't let Cal Poly become one of them." He paused for a moment, then asked, "Tell me, Jung Bae: did you have an alternative project that could would it be nice to introduce me to this Starfire thing instead?"

"Yes sir, I did it."

Nukagi's eyes widened in interest and he motioned for him to return to his office. "Give me another fifteen minutes of your time, Mr. Kim," he said. "I want to know everything about it."

FOOD INDUSTRY AND CAMPUS MARKET BUILDING

CAL POLY

A little while later

"I ruined it, guys," Brad said. He and his fellow Starfire teammates were sitting at a table on the Starbucks patio at Campus Market. The Food Processing Building was an unattractive warehouse-like structure, but its southeast side had been attractively renovated into a coffee shop and store where students could purchase freshly prepared food and a wide selection of other items, as well as a large, sunny outdoor seating area that was enjoyed popular with students and teachers. "I should not have mentioned details about the Trinity module. Now Nukaga thinks we're going to create a death ray. Sorry."

"He was going to find out eventually when he read our proposal, Brad," Jodi said. "Don't worry. It's apples".

"You know, I've noticed that your accent and slang almost completely disappear when you talk to professors like Nukaga," Casey said. "How do you do it, Jody?"

"I can do a lot of accents or nothing at all," Jodi said. She switched to thick Russian. "How do you like this? How do you like this?"

"I think your Australian accent and slang are funny, Jody," Lane said, giggling.

"I'm funny, how - you mean funny, like I'm a clown, am I amusing you? Am I making you laugh?" " Jodie said in her best Brooklyn accent, doing a convincing impression of Joe Pesci's character, Tommy DeVito, in the movie Good Boys, and trying not to use four-letter words. " 'Am I here to amuse you?' " Lane chuckled again, the scientist left, and a young schoolboy took his place. Jodie switched to her thickest Australian accent and added: "Damn, friends, but I could eat a horse and chase a jockey." The others looked at each other, then at Jody: "It means 'I'm hungry.' Let's get something to eat."

"I'm going to the library," Lane said, suddenly rising to his feet and grabbing his laptop backpack. In the blink of an eye, the schoolboy disappeared, replaced by a serious scientist. "See you later, guys."

"Have dinner with us, Lane," Casey said. "We're just going to wait to see if Jerry shows up."

"No, thank you," Lane said. "My mom and dad will come and pick me up from there. Besides, I need to finish my history paper." Brad blinked at that last statement, but said nothing.

"When is this supposed to happen?" Casey asked.

"A couple of weeks," Lane said, "but I hate it when there are unfinished projects lying around." He put on his best Australian accent and said, "Good afternoon, friends. Aren"t you guys rotten right now, right?"

Jodie crumpled up the napkin and threw it at him. "Damn bojik, Doug!"

Lane headed toward University Avenue, toward the Robert E. Kennedy Library, just a few blocks away. Brad caught up with him a few moments later. "I"ll go with you, Lane," Brad said, his own laptop backpack slung over his shoulder.

"You don't have to come with me, Brad," Lane said. "I'm not a child".

"You're fifteen," Brad said. "Also, we talked about the buddy system. Always find a security officer or someone you know to go with you."

"I see children walking around the city alone all the time."

"I know, and it's not smart," Brad said. "Find a buddy. Call me if you can"t find a campus volunteer or security guard." He looked up and saw Lane smiling, obviously glad that Brad was going with him and lecturing him about personal safety. "What was all this nonsense about taking the history exam? I know for a fact that you finished all of your coursework for all of your classes for the entire year a few months ago, and you were a straight A student to boot."

"I know," Lane admitted after a moment. "I just..."

"Just what?"

"Nothing".

"Spit it out, Lane."

"It's just... I think you guys would have a better time at the Market if I wasn't there," Lane said. "I... I have a feeling that you guys can't... you know, have fun because 'the kid' is with you."

"That's bullshit, Lane," Brad said. "We're all friends. We do what we want to do. The girls go off and do what they do all the time. If they want to hang out with us, they do." They walked in silence for about a minute, and then Brad added, "But it must be hard being fifteen years old surrounded by adults."

"No. I"m used to it," Lane said. "I never remember my mom and dad treating me like a small child or teenager the way they treat my friends or other children. I feel much older than I am, and have been that way since I left primary school. But I've seen you guys at Starbucks or downtown when I wasn't with you, and you look like you're having a really great time. When I'm with you, you're all... I don't know, reserved, constrained, making sure you don't say or do anything that could upset or corrupt the child."

"Look, we're all buddies," Brad said. "We..." And suddenly, just as they reached the trees on University Avenue surrounding the parking lot across the street from the library, he jumped because someone dug their nails into his ribs and shouted "BOO!" behind him. Brad turned around to see Jodie Cavendish giggling hysterically, and Lane soon joined him. "Oh my God, Jody, I almost shit my pants!"

"You've got to learn to be more aware of your surroundings, buddy," Jodie said. "The world is a tough place, even little California Poly. I thought I"d take a walk with you." She told Lane, "I know all about Brad's buddy policy, and I thought he shouldn't be walking the mean streets of UCLA alone."

"The Friend Policy is for Lane," Brad said, but when Jodi smiled softly at him and winked, he added, "But nice company. What about Casey?

"We gave up on Jerry-I'm sure he's on the basketball court," Jodie said. "Casey got a call from her boyfriend du jour and she's going back to the dorm for God knows why. I wonder what Dr. Nukaga wanted with Jerry?"

"Jerry thinks Dr. Nukaga is cool," Lane said.

"So does half the engineering world, Lane," Brad said. "I know Jerry is upset that we didn't choose his idea for cleaning up space debris with an ion accelerator to present to Dr. Nukage. Maybe he is presenting it to him now."

"Can you do two sponsored lab projects at the same time?" Jodie asked.

"If anyone can do it, it's Jerry," Brad said.

They crossed Northern Perimeter Street, entered the library and headed to Café é on the ground floor. "Remember, don"t go wandering around campus alone, Lane," Brad said. "Call your parents to come pick you up or call me."

"Yes, Uncle Brad," Lane whined, but he fist bumped Brad and smiled, glad that someone was looking out for him, and he ran to his favorite computer terminal.

"Can I buy you a cup of coffee, Jody?" - Brad asked after Lane disappeared.

"Why don"t I treat you to a glass of wine at my place?" - she answered. "I parked across from Reinhold."

"Me too. Sounds good," Brad replied.

It was a short two block walk to the parking lot. They climbed into Jody's small sedan and headed northwest along Village Drive toward the Poly Canyon Village apartment complex. She parked in the large northern parking lot and they walked the short distance to her apartment. The complex resembled a small town square with several five-story residential buildings, some with retail stores on the ground floors, surrounding a large common area with benches, chairs and picnic areas. The elevator didn't work, so they had to take the stairs to Jodie's third-floor apartment.

"Come in, buddy," she said, opening the door wide for him, then set her laptop on the table and turned it on to charge. Inside, Brad found a small but comfortable one-bedroom apartment, a bar surrounding a small but functional kitchen, and a combined living room/breakfast nook/dining area. The living room also served as Jodie's office and computer room; Brad wasn't surprised she didn't have a TV. A small patio overlooking the common area was visible through the sliding glass door, and you could even see the city of San Luis Obispo in the distance.

"These apartments are very nice," Brad commented.

"Except when the west breeze picks up and you smell the university warehouses," Jodi said. "We could do a lot of engineering work here, but you can always tell what UC Poly's roots were: agriculture and livestock." She poured two glasses of Chardonnay from the bottle in her refrigerator and offered one to him. "Haven't you thought about moving here next year? Many engineering students stay at Poly Canyon."

"I have an application for here and Cerro Vista, but everyone wants to get here, so I'm probably at the bottom of the list, and the bike ride will take longer," Brad said. "I haven"t heard of either one."

"Are you planning on getting a car soon?"

"I was too busy to even think about it," Brad said. "And with the bike I get a little exercise every day."

"Where do you live?" she asked. "It's funny; We"ve been working together for a few months now, but we only see each other on campus."

"Near. Down the foothills, across Highway 1, past Foothill Plaza."

"I think it's a long way," Jodi said. "How do you like it?"

Brad shrugged. "It's not bad. It's a small ranch, about an acre, fenced off from the rest of the area. The surrounding neighborhoods are sometimes a little wild. It belongs to a friend of my father. I think he retired from the Marine Corps, but he's always on the road, so I stay at his house and take care of him. I've never even met this guy - we just email each other. It's quiet most of the time, I never see the owner, and everything is well appointed."

"So this is a bohemian place for a bachelor party?" Jodi asked with a smile.

"I don't know the owner, but I know he used to be a drill instructor or something," Brad said. "I don't throw parties at his house. I was just lucky that he came into town during a party and kicked my ass. I'm not a party person anyway. I don't know how any of these freshmen can throw all these crazy parties, especially during the week. I would never have time to do anything."

"You're at Cal Poly, buddy," Jodi said. "We're a party school compared to UCs or USC."

"What about Australian universities?"

"No doubt you guys are party animals compared to even our most prestigious schools," Jodie replied. "We Australians rack our brains to get into the best schools with the best scholarships, and then do nothing but rage as soon as we leave the house and head to university."

"So you"ve turned into a party girl too?"

"Not me, mate," Jodie said. "I actually went to university to get an education. I had to leave there and go to a regular American school so I could work a little."

"But you're coming back pretty soon, aren't you?"

"Right before Christmas," Jodie replied with a sigh and a sip of wine. "Our first semester at home starts in February."

"This is very bad. Starfire must only be heating up if our project moves forward."

"I know," Jodi said. "I'll still be helping through the Internet, and I want to be there when we flip the switch and send the first watts to Earth, but I really want to stay to see the project launch. I have applied for grants and scholarships to renew, but nothing has come in yet."

"Would you have to pay for your own tuition, room, board and books?" - Brad asked.

"Yes, and American universities are big bikers compared to Australian schools, especially for visitors," Jodie said. "My parents are fighters, but I have five brothers and sisters, all younger than me. I should have gotten a scholarship or not gone to university at all."

"Perhaps I could help," Brad said.

Jodie stared at Brad over the rim of her glass. "Why, Mr. McLanahan, are you laughing at me?" - she asked, taking a sip.

"What?"

"Don't worry, Brad," Jodie replied. "I would never borrow money from anyone, especially from a cobber. It's just not in my nature." Brad's eyes narrowed for about the sixteenth millionth time. "From a friend, you idiot. I would never borrow money from a friend."

"ABOUT". He hesitated for a moment; then: "But if it was to keep you here until Starfire ends, then it would be an investment in the project, not a loan, right?"

She smiled at him again, trying to discern any hidden intent in his words, but in the end she shook her head. "Let's see what happens with all my applications and the project, buddy," Jodie said. "But you are the candy to offer. More wine?

"Just a little bit, and then I need to go back to Reinhold, grab my bike and head home."

"Why don"t you stay and I"ll cook us something?" Jodie asked. "Or we can go to the market and buy something." She walked closer to Brad, put down her glass, leaned forward and planted a tender kiss on his lips. "Or we can skip the tea and have a little fun."

Brad kissed her lightly, then said, "I don"t think I need an Aussie slang dictionary to decipher this." But, to her great disappointment, he looked away. "But I have a girlfriend in Nevada," he said.

"I've got one or two guys at home, man," Jodi said. "I'm not talking about relationships. We're two buddies away from home, Brad - I'm just a little further from home than you. I think you are brave and I have seen how you pervert me-"

"What! No, I don"t...what?"

"I mean, you're hot, and I saw the way you were looking at me," Jodie said with a smile. "I'm not saying we're getting married, buddy, and I'm not going to steal you from your significant other... at least not right away and not forever... maybe. " She reached out to take his hand, glancing quickly down the hallway leading to her bedroom. "I just want...what do you Yankees call it, 'get laid'?" Brad blinked in surprise and didn't-couldn't-say anything. She read the hesitation in his face and body language and nodded. "It's okay, buddy. Don"t blame Sheila for trying... or for trying again, later."

"I think you're hot, Jodie, and I like your eyes, hair and body," Brad said, "but I'm just not in the mood to get laid, and I want to see if I can make a long-distance relationship work. Besides, you and I work together and I don"t want anything to ruin that."

"It's okay, Brad," she said. "I think we're both old enough to continue working together even if we have a few naughty moments, but I respect your feelings." She saw Brad's serious face break into a grin, then into a chuckle. "Stop making fun of my accent and slang, you idiot!"

He laughed out loud at the new slang word. "I thought I'd heard all the Australian slang words, Jodie! Just today I heard ten more new songs!"

"Are you making fun of my accent again, Mr. McLanahan?"

"Sorry".

Jodie pointed to her nose, then said in a very low voice, "Don't apologize: it's a sign of weakness."

"Hey! You play John Wayne too! Military van, right?" He clapped.

"Thank you, sir," Jody said, bowing, "except she was wearing a yellow ribbon. Now let"s get out of here before I pounce on your bones, drongo!"

By the time they returned to the parking lot in front of the Reinhold Aerospace Engineering building, it was just starting to get dark. "I'd be happy to take you home and pick you up again in the morning, Brad," Jodi said as Brad got out of her car, picked up his backpack and walked to the driver's side window. "All you have to do is buy brekkie."

"I guess that means breakfast," Brad said with a smile. She rolled her eyes in mock irritation. "I might take you up on your offer when the weather is lousy, but I'll be fine. It"s not too dark yet."

"Anytime, buddy," Jodie said. She was pleasantly surprised when Brad leaned towards her through the open window and kissed her lightly on the lips. "Any time, Brad," she added with a smile. " 'Night". She put the car in gear and drove off.

"Am I the luckiest son of a BITCH on the planet?" he asked himself in a low voice. He took the keys out of his jeans, removed the locks from his Trek CrossRip hybrid road/cross-country bike, turned on the headlights and the red and white flashing LED safety lights he had installed throughout the bike, strapped on his helmet and turned on the lights, secured his backpack with the hip belt, and set off. on his two-mile ride home.

There was a lot of traffic on the main avenues, but San Luis Obispo was a very bike-friendly city, and he only had to dodge inattentive motorists once or twice during his fifteen-minute drive before getting home. The one-story, three-bedroom, one-and-a-half-bathroom home was located in the center of a one-acre lot with a detached two-car garage adjacent to it; the site was surrounded by an old but well-kept wooden fence. In this busy and rather congested area, it was a small reminder of the vast farming estates and numerous small ranches that dominated the area before the university swelled the population.

Brad brought his bike into the house - the garage had been broken into many times, so there was nothing of value in it - and even inside the house he locked it with a big, ugly looking chain and a huge padlock. There was no crime in the area, but kids were constantly jumping fences, looking through windows, and sometimes trying to open doors looking for something they could easily steal, and Brad hoped that if they saw a chained bicycle, they would move on to easier prey. For the same reason, he hid his backpack with his laptop out of sight in the closet and never left the laptop on the desk or kitchen table, even if he was in the yard or going to the store a few blocks away.

He rummaged through the refrigerator for leftovers. He vaguely remembered his father, a single father after his mother's murder, who would quite often make macaroni and cheese and sliced hot dogs for his son when he was home, and it always cheered Brad up, so he always had half a jar of it. in a refrigerator.

Damn, Jodie felt good too, he told himself. Who knew that a friendly but usually quiet Australian science geek would want something like a "hookup"? She was always so serious in class or in the lab. Who else, he wondered, was like that? Casey Huggins was a little more boisterous, but he was also pretty serious most of the time . He started going through the list of the few women he knew, comparing them to Jodi...

...and then he whipped out his cell phone, realizing that the main reason he didn't sleep with Jodi or anyone else was probably because he was waiting for him to call. He quickly dialed her number.

"Hi, this is Sondra," the message began. "I"m probably flying, so do your thing when you hear the beep."

"Hi Sondra. Brad," he spoke after the signal sounded. "It"s almost eight. Just wanted to say hello. Today we have prepared a presentation for Starfire. Wish us luck. Later."

It turned out that Sondra Eddington and Jodie Cavendish were very similar to each other, Brad realized when he found a jar of pasta. Both were fair-haired and blue-eyed; Sondra was a little taller, not as thin, and a few years older. Although Jodi was a student, and Sondra had already earned her bachelor's and master's degrees in business, as well as several pilot certificates, both were professionals in their fields: Jodi was a master in the laboratory, while Sondra was completely comfortable and excellent in flying an airplane - and was soon to become a spaceplane, as soon as she completed her training in the cockpit in the mountains.

And most importantly, both of them had no hesitation in speaking their minds and telling you exactly what they wanted, be it professional or personal, and definitely on all levels of the personal. How the hell can I attract women like this? Brad asked himself. It must have been just plain old dumb luck, because of course he didn't...

... and at that moment he heard the creak of a boot on the wooden kitchen floor and felt, rather than saw, a presence behind him. Brad dropped the pot on the floor and turned around to find two men standing in front of him! One of them was holding a backpack, and the other also had the same, along with a rag in his right hand. Brad half tripped, half jumped back toward the refrigerator in surprise.

"Awkward convenience," the first man growled at the other in what Brad took to be Russian. "Bumbling idiot." He then casually pulled an automatic pistol with a silencer attached to the barrel from the waistband of his pants, held it at waist level, and aimed it at Brad. "Don't move or scream, Mr. McLanahan, or you'll die," he said in perfectly good English.

"What the fuck are you doing in my house?" Brad said in a shaky, cracked voice. "Are you robbing me? I have nothing!"

"Let you go, fool," the first man said in a low voice. "Let him go, and do it right this time."

Moving with amazing speed, the second man grabbed something from his belt and swung it. Stars flashed before Brad's eyes, and he never remembered how an object hit him in the temple or how his body collapsed to the floor like a bag of beans.

FOUR

Be like the fox who leaves more tracks than necessary, some in the wrong direction. Practice resurrection.

- WENDELL BERRY

SAN LUIS OBISPO, CALIFORNIA

"Finally, you did something right," the first man said in Russian. "Now watch the back door." The second man put the baton back in his pants, pulled out a silenced pistol, and took a position where he could watch the backyard through the curtains on the kitchen window.

The first man began laying out items from his backpack on the dining room table: small bags containing pea-sized white pieces of powder, spoons covered in soot, butane lighters, rolled up hundred dollar bills, memorial candles, a bottle of 151 proof rum, hypodermic needles and syringes. . After they were laid out on the table the way a drug addict might lay out his works, the first man pulled Brad over to the table, took off his left athletic shoe and sock, and began poking him deep between his toes with a hypodermic needle, drawing blood. Brad groaned, but didn't wake up.

He heard feet shuffling on the floor behind him. "Be silent, damn you," said the first attacker in Russian through clenched teeth. "Shut up, you bumbling fool. Put your damn feet up." He then began pouring rum over Brad's face and mouth, as well as the front of his shirt. Brad coughed, groaned, and spat out a strong liquid. "Damn, he"s almost awake," he said. He took out a lighter and put his finger on the igniter. "Clear the way and let"s get the hell out of-"

Suddenly the man felt his body being lifted off the floor, as if he had been sucked into a tornado. He caught a glimpse of his assistant, crumpled and bleeding on the floor by the back door, before he felt himself being turned around... until he found himself face to face with one of the most terrifying, twisted, evil human forms he had ever seen in his twenty years of committing assassinations for the Russian government's Federal Security Bureau, once known as the KGB, or Committee for State Security, the security bureau of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. But he only saw the face for a moment before a huge fist came out of nowhere and slammed into his face right between the eyes, and he didn't remember anything after that.

The new arrival let the unconscious Russian fall four feet to the floor, then leaned down to check on Brad. "Jesus, kid, wake up," he said, checking to see if Brad's airways were blocked and if his pupils indicated a concussion. "I"m not going to drag your fat ass." He took out his cell phone and quickly dialed the number. "It"s me," he spoke. "Cleaning up the ranch. Disconnect." After finishing the conversation, he began to punch Brad in the face. "Wake up, McLanahan."

"I'm sorry, what...?" Brad's eyes finally opened... and then they opened wide in complete surprise when he saw the newcomer's face . He stumbled back in shock and tried to wriggle out of the man's grip, but it was too strong. "Crap! Who are you?"

"Scary," said the man, alarmed. "Where are your school things?"

"My... my what...?"

"Come on, McLanahan, pull yourself together," the man said. He looked around the dining room and hallway and noticed a closet door ajar with a backpack on the shelf. "Go". He half-dragged Brad through the front door, grabbing his backpack from the shelf before hurrying out the door.

A large black SUV was parked on the street near the entrance gate. Brad was pressed against him and held in place by placing a hand on his chest as the man opened the right rear passenger door, then grabbed him by the shirt and threw him inside. Someone else pulled him further inside when a scary-looking man slid inside, the door slammed shut, and the SUV sped away.

"What the hell is going on?" - Brad shouted. He was squeezed tightly between two very large men, and the squeeze seemed very deliberate. "Who-"

"Shut the hell up, McLanahan!" the man commanded in a low, menacing voice that seemed to make the seats and windows shake. "We're still downtown. Passers-by can hear you." But they soon got on Highway 101, heading north.

The second man in the back seat moved back to the third row, so Brad was in the second row with the large stranger. Neither of them said a word until they were well outside the city. Finally: "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere safe," said the stranger.

"I can't leave. I have work to do."

"Do you want to live, McLanahan? If you do that, you won't be able to go back there."

"I have to," Brad insisted. "I have a project that could have an orbital solar power plant operational within a year." The stranger looked at him but said nothing, then began working on his smartphone. Brad looked at the man as the light from his smartphone illuminated his face. The glow left deep grooves on the man's face, apparently caused by some kind of injury or illness, perhaps a fire or chemical burn. "You look familiar," he said. The man didn't say anything. "What is your name?"

"Ox," said the man. "Chris Wohl."

It took a few long moments, but Brad's face finally brightened. "I remember you," he said. "Marine Corps Sgt. You are my father's friend."

"I was never your father"s friend," Wohl said in a low voice, almost a whisper. "He was my commander. That's all".

"Do you own the house I"m staying in?" Wohl said nothing. "What's going on, Sergeant?"

"Senior Sergeant," Vol said. "Resigned." He finished what he was doing on the smartphone, and his scarred face fell back into darkness.

"How did you know these guys were in the house?"

"Observation," Vol said.

"Are you watching the house or are you watching me?" Wohl said nothing. Brad was silent for a few moments, then said, "These guys look like they"re Russian."

"This is true".

"Who are they?"

"Former Federal Security Bureau agents working for a guy named Bruno Ilyanov," Wohl said. "Ilyanov is an intelligence officer who officially holds the position of deputy air attaché & # 233; in Washington with diplomatic powers. He reports directly to Gennady Gryzlov. Ilyanov was recently on the West Coast."

"Gryzlov? Do you mean Russian President Gryzlov? Related to the former president of Russia?"

"His eldest son".

"What do they want from me?"

"We're not sure," Wohl said, "but he's involved in some kind of campaign against the McLanahans. His agents entered your father"s crypt and stole his urn and other items inside."

"What? When did this happen?"

"Last Saturday morning."

"Last Saturday! Why didn"t anyone tell me?" Wohl did not answer. "What about my aunts? Have they been told?

"No. We also keep them under surveillance. We think they are safe."

"In safety? Safe as I am? Those guys had guns and they broke into the house. They said they would kill me."

"They tried to make it look like an accident, a drug overdose," Wohl said. "They were sloppy. We discovered them a couple of days ago. We didn't find anyone near your sisters. They may not be aware of them, or they may not be targets."

"Who are we'? Are you from the police? FBI? CIA?

"No".

Brad waited a few moments for some clarification, but never received any. "Who do you work for, Sergeant Major?"

Vol took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Your father belonged to several... private organizations before he took over Sky Masters," he said. "These organizations performed contract work for the government and other organizations using some of the new technologies and weapons systems developed for the military."

"The Tin Woodman armor and cybernetic infantry device controlled the robots," Brad said matter-of-factly. Vol's head jerked up in surprise, and Brad felt rather than saw the big man's breathing slow and stop. "I know about them. I was even trained at CID. I piloted one of these at Battle Mountain. Some Russians tried to kill my father. I crushed them in the car."

"Damn," Vol muttered under his breath. "Were you piloting the CID?"

"Of course I did," Brad said with a big smile.

Wohl shook his head. "You liked it, didn"t you?"

"They shot up my house looking for my dad," Brad said, a little defensively. "I would do it again if I had to." He was silent for a few moments, then added: "But yes, I did. CID is one hell of a piece of equipment. We must build thousands of these."

"The power penetrates you," said Vol. "Your father's friend-and mine-General Hal Briggs got drunk and it killed him. Your father ordered me to do... missions with the CID and Tin Woodman squads, and we were successful, but I could see how the power was affecting me, so I quit."

"My father did not die in a criminal investigation robot."

"I know exactly what happened on Guam," Wohl said. "He disregarded the safety of his unit and even his own son to strike back at the Chinese. Why? Because he had a bomber and weapons, and he decided to use them himself. It was just a pinprick..."

"The Chinese surrendered immediately after the strike, didn"t they?"

"Some Chinese military and civilian leaders organized a counter-underground in the days after the attack," Wohl said. "It had nothing to do with your attack. It was a coincidence."

"I guess you're an expert," Brad said. Vol shook his head, but said nothing. "Who do you work for, Sergeant Major?" - Brad repeated.

"I"m not here to answer a bunch of questions, McLanahan," Vol snapped. "My orders were to intercept the strike team and ensure your safety. That's all ".

"I'm not leaving campus, Sergeant Major," Brad said. "I have a lot of work to do."

"I don"t give a damn," Vol said. "I was ordered to protect you."

"Orders? Whose orders?" No answer. "If you're not going to answer, then I'll talk to your boss. But I can't quit school. I just began." Vol continued to remain silent. A few minutes later, Brad repeated: "How long have you worked for my father?"

"For a while," Wohl said after a few moments. "And I didn"t work for him: I was under his command, his staff sergeant."

"You don"t look like you"re happy about this."

Wohl glanced in Brad's direction, then turned and looked out the window, and was silent for several long moments; then finally: "After... after your mother was killed, your father... changed," Vol said in a quiet voice. "In all the years I've known him, he's always been the guy on a mission, tenacious and tough, but..." He took another deep breath before continuing, "But after your mother was killed, he became more evil and deadly. It was no longer about protecting the nation or winning a conflict, but about... killing, even killing or threatening Americans, anyone who stood in the way of victory. The power he gained seemed to go to his head, even after he left Scion Aviation International and took a corporate job at Sky Masters. I put up with it for a while until I thought it was getting out of control, and then I quit."

"Quit? Why didn"t you try to help him instead?"

"He was my commander," Vol answered woodenly. "I don"t advise senior officers unless they ask for it."

"That's bullshit, Vol," Brad said. "If you saw my dad was hurt, you should have helped, and fuck that senior officer crap. And I've never seen any of this other stuff. My father was a good father, a volunteer and a dedicated leader who loved his family, his community, his country and his company. He was not a murderer."

"You never saw it because it protects you from all this," Vol said. "He's a completely different guy next to you. Besides, you were a typical kid-most of the time, your head was held high and buried in your ass."

"You are enthusiastic, Sergeant Major," Brad said. He caught another glimpse of Vol's wrinkled face in the headlights of an approaching truck. "What happened to your face?"

"None of your business," Vol grumbled.

"You've been spying on me for God knows how long and I can't ask you one lousy personal question?" - Brad asked. "I think you've been in the Marines too long."

Vol half turned to Brad, as if he was going to argue with him, but he didn"t and turned back to the window. After a few moments, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "The American Holocaust," he said finally. "I assume you've heard of this?"

"Sarcasm, Sergeant Major? It doesn't suit you and it's inappropriate. Tens of thousands were killed."

"Your father planned and executed the American counterattack," Vol said, ignoring Brad's remark. "Waves of bombers spread across much of western and central Russia, hunting down mobile intercontinental ballistic missiles. I was his junior officer in charge of Yakutsk, the Siberian airbase he commanded."

It took a few seconds, but then Brad recognized the name of the air base and his jaw dropped in surprise. "Oh, crap," he breathed. "You mean... the base that was hit by Russian nuclear cruise missiles?"

Vol did not react, but fell silent again for a few moments. "Obviously I did not receive a lethal dose of radiation-I was wearing the Tin Man's battle armor-but I was exposed to the most radiation of anyone except General Briggs," he finally said. "Forty-seven survivors from that Russian underground shelter died from radiation-related illnesses over the years. It just takes me a little longer."

"Oh my God, Sergeant Major, I'm sorry," Brad said. "The pain must be terrible." Wohl looked at Brad, a little surprised to hear the sympathy coming from the young man, but he didn't say anything. "This may be what killed General Briggs. Perhaps the radiation forced him to take risks. Maybe he knew he was dying and decided to go out and fight."

"Now look who our expert is," Vol muttered.

They followed Highway 101 north, occasionally taking side roads and backtracks, watching for any signs of surveillance. Every few minutes, when they found a highway overpass, they would stop and one of the men in the SUV would get out, carrying what appeared to be very large multi-lens binoculars. "What is he doing, Sergeant Major?" - Brad asked.

"I"m looking for air pursuers," Wohl replied. "We know that the Russians use drones to spy on military bases and other sensitive sites over the United States, and Gryzlov was a Russian Air Force officer. He would definitely have such equipment. It uses infrared binoculars that can detect heat sources in the air or on the ground from several miles away." A few minutes later, the man got back into the SUV and they continued on their way.

About an hour after leaving San Luis Obispo, they turned onto the road to the airport outside Paso Robles. The driver entered a code into the electronic lock, and the tall mesh gate opened, allowing them into the airport grounds. They drove along quiet, dark taxiways, lit only by small blue lights along the edges, until they came to a large airplane hangar, surrounded on three sides by another chain-link fence, with only the parking lot entrance and taxiway open. This time, instead of a code, the driver pressed his thumb against the optical reader, and the lock opened with a quiet hum.

The interior of the very large hangar was dominated by a gray General Atomics MQ-1B Predator remotely piloted aircraft parked on the left side of the hangar. The words "CUSTOMS AND BORDER PROTECTION" and the agency's shield were painted on the front of the plane, but it certainly didn't look like a government agency. Brad walked over to look at it, but a guy in jeans and a black T-shirt with a machine gun slung from a quick-release belt over his shoulders stood between him and the Predator and crossed his arms in front of him, silently and clearly warning him to stay away.

Brad returned to Chris Wohl, who was talking to the men who were in his SUV and a few others. In the dim light of the hangar, he could better see the deep scratches on Vol's face, and also saw damage to the skin on his neck and on both arms. "What is this place, Sergeant Major?" - he asked.

"Somewhere safe, for now," Vol responded.

"Who are these-"

"I'm not going to answer any questions right now," Vol said hoarsely. "If there is anything else you need to know, they will tell you." He pointed to a cabinet along one of the walls next to the Predator. "There's coffee and water if you want. Don't go near the plane again." He turned away from Brad and spoke again to the others.

Brad shook his head and decided to go see if they had anything to eat, regretting that he hadn't taken up any of her offers - food or otherwise. He found a bottle of cold water in the refrigerator, but instead of drinking it, he applied it to the side of his head to soften the impact where the Russian hit him with his baton. A few minutes later he heard a plane outside the hangar approaching the area, from the sound of it it sounded like it was moving very fast. Wohl and the other men stopped talking and turned towards the hangar door as the sounds of the plane outside became a little quieter as the engines were idled. Just as Brad was about to return to Vol and ask him what was going on, the lights dimmed even more and the hangar's double doors began to open.

After the door was fully opened, a small twin-tailed C-23C Sherpa cargo plane taxied inside. It had an American flag and a civilian N number on its tail, but no other military markings, and was painted jet black instead of the usual gray. It taxied straight into the hangar, spinning its large turboprops, and Brad, Vol, and the others were forced to retreat as the plane drove all the way inside. Controlled by a linesman with a machine gun on his shoulder, he taxied forward until he was given the signal to stop, and then the engines stopped. The large double doors of the hangar began to motorically close as the engines began to stall. The smell of jet engine exhaust was strong.

A moment later, the passenger door on the left side of the plane, outside the cockpit windows, opened, and out emerged a large guy who looked like a soldier, wearing a suit and tie - and with a noticeable bulge of a weapon under his jacket - who was immediately followed by a shorter man, wearing a suit, but without tie, with rather long gray hair and a neatly trimmed gray beard; at the same time, the cargo hatch/ramp at the rear of the aircraft began to open using the engine. Wohl and the other men approached the second newcomer and they all shook hands. They talked for a few moments, and then Wohl nodded in Brad's direction and the second newcomer walked up to him, unbuttoning his jacket.

"Mr. Bradley James McLanahan," the newcomer said in a loud, dramatic, very political-sounding voice while he was still a few steps away from us. "A lot of time has passed. You probably don't remember me. I certainly wouldn"t recognize you."

"I don't remember you, sir, but I'm sure I recognize you: you're President Kevin Martindale," Brad said, making no attempt to hide his surprise and confusion. Martindale smiled widely and looked pleased that Brad recognized him, and he extended his hand as he approached. Brad shook it. "Nice to meet you, sir, but now I'm even more confused."

"I don"t blame you one bit, son," the former president said. "Everything is happening quickly and people are struggling to keep up. Then this incident with you in San Luis Obispo came up and we had to respond." He glanced at the bruise on the side of Brad's head. "How"s your head, son? You have a very nasty bruise there."

"Everything is fine, sir."

"Fine. I, of course, asked the sergeant major what we should do when we discovered the infiltration, and he said extract you, I said yes, and he did. He's extremely effective at things like this."

"I didn't see what he did, but I'm here, so I guess he must be," Brad said. "If the sergeant major is working for you, sir, then could you tell me what's going on? He didn't tell me anything."

"He wouldn't tell you anything if he had a car battery connected to his testicles, son," Martindale said. "Like any of the people in this hangar. I guess I'm the boss of this organization, but I don't actually run it. He does."

"He? He who?"

"He," Martindale said and pointed to the plane's cargo ramp as it appeared. It was a cybernetic infantry device- a manned robot designed for the US Army as a battlefield replacement for a standard infantry platoon, including the latter's mobility, versatility, and all its firepower-but it was unlike any CID Brad could remember . This one somehow seemed sleeker, lighter, taller and more refined than the one Brad had piloted a few years ago. The twelve-plus-foot tall robot had a large torso that flowed from broad shoulders to a slightly slimmer waist, slimmer hips, and rather thin-looking arms and legs attached to the torso. Sensors seemed to be installed everywhere - on the shoulders, waist and arms. The head was a hexagonal box with beveled sides and no eyes, just touch pads on each side. It seemed a little taller than the one Brad was piloting.

The sensation of piloting a cybernetic infantry device was nothing like anything Brad had ever experienced before. First, he obtained a digital map of his nervous system and loaded it into the robot's computerized control interface. He then climbed into the robot through the back, lay spread-eagled on the rather cold, gelatinous conductive mat, and stuck his head into the helmet and oxygen mask. The hatch closed behind him, and everything was plunged into darkness, quickly causing a slight claustrophobia. But after a few moments he could see again... along with the mountains of data received from the robot, the sensors were presented to him visually and inserted into his body's sensory system, so that he was not just reading information from the screens, but images and data appeared in his mind as memory or actual input from touch, sight and hearing. As he began to move, he discovered that he could run with amazing speed and agility, jump dozens of feet, smash walls, and overturn armored vehicles. The robot had an amazing array of weapons attached to it, and it could control them all with breathtaking speed and extreme precision.

"Criminal Investigation," Brad noted. "It looks brand new. New design too."

"This is the first instance of the new CID force model that we plan to deploy," Martindale said.

"Cool," Brad said. He waved to the robot. "Who is the pilot? Charlie Turlock? She taught me how to fly one a couple of years ago." To the CID he said, "Hey Charlie, how are you? Will you let me ride it?"

TIE walked up to Martindale and Bradley, his movements eerily human despite his size and robotic limbs, and said in an electronic humanoid voice, "Hi, son."

It took Brad a few moments to realize that what he had just heard was true, and the realization sunk in, but finally Brad's eyes widened in surprise and shock and he screamed, "Dad?" He reached for the CID, unsure where to touch it. "Oh my God, dad, is that you? You are alive? You are alive! "

"Yes, son," said Patrick McLanahan. Brad still couldn't figure out where to touch the robot, so he had to settle for holding his own stomach. He began to sob. "It's okay, Bradley," Patrick finally said, reaching out and hugging his son. "Oh my God, it"s so good to see you again."

"But I don't understand it, Dad," Brad said after a few long moments in his father's arms. "They... they told me that you... died from your injuries..."

"I really am dead, son," Patrick said in an electronically synthesized voice. "When they pulled me out of the B-1 bomber in Guam after you landed the B-1, I was clinically dead and everyone knew it and the word was out there. But after you and the other crew members were evacuated to Hawaii, they loaded me into an ambulance and started resuscitation, and I returned."

"They... they wouldn't let me stay with you, Dad," Brad said between sobs. "I tried to stay with you, but they wouldn"t let me. Sorry dad, I"m so sorry, I should have demanded-"

"It's okay, son," Patrick said. "All the victims had to wait to be assessed and triaged, and I was just another victim among hundreds that day. Local doctors and volunteers tended to the victims, while the military and contractors were taken away. They kept me alive for a day and a half in a small clinic off base, parked away from everything. The first people to come to help were local residents, and they didn't know who I was. They took me to another small clinic in Agana and kept me alive."

"But how...?"

"President Martindale found me a couple of days after the attack," Patrick said. "The Celestial Masters were still able to track me through the subcutaneous data link. Martindale monitored all activities of Sky Masters Inc. in the South China Sea region and sent the aircraft to Andersen Air Force Base to collect intelligence and data about the attack. They eventually found me and smuggled me to the States."

"But why CID, dad?"

"It was Jason Richter's idea," Martindale said. "I believe you met Colonel Richter at Battle Mountain?"

"Yes, sir. He helped me with the programming so I could test myself in CID piloting. He is now the head of operations at Sky Masters Aerospace."

"Your father was in critical condition and was not expected to survive the flight back to Hawaii," Martindale said. My plane that evacuated him had very little medical personnel and no surgical or trauma care equipment...but did have an infantry cybernetic device on board that assisted in the rescue on Guam. Jason said CID can help a victim breathe and control other body functions until he gets to the hospital. Richter didn"t know that the victim was your father."

"Then... are you okay then, Dad?" - Brad asked, happy at first. But he quickly realized that his father was far, far from being okay, otherwise he wouldn't still be on board the CID with his only son standing in front of him. "Dad...?"

"I'm afraid not, son," Patrick said. "I can"t survive outside the criminal investigation."

"What?"

"I might have survived, Brad, but I would definitely have been on a ventilator and a heartbeat and probably in a vegetative state," Patrick said. Brad's eyes filled with tears and his mouth dropped open in shock. Both of the robot's hands reached out and rested on Brad's shoulders-his touch was light, even gentle, despite his size. "I didn't mean it, Brad. I didn't want to be a burden to my family for years, maybe decades, until they had the technology to heal me or until I died. Inside CID I was awake, functioning, up and moving. Outside, I would have been in a coma, on life support. When I was inside the CID and came to, I had the choice of staying on life support, pulling the plug, or staying in the CID. I decided that I would rather stay inside where I could be of some use."

"Are you... are you going to stay inside... forever...? "

"I'm afraid so, son," Patrick said, "until we've had a chance to heal all the injuries I've sustained." Tears rolled down Brad's face even more. "Brad, it's okay," Patrick said, his soft, reassuring tone evident even in the robot's electronic voice. "I should have been dead, son-I was dead. I was given an extraordinary gift. It may not seem like life, but it is. I want you to be happy for me."

"But I can"t... I can"t see you?" Brad reached out and touched the robot's face. "I can"t touch you... for real?"

"Trust me, son, I feel your touch," Patrick said. "I'm sorry you can't feel mine except for the cold composites. But the alternatives were unacceptable to me. I'm not ready to die yet, Brad. It may seem unnatural and unholy, but I am still alive and I think I can make a difference."

"What about the memorial service... The urn... The death certificate...?"

"This is my doing, Brad," President Martindale said. "As your father said, he was dead for a short time, in critical condition, and was not expected to survive. No one except Richter thought that placing a wounded man in the criminal investigation department would last a few days at most. Once we got back to the States, we tried several times to get him out of CID so we could send him to surgery. Every time we tried, he made an arrest. It was... as if his body didn"t want to leave it."

"I was in a bit of a bind too, Brad," Patrick said. "I saw the photographs. There"s not much left of me."

"So what do you want to say? Are you being healed by the CID? How can this work?

"Not healed, but rather... supported, Brad," Patrick said. "CID can monitor my body and brain, deliver oxygen, water and nutrients, process waste and control the internal environment. It can't fix me. Maybe I'll get better with time, but no one knows. But I don"t need a healthy body to pilot the CID or use its weapons."

Brad understood what his father was talking about, and it made his skin crawl and his face contort in disbelief, despite the joy he felt in talking to his father again. "You mean... you mean you're just a brain... the brain that controls the machine... ?"

"I'm alive, Brad," Patrick said. "It"s not just the brain running the machine." He tapped his armored chest with a compound finger. "It's me here. This is your father. The body is a mess, but it's still me. I drive this car just like you did back at Battle Mountain. The only difference is that I can't just get off whenever I want. I can't go out and be a regular dad. This part of my life was destroyed by shells from the cannon of that Chinese fighter. But I'm still me. I don't want to die. I want to continue working to protect our country. If I have to do it from inside this thing, I will. If my son can't touch me, can't see my face anymore, then that's the punishment I'm getting for accepting life. It is a gift and a punishment that I gladly accept."

Brad's mind was racing, but gradually he began to understand. "I think I understand, Dad," he said after a long silence. "I'm happy you're alive." He turned to face Martindale. "I don't understand you, Martindale. How could you not tell me that he was alive even if he was in the CID?"

"I run a private organization that conducts high-tech intelligence, counterintelligence, surveillance and other high-risk operations, Brad," Martindale said. He noticed Chris Wall making a move towards Brad and shook his head, warning him to move away. "I am always looking for personnel, equipment and weapons to better do our job."

"You're talking about my father, not some fucking piece of hardware, sir," Brad snapped. Martindale's mouth dropped open in surprise at Brad's line, and Vol looked angry enough to bite off a piece of a cargo plane's propeller. Brad noticed something he hadn't noticed before: two strands of gray hair curled above Martindale's forehead over each eye, resembling upside-down devil horns. "You're starting to sound like some mad scientist Dr. Frankenstein."

"I'm sorry, Brad," Martindale said. "Like I said, all the doctors we talked to didn't expect your father to survive. I really didn't know what to say to the White House, to you, to your aunts... hell, what to say to the whole world. So, I made a proposal to President Phoenix: We don't tell anyone that your father was still alive in the CID. We had a memorial service in Sacramento. When your father passed away, as we truly believed was inevitable, we would have truly returned his remains and the legend of Patrick McLanahan would have finally come to an end." Martindale looked at the infantry cybernetic device next to him. "But, as you can now see, he did not die. Once again he managed to shock and surprise the hell out of us. But what could we do? We have already buried him. We had a choice: tell the world that he was alive but living inside CID, or not tell anyone. We chose the latter."

"So why tell me now?" Brad asked, his head still spinning. "I believed my father was dead. You could leave him dead and I could remember him as he was before the attack."

"Several reasons," Martindale said. "First the Russians stole your father's cremation urn and we have to assume they opened it and found it empty - we never dreamed that anyone would ever steal it and we thought it wouldn't be long before before it was needed, so unfortunately we didn't put anyone's remains in it. We thought that the Russians could use this fact to put pressure on President Phoenix or even make this fact public, and then he would be forced to react."

"You know what they say about assumption," Brad said acidly.

Patrick placed an armored hand on Brad's shoulder. "Calm down, son," the electronic voice said softly. "I know this is a lot to take in, but you still need to show a little respect."

"I'll try, Dad, but it's a little difficult right now," Brad said bitterly. "And secondly?"

"The Russians are coming for you," Patrick said. "That was the last straw for me. I was at the Utah site when all this happened and I asked to be with you."

"An object?"

"Vault," Patrick said.

"Storage?"

"We can talk more on the plane back to St. George," Kevin Martindale said. "Let's load up and-"

"I can't leave here, sir," Brad said. "I'm finishing up my first year at Cal Poly and I just gave a presentation for a summer lab project that could earn the engineering department a major grant from Sky Masters Aerospace. I can't just leave. I lead a large team of researchers and developers, and they all count on me."

"I understand, Brad, but if you go back to San Luis Obispo and Cal Poly, you'll be too exposed," Martindale said. "We cannot risk your safety."

"I appreciate the staff sergeant getting me out of there, sir," Brad said, "but-"

"I asked to be pulled out, son," Patrick interrupted. "I know this will completely ruin your life, but we just don't know how many Russian agents are or could be involved. Gryzlov is as crazy as his father, and he could send dozens of strike groups. I'm sorry. We'll put you under protective custody, create a new identity for you, send you somewhere to finish your education, and...

"No way, Dad," Brad said. "We have to figure out another way. If you don't tie me up and throw me in the back seat of your cool cargo plane, I'll come back even if I have to hitchhike."

"I'm afraid that's impossible, Brad," Patrick said. "I can't allow this. It's too dangerous. I need you to-"

"I'm an adult now, Dad," Brad interrupted, finding it a little funny to argue with a twelve-foot robot. "Unless you take away my constitutional rights by force, I am free to do whatever I want. Besides, I'm not afraid. Now that I know what's going on-at least a little more than what I knew just a couple of hours ago-I'll be more careful."

Kevin Martindale leaned over to Patrick and said, "I think he sounds like fucking McLanahan, that's right," he commented with a smile. "What are you going to do now, General? It appears that a stationary object has collided with an irresistible force."

Patrick remained silent for several long moments. Finally: "Senior Sergeant?"

"Sir?" Vol responded immediately.

"Meet with Bradley and your team and come up with a solution to this dilemma," Patrick said. "I want to know the risks and your assessment of how to reduce or mitigate those risks to Bradley's personality if he were to return to this campus. Report to me as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir," Vol replied, taking out his cell phone and getting to work.

"Brad, you will not return to school until this has been settled to my satisfaction, and if necessary, to ensure your compliance, I will tie you up and throw you in the baggage compartment - and it will not be the bay of that plane, but a much smaller one." - Patrick continued. "Sorry, son, but that"s how it will be. Looks like we're staying here for the foreseeable future." He paused, silently scanning the displays on his on-board computer. "There's a motel and restaurant not far from here, Sergeant Major," he said. "They show a lot of vacancies. I'll ask Kylie to rent rooms for you and send you information. Stay there overnight and we'll work out a game plan in the morning. Get one of the men to bring some food for Bradley, please."

"Yes, sir," Wohl replied, turned and left.

"But what are you going to do, dad?" - Brad asked. "You can't check into a motel."

"I'll be pretty safe here," Patrick said. "I don"t need hotel beds or restaurants anymore, that"s for sure."

"Then I"ll stay here with you," Brad said. The TIE was motionless and silent. "I'm staying here with you," Brad insisted.

"The McLanahans are getting reacquainted," Martindale said. "Lovely." He pulled out his smartphone and read the display. "My plane is landing. As soon as he pulls in, I'll head back to St. George and sleep in my own bed for a change. You can work out the details of how to deal with the younger McLanahan, General." He paused and everyone fell silent and sure enough they could hear the sound of an approaching jet outside the hangar. "My car has arrived. I wish you gentlemen all the best. Keep me posted, General."

"Yes, sir," Patrick"s electronically synthesized voice responded.

"Good night, everyone," Martindale said, turned on his heel and left, followed by his guards.

Patrick said into the air through the CID's extensive communications system, "Kylie?"

A few moments later: "Yes, sir?" answered "Kylie," an automatic voice recognition digital personal assistant who was given the same name as Patrick's real-life assistant at Sky Masters Inc.

"We need two motel or hotel rooms nearby for the night and maybe three more for tomorrow and the day after for the sergeant major's team," Patrick said. "I'll stay here tonight; The 'cop' is heading back to headquarters." "Cop" was President Martindale's code name.

"Yes, sir," Kylie replied. "I have already received the updated 'Cop' route. I will forward the deployment information to the Sergeant Major immediately."

"Thank you," Patrick said. "Out." To Brad he said, "Pull up a chair, son. I can"t wait to get hooked." Brad found bottles of water in the small refrigerator. The policeman pulled a thick extension cord from a pocket on his belt, plugged it into a 220-volt outlet, stood up straight, then froze in place. Brad brought a chair and water to CID. Inside the robot, Patrick couldn't help but smile at the expression on his son's face. "Pretty weird, isn"t it, Brad?" - he said.

"'Weird' doesn't even come close to describing it, Dad," Brad said, shaking his head, then pressed the cold bottle to the swelling bruise on his head. He carefully studied the criminal investigation department. "Do you sleep well there?"

"I mostly sleep. I don't need much sleep. It's the same with food." He reached into another armored compartment on his belt and pulled out a curved container that looked like a large flask. "Concentrated nutrients are poured into me. The Criminal Investigation Department is testing my blood and adjusting the nutritional composition." Brad just sat there, shaking his head slightly. "Go ahead, ask me anything, Brad," Patrick finally said.

"What did you do?" Brad asked after a few moments to clear his floating mind. "I mean, what does President Martindale instruct you to do?"

"I spend most of my time training with Chris Wall and other direct action teams using a variety of weapons and gadgets," Patrick said. "They also use my computers and sensors to plan possible missions and conduct surveillance." He paused for a moment, then said in a very obviously somber tone, "But mostly I'm standing in a vault, connected to power, medicine, waste disposal and data, scanning sensor feeds and the internet, interacting with the world... sort of. Digitally."

"Are you staying in the storage room?"

"I don't have much of a reason to be out here unless we're on a training or mission," Patrick said. "I scare people enough already, I think."

"Nobody talks to you?"

"During training or operations, of course," Patrick said. "I collect reports of what I see and send them to Martindale and we can discuss them. I can instant message and teleconference with almost anyone."

"No, I mean... just talk to you like we're doing now," Brad said. "You are still you. You're Patrick McLanahan."

Another pause; then: "I"ve never been much of a talker, son," he said at last. Brad didn't like this answer, but didn't say anything. "Besides, I didn"t want anyone to know that it was me from the criminal investigation department. They think he's unoccupied when he's in the warehouse and that a bunch of pilots show up to train with him. They don"t know that he is busy twenty-four hours a day / seven minutes." He saw the look of absolute sadness on his son's face and desperately wanted to hug him.

"Isn"t it becoming... do you know what the rank is?" - Brad asked.

"If there is, I can't detect it," Patrick said. "But they periodically transfer me to another criminal investigation department."

"They make? So you can exist outside of CID?"

"For very short periods of time, yes," Patrick said. "They change the bandages, give me medications if I need them, check things like muscle tone and bone density, then lower me into a clean robot."

"So I can see you again!"

"Brad, I don't think you want to see me," Patrick said. "I was pretty exhausted from sitting in the wind from that downed B-1 bomber for so long. By the way, thanks for getting us back safe and sound."

"You're welcome. But I would still like to see you."

"We'll talk about it when the time comes," Patrick said. "They give me a couple of days' notice. I"m on life support while I"m outside."

Brad looked even more dejected than before. "What is all this for, dad?" - he asked after a long silence. "Are you going to become some kind of high-tech killing machine like the Sergeant Major said you became?"

"The sergeant major can be a drama queen sometimes," Patrick said. "Brad, I realized the importance of the gift of life because it was almost taken away from me. I know how precious life is right now. But I also want to protect our country, and I now have an extraordinary ability to do that."

"And then what?"

For a moment Brad thought he saw his father shrug his huge armored shoulders. "Honestly, I don't know," Patrick said. "But President Martindale was involved in the creation of many secret organizations that protected and promoted American foreign and military policy for decades."

"Is there anything you can tell me about?" - Brad asked.

Patrick thought for a moment, then nodded. "You've seen the Predator with the Customs and Border Protection shield on it, but I think you've noticed that the guards and other personnel here are not CBP. This is one way to conduct surveillance within the United States but remain completely in denial. This gives the White House and the Pentagon a lot of room to maneuver."

"Sounds illegal as hell, Dad."

"That may be true, but we also do a lot of great work that I feel has kept the world out of war several times," Patrick said. "President Martindale and I were involved with a defense contracting company called Scion Aviation International, providing contract services for aerial surveillance and, ultimately, attack operations against the US military. When I joined Sky Masters I lost track of what Scion was doing, but now I know he kept things going. He does a lot of counter-terrorism surveillance work around the world under contract with the US government."

"Martindale is starting to piss me off, Dad," Brad said. "He is a cross between a greasy politician and a generalissimo."

"He's the kind of guy who thinks outside the box and gets the job done-he always makes the ends justify the means," Patrick said. "As Vice President of the United States, Martindale was the driving force behind the use of experimental high-tech aircraft and weapons being developed at secret test sites in Dreamland and elsewhere in what he called "operational test flights," and as President of the United States, he created the Agency intelligence support that covertly supported the CIA and other agencies in operations around the world, including within the United States."

"Again, Dad, that sounds completely illegal."

"These days, maybe," Patrick replied. "During the Cold War, politicians and commanders looked for ways to accomplish the mission without violating the law or the Constitution. The law prohibited the CIA from operating on US soil, but civilian surveillance and intelligence support groups were not illegal. Their definition, identity and purpose have been deliberately blurred."

"So what do you want to do, dad?" - Brad asked.

"I was given something that I can never repay: the gift of life," Patrick said. "I owe something to President Martindale for giving me this gift. I'm not saying I'm going to be his mercenary from now on, but I'm willing to follow this path to see where it takes me." Brad had a very worried look on his face. "Lets change theme. One of the things I keep an eye on every day is you, at least your digital life, which is quite extensive these days. I can access your social media sites and I can access some security cameras on campus as well as security cameras at your home and at the airport in the airplane hangar. I didn't take my eyes off you. You haven't done much flying or anything other than schoolwork. I see you're busy with the Starfire project."

"We told Dr. Nukaga about it this afternoon," Brad said. It was nice to see him light up when he started talking about school, Patrick thought. "As long as I don't put it into his head that this is a secret military project, which it isn't, I think we have a good chance. One of our team leaders, Jung Bae Kim, gets along really well with Nukaga. He may prove to be our ace in the hole."

"Your whole team is pretty amazing," Patrick said. "Lane Egan's parents are world-class researchers, and he is probably smarter than both of them combined. Jodie Cavendish was a superstar studying science at high school in Australia. She received a dozen patents before finishing her first year of college."

Brad's face fell again. "I guess you have a lot of time to surf the Internet, don't you, Dad?" - he remarked in a quiet, sad tone.

This time, Patrick unplugged and walked over to his son, wrapping his armored arms around him and holding him close. "I don't want you to feel sorry for me, Brad," he said after several long moments. - "I don"t want you to feel sorry for me." He returned to his seat, connected to the network, then straightened up and froze. "Please do not. Like I said, I feel a strong connection with you because I can watch you and check you out online. I even tweeted you a couple of times."

As if a photographic flash went off, Brad's face lit up with amazement. "Do you have? Who are you? What is your Twitter name?"

"I don't have one. I am invisible."

"Invisible?"

"Not visible to the user or other visitors." Brad looked skeptical. "I have the ability to stalk someone's social media accounts without 'friending' them, Brad. Many government agencies and even companies have this capability. I search for messages using keywords and leave messages for you. Sometimes it's just a 'like' or one or two words. I just like watching you. I'm content to just watch and read."

Despite his son's initial concern at the thought of unknown individuals, companies or government agencies having access to his social media posts, Patrick thought this was the happiest Brad had looked since leaving Sherpa. "You know what, dad? I always had a feeling, not very strong, but just somewhere deep in the depths of my soul, that you were watching me. I thought it was something religious or spiritual, like it was your ghost or you were in heaven or something. I think the same about my mother too."

"You were right. I've been watching you... even talking to you digitally. And I think mom is looking after us too."

"Crap. Trust your feelings, I guess," Brad said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Let's talk about Cal Poly."

"I have to go back, Dad," Brad said. "I'm coming back. Starfire is too big of a deal. If you've been paying attention to me, you know how important this is."

"I know you worked really hard on this," Patrick said. "But I won't let you come back until I'm sure you're safe. The house you were in is closing - it's just too isolated."

"Then I"ll live in the dorms and eat in the cafeterias," Brad said. "They're pretty crowded. I don"t know how much work I can do there, but I have 24/7 access to the Reinhold Aerospace Engineering building-I can work there."

"If anyone can figure out a way to get you back there safe and sound, it's Chris Wohl," Patrick said. "So how did you choose Cal Poly?"

"The best aerospace engineering school on the West Coast that I could get into with my grades," Brad said. "I think too much football, civil air patrol and Angel Flight West charity flights in high school really affected my grades." He paused for a moment, then asked, "So it wasn"t a coincidence that Rancherita was available when I was looking for a place to live?" Does this really belong to the Sergeant Major?"

"It belongs to Scion Aviation," Patrick said. "I felt it was easier to look after you there than in the dorms. So do you really like Cal Poly?"

"Cal Poly is a great school, I like most of my professors, and it's within driving distance for P210, so I can fly to Battle Mountain to visit Sondra Eddington whenever I can."

"You two got along pretty well, didn"t you?"

"Yeah, but it's hard to move forward," Brad said. "She"s always away and I have almost no free time."

"Still want to be a test pilot?"

"I bet I do, Dad," Brad said. "I always kept in touch with Boomer, Gonzo, Dr. Richter and Dr. Kaddiri from Sky Masters and Colonel Hoffman from Warbirds. Maybe they can get me an internship at Test Pilot School in Nevada between my junior and senior years if I keep my grades up, and maybe Sky Masters will even sponsor me for a spot in the class like the Warbirds do Forever with Sondra's training to fly spaceplanes in Sky Masters."Warbirds Forever" was an aircraft maintenance center at Steed Airport in Reno, Nevada, which also trained civilian pilots on a wide variety of aircraft, from old classic biplanes, multi-million dollar bizjets and military aircraft to retired; Sondra Eddington was one of their flight instructors. "A million and a half dollars for a master's degree and test pilot accreditation. Eventually I want to fly spaceplanes into orbit too. Maybe Sondra will be my instructor."

"Congratulations. I think you're on the right track."

"Thank you dad". Brad paused, looking CID up and down, and smiled. "It's great to be able to talk to you again, Dad," he said finally. "I think I'm starting to get used to the fact that you're locked inside a car."

"I knew it would be hard for you at first, and maybe later too," Patrick said. "I was thinking about not leaving Sherpa or telling you it was me, just so you would be spared the pain it caused. President Martindale and I talked about it, and he said he would play it the way I wanted. I'm glad I told you, and I'm glad you're starting to get used to it."

"I have a feeling you"re not really there," Brad said. "You say you are my father, but how do I know that?"

"Do you want to test me?" - Patrick asked. "Continue".

"OK. You always cooked something for me for dinner that was easy for you and healthy for me."

"Macaroni and cheese and sliced fried hot dogs," Patrick said immediately. "You especially liked the MRE version."

"Mother?"

"You scattered her ashes in the sea near Coronado," Patrick said. "It was amazing: the ashes shone like silver, and it seemed as if it had never touched the water. They rushed up, not down."

"I remember that day," Brad said. "The guys with us were sad, but you didn"t seem that sad."

"I know," Patrick said. "I believed that as a commander I should not show sadness, fear, weakness or sadness, even towards my own wife. This was wrong. I always thought you never noticed. Obviously you did." After a moment's hesitation, he added, "I'm sorry, son. Your mother was an extraordinary woman. I never told you the stories of what she did. I regret that too. I will make amends to you."

"That would be cool, Dad." Brad pointed over his shoulder at the C-23C Sherpa. "Is this your plane?"

"One of many in President Martindale's collection," Patrick said. "Surplus US Air Force in Europe. This is the smallest cargo plane I can fit in. He has a Boeing 737-800 cargo plane for overseas travel. He paints them all black, despite how dangerous and illegal it is, and how much it messes with the aircraft's environmental control systems. He's been like this since I've known him: everything is a means of control and intimidation, even the color of paint on an airplane, and not caring about mechanical, social or political consequences."

"Are you ever going to tell Aunt Nancy and Aunt Margaret?" - Brad asked.

"I'll never say never, Brad, but right now I want my existence to be a secret," Patrick said. "You can"t tell anyone either. Only President Martindale, President Phoenix, Chris Wall and a handful of others know. Even Dr. Kaddiri and Dr. Richter from Sky Masters do not know, and their company is the main contractor for the creation of cybernetic devices for the infantry. To everyone else, I"m just a call sign."

"What is this?"

There was a short pause, then Patrick replied: "'Resurrection.' "

"We think it can be done, sir," said Chris Wall as he and his men entered the hangar early the next morning. He placed the bag of breakfast sandwiches on the table in the conference room where Brad was sleeping.

Brad instantly woke up and followed Vol and his men to the main hangar where the criminal investigation department was located. "Did you come up with a plan so quickly?" he noticed. "It"s not even six in the morning."

"The general said as soon as possible," Vol said as if nothing had happened. "We worked all night." Speaking to Patrick from CID, he said, "Sir, we have downloaded maps of the campus and surrounding area and have received information about the Campus Security Police Unit, City Police, San Luis Obispo County Sheriff's Department, California Highway Patrol, and federal law enforcement agencies based in in and around the city of San Luis Obispo. All agencies are very well staffed and trained. The campus police have an extensive video surveillance system-virtually every door and hallway in academic and administrative buildings, nearly every street corner, and every exterior doorway in every other campus building is camera-equipped and recorded. Major crimes on campus don't seem to be a big problem.

"There are approximately nineteen thousand students on campus," he continued. "The students are primarily from California, mostly white, Hispanic and Asian; only two percent of students are from other countries, and only fifteen percent of international students are from Eastern Europe. The county is rural and hilly and does not appear to have a significant gang presence, although there are numerous reports of meth labs and marijuana farms in rural areas that are being quickly dismantled by county, state and federal agencies who appear to be working closely together. with a friend.

"Challenges: Access to the campus and most buildings is generally uncontrolled, although campus buildings, laboratories, and classrooms can be remotely locked using electronic campus security; and emergency communications via text messaging are excellent," Wohl continued. "However, since access is not controlled, it would be easy for my team to enter the campus if necessary. Identifying an intruder or surveillance among all students would be difficult, and training in counter-surveillance tactics should be mandatory in order for Bradley to identify the shadow. Guns are not allowed on campus, and concealed handgun permits are nearly impossible to obtain in this county, or the entire state for that matter, but there have been a large number of reports of armed students. A 'cop' could help you get a permit to carry a concealed firearm. The county jail is less than two miles south, and the California Men's Colony, a minimum- and medium-security state prison, is less than three miles northwest . San Luis Obispo Regional Airport is four point two miles south.

"My recommendation, sir, based on our preliminary analysis, would be for your son to return to campus as soon as possible, but not to the public residence halls," Vol concluded. "We would recommend that he move to an apartment complex known as Poly Canyon. It's more like an apartment complex, it has fewer students, it's further away from the main campus, each building has its own full-time manager and full-time security team, and there are rotating student assistants on each floor- residents, so many seem to be keeping their eyes open around the clock. seven. We estimate that he would have had a moderate to good chance of survival if he had received proper training in countersurveillance, self-defense and weapons proficiency and carried a firearm."

"I would love to do it all!" - Brad exclaimed. "When do I start?"

TIE remained motionless for several long moments, but finally moved his head. "Excellent report, Sergeant Major," Patrick said. "Thank you".

"You're welcome, sir."

"Set up a workout schedule for Bradley at a local gym or similar facility," Patrick said. "I believe Chief Ratel is still in the area. Get started as soon as possible. I will contact "The Cop" and ask him to work on a legal concealed carry permit and entry into Poly Canyon. Train Brad on how to use a gun and carry it at all times until we get a legal unrestricted concealed carry permit."

"Yes, sir," Wohl responded, turning and walking into the conference room with his teammates.

"Kylie." Patrick spoke into his comm system.

"Yes, sir?" replied the computerized assistant.

"I urgently need a summer and year-round residency at the Poly Canyon student residence at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo Campus for Bradley McLanahan," he said. "I also need a nationwide concealed carry permit for the Bradley, including a permit to carry on college campuses. Report this request to headquarters and to the 'Policeman' - he may need assistance in overcoming any bureaucratic or political obstacles."

"Yes, sir".

"I'm still not entirely comfortable with this, Brad," Patrick said, disconnecting from his electronic assistant, "but if we can get you to Poly Canyon and the Staff Sergeant can train you, I'll feel better. I hope the Russians don't bother you or your aunts after meeting Sergeant Major Wohl, but we assume they'll come back and try again after they regroup and hunt you down, so we'll do our best to keep you safe and stayed at school. I'm sure Gryzlov will send more teams after you once you arrive, so we only have a short time to train you, and Chris and his team won't always be available to look after you, so it's important to get trained as soon as possible "

"Thanks, Dad," Brad said. He walked over to CID and hugged him, thinking of the big robot as his father was getting easier by the minute. "It would be great. I will work very hard on this, I promise. One of my team leaders lives in Poly Canyon, and if Sondra wasn't back home already, I would definitely want to be with her."

"Just remember to keep your eyes and ears open and listen to that little voice in the back of your head that told you that your father was watching over you," Patrick said. "This will alert you to danger."

"I will do so, dad."

"Fine. Talk to the Sergeant Major and arrange for him to take you to a hotel in town until we can find you a room on campus. You probably also need to clear up your story and talk to the police about what happened at the ranch. I'm heading back to St. George this evening."

"Back to the vault?"

"Where I can test my goals and get caught up again," Patrick said. "I'll be in touch, Brad. I love you, son."

"I love you too, Dad," Brad said. He hugged CID one more time, then walked into the conference room and found Chris Wall. "Thank you for getting this report done so quickly, Sergeant Major," he said. "I didn"t realize the campus was so safe."

"It"s not like that," said Vol, "at least not for you against Russian assassins."

Brad's smile disappeared. "What to say?" he asked with a stunned expression on his face.

"Think about it, McLanahan: Nineteen thousand students, probably another five thousand faculty and support staff, crammed into an area of less than three square miles," Wohl said. "Anyone can come and go 24 hours a day anywhere on campus they want. There is only one sworn campus police officer for every thousand students on shift, and they have no heavy weapons or SWAT training. You've completed all of your freshman courses, so your class sizes will be smaller from now on, but you'll still be attending classes and labs with dozens of kids."

"Then why did you tell me to go back?"

"Because I think your father cares too much about you-he would be very happy to just lock you up, put you in a nice, secure box like he does, and give you access to the world via the Internet," Wohl said. "He wouldn"t care how unhappy you would be, because in his mind, you would be safe from the dangerous world he lived and fought in for almost his entire life."

"So why do you care what my father wants to do to me, Sergeant Major?" - Brad asked. "I don't know you and you don't know me. You said you are not my father's friend. Why do you care?"

Vol ignored the question. "The information I gave was accurate: this is a relatively safe campus and city," he said instead. "With some preparation, the danger can be managed, perhaps even minimized." He smiled widely at Brad, who was still looking rather angry, and added, "Besides, now me and my people have you, and we've been given the go-ahead to develop a training program to get your ass in shape and teach you the right way to view the world. Every day, an hour a day."

"Every day? I can't train every day. I have..."

"Every day, McLanahan," Vol said. "You will train every day, rain or shine, sick or healthy, exams or dates, or I will send you back to your father and he will gladly lock you away in the red rocks of southern Utah. You will do weights and cardio training for physical fitness; cane-Jah and Krav Maga for self-defense; and conduct classes and demonstrations in surveillance, counter-surveillance, investigation, observation and identification techniques." He put on that evil smile again, then added, "You thought the Second Beast at the Air Force Academy was cool? You haven't seen anything yet, Bubba. Vol's smile disappeared and a thoughtful expression appeared on his face. "The first thing we need to do is give you your call sign," he said.

"Call sign? Why do I need a call sign?"

"Because I'm tired of calling you 'McLanahan' - too many syllables," Vol said. "Besides, MacLanahan is definitely your father until he loses his temper, and I don't think that will happen for a very long time." He looked at his teammates who were with him in the conference room, all three of them were tall, square-jawed and heavily muscled, the Hollywood version of the Navy SEAL that Brad thought they probably once were. "What do you guys think?"

"Pussy," said one. He was the largest of the three, standing over six feet tall and weighing over two hundred pounds, with a thick neck, broad shoulders that tapered to a thin waist, widened again to thick thighs and calves, then tapered again to thin ankles. He looked like a professional bodybuilder, Brad thought. "Better yet, just give it to the boss. He'll chew it up and spit it out, the General will send him to St. George, and then we won't have to deal with him."

"Flex, we have work to do," Vol said. "Keep your opinions to yourself. Dice?"

"Kolobok"

"Weirdo," said a third.

"Be nice to the young man," said Vol, putting on that gloating smile again. "He had a very traumatic experience and is also a hard-working engineering student."

"Smart guy, huh?" - asked the one called Dice. "My kid used to watch a brainless cartoon on TV called Dexter's Laboratory where this really smart kid is constantly getting beaten up by his stupid sister. Let's call him 'Dexter'. "

"I still like 'Doughboy' better," said a third.

"This is Dexter," Vol announced.

"It's a lousy call sign," Brad said. "I will choose myself."

"Dexter, call letters are earned and chosen by your teammates, not by yourself," Vol said. "You haven't earned anything yet. But call signs can change, both for the worse and for the better. Work hard and maybe we'll give you something better."

"What"s your call sign?"

"To you, that's 'sir' or 'staff sergeant,'" said Vol, looking at Bradley with grave menace. "You better get it right the first time." In turn, he told his men, "Dice, find us a safe hotel to stay in San Luis Obispo, close to campus. Flex, contact Chief Ratel and ask if he can set up a martial arts, countersurveillance, and firearms training program for us as soon as possible." To Brad, he said: "Let's see how you shoot."

"Shooting hand? I don"t have a shooting arm."

"Then which hand do you pick your nose with, Dexter? Come on, we don't have the whole day ahead of us." Ox grabbed Brad's right wrist and Brad released his hand. "Oh my god, tiny hands, just like your dad"s. That's probably why he joined the Air Force - he didn't have hands big enough to even hold the damn girl's gun." He raised his hand so that the third team member could see Brad's hand. "Rattlesnake"?

"Smith & Wesson M and .40 cal," the third team member said in a deep, growling voice. "Or a shooting pistol."

"This is forty-calometre," said Vol. "Get to it." The three team members took out their cell phones and got to work. "One last thing, Dexter."

"I already hate this call sign," Brad said.

"I already hate this call sign, sir," Vol corrected him. "I told you: do something worthy for the team and for yourself, and you might get a better call sign. And start showing some respect to your superiors here. I should have kicked your ass across the hangar for the way you talked to President Martindale yesterday. I'll do it next time, I promise you." Brad nodded and wisely remained silent.

"We can do a few things right now to help you detect and protect yourself from danger, but there's not much we can do for your friends," Vol continued. "We've noticed that you don't really interact with anyone other than your research group of nerds on this Starfire project, which is good, but I want you to limit your time in public with anyone. If the capture team starts attacking your friends to get to you, it could turn into real trouble for everyone that we won't be able to contain. Understand?"

"Yes," Brad said. He felt anger appear on Vol's face. "Yes, sir," he corrected himself.

"Fine. Have breakfast, pack your things and be ready to head out in ten minutes."

"Yes, sir," Brad said. He returned to the conference room and noticed that all the breakfast sandwiches were gone. "This is the start of a really shitty day," he muttered. But he looked back at the other end of the hangar and saw the criminal investigation department with his father inside, and he smiled. "But my father is alive. I can not believe this. I'm living in a dream... But I don't care because my father is alive!"

REINHOLD AEROSPACE ENGINEERING BUILDING

CAL POLY

IN THE NEXT MORNING

"Brad! What the hell happened to you?" Lane Egan exclaimed as Brad entered the room. The others jumped to their feet and gaped in horror when they saw the long, ugly bruise on the side of Brad's head and face - no amount of ice could hide it yet, although the swelling had shrunk significantly.

"Hey guys," Brad said. They all came towards him and he especially enjoyed Jodie's caring touches. "I'm fine, I'm fine."

"What happened to you?" - Asked Kim Jong-bae. "Where have you been? In the hospital? We were terribly worried about you!"

"You're not going to believe this, Jerry: I was involved in a home invasion last night after we made our presentation," Brad lied. Eyes bulged out of their sockets and mouths opened in complete surprise. "Two guys burst into the house and hit me on the side of the head with a baton or a baseball bat or something."

"Not a damn thing?" they all exclaimed. "What's happened?"

"No idea," Brad lied. "I woke up and there were cops everywhere. The paramedics examined me, I submitted a report, and that was pretty much it. They found drugs on the kitchen table and thought maybe some drug addicts wanted to get high somewhere."

"Oh my God, Brad," Casey gasped, "thank God you're okay."

"I'm fine, I'm fine, Casey," Brad assured them. "My gyros get a little warped from time to time, but I can still ride the bike."

"Where you stopped?" Jodi asked, and Brad thought he saw a twinkle in her eye and a hint of an eager smile. "You're not going back to that house, are you, buddy?"

"Hell no," Brad said. "The homeowner had a seizure. He has workers moving furniture that hasn't been broken, and he's going to board up the place. I'm not sure what he's going to do after this. I'm staying at one of the luxury hotels on Monterey Street. I could stay there until the end of the semester until the students left town. I am going to apply to Cerro Vista and Poly Canyon and will try to avoid the summer hostels as much as possible."

"Good luck with that, buddy," Jodie said. "The Cerro Vista apps were supposed to come out two months ago, and the Poly Canyon apps were supposed to come out last year. You may have to live off campus again if you don't want to live in the dorms."

"Okay, this is all being worked out, so let's get down to business before we have to get lost," Brad said, and their meeting began. It only lasted a few minutes, long enough for everyone to update their team's status, agree on lab schedules, and send requests to Brad for supplies or information for the coming week, and then they hurried off to class.

Jodi walked next to Brad. "Are you sure you're okay, buddy?" - she asked. "I think this is the worst bruise I have ever seen."

"I'm fine, Jody, thanks," Brad said. "I wish I could say, 'You should look at the other guy,' but I was unconscious."

"Why didn"t you call me, Brad?"

"I just didn"t have time, Jody," Brad lied. "I was black as a blaze and then I had to deal with the cops, the paramedics and then the homeowner."

"Then where were you all yesterday?"

"Sitting with ice packs on my throbbing head, listening to my landlord bark orders and rant and rave about drug addicts and crime and the breakdown of society," Brad lied again. "Then he helped me find a hotel. My head hurt so bad that I just fell over after that."

"Why don"t you come see me after class?" she asked. "You don"t want to just go to a hotel alone, do you, with no one watching over you?" This time Brad didn't have to guess her intentions-she reached out and touched his arm. "What do you say, buddy?"

He was a little dizzy from everything that had happened to him over the past few days, so his answer was a little hesitant, and Jodie's smile faded. "Sounds great, Jodie," he said, and her smile returned. "But first I have an appointment after our lab."

"To see a doctor?"

Brad decided he wouldn't lie to this woman about everything if he could avoid it at all. "Actually, my landlord is a former Marine, I think I told you, he's putting together a training program for me. Physical training and self-defense." He wasn't going to tell Jody about counterintelligence and other spy training, or weapons training-hey, he thought, not telling something is different from lying, right? "He thinks I'm too soft and I need to do more to help myself in situations like home invasions."

"Wow," Jodie remarked, blinking in surprise. "Are you right about that?"

"Of course," Brad said. "I spend too much time sitting on my butt - a little physical training would do me good. One hour a day. I can be with you around seven."

"Great, Brad," Jodi said, her worried and puzzled expression quickly fading. "I'll cook us something for dinner. I can pick you up and take you to your appointments if you are not well enough to ride a bike."

"I'm doing well so far, Jody," Brad said. He really liked the idea, but he didn't know what the gym would look like, and he wanted to get an idea from Vol and who his trainer would be before bringing others. "But thank you." He hugged her and received a kiss on the cheek in return. "See you around seven."

"See you, cum," Jodie said and hurried off to her next class.

He got a lot of surprised and even shocked expressions when the students on campus saw his big, ugly bruise, and Brad did consider buying makeup until it healed, but the kids on campus were pretty open-minded and tolerant - and he sure as hell didn't want to , so that Chris Wall or members of his team will catch him wearing makeup! - so he pushed the thought out of his head and tried to ignore the looks. Luckily, he didn't need drugs to numb the pain, so he got through his classes and the Starfire engineering lab session without too much difficulty, only occasionally experiencing a headache that went away when he stopped thinking about it and focused on something... then another. Afterwards, he locked his computer backpack in a locker, pulled out his gym bag, then hopped on his bike and headed out to his first physical training session.

The name of the place was Chong Jeontu Jib, written in both Korean and Roman letters, in the southern part of the city, near the airport. It was a simple two-story frame building, old but in very good condition, with a chain-link fenced yard that held some machines and weights in a small workout area. Beyond the fence at the rear was a firing line set up against a large circular earthen wall that had previously surrounded the oil tanks that held fuel during World War II bomber training flights. The front window was covered on the inside with United States Korean and AMERICAN flags, and the glass front door was covered with a large US Air Force flag. Inside he found a counter, and behind it a large gym with a floor covered with a blue gymnastics mat. The walls were covered with all sorts of awards, trophies, photographs and martial arts weapons.

A short, thin man with a shaved head and a gray goatee approached from the back room. "Dexter?" he called. "Here". Brad walked around the counter and just touched the mat when the man shouted, "Don't touch the mat with your shoes on, and only with respect." Brad jumped off the mat onto the linoleum walkway. The second room was slightly smaller than the first, with another blue gymnastics mat on the floor, but instead of decorations and awards, it contained a weight machine, a treadmill, a punching bag for speed running, a punching bag, and posters with arrows pointing to various places on the human body Brad was confident that he would soon find out everything he needed to know about these things. In the opposite corner there was an emergency exit and what looked like a locker room.

"You're late," the man said. "Today I will let you relax because this is your first time here, but now you know where this place is, so don"t be late again."

"I won't."

"I won't, sir," said the man. "The Sergeant Major told me that you served in the Civil Air Patrol and briefly attended the Air Force Academy, so you know a thing or two about military courtesy. Use this when dealing with me or anyone on the team. You will know when you can contact us in any other way. Understood?"

"Yes, sir".

"Next time come prepared to train. I don't want to waste time waiting for you to change. This is not your private resort club where you can come and go as you please."

"Yes, sir".

The man nodded towards the locker room door. "You have thirty seconds to change." Brad hurried across the blue carpet to the locker room. "Stop!" Brad froze. "Come back here." Brad is back. "Get off the mat." Brad stepped off the blue rug onto the linoleum. "Dexter, you're in a Korean dojang," the man said in a low, measured voice. "The center of the dojang, the mat, is ki, which means 'spirit.' You train to learn to embrace the spirit of martial arts, the fusion of inner peace and outer violence when you step onto the mat, which means you must respect the spirit that reigns over it. This means you never touch the mat with your shoes on, you are prepared for training and do not wear street clothes unless required by the class, you are given permission to enter and exit the mat by the master, and you bow from the waist facing the center of the mat before you step on it and before you get off. Otherwise, bypass it. Remember this".

"Yes, sir".

"Now start moving." Brad ran across the mat and was back in his training uniform in record time.

"My name is James Ratel," the man said when Brad returned, "but you don"t have to worry about real names or call signs, because to you I"m "Sir" or "Chief." I am a retired United States Air Force Chief Master Sergeant, a thirty-three-year veteran, most recently serving as the Chief Master Sergeant of the Seventh Air Force at Osan Air Base, United Korea. I am an experienced paratrooper with over two hundred combat jumps in Panama, Iraq, Korea and Afghanistan, as well as dozens of classified locations, a graduate of Army Ranger School, and I have two Purple Hearts and a Bronze Star. I am also a fifth degree black belt and master instructor in Kane Ja, a fifth degree expert black belt in Krav Maga, and a nationally certified firearms and baton instructor. Here I teach private self-defense and firearms lessons, primarily to retired military personnel. I count one hundred and ten percent every second you are in my dojang. Show respect and you will receive it in return; relax and your time with me will be a living hell."

Ratel pulled out a small device with a neck strap and tossed it to Brad. "Learning self-defense takes months, sometimes years, and the danger you face is obvious," he said. "So they give you this device. Wear this always. It works almost anywhere in the country with a cellular signal. If you're in trouble, press a button and I, or any other team member who might be nearby, can find you and help you. Most likely, given the opponents you will face, this will help us find your body faster, but perhaps we will get lucky." Brad looked at Ratel, stunned.

"So, since it's your first day, you're probably still sore from being hit in the head with the baton, and you came in late, for which I apologize, we're just going to do a fitness assessment today," Ratel continued. "I want to see your maximum number of pull-ups, crunches, bend-overs, and push-ups to muscle failure, with no more than ninety seconds rest in between, and your best time on a two-mile run on the treadmill." He pointed to the other side of the room, where the treadmill and other exercise equipment were waiting. "Start moving."

Brad ran to the training area on the other side of the room. He was grateful to have been riding his bike so much, so he thought he was in pretty good shape, but it had been a long time since he had been to the gym, and he had never liked pull-ups. He started with them and managed six before failing to pull himself up again. The push-ups were easy-he was able to do eighty-two of them before he had to stop. Failures were new to him. He stood between a row of horizontal parallel railings, grabbed them, extended his arms, lifted his feet off the linoleum, leaned as far as he could, then extended his arms again. He could only handle three of them, and the third had to strain his shaking hands to finish.

Now his hands were actually talking to him, so Brad decided to take the running test next, and he received no complaints from Ratel, who was watching and taking notes from across the room. Now he was more in his element. He cranked the treadmill up to a nine-minute mile pace and found it to be quite easy. He used this time to rest his tired arm muscles for push-ups, which he thought would also be easy. After a two-mile run, his arms felt pretty good and he squatted to do push-ups, but found that he could only do twenty-eight of them before his arms gave out.

"Dexter, you couldn't graduate from Air Force Basic Training with those numbers, let alone the Air Force Academy," Ratel told him after he walked around the blue mat to stand in front of him. "Your upper body strength is negligible. I thought you were a high school football player - you must have been a place kicker. In fact, Brad was not just a high school football player, but a punter and could kick a football twenty yards. "We can work on this. But what annoys me the most about what you just did is your lousy stinking 'don't give a damn' attitude."

"Sir?"

"You've been training hard on the treadmill, Dexter," Ratel said. "I understand that you're a cyclist and in pretty good aerobic shape, but it seemed to me like you were just relaxing on the treadmill. You set a lousy nine-minute mile pace-not even 'average' in your base training. I said I wanted you to run your best time on the two mile run, not a sluggish time. What's your excuse?

"I needed to rest my arms before finishing the tests," Brad said. "I thought the nine-minute mile was a good place to start." With every word spoken, the little man's tiny eyes became angrier and angrier, until it seemed as if they were about to jump out of his head. Brad knew there was only one acceptable response: "Sorry, Chief. No excuses."

"You're damn right, Dexter, there are no excuses," Ratel growled. "I told you about respect. There is nothing respectful about doing things halfway. You don't show me respect, and you sure as hell don't show it to yourself. It's your first day here and you haven't shown me a damn thing that I can respect you for. You were late, you weren't ready for training and you took it easy on yourself. You're not showing me squats, Dexter. One more session like this and we might as well cancel this event. Pack your things and get out of my sight." Brad picked up his duffel bag in the bathroom and by the time he returned, Ratel was gone.

Brad felt like crap as he got on his bike and pedaled back to Cal Poly, and he was still in a gloomy mood as he headed to Poly Canyon and Jodie Cavendish's apartment. She hugged him tightly at the door, to which he did not return. "Ooh, someone's being naughty," she remarked. "Come in, have a glass of wine and talk to me."

"Thanks, Jody," Brad said. "Sorry, I smell like my feet. I didn"t shower or change after leaving the gym."

"You can use the shower here if you want, buddy," Jodie said with a wink. Brad didn't notice the obvious offer. He walked over to one of the bar stools at the counter surrounding the kitchen and she poured a glass of Chardonnay and placed it in front of him. "But it doesn't bother me. I like guys who smell like guys, not like a trough lolly." She waited a few seconds, but Brad didn't say anything. "You're not even going to ask what it is? Wow, you must have been really cocky today. Tell me about it, my love."

"It"s not really that big of a deal," Brad said. "I was a little late for this training, but he said that the first time was forgivable. The instructor is a retired Chief Master Sergeant with a strong character. He made me take an aptitude test. I thought I did okay, but he chastises me for my restraint and laziness. I thought I had it all figured out. I guess I didn't do it."

"Well, there's always next time," Jodi said. "Fitness instructors are trained to shock and awe their students, and I think he was putting the Claytonian on you. Don't worry, Brad-we both know you're in good shape, other than that bruise on your head. How do you feel? Your bruise still looks bleeding. 'Maybe you should skip these workouts until this goes away.'

Brad shrugged. "I told them I'd do it, so I guess I'll keep going until I pass out or my head explodes," he said. The last thing he wanted to do was incur Vol's wrath for leaving so soon after the first day. He leaned back in his chair and looked directly at Jody for the first time. "I'm sorry, Jodie. Enough about my new fitness instructor. How was your day?"

"Apples, buddy," Jody replied. She leaned toward him across the kitchen counter and said in the usual conspiratorial whisper she used when she wanted to say something unexpected, "I did it, Brad."

"Did what?" - Brad asked. Then, as he studied her face and body language, he understood. "Structure of inorganic nanotubes...?"

"Synthesized," Jodi said in a low voice, almost a whisper, but very excited. "Right in our own laboratory at Cal Poly. Not just a few nanotubes, but millions. We were even able to create the first nantenna."

"What?" Brad exclaimed. "Already?"

"Dude, the nanotubes practically connect on their own," Jodi said. "They are not yet mounted on a sol-gel substrate, we have not yet connected them to a collector or even taken them outside, but the first optical nanotenna, built from inorganic nanotubes, is in a laboratory on the other side of this very campus ... on my work table! It's even thinner and stronger than we expected. I receive emails from scientists all over the world who want to participate. It turns out this is one of the biggest advances in nanotechnology in recent years!"

"This is incredible!" - Brad exclaimed. He took her hands in his and they shared a kiss across the kitchen counter. "Congratulations Jodi! Why you did not call me?"

"You were already at practice and I didn"t want to disturb you," she said. "Besides, I wanted to tell you in person, not over the phone."

"This is great news! We are committed to getting lab space and funding now!"

"I hope so," Jodi said. "I might even qualify for a Cal Poly scholarship - they wouldn't want me to come back to Australia with such a breakthrough, would they?"

"You will definitely get a scholarship, I know that," Brad said. "Let's go out and celebrate. In some place that"s not too fancy, I still smell like the gym."

A sly smile appeared on her face and she glanced very briefly at the hallway leading to her bedroom, obviously showing how much she wanted to celebrate. "I already made dinner," Jodi said. "It won"t be ready for another fifteen minutes." She took his hand again and smiled slyly. "Maybe we can soap each other"s backs in the shower?"

Brad smiled widely and looked into her eyes, but shook his head. "Jodie..."

"I know, I know," she said. "I told you I was going to try again, and probably again and again. She's lucky to have you, buddy." She went to the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of Chardonnay and refilled his glass.

Brad heard his smartphone vibrate in his gym bag, took it out and read the text message. "Well, how about this?" - he remarked. "It ends up being a really great day."

"What"s the matter, love?"

"I rented a room in Poly Canyon," he said. Jodie had an absolutely stunned expression on her face. "Fifth floor in Aliso. I can move in tomorrow, and I can stay for the summer if we get a summer lab grant, and I can stay for my sophomore and junior years."

"What?" Jodi exclaimed.

"This is good?"

"Aliso is the most sought after residential building at UC!" Jodie explained. "They are closest to shops and parking. And the top floors always fill up first because they have the best views of campus and the city! And they never allow students to stay at Poly Canyon for the summer, and you have to reapply every year and hope you keep your room. How the hell did you do that, buddy?"

"I have no idea," Brad lied - he was sure that his father and probably President Martindale had pulled some strings to make this happen. "Someone must have taken pity on me."

"Well done, mate," said Jodie. "Your head is spinning here." She noticed Brad smiling again at her Aussie slang, so she took a towel, threw it at him, then walked over and kissed him lightly on the lips. "Stop pestering me with all your childish whims, buddy, or I might just drag you to a bunkhouse and make you forget about what's-its-name in Nevada."

FIVE

There has never been a mother who taught her child to be an unbeliever.

- HENRY W. SHAW

MCLANAHAN INDUSTRIAL AIRPORT

BATTLE MOUNTAIN, NEVADA

IN THE NEXT MORNING

"Masters Zero-Seven, McLanahan Range, you are cleared to fly Romeo four eight one three Alpha and Bravo and Romeo four eight one six November, at all altitudes, report assigned codes, report to Auckland Center when leaving areas, contact tower, successful flight".

"Understood, Earth," Sondra Eddington responded over VHF radio number one. She reread the entire clearance, then switched to the tower frequency. "McLanahan Tower, Master Zero-Seven, number one, runway three-zero, ready for takeoff."

"Master Zero-seven, McLanahan Tower, calm winds, runway three-zero, airspeed limited to two zero-zero knots, while in Charlie class airspace, takeoff cleared."

"Master Zero-Seven is ready for runway three-zero," Sondra replied. She taxied the jumbo jet onto the runway, aligned herself with the centerline, held the brakes, applied the throttles slowly and smoothly, felt a jolt as the engines shifted to zone one afterburner, released the brakes, smoothly shifted the throttles into zone five, and climbed just five thousand feet. speed until they leave the airspace of McLanahan Industrial Airport, which doesn't take long at all.

"Nice takeoff, Sondra," said Hunter Noble, Sondra's instructor on the training flight. He was in the back seat of Sky Masters Aerospace's MiG-25UKS, a Mikoyan-Gurevich tandem supersonic fighter without combat equipment, modified to fly at extreme speeds and high altitudes. The original Russian MiG-25RU was the fastest combat jet fighter in existence, capable of almost three times the speed of sound and an altitude of sixty thousand feet, but after modification by Sky Masters Aerospace the jet was capable of almost five times the speed of sound and altitude one hundred thousand feet. "Good timing of braking and power. The first zone with the brakes on is fine, but anything after that will cause the brakes to fail."

"Boomer, I got you," Sondra said. In fighter pilot parlance, "Accepted" after an instructor's criticism meant that the student already knew and identified the discrepancy. "Thanks" usually meant that the student had overlooked it and acknowledged the instructor's good catch. "I got it."

"I am showing that we are clear of Charlie class airspace," Boomer said. "The course two-zero-zero will take us into the restricted area."

"Understood," Sondra said. In less than two minutes they were at R-4813A and B, two closed military test sites at the Fallon Naval Air Station complex in north-central Nevada, leased by Sky Masters Aerospace and coordinated with the FAA Air Traffic Control Center in Oakland to test high-performance airplanes. "I'm currently making checklists before flying at high altitude. Report back when completed."

"Will do," said Boomer. The checklist prepared the crew to operate at extremely high altitudes not typically reached by conventional fighter aircraft. It only took a few minutes. "Checklist complete. I'm showing us the insides of R-4813A. Cleaned when ready."

"I got it, Boomer," Sondra said. "Get ready." Sondra applied full power, slowly and smoothly advancing the throttles on the MiG-25 until they reached zone five afterburner, and then at Mach 1 she raised the nose until they were nose-up at sixty degrees and still accelerating. As the speed increased, the forces of gravity increased, and soon both were grunting from the g-forces pressing on their bodies, trying to keep the blood from leaking from their lungs and brains. Both pilots wore partial pressure suits and space helmets, plus high-tech electronic pressurized suits that covered their legs and lower abdomen with constricting fabric to prevent blood from pooling in their legs due to G-forces-but it still took work to resist effects of overloads. Soon they were at an altitude of sixty thousand feet and flying at four times the speed of sound, with seven times the force of gravity pressing down on their bodies.

"Talk to me, Sondra," Boomer said. "Are...are you okay?"

"I'm... fine... Boo... Boomer," Sondra said, but it was obvious that she was struggling to cope with the stress on her body. Suddenly the MiG-25 tilted sharply to the left and rushed down.

"Sondra?" No answer. The nose of the fighter was pointed towards the Earth. Just before he was about to take control, Boomer felt and heard the throttles shift to idle as he descended and the wings leveled off.

"Are you okay, Sondra?" Boomer repeated.

"Yes". He could hear over the intercom that her breathing was a little labored, but otherwise sounded normal. "I'm fine".

Boomer watched the altimeter and airspeed closely, making sure Sondra had full control of the plane. In the rear cockpit, he could take full control of the aircraft if necessary, but touching the controls would be a failure for the pilot-in-command, and he didn't want to do that unless it was absolutely necessary. After losing only ten thousand feet, Sondra began to nose back toward the horizon, and as the plane leveled off and the airspeed dropped to subsonic, she added power to keep the altitude and airspeed stable. "How are you doing, Sondra?" - Boomer asked.

"I'm fine, Boomer," Sondra replied, sounding completely normal and in control. "I"ll go back down to thirty thousand feet and we"ll try again."

"We don't have enough fuel for another high-altitude, high-G demonstration," Boomer said. "We can do a few high-speed approaches without flaps and then call it a day."

"We have enough fuel, Boomer," Sondra protested.

"I don"t think so, baby," Boomer said. "Let's do an approach to ILS altitude at Battle Mountain and do a no-flaps approach, do a miss at decision altitude, then do another approach to a full stop. It's clear?"

"Whatever you say, Boomer," Sondra replied, despondency evident in her voice.

The high-speed instrument approaches simulated the landings of the Black Stallion or Midnight spaceplanes. The MiG-25 was an important step for aspiring spaceplane pilots because it was the only aircraft that could briefly simulate the extremely high g-forces experienced by pilots during their ascent. The Sky Masters Aerospace centrifuge could generate G-forces of nine times normal gravity on the ground, but the MiG-25 was a better platform because the pilot had to fly the aircraft while exposed to G-forces. Sondra performed instrument approaches with typical precision, and the landing went right on schedule.

They parked the jumbo jet, went to the life support store to drop off spacesuits and electronic sealants, interviewed maintenance technicians, had a quick check-up with the doctor, then returned to class to talk about the flight. Sondra was wearing a blue flight suit, tailored to highlight her curves, and her flight boots made her look even taller. She let her straight blonde hair down as she poured herself a cup of coffee; Boomer, dressed in an Air Force olive drab flight suit, had already picked up his bottle of iced water.

"Pre-flight, take-off, departure, approaches, landing and post-flight preparation are all in order," Boomer said, checking his notebook. "Tell me about the climb."

"I was fine-I think I just left too soon," Sondra said. "You always say it's better to stop high-g runs sooner rather than later. Perhaps I was getting a little nervous. I was fine."

"You didn"t answer when I called."

"I heard you perfectly, Boomer," Sondra said. "I had a lot to do. The last thing I wanted to do was stall the compressor or spin." Boomer looked at Sondra, who turned away, sipping her coffee, and decided to accept her answer. The rest of the debriefing didn't take much time. They discussed the next day's class plans and flight training tasks, then Sondra went to the phone to check messages and Boomer went to his office to sort through messages and documents and check on the many labs and design offices he oversaw.

The afternoon began with a meeting of the company's management team, which Boomer could barely endure, but it was part of his new job as head of aerospace operations. The meeting was chaired by the company's new vice president of operations, Jason Richter, a retired lieutenant colonel and robotics engineer in the U.S. Army who was hired to replace the late Patrick McLanahan. Jason was tall, fit and athletic, with a good brunette appearance. He was hired by Sky Masters Aerospace for his engineering background, particularly in robotics, but was found to be equally adept at management, so he was promoted to head of research and development for the company. Although he was at home in a laboratory or design office, he enjoyed the power and prestige of leading so many of the world's best and brightest minds.

"Let's get started," Richter said, starting the meeting at exactly one o'clock, as always. "Let's start with the aerospace division. Hunter, congratulations on successfully delivering the President to the Armstrong space station and returning safely. A real achievement." The rest of the crowd gave Boomer some light applause-Hunter "Boomer" Noble was considered an eccentric character in the company's executive boardroom, unserious, and was therefore treated leniently. "The President does not appear to be suffering any negative consequences. Observations?

"The guy did a fantastic job," Boomer said, silently acknowledging the positive feedback from his fellow board members but also noting the negative reactions. "He remained calm and unperturbed the entire flight. I wasn't too surprised when he agreed to do the docking, but I couldn't believe it when he wanted to do a spacewalk to the airlock. He acted as if he had been in astronaut training for years. This kind of courage is extraordinary."

"We're already getting requests for spaceplane flights, and there's been talk of funding more S-19s and XS-29s," Jason said.

"I'm all for it," Boomer said, "but I think we need to attract resources to begin serious work on the next series of space stations. Armstrong is hanging in there, but his days are numbered, and if Brad McLanahan's Starfire project moves forward, as I bet it will, Armstrong may get out of the military space weapons business altogether. I have two people, Harry Felt and Samantha Yee, who are working on space station materials, mainly developing systems for the Armstrong upgrade. I would like to put them in charge of a new design team of three or four people to begin with, who are developing designs for new military and industrial stations in accordance with President Phoenix's proposals. We also need to send you and Dr. Qaddiri to Washington immediately to meet with our lobbyists and find out who is responsible for this new breakthrough into space." He hesitated for a moment, then added, "Maybe you or Helen should volunteer to do this, Jason."

"I?" - Jason asked. "In Washington? I'd rather be buried up to my neck in the desert. But I like your ideas. Send me the proposal and budget immediately and I will pass it on to Helen."

Boomer made a few taps on his tablet computer. "Now in your mailbox, Comandante."

"Thank you. I knew you'd already come up with something. I'll make sure Helen gets it today."

At that moment, the company's president and chief executive officer, Dr. Helen Cuddiri, entered the meeting room. Everyone rose to their feet when a tall, dark-eyed woman of fifty-two years old with very long dark hair tied into an intricate knot at the back of her head, wearing a dark gray business suit, appeared at the door. Helen Qaddiri was born in India but was educated primarily in the United States, earning numerous degrees in business and engineering. She worked at Sky Masters for decades, collaborating with Jonathan Masters in acquiring the initially bankrupt aerospace company they worked for and building it into one of the world's leading high-tech design and development companies. "Everyone, please take your seats," she said in a light, melodious voice. "Sorry to interrupt, Jason."

"Not at all, Helen," Jason said. "Do you have anything for us?"

"Announcement," she said. She walked to the front of the room and stood next to Jason. "The Board of Directors selected three projects for grants this year, all of them at universities: the State University of New York at Buffalo for the swarm satellite project; Allegheny College of Pennsylvania for a laser communications system; and the bulk of the award, twenty-five million dollars, will go to Cal Poly San Luis Obispo for a very impressive solar power project in orbit." Another burst of applause from the branch directors in the hall.

"Brad McLanahan is leading this project," Boomer said. "This guy is amazing. I ask the guy a question about some part of the project and he says he doesn't know and that he will call me back, and the next thing I know is a phone call from some Nobel Prize winner in Germany with an answer. He has a list of experts and scientists on his team that will bring tears to your eyes."

"We're already investing heavily in their project," Jason said. "We have already provided them with the Trinity module, which they use for measurements and interfacing testing. When they start making the subsystems, they will want to lift the space system parts to the Armstrong space station on the Midnight and Black Stallion, so they asked for parameters such as cargo bay dimensions, systems, power, environment, temperatures, vibration, and so on. . They also asked to see the computer code for the Skybolt guidance system - they want to use it to transmit maser energy to a direct antenna on Earth, and the head of their computer group thinks it can improve accuracy."

"They play together, that's for sure," Boomer added.

"I'll tell the universities the good news," Helen said. "That's all. Anything for me?"

"Boomer had a great idea: meet with President Phoenix and whoever is leading this new space initiative, share some ideas with them and see what they're interested in doing," Jason said. "He also wants to form a team to start designing space stations, military and industrial. His proposal and budget are on my tablet."

"Great ideas, Boomer," Helen said. "Send his proposal to me in my office immediately after the meeting."

"Will do," Jason said.

"I have also suggested that you or Jason volunteer to lead the government's space initiative, if no one has been named already," Boomer said.

"I have a job, thank you very much, and Jason is not going anywhere - I just brought him here after a lot of persuasion and persuasion," Helen said, smiling. "But going to Washington sounds good to us." She answered a few more questions and comments, then left. Jason continued to chair the meeting, walking around the table receiving reports from all the operating directors, and it ended after about an hour.

Jason walked up to Helen's office a few minutes later and knocked on the doorframe of the open office door. "I have this report for you," he said through the doorway, holding his tablet computer in his hands.

"Come in, Jason," Helen said, working on her laptop at her desk. "Close the door". Jason did as she ordered, then walked over to her desk and started a file transfer from his tablet to her laptop.

"It's quite a long file," he said. "You know Boomer-why say something in just two words when he can come up with twenty?"

"This is wonderful," she said. "What should we do while we wait?"

"I have a few ideas," Jason said, smiling as he leaned down and kissed her deeply, to which she responded with equal enthusiasm. They kissed for several long, languid moments. "I wish I could take your hair down right now," he said in a deep, quiet voice. "I love watching your hair cascade after you pin it up... Especially if it falls on my bare chest." She responded by pulling him close and giving him another deep kiss. "Are you free tonight? I haven"t been with you for several days."

"Jason, we shouldn"t have done this," Helen whispered. "I"m your boss, and I"m more than ten years older than you."

"I don"t care how old you are chronologically," Jason said. "You are the most exotic, most seductive woman I have ever been with. Sex radiates from you like a laser. And you may be older than me, but I can barely keep up with you in bed."

"Stop it, you horny asshole," Helen said with a smile, but gave him another deep, lingering kiss as a sign of gratitude. She grabbed his face and shook him playfully. "Don't forget, I have a speech at the Lander County Chamber of Commerce meeting tonight, and the city manager, planning commission chairman and police chief want to talk after. I think this is about expanding utilities to build additional units near the airport and revising the letter of agreement with the airport security, county and security company. I want to make sure the housing is outside the noisy airport area, and I don't want our security officers to be bound by sheriffs to federal and state security agreements. Charles Gordon from the governor's office will also be there, and I want to talk to him about getting some seed money for the airport expansion."

"Crap".

"Why don't you come with me? Everyone knows you as the guy who designed and built the cybernetic infantry device that saved the city from Judah Andorsen and the Knights of the True Republic - I'm sure they'd love to meet you."

"I don't do politics," Jason said. "I like you. I don"t think I could keep my hands off you."

"Oh, I think you have more impulse control, Jason," she said. "In addition, I am sure they would like to meet the future President and CEO of Sky Masters Aerospace."

"We need to talk about this a little more, Helen," Jason said. He sat down opposite her. "I don't think I'm suited to be a CEO. You had to convince me to take over as Chief of Operations after Patrick McLanahan was killed-"

"And you're doing great," Helen said. "Your team is the best in the business. You've only been in this position for a few months. It will become second nature before you realize it. You need a little more business education, maybe an MBA on top of all the other degrees you have, but you're obviously a leader."

"I feel more at home in the lab than at my desk."

"Nobody says you have to stay at the table," Helen said. "Leaders get things done in a variety of ways. You know how to assign, delegate, and organize-that leaves you with the time and opportunity to spend more time with your engineers and do all the things that company leaders need to do." She stood up from her desk and walked over to him, pressing her breasts against him the way she knew he liked. "Come with me tonight. Then, if it"s not too late, I"d like to invite you to visit."

"I thought you said we shouldn"t do this."

"Oh, we shouldn't," Helen said with a smile. Jason stood up and they shared another deep, passionate kiss. "I could lose my job if the board finds out that I slept with one of my vice presidents, even though I was a co-founder of the company." One more kiss. "You would definitely get fired and you would probably get sued for your signing bonus." One more kiss.

"Please, Miss President, stop talking now," Jason said.

"Yes, Mr. Vice President," Helen said, and they kissed again, and this kiss lasted much longer than the others.

It was well after sunset when Boomer left the Sky Masters Aerospace Center and headed home. The previously sleepy, isolated small mining community of Battle Mountain in north-central Nevada has undergone an incredible transformation in just three years since Sky Masters Aerospace Inc. moved there from Las Vegas: the population had more than tripled, construction projects of all kinds were everywhere, and an unincorporated settlement-it had retained its identity as a mining camp and railroad stop since its founding in the 1840s, even though it was the seat of Lander County-has finally become Nevada's newest city and one of the fastest-growing in the country. Boomer rented a house in one of the new neighborhoods located between the airport and the new downtown, close enough to visit the new casinos and upscale restaurants whenever he wanted, but convenient enough to commute to work, especially now that the morning commute on the interstate 80 to the airport seemed to get busier every day, thanks to the dozens of businesses that have sprung up in the area since Sky Masters Aerospace expanded its operations.

Boomer parked his Lincoln MKT in the garage, looking forward to a nice relaxing evening. He'd been a regular at several of the new casinos in town, and hadn't had to pay for food or drinks in over a year-he was sure he'd given the casinos enough money at the card tables to more than make up for his losses-but tonight was going to be a bad night. Maybe a little wine, maybe a movie, maybe-

"You came home just in time," said a voice from the kitchen. It was Sondra Eddington, wearing only one of Boomer's Sky Masters Aerospace Inc. T-shirts, her long blonde hair falling perfectly around her chest, as if she had styled it that way herself - which, Boomer thought, it probably had. "I was going to start without you."

"I didn"t know you were coming," Boomer said.

"I was a little antsy after flying this morning," Sondra said in a half-tired, half-teasing tone. "I've tried running and a hard workout at the gym, but I'm still... a little on edge." She came over and kissed him on the lips. "So I decided to pop in and ask if you knew of any ways I could burn off some energy?"

Boomer tried but couldn't help himself, his eyes roaming over her body which made her smile. "Where is your car?" - he asked.

"I parked it at the convenience store down the block," Sondra said. "I saw too many people from Sky Masters in your area and I didn"t want them to see my car parked in front of your house too much."

Sounds like a really good idea, Boomer thought. He held her at arm's length and looked her straight in the eyes. "Or we can do the right thing, like we agreed, and not sleep with each other anymore."

"Oh, I know we talked about this," Sondra said with a slight pout, placing her hands on his shoulders and wrapping her hands around his neck, "but I can"t help it. You have such a hot tight body and you have that roguish grin and that devil-may-care attitude that just drives me crazy. Not to mention, you are a tiger in bed."

"Thank you," said Boomer. "You're pretty hot too."

"Thank you".

"But your boyfriend, Brad, is becoming my friend, and if he found out about us, it would be difficult for us to work with him in the near future. His Starfire project just received funding approval."

"Then I"ll break up with him."

Boomer blinked in surprise. "Is it that simple?"

"When the time comes to leave you, it will be just as quickly," Sondra said. "I like Brad, and he's as tough as you, but he's a lot younger than me, and he's away at college, and he's been too busy to visit me lately, and I'm lonely being away from home. Besides, I don't like being tied up. I want what I want, when I want it, and right now I want you."

"And when Brad is here, will you want him too?"

Sondra shrugged. "May be. I don't think he would have taken me back after the breakup - he's a bit immature about women and relationships and I don't think he could handle being just friends or casual sex partners." She pulled him closer. "How about it, boy? Start your engines and give me a ride?"

Boomer smiled but shook his head. "I don't think so, Sondra," he said.

She took a step back and ran her hands through her blonde hair, which spilled over her chest. "You don't need me anymore? I said I would break up with Brad."

"We had sex once and we talked about it later and we both decided it was wrong," Boomer said. "We will train together for another twelve months. I'm your instructor. Sleeping together is not a good idea."

"If you say so," Sondra said in a soft voice. Then, slowly and seductively, she took off her T-shirt, revealing her breathtaking body, firm breasts and flat tummy. She held out the T-shirt, making sure it didn't block Boomer's view of her delicious body. "Do you want your T-shirt back, Dr. Noble?"

Boomer reached out and took the T-shirt from her... then threw it over his shoulder. "Damn, I'm going to hell anyway," he said, hugged Sondra and kissed her deeply.

FOURTEENTH BUILDING, KREMLIN, MOSCOW

RUSSIAN FEDERATION

A FEW DAYS LATER

President Gennady Gryzlov's main official offices in the Kremlin government complex were in the Senate building, also known as the First Building, but he preferred the more isolated backup presidential office known as the Fourteenth Building. He had recently completely renovated the building, turning it into a high-tech replica of his oil company's offices in St. Petersburg, with multiple layers of security, sophisticated surveillance and counter-surveillance systems, and ultra-secure communications, all of which rivaled and in many ways surpassed the best Russian technology; there was also an underground railroad for emergency evacuation that could take him to Chkalovsky Airport, eighteen miles northeast of Moscow, which was his cosmonaut training airfield serving Star City and now had a contingent of military transport aircraft that could safely remove him if necessary.

He was determined not to be trapped in an underground command post during an air raid, as had happened to his father: at the first warning of any danger, Gryzlov could leave Building Fourteen in less than a minute, leave the city in less than five, and board a jet. , ready to deliver it anywhere in Europe in less than thirty.

Gryzlov rarely held meetings in the Fourteenth Building, preferring that all official high-level cabinet meetings take place in his office in the First Building, but he summoned Foreign Minister Daria Titeneva to his office in the Fourteenth Building early in the morning. She was escorted into the office by the head of the administration, Sergei Tarzarov, who then took his position "out of sight, out of mind" in the presidential administration, but was fired with one glance from Gryzlov. "Hello, Daria," Gryzlov said from behind his huge desk. "Welcome. Tea? Coffee?"

"No, thank you, Mr. President," Titeneva said. She took a moment to look around the office. Gryzlov's desk had floor-to-ceiling windows with breathtaking panoramic views of the Kremlin and Moscow, and on the walls in front of the desk were high-definition widescreen monitors displaying a variety of information, from international news to feeds of government reports to stock quotes and stock volumes from around the world. A twenty-person conference table was to the left of the president, and a comfortable twelve-person seating area surrounding a coffee table was to the right. "I haven"t seen your personal office here since you finished its renovation. Very businesslike. I like it, Mr. President."

"I can't do much work in the Senate building when the staff is mad," Gryzlov said. "I go to the First Building to listen to the chickens cluck, then I come back here and make decisions."

"I hope I"m not one of those chickens you"re talking about, Mr. President," Titeneva said.

"Of course not," Gryzlov said, walking around his desk, approaching Titeneva and kissing her lightly on the cheek, then receiving a polite kiss in return. "You are a reliable friend. You worked with my father for many years, ever since you were in the Air Force together."

"Your father was a great man," Titeneva said. "I was privileged to serve him."

"He dragged you with him all the way, didn"t he?" Gryzlov said. "You both rose through the ranks of the Air Force together, and then he took you through the ranks of the government, yes?"

"Your father knew how important it was to have trusted people around you, both in the army and outside it," Titeneva said. "He also made sure that I learned from the best experts in the Kremlin."

"You were his chief of staff for a short time, before the traitor Nikolai Stepashin, if I remember correctly," Gryzlov said. "I'm curious: why did you leave him and join the diplomatic service? By now you could be prime minister or even president."

"We both thought that my talents could be better used in Washington and New York," Titeneva said casually. "At that time, women did not occupy most high positions in the Kremlin."

"I see," said Gryzlov. He turned straight to her. "So the rumors I heard about a long-term sexual relationship with my father are not true?" Titeneva said nothing. Gryzlov stepped towards her and kissed her on the lips. "My father was a happy man. Maybe I'll have the same luck."

"I"m almost old enough to be your mother, Mr. President," she said, but Gryzlov leaned forward to kiss her again and she didn"t pull away. Gryzlov smiled at her, let his eyes roam up and down her body, then returned to his desk and took a cigar from his desk drawer. "You invited me into your private office to kiss me, Mr. President?"

"I can"t think of a better reason, Daria," he said, lighting a cigar and blowing a large cloud of fragrant smoke toward the ceiling. "Why don"t you visit me more often?"

"My husband, for example."

"Your husband Yuri is a good man and a distinguished veteran, and I am sure that what he does when you are away from Moscow is none of your business as long as he does not jeopardize your position in the government," Gryzlov said. Titeneva said nothing. Without turning to her, he pointed the cigar to the chair in front of his desk, and she took it. "Do you receive reports on the flights of American spaceplanes?"

"Yes, Mr. President," Titeneva said. "The number of flights to the military space station has increased slightly, from three per month to four."

"This is an increase of thirty percent, Madam Foreign Minister - I would say that this is significant, not insignificant," Gryzlov said. "Their cargo?"

"Intelligence reports suggest that the station has undergone some significant improvements, possibly in the laser beam control and power distribution systems," Titeneva said. "Optical sensors can see very little change outside the station."

"You are personally and officially interested in the contents of these spaceplanes, yes?"

"Of course, Mr. President, as soon as I receive notification that the launch is imminent," Titeneva replied. "The usual answers from Americans are 'personnel', 'supply' and 'classified'. They never give any details."

"And unofficially?"

"Security is still very tight, sir," she said. "Spaceplane flights and most operations aboard the Armstrong Space Station are performed by civilian contractors, and their security is very complex and multi-layered. None of my contacts in Washington know anything at all about the contractors, except that, as we have seen, many of them are former military officers and technicians. I'm afraid it's very difficult for me to get much information about the contractor space program. Minister Kazyanov may have more information."

"I see," said Gryzlov. He fell silent for a few moments; then: "You were given permission to speak before the Security Council before the vote on our resolution on America's outrageous space initiative, correct?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

Gryzlov blew a cloud of smoke into the air above his desk, then put his cigar in the ashtray and stood up from his seat, and, as protocol required, Titeneva immediately stood up too. "You left my father, Daria, because you couldn"t cope with the level of responsibility and initiative that my father wanted to give you," Gryzlov said, approaching her and piercing the woman with an icy, direct gaze. "You weren't tough enough to be with him, even as his mistress. You left Moscow for social parties in New York and Washington, instead of helping him fight in the political gutters of the Kremlin."

"Who told you this lie, Mr. President?" Titeneva asked, her eyes flashing with anger. "That old goat Tarzar?"

In a blurry movement that Titeneva had not expected, Gryzlov hit her in the face with his open right hand. She staggered from the blow, shaking the stars from her head, but Gryzlov noticed that she did not retreat or cry out, but after a moment straightened her back and stood upright in front of him to her full height. And again, in the blink of an eye, he was on top of her, his lips locked on hers, pulling her head towards him with his right hand while his left roamed over her chest. Then, after a long, rough kiss, he pushed her away from him. She rubbed her cheek, then her lips, with the back of her hand, but stood up straight in front of him again, refusing to back down.

"You go to New York and speak at the United Nations Security Council," Gryzlov said, looking her straight in the eyes, "but you are no longer going to be this mature, wise, respected, reserved diplomat, do you understand me? You will be the tigress that my father wanted and trained, but never had. I see that tigress in your eyes, Daria, but you are mired in a comfortable life in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs with your war hero husband, putting up with his little affairs because you want to keep your cushy job. Well, not anymore.

"You will go to the Security Council, and Russia will get everything I demand, or we will no longer have anything to do with the United Nations," Gryzlov said. "You get this resolution passed, or you blow this place up. You will demonstrate my displeasure and anger without the slightest doubt in anyone's mind, or don't bother coming back from New York."

"The United States will veto the resolution, Gennady," Titeneva snapped. Gryzlov noticed the change in the tone of her voice and smiled - like a champion thoroughbred racehorse, she responded well to a little discipline, he thought. "You know this as well as I do."

"Then destroy this place," Gryzlov said. "This House and the whole fucking world should be very clear about how angry I will be if this resolution doesn"t pass." He grabbed the hair at the back of her head, pulled her towards him and gave her another deep kiss, then pulled her away from him. "If you decide to be a rabbit and not a tigress, and you dare to return to the Kremlin, then I will make sure that you become someone's little rabbit. Maybe even mine. And I guarantee you won't like it. Now get the hell out of here."

Sergei Tarzarov entered the president"s office a few minutes after Titeneva left. "Not your typical staff meeting, I presume, sir?" - he said, touching his lips as a signal.

"Just a little motivational speech before her trip to New York," Gryzlov said hoarsely, wiping the lipstick off his mouth with the back of his hand. "Where is Ilyanov?"

"By a secure phone from Washington, channel three," Tarzarov said.

Gryzlov picked up the phone, pressed the channel switch and waited impatiently for the decryption circuit to establish a connection. "Colonel?"

"Safety, sir," Ilyanov replied.

"What the hell happened there?"

"It was completely unexpected, sir," Ilyanov said. "Apparently McLanahan does have security because they destroyed my team, took McLanahan and locked the house before sunrise."

"Where is your team?"

"Unknown, sir," said Ilyanov. "They are not in the custody of local civilian law enforcement, that's all I know."

"Damn," Gryzlov swore. "Either the FBI or private security. They will sing like birds in record time, especially if they end up in the hands of civilian counterintelligence operatives. I told you, Colonel, don't assume anything. Where is McLanahan now?"

"He just surfaced, sir," said Ilyanov. "He registered as a resident of one of the campus housing complexes. He was injured during my team's invasion, but he seems to be okay now. We're studying his movements, the apartment complex's security system, and looking for the presence of his personal security forces. We won't be surprised anymore. So far we haven't found anything. McLanahan appears to have resumed his normal movements even before the invasion. We cannot detect any security surrounding it."

"Then look more carefully, Colonel, damn you!" Gryzlov snapped. "I want it destroyed. I don't care if you have to send a whole platoon after him - I want him destroyed. Get on with it!"

NORWEGIAN ROOM, UNITED NATIONS SECURITY COUNCIL ROOM

NEW YORK

A FEW DAYS LATER

"This illegal, dangerous and provocative pursuit of American dominance in space must stop immediately," shouted Russian Foreign Minister Daria Titeneva. She spoke at a meeting of the United Nations Security Council in New York, sitting in the ambassador's chair next to the Russian ambassador to the UN, Andrei Naryshkin. "Russia has recorded a thirty percent increase in the number of spaceplane and unmanned aerial vehicle flights to the US military space station since President Phoenix made his announcement regarding American control of space. Russia has evidence that the United States is reactivating its constellation of space weapons satellites called Kingfishers, and also reactivating a space-based free electron laser called Skybolt with improved guidance systems and increased power, making it capable of destroying targets anywhere on Earth. This all seems like nothing more than a show of force in an election year, but President Phoenix is playing a very dangerous game, threatening the peace and stability of the entire world just to gain a few votes.

"The Russian government has prepared a draft resolution for consideration by the Security Council demanding that the United States cancel plans to reactivate all of its space weapons and destroy those already in Earth orbit, and ordering President Kenneth Phoenix to reverse his stated position that that any orbit occupied by an American spacecraft is sovereign American territory that can be defended by military force. Outer space is not and should never be dominated by any one nation or alliance. I request the Council's permission to have the Russian resolution submitted to the Procedure Committee and then to the Security Council for a vote, followed by immediate implementation following a "yes" vote. Thank you, Mr. President." After Titeneva finished her speech, there was faint applause - not exactly a loud sign of approval, but a rather ominous signal of difficulties for the Americans.

"Thank you, Madam Foreign Minister," said Sofyan Apriyanto of Indonesia, rotating president of the United Nations Security Council. "The Chairman invites Ambassador Ells for ten minutes for rebuttal."

"Thank you, Mr. President," responded Paula Ells, US Ambassador to the United Nations. "It won"t take me ten minutes to refute the statements of the Russian Foreign Minister. Her statements and accusations are completely baseless and her facts are inaccurate at best and outright lies at worst."

"How dare you, Ambassador!" Titeneva screamed when she heard the translation. "How dare you call me a liar! The evidence is clear to the whole world! It is you and the entire Phoenix administration who are the liars and instigators here!"

Ambassador Paula Ells blinked in surprise. She had met and spent time with the veteran Kremlin bureaucrat many times during her career and knew her as a calm, intelligent, thoroughly professional person, but since she arrived in New York she had become almost unrecognizable. She gave several interviews to the world's press, criticizing President Phoenix and his space initiative, using words Ells had never heard her use before. This attitude continued here, with even greater acrimony. "The only facts you have stated that are true are the increase in spaceplane and unmanned rocket flights," Ells said, "but as usual, you present only half-truths and make wild accusations that are not supported by facts:

"The number of flights of our spacecraft has increased, it is true, but only because Russia, for some unknown reason, has reduced the number of Soyuz and Progress flights to the International Space Station, and the United States has decided to intensify and increase our missions to fill the gap that was created," Ells continued. "Our spaceplanes and commercial missions are aimed not only at the Armstrong Space Station, as the Foreign Secretary claims, but also at the International Space Station. If Russia thinks they can influence international affairs by delaying and canceling critical resupply missions - missions that have already been bought and paid for, I might add - they are completely mistaken.

"Regarding this draft resolution, Mr. President, the language is so broad and vague that it could have been better written by a seventh grader," Ells continued. Titeneva slammed her palm on the table and said something to Naryshkin, angrily pointing her finger first at Ells, then at him. "If this resolution were to pass, the United Nations could for all practical purposes disable the US global positioning system, since it is an integral part of space weapons systems, but it makes no mention of the Russian GLONASS satellite navigation system, which has the same capabilities .

"Additionally, the resolution seeks to ban any weapon system that has anything, even remotely, to do with spacecraft traveling above the atmosphere, which means the United Nations could ban all American heavy aircraft because someday they were testing ballistic missiles from airplanes, or land-based cargo ships because they once carried parts for space weapons," Ells continued. "The resolution has nothing to do with peace and security and everything to do with presenting a resolution to the Security Council that vetoes the United States so that the Russian Federation can point in horror at America and tell the world that the United States seeks to dominate outer space . The United States hopes that other Council members will see these tactics for what they are: a cheap political ploy using fabricated evidence, distorted data and fear-mongering. I urge the Council to decline to submit this resolution to committee and not give it any further consideration."

Ells addressed Titeneva directly. "Miss Foreign Minister... Daria, let's sit down at the negotiating table with Secretary of State Morrison and work out a compromise," she pleaded, raising her hands as if in surrender. "President Phoenix's initiative is not the rearmament of space. The United States is willing to do whatever the international community wishes to test our intentions and assets in space. We have to-"

"Don't treat me like we're sisters, Ambassador Ells!" Titeneva lost her temper. "Show some respect. And the time for verification has passed a long, long time ago - the United States should have thought about this before the Phoenix announcement from the military space station! The United States has only one option to demonstrate its sincerity, openness and genuine desire for peace: immediately dismantle the entire space weapons infrastructure!"

Ells' shoulders sagged as she noticed Titeneva's growing anger. It was simply impossible to talk to her. It was as if she had turned into some kind of snarling monster in Daria Titeneva's costume. Ells turned to the Chairman of the Security Council and said: "I have nothing more to add, Mr. President. Thank you ".

"Thank you, Ambassador Ells," said President Sofyan Apriyanto. "Are there any other comments on the proposal to introduce the Russian resolution to the committee?" There were several other brief speeches, both for and against. "Thank you. If there are no further comments, I will consider a motion to forward the resolution to committee."

"I am so touched, Mr. President," said Russian Ambassador Andrei Naryshkin.

"I support," the ambassador of the People's Republic of China immediately said, apparently prepared in advance for China to formally support the measure.

"The resolution was moved and supported," Apriyanto said. "I am providing another opportunity to discuss with your governments or propose any amendments." There were no takers, and the Secretary General quickly got down to business: "Very good. If there is no objection, I call for a vote. All in favor, please indicate this by raising your hand, and please keep your hand raised so that an accurate count can be made."

All hands went up, including those from Britain and France...except one, that of Ambassador Paula Ells of the United States. "Anyone who is against it, please indicate this by raising your hands." All hands dropped except Paula Ells's. "The Chairman acknowledges the vote of the United States of America "no," noted Apriyanto, "and as such, the resolution is not implemented."

"This is outrageous!" Russian Foreign Minister Titeneva shouted. "The Russian Federation protests in the strongest possible terms against this vote! All but one nation voted for the resolution! Everyone voted yes, except one! This cannot go on!"

"Madam Foreign Minister, with all due respect, the chairman did not recognize you," President Apriyanto said. "The Security Council has granted you the privilege of speaking before its members on this matter in place of your Ambassador, but has not given you the right to make any comments regarding the results of any vote. As you well know, the United States of America, as well as the Russian Federation and other permanent members of the Council, exercise their privilege of great power unanimity when they vote "no." The Russian Federation and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics before it have enjoyed such a privilege many times in the past. Thank you. May I draw the Council's attention to the following point-"

"Don"t reject me like some child!" Titeneva screamed. "Mr. President, this will not happen again! President Kenneth Phoenix is about to seize complete and unrestricted control of space and the Security Council will do nothing to stop him? This is madness!"

Apriyanto took a small hammer and lightly tapped the sound unit with its handle, trying to calm the Russian Foreign Minister without calling her to silence... or worse. "Madam Foreign Minister, you are disturbing the order. Please-"

"No, this Council is out of order! This whole building is out of order!" Titeneva screamed. "Russia will not tolerate this!"

"Madam Foreign Minister, please-"

"Mr. President, President Phoenix's statement is a clear violation of Chapter Seven of the Charter of the United Nations, which prohibits Member States from threatening the peace or committing acts of aggression," Titeneva said loudly. "The seventh chapter empowers the Security Council to act to maintain peace and stop aggression."

"The United States is not a threat to anyone, Madam Foreign Secretary," Ells said. "President Phoenix's program is a technology laboratory to promote peaceful access to space. We are not activating any space weapons. We want-"

"You can say it all you want, Ells, but your words don"t make it so," Titeneva said. "Mr. President, the veto power does not apply in this matter because the United States is directly involved in the resolution, and a state that is a permanent member of the Security Council cannot veto a resolution directed against itself. They must abstain and therefore the resolution is passed."

"The parliamentary committee has already ruled that the resolution, although clearly directed against the recently announced United States space program, is applicable to any space-faring country and is therefore subject to veto," Apriyanto said. "Madam Foreign Minister, you are disturbing the order. You can lodge a protest with the Secretary General and appeal to the General Assembly, but the resolution was not adopted and the matter is closed. You can continue to watch our actions, but...

"I will not continue to sit and watch this farce," Titeneva said, jumping to her feet and throwing the translation earpiece on the table in front of her. "Listen to me very carefully. If the Security Council does not act, Russia will. Russia will not cooperate with any nation that opposes our commitment to security regarding the American military space program, and if Russia discovers that the United States is militarizing any aspect of its space equipment, Russia will consider this an act of war and will respond accordingly .

"Russian President Gryzlov has authorized me to inform you that Russia will no longer support manned or unmanned missions to deliver cargo to the International Space Station," Titeneva thundered. "In addition, Russia demands that modules on the International Space Station that belong to Russia be detached and made ready for immediate transport to their own orbits. The Russian modules are hereby considered sovereign Russian territory and must be released and transferred to Russian control."

"Should we disconnect the Russian modules?" Paula Ells objected. "It's not a Lego toy up there, Daria. The modules were Russia's contribution to international partnerships. This partnership pays for the maintenance of the modules, and the partnership pays Russia for the use of the modules and for Soyuz support missions. You can't just pick up your bat and ball and go home - we're talking about twenty-ton modules traveling at thousands of miles per hour in orbits of hundreds...

"I don"t want to listen to your tiresome American aphorisms, Ells," Titeneva said, "and I told you never to call me by my name in this or any other place! Russia will not allow the so-called partnership to use modules created by the Russians unless the international community does something to advance Russia's national security interests, and we certainly do not want any nation hostile to Russia to freely use our modules. You will immediately release them and hand them over to Russia, or we will take action." And with that, Titeneva turned and left the hall, followed on her heels by Naryshkin.

SAN LUIS OBISPO, CALIFORNIA

ONE WEEK LATER

James Ratel walked into the back room of his dojang south of San Luis Obispo to find Brad McLanahan already doing push-ups on the linoleum. "Well, well, five minutes earlier... Much better," said Chief Ratelle. "And you came ready to train. Maybe you can be trained after all."

"Yes, Chief," Brad responded, jumping to his feet and standing almost at attention on the edge of the blue mat.

"Are you warmed up?"

"Yes, boss."

"Okay," said Ratel. "So far we have been concentrating on strength training and I can see progress. From now on, you will continue these exercises on your own, in your free time. You don't need to go to the gym to get a good workout. Push-ups, crunches, bends and pull-ups - all to failure, with a break of no more than ninety seconds. Every week I will test you again, and every week I expect to see improvements."

"Yes, Chief," Brad replied.

"Today will be your first self-defense lesson," Ratel continued. He handed Brad the package. "From now on, you will wear a beol, or training suit, called a gi in Japanese. Once we start the practice sessions, we will do it in street clothes so you can learn to feel more realistic, but for now you will wear this. You have thirty seconds to change." Brad needed less than fifteen. Ratel showed him how to tie the white belt correctly, and then they were ready.

"We'll start with the most basic self-defense tool first." Ratel took a simple wooden walking cane with a pointed knob and two grooved handles carved into the wood, one near the knob and the other further down the shaft. "Many years ago, after the First Korean War, a South Korean master taught at a self-defense school called 'Joseon', in which he used canes and farm tools for self-defense. This style was taught because during the Japanese occupation of Korea during World War II and During the North Korean occupation, South Korean citizens were not allowed to carry knives or guns, but canes, walking sticks, and farm implements such as rakes, saws, and hammers were very common.A U.S. Army soldier observed that locals used canes as very effective weapons self-defense, and he developed a method of teaching others how to use a cane for self-defense. This became known as Kane-Ja, or cane discipline. Over the next few weeks, you will walk with a cane and carry it with you at all times, even if you are traveling by boat. on an airplane or walking into a school or courthouse. Once you have mastered cane shooting, you will move on to other, more violent forms of self-defense, where a cane may not be needed or can be used if you lose or break it."

"Cane? You mean like an old man?" Brad protested. "Am I supposed to act like an old cripple and walk around with a stupid cane, Chief?"

"You shouldn't act like an old man," Ratel said. "Never try to be something you are not - most people fail, most others can notice it and you will attract attention. Carry on as usual. You don't have to walk with a limp, carry any weight on it, or even have the tip of the cane touch the ground at all times, but you should carry it with you, keep it ready, and never put it down. Throw it over your hand or belt, but never put it down because you will forget it. You can clip it to the straps of your backpack if it is within reach. And never call it a weapon or something needed for self-defense. It's a walking cane-you just happen to learn how to use it in some other way."

"This is stupid, sir," Brad said. "Do I have to carry a stick with me everywhere? By bike? In class?"

"Everywhere," Ratel said. "Everyone around you should associate you with the cane, and the cane with you. This should be your constant companion. People will see that bruise on your head and face, they will see the cane and put one plus one, and this relationship will remain long after the injury has healed. Aggressors, on the other hand, will see the two of you and think that you are weak and vulnerable, and this gives you an advantage."

Ratel raised his cane. "Note that the cane has a round handle that is pointed at the end and handles cut into the shaft in two places and a handle cut into the handle," he said. "There is also a ridge along the back of the reed. We will adjust this cane to your height, but I figured this one should fit well." He gave it to Brad. "Like any cane, it should be long enough to support your body when you lean on it, but not too short that it reduces its impact or causes you to take a weak stance. Keep it close to your body." Brad did as he was told. "Fine. Your arm isn't quite straight. We want to just bend your elbow slightly. If you've really leaned on it, it should look natural, like you could actually put some weight on it."

Ratel took his own cane, a worn version of Brad's, for demonstration. "Usually you put one or both hands on the bar and form a triangle with your legs, like this," he said, casually stopping in front of Brad. "This is a 'relax' pose. You're not actually relaxing, but the idea is to appear relaxed and at ease, but still allow a potential attacker, whom you have identified by your observations or instincts, to see that you have a cane, which can either scare him off or embolden him . Obviously, with the type of attacker we're preparing for, the sight of a cane won't stop them, but they might think you're weak. If you need your hands, you can clip the cane to your waist, but return to the 'relax' position when you can. This is the first warning position for the attacker, green light."

He slid his hand from the hilt down the shaft to the topmost set of grip lugs, so that the open end of the hilt was pointing down. "Now your attacker is coming towards you and you see him, so you take this position we call 'interception', yellow light. The handle of the cane is in front of you and you use an overhand grip. The crossbar is facing down. This is the second warning. To the casual observer or adversary, this may appear to be a non-warning position.

"From there, there are a number of things you can do," Ratel continued. "The easiest way, of course, is to use a cane to shoo someone away by simply poking them." He landed a couple of blows on a dummy that was standing nearby. "This, along with verbal warnings, is usually effective enough to deter an aggressive panhandler or a young would-be burglar. Obviously, with the opponents we are preparing for, this would probably not be enough. Later I will teach you how to resist someone who grabs your cane.

"From the interception position, if you are attacked with fists or a knife, you swing the cane from the outside, striking the attacker's arms between the wrist and elbow as hard as you can. This moves his body away from you and you have the advantage. You can hit his knee, thigh, or groin with a crooked strike. Be aware, a blow to the head with the handle of a cane will likely kill or seriously injure. Killing in self-defense is acceptable, but what exactly constitutes "self-defense" is controversial in court. Defend yourself at all times, but always remember that your actions have consequences."

Ratel had Brad practice his moves against the dummy, performing each move as Ratel ordered, increasing his speed as he went. Soon there was a sheen of sweat on Brad's forehead. After just a few seconds of practice, Brad's arms were definitely starting to tire. "Break," Ratel finally said. "Once we get those arms and shoulders working, you'll be able to both accelerate and increase your punching power."

"But I won"t hit my opponent for a long time, won"t I, Chief?" - Brad asked.

"Our goal is to develop muscle memory so that your movements become second nature," Ratel said. "It will take time and practice." He motioned Brad away from the mannequin, then assumed the green light pose, holding the hook with both hands. He then positioned himself at a yellow and then a red light, loudly commanding "Stop!" with the cane pointed directly at the dummy. In the next instant, the cane became little more than a blur of motion as Ratel pounded the dummy from seemingly every possible direction, striking for a full minute before moving into all three positions up to the relaxed "green light" position.

"Holy crap," Brad exclaimed. "Incredible!"

"There are still shots and techniques that we will learn," Ratel said. "Until then, your main task is to simply get used to wearing a cane. This is the most challenging task for new Cane-Ja students. You should know the best place to store it when not in use, remember to take it out after putting it on the bus or car seat, and keep it with you at all times. I guarantee you will lose your cane more than once. Try not to do that."

"Yes, Chief," Brad said. Ratel had Brad practice swinging and striking movements on a dummy until their session ended; Brad then changed back into his workout clothes, left the beol in a small storage box in the dojang, and headed back to Cal Poly.

Finals week was fast approaching, so after a quick shower and change of clothes, Brad headed to the Kennedy Library to study. He found a desk, plugged in his laptop, and began looking through the lecture notes and PowerPoint slides provided to him by his professors. He had been doing this for about an hour when Jodie Cavendish approached him. "Hey, buddy," she greeted him. "Well, well, look at the sink. I thought I would find you here. Ready to smoke?"

"I don"t know what you just called me," Brad said, "but I hope it"s something good."

"It"s just that you"re a hard working dude and I think it"s time for a coffee break."

"Then I"m in." Brad locked his computer in a small cabinet next to his desk and stood up to follow Jodie.

"Do you need to answer this?" she asked, pointing back to the table.

Brad turned around and saw that he had left his cane on the table. "Oh... yes," he said, and they headed towards the stairs. "I knew I would forget it."

As they walked downstairs, Jodie noticed that Brad didn't actually use a cane to walk. "What do you need a cane for, mate?" - she asked. "I think you look like you're moving pretty well."

"I still get a little dizzy sometimes, so I thought I'd carry it," Brad lied.

"But you still ride your bike and jog, don"t you?"

"Yes," Brad said. "I don't need it all the time. In fact, what I need most is for him to just stand still."

"I hope your head is okay, buddy," Jodie said. "The bruise is finally gone, but the impact may still be affecting you."

"I had an MRI and they didn"t find anything," Brad said. He tapped himself on the head and added, "In fact, they found literally nothing." Jodie laughed at the joke and changed the subject, which Brad was glad about. Maybe it's time to give up the cane, he thought. Chief Ratel said he would soon start practicing unarmed martial arts, and when he became as good at it as Kane-Ja, maybe Kane wouldn't have to be with him all the time.

The coffee shop on the ground floor was almost as crowded as during the day, and they had to drink their coffee outdoors. Luckily the weather was perfect in the early evening. "How are your studies going?" Brad asked as they found a bench.

"These are apples," said Jodie. "I can't believe I used to study for final exams without a laptop and all my professors' PowerPoint slides - back then I actually relied on my own notes to pass the exams! Madness!"

"Same thing for me," Brad admitted. "I take lousy notes." His cell phone beeped, indicating he had a message, and he looked at the number. "Someone from the administration, but I don"t recognize him. I wonder what's going on?

"Why are they calling so late?" Jodie thought out loud. "Better call back."

Brad dialed the number on his smartphone and waited. "Hello, this is Brad McLanahan, answering a call that came in a few minutes ago. I just received a message... who? President Harris? You mean the president of the university? Yes, of course, I will wait for him."

"What?" Jodie asked. "Does President Harris want to speak with you?"

"Maybe this is what we've been waiting for, Jody," Brad said. "Yes... yes, it is him... Yes sir, in fact, I am here with one of the team leaders... yes sir, thank you." He tapped the screen and put the call on speakerphone. "I'm here with Jodie Cavendish, sir."

"Good evening to you both," said university President Marcus Harris. "I have good news. The news actually came out about a week ago, but we just finalized the agreement and signed the documents. Your Starfire project was one of three projects selected for research and development funding by Sky Masters Aerospace. Congratulations." Jodie and Brad jumped to their feet, Jodie let out a cry of joy, and she and Brad hugged each other. Harris let them celebrate for a few moments, then said, "But that"s not all."

The students sat down. "Sir?"

"I am also pleased to inform you that your project has received half of the Sky Masters aerospace grant funding - twenty-five million dollars," Harris continued. "This makes Starfire the highest-awarded aerospace engineering research project in UC history."

"Twenty-five million dollars?" Jodie exclaimed. "I can not believe this!"

"Congratulations to you two," Harris said. "Brad, find a time when your entire team can get together as soon as possible, call my office and set up a time for a press conference. I know we're getting close to the end and I don't want to take up too much of your time, but we want to make a huge splash about this before everyone leaves for the summer."

"Yes, sir!" Brad said. "I will contact everyone this evening. We usually have a team meeting every day at eleven in the morning, so maybe tomorrow will be a better time."

"Great," Harris said, sounding more excited by the second. "I will get your schedules and send emails to your teachers letting them know that you will be late for class because I am sure the press conference and photo shoot will take some time. We're going to go international with this project, guys, and we hope to break more financial records with it. Wear something nice. Congratulations again. Oh, one more thing while Miss Cavendish is on the line."

"Sir?"

"Miss Cavendish was awarded a full scholarship to Cal Poly to pursue her undergraduate degree, including tuition, books, fees and housing," Harris said. "We can't let one of our best undergraduate students leave when she was so instrumental in getting such a large grant, can we? I hope you will accept, Miss Cavendish."

"Of course I will, sir!" Jodie cried in stunned glee. "Of course I accept!"

"Excellent," Harris said. "Congratulations to the entire Starfire team. Great job. Good night, mustangs." And the connection was interrupted.

"I don't fucking believe this!" - Brad exclaimed, hanging up. "Twenty-five million dollars just fell into our laps!" He hugged Jody tightly. "This is incredible! And you got the scholarship you were looking for! Congratulations!"

"It's all because of you, buddy," Jodi said. "You are a jackaroo. You"re my asshole." And Jodie put her hands on Brad's face and kissed him hard on the lips.

Brad enjoyed every moment of that kiss, pulled away, and then gave her one in return. When they parted after the kiss, Brad's eyes were telling Jodie something, something strong and incredibly personal, and her eyes immediately said yes. But to her horror, she heard Brad say, "I better get in touch with the others. Tomorrow will be a big day."

"Yes," said Jodie. She was content, at least for now, to hug Brad and sip her coffee while he texted on his phone.

Brad contacted all of the team's leadership via text messages, then included the Cal Poly engineers, professors, and students who were helping with the project, then decided to include everyone who was helping with the project who was within a couple of hours' drive of the university, all the way to Stanford and American University-he was determined to fill that press conference room with Starfire supporters. When he was done with that, he decided to write to everyone who supported the project, regardless of whether they could attend the press conference or not - everyone associated with the project should be aware of the press conference and the upcoming worldwide publicity, he thought He. Anyone associated with this project should not hear about the grant from anyone other than the team leader.

He read out all but one of Jodi's text confirmations. It was the only Central Asian country code in all the messages he received, and it was from Kazakhstan, which had no authors in Starfire. The message simply read: Congratulations. D.

When Brad placed the letters on the phone's keypad opposite the numbers that appeared on the message screen, the sender's name was spelled Resurrection.

A few days passed and the weather, which had been excellent for most of April, still could not quite shake off the winter, so they had quite cold days with damp fog and rain. For the past three days, Brad has been riding the bus instead of riding his bike. It was a nice and relaxing hike to the dojang south of town: an easy jog from Poly Canyon to the Route 6B bus stop near the Kennedy Library; an easy seven-minute bus ride to the downtown transit center; transfer to bus line route 3; a longer twenty-minute bus ride to Marigold Shopping Centre; and then another easy run from there along Tank Farm Road to the dojang which was north of the airport. He had plenty of time to do some reading or listen to audiobooks or recorded lectures on his tablet computer. Brad wished he could ride the bus all the time- it was free for UC students-but he wanted some exercise, so he rode it whenever the weather cooperated.

The week began, along with the rain, with an introduction to Krav Maga. "Krav Maga was developed in Israel for the military," James Ratel began last Monday afternoon. "It is not a discipline like karate or judo; it is not a sport and will never be in the Olympics or on television. Krav Maga has three main goals: to neutralize an attack by blocking and parrying with your hands, while being careful to protect yourself; move from defense to attack as quickly as possible; and quickly neutralize the attacker by manipulating joints and attacking weak spots on the body, using any tools that may be at hand. We're guessing you broke or misplaced your cane, so now you'll have to defend yourself unarmed and probably against a very angry attacker.

"Some teachers tell their students that the amount of force needed to neutralize an attacker should be proportional to the strength of the attack, which means, for example, that you would use less force on an attacker who uses his fist than on an attacker using a bat or knife." - continued Ratel. "I do not believe in that. Your goal is to take down your attacker so you can escape. In practice you'll throw three punches to demonstrate that you can throw them, but on the street you keep attacking until your attacker goes down. Forget every Bruce Lee movie you've ever seen: it's not one parry, one punch, and then let the guy get up to attack you again. Once you have blocked an attacker, you continue to hit his soft weak spots and joints until he falls, and then you run as fast as you can and get out of the situation as quickly as possible. Understand?"

"Yes, Chief," Brad said.

Ratel pointed to a folder that sat on the counter outside. "This is your homework," he said. "We will train to attack weak spots on the body using numbers, starting from head to toe. Remember the places and numbers. You will also learn about all two hundred and thirty joints of the human body and, in particular, how they articulate so that you can attack them. Be ready to show them to me by next Wednesday."

"Yes, boss."

"Very good. Kick off those shoes and socks, then onto the mat." Brad took off his sneakers and socks, bowed to the center of the blue rug and walked to the middle, Ratel following him. Brad was wearing his beol training uniform, now with a red and black belt instead of a white one, with the level one poom rank markings indicating that he had completed his first round of basic training.

"We start with the basics, and in Krav Maga it"s parrying," Ratel began. "Notice I didn't say 'block'. Blocking suggests that you can absorb some of the energy the attacker uses against you, like two football players on the line crashing into each other. Instead we use the term 'parry', which means you divert most or all of the attack's energy in a safe direction."

"Same as basic cane movements, sir?" Brad watched.

"Exactly," said Ratel. "The key to an initial parry in Krav Maga is anticipation, and that means being aware of your surroundings. If a potential attacker approaching you has his right hand in his pocket, the weapon is likely in his right hand, so your mental plan of action is to prepare to defend against an attacker who is right-handed." Ratel took a rubber knife from the shelf behind him and tossed it to Brad. "Try it".

Brad put his right hand with the knife behind his back and approached Ratel, then waved his hand in his direction. Ratel's left hand shot out, pushing the knife past his chest and half-twisting Brad's body. "First of all, the knife is not near your body, and if the attacker had another weapon in his left hand, he would not be able to use it right now because I turned it away. Just like with the cane, you now see exposed areas of the body." Ratel threw punches to Brad's torso and head. "Or I can catch the right hand with my right hand and block it, keeping the knife a safe distance away from me, and by keeping my hand locked, I control the attacker." Ratel grabbed Brad's right arm from below, placed his palm on Brad's triceps and pushed. Even with just a little pressure, it felt like the arm was going to snap in two and Brad wouldn't be able to move anywhere except toward the ground.

It was the first day of training, and after the end of the third, Brad began to wonder if he would ever be able to master any of these Krav Maga moves, let alone use them. But he reminded himself that he had thought the same thing about Kane-Ja, and decided that he was pretty good at it. He walked out of the dojang, pulled on the hood of his green and gold Cal Poly Mustangs windbreaker, and ran east on Tankfarm Road toward Broad Street and the bus stop. Although it was not quite sunset yet, it was drizzling, it was cool, it was getting dark quickly, and he wanted to get off this unlit road onto the main highway as quickly as possible and get on the bus.

He was halfway down Broad Street, on the darkest part of the road, when a westbound car pulled up. Brad stepped off the sidewalk and onto the rough gravel "warning path," but kept running. The car moved a little to the left and stood across the center line, and it seemed that it was going to pass him with plenty of room...

... when suddenly he swerved further to the left, then began to skid to the right on the slippery road, the car was now perpendicular to the road, brakes and tires squealing - and heading straight for Brad! He had almost no time to react to the sudden movement. The car slowed down a little, but when it hit, it was ten times harder than any hit he'd ever taken in high school football.

"Oh god, sorry about that, Mr. Bradley McLanahan," the man said moments later through the fog in Brad's mind. Brad lay on his back on the side of the road, dazed and confused, his right hip and arm hurting like hell. Then, in Russian, the man said: "Sorry. I'm sorry. Wet road, I may have been driving a little too fast, a coyote ran out in front of me and I could barely see you in the drizzling rain, blah blah blah. At least that's the story I'll tell the deputies if they find me."

"I... I think I'm okay," Brad said, gasping for air.

"V samom dele? Really? Well, my friend, we can fix this." And suddenly the man pulled out a black plastic garden bag from his pocket, pressed it to Brad's face and pressed. Brad still couldn't breathe because the air had been knocked out of him, but panic was rising from his chest in terrifying waves. He tried to push his attacker away, but he couldn't get any part of his body to work properly.

"Just relax. Just relax, my young friend," the man said, mixing English and Russian as if he were an expat or a foreign cousin from old England telling a bedtime story. "It will be over before you know it."

Brad didn't have the strength to remove the plastic from his face at all, and he considered giving in to the roaring in his ears and the searing pain in his chest... but somehow he remembered what he needed to do, and instead of fighting with his hands holding the plastic on his face or trying to find his cane, he reached out and pressed a button on the device hanging around his neck.

The attacker saw what he had done and momentarily released the pressure on Brad's face, found the device, tore it from Brad's neck and threw it away. Brad took a deep breath. "Nice try, asshole," the attacker said. He pressed the plastic against Brad's face before Brad could take three deep breaths. "You will be dead long before your vigilant nurses arrive."

Brad couldn't see it, but a moment later the headlights approached. "Keep them away," the man said over his shoulder in Russian to the second attacker, whom Brad had never seen. "Keep them away. Let them call 911 or something, but keep them away. Tell them I'm doing CPR."

"I'll keep them away, comrade," the assistant admitted. "I'll keep them away, sir."

The first attacker had to stop pressing the plastic bag over Brad's mouth and nose until the new arrivals left, but he leaned over Brad as if he was doing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation , but also covered his mouth so Brad couldn't scream. A few moments later he heard: "That's it. Everything is over ".

"Same . Same here," said the first attacker... and then his vision exploded into a sea of stars and blackness as the handle of the cane slammed into his left temple, instantly knocking him unconscious.

"Jesus, Dexter, you're blue as a fucking Smurf," James Ratel said, shining a small flashlight in Brad's face. He pulled Brad to his feet and placed him in the front seat of his Ford pickup. He then loaded the two Russian hitmen into the cargo area of a pickup truck and drove back down Tankfarm Road to the dojang. He placed plastic handcuffs on the wrists, ankles and mouths of the two Russians and sent a text message to his phone. By then, Brad had begun to come to in the passenger seat of the pickup truck. "Dexter!" Ratel screamed. "Are you okay?"

"W-what...?" - Brad muttered.

"McLanahan... Brad, Brad MacLanahan, answer me," Ratel shouted. "Wake up. Are you all right?"

"I... what... what the hell happened...?"

"I need you to fucking wake up, McLanahan, right now," Ratel shouted. "We could be attacked at any moment, and I won't be able to protect you unless you wake up and can protect yourself. Wake up the motherfucker right now. Confirm my order, pilot, immediately."

It took a few long moments, but finally Brad shook his head, clearing it, and was able to say, "Chief? Y-yes, I'm awake... I'm... I'm fine, chief. W-what should I do? What's happening?"

"Listen to me," Ratel said. "We don't have much time. I'm guessing we'll be attacked by the backup strike force any second now. We are completely alone and in extreme danger. I need you vigilant and responsive. Do you hear what I"m saying, McLanahan?"

"Y-yes, chief," Brad heard himself answer. He still wasn't sure where he was or what was going on, but at least he was able to answer Chief Ratel. "Tell me what to do."

"Go inside and get some mats and weights to cover these guys," Ratelle said. They both went inside. Brad found training mats and barbells. Ratel opened a normal-looking trophy display at the front of the dojang; Several pistols, shotguns and knives were hidden in a secret drawer under the display case.

"I covered them, Chief," Brad said.

Ratel chambered the shotgun and handed it to Brad, then did the same with the two pistols. "Put your pistols in your belt." He armed himself with two pistols, an AR-15 rifle and several magazines of ammunition. "We're going to try to get to the hangar in Paso Robles - it's easier to defend."

"Shouldn"t we call the police?"

"I would like to avoid this, but we may not have a choice," Ratel said. "Go".

They got onto Highway 101 northbound. Darkness fell and the rain continued to pour, significantly reducing visibility. They had been on the highway for less than five minutes when Ratel said, "We're being followed. One car stays with us about a hundred yards behind."

"What should we do?"

Ratel said nothing. A few miles later, at the Santa Margarita exit, he pulled off the freeway, and at the end of the exit they armed themselves and waited. Not a single car left because of them. "Maybe they weren't following us," Brad said.

"They probably have a GPS tracking device somewhere on my truck, so they don"t have to watch very closely-I didn"t have time to check," Ratel said. "They probably have more than one pursuit team. The first team will move on, then stop somewhere, and the second chasing team will take over. We"ll go to the airport through the back door."

They drove along county roads for another hour until they finally reached the Paso Robles airport. After passing through the security gate, they headed towards the team hangar, but stopped about a quarter of a mile away. "It's still too busy at the airport to drag these guys inside," Ratel said, placing an AR-15 rifle in his lap. "We'll wait until it gets quieter." They waited, alert for any approach to them. About an hour later, a small twin-engine plane taxied closer and the pilot parked a few hangars away. It took the pilot almost an hour to get his car out of the hangar, park the plane inside, then pack his things and leave, and the airport became quiet again.

Thirty minutes later, with no further signs of activity, Ratel finally couldn't wait any longer. He drove up to the hangar, and he and Brad dragged the attackers inside. Ratel then drove the pickup truck about a quarter mile and parked it, then ran back to the hangar.

"It worked," Ratel said, wiping rain from his head and his AR-15. "The support teams will track the delivery and then track us down here. Then they will probably wait a few hours before attacking."

"How will they track us here?"

"I can think of a dozen ways," Ratel said. "If they're any good, they'll be here. I just hope help arrives before then."

Less than an hour later, amid the incessant rain and occasional gusts of wind, they heard the sound of metal scraping against metal outside the main entrance door. "Follow me," Ratel whispered, and he and Brad retreated to the hangar. Inside was a small business jet, the black color of which indicated that it belonged to Kevin Martindale's international Scion Aviation organization. Ratel found a large wheeled toolbox the size of a closet against the wall of the hangar, pulled it away from the wall, and they both stood behind it. "Okay, your job is to keep an eye on that walk-through door over there," Ratel said, pointing to the large aircraft hangar door. "I'll be watching the door to the main office. Single shots only. Make them count."

A few minutes later they heard another sound of metal being pressed in, and a few minutes after that they heard more sounds of metal on metal coming from the hangar's walk-through door, a signal that the door had been forced open. A moment later, the door opened and Brad saw a man wearing night vision goggles crouching low and walking through the doorway, holding a submachine gun. Bizjet was now hiding it. The second attacker entered the door, closed it, and remained there, covering her. At the same time, Ratel could see two more attackers enter the office door, also wearing night vision goggles and carrying machine guns.

"Shit," he whispered. "Four guys. We're running out of time." He took out his cell phone, dialed 911, left it on, turned the volume all the way down, and stuck it under his toolbox. "Use the gun. Get the guy out the door. The other guy will probably hide behind the right rudder of the plane." Brad peeked out from behind a toolbox and took aim at the guy at the front door, which was partially illuminated by a glowing emergency exit sign. Ratel took a deep breath, then whispered, "Now."

Brad and Ratel fired almost simultaneously. Ratel's blow landed and one attacker fell. Brad had no idea where his shot hit, but he knew it didn't hit anything except maybe the hangar wall. The guy at the door rushed along the hangar wall toward the conference room, crouching low. Just as Ratel had predicted, the other guy took cover behind the wheel of the plane... and then the hangar exploded with machine gun fire that seemed to come from all directions at once. Ratel and Brad ducked behind a toolbox.

"Open fire when the shooting stops!" Ratel screamed. The toolbox was riddled with bullets, but the tools inside seemed to absorb the bullets. A moment later, there was a brief lull in the shooting, and Brad looked out from behind his toolbox, saw movement near the plane's tire, and fired. The bullet hit the tire, which instantly exploded, sending a shock wave into the assailant's face. He screamed, clutching his face in agony. It seemed that the bizjet was about to collapse to the right, but the wheel hub barely kept it from tipping over completely.

Now the shooting was changing direction - more bullets were hitting the side of the toolbox, rather than the front. "Look around!" Ratel screamed. "They'll try... ahhh! Crap! Brad looked and saw Ratel clutching his right hand, which looked like it had been torn wide open by a bullet. Blood sprayed everywhere. "Take the rifle and don"t let them near!" Ratel screamed, clutching his wounded arm, trying to stop the bleeding.

Brad tried to peek out from behind the toolbox, but the moment he moved, bullets started flying, and now he could feel them getting closer and closer, like a swarm of bats buzzing overhead. He tried to point the rifle at the toolbox and fire, but the muzzle of the rifle bounced uncontrollably. Ratel wrapped a rag around his right hand and fired the pistol with his left, but the muzzle was not at all stable and he looked as if he might pass out at any moment. Brad heard approaching footsteps and voices in Russian. This is it, he thought. The next shot he heard would be the last in his life, he was sure of it...

SIX

A lie never survives to old age.

-SOPHOCLES

PASO ROBLES, CALIFORNIA

Suddenly there was a terrible explosion at the back of the hangar. The air instantly filled with dust and debris. The voices shouted in Russian... And soon the screams gave way to screams, and a moment later the screams fell silent.

"All clear, Brad," came an electronically synthesized voice. Brad looked up and saw an infantry cybernetic device behind the bizjet.

"Dad?" - he asked.

"Are you all right?" - Asked Patrick McLanahan.

"Chief Ratel," Brad said, above the ringing in his ears from all the shooting in the closed hangar. "He's injured." A moment later, two men hurried and carried Ratel out. Brad ran up to the robot. He saw where his father had burst through the doorway, tearing down most of the wall around the door between the hangar and the main office. All six attackers, the four who attacked the hangar and the two who attacked Brad on Tankfarm Road, have already been taken away.

"Are you okay, Brad?" - Patrick asked.

"Yes. I can't hear very well with all the shooting, but other than that I'm fine."

"Fine. Let's get out of here. Highway patrol and sheriffs will be about five minutes away." Patrick picked up his son and carried him across a large open field to a parking area at the south end of the runway, where a black Sherpa cargo plane waited, its turboprops spinning at idle. Patrick lowered Brad to the ground, crawled in through the cargo ramp at the rear, and sat down on the cargo deck, with Brad climbing aboard right after him. The crew member sat Brad down in the cargo net seat, helped him buckle up, and gave him headphones. A few moments later they were in the air.

"What about Chief Ratel?" Brad asked, assuming his father could hear him through the intercom.

"He will be evacuated and treated," Patrick replied.

"What will the cops do when they see this hangar? It looks like a war zone. It was a war zone."

"President Martindale will handle this," Patrick replied.

"How did you get here so fast, dad?"

"I was in St. George when your alarm went off in San Luis Obispo," Patrick said. "It's less than two hours away by Sherpa. Thank God Chief Ratel got to you in time and got you out of town."

"St. George? Is this where we are heading now?"

"Yes, Brad," Patrick said. CID turned to Brad and raised an armored hand, anticipating Brad's protests. "I know you want to come back to Cal Poly, Brad," Patrick said, "and now that you have received a grant from Sky Masters, your work becomes even more important. I also want to see you continue your education. So, I'm going to assign Sergeant Major Vol's team to locate and capture any other assault troops that come after you. They will be located closer to campus, so you won't have to travel to the south side of town for training. They will take over your training until Chief Ratel is well enough to do so."

"You mean they'll be my bodyguards or something?"

"While I'm confident they can handle them, Wohl teams are not built for personal security work," Patrick said. "They train for counterintelligence and direct action missions. But now we are faced with four two-person teams of Russian killers. I am not going to allow any strike force to roam the United States at will, especially one that targets my son. So we need to develop a plan of action. We'll interrogate the newbies, do some research, and come up with a plan."

"So I"ll be like bait, luring in the bad guys so the Sergeant Major can take them out?" Brad noticed. He nodded and smiled. "It's cool as long as I can go back to Cal Poly. I can go back to Cal Poly, right, Dad?"

"Against my better judgment, yes," Patrick said. "But not today. Have the Staff Sergeant and his teams interrogate the new prisoners, gather some information, and scour the campus and city. It will only take a day or two. I know you've been doing most of your final exam preparation online, and your classes are mostly over so you can work at our headquarters. Before finals week rolls around, you should be able to return to campus."

"I just need to come up with an excuse to tell Team Starfire about this," Brad said. "The project is developing rapidly, dad. The university receives money and support from all over the world."

"I know, son," Patrick said. "To the university's credit, they are keeping Starfire strictly within the scope of Cal Poly's undergraduate project-other universities, companies, and even governments have offered to take over. Looks like you'll remain in charge for now. Just understand that the pressure to hand the project over to someone else as a commercial operation will certainly mount - I'd wager most likely Sky Masters Aerospace, now that they've invested so much into it - and the university may be inclined to the point that big money would allow some company to take it over. Just don't be offended if it happens. Universities run on money."

"I won"t be offended."

"Fine". TIE turned his massive armored head towards Brad. "I'm proud of you, son," Patrick said. "I've seen it in hundreds of emails from all over the world: people are impressed with your leadership in moving this project forward, building a top-notch team, and getting technical support. No one can believe that you are a freshman."

"Thanks, Dad," Brad said. "I hope I can achieve even a fraction of the success you have had in the Air Force."

"I think your path will be completely different from mine," Patrick said. He turned back, facing the back of the plane. "I always wanted to have leadership skills like you. My life could have been completely different if I had your skills and learned to use them. You obviously learned them from someone other than your father, or maybe the Civil Air Patrol."

"But you were... I mean, you're a three-star general, Dad."

"Yes, but my promotions were because of what I did, not because of my leadership qualities," Patrick said, the thoughtfulness in his voice still evident despite the CID electronic voice synthesizer. "I have had several command positions over the years, but I have never acted as a true commander - I acted as I always did: operator, pilot, crew member, not a leader. I saw a job that needed to be done and I went out and did it. As a field officer or general, I should have built a team to get the job done rather than go off and do it myself. I never really understood what it meant to lead."

"I also think getting the job done is the most important thing, Dad," Brad said. "I'm an aerospace engineering student, but I can barely understand most of the sciences that I'm expected to learn. I'm working my way through it, finding someone to explain it to me. But all I really want is to fly. I know I need to get a degree so I can go to test pilot school and fly hot jets, but I don't care about the degree. I just want to fly."

"Well, it works for you, son," Patrick said. "Keep focused on the goal. You can do it ".

Sherpa landed about two hours later at General Dick Stout Airfield, fourteen miles northeast of the southern Utah town of St. George. The airport had been expanded significantly over the past few years as St. George's population grew, and while Stout Field was still a towerless airport, its western portion blossomed as an industrial and commercial aviation hub. The black Sherpa taxied to a very large hangar on the south side of the industrial part of the airport and was towed inside the hangar before anyone was allowed to disembark. The huge hangar contained a Challenger-5 business jet, a Reaper drone with under-wing weapons mounts, and a smaller version of the V-22 Osprey tilt-rotor aircraft, all painted black, of course.

Patrick took his son to a nearby building. Brad immediately noticed that the ceiling was higher, and all the doors and hallways were wider and higher than usual, all clearly designed to accommodate the Cybernetic Infantry Device that passed through them. Brad heard the lock automatically click open as they approached the door, and they entered a room in the center of the building. "This is my home," Patrick said. It was nothing more than a bare, windowless room with only a table with a few nutrient canisters on it, a place where Patrick plugged in to recharge...

... and, in the far corner, another new model of a cybernetic robotic infantryman. "I see I have a replacement," Patrick said in a wooden voice. "We usually need another day or so to run a full set of diagnostics on the new CID before they make the transfer."

"Then I can see you, dad."

"Son, if you're sure this is what you want to do, then I'll allow it," Patrick said. "But it"s not pretty."

Brad looked around the room. "Damn, they don"t even let you hang pictures on the walls?"

"I can play all the pictures I want, any time I want, right in my mind," Patrick said. "I don"t need them hanging on the wall." He replaced the nutrient containers in his chassis with new ones on the table, then stood at the designated location in the center of the room, and the power, data, hygiene, nutrient, and diagnostic cables automatically descended from the ceiling and connected to the correct locations on the CID. Patrick froze in place, standing up straight, much like the unmanned robot in the corner. "The sergeant major will arrive in a few hours to brief you and talk to you about what happened, and then he will take you to your hotel," he said. "He'll bring you back in the morning and we'll get you settled in so you can get some exercise."

Brad silently considered what he was going to say for a moment; then: "Dad, you told me that inside this robot you are still yourself."

"Yes".

"Well, the 'you' I remember had awards and plaques and photographs on the walls," Brad said. "Even in the little six-foot-wide trailer at Battle Mountain, you had your old flight helmets, display cases of memorabilia, model airplanes, and all sorts of little things that I didn"t even know what they were, but they"re obviously a lot meant to you. Why don"t you have any of this here?"

The robot remained motionless and silent for several long moments; then, "I guess I never really thought about it, Brad," Patrick finally said. "At first I thought it was because I didn't want anyone to know it was me in here, but now all the people I interact with in this building know it's me, so it's really more not applicable ".

"Well, a robot wouldn't have anything on the walls," Brad said, "but my dad would." Patrick didn't say anything. "Maybe when everything calms down and gets back to normal-or as close to normal as it will ever get-I can fly over here and organize some things. Make it feel more like your room and less like a closet."

"I'd like that, son," Patrick said. "I would like that."

OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT

FOURTEENTH BUILDING, KREMLIN

MOSCOW

A FEW DAYS LATER

"There are definitely signs of increased activity at the American military space station," State Security Minister Viktor Kazyanov said via video link from his intelligence center to the president"s office. He showed before and after photos of the Armstrong space station. "There was one launch of a heavy-lift rocket that delivered these long structures along with many smaller containers, both pressurized and unpressurized. We don't know for sure what's in the sealed containers yet, but these other non-sealed items resemble batteries already installed on the farm, so we assume they are batteries too."

"I don"t want any more assumptions from you, Kazyanov," said Russian President Gennady Gryzlov, pointing his cigar at Kazyanov"s image on his computer monitor. "Find me information. Do your damn job."

"Yes, sir," said Kazyanov. He cleared his throat, then continued: "There has also been a significant increase in the number of spaceplane flights, sometimes three to four per month, sir." He changed the slides. "The newest model of their single-stage orbital spaceplane, the S-29 Shadow, has now completed operational testing and completed one flight to the station. In size and carrying capacity, it is similar to our Elektron spaceplane, but, of course, it does not need a rocket to launch into space."

"Of course not," said President Gennady Gryzlov caustically. "So. Now they have one shadow spaceplane, which is similar in size to our Electron. How many electrons do we have, Sokolov?"

"We have reactivated seven Elektron spaceplanes," responded Defense Minister Gregor Sokolov. "One of them is ready for launch in Plesetsk, and the other spaceplane-rocket pair has arrived there and can be mated and launched to the launch position within a week." we have..."

"A week?" Gryzlov thundered. "Minister, I told you, I want to fill the Earth's orbit with Russian space planes and weapons. I want to be able to launch two spaceplanes at the same time."

"Sir, only one launch pad in Plesetsk was loaded for the Angara-5 launch vehicle," Sokolov said. "The funds intended for the construction of another site there were redirected to the construction of the Vostochny cosmodrome and the extension of the lease of Baikonur. We have to-"

"Minister Sokolov, I sense a pattern here: I give orders, and you give me excuses instead of results," Gryzlov said. "Is there a launch pad on Vostochny suitable for the Angara-5 launch vehicle or not?"

"The Vostochny Cosmodrome will not be completed within the next two years, sir," Sokolov said. Gryzlov rolled his eyes irritably for the hundredth time during the teleconference. "Baikonur is the only other launch site available to host Angara 5 at this time."

"So why is there no Elektron spaceplane at Baikonur, Sokolov?"

"Sir, as far as I understand, you did not want any more military launches from Baikonur, only commercial launches," Sokolov said.

Gryzlov could hardly contain his anger. "I said that I want, Sokolov, to deliver as many spaceplanes to the launch pads as quickly as possible so that we at least have a chance to challenge the Americans," he said. "We are paying good money to use this facility - we will start using it. What else?"

"Sir, we are continuing to modernize the Plesetsk, Vostochny and Znamensk cosmodromes," Sokolov continued, "but work is slowed down due to cold weather and must be completely stopped in about a month, otherwise the quality of the concrete castings will deteriorate."

"So we only have two launch sites for our spaceplanes, and one isn"t even in our own country?" Gryzlov said with disgust. "Perfect".

"There is another way that we can take, Mr. President: to launch Elektron space planes from China," Foreign Minister Daria Titeneva intervened. "Thanks to America's actions against both of our countries, our relationship with China has never been better. I explored this possibility with the Chinese Foreign Minister, and I spoke with his military adviser, who suggested a base in the far west of China: Xichang. With the opening of the new Wenchang Satellite Launch Center on Hainan Island, all heavy rocket launch operations have been moved there from Xichang, making the base open, accessible and equipped with the latest technology. They have two launch pads dedicated to our Angara-5 rockets as well as our Proton series. There is a lot of concern that a launch failure could result in debris falling on nearby towns and factories with a reduced range, but I think a little more attention to local and provincial politicians could alleviate their concerns."

"Great job, Daria," said Gryzlov, smiling for the first time during the meeting. "See, Sokolov? Here's how it's done. Thinking outside the box."

"You object to launches from Baikonur, but are you considering sending our rockets and spaceplanes to China, sir?" Sokolov objected. "I am sure that the Chinese military would like to take a closer look at Electron and Angara-5.

"I ordered Russian space planes at the launch pads, Sokolov!" Gryzlov growled, pointing his cigar at the image of the Minister of Defense on his monitor. "If I can"t launch them from Russian facilities, I"ll do it from somewhere else." He turned back to Titeneva. "Continue preparations, Daria," he said. "What else were the Chinese talking about?"

"They were talking about exchanging for the use of Xichang, sir, along with cash, of course," Titeneva said. "They mentioned a few things, a few policy points, such as support for their claims to the Senkaku Islands and the South China Sea, and perhaps resuming negotiations on oil and natural gas pipelines to China from Siberia, but most of all they are interested in mobile class missiles surface-to-air S-500, the latest model capable of attacking satellites."

"Indeed?" Gryzlov said, nodding enthusiastically. "Exchange the launchers for S-500 missiles, which I would anyway like to place at all Russian cosmodromes and military installations around the world. Great idea. I approve".

"Sir, the S-500 is the most advanced air defense weapon in the world," Sokolov said, his face turning into a stunned mask telling everyone that he couldn't believe what the president had just said. "This is at least a generation ahead of anything the Chinese or even the Americans have. The electronic, sensor and propulsion technologies used in the S-500 are the best in Russia... no, the best in the world! We will give them what they have been trying to steal from us for decades!"

"Sokolov, I want Electrons and Burans to be on the launch pads," Gryzlov barked. "If the Chinese can do it, and they want the S-500, they will get the S-500." He frowned when he saw the shocked expression on Sokolov's face. "How are our other rearmament programs going? The Duma has increased our defense appropriations by thirty percent - this should lead to hundreds of S-500s, MiG-31D anti-satellite systems and much more than just five spaceplanes."

"It takes time to restart weapons programs that were canceled many years ago, sir," Sokolov said. "The S-500 has already entered production, so we can expect one to two systems per month over the next-"

"No, Sokolov!" Gryzlov interrupted. "This is unacceptable! I want at least ten a month!"

"Ten?" Sokolov objected. "Sir, we can eventually reach the target of ten units per month, but accelerating production to that level will take time. It's not enough to just have money - we need trained workers, space on the assembly line, a constant and reliable flow of spare parts, testing centers - "

"If the S-500 was already in production, why isn"t all this in place yet?" Gryzlov thundered. "Did you plan to build only one to two per month? The most advanced air defense system in the world, or so you say, but we don"t build more of them?"

"Sir, defense spending has been shifted to other priorities such as anti-ship missiles, aircraft carriers and fighter jets," Sokolov said. "The S-500 is primarily an air defense weapon, designed for use against cruise missiles and stealth aircraft, and later adapted as an 'S' model anti-satellite and anti-missile weapon. After our bombers and cruise missiles launched attacks on the United States that virtually destroyed its bombers and ICBMs, air defense was not given much importance because the threat had virtually disappeared. Now that space is a higher priority and the S-500 has proven to be successful, we can start building more, but as I said sir, it takes time to...

"Even more excuses!" Gryzlov shouted into the microphone of the video conference. "All I want to hear from you, Sokolov, is 'yes, sir,' and all I want to see is results, or I'll have someone else do my bidding. Now get to work!" And he pressed a button that cut off communication with his defense minister.

At that point, Tarzarov sent the president a private text message that scrolled across the bottom of the video conference screen: it read: Praise publicly, criticize privately. Gryzlov was going to answer "Fuck you," but changed his mind. "Daria, good job," he said over the teleconference network. "Let me know what you need me to do to help."

"Yes, sir," Titeneva answered with a confident smile and hung up. Gryzlov grinned. Daria Titeneva has definitely changed over the past few weeks: aggressive, creative, demanding, even vulgar at times... in and out of bed. Gryzlov continued the video conference with other ministers in his cabinet for a few more minutes, then disconnected.

"Your anger and temper will sooner or later get the better of you, Gennady," said Tarzarov, as soon as all ties with the president"s ministers were securely interrupted. "Constantly warning you about it doesn't seem to help."

"More than ten years have passed since the destruction of the American fleet of bombers and intercontinental ballistic missiles, Sergei," Gryzlov complained, once again ignoring Tarzarov"s advice. "The Americans reactivated their military space station and switched to space-based weapons instead of rebuilding their bomber and missile weapons, and they made no secret of it. What the hell have Zevitin and Truznev been doing all these years-playing with themselves?"

"For most of that time, former presidents had institutional, political and budgetary problems, Gennady," Tarzarov said, "as well as the need to restore weapons destroyed by the Americans during counterattacks. It is no use pointing fingers at past presidents. Very few heads of state, including you, have complete control over the destiny of their country." He checked his smartphone, then shook his head in exasperation. "Ilyanov and Korchkov are waiting outside. Are you finished with this project yet, sir? Ilyanov is just a thug in an air force uniform, and Kortchkova is a mindless machine gun who kills because she likes it."

"I will finish these two when their task is completed," Gryzlov said. "But for now they are the right people for the job. Bring them here." Tarzarov escorted the Russian officer and his assistant to the president"s office, then took his "inconspicuous place" in the office and effectively blended into the situation. Ilyanov and Korchkov were in military uniform, Ilyanov in an air force uniform, and Korchkov in a simple black tunic and trousers, without orders or medals, only the insignia on epaulettes characteristic of the elite special group "Vympel" commandos. Gryzlov noticed that she also wore a knife in a black sheath on her belt. "I expected to hear from you a few days ago, Colonel," he said. "I also haven"t heard anything on the news about the death of McLanahan"s son, so I"m guessing your squad failed."

"Yes, sir," said Ilyanov. "The first group reported to Alpha Command that they had McLanahan, and then Alpha lost contact with them. The second and third teams picked up McLanahan and a man with whom McLanahan had been doing self-defense and conditioning training while out of town."

"Who is this man?" - Asked Gryzlov.

"A retired non-commissioned officer named Ratel, now a self-defense and firearms instructor," Ilyanov said. "He comes into contact from time to time with several people who also appear to be ex-military - we are now in the process of identifying them. One man looks like he's been burned by chemicals or radiation. He seems to be the one in charge of the ex-military."

"This gets even more interesting," Gryzlov said. "McLanahan's bodyguards? Some kind of private paramilitary group? McLanahan Sr. reportedly belonged to such groups, both within and outside the military."

"Our thoughts are exactly the same, sir," said Ilyanov. "The second team had to rip his tail off because he thought he had been discovered, but the teams were using an electronic beacon on Ratel's vehicle, so they were ordered to rip off the tail and wait for the beacon to stop. He landed at a small airport in central California. Teams found the abandoned vehicle, but they were able to determine which airport building Ratel and McLanahan were hiding in, a large aircraft hangar. Command ordered Teams Two and Three to wait for activity at the airport to cease and then attack from different directions, which they did."

"And obviously failed," Gryzlov said. "Let me guess the rest: Members of all three teams are missing, not in police custody, and McLanahan is nowhere to be found. Who owned the hangar, Colonel?" He raised his hand. "Wait, let me guess again: some run-of-the-mill aviation company with unremarkable officers and a few employees who haven't been in the area very long." The expression on Ilyanov's face told the president that he had guessed correctly. "Perhaps the hangar is the headquarters of this group, or was. They will undoubtedly fly apart in all four directions. Was your team able to search the hangar?"

"The command group was unable to get in because of the police, and then because of a heavily armed private security guard," Ilyanov said. "But the team leader did observe many men and women removing files and equipment on trucks, and a business jet that had been in the hangar during the operation taxied out and left for the night after the operation. The business jet was painted completely black."

"I thought it was illegal in most countries to paint an airplane black unless it was a government or military aircraft," Gryzlov said. "Again, very interesting. You may have stumbled upon some mysterious paramilitary organization, Colonel. What else?"

"The team leader was able to notice that the main entrance to the aircraft hangar had been blown inwards, possibly by a vehicle that drove straight through the main office and crashed into the hangar itself," Ilyanov said. "However, there was no sign of a damaged vehicle anywhere outside the hangar."

Gryzlov thought for a moment, nodding, then smiled. "So McLanahan's paramilitary friends save people by crashing a car into the front door? Doesn't sound very professional. But they got the job done." He rose from his desk. "Colonel, the ten men you sent there were either killed or captured, presumably by this counter-surveillance or counterintelligence unit around McLanahan. No matter who you recruit inside the United States, they are practically useless. You retreat and we wait to allow conditions there to return to normal. Obviously, McLanahan has no intention of leaving this school, so it will be easy to take him back again."

Gryzlov examined Korchkov's body from head to toe. "And when the moment comes, I think it"s time to send Captain Korchkov - alone," he added. "Your two-man teams are idiots or incompetent or both, and now this paramilitary team has been warned. I'm sure the captain will do the job. She may have to eliminate a few of these former military men first before she gets to McLanahan." Korchkova said nothing, but there was a hint of a smile on her face, as if she was already enjoying the prospect of more murders. "But not at once. Let McLanahan and his bodyguards think we've given up on the hunt. Spend some time putting the captain in perfect cover, close to McLanahan and close enough to get a good look at this paramilitary team. Don't use her diplomatic powers - I'm sure all embassy and consulate staff will be under scrutiny for some time."

"Yes, sir," said Ilyanov.

Gryzlov came closer to Korchkova and stared into her unblinking eyes. She looked right back at him with her tiny smile. "They let you in here with a knife, Korchkov?"

"They couldn"t take you from me, sir," said Korchkov, and these were the first words that, in Gryzlov"s memory, the beauty had ever heard. "They didn't dare take it away from me. Sir."

"I see," said Gryzlov. He examined her body from head to toe once more, then said, "It wouldn't bother me at all, Captain, if you decided to torture McLanahan a little before executing him. Then you could come back to me and describe it all in great detail."

"With pleasure, sir," said Korchkov, "With pleasure, sir."

IN NEAR-EARTH ORBIT

OCTOBER 2016

"Wow, look at all the new bling," Sondra Eddington said. She and Boomer Noble were aboard the midnight spaceplane S-19, heading toward the docking bay of the Armstrong space station, which was about a mile away. This was her fourth spaceplane flight, her second on the S-19 spaceplane-the others were on the smaller S-9 Black Stallion-but her first time in orbit and her first docking with the Armstrong space station. Both she and Boomer wore tight-fitting electronic elastomeric track suits and helmets to pre-breathe oxygen in case of an uncontrolled depressurization.

"Part of the Starfire solar power project," Boomer said. He could see Sondra shake her head slightly when he said the word Starfire. They were referring to two additional sets of solar collectors installed on the towers between the "upper" modules of the station, aimed at the sun. "It's hard to believe, but these new photovoltaic collectors produce more electricity than all the plant's silicon solar cells combined, although they are less than a quarter the size."

"Oh, I believe it," Sondra said. "I can almost explain to you how they are built and draw you the molecular structure of nanotubes."

"I believe Brad has told you about them more than once."

"Until it rings in my ears," Sondra said wearily.

This part of Sondra's spaceplane training was entirely computer controlled, so both crew members sat back and watched the computers do their thing. Boomer asked questions about possible problems and her actions, pointed out certain signs and talked about what to expect. Soon they could only see one module of the station, and soon all they could see was the docking site, and a few minutes later the midnight spaceplane was stopped. "The latches are secured, the docking was successful," Boomer reported. "It's pretty boring when a computer does it."

Sondra finished monitoring the computer as it completed the post-docking checklist. "Postdock checklist complete," she said as the computer completed all the steps. "I like nothing more than a boring flight - it means everything went well and everything worked. Good enough for me."

"I like to hand secure it," Boomer said. "If we have extra fuel for Armstrong or Midnight, I'll do it. Otherwise, the computer is much more fuel efficient, I hate to admit it."

"You're just showing off," Sondra said. "Confident as always."

"It's me". He was silent for a moment, then asked, "What was the feeling of rising? I feel you still have a little difficulty with positive Gs."

"I can stay ahead of them just fine, Boomer," Sondra said.

"It just looked like you were concentrating really hard on staying on top."

"Whatever does the job, right?"

"I'm a little worried about the decline," Boomer said. "G-forces are heavier and longer lasting. You only get two or three Gs on the climb, but four or five on the descent."

"I know, Boomer," Sondra said. "I'll be ok. I passed all the flights on the MiG-25, and I did well on the S-9 and other S-19 flights."

"They were all suborbital-we can avoid Gs more easily because we don't have to slow down as much," Boomer said. "But now we will descend from Mach twenty-five. To reduce the Gs, I can reduce the deorbit angle a little, but then you have to go against the Gs for a longer period of time."

"I've heard the lecture before, Boomer," Sondra said, a little annoyed. "I'll be fine no matter what angle of descent you choose. I was practicing my M-maneuvers." M-maneuvers were a method of tightening the abdominal muscles, inflating the lungs, and then grunting from the pressure in the chest to force blood to remain in the chest and brain. "Also, EEAS helps a lot."

"Okay," said Boomer. "Is this like practicing your Kegel exercises?"

"Something you would like to feel personally?"

Boomer ignored the intimate comment and pointed to the displays on the dashboard. "This indicates that the computer is ready to begin the 'Pair Tunnel Before Transmission' checklist ," he said. "I will go ahead and initiate this. Since the transfer tunnel will be connected by a machine-that's why we wear spacesuits-in case the tunnel is unsafe when we want to exit, we can safely go into space to reconnect it or get to the station."

"Why don"t we just do a spacewalk to get to the station like President Phoenix did last spring?" Sondra asked. "It sounded like fun."

"We will do this in a later evolution," Boomer said. "Your task in this evolution is to learn to control the ship and station from the cockpit, to be able to recognize anomalies and take action."

"How long does it take to transport cargo?"

"Depends. There aren't many cargo modules on this flight. Probably not for long."

As the transfer tunnel was slid into place on top of the transfer chamber between the flight deck and the cargo bay, Boomer watched as mechanical arms from the Armstrong space station removed pressurized modules from the open cargo bay and delivered them to their destination. The smaller modules were for the crew's personal belongings-water, food, spare parts, and other essentials-but the largest module was the last. This was one of the last components of Project Starfire to be delivered to the Armstrong space station: a microwave generator that would be installed inside the station's already installed free electron laser to produce maser energy from the harvested electrical energy generated by the Sun.

A beep sounded in the astronauts' helmets and Boomer touched the microphone button. "Battle Mountain, this is the Third Stallion, continue," he said.

"Sondra, Boomer, it"s Brad!" Brad McLanahan said excitedly. "My team members and I would like to congratulate you on the release of the latest major Starfire component."

"Thanks, buddy," Boomer said. "Please convey our congratulations to your team. Everyone at Armstrong and Sky Masters are excited to begin installing the final piece of this project and preparing for a test run very soon."

"Same here, Brad," Sondra said simply.

"How are you, Sondra? How was your first flight into orbit?"

"I'm more like a nanny here: everything is so automated that I don't do anything, just watch the computers do all the work."

"Well, the takeoff was incredible, we watched you take off from mission control and the meeting was perfect," Brad said. "We can see them loading a microwave cavity into the Skybolt module right now, damn it. And you just made your first flight into orbit. Amazing! Congratulations!"

"You sound like a little kid, Brad," Boomer said.

"The team and I couldn"t be more excited, Boomer," Brad said. "I couldn"t sleep at all last night-hell, not for the last week!"

"So when do we release this bad boy, Brad?" - Boomer asked.

"Things are going very well, Boomer, maybe in a week or so," Brad replied. "Construction of the first rectenna is complete and as we speak it is undergoing testing and preparing to test fire at the White Sands Missile Range. Computer chips and new aiming control software are online and tested. We've run into a couple of glitches with the lithium-ion capacitors in the Skybolt laser completely draining, but we have an army of guys working on them and we're adding more experts and technicians to the project every day. I'm still trying to persuade Dr. Kaddiri and Dr. Richter persuaded me to fly to the station. Put in a good word for me, okay?"

"Of course, Brad," Boomer said.

"Sondra, when are you coming back?" - Brad asked.

"I can"t tell you that, Brad, not over an unsecured transmission," Sondra replied irritably. "I know I have some classes and exercises to do here at the station, and I don"t think we"ll be going straight back to Battle Mountain."

"I have to go back to Cal Poly tomorrow morning," Brad said with obvious despondency in his voice. "I've already missed enough classes."

"Next time, Brad," Sondra said.

"Well, I'll let you guys get back to work," Brad said. "We're going to be talking to Armstrong technicians about starting to integrate the microwave cavity into Skybolt, and then the team is heading to town to celebrate the completion of Starfire. I wish you guys were with us. Thanks again for an exciting and successful flight."

"You guessed it, buddy," said Boomer. "And I will talk to the authorities about taking you and the rest of your team on a space plane to Armstrong. You should be here when you take your first shot."

"Cool, Boomer," Brad said. "Thank you again. Talk to you soon."

"Midnight is free." Boomer interrupted the connection. "Man, it's good to hear a guy so damn excited about something," he said over the intercom. "And I like to hear 'team this' and 'team that'. He's the manager of a project that has almost a hundred people and a budget, at last count, over two hundred million dollars, but it's still about the team. Very cool." Sondra nothing didn't say. Boomer looked at her, but couldn't read anything on her face through the oxygen helmet. "Am I right?" he asked.

"Certainly".

Boomer let the silence stretch for several long moments; then: "You still haven"t broken up with him, have you?"

"I don"t need to," Sondra said irritably. "I've only seen this guy three weekends in six months, and when we do meet all he talks about is Starfire this or Cal Poly that and all he does is school work and stuff related to Starfire , and then he rides a bike or does hundreds of push-ups and sit-ups to work out. He did this every day when I was visiting."

"Does he train every day?"

"At least ninety minutes a day, not counting the time spent riding your bike to class or the gym," Sondra said. "He's really changed and it's a little scary. He only sleeps four or five hours a night, he's constantly on the phone or the computer-or both-and he eats like a damn bird. I come home from visiting him and I want to order a whole big pizza with cheese and pepperoni just for me."

"I have to admit, he looked really good when I saw him before takeoff today, much better than the last time I saw him when his dad was around," Boomer said. "He's lost a lot of weight and looks like he has a gun now."

"Not that I've ever had to shoot any of them," Sondra said sullenly.

Boomer didn't ask her to elaborate.

DOWNTOWN BATTLE MOUNTAIN, NEVADA

A FEW HOURS LATER

"The last fragment of Starfire in orbit!" - Brad shouted to the team members gathered around him. "Perfect!" All team members repeated their newfound motto, which is Latin for "even higher."

"I made a reservation for us at Harrah's Battle Mountain Steakhouse," Casey Huggins said as she finished up work on her smartphone. "They will be waiting for us at six."

"Thanks, Casey," Brad said. "I'm going to go for a little run. See you guys at the casino concierge desk."

"Are you leaving to go jogging?" - Asked Lane Egan. "Now? Casey and Jerry's microwave was just delivered to the space station and will be installed in a couple of days, after which Starfire will be ready for launch. You should have fun, Brad. Starfire is almost ready for its test launch! You deserved it ".

"I"m going to have fun, guys, trust me," Brad said. "But if I can't go for a run, I get irritable. See you in an hour at the concierge desk at Harrah's." He ran away before anyone else could object.

Brad ran back to his room, changed into his workout clothes, did two hundred squats and push-ups, then grabbed his cane, went downstairs and went outside. In early October, north-central Nevada had near-perfect weather, not as warm, with a hint of winter in the air, and Brad found the conditions to be ideal. In thirty minutes, he ran nearly four miles through the hotel's RV park, which was much less congested than the parking lot, then headed back to his room to shower and change.

He had just begun to undress when he heard a noise on the other side of the door. He took his cane, looked through the peephole in the door, then opened it. He found Jodi outside, typing a note on her smartphone. "ABOUT! You"re back," she said, surprised. Brad stepped aside and she walked inside. "I was just about to leave you a message asking you to meet us at the Silver Miner instead - they have a pretty good jazz band playing right now." Her eyes traveled over his chest and shoulders and opened wide in surprise. "Damn it, buddy, what the hell were you doing to yourself?"

"What?"

"This is it, buddy," Jodie said and ran her fingers over his biceps and deltoids. "Are you on steroids or something?"

"Hell no. I would never do drugs."

"Then where did these spanking benders come from, Brad?" Jodi asked as her fingers ran over the top of his chest. "I know you've been training, but holy Dooley! You"ve got some tasty butt cheeks there too." She ran her hand over his stomach. "And that"s the six-pack I see, mate?"

"My coaches are pretty energetic guys," Brad said. "We lift weights three times a week, in between doing cardio. They add a speed bag and even some calisthenics just to mix things up." He still hadn't told her about the cane, Krav Maga, and pistol training, but he knew he had to do that soon. They weren't officially a couple and weren't actually dating, they just saw each other a little more often outside of school. They took a couple of flights on the turbine P210, but they were all short day trips to watch a baseball game in San Francisco or buy seafood in Monterey.

"Well, it works for you, big boy," Jodi said with a smile. She ran her fingernail down the front of his chest, but when he didn't react the way she hoped, she pulled away. "But I don"t understand why you need this cane. You said you thought you needed it every now and then after that attack last spring, just to help you calm down. Are you still reeling? You run and bike all the time."

"Yeah, I'll get a little dizzy from time to time," Brad lied. "Not enough to stop me from running or cycling. I'm just used to having it with me, I guess."

"Well, you look very dapper in it," Jodie said. "And I bet people will let you go ahead of them in line at super too."

"I don't let it get that far unless I'm really in a hurry," Brad said.

She walked over and took his cane, tapping the handle against her hand. "Looks disgusting, like cat piss, buddy," she said, running her finger along the pointed tip of the hilt and along the carved handles along the shaft. This one was a little more decorative than the ones she'd first seen him in; it had more projections across it and three channels that ran along its entire length. "This is not my grandfather"s cane, that"s for sure."

"I found out about it from Chief Ratel when he noticed I was feeling a little dizzy," Brad lied again, using the excuses and stories he had made up and rehearsed over the past few months. "I just never got around to buying another one, like the ones that stand up on their own, and he never asked for it back."

From the look on her face, Brad couldn't tell whether Jodi believed any of this or not, but she leaned her cane against the bed, took another long look at his body, and smiled. "See you down at the club, brave one," she said and left.

The team members hosted an extraordinary gala dinner. After Lane Egan's parents took him to the airport to catch his flight back to California, Brad, Jodie, Casey and a few other members of the team decided to check out a new casino on Route 50 that had a good comedy club. It was dark and getting cooler, but it was still comfortable enough for a walk. The normal crosswalk was closed due to sidewalk construction, so they had to walk east about half a block to the second entrance to the casino parking lot, which was not as well lit as the main entrance.

Just as they started to walk back towards the casino, two men appeared out of nowhere from the darkness and blocked their path. "Give me five bucks," one of the men said.

"Sorry," Brad said. "I can"t help you."

"I didn"t ask for your help," the man said. "Now it will cost you ten."

"Get lost, asshole," Casey said.

The second man lashed out, kicking Casey's wheelchair so that she was spun sideways. "Hold low, asshole," he said. Brad, who had helped push Casey when she needed it, reached out to take the wheelchair. The second man thought he was following him, so he pulled out a knife and swung it, ripping Brad's shirt open on his right forearm and drawing blood.

"Brad!" Jody shouted. "Someone help us!"

"Shut up, bitch," the man with the knife growled. "Now throw your wallets on the ground right now, damn it, while I-"

The movement was nothing more than a blur. Brad grabbed the handle of his cane with his left hand and twisted it, bringing it down on his attacker's knuckles with the sound of breaking wood, causing him to drop the knife with a cry of pain. Brad immediately grabbed the end of the cane with his right hand and swung it, hitting the first man on the side of the head. The robber fell, but Brad's cane broke in two.

"You bastard!" shouted the second attacker. He took back his knife and this time held it in his left hand. "I'll gut you like a fucking pig!"

Brad raised his hands, palms out. "No, no, no, no, please don't hurt me again," he said, but the tone of his voice sounded anything but capitulating - it was as if he was playing a prank on this attacker, teasing him with a mocking smile. in a tone as if he was actually encouraging the guy with the knife to attack! "Please, asshole," Brad said, "don"t kill me." And then, to everyone's surprise, he moved his fingers towards the attacker, as if mocking him, then said: "Come and grab me, big man. Try to take me."

"Die, idiot!" The attacker took two steps forward, and the knife aimed at Brad"s stomach...

...but in another blurry movement, Brad blocked the attacker's arm with his right hand, put his hand under the attacker's arm and locked it straight, kneed the attacker in the stomach several times - no one watching this fight could count how many times he did this, - until the attacker dropped the knife and almost bent in half. He then twisted the attacker's left arm upward until they heard several loud CLAPKS as the shoulder tendons and ligaments separated. The assailant collapsed onto the pavement, screaming madly, his left arm bent backwards at a very unnatural angle.

At that moment, two armed casino security guards ran onto the sidewalk, each grabbing Brad by the arm. Brad offered no resistance. "Hello!" Casey screamed. "He didn't do anything! These guys tried to rob us!" But Brad was thrown onto the sidewalk, turned over and handcuffed.

"Damn it, cops, can"t you see he got cut?" Jodie cried after the guards freed Brad. She applied direct pressure to the wound. "Give first aid here, now!" One of the guards pulled out a walkie-talkie, calling the police and ambulance.

"It looks like this guy's arm was twisted almost immediately," a second security guard said after paramedics arrived to examine the screaming man on the sidewalk. He checked the first robber. "This guy is unconscious. I've seen this guy begging before, but he's never robbed anyone." He shone the flashlight at the pieces of broken cane, then looked at Brad. "What were you drunks and beggars doing, driving around with kids to impress your girlfriends?"

"They tried to rob us!" Jodie, Casey and the others screamed almost in unison.

It took more than an hour, during which Brad sat with his hands cuffed behind his back at the door of the police car after the wound on his right hand was bandaged, but finally surveillance video from two different casinos and a parking garage camera showed what happened , and he was released. They all gave statements for police reports and the group returned to their hotel.

While the others went to their rooms, Brad, Jody and Casey found a quiet bar in the casino and bought drinks. "Are you sure you're okay, Brad?" Casey asked. "That bastard gave you a hard time."

"I"m fine," Brad replied, touching the bandages. "It wasn't a very deep cut. The paramedics said I probably wouldn't need stitches."

"So how did you learn this whole cane thing, Brad?" Casey asked. "Are these the self-defense techniques you've been working on since that home invasion in April?"

"Yes," Brad said. "Chief Ratel and his other instructors teach Korean self-defense and Cane-Ja, self-defense with a cane, as well as physical fitness. It came in handy."

"I'll tell you," Casey said. "It was still a fun night. I'm going to play a few slot machines, maybe see if that guy I met at the club is still here, and call it a day. See you guys in the morning." She finished her glass of wine and rolled away.

Brad took a sip of his scotch, then turned to Jody. "You were very quiet after the fight, Jody," he said. "Are you okay?"

Jodie's face was a mixture of confusion, worry, fear... and, as Brad soon realized, disbelief. "Argument?" she said finally, after a long, rather painful moment. "You call this a 'quarrel'?"

"Jodie...?"

"Oh my God, Brad, you almost killed one guy and almost ripped off another guy"s arm!" Jodie exclaimed in a low voice. "You broke your cane on a guy's skull!"

"Damn right I did!" Brad fired back. "This guy cut my hand! What was I supposed to do?

"First of all, buddy, the guy who stabbed you was not the guy you hit in the head," Jodi said. "All he did was ask for money. If you had given him what he asked for, none of this would have happened."

"We're under attack, Jody," Brad said. "This guy pulled out a knife and slashed me. He could do this to you or Casey, or worse. What was I supposed to do?

"What do you mean you should have done?" - Jody asked incredulously. "You Yankees are all the same. Someone bumps into you on the street and you think you should jump in like Batman and kick some ass. Are you a drongo? That's not how it works, Brad. Someone attacks you like this, you give them what they want, they leave, and everyone is safe. We should have dropped our wallets, retreated and called the police. We were the stupidest of those who went into the dark areas instead of sticking to the lighted and protected areas. If they tried to get me into their car, I would fight tooth and nail, but five, ten, or a million lousy bucks aren't worth anyone's life. It's not even worth the cut on your hand. And then, after you broke your cane over the first guy's head, you attacked the guy with a knife, and you were unarmed. Are you crazy? You even sounded like you were teasing the guy to attack you! What kind of crap is this?"

Wow, Brad thought, she's really upset about this-it was a reaction he hadn't expected at all. Arguing with her wouldn't help one bit. "I... I guess I just didn't think," he said. "I just reacted."

"And it looked like you were trying to kill both guys!" Jodi continued to boom, her voice rising enough to attract the attention of those around her. "You beat that other guy so hard I thought he was going to vomit, and then you almost twisted his arm off! What the hell was that?"

"The self-defense classes I take..."

"Oh, that"s all, huh?" Jodie said. "Your new friend Chief Ratel is teaching you how to kill people? I think the further away you get from this guy, the better. He brainwashes you into thinking you"re invincible, that you can fight a guy with a knife and bash his head in with a cane." Her eyes widened in realization. "So that"s why you"re carrying that scary-looking cane? Did Chief Ratel teach you how to attack people with it?"

"I didn"t attack anyone!" Brad protested. "I was-"

"You split this poor guy's head open with that cane," Jodi said. "He didn't do anything to you. The other guy had a knife, so it was self-defense-"

"Thank you!"

"-but it looked like you were trying to kill the guy!" Jodie continued. "Why did you keep beating him like that, and why did you twist his arm so far back?"

"Jodie, the guy had a knife," Brad said, almost begging her to understand. "An attacker with a knife is one of the most dangerous situations you can find yourself in, especially at night and against a guy who knows how to use it. You saw him come at us with his left hand after I knocked the knife out of his right hand - he obviously knew how to fight with a knife, and I had to knock him out. I-"

"Should I remove it?" People at nearby tables began to notice the rising tone in Jodie's voice. "So you tried to kill him?"

"Krav Maga teaches counters, control and counterattacks, in general-"

"I've heard of Krav Maga," Jodi said. "So are you currently training to become an Israeli commando assassin?"

"Krav Maga is a form of self-defense," Brad said in a softer tone, hoping Jodie would follow suit. "This is designed to incapacitate unarmed attackers. It must be fast and brutal so that the defender does not-"

"I don"t know you anymore, Brad," Jodie said, getting to her feet. "I think this attack at your home in San Luis Obispo must have knocked you down a little - or did you lie to me and others about it?"

"No!"

"Ever since then, you've become this obsessive Type A guy, a whirling dervish, the exact opposite of the guy I met at the beginning of the school year. You don't eat, you don't sleep, and you don't hang out with your friends or socialize on campus anymore. You've become this... this machine, developing and studying tactics to kill Israeli commandos and using a cane to crack some skulls. You lied to me about the cane. What else have you lied to me about?"

"Nothing," Brad responded immediately-perhaps too quickly, because he saw Jody's eyes flash again and then narrow suspiciously. "Jodie, I'm not a machine." I know one, Brad thought, but I'm not alone. "I'm the same guy. Maybe this home invasion really threw me off balance a little. But I-"

"Listen, Brad, I need to think about something about us," Jodi said. "I really thought we could be more than friends, but that was with Brad, who I met a long time ago. This new one is scary. It seems that you are absorbing everything that Chief Ratel feeds you, and you have turned into a monster."

"Monster! I don't-"

"I suggest for your own good that you tell this guy, Chief Ratel, to fuck off and maybe go see some psychologist before you go completely crazy and start roaming the streets in a mask and cape looking for guys who You can beat me up," Jodie said, pointing her finger at Brad. "In the meantime, I think it"s best for me to stay away from you until I feel safe again." And she rushed away.

MARICOPA, CALIFORNIA

LATER THAT NIGHT

A woman with long dark hair, wearing a leather jacket, dark pants and pink sunglasses, was filling up her rental car at an abandoned gas station when a brand new windowless van pulled into a dark parking space next to the station office. A tall, handsome man in jeans and an open flannel shirt stepped out of the van, took a long, admiring look at the woman at the gas station, and went inside to make a purchase. When he came out a few minutes later, he walked up to the woman and smiled. "Good evening, sweet lady," he said.

"Good evening," said the woman.

"Nice night, isn't it?"

"A little cold, but nice."

"My name is Tom," the man said, holding out his hand.

"Melissa," the woman said, shaking his hand. "Nice to meet you".

"Same thing, Melissa," the man said. "Beautiful name".

"Thank you, Tom."

The man hesitated, but only for a second, before moving a little closer to the woman and saying, "I have an idea, Melissa. I have a bottle of bourbon in the van, some nice leather seats in the back, and a hundred dollars burning a hole in my pocket. What do you say we have a little fun together before we hit the road again?"

The woman looked Tom straight in the eye, then gave him just the hint of a smile. "Two hundred," she said.

"We've done this before, haven't we?" Tom said. "That"s a little steep for half of my van." The woman took off her sunglasses, revealing dark, seductive eyes and long eyelashes, then unbuttoned her leather jacket, revealing a red blouse with a low neckline and sexy cleavage. Tom licked his lips contentedly, looking around. "Park next to me."

The woman parked her rental car next to the van and Tom opened the side door for her. The van's interior was very well equipped with a leather sofa in the back, leather captain's chairs behind the driver's seat, a TV with satellite receiver and DVD player, and a wet bar. Melissa took one of the captain's chairs while Tom poured two glasses of bourbon. He handed one to her, then tilted his glass towards hers. "Have a nice evening, Melissa."

"So it will be," she said. "But first?"

"Of course," said Tom. He reached into his jeans pocket, pulled out a money clip, and shook out two hundred dollar bills.

"Thank you, Tom," Melissa said, taking a sip of bourbon.

Tom waved his hand behind him, and only then did the woman notice the sports camera in the corner, aimed at her. "You don't mind if I turn on my little camera, do you, Melissa?" - he asked. "I like to keep a collection of souvenirs."

The woman hesitated for a moment, a slight confusion in her eyes, then gave him her faint smile. "No, go ahead," she said. "I love being in front of the cameras."

"I bet you do, Melissa," Tom said. He turned around, walked up to the camera from behind, and pressed a button to turn it on. "I have another down payment that I want to get as well." He turned...

... and found himself face to face with Melissa, looking into her dark, hypnotizing eyes. He smiled, admiring her high cheekbones and full red lips. "Hey baby, I can't wait either, but let me..."

... and at that moment the knife pierced his abdominal cavity, passed through the diaphragm, lungs and reached his very heart. A hand covered his mouth, but he did not cry out-he was dead before he hit the carpet.

The woman removed the sports rear view camera from its mount, took the money clip, opened the side door, saw that there were no strangers, quickly got out of the van, got into her car and drove away. By the time they found the body, she was hundreds of miles away.

THE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, DC

A FEW DAYS LATER

"Well, that's it," said Vice President Anne Page. She was in the White House Situation Room with President Kenneth Phoenix; National Security Advisor William Glenbrook; Harold Lee, Under Secretary of Defense for Space; and Air Force Gen. George Sandstein, commander of Air Force Space Command, watched a live video feed from space on a high-definition wall monitor in the situation room. They watched in shock as a large section of the International Space Station separated from the rest of the structure and began to move away from the ISS. "For the first time in almost twenty years, the International Space Station is free," Ann breathed, "and for the first time in all that time there are no Russian components on it."

"What is being taken away from us, Anne?" - asked the president.

"It's called the Russian Orbital Segment, or ROS, sir," the vice president responded, needing no further comment-as a former astronaut and aerospace and electronics engineer, she was an expert on all of America's space stations, starting with Skylab. ". "There are three docking and airlock modules, one docking and storage module, one laboratory, one habitation module, one service module, four solar panels and two heat sinks."

"Were any critical modules removed? If we sent crews there, would there be any danger for them?"

"The most important Russian module was the Zvezda, or "star," service module," Ann answered. The Zvezda is a large module located entirely "at the back" of the station's flight, and as such provides attitude and navigation control and is used to propel the station into a higher orbit when needed. Among many other important functions, it also produces power , oxygen and water."

"And now?"

"Zvezda will eventually be replaced by two American modules, the ISS propulsion module and the temporary control module," Ann explained. "These two modules were built about twenty years ago, when construction of Zvezda was delayed, and were intended to be used as backup control and propulsion systems in case the Zvezda fails or is damaged; The propulsion module has also been designed to deorbit the ISS when the time comes."

"That time may come sooner than we expected," commented National Security Adviser William Glenbrook.

"Both modules were in storage at the Naval Research Laboratory," the vice president continued. "When the Russians made the announcement that they were going to remove ROS from the ISS, NRL initiated functional tests of two modules. This has just been completed and now we are just waiting for the modules to be connected to the accelerator and sent to the ISS. The problem is that the two modules were built to be transported to the ISS aboard the space shuttle, so some re-engineering would be required to install them on the rocket. This may take a few more weeks."

"So that"s why the station had to be abandoned?" the president asked. "They couldn't produce power, water or oxygen, or operate the station?"

"The Harmony module on the ISS can produce consumables, but only for two astronauts, not six," Anne said. "Unmanned and manned spacecraft can resupply the ISS and dock with the ISS to control and accelerate it higher if necessary, so station management and provisions should not be a problem. For safety reasons, it was decided to evacuate the ISS until the Russian dismantling procedure was completed-" Anne suddenly stopped and stared at the high-definition monitor. "Oh my Lord! Well, well, our Russian friends have certainly seemed very busy over the past few months, haven't they?"

"What is this?" - Phoenix asked.

"This," Anne said, rising from her seat, walking over to the screen at the front of the Situation Room and pointing at a small triangular shaped object on the screen. "Freeze it," she ordered, and the computer responded by pausing the live feed. "This, Mr. President, if I"m not mistaken, is the Soviet-era Elektron spaceplane."

"Do the Russians have a spaceplane like the one I flew on?" President Phoenix asked incredulously.

"It's more like a little space shuttle, sir," Anne explained, "in the sense that it's carried on a booster and then comes back into the atmosphere and glides unpowered to the runway. Although it is smaller than the shuttle and carries only one astronaut, its payload is almost double that of our S-19 spaceplanes, about fifteen thousand pounds. They were armed with guided missiles specifically designed to track down and destroy American satellites and the Silver Tower. The plane has not been seen since the collapse of the Soviet Union. The Soviets said they were going to build hundreds of them. Maybe they did." Anne paused, distracted by painful memories of decades past. "I was aboard the Armstrong space station when the Soviets attacked with three of those bastards. They almost destroyed us."

"Did we know they were going to launch a spaceplane, General?" - asked the president.

"Not really, sir," responded Air Force Gen. George Sandstein, commander of Air Force Space Command and deputy commander for space at U.S. Strategic Command. "About three days ago, we received notification of the launch from the Plesetsk Cosmodrome, Launch Pad 41, of a Soyuz-U rocket carrying an unmanned Progress payload to facilitate the ROS dismantling process, sir. Nothing was mentioned about the spaceplane. We tracked the payload and determined that it was indeed entering orbit and on its way to rendezvous with the ISS, so we classified it as a normal mission."

"Isn"t it unusual for the Russians to use Plesetsk instead of Baikonur, General?" Anne asked.

"Yes, ma'am-Plesetsk was virtually abandoned after the Russians made a deal with Kazakhstan to continue using Baikonur," Sandstein responded. "Plesetsk was primarily used for testing intercontinental ballistic missiles and other light and medium military projects-" Sandstein stopped, his eyes widening in shock, then he said, "Including the Elektron spaceplane and the BOR-5 Buran test items."

"Buran"? - asked the president.

"Soviet replica of the space shuttle, sir," Anne said. "Buran was developed from the very beginning as a military program, so test launches of smaller scale test products were carried out from Plesetsk, which is located in Russia, not Kazakhstan. The Buran spaceplane itself only made one launch from the Baikonur Cosmodrome before the collapse of the Soviet Union, but the mission was highly successful-a fully autonomous, unmanned launch, orbit, return, and landing. Five Burans were built; one was destroyed and three were in various stages of completion."

"If the Russians fly spaceplanes again, it could be the start of a new Russian initiative to return to space," Glenbrook said. "They have ROS and it will no longer be tied to the Western Space Station, so they can do what they want without close surveillance. If they start flying on electrons, they can prepare in many other areas, all of which involve building up their own capabilities as well as countering ours."

"An arms race in space," the president said. "Just what we need right now. Don"t we have to notify the Russians if we"re going to launch a spaceplane into orbit?"

"Yes, sir, and we do it every time," Sandstein replied. "Launch date and time, initial orbital path, destination, target, payload, and return date and time."

"Are we going to give them all this?"

"Our spaceplanes are much more than orbital spacecraft, sir," Sandstein explained. "Their flight paths are much more flexible than when launched from an earthly launch pad, as you yourself have experienced. To avoid conflict, we agreed to provide them with information on each flight so they could monitor the flight and respond to any unexplained deviations."

"So the Russians knew that I was flying in a spaceplane?"

"We don't give them that much detail, sir," Sandstein said with a hint of a smile.

"So we should receive the same information about Russian spaceplanes, right?"

"If we want to show that we know about it, sir," said Anne. "Perhaps it would be better if we did not reveal what we know about Elektron right now. We can assume they know, but we are not obligated to reveal everything we know about their activities. Silence is gold".

President Phoenix nodded - now that the discussion had begun to move from the military to the geopolitical arena, he needed a different set of advisers. "What can the Russians do with this section of the space station?"

"ROS itself is already a fully functioning space station for two or three people," Anne said. "They could probably use a few more solar panels to power it, and they don't have the same complex space and ground sensor systems or communications as the ISS, but they can connect other spacecraft to it to resupply; it can maneuver, accelerate when needed, produce energy, water and oxygen, everything."

"And they undocked it just because Gryzlov was angry with me?" - the president noted. "Incredible."

"Unfortunately, his tactics may work, sir," National Security Adviser Glenbrook said. "Perhaps the European Space Agency would rather undock its Columbus research module than risk irritating the Russians - they had plans to work with Russia to build up their presence in space long before they decided to cooperate on the ISS. If they do this, or if the spare modules we plan to send are not up to the task, the Japanese may disconnect their cyber modules and abandon the project as well. Canada still has remote weapons on the station, but we're not sure if they'll keep them on the ISS if the Russians, ESA and Japan leave."

"So if all the other ISS partners leave, what are we left with?"

"The ISS is still a very important part of American scientific exploration, even without cyberspace, Columbus or ROS, sir," said Anne Page. "We already have a huge investment in IT, and we are gaining a lot of knowledge and experience in living and working in space. If we want to eventually return to the Moon or send astronauts to Mars and beyond, the ISS is the best place to do it. The Japanese in particular have a very extensive research program on the ISS, so I think they would like to keep the ISS in the air for as long as possible until they launch their own station or partner with someone else. Both the ISS and the Armstrong Space Station would be the best platforms to implement your already announced space industrialization initiative."

"Okay," said the president. "I want to talk to the Prime Minister of Japan and the prime ministers of the European Space Agency countries, and I want to assure them that we are committed to preserving the ISS and continuing all the work that we are doing, despite the irritation that the Russians are feeling."

"Yes, Mr. President," Anne said.

"Bill, if the Russians are really preparing to return to space," the president told his national security adviser, "I need to find out what else they are developing and how much-military, industrial, scientific, everything." I don't want to be surprised that new spaceplanes will suddenly appear around our space stations. I would like to receive updated information on all Russian and Chinese spaceports. The Russians have collaborated with the Chinese before, in the Indian Ocean and South China Sea - they may be preparing to do so again."

"Yes, sir," Glenbrook replied.

"General, I need a quick overview of all the assets we have to support the ISS and the Armstrong Space Station in light of this dismantling process and Russia's possible entry into space, and what we might need and how soon," the president said Sandstein. "If there is an arms race in space, I want to win it."

"Absolutely, sir," Sandstein said. The President shook the four-star general's hand and dismissed him.

"Speaking of the space industrialization initiative," the president continued after the general left, "what is happening with the Armstrong space station and our other space projects?"

"On the right track, Mr. President," Deputy Secretary Lee said proudly. "Based on your sketches, sir, we have three programs that we are supporting: successful flight testing of the XS-29 Shadow spaceplane, a larger version of the spaceplane you flew; support for larger commercial rocket boosters to deliver larger payloads into space, including some reusable technologies; and the first industrial program: installing a solar power plant on board the Armstrong space station."

"Solar power plant?"

"It will collect sunlight, convert it into electricity and store it," Li explained. "When it comes within range of a ground-based collector called a rectenna, it converts electricity into a form of electromagnetic energy called a maser-a combination of microwave and laser-and transmits the energy to Earth into a rectenna, which converts the maser energy back into electricity, then stores the energy in giant batteries or feeds it into the electrical grid. If what they plan comes to fruition, in one four-minute shot-the maximum time it takes the space station to fly from horizon to horizon-they could transmit enough power to power a remote research center or village for a week or more."

"Incredible," the president remarked. "Great job."

"And as you pointed out, sir," Lee continued, "the federal government provides support only in the form of use of federal facilities, such as national laboratories, launch pads, and computer networks-things that are already used for other projects. We don"t give "The companies and universities involved in these programs must invest heavily, and they do. If successful, they hope to be compensated in the form of government contracts to operate the systems they develop."

"Excellent," said the president. "Please keep me informed, Mr. Deputy Minister." He stood up, shook Lee's hand and released him too, and soon after Glenbrook left. After the two left, the President told Ann Page, "As soon as there's video of the Russian section of the ISS separating from the station, Ann, we're going to make a hell of a media splash with the election just under a month away."

"I'm a little more optimistic, Ken," Ann said. She knew it was time to take off her vice president's hat and put on that of chief political adviser Ken Phoenix, something she had always enjoyed doing. "Secretary Barbeau blasted your space initiative as just more of Reagan's Star Wars stupidity. When the public sees the Russians starting to retreat in space, they will realize that Barbeau is on the wrong side of the issue."

"I hope so," Phoenix said, "but several months have passed since I announced the initiative aboard the space station, and so far only the Russians have fulfilled their promise to remove their modules from the ISS. Will any of these space programs be available to us for use in the campaign?"

"Absolutely, Ken," Ann said. "The XS-29 spaceplane has completed its first orbital test flight and has already completed missions to both the ISS and the Armstrong Space Station. The solar power project may come online before the election, and we could describe it as yet another project that Barbeau does not support, is not funded by taxpayers, and will become an example of something that will wither and die unless you are re-elected. The new advanced rocket boosters aren't that far along, but we could do tours of the Assembly buildings and remind voters how important these things are."

"Where are we at the solar power plant?"

"It's all thrown together-they're just testing at the last minute," Anne said. "About a dozen spaceplane flights and one heavy-lift rocket, all assembled by remote control in just two or three spacewalks. This was intended from the very beginning by a team of college students with the support of scientists and engineers from around the world... led, by the way, by one Bradley James McLanahan."

"Brad McLanahan?" exclaimed the President. "Are you kidding! Patrick McLanahan's son? I felt sorry for him when he dropped out of the Air Force Academy and when his father was killed - I think he got back on his feet. Well done." He paused, thinking hard, then said, "That's what it sounds like, Anne: let's get Brad McLanahan and maybe one or two more of his crew to the Armstrong space station."

"Until you tell me you want to go up there again, sir."

"I think I've had my share of worries throughout my life," the president said. "Will this make Brad the first teenager in space?"

"Except for the dogs and chimpanzees that have already been sent up, yes," said Anne. "I heard Brad has been asking to come to the station for a while now." Her expression became serious. "Initial considerations, sir: risky. If the flight fails, the son of a very popular and significant figure will die, and your space initiative may go down the drain, as after Challenger and Columbia. Not good."

"But if it succeeds, it could be amazing, right?"

"Yes, that certainly could happen, sir," said Anne Page.

"Then let's make it happen," the president said. "We'll send McLanahan and maybe a female member of his team to use this thing for the first time." He shook his head. "I remember the first time Patrick brought Brad to the White House. He looked around and said, 'God, Dad, you sure work in the old place.' "The President"s expression became serious. "Speaking of Brad McLanahan..."

"Yes, sir?"

"I didn"t tell you this because I thought the fewer people knew the better, but Brad McLanahan found out last spring, so I guess you should too."

"What did you find out?"

Phoenix took a deep breath, then said, "Last year, immediately after the Chinese attack on Guam, a private counterintelligence team led by former President Martindale went to Guam to gather information about hacked utilities and see if there was any other evidence of Chinese presence. intelligence in Guam."

"Aviation is a brat," Anne said. "I remember. What does this have to do with Brad McLanahan?"

"One of the Scion teams put Brad under surveillance after that break-in at the Patrick McLanahan Columbarium in Sacramento," the president said. "They wanted to make sure that the same Russian agents who broke into the crypt wouldn't target Brad. It turns out they targeted him and actually attacked him three times. Scion's guys saved him."

"Well, that's good," said Anne, "but I'm still confused. Why is Scion Aviation International surveillance of Brad McLanahan? Isn't that a job for the FBI? If he is the target of a foreign direct action group, he should be under the full counterintelligence protection of the FBI."

"It's because of one of the Scion members," the president said. He looked the vice president straight in the eyes and said, "Patrick McLanahan."

Anne's only visible reaction was simply a few blinks. "It's impossible, Ken," she said in a colorless voice. "You received some incorrect information. Patrick died over China. You know this as well as I do."

"No, he didn"t do it," the president said. "Martindale found and revived him, but he was in bad shape. To keep him alive, they put him in a cybernetic infantry device, one of those big manned robots." Anne's face began to turn into a mask of stunned disbelief. "He's still alive, Anne. But he cannot live outside the robot. If they can't heal him, he'll be there for the rest of his life."

Ann's eyes widened and her mouth formed an astonished O. "I... I can't believe it," she gasped. "And he can control the robot? Can he move around, communicate, everything?"

"He has some incredible abilities," Phoenix said. "He controls the sensors and all the robot's capabilities and can communicate with anyone in the world - I wouldn't be surprised if he's listening to us right now. Patrick McLanahan and the robot are a one-man Army platoon, perhaps an entire Army battalion and Air Force division combined." Phoenix sighed and looked away. "But he will never be able to leave this fucking car. It's like he's trapped in the Twilight Zone."

"Amazing. Simply amazing," said Anne. "And Martindale put him in charge of Scion operations?"

"I'm confident that he walks on the very edge of the law, as he always has," Phoenix said.

"Ken, why did you tell me this?" Anne asked. "I might never know."

"I know you and Patrick are friends," the president said. "But the main reason is that I feel guilty for not introducing you to this from the beginning. You are my closest political advisor and my closest friend, with the exception of my wife Alexa. This whole Brad McLanahan thing reminds me of the mistake I made when I didn't trust you with my decision to keep Patrick alive and not tell anyone. I wanted to correct this mistake."

"Well, thank you for that, Ken," Ann said. She shook her head, still in disbelief. "What a thing to keep to yourself. Nobody else knows except Brad? Even his family?"

"Just Brad and a few Martindale guys," Phoenix said.

"Glad you got it off your chest, aren't you, sir?"

"I bet you do," the president said. "Now let's go back to another, unreal world: politics and elections. I want to really push the space initiative forward in the final days of the campaign. I want to talk to teenagers in space, frequent and give speeches to hypersonic spaceplanes and rocket boosters, and help turn on space-generated electricity. We may be down in the polls right now, Anne, but we're going to do well-I can feel it!"

SEVEN

He is not worthy of honeycomb. Who avoids the hives because the bees sting.

- WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

REINHOLD AEROSPACE ENGINEERING BUILDING

CAL POLY

THE NEXT DAY

"This is our mission control room, otherwise known as one of our electronics labs," Brad McLanahan said. He stood before a group of foreign journalists, bloggers, photographers and their translators, giving a tour of the Starfire project at Cal Poly for the umpteenth time. With him were Jodie Cavendish, Kim Jong-bae, Casey Huggins and Lane Egan. The room was filled with a dozen laptop computers, control and communications equipment, and network interface boxes with hundreds of feet of CAT5 cables running into the walls and under the climate-controlled floors. "It's not as big or fancy as NASA's mission control center, but the functions are very similar: we control major Starfire components such as the microwave generator, nantenna and rectenna steering, power control and beam control, among many others. Although the astronauts aboard the Armstrong space station are in complete control, we can issue some commands from here, namely we can shut down the network if something goes wrong."

"Are you harvesting solar energy now, Mr. McLanahan?" one reporter asked.

"We've been collecting and storing solar energy for about three weeks now," Brad responded. "The solar energy harvesting and storage systems were the first to be installed on the Armstrong space station." He pointed to the large model of the station the team had set up for the press. "These are nantennas, or nanotube solar light collectors, developed by Jodie Cavendish with the assistance of Kim Jong-bae, who we call Jerry here. They are double-sided, so they can collect sunlight directly from the sun or reflect off the Earth. Here on the farm are ten two-hundred-kilogram lithium-ion capacitors, each capable of storing three hundred kilowatts, designed by Jerry Kim. We're not going to populate them for this test, but you can see that we have the ability to store three megawatts of electricity in a plant, just with this little pilot system."

"How much energy will you use for this test?"

"We plan to produce a total of one and a fifth megawatts," Brad said. "The station will be in range of the rectenna for about three minutes, so you can see that we are going to send a lot of energy to Earth in a very short period of time." He pointed to a large poster-sized photograph that showed a round object standing against a desert landscape. "This is a rectenna, or receiving antenna, that will collect the maser energy, designed by Jodie Cavendish with Casey Huggins," he said. "It is two hundred meters in diameter, installed at the White Sands Missile Range because it is a large, safe area that can be easily cleared of aircraft. As you can see in this photo, we only have a rectifier, some directional controls, and data monitoring equipment - we're going to measure how much electricity is coming in, but we're not going to store or feed any electricity into the grid during this first test . Lane Egan wrote the software and programmed the computers here on Earth and at Armstrong to give us the precision needed to hit this fairly small target from two to five hundred miles away."

"Why carry out the test in a large isolated area, Mr. McLanahan?" - asked the reporter. "What would happen if the maser energy from the space station struck an aircraft or an object on the ground, such as a house or a person?"

"It's like putting a metal utensil in a microwave," Brad said. "The maser beam is primarily composed of microwave energy, designed and manufactured by Casey Huggins and Jerry Kim, but collimated with Armstrong free electron laser subsystems to amplify and help direct the energy."

"Are you going to shoot the Skybolt laser?"

"No, not at all," Brad replied. "The Skybolt laser system uses a series of solenoid valves to direct, amplify and align the free electron laser beam. We turned off the free electron laser and installed a Casey Huggins microwave generator powered by stored solar energy. We're going to use the Skybolt subsystems to do the same thing with microwave energy: amplify, collimate and focus it, and then use the Skybolt targeting subsystems, thanks to Jerry Kim, to send the energy down to earth.

"But to answer your question, we don't really know what exactly is going to happen, so we don't want anyone near the beam when we fire it," Brad continued. "We're going to close a lot of airspace before we launch Starfire. Obviously, Starfire is more suited to powering isolated areas, spaceships, or even the Moon, so launching a maser into populated areas won't necessarily be a problem, but we'll be making targeting control and beam spread better and better as we go, so that the direct antenna can be smaller and the hazards greatly reduced."

Brad asked a few more questions, but the last one was stupid: "Mr. McLanahan," began a very attractive female reporter standing in front, with long jet-black hair, dark eyes, full red lips, a stunning figure and a very slight European accent, "you It's very good to give credit to the other members of your team for everything they did to contribute to this project... but what did you do? What components have you created? What do you have to do with this project if I may ask?"

"To tell you the truth, I didn"t create any components," Brad admitted after much thought. "I consider myself a beggar, like the character of Flight Lieutenant Hendley in the movie The Great Escape." The woman blinked in confusion, obviously not knowing who he meant, but making a note to find out. "I came up with an idea, found the best students, scientists and engineers I could find and asked them to explain the science to me, contributed a few ideas of my own, put them to work and repeated the process. I provide the team with everything they need for their phase of the project: money, help, computer or lab time, equipment, parts, software, whatever. I also lead progress meetings and helped prepare the team for our presentation to the school for the summer lab space before our project received funding from Sky Masters Aerospace."

"So you're more like a coach or a project manager," the woman said. "You're not really a quarterback: you don't actually pass the ball, but you coach the team, you get the equipment and you manage the coaching staff." She didn't wait for an answer, and Brad didn't have an answer to give her anyway. "But you"re a first-year engineering student, aren"t you?"

"Second year aerospace engineering student, yes."

"Perhaps you should consider a different field of study?" said the woman. "Perhaps business or management?"

"I want to be a test pilot," Brad said. "Most of the best test pilot schools in the United States require a degree in a hard science field such as engineering, computers, mathematics or physics. I chose aerospace engineering."

"And you're good at it, Mr. McLanahan?"

Brad was a little surprised to find himself being asked so many personal questions-he was preparing to answer technical questions from foreign science and space journalists and bloggers, rather than answer questions about himself. "I managed to finish the first course and start the second," he said. "I think my grades are average. If I need help, and I do, I ask for it. If I don't understand something, I will find someone to explain it to me. He looked around the lab for any more raised hands, then turned to the woman and found her looking straight at him with a small smile, and he gave her one in return. "If that's all, guys, thank you for-"

"I have another surprise announcement that I would like to share with all of you," UC Poly President Dr. Marcus Harris said from the back of the room. He walked up to the lectern next to Brad. "The station chief of the Armstrong Space Station, retired Air Force General Kai Radon, recently spoke with the White House and received permission from the President of the United States to fly two Starfire team leaders to the Armstrong Space Station to observe the Starfire test shot." The journalists burst into applause.

Harris put his arm around Lane's shoulders. "Sorry Lane, but you are too young, but it will happen soon. The flight will take place in just a week, and they will be aboard the Armstrong space station for approximately three days. As for Brad, Jodi and Casey, if they accept the offer, they will become the first teenagers in space, and if Jung Bae accepts, he will be only the second Korean to fly into space, and by far the youngest." More applause, then feverish writing.

"The White House has said that they prefer male and female team leaders," Harris continued, "but that is up to the Starfire team to decide. Selected candidates will be required to undergo a comprehensive medical examination, but as we saw last spring with President Phoenix, it seems you just have to be a healthy and courageous person to fly into space - and I'm proud to say that's the case for Casey too Huggins, who, if she accepts, will not only be the first teenage woman in space, but also the first quadriplegic in space." This time the applause was even louder and longer.

"I'll let the team talk between themselves and their parents, and then I'd like to meet with them myself," Harris said. "But this is an outstanding opportunity and a rare honor for our Mustangs, and we couldn't be prouder." More applause, led by Harris, and the press conference ended.

"Holy shit!" - Brad exclaimed when the Starfire team was left alone in the laboratory. "What an opportunity! How should we solve this? Sorry, Lane."

"No problem," Lane said. "I still get seasick in the air."

"Who wants to go?"

"You have to go, Brad," Lane said. "You are the project manager. We couldn't have done it without you."

"Damn right," Casey said.

"Besides, just like your new friend-that cute female reporter up front who was making goofy eyes at you-said, "What the hell are you still doing here?" Jodie joked, and everyone had a good laugh at it. Jodie gave Brad an accusing and inquisitive-and maybe jealous? Brad thought-but didn't say anything else. "And where did this Great Escape thing come from?" She then changed her voice to that of James Garner, who plays Hendley's character in the film: "'You want to talk about danger? Let's talk about danger. Let's talk about you. You're the biggest danger we have." " Another burst of laughter.

"Okay, okay, very funny," Brad said. "Let's see what happens. I'm going to be going into space soon enough anyway, I can guarantee you that, so if anyone else wants to take advantage of this opportunity, I'll hold off. Jody?

"Not me, mate," Jodie said. "I love the sand, the surf and the sea level-even California Poly is almost too high above sea level and too far from the beach for me. Besides, I don't want to be anywhere else but right here in this lab, watching the monitors when Starfire lets loose."

"Jerry?"

The thought of going into space didn't seem to sit well with Jung Bae. "I don't know," he said worriedly. "I'd like to design and test a spacecraft someday, but as far as flying in orbit in one... I think I'll pass. Also, I want to be at White Sands to monitor the output of the forward antenna and maser. We still have problems with lithium-ion capacitors. We store enough energy, but sometimes we have problems transferring energy to the microwave cavity."

"I'll ask a few more experts to help you with this, Jerry," Brad said. He turned to Casey. "Then it's just you and me, Casey. What are you going to say? It"s your maser-you should be up there."

Casey's face was a mixture of apprehension and confusion. "I don't think so, Brad," she said. "I don't like it when people stare at me in airports or department stores-paralyzed among a dozen astronauts on a space station? I don't know..."

"Well, just think about it, Casey-the last thing you need in space is legs, right?" Brad said. "You'll be just like everyone else up there. There are no wheelchairs in space, lady."

She looked at her wheelchair for a long time, averting her eyes... And then her head and arms shot up, and she screamed: "I'm flying into space!"

The team went through a dry run of test firing procedures until late in the evening, then met with university president Harris and relayed the news of who was going to fly to the Armstrong space station. Harris immediately scheduled an in-flight medical examination for the next morning, after which he was scheduled to make an announcement to the media. Only in the early evening were they able to go home. Brad had just arrived at his apartment building in Pauley Canyon and was about to carry his bike and backpack up the stairs when he heard, "Hello, stranger."

He turned around and saw Jody with a laptop backpack in her hand. "Hello to you," he said. "We are not strangers. I see you every day."

"I know, but only at school. We live in the same complex, but I hardly see you here." She nodded towards Brad's bike. "What, buddy, were you just going to drag your bike and backpack up five flights of stairs?"

"I always do this."

"Wow. Well done, onya." She looked him over. "I noticed that you no longer carry a cane."

"I just never replaced it."

"Won"t Chief Ratel be mad at you?"

"Last spring he got injured, closed the store and moved to Florida, I think," Brad said. It was true - fearing that the Russians would target not only Brad, but him as well, Kevin Martindale convinced him to take his wife and leave town, which he reluctantly did. "I should have told you about this, but... you know how it was."

"Wow. I think it's been a long time since we've caught up," Jodi said. "So you don't go to the gym anymore?"

"I'll take a self-defense class from time to time at a gym downtown," Brad said. This was mostly true, but it was weekly sparring with a member of Chris Wall's team, and he had refresher firearms training every two weeks. Brad had a permit that allowed him to carry a gun on campus-he never told Jody or anyone else on Team Starfire about it. "I spend most of my leisure time in my living room, riding my bike or doing things like carrying my bike into my apartment."

"Great". They stood in silence for several long moments; then, "Hey, do you want to grab a cup of coffee before they close?" My cry."

"Certainly". They went to a small coffee shop on the ground floor of the next apartment building and drank coffee on the street. In late October, the weather was still perfect on California's Central Coast, although it was definitely fall. "Man, it's been a long day," Brad said after several minutes of silence. "Are you okay with your classes?"

"Mostly," Jodi said. "The professors are giving me a break until the shooting test is over."

"Same thing for me," Brad said.

They were silent again for a few minutes, and then Jodie put down her coffee, looked Brad straight in the eyes and said, "I apologize for my rant at the Battle Mountain hotel, buddy. I guess I was shocked and took it out on you. You really protected us from the guy with the knife."

"Forget it, Jody," Brad said.

Jodie looked at her coffee, then at the table top. "Going to the space station in just a couple of days," she said in a low, broken voice, "made me realize that... I mean, if... if something went wrong, I... I would I would never see you again and I would never have a chance to apologize."

Brad reached out and took her hands in his. "It's okay, Jody," he said. "Nothing will happen. It will be a successful flight and test firing, and I will fly back. It will be an adventure. This was already a real adventure. I'd like you to come with me."

"Brad..." She squeezed his hands and lowered her head, and when she raised it again, Brad could see the sparkle in her eyes, even in the light of the street lights. "I'm... I'm scared, buddy," she said with a slight tremor in her voice. "I know how much you want to go into space, and I'm glad you got the opportunity, but I'm still afraid."

Brad walked over to the chair on Jody's side of the table, put his arm around her and held her tightly to him. When they parted, he lightly touched her face and kissed her. "Jodi... Jodi, I want-"

"Come with me," she whispered when the kiss ended. Her eyes opened wide and stared at him, silently pleading. "Dude, don't you fucking dare leave me alone again. You're welcome, Brad. Take me before you leave me."

This time, during their next deep kiss, there was no hesitation in Brad McLanahan's thoughts.

WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM

WASHINGTON, DC

IN THE NEXT MORNING

"It's good that you decided to have me check out the other launch sites and spaceports, Mr. President," said National Security Advisor William Glenbrook after President Ken Phoenix and Vice President Anne Page entered the Situation Room and took their seats. "The Russians were really very busy."

"What did you find, Bill?" - Phoenix asked, putting down his coffee mug, the second one of the morning. His coffee consumption has definitely increased as Election Day approaches.

"There is a massive and rapid Russian space rearmament program underway, sir," Glenbrook said. He pressed a button and the first photograph appeared on the screen at the front of the Situation Room, showing a missile with a winged lift body at the very top replacing the missile's nose cone. "This is the Plesetsk cosmodrome in northwestern Russia. The spaceplane we observed as ROS undocked from the ISS was confirmed to be the Elektron spaceplane, likely launched from Plesetsk.

"There is already another spaceplane there on the launch pad," Glenbrook continued, reading notes on his tablet computer, "and we believe that these containers and this large storage facility next to the launch pad are another Electron and its rocket- Proton carrier. We think it is a Proton rather than an Angara 5 launch vehicle due to the lack of cryogenic oxygen storage nearby. Angara-5 uses liquid oxygen and RP-1 kerosene, while Proton uses hypergolic liquids: dimethylhydrazine and nitrogen tetroxide, two highly toxic chemicals that burn when mixed without requiring an ignition source. The Angara 5 launch vehicle is more powerful, but its liquid oxygen must be replenished once it is on board the launch vehicle because it boils off; The Proton has enough fuel to last almost indefinitely, so it can remain on the launch pad without the need for maintenance."

The photos have changed. "This is the Baikonur Cosmodrome in Kazakhstan," continued Glenbrook, "and as you can see, there appears to be another Electron on the launch pad, this time on the Angara-5 launch vehicle." These are two that can be up and running in fairly short order, perhaps within days or even hours. Electron, which had already launched when ROS undocked from the ISS, touched down on the shuttle runway at Baikonur yesterday. So we counted maybe four electrons. We believe there are five in inventory, although there may be more. So, we went in search of the fifth Russian spaceplane. You won"t see this anywhere in Russia..."

Glenbrook changed the photos and another image appeared of the Electron spaceplane on top of a large Russian rocket. "We found it - not in Russia, but in the People's Republic of China," he said. "This is the Xichang spaceport in western China. Xichang was used for the largest, most powerful and reliable launches of China's Long March rockets, but all of these missions were moved to the Wenchang Satellite Launch Center on Hainan Island, so Xichang was not used as often."

"So, the Chinese allow Russian spaceplanes to be launched from Chinese launch pads?" Ann noticed.

"Yes, ma'am," Glenbrook said. He enlarged the photo. "Not only that, but these buildings are identical to the buildings in Plesetsk. It is possible that these buildings either house, or are intended to house, a second Electron spaceplane launch system, and if so, that means there are possibly six Electrons, and possibly more. We are monitoring all of these facilities for future launches and recovery, but based on our intelligence when these devices were first deployed, the Russians could be re-launching the spaceplane every ten to fourteen days after recovery. It's extraordinarily fast. Now it could be faster."

He stayed with the Chinese photo but enlarged another area. "Here"s another interesting development." He highlighted some objects with a laser pen. "The Russians typically install modern S-400 Triumph surface-to-air missiles at all of their spaceports and major military bases," he said, "but here we are looking at the S-500, the world's most advanced missile of the class." surface-to-air", several times more capable and powerful than the S-400 or even our own PAC-3 Patriot. The S-500 is more like a medium-range ballistic missile than a conventional surface-to-air missile, designed for air and space strikes over extremely long ranges. This is the first deployment of the S-500 outside the Russian Federation, and the fact that it is on a Chinese military base is amazing - we assume that the Chinese can now access technical information about the best air defense system ever created.

"The 'S' model indicates that it is designed to effectively engage space targets-specifically, US space stations, spacecraft and weapons depots in low Earth orbit, as well as ballistic missiles, low-flying cruise missiles and stealth aircraft," - Glenbrook continued. "We searched known S-500 launch sites around Moscow and elsewhere, and our suspicions were confirmed: they are moving some S-500s, usually stationed around some of their cities, and dispersing them across spaceports. We are also studying Almaz-Antni's production facilities near Moscow and St. Petersburg. Petersburg to see if there is any evidence that the Russians are ramping up production of the S-500. We expect that in the very near future they will quadruple S-500 production and have at least one S-500 battery assigned to every Russian military base around the world."

"It seems to me that they are preparing not only for operations in space, but also for repelling another attack on their isolated bases," Anne said. She and Phoenix exchanged knowing glances-the last American air attack on a foreign military base had been a B-1B Lancer bomber raid on military installations in the People's Republic of China, led by Patrick McLanahan, who was widely presumed dead in the attack.

"So the intelligence guys thought that while we were looking at other anti-missile weapons that the Russians or the Chinese were deploying, they would be looking at fighter-launched anti-missile missiles," Glenbrook said. "There are three known bases for the Mikoyan-Gurevich 31D aircraft, which carries Russian front-line anti-aircraft and anti-satellite missiles. We counted slightly more than the usual observed number, and we also counted more Il-76 aerial tankers at each base. All bases are active and the Russians are on patrol around the clock - with at least two anti-satellite flights in the air twenty-four hours a day. /seven. Particularly active are the bases in Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky, Yelizovo Air Base in the Russian Far East, Bolshoye Savino Airport in west-central Russia, and Chkalovsky Air Base near Moscow. They conduct patrols and many practice test runs, taking fighters almost vertically to very high altitudes.

"The MiG-31 has been out of production for almost forty years, but it has some improvements," Glenbrook continued. "The plane itself is one of the fastest in the world. Carrying the ASAT rocket turns it into a hulking pig, but the system still works. It fires a single modified 9K720 missile, the same as the latest Iskander theater ballistic missile, but with a millimeter radar-guided high explosive warhead for space operations. There are about a hundred D-models in service - maybe more if they convert other models into anti-dimensional ones or pull some out of storage." He closed the lid of his tablet, indicating that his briefing was over.

"So it appears that the Russians are responding to my space initiative by preparing their space force, and the Chinese are helping them with at least launch pads and support," President Phoenix concluded. "Thoughts?"

"Nothing unexpected," said Anne. "We've seen all of these in action over the last few years, except for the spaceplanes."

"We have to assume that they will arm these Electron spaceplanes the same way they did fourteen years ago," Glenbrook said. "They carried ten ultra-high-speed laser-guided missiles. There is no warhead, but a warhead is not needed - if an object hits a station or satellite moving at several miles per second, it will definitely damage it and most likely destroy it. And the ground-launched missiles could well also carry a micronuclear warhead, the same one used in the American attacks on the Holocaust, which, if detonated within a mile of the station, could send it straight into oblivion. Even if he had missed by more than that, the radiation and electromagnetic pulse would likely have seriously damaged the station."

"Our spacecraft are pretty well protected from radiation, Bill, especially our manned spacecraft - they operate in space radiation for years, sometimes decades," Anne said. "But any kinetic weapon directed against the station poses a serious danger."

"The station has defensive weapons it can use, right?" the president asked. "I got a tour of the command center on Armstrong. They said they would be able to activate the large Skybolt laser within a few days, and they were talking about a smaller chemical laser they could use, but the orbital weapons depots are not active."

"That's right, sir, after the experimental Starfire material is removed," Anne said. "Perhaps we should activate the Kingfisher weapons workshops and return the inactive ones to orbit."

"I'm not quite ready to do this yet, Anne," Phoenix said, "but I want to be ready in case we detect any movement in the direction of our space assets, especially Armstrong. Missiles and air bases with these anti-satellite MiGs can be targeted against sea-launched ballistic or cruise missiles, right?"

"Yes, sir," Glenbrook replied, "but it will take time to move the submarine into position, and a Russian attack on the Armstrong space station could happen very quickly. If Russia can overwhelm the station's defenses, they could knock it out of the sky. A combination of an Electron spaceplane attack, air-launched missiles, and ground-launched anti-satellite missiles attacking simultaneously could do just that."

The President nodded, but remained silent for several long moments; then: "Let's give diplomacy and cooler heads a chance before we use any more space weapons," he finally said. "Knocking Armstrong down would be like attacking an aircraft carrier or a military base: an act of war. Gryzlov is not that crazy."

"Russia has done both in the past, sir," Anne reminded the president. "Gennady"s father was a master of the sneak attack on the United States during the American Holocaust, which killed nearly ten times as many people as Pearl Harbor."

"I know that, Anne, but I'm still not ready to escalate this situation if I can avoid it," Phoenix said. "I authorize the use of all defensive weapons currently in use, including the chemical laser, but no offensive weapons."

"May I suggest activating the magnetohydrodynamic generator aboard the Armstrong space station, sir?" Anne asked. Anne Page was the designer of not only the Skybolt missile defense system, but also one of its many high-tech features: the MHD, or magnetohydrodynamic generator, a nuclear-powered device that generated hundreds of megawatts of power for the Skybolt free electron laser without disrupting the system control of the Armstrong space station's orientation or orbital flight path. "It's been practically mothballed for a couple of years and it will take a day or two to get it turned on and tested. If things really go bad, it would be good if Skybolt were available as soon as possible."

"Are you talking about the generator that powers the big Skybolt laser?" - Phoenix asked. Anne nodded. "I know we never ratified the space weapons ban treaty, but we acted as if the treaty was in force. Will this break the treaty?"

Anne thought for a moment, then shrugged. "I'm not an arms control expert or a lawyer, sir, but to me a power generator is not a weapon, even if it is equipped with a nuclear reactor. "Skybolt is a weapon, and some of its components are used by Cal Poly students to transmit electricity to Earth." She hesitated, then added, "They could provide us with some diplomatic security if the need arises, sir."

"They're not going to use a big generator, are they? I never gave permission for this."

"Starfire's microwave laser beam is powered by energy collected by the students' solar panels," Anne explained. "The MHD generator is still physically connected to the Skybolt, but the free electron laser cannot be fired without disconnecting the Starfire components and connecting the Skybolt parts in place. I have no idea how long it will take, but the students got the Starfire in place pretty quickly, so if necessary, I think we can get the Skybolt back up and running pretty quickly."

The President thought about this for a few moments, then nodded in agreement. "As long as the large ship-destroying laser does not operate without my orders, I authorize the generator to be activated and tested," he said. "I think we will wait to inform the Russians that we were testing a large generator until some point in the near future."

"I agree," said Anne. "But if you want to deal with the Russians, you may have to reconsider your space policy and military reductions. For example, ending the declaration of occupied orbits as sovereign American possessions-Gryzlov seemed particularly irritated by this."

"I will do this if necessary, hopefully not before the elections," the president said. "That"s more ammunition for Barbeau."

"We may leak the information that Bill just informed us about," Anne said. "If we show Russia building up its space weapons, your space policy will look like a legitimate national defense imperative."

"But Barbeau could say that Russia is simply reacting to my space initiative," the president said. "I would prefer not to go down this path. I will consider relaxing my policies, especially regarding the protection of our space assets and orbits - you're right, I think that's the part that got Gryzlov hot and bothered. Hopefully this can wait until after the election." He turned to his national security adviser. "Bill, I need to know exactly how long it will take to get the Kingfisher weapons workshops up and running, and I want to target as many spaceplane boosters as possible. I don't want to transfer any forces, but I want to know how long it will take to destroy everything that threatens our space resources. I remember we once had a whole bunch of weapons for space launches - I want to find out what Joe Gardner did with them."

"Yes, sir," Glenbrook said and left.

After he left, the President poured himself his third cup of coffee that morning - which, in his opinion, was not a good sign. "I hate to bring politics into these decisions, Anne," he said. "This is not the way it should be done."

"Maybe not, but that's life in the real world, Ken," Anne said. "The President of the United States will probably never be able to separate himself from politics, especially during an election. That's just the way it is."

"Then let's get back to the campaign, Anne," Phoenix said. "What's on our agenda for today?"

"You have a day off, and I suggest you spend it with your family because you will be on the campaign trail almost every day until Election Day," the vice president said. "The final West Coast race starts tomorrow morning. We have Phoenix, San Diego and Los Angeles booked, but the campaign has also suggested a few stops in northern and central California. It's late - the FAA prefers to have more than two days' notice to close the airspace around the airports you're flying into for Air Force One, but if we notify them this morning, we'll be fine.

"I suggest we make three stops before we get to Portland and Seattle," Anne continued, reading from her tablet computer. "First, NASA's Ames Research Center near San Jose, which conducts wind tunnel testing of various space technologies; the Aerojet Rocketdyne plant east of Sacramento, which makes engines for a new class of heavy-lift launch vehicles; and San Luis Obispo to attend the test launch of the Starfire solar orbital power plant. There is one meeting in each city and one fundraising dinner in San Jose. After that, he heads to Portland and Seattle, to a memorial service at the former Fairchild Air Force Base near Spokane to mark the American anniversary of the Holocaust, and then to Boise to finish the West Coast trip. Then you make your way east. Three cities a day before Election Day. I'll make a few stops on the east coast and then head west as you head east."

"Phew," said the president. "I'm glad this will be my last campaign - it's nice to meet the guys, but it definitely takes a toll on your composure." He considered changing plans, but not for long: "Go ahead and add stops in Northern California, Ann. I will rest when I die."

"Yes, sir," the vice president said, picked up the phone and alerted her staff to take the necessary action. When she finished, she asked, "Before we alert the FAA, sir, I have a question: Would you like to postpone the trial run of the orbital solar power plant and the trip to the station for Brad McLanahan and Casey Huggins, college students from California?" The Space Problem Situation "It's starting to heat up, and this test firing is getting a lot of attention around the world. A lot of people, including the Russians and a bunch of anti-war and environmental groups, want this test to be canceled and the space station to be allowed to burn up in the atmosphere." .

"I read about these protests," the president said, shaking his head. "This seems to be about the same thing we've been hearing from far-left liberals for decades: technological progress is simply bad for people, animals, world peace, the poor and the planet. Armstrong especially gets a lot of bad press, mostly I think because it's so visible in the sky and the left thinks we're spying on everyone on Earth and are willing to use a death ray to shoot anyone. They have no idea what they're doing on the Armstrong space station. I can talk until I'm blue in the face about my experiences and the technology that made this possible, but I would be wasting my time."

Ken Phoenix thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. "Ann, I'm not stopping my initiative in space technology and industrialization because the Russians or some leftist nutcases think this is the beginning of the end of the planet," he said. "Let's try to anticipate and prepare for what these groups or even the Russians might do after these test firings, but I'm not going to cancel them. It would be an insult to the hard work these students put into this project. This is a peaceful project: sending energy to anyone who needs it, almost anywhere in the world. This is a good thing. The left can say whatever they want about this, but that's the way it is. No, we are moving forward."

SAN LUIS OBISPO REGIONAL AIRPORT

THAT EVENING

Brad sat at a desk in an aircraft hangar at the San Luis Obispo Regional Airport, watching progress on his computer as the latest navigation, maps, terrain and obstacles were beamed via satellite directly to his father's Cessna P210 Silver Eagle aircraft parked behind him. The Silver Eagle was a small but extremely powerful Cessna P210 modified with a 450-horsepower turbine engine and a long list of high-tech avionics and other systems, making the thirty-year-old aircraft one of the most advanced in the world.

His cell phone beeped and he looked at the caller ID, not surprised that he didn't recognize it-he'd been fielding so many media inquiries that he simply answered without looking, "Hi. This is Brad, Project Starfire."

"Mr. McLanahan? My name is Yvette Annikki, Senior Researcher at European Space Daily. We spoke briefly at your press conference in your lab a few days ago."

He didn't recognize the name, but he definitely recognized the sultry accent. "I don't think I caught your name at the press conference," Brad said, "but I remember seeing it on the media list. How are you tonight?"

"Very good, thank you, Mr. McLanahan."

"Brad, please."

"Thank you, Brad," Yvette said. "I just returned to San Luis Obispo to attend your welcome party tonight and watch the test run of Starfire, and I had a few additional questions for you. Are you still in town?"

"Yes. But I"m leaving for Battle Mountain early in the morning."

"Oh, of course, flying to the Armstrong space station aboard the midnight spaceplane. Congratulations."

"Thank you". Damn, that voice was mesmerizing, Brad thought.

"I don't want to bother you, but if you are free, I would really like to ask a few questions and get your opinion about going to the space station," Yvette said. "I can be on campus in a few minutes."

"I'm not on campus," Brad said. "I'm doing pre-flight preparation on my airplane in preparation for the flight to Battle Mountain."

"Do you have your own plane, Brad?"

"This belonged to my father. I fly it every chance I get."

"How exciting! I love the freedom of flight. It's so wonderful to be able to hop on your own plane and fly off to somewhere at a moment's notice."

"That's for sure," Brad said. "Are you a pilot?"

"I only have a European light sport pilot licence," Yvette said. "I couldn't fly from San Luis Obispo to Battle Mountain. I believe it is a very easy journey on your plane."

"The trip takes about nine hours," Brad said. "I can do it in a little more than two."

"Amazing. It must be a very nice plane."

"Would you like to see this?"

"I don't want to impose on you, Brad," Yvette said. "You have some very important days ahead of you, and I just have a few questions."

"It's not a problem," Brad said. "Go south on Broad Street, turn right onto Airport Road and stop at the exit marked 'General Aviation' on the left. I"ll come out and open it for you."

"Well... I'd love to see your plane, but I don't want to bother you."

"Not at all. I'm just waiting for the plane to update itself. The company would be nice."

"Well, in that case, I would be happy to join you," Yvette said. "I can be there in about ten minutes. I'm driving a rented white Volvo."

Exactly ten minutes later, a white Volvo sedan pulled up to the terminal building. Brad walked through the drive-through gate and swiped his access card onto the reader, and the drive-through gate began to open. He jumped on his bike and headed back to his hangar, the Volvo not far behind.

Brad left the hangar's double doors open and the interior lights on so Yvette could see the Silver Eagle as she pulled up. "Nice to see you again, Brad," she said as she got out of the car. She shook his hand, then handed him a business card. "I hope you remember me?"

"Yes, of course I want to," Brad said. Damn, he noted to himself, she's even sexier than last time. He turned and pointed at the plane. "Here she comes."

"This is wonderful!" Yvette noticed. "You seem to keep it in immaculate condition."

"I still think it's my dad's plane, so I work on it every chance I get and clean it after every flight," Brad said.

"Your father was such a great man," Yvette said. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

Brad always had to remember to play up to these feelings that the media constantly suggested to him - it was hard, but he was getting better and better at pretending that his father was really dead. "Thank you," he replied.

Yvette walked into the hangar and began to admire the plane. "So. Tell me about your sexy plane, Brad McLanahan."

"It's called the Silver Eagle, a Cessna P21ў Centurion whose 310-horsepower piston gasoline engine has been replaced by a 450-horsepower jet-fueled turboprop engine," Brad said. "It also has a bunch of other modifications. Cruising speed about two hundred and fifty miles per hour, range one thousand miles, ceiling twenty-three thousand feet."

"Ooo". She gave Brad a mischievous smile and said, "That would make him eligible for the Four Miles High Club, not just the Miles High Club, right?" Brad tried to laugh at her barb, but it only came out as a rude snort as he became distracted, wondering how the hell he managed to join that club in the Silver Eagle booth. "And you said the plane updated itself?"

"Updates are broadcast via satellite," Brad said, shaking himself off his fantasies. "When I need them, I just plug the plane into an external power source, turn it on and wait."

"This is not like the usual way of updating avionics and databases."

"This aircraft has several enhancements that are not yet available to the rest of the general aviation community," Brad said. "My father used his plane as a test bed for a lot of high-tech stuff." He pointed to a tiny ball mounted in the middle of the lower right wing. "He used this aircraft for surveillance missions with the Civil Air Patrol many years ago, so he installed these sensors on the wings. They are the size of tennis balls, but they can scan twenty acres per second, day or night, from both sides of the aircraft with six-inch resolution. The images are transmitted to ground receivers or can be displayed on multi-function displays in the cockpit with flight or navigation information overlaid on them. I have made several landings in pitch darkness with no lighting using this sensor."

"I've never heard of this before with such a small sensor," Yvette said.

"I can do things on this plane that won't be available to the general public for at least five years, maybe ten," Brad said. "Fully automated clearances, air traffic control recommendations, automatic flight planning and rerouting, voice-controlled avionics, the lot."

"Can I write about this, Brad?" Yvette asked. "Can I tell my readers about this?"

Brad thought for a moment, then shrugged. "I don"t see why not," he said. "It's not classified as 'top secret' or anything like that - it's just not available to general aviation yet. All of this has been approved by the feds, but is not yet produced or offered for sale."

"But this represents the future of general aviation," Yvette said. "I'm sure my readers would like to read about it. Can I get copies of additional type certificates and approvals for these wonderful systems?"

"Of course, this is all public information," Brad said. "After I return, I can collect all this for you."

"Thank you so much," Yvette said. "I see that I must make another visit to San Luis Obispo after your return..." She looked into his eyes and smiled slightly mischievously. "Not only so you can tell me about your flight into space, but also so you can tell me more about your fascinating aircraft. Can I take a look inside the four-mile tall club headquarters?"

"Of course," Brad said. He opened the front door for her, then glanced at her business card as she admired the interior-and yes, admired her delicious ass, which jiggled before his eyes as she peered inside the plane. "Do you live in San Francisco? This is also an easy flight. Maybe I could pick you up in San Carlos and we could take a test flight and maybe have lunch in Half Moon Bay?"

"That sounds great, Brad," Yvette said.

"Yvette. It"s a beautiful name," Brad added.

"Thank you. My mother is French and my father is Swedish." She turned to him. "You are very generous with your- Oh!" Brad turned to where she was looking and was surprised to find Chris Wall standing just a few feet away from her, his hands in his jacket pockets. "Hello, sir. Can we help you?"

"He's my friend," Brad said. "Yvette, meet Chris. Chris, Yvette, reporter from European Space Daily." The two looked straight at each other. "What's going on, Chris?"

Vol remained silent for several long moments, looking at Yvette; then: "There are a few necessary things that we should discuss before you leave, if you have a moment."

"Of course," Brad said, blinking in surprise. There was something going on here - why didn't Brad discover it...? "Yvette, could you-"

"I've taken up enough of your time, Brad," Yvette said. "I can email you the questions I have. If you have time before takeoff, please respond; otherwise, they can wait until we meet again after your flight." She extended her hand and Brad shook it, and then Yvette leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "Good luck with your flight and test firing. I hope you have a safe trip and great success." Then she extended her hand to Ox. "Nice to meet you, Chris," she said. After a few rather awkward heartbeats, Vol slowly took his right hand out of his pocket and shook her hand, never taking his eyes off her. Yvette smiled and nodded, gave Brad another warm smile, got into her car and drove away.

When she was out of sight, Brad turned to Vol. "What's going on, Sergeant Major? You have given the warning code phrase 'required items'. What's happening?"

"Who is she?" Vol asked in a low, threatening voice.

"Reporter for European Space Daily, an aerospace blog based in Austria." Brad gave him Yvette's business card. "I spoke to her earlier, at the press conference."

"Did you check on her before you invited her here to meet you one-on-one?"

"No, but she has been vetted by the university and given press credentials and access to campus," Brad replied, scrutinizing Vol, who looked genuinely concerned about the encounter.

"Chimp can get press credentials and campus access with enough bananas, Trigger," Wohl said, using Brad's new call sign, given to him after the Paso Robles shooting-he didn't know if that referred to the shooting or the fact that that he was a horse's ass. "You didn"t check on her, but you invited her into your hangar, at night, alone?"

"Dad is checking on me," Brad said. He had forgotten that his father could access the security cameras in the hangar and monitor his cell phone calls, and realized that Patrick had undoubtedly called whoever was closest to immediately go to the airport and check on the reporter.

"Probably saved your ass, Trigger," Vol said.

"Okay, okay, I violated standard security and counter-surveillance procedures," Brad said. "You and your team were in the city for months without a single alarm, without a single warning. Now, why the sudden warning passphrase? How do you know she"s a threat?"

"I don't know for sure-yet-but I have a very strong suspicion, and that's all I need," Wohl said. For the first time since Brad had worked with Chris Wall, he saw the large retired sergeant major hesitate, as if he was... embarrassed? Chris Wohl, a retired US Marine Corps Sergeant Major who cares what the hell anyone thinks of him...?

"What the hell, Sergeant Major?" Brad said.

"I get the standard and... expected reaction from people when I first encounter them, especially... especially women," Wohl said.

"Let me guess: they recoil in stomach-turning horror at the mere sight of your radiation burns," Brad said calmly. "I had about the same reaction when I first saw you."

"With all due respect, Trigger, screw you," Vol said. This, Brad thought, was the real Chris Wall he knew. "You didn't notice this with your friend Yvette, did you? You were careless in your counterintelligence tactics, weren"t you?"

"What the hell are you talking about, Sergeant Major?"

"Did you see your friend Yvette"s reaction when she saw me?" - Vol asked.

"Yes. She was surprised. A little." But Brad remembered and revised his answer. "And pleasant."

"You think so, Trigger?" - Vol asked.

"I..." Brad paused. God, he thought, I've completely missed something that worries the big ex-Marine, maybe even... frightens him? He thought deeply, then said, "Actually, she was very collected. True, she did not react to you with shock or surprise, as I have seen even grown men do. But she was polite."

"Polite, yes," said Vol. "What else? What was she really trying to achieve by being nice to an ugly, weird looking stranger who suddenly appeared right behind her, something she didn't expect? What else was she figuring out, Trigger?"

"She..." Brad's mind was racing, trying to catch up with what Chris Wall had obviously already foreseen much earlier, what he himself should have recognized if he had not been distracted by external - that is, sexual - factors. "She... she was trying to figure out how she was going to... deal with you," Brad finally said.

"'Dealing' with me?"

Brad hesitated again, but the answer was painfully obvious: "Eliminate you," he corrected himself. Holy crap, Brad thought, eyes wide and shaking his head in disbelief. "She was after my ass, but you showed up and caught her off guard, and she didn't know what to do," he said. "She had to make a last-second decision about whether to attack or retreat, and she decided to retreat. Oh shit... !"

"Finally, you're thinking tactically," Vol said. "Do you think that if you go a few months without anything happening, you will be safe? You couldn't be more wrong. Time always favors the patient hunter. This gives the enemy more time to observe, plan, re-plan and execute. Do you think that because the bad guys haven't attacked for six months that they've given up? Wrong. Moreover, you can"t afford to make any more mistakes." Vol frowned, causing the wrinkles on his face to deepen. "Tell me, Trigger: will you ever see your friend again?"

"Of course, when she's done stalking me and coming in for the kill," Brad said. "But as a reporter? Never. She's going to dive deep underground."

"Exactly," said Vol. "She's not done hunting, but you'll never see her interview anyone again, at least not in North America." He looked around in the growing darkness. "She had several opportunities to film you here at the airport, from a distance, without being noticed by security or cameras, and she did not take advantage of them. What does this tell you, Trigger?"

"That she doesn't want to do it from a distance," Brad said. "She prefers to do it up close."

"What else?"

Brad thought for a moment; then: "She's not afraid to be photographed. She believes she can escape, or she has a net behind her that she is sure can get her out."

"Or both," said Vol. He looked at the business card. "Sväy. In Swedish it means 'sword'. I bet she chose that name for the cover for a reason." Brad swallowed hard at those words. "She's quite brazen, that's for sure: she chose a cover that shows her in rooms with lots of cameras and microphones, and she's not afraid to dress in a way that draws attention to herself - exactly the opposite of what she's taught. She's either really stupid or a very talented killer. She's definitely a classy cucumber. I bet there are a lot of pictures of her in there. I'll have the team start tracking her." He thought for a moment. "Huggins is already in Battle Mountain, right?"

"Casey had to leave early so they could fit her suit," Brad said.

"What is the weather between here and Battle Mountain this evening?"

"Clouds over the Sierra, maybe a little turbulence over the top, but otherwise fine."

"You had something planned on campus tonight, right?"

"The College of Engineering was going to throw a little party for Team Starfire."

"Something happened and you had to report to Battle Mountain early to prepare for the flight to the space station," Wohl said. "You will apologize later. Your new friend Yvette was invited to that party, right?" Brad didn't say anything, but the realization was clear on his face. "If I had been bold enough to try again that same day, that's where I would have been lying in wait. You"re not coming back to that campus." He didn't get any retort from Brad-who knew how close he'd come to becoming the woman's next victim, if she really was who they thought she was. "Do your pre-flight preparations, then get on the road as soon as possible. I'll wait here until you take off."

Brad nodded and entered the hangar. But before he began his pre-flight preparations, he turned to the security camera in the corner and said, "Thanks, Dad."

A few seconds later he received a message on his smartphone. It said: You're welcome, son. Fly safely.

OVER CENTRAL NEW MEXICO

THE NEXT DAY

"Pressure cut," Boomer announced. Brad McLanahan cut some of the power and allowed the S-19 Midnight spaceplane to return to a pre-contact position behind and under the Sky Masters Aerospace B-767 aerial tanker. The refueling boom retracted back under the tanker's tail.

"Everything is clear, Seventh Midnight," said the computerized female voice of the robotic barrier operator. "Is there anything else we can do for you, Seven?"

"It would be nice to have a cup of coffee," said Boomer, "but if that fails, we'll say adios."

Tanker 767 began a sharp left turn. "Master Three-One is clear, Seven," said the voice. "Have a good day".

Boomer raised the oxygen visor of his electronic elastomeric suit, watched the Midnight Spaceplane's computers run the "After Refueling" and "Before Hypersonic Flight" checklists, then looked at Brad in the mission commander's chair. Brad was wearing an orange partial ACES pressure suit and helmet; his gloved hands rested on the side controls and throttles on the center console, and he sat comfortably, looking straight ahead, as if he were watching TV on the couch. Brad raised the visor of his helmet when he noticed Boomer do so.

"You know, Brad, you"re the second passenger in a row I"ve had that made my eyes water."

"Shall I say it again?" Brad said.

"First President Phoenix, and now you: both of you guys act like you've been astronauts for years," Boomer said. "You fly the spaceplane like a pro. You look right at home."

"It's really not that different from the B-1B bomber, Boomer," Brad said. Sky Masters Aerospace, under the direction of Patrick McLanahan, refurbished several decommissioned B-1B Lancer bombers and returned them to service, and Brad was trained to ferry aircraft from Battle Mountain to Guam to counter the aggressive actions of the People's Republic of China against their neighbors in South China. sea. "It's much more maneuverable at higher airspeeds, but at subsonic it handles very bone-like, and the sight picture at the contact point under the tanker is almost exactly the same as the B-1."

"Well, I'm impressed," Boomer said. "You controlled it by hand for most of the flight, from the right seat no less, and were wearing a spacesuit and bulky spacesuit gloves to boot. Ready for the next step?"

"I bet you do, Boomer," Brad said.

"I"m just willing to bet it is," Boomer said. "So, so far the worst G-force you've experienced has been around two, but now it's going to get a little more intense. We will use a maximum of about four Gs, but you will feel them over a longer period of time. I'll let you fly it manually, but if the g-forces get too much, let me know and I'll let George autopilot fly it. Remember that your fingers will weigh almost a pound each. Don't try to resist - say something and I'll go into autopilot."

"I'll do it, Boomer."

"Fine. Casey?

"Yes, Boomer?" Casey Huggins responded. She was in the spaceplane's passenger module in the cargo bay with Jessica "Gonzo" Faulkner. Casey was wearing a partial pressure suit with a closed visor; Gonzo was wearing a tight EEAS.

"Remember what we told you about overload," Boomer said. "If you've been on a roller coaster before, you've felt similar pressure to what you'll feel now, only it will last longer. Your seat will help you avoid being pressured. Ready?"

"I'm ready, Boomer."

"Gonzo?"

"Ready".

"Brad?"

"I'm ready".

"Then get ready to have some fun, Mission Commander," Boomer told Brad. "Your flight director is in front of you. I'm holding you by the throttles. Keep the flight director centered, just as you would if you were flying an instrument landing system signal. We'll start at about twelve degrees with the nose up, but it will increase as the speed increases. As you said, the S-19 likes to go fast, so the steering will feel easier the faster it picks up speed, until we're above the atmosphere and the control sticks switch to reaction control mode, and then it's kind of gross. Now I'm showing us the insert window. Checklists are complete. Go."

Boomer slowly advanced the throttles. Brad forced himself to remain calm as he felt the acceleration and G-forces begin to build. He saw the flight director's wings go up and he pulled the control stick too hard and the wings went down, which meant their nose was too high. "Calm down, Brad. She's slippery. Light touch controls." Brad loosened his grip on the controls and gently guided the flight director's wings toward the pyramid. "That"s it," said Boomer. "Don't anticipate. Nice simple input."

The Mach numbers dropped very quickly and they went from turbojet mode to scramjet mode faster than Brad could have imagined. "Sixty-two miles up, Brad and Casey-congratulations, you're American astronauts," Boomer said. "How is everybody?"

"Beautiful... good," Casey said, clearly straining from the strain. "How...much...longer?"

"Just a few more minutes and then we'll switch to missile mode," Boomer said. "The overload will jump from three to four - a little higher, but it won"t last as long." He looked at Brad, who barely moved at all during the acceleration. "Are you all right there, mission commander?"

"I'm fine, Boomer."

"You are doing great. You have some competition here, Gonzo."

"I haven"t had a vacation in a long time-Brad can take my shifts," Gonzo said.

A few minutes later, the scramjet engines were at full power and Boomer put the Leopards into full rocket mode. He noticed a few more tilts in the flight director's chair, although Brad was still sitting upright and didn't seem to be moving a muscle. "Is everything okay, Brad?"

"I... I think so..."

"Take a walk in the park," said Boomer. "Just don"t think about the fact that if you slip more than two degrees, you could send us tumbling out of the atmosphere two thousand miles until we crash and crash back to Earth in little fiery pieces."

"Thanks... thanks, buddy," Brad grumbled.

"I see you've taken your mind off GS," said Boomer, "and your course has leveled off significantly." And at that moment the "leopards" switched off, and the overload stopped. "See? No problem and we're right on course. I"ll turn George on so you can relax for a minute and breathe normally again." For the first time in hours, Brad took his hand off the controls and throttled. "It will take us about half an hour to get to the station."

Brad felt like he had just spent two hours getting beat up by Chris Wall and his strike team in the gym. "Can we raise the visor?" he asked.

Boomer checked the environmental readings. "Yes, you can," he said. "Cabin pressure is green, clear to raise the visor. We'll give Brad a minute to rest - he had a nice little workout, manually piloting the spaceplane from zero to mach twenty-five. In a couple of minutes, I'll ask him to return to the passenger module and ask Casey to come up for docking. Everyone feels comfortable and at ease moving around the cabin."

Brad raised his visor, then found his water bottle and gave it a deep stream, making sure to keep his lips tightly around the tube and squirt the water deep into his mouth so his throat muscles could carry it into his stomach-gravity could no longer do it for him. It helped calm his stomach, but only a little. He put the water bottle away, then said, "Okay, Casey, I'm ready."

It took a lot of grunting, groaning, banging and helmet-smacking, but Brad finally managed to rise from his seat and walk towards the airlock. "Not bad for a first time, Brad," said Boomer, "but President Phoenix was better."

"Thanks again, buddy," Brad said. Zero Gs seemed really strange - he almost preferred positive Gs, he thought, even crushing ones. He opened the airlock door, stepped inside and closed the cockpit hatch. "The hatch is closed," he said.

"Everything fits here," Boomer confirmed.

The door to the passenger module swung open and Casey was right on the other side, floating horizontally like an orange-clad fairy with a huge smile on her face. "Isn"t this wonderful, Brad?" - she said. "Look at me! I feel like a cloud!"

"You look great, Casey," Brad said. I wish I felt the same way, he thought. He stepped back from the hatch to let Casey through, and was rewarded with a blow to the bulkhead, several blows to the deck and ceiling as he struggled to stay on his feet, and another blow to his head.

"Nice, easy moves, Brad," Gonzo told him. "Remember..."

"I know, I know: no amount of gravity can stop me," Brad said.

"Watch Casey and you will learn," Gonzo said with a smile.

"See you, Brad," Casey said cheerfully. Having barely touched the bulkhead, she slid like a ghost into the airlock.

"Show off," Brad muttered as he helped close the airlock hatch. He couldn't wait to get into his seat, fasten his seat belts and shoulder harnesses, and tighten those straps as tight as he could.

EIGHT

Success has many dark sides.

- ANITA RODDICK

PLESETSK COSMODROME

ARKHANGELSK REGION, NORTHWEST OF THE RUSSIAN FEDERATION

IN THE SAME TIME

"Three... two... one... launch..." announced the chief controller of the launch center. The spaceplane shuddered, then shook, then rumbled as if it was about to break into pieces, but then the astronaut felt the holding towers separate. The rumble stopped, and very soon the g-forces began to build up as the Angara-A7P launch vehicle began its ascent.

"The main engines are at one hundred percent power, all systems are normal," reported the lone astronaut. Colonel Mikhail Galtin was the number one active cosmonaut in the Russian Federation and commander of the astronaut training unit at Star City near Moscow. He was a twenty-two-year veteran of the Soviet and Russian Space Corps, having completed four public space flights, including the first transfer from one space station to another. He also made several flights into space on secret projects, including two military space stations based on Salyut 7 and Mir. But he was known in astronaut circles as a member of the design team, one of the first spaceplane pilots, and now the most experienced pilot of the Electron spaceplane, the only spacecraft specifically designed as an attack aircraft - a space fighter.

Galtin was a protégé of the most gifted and skilled cosmonauts of the Soviet Union since Yuri Gagarin: Lieutenant General Alesandr Govorov, Colonel Andrei Kozhedub and Colonel Yuri Livy. Govorov was a true pioneer, the father of the Soviet Union's Space Defense Force, the world's first military unit dedicated to manned space operations in defense of the homeland. Not a single military cosmonaut set foot on board any spacecraft unless Govorov did it first, even if it was just another copy of Electron or Salyut. Kozhedub and Libya were the "Red Barons" of the Soviet Union"s Space Defense Forces, Govorov"s wingmen on strike missions and dangerous adversaries in space or on Earth. Galtin was just a young trainee when these space giants took on the United States and the Armstrong space station in battle.

The Electron spacecraft occupied the upper stage of the Angara launch vehicle, mounted vertically on top of the launch vehicle with its tail and wings folded, inside a protective casing that would open after reaching orbit and allow the spaceplane to fly freely. Although Galtin had plans for a two-seat version of the Elektron, all spaceplanes currently flying were single-seat, and they were the only spacecraft in the world to carry only one passenger into space.

In less than ten minutes, Galtin was in orbit. He performed several functional checks on his Electron spaceplane and its payload while he waited for his target to come into range.

"Electron One, this is control," the mission controller radioed about two hours later. "The distance to Cosmos-714 does not exceed one hundred kilometers."

"Accepted," Galtin said. He activated Electron's radar and within seconds detected his target. "Electron One" made contact with the radar." Kosmos 714 was an electronic eavesdropping satellite that failed and was in a decaying orbit for several years - it would have made an ideal target. It was in a different orbit from Galtin's; their the orbits intersected about five kilometers apart at their closest point.

As with any fighter pilot, it was necessary to practice a little shooting practice from time to time.

Galtin entered commands that opened the cargo bay doors at the top of the fuselage and pulled out a large canister called the Nail or "Nail Pull" from its stowed and locked position. At a distance of fifty kilometers, he entered commands into his autopilot, which would take control of Electron's attitude thrusters and turn the spacecraft to track the satellite as it passed by. The two spaceships were approaching at a speed of over thirty thousand kilometers per hour, but this would not matter to this weapon.

At a distance of thirty kilometers, he activated the weapon. There was nothing to see outside of Electron, but on the radar screen, Galtin noticed the target satellite's blurry and shaky trajectory on the radar, and after a few seconds, he noticed that several objects now appeared on the radar - the satellite had been torn apart.

The Hobnail was a one hundred kilowatt coaxial carbon dioxide laser with an electrical discharge. The maximum range of the laser was more than fifty kilometers, but even at such a distance the laser could burn through a centimeter of durable steel in a matter of seconds - the shell on Cosmos-714 was much thinner. The batteries for the laser allowed it to fire for a maximum of about thirty seconds, no more than five seconds per burst, which equated to about six to seven bursts depending on how long the laser was activated. This was about half the size of Electron's current weapon, the hyper-velocity Scimitar missiles, but the Hobnail had much greater range and accuracy and could hit targets in any direction, even targets crossing at very high speeds. This was the first successful test of Hobnail in space, although the laser had been used successfully in the laboratory for many years. Each Elektron spaceplane will eventually receive one, as will the Russian Orbital Section, a Russian-built segment of the International Space Station that was recently separated from the ISS.

Galtin entered commands into his computer to move the Nail back into the cargo bay and disable its attack radar. It wouldn't begin its descent from orbit for the next seven hours, but it had one more task to complete.

Three hours later, he turned the radar back on, and there it was, exactly where it should be, just thirty kilometers away, within Hobnail's range: Armstrong, the American military space station. It was at a much higher altitude and in a completely different orbit - there was never any danger of collision - but of course the Americans would have made a fuss about such a deliberate flyby.

Very bad, Galtin thought joyfully. Space does not belong to the United States. And, if necessary, it will again become a battlefield.

ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

THE NEXT DAY

"Oh my God, I can"t believe what I"m seeing!" - Jodie Cavendish exclaimed as the monitor came to life. Behind her came the applause of the spectators who had been allowed by the American Secret Service to watch the test firing - they were awaiting the arrival of the President of the United States in a couple of hours. What they saw was Brad McLanahan and Casey Huggins, both wearing blue flight suits with Armstrong Space Station and Project Starfire patches, floating in free fall behind a console. Behind them were Kai Raydon and Valerie Lucas. "You did it! You did it!"

"Hi Jodi; hi Jerry; Hi Lane," Brad said. "Greetings from the Armstrong Space Station!"

"I just can't believe what I'm seeing," Jodie said, tears of joy streaming down her cheeks. "I would never have believed that this would ever happen, friends."

"You guys look great," Lane said. "How was the spaceplane trip?"

"Amazing, Lane," Brad responded. "The overload wasn't as bad as I expected."

"Speak for yourself, buster," Casey said. It was so strange to see a young woman floating in zero gravity with her legs tucked under her, just like any other astronaut - it was almost strange not to see her in a wheelchair. "I thought I was going to turn inside out."

"Are you guys feeling okay?"

"Not bad," Brad said.

"He was throwing up his guts," Casey said with a chuckle.

"Only twice," Brad said. "I got the injection and I feel good now."

"I feel dizzy from time to time, but I feel great, Lane," Casey said. "Although I still have my barf bag handy."

"We heard that you were able to pilot a spaceplane and even dock it at the station," Lane said. "How cool! How it was?"

"I had a few uncertain moments, but everything went great," Brad said. "I wish pilot Boomer was here, but he had to take the spaceplane to the International Space Station - since the Russians shut down their service module, they can't produce as much water and oxygen as they used to, so some of the technicians have to leave. What does it look like from up there, Jody?"

"Apples, Brad," Jodie replied. "However, we are still getting intermittent failures in the output relay of the lithium-ion capacitor, the same one we have been working on for a couple of weeks now."

"Is Jerry on the channel with us?"

"He's meeting with his team on a video conference to try to find a solution," Jodi said. "He thinks it's a temperature problem - he says when the station is in sunlight the relay works fine, but then when they move into the shade the problem sometimes pops up."

"Unfortunately, this means going into outer space to replace the relay or its temperature control unit," said Kai Rydon. "It may take a day or two."

"This won't affect our rectenna positioning, will it, sir?" - Brad asked.

"The delay will make the test a little worse, depending on how many days it takes to correct," Kai said. "For this test, we put Armstrong into what's called a sun-synchronous orbit, which means we pass over the same place on Earth-the rectenna site at White Sand Missile Range-at the same mean solar time every day. . But because our altitude is lower, we move a few degrees away from the ideal location every day, so our time within sight of the direct antenna will become shorter and shorter, down to less than a minute. Eventually the situation is reversed, but it takes twenty-four days to return to the ideal situation. Right now we are at the perfect time, with the maximum exposure available at the target latitude. We just have to hope that the relay will work when the time comes to open fire."

"God, that would be better," Jodi said, patting her laptop. "Come on baby, you can do it."

"It might be a little awkward if it doesn't work because the president has to oversee the test," Brad said. "Is there anything else we can try?" He looked around the command center and noticed the empty Skybolt laser control console. "What about Skybolt?" he asked.

"Skybolt is a free electron laser, Brad," Kai said. "It was turned off so we could install your microwave."

"What about Skybolt's power source, the magnetohydrodynamic generator?" - Brad asked.

"You mean, use energy from MHD instead of the solar energy you collected?" Valerie Lucas asked with a hint of a smile. "Wouldn"t that be like cheating?"

"We've harvested energy with antennas and stored electricity in capacitors, Sergeant, so we know it all works," Brad said, "and we've done discharge tests in a microwave cavity, so we know we can produce maser energy. All we need to do now to validate the design is to hit the direct antenna with a maser and make it generate electricity on the ground. Maybe we can do this with MHD instead of the energy in capacitors that we can't reach."

Valerie turned to Kai and shrugged. "We received permission to activate the MHD and test it," she said. "We have done several tests at full capacity." Turning to Casey, she asked, "What kind of power do you need, Casey?"

"We planned to pass five hundred kilowatts per minute through the microwave cavity," Casey replied.

Valerie shrugged again. "We did ten times more, but in much shorter periods of time," she said. "But I have no doubt that MHD can do it. We will have to monitor the heating levels in your microwave generator and in the magnetic reflectors, collimator and Skybolt electrical assemblies, but we have already determined that the Skybolt subsystems can handle the energy coming from the lithium-ion capacitors - I am confident that they can handle the same level power and discharge duration as the MHD generator."

"Then there"s one last thing to do: get permission from the man himself," Kai said.

They didn't have to wait long. About ninety minutes later, President Kenneth Phoenix entered the lab and greeted everyone there, ending with Lane and Jody. UC President Marcus Harris introduced the participants. Phoenix shook Jodie's hand first. "How are you, Miss Cavendish?"

"Wonderful, Mr. President. I am the head of the nanotechnology group. Lane Egan is the Computers and Software Team Leader."

The President shook Lane's hand. "How are you doing today, young man?"

"Excellent, Mr. President," Lane said. He handed the President a silver ink marker, then drew a blank space on the front of his blue and red Project Starfire nylon windbreaker. "Please, Mr. President?" Phoenix smiled and autographed the front of Lane's jacket in large cursive letters.

"May I introduce you to the other leaders of the Starfire Project team, Mr. President?" Jodie said. She pointed to the large monitor on the wall. "Inset in the upper left corner is Jerry Kim, group leader for power and control systems, connected via satellite from the White Sand Missile Range where the receiving antenna is located; and in the main window on board the Armstrong space station - Casey Huggins, the director of the directed energy group, and our overall team leader -"

"Brad McLanahan, I know," the president interrupted. Almost everyone in the lab blinked in surprise - did Brad McLanahan know the President of the United States? "We met many times, although you were quite young and probably don"t remember."

"No, sir, I remember," Brad said. "Nice to see you again, sir."

"Are you guys having fun up there?" the president asked. "I know my trip there was an experience I will never forget."

"We're rocking out, Mr. President," Casey said. "Thank you so much for giving us this amazing opportunity."

"So, along with the brains, the whole world knows that you guys have incredible courage," the president said. "The first male and female teenagers and the first quadriplegic in space, and they are American. Congratulations. The whole country is proud of you, and I'm sure the whole world is impressed. Where are we test firing, Brad?"

"We've encountered a potential problem that we hope you can help resolve, sir," Brad said.

"I? How?"

"We have collected energy that we would like to send to Earth," Brad explained, "but we are afraid that we will not be able to extract it from the storage devices into the microwave chamber to send it to Earth."

"This is very bad, guys," the president said. "I hope this is an easy fix for you."

"Everything else works, sir, and we've proven we can form a maser beam," Brad said. "The only thing we haven"t proven is that the beam hits the Earth and is converted into electricity."

The President looked at his campaign manager and the leading Secret Service unit, silently signaling them to begin preparing to form and move his convoy, then looked at his watch. "I'm really sorry about this, guys," he said, "but I don't know how I can help, and we do have a schedule to-"

"Mr. President, we think we have a workaround," Kai Rydon said.

"What is this, General?"

"Instead of using the energy stored in the Starfire capacitors, we would like your permission to use the Skybolt magnetohydrodynamic generator," Kai said. "The MHD is still connected to the Skybolt, but the free electron laser is disabled, so the students' microwave generator can use the Skybolt subsystems. We can route power from the MHD to Starfire in exactly the same amount as the capacitors. The only thing that has changed from the students' original plan is the power source. You have already given us permission to test the MHD generator, and it is fully operational. We would like permission to use it to power Starfire."

The President's face darkened and he looked around at all the faces in the laboratory and on the monitor. "General, are you absolutely sure that the large laser is disconnected and will not fire?" he asked, his voice low with great concern.

"Yes sir, I'm sure."

"Not one watt of laser radiation?"

"Nothing, sir," Kai assured him. "It would take a long time to get Skybolt back online. No sir, the Skybolt will not fire. I am absolutely sure of this."

He looked around again, then pulled out his secure cell phone. "I need to consult with a few people," he said. "I'm afraid some may believe that your maser is actually a Skybolt laser. I would like a legal opinion before-"

"Excuse me, sir," said Jodie, "but we need to make a decision pretty quickly-the station rises above the target horizon in about ten minutes." She looked at the large teleconference monitor. "Sergeant Lucas, can you tell me how long it will take to connect the MHD to Starfire?"

Valerie turned to the computer console and entered commands. "The wired connection is already there," she said. "Testing the circuit should only take a few minutes if we find no problems. No guarantees, but I think we can get it done in time."

Jodi turned to the President. "Sir?"

Phoenix looked even more gloomy than before, but after a few tense moments, he nodded and said, "Do it. Good luck."

"Thank you, sir," Jodi said. Her hands flew over the laptop keyboard, and Lane was essentially typing instructions into two laptops at the same time. "Sergeant Lucas, you have a cavity power control program on list page two-twelve, bravo."

"Got it," Valerie said. "Engineering department, this is the Operations department, turn on the MHD, switch to page two-twelve "bravo", turn on the seventeenth red system and the MHD power management subsystem and double check."

"In touch," came the response from Alice Hamilton from the engineering module, awaiting confirmation from the station commander.

"Engineer, this is command," Kai said over the intercom. "Authorized to start the MHD and connect it to Starfire. Let me know when you're ready." He pressed the intercom button for all stations. "Attention station, this is the director. We will activate the MHD generator and use it to send Project Starfire maser energy to Earth via the Skybolt subsystems. Since we are activating the MHD at any time, I want all modules to be pressurized, on-duty crew members to receive oxygen, and off-duty crew members to be sent to damage control stations and suits. Report to departments when you are ready."

"Accepted, command," Alice confirmed. "Operations, MHD is accelerating. Get ready."

"Got it," Valerie said. She typed commands on her keyboard. "Henry, Christina, get ready to do your thing."

"Yes, ma'am!" Henry Lathrop said. He and ground weapons officer Christine Reyhill were at their posts wearing oxygen masks, filling out checklists. A few minutes later, the command monitor switched from an overhead still satellite image of the rectenna to a real-time image from the Armstrong space station, which clearly showed a large, dark, round device alone in the New Mexico desert. "The fight is on target," Rayhill said. "There are no other additional sensors available other than the Starfire Project cameras."

"We want this to hit the mark, Christine," Valerie said. "Use everything you have."

It was very close. After several malfunctions had been discovered and corrected, and about thirty seconds after the station had passed over the rectenna's horizon, they heard: "Operations, engineering, communications established and tested. You have power and the feed levels are programmed. The engineers switched the MHD control to Operations mode and are ready."

"Got it," Valerie said. "Team, I authorize you to switch Starfire control to combat."

"Make sure the Skybolt is cold, Valerie," Kai ordered.

After a few moments, Valerie replied, "Confirmed, sir. "Skybolt is cold."

"Switch Starfire"s fire control to combat, Valerie," Kai said. He looked at Brad and Casey. "Release is permitted. Good luck guys," he added.

"Boy, you have control," Valerie said after entering instructions into her computer.

"I understand, everything is under control in battle. Starfire, what does it look like?"

"Everything is fine, Armstrong, except for the capacitor discharge subsystem, and that has been deactivated," Jodi said, nervously fiddling with her long blonde hair. "Starfire is ready."

"Got it, Starfire. Good luck." Rayhill entered the command. "Starfire is alive, guys."

Absolutely nothing changed either on the Armstrong space station or in the laboratory at the University of California for several long, tense moments. The only sign that something was going on was Jerry Kim's suddenly worried face as he checked his readings: "Rectenna receiving power, control!" he shouted. "Point two... point four... point five... it works, guys, it works!" The control center at Cal Poly erupted in cheers and applause, and Brad and Casey almost went into an uncontrollable spin, trying to hug each other.

"The microwave gets warm, but by the time we turn it off, the temperature should still be within normal range," Jodie said. "Reflectors, collimators and beam control parameters have become higher, but are still in the green zone. Engineering?"

"Everything is green, Starfire," Alice said. "We will reach the yellow temperature range in about three minutes."

"One megawatt!" Jerry screamed a little over a minute later. He was jumping for joy in front of the camera so much that they couldn't see his face. "We just received one megawatt of power from Starfire! The rectenna temperature curves are exactly on target - they should reach the yellow line in four minutes. Jodi, you did it! The conversion rate significantly exceeded what we predicted! We could probably get two megawatts before we hit the temperature limit! We might even-"

"I've received an alert from the White Sands Range Authority, guys," Valerie announced. "Unauthorized entry of an aircraft into the training ground. Turn off Starfire, fight. Engineering Department, ensure the safety of the MHD and the reactor."

"Got it," Henry said. His finger was already on the "kill button" and he instantly entered the command. "The team has a cold nose."

"Starfire is off," Alice said. "The MHD is spinning down. The reactor is safe. Everything is painted green."

"Congratulations, guys," Kai said, taking off his oxygen mask. "You handled it. You transmitted electrical energy from space to Earth." Over the intercom, he said: "To all personnel, this is the director, you can connect to the MHD stations. Please join me in conveying congratulations to the entire Starfire team on a successful test fire." The command module burst into applause.

"We couldn't do this without you and everyone at the station, sir," Brad said, removing his oxygen mask. He hugged Casey again. "It worked, Casey. Your microwave generator went off!"

"Our microwave generator," Casey said. "Our star fire! It worked! It worked!" And to celebrate further, she pulled out her barf bag and vomited into it.

Despite the sudden shutdown, celebrations continued in the Cal Poly lab, with President Phoenix applauding as enthusiastically as everyone else. "Congratulations, Miss Cavendish, Mr. Egan," he said. The traveling campaign manager directed him where to stand and face, and two team leaders were at his side, with a large monitor showing the others over his shoulder as the cameras began to roll.

"I was privileged to be present and witness an amazing event here at Cal Poly: the first successful transmission of electrical energy from space to Earth," he said. His staff had prepared several sets of notes for him, including a speech in case the Starfire failed to work, the spaceplane was lost, or the device destroyed the space station. He was overjoyed-and relieved-to present this version. "Although it is in its infancy, it is a remarkable achievement, made no less remarkable by the fact that a team of college students designed, built, installed and operated it. I am very proud of these young people for their achievements and it shows perfectly what investment in education, technology and space science can achieve. Congratulations, Jody, Brad, Casey and Jerry, and the entire Starfire team." The President stayed a few more minutes to take photos, then left.

WHITE SANDS MISSILE TESTING RANGE

ALAMOGORDO, NEW MEXICO

IN THE SAME TIME

"How far are we from this antenna, dude?" - asked the pilot of the Cessna 172 Skyhawk, brushing rows of chestnut dreadlocks out of his eyes. "Everything here looks the same."

"Another ten minutes," said the man in the right seat. He used a mapping app on his smartphone to navigate the small plane. Like the pilot, he had long, shoulder-length, dirty-looking hair, a beard, a mustache and thick glasses. The pilot was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, knee-length Bermuda shorts and sneakers; The one sitting on the right was wearing a T-shirt, cut-off jeans and sandals. "Stay the course."

"Okay, okay," said the pilot. They had taken off from Alamogordo-White Sands Regional Airport about half an hour ago and headed northwest, entering Holloman Air Force Base Class D airspace without speaking to anyone on the radio. "Are you sure you're in the right place, dude?" - asked the pilot.

"The news reports about the trial stated it quite clearly," another man said. "We should see it when we get closer - it"s quite big."

"Man, this is nuts," the pilot said. "The news said no planes would be allowed to fly near the antenna."

"What are they going to do, shoot us down?" - asked the navigator.

"I don"t want to get shot down, man, not by the military, not by this... phaser beam, laser beam, whatever the hell it is."

"I don't want to fly over the antenna, just close enough for them to cancel the test," the navigator said. "This is an illegal space weapons test, and if the federal government or the state of New Mexico don't stop it, we will have to."

"As you say," said the pilot. He strained to look out the window. "We're getting... holy shit! "There, to their left, not more than a hundred feet away, was a green military Black Hawk helicopter with USAF in big black letters on the side, flying in formation. The helicopter's right sliding door was open, revealing a crew member wearing a green flight suit, helmet and dark visor down. "We have company, man."

The helicopter crew member in the open door picked up what looked like a large flashlight and began flashing light signals to the Cessna pilot. "One... two... one... five," said the pilot. "This is the emergency distress signal frequency." He switched his number one radio to that frequency.

"Single-engine high-wing Cessna aircraft, tail number N-3437T, this is United States Air Force on your left wing, transmitting 'alert,'" they heard, referring to the universal emergency VHF frequency. "You have entered a restricted area." military airspace that is currently active. Change course immediately. The area is active and you are in great danger. I repeat, change course immediately."

"We have a right to be here, man," the pilot radioed. "We're not doing anything. Leave".

"November 3437T, this is the United States Air Force, you are putting yourself in great danger," the helicopter's co-pilot said. "Change course immediately. I am authorized to take any action necessary to prevent you from proceeding into restricted airspace."

"What are you going to do, dude, shoot us down?" - asked the Cessna pilot. On the nose of the helicopter there was indeed a long tube that looked like a cannon - he didn't know that it was just a probe for mid-air refueling. "Look, we just want to stop the Starfire test and then we'll go home. Leave".

At these words, the Black Hawk suddenly accelerated and made a sharp right turn, passing in front of the Cessna at a distance of not more than a hundred feet, its propeller disc obscuring the Cessna's windshield. The startled pilot screamed and yanked the control lever back and to the left, then had to fight to regain control as the little plane nearly stalled. They could hear the helicopter's rotors hitting the Cessna's fuselage as it circled around them.

The Black Hawk appeared from his left wing a second later, closer this time, the sound of the rotor blades becoming deafening, as if a giant invisible fist was hitting the side of their small plane. "N-3437T, change course immediately! That's an order! Submit immediately!"

"Is this dude crazy, man?" - said the pilot. "I almost shit my pants!"

"I see it! I see it, I see the antenna!" - said the one sitting on the right. "A little to the right, on the horizon! Big round sucker!"

The pilot followed his passenger's index finger. "I don"t see anything, man, I don"t- Wait, I got it, I got it," he said. "That big round thing in the desert? I will head towards him." He sent the little Cessna into a sharp right bank...

... and as soon as he did this, the Black Hawk helicopter made a sharp left turn, hitting the Cessna with a powerful blow from the rotor. This action completely turned Cessna on its head. It entered an inverted flat spin and crashed into the New Mexico desert seconds later.

SEATTLE, WA

A FEW HOURS LATER

"Congratulations, Jong Bae, on the successful Starfire test," said Dr. Toshuniko "Toby" Nukaga, a professor of aerospace engineering at Cal Poly, via video link on his laptop computer from his room at an upscale hotel in Seattle, Washington. "I just heard the news. I'm sorry I couldn't be there, but I'm chairing the conference in Seattle."

"Thank you, sir," Jerry said. It was in a trailer about a mile from the Starfire rectenna test site at the White Sands Missile Range northwest of Alamogordo, New Mexico, surrounded by laptop computers used to monitor power and steering systems aboard the Armstrong space station. Seven team members were with him, high-fiving each other as they began to analyze the mountain of data they had acquired. "I'm sorry you couldn't be here too, sir. You have been the driving force behind this project from the very beginning."

"The credit goes to you and the other members of the project team, Jung Bae - I was just a facilitator. So how much energy did you transfer?"

"One point four seven megawatts, sir."

"Outstanding! Great job!"

"It had to be aborted because an unauthorized aircraft came into range."

"I heard that some protesters were going to try to disrupt the test by flying a private jet over the rectenna," Nukaga said.

Jerry blinked in surprise. "Are you done, sir?" - he asked incredulously.

"Jung Bae, I'm here in Seattle for the annual conference of the International Confederation of Responsible Scientists," Nukaga said. "There are more than one hundred groups of scientists, politicians, environmentalists and industry leaders from around the world represented here-we even have presidential candidate, former Secretary of State Stacy Ann Barbeau, giving a keynote address later today.

"We also have some pretty radical groups here, and one of them, Students for Universal Peace, came to me with a complaint that Cal Poly was involved in a weapons program with Starfire," Nukaga continued. "I assured them that was not the case, but they insisted. They said it was their duty to do whatever they could to stop the Starfire being test-fired, even if it put their lives at risk - I actually think they were hoping someone would get hit by the maser, just to prove it was indeed a weapon "

"This is incredible, sir," Jerry said. "Why didn"t you tell us about this?"

"I only half believed it myself, Jung Bae," Nukaga said. "To be honest, the guys who confronted me looked like they didn't know where their next meal would come from, let alone had the means to hire a plane to fly over the government's restricted area in hopes of getting shot down maser beam from space. So. "Nukaga was clearly trying to change the subject." Mr. McLanahan and Ms. Huggins looked good aboard the military space station. I saw one of their press conferences last night. They are fine?"

"Very good, sir."

"Fine. Any problems? Are you having difficulties with your hardware or software?" Jerry hesitated and looked away from the camera for a brief moment, and Nukaga noticed immediately. "Jung Bae?"

Jerry wasn't sure if he should talk about anything related to Starfire and the space station on the unsecured network-the team leaders had decided to discuss among themselves what had been made public and what hadn't-but Nukaga was one of their professors and one one of the first, but somewhat reluctant, supporters of the project. "There was a potential problem with the relay I designed that allowed power to be transferred from the lithium-ion capacitors to the microwave generator, sir," he finally said.

"Potential problem?"

"It didn't fail today, but... it wasn't one hundred percent reliable," Jerry said with concern, "and since the President of the United States was present at the test firing at Cal Poly, we wanted to make sure we could hit the rectenna with maser energy."

"Well, you did," Nukaga said. "The test was successful. I don't understand."

"Well, we... we didn't use the energy that we collected with antennas and stored in capacitors."

"Then what kind of energy did you use?"

"We used power from ... a magnetohydrodynamic generator," Jerry said.

There was silence on the line for several long moments, and on the video monitor Jerry could see the growing expression of disbelief on Nukagi's face; then: "You mean you activated the laser aboard Armstrong's space station, Jung Bae?" Nukaga asked in a breathless, low, incredulous tone.

"No, sir," Jerry said. "Not a laser. The free electron laser itself was deactivated so we could use the laser subsystems for Starfire. We simply used his energy source to...

"Was that MHD generator still working?" - Asked Nukaga. "I was led to believe that all components of the Skybolt space laser were deactivated." Jerry didn't have an answer to that. "So one and four tenths of the megawatts you collected with the rectenna came from MHD and not Starfire?"

"Yes, sir," Jerry replied. "We tested everything else: we collected solar energy, stored electricity, powered a microwave generator with it, and emitted maser energy using Skybolt reflectors, collimators and steering systems. We just needed to hit the rectenna with maser energy. We wanted to do it on the first try, in front of the President of the United States. The MHD generator was our only...

"Jung Bae, you fired a beam of directed energy at a target on Earth," Nukaga said. "You released one megawatt of energy for more than two minutes over a distance of more than two hundred miles? This is..." He paused, doing mental calculations. "That's over three million joules of energy released by MHD from that military space station! That's three times the legal limit, at a distance almost four times the legal range! This is a serious violation of the Outer Space Treaty! This is a crime that can be prosecuted by the International Court of Justice or reviewed by the United Nations Security Council! Space weapons, especially directed energy weapons, are not allowed to be used by anyone, not even students!"

"No, sir, this cannot be!" Jerry said, confused, afraid he had said too much and betrayed his colleagues, and afraid of incurring the wrath of his beloved professor and mentor. "Starfire is a solar power plant, not a space weapon!"

"That was it, Jung Bae, until you gave up using solar energy and used the power source of an illegal military space laser!" Nukaga cried. "Don"t you understand, Jung Bae? You can use fireworks to celebrate the New Year, but if you use a Scud missile to do it, it changes and pollutes the very nature of the spirit you were trying to express, even if you don't attack anyone or blow anything up. That's why we have laws against using such things for any purpose." He saw the panicked look in Jerry's eyes and immediately felt sorry for him. "But you were in New Mexico, weren't you?"

"Yes, sir".

"Did they consult with you about the decision to use an MHD generator?"

"No, sir," Jerry said. "There was no time, and I was on a conference call with my team trying to find a solution to the relay problem."

"Do you know who came up with the idea to use MHD?"

"I believe it was Mr. McLanahan, sir," Jerry said. Nukaga nodded in understanding - he could have easily guessed this. "He shared the idea with General Rydon, the station commander, and Sergeant Lucas, the station operations officer."

"Are these all military personnel?"

"I believe they are all retired," Jerry said, "but are well versed in operating the space station and have been hired by a private defense contractor to operate it."

" 'Private defense contractor', huh?" Nukaga chuckled, "Was that the company in Nevada that gave the university the seed grant money?"

"Yes... I... Yes, sir, it was," Jerry said... and a moment later the realization began to dawn on me.

"You"re starting to understand now, aren"t you, Jung-bae?" - Nukaga asked, seeing Jerry's expression change. "Bradley McLanahan, the son of General Patrick McLanahan, a retired Air Force officer and former employee of this company in Nevada, came up with the idea of a so-called space-based solar power plant, and in just a few months he assembled a team of engineers and made several significant scientific and technological breakthroughs. Then is it a coincidence that Cal Poly gets the grant money? Is it just a coincidence that Mr. McLanahan wants to use Armstrong's space station for Starfire, which is run by the same Nevada defense contractor? I don't believe in coincidences, Jung Bae. And you shouldn't."

"But they got permission from the President of the United States to use MHD," Jerry said, "only if the Skybolt free electron laser was not capable of launching."

"Certainly. They couldn't fire a laser without violating the Space Conservation Treaty, so they got the next best thing: a maser built by a group of college students, all very neat and inspiring and innocent - bullshit, all bullshit," Nukaga spat. "It seems to me that the so-called problems with your relay could have been easily rigged, so they had to use an MHD generator to demonstrate the power of the maser weapon. Three million joules! I bet the military was very pleased with this demonstration."

"I designed the power relay system, sir, and I was the only one responsible for monitoring it," Jerry said. "I assure you that no one intentionally interfered with this."

"Jung Bae, I"m really glad you told me about this," Nukaga said. "I don't blame you for anything. It appears that Mr. McLanahan had his own agenda when he created this project. As I suspected from the beginning, Mr. McLanahan was working with this defense contractor, and quite possibly the military itself, as the son of a prominent and notorious military officer, to develop space weapons and hide them from the world. Obviously, he had help from this contractor and the government-how else could a first-year student gather all the resources needed to complete such a project in such a short time?"

"I... I had no idea, sir," Jerry said, his eyes darting back and forth in confusion. "Mr. McLanahan, he... He seemed to have extraordinary leadership and organizational skills. He was always very open and transparent about everything. He shared all his resources with every team member. We knew every moment of every day what was needed and how he intended to get it."

"Once again, Jung Bae, I don"t blame you for falling for this... this obvious huckster," Nukaga said. He nodded, glad that he was on the right track. "It makes sense to me. Our university was involved in a coordinated plot by McLanahan - first most likely by his late father, then by his adopted son - supported by this defense contractor, the military and their government supporters such as President Kenneth Phoenix and Vice President Anne Page to secretly create a space-based directed energy weapon and disguise it as nothing more than a student engineering project. How terribly clever. How many other progressive, peace-loving universities have they used this scheme on? Interesting."

Nukagi's mind raced for a few moments before he realized that he was still on a video conference with Jung Bae. "I'm sorry, Jung Bae," he said, "but I have something very important to do. You should leave this project immediately. In fact, if I learn that the university had anything to do with this military program, or if the university does not recuse itself from any involvement in the project and return the money received from this defense contractor, I will immediately resign from my position. positions, and I would strongly recommend that you transfer to another school. I'm sure we would both be very happy at Stanford University. I look forward to meeting you soon." And he interrupted the connection.

My God, Nukaga thought, what an incredibly diabolical plan! This had to be revealed immediately. This had to stop. He was the chairman of this conference, and it was broadcast around the world - he, of course, had access to cameras, microphones and media, and he intended to use them.

However, he admitted to himself that his audience, although global, was not that large. Most of the world considered the participants to be nothing more than peaceful Occupy Wall Street supporters, crazy hippies. One of the reasons he was asked to lead the conference was to try to give the organization and the conclave much more legitimacy. He needed help. He needs...

... and in an instant he remembered and pulled a business card out of his pocket, then took out his smartphone and dialed the Washington number of the man he knew was just a few floors above. "Mr. Cohen, this is Dr. Toby Nukaga, the chairman of the event... Wonderful sir, thank you, and thank you again to you and Secretary Barbeau for attending.

"Sir, I have just received very disturbing information that I think the Secretary of State should be aware of and perhaps act upon," Nukaga continued, almost breathless. "This is about the Starfire project... yes, the so-called space solar power plant... yes, I say "so-called" because today I learned that this is in no way a solar power plant, but a well-disguised space weapons program ...yes sir, a military directed energy space weapon disguised as a student engineering project...yes sir, this information was given to me by someone very high up in the project, very high up...yes sir, I completely trust the source. He was dragged into this, just as I, my university, and hundreds of engineers and scientists around the world were roped into collaborating with him, and I want to expose this frightening and outrageous program before any more harm is done .. .yes sir...yes sir, I can be upstairs in just a few minutes. Thank you, Mr. Cohen."

Nukaga hurriedly began to assemble his tablet computer when a text message appeared on his screen. It was from the head of Students for Universal Peace, one of the international environmental and world peace groups attending the conference, and the message read: Our protest plane was shot down by a Starfire space weapon near the rectenna site. We're at war.

KEYNOTE SPEECH OF THE CONCLAVE OF THE INTERNATIONAL CONFEDERATION OF RESPONSIBLE SCIENTISTS

SEATTLE, WA

LATER THAT EVENING

"It is my pleasure and honor to introduce a man who certainly needs no introduction, especially for this meeting," began Dr. Toshuniko Nukaga, reading from a script that was provided to him from Secretary Barbeau's campaign office. "Stacy Ann Barbeau describes herself first and foremost as an Air Force brat. Born at Barksdale Air Force Base near Shreveport, Louisiana, she said the roar of the B-47 and B-52 bombers outside her family's home simply lulled her to sleep, and the smell of jet fuel must have penetrated her blood. The daughter of a retired two-star Air Force general, she moved with her family a total of ten times, including two overseas assignments, before returning to her home state of Louisiana to attend college. Bachelor's degree in pre-law, business and public administration from Tulane, a law degree from Tulane, then worked in public defender's offices in Shreveport, Baton Rouge and New Orleans before running for Congress. Three terms in Congress were followed by three terms in the United States Senate, the last four years as Majority Leader, before being elected as the sixty-seventh Secretary of State. Today she is a candidate for President of the United States, and if she wins, she will be the first woman to hold that office. I can"t imagine a person more suitable for this position, can I?" There followed a stunning standing ovation that lasted almost a full minute.

"This is her official background, my friends and colleagues, but let me tell you a few things about this extraordinary woman that you may not know," Nukaga continued. "There are two sides to Secretary Barbeau. There is a fierce but caring advocate for green technology, the environment, action against global warming and carbon control. But it is equally strong and committed to strengthening and responsible modernization of our armed forces. It's no surprise that she is a strong voice for the Air Force, but she is also an advocate for our country maintaining its leadership on the world's oceans and maintaining a force that is willing to help other countries in their time of need with fast, sustained, and powerful yet compassionate humanitarian assistance. I know her to be a strong, caring and dynamic person, but she is certainly what Humphrey Bogart might call a 'cool broad'. "Nukaga was relieved to hear a burst of laughter and applause in response to this line - it was one that he would have deleted from his prepared introduction if he had been allowed to do so.

"Stacy Ann Barbeau speaks five languages fluently. Stacy Ann is a scratch golfer. Stacy Ann knows Washington inside and out, but her roots and heart are with the people, with you and me. Stacy Ann knows and cares about the US military, the force that protects our nation and the free world, but Stacy Ann knows that the military is a force not only for war, but for protecting those who cannot protect themselves." Nukaga raised his voice as he began the song, and the growing applause from the audience did him a world of good - so much so that he found himself raising his hands and clenching his fists, something he thought he would never do. "Stacy Ann Barbeau is a leader, a fighter and an advocate, and with our help and support, Stacey Ann Barbeau will become the next President of the United States of America!" Nukagi's next words were inaudible because of the roar, the deafening standing ovation that broke out just at that moment. "Ladies and gentlemen, friends and colleagues, please join me in welcoming former Secretary of State and the next President of the United States of America, Stacey Ann Barbeau!"

With a beaming smile and an enthusiastic wave of both hands, Stacey Ann Barbeau took the stage. She did what Stacey Ann Barbeau knew how to do perfectly: look professional, presidential and seductive at the same time. Her wavy blonde hair and makeup were flawless; her dress was a form-fitting one that showed off her curvy figure without looking too showy; her jewelry attracted a lot of attention, but just enough to make her look successful without being conspicuous.

"Thank you, thank you, ladies and gentlemen!" Barbeau shouted into the microphone after she reached the lectern. She then said her well-known and oft-repeated campaign slogan in a very loud Cajun accent: "Let's start building the future together, shall we?" The applause and screams were deafening.

Barbeau stood silently on the podium until the shouting and applause died down, and then waited almost another minute, so that the audience waited with bated breath for her words. Finally, she began: "My friends, at the beginning, I am going to deviate from my prepared remarks because there have been serious events over the last few hours that I think you should be aware of.

"I'm sure you all know that I'm not a big fan of President Kenneth Phoenix's new so-called industrial space initiative," she said. "I give the President all the credit in the world for flying to a military space station to make his big announcement-even though it cost American taxpayers tens of millions of dollars for what turned out to be the most wasteful and unnecessary undertaking on the planet." , - but frankly, my friends, everything has gone downhill from here: relations with the Russians and many countries in Europe and Asia are at an all-time low and threaten to explode into diplomatic friction at best, and a return to the Cold War at worst. ; the military no longer trusts the president because of all these looming massive cuts he plans to make to our proud military; the Russians have abandoned the International Space Station, the European Union and Japan are considering doing the same; and the economy is still in crisis four years after he came to power, despite an austerity campaign that has seen entire departments at cabinet level all but eliminated. Is this what we want to continue for four more years?" The audience began chanting a familiar phrase that had been repeated over and over again during Barbeau's campaign: "Do something about it now, Ken Phoenix, or get out of the car!" " a mixture of Cajun and Creole expressions.

After waiting a few seconds, Barbeau raised her hands, smiling widely, until the singing finally ended. "But while he warned us of his plans to reduce the military at a time of ever-increasing danger to our country and our allies; while he warns us that he is poised to cut social safety net programs and benefits designed to help the most vulnerable among us; while he's threatening to create a huge deficit to try to deploy those pie-sized space things in the sky, do you know what he did earlier today, my friends? Today he launched a directed energy weapon, a microwave laser, from space, in direct violation of the Outer Space Conservation Treaty. Although the treaty has not yet been ratified by the Senate-an omission that I will correct when I take charge of the White House, I promise you-its terms have been carefully adhered to over the past eight years to ensure peace. And you know what's worst? To hide his program from the world, he disguised this action as an innocent experiment by college students.

"That's true, my friends. You've heard or read about the first teenagers in space, and of course Casey Huggins, the first paraplegic in space, the gifted young scientists who had the courage to go into space to conduct this experiment. Well, it's all a big lie. With the help of a Nevada defense contractor and the support of President Phoenix and Vice President Page, these students created a directed energy weapon that is in orbit above our heads right now, and was successfully fired today at a target on Earth, all under the guise of a solar power plant. , which can supply electricity to any part of the globe to help disadvantaged communities or researchers in remote parts of the world. As we say there, on the channel, my friends: this dog does not hunt.

"They tried to deceive us, my friends," Barbeau continued. "They tried to deceive us. But one member of the so-called Starfire Project team couldn't take the hypocrisy any longer, and he called our conference chairman, Dr. Tobi Nukage, and told him the truth. This brave young man is Kim Jong-bae, a gifted engineering student from United Korea who was the team leader for the project but was not allowed to voice his opposition to the test firing. He is a hero for breaking this charade."

Her face darkened. "We also learned today that there was a terrible tragedy involving this directed energy weapon-you may have heard about it," Barbeau continued. "One of the groups represented here, Students for Universal Peace, organized a protest about the Starfire Test Site. They hired two brave men to fly a small plane near Starfire's target. They knew the danger, but wanted to do everything they could to stop the test. I regret to report... The plane was shot down by an illegal space weapon. Yes, shot down by a microwave laser beam from the Armstrong space station. The two brave men on board were killed instantly." There was complete silence in the hall, except for a few sobs and gasps of horror, and everyone present at one table immediately jumped to their feet in shock and agony and headed towards the exit of the hall.

Barbeau allowed the silence to linger for a few moments. Then, slowly, gradually, her expression changed: no longer gloomy, but red-hot with anger. "Stop being a hypocrite, Mr. Phoenix," Barbeau said, phrasing her words clearly and pointing her finger directly at the network and cable news cameras that had been hastily installed at her suggestion for her appearance. "No more lies and deceit, no more wasting our hard-earned tax dollars on dangerous and illegal weapons programs, and no more killing innocent Americans who wanted nothing more than to express their outrage and do something, anything, in the name of peace. Immediately deactivate this space weapon, abandon it and let it deorbit, burn up and fall into the ocean. Do it now" . More thunderous applause and chants of "Do it now!" Do it now! Do it now!"

"When I become President of the United States, my friends," Barbeau continued after a minute of applause and chanting, "I will restore the faith and honor of this country, our military, the White House and in the eyes of everyone around the world who longs for freedom and prays for the extended helping hand. Our military will be number one again without trying to remain number three. When the oppressed and peace-loving peoples of the world look up, they won't see missiles fired at them by their own government, and they certainly won't see an American military space station ready to turn their village into ash or shoot a plane out of the sky with an invisible beam of light - they will see a transport plane with the red, white and blue flag of the United States of America carrying food, water, medicine, doctors and peacekeepers to help them. And when Americans ask for help and ask their government to help feed their children and get jobs, they won't hear about their president spending hundreds of millions of dollars on joyrides into space or secretly creating death rays - they will get the help they desperately need . This is what I promise!"

The cheering and chanting was even louder than before, and this time Stacy Ann Barbeau let it go on and on and on.

KREMLIN

MOSCOW RUSSIAN FEDERATION

A FEW HOURS LATER

"My fellow Russians, my speech this morning will be short and direct," President Gennady Gryzlov said into the camera from a television studio in the Kremlin. He had a dark, stern expression on his face, as if he was about to announce the death of a loved one. "By now you should have heard about the remarks made by US Presidential candidate and former Secretary of State Stacey Ann Barbeau earlier today regarding the test firing of a directed energy weapon from space at a target on Earth from a US military space station and the shooting down of a US aircraft with that weapon. My ministers and I were horrified to hear about this. We are working to verify this information, but if true, these actions would be a serious threat to world peace - in fact, they are a violation of the treaty, a warning to the rest of the world, a provocation and a virtual act of war.

"When we considered our options, we were concerned that we could create panic throughout Russia, and indeed throughout the world. But we felt we had no choice, and that is why I am speaking to you this afternoon. Moreover, we have decided to act thoughtfully and quickly to protect the lives of Russians and our friends and allies, as follows:

"First: Beginning immediately, the Russian Space Defense Force will continuously broadcast the predicted location of the U.S. military space station and the potential range and azimuth of its directed energy weapons, as well as provide warnings about when and where directed energy weapons could threaten the Russians, our allies, and our friends on earth," Gryzlov continued. "When weapons pose a threat to you, we ask you to take shelter underground or in the strongest building you can evacuate to quickly. The exact properties of the weapon are unknown, so we don't yet know what the best cover might be, but you may have a better chance of surviving an attack if you're indoors rather than outdoors. The threat can last up to four minutes. You and your loved ones may be at risk from guns several times a day.

"The explosion of these weapons can damage electronics, so prepare your homes and businesses to be without power for days or even weeks: stock up on blankets, food and water; collect wood for the fire; and organize your neighborhoods to come together and help each other," he continued. "If at all possible, avoid flying in airplanes, riding in elevators or electric trains, or operating heavy machinery while the weapon is in the danger zone because, as we have seen, weapons can easily bring down aircraft and can disrupt or even destroy electrical circuits.

"Second: I demand that all American space weapons on the Armstrong space station be deactivated and immediately destroyed," Gryzlov said. "This includes the Skybolt free electron laser, the Hydra chlorine-oxygen-iodine laser and the Kingfisher orbital weapons workshops; Starfire, a so-called college student experiment that actually turned out to be a microwave laser weapon; and any other space-based weapons, their power sources and all their components, whether the Americans classify them as defensive weapons only or not. Specifically, Russia demands that the Skybolt module be separated from the Armstrong space station within forty-eight hours, and that when it no longer poses a danger to anyone or anything on Earth, it be removed from orbit. and were sent to burn up in the Earth's atmosphere or crash into the ocean. We have powerful sensors on the ground to determine if it's done. If this is not done, I must assume that the United States intends to continue to use weapons and Russia will immediately take all necessary steps to protect itself.

"Third: I hereby declare that, starting in ten days, unless the Americans destroy all their space weapons, all airspace around the Russian Federation from the surface to an altitude of five hundred kilometers is henceforth restricted airspace and is closed to all unauthorized spacecraft," - Gryzlov continued. "For decades, all countries have recognized that only airspace below twenty kilometers can be limited or controlled, but no more. Our scientists estimate that the Americans can fire their directed energy weapons up to five hundred kilometers with enough force to kill a person on the ground, so this is the airspace we will protect. Any unauthorized flight over the Russian Federation below the specified altitude, regardless of the type of aircraft or spacecraft, will be considered hostile and subject to neutralization. I know this affects many countries, but Americans have changed the global security dynamic for the worse, and we have no choice but to act. Ten days should be enough for all unfriendly countries to change the orbits of their spacecraft or provide us with detailed information about the type, purpose and orbits of aircraft and spacecraft flying over Russia in order to comply with this order.

"This limitation is especially true for one spacecraft in particular: American single-stage orbital launch vehicles," Gryzlov said. "Because of their atmospheric hypersonic flight capabilities and their ability to accelerate into Earth orbit, as well as their demonstrated ability to launch weapons or launch weapon-carrying satellites into orbit, they pose a particularly dangerous threat to the Russian Federation.

"So, starting with ten days to give spaceplanes time to evacuate any personnel from the International Space Station or Armstrong Station, US S-series spaceplanes will not be welcome in Russian airspace and will be engaged and shot down without further warning," Gryzlov continued. "Let me repeat this so there is no confusion or doubt: starting today, in ten days, American space planes will be activated if they fly over the Russian Federation. The threat of attack by these hypersonic aircraft is simply too great a threat for the Russian people. The United States has many commercial human-powered spacecraft that can service the International Space Station and other similar missions, and will be allowed to do so after requesting permission to fly over Russia, but space planes will not be granted permission to fly over Russia either. under what circumstances.

"I did not want to take such drastic measures, my dear Russians, but after consultation with my advisors and after much prayer, I felt that I had no choice if I wanted to protect Russian citizens from the danger they now face above their heads." , - concluded Gryzlov. "I urge all Russians to take all necessary precautions to protect themselves and their families from the danger of attack from space weapons. If the Americans do not respond to my demands, I assure you, Russia will act. Stay informed and stay safe, my dear Russians. May God bless the Russian Federation."

Gryzlov rose from his seat and strode out of the Kremlin television studio, accompanied by his chief of staff, Sergei Tarzarov. He didn't greet anyone or stop to chat, but quickly headed back to his official office. Waiting for him inside were Foreign Minister Daria Titeneva, Defense Minister Gregor Sokolov and Chief of the General Staff General Mikhail Khristenko, who all stood up when Tarzarov opened the door for the Russian president. "Excellent treatment, sir," said Sokolov. "I think ten days will be enough for the Americans to begin negotiations on access to Russian airspace for their spacecraft."

Gryzlov sat down at his desk and glared at Sokolov. "I"m not going to give anyone ten days," he snapped, lighting a cigar, "and I won"t negotiate with anyone about anything."

"Sir?"

"Forty-eight hours, Sokolov," said Gryzlov. "If I don't see the Skybolt module disconnected from that space station, I want that space station to be attacked the next time it passes over Russia, with every weapon in our arsenal. Same with any of their spaceplanes. I'm not going to sit back and do nothing while the Americans fly overhead with directed energy weapons. I would rather drag this country into war than allow this to happen."

Sergei Tarzarov picked up the telephone receiver at the other end of Gryzlov"s office, listened, then put it back. "President Phoenix is here, sir," he said.

"It didn"t take long," Gryzlov said. He motioned for those in the room to pick up their disconnected extensions so they could listen to the translation, then picked up the phone on his desk. "What's the matter, Mr. Phoenix?"

"This was not a directed energy weapon, Mr. President," Phoenix said through a translator. "It was a college engineering project, a space-based solar power plant. And the plane wasn't shot down by Starfire-it lost control while trying to evade an Air Force patrol helicopter after violating restricted airspace, minutes after the test ended. I don't know where Secretary Barbeau got her information, but she is wrong and you have been misled into believing it. She's campaigning for president and she wants headlines."

"Wait". Gryzlov pressed the standby button and turned to those who were in the room with him. "Well, well," he said, "Phoenix starts this conversation by trying to explain. This could be interesting."

"He might be ready to negotiate," Tarzarov said. "Let him give you something, and then you will give something in return."

"What the hell are you talking about, Tarzarov," Gryzlov said angrily, but with a smile on his face. "I will not yield an inch to this weak-willed semblance of a head of state." He pressed the hold button again. "Are you saying that Barbeau is lying, Phoenix?" - he asked, no longer using Phoenix's title or even addressing him as "Mister" - Phoenix's first move was defensive, and Gryzlov wanted there to be no doubt about who was now in control of the situation.

"I give you the facts, Mr. President: Starfire is not a directed energy weapon," Phoenix said. "This is an experimental solar-powered space power plant developed by several California engineering students. The Skybolt free electron laser has been deactivated. The students' experiment involved transmitting electricity from space to Earth. This is all . The small plane crashed because its pilot was stupid, not because it was hit by a maser. The solar power plant poses no threat to anyone on earth and certainly won't disable planes, elevators, trains, or anything else. You're creating panic over a harmless college experiment. Neither this project nor the space station pose any threat to you."

"Phoenix, I just don"t believe you anymore," Gryzlov said. "There is only one thing you can do to restore my faith in your words: immediately disconnect the laser module from the space station. If you do this, I will not impose increased restrictions on Russian airspace and will enter into negotiations with you to create a permanent treaty on space weapons. All I care about is offensive weapons in space that could pose a threat to Russia. I may have received incorrect information about the nature of the device, but this still does not change the fact that you used the Skybolt module to release energy directly onto the surface of the Earth, and this is unacceptable."

Gryzlov noted the long silence on the other end of the line; then: "I will consult with my advisors, Mr. President," Phoenix finally said.

"Very good," said Gryzlov. "You have two days, Phoenix, and then Russia will defend its airspace and low Earth orbit as we would defend our homeland, with every man, woman and child and every weapon in our arsenal at our disposal. This is my promise, Phoenix. "And with these words he threw the phone back into place.

Sergei Tarzarov returned the disconnected extension cord to its original place. "I think he will do as you ask and disconnect the laser module from the military space station," he said. "He certainly acknowledges that. May I suggest-"

"No, you can"t, Tarzarov," Gryzlov interrupted him. He turned to Defense Minister Sokolov and Chief of the General Staff Khristenko. "I will give the Americans their two days to detach this Skybolt module from the space station, and I will only allow them to deliver manned capsules to their space station if they tell us their exact flight path and destination before launch, and if they don't deviate from this flight path not by a degree or a meter. If they don't inform us, or if they deviate from their flight path, I want the spacecraft destroyed. Spaceplanes will be deployed whenever they come within range of our weapons."

"What about the details of their cargo or passengers, sir?" Foreign Minister Titenov asked.

"I don"t care what they can carry anymore," Gryzlov said. "From now on, I assume that every spacecraft launched by the Americans carries space weapons and poses a danger to Russia. The Americans and this spineless President Phoenix are liars and pose a danger to Russia. I will treat them like the enemies that they are, I will not concede anything, and I will operate on the assumption that America is simply waiting for the right opportunity to strike, so we must be ready to strike first."

NINE

Shootouts are carried out by criminals, not by law enforcement officers.

- JOHN F. KENNEDY

ON BOARD THE FIRST AIRCRAFT OVER NORTHERN CALIFORNIA

IN THE SAME TIME

President Phoenix hung up the phone. "Everything went smoothly," he muttered tiredly. He was heading north to Portland, Oregon, for the next day of campaign stops. "Can you guys hear all this?" - he asked into his video conference camera. All three participants in the video conference - Vice President Anne Page, National Security Adviser William Glenbrook and Secretary of Defense Frederick Hayes - responded in the affirmative. "I screwed up the pooch. I should have called you guys and asked your opinion before allowing Cal Poly students to use a nuclear generator. Thanks to Barbeau, Russia thinks I just fired a death ray. I don't feel like I have any choice here guys but to disconnect this Skybolt module. Thoughts?"

"I would have advised further testing of the MHD generator if you had asked me in advance, Mr. President," Anne said. "All we did was let UC students demonstrate their technology-we didn't shoot space weapons. Starfire is not a space weapon, no matter what Barbeau and Gryzlov say."

"Now the question is, do we think Gryzlov would dare to attack if we flew a space plane over Russia?" - asked the president.

"He's taking steps to try to convince us that this is exactly what he would do," Glenbrook said. "Launching this Electron spaceplane into an orbit that intersects with the space station? This was a deliberate act."

"They were miles apart," Hayes said. "There was no danger of collision."

"But a miscalculation of just a few seconds and it could have been much worse," Anne said. "Bill is right: this was a deliberate and dangerous act."

"You mentioned something else that happened before that flyby episode, didn't you, Fred?" the president asked. "What was it?"

"Before the Russian spaceplane flew past the Armstrong space station, we watched as it flew very close to a malfunctioning Russian satellite," Hayes said. "As we were watching, we noticed that the satellite was suddenly falling apart."

"The spaceplane attacked him? How?"

"Preliminary data on this event was obtained from radar images, and they did not detect any projectiles like the Scimitar hypervelocity missiles they used previously," Hayes said. "We asked the Air Force to review space-based infrared satellite system images taken during the incident to see if they could detect the laser."

"Laser?" - exclaimed the president. "Satellite-destroying laser on a spaceplane?"

"Very possible, sir," Hayes said. "We have long had plans to create small lasers to destroy satellites, just like the Russians - they may have installed one in the cargo bay of the Electron spaceplane."

"We could use something like this now," Anne said.

"We chose the Kingfisher strike satellites, ma'am, because they could carry anti-satellite, anti-missile and attack weapons, whereas laser satellites could not attack targets on Earth," Hayes said.

"Do we agree that the Russians at least appear ready, willing and able to attack our spacecraft?" - asked the president. His question was met with silence and many gloomy faces. "I'm inclined to agree, guys: Gryzlov is angry, and he's a psychopath, and with this Starfire test, he saw his opportunity to advance the space weapons issue - and he could very easily get the attention of the world community. He could attack one of our spaceplanes and claim that he was provoked into doing so." He looked at the stunned faces on the video conference screen. "Does anyone think that Gryzlov is going to hold any negotiations on this matter?"

"He's already told the world what he's going to do," Glenbrook said. "He called for the safety of his entire nation - he even told his citizens to take cover as the station flew overhead! Anything less than turning Skybolt into a meteorite would be unacceptable. He would look like a weakling if he started negotiations."

"What are my military options? Fred?"

"We have not exhausted all our options, Mr. President," Secretary of Defense Hayes said emphatically. "In no case. The free electron laser aboard the Armstrong space station and the Kingfisher weapons workshops are the best options for destroying Electron launch pads, MiG-31D bases and S-500 anti-satellite missile launchers, sir. If we deploy the entire Kingfisher constellation, we can hold every Russian missile defense site and spaceport at risk twenty-four hours a day/seven minutes. The Russians have placed the S-500 air defense weapon on their launch pads, but they can't touch the precision-guided Thor's Hammer missile coming from space at ten thousand miles an hour - and of course the Skybolt flies at the speed of light. Once he takes a stand and lets loose, he can"t be stopped."

The President considered this for a few moments; it was obvious that he was not comfortable with the use of space-based weapons. "Any other options, Fred?" he finally asked.

"The S-500 is a game changer, sir," Hayes said. "The only other non-nuclear options are attacks by our six remaining B-2 stealth bombers and cruise missiles launched from our few B-1 and B-52 bombers, plus ship-launched conventional cruise missiles. Attacking Russian and Chinese spaceports means flying over Russian and Chinese territory-our conventional cruise missiles only have a range of seven hundred miles, which means we could hit a few S-500 targets, but not the spaceports. The S-500 is capable of countering both stealth and subsonic low-flying cruise missiles, is highly capable against B-1 bombers, and is lethal against B-52s."

"What chance do cruise missiles and stealth bombers have, General?" - Asked Vice President Page.

"No better than fifty-fifty, ma'am," Hayes said. "The S-500 is so good. The range of our air-launched cruise missiles is twice that of the S-500, but the S-500 is mobile and can be quickly moved and adjusted, so the likelihood of an inertial-guided cruise missile only targeting a set of geographic coordinates at its last known position batteries and gets into one of them is not very high. The extended range version of the Joint Air-Launched Standoff cruise missile has an infrared image sensor so it would be more effective against moving and pop-up targets, but it is subsonic and the S-500 would be very effective against that. The twelve refurbished B-1 bombers we have received are good, but we do not yet have experienced crews. The B-52 would have zero chance. They would have to bypass Russia's main air defense system, the S-400, and then take on the S-500, which protects cosmodromes and launch pads." He turned to the president. "Space weapons are our best option, sir. We should not deactivate the Skybolt module - in fact, my recommendation is to activate the Skybolt and Kingfisher satellites already in orbit, send the spaceplanes and have them fly the stored garages back into their orbits so that complete the formation of the group."

It was obvious that the President did not like this recommendation. "I don't want the Russians shooting at our spaceplanes, Fred," he said after a long moment of thought.

"They could still do this if we disconnected the Skybolt module, sir, and then we would have given up the main weapons system that could help fight off an attack on the station or the weapons workshops."

The President nodded. "How long will it take to get the Kingfisher garages back into orbit?"

"A few weeks, sir," Hayes said, looking at some notes on his tablet computer. "Garages are stored on Armstrong. They would have to load the modules aboard the spaceplane, then either wait for the right moment or fly into what is called a transfer orbit to get into the proper position to launch the module into its orbit."

"And the Russians will be watching this activity all this time, I assume?"

"Certainly, sir," Hayes replied. "They can see, like anyone else, what orbits need to be taken to complete the coverage - all they have to do is track those orbits. In the meantime, they can place the S-500 and MiG-31D in the right places to shoot at garages whenever they please, and of course they can do that now with Armstrong - in fact, we believe they have as many as six S- 500 and MiG-31D with anti-satellite weapons aimed at Armstrong right now in his current orbit. If we change the station's orbit, they will simply move the ASAT weapons to where they are needed."

"So Armstrong is vulnerable to attack?" - asked the president.

"The Hydra COIL defensive laser is operational, and the Kingfishers currently in orbit and the Skybolt laser can be activated fairly quickly," Hayes responded. "Each Kingfisher garage has three anti-satellite weapons, as well as three ground attack rounds. I believe the station will be able to protect itself very well once all systems are back online." He spread his arms. "At the end of the two days, the Russians will see that we have not disabled Skybolt, and then we will see if they will carry out their threat."

"Gryzlov has already appeared on international television - if he backs down, he will lose face in the eyes of the whole world," said national security adviser Glenbrook. "He could do a minimal attack to try to look serious..."

"Gryzlov doesn"t strike me as someone who would do things halfway," Anne said. "I don't think he's worried about losing face - the guy is just manic. I think if he decides to leave, he will give it his all."

"What would we lose if we lost Armstrong, Fred?"

"Fourteen personnel, including two college students," Hayes said. "Multi-billion dollar investment. Several types of weapons and sensors with advanced capabilities. However, we would still control the weapons depots from US Space Command headquarters."

"Armstrong is quite a powerful presence, sir-like an aircraft carrier sitting off someone's coast," Glenbrook added. "If we were to lose him, it could paint a very ominous picture around the world. We wouldn't be completely defeated, but we would definitely lose a few positions."

Anne could see the absolute agony on the President's face as he struggled with the decision. "Sir, the main thing we will lose is height," she said. "Gryzlov wants it, and he hopes that we will just give it to him. I believe Armstrong has the weapons to repel the Russians. I don"t want to give in to Gryzlov"s intimidation. Starfire is not a space weapon and it does not threaten Russia. Gryzlov cannot dictate what we should do with our forces. What is he going to demand next - that we do away with all our nuclear submarines and aircraft carriers because they might pose a threat to Russia? My suggestion: tell the bastard to go pound sand."

"Damn," Phoenix muttered. It was a moment he had dreaded his entire presidential life: the future of the republic depended on the words he might utter in a few moments. Yes or no, to go or not to go, to attack or not to attack. If he had ordered his troops to retreat, they might have lived to fight another time. If he were to order his forces to build up strength and prepare for battle, that's probably exactly what they would have to do very soon.

"Guys, I hate to cave in to Gryzlov," he said after a long thought, "but I feel like I have no choice. I want the Skybolt laser to be deactivated and the module to be disconnected from the Armstrong space station." Glenbrook and Hayes looked reassured; Anne looked dejected. "What were we left with on the station after Skybolt was deactivated, Anne?"

"The Skybolt laser module is equipped with several targeting sensors and lasers that will be disabled when the module is disconnected," Anne answered, "but the station will still have the short-range Hydra laser, Trinity modules, which are stored on the farm station, and the Kingfisher Constellation weapons depots already in orbit."

"All defensive weapons?"

"The Trinity modules each contain three ground attack landers and three anti-satellite vehicles," Anne said. "This can be considered an offensive weapon. Sir, I would like you to reconsider your decision," she added. "We can"t deactivate every military system Gryzlov wants."

"Unfortunately, I have made the decision to allow the use of a military weapon system for this college experiment," the president said. "Many people make up stories, express outrage and horror and threaten war, but the fact remains that I decided to weaponize a college experiment. I have to live with the consequences. Turn it off and unplug it, Fred."

"Yes, sir," said Secretary of Defense Hayes.

"Mr. President, I would like to go to the station to help deactivate Skybolt," Vice President Page said.

"What?" Phoenix's eyes bulged out of his sockets in absolute shock. "This request is denied, Miss Vice President! This station is already in Russia"s sights and could be attacked at any moment!"

"Sir, no one knows more about this module than me. I spent three years designing it and two years building it. I know every pattern and rivet because I personally drew them by hand on a real drawing board and did everything myself except the soldering iron and riveter work." The President didn't look at all convinced. "Another trip to space for the old lady. If John Glenn can do it, I'm damn sure I can. What do you say, sir?

The President hesitated, carefully studying Anne's smiling face. "I'd rather you were closer to the White House or campaigning for our reelection, Anne," he said, "but I know Skybolt is your baby." He shook his head sadly, then nodded. "I may be crazy for doing this, but your request is approved. The first president, the first secret service agent, the first teenagers, the first quadriplegic, and now the first vice president in space, all in one year. My head is spinning. God bless us".

"Thank you, sir," said Anne.

"I am heading back to Washington immediately," the president said. "I plan to go on television to explain that Starfire was not a space weapon and that the United States will immediately deactivate and disconnect the laser module."

"Very good, sir," said Anne. "See you at the station. Wish me luck". And the video conference was terminated.

"We're all going to need a little luck," the president said in a low voice, then reached for the phone to call the flight crew of Air Force One. Moments later, the president's plane was heading east toward Washington.

Then the president called Moscow. "What have you decided, Phoenix?" Gryzlov asked through an interpreter without any pleasantries or preambles.

"The United States agrees to undock the Skybolt module from the Armstrong space station," Phoenix said, "and at an appropriate time remove it from orbit and allow it to reenter the atmosphere. Any parts that survive reentry will fall into the ocean."

"Then Russia agrees not to limit its airspace above twenty kilometers," Gryzlov said, "for all spacecraft ... with the exception of your S-series spaceplanes and your Kingfisher weapons workshops."

"We need these spaceplanes, Mr. President," Phoenix said.

"They pose the same danger to Russia as your Skybolt and Phoenix lasers," Gryzlov said. "Perhaps even greater danger. No sir. The United States has been flying in space for decades without a spaceplane, and now you have several commercial operators that can maintain space stations and other missions. Commercial spacecraft are allowed to fly over Russia as long as they communicate details of their mission before launch. But after ten days from today, we will consider any overflight of spaceplanes or weapons depots as a hostile act and will respond accordingly. Do we have an agreement, Phoenix?"

"No, you don't understand, sir," said Phoenix. "Spaceplanes provide us with access to low-Earth orbit and our orbital facilities. This is not a military weapon. We will agree to continue to update you on future launches and their flight trajectories, and we will discourage spaceplanes from flying over Russia in the atmosphere if possible, but we insist on access to space for all of our vehicles, including spaceplanes. Have we agreed, Mr. President?"

After a long pause, Gryzlov said, "We will be monitoring your military space station for signs that the laser module has been deactivated and disconnected. Then we'll talk again." And the call was interrupted.

Phoenix pressed the button to call the communications officer. "Yes, Mr. President?" She answered immediately.

"I want to talk to the national security team at the White House again," he said. Moments later, the vice president, national security adviser and secretary of defense reappeared on the video conference screen. "I made a deal with the devil, guys," he said. "I want the Skybolt module detached from the Armstrong space station as soon as possible. Ann, get up there as quickly as possible."

ON BOARD THE ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

A little while later

"Is he crazy?" Brad exclaimed. "Gryzlov wants us to disconnect Skybolt and take it out of orbit? And now he is going to limit all airspace over Russia to an altitude of three hundred miles? This is madness!"

"Guys, I'm so sorry about this," Kim Jong-bae said via satellite video conference from the White Sands Missile Range. "I never said it was a space weapon - that was Dr. Nukaga's conclusion. I'm sorry I told him we used an MHD generator, but all I did was admit to him that my power transfer relays weren't working and he asked me what power source we used. I'm so sorry guys. I had no idea it would blow up like it did."

"It's not your fault, Jerry," Brad said. "I think Dr. Nukaga thought it was a weapon from day one. But he supported the project because of you, and then when Cal Poly won that big grant and we went international, he was completely with us." Jerry still looked pale and dejected, as if he had just lost his best friends in the world after being caught stealing from them. "The question is, what do we do now?"

"It's simple, Brad; As soon as we can, we will lift the spaceplane and take you and Casey from the station," said Armstrong Space Station Director Kai Rydon. He sat at the command post, and all other battle positions were also manned - including Skybolt Station, although Starfire's microwave generator was still installed. "After that, I want to prepare this station for war, not only on earth, but also in space."

"Can any orbital body completely avoid flying over Russia?" - Asked Casey Huggins.

"Any orbit with an inclination of less than about thirty-five degrees will not fly over Russia," said Valerie Lucas. "We can still look quite deep into Russia, although we are missing most of their furthest northern regions, depending on altitude. In contrast, if we imposed the same limitation, Russian spacecraft would be limited to no more than about twenty-five degrees. But, with the exception of geosynchronous orbits or ocean observation, equatorial orbits are largely useless because very little of the Earth's population lives at the equator."

"But that"s not the point, Valerie," Kai said. "There are thousands of spacecraft that fly over Russia every day - Gryzlov can't just tell everyone they have to move them. This is all bragging. Even if he had enough weapons to attack satellites that flew over Russia, he knows he could spark a world war if he even tried to shoot down a foreign satellite. Gryzlov is making wild accusations and using his fabricated scenarios to try to impose an emergency decree and circumvent international law." His serious expression became even darker. "Casey, how long will it take to remove your microwave generator from Skybolt?"

"Less than two days, sir," Casey replied, "with at least one spacewalk."

"Plus another two days, maybe three, to get the free electron laser up and running, and at least one spacewalk," added Valerie Lucas. "Plus a day or so to test it out. We could certainly use some technical assistance and more manpower."

"Trevor, gather Alice with the Starfire people and start working on dismantling the microwave generator," Kai said. The station manager, Trevor Sheil, turned to his communications panel and began making calls on the intercom. "I will call US Space Command and start getting some help and permissions to reinstall the free electron laser and get it ready for launch."

"Do you really think that Gryzlov would attack the station, sir?" - Brad asked.

"You heard him, Brad; the guy thinks we're going to start destroying cities, villages and the countryside with death rays," Kai replied. "He gave us an ultimatum of just ten days, and anyone who flies over Russia will be subject to what he calls 'neutralization', whatever that means. These are pretty serious threats. I want this station to be fully operational in case he is serious."

Kai heard the beep of an incoming call and pressed a button on his command console. "Just getting ready to call you, General," he said after the encryption channels connected.

"I assume you heard Gryzlov's remarks, Kai," said Gen. George Sandstein, commander of Air Force Space Command.

"Pretty outrageous, General," said Kai, "but I believe every word. I want to reactivate the free electron laser and begin restoring the Kingfisher constellation right now."

"Unfortunately, the orders from the White House are to deactivate Skybolt and disconnect the module from the station, Kai," Sandstein said.

"What else can I say, General?"

"This is an order from the president himself," Sandstein said. "We are launching S-19 and S-29 as soon as possible to get students off the station and to bring in additional personnel, including the Skybolt designer."

All the inhabitants of the command module gasped in surprise. "Are they sending a vice president?"

"You heard me correctly, Kai," Sandstein said. "It sounds a little strange, but she is an experienced astronaut, and there is no one who knows Skybolt better. Sorry about Skybolt, Kai, but the President wants to calm the situation before things get out of control. Is everything else in green?"

"The Hydra laser is working," Kai said, shaking his head in disbelief. "We can also use Kingfisher modules on the central farm for station self-defense."

"Excellent," Sandstein said. "Good luck up there. We will watch. I hope everyone stays nice and cool and this all blows over soon."

MCLANAHAN INDUSTRIAL SPACEPORT, BATTLE MOUNTAIN, NEVADA

LATER THAT DAY

"Thanks for coming so quickly, guys," Boomer said as he entered the crew briefing room. The room was filled with six student spaceplane pilots and four spacecraft commanders-instructors, as well as mission support and maintenance technicians. "This may sound like some cheesy World War II novel, but I'm sure you've heard Gryzlov ramble, and I think we're inching closer to war with the Russians. The President has canceled the rest of his re-election campaign and returns to Washington to give a speech about the Starfire case. He ordered the Skybolt laser to be deactivated and disconnected from Armstrong."

Everyone in the briefing room looked scared. "This is bullshit!" - Sondra Eddington exclaimed. "Gryzlov rants, makes all sorts of outrageous statements and threatens us, and we grovel before him? Why don"t we send him away instead?"

"I agree with you, Sondra, but we have orders, and time is precious," Boomer said. "We have been tasked with delivering supplies and technicians to help detach the Skybolt module, and we will also deliver additional supplies to the ISS. I think we'll be doing a lot of flying in the next couple of weeks." He looked at the spaceplane crew members in front of him. "John, Ernesto and Sondra, you have a year or more of training, and you have been tested as mission commanders on at least two spaceplanes, so you are going to be operational and flying as mission commanders before you graduate." All three of them smiled happily and high-fived each other, while the others looked depressed. "Don, Mary and Kev, you guys may not have much time to fly in space for a few weeks, but you can continue your studies and double your time in the simulator and on the MiG-25. Kevin, you're the closest to the one-year limit, and you've been tested as a lead in S-9 and S-19, so you could be called upon if this case drags on.

"Now Russian President Gryzlov has threatened to attack any space planes flying over Russia in ten days," Boomer reminded them all. "I think the guy is doing nothing but beating his chest, but we just don't know for sure. So if you think there might be too much danger - even more than we usually prepare for on every flight - you don't have to fly. No one will criticize you at all if you decide to leave. We are not in the military: we are contractors, and although we risk our lives every time we board these aircraft, we are not expected to work in a combat zone. We already take enough risks without flying under fire from missiles or lasers, right? You don"t have to tell me now-tell me in my office, in private, and we"ll reschedule."

"I'll tell you right now, Boomer: I'm flying," said Ernesto Hermosillo, one of the senior student pilots. "Gryzlov can become mi culo peludo." Everyone else in the briefing room clapped and said they would go too.

"Thank you all," Boomer said. "But I know you haven't talked about this with your families, and it should be a family decision. After you talk to your families, if you want to cancel, just tell me. Like I said, no one will think less of you.

"We have one S-29 and one S-19 on line, and two more 19s ready to go in a few days, so those are the missions," Boomer continued. "Gonzo and Sondra are in S-19, and I and Ernesto's culo peludo are in S-29. Since I expect to do several spacewalks, when we arrive, I will take a preliminary breath." He handed out other assignments, always pairing an experienced spaceplane commander with a student mission commander. "Get medical, we'll all be in EEAS or ACES suits and will probably stay in them for a few days. Ernesto, we will have a briefing immediately after we put on our spacesuits, during my pre-breathing. Questions?" Boomer answered a few questions and joked a bit nervously with his teams. "Okay guys, the countdown has begun for the first two birds. Let's pay attention, work smart, work as a team, and everyone will come home. Go".

Sondra stayed behind after the others had left, with a small flash of anger in her eyes. "Why am I flying with Gonzo?" - she asked. "Why can"t I fly with you?"

"Sondra, you are not registered as a presenter on S-29," Boomer said. "Ernesto is like that. Plus, I'm giving you and Gonzo a stop in Washington. You will meet the vice president and take her to Armstrong."

Instead of being surprised or happy about the vice president's flight, Sondra was still angry. "I'm just a couple months away from finishing my S-29 mission commander course," she said irritably. "I"m now a better leader on any spaceplane than Ernesto will ever be."

Boomer's eyes rolled back in surprise. "Hey, hey, Sondra. We don't say nasty things about fellow pilots, even in private. We are a team ".

"You know it's true," Sondra said. "Besides, the damn thing practically flies on its own-it doesn't even need an MC. You did this because you're angry that we're not sleeping together anymore."

"I did this because you are not vetted as an MC in S-29, Sondra, to put it simply," Boomer said. "Besides, I made the decision not to sleep with you. Brad and I were working closer and closer together on Starfire, and I didn't think it was right."

"But it was normal when I started training here, wasn"t it?" Sondra spat. "You knew I was dating him back then."

"Sondra, I'm not going to change the schedule," Boomer said. "Fly with Gonzo or don"t fly." He looked at his watch, then at her. "The countdown has begun. Are you going or not?" In response, she gave him an angry look, turned on her heel and ran out.

Boomer ran his hand over his face in annoyance, confused and conflicted about what to do in this situation. But he decided to put this personal matter out of his mind and focus on the task at hand.

Each crew member had to undergo a medical examination before the flight, so this was Boomer's first stop. He then stopped at Mission Planning to check the flight schedule, which was set up and checked by computer and then downloaded into the spaceplane's computers. His own S-29 Shadow spaceplane was loading up with much-needed supplies for Armstrong and the ISS, so he would arrive first. The Gonzo S-19 midnight spaceplane had a passenger module on board in the cargo bay. She was scheduled to take off, arrive at Joint Base Andrews outside Washington in just a couple of hours, pick up the Vice President and her Secret Service team, and fly her to Armstrong about four hours after he arrived in Armstrong.

Next stop was life support. While Hermosillo needed help donning his advanced space suit to rescue the crew, Boomer had relatively easy time getting suited up. The EEAS, or electronic elastomeric sports suit, was like a heavy union spacesuit, made of silvery radiation-resistant carbon fiber threads that covered every part of the body from the top of the neck to the soles of the feet. Wearing electronically controlled insulated underwear that will monitor his body temperature during the spacewalk, Boomer donned the EEAS, then boots and gloves, securing the connectors for each, connected his suit to the test console, then donned the pre-breathing mask .

After making sure there were no deep wrinkles in the suit and that his testicles and penis were positioned properly, he connected the suit to the test console and pressed a button. The suit instantly tightened around every square inch of his body that came into contact with it, causing him to involuntarily grunt loudly - the source of the suit's nickname and EEAS's nickname: "AHHHSS!" But moving around, and especially going into outer space, would be much easier for him than anyone in an oxygenated ACES, because the suit would automatically adjust to his body to maintain pressure on his skin without creating any binding or causing changes pressure. The human body's vascular system was already hermetically sealed, but in a vacuum or lower atmospheric pressure the skin would bulge outward unless it was compressed; ACES did this under oxygen pressure, while EEAS did it under mechanical pressure.

"I always think I'd like to try some of these things," Ernesto said over the intercom, smiling and shaking his head as he watched Boomer prep his suit, "and then I watch you push to the test switch and it seems like you get kicked in the balls every time, so I changed my mind."

Boomer turned off the control switch to weaken the suit's effects. "It takes a little getting used to," he admitted.

They finished donning their spacesuits, then settled into comfortable chairs while Chief Mission Planner Alice Wainwright briefed the crew via video link. The flight route immediately attracted Boomer's attention. "Uh, Alice? Given the reason we are doing all this, is this really the flight path we should be following?" - he asked over the intercom.

"Computers don't understand politics or Gryzlov, Boomer - all they know is the desired final position, azimuth, speed, gravity, orbital mechanics, thrust, station position and all that jazz," Alice said. "The station needs equipment as soon as possible."

Boomer knew that there was a process called an "accident chain": a series of minor and seemingly unrelated incidents that cumulatively led to an accident-or, in this case, a collision with a Russian anti-satellite weapon. One of the most common incidents was "accomplishing the mission is important; disregard safety and common sense and just get the job done." That's exactly what was happening right now - link number one in the chain of accidents had just appeared. "Can"t this wait another day or even a few hours?" - Boomer asked.

"I've mapped all the launch windows and flight paths, Boomer," Alice said. "Everyone else is flying over populated areas, and people have been complaining about sonic booms." Link number two. "Ever since the Russians disconnected the ROS from the International Space Station, both Canada and Mexico and a number of other countries have expressed deep reservations about allowing spaceplanes to fly over their territory to the level of Ká rmá n. This flight or nothing for two days."

Those alarm bells rang in his head when Flight Three joined the others, but he knew that Armstrong and the ISS needed supplies, and those left on the ISS needed them badly - or now he was creating his own flights in accident chains? "Are we going to notify the Russians about our missions?" he asked.

"It's standard procedure," Alice said. "Obviously, Space Command believes that Gryzlov is bluffing. We're going to stick to the normal protocols."

The fourth link in the chain of accidents had just been created, Boomer thought - it didn't look good. He turned to Ernesto. "What's wrong with you, amigo? What do you think, buddy?"

"Vamos, Comandante," Ernesto said. "Let's go, commander. Gryzlov has no brains." Was this another link? Boomer thought about it.

"Any more questions, Boomer?" Alice asked a little impatiently. "You're leaving in ten minutes and I still need to brief Gonzo and Sondra."

The fifth link in the chain of accidents had just been connected, but Boomer did not recognize it. He was the commander of the spaceship - that was his final decision... but he didn't do it. He thought about it for a moment, then nodded to Ernesto. "No questions, Alice," he said over the intercom. "We insist." Ten minutes later, Boomer grabbed his portable air conditioner and oxygen tank, and he and Ernesto headed to the crew van that would take them to the departure line.

The S-29 Shadow was the third and largest spaceplane model, with five Leopard engines instead of four and a payload capacity of fifteen thousand pounds. After the technicians completed their pre-flight preparations, Boomer and Ernesto entered the spaceplane through the open cockpit canopies, connected their cables to the craft, and buckled in. The Shadow was even more automated than its sisters, and it was simply a matter of checking the computer's progress as it processed the pre-flight checklists, confirming that each checklist was completed, then waiting for them to fire - engines, taxi and takeoff times.

At the programmed time, the engines automatically came to life, post-engine checklists were run, the taxi runway was cleared, and exactly as taxi was in progress, the throttles were automatically engaged and the Shadow began to taxi onto the main runway at Battle Mountain for takeoff. "I'll never get used to a plane that just taxis by itself," Ernesto said. "A little creepy."

"I know what you mean," Boomer said. "I asked several times to be allowed to drive it myself, without automation, but Richter always refused me, strictly warning me not to try. After there is more than one of them, I will ask again. Kaddiri and Richter don't want their new and brightest daughter to be desecrated by someone like me. Do they defile each other enough, Corregir? Ernesto fist bumped Boomer and nodded in agreement.

The two astronauts literally just sat there for the rest of the flight, chatting, going through checklists and confirming completions and launches, and watching Shadow do its thing: it flew to a refueling point, this time over northern Minnesota; refueled by another computer-controlled tanker aircraft; turned to the orbital entry point over Colorado, turned to the northeast and hit the gas at the right time. They reviewed all the readings and confirmed that the checklist had been completed, but at the end of the day, they were just babysitters.

But now that they were heading into orbit, they stopped chatting and were on alert, because their path took them through northwest Russia...

... just three hundred miles northwest of the Plesetsk cosmodrome and almost directly above the naval headquarters of the Russian Red Banner Northern Fleet in Severomorsk.

"Talk about tucking the tail of the tiger, Comandante," Ernesto commented. "Or in this case, a bear's tail."

"You got it right, amigo," said Boomer. "You got it right."

KREMLIN

MOSCOW RUSSIAN FEDERATION

IN THE SAME TIME

"Sir, an American spaceplane has just been discovered flying over the Plesetsk cosmodrome!" - Defense Minister Gregor Sokolov shouted into the telephone receiver when Gryzlov picked it up.

"What the hell did you say?" Gryzlov grumbled something into the phone in the bedroom. Foreign Minister Daria Titeneva, lying naked next to Gryzlov, instantly woke up, got out of bed and hurried to get dressed - she didn"t know what the call was about, but anyone who dared to call President Gennady Gryzlov in the middle of the night must have had a damn serious reason for this, and she knew that she would be called to his office immediately.

"I said, the Americans launched a spaceplane into orbit - and it landed several hundred kilometers from the Plesetsk cosmodrome!" Sokolov repeated. "It flew right over the headquarters of the Red Banner Northern Fleet in Severomorsk. It is definitely in orbit and on track to intercept the Armstrong space station within the hour."

"Fuck!" Gryzlov swore. "How dare these sons of bitches do this after I just gave the order? Are they fucking ignoring me? Have we been notified of any spaceplane flights?"

"We're checking the air attache's office in Washington, sir," Sokolov said. "There is no response from them yet."

"These bastards!" Gryzlov shouted. "Phoenix will pay for this! Gather the entire security council in my office immediately!"

Twenty minutes later, Gryzlov entered his office, his long dark hair flowing hastily behind his neck. Only Tarzarov and Sokolov arrived. "Well, Sokolov?" he shouted.

"US Space Command has advised the Air Attaché in Washington that one S-29 Shadow and one S-19 Midnight will be launched into orbit within the next six hours," the Secretary of Defense said, handing the President several maps and radar plots. . "The S-29 will travel to Armstrong, deliver supplies and pick up passengers, enter a transfer orbit, transit to the International Space Station to deliver supplies and pick up personnel, then return the next day. The S-19 will fly to Joint Base Andrews near Washington, pick up passengers, then fly to Armstrong. They also announced that they will be sending several manned and unmanned commercial cargo modules to both stations over the next seventy-two hours."

"Two spaceplanes?" Gryzlov thundered. "Are they launching two spaceplanes? And one of them is already in orbit, and not within six hours? This is unacceptable! And their flight paths?

"Any flight path leading to any space station will fly over Russia, sir," Sokolov said.

"This is unacceptable!" Gryzlov shouted again. "I ordered space planes not to fly over Russia! Is there any evidence that they are working on detaching the Skybolt module from the military space station?"

"No, sir," said Sokolov. "We scan the station as it passes near a space observation site approximately every four to six hours, and we have not noticed any external changes at the station."

"It hasn't been that long since you made your speech or spoke with President Phoenix, sir," said Tarzarov's chief of staff. "Perhaps the purpose of these flights is to carry out what you ordered. And, sir, you said you would give the Americans two...

"Stop making excuses to the Americans, Tarzarov," said Gryzlov. "I will not allow myself to be neglected like this! I won"t allow myself to be made a scapegoat like that wobbling fool Phoenix!" He looked at the radar plots of the spaceplane's flight path. "It seems to me that this is a test attack on our cosmodrome! This is unacceptable! "

"Should I put you on the phone with President Phoenix, sir?" - Tarzarov asked. "This needs to be explained."

"There is no need, Mr. Tarzarov," said Daria Titeneva, quickly entering the president"s office after she had modestly waited for some time after leaving Gryzlov"s bedroom. She picked up the folder. "The text of the appeal that Phoenix made on American television quite recently. He again denies that it was a space-based directed energy weapon or that a civilian aircraft was shot down by the weapon; no mention of disabling the Skybolt laser; and he says that no nation has the right to restrict any movement of any aircraft or spacecraft above the line Ká rmán, which is the height above which the aerodynamic lift cannot be...

"I know what the hell the Ká line is. rm & # 225;n, Daria - I trained as an astronaut, remember?" Gryzlov interrupted sarcastically. He nodded, then turned back to his desk and looked out the window. They all noticed that he was suddenly acting surprisingly calm - they expected him to continue the rant that had started this meeting. "So. This was unexpected. Kenneth Phoenix had somehow regained his composure in recent days, despite his unexpected agreement to disconnect the Skybolt module. We have a lot to discuss, my friends. Let's go to the conference room. Coffee or tea?"

JOINT BASE ANDREWS, NEAR WASHINGTON, DC.

A FEW HOURS LATER

Inside a large aircraft hangar, Jessica "Gonzo" Faulkner and Sondra Eddington stood at the foot of the midnight S-19 spaceplane when a limousine pulled up. Gonzo was wearing her EEAS suit while Sondra was wearing her orange ACES suit. None of them were wearing a helmet. On either side of them were two plainclothes Secret Service agents who had already inspected the interior and exterior of the S-19 spaceplane they were standing next to - they freely admitted that they didn't know what the hell to look at, but their the job was to check any area where a vice could be found. the president could borrow, so they did it. The spaceplane was parked in a secure aircraft parking area at Joint Base Andrews, the former Andrews Air Force Base, a major military airfield used by senior members of the U.S. government when they travel on military aircraft. The ramp was surrounded by multiple layers of security, both on the ground and overhead.

A Secret Service agent opened the doors of the limousine and two people stepped out, both wearing orange ACES spacesuits: a female Secret Service agent and the Vice President of the United States, Anne Page. Ann walked up to Gonzo and extended her gloved hand. "Colonel Faulkner?"

"Yes, ma'am," Gonzo said, shaking her hand. "Nice to meet you. Today I will be the commander of your spaceship. This is Sondra Eddington, our mission commander." Sondra and the Vice President also shook hands. "Welcome aboard".

"Thank you. I'm looking forward to it," said Anne, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "This is Special Agent Robin Clarkson, my Secret Service operative." Clarkson shook hands with the pilots. She looked a little nervous, Gonzo thought, but not nearly as nervous as poor Special Agent Charlie Spellman had been when he'd flown with the President. Ann stood and admired the S-19 Midnight with a big smile on her face. "My first time after midnight on S-19. I made a few flights in the black stallion S-9, but that was in the very early days."

"I don't think you'll find much difference at all, ma'am," Gonzo said. "The passenger module is very comfortable, but I assumed you would want to be in the cockpit for this flight."

"Hell yes," Anne said. "I hope you don't mind, Miss Eddington. I never turn down an opportunity to ride in the cockpit."

"Of course not, ma'am," Sondra said, but it was pretty obvious that she really did object. I never give up on it either, she thought, but I guess I just don't matter in this place anymore.

"We have to go?" Anne asked excitedly. "I can"t wait to see the station again."

"We have plenty of time, ma'am," Gonzo said. "Don't rush at all. Our launch window opens in about an hour."

"Very good, Colonel Faulkner," said Anne.

"Gonzo, please. I don"t respond to the title anymore."

"This is Gonzo." She looked at the EEAS suit. "I like this suit," she said. "It shows off your figure really well, much better than that old thing. Do you like it?"

"It's a bit of a kick in the ass when activated," Gonzo admitted, "but it allows for much better movement and performance."

They climbed the ladder to the airlock access hatch on the roof of the Midnight Spaceplane, then descended the aft ramp into the passenger module, and Gonzo helped Clarkson and Sondra buckle up and put on their helmets, then briefed them on normal and emergency procedures. "I know the rules of the game, Gonzo," Sondra said, sounding worried as Gonzo tried to help her attach the umbilical cord.

"I have to go through a routine with everyone, Sondra-you know that," Gonzo said in a low voice, giving the young woman a warning glance and checking to see if Clarkson had noticed any of it. "Behave yourself, okay?" Addressing Clarkson, she said: "For safety reasons we will be wearing helmets and gloves, but you can keep your visors open. If necessary, all you have to do is close them and you will be safe. Sondra will help you. Pleasant flight". Clarkson nodded but said nothing.

After the technicians made sure everything in the passenger module was secure and ready, they helped Ann Page into the right front seat of the Midnight, strapped her in, hooked her up, and helped her put on her helmet. "I can"t wait, I can"t wait," she said excitedly as the intercom came on. "I miss traveling in space so much. It probably seems so routine to you guys, but back in the days of the shuttle and early spaceplanes, it seemed like every flight was a test. The media always reported it as 'another shuttle launch', but we were so ignorant. You have no idea."

"Oh, I believe, ma'am," Gonzo said. "I know the guy who designed our Leopard engines, and he can be a real beast sometimes. Our lives are in the hands of this guy on every flight."

"Gonzo, please call me Anne on this flight," Anne said. "I want to feel like a crew member, not a passenger allowed to ride shotgun."

"Okay, Anne."

"Hunter "Boomer" Noble," Ann said. "I remember being a pajama cat in aerospace engineering until he came along. His reputation blew past mine like a fucking hurricane."

"The students working on Project Starfire will soon surpass Boomer, I guarantee it," Gonzo said, "and their school, Cal Poly, isn't even the best engineering school in the country. I think we will see some amazing advances very soon."

The two continued chatting until it was time to taxi and take off. Gonzo found that the Vice President was very familiar with the spaceplane's checklists and switch positions, and she handled her role as mission commander very well. "I'm impressed, Anne," she said. "You know as much about Midnight as the student host."

"I helped design the S-9 spaceplanes and learned to fly them, although most of the time I was just a passenger," Ann said. "I think it"s like riding a bike: once you do it, you never forget."

Take-off, movement to the air refueling track and acceleration using jet engines went well. Because their takeoff times were several hours different from the S-29's, the two spaceplanes' flight paths were separated by several thousand miles-when the S-19 Midnight took off on scramjet aircraft, they flew over India, China, and the Russian Far East.

"I like it, I like it, I like it," the vice president intoned as they began their steep climb. There was absolutely no hint of overload in her voice, just a wide smile on her face. "This is the only way to fly!"

Above ELIZOVO AIRPORT

KAMCHATSK REGION, EASTERN PART OF RUSSIA

IN THE SAME TIME

"Harpoon flight," this is Teacher, your order is sunlight, I repeat, sunlight," the senior controller radioed. "Sunlight, sunlight. Proceed according to plan."

"The Harpoon flight commander confirms," the pilot of the leading flight of two MiG-31D Foxhound fighters radioed in response. "Break. Harpoon two, do you understand?"

"Yes, leader," answered the pilot of the second MiG-31. "The second one is ready."

The lead pilot completed his pre-release checklists, turned to the center of the flight control bar on his display, gradually increased power until he entered the afterburner, waited until the airspeed exceeded Mach 1, then began a steep climb and continued to increase power until did not enter the fifth afterburner zone. Gaining a speed of ten thousand feet per minute, he covered fifty thousand feet. The airspeed had reached Mach 1.5, but was now gradually decreasing as the pilot varied airspeed with altitude, but this did not bother him: his main job was to maintain the flight control needles, which displayed the required heading and angle of climb, transmitted from the tracking station headquarters

"The data link has loaded final targeting data," the weapons systems officer reported behind the pilot. "Data transfer to Osa begins. Ten seconds left."

At an altitude of sixty thousand feet the pilot received his first warning of low fuel consumption - two huge Solovyov D30-F6 engines in zone-five afterburner were consuming fifty thousand pounds of fuel per hour, although he was carrying only thirty thousand pounds in total - airspeed decreased to only three hundred knots, and the rate of climb was reduced to three thousand feet per minute. "Data transfer complete, five seconds until launch," the weapons systems officer reported. The pilot breathed a sigh of relief - in ten seconds, if they do not stop climbing, they will stall and fall like a stone from the sky. "Three... two... one... rocket on takeoff."

The MiG-31D made a slight turn to the left, and both crew members were able to watch as the Wasp rocket fired its solid rocket motor and began its ascent into space on a long yellow-red column of fire and smoke. Wasp was a derivative of the 9K720 Iskander short-range theater ballistic missile. It received flight path data from a ground tracking station, used its inertial guidance system to follow the flight path, then activated the infrared terminal guidance system to aim at the target. Even moving almost vertically, he was traveling at speeds of more than a mile per second. Twenty seconds later, the second MiG-31 fired its own Wasp missile...

...on a course to intercept the midnight S-19 spaceplane as it raced through space over Russia to rendezvous with the Armstrong space station.

ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

MOMENTS LATER

"Rocket launch detected!" shouted Christine Rayhill, ground weapons officer on the Armstrong space station. "Two Russian Wasp satellites launched from Kamchatka!"

Kai Raydon pressed the "all call" button on his console. "Combat posts!" - he shouted, trying to control his voice. "All personnel should take combat positions, this is not an exercise!" Turning to Valerie Lucas, he said, "All defense systems are on automatic, Valerie - we'll have to put them back on MANUAL when the spaceplane gets closer. What is the status of Skybolt?"

"Still deactivated," Valerie said. "We just started shutting down Starfire."

"Plug it back in-we might need it," Kai said. "Where are the students?"

"I'm right here," Brad said, secured to the bulkhead next to Valerie's console. "Casey is in the Skybolt module. What should I do?"

"Keep an eye on the monitors and scream if you see anything that looks dangerous," Kai replied. "Point this out to Sergeant Lucas or someone else if she's busy. I could always use another pair of eyes."

"Should I wear a spacesuit?" Brad said over the intercom as he put his oxygen mask on and activated it.

"It"s too late," Kai said. "By now all modules should have been sealed. The command module personnel must rely on crew members for damage control." Kai didn't want to think about what would eventually happen to all of them if the hull was seriously breached, with or without oxygen, but 100% oxygen was the best they had. He pressed another intercom button. "Boomer, tell me your status?"

"We're leaving in ten minutes, General," Boomer replied. He and Ernesto Hermosillo docked with the Armstrong space station and oversaw the unloading of supplies from the cargo bay and refueling, and as soon as the alarm sounded, they stopped unloading and began preparing to undock.

"All defensive weapons except the Skybolt are activated and on automatic," Valerie said. "Starfire, can you give me-"

"It's S-19!" Christine Rayhill shouted. "Wasp is targeting S-19! Interception in two minutes! Two missiles are approaching!"

"Crap!" - Kai swore. He pressed a button on his console. "Second midnight, this is Armstrong, the red Wasp, I repeat, the red Wasp." Over the intercom, he asked: "What is their range to the station?"

"Beyond Hydra's reach," Valerie replied.

"Increase your firing range to maximum," Kai said. The Hydra's chlorine-oxygen-iodine laser, which had a maximum range of three hundred miles, was adjusted to sixty miles according to the treaty, but Kai Rhydon had no intention of paying attention to the treaties now. "Prepare the Kingfishers for departure to the station. They will be released as soon as you have a solution to launch."

"Midnight is accelerating and gaining altitude," Henry reported. In orbit, speed meant only one thing: altitude above the Earth. Go faster and your altitude will increase; slow down and your altitude will decrease.

"We are now figuring out a solution to launch," Valerie said. The Kingfisher weapons garages, which were stored at Armstrong's central farm, were connected to the combat system and their missiles were available for station defense.

A moment later Henry Lathrop shouted, "Yes! Interception course set! Six interceptors are ready!"

"Battle, the batteries are low," Valerie said. "Pull those suckers down!"

"Put the weapon away!" - Henry shouted. The two weapons depots on the station's farm released all three of their satellite interceptors. These were simple, non-aerodynamic boxes - since they never flew in the Earth's atmosphere, they could be any shape - six feet long, with a radar and infrared homing system at the front, maneuvering rocket nozzles around the body on both sides, and a large rocket motor at the rear. The interceptors used control signals from Armstrong to maneuver until they were able to lock on to targets using their own sensors. "A good track for all Trinity. Sixty seconds until interception. I think we'll make it on time, sir. Midnight is rising higher and faster. The intruders will be within range of Hydra in seventy seconds."

Kai wasn't going to relax until both of those Russian Wasp missiles were destroyed. "Trev, contact Space Command, tell them what's going on," he ordered. "Tell them that I want permission to destroy all the anti-satellite airfields and launch sites that we-"

"Pop-up orbital scarecrow!" Henry Lathrop shouted. A new icon has appeared on the large tactical display. It was in an orbit more than a hundred miles off Armstrong's and with a completely different declination, but it was very close to a miss in orbital terms. "It came out of nowhere, sir! Nominate Oscar number one." It didn't seem to pose a threat to the station or S-19 Midnight, but the fact that they didn't detect it until it was very close was concerning, very-

"Sir, I'm losing Trinity!" Henry shouted.

"What?" Kai shouted. "What the hell is going on?"

"I don't know, sir!" - Lathrop shouted. "Lost contact with one... two... three, sir; three Trinity, negative contact!"

"Who is this new arrival?" Valerie screamed. "Can you visualize this?"

"Trinity intercepts use all electro-optical tracking devices," Lathrop said. "I have a good radar signature, but poor visibility." A moment later: "Contact with the four Trinity has been lost. Can I engage Scarecrow Oscar One, sir?"

"This is not a threat to the station or S-19, it is not at our altitude or orbit, and we have no visual identification," Kai said. "Negative. Don't engage in combat. Launch more Trinity to get those ASAT missiles, now."

ON BOARD THE RUSSIAN SPACE PLANE "ELECTRON"

IN THE SAME TIME

They couldn't have chosen the timing better, and Colonel Mikhail Galtin knew that it was as much fate and luck as intended, but it didn't matter - everything had to work out perfectly. After four orbits intersecting with the Armstrong space station's orbit, but at a lower altitude and offset of about sixty kilometers, it was in an ideal position to arrive at the exact location to destroy the US space station's defense missiles. He knew he had only seconds to act... But seconds were an eternity to Hobnail's laser weapon.

As soon as the American anti-satellite weapons were launched from the Armstrong space station, Galtin's Elektron fire control radar began tracking them from a hundred kilometers away: six American interceptors - nothing more than a guided rocket engine with a seeker on it, but simple and effective as an anti-satellite and anti-missile weapons. The fact that the interceptors were released from the station itself was interesting: the report that President Joseph Gardner destroyed all of the Kingfisher constellation's weapons modules was not entirely true. Apparently there were others attached to the military space station and fully operational.

Doesn't matter. Fate provided him with an ideal position to intercept the interceptors. Galtin marveled at the luck that came with it, marveled at the courage of his president, Gennady Gryzlov, in ordering the attack, marveled at the thought of what was to come. Russia was about to attack a spaceplane belonging to perhaps the most powerful nation on Earth. They attacked a $3 billion spaceship with American civilians on board. It was daring. There was no other term for it: assertive. To say that the stakes in the war for control of space have just been raised would be a huge understatement.

Galtin lifted the red protective cover of the weapon arming switch and moved the switch underneath it from the SAFE position to the ARMED position. Now the attacking computer was under control. In a few seconds it would all be over. Three spaceships and six rockets traveling at tens of thousands of kilometers per hour, hundreds of miles above the Earth, would intersect at this point in space. It was nothing short of breathtaking. Science, politics, sheer courage and, yes, luck were all on the Russian Federation's side right now.

Attack.

ABOARD THE MIDNIGHT SPACEPLAYER S-19

IN THE SAME TIME

As soon as she heard the "red wasp" warning, Gonzo fired up the main rocket engines. "What is this? What's happened?" - Asked Anne Page. "What is a red wasp?"

"Russian anti-satellite weapons," Gonzo replied. "Our only hope is to outrun, surpass or outwit him. Everyone, lower your visors, secure them, and make sure your oxygen is on. Sondra, check on Agent Clarkson." Gonzo and Anne began making checklists in preparation for a possible confrontation.

"Midnight, keep in mind, we have lost contact with the four interceptors we launched over Wasp," Kai radioed. "Two are still being tracked. We have an unknown pop-up target above and to your right, about forty miles away, it doesn't look like it's on an intercept course."

"It's a Russian spaceplane," Ann said. "We have been informed that the Russians used a laser on board at least one of their Electrons. He shot down a satellite and is probably attacking Trinity interceptors."

"Damn," Gonzo cursed. "Armstrong, it's midnight. Our passenger said it was a scarecrow, probably an electron, and it was shooting...

"Gonzo, maneuver!" Kai intervened. "There's a wasp on your tail! Maneuver!"

Gonzo immediately engaged the maneuvering thrusters, throwing the spaceplane into a sharp sideways maneuver, then engaged another set of thrusters that propelled it "up"-away from Earth. She then began to reverse, maneuvering to point the nose against the direction of flight to present the lowest possible profile for...

... and halfway through the maneuver, a Wasp anti-satellite missile struck. It had a small ten-pound fragmentation warhead that ignited the jet fuel and Bohm oxidizer that leaked from the ruptured fuel tanks, causing an explosion that penetrated the spacecraft.

"He hit it! He hit it!" Valerie shouted. "The first wasp hit the spaceplane!" The command module crew watched in horror at the electro-optical image of the crashed spaceplane as a monstrous explosion filled the screen.

"Second Wasp missile intercepted and destroyed," Henry Lathrop reported in a quiet voice over the intercom. "The goal is clear."

"Boomer?" Kai radioed.

"I'll finish in five minutes," Boomer said.

"Did you pre-breathe?"

"Yes, I have," Boomer replied. "Not my leader."

"Trev, find out if anyone on the station is wearing a space suit and taking a pre-breath."

"Get ready," replied Trevor Sheil. A moment later: "Sorry, Kai. There are three of us in spacesuits, but none of them breathed before."

"Give them oxygen immediately," Kai said. On the radio he said, "Looks like you're the one, Boomer. We don't see any survivors from here, but come take a look. Don't forget to install your towing gear."

"Got it," said Boomer. A few minutes later: "We"re ready to start." As soon as he separated from the station, he received the coordinates of the Midnight Spaceplane's final location and began to fight his way towards it - fortunately, as the S-19 was approaching Armstrong, preparing to dock, they were all in the same orbit, so it was simply a matter of maneuvering into laterally towards it, rather than launching into a different orbit with a different altitude or direction.

"Valerie, activate the Kingfisher constellation and connect Starfire to the Network as soon as possible," Kai said. "It"s time to do a little hunting." He called up US Space Command headquarters from his console. "General, we have lost the S-19 spaceplane," he said as the secure channel was connected. "The vice president was on board. We are checking for survivors, but so far it looks like a total loss."

"Oh my God," groaned General George Sandstein. "I will notify the White House immediately."

"Requesting permission to attack the entire fucking Russian space force, General," Kai said angrily.

"Negative," Sandstein said. "Don't do anything other than protect yourself. Don"t shoot until they open fire on you."

"I would say they opened fire on us, General," Kai said. "I don"t know whether the target was the spaceplane or whether there was a station, and the spaceplane got in the way. Either way, we were attacked."

"Let me notify the President first and see what his response is, Kai," Sandstein said. "In the meantime, I authorize you to activate all of your existing defensive weapons systems and begin to launch the Trinity modules you stored on the station back into orbit. You have a spaceplane with you now, don"t you?"

"Yes, S-29," Kai replied. "It"s finding survivors, and then we need to unload supplies here and for the ISS."

"What other spaceplanes are available?"

"Two S-19s will be available in a few days, and we have two S-9s that could be ready in a few weeks," Kai said as he checked his spacecraft's status readings. "General, I have ten weapons depots in orbit, which puts most of the Russian anti-missile forces in the crosshairs, and they will be activated soon. I have begun the process of disconnecting the Starfire maser device from Skybolt, but my teams must reconnect it. It should be ready soon. I request permission to destroy any Russian anti-satellite installation that comes within range."

"I understand the concept of 'lay waste', Kai," Sandstein said. "I want permission from the White House before you start bombing Russian targets from space. You are ordered: defend your station with everything you have and await further orders. Repeat my last, General Rhydon."

Kai hesitated and even thought about not answering; instead: "Got it, General," he finally said. "General Sandstein, this is Station Director Raydon, aboard the Armstrong. I copied: my orders are to defend the station with everything we have and await further orders."

"I'll be in touch, Kai," Sandstein said. "This will not go unavenged. Get ready." And the connection was interrupted.

"Damn," Kai cursed. "The Vice President of the United States may have just been blown up into space debris, and I should just 'stand by.' He checked his monitors. "Valerie, what is the status of the Kingfishers in orbit?"

"Six out of ten are already connected to the network, the rest are expected in about an hour," said Valerie Lucas.

It was only a fifth of the entire constellation, but it was better than what they had just a few minutes ago. "Place ground targets based in Russia and China within range of our ground attack capabilities."

"Understood." A moment later, a list of targets appeared on the display of the main command center, as well as a list of available weapons that could protect against them. The list included targets other than anti-missile: any militarily significant target was on the list, and when the Kingfisher weapons workshops or the Armstrong space station moved out of range, the target disappeared, only to be replaced by another that crossed the weapon's horizon somewhere in another point of the globe. With only ten weapons depots plus the Armstrong space station, the target list was very short, but every few minutes a new potential target would appear, stay for two to four minutes, and then disappear again.

One line in the target list changed color from green to yellow. "Sichang Spaceport," Kai noted. "What's going on in Xichang?"

"The S-500 Autocrat search radar in the echo-Foxtrot range from the Sichan Cosmodrome covered us," said Christine. "Ever since the Russians installed the S-500 in China, they have been tracking and sometimes picking us up on radar as we passed overhead. I think it's just calibration or training - it's just scanning over long distances. Nothing ever happens."

"'They locked us up,' huh?" - Kai muttered. "Anything besides a simple scan?"

"Every now and then we get a squeak from the 30N6E2 India-Juliet missile guidance radar, as if they were firing a missile at us," said Christine, "but all the signals disappear within a few seconds, even the search signals, and we do not detect the engine plume or the missile in the air. - obviously they don't want us to think they're pointing an interceptor at us using radar or optics or whatever. It's all a game of cat and mouse, sir - they send us radar signals to try to scare us, and then they go silent. This is bullshit."

"Bullshit, right?" Kai said. "Let me know if this happens again."

"Yes, sir," Christina replied.

Kai was silent for several moments, thinking hard. "Christine," he said, "I need some detailed pictures of this S-500 unit. Give me a narrow beam SBR scan from our big radar. Maximum resolution."

Christine Rayhill hesitated for a moment, then commented, "Sir, the searchlight scan might-"

"Do it, Miss Rayhill," Kai said tonelessly. "Narrow beam scanning, maximum resolution."

"Yes, sir," Christina said.

It was quiet for about sixty seconds; then: "Sir, S-500 target tracking radar detected, appears to be targeting us," Christine said. "Only azimuth, altitude and range-no uplink signals." This was exactly what she was worried about: if the S-500 battery detected that they were being tracked by the Armstrong's radar, they might think they were under attack and might retaliate.

"Set a target and go into battle, Christina," Kai ordered. "Continue scanning."

There was some confusion in Christina's voice: this, of course, was not such a big deal, not worth the target identification badge. "Uh... designate target Golf One, sir," she replied after entering commands into the attack computer. "The target is blocked in the attacking computer."

"Command, this is the operations department," Valerie reported. "I confirm that the Golf-one target has entered the battle. Two Hummers from Kingfisher 09 are ready, one left, forty-five seconds until leaving the kill zone."

"Confirmed," Kai said. "Christine, notify me if the target designation changes."

"Wilko, sir," Christina said. Her palms started to sweat a little: it was starting to look like a prelude to-

Suddenly the ID signal changed from TARGET TRACK to ROCKET TRACK. The shift was instantaneous, and it didn't stay on the display for more than a second or two, but it was enough for Christine to shout, "Command, I have a tr-missile."

"Combat, command, batteries released on Golf One," Kai ordered. "I repeat, the batteries are low."

"The batteries are low, got you," Valerie said. "Combat, the goal of Golf One is to engage in battle!"

Kingfisher Weapons Garage, located almost four thousand miles from Armstrong - although the Armstrong space station was much closer to the target, the rockets needed time and distance to return to the Earth's atmosphere, so the Kingfisher Weapons Garage, located further , coped with the task - he switched to the course set by the computer, and two orbital maneuvering vehicles were thrown out of the weapons garage with an interval of thirty seconds. The OMVs flipped until they were flying tail first, and their launch rockets went off. The burns didn't last very long, slowing the spacecraft by only a few hundred miles per hour, but it was enough to change their trajectory from Earth orbit to the atmosphere, and the OMVs flipped back over, leaving their heat shields exposed to the encroaching atmosphere.

As the spacecraft entered the upper atmosphere, the glow from friction burning the air changed colors until it became white-hot, and streams of superheated plasma trailed behind each vehicle. Tiny hydraulically controlled blades and steering thrusters in the OMV's tail body helped the spacecraft perform S-turns in the sky, which helped not only increase the time it took to slow down the flight, but also confuse any space-based radar tracking its intended target. One of the steering blades on the second OMV failed, causing it to spin out of control, mostly burning up in the atmosphere, and what was left crashed into the Siberian wilderness.

At an altitude of one hundred thousand feet, the protective casings around the OMVS broke away, revealing a two-hundred-pound tungsten carbide projectile with a millimeter-wave radar and infrared homing head in the nose. He monitored the control signals from his armory until the radar locked onto the target, then refined his aim by comparing what he saw from his sensors to images of the targets stored in memory. It only took a fraction of a second, but the images matched, and the warhead aimed at its target - the transport-mounted launcher of the S-500 anti-aircraft missile system. It hit its target while moving at almost ten thousand miles per hour. The warhead did not need an explosive warhead - an impact at that speed was akin to an explosion of two thousand pounds of TNT, completely destroying the launcher and everything else within a five hundred foot radius.

"Golf tee - one destroyed, sir," Christina reported moments later, her voice muffled and hoarse, the first time she had destroyed anything in her entire life, let alone another human being.

"Good job," Kai said in a stony tone. "Trev, I want a two-man crew to suit up and begin breathing preparations, going into a six-hour emergency standby. The rest of the off-duty crew can leave combat posts. Everyone, eyes and ears open - I think we'll be busy. What is the status of Starfire? How much more?"

"I don't know, sir," replied Casey Huggins from the Skybolt module. "Maybe an hour, maybe two. Sorry sir, but I just don't know."

"As quickly as possible, Miss Huggins," Kai said. He pressed a button on his communications console. "General Sandstein, urgent."

KREMLIN

MOSCOW RUSSIAN FEDERATION

A little while later

"Those American bastards hit my spaceport with a rocket from space!" Zhou Qiang, President of the People's Republic of China, boomed over a secure voice teleconference. "I am going to order the immediate launch of a nuclear ballistic missile into Hawaii! If they kill a hundred Chinese, I'm going to kill a million Americans!"

"Calm down, Zhou," said Russian President Gennady Gryzlov. "You know as well as I do that if you launch an ICBM or anything like it anywhere near the United States or its possessions, they will retaliate with everything they have against both of our nations. Now they are a hair's breadth away from pulling the trigger, thanks to your attack on Guam."

"I don't care!" - Zhou snapped. "They will regret the loss of one Chinese a thousand times, I swear to it!"

"My commanders on the ground say that your S-500 battery has locked onto the space station using missile guidance radar," Gryzlov said. "This is true?"

"Then I assume you know that the Americans are targeting the S-500 launcher with their microwave weapons?"

"I know that they scanned you with a simple synthetic aperture radar, Zhou, a space-based radar installed on the station itself," Gryzlov said. "I have technicians and intelligence officers there on the ground, remember? They know exactly what they scanned you with. It was not a directed energy weapon. They obviously wanted to push you to answer, just like your stupid, poorly trained people did."

"So they are now trying to push us to expand the conflict, turn it into a nuclear exchange?" - Zhou asked. "If so, then they are succeeding!"

"I said, Zhou, calm down," Gryzlov repeated. "We will respond, but we have to be patient and plan this together."

"This is all because of your reckless attack on their spaceplane, isn"t it?" - Zhou asked. "You tell me to be calm, but then you do something crazy like destroy one of their spaceplanes! We've tracked these fighters and your anti-satellite weapons. Which one of us is crazy now? Do you want to ban unauthorized spacecraft from flying over Russia? This is even crazier! What got into your head, Gryzlov? You are even more unbalanced than that idiot Truznev before you."

"Don't talk to me about crazy military actions, Zhou!" Gryzlov objected. "We're lucky we're not at war with the United States after that crazy General Zu attacked Guam!"

"I could say the same about your father"s cruise missile attack on the United States itself!" Zhou shot back. "Ten thousand, fifteen thousand Americans vanished? A hundred thousand wounded? Your father was-"

"Be careful, I"m warning you, Zhou," Gryzlov spat out threateningly. "Be careful what you say next if it even remotely concerns my father." There was complete silence on the other end of the line. "Listen to me, Zhou. "You know as well as I do that the only American conventional weapons that can reach our spaceports and other ASAT launch sites are either cruise missiles launched from penetrating bombers or weapons launched from their military space station or weapons depots," he continued. Gryzlov. "The military space station is key because it controls all the weapons depots, uses its space-based radar for surveillance and targeting, and has a Skybolt laser that is impossible to defend against. It must be disabled or destroyed before the Americans use their weapons."

"Disconnected? Destroyed? How?" - asked Zhou.

"We must choose the ideal time when the maximum number of Russian and Chinese anti-satellite weapons can be launched simultaneously," Gryzlov said. "There are self-defense weapons on the station, but if we can overwhelm them, we might succeed. My Secretary of Defense and Chief of General Staff will inform me when the American space station is in an ideal position, and then we must attack immediately. The station's orbit is well known. They recently changed it to test the Starfire microwave laser, and they may change it again, but we'll watch and wait. When the orbit stabilizes, we attack with everything within range.

"But I need your commitment, Zhou: when I say attack, we attack with all weapons within range at the same time," Gryzlov continued. "This is the only way we can hope to disable or destroy a military space station without it being able to strike back at us, because if it does, it can destroy any target on the planet at the speed of light."

There was a very long silence on the other end of the secure connection; then: "What do you want, Gryzlov?"

"I need an accurate description, capabilities, status and location of every anti-satellite weapon system in your arsenal," Gryzlov said, "including your anti-satellite missile submarines. And I need to establish a direct, secure connection with every facility and submarine so I can launch a coordinated attack on the American military space station."

"Nĭ t ā m ā de fēng?" Zhou shouted in the background. Gryzlov knew enough Chinese curse words to understand that he said, "Are you fucking crazy?" Instead, he heard the translator stammer: "The President strongly objects, sir."

"Russia has far more anti-satellite weapons than China, Zhou-if I sent you a tiny fraction of our data, you would quickly be overwhelmed," Gryzlov said. "Besides, I don"t think your military or your space technology has the capability to coordinate the launch of dozens of interceptors spread across thousands of miles, belonging to two nations, at one point in space. We have much more experience in orbital mechanics than China."

"Why don"t I just give you all the launch codes for all our nuclear ballistic missiles, Gryzlov?" Zhou asked mockingly. "Either way, China is dead."

"Don"t be a fool, Zhou," said Gryzlov. "We must act, and act quickly, before the Americans can put more weapons depots in orbit and reactivate the Skybolt laser, if this nonsense about a college student microwave laser replacing the free electron laser is to be believed. Give me that data-and it better be accurate and reliable-and I will determine the exact moment when the maximum number of anti-satellite weapons will be within range to strike Armstrong... and then we will attack."

"And then what, Gryzlov? Wait for American nuclear missiles to rain down on our capitals?"

"Kenneth Phoenix is a weakling, like all American politicians," Gryzlov spat. "He attacked that S-500 facility, knowing that we would strike back. The minute he fired the microwave laser from the station, he knew the station would be a target. He did both, thinking we wouldn't respond. Now I have responded by destroying his spaceplane, and he has a choice: risk intercontinental thermonuclear war over it, or give up the military space station for the sake of peace. He is predictable, cowardly and will likely be emotionally crippled. He's nothing. There is no threat to either of our countries short of nuclear war if the Armstrong space station is destroyed, and I don't believe Phoenix or anyone else in America has the stomach for any war, let alone a nuclear war." .

Zhou said nothing. Gryzlov waited a few moments, then said: "Decide now, Zhou, damn you! Decide! "

TEN

The God of War hates those who hesitate.

- EURIPIDES

IN LOW-EARTH ORBIT, THIRTY MILES FROM THE ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

A little while later

From about a mile away, Boomer and Ernesto could only see a dense cloud of white gas, as if a cumulus cloud had broken out of the Earth's atmosphere and decided to float around the Earth's orbit. "Still nothing in sight, Armstrong," Boomer reported. "Just a very large cloud of frozen fuel, oxidizer and debris."

"Accepted," Kai replied. "Get as close as possible, but watch the fuel and oxidizer - don't get close enough to ignite it. Even one spark of static electricity in this mess can set it off."

"Understood."

It took several minutes to close the gap, but the cloud still obscured the scene. "I'm about fifty yards from here," Boomer said. "This is as close as I dare come. I can't make out anything. Ernesto, do you see anything there?"

"Negative," Ernesto said. "This is pretty tight... Wait! I see it! I see midnight! It looks like the right wing and part of the tail have been torn off, but the fuselage and cockpit look intact!"

"Thank God," said Boomer. "I'm going there to take a look." He unbuckled himself and returned to the airlock. For long-exposure spacewalks, in addition to wearing an EEAS for greater protection from micrometeors and debris and for better temperature control, Boomer donned a lightweight, unpressurized space suit resembling a jumpsuit, then donned a large backpack-like device called a primary life support system. or PLSS, and connected EEAS and umbilical cords to it for environmental protection. The backpack contained oxygen, food, carbon dioxide scrubbers, environmental controls, communications equipment and a device called the "SAFER," or Simplified EVA, which was a smaller version of the manned maneuvering device that allowed tethered astronauts to navigate independently in space. SAFER was only supposed to be used in an emergency to return an untethered astronaut to the spacecraft-well, it was definitely an emergency. "How do you hear, Ernesto?" - he addressed on the radio.

"Loud and clear, Boomer."

"The cockpit hatch is closed," Boomer said after checking the readings. "Let"s depressurize the airlock." A few minutes later: "Opening the cargo compartment hatch." He unlocked and opened the hatch and stepped inside the cargo bay, securing himself with a cable, then closing and sealing the hatch behind him.

The cargo bay was still mostly full because they were transporting all the supplies for the International Space Station and still had some untransported supplies for Armstrong. Boomer took out a hundred-yard-long cargo strap used to transport items to the space station, made sure the end of the strap was securely attached to the spaceplane, attached the strap to the clip on his backpack's harness, and unhooked it from the cargo bay cable. "Leaving the cargo bay," he reported, then stood up and climbed out of the cargo bay and headed towards the Midnight spaceplane, the cargo strap unwinding behind him.

A few minutes later, he entered a cloud of fuel oxidizer-fortunately, the SAFER engines used inert gases for propulsion, so there was no danger of explosion-and he could see the spaceplane clearly. Up close the damage looked worse, but the fuselage and cockpit appeared intact. "I'm about twenty yards from midnight," Boomer reported. "I'm going inside." Using tiny SAFER puffs, he moved towards Midnight's cabin...

... and through the cockpit windows he saw Jessica Faulkner and Vice President Anne Page, still sitting upright and buckled up, heads bowed, as if dozing in an airliner seat, but not moving. "I see Gonzo and the Vice President," Boomer said. "They are strapped in and stand upright. I can"t see if their eyes are open." He took out a flashlight and carefully tapped on the visors of the Midnight's cockpit - no response. "Their suits look intact and I can see the LEDs on their suit status panels - heck, they might be -."

And just at that moment, Vice President Anne Page raised her head, then her right hand, as if waving. "The Vice President is alive!" Boomer said. "I think she's waving at me!" He realized that it could just be the movement of the spaceship, but he had to cling to any ounce of hope he could. "Gonzo still doesn't move, but the Vice President is conscious! The electricity is out. The airlock hatch and cockpit appear secure with no signs of damage or decompression. We have to get them back to the station."

He rose above Midnight to look at the cargo bay. "The right side of the fuselage where the wing attaches appears to be heavily damaged." He maneuvered around the cargo bay on the right side. "Damn," he muttered a few moments later. "It appears that the passenger module was damaged. Get ready. I'll see if I can check the passengers."

Aboard the Armstrong space station, Brad McLanahan held his breath. He knew Sondra was on that spaceplane and switched to the passenger module to allow the Vice President to fly in the cockpit.

"Brad," Jodi radioed from UC Poly - no one on the Project Starfire team left their station after Stacy Ann Barbeau's explosive allegations. "I heard everything. Isn"t... isn"t your friend Sondra...?"

"Yes," Brad said.

"Prayers," Jodie breathed.

Boomer was able to look through the gap in the hull and passenger module. "There"s not enough room for me to fit into the module," he said. He shined the flashlight on Sondra and the Secret Service agent. "They're unconscious, but I can see the status lights on their suits, and their visors are down and look locked. We-"

And at that moment, when Boomer passed the beam of his flashlight along the visor of her helmet, Sondra raised her head. Her eyes were open and wide with fear. "Holy crap, Sondra is alive!" Boomer shouted. "The Secret Service agent isn't moving, but as far as I can tell, her suit is intact! We might have four survivors here!"

"Perfect!" Kai radioed. He and the rest of the team watched Boomer's progress through video and audio feeds from cameras installed on Boomer's PLSS. "Come back here on double. We'll widen the breach to get into the passenger module, and then we can pick up the passengers and then access the flight deck through the airlock."

"Understood." Boomer made his way to the front of the Midnight Spaceplane, found the reaction control nozzle on the nose, and securely secured the cargo strap inside it. He then attached the ring on his backpack's harness to his belt and moved back to the S-29 Shadow spaceplane, zipping the belt up. A few minutes later he passed through the Shadow's airlock, installed the PLSS in the reloading and resupply cradle, and returned to the Shadow's cockpit.

"Great job, Comandante," Ernesto said after Boomer buckled up. They exchanged a fist bump. "Do you think we can get them out and get them to the station, boss?"

"Not sure," Boomer said, taking a few seconds for his breathing and heartbeat to begin to return to normal. "The passenger module was definitely damaged, but the cockpit appeared intact. I saw LEDs on their suits, but I couldn't tell if they were signal lights or what. We may be able to get messages to the VP about how to open the airlock or the cockpit visors, and then hopefully they can survive the transfer. Let's go back to the station."

It took them half an hour of careful maneuvering to tow the damaged Midnight S-19 spaceplane back to the Armstrong space station. The crew members were already standing at the ready with more weight straps and cutters, and the remote manipulator's arms were extended as far as they could to do whatever was needed. Boomer docked the S-29 with the station.

"Good job, Boomer," Kai radioed, studying images of the damaged S-19 Midnight and crew members working to gain access to the passenger module. "I ordered the S-29 to be refueled and to unload as much cargo as possible. We can use one of the airlocks as a pressure chamber. I want you and your leader to stay on the spaceplane. We have about three hours before we arrive at the next database, so if you need to go out and use the 'wicks', do so now." Ernesto waved his hand, indicating that this was what he wanted. The Wicks, or WCS, was the waste containment system, or space toilet, on the Armstrong space station.

"Got it," said Boomer. "Which duck blind are we approaching?"

"The worst," Kai said. "Delta Bravo One. Downtown. Right in the middle." Boomer was very familiar with where they were: Moscow and St. Petersburg. They had overlapping kill circles from multiple anti-satellite targets that spanned the area from the Barents Sea to the Gulf of Azov. "Since the Russian orbital section is disconnected and we do not have our own maneuvering module, we cannot move the station to a less dangerous orbit."

"Ernesto leaves to use the 'wicks' " Boomer announced as Ernesto began to unbuckle himself. "I want to control the gas station. I need someone on site to monitor faults."

"We're running out of spaceplane crew, Boomer," Kai said. He turned to station manager Trevor Sheil. "Trev, do you want to put on a suit and-"

"Send in Brad McLanahan," Boomer said. "He's not busy. Damn it, he"s practically a spaceplane pilot already."

Brad had been silent since the Russian satellite shot down the Midnight C-19, watching out the window at the workers surrounding the Midnight and hoping to catch a glimpse of Sondra, but he brightened when he heard his name. "I bet I will!" - he said excitedly over the intercom.

"Go to the airlock and someone will help you become an ace," Kai said. "You must be in a full space suit and on oxygen. We don"t have time to put you in LCVG." LCVG, or Liquid Cooling and Ventilation Garment, was a form-fitting suit with water tubes running through it that absorbed heat from the body. "Trev, help Brad get to the airlock." Trevor led Brad to the hatch leading to the storage and processing module. Since he wouldn't be wearing an LCVG, it was relatively quick and easy to don the ACES suit, gloves and boots, and in just a few minutes Brad was on his way to the tunnel connecting the S-29 Shadow spaceplane to the station.

On the way to the docked spaceplane, Brad passed Ernesto Hermosillo, who was heading towards the Galaxy module. "Hey, good news about Sondra, man," Ernesto said, giving Brad a fist bump. "I hope she'll be okay. We'll find out soon, amigo."

"Thank you, Ernesto," Brad said.

The technician helped Brad through the docking tunnel, and Brad walked through the airlock into the flight deck. Boomer handed him his umbilical cords. "Hey Brad," Boomer said over the intercom. "Everything that can be done for Sondra and the others is being done. I'm guessing she and the Secret Service agent will have to spend the night in an airlock pressurized with pure oxygen. They may be unconscious for a while, but if they survive the attack with their suits intact, they should come out."

"Thanks, Boomer," Brad said.

"Thanks for doing this, Brad," Boomer said. "This is nothing more than a simple babysitting job, but the rules, which I wrote myself, state that one person must be at the controls of the S-29 during refueling in space, wearing a spacesuit and on oxygen. Space planets Black Stallion and Midnight require both crew members because they are not as automated as Shadow. I want to check the gas station and maybe hit him in the head, and Ernesto is on his way to Weeks, which is why you're here.

"Shadow is highly automated, so it will tell you verbally and on this screen what's going on," Boomer continued, pointing to the large multifunction display in the middle of the dash. The checklist items were highlighted in yellow, then several sub-strings of the computer's actions, the yellow line turning green, and finally the end result with a small yellow button on the touchscreen asking if the computer could continue. "If something happens, it will notify you and wait for confirmation, which you do by pressing the soft key that appears. In most cases, it will simply fix the problem itself, notify you that it has been fixed, and wait for confirmation. If he can't fix it himself, he'll let you know. Just tell me if this happens and I will ask the technicians to work on it. Like I said, you babysit the kids, except the 'baby' is smarter and bigger than you. Any questions?"

"No".

"Fine. I'll be able to hear the computer if it announces anything. I won't be far away. Just call if-"

And at that moment they heard: "Armstrong, this is Midnight One, how do you hear?"

"Gonzo?" Kai shouted. "It's you?"

"Yes," said Gonzo. Her voice was hoarse and cracked, as if she was trying to speak with a heavy weight on her chest. "If you can hear me, report. Miss Vice President?"

"I... I hear you... Gonzo." The Vice President responded in the same low, hoarse voice and slow intonation. "I... I can"t breathe properly."

"Help is coming, ma'am," Gonzo said. "Agent Clarkson." No answer. "Agent Clarkson?" Still not a word. "Sondra?"

"Loud... and... and clear," Sondra answered weakly. Brad took a deep breath, his first in many tense moments. "I'll... I'll try to check on Clarkson."

"We have power until Midnight," Trevor reported. "We will check the condition of the spacecraft's hull, then find out whether we can make the transition through a sealed tunnel or whether we will have to go into outer space. Their breathing suggests their suits may not be getting oxygen from the spaceplane, so we'll have to hurry up to see if we can...

"Command, surveillance, I detected multiple missile launches!" - Christine Rayhill shouted over the intercom of all stations. "One launch from Plesetsk, one from Baikonur! Computational launch is being tracked now... get ready... a second launch has now been detected from Baikonur, I repeat, two launches from... a rocket launch has now been detected from Xichang, team, this is a four rocket launch... a fifth rocket has now been detected, this time from the Wenchang Cosmodrome on Hainan Island. This is the launch of five rockets! No advance notice of any launches."

"Combat stations, crew," Kai ordered over the intercom. "All crew to take their combat positions."

Aboard the spaceplane Shadow, Boomer flew through the airlock faster than Brad had ever seen anyone move in space, with incredible agility for a man in free fall, sat in the pilot's seat, secured his umbilical cords, and began strapping himself in . "What should I do, Boomer?" - Brad asked. "Should I go out and let Ernesto-"

"Too late," said Boomer. "The external airlock hatches automatically close as we head to battle stations in preparation for our separation from the station. They will stop refueling and unloading cargo, and as soon as they do that, we will be on our way."

"You mean go back to orbit?"

"Yes," Boomer said, hastily buckling up and responding to the computer notifications. "We take off as quickly as we can. There's a paper checklist velcroed to the bulkhead by your right knee. Strap it to your hip. Follow along with the computer as you go through each element. When it asks you to confirm and you agree that it has followed the steps correctly, go ahead and tap the button on the screen. If it crashes or you get an error message, please let me know. It will adjust the speed of each section based on how quickly you confirm each action, but it also knows that we are at combat posts, so it will try to go through quickly. Check your umbilical cords and oxygen and buckle up as tightly as possible - this could be a rough ride."

"This does not appear to be the trajectory of a ballistic missile," said surveillance officer Christine Rayhill, studying her two computer monitors. "The first two rockets are ready...they look like they're going into orbit, command, repeat, orbital flight paths."

"Russian spaceplanes," Valerie guessed. "A salvo of five almost simultaneous launches."

"What is the status of Starfire?" - Kai asked.

"Still working on it," said Henry Lathrop. "I don"t know yet how long this will last."

"As quickly as possible, Henry," Kai said. "Valerie, how are things going with the Kingfishers and Hydra?"

"Kingfisher 9 lost two Mjolnir rounds, and the three Trinity modules on the station expended a total of six anti-satellite rounds," Valerie reported. "All other modules on the station are ready. Six of the ten Trinity modules in orbit are ready. Hydra ready, about thirty lines left."

A few minutes later: "Command, the first two rockets appear to have launched payloads into orbit, presumably spaceplanes," Christine reported. "Their orbits do not coincide with ours."

"They may have auxiliary modules with payloads that will take them into a transfer orbit," Trevor Sheil said. The auxiliary payload module was an additional booster stage attached to the topmost payload section that could inject that payload into another orbit at the desired time without having to consume its own propellant. "We should expect these spaceplanes to move into intercept orbits within one to ten hours."

Kai Rhydon looked around the command module and noticed that Brad was not in his usual place, attached to the bulkhead in the command module. "McLanahan, where are you?" - he asked over the intercom.

"The place of the mission commander is on the Shadow," Boomer answered.

"Shall I say it again?"

"He held the anchor's chair while Ernesto had to take time off from Weeks, and now that we're on duty, he's glued to it," Boomer said. "So far he seems to have a pretty good handle on everything."

"Unblock the airlock," Kai said. "Get your leader back there."

"We don't have time, General," said Boomer. "By the time Ernesto puts on his cards again, we will say goodbye. Don't worry. Brad is doing well. It seems to me that he has already begun training as a mission commander."

Kai shook his head; there were too many things going on that were out of his control, he thought regretfully. "How soon do you disconnect, Boomer?"

"The cargo bay doors are closing, General," Boomer said. "Maybe two minutes. I'll give you some advice."

"Command, rockets three and four are also entering orbit," Christina reported about a minute later. "Russian payloads one and two are installed in orbit. No further activity from any ground-based assets." That changed just moments later: "Command, multiple high-performance aircraft have been detected taking off from Chkalovsky Air Base near Moscow. Two, maybe three planes in the air."

"Anti-satellite aircraft to launch," Trevor said. "They gather the press in front of the full court."

"Tell everything to Space Command, Trev," Kai said. "I don't know for sure who the target is, but I'll bet it's us. Christine, I'm guessing their goal is to reach our altitude and appropriate orbit to intercept us. I need orbit forecasts for all these Russian spaceplanes - I need to know exactly when they will enter transfer orbits."

"Yes, sir," Christina replied. "I"m calculating now." A few minutes later: "Command, observation, assuming they want to move to our orbital angle and altitude, I expect the Sierra Three spacecraft to reach the launch point at the Hohmann transfer orbit in twenty-three minutes, reaching our altitude and orbital plane in seven minutes. Sierra One will do the same in forty-eight minutes. We're still working on three other spacecraft, but they could all be in our orbit in less than four hours. I will calculate where they will be relative to us when they enter our orbit."

"Four hours: that's about the time we'll pass over Delta Bravo One," Valerie pointed out, referring to the orbital display on the main monitor. "They timed it perfectly: they would have five spacecraft, presumably armed, in our orbit as we passed over the anti-satellite missile sites in Moscow and St. Petersburg."

"Trevor, I want to move the station as high as possible, as quickly as possible," Kai said. "We will change our trajectory as much as possible, but I want to maximize the altitude - maybe we can go beyond the range of the S-500. Use every drop of fuel we have left, but get us out of the danger zone."

"Got it," Trevor replied, then leaned over to work on his workstation.

THE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, DC

A little while later

President Kenneth Phoenix walked briskly into the White House Situation Room, motioning for the rest of those present to take their seats. His face was gray and gaunt, and he had grown a beard over the course of the day, the result of staying up and sitting at his desk waiting for news from his vice president, chief advisor and friend. "Someone talk to me," he ordered.

"The Russians have put into orbit what are believed to be five Electron spaceplanes," said National Security Adviser William Glenbrook. In the situation room with him were Secretary of State James Morrison, Secretary of Defense Frederick Hayes, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Gen. Timothy Spelling and Director Central Intelligence Agency Thomas Torrey, plus several aides stood near the telephones.The large monitor at the front of the room was divided into several screens, one of which showed the image of the commander of the US Strategic Command, Admiral Joseph Eberhart, and the commander of the US Space Command, Air Force General George Sandstein , join the meeting via video conference. "They also launched fighter jets believed to be carrying anti-satellite missiles similar to the one that shot down the vice president"s spaceplane."

"Get Gryzlov on the phone right now," Phoenix ordered. "What else?"

"We should know within minutes whether spaceplanes will pose a threat to the Armstrong space station," Glenbrook continued. "Personnel aboard Armstrong can predict when spaceplanes will need to adjust their orbital trajectory to match that of the station, or if they will enter an orbit that will intercept the station."

"Gryzlov is on the line, sir," the communications officer reported a few minutes later.

Phoenix grabbed the phone. "What the hell do you think you"re doing, Gryzlov?" he lost his temper.

"It"s not very nice to have so many unidentified armed enemy spaceships overhead, is it, Phoenix?" - said the translator. "I am sure that your orbital mechanics will inform you very soon, but I will tell you now myself, to save you the trouble: your military space station will intersect with all our space planets and anti-satellite weapons in about three hours, at which time I will order my Space Force to shoot down your military space station."

"What?"

"You have three hours to evacuate the station and save the lives of your people," Gryzlov said. "I simply will not allow this monster to fly over Russia again while its weapons are in effect - as we just saw in China, the space station and the weapons it controls pose a great threat to Russia."

"Evacuate the space station?" Phoenix retorted. "There are fourteen men and women on board! How am I supposed to do this in three hours?"

"It"s not my concern, Phoenix," Gryzlov said. "You have your spaceplanes and commercial passenger class unmanned spacecraft, and I am told that the station has emergency lifeboats that can keep personnel alive long enough to be picked up and taken back to Earth or transferred to the International Space Station . But that's not my concern, Phoenix. I want assurances that space weapons are deactivated, and the best way I can think of to do this is to destroy the space station."

"The Armstrong space station is a US property and a military facility," Phoenix said. "An attack on this would be like an attack on any other American military base or aircraft carrier. This is an act of war."

"Then so be it - go ahead and announce it, Phoenix," Gryzlov said. "I assure you, Russia and its allies are ready for war with America. I consider the fact that America has been flying weapons over Russian territory for many years an act of war - now, finally, something will be done about it. I'm doing nothing more than defending Russia from the rampaging American war machine that tried to disguise itself as a college student experiment. Well, I was fooled. I won"t let myself be fooled anymore."

"Have you thought about what will happen if the station is not completely destroyed upon re-entry, Gryzlov? How many people on earth will die from falling debris and the MHD generator core?"

"Of course, I thought about it, Phoenix," Gryzlov said. "The station will be hit over the western part of Russia. We predict it will land harmlessly in western China, Siberia or the North Atlantic. And if it doesn't crash before it reaches North America, it will likely crash in western Canada or the western United States, where there is little population. It fits, doesn't it? Since all nations are responsible for their own spaceships, no matter how they are returned, your monster can be returned right to your doorstep.

"Three hours, Phoenix," Gryzlov continued. "I suggest you tell your astronauts to hurry up. And one more thing, Phoenix: if we detect any space-based weapons being launched at any targets in Russia, we will consider this the beginning of a state of war between our two nations. You started this battle when you fired a directed energy weapon - the price you pay is the loss of this space station. Do not add to the suffering that will befall you and your people by starting a thermonuclear war." And the connection was interrupted.

"Damn that bastard!" - Phoenix shouted, throwing the phone back onto the stand. "Fred, move us to DEFCON three. I want to know all the possible places in the US where this station could fall."

"Yes, sir," replied the Secretary of Defense, and his assistant picked up the phone. DEFCON, or Defense Readiness Condition, was a step-by-step system for increasing the readiness of the U.S. military for nuclear war. Since the American Holocaust and the Chinese People's Liberation Army Navy's use of nuclear depth charges in the South China Sea, the US has been in Stage 4 DEFCON, one step above peacetime; DEFCON One was the most dangerous level, which meant nuclear war was imminent. "Do you want to order evacuations in areas of possible conflict, sir?"

The president hesitated, but only for a moment: "I'm going to go on national television and radio and explain the situation," he said. "I'm going to lay this out to the American people, tell them the chances of the plant hitting North America, tell them we're doing everything we can to make sure that doesn't happen, and let them decide whether they want to evacuate or not. How long will it take for him to come back, Fred?"

"About fifteen minutes, sir," Hayes replied. "The normal flight time of an ICBM from launch to impact is about thirty minutes, so half of that would be about right."

"With less than four hours to evacuate, I think most Americans would remain in place," national security adviser Glenbrook said.

"I just hope we don't create a panic," the president said, "but a few incidents or people injured in a panic would be better than Americans dying from falling debris and we didn't warn them that it would happen." He turned to Admiral Eberhart. "Admiral, what does Gryzlov have in western Russia that could disable the space station?"

"Primarily air-launched anti-satellite missiles and the S-500S anti-aircraft missile, sir," Eberhart replied. "Both Moscow and St. Petersburg deployed one S-500 battery. Each battery has six launchers; each launcher has four missiles plus four reloads, which can be installed within an hour. There are two bases near Moscow and St. Petersburg where MiG-31Ds fly, each with about twenty interceptors."

"And this could hit the space station?"

"The station is at the maximum altitude of the missile, if what we know about the S-500 is true," Eberhart said. "The station is within the maximum range of an air-launched anti-satellite missile."

"Can we move the space station to a higher orbit?"

"It's being done right now, sir," Eberhart said. "Station Director Kai Rydon has ordered the station to be raised to the maximum altitude it can reach before it runs out of fuel. They are also trying to change its orbit to avoid passing over Moscow and St. Petersburg, but this may take too long."

"What else do we have to stop these missiles from being launched?" - asked the president.

"In western Russia: not much, sir," Hayes replied. "We have one guided cruise missile submarine in the Baltic Sea that can strike anti-satellite air bases in St. Petersburg, and that"s it. We can easily destroy the base, but it's just one base, and our submarine will later become dog meat for Russian anti-submarine patrols - the Russians definitely control the Baltic Sea. The cost of losing a submarine would be twice that of losing a Russian base."

"Plus we risk a nuclear exchange if these cruise missiles are discovered," Glenbrook added. "We were lucky that the attack from space did not lead to the same thing."

"So we have no options?" the president asked. "Is the space station history?"

"We have one option, sir: attack air bases and anti-satellite missile sites from space," Glenbrook said. "The station has defensive weapons, but it can also attack ground targets, as we saw at that missile site in China. They may not get all the sites, but they can get enough of them to save themselves."

"And start World War III?" - Secretary of State James Morrison objected, his eyes widening with fear. "You heard Gryzlov, Bill - the guy just threatened the President of the United States with nuclear war! Does anyone here think the guy isn't crazy enough to do this? I'd be surprised if he wasn't heading to the underground command bunker right now. Sir, I suggest we immediately remove these students and all non-essential crew members from the military space station and allow the rest of the crew to fight off any incoming missiles to the best of their ability. If the station looks like it will be overloaded, the rest of the team should evacuate."

"I disagree, sir," said Secretary of Defense Hayes. "To answer your question, Jim: I think Gryzlov is crazy and paranoid, but I don"t think he"s crazy enough to start a nuclear war even if we destroy all his anti-satellite bases from space. Gryzlov is young and has a long and comfortable life ahead of him. His father was killed in an American counter-attack - that must be weighing on him. I think he cares more about political survival and preserving his wealth than starting a nuclear war. Moreover, its strategic nuclear forces are no better than ours."

"General spelling?"

"As part of DEFCON Three, we are putting all of our few remaining nuclear-capable bombers and fighters on nuclear alert and sending as many ballistic and cruise missile submarines on patrol as possible," the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff said, having I see a tablet computer. "It would take one to three days to get our bombers operational, three to seven days for fighters, and one to three weeks to get the available submarines operational. Secretary Hayes is right about the numbers, sir: US and Russian forces are roughly equal in size. We have more surface ships and ballistic missile submarines; they have more aircraft and ground-launched ballistic missiles."

"After Gryzlov's threat, we would have to assume that they are bringing their nuclear forces to a higher level of readiness as we speak," Hayes added. "Maybe even more than ours."

The President was silent for several long moments, peering into the faces of his advisers. Finally: "I want to speak directly with General Rhydon," he said.

A few moments later, after a secure video conference line had been established: "General Raydon is listening, Mr. President."

"First of all: the status of the vice president and the spaceplane crew."

"We were working on getting inside the passenger module, but I canceled the spacewalks when those electrons launched," Kai replied. "Still no response from any of them."

"How much oxygen do they have?"

"A few more hours, if their spacesuits or the spaceplane"s environmental systems were not damaged. We've looked at the readings on their suits and we think they're still getting oxygen from the ship, not just from their own suits. If it turns out that this is not the case, they don"t have much time left."

The President nodded grimly. "Here's the situation, General: Gennady Gryzlov directly states that he wants to shoot down the Silver Tower," he said. "He told me about the kill box and how he was going to place these spaceplanes in the same area as the anti-satellite weapons around Moscow and St. Petersburg. My question is: can you survive an attack on the space station?"

"Yes, sir, we can," Kai responded immediately, "but not for long. We have sixteen ASAT engagements and about thirty Hydra COIL laser engagements. We also have sixteen engagements with our weapons depots in orbit, but the chances of them being able to defend the station are very high. Once they are used up, we will have to rely on refueling and rearming."

"And then Gryzlov could strike our space resupply planes and commercial cargo spacecraft," the president said.

"That's why I recommend that we attack any ASAT targets we can with our Mjolnir missiles," Kai said. "Our nine remaining weapons depots are within range of the ASAT facility every twenty to thirty minutes. We have thirteen ground attacks with orbital weapons depots, plus fifteen from the station's weapons depots. This would cause quite a lot of damage to Gryzlov's anti-satellite forces."

"Gryzlov threatened nuclear war if we attack any of his bases in Russia."

Kai's expression turned first surprised, then serious and finally angry. "Mr. President, this issue is well above my pay grade," he said, "but if someone is threatening the United States with nuclear war, I suggest we make every effort to serve him his head on a platter."

The President took another look at the expressions on his advisors' faces-they ranged from outright fear to determination, emptiness, and confusion. He got the distinct impression that they were all glad they didn't have to make a decision. "Secretary Hayes," the President said moments later, "put us through to DEFCON Two."

"Yes, sir," replied the Secretary of Defense, reaching for the phone.

"General Raydon, I authorize you to attack and destroy any Russian anti-satellite installations that pose a threat to the Armstrong space station," the president said grimly. "You will also use any available weapons to defend the station from attack. Keep us updated ".

ON BOARD THE ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

IN THE SAME TIME

"Yes, sir," Kai replied. Over the entire station's intercom, he said, "All personnel, this is the Director, the President of the United States has authorized us to attack any Russian bases that pose a threat to us and to use all weapons at our disposal to defend the station. This is exactly what I intend to do. I want Casey Huggins to get oxygen and become an ace, and I want life support to teach her how to use a lifeboat."

"General, I'm almost finished reconnecting Starfire," Casey replied. "An hour, maybe less. If I stop, you may not be able to prepare it in time."

Kai thought about it for a moment; then, "Okay, keep up the good work, Casey," he said. "But I want you on oxygen now, and as soon as you"re done, I"ll put the spacesuit on you."

"I can't work with an oxygen mask on, sir," Casey insisted. "When I'm done, I'll put on the spacesuit."

Kai knew it wasn't good, but he really wanted Starfire to be activated again. "Okay, Casey," he said. "As fast as you can."

"Yes, sir".

"What"s our next blind duck?" - Kai asked.

"Chinese S-500 test site on Hainan Island," announced Christine Reyhill. "Within range of the Kingfisher - Two in five minutes. Yelizovo Air Base, MiG-31D Base, S-500 Range at Yelizovo and S-500 Range at Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky Naval Base will be within range shortly thereafter, also for Kingfisher-Two."

"One three against each of the S-500s and one against the air base, Valerie," Kai said.

"Yes, sir," Valerie said. "Combat, designate ground targets for-"

"Command, surveillance, first Electron spaceplane, Daddy One seems to be changing course," Christina said. "This is accelerating... looks like an orbital change maneuver, sir. It looks like it will be in the opposite direction to ours, and slightly offset - I can"t determine the height yet. I expect Papa Two to accelerate into transfer orbit in a few minutes. The Electron spaceplane Papa Three is due to take off in fifteen minutes. I can"t say about the fourth and fifth yet."

"Boomer, do you have enough fuel to transfer to the ISS, dock, and then return to us?" - Kai asked.

"Get ready. "I"ll check," Boomer replied. A moment later: "Yes, general, there is, but not enough to return later without refueling. How much fuel and oxidizer is still at the station?"

Trevor checked his readings. "Twenty thousand pounds of JP-8 and ten thousand 'bomb'." "

"Should be enough unless I have to maneuver a lot," Boomer said. "I would feel better if we could organize a resupply mission-"

"Missile launch detected by SBIRS, sir!" Christine shouted over the intercom. SBIRS, or Space-Based Infrared Surveillance System, was the United States Air Force's newest infrared satellite system, capable of detecting and tracking missiles and even aircraft by their hot engine or exhaust fumes. "Pop-up targets over Novosibirsk. Two... three launches, definitely on an intercept course, without ballistic launches. Interception in six minutes!"

"Looks like they've moved some MiG-31s into central Russia," Trevor said.

"Indicate targets, Dad-Six, - Seven and - Eight, Combat," Valerie said.

"We have been spotted by target tracking radar...switching to missile guidance radar...Missile launch, S-500...Four interceptor salvo, seven minutes to intercept!" Christina reported. "Tracking the missiles... Another salvo of four, the second launcher, looks like... the third salvo of S-500s taking off, looks like a ring of S-500 launchers around Novosibirsk! I believe... the fourth salvo, sixteen S-500s are approaching from Novosibirsk! Nineteen interceptors approaching, crew!"

"This is more than we've ever done with exercise," Trevor said.

"The status of our defensive weapons, Valerie," Kai asked.

"Everything is green, sir," Valerie replied. "Sixteen encounters with the Kingfisher on the keel, plus about thirty shots at the Hydra."

"How high are we, Trev?"

"Two hundred and fifty-seven," Trevor replied. "The maximum firing range of the S-500 should be five hundred miles. We're going to be close."

"Four minutes on Wasp interceptors," Christina said.

"The batteries on all the weapons are dead, Valerie," Kai said.

"Understood, sir, batteries are released, combat, readiness for battle is authorized."

"Understood, purely for-"

"Baits!" Henry Lathrop screamed. "The warheads on the S-500 missiles are divided into two - no, three, three apiece!"

"Can you tell them apart, Henry?"

"Not yet-still too far away," Henry said. "When they get within three hundred miles, I will first check them with an infrared sensor to see if there is a difference in temperature, and then with an optical-electronic sensor to see if there is a visual signal."

"Three minutes on Wasps."

"The missiles have gone," Henry Lathrop announced. "Two Trinity are coming out, tracking. Next launch in ten and twenty seconds." Exactly ten seconds later: "The missiles flew away. Good wake on the first salvo - damn, lost control on the second Trinity in the second battle, fired a third salvo on the second approach... fourth salvo on the third incoming, good trail... good trail after the first salvo, interception looks good... Hydra ready for all approaches, good track, get ready... We are going out for the first interception... now."

At that moment, all the lights on Armstrong's space station became more than twice their normal brightness, then flickered and went out. Several computer terminals went dark for a moment, but after a few seconds an automatic reboot began. "What was it?" - Kai shouted. The intercom was dead. "What's happened?" The crew remained calm, but they looked at the momentarily useless displays and instrument readings, then at each other - and some estimated the distance to the lifeboat's sphere hatch. "What do you have, Valerie?"

"I think it was an electromagnetic pulse, sir!" - Valerie shouted. "I think that Wasp interceptor had a nuclear warhead on it!"

"Damn," Kai cursed. He looked at all the monitors around him. Luckily, they didn't burn out-the Armstrong space station was well protected from cosmic radiation-but a power surge rebooted all of their computers. "How soon will everything be restored?"

"Most will recover in ninety seconds," Trevor shouted through the command module, "but synthetic aperture radar could take three minutes or more."

"Are you still in contact with Trinity?"

"I didn't get anything until my computers rebooted, sir," Valerie said. "About a minute. Hopefully the EMP has destroyed the Wasp interceptors as well as all of our equipment."

It was an agonizingly long wait, but soon the command module began to come back to life as computers rebooted and other systems rebooted. "One Wasp missile still on the way!" Henry screamed as his computer monitor began to display useful information. "All S-500 missiles are still on course, about two minutes before interception!"

"Nail that Wasp missile, Valerie!" - Kai shouted.

"Trinities away!" Valerie said. "Hydra is not yet online - we cannot confirm an interception with Hydra in this battle! "Trinity will begin attacking the S-500 in fifteen seconds!"

"Crew, report damage to command," Trevor said over the intercom. "Casey?"

"I just got my test computer back up and running," said Casey from the Skybolt module. "Forty more minutes."

"That's too much time," Kai said. "Casey, turn on the oxygen, put on your pressure suit and head to your assigned lifeboat."

"No! I can do it on time!" Casey shot back. "I'll hurry up. I can do it!"

Kai punched the air in front of him. "Hurry up, Casey," he said finally.

"We're going to intercept on the third Wasp," Henry said. "Trinity" on S-500 missiles - we launch against everything on the screen, including what could be a decoy. Intercept "Wasp" in three... two... one..." The lights flashed brightly again, then most of the lights and the displays in the command module went dark...

... but this time not all computer monitors started rebooting automatically. "Trinity's fire control computer did not reboot," Henry shouted to the others in the Command Module. "I have to do a complete reset."

"Starfire fire control is rebooting," Christina said. "I have to do a full reset on Hydra."

"Command, engineering, a complete reboot of the station"s environmental and orientation control computers is in progress," the engineer officer reported. "Switching to backup environmental control, but I can't track if they've appeared yet. I will receive the report in-"

At this moment, a strong tremor went through the entire station, and the crew members felt a slight negative rotation. "We got hit?" - Kai asked.

"All the readings are still blank," Trevor said. "Send a message to the other modules to have them look through the windows for damage." A second later, they felt another tremor and the station began to spin in a different direction. "Do we have anything, Valerie? Something is definitely hitting us."

"I need to take back Hydra fire control in a few seconds," Valerie replied. At this point, most of the module's lights and intercom returned.

"...hear me, Armstrong," they heard on the radio. "This is Shadow, how can you hear me? End."

"Loud and clear now, Boomer," Kai said. "Continue".

"Solar array number seven and the truss located directly on board solar array number two were damaged," Boomer said. "The station began a slight negative tilt. Are your positioning systems working?"

"We're doing a complete reset," Trevor said. "We don"t know the status yet."

"The radar is working again," Christina reported. "The goal is clear. No contacts. We have three battles left on Kingfishers on the Farm."

"I received another indication of a malfunction on Hydra," Henry said. "I"m doing another complete reset." Kai looked at Trevor and Valerie, their expressions silently conveying the same message: we were running out of defensive weapons and had not reached the deadliest part of the orbit.

"Gonzo? How do you hear?

"Loud and clear, General," Gonzo replied, her voice sounding almost normal. "We were receiving oxygen and data from the station, but that is now switched off."

"We'll get it back to you as soon as we can, Gonzo," Kai said. "Stay buckled. These attacks have crippled the station slightly, and our attitude systems are down right now, but we'll have them back soon."

"Yes, sir".

"Any news on these spaceplanes?"

"First Electron is in the same orbit as ours, about a thousand miles away," Christina reported. "No contact on the fourth and fifth. The second and third appear to be in the same orbit and at the same altitude as ours, but the orbit is different from ours. They will be closest to us in about an hour..." She turned to Kai and added, "About five minutes before we fly over DB-One."

"The Russians timed the launch of these spaceplanes down to the nanosecond," Valerie exclaimed.

"Maybe we'll get lucky and they'll shoot down their own spaceplanes," Kai said. Over the intercom he said: "Attention at the station. I want all off-duty personnel to wear spacesuits. Practice lifeboat evacuation procedures and ensure you are ready to board the lifeboats as soon as I give the warning. We only have a few skirmishes left with our defensive weapons, and Hydra still hasn't returned. Casey, time's up. I want you to put on your space suit immediately. Someone from life support, help her."

"Thirty minutes to DB-One," Christina reported.

"Hydra status?" - Kai asked.

"Still there," Henry said. "I'll do another complete reset. Trinity's fire control has been restored, but the rotation of the station may cause problems with launching interceptors."

"Command, this is Jessop from life support," the call came in a few minutes later.

"Keep going, Larry," Trevor replied.

"I can"t open the hatch to the Skybolt module. It looks like it's locked from the inside."

Kai's eyes lit up in surprise. "Casey, what are you doing?" it boomed over the intercom.

"I can fix this!" Casey radioed. "I almost got it done before the last shutdown! Just a few more minutes!"

"Negative! Get out of this module right now! "

"I can fix this, sir! It's almost ready! A bit more-"

"Radar contact, spaceship," Christine interrupted. "Same altitude, different orbit, range four hundred and fifty miles! It will fly by at a distance of fifty miles!"

"Status of the Trinity and Hydra?" - Kai asked.

"Hydra looks like it's about to appear," Henry said. "About ten minutes before they're ready. Trinity is ready, but due to the rotation of the station, they may have to use up extra fuel to mount an interception...

"Second radar contact, spaceship," Christina reported. "Intersecting orbit, range four hundred and eighty miles, going about thirty miles!"

"Start the Trinity initiation ceremony, Valerie," Kai ordered.

"Trinity is ready, launch confirmation is showing," Valerie said. "The computers should adjust the launch to rotate the station."

"Three hundred miles on the first spaceship."

"Trinity one in the distance... Trinity two on the way," Henry said. A moment later: "Trinity is off course... wait, I'm re-establishing course... I'm getting back on course, good track... Trinity three and four are a long way off... good tr-" And suddenly there was a loud BANG! The station shook and several alarms sounded. "Trinity Four crashed into a solar panel!" Henry shouted. "Trinity Five is coming!"

"The batteries are not fully charged," said Alice Hamilton from the engineering module. "The discharge rate is low, but other solar panels cannot compensate for this."

"Turn off non-essential equipment," Kai said. "Casey, get out of this module now! I'm going to turn it off!"

"Hydra reports readiness!" Henry said.

"Radar contact with spaceship!" Christina said. "Same orbit, four hundred miles and slowly approaching."

"Contact with the first and second Trinity has been lost!" Henry shouted. "Perhaps he was shot down with a laser from that Electron!"

"Two hundred miles and approaching spaceplane one."

"Engage Hydra," Kai ordered.

"I understand, battalion commander, we are ready to fight Hydra!" - said Valerie.

"Combat copies," Henry said. "Hydra is shooting!"

"Rocket launch detected!" Christina reported. "Several S-500 launches from an airbase in the Chkalovsky area!"

"Direct hit on spaceplane one!" Henry reported. "Nailed him! I"m switching direction to target number two!"

"Team, engineering, battery power down to seventy-five percent," the technician said. "You can fire two, maybe three more shots at Hydra! Our solar panels only charge the batteries halfway - it will take hours to fully recharge them, even if you don't fire the gun again!"

Kai thought quickly; then: "Get that second spaceplane with Hydra and use all the Trinity we have left on the third spaceplane," he said.

Just then they heard Casey shout: "Everything is ready! All is ready!"

"Casey? I told you to get out of this module!"

"All is ready!" - she repeated. "Try it!"

"Hydra is attacking the second spaceplane!" Henry reported. This time the lighting in the command module dimmed significantly.

"Hydra is disabled!" Valerie said. "It drained the batteries below forty percent and turned itself off!"

"The second spaceplane is still arriving."

"Try it, General!" Casey said over the intercom.

"Valerie?"

"Starfire has complete continuity," Valerie said. She looked at Kai, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. "Allow me to turn on the MHD, General."

"Go," Kai said. Over the intercom, he said: "Engineer, team, I authorize the deployment of the MHD."

"Engineering copies," Alice confirmed. A moment later the light dimmed again. "The batteries are down to twenty-five percent."

"It"s a pity that we can"t connect the MHD generator to the station," Kai said. "We would have all the energy we would ever need."

"Next time we"ll do that," Trevor said.

"MGD is at twenty-five percent," Alice said.

"Spaceplane two is approaching a hundred miles," Christina said. "I detect the target tracking radar from that spaceplane - it is somehow fixed on us. Spaceplane number three is approaching two hundred miles. Several S-500 missiles are still approaching."

"Warning about high temperature of the Galaxy module case!" Alice reported. "The temperature continues to rise!"

"Everyone in the Galaxy module, get into your lifeboats!" - Kai shouted. "Move! Engineer, make sure the Galaxy module...

"Case temperature is at the limit!" Alice reported about thirty seconds later.

"Lifeboat number one is sealed," Trevor reported.

"Second lifeboat, seal it now! Second lifeboat, you-"

Suddenly, alarms went off throughout the command module. "The hull of the galactic module is damaged," Alice said. Kai looked at Trevor, who shook his head - the second lifeboat was still not sealed. "The pressure in the module has dropped to zero."

"Spaceplane two is moving away from us," Christina said. "Spaceplane number three is approaching one hundred miles."

"Hobnail is on target," Colonel Galtin reported to his command post. "I request permission to engage in battle."

"Permission has been received," the dispatcher said. "The second electron had a successful attack. Good luck."

I don"t need luck, thought Galtin-I have an electron and a nail. A second later, the radar reported the approach, and Galtin pressed the button to turn on the Hobnail laser.

"Attention, the temperature of the case in the command module is rising!" Alice screamed. "This will reach its limit in twenty seconds!"

"Lifeboats!" Kai shouted. "Move!" But no one moved. Everyone remained in their seats... since Kai hadn't unbuckled himself from his seat, they weren't going to either.

"MGD one hundred percent!" Alice reported.

"Valerie, go!"

"Fight, Starfire, enter! Shoot!"

The first sign that something was wrong was the sour smell of burning electronics, even though Galtin was sealed in his suit. The second was the astonishing scene of his dashboard sparkling, arcing and finally catching fire, all in the blink of an eye. The third was a warning beep in his headphones, indicating a complete system failure, although he could no longer see the status of any of his systems. The last thing he encountered was his space suit filling with smoke, then he briefly felt the oxygen in his suit explode...

... a few seconds before his Electron spaceplane exploded into a billion pieces and scattered across space like a fiery spear; the oxidizer was then used up and the fire went out on its own.

"The third spaceplane was destroyed," said Christina. "There are still several S-500 missiles approaching, about sixty seconds."

"The body temperature is stabilizing," Alice reported. "MGD and Starfire are in the green zone. The batteries are ten percent discharged. When five percent is reached, the station will shut down so that the remaining battery power can operate the lifeboat launching mechanisms, air pumps, hazard lights and alarms, and rescue beacons."

"Can we get the rest of the S-500s with the power we have left?" - Trevor asked.

"We have no choice but to try," Valerie said.

"No, not missiles-S-500 radar and control truck," Kai said. "Maybe this will disable the missiles."

Valerie quickly called the S-500's last known installation site at Chkalovsky Air Base northeast of Moscow and used the Armstrong space station's powerful radar and electro-optical sensors to scan the area. The S-500 transport and installation launchers were moved to the south side of the airport in three firing points located at a great distance from each other, but the radar truck, command vehicle and energy and hydraulic generator truck were in the same place as before cataloged. The trucks were positioned on a clear section of a large aircraft parking ramp, where long rows of Antonov-72, Ilyushin-76 and -86 transport aircraft were lined up; further along the ramp, five MiG-31D anti-satellite missile launching aircraft were parked in two rows, each containing a 9K720 anti-satellite missile waiting to be loaded on board. "Goal achieved!" Christina shouted.

"Fight, shoot!" - Valerie ordered.

"Starfire is busy!" Henry screamed...

... and just a few seconds later, all power to the command module was completely cut off, leaving only the emergency exit lights. Kai pressed a button on his console and an alarm sounded along with the computerized words "All personnel to the lifeboats immediately! All personnel to report to the lifeboats immediately!"

The maser beam from the Armstrong space station fired in less than two seconds... but, traveling at five miles per second, the beam was able to sweep almost the entire length of Chkalovsky Air Force Base before going out.

The S-500's command, power and radar units sparked as the beam passed through them, and a moment later their fuel tanks exploded, setting them all on fire. Next were the transport planes, which one by one burst like overripe melons, instantly turning hundreds of thousands of gallons of jet fuel into huge fire mushrooms. The same fate awaited the MiG-31D fighters, powered by ten exploding 9K720 solid rocket boosters, which launched multiple missiles that streaked across the sky for miles - and spread radioactive material from the micronuclear warheads of two missiles. The beam disabled the base operations building, destroyed several more parked and taxiing aircraft, and then blew up several aircraft in the maintenance hangars, destroying each hangar in a spectacular fireball.

Casey heard the alarm and quickly began to unbuckle herself from her seat in the Skybolt module. There was no lifeboat in the Skybolt module, but she knew the closest one was in the engineering module, directly "above" her. She put on her emergency oxygen mask, then looked up to see Larry Jessop, the life support guy, looking through the hatch window, waiting for her. She smiled and was about to open the hatch...

... when a powerful explosion rocked the station. The destruction of the S-500 command and control facilities at Chkalovsky invalidated the guidance of all 9K720 missiles...except for the first four, which were launched and detected by the Armstrong space station using their own terminal guidance sensors. All four received direct hits, and the fourth missile hit the Skybolt module directly.

Casey turned around and saw nothing but planet Earth below her through the gaping, sparkling hole that seconds before had been Starfire's microwave cavity and Skybolt. She smiled and thought it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her life. As she watched, the impressive blues and whites of the spinning planet beneath her feet slowly faded, replaced by shades of grey. It wasn't as beautiful as before, but she still admired her home planet right there - she even thought she could see her home, and she smiled, thinking about the next time she would go home and see her parents, brothers and sisters and tell them about this incredible adventure. She smiled, her mom and dad's faces smiling back at her, and felt happy and a little euphoric until her vision faded to black a second later as the last of the oxygen left her body.

S-500S rockets crashed into the Armstrong space station. Boomer and Brad watched in absolute horror as the modules were either shot down or torn off as the station began to spin through space. "Midnight, this is Shadow," Boomer radioed. "Hold on, guys. I'll be there in a minute. We will take you through the cockpit and through the hole in the fuselage."

For several long moments there was no answer; then a sleepy, tired voice radioed, "I don't think... even... the great spaceplane pilot... Hunter 'Boomer' Noble could... could live up to this display," said Vice President Anne Page. "Save fuel. Raise the lifeboats. I'm... I'm hypoxic, I can't see... I don't see any lights on Gonzo's suit... Save fuel and... and get the lifeboats, Boomer. That's an order."

"I'm not in your chain of command, Miss Vice President," Boomer said. "Hold on. Stay with me ".

"Brad?" - they heard. "Brad, can you... can you hear me?"

"Sondra!" Brad exclaimed. "We are going to meet you! Hold on!"

There was silence for a long time, and Brad's mouth quickly became dry. Then they heard a tiny voice: "Brad?"

"Sondra, don't worry," Brad said. "We'll be there as quickly as we can!"

"Brad? I... I'm sorry. I..."

"Sondra!" Brad screamed. "Hold on! We will save you! Hold on!" But as they watched the damaged space station spin away, they knew it would be impossible to try to save it.

DESERT OF BLACK ROCKS

NORTH OF RENO, NEVADA

ONE WEEK LATER

In defiance of federal orders, thousands of vehicles of all kinds were parked on the edge of the Black Rock Desert in northwestern Nevada at the terminus of Highway 447 to witness what no one believed they would ever see in their lifetime. The Black Rock Desert was home to the world-famous Burning Man festival, where thousands of artists, adventurers and counterculture free spirits gathered each summer to celebrate freedom and life... but this day on the playa will be the epitome of death.

"I think it's a homecoming," Brad McLanahan said. He was sitting in a lounge chair on the roof of a rented van. Next to him on one side was Jodie Cavendish, on the other was Boomer Noble, and behind them, clearly separating himself from the rest, was Kim Jong-bae. They had just completed a series of press interviews with dozens of news outlets who had come to witness this incredible event, but now they broke away from the reporters a few minutes before the appointed time to be alone.

Jodie turned to Jung Bae and placed her hand on his leg. "It's okay, Jerry," she said. Jung Bae lowered his head. He had been crying since they arrived at the beach and refused to talk to anyone. "It is not your fault".

"It"s my fault," Jung Bae said. "I am responsible for this." And for the millionth time after test firing, he said: "I"m so sorry, guys. I am so sorry ".

Brad reflected on the events of the past week. Realizing that they could not rescue the people trapped in the midnight spaceplane, he and Boomer returned to the area where three lifeboats had been dropped before Russian S-500 missiles hit the station. Boomer exited the cockpit, donned his space suit, walked into the cargo bay and threw the last few remaining pieces of cargo overboard. With Brad at the controls of the Shadow spaceplane, he maneuvered them to each of the lifeboats and Boomer guided them into the cargo bay. After connecting oxygen, power and communications cables, they completed the transfer orbit and entered orbit around the International Space Station.

It took almost two days, but they finally rendezvoused with the ISS. The Skymasters flew two station technicians in commercial spacecraft to power up the station and deliver supplies, and they used robotic arms to attach the lifeboats to the docking ports. All Armstrong's crew members had to spend the night in an airlock pressurized with pure oxygen to avoid nitrogen narcosis, but they were all declared fit to fly and returned to Earth the next day.

Brad's smartphone issued an alert. "The time has come," he said.

They watched and waited. They were soon able to see what appeared to be a star growing brighter and brighter in the cloudless Nevada sky. It got brighter and brighter, and everyone who was parked on the playa thought that they could actually feel the heat from the object... and then suddenly there was a terrible deafening sound, as if a thousand guns were firing at once. The car's windshields cracked and the cars rocked on their wheels - Brad thought he was going to be pushed right off the roof of the van.

The star became a spectacular fireball that grew and grew, leaving a trail of fire for a hundred miles until the ball began to fall apart. Seconds later, another powerful explosion was heard, and twenty miles to the north the spectators saw a massive fireball at least five miles in diameter, followed by a rapidly growing mushroom cloud of fire, sand and debris. They saw a huge wall of sand and smoke thousands of feet high rushing towards them, but just when they thought they should retreat inside their vehicles, the wall began to dissipate and, fortunately, it disappeared long before that how I reached them.

"Bye, Silver Tower," said Boomer. Jung Bae sobbed openly and loudly behind them, sobbing in unbearable pain at the thought of his friend Casey Huggins in that maelstrom. "It was a pleasure flying with you, old man."

SAN LUIS OBISPO COUNTY REGIONAL AIRPORT

NEXT EVENING

After watching the final flight of the Armstrong space station, Brad McLanahan and Jodie Cavendish gave several more media interviews in Reno and San Francisco, then they took the P210 Silver Eagle turbine back to San Luis Obispo. Night has already fallen. They had just moved the plane into the hangar and were unloading a few pieces of luggage when Chris Wohl appeared at the hangar door. "You must be Staff Sergeant Vol," Jody said, holding out her hand. After a moment, Chris took it. "Brad told me a lot about you."

Chris glanced questioningly at Brad. "Yeah, a lot," Brad said.

"I'm sorry about your friends," Chris said. "I'm glad you're back, Brad. Have you had enough of space travel for a while?"

"For now," Brad admitted. "But I'm coming back. Definitely."

"Are you done with all the media stuff for a while too?"

"Definitely not anymore," Jodi said. "I can't wait for our lives to get back to normal. Hell, I can"t even remember what normal is."

"Do either of you need anything?" Chris asked. "The team will return in the morning. When you feel up to it, you can start training."

"He's back to his normal activities," Jodie said. "Perhaps from now on I will join him."

"That would be great," Chris said. "Ready to go back to the apartment?"

"We'll unload and then I'll close this," Brad said. "I"ll wipe it off tomorrow."

"I'll take you back to Poly Canyon and then I'll go to the hotel," Chris said. "See you in the morning. I guess we'll update your call sign then." He gave Brad and Jody a half-smile that was wide by Wohl standards, and then he stuck his hands in his pockets against the growing cold, turned on his heel and...

... ran straight into the knife held by Yvette Korczkova, which plunged deep into his stomach. He had enough strength and means to headbutt his attacker before falling to the asphalt, clutching his stomach.

"Fucking bastard," Korchkova swore, holding her bleeding forehead. "Fucking bastard." Brad pushed Jody behind him. "We meet again, Mr. McLanahan. Thank you so much for letting the world know where you will be. Tracking you down was child's play."

Brad dragged Jody to the back of the hangar, then walked over to the toolbox and found a crescent-shaped wrench. "Call 911," he told her. Turning to Korchkov, he said: "Sv ä rd, or whatever the hell your name is, if you don"t want to get caught, you better leave. There are security cameras in this place and Vol's troops will be here any minute."

"I know where all the assistant sergeant majors are, Brad," Korchkov said. "They are hours away and I will be gone long before the police arrive. But my mission will be completed."

"What mission? Why are you following me?"

"Because your father has made a terrible enemy in Gennady Gryzlov," Korchkov said. "He ordered the destruction of all your father's property, and you are at the top of the list. And I must say that after the destruction you caused near Moscow last week, he will have an even greater burning desire to see you dead."

"The police are on their way," Jodie shouted.

"They will be too late," said Korchkov.

"Well, then come and get me, bitch," Brad said, waving his hand at her. "Do you like to keep it up close and personal? Then hug me, bitch."

Korchkova moved like a cheetah, despite the wound on her forehead, and Brad was late. He partially deflected the knife with a wrench, but the blade cut the left side of his neck. Jodie screamed as she saw a trickle of blood form between Brad's fingers as he tried to stop the bleeding. The wrench fell from his hand as the room began to spin.

Korchkov smiled. "Here I am, a handsome space traveler," she said. "Where are your tough words now? You"re probably a little weak from your space travels, no?" She raised the knife so Brad could see it. "Hug me goodbye."

"Here's your hug, bitch," said a voice behind her, and Chris Wohl hit Korczkova in the head with a broom. She turned around and was about to stab him again, but Chris fell to the floor and froze.

"Stop bleeding and die, old man," Korchkov said.

"It"s not an old man-he"s a sergeant major," Brad said just before the wrench crunched down on the back of Korchkov"s head. She fell. Brad slammed the wrench hard into the hand holding the knife, pushed the blade away, then continued to hit her in the face with the wrench until he no longer recognized it. He collapsed on top of his beaten body as Jody ran up to him, rolled him away from Korchkov and pressed her fingers to the deep wound in his neck.

Brad opened his eyes to the sound of sirens outside the hangar and found Jodi still hunched over him, her hands pressed to his bleeding neck. "Brad?" - she asked. "Oh my God..."

"Hello," he said. He smiled weakly at her. "Who says I can"t have a good time with my girlfriend?" And he, fortunately, fell into an unconscious state again.

EPILOGUE

Every house has a skeleton.

- ITALIAN PROVERB

SCION AVIATION INTERNATIONAL HEADQUARTERS

ST. GEORGE, UT

A FEW DAYS LATER

Brad stood at the head of a squad of cybernetic infantry as the straps began to slowly retract towards the ceiling, and a moment later Patrick McLanahan was pulled away from the robot. His body was as pale as a sheet, and he was thinner than Brad could ever remember, but he wasn't as bony as he'd feared-he looked wiry, with good muscle tone under his snow-white skin. His head was supported by a pillow attached to his own straps. Doctors and nurses rushed to his side, administering medications and attaching sensors throughout his body. They placed an oxygen mask with a microphone inside over his mouth and nose.

Patrick turned and opened his eyes, looking at Brad, and he smiled. "Hi, son," he said. "I"m glad to see you in person, and not through an optical-electronic sensor."

"Hi, Dad," Brad said. He turned a little to the right. "I'd like to introduce you to Jodie Cavendish, my friend and one of the leaders of my Starfire team. Jody, please meet my father, General Patrick S. McLanahan."

Patrick closed his eyelids and even bowed his head slightly. "Nice to meet you, Miss Cavendish," he said. "I've heard a lot about you."

"It"s an honor to meet you, sir," Jodi said.

"I'm sorry about Casey Huggins and Starfire," Patrick said. "You did an amazing job."

"Thank you, sir."

Patrick looked at Brad. "So you go back to school," he said. "I'm not sure if you can get any work done with all this advertising that's going on around you guys."

"We rely on fast news cycles and short memory spans," Brad said. "Cal Poly is a great place. We are the ones who lost the space station. We are not heroes."

"In my eyes, that"s what you are," Patrick said.

It didn't take long. With Patrick suspended above, the old CID was wheeled away and a new one wheeled in to take his place. Patrick's body was lowered inside, the straps were released and the rear hatch was closed. Jodie was in awe as TIE stood up, moved his arms and legs as if awakening from a nap, then extended his hand to her. "It was nice to meet you, Miss Cavendish," Patrick said in his electronically synthesized voice. "I look forward to seeing you again."

"We're coming next weekend to decorate your room," Brad said. "I pulled a bunch of your Air Force stuff out of storage. We will make this place feel like home."

"I can't guarantee I'll be here, Brad," Patrick said, "but you can do whatever you want. I'd like that." Brad hugged his father and he and Jody left.

A few minutes after they left, when the Criminal Investigation Department was connected to the power, nutrition, environmental and data networks, former President Kevin Martindale entered the room. "You did allow Miss Cavendish to visit us," he remarked. "I am surprised".

"She promised to keep it a secret," Patrick said. "I believe her."

"It's unfortunate that Phoenix lost the election to Barbeau," Martindale said. "This could be the end of many government contracts."

"There are a lot more customers," Patrick said. "We have many more projects to launch."

Martindale shook his finger at Patrick. "I must say, very smart of you," he said. "Given Brad news articles and data about orbital solar power plants and microwave lasers. You really made your son believe that Starfire was his idea."

"I threw out ideas and he had to run with them," Patrick said.

"Right, right," Martindale said. "But when the idea came to fruition, it was so clever of you to secretly and discreetly send experts to him, point him to Cavendish, Kim, Huggins and Egan and invite Sky Masters to support him with this grant."

"My son is a true leader," Patrick said. "He may be a terrible aerospace engineering student, but he is a good pilot and a great leader. All I did was put the resources at his disposal - he had to put them together and build it. He did a good job."

"But you used your son to create illegal directed energy space weapons in violation of international law," Martindale said. "Very, very smart. It worked. Unfortunately, it was destroyed by the Russians, but it proved the value of microwave lasers. Good job, General." Martindale smiled and asked, "So, what else do you have in store for young Bradley, may I ask?"

"Right now we have to deal with President Stacy Ann Barbeau," Patrick said. "She will undoubtedly abandon the space initiative. But the good thing is that it wants to build bombers, aircraft carriers, arsenal ships, hypersonic weapons and everything unmanned. I'm sure Brad can design and test most of these things. I'll start working on it right away."

"I'm sure you will, General McLanahan," Martindale said with a wicked smile. "I'm sure it will happen."

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Information about Cane-Ja was taken from the book "Street Tricks" by Mark Shuey Sr. and Mark Shuey Jr., No Canemasters.com.

The P210 Silver Eagle, a Cessna P21ўCenturion modified with a turboprop powerplant (minus the many high-tech features I added to it), is a product of O&N Aircraft, Factoryville, PA, www.onaircraft.com.

Angel Flight West is a true charity that matches needy recipients of medical or humanitarian assistance with pilots who donate their aircraft, the cost of fuel and their skills to fly them where they need to go for medical or support reasons, at absolutely no cost to passengers . I flew for Angel Flight West for four years, and I think that was probably the main reason I became a pilot: to use my skills to help others. Find out more at www.angelflightwest.org.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dale Brown is the author of numerous New York Times bestselling books, starting with Flight of the Old Dog in 1987, and most recently The Tiger's Claw. A former captain in the United States Air Force, he can often be found flying his own plane in the skies of Nevada.

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

Dale Brown

Shadow Team

DEDICATION

This novel is dedicated to everyone who makes the often difficult decision to do one simple thing: dare. When you see it happen, it's more exciting than a space launch and twice as powerful.

CHARACTERS

AMERICANS:

JOSEPH GARDNER, President of the United States

KEN T. PHOENIX, Vice President

CONRAD F. CARLISLE, National Security Advisor to the President

MILLER H. TURNER, Secretary of Defense

GERALD VISTA, Director of National Intelligence

WALTER CORDUS, White House Chief of Staff

STACY ANN BARBEAU, Senior U.S. Senator from Louisiana and Senate Majority Leader; Colin Morna, her assistant

GENERAL TAYLOR J. BAIN, USMC, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff

GENERAL CHARLES A. HUFFMAN, Chief of Staff of the Air Force

AIR FORCE GENERAL BRADFORD CANNON, Commander, US Strategic Command (STRATCOM)

ARMY GENERAL KENNETH LEPERS, Commander, US Central Command (CENTCOM)

MAJOR GENERAL HAROLD BACKMAN, Commanding General, Fourteenth Air Force; also Joint Functional Component Commander-Space (JFCC-S), U.S. Strategic Command

Lt. GENERAL PATRICK MCLANAHAN, Commander, Advanced Aerospace Weapons Center (HAWC), Elliott AFB, Nevada

BRIGADIER GENERAL DAVID LUGER, HAWC Deputy Commander

COL MARTIN TEHAMA, new HAWC commander

Major General REBECCA FURNESS, Commander, First Air Operations, Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base (ARB), Nevada

BRIGADIER GENERAL DAREN MAYS, Air Force Operations Officer, 111th Bomb Wing Commander and EB-1C Mission Commander

MAJOR WAYNE MACOMBER, Deputy Commanding General (Ground Operations), First Combat Air Force, Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base, Nevada

MASTER SERGEANT, MARINE CORPS CHRIS WALL, Sergeant, First Air Force

US ARMY NATIONAL GUARD CAPT CHARLIE TURLOCK, CID Pilot

CAPTAIN Hunter "Boomer" NOBLE, Commander, XR-A9 Black Stallion, Elliott Air Force Base, Groom Lake

US Navy Lt. Commander LISETT "FRENCHY" MOULIN, XR-A9 Commander

US MARINE CORPS MAJOR JIM TERRANOVA, XR-A9 mission commander

ANN PAGE, Ph.D., former US Senator, astronaut and space weapons engineer

Air Force MASTER Sergeant VALERIE "FINDER" LUCAS, Armstrong Space Station sensor operator

IRANIANS:

GENERAL HESARAK AL-KAN BUJAZI, leader of the Persian military coup

AZAR ASIA KAGEV, presumptive heir to the Peacock Throne of Persia

LIEUTENANT COLONEL PARVIZ NAJAR AND MAJOR MARA SAIDI, adjutants to Azar Kagev

COLONEL MOSTAFA RAHMATI, Commander, Fourth Infantry Brigade, Tehran-Mehrabad Airport

MAJOR KULOM HADDAD, Head of the Bouzhazi Personal Security Group

MASUD NOSHAR, Lord High Chancellor of the Royal Household of Kagewa and Marshal of the Court Military Council

AYATOLLAH HASAN MOHTAZ, Supreme Leader of the Islamic Republic of Iran in exile

RUSSIANS:

LEONID ZEVITIN, President of the Russian Federation

PETER ORLEV, Chief of Staff of the Presidential Administration

ALEXANDRA KHEDROV, Minister of Foreign Affairs

IGOR TRUZNEV, head of the Federal Security Bureau

ANATOLY VLASOV, Secretary of the Russian Security Council

MIKHAIL OSTENKOV, Minister of National Defense

GENERAL KUZMA FURZIENKO, Russian Chief of the General Staff

GENERAL NIKOLAI OSTANKO, Chief of Staff of the Russian Army

GENERAL ANDREY DARZOV, Chief of Staff of the Russian Air Force

WOLFGANG ZYPRIES, German laser engineer working with the Russian Air Force

WEAPONS AND ABBREVIATIONS

9K89 - a small Russian surface-to-surface missile

ARB - Air Force Reserve Base

ATO - the procedure for setting tasks in the air

BDU-58 Meteor is a precision-guided vehicle designed to protect payloads from heat during re-entry; can carry approximately 4,000 lbs.

CIC - Combat Information Center

kunass - a person of Cajun ethnicity

E-4B - National Airborne Operations Center

E-6B Mercury - US Navy air communications and command post aircraft

EB-1D bomber-B-1 Lancer, modified into an unmanned long-range supersonic attack aircraft

ETE - estimated travel time

FAA Part 91 - Rules Governing Private Pilots and Aircraft

FSB - Russian Federal Security Bureau, successor to the KGB

HAWC - High-Tech Aerospace Weapons Center

ICD - implantable cardioverter defibrillator

Ilyushin - Russian tanker aircraft in flight

MiG-Mikoyan-Gureyvich, Russian manufacturer of military aircraft

OSO - Offensive Systems Officer

RQ-4 Global Hawk - high-altitude, long-range unmanned reconnaissance aircraft

SAR - synthetic aperture radar; also search and rescue

Skybolt - laser for space-based missile defense

SPEAR is an electronic network intrusion protection system with a flexible response to self-defense

sun-synchronous - an Earth orbit in which a satellite passes over the same place at the same time of day.

Tupolev - twin-engine Russian jet bomber

USAFE - United States Air Forces in Europe

VFR - Visual Rules of Flight

The Vomit Comet is an aircraft used to perform parabolic flights to simulate weightlessness.

The XAGM-279A SkySTREAK (Rapid Tactical Attack, or "Sky") is a 4,000-pound, 12-foot-long, 24-inch diameter air-launched hypersonic strike missile; uses a solid rocket motor to accelerate the rocket to Mach 3, then switches to a JP-7 jet engine using jet fuel and compressed atmospheric oxygen to fly at Mach 10; inertial and high-precision GPS navigation; the satellite data link operator is reprogrammed midway; maximum flight range along the ballistic profile is 600 miles; after acceleration to Mach 10, launches a high-precision warhead with a millimeter-wave radar and an infrared targeting terminal with automatic target recognition or target selection by a remote operator of satellite data transmission; without warhead; two may be carried on board an EB-1C Vampire bomber in the aft bomb bay; four carried internally or four externally on the EB-52 Megafortress; four carried inside a B-2 stealth bomber

XR-A9 - single-stage "Black Stallion" spaceplane launched into orbit

EXTRACTS FROM REAL WORLD NEWS

STRATFOR MORNING INTELLIGENCE REPORT, January 18, 2007 At 12:16 GMT - CHINA, United States

- US intelligence agencies believe China destroyed the aging Feng Yun 1C weather satellite in polar orbit during a successful anti-satellite weapon test (ASAT). January 11, China Daily reported on January 18, citing an article published in the January 22 issue of Aviation Week & Space Technology. US intelligence agencies are still trying to verify the results of the ASAT test, which would indicate that China has a major new military capability...

...A new cloud of debris orbiting Earth hints at what would happen if two space-faring powers clashed in conflict. Particularly in the case of the United States, space assets have become too important an operational tool to continue to be ignored in times of war.

STRATFOR DAILY INTELLIGENCE REPORT, April 3, 2007 - USA/IRAN:

US attacks against Iran would not lead to a decisive military defeat for Tehran and would be a political mistake, said Chief of the Russian General Staff General J. Yuri Baluevsky. He added that the United States could damage Iran's military without winning the conflict outright.

STRATFOR INTELLIGENCE REPORT, September 7, 2007

- Cooperation between the Russian Federal Security Service and the Iranian Ministry of Internal Affairs will increase the security of Iran's borders, said First Deputy Director General of the Russian Federal Security Service and Border Service Viktor Shlyakhtin, according to an IRNA report. Shlyakhtin is in Iran to inspect Iranian-Russian projects in areas of the Iranian province of Sistan-Baluchistan that border Afghanistan and Pakistan.

RED OCTOBER: RUSSIA, IRAN AND IRAQ

- STRATFOR

Geopolitical Intelligence Report, September 17, 2007-Copyright No Strategic Forecasting Inc.

"...The Americans need the Russians not to provide fighter jets, advanced command and control systems, or any other military systems that the Russians have developed." First of all, they want the Russians not to provide any nuclear weapons technology to the Iranians.

So it's no coincidence that the Iranians said over the weekend that the Russians told them they would do just that.

...[Russian President Vladimir] Putin could join the Iranians and put the United States in a much more difficult situation than it would otherwise be. He could achieve this by supporting Syria, arming militias in Lebanon, or even creating significant problems in Afghanistan, where Russia retains a degree of influence in the North...

STRATFOR INTELLIGENCE SUMMARY, OCTOBER 25, 2007, No. STRATFOR INC.

- During Russian President Vladimir Putin's Oct. 16 visit to Tehran, Iran's Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei asked him to send Russian experts to help Iran figure out how Israel blocked Syrian radars before the Sept. 6 air raid, a Hezbollah source told Stratfor. Iran wants to fix the Syrian radar failure because Iran uses similar equipment, the source added.

RUSSIA, IRAN: THE NEXT STEP IN DIPLOMATIC TANGO

- STRATFOR

Global Intelligence Brief, October 30, 2007, No. 2007 Stratfor, Inc. - ...Russia has a well-established strategy of using the interests of its Middle Eastern allies for its own political purposes. Iran is an ideal candidate. It is a powerful Islamic state that is embroiled in a showdown with the United States over its nuclear program and Iraq. Although Washington and Tehran constantly battle war rhetoric in the public sphere, they need to deal with each other for the sake of their strategic interests.

Russia, meanwhile, is fighting its own turf war with the United States, which involves a number of hot-button issues including national missile defense, renegotiation of Cold War treaties and Western intervention on Russia's periphery. By demonstrating that Moscow has some real influence over the Iranians, Russia gains a useful bargaining chip in negotiations with the United States...

ALTAI OPTICAL-LASER DIRECTORY, December 28, 2007

- The [Russian Federation] Precision Instrumentation Research Institute has established a satellite tracking branch called the Altai Optical Laser Center (AOLS) near the small Siberian town of Savvushka. The center consists of two facilities, one of which is currently operational and the other is planned to become operational in 2010 or after that date.

At the current site, a laser range finder is installed to accurately determine the orbit, and for the first time in Russia, a telescope with an aperture of 60 cm is equipped with an adaptive optics system for obtaining high-resolution images of satellites. The second site will be equipped with a 3.12-meter satellite imaging telescope, broadly similar to the one used by the United States in Hawaii.

...Successful implementation of the 3.12-meter AOLS system would allow satellite imagery with a resolution of 25 cm [9.8 inches] or higher at a distance of 1000 km [621 miles].

PROLOGUE

Don't be too timid and scrupulous in your actions. All life is an experiment. The more experiments you do, the better.

- RALPH WALDO EMERSON

OVER EASTERN SIBERIA

FEBRUARY 2009

"Get ready...ready...ready...start climbing, now," the ground controller radioed.

"Accepted," replied the pilot of the Russian Mikoyan-Gurevich-31BM long-range interceptor of the Russian Federation. He gently lowered the control stick and began to apply power. The twin Tumanski R15-BD-300 engines, the most powerful engines ever fitted to a fighter jet, roared once as the afterburners ignited, then quickly came to life as the engines' fuel turbopumps caught powerful air currents rushing in, converting air and fuel. into raw power and acceleration.

The pilot's eyes darted back and forth from the power indicators to the display, which showed two crossed arrows with a circle in the middle, similar to an instrument landing system. He made gentle, almost imperceptible controls to keep the crossed needles in the center of the circle. Its contributions had to be tiny, because the slightest slip now, with its nose nearly forty degrees above the horizon and climbing, could disrupt the smooth flow of air into the engine intake ports, causing the compressor to blow out or stall. The Mig-31, known in the West as the Foxhound, was not a forgiving machine - it regularly killed sloppy or inattentive crew members. Built for speed, it required precise control at the outer limits of its impressive performance.

"We are passing ten thousand meters... Two tenths of mach... fifteen thousand... forty degrees on heading... Airspeed is decreasing slightly," the pilot intoned. The MiG-31 was one of the few aircraft that could accelerate in a steep climb, but for this test flight they were going to fly it above the service ceiling of twenty thousand meters, and then its performance was significantly reduced. "We are moving twenty kilometers, airspeed is below Mach two... We are moving twenty-two kilometers... get ready... We are approaching the original speed and altitude..."

"Keep him in the center, Yuri," said the person sitting in the back seat of the Miga over the intercom. The needles moved slightly towards the edge of the circle. Tonight, the circle represented their target, relayed to them not by the MiG-31's powerful phased array radar, but by the network of space-based tracking radars around the Russian Federation, relayed to them by a nearby data relay aircraft. They will never see their target and will probably never know whether their mission was a success or a failure.

"It's getting less responsive...Harder to fix," the pilot breathed. Both crew members wore pressure suits and pressurized helmets that covered the entire face, like astronauts, and as the cabin altitude increased, the pressure in the suit increased to compensate, making movement and breathing more difficult. "How long......longer?"

"Ten seconds... nine... eight..."

"Come on, old pig, gain altitude," the pilot grumbled.

"Five seconds... The rocket is ready... tree, two, adin... pajar! Launch it!"

The Mig-31 was at an altitude of twenty-five thousand meters above the Earth, flying at a speed of one thousand kilometers per hour, the nose was at an altitude of fifty degrees above the horizon, when the ship's computer issued the launch command, and a single large missile was fired away from the fighter. A few seconds after ejection, the rocket engine of the rocket's first stage ignited, a huge column of fire erupted from the nozzles, and the rocket disappeared from view in the blink of an eye.

Now it's time to fly for yourself, not for the mission, the pilot reminded himself. He returned the throttles slowly, carefully, and at the same time began a slight roll to the left. The roll would help reduce lift and reduce excessive speed, and would also help lower the nose without subjecting the crew to negative G-forces. The pressure began to drop and it became a little easier to breathe - or was it just because their part of the mission was...?

The pilot lost concentration for just a split second, but that was enough. The moment it allowed a one-degree sideways slip, the fighter flew through the disrupted supersonic air created by the exhaust tail of the large rocket, and the air flow through the left engine was almost cut off. One engine coughed, gurgled, and then began to screech as fuel continued to pour into the burner tanks, but the hot exhaust gases were no longer pushed out.

With one engine running and the other on fire, and with insufficient air to restart the stalled engine, the MiG-31 aircraft was doomed. But the rocket she fired worked flawlessly.

Fifteen seconds after the first stage engine fired, it separated from the rocket and the second stage engine fired. The speed and altitude increased rapidly. Soon the rocket was five hundred miles above the Earth, traveling at over three thousand miles per hour, and the second stage engine separated. Now the third stage remains. High above the atmosphere, it did not require any control surfaces to maneuver, instead relying on tiny nitrogen-gas engines to maneuver. The radar in the nose of the third stage activated and began looking at a precise point in space, and a second later it zeroed in on its target.

The rocket did not have enough speed to begin its orbit around the Earth, so as soon as the second stage separated, it began its long fall, but it did not need to enter orbit: like an atmospheric anti-tank missile, it fell along a ballistic trajectory to a calculated point in space, where her prey will be in a matter of seconds. The predicted trajectory, programmed long before launch by ground controllers, was soon verified by onboard guidance computers: the target's orbit had not changed. The interception went exactly as planned.

Twenty seconds before impact, the third stage deployed a circular composite net fifty yards wide-well above the atmosphere, the net was unaffected by air pressure and remained round and strong despite speeds of several thousand miles per hour. The net was insurance against a near miss... But this time it wasn't needed. Because the third stage was securely locked onto the target and required little to no hard maneuvering due to the accuracy of the launch and flight path, the third stage scored a direct hit on the intended target.

* * *

"Collision, sir," the technician reported. "Telemetry was not received from the product under test."

The commanding general, chief of staff of the Russian air force, Andrei Darzov, nodded. "But what about the flight path? Did incorrect launch parameters affect this?"

The technician looked confused. "Uh...no sir, I don't think so," he said. "The launch seemed to go perfectly."

"I don"t agree, sergeant," Darzov said. He turned to the technician and gave him an angry look. The angry look was bad enough, but Darzov shaved his head to better show off his extensive battle injuries and burns all over his head and body, and he looked even more intimidating. "This missile was significantly off course and may have mistakenly targeted and attacked the off-course satellite."

"Sir?" - asked the technician, confused. "The target is... uh, the American space-based Pathfinder satellite? It was-"

"Is this what we got into, Sergeant?" - Darzov asked. "Why, this was not included in the flight test plan at all. There has been a terrible mistake and I will make sure it is fully investigated." His features softened, he smiled, then squeezed the technician's shoulder. "Be sure to write in your report that the rocket veered off course due to side slip in the launch device - I will take care of the rest. And the target was not the American SBSS, but our target Soyuz spacecraft, launched into orbit last month. Is that clear, Sergeant?"

CHAPTER FIRST

It is better to be cruel if there is violence in our hearts than to put on the cloak of nonviolence to cover up powerlessness.

- MAHATMA GANDHI

ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

IN THE SAME TIME

"Okay, suckers, come on and stick your head out - just a little bit," muttered Captain Hunter "Boomer" Noble. "Don't be afraid - it won't hurt at all." It was the second day of their new patrol, and so far they had achieved nothing, except for the constant headache from watching the touch monitors for hours.

"Hang in there, sir," Air Force Master Sergeant Valerie "Finder" Lucas said cheerfully. "You're anticipating, and that negative energy just keeps their heads down."

"It's not negative energy, Seeker, whatever it is," Boomer said, rubbing his eyes. "It"s that TV picture-it"s killing me." Hunter rubbed his eyes. They looked at a high-definition widescreen image of a suburban part of southeastern Tehran, in what used to be called the Islamic Republic of Iran but is now called by many around the world the Democratic Republic of Persia. The image, captured by a telescopic electro-optical camera mounted aboard a U.S. Air Force RQ-4 Global Hawk unmanned reconnaissance aircraft orbiting sixty thousand feet above the city, was fairly stable, but each tremor, no matter how random, felt like another to Boomer. a pinch of sand thrown into the eyes.

The two were not seated at a console in a normal Earth combat control center, but in the main combat control module of the Armstrong space station, located two hundred and seventy-five miles above Earth in an orbit tilted forty-seven degrees to the east. Noble and Lucas were among four additional personnel brought on board for a mission to monitor and command U.S. Air Force air combat forces over the Democratic Republic of Persia. Although Boomer was a space veteran with several dozen orbital flights and even a spacewalk to his credit, floating in zero gravity while staring at a monitor was not what he joined the Air Force for. "How long are we at the station?"

"Only five more hours, sir," Lucas said, smiling and shaking her head in mock disbelief as Noble groaned at her answer. Seeker was an eighteen-year veteran of the United States Air Force, but she still looked barely older than the day she enlisted in January 1991, when Operation Desert Storm began, and she loved her profession as much as she did then. . Images of laser- and TV-guided bombs flying through windows and into ventilation shafts fascinated and excited her, and she began basic training two days after graduating from high school. She attended every high-tech school and optical-electronic sensing course she could find, quickly becoming a well-rounded expert in remote sensing and guidance systems. "Besides propulsion, environmental and electronic systems, the most important systems in strategic intelligence are patience and a steely butt."

"I"d rather fly by myself," Boomer said irritably, settling back into his bulkhead mount in front of the large monitor. He was slightly taller than the average American astronaut, for whom most of the instruments on the space station were apparently designed, so he found that almost everything on the station was sufficiently the wrong size, height, or orientation to irritate him. Although the twenty-five-year-old test pilot, engineer and astronaut was a space veteran, he spent most of his time in space strapped into the comfortable safety of a spaceplane at the controls rather than floating in zero gravity. "All these remote control things are for birds."

"Are you calling me 'bird', sir?" she asked with feigned disapproval.

"I'm not advocating anything, Master Sergeant-I'm expressing my personal opinion on this particular procedure," Boomer said. He pointed to the screen. "The picture is really good, but this radar-guided thing is driving me crazy."

"This is a SAR reticle, sir," said Seeker. "It is driven by synthetic aperture radar and will highlight any large vehicle or device that comes into the sensor's field of view and matches our search parameters. If we didn't have it, we'd have to manually scan every car in the city - it would really drive you crazy."

"I know what it is, Master Sergeant," said Boomer, "but you can"t get it to stop thrashing and fluttering and shaking all over the screen so much?" The monitor displayed a rectangular box that appeared and disappeared frequently in the scene. When it appeared, the box would surround the vehicle, adjust its size to fit the vehicle, and then if it met the programmed size parameters, a beep would sound and the camera would zoom in so people could see what the computers had detected. But it only stayed focused on one vehicle for five seconds before restarting a full-area scan, so Boomer and Seeker had to watch the screen almost constantly and be ready to press the HOLD button to study the image before the computer shut down again . "It gives me a fucking headache."

"I think it's incredible that he does what he does, sir," said the Seeker, "and I'm more than willing to put up with some hesitation if it helps us find-" And at that moment the computer detected another car, which just showed up in a parking lot next to a group of apartment buildings. A second later, the Seeker pressed the hold button. "Hey, we caught one!" - she shouted. "It's Katyusha...but I think it's a Ra'ad rocket! We forced them to conduct a raid!"

"You're mine, suckers," Boomer said, instantly forgetting about his supposed headache. He glanced at the monitor, but was already busy checking that the target coordinates received by the Global Hawk were loaded correctly. The live image was incredibly detailed. They watched as four men carried a large rocket, shaped like a large artillery shell with fins, out of the garage and onto the back of a Toyota pickup truck - it must have been very heavy because they seemed to be having a hard time carrying it. The pickup had a large steel frame stand mounted in the frame of the pickup, with a round stand on top. The men placed the missile on the back of the truck, then two of them jumped up and began to struggle to lift the missile towards the launcher.

"Don't give it up, guys," said the Seeker. "You don't want to ruin our fun, do you?" She turned to Boomer. "How much longer, sir?"

"Target coordinates loaded," Boomer said. "The countdown now begins. How much time do we have?"

"Once they put it in the launcher, it can be launched in less than a minute."

Boomer raised his eyes and looked at the monitor. Several children ran up to the truck to look at the terrorists' work - they were initially chased away, but after a few moments they were allowed to take a closer look. "It looks like there's a 'Career Day' in Tehran," he said grimly.

"Get out of there, children," muttered the Seeker. "It"s not safe for you there."

"Not because of us," Boomer said coldly. He pressed the transmitter button on his console. "The Ripper Calls Genesis."

"I'm right here, Boomer," replied Lt. Gen. Patrick McLanahan, "standing" on the bulkhead behind Boomer and looking over his shoulder. The twenty-one-year Air Force veteran and three-star general was the commander of Elliott Air Force Base, Groom Lake, Nevada, home of the High-End Aerospace Weapons Center, or HAWC. HAWC developed the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane, along with countless other air weapons and aircraft, but it was leaders like Patrick McLanahan who saw the potential of these experimental devices and deployed them in crisis situations where America or its allies would otherwise suffer would suffer huge losses or even be defeated. Short, strong without being bulky, with disarming blue eyes and a quick smile, Patrick McLanahan looked nothing like the energetic, determined, brash, globe-trotting aerial bombing expert and master tactician his reputation portrayed. Like Boomer and Seeker, McLanahan was becoming a veteran astronaut-his third trip to the Armstrong space station in as many months.

"We have a good option, sir," Boomer said, nodding at his monitor. "This time, too, not a small homemade Kassam or Katyusha." Boomer studied the face of the young three-star Air Force general, noticing that his eyes were darting back and forth across the monitor - Boomer thought that he was looking not only at the missile, but also at the children huddled around a homemade terror weapon launcher. "Master Sergeant thinks it's a Raad missile."

Patrick didn't seem to hear him, but a few moments later he nodded excitedly. "I agree, Seeker," he said. "Hezbollah weapon based on Russian battalion-level combat missile. Two-hundred-pound warhead, simple but usually effective barometric fuze, mid-air explosion with backup impact detonation, blast radius of one hundred yards or more, usually packed with glass, ball bearings and pieces of metal, as well as powerful explosives to increase the number of casualties. A real weapon of terror." He shook his head. "But there are too many civilians around. Our report states that there were no civilian casualties and collateral damage was minimal. Choose another target, Boomer, one where there will be fewer strangers. We will have many opportunities..."

"We don't see many Raad missiles, sir," Seeker said. "This is not a homemade missile-it is a short-range combat ballistic missile."

"I know, Master Sergeant, but our orders are specific and-" At this point, the rebels shooed the children away again, this time more forcefully, as another rebel connected the ignition wires to the tail of the rocket, making final preparations for launch. "Now," Patrick barked. "Take it off."

"Yes, sir," Boomer responded enthusiastically. He entered commands into his computer, checked the computer's responses, then nodded. "Let's go... The rocket countdown ends... The doors open... Ready... ready... Now launch the rocket." He checked the countdown timer. "Don"t let anyone blink, because this won"t take long."

Over the Caspian Sea, two hundred and twenty miles north of Tehran, an unmanned EB-1D Vampire bomber opened its front and center bomb bay combination doors and fired a single large missile. The D-model Vampire was a modified US Air Force B-1B strategic bomber converted by the Advanced Aerospace Weapons Center into a long-range unmanned flying battleship. It was capable of autonomously piloting itself from takeoff to final landing using a reprogrammable flight plan, or could be operated via satellite remote control, like a large multi-million dollar video game, from a laptop computer located almost anywhere.

The missile that Vampire had just fired was an even more advanced weapon developed by HAWC engineers. Its unclassified designation was XAGM-279A "SKYSTRICK", but anyone who knew anything about this missile - and there were only a few people on the entire planet who did - called it "Swift". It resembled a cross between a bullet and a manta ray, with a pointed carbon fiber nose and a bullet-shaped front section leading to a thin, flat fuselage and a pointed tail. Once stabilized in the atmosphere, four solid rocket motors fired, propelling the weapon to an altitude well in excess of Mach 3 and one hundred thousand feet in just a few seconds.

Within eight seconds, the engines burned out and a wide, flat oval air intake opened under the rocket. Supersonic air was absorbed and compressed into the shape of the now empty rocket motor housings, mixed with jet fuel and ignited by high-energy pulses of laser energy. The resulting energy propelled the missile to more than ten times the speed of sound in just a few seconds, and the missile covered the distance between launch point and target in the blink of an eye, rising two hundred thousand feet as the range decreased. The rocket burned all of its jet fuel in just a few seconds, quickly descended, and began to descend back through the atmosphere. Once the outer surface temperature was within safe limits, the bullet-shaped front section separated from the spent propulsion section, which automatically exploded into pieces a moment later.

Small stabilizers extended from the front and it became a supersonic lander, guided to its target by an on-board navigation computer augmented by global positioning system signals. Fifteen seconds before impact, the containment cap detached, revealing a combination of millimeter wave radar and infrared scanner, and the warhead began transmitting video signals via satellite to Boomer and Seeker in Dreamland. The turn signal on the video image was several yards away, but the Seeker used a trackball and rolled the turn rectangle back on the pickup, which sent turn correction signals to the warhead.

The video image from the warhead was clear all the way to impact. Patrick caught a glimpse of a young man, no older than fifteen or sixteen years old, wearing a mask and carrying an AK-47 that looked almost as big as himself, who looked straight at the approaching weapon milliseconds before the image disappeared. Patrick knew that the warhead was programmed to explode a tenth of a second before impact, splitting the warhead into thousands of small, hyper-velocity fragments, increasing the weapon's blast radius to approximately forty to fifty yards.

"Direct hit!" Boomer screamed happily. He looked at the control monitor and clapped his hands. "Total time from detection to impact: forty-eight point nine seconds. Less than a fucking minute left!"

"It's more like a Maverick missile-or a sniper bullet-but fired from two hundred miles away!" - exclaimed the Seeker. She switched back to the Global Hawk's image of the target area and zoomed in to get a closer look at where the Swift's warhead had impacted. "Pretty nice city weapon effects sir, just what you were hoping for. It's a really decent sized hole, about fifteen to twenty feet in diameter - it looks like the center has been punched through the concrete roof of the garage on the floor below - but I don't see any damage to the surrounding buildings other than a few broken windows. Even a two hundred and fifty pound bomb of small diameter could penetrate the walls of the building facing the explosion site."

"Because the Swift doesn't have an explosive warhead, there's nothing there that could cause any collateral damage," Boomer said. "We placed just enough shaped explosive charges into the warhead to blow it apart milliseconds before impact, both to slightly enhance the effect of the weapon and to destroy as much evidence as possible. All they have to find are tiny pieces-"

"Oh...my...God," the Seeker breathed. She zoomed out to explore her surroundings a little more. Just outside the apartment complex there were clusters of people, perhaps two dozen, lying on the sidewalk and street while others assisted them by frantically calling for help. "What the hell happened here? Where did these people come from, and why are they lying on the ground like this? Are they from an apartment complex...?"

"The Swift One must have activated the warhead of the Raad missile," Boomer said. They all studied the image carefully while the Seeker manually operated the camera and zoomed in. "But what's going on? These people there were not even close to the explosion site, but they are staggering as if they had been hit. Was it shrapnel from a Ra'ad warhead? The Swift has no explosive - it's all kinetic energy. Is the Persian army approaching? What's happening...?"

"Chemical weapons cloud," Patrick said.

"What...?"

"It looks like some kind of chemical weapons cloud spreading out from the target area," Patrick said. He pointed to the monitor. "No more than thirty feet from us. Here is a small part of the cloud... Look, it does not rise like a cloud from an explosion or from high temperature, but moves horizontally, blown by air currents." He took a closer look. "Not twitching...it's hard to say, but it looks like he's rubbing his eyes and face and is having trouble breathing. I'll bet it's the substance causing the blistering... lewisite or phosgene. Mustard gases would take longer to incapacitate someone, even in high concentrations...look, now someone is falling on the other side of the street. God, there must have been several liters of CW in the warhead."

"Oh my God," the Seeker gasped. "I've been dealing with remote sensors for almost twenty years, and I've never seen anyone die from a chemical weapons attack."

"I have a feeling the powers that be are not going to like this," Patrick said.

"Should we recall the Vampire, sir?"

"Hell no," Patrick said. "We still have three more Swifts on board, and another Vampire loaded and waiting to be sent to Mosul. Keep scanning for more rebels. Congratulations, Boomer. The sky break worked perfectly. Kill a few more rebels for us."

"You got it, sir," Boomer said happily.

ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

A little while later

Unfortunately, Patrick turned out to be absolutely right. Global Hawk images were broadcast to several ground locations as well as the Silver Tower, including the Joint Chiefs of Staff operations center in Washington, and it was from there that he received his first call just moments later: "Genesis, this is Rook." It was from the duty officer at the JCS operations center. "Please get ready." A moment later, Air Force Chief of Staff Gen. Charles A. Huffman appeared on the video conference feed, looking a little pale himself but still very angry.

Huffman, tall, dark and very young with rugged, athletic features-more like a linebacker than a running back, Boomer thought-was typical of the new breed of leader in the American military. In the five years since Russian nuclear cruise missiles struck the continental United States, known as the "American Holocaust," which killed several thousand people, injured hundreds of thousands, destroyed several air bases, and destroyed nearly all of America's bombers. long-range weapons were destroyed, the military ranks were swelled with energetic young men and women willing to defend their country, and many officers were promoted well below their primary zones and appointed to important command positions years before this was possible. Additionally, because senior leaders with extensive combat experience remained in charge of tactical units or major commands, often officers with less direct combat experience were placed in more administrative and training positions-and because the chief of staff's office was primarily concerned with equipping and training its forces rather than leading them into battle seemed like a good match.

The same was true for Huffman: Patrick knew he came from a logistics background, a command pilot, an Air Force wing and license plate commander, and a former Air Force Materiel Command commander with over fifteen thousand hours of flight time in a variety of cargo, transport aircraft and communications aircraft in two conflicts, and has extensive experience in logistics, resource management, testing and evaluation. As the former head of Materiel Command, Huffman was the deemed leader of operations at the top-secret Aerospace Advanced Weapons Center at Elliott Air Force Base, although that relationship was largely administrative and logistical-operationally, HAWC commanders reported to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff or the secretary of defense at the Pentagon, the president's national security adviser in the White House, or-at least under former President Kevin Martindale-directly to the president himself.

Patrick had never worked in logistics, but he knew that logistics officers like their world to be as neat, orderly, and organized as possible. Although they learned to expect the unexpected, they greatly preferred to anticipate, predict and manage the unexpected, and therefore anything unexpected was not welcomed. However, he knew Huffman, and he knew that's how Huffman liked it: no surprises. "McLanahan, what the hell happened there?"

"Calling Genesis, please repeat," Patrick said, trying to remind the general that while the connection was encrypted and as secure as they could make it, it was still a wide-open satellite network and could be overheard.

"We're safe here, McLanahan," Huffman boomed. "What the hell is going on? What's happened?"

"We shot down an insurgent missile launcher and apparently detonated its chemical weapons warhead, sir."

"What did you hit him with?"

"XAGM-279 with a kinetic warhead, sir," Patrick replied, using the Skystreak's experimental model number instead of its name to confuse any eavesdroppers. "It contains almost no explosives-just enough to shatter the warhead."

"What is XAGM-279? Experimental precision-guided missile?"

So much for the security of communications, Patrick thought, shaking his head. Five years have passed since the American Holocaust and seven years since 9/11, and many people have forgotten or abandoned the stringent security measures that were put in place after those two devastating attacks. "Yes, sir," was all Patrick said.

"Launched from that unmanned B-1?"

"Yes, sir." Anyone who listened to this conversation-and Patrick didn't kid himself that any number of agencies or divisions around the world could do this so easily-could by now have pieced together their entire operation. "Two days ago I informed the staff about the operation."

"Damn it, McLanahan, you warned of minimal collateral damage, not dozens of dead women and children lying in the street!" Huffman cried. "It was the only way we could sell your idea to the president."

"The weapon caused virtually no collateral damage, sir. The cause of all these civilian casualties was the chemical warhead on the rebel missile."

"Do you believe anyone even cares?" Huffman said. "This is a big mistake, McLanahan. The press will have a great day talking about this." Patrick remained silent. "Well?"

"I don't think it's my task force or my responsibility to worry about what enemy weapons do to civilians, sir," Patrick said. "Our job is to hunt down insurgents firing rockets at populated areas in Tehran and destroy them."

"We have been informed by Kagewa members in the Turkmen insurgent network and Bujazi spies in Mokhtaz's security service that the insurgents could use weapons of mass destruction at any time, McLanahan," Huffman said. Patrick suppressed another exasperated sigh: Huffman had just revealed two highly classified intelligence sources-if anyone was listening, those sources would have been dead for just a few days, maybe hours. "You should have adjusted your tactics accordingly."

"Tactics have been adjusted, sir - I have been ordered to reduce the number of bombers on the station from three to one," Patrick replied. - by you, he added to himself. "But we don't have enough information about the city to effectively deal with the number of registered launchers. I recommend that we launch two more bombers so we can hunt down more launchers before the insurgents actually start bombarding the city with chemical warheads."

"Are you crazy, McLanahan?" Huffman countered. "The President will probably order the entire program shut down because of this! The last thing he will do is send more bombers there. Regardless, we will spend the week defending ourselves against accusations of releasing these chemical warheads. You will immediately recall your aircraft, then prepare to interrogate the CEO and likely all national security personnel. I want a full incident report on my desk in an hour. It's clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"And after the briefing is over, get your ass off the damn space station," Huffman said. "I don"t know why my predecessor allowed you to go up there, but you don"t have the right to drag yourself to that floating pile of pipes every time you feel like it. I need you here - if only so that you personally answer to the national command for yet another error in judgment."

"Yes, sir," Patrick replied, but by the time he spoke, the transmission had already ended. He paused the video conference call, thought for a moment, then said, "McLanahan is calling Mace."

At the opposite bottom corner of Boomer's large multi-function screen, another window opened and he saw the image of Brigadier General Daren Mace, operations officer and deputy commander of the Air Force Attack Wing at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base in northern Nevada. The air wing at Battle Mountain was the home base and central control point for long-range unmanned bombers, although HAWC commanders could also issue instructions to the bombers.

"Yes, General?" Mace replied. Just a few years older than Patrick, Daren Mace was a veteran B-1B Lancer strategic bomber OSO, or offensive systems officer, and bomber wing commander. His expertise in B-1 attack systems and capabilities led to his selection to lead the Air Force's long-range supersonic attack fleet.

"Recall the damned vampires," Patrick ordered colorlessly.

"But sir, we still have three more Swifties aboard the Vampire, and he has at least two more hours to get back to Batman's airbase in Turkey," Boomer interjected. "Intelligence informed us that-"

"The operational test was successful, Boomer is what we needed to find out," Patrick said, rubbing his temples. He shook his head resignedly. "Recall the Vampire now, General Mace," he said quietly, lowering his head, his voice sounding completely exhausted.

"Yes, sir," replied the experienced bomber navigator. He typed the instructions into the keyboard on his computer console. "Vampire" on its way back to Batman's airbase in Turkey, sir, within forty-five minutes. How about follow-up missions?"

"Keep them in the hangars until I give the command," Patrick replied.

"What about our shadow, sir?" - Daren asked.

Patrick looked at the other monitor. Yes, it was still there: a Russian MiG-29 Fulcrum jet fighter, one of several that had hovered next to the bomber since it began patrolling, always within a mile or two of the Vampire, without taking any action. no threatening movements, but certainly capable of attacking at any second. He certainly had a front row seat to the SkySTREAK presentation. The Vampire bomber took several photographs of the fighter with his high-definition digital camera, so detailed that they could practically read the pilot's name stenciled on the front of his flight suit.

"If he targets a Vampire, shoot him down immediately," Patrick said. "Otherwise we will let this-"

And at that moment they heard a computer synthesized voice announce: "Attention, attention, rocket launch! SPEAR system activated!"

Patrick shook his head and sighed loudly. "Game on, team," he said. "The battle begins today, and it has little to do with Persia." He turned to the computer screen of the Battle Mountain command center. "Cover that bastard, Darren," Patrick radioed.

"He's hurt, sir," Daren said.

* * *

As soon as the Vampire bomber detected the missile launch, its newest and most powerful self-defense system activated: ALQ-293 SPEAR, or Self-Defense Rapid Response Electronic System. Large sections of the EB-1D Vampire's composite shell were redesigned to act as an electronically scalable antenna that could transmit and receive many different electromagnetic signals, including radar, laser, radio, and even computer data code.

Once the Mig radar was detected, SPEAR immediately classified the radar, studied its software, and developed a method to not only jam its frequency, but also interface with the radar's digital control itself. Once the missile launch was detected, SPEAR sent commands to the MiG's fire control system to instruct the missile to immediately switch to infrared homing mode, then disabled the digital guidance link from the fighter. The missiles automatically turned off their onboard radars and activated their infrared homing system, but they were too far from the Vampire bomber to be detected by the heat-seeking sensor, and the missiles fell harmlessly into the Caspian Sea without detecting their target.

But the SPEAR was not ready. After the missiles were hit, SPEAR sent digital instructions to the MiG-29 via the fire control system to begin shutting down the aircraft's computer-controlled systems. One by one, navigation, engine control, flight control, and communications shut down on their own.

In an instant, the pilot found himself sitting in a completely silent and dark glider, as if he were sitting on the ramp at his home base.

To his credit, the veteran pilot didn't panic and eject-he didn't go out of control, not yet, but just...well, passed out. There was only one thing left to do: turn off all the switches to reboot the computers, then turn everything back on and hope he could get his crippled plane back up and running before it crashed into the Caspian Sea. He switched his checklist to the BEFORE POWER ON pages and began shutting down every system on the plane. His last image out the window was of watching a large American B-1 bomber swerve to the left, as if waving a wing goodbye to the Russian, and fly off to the northwest, quickly picking up speed and disappearing from sight.

No one in the Russian Air Force ever completed a series of checklists faster than him. He dropped from forty-two thousand feet to four thousand feet over the Caspian Sea before he was able to shut down his jet, turn it back on, and get the engines running again. Fortunately, whatever evil spirits had possessed his MiG-29 were no longer there.

For a brief moment, the Russian Miga pilot thought about pursuing the American bomber completely silent to radar and planting a barrage of cannon shells in its tail - he would still be blamed for almost crashing his plane, so why not go away in ablaze fame? - but after a brief moment of thought, he decided it was a stupid idea. He didn't know what caused the mysterious shutdown-was it some American weapon or a malfunction in his own plane? In addition, the American bomber no longer launched any missiles that could be "mistaken" as an attack against it. This was not a war between Americans and Russians...

...though he felt like it could certainly turn into one at any moment.

* * *

"Let's take stock and then get ready to head back to HAWC, Boomer," Patrick said after they were confident the EB-1C Vampire bomber was returning safely to Batman AFB in Turkey. His voice sounded very tired, and his expression seemed even more tired. "Great job. The system seems to be working fine. We have proven that we can control drones from Silver Tower. This should provide us with some sustainment funding for at least another year."

"General, it's not your fault that the damn rebels had a bunch of kids when the Skystreak attacked, or that they loaded that Raad missile with poisonous gas," Hunter Noble replied, looking at Master Sergeant Lucas with concern.

"I know, Boomer," Patrick said, "but that still doesn"t make it any easier to watch innocent men, women and children die like this."

"Sir, we're here, the Vampire is loaded, the Skystreaks are working fine, and no doubt there are still those raads with poison gas warheads out there somewhere," Boomer said. "I think we should stay and-"

"I hear you, Boomer, but we checked the system - that was the purpose of the mission," Patrick said.

"Our other goal was to try to control some bombers and some combat operations," Boomer reminded him. "We had enough trouble getting approval and funding for this mission-getting approval for another mission to do what we could do on this flight would be even more difficult."

"I know, I know," Patrick said wearily. "I'll ask, Boomer, but I don't count on it. We must analyze the data, prepare a brief report and inform the boss. Let's get to it."

"But, sir-"

"Meet me back here in ten, Boomer," Patrick finally said, lifting himself from his anchor position and heading toward the sleeper module.

"He seemed to take it hard," Seeker said after the general left the control module. Boomer didn't answer. "It kind of shocked me too. Is your general health okay?"

"He had a rough ride here," Boomer said. "Every entry into orbit was difficult for him, but he continues to fly here. I think the last push took a lot out of him. He probably shouldn't make these trips anymore."

"It could have been watching these people get killed like that," Seeker said. "I've seen the effects of a guided missile attack many times, but somehow a biochemical weapon attack... is different, you know? More violent." She looked at Boomer curiously, unable to read his rather expressionless expression. "Did that shock you too, Boomer?"

"Well..." And then he shook his head and added, "No, that"s not true, Seeker. All I want to do now is hunt down more bad guys. I don"t understand why the general wanted to end this so quickly."

"You heard the chief, sir," said the Seeker. "The general wanted to send two other bombers."

"I know, I know". Boomer examined the module. "What we can do aboard this station is amazing, Sergeant, truly amazing - we should be allowed to do it. We need to convince the powers that be that we can put the Air Force on its ear. We can't do that if we pull out our planes when a small child ten thousand miles away is caught in the crossfire. I can"t believe the general"s eyes got cloudy like that."

Master Sergeant Lucas looked sternly at Boomer. "Do you mind if I say something, sir?" - she finally asked.

"Go straight ahead, Seeker...or is it 'Master Sergeant' now?"

"I haven't been with HAWC as long-not as long as you," Lucas said, ignoring the sarcastic remark, "and I don't know General McLanahan that well, but that guy is a damn hero in my book. He spent almost twenty years risking his ass in battles all over the world. He was kicked out of the Air Force twice, but he returned because he is dedicated to his country and service."

"Hey, I'm not going to badmouth the guy-"

"The 'guy' you're referring to, sir, is a three-star general in the United States Air Force and commands the largest and most highly classified aerospace research center in the US military," Lucas interrupted heatedly. "General McLanahan is nothing short of a legend." He was shot, shot, blown up, beaten, ridiculed, arrested, demoted and called every name in the book. He lost his wife, a close friend and dozens of crew members under his command. You sir on the other hand are in the police already...seven years? Eight? You are a talented engineer, a skilled pilot and astronaut-"

"But?" - I asked.

"But you are not in the league of generals, sir-far, very far from that," Lucas continued. "You don't have the experience and you haven't demonstrated the same level of commitment as the general. You are not qualified enough to judge the general-in fact, in my opinion, sir, you have not earned the right to speak of him in that way."

"It"s like you"re talking to me right now?"

"Write about me if you want, sir, but I don"t like you overestimating the general like that," Lucas said decisively. She logged out of her console and separated from the bulkhead with an indignant jerk and a loud roar! made of Velcro. "I'll help you download the sensor data and prepare a report for the general, and then I'll be happy to help you prepare the Black Stallion for undocking...so you can go home as soon as possible, sir." She said the word "sir," which sounded more like "mongrel," and the blow didn"t escape Boomer.

With Seeker's annoyed and angry help - not to mention the fact that they didn't communicate very much while working - Boomer was actually done quickly. He uploaded his data and findings to the general. "Thanks, Boomer," McLanahan responded over the radio. "We plan to have a video conference in about ninety minutes. I learned that the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the National Security Adviser were going to attend. Relax for a while and get some rest."

"I'm fine, sir," Boomer replied. "I'll hide in the Skybolt, get my email, and check on my girlfriends."

"Girlfriends... plural?"

"I don't know-we'll see what the emails say," Boomer said. "None of them like me disappearing for days and weeks at a time, and I certainly can"t tell them I"ve been killing terrorists to hell from space."

"They probably wouldn"t believe you if you told them."

"The ladies I hang out with don"t know a space station from a gas station-and I love it," Boomer admitted. "They don't know or don't care what I do for a living. All they want is attention and a good time in town, and if they don't get it, they go their separate ways."

"Sounds lonely."

"That's why I always prefer to have more than one on the hook, sir," Boomer said.

"There might be some fireworks if they ever run into each other, huh?"

"We connect all the time, sir," Boomer said. "No boasting, just a fact. Like I said, all they want is attention, and they get even more attention if people see them arm-in-arm with another hot babe. Besides, if there is ever any conversation..."

"Wait, wait, I know it, Boomer: 'If there's a conversation going on, you don't have to get involved,'" Patrick interjected with a laugh. "Okay, go say hi to your girlfriends, and don't tell me how many of them are waiting for you." return. Meet me in the command module in sixty minutes so we can rehearse our dog and pony show."

"Yes, sir," Boomer replied. Before McLanahan passed out, he asked, "Uh, General?"

"Continue".

"I'm sorry if I stepped out of line earlier."

"I expect you to share your professional opinion and perspective with me at any time, Boomer, especially on a mission," Patrick said. "If you were out of line, I wouldn"t hesitate to let you know."

"I got pretty pissed off watching those bastards install a missile with a damn chemical warhead on it. All I wanted to do was blow up a few more."

"I hear you. But it is much more important that we launch this program. We both know that we will have to face criticism for what happened in Tehran - launching more missiles would not have helped us."

"Perhaps the destruction of a few more terrorists would force them to keep their heads down and hide in their holes for a few more days."

"We have incredible weapons at our disposal, Boomer-let's not let the power go to our heads," Patrick said patiently. "This was an operational test, not an actual mission. I know it's tempting to play Zeus with a few SkySTREAK missiles, but that's not what we're here for. Meet me here in sixty."

"Yes, sir," he replied. Just before the General logged off, Boomer noted to himself that the General looked more tired than he had at any time since this space station foray began-perhaps the combination of watching the chemical weapons release and the monthly spaceflights had begun get on his nerves. Boomer was half his age, and sometimes the stress of travel, especially the recent fast turns, high-G approaches and multiple combat missions they flew, quickly wore him down.

Boomer swam back to the crew compartment, picked up his wireless headphones and video eyes, and swam to the Skybolt laser module at the "bottom" of the station. Skybolt was the most powerful and therefore most controversial example of the station's technology, a multi-gigawatt free electron laser powerful enough to pierce the Earth's atmosphere and melt steel in a matter of seconds. Connected to Silver Tower radars and other sensors, the Skybolt could hit targets the size of cars and burn through the top armor of all but the most advanced main battle tanks. Classified as a "weapon of mass destruction" by all of America's adversaries, the United Nations has called for the weapon's deactivation for years, and only America's Security Council veto has kept it alive.

Anne Page, Skybolt's developer, operator, and chief advocate, was on Earth preparing to testify to Congress about why weapons funding should continue, and Boomer knew that very few others on the station had ever come close to the thing-" Skybolt was powered by an MHDG, or magnetohydrodynamic generator, which used two small nuclear reactors to rapidly send a stream of molten metal back and forth through a magnetic field to produce the enormous amount of energy required by the laser, and no amount of protective shields or reassurances from Ann could dispel anyone's... or fears - which means he often went into the module to calm down a little. The Skybolt module was about a quarter the size of the station's main modules, so it was relatively cramped inside and crammed with pipes, wires, and a variety of computers and other components, but the soft hum of the MHDG drive circulation pumps and excellent computers and communications equipment made it Boomer's favorite place to hang out. he could retire from the others for a while.

Boomer connected his headphones and video eyes to the module's computers, logged in and began downloading email. While headphones and safety glasses were an issue, there was very little privacy in the Silver Tower, even in the huge pods, so the only semblance of privacy was limited to the space between the ears. Everyone assumed that if the personnel of the top-secret, high-tech Aerospace Weapons Center were aboard the space station, then all incoming and outgoing transmissions of any kind were recorded and monitored, so "confidentiality" was an empty idea at best.

It's a good thing he bothered to put on the gear, because the video emails from his girlfriends were definitely not meant for public viewing. Chloe's video was typical: "Boomer, where the hell are you?" It started with Chloe sitting in front of her videophone and taking pictures of herself. "I'm starting to get tired of you disappearing like this. Nobody in your unit would tell me a damn thing. That sergeant who answers the phone should be fired from the force, fagot." Chloe called any man who didn't immediately hit on her a "faggot," believing that being gay was the only reason any normal man wouldn't want to fuck her right away.

She paused for a moment, her features softening a little, and Boomer knew the show was about to begin, "You better not be with that spiky haired blonde bitch, Tammy or Teresa, or whatever the hell her name is." You're at her house, aren't you, or did you two fly off to Mexico or Hawaii, right? You two just fucked and are checking your email while she showers, right?" Chloe set the videophone on the table, unbuttoned her blouse, and pulled her large, firm breasts out from under her bra. "Let me just remind you, Boomer, what you"re missing here." She sensually put her finger in her mouth, then circled her nipples with it. "Get your ass back here and stop hanging around with those stinking bottle blonde whores." She smiled seductively, then hung up.

"Crazy bitch," Boomer muttered as he continued to scroll through his messages, but determined to find her as soon as he returned. After previewing additional messages, he stopped and immediately entered the code to access the satellite Internet server. Another benefit of the new American space initiative, centered on the Armstrong space station, was the impending availability of near-universal Internet access through a constellation of more than one hundred low-orbit satellites that provided global low-speed Internet access, plus ten geostationary satellites that provided high-speed broadband access to the Internet throughout most of the Northern Hemisphere.

"No IP address, no extensions, no public active server ID - it must be a call from space," came the response from John Masters, moments after establishing a videophone connection to the specified secure address. John Masters was the vice president of Sky Masters Inc., a small high-tech research and development company that developed and licensed many different emerging aerospace technologies, from microsatellites to space accelerators. Masters, a scientist and engineer with multiple Ph.D.s and considered one of the world's most innovative aerospace designers and thinkers, founded his company at the ripe age of twenty-five, and he still looked and acted like a geeky, eccentric, and easy-going prodigy. "Thanks for calling me back, Boomer."

"No problem, John."

"How are things up there?"

"Great. Fine."

"I know you can't talk about this on the satellite server, even if it's encrypted. Just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Thank you. I'm fine ".

There was a short pause; then: "You sound a little depressed, my friend."

"No".

"Fine". Another pause. "So. What do you think of my proposal?

"That's extremely generous, John," Boomer said. "I'm not sure if I deserve this."

"I wouldn't suggest this if I didn't think you'd agree."

"And I can work on whatever I want?"

"Well, we hope we can get you to help us on other projects," Masters said, "but I want you to do what you do best: think outside the box and create projects that are fresh, innovative and mind-blowing." I'm not trying to play or pre-empt the aerospace market, Boomer - I'm trying to shape it. This is what I want you to do. You won't answer to anyone but me, and you can choose your team, your protocols, your design approach, and your deadlines-within reason, of course. You knock me out of the park with your ideas, and I will support you until the end."

"And this is the approximate budget figure for my lab...?"

"Yes?" - I asked.

"Is this for real, John?"

"This is just a starting point, Boomer is the minimum," Masters chuckled. "You want it in writing, just say it, but I guarantee you that you will have a generous budget to build a team to research and evaluate your projects."

"Even so, it is not enough for the entire unit. I will need-"

"You don"t understand, Boomer," Masters interrupted excitedly. "This money is for you and your team only and is not distributed among everyone in your department, existing projects, or specific company-approved programs or technologies."

"Are you kidding!"

"I'm serious as a heart attack, brother," Masters said. "And that's not because of things like company-wide costs, compliance mandates or security, but because of the costs associated with your team and the project. I believe in giving our best engineers the tools they need to do their jobs."

"I can not believe this. I"ve never even heard of a small company like this investing that kind of money."

"Believe it, Boomer," Masters said. "We may be small, but we have investors and a board of directors who think big and expect big things to happen."

"Investors? Board of Directors...?"

"We all answer to someone, Boomer," Masters said. "I ran my company on my own with a carefully selected board of directors, and everything was fine until the projects became smaller and money became tight. There were a lot of investors who wanted to be a part of what we were doing here, but no one wants to put hundreds of millions of dollars into a one-man show. We're public and I'm not president anymore, but everyone knows I'm the guy who works miracles."

"I don't know..."

"Don't worry about the board, Boomer. You report to me. Keep in mind, I'm going to make you work for every cent. I'm going to expect great things from you, and I'm going to put bugs in your ears about what I know or discover about government requests for proposals, but like I said, I don't want you waiting around for some sausage in The Pentagon will tell us what they might want - I want us to tell them what they want. So what do you say? Are you in?

"I'm thinking about it, John."

"Fine. No problem. I know your commitment to the Air Force expires in eight months, correct?" Boomer speculated that John Masters knew this until the day his educational commitment to the Air Force pilot training ended. "I guarantee that before then they will offer you regular commissions along with a big bonus. They may try to stop you by saying you have a critical specialty, but we will deal with it when and if necessary. I have enough contracts with the Air Force and enough buddies in the Pentagon to put some pressure on them to respect your decisions. At the end of the day, you're not going to go work for an airline or be a consultant or a lobbyist-you're going to work for a company that creates the next generation of equipment for them."

"Sounds tempting."

"I bet you do, Boomer," said John Masters. "Don't worry about anything. One more thing, buddy. I know I"m older than you, probably old enough to be your father if I started really early, so I can give you a little warning."

"What is this, John?"

"I know trying to tell you to take it easy, play it safe, and maybe not fly as often on missions is like trying to tell my golden retriever to stay away from the lake, but I wouldn't want a future company vice president R&D has become a shooting star, so calm down, okay?"

"Vice President?"

"Oh, did I say that out loud?" The masters are unperturbed. "You weren't supposed to hear that. Forget I said that. Forget that the board considered it but didn't want me to reveal it. Time to go before I tell you about the other thing the board has been kicking around... oops, almost did it again. Later, Boomer."

OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT, KREMLIN, MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

A little while later

The hall was loudly brought to attention when the President of the Russian Federation Leonid Zevitin quickly entered the conference room, accompanied by his chief of staff Pyotr Orlev, Secretary of the Security Council Anatoly Vlasov; Minister of Foreign Affairs Alexandra Khedrov; and the head of the Federal Security Bureau Igor Truznev. "Take your seats," ordered Zevitin, and the officers already in the room - General Kuzma Furzienko, chief of staff; General Nikolai Ostanko, Chief of Staff of the Ground Forces; and General Andrei Darzov, chief of staff of the air force, shuffled to their chairs. "So. I commanded our fighter to attack the unmanned American bomber if it fired a missile, and since we are meeting so quickly, I assume it did, and we did. What's happened?"

"A US B-1 bomber successfully launched a missile from across the Caspian Sea, which reportedly destroyed a Hezbollah unit preparing to launch a missile from a residential complex in southeast Tehran," General Darzov responded. "The missile made a direct hit on the launch team, killing the entire crew..." He paused, then added, "Including our special forces advisor. Then the bomber-"

"Wait, General, wait a second," Zevitin said impatiently, raising his hand. "They launched a missile from over the Caspian Sea? Do you mean a cruise missile, not a laser-guided bomb or a TV-guided missile?" Many of those around the table narrowed their eyes, not because they didn't like Zevitin's tone or question, but because they weren't used to someone with such a distinctly Western accent at a secret meeting in the Kremlin.

Leonid Zevitin, one of Russia's youngest leaders since the fall of the Tsars, was born outside St. Petersburg but educated and spent most of his life in Europe and the United States, and therefore had almost no Russian accent unless he wanted to or did not need it, for example, when speaking to Russian citizens at a political rally. Frequently appearing around the world with starlets and royals, Zevitin came from the world of international banking and finance rather than politics or the military. After decades of old, boring political bosses or bureaucratic henchmen as president, the election of Leonid Zevitin was seen by most Russians as a breath of fresh air.

But behind the secret walls of the Kremlin, he was something completely different than just expensive silk suits, impeccable hairstyles, jet-setter style and a million-dollar smile - he was a puppeteer in the great old Russian tradition, as cold, calculating and lacking in -or warm personality traits, like the worst of his predecessors. Since he had no political, administrative, military or intelligence experience, no one knew how Zevitin thought, what he wanted, or who his allies or captains in the government were - his minions could be anyone, anywhere. This left much of the Kremlin taken by surprise, suspicious, silent and at least openly loyal.

"No, sir - the missile flew faster than Mach four, which is the maximum speed at which our fighter's radar can track a target. I would describe it as a very high-speed guided missile."

"Then I assume you compared the launch time and the exposure time and came up with a number?"

"Yes, sir." There was pain in his eyes - no one could tell whether it was because the general was afraid to tell the president bad news, or because he was being lectured by this young playboy with a foreign accent.

"But you don"t believe the number you calculated," Zevitin said for the Air Force chief of staff. "Obviously this weapon was something we didn't expect. What was the speed, General?"

"Average speed, five point seven mach."

"Almost six times the speed of sound? " This news made every security officer sit back in their chair. "And it was an average speed, which means the top speed was Mach... ten? The Americans have a strike missile that can fly at Mach ten? Why didn"t we know about this?"

"Now we know, sir," said General Furzienko. "The Americans made the mistake of using their new toy with one of our fighters on the wingtip."

"Apparently they were not concerned enough about our fighter to cancel their patrol or attack," Zevitin suggested.

"This was what the Americans call an "operational check," sir," said Air Force Chief of Staff General Andrei Darzov. A short, battle-scarred Air Force bomber pilot, Darzov preferred to shave his head bald because he knew how intimidating it was for many people, especially politicians and bureaucrats. He had noticeable burn scars on the left side of his neck and on his left hand, and was also missing the fourth and fifth fingers of his left hand, all as a result of injuries sustained during the bombing of Engels Air Base, Russia's main bomber base, several years earlier when he served as commander of a long-range aviation division.

Darzov wanted nothing more than bloody retribution for the complete devastation caused to his headquarters during the surprise attack on Engels, and vowed revenge on the US Air Force commander who planned and carried it out... Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan.

Under former chief of staff turned president Anatoly Gryzlov, who wanted revenge on the United States as much as Darzov, he soon got his opportunity. Just a year later, Andrei Darzov was the architect of a plan to modify Russian long-range Tu-95 Bear, Tu-26 Backfire and Tu-160 Blackjack bombers with mid-air refueling probes to give them the range to strike the United States. It was a bold, ambitious plan that would destroy most of the United States' long-range bombers and the control centers of more than half of its land-based nuclear-tipped intercontinental ballistic missiles. The devastating attack killed more than thirty thousand people, injured or sickened thousands more, and soon became known as the "American Holocaust."

But Darzov did not listen to his sworn enemy Patrick McLanahan to the end. When McLanahan's counterattack destroyed an almost equivalent number of Russia's most powerful siloed and mobile intercontinental ballistic missiles, someone had to take the blame - except then-Russian President General Gryzlov, who was killed during an American airstrike on his Ryazan underground command center - and it was Darzov. He was accused of deciding to station all Ilyushin 78 and Tupolev 16 refueling aircraft at one isolated air base in Siberia, Yakutsk, and of failing to provide sufficient security there, allowing McLanahan and his air force forces to capture the base and use the massive amount of fuel stored there, which was used by McLanahan's bombers to hunt down and destroy Russian ground-based nuclear deterrent forces.

Darzov was demoted to a one-star general and sent to Yakutsk to oversee the cleansing and eventual closure of this once vital Siberian base-because, in an attempt to destroy McLanahan's bombers on the ground, Gryzlov ordered an attack on Yakutsk with low-yield nuclear weapons. Although only four of the dozens of nuclear warheads penetrated the McLanahan missile shield around the base, and all were fired from high altitude to minimize radioactive fallout, most of the base was severely damaged and its heart was leveled and uninhabitable. There was much speculation that the General Staff hoped that Darzov would fall ill from the lingering radioactivity so that they would be spared the drudgery of eliminating the popular, intelligent young general. An officer.

But Darzov not only did not die, he did not remain in virtual exile in Siberia for long. On the health front, Darzov and his loyal senior staff survived using radioactive decontamination equipment left behind by the Americans when they evacuated their personnel from Yakutsk. In terms of career and prestige, he survived without giving in to despair when it seemed like the whole world was against him.

With the financial and moral support of a young investment banker named Leonid Zevitin, Darzov restored the base and soon brought it back into use rather than ready for demolition and abandonment. The move revived Russia's oil and gas industry in Siberia, which relied on the base for much-needed support and supplies, and the government made huge revenues from Siberian oil, much of which was sold to Japan and China through new pipelines. The young base commander attracted the attention and gratitude of Russia's richest and most successful investment banker, Leonid Zevitin. Thanks to Zevitin's sponsorship, Darzov was returned to Moscow, promoted to four-star general, and eventually appointed Chief of Staff of the Air Force by the newly elected President Zevitin.

"The Americans took the initiative and showed a new hypersonic air-to-ground weapon," Furzenko said. "This shows how self-confident they are, and this will be their weakness. Not only that, but they spent a missile worth several million dollars, destroying a truck and a homemade missile worth several dollars."

"I think they have every right to be confident, General - they can quickly and accurately destroy any target from a distance of two hundred miles as easily as a child shooting a tin can with a .22 rifle from a distance of twenty meters." , Zevitin said. Many of the generals furrowed their brows, both in confusion at some of Zevitin's Western terms and in trying to understand his heavily accented Russian. "Moreover, they did it right in front of us, knowing that we would observe and evaluate the effectiveness of the weapon. It was a demonstration in our favor and also a very effective weapon of terror against the Islamists." Zevitin turned to Darzov. "What happened to the fighter that was tracking the B-1 bomber, Andrey?"

"The pilot landed safely, but most of his aircraft's electronic equipment was completely disabled," the Air Force chief of staff responded.

"How? Their terahertz weapons again?"

"Perhaps, but the American so-called T-ray weapon is a broad-spectrum subatomic weapon that destroys electronic circuits at ranges exceeding six hundred kilometers," Darzov replied. "No other stations reported any disruptions. The pilot reported that as soon as he fired his missiles, his fighter... simply shut down."

"You mean the rocket shut down on its own."

"No, sir. The entire plane shut down on its own, as if the pilot had turned everything off at once."

"How is this possible?"

"Perhaps terahertz weapons were able to do this," Darzov said. "We won't know until we look at the fighter's computer error logs. But my guess is that McLanahan deployed his 'netrusion' system on the Dreamland bombers and possibly on all of his aircraft and spacecraft."

"Nontruzia"? What is this?"

"The ability to "hack" enemy computer systems through any sensor or antenna that receives digital signals," Darzov explained. "We don't fully understand the process, but bombers can transmit a signal that is picked up and processed like any other digital instruction or message. The enemy signal could be radar decoys, confusing coded messages, flight control inputs, or even electronic commands to aircraft systems..."

"For example, a stop-work order," Zevitin said. He shook his head. "Supposedly he could have ordered Mig to fly straight down or in a circle - luckily he only ordered it to stop. It must be nice to be so rich that you can create such wonderful toys to load on your planes." He nodded. "Looks like your old friend is still in the game, eh General?"

"Yes, sir," said Darzov. "Patrick McLanahan." He smiled. "I would welcome the opportunity to fight him again and repay him for imprisoning my men and women, taking over my base and stealing my fuel. However, from what I understand, he may not be here much longer. The new administration doesn"t like him at all."

"If McLanahan had any political savvy, he would have resigned the moment the new president took the oath of office," Zevitin said. "Obviously this did not happen. Either McLanahan is more dedicated-or dumber-than we thought, or Gardner isn't going to fire him, which means he might not be the buffoon we think he is." He looked at the generals around him. "Forget about McLanahan and his high-tech toys that will never be created - he's the best they've got, but he's only one man, and he's locked up in this terrible base in the Nevada desert instead of being in the White House right now , which means no one else has the opportunity to listen to him." Turning to Truznev, head of the Federal Security Bureau, the successor organization to the KGB, he asked: "What about your 'adviser' in Iran? Did you get him out of there?"

"What"s left of him, yes, sir," answered the FSB chief.

"Fine. The last thing we need is for some enterprising American or Persian investigator to find Russian clothing or weapons mixed in with a bunch of Iranian body parts."

"He was replaced by another agent," Truznev said. He turned angrily to Alexandra Khedrov, the foreign minister. "Giving these Hezbollah bastards weapons like the 9K89 is a waste of time and money and will hurt us in the long run. We must stop supplying them with such advanced missiles and let them go back to firing homemade Katyushas and mortars at Persian collaborators."

"You agreed with General Furzienko"s recommendation to send the Hornet missile to Iran, Director," Zevitin pointed out.

"I agreed that the Hornet missile should be used to attack Persian Army and Air Force bases with high-explosive fragmentation warheads and mine-laying warheads, sir," Truznev said, "and not just fire them indiscriminately at city. The launch point was at the very edge of the missile's maximum range to hit Doshan Tappeh Air Base, which they told us was the target they were going to strike. The Hezbollah crew also reportedly dragged their feet on the missile launch, even allowing children to come and watch the launch. This has been reported many times."

"We'll obviously have to instruct the rebels to adjust their tactics now that we know about these new American weapons," General Darzov said.

"Will you also instruct them not to add their own poisonous brew to the warhead?" - Truznev asked.

"What are you talking about, director?"

"Hezbollah militants loaded the warhead of the Hornet missile with some kind of mixture of chemical weapons, similar to mustard gas, but much more effective," the head of the FSB said indignantly. "The gas killed a dozen people on the street and injured dozens of others."

"Did they make their own mustard gas?"

"I don't know where the hell they got it, sir-Iran has a lot of chemical munitions, so maybe they stole them or secretly stored them," Truznev said. "This substance went off when an American missile hit. But the point is that they violated our directives and attacked an unauthorized target with an unauthorized warhead. There are only a few truck-launched missiles that have the fuses needed to carry out a chemical attack - the Americans would have no trouble discovering that we supplied the Iranians with Hornet missiles."

"Connect Mokhtaz to the phone now," Zevitin ordered. Chief of Staff Orlev was instantly on the phone.

"Now that the Pasdaran has attracted foreign fighters from all over the world to join this damn jihad against the Boujazi coup," Truznev said, "I don"t think the clerics have very tight control over their forces." Ayatollah Hassan Mohtaz, former national adviser Defense of Iran - and the highest-ranking member of the former Iranian government to survive the bloody Islamist purge at Boujazi - was proclaimed president in exile, and he called on all Muslims in the world to come to Iran and fight against the new military-monarchical government. The anti-Persian uprising grew rapidly, spurred on by tens of thousands of Shia Muslim fighters from around the world who responded to the fatwa against Boujazi. Many of the rebels were trained by Iran's Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, Pasdaran, so their combat effectiveness was even greater. Within days of Mokhtaz's call to arms, most of the cities of the new Persia were embroiled in fierce fighting.

But part of the chaos in Persia was caused by the fact that the coup leader, General Hesarak al-Kan Boujazi, inexplicably refused to form a new government. Boujazi, a former chief of staff and former commander of the paramilitary internal defense force that fought the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, led a stunningly successful coup, killing most of Iran's theocratic rulers and sending the rest to flee to neighboring Turkmenistan. It was assumed that Boujazi, along with former chief of staff Hossein Yasini, officers of the regular armed forces and supporters of one of the Iranian former royal families, the Kagevs, were to take control of the capital Tehran and form a government. A name was even chosen - the Democratic Republic of Persia, indicating a clear direction that the people wanted to take - and the country was now called by its historical name "Persia" instead of the name "Iran", which was the name prescribed to be used by Reza Shah Pahlavi in 1935 Only supporters of theocracy still used the name "Iran."

"But I don't think we should stop arming the rebels," General Darzov said. "Every successful attack against the Persians will weaken them. We need patience."

"And every time the jihadists launch another rocket into a city and kill innocent women and children, the rebels suffer the same fate - they are weakened, just like Russia, general," said Foreign Minister Alexandra Khedrov. Tall, dark and as seductive as any woman in the highest echelons of the Russian government could be, Alexandra Khedrov was the highest-ranking woman ever to serve in the Kremlin. Like Zevitin, she worked in international finance, but as a lifelong resident of Moscow and a married mother of two, she did not have the reputation of her boss. Serious and savvy, without extensive political connections, Khedrov was widely considered the brains behind the presidency. "We will look even worse if we are seen supporting child killers."

She turned to Zevitin. "Mohtaz must find a way to pacify the jihadists, Mr. President, without releasing pressure on Buzhazi and Kagev to surrender and evacuate the country. We cannot be seen as supporting massacres and instability - it makes us look unstable ourselves. If Mohtaz continues on this path, the only choice we have is to support Boujazi."

"Boujazi?" Asked Zevitin, confused. "Why support Bujazi? He turned to the Americans for help."

"It was our fault-he acted out of desperation and we weren't there for him when he needed us, so he turned to McLanahan," Khedrow explained. "But Washington inexplicably did not lend its support to Boujazi, and this creates an opportunity for Russia. We secretly support Mokhtaz because Russia benefits from instability in the region with higher oil prices and greatly increased arms sales. But if we end up supporting the loser, we must change course and support who I believe will ultimately be the winner: Boujazi."

"I don"t agree, minister," said Darzov. "Boujazi is not strong enough to destroy Mohtaz."

"Then I suggest you leave your planes and laboratories and look at the world as it really is, General," Khedrov said. "Here's the real question, Mr. President: Who do you want to win, Boujazi or Mohtaz?" That's who we should support. We support Mohtaz because the chaos in the Middle East is keeping America from interfering in our affairs in our own spheres of influence. But is "Is a theocratic Iran the best choice for Russia? We know Boujazi. You and I both met him; we supported him for years, before, during and after his removal as Chief of Staff. We still supply each other with intelligence information, although he carefully guards information about the American presence in Iran, which is more expensive to obtain. Perhaps it is time to increase the level of contact with him."

The phone next to Orlev vibrated, he picked up the receiver and after a few moments put it in standby mode. "Mohtaz is on the line, sir."

"Where is he?" - I asked.

"The Iranian Embassy in Ashgabat, Turkmenistan," Orlev answered, anticipating the question.

"Fine". When Ayatollah Mokhtaz and his advisers fled Iran, he unexpectedly holed up in the Russian embassy in Ashgabat, demanding protection from Boujazi forces and so-called monarchist death squads. This has raised a lot of curiosity and questions from much of the rest of the world. It was well known that Moscow was an ally of Iran, but would they go that far to protect the old regime? What if there were elections and the theocrats were rejected? Will clerics and Islamists become an albatross around Russia's neck?

As a concession to the rest of the world, Zevitin forced Mokhtaz to leave the embassy, but tacitly guaranteed his safety with Russian FSB units stationed in and around the Iranian compound. At first he thought that the Islamist would not leave the embassy - or, worse, would threaten to reveal Russian involvement in Iran if he was kicked out - but, fortunately, it did not come to that. He knew that Mohtaz could always show this card in the future, and he had to decide what to do if he tried to play it.

Zevitin picked up his phone. "President Mokhtaz, this is Leonid Zevitin."

"Please be prepared for His Excellency, sir," a voice with a strong Persian accent said in Russian. Zevitin rolled his eyes impatiently. It was always a game with weaklings like Mohtaz, he thought - it was always damn important to try to gain the smallest advantage by keeping the other side waiting, even for something as simple as a phone call.

A few moments later, the voice of a young translator said: "Imam Mokhtaz is on the line. Please identify yourself."

"Mr. President, this is Leonid Zevitin calling. I hope you are well ".

"Praise the Lord for his mercy, it is so."

There was no attempt to return the favor, Zevitin noted-again, typical of Mokhtaz. "I wanted to discuss the recent American air attack in Tehran on a suspected Hezbollah missile site."

"I don't know anything about this."

"Mr. President, I warned you against allowing the rebels to equip missiles with weapons of mass destruction," Zevitin said. "We specifically chose the Hornet missile because it is used all over the world and will be more difficult to trace to Russia. The only missile force known to have the technology to mount chemical warheads on them was Russia."

"I don't know the details of what the freedom fighters are doing in their fight against the crusaders, unbelievers and Zionists," the translator said. "All I know is that God will reward all who answer the call of holy vengeance. They will earn a place at His right hand."

"Mr. President, I urge you to keep your forces under control," Zevitin said. "Armed resistance to foreign occupation is acceptable to all nations, even using unguided missiles against perceived supporters, but the use of poison gas is not. Your uprising risks causing a negative reaction from the population if-"

Zevitin could hear Mokhtaz shouting in the background even before the interpreter had finished speaking, and then the agitated young man had to strain to keep up with the Iranian cleric's sudden tirade: "This is not a rebellion, damn your eyes," the interpreter said much in a calmer voice than Mohtaz. "Proud Iranians and their brothers are reclaiming a nation that was illegally and immorally taken from us. This is not a rebellion - it is a holy war for freedom against oppression. And in such a struggle, any weapon and any tactics are justified in the eyes of God." And the connection was broken.

"Fucking bastard," Zevitin swore, not realizing until it was too late that he had said it in English, and slammed the phone down.

"Why bother about this crazy fanatic, sir?" - asked Foreign Minister Khedrov. "This man is crazy. He doesn't care about anything other than taking back power - he doesn't care how many innocent people he has to kill to do it. He attracts foreign jihadists from all over the world, and most of them are even crazier than him."

"Do you think I care about Mohtaz or anyone else in this damned country, Minister?" Zevitin asked hotly. "At this point, it is better for Russia that Mokhtaz is alive and inciting the Islamists, urging them to go to Iran and fight. I hope the country will fall apart, which is almost certain if the rebellion grows."

"I wish Bujazi had turned to us instead of McLanahan when he wanted support for his rebellion - Mohtaz and that monarchist bitch Kagev would be dead now, and Bujazi would be firmly in control with us on his side." , - said Khedrov, casting a disapproving glance at the head of the Federal Security Bureau, Truznev. "We should have recruited him the moment he showed up in the Iranian militia."

"Buzhazi has completely disappeared from our radar screens, minister," Truznev said dismissively. "He was disgraced and practically sentenced to death. Iran has moved into the Chinese sphere of influence..."

"We sold them a lot of weapons."

"After oil prices went up, yes, they bought Chinese crap because it was cheaper," Truznev said. "But then we quickly discovered that many of these weapons ended up in the hands of Chechen separatists and drug traffickers within our own borders. China stopped their support for Iran a long time ago because they support Islamists in Xinjiang and East Turkistan - Chinese Islamic rebels fought government forces with their own damn weapons! The theocrats in Iran are completely out of control. They don't deserve our support."

"Okay, okay," Zevitin said wearily, shaking hands with his advisors. "These endless arguments are getting us nowhere." Turning to Truznev, he said: "Igor, get me all the data on this American hypersonic missile that you can get, and get it quickly. I don't need to know how to counter it-yet. I need enough information so that I can make Gardner believe that I know everything about this. I want to prove that this is a threat to world peace, regional stability, the balance of arms, blah blah blah. Same with their damn Armstrong space station. And I would like an update on all the new American military technology. I got tired of hearing about it after we experienced it in the field."

"Arguing with the Americans, huh, Mr. President?" - Chief of the General Staff Furzienko asked sarcastically. "Perhaps we can go before the Security Council and say that the sunlight reflecting off their radar arrays is keeping us up at night."

"I don"t need snide remarks from you today, General - I need results," Zevitin said caustically. "The Americans have established themselves in Iraq, and they may have a foothold in Iran if Boujazi and the Kagev successfully form a government friendly to the West. Along with American bases in Central Asia, the Baltics and Eastern Europe, Iran adds another section of the fence that surrounds us. Now they have this damn space station that flies over Russia ten times a day! Russia is actually surrounded-" And with that, Zevitin slammed his palm down on the table. "-and this is completely unacceptable!" He looked each of his advisors in the eye, his gaze briefly settling on Truznev and Darzov before leaning back in his chair and running a hand across his forehead in irritation.

"This hypersonic missile surprised us all, sir," Truznev said.

"Bullshit," retorted Zevitin. "They need to do a test run of this thing, don't they? They can't do this in an underground laboratory. Why can't we watch their missile tests? We know exactly where their high-speed test sites are with instruments for developing hypersonic missiles - we need to be at all of these sites."

"Good espionage costs money, Mr. President. Why spy for the Russians when the Israelis and Chinese can offer ten times the price?"

"Then maybe it's time to cut some of the salaries and costly pension benefits of our so-called leaders and put the money back into producing quality intelligence," Zevitin said caustically. "Back when Russian oil was only a few dollars a barrel, Russia once had hundreds of spies deep into every nook and cranny of American weapons development - we once had almost unfettered access to Dreamland, their most highly classified facility. . And whatever places we didn't penetrate ourselves, we could buy information from hundreds of others, including Americans. The job of the FSB and military intelligence is to get this information, and since the Gryzlov administration we haven"t done a damn thing, just bitched and moaned about being surrounded and possibly attacked by the Americans again." He paused again, then looked at the Chief of Staff of the Armed Forces. "Give us a report on the state of affairs at Phanar, General Furzienko."

"One unit is in full combat readiness, sir," replied the chief of staff. "The mobile anti-satellite laser system was very successful in shooting down one of the American spaceplanes over Iran."

"What?" exclaimed Chief of Staff Orlev. "So what the Americans said was true? Was one of their spaceplanes shot down by us?"

Zevitin nodded to Furzienko as he took a cigarette from his desk drawer and lit it, silently giving him permission to explain himself. "Project Phanar is a top-secret mobile anti-satellite laser system, Mr. Orlev," explained the chief of military staff. "It is based on the Kawaznya anti-satellite laser system developed in the 1980s, but significantly modified, improved and improved."

"Kavaznya was a huge structure powered by a nuclear reactor, if I remember correctly," Orlev noted. He didn't learn about it until he was in high school-at the time, the government said there had been an accident and the plant was closed to improve safety. It was only when he took up his post as Chief of Staff that he learned that Kawaznya had actually been bombed by a single American B-52 Stratofortress bomber, a heavily modified experimental "test bed" model known as the Megafortress, crewed by none other than Patrick McLanahan , who was then just an Air Force captain and bombardier crew, McLanahan's name has come up many times in connection with dozens of events around the world in the two decades since that attack, to the point that Darzov and even Zevitin seemed to be obsessed with the man , its high-tech machines and its circuits. "How can such a system be mobile?"

"Twenty years of research and development, billions of rubles and a lot of espionage - good espionage, not like today," Zevitin said. "Continue, General."

"Yes, sir," said Furzienko. "The Phanar design is based on the Israeli tactical high-energy laser program and the American airborne laser program, which installs a chemical laser on large aircraft such as the Boeing 747 or B-52 bomber. It is capable of destroying a ballistic missile at a range of up to five hundred kilometers. It is not as powerful as the Kavaznya was, but it is portable, easy to transport and maintain, it is durable and reliable, extremely accurate, and if kept on target long enough, it can destroy even a well-shielded spacecraft hundreds of kilometers away in space. ... like the new American spaceplane Black Stallion."

Orlev's jaw dropped. "So the rumors are true?" Zevitin smiled, nodded, then took another deep drag on his cigarette. "But we denied that we had anything to do with the loss of the American spaceplane! Americans must understand that we have such weapons!"

"And so the game begins," Zevitin said, smiling and finishing his last cigarette. He crushed the cigarette butt in the ashtray, as if demonstrating what he intended to do to anyone who dared to oppose him. "We'll see who wants to play and who doesn't. Continue, General."

"Yes, sir. The system can be disguised as a standard twelve meter tractor-trailer and can be driven virtually anywhere and blend into normal commercial traffic. It can be set up and ready to fire in less than an hour, can fire about a dozen bursts per fill, depending on how long the laser is fired at a single target, and most importantly, can be disassembled and moved within a few minutes. minutes after the shooting."

"Only a dozen lines? Doesn't sound like much fighting."

"We can, of course, take more fuel with us," Furzienko said, "but Phanar was never designed to counter large numbers of spacecraft or aircraft. Due to overheating, the system can operate for no more than thirty seconds at a time, and a single load of fuel allows the laser to operate for a total of about sixty seconds. The next salvo can be fired thirty to forty minutes after refueling, depending on whether the fuel comes from a fire engine or a separate support vehicle. Most spacecraft in low Earth orbit will be well below the horizon before another bombardment begins, so we decided it would be best not to attempt too many bombardments at once.

"In addition, everything else in a convoy is also growing in size - security, provisions, spare parts, power generators - so we decided to limit the additional laser fuel to one truck. With one command and fire vehicle, one power and control vehicle, one refueling and supply vehicle, and one support and crew vehicle, it can still move fairly anonymously on open roads anywhere without attracting attention. We brought it back to Moscow for additional tests and updates. This will take some time to complete."

"I think you've had enough time, General," Zevitin said. "Americans need to see how vulnerable their precious space station and spaceplanes can be. I want this system to start now."

"If I had more engineers and more money, sir, I could finish the three that are under construction within a year," Furzienko said. He glanced at General Darzov. "But there seems to be a lot of attention being paid to General Darzov"s Project Lightning, and I fear that our resources are being wasted."

"Darzov made several compelling arguments in favor of Molniya, General Furzienko," Zevitin said.

"I'm afraid I don't know what Lightning is, Mr. President," said Alexandra Khedrov. "I guess this is not a very good watch manufacturer. Is this a new secret weapons program?"

Zevitin nodded to Andrei Darzov, who stood up and began: "Lightning is an air-launched anti-satellite weapon, Madam Minister. This is just a prototype weapon, a combination of the Kh-90 hypersonic cruise missile, reprogrammed to fly at extreme altitudes, with a combination of ramjet engine and jet propulsion that allows it to fly at altitudes of up to five hundred kilometers above the Earth. The system was first developed by Americans in the 1980s; we had a similar system, but it was canceled many years ago. The technology has improved significantly since then."

"Lightning is a big step back," Furzienko said. "The laser system has proven its worth. Air-launched anti-satellite weapons were rejected years ago because they were unreliable and too easy to detect."

"With all due respect, sir, I disagree," Darzov said. Furzienko turned to glare at his subordinate, but it was difficult to look at the man's rather alarming wounds, and he was forced to look away. "The problem with fixed ASAT weapons, as was discovered with the Kavaznya ASAT laser, is that they are too easy to attack, even with numerous and sophisticated anti-aircraft weapons systems protecting them. Even the mobile laser system we developed is vulnerable to attack because it requires so much support and takes so much time to set up, fuel, and aim. We saw how quickly the Americans were able to attack a laser site in Iran - fortunately we had time to move the real system and build a decoy in its place. Lightning can be carried to many air bases along the target's path and can attack from different angles.

"A MiG-29 fighter or a Tupolev-16 light bomber lifts one Molniya missile into the air, or two missiles can be carried by a Tupolev-95 or Tupolev-160 heavy bomber," Darzov continued. "The carrier aircraft are being withdrawn to a position using ground or airborne radars, and then the missiles are released. Molniya uses a solid rocket motor to accelerate to supersonic speed, where it then uses a ramjet engine to accelerate to eight times the speed of sound and climb to a specified altitude. Once within range of the target, it uses its onboard sensors to track the target and fires the third stage rocket motor to begin interception. It uses precision thrusters to get within firing range, then fires a high explosive warhead. We can also mount a nuclear or x-ray laser warhead on the weapon, depending on the size of the target."

"X-ray laser? What it is?"

"An X-ray laser is a device that collects and focuses X-rays from a small nuclear explosion and produces extremely powerful, long-range energy beams that can penetrate even a heavily shielded spacecraft up to two hundred kilometers," Darzov said. "It is designed to disable a spacecraft by scrambling its electronics and guidance systems."

"The use of nuclear weapons in space will create problems in the international community, General," Khedrov noted.

"The Americans had a nuclear reactor flying over Russia for decades and no one seemed to notice, Alexandra," Zevitin said bitterly. "The X-ray laser is just one option - we will only use it if it is deemed absolutely necessary."

"The nuclear reactor on board the American space station is intended only for energy generation, sir," Khedrov pointed out. "Yes, the laser was used as an offensive weapon, but the reactor is viewed differently..."

"This is still a nuclear device," Zevitin argued, "which is expressly prohibited by the treaty-a treaty that the Americans are carelessly ignoring!"

"I agree with you, sir," Khedrov said, "but after the air attacks against the United States with nuclear weapons by President Gryzlov-"

"Yes, yes, I know...America gets a pass, and the world waits in fear to see what Russia will do next," Zevitin said, disappointment evident in his voice. "I'm sick of double standards." He shook his head, then turned back to General Darzov. "What is the status of the anti-satellite missile program, General? Can we deploy the system or not?"

"Additional underground tests of the prototype Molniya installation were very successful," Darzov continued. "The technicians and engineers want to do more tests, but I believe he is now ready for battle, sir. We can spend years making improvements and tweaks and improve it, but I think it's ready as is and I recommend deploying immediately."

"Excuse me, sir," Furzienko intervened, looking in confusion at the Minister of National Defense Ostenkov, "but General Darzov is not responsible for Molniya. This is a secret project that is still controlled by my research and development bureau."

"Not anymore, General," Zevitin said. "I instructed General Darzov to develop strategies to combat the American space station and space planes. He will report directly to me and Minister Ostenkov."

Furzienko's mouth opened and closed in confusion, then hardened in obvious anger. "This is outrageous, sir!" - he blurted out. "It is an insult! The Chief of Staff is responsible for organizing, training and equipping the armed forces, and I should have been informed of this!"

"They are telling you now, General," Zevitin said. "Phanar and Lightning belong to Darzov. He will keep me informed of his actions and make recommendations to the National Security Bureau, but he only takes orders from me. The further away from your chain of command he operates, the better." Zevitin smiled and nodded understandingly. "A little lesson we've learned from our friend General Patrick Shane McLanahan over the years, huh?"

"I believe this man is obsessive, compulsive, paranoid and probably schizophrenic, sir," Darzov said, "but he is also brave and intelligent - two traits I admire. His unit is extremely effective because it operates quickly and daringly with a small number of highly motivated and energetic forces mastering the latest technological innovations. McLanahan also appears to completely ignore most rules, normal conventions and chains of command and acts recklessly, perhaps even recklessly. Some say he's crazy. All I know is that he gets the job done."

"Until you go crazy," Zevitin warned.

"Unfortunately, I agree with Minister Khedrov, sir: the world community will not consider nuclear weapons in space as defensive weapons," said Minister of National Defense Ostenkov.

"The world community looks the other way and closes its eyes and ears while the Americans put a nuclear reactor into orbit above their heads and fill the sky with satellites and space planets - I really don"t give a damn about their opinion," Zevitin said angrily. "Americans cannot be allowed to freely enter and exit space as they please. Our mobile ground laser destroyed one and nearly destroyed another of their spaceplanes-we nearly destroyed their entire operational fleet. If we can destroy everything they have left, we can undermine their military space program and perhaps give us a chance to catch up again." He looked fiercely at Ostenkov. "Your job is to support the development and implementation of Phanar and Lightning, Ostenkov, not tell me what you think the world will say. It's clear?"

"Yes, sir," said Ostenkov. "The anti-satellite missile is ready for operational testing. This may be the most dangerous weapon in our arsenal since the Kh-90 hypersonic cruise missile, which Gryzlov successfully used to attack the United States. It can be quickly and easily deployed anywhere in the world, faster than a spacecraft can be launched or moved into orbit. We can transport Lightning anywhere and run only a small risk of detection until it fires."

"And then what?" - Asked Orlev. "The Americans will strike back with everything they have. You know that they consider space to be part of their sovereign territory."

"That's why we need to use Phanar and Lightning carefully - very, very carefully," Zevitin said. "Their usefulness as weapons depends more on quietly destroying Americans' space assets rather than trying to destroy them completely. If it is possible to make it seem like their space station, spaceplanes and satellites are unreliable or wasteful, the Americans will shut them down on their own. This is not a plan of attack or a game of cat and mouse - it is a game of irritation, quiet degradation and growing uncertainty. I want to beat the crap out of Americans."

"Put a bug in the shit, sir?" - Asked Orlev. "What does it mean?"

"That means attacking Americans with mosquito bites, not swords," Zevitin said, this time in Russian, not realizing until that moment that he had switched back to English in his excitement. "Americans don't tolerate failure. If it doesn't work, they'll throw it away and replace it with something better, even if the failure isn't their fault. Not only will they give up on something that doesn't work, but they'll blame everyone else for the failure, spend billions of dollars blaming someone else for taking the blame, and then spend billions more trying to find a solution that often inferior to the first." He smiled, then added, "And the key to this work is President Joseph Gardner."

"Naturally, sir, he is the President of the United States," Orlev noted embarrassedly.

"I'm not talking about the office, but about the person himself," Zevitin said. "He may be the commander-in-chief of the most powerful military force in the world, but what he does not command is the most important path to success: control of himself." He looked at the advisors around him and saw mostly blank expressions. "Thank you all, thank you, that"s all for today," he said dismissively, reaching for another cigarette.

Chief of Staff Orlev and Foreign Minister Khedrov were left behind; Orlev did not even try to suggest to Khedrov that he and the president be allowed to talk in private. "Sir, I have the impression, which I share, that the staff is confused by your intentions," Orlev said pointedly. "Half of them see you handing over power to the Americans; others think that you are ready to start a war with them."

"Okay... That's good," Zevitin said, taking a deep drag from his cigarette, then exhaling noisily. "If my advisors leave my office guessing-especially in opposing directions-they won't have the opportunity to formulate a counterstrategy. Besides, if they are confused, the Americans certainly should be too." Orlev looked worried. "Peter, we cannot yet defeat the Americans in a military confrontation - we would bankrupt this country if we tried. But we have many opportunities to confront them and deprive them of victory. Gardner is the weak link. You need to find fault with him. Enough to anger him and he will turn his back on even his most trusted advisors and loyal compatriots." Zevitin thought for a moment, then added: "He needs to be angry right now. Attack on our fighter... He should know how angry we are that they shot down our fighter with a low-yield nuclear device."

"But... the fighter was not shot down," Orlev reminded him, "and the general said that the weapon was not a nuclear T-ray weapon, but-"

"For God's sake, Peter, we are going to tell the Americans not what we know, but what we believe," Zevitin said with irritation in his voice, but with a smile on his face. "My reports say they shot down our fighter with a T-Ray nuclear device without provocation. This is an act of war. Put Gardner on the phone immediately."

"Should Minister Khedrov make contact and-?"

"No, I will protest directly to Gardner," Zevitin said. Orlev nodded and picked up the phone from Zevitin"s desk. "This is not an ordinary phone, Peter. Use the hotline. Both voice and data at the same time." The emergency hotline between Washington and Moscow was upgraded after the 2004 conflicts to provide voice, data and video communications between the two capitals, as well as teletype and fax communications, and allowed for more satellite links, making it easier for leaders to reach each other. "Minister Khedrov, you will file a formal complaint with the United Nations Security Council as well as the US State Department. And I want every media outlet on the planet to immediately publish a report on the incident."

Orlev first called the Foreign Ministry, then contacted the Kremlin liaison officer to open a hotline for the president. "Sir, this could have unpleasant consequences," Orlev warned, waiting for the connection. "Our pilot undoubtedly initiated the attack by opening fire on the American bomber-"

"But only after the bomber launched its hypersonic missile," Zevitin said. "This missile could have gone anywhere. The Americans were clearly the aggressors. The pilot was completely justified in firing his missiles. It turns out he was right, because the missile the Americans fired at Tehran carried a chemical warhead."

"But-"

"Early reports may be inaccurate, Peter," Zevitin said, "but that doesn't mean we can't protest this incident now. I believe Gardner will act first and then check the facts. Wait and see."

Alexandra Khedrov looked at Zevitin silently for a long time; then: "What does all this mean, Leonid?" Do you just want to annoy Gardner? For what? He is not worth such effort. He will most likely self-destruct without you constantly... As you said, "nagging" him. And of course you can't want Russia to support the Iranians. As I said earlier, they are just as likely to turn their backs on us after they take back their country."

"This has absolutely nothing to do with Iran, Alexandra, and everything to do with Russia," Zevitin said. "Russia will no longer be surrounded and isolated. Gryzlov, of course, suffered from delusions of grandeur, but because of his crazy ideas, Russia began to be feared again. But in its absolute fear or pity, the world began to give the United States everything it wanted, and that was to encircle and try to crush Russia again. I won't let this happen."

"But how will the deployment of these anti-space weapons achieve this?"

"You don"t understand, Alexandra-the threat of war against the Americans will only strengthen their resolve," Zevitin explained. "Even a spineless dude like Gardner will fight if his back is up against the wall-at least he'll unleash his junkyard dog McLanahan on us, no matter how much he resents his strength and determination.

"No, we must make the Americans themselves believe that they are weak, that they must cooperate and negotiate with Russia to avoid war and disaster," Zevitin continued. "Gardner's hatred-and fear-of McLanahan is the key. To look like the brave leader he can never be, I hope Gardner will sacrifice his greatest general, dismantle his most advanced weapons systems, and abandon important alliances and defense commitments, all on the altar of international cooperation and world peace."

"But why? For what purpose, Mr. President? Why risk a war with the Americans like that?"

"Because I will not tolerate Russia being surrounded," Zevitin said sharply. "Just look at the damn map, Minister! Each former Warsaw Pact country is a member of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization; almost every former Soviet republic has some kind of NATO or American base."

Zevitin went to light another cigarette, but in a blind rage he threw it across the table. "We are rich beyond our fathers' dreams, Alexandra, and yet we can't spit without the Americans complaining, measuring, analyzing or intercepting it," he exclaimed. "If I wake up and see this damn space station rushing across the sky - my Russian sky! - one more time, I'm going to scream! And if I see another teenager on the streets of Moscow watching an American TV show or listening to Western music because he or she has free Internet access courtesy of the American organization Space Dominance, I will kill someone! Enough! Enough! Russia will not be surrounded, and we will not be forced to submit to their space toys!

"I want the skies of Russia to be cleared of American spacecraft, and I want our airwaves to be cleared of American broadcasts, and I don"t care if I have to start a war in Iran, Turkmenistan, Europe, or in space to do This!"

ON BOARD THE ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

A little while later

"Stallion Zero-Seven is ready to fly, sir," Master Sergeant Lucas reported.

"Thank you, Master Sergeant," Patrick McLanahan responded. He flipped a switch on his console, "Have a safe trip home, Boomer." Let me know how the module release experiments and the new re-entry procedure work."

"It will be done, sir," Hunter Noble replied. "It"s strange that you"re not on board the jet plane."

"At least you can pilot it this time, right?"

"I had to arm wrestle Frenchie for it and it was close - but yeah, I won," Boomer said. He caught the annoyed look in the rear cockpit camera of US Navy Lieutenant Commander Lisette "Frenchie" Moulin, an experienced F/A-18 Hornet combat pilot and NASA space shuttle commander and pilot. She had recently qualified as commander of the XR-A9 Black Stallion starship and was always looking for another chance to pilot Bird, but none of her arguments worked on Boomer this time. When Patrick flew to and from the station - which was quite often lately - he usually chose Boomer in the back seat.

A few minutes later, the Black Stallion separated from the docking bay aboard Armstrong's space station, and Boomer carefully maneuvered the ship away from the station. When they were far enough away, he maneuvered into position to fire the relay, flying tail first. "Countdown checklists are complete, we are moving to final automatic countdown hold," he announced over the intercom. "It"s about six hundred miles until we land. Are you ready for this, Frenchy?"

"I have already reported that my checklists are complete, Captain," Moulin replied.

Boomer rolled his eyes in mock irritation. "Frenchie, when we get home, we need to sit in a nice bar somewhere on the Strip, drink expensive champagne and talk about your attitude - to me, to the service, to life."

"Captain, you know full well that I"m engaged, I don"t drink, and I love my job and my life," Moulin said in the same rasping monotone voice that Boomer absolutely hated. "I might also add, if you haven't realized it by now, that I hate this call sign, and I don't particularly like you, so even if I was free, drinking alcohol, and you were the last man on earth with the most with a big dick and a long tongue this side of Vegas, I wouldn"t be seen dead in a bar or anywhere with you."

"Oh, Frenchie. It's cruel ".

"I think you are an outstanding spacecraft commander, engineer and competent test pilot," she added, "but I find you a disgrace to the uniform and often wonder why you are still in Dreamland and still a member of the Air Force U.S.A. I think your prowess as an engineer seems to overshadow the parties, the casino hangouts, and the constant stream of women in and out of your life-mostly outside the company-and frankly, I resent it."

"Don't hold back, Commander. Tell me how you really feel."

"Now, when I report 'checklist complete', Captain, as you well know, this indicates that my station is in order, that I have studied and checked everything I could on your station and the rest of the ship and found it optimal , and that I"m ready for the next evolution."

"Oooh. I like it when you speak naval dialect. 'Squared away' and 'evolution' sound so nautical. It"s also a little weird when it comes from a woman."

"You know, captain, I put up with your bullshit because you're from the Air Force, and this is a branch of the Air Force, and I know that Air Force officers always behave casually with each other, even if there is a large difference in rank between them," Moulin noted. "You are also the commander of the spaceship, which makes you responsible even though I outrank you. So I'm going to ignore your sexist remarks during this mission. But that certainly doesn"t change my opinion of you as a person and as an Air Force officer-in fact, it confirms it."

"Sorry. I didn't hear all of this. I was busy putting pencils in my ears to avoid listening to you."

"Can we follow the test flight plan and just do it, captain, without all this macho male nonsense?" We're already thirty seconds late from the scheduled start time."

"Okay, okay, Frenchie," Boomer said. "I was just trying to act like we were part of a team and not serving on the separate decks of a nineteenth century navy ship. Forgive me for trying." He pressed the control button on his flight control stick. "Get me out of this, Seventh Stallion. Begin powered descent."

"Starting powered descent, stop powered descent..." When the computer did not receive a canceling order, it began: "Starting recording from orbit in three, two, one, now." Laser Pulse Detonation Rocket System, or LPDRS, engines. pronounced "leopards," activated and reached full power. By burning JP-7 jet fuel and hydrogen peroxide oxidizer with other chemicals and superheated laser pulses to increase specific impulse, Black Stallion's four LPDRS engines produced twice the thrust of all the engines aboard the Space shuttle orbiters combined.

As the spacecraft slowed down, it began to descend. Typically, at a certain speed, Boomer would shut down the main engines and then power the spacecraft into a nose-high position for forward flight and prepare for the "entry interface," or first encounter with the atmosphere, and then use aerobraking-scraping off the shielded underside with atmosphere - to slow down before landing. However, this time the Boomer continued to fly tail first, with the LPDRS engines running at full power.

Most spacecraft couldn't do this for long because they didn't have enough fuel, but the Black Stallion spaceplane was different: because it was refueled while flying at the Armstrong space station, it had as much fuel as it would have had if it took off into orbit, which meant that its engines could run much longer during the return. Although aerobraking was much more economical, it had its own set of dangers, namely high friction temperatures that accumulated on the underside of the spacecraft, so the crew tried a different recovery method.

As the Black Stallion slowed even further, the angle of descent became steeper until it seemed like they were pointing straight up. The flight and engine control computers adjusted the power to maintain a constant 3 G of braking force. "I hate to ask," Boomer grumbled as he fought through the g-forces pushing his body back into his seat, "but how are you doing there, Frenchie?" Still optimal?"

"Green, Captain," Frenchie replied, forcing herself to breathe through the clenched muscles of her throat to keep her abdominal muscles tense, which raised the blood pressure in her head. "All systems in green, station check completed."

"Very detailed report, thank you, Monsieur Moulin," said Boomer. "Here I am also optimal."

Flying at Mach 5, or five times the speed of sound, and just before re-entering the atmosphere at an altitude of approximately sixty miles, Boomer said, "Ready to begin payload separation." His voice sounded much more serious now because this was a much more critical phase of the mission.

"I understand, the payload is being divided... The program is running," Moulin replied. The cargo bay doors on the top of the Black Stallion's fuselage opened and powerful engines pushed the BDU-58 container out of the bay. The BDU-58 "Meteor" container was designed to protect up to four thousand pounds of payload during atmospheric descent. Once through the atmosphere, Meteor can fly up to three hundred miles to its landing site or jettison its cargo before impacting the ground.

This mission was designed to demonstrate that Black Stallion spaceplanes could quickly and accurately land a long-range reconnaissance aircraft anywhere on planet Earth. Meteor will launch a single unmanned AQ-11 Night Owl surveillance aircraft at an altitude of approximately thirty thousand feet near the Iran-Afghan border. Over the next month, Night Owl will monitor the area using infrared and millimeter wave radar for signs of Muslim insurgents crossing the border or Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps or al-Quds Force convoys smuggling weapons or supplies from neighboring countries.

After the container containing the meteorite was removed, Boomer and Frenchie continued their powered descent. The atmosphere caused the spaceplane to decelerate much faster, and soon the LPDRS engines slowed down to maintain a maximum deceleration of 3 G. "Hull temperature is within normal limits," Moulin reported. "I definitely like these controlled descents."

Boomer dealt with the g-forces, reached out and patted the top of the dashboard. "Nice spaceship, nice spaceship," he cooed tenderly. "She likes those downhill races too - all that belly heat isn't very pleasant, is it, honey? Did I tell you, Frenchie, that the Leopard engines were my idea?"

"Only about a million times, captain."

"Oh yeah".

"The air pressure on the surface has risen to green... Computers are ensuring the safety of the reaction control system," Moulin reported. "Mission-adapted control surfaces are in test mode...Tests have been completed and the MAW system is responding to computer commands." The MAW system, or Mission Adaptive Wing, was a series of tiny actuators on the fuselage that essentially turned the entire body of the spaceplane into a lifting device - computers shaped the skin as needed to maneuver, climb or descend, giving the aircraft more slipperiness or rapid deceleration. Even when flying backwards, the MAW system allowed full control of the spaceplane. With active atmospheric control, Boomer himself took control of the Black Stallion, turned so that they flew forward like a normal airplane, then manually piloted the craft through a series of tight, high-angle-of-attack turns to increase speed while maintaining rate of descent and body temperature is under control.

At the same time, he maneuvered to take a landing position. This landing promised to be a little more difficult than most because their landing spot was in southeastern Turkey at a joint Turkish-NATO military base in a city called Batman. Batman AFB was the base of the Joint Special Operations Task Force during the 1991 Gulf War, when U.S. Army Special Forces and Air Force pararescue troops carried out covert missions throughout Iraq. After the war it was returned to Turkish civilian control. In an effort to increase cooperation and improve relations with its Muslim brothers in the Middle East, Turkey banned NATO offensive military operations from Batman, but America persuaded the Turks to allow reconnaissance and some strike aircraft to fly from Batman to hunt down and destroy insurgents in Iran. It was now one of the most important forward air bases for American and NATO forces in the Middle East, Eastern Europe and Central Asia.

"Sixty thousand feet, atmospheric pressure in the green zone, ready to intercept the leopards," Moulin reported. Boomer grinned - securing the leopards and switching to air turbojet mode were carried out automatically, like most operations on the spaceplane, but Moulin always tried to guess in advance when the computer would start the procedure. Cute, yes - but in general it was also correct. Of course , the computer notified him that the LPDRS engines were protected. "We are still in 'manual' mode, Captain," Moulin reminded him. "The system will not restart the engines automatically."

"You're really good at this, aren't you, Frenchie?" Boomer quipped.

"It's my job, captain."

"You're never going to call me 'Boomer,' are you?"

"Unlikely, captain."

"You don't know what you're missing, Frenchie."

"I will Survive. Ready to restart."

Part of its charm was definitely the chase. Maybe she was so businesslike in bed - but that would have to wait until they sat down in tandem. "I turn off the engines, the turbojet engines come to life." There was now enough oxygen in the atmosphere to stop the use of hydrogen peroxide to burn jet fuel, so Boomer again opened the movable tabs on the engine inlets and began the engine start sequence. Moments later, the turbojet engines were idling and ready to fly. Their flight route had taken them over central Europe and Ukraine, and they were now over the Black Sea, heading southeast towards Turkey. Along with keeping their hull temperatures low, accelerated descent procedures allowed them to deorbit much faster-they could descend from an altitude of two hundred miles to an initial approach position called the "high gate" in less than a thousand miles, while a normal descent with aerobraking it could take almost five thousand miles.

Below sixty thousand feet they were in Class A positive control airspace, so now they had to follow all normal air traffic control procedures. The computer has already entered the appropriate frequency into the number one microwave radio: "Center of Ankara, this is the Seventh Herd, due attention, one hundred and twenty miles northwest of Ankara, passing flight level five-four-zero, requesting activation of our flight plan. We will be MARS with the Four-One chevron."

"Seventh group, Ankara center, stay outside the Turkish air defense identification zone until detected by radar, signal one-four-one-seven normal." Boomer re-read all the instructions.

At that moment, over their secondary encrypted radio, they heard: "Stallion seven, chevron four-One on blue Two."

Boomer asked Frenchie to listen to the air traffic control frequency, then switched to the auxiliary radio station: "Four-One, this is the Seventh Stallion." They exchanged challenge and response codes to confirm each other's identity, even though they were on an encrypted channel. "We took off from Batman because we heard from Ankara ATC that they do not allow any aircraft to cross their air defenses, even those with established flight plans. We don't know what's going on, but usually it's because an unidentified plane or vessel has invaded their airspace or waters, or some Kurds have fired some mortars across the border, and they're shutting everything down until they sort it out . We are approaching the Fishtail rendezvous point. I suggest walking parallel to the point there, then heading towards MK."

"Thanks for staying on top of things, Four-One," Boomer said, relief evident in his voice. Using the enhanced descent profile had severely depleted their fuel reserves - right now they were almost out of fuel, and by the time they reached their initial approach point at Batman AFB they would be at emergency fuel reserves and would be out of fuel, to fly somewhere else. Their closest alternative landing point was Mihail Cogniceanu Airport near Constanta, Romania, or simply "MK" for short, the first US military base established in a former Warsaw Pact country.

Once the two aircraft were connected via a secure transceiver, their multi-function displays showed them each other's location, the route they would take to the rendezvous point, and the turning points they would need to get into position. The Black Stallion had reached its initial mid-air refueling point fifteen minutes early, at four hundred knots and an altitude of thirty thousand feet, so Boomer began a series of tight turns to shed excess airspeed. "I love it-punching holes in the sky, flying the fastest manned aircraft on the planet."

"One is calling the Seventh Stallion," Boomer heard over his encrypted satellite transceiver.

"It"s God on WATCHMEN," he quipped. "Forward, One."

"You are cleared to go to MK," said Patrick McLanahan from the Armstrong space station. He monitored the spaceplane's progress from the command module. "Crews stand ready to ensure the safety of the Black Stallion."

"Should someone at home be looking over my shoulder from now on?" - he asked.

"I confirm this, Boomer," Patrick replied. "Get used to it."

"Understood."

"Any idea why Ankara didn"t let anyone in, sir?"

"This is Genesis. Still negative," chimed in David Luger. "We're still checking."

Eventually the Black Stallion was able to slow down and descend to take proper position, five hundred feet below and half a mile behind the tanker. "Stage seven established, checklist complete, you in sight, ready," Boomer reported.

"Roger you, Seven, this is Chevron Four-One," replied the gunner at the rear of the tanker. "I read you loud and clear, just like me."

"Loud and clear."

"I understand you. I see you too." Over the intercom he said, "Boom lowering to contact position, crew," and he maneuvered the tanker into position, its own wire-controlled wings stabilizing it in the flow of the large tanker. Again on the radio: "Seven has been cleared to move into pre-contact position, Four-One is ready."

"The seventh is rising," said Boomer. He opened the sliding doors on the top of the fuselage behind the cockpit, then smoothly brought the spaceplane into the pre-contact position: aligned with the centerline of the tanker, the top of the windshield along the center seam of the lighting control panel. The huge belly of a converted Boeing 777 filled the windshield. "Seven is in pre-contact position, stabilized and ready, this time only JP-7," he said.

"Copying preliminary contact and ready, JP-7 only, cleared to enter contact position, four-one ready," said the boom operator. He extended the nozzle and turned on the blinking "maneuver" indicator - a signal to move the receiver to the desired position. Boomer barely had to move the controls because the plane was so light-almost as if with just a thought, he carefully guided the Black Stallion forward and upward. When the maneuver indicator became steady, the Boomer maintained its position, again as if by sheer force of thought, and the boom operator inserted the nozzle into its socket. "Contact, four-one."

"The seventh has made contact and is showing fuel consumption," Boomer confirmed. "I'm very glad to see you boys."

"We are the crew of the Cabernet, sir," said the tanker pilot.

It took the KC-77 ten minutes to transfer thirty thousand pounds of jet fuel to the Black Stallion. "Let's start heading west, Four-One," Boomer said. "We are starting to get too close to Krasnodar." There was a large Russian air base in Krasnodar on the eastern coast of the Black Sea, and although they were well outside their or anyone else's airspace, it was best not to fly into such areas without warning. Along with their large air defense radar and numerous batteries of long-range surface-to-air missiles, Krasnodar was one of the largest fighter bases in the entire world, with no less than three full air defense fighter wings based there, including one with Mikoyan's MiG-29. Gurevich "Fulcrum", considered one of the best interceptors in the world.

Even four years after the American retaliatory attacks in Russia, nerves throughout the region were still frayed, and operators were willing to do anything to get fighters into the air and activate air defense systems. Fortunately, there was no sign of any air defense activity behind them. "The best thing to do is turn right."

"We"re going straight to two-seven-zero," the tanker pilot reported. Boomer skillfully banked behind the modified Boeing 777 as they began to turn south, maintaining contact through the turn.

They had just set out on a new course when the tanker's gunner said, "Well, guys, it looks like we have a visitor. Seven, your three o"clock, is damn close."

"What's the matter, Frenchie?" Boomer asked, concentrating on staying in the refueling area.

"Oh shit...it's a Russian MiG-29," Moulin said nervously, "three hours, less than half a mile, right on the tip of our wing."

"See if he has a wingman," Boomer said. "The Russians don"t fly solo ships very often."

Moulin scanned the sky, trying to remain calm, trying to look as far back as possible. "Caught him," she said a moment later. "At seven o"clock, about a mile away." The one at three o'clock moved closer, attracting her attention. In her fifteen-year Navy career, she had never seen a MiG-29, except those in German service, and then only on static display, not in flight. It could be a clone of the Navy's F-14 Tomcat carrier-based fighter, with wide wings, a massive fuselage and a large nose for its large fire control radar. This one had green, light blue and gray striped camouflage, with a large white, blue and red Russian flag on the vertical stabilizer - and she could clearly see one long-range missile and two short-range air-to-air missiles hanging from the left wing of a moment. "It's bear loaded, that's for sure," she said nervously. "What are we going to do?"

"I'm going to finish refueling," Boomer said, "and then we're going to start boarding the MK." This is international airspace; Sightseeing is permitted. Let Genesis and Odin find out what's going on there."

Boomer heard Frenchie on walkie-talkie number two talking to someone, but a moment later she stopped: "That idiot is coming at three o'clock," she said nervously.

"How are we doing with gasoline?"

"Three-quarters full."

"Do we have enough reserves to reach MK?"

"A lot of".

"I want to top them up just in case. How close is MiG now?

"He's right at the tip of our right wing," Frenchie said. "Are you going to pass out, captain?"

"No. I show him how it's done. No doubt he also wants to look into the future." But the little game didn't end there. The Mig-29 continued to approach until soon Boomer heard the roar of its engine and vibrations outside the cabin. "Okay, now he's starting to piss me off. How are we doing with gasoline?"

"Almost full."

"Where is the wingman?"

Moulin began to shift in her seat to turn fully to the left again... but soon discovered that this was not necessary, because the second MiG had closed in and was now directly at the left window of the tanker pilot's cockpit, close enough to the exhaust fumes from its engine and jets of water shook the left wing of the tanker, barely noticeable at first, but soon more and more powerfully as the MiG approached.

"Seventh, this is Four-One. It's becoming increasingly difficult to keep it under control. What do you say to that?"

"Bastard," Boomer muttered. "It's time to finish." On the radio he responded, "Four-One, let's switch off and-"

But at that moment, the second MiG to the left of the tanker's cockpit turned on the afterburner, its exhaust gases were only a few yards from the leading edge of the tanker's left wing, as a result of which the wing first jerked violently downwards, then upwards, causing the tanker to list to the right. "Getaway, breakaway, breakaway!" the barrier operator shouted over the radio. Boomer immediately slowed down, pressed the voice command button and said, "Brake speed seventy!" The Mission Adaptive Wing system immediately set maximum drag, creating thousands of high-speed brakes across the entire surface of the spaceplane and allowing it to quickly dive...

... and it didn't happen very quickly, because the tanker pilot, struggling with the control of his aircraft and at the same time pressing full combat power and a thirty-degree climb angle, when he heard the "lift-off" signal, over-adjusted and was now furiously fell to the left, being in the grip of a complete power outage and on the verge of a tailspin. Boomer swore he was about to come face to face with the boom operator when he saw the tanker's tail dipping lower and lower towards him. "Come on, Chevron, recover, damn it, recover...!"

The KC-77 tanker seemed to be pirouetteing at the end of the still extended refueling boom, careening left and right as if grasping the sky for support, its wings fluttering like a giant osprey in climb, except the tanker wasn't was gaining altitude, and was preparing to roll over and spin out of control at any second. Just when Boomer thought he was going to roll over onto his back and dive uncontrollably into the Black Sea, he stopped his death wobble, his left wing remaining down and his nose beginning to creep towards the horizon. As the nose of the plane dropped below the horizon, the right wing slowly, painfully began to descend. When the tanker disappeared from view, it was almost level with the wings, with its nose steeply lowered, but quickly regaining its lost airspeed.

"Chevron, are you guys okay?" Boomer radioed.

A few moments later he heard a high, squeaky, hoarse male voice say, "I got it, I got it, damn it, I got it...Seven, this is Four-One, we're okay. Damn, damn, I thought we were done for. We're twelve thousand feet up. We are fine. One engine burned out, but now we are restarting."

Boomer scanned the sky and saw two MiG-29s linking up high above him, heading east. He could almost hear them laughing over their radios at how they scared the Americans. "You bastards!" - he shouted into his oxygen visor and moved the throttles forward to maximum afterburner.

"Noble! What are you doing?" Moulin shouted as her breathing returned after a sudden jolt to her chest from the overload. But it soon became obvious what he was doing - he was flying right into the middle of the MiG formation. By the time she was able to scream, they had streaked past the two MiGs, flying less than a hundred yards above them, at over seven hundred miles an hour! "Oh my God, Noble, are you crazy?"

Boomer steered the Black Stallion into a steep sixty-degree climb as he continued to accelerate. "We're going to see if they like to crossbreed with other outdoor cats or if they'll just go for the big fat tabbies," he said. The threat warning receiver roared - the MiGs were still operating without radar, which is why they were able to sneak up on their formation so easily, but now they had the large N-019 radar turned on and they were searching. Boomer leveled out at forty thousand feet, returned the controls to combat power, and switched his multi-function display to the threat image that gave him the best view of the situation. "Keep an eye on my fuel and let me know when we get close to bingo fuel on MK, Frenchy."

"Stallion, this is Odin," radioed Patrick McLanahan from the Armstrong space station. "We just received a warning about the threat. You have two MiGs behind you! Where are you going?"

"I'm going to drag these guys as far east as possible to keep them away from the tanker," Boomer said, "and I'm going to teach them a lesson about how to handle a black stallion and especially his tanker."

"Do you understand what you"re doing, Boomer?" - Patrick asked.

"I hope these guys shoot me, General," Boomer said, "and then I'm really going to bring tears to their eyes. Any more questions, sir?"

There was a short pause, during which Moulin was sure that the general would swear until he dropped and literally bounce from the ceiling of the command module in pure anger at Noble's teenage antics. To her shock, she heard McLanahan respond: "Negative, Boomer. Just try not to scratch the paint."

"Fifteen minutes until refueling at this speed and heading, spacecraft," Moulin reported. "Stop this crap and turn us around!"

"Five more minutes and we'll turn around, Frenchie," Boomer said, then muttered, "Come on, you cowardly bastards, shoot already. We're right in your sights and we're not causing any interference - take it - "

At this moment, the two "batwing" symbols on the threat warning display, representing the Mig's search radars, began to flash. "Attention, attention, missile alert, six hours, twenty-three miles, MiG-29K..." this moment was followed by: "Attention, attention, missile launch, missile launch, AA-12!"

"Let"s go, Frenchy, hold on to your bloomers," Boomer said. He turned the throttles to maximum afterburner, then said: "Leopards in touch."

"Leopards in contact, stop the leopards...leopards activated," the computer responded, and both crew members were thrown back into their seats as the pulse laser detonation system engines fired into full turbojet mode - with the throttles already running at full afterburner , instead of gradually increasing them, they received almost full turbojet power in just a few seconds. Airspeed jumped from just below Mach 1 to 2, then 3, then 4 in the blink of an eye. He then began a steep climb, then maintained pitch input until they were heading straight up, a passive fifty, then sixty thousand feet.

"Missiles...still...tracking," Moulin grumbled after almost seven Gs. "Still...closing..."

"I'm almost... done... with these assholes, Frenchie," Boomer grumbled back. He returned the power to Mach 4 and continued to press the control stick until they capsized. He rolled vertically, his nose now pointing down almost vertically, then glanced at the threat display. As he had hoped, the two MiGs were still transmitting radar energy, searching for him-the AA-12 missile, a copy of the American AIM-120 Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missile, was being targeted using its own onboard radar.

"I wonder where I went, guys? You'll find out in a second." Boomer directed the Black Stallion to a point in space where he thought the MiGs would be in a heartbeat or two - at his relative speed, the MiGs seemed to hover in space, although the threat display showed they were flying at almost twice the speed faster than sound. As soon as he caught a glimpse of the black dots below him, he rolled to the left until he was directly between the two Russian planes. He had no idea whether he had calculated the move correctly, but now it was too late to worry...

The blinks were little more than imperceptible blurs as he flew straight between them, missing the nearest one by only fifty yards. Once he was past them, he set the throttles to idle, turned off the LPDRS engines to save fuel, used the MAW system to help the spaceplane level out without breaking into pieces - at their current speed, they would have reached the Black Sea in just eight seconds without Mission technology Adaptive Wing - and began a sharp left turn in case the AA-12 missiles were still tracking...

...but he didn't have to worry about the missiles, because a moment later they saw a large flash of light above them, then another. He straightened up, let the g-forces subside, and scanned the sky. All they could see were two black clouds above them. "Payback is a bitch, right, comrades?" Boomer said as he headed west again.

They had to catch up with the tanker again and refuel because they reached emergency fuel condition in just a couple of minutes with the LPDRS engines running. The tanker's crew was jubilant, but Moulin was even more calm and businesslike than usual - she said nothing more than the obligatory shouts. "Are you guys okay, Four-One?" - Boomer asked.

"Our dentures are very loose," said the tanker pilot, "but it"s better than the alternative. Thank you, stud."

"You can thank us by giving us a little more gas so we can get to MK."

"As long as we have enough fuel to get us to the nearest runway, you can take the rest," the tanker pilot said. "And don"t even think about buying drinks for any other gas station anywhere on the planet - we don"t need your money anymore. Thank you again, Seventh Stallion."

Less than an hour later, the two planes made a rendezvous and landed at Constanta-Mihail Cog Galniceanu Airport in Romania. The airport was fifteen miles from Constanta and nine miles from the city's famous Mamaia beach on the Black Sea, so it was rarely exposed to the freezing fog that shrouded the coastal city in winter. The United States Air Force built an aircraft parking ramp, hangars, and maintenance and security facilities on the northeast side of the airfield, and upgraded the airport's control tower, radar and communications facilities, and the civilian airport terminal. Along with membership in NATO and the European Union, investments made by the United States in Romania have quickly transformed the area, previously known only for its busy seaport and historical sites, into a major international business, technology and tourism destination.

The two planes were brought into the security area in a small convoy of armored Humvees and parked together in the largest hangar. The crews often hugged and shook hands during the disembarkation. They discussed their mission together and then separately, promising to meet for dinner and drinks later in Constanţa.

The debriefing of Noble and Moulin took significantly longer than that of the tanker crew. It took nine grueling hours to report to the maintenance and reconnaissance crews, Patrick McLanahan at the Armstrong space station, Dave Luger at Dreamland, and undergo their routine post-flight medical examinations. When they were finally released, they cleared Romanian customs at a civilian airport, then took a shuttle bus to the Best Western Savoy Hotel in Constanta, where the US military had contracted to stay temporarily.

The Black Sea coast was not at all busy in winter, so with the exception of a few airline crews from Romania, Germany and Austria and a few surprised businessmen unaccustomed to the large number of parties in Constantinople in winter, the Americans were left to their own devices. The tanker crew was already having fun and buying drinks for everyone wearing wings, especially the foreign female flight attendants. Boomer was ready too, but to his surprise, he saw Lisette heading towards the elevator to her room. He pulled himself away from the embrace of the two beautiful blond flight attendants, promising that he would be back soon, and hurried after her.

He barely squeezed past the closing elevator doors. "Hey Frenchie, are you going to bed so soon? The party is just starting and we haven"t had dinner yet."

"I am defeated. I'm done for today."

He looked at her with concern. "You haven't said much since our little skirmish with the Russians," he said. "I'm a little-"

Suddenly Moulin turned towards him and hit him on the jaw with his clenched right fist. It was not such a strong blow, but it was still a fist - it hurt him, but mainly from surprise. "Hey, why did you do that?"

"You bastard! You're an idiot! - she screamed. "Because of you, we could both be killed there today!"

Boomer rubbed his chin, still looking at her with concern; then he nodded and said, "Yes, I could. But no one is hustling near my tanker." He smiled, then added, "Besides, you have to admit, Frenchie, it's been one hell of a ride."

Moulin looked like she was going to hit him again, and he was determined to let her do it if it would make her feel better ... But to his surprise, she rushed forward in the elevator, wrapped her arms around his neck, smothered him with a kiss, and pressed him down. towards him, pinning him against the wall.

"You're damn right, Boomer, it's been one hell of a ride," she breathed. "I've flown planes from aircraft carriers in two wars and been shot at dozens of times, and I've never been as excited as I am today!"

"Oh my God, Moulin..."

"Frenchman. Call me Frenchie, damn it," she ordered, then silenced him with another kiss. For a long time she did not let him take a breath of air.

"You were so quiet on the way back and during the debriefing, I was afraid you were going into some sort of shell-shocked fugue state, Frenchie," Boomer said as Moulin started kissing his neck. "You have a really funny way of showing your excitement."

"I was so excited, so excited, so damn horny that I was embarrassed to show it," Moulin said between kisses, her hands quickly finding their way south of his waist. "I mean, two fighter pilots died, but I was so pumped up that I thought I was going to show up in my damn flight suit!"

"Damn Frenchy, that's one of the weird sides of you that I've never-"

"Shut up, Boomer, just shut up," she said as the elevator slowed down on their floor. By then she had almost undone his zipper and buttons. "Just take me to my room and fuck my brains out."

"But what about your fiancé and your-?"

"Boomer, I said shut the hell up and fuck me, and don"t stop until the morning," Moulin said as the elevator doors opened. "I'll explain this to... that... oh damn, whatever his name is, in the morning. Remember, captain, I outrank you, so this is an order, mister!" It was obvious that giving orders was as exciting for her as piloting a hypersonic spaceplane.

CHAPTER TWO

People like them much better when they are crushed by a terrible siege of failure than when they are triumphant.

-VIRGINIA WOOLF

ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

IN THE NEXT MORNING

The Command Module was the center of activity aboard the Armstrong Space Station, and it was here that Patrick McLanahan attended a video conference with selected members of President Gardner's National Security Staff: Conrad F. Carlisle, National Security Advisor to the President; Gerald Vista, Director of Central Intelligence, who remained in his post from the Martindale administration; Marine General Taylor J. Bain, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; Charles A. Huffman, Chief of Staff of the Air Force; and Air Force General Bradford Cannon, commander of the US military. Strategic Command and-until Congress and the Pentagon work out the details-commander of all U.S. space operations in theater and responsible for training, equipping, and directing all space combat missions. Hunter Noble - a little bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, both due to the time difference and Lisa Moulin - was connected to the teleconference via satellite from the command post at Constant Air Force Base.

Patrick and Master Sergeant Valerie Lucas hovered in front of a widescreen high-definition teleconference monitor, Velcroed to the bulkhead of the command module with sneakers. Patrick had his hair cut short, but Lucas' longer hair hung loosely on either side of the crossband of her headphones, giving her a strange wolverine look. "Armstrong Space Station is online and secure, sir," Patrick announced. "This is Lt. Gen. Patrick McLanahan, Commander, Advanced Aerospace Weapons Center, Elliott Air Force Base, Nevada. The USA is with me. Air Force Master Sergeant Valerie Lucas, the noncommissioned officer in charge of the station and the sensor operator on duty during the attack in Tehran. Joining us via satellite from Constanta, Romania, is Air Force Capt. Hunter Noble, chief of the Manned Spaceflight and Hypersonic Weapons Division at the Advanced Aerospace Weapons Center. He was the officer in charge of the attack over Tehran and the designer of the SKYSTREak missile used in the attack. He returned to Earth yesterday after completing a mission to land a reconnaissance aircraft over eastern Iran, which we will update you on later."

"Thank you, General," said General Taylor Bain from the Gold Room, also known as "The Tank," the Joint Chiefs of Staff conference center on the second floor of the Pentagon. As was the case with most officers in the post-Holocaust United States, Bane was young for a four-star Marine officer, with dark brown hair cut "high and tight," a ready smile and warm gray eyes that radiated trust and determined sincerity. "Welcome, everyone. I assume you know everyone here. Joining us from the White House is National Security Advisor Conrad Carlisle, and Director of Intelligence Gerald Vista is joining us from Langley.

"First, I want to say that I am pleased and, frankly, more than a little amazed to speak with you, General McLanahan, aboard a facility that just a few short years ago was considered at best a relic of the Cold War, and at worst a floating money pit. "Bane continued. "But we are now looking at committing hundreds of billions of dollars in the next five budgets to create a Space Force based on the same weapons system. I believe we are witnessing the beginning of a new direction and future for the American military. Captain Noble, I have been briefed on your incident yesterday and while we need to discuss your judgment skills, I am impressed with the way you handled yourself, your crew, your fellow airmen and your ship. I believe this was another example of amazing capabilities being developed, and the future path we're on really looks incredible. But we have a long way to go before we embark on this journey, and the events of the last few days will be critical.

"First, we are going to hear a briefing from General McLanahan about the Armstrong space station and its recent operational testing, as well as the Captain Noble incident over the Black Sea. We will discuss several other issues, and then my staff will prepare our recommendations for the Department of Defense and Homeland Security officials. I'm sure this will be a long uphill battle, both in the Pentagon and on Capitol Hill. But no matter what comes next, Patrick, I'd like to say 'job well done' to you and your fellow pilots - or should I say fellow 'astronauts'. Please continue ".

"Yes, sir," Patrick began. "On behalf of everyone aboard Space Station Armstrong and our support crews at Battle Mountain Air Force Reserve Base, Elliott Air Force Base and Peterson Air Force Base in Colorado, thank you for your kind words and continued support."

Patrick pressed a button that presented photographs and drawings in a separate window to the video conference audience as he continued: "First, a quick overview: The Armstrong space station was built in the late 1980s and early 1990s. It is a military version of NASA's much smaller Skylab space station, built from the spent fuel tanks of the Saturn I and Saturn IV rockets, joined together on a central fin structure. Four such tanks, each with more than thirty thousand cubic feet of free space inside, form the main part of the station. Over the years, other modules have been attached to the fin for specialized missions or experiments, along with larger solar panels to increase power generation for the expanding station. We can accommodate up to twenty-five astronauts at the facility for a month without resupply.

"The station houses several advanced US military systems, including the first space-based ultra-high-resolution radar, advanced space-based global infrared sensors, advanced space-based global communications and high-speed computer networks, and the first space-based laser missile defense system, codenamed 'Skybolt', designed to shoot down intercontinental ballistic missiles from space. The station's space-based radar is a sophisticated radar system that scans the entire planet once a day and can detect and identify objects the size of a motorcycle, even underground or underwater.

"The destruction of our strategic command and control systems and missile defense facilities as a result of air attacks by the Russian Federation on the United States underscores the need for a robust and modern operating base to conduct a wide range of vital defense activities, and the Armstrong Space Station is such a facility," Patrick continued. . "The station is now the central data collection and dissemination hub for a network of high- and low-Earth orbit satellites linked together into a global intelligence and communications system that continuously transmits a wide range of information to military and government users around the world in real time. The station and its supporting reconnaissance satellites can track and identify targets on the surface, in the sky, on or under water, underground or in space, and it can direct manned and unmanned defenders against them, similar to a space-based multifunctional battle command system.

"The advanced systems aboard the Armstrong space station provide it with other important capabilities that complement its primary military function," Patrick continued. "In the event of war or natural disaster, the station can serve as an alternative national military operations center, similar to the Air Force E-4B or Navy E-6B Mercury airborne command posts, and can communicate with ballistic missile submarines even while in deep dive. It can connect to radio and television channels and the Internet around the world to broadcast information to the public; act as a nationwide control center for air, sea or land traffic; or serve as a central coordination center for the Federal Emergency Management Agency. The station supports the International Space Station, acts as a space rescue and repair service, supports numerous scientific research and educational programs and, I believe, is an inspiration for the general awakening of youth around the world to space exploration.

"The Armstrong space station currently houses twelve systems operators, technicians and officers, who are structured much like the combat team aboard an airborne command post or the sensor operators aboard a radar aircraft. Additional crews are brought on board as needed for specialized missions - the station has accommodations for a dozen more personnel and can be quickly and easily expanded with additional modules delivered by the shuttle, SR-79 Black Stallion, Orion crew or remotely manned launch vehicles -"

"Excuse me, General," National Security Advisor Carlisle interjected, "but how is it possible to deliver additional modules to the station by spaceplane or remotely piloted vehicles?"

"The fastest and easiest way is to use inflatables, Mr. Carlisle," Patrick replied.

"Inflatable? You mean not hard like a balloon?"

"Like a hot air balloon, only a very high-tech hot air balloon. The technology is based on NASA's 'Transhab' experiments a decade ago, which proposed inflatable modules for the International Space Station. The walls of our models are primarily made of an electroreactive material that is flexible, like fabric, until a current is applied and struck, when it hardens into a material that resists impact a thousand times better than steel or Kevlar; this material is reinforced by other non-electroreactive materials that are still many times stronger than steel or Kevlar. Inflatable structures provide just enough to absorb the energy from an impact without damage - you can't break through the walls of these things.

"The material is lightweight and easy to pack for launch, then easily and remotely inflate in just a few hours. We have already installed small inflatable modules on spaceplanes and Orion, and the technology is reliable. We have not yet lifted the module with a full crew, but it is in development. Future space stations and perhaps even habitation modules on the Moon or Mars will likely be inflatable." Carlisle didn't look at all convinced, as did several of the other participants, but he made no other comments.

Patrick took a sip of water from a bottle velcroed to the bulkhead and was surprised to find a line of nervous sweat on his upper lip. How many briefings, he wondered, had he given in more than two decades of military service? Not one, he reminded himself wryly, from space before! Briefing four-star generals was nerve-wracking enough, but doing it while flying at over seventeen thousand miles an hour and over two hundred miles above the Earth made it even more challenging.

"Armstrong Space Station is the ultimate expression of taking the high ground and, I believe, is central to America's stated goal of maintaining access to and control of space," Patrick continued. "This and the Black Stallion spaceplanes form the basis of what I call U.S. Space Defense Command, an integrated joint service command that manages all space-based offensive and defensive capabilities and supports ground theater commands with reliable, high-speed communications, reconnaissance, attack and transport services from space. . Our mission will be to-"

"This is very interesting, General McLanahan," National Security Advisor Carlisle chimed in with an ironic and rather puzzled expression on his face, "and as interesting as the idea was when you first proposed it last year, this kind of organization is still a long way from being created." years - we don't have time to bring back Buck Rogers right now. Can we move on to discuss operations in Iran, General Bane?"

"Of course, Mr. Councilor. General McLanahan?"

"Yes, sir," Patrick said without any expression - he was used to being not listened to, interrupted and ignored whenever he expressed his idea about the US Space Defense Command. "Along with all of this station's other advanced technological capabilities, my staff recently added one more: the ability to control remotely piloted tactical aircraft and their weapons from space. We have demonstrated the ability to control an unmanned EB-1C Vampire supersonic bomber entirely from this station during all phases of flight, including multiple mid-air refuelings and deployment of hypersonic precision weapons, in real time and with full man-in-the-loop control. Our communications and networking capabilities are fully and rapidly scalable and expanding, and I envision the ability to control entire air forces of potentially hundreds of combat unmanned aerial vehicles, from small micro-reconnaissance drones to giant cruise missile tractors, straight from Armstrong - securely and practically inaccessible."

Patrick attached his briefing notes to the bulkhead. "I hope you all received my follow-up report on the use of the XAGM-279 SkySTREAK hypersonic precision-guided cruise missile in Tehran," he said. "The attack was a complete success. The operational test was abandoned due to unintentional and unfortunate losses caused by the detonation of a suspected chemical weapons warhead on the target missile. The losses were caused by the unexpected detonation of a chemical weapons warhead on an attacking insurgent missile, not by a SKYSTREak missile, and therefore...

"And as I stated in my comments to the McLanahan report," chimed in Air Force Chief of Staff Gen. Charles Huffman, "I believe that SKYSTREAKE was an inappropriate weapon for use and could adversely affect our efforts to de-escalate the conflict in Iran and achieve a settlement through negotiations between the warring parties. Iran was the wrong place to test this weapon, and it seems to me that General McLanahan misrepresented his proposal and the weapon's potential effects to dramatize his system. Shooting the Skystreak at its limited ranges in Nevada wouldn't have the wow factor of hitting a Rebel pickup truck. Unfortunately, his magic show resulted in the death of dozens of innocent civilians, including women and children, from poison gas."

Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Bane shook his head, then looked straight ahead at the video conference camera. "General McLanahan?" His brow furrowed as he looked at Patrick's image on the video conference screen: Patrick was taking another long swig from the squeeze bottle and seemed to be having some difficulty sticking the bottle to the bulkhead. "Will you bother to answer?"

Patrick nodded, bringing his hand to his mouth to catch a stray drop of water. "Sorry, sir. Even simple tasks like drinking water require a little extra concentration here. Almost everything requires conscious effort."

"Got it, Patrick. I've ridden the Vomit Comet a couple of times, so I know what zero gravity can do to a person, but it's nothing like living that experience 24/7." The Vomit Comet was a modified C-135 cargo plane that flew on a roller coaster-like trajectory, allowing passengers to experience several seconds of weightlessness during its steep descent. "Any comments on General Huffman's report?"

"I didn't think it was necessary for me to respond with a resounding negative, sir," Patrick said, "but to be absolutely clear: General Huffman's analysis is completely wrong. I assembled an operational test of SkySTREAK exactly as described in the General Air Mission Order: a precision air strike force to support Persian counter-insurgency operations with minimal collateral loss or damage. We have not deviated one iota from the ATO line.

"I would also like to make a few other points, if I may, sir." He did not wait for permission to continue: "SKYSTRICK has been approved by the general's operational headquarters, along with eight other task forces and units that operate over Tehran and other cities of Free Persia. So far, SKYSTREEK has been the only unit to successfully engage any insurgents, although all other units have access to Global Hawk sensor imagery, the Armstrong Space Station's automated surveillance system, and even SKYSTREEK's downlinks. . In short, sir, SKYSTRICK works."

"What about civilian casualties?"

"The result of a rebel warhead detonating, sir-it was not caused by an explosion in the sky."

"It was caused by your missile, McLanahan," Huffman interjected. "You have been advised of the possibility of insurgent use of weapons of mass destruction in Tehran and have been instructed to refrain from doing so and to request advanced target analysis before engaging in combat. You failed to do so, resulting in unnecessary civilian casualties."

"It is my understanding, sir, that we limited the number of casualties by destroying the Raad missile before the insurgents had a chance to launch it."

"Be that as it may, McLanahan, you did not follow my instructions," Huffman said. "Technology has nothing to do with it. But due to your error in judgment, the entire program may be terminated."

"I'm not quite ready to close anything yet, Charlie," General Bane said. "My staff and I have reviewed the report presented by General McLanahan and your response, with particular attention to the issue of collateral civilian casualties. My intelligence agency has reviewed all Global Hawk surveillance footage and the space station's own sensor network. The general consensus was that it would be possible to determine with certainty that the missile did indeed carry a chemical warhead, and that nearby innocent civilians would be at risk if the missile were hit and the warhead detonated and activated." Huffman smiled and nodded confidently...

... until Bain looked at the Air Force Chief of Staff, raised his hand and continued: "... if General McLanahan had time to study high-definition still images for at least ninety seconds while sitting at his desk at Air Force bases Langley, Beal, or Lackland, instead of flying around planet Earth at seventeen thousand five hundred miles per hour, or if he had taken the time to consult with expert analysts on the ground; and unless he was a three star general and an Air Force tactical officer and air weapons expert, he wasn't expected to make command decisions like this. However, had he taken the time to ask or decided not to attack, we believe the loss of life would have been much greater if the missile had dispersed its deadly payload as intended.

"Civilian deaths are regrettable and something we want to avoid at all costs, but in this case we believe that General McLanahan made the correct decision in accordance with his rules of engagement and is not responsible for the loss of life. Consequently, the command headquarters will not convene a commission of inquiry into the matter unless other evidence is presented and will not consider the matter closed. General McLanahan may continue his patrols over Iran as directed and as originally planned, with additional patrols added back to the package, and the Joint Staff recommends that National Command allow him to do so.

"On a personal note, I want to thank General McLanahan and his crews for a job well done," Bain added. "I have no idea what the challenges of working and living in space might be like, but I imagine the stress levels would be enormous and the operating conditions challenging, to say the least. You and your people are doing a great job under difficult circumstances."

"Thank you, sir."

"This concludes my part of the video conference. Mr. Carlisle, any comments or questions?" Patrick looked at the image of the National Security Advisor, but he was busy talking on the phone. "Well, it looks like Mr. Carlisle is already busy with something else, so we'll log out. Thank you, everyone-"

"Wait a minute, General Bane," Conrad Carlyle intervened. "Get ready." Carlisle moved his chair to the side, the camera panned back, extending the view to three seats around the White House conference table... and a moment later, President of the United States Joseph Gardner took his place next to Carlisle, along with White House Chief of Staff Walter Cordus, tall but a rather thin man who seemed to be constantly frowning.

Joseph Gardner liked cameras-any kind of camera, even relatively cheap ones for video conferencing. Dark-haired, thin, square-jawed, he had that strange, almost mystical appearance that defied any attempt by anyone to classify him by ethnicity - while at the same time he looked Italian, Iberian, black Irish, Latino, even round-eyed Asian - and that's why they all liked him. He exuded enormous self-confidence from every pore, and his dark green eyes seemed to radiate power like laser beams. Just a couple of years into his two terms at U.S. The Senate, everyone knew it was destined for bigger and better things.

As a Florida native and from a long line of Navy veterans, Gardner has always been a big proponent of a strong Navy. Appointed by then-President Kevin Martindale to serve as Secretary of the Navy in his first term, Gardner persistently pushed for a massive expansion of the Navy, not only in its traditional maritime functions, but also in many non-traditional ones, such as nuclear combat, space, tactical aviation and missile defense. He argued that just as the Army was the primary service of America's ground forces and the Marine Corps the support service, the Navy should be the leader in maritime warfare and tactical air power, and the Air Force the service support. His rather radical "outside the box" ideas aroused much skepticism, but nevertheless attracted much attention and favorable support from Congress and the American people...

... even before the complete devastation of the American Holocaust, in which Russian long-range bombers armed with nuclear-tipped cruise missiles destroyed all but a handful of American intercontinental ballistic missiles and nuclear-capable long-range strategic bombers. In just a few hours, the US Navy suddenly became the only service capable of projecting American military power around the world, and at the same time, virtually the sole custodian of the American nuclear deterrent, which was considered absolutely vital to the very survival of the United States of America in its weakened state. condition.

Joseph Gardner, "the American naval engineer of the twenty-first century," was suddenly considered a true visionary and savior of the nation. During Martindale's second term, Gardner was nominated and unanimously confirmed as Secretary of Defense, and he was widely accepted as the de facto Vice President and National Security Advisor rolled into one. His popularity soared, and few around the world doubted that he would become the next President of the United States.

"Greetings, gentlemen," Gardner said, positioning himself in the same manner in front of the video conference camera. "Thought I"d take a look at your little chat here."

"Welcome, Mr. President," said Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Taylor Bain. He was clearly alarmed by such an unexpected interruption in his meeting, but tried his best not to show it. "We would be glad to start the briefing again, sir."

"This is not necessary," the president said. "I have information relevant to the purpose of this meeting, and I thought the best and most expeditious way to convey it to you would be to simply burst in."

"You're welcome any time, sir," Bane said. "Please continue. The word is yours."

"Thank you, Taylor," the president said. "I just spoke on the phone with Russian President Zevitin. General McLanahan?"

"Yes, sir."

"He claims that you fired a missile at one of his spy planes in international airspace, and when the missile missed, you seriously damaged the plane with powerful radioactive beams called T-waves or something like that. He also claims that a missile fired by one of your aircraft killed dozens of innocent civilians in Tehran, including women and children. Would you like to explain?"

"He's lying, sir," McLanahan responded immediately. "None of this is true."

"This is true?" He picked up a piece of paper. "I have a copy of the Chief of Air Staff's report on the incident, which appears to say much the same thing. So, both the President of Russia and the Chief of the General Staff are lying, but you are telling me the truth, General? Is this what you want me to believe?"

"We have just discussed the incident and the issues raised by General Huffman, sir," Bain said, "and I have determined that McLanahan acted properly and in accordance with instructions and was not responsible for the deaths of civilians-"

"As for Zevitin or anyone else in the Kremlin, sir," McLanahan intervened, "I wouldn"t believe a word they said."

"General McLanahan, dozens of innocent Iranians have been killed by chemical weapons, and a Russian spy pilot has been seriously injured by radiation fired at him by one of your bombers," the President retorted. "The world thinks you are starting another war with Russia in the Middle East and are demanding answers and accountability. Now is not the time for your bigoted attitude." Patrick shook his head and turned away, reaching for his water bottle and the President's eyes widened in anger. "Is there anything else you want to tell me, General?" Patrick turned back to the camera, then looked at his outstretched hand in confusion, as if he had forgotten why he had extended it. "Is something wrong with you, McLanahan?"

"N-no, sir..." Patrick responded in a muffled voice. He missed the water bottle, fumbled for it, grabbed it, then used too much force to rip it off the Velcro mount and sent it spinning around the module.

"What? I can not hear you. " Gardner's eyes narrowed in confusion as he watched the water bottle fly out of sight. "What is happening there? Where are you, general? Why are you moving like that?"

"He's on the Armstrong space station, sir," General Bane said.

"On a space station? Is he in orbit? Are you kidding me? What are you doing up there?"

"As commander of his task force operating from space, I have authorized General McLanahan to oversee the operation from the space station," Bane explained, "just as any commanding officer would take command of his forces from a forward command ship or-"

"On the bridge or CIC of a destroyer, yes, but not on a damn space station!" President Gardner fired back. "I want him to get off this thing now! For God's sake, he's a three-star general, not Buck Rogers!"

"Sir, if I may, may we discuss the issue of an airstrike against an insurgent missile launcher and action against a Russian aircraft?" General Bane said as he watched with concern as Valerie Lucas checked on Patrick. "We have reviewed the intelligence and we have determined-"

"This couldn't be a very thorough review if the incident happened just a couple of hours ago, General," the president said. He turned to the national security adviser sitting next to him. "Conrad?" - I asked.

"This is a preview of the same sensor data from the Global Hawk drone and space station radars that General McLanahan and his team saw before the attack, sir," Carlisle replied. "General Bain and his experts at the Pentagon reviewed the images as if they had been asked before an attack whether the target was legal based on the rules of engagement we established under the attack order, as required if there was any uncertainty about safety for non-combatants due to exposure to weapons or collateral damage. The video conference was convened as a preliminary review of the incident to determine whether a more detailed investigation would be warranted."

"And what?" - I asked.

"General Bain ruled that while General McLanahan could have foreseen civilian casualties, his order to engage was justified and appropriate based on available information, the threat of further civilian deaths at the hands of the insurgents, and his authority under the attack plan." , - answered Carlisle. "He recommends to the Secretary of Defense and to you that no further investigation is required and that McLanahan be allowed to continue the operation as planned with a full complement of missile carriers instead of just one."

"This is true?" The President paused for a moment, then shook his head. "General Bain, you are telling me that you believe it is right for McLanahan to attack a target knowing that there are so many non-combatant civilians nearby, and that such an attack is consistent with the letter and spirit of my executive order authorizing the hunting of insurgents in Iran? he objected. "I think you have grossly misinterpreted my orders. I thought I was very clear and specific: I don't want any civilian casualties. Was this not clear to you, General Bane?"

"It was, sir," Bane replied, his jaw tense and his eyes narrowed in reprimand, "but with the information that General McLanahan had at the time, and with the threat posed by those rebel missiles, I felt that he was completely justified in making the decision-"

"Let's make this clear right here and now, General Bane: I am the Supreme Commander and I make the decisions," the President said. "Your job is to carry out my orders, and my orders were to allow no civilian casualties. The only correct order in this case was to desist due to the large number of civilians around this launcher. Even if they were ordered to leave the immediate area, you should have anticipated that they would be close enough to be injured or killed by the explosion. They-"

"Sir, there was no explosion, at least not one caused by us," Bane protested. "The SKYSTREAKE missile is a purely kinetic energy weapon and was designed for-"

"I don't care what it was designed for, General - McLanahan knew there were civilians in the immediate area, and according to General Huffman, you were informed that some of the missiles might have chemical weapons on them, so he obviously , should have abstained. End of discussion. So what's the story with McLanahan firing a missile at a Russian fighter jet? Do McLanahan's bombers carry air-to-air missiles?

"These are standard defensive weapons for the EB-1D Vampire, sir, but McLanahan is not-"

"So why did you open fire on that Russian spy plane, General McLanahan?"

"We didn't fire any missiles, sir," McLanahan replied as firmly as he could, nodding to Lucas that he was fine, "and it wasn't a spy plane: it was a MiG-29 tactical fighter."

"What was that doing up there, McLanahan?"

"Tracking our bomber over the Caspian Sea, sir."

"I understand. Shadowing...as inside, are you conducting reconnaissance? Am I interpreting this correctly, General?" Patrick rubbed his eyes and swallowed hard, licking his dry lips. "We're not detaining you, are we, General?"

"No, sir."

"So the Russian plane was just doing reconnaissance after all, right?"

"In my opinion, no, sir. It was-"

"So you fired a missile at him and he returned fire, and then you hit him with some kind of radioactive beam, right?"

"No, sir." But something was wrong. Patrick looked at the camera but seemed to be having trouble focusing. "It's... we don't..."

"So what happened?"

"Mr. President, the MiG opened fire on us first," Boomer intervened. "The vampire was just defending himself, nothing more."

"Who is this?" the president asked the national security adviser. He turned to the camera, his eyes bulging with anger. "Who are you? Identify yourself!"

"I'm Captain Hunter Noble," Boomer said as he rose to his feet, staring in shock at the image of Patrick being helped by Lucas, "and why the hell won't you stop harassing us? We are just doing our job!"

"What did you tell me?" thundered the President. "Who the hell are you to talk to me like that? General Bane, I want him fired! I want him fired!"

"Master Sergeant, what"s going on?" Bane shouted, ignoring the President. "What's going on with Patrick?"

"He's having trouble breathing, sir." She found the nearest intercom switch: "Medical team to the command module! Emergency!" And then she ended the video conference by pressing a key on the communications control keyboard.

* * *

"Is McLanahan having a heart attack?" the president exclaimed after the video images from the space station cut out. "I knew he shouldn't be in that thing! General Bane, what kind of medical facilities do they have up there?"

"Basically, sir: only medically trained technicians and first aid equipment. We've never had a heart attack on a US military spacecraft."

"Great. Just fucking great." The President ran his hand through his hair in obvious frustration. "Can you get a doctor and some medicine and equipment there immediately?"

"Yes, sir. The Black Stallion spaceplane could rendezvous with the space station in a couple of hours."

"Get on with it. And stop these bombing flights over Iran. No more cruise missile firing until I know for sure what happened."

"Yes, sir." The video conference connection with Bane has been interrupted.

The President leaned back in his chair, loosened his tie and lit a cigarette. "What a cluster, damn it," he gasped. "We're killing a bunch of innocent civilians in Tehran with a hypersonic missile fired from an unmanned bomber controlled from a military space station; Russia is angry with us; and now the hero of the American Holocaust has a damn heart attack in space! What's next?"

"The McLanahan situation may be a blessing in disguise, Joe," said Chief of Staff Walter Cordus. He and Carlisle had known Joseph Gardner since college, and Cordus was one of the few people allowed to address the president by his first name. "We've been looking for ways to cut funding for the space station, despite its popularity in the Pentagon and on Capitol Hill, and this may be it."

"But it has to be done sensitively - McLanahan is too popular with the people to be used as an excuse to shut down his beloved program, especially since he's been touting it around the world as the next big thing, an impenetrable fortress, the ultimate watchtower , blah blah blah," the president said. "We have to get some members of Congress to raise the issue of safety on this space station, and whether it even needs to be maintained in the first place. We will have to 'leak' information about this incident to Senator Barbeau, the Armed Services Committee and several others."

"It won't be difficult," Cordus said. "Barbeau will know how to stir things up without hitting McLanahan."

"Fine. After this hits the press, I want to meet Barbeau privately to discuss strategy." Cordus tried his best to hide his discomfort at this order. The President noticed the warning tension of his friend and top political adviser and quickly added: "Everyone will put their hand out for money once we start pursuing the idea of destroying this space station, and I want to control the begging, whining and arm-twisting."

"Okay, Joe," Cordus said, not convinced by the president's hasty explanation, but not wanting to press the issue. "I"ll set everything up."

"You will do this." He took a deep drag from his cigarette, crushed it, then added, "And we need to get our ducks in a row, in case McLanahan loses his temper and Congress kills his program before we can divvy up his budget."

CHAPTER THREE

A man does what he is; he becomes what he does.

-ROBERT VON MUSIL

AZADI SQUARE, OUTSIDE MEHRABAD INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, TEHRAN, DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF PERSIA

A FEW DAYS LATER

"No bread, no peace! No bread, no peace!" the protesters chanted over and over. The crowd, now numbering around two or three hundred people, seemed to grow larger and exponentially louder by the minute.

"If they don"t have bread, where do they get so much energy to stand here and protest?" Colonel Mostafa Rahmati, commander of the Fourth Infantry Brigade, muttered as he scanned the security barriers and watched the crowds grow closer. Just two weeks earlier, Rahmati, a short, rather round man with thick dark hair that seemed to thickly cover every inch of his body except the top of his head, was the executive officer of the transport battalion, but with commanders - presumably killed by the rebels - disappearing, although no one could rule out desertion, promotions in the army of the supposed Democratic Republic of Persia occurred quickly and urgently.

"More smoke," one of the patrolmen reported to Rakhmati. "Tear gas, not an explosion." A few seconds later they heard a loud bang! strong enough to shatter the windows of the airport office building in which he and his senior staff were located. The lookout looked shyly at his commander. "Minor explosion, sir."

"I understand," Rahmati said. He didn't want to show any displeasure or irritation - two weeks ago he wouldn't have been able to tell the difference between a grenade explosion and a loud fart. "Watch the lines carefully-it could be a red herring."

Rahmati and his staff were on the top floor of an office building that once belonged to Iran's Ministry of Transport at Mehrabad International Airport. Following the military coup and the outbreak of an Islamist insurgency against the military government in Iran, the coup leaders decided to seize Mehrabad Airport and established a tight security perimeter around the entire area. Although most of the city east of Tehran University was left to the rebels, seizing the airport proved a wise decision. The airport was already highly secure; the open spaces around the field were easy to patrol and defend; and the airport could remain open to receive and dispatch cargo by air.

Besides, it has often been pointed out that if the rebels ever gain the upper hand - which could happen any day - it would be much easier to get the hell out of the country.

The windows rattled again and heads turned further southeast along Me'raj Avenue, northeast to Azadi Square, about two kilometers away, where another column of smoke suddenly rose, this time topped with a crown of orange flames. Explosions, arson, deliberate accidents, chaos and frequent suicide bombings were commonplace in Tehran, and none were more common than the area between Mehrabad Airport, Azadi Square and the famous Freedom Tower, the former "Gateway to Iran." . The Freedom Tower, first called the Shahyad Tower, or Royal Tower, in honor of the 2500th anniversary of the Persian Empire, was built in 1971 by Shah Reza Pahlavi as a symbol of the new, modern Iran. The tower was renamed after the Islamic Revolution and, like the US embassy, was seen more as a symbol of the declining monarchy and a warning to people not to accept the Western enemies of Islam. The square became a popular location for anti-Western demonstrations and speeches and thus became a symbol of the Islamic Revolution, which is probably why the marble-clad monument to Iran's last monarchy was never demolished.

Since the entire area was heavily fortified and heavily patrolled by the military, trade began to revive and even some luxury items such as restaurants, cafes and cinemas reopened. Unfortunately, they have often become targets of Islamist insurgents. A few brave supporters of the theocracy would rally from time to time in Azadi Square. To their credit, the military did not suppress these rallies and even took steps to protect them from counter-protesters who threatened to become too violent. Bujazi and most of his officers knew that they had to do everything possible to demonstrate to the people of Persia and the world that they were not going to replace one type of oppression with another.

"What is happening there?" - I asked. - Rahmati asked, continuing to examine the avenue in search of new signs of an organized rebel offensive. Every rebel attack in recent memory has been preceded by a smaller, innocuous-looking attack nearby that has diverted the attention of police and military patrols just long enough to allow the rebels to create more chaos elsewhere.

"Looks like that new ExxonMobil gas station off the Sai Di Highway, across from Meda Azadi Park, sir," the lookout reported. "A large crowd is running towards Azadi Avenue. The smoke is getting thicker - perhaps underground tanks are burning."

"Damn it, I thought we had enough security there," Rahmati cursed. The station was the government's first experiment in allowing foreign investment and partial ownership of plants in Persia. With the world's fourth-largest oil reserves, oil companies around the world have sought to move into the newly liberated country and take advantage of its wealth, largely untouched for decades after the West imposed an embargo on the theocratic Iranian government following the 1979 takeover of the US embassy. It was much, much more than a simple gas station-it was a symbol of a reborn Persia for the twenty-first century.

Everyone understood this, even soldiers like Rahmati, whose main goal in life was to take care of himself. He came from a privileged family and joined the army for its prestige and benefits after it became apparent that he was not smart enough to become a doctor, lawyer or engineer. After Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini's revolution, he saved his own skin by pledging allegiance to the theocrats, denouncing his fellow officers and friends to the Pasdaran-i-Engelab, the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, and relinquishing much of his family's hard-earned wealth in bribes and tribute. . Although he hated the theocracy for taking everything he had, he did not join the coup until it was obvious that it would succeed. "I want a reserve platoon to go with the firefighters to put out these fires," he continued, "and if any protesters get close, they must push them north of Azadi Avenue and northwest of the square, even if they have to break through several skulls. I don't want-"

"If you were going to say, 'I don't want this to get out of control,' Colonel, then cracking skulls is not the way to go about it," a voice said from behind him. Rahmati turned, then turned sharply and called to those present came to attention when the leader of the military coup, General Hesarak al-Kan Boujazi, entered the room.

The struggle to liberate his country from the rule of theocrats and Islamists has aged Boujazi well beyond his sixty-two years. Tall and always slim, he now struggled to eat enough to maintain a healthy weight amid his twenty-hour-a-day duties, infrequent and meager meals, and the need to constantly be on the move to confuse his enemies - both within his team and and outside - who tirelessly hunted for him. He still wore a close-cropped beard and mustache, but had shaved his head so as not to waste time maintaining his former flowing gray locks in good condition. Although he had traded in his military uniform for a French-style Gatsby suit and shirt, he wore an unadorned military coat and polished paratrooper boots under his trousers, and carried a PC9 nine-millimeter automatic pistol in a shoulder strap under his jacket. "As you were," he ordered. The others in the room relaxed. "Report, Colonel."

"Yes, sir". Rahmati quickly listed the most serious events of the last few hours; then: "Sorry about that outburst, sir. I'm just a little upset, that's all. I placed extra people at this station just to prevent this from happening."

"Your frustration sounds like an order to retaliate against anti-government protesters, Colonel, and that will not help the situation," Boujazi said. "We will deal harshly with criminals, not with protesters. It's clear?"

"Yes, sir."

Bujazi looked carefully at his brigade commander. "Looks like you need some rest, Mostafa."

"I'm fine, sir."

Bujazi nodded, then looked around the room. "Well, you can"t run your crew from here all the time, can you? Let's go see what happened there." Rahmati swallowed, then nodded, reluctantly following the general to the door, wishing he had agreed to take a nap. Navigating the streets of Tehran - even in broad daylight, within the Boujazi-controlled part of the city, and accompanied by a full platoon of battle-hardened security forces - was never a safe or advisable move.

Each block of the two kilometers from the airport to Meda Azari Park was a maze of concrete and steel streets designed to slow down the heaviest vehicles; There was a new checkpoint every three blocks, and even Boujazi"s motorcade had to be stopped and searched every time. Bujazi didn't seem to mind at all, taking the opportunity to greet his soldiers and a few townspeople outside. Rahmati didn't want to get that close to anyone, preferring instead to keep his AK-74 assault rifle at the ready. As they approached the park and the crowd grew larger, Boujazi strode down the street, shaking hands with those who offered theirs, waving to others and shouting a few words of encouragement. His bodyguards had to quicken their pace to keep up with him.

Rahmati had to give the guy credit: the old warhorse knew how to control a crowd. He fearlessly made his way into the crowd, shook hands with those who might as well have been holding a pistol or the trigger of a bulletproof vest, talked to journalists and testified in front of television cameras, posed for photographs with civilians and military personnel, kissed babies and old toothless women and even acted as traffic warden as fire trucks attempted to enter the area, dispersing the crowds and directing confused motorists away. But now they were only a few blocks away from the gas station fire, and the crowd was growing thicker and much more restless. "Sir, I suggest we interview the security patrols and see if any witnesses saw what happened or if any security cameras were working," Rahmati said, indicating that this would be a good place to do it.

Bujazi didn't seem to hear him. Instead of stopping, he continued walking, heading straight for the largest and noisiest crowd of people on the northwest side of the park. Rahmati had no choice but to stay with him, rifle at the ready.

Bujazi did not turn around, but seemed to sense the brigade commander's concern. "Put your weapon away, Mostafa," Boujazi said.

"But, sir-"

"If they wanted to shoot me, they could have done it two blocks ago, before we looked each other in the eyes," Boujazi said. "Tell the guards to have their weapons ready too." The team leader, an incredibly young Air Force major named Haddad, must have heard him, because the bodyguards' weapons had already disappeared by the time Rahmati turned to relay the order.

The crowd visibly tensed as Bujazi and his bodyguards approached, and the small crowd of men, women, and even a few children quickly grew. Rahmati was not a police officer or an expert in crowd psychology, but he noticed that as more spectators moved closer to see what was happening, the rest were pushed further and further forward towards the source of danger, making them feel trapped and fear for your life. As soon as panic began, the crowd quickly and suddenly turned into a mob; and when any soldier or armed individual felt that his life was in danger, shooting began and the number of victims quickly increased.

But Boujazi seemed oblivious to the obvious: he continued to march forward - not threateningly, but not with any false bravado or friendliness; all businesslike, but not confrontational like a soldier or cheerful like a politician. Did he think that he would go to his friends and discuss the problems of the day or sit down to watch a football match? Or did he think he was invulnerable? Whatever his mental state, he misunderstood this crowd. Rahmati began to think about how he was going to get to his rifle...and at the same time trying to decide which way he could run if this situation completely went to hell.

"Salaam alaykom," Boujazi called when he was about ten paces from the growing crowd, raising his right hand in greeting and also to show that he was unarmed. "Is anyone here injured?"

A young man, no more than seventeen or eighteen years old, stepped forward and pointed his finger at the general. "What does a damned soldier care if someone...?" And then he stopped, his finger still extended. "You! Khesarak Buzhazi, the new emperor of Persia! Reincarnation of Cyrus and Alexander himself! Should we kneel before you, or will a simple bow suffice, my lord?"

"I asked if there was anyone...?"

"What do you think of your empire now, General?" - asked the young man, pointing to the clouds of acrid smoke swirling nearby. "Or is it 'Emperor' Bujazi now?"

"If no one needs help, I need volunteers to keep others away from the explosion, find witnesses and collect evidence until the police arrive," Boujazi said, diverting his attention - but not entirely - from the loud message of arson. He found the oldest man in the crowd. "You, sir. I need you to call for volunteers and secure this crime scene. Then I need-"

"Why should we help you, lord and master, sir?" - shouted the first young man. "You were the one who brought this violence upon us! Iran was a peaceful and safe country until you came, slaughtered everyone who did not agree with your totalitarian ideas, and seized power. Why should we cooperate with you?"

"Peaceful and safe, yes - under the thumb of clerics, Islamists and madmen who killed or imprisoned anyone who did not obey their decrees," Boujazi said, unable to avoid being drawn into a debate he knew would not lead to victory. "They betrayed people, just as they betrayed me and everyone in the army. They-"

"So that"s the thing, isn"t it, Mr. Emperor: you?" - said the man. "You don't like how your former friends, the clerics, treated you, so you killed them and seized power. Why do we care what you say now? You will tell us everything to stay in power until you are done raping the country, and then you will fly straight from your very conveniently located new headquarters at Mehrabad Airport."

Bujazi was silent for a few moments, then nodded, surprising everyone around him. "You're right, young man. I was angry about the death of my soldiers who worked so hard to get rid of the radicals and psychos in the Basij and achieve something from themselves, their unit and their lives." After Boujazi was fired as chief of staff following attacks by American stealth bombers on their Russian-made aircraft carrier several years earlier, he was demoted to commander of the Basij-e-Mostazefin, or Mobilization of the Oppressed, a group of civilian volunteers. , who reported on neighbors, acted as observers and spies, and roamed the streets terrorizing others into conforming and collaborating with the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps.

Bujazi purged the Basij of bandits and rabble rousers and transformed those who remained into the Internal Defense Forces, a true military reserve force. But their success challenged the dominance of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, and they acted to try to discredit-or, preferably, destroy-the fledgling Boujazi National Guard forces. "When I learned that it was the Pasdarans who organized the attack on my first operational reserve unit, framing it as an attack by Kurdish rebels, simply to harm and discredit the Internal Defense Forces, I became angry and lashed out.

"But the Islamists and terrorists that the clerics brought into our country are the real problem, son, not the pasdaran," Boujazi continued. "They have devastated the minds of this nation, deprived them of all common sense and decency and filled them with nothing but fear, contempt and blind obedience."

"So what is the difference between you and the clerics, Buzhazi?" - shouted another young man. Rahmati could see that the crowd was getting bolder, louder, and unafraid to get closer by the second. "You kill clergy and overthrow the government - our government, the one we elected! - and replace it with your junta. We see your troops breaking down doors, burning buildings, stealing and raping every day!"

The crowd loudly expressed their agreement, and Boujazi had to raise his hands and say to be heard: "First of all, I promise you, if you show me evidence of theft or rape by any soldier under my command, I will personally put a bullet in his head." , he shouted. "No tribunal, no secret trial, no hearing - bring me evidence, convince me, and I will bring the culprit to you and execute him with my own hands.

"Secondly, I do not form the government in Persia, and I am not the president or the emperor - I am the commander of the resistance forces temporarily on the ground to quell violence and establish order. I will remain in power long enough to root out the insurgents and terrorists and oversee the formation of some form of government that will create a constitution and make laws to govern the people, and then I will step down. That's why I opened my headquarters in Mehrabad - not for a quick getaway, but to show that I have no intention of taking up legitimate government positions and calling myself president."

"This is what Musharraf, Castro, Chavez and hundreds of other dictators and despots said when they staged their coups and took over the government," the young man said. "They said they fought for the people and would leave as soon as order was established, and before you knew it, they took office for life, put their friends and thugs in positions of power, suspended the constitution, seized the banks, nationalized all the businesses , took away land and wealth from the rich and shut down all media that spoke against them. You will do the same in Iran."

Bujazi studied the young man for a moment, then carefully examined the others around him. He noted that there were some very good points - this guy was very smart and well read for his age, and he suspected most of the others were the same. He was not here among the usual street children.

"I judge a man by his actions, not by his words-both friend and foe," Boujazi said. "I could promise you peace, happiness, security and prosperity like any politician, or I could promise you a place in heaven like the clergy, but I won"t. All I can promise is that I will fight tooth and nail to stop the rebels from tearing our country apart before we have a chance to form a government of the people, whatever that government may be. I will use all my skills, training and experience to ensure the security of this country until the people's government gets back on its feet."

"To me these sound like beautiful words, Mister Emperor, the ones you just promised not to use."

Bujazi smiled and nodded, looking straight into the eyes of those who seemed the most angry or distrustful. "I see many of you have cell phone cameras, so you have video proof of what I'm saying. If I were the dictator you think I am, I would confiscate all these phones and send you to jail."

"You could do it tonight, after you break into our houses and drag us out of bed."

"But I won"t," Boujazi said. "You can freely send a video to anyone on the planet, post it on YouTube, sell it to the media. The video will document my promise to you, but my actions will be the final proof."

"How can we send any videos, old man," asked the young woman, "when the power is only on for three hours a day? We'll be lucky if the phones work for a few minutes every day."

"I read publications, I surf the Internet and I hide in blogs, just like you," Boujazi said. "The American satellite global wireless Internet system is working well even in Persia - let me remind you that it was blocked by the clergy to try to prevent you from receiving contrary news from the outside world - and I know that many of you enterprising young people have built generators with pedal-powered to charge your laptops when the power goes out. I may be an old man, young lady, but I"m not completely out of touch with reality." He was pleased to see several smiles appear on the faces of those around him - finally, he thought, he was beginning to speak their language.

"But I remind you that the electricity is being cut due to insurgent attacks on our power generators and distribution networks," he continued. "Somewhere out there there is an enemy who doesn't care about the people of Persia - all they want is to take back power and they will do it in any way they can think of, even if it hurts or kills innocent citizens. I took away their power and allowed the citizens of this country to communicate with the outside world again. I allowed foreign investment and aid to return to Persia while the clerics closed themselves off from the rest of the world for over thirty years and hoarded the wealth and power of this nation. This is the action I'm talking about, my friends. There is absolutely nothing I can say, and these actions would speak louder than a thousand peals of thunder."

"So when will the attacks stop, General?" - asked the first person. "How long will it take to drive out the rebels?"

"I think long after I'm dead and buried," Boujazi said. "So then everything will depend on you. How long do you want it to take, son?"

"Hey, you started this war, not me!" - the man thundered, shaking his fist. "Don't put this at my feet! You say you'll be dead long before this is over - well, why don't you just go to hell now and save us all a lot of time!" Several people in the crowd blinked at the man's outburst, but said or did nothing. "And I"m not your son, old man. My father was killed in the street outside the store that my family had owned for three generations, during a firefight between your troops and the Pasdarans, right in front of my eyes, my mother and my little sister."

Bujazi nodded. "I regret. Then tell me your name."

"I don"t want to tell you my name, old man," the young man said bitterly, "because I see that you and your forces are just as capable of arresting me or shooting me in the head as the Pasdarans are rumored to be."

"According to information?' Do you doubt that the Pasdarans kill anyone who opposes the clerics?"

"I saw a lot of violence and bloodlust on both sides in the shootout in which my father was killed," the young man continued, "and I see very little difference between you and the clergy, except perhaps in the clothes you wear." Are you right or are your actions justified just because the Americans swooped in and helped you temporarily drive the Pasdarans out of the capital? When you are driven out, will you then become new rebels? Will you start a war on the innocent because you think you are right?"

"If you truly believe that I am no better or worse than the Revolutionary Guards, then no amount of words will ever convince you otherwise," Boujazi said, "and you will blame any convenient target for your father"s death. I'm sorry for your loss." He turned and looked at the others around him. "I see a lot of angry faces here on the street, but I also hear some extremely smart voices. My question to you: If you're so smart, what are you doing here, just standing around doing nothing? Your fellow citizens are dying and you do nothing, moving from attack to attack, shaking your fists at my soldiers while the rebels move on to the next target."

"What should we do, old man?" - asked another man.

"Follow your head, follow your heart and take action," Boujazi said. "If you truly believe that the clerics have the best interests of the nation at heart, join the rebels and fight to drive me and my people out of the country. If you believe in monarchists, join them and create your own rebellion in the name of Kagewa, fighting both the Islamists and my soldiers, and bring the monarchy back to power. If you think there is meaning in my words and actions, put on your uniform, grab your rifle and join me. If you don't want to join anyone, at least keep your damn eyes open, and when you see your family or your neighbors being attacked, take action... any action. Fight, inform, help, protect-do something rather than just stand around and complain about it."

He scanned their faces once more, allowing them to look directly into his eyes and him into theirs. Most of them did just that. He saw real strength in this group and it gave him hope. They were worth fighting for, he decided. No matter which side they chose, they were the future of this land. "This is your country, dammit...it is our country. If it's not worth fighting for, go somewhere else before you become another victim." He paused, letting his words sink in; then: "Now I need your help in securing this crime scene. My soldiers will set up a perimeter and secure the area, but I need some of you to help the rescuers find the victims and the police collect evidence and interview witnesses. Who will help?

The crowd paused, waiting for someone to make the first move. Then the first young man stepped forward and said to Buzhazi: "Not for you, Emperor. Do you think you're any different from the rebels roaming the streets? You're worse. You're just a pretentious old man with a gun. It doesn't make you right." And he turned and walked away, followed by the others.

"Damn, I thought I got through to them," Boujazi told Colonel Rahmati.

"They're just a bunch of losers, sir," said the brigade commander. "You asked what they are doing here on the streets? They create problems, that's all. As far as we know, they're the ones who blew up that gas station. How do we know they are not rebels?"

"They are rebels, Mostafa," Boujazi said.

Rahmati looked stunned. "They are? How do you know...I mean, we should arrest them all right now!"

"They are rebels, but not Islamists," Boujazi said. "If I had a choice of who I would want to take to the streets right now, it would definitely be them. I still think they will help, but not in the way I would have expected them to." He looked toward the still-burning gas station at the remains of a smoldering delivery truck that had been blown dozens of meters across the street. "Stay here and keep your weapons out of sight. Set a perimeter. I want there to be no more than two soldiers at any intersection, and they should be stationed on opposite corners, not together."

"Why, sir?"

"Because if there are more of them, informants will not approach them - and we need information, and quickly," Boujazi said. He walked towards the smoking truck. Rahmati followed, not wanting to appear any more scared than he already was, but Bujazi turned and growled, "I said stay here and set up a perimeter." Rahmati was only too happy to comply.

A fire engine pulled up to the burning wreck, and two very young-looking firefighters - probably the children of dead or injured real firefighters, a common practice in this part of the world - began to extinguish the fire using a gentle stream of water from an old fire engine that had been left in reserve. It had to be a long and painstaking job. Bujazi walked around the fire truck, far enough away from the smoke that he wouldn't be suffocated by it, but mostly out of sight. Now that the cleanup work had begun, the crowds began to disperse. Another, larger fire brigade attacked the flames at the gas station itself, which was still very hot and fierce, quickly sending huge plumes of black smoke into the sky. It was incredible to Boujazi that the flames seemed to consume even such a huge volume of water - the fire was so intense that the fire seemed to-

"Not a bad speech there, General," he heard a voice behind him.

Bujazi nodded and smiled - he guessed correctly. He turned and nodded formally to Her Highness Azar Asia Kagev, heir presumptive to the Peacock Throne of Persia. He glanced behind the young woman and noticed Captain Mara Saidi, one of Azar's royal bodyguards, standing demurely near a lamppost, skillfully blending into the chaos around them. Her jacket was unbuttoned and her hands were folded in front of her, apparently shielding her weapon from prying eyes. "I thought I saw the captain there in the crowd, and I knew you would be nearby. I"m guessing the Major is nearby with a sniper rifle or RPG, right?"

"I believe he's armed with both weapons today-you know how he likes to come prepared," Azar said, bowing back without bothering to point out where her Homeland Security chief, Parviz Najjar, was hiding in case a little date Bujazi here was indeed a trap. She couldn't afford to trust this man-alliances in Persia were changing so quickly. "I promoted Najjar to lieutenant colonel and Saidi to major for their bravery in getting me out of America and bringing me home."

Bujazi nodded approvingly. Azar Asia Kagev, the youngest daughter of Peacock Throne contender Mohammed Hassan Kagev, still missing since the start of Boujazi's coup against the theocratic regime of Iran, had just turned seventeen years old, but she had the confidence of an adult twice her age, not to mention about the courage, combat skills and tactical foresight of an infantry company commander. Bujazi couldn't help but notice that she was also turning into a woman very beautifully, with long shiny black hair, graceful curves beginning to show on her slender figure, and dark, dancing, almost mischievous eyes. Her arms and legs were covered, not with a burqa, but with a white blouse and chocolate chip tracksuit pants to protect herself from the sun; her head was covered, not with a hijab, but with the "rag" of the TeamMelli World Cup team.

But his gaze was also automatically drawn to her hands. Every second generation of Kagev dynasty men-possibly women too, but they were probably discarded as newborns so they wouldn't grow up with any handicap-suffered from a genetic defect called bilateral thumb hypoplasia, or the absence of a big toe. both hands. As a child, she had poll surgery that resulted in her index fingers functioning like thumbs, leaving her with only four fingers on both hands.

But instead of becoming an obstacle, Hazard made her deformity a source of strength, strengthening her from a very young age. She more than made up for her perceived shortcoming: it was rumored that she could outplay most men twice her age and was an accomplished pianist and martial artist. Hazard reportedly rarely wore gloves, allowing others to see her hands as both a symbol of her heritage and a distraction for her opponents.

Azar lived secretly in the United States of America from the age of two under the protection of her bodyguards Najar and Saidi, who posed as her parents, separated from her real parents for security reasons, who were also hiding as guests of the US State Department. When the Buzhazi coup occurred, the Kagev immediately assembled their war council and headed back to Iran. The king and queen, who were supposed to be in hiding but ran the website, regularly appeared in the media criticizing Iran's theocratic regime, and openly vowed to one day return and take over the country, are still missing and allegedly killed by the Iranian Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps or the terrorist al-Quds Force with the help of Russians and Turkmen. But Azar did make it to Iran, using her wits, natural leadership skills - and a lot of help from the US military and a small army of armored commandos - and joined the royal military council and thousands of their jubilant followers.

"I'm impressed, your highness," Bujazi said, removing his helmet and pouring some water onto his face before taking a long sip. "I was looking for you, but you fit in perfectly with the crowd. Apparently the others had no idea who you were, because no one tried to create a protective shield around you when I approached. You hid your moon well."

"I've been walking around town trying to listen to these young people to find out what they want and what they expect," Azar said. Her American accent was still strong, making her Farsi difficult to understand. She removed the Iranian national football team's headband to reveal the long, waist-length ponytail, mun, typical of Persian royalty for centuries. She tossed her hair, glad to be freed from her self-imposed but traditional bonds. Major Saidi stepped towards her with a look of horror on her face, silently urging her to hide her bag before anyone on the streets noticed. Azar rolled her eyes in mock irritation and tied her ponytail back under the cloth. "They know me as one of the displaced, that"s all-just like them."

"Except for a hundred armed bodyguards, a military council, a secret military base larger than the gross national product of most of Central Asia, and a few hundred thousand followers who will gladly stand in front of a machine gun line to see you again on Takht-i-Tavus, Peacock Throne "

"I would give everything I have to convince you and your crews to join me, Khesarak," she said. "My followers are loyal and dedicated, but we are still too few, and my followers are loyalists, not fighters."

"What do you think is the difference between a so-called loyalist and a soldier, Your Highness?" - Asked Buzhazi. "When your country is in danger, there is no difference. In times of war, citizens become fighters or they become slaves."

"They need a general... they need you."

"They need a leader, your highness, and that person is you," Boujazi said. "If half your loyalists are as smart, fearless and brave as that gang you were hanging around with, they could easily take control of this country."

"They won"t follow the girl."

"Probably not... But they will follow the leader."

"I want you to lead them."

"I'm not taking sides here, Your Highness-I'm not in the business of forming governments," Boujazi said. "I'm here because Pasdaran and the rebels they sponsor are still a threat to this country, and I will pursue them until every last one of them is dead. But I'm not going to be president. John Elton said: 'Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.' I know that my strength comes from my army, and I do not want the people to be ruled by their military. It should be the other way around."

"If you don't want to be their president, be their general," Azar said. "Lead your army under the Kagewa banner, train our loyalists, recruit more civilian fighters, and let us unite our nation once again."

Bujazi looked seriously at the young woman. "What about your parents, Highness?" - he asked.

Azar swallowed at the unexpected question, but the steel quickly returned to her eyes. "Still not a word, General," she answered firmly. "They are alive - I know that."

"Of course, your highness," Bujazi said quietly. "I have heard that your military council will not approve of you leading your forces until you reach adulthood."

Azar chuckled and shook her head. "For centuries, the age of majority has been fourteen-Alexander was fourteen when he led his first army into battle," she spat. "As throwing weapons became more advanced, and weapons and armor thicker and heavier, the age of majority-the word comes from majour, regimental commander-was raised to eighteen, because any junior could not lift a sword or wear armor. What does this mean in the modern world? These days, a five year old can use a computer, read a map, talk on the radio, and understand patterns and trends. But my esteemed council, consisting of old men in stuffed shirts and cackling old women, will not allow anyone under eighteen to lead an army, especially one that is female."

"I recommend that someone gather your battalion commanders, appoint a commander, get his approval from your military council and organize ... as soon as possible," Boujazi warned. "Your raids are completely uncoordinated and appear to have no other purpose than random murder and mayhem that keeps the population on edge."

"I already told the board this, but they don"t listen to the little girl," Azar complained. "I am just a figurehead, a symbol. They would rather argue about who has seniority, who has more followers, or who can attract more recruits or cash. All they want from me is a male heir. Without the king, the council will not make any decisions."

"Then be Malika."

"I don't like being called 'queen', General, and you know that, I'm sure," Hazard said hotly. "My parents are not dead." She said these last words angrily, defiantly, as if trying to convince herself as well as the general.

"It's been almost two years since they disappeared, Your Highness-how long are you going to wait? Until you turn eighteen? Where will Persia be in fifteen months? Or until a rival dynasty lays claim to the Peacock Throne, or until some strong man takes over and puts all the Kages to flight?"

Obviously, Azar had already asked herself all these questions because she was hurt by not having any answers. "I know, General, I know," she said in a thin voice, the saddest he had ever heard from her. "That is why I need you to appear before the military council, join us, take command of our loyalists and unite the anti-Islamist forces against Mohtaz and his bloodthirsty jihadists. You are the most powerful man in Persia. They would approve without hesitation."

"I'm not sure if I'm ready to be a commanding general in a monarchical army, Your Highness," Boujazi said. "I need to know what the Kagevians are like before I support them." He looked at Azar gloomily. "And until your parents show up, or until you turn eighteen-maybe not even then-the military council speaks in the name of the Kagev..."

"And they can't even decide whether to raise the royal flag before or after morning prayers," Hazard said with disgust. "They argue about court protocol, rank and petty procedures rather than tactics, strategies and goals."

"And you want me to take orders from them? No, thank you, your highness."

"But if there was a way to convince them to support you if you announced that you would form a government, Hesarak-"

"I told you, I"m not involved in forming governments," Boujazi snapped. "I destroyed the clerics, the corrupt Islamist leadership and the Pasdaran thugs they hired because they are the true obstacles to freedom and law in this country. But may I remind you that we still have our elected Majlis-e-Shura, which supposedly has the constitutional power to exercise control and form a representative government? Where are they? Hiding, that's what. They are afraid they will be targeted for murder if they stick their little heads out, so they prefer to watch from their comfortable villas, surrounded by bodyguards, as their country is torn apart."

"Sounds like you just want someone to ask you to help them, doesn't it, General? Do you crave the honor and respect of a politician or a princess begging for help?"

"What I crave, Your Highness, is for the people who are supposed to be running this country to get off their fat asses and take over," Boujazi said hotly. "Until the Majlis, your so-called military council or anyone else decides they have the guts to crush the Islamist uprising, take charge and form a government, I will continue to do what I do best - hunt down and kill as many of Persia's enemies as possible to save innocent lives. At least I have a goal."

"My followers share your vision, General..."

"Then prove it. Help me do my job until you can reason with your council of war."

Azar wanted to argue for her people and their struggle, as well as for her own legitimacy, but she knew she had run out of answers. Boujazi was right: they had the will to confront the Islamists, but they simply could not do the job. She nodded obediently. "Okay, General, I'm listening. How can we help you?"

"Tell your loyalists to join my army and pledge to carry out my orders for two years. I will train and equip them. After two years, they can freely return to you with all the equipment and weapons they can carry on their backs."

Azar's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Very generous offer."

"But they must swear during their two-year conscription to obey my commands and fight for me to the end and then some, under penalty of death - not by any council of war, court or tribunal, but by me. If they are caught passing information to anyone outside my ranks, including you, they will die in humiliation and disgrace."

Azar nodded. "What else?"

"If they do not join my army, they must agree to provide me with clear, timely and useful information, on an ongoing basis or upon request, and to support my army with everything they can provide - food, clothing, shelter, water, money, supplies , anything," Buzhazi continued. "I have ordered the dissemination of information about my security force to make it easier for your people to pass on notes, photos or other information to them, and I will provide you with secret correspondence and secure voice and email addresses that you can use to provide us with information.

"But you must help us, all of you. Your loyalists may follow Kages like you, but they will help me, or they will stand by while my people and I fight. They will either agree that I am fighting for Persia and I deserve their full support, or they will lay down their arms and stay off the streets - no more raids or bombings, no more roving gangs and no more murders that serve only to terrorize the innocent and encourage the Pasdarans and Islamists to increase their attacks on civilians."

"It will be... difficult," Hazard admitted. "I just don't know all the resistance leaders there. I honestly doubt that anyone on the council knows all the cells and their leaders."

"You attend war council meetings, don"t you?"

"I am allowed to attend general meetings of the military council, but I am not allowed to vote, and I am discouraged from attending strategic meetings."

Bujazi shook his head irritably. "You are probably the smartest person at this council meeting - why you weren't allowed to participate is a damn mystery to me. Well, that's your problem, Your Highness. I'm telling you that your supporters are part of the problem, not part of the solution. I don't know if the man with the gun across the block is an Islamist or one of your supporters, so I'm going to blow his head off either way before he tries to do the same to me. This is not the way I want it, but this is the way I will play if I have to."

"I regret that I cannot be of further assistance, General."

"You can, Your Highness, if you just transport yourself back to the twenty-first century, as I know you can," Bujazi said, putting his helmet back on and tightening the straps.

"What?" - I asked.

"Come on, Highness - you know exactly what I"m talking about," Buzhazi said irritably. "You are a smart woman and also a born leader. You've lived in America most of your life and have obviously learned that the old ways won't work anymore. You know as well as I do that this court of yours and this so-called council of war is what is hindering you. You voluntarily imprisoned yourself in this six-hundred-year-old cage called your "court", and you agreed to cede power to a bunch of spineless cowards, half of whom are not even in this country right now, am I right?" He could tell by the look on her face that he was.

Bujazi shook his head with disappointment quickly turning to disgust. "Forgive me for saying this, Your Highness, but get your royal head out of your pretty little ass and get on with the program before we all die and our country turns into a mass graveyard," he said angrily. "You are the only one here on the streets, Hazard. You may see problems and are smart enough to formulate an answer, but you don't want to take responsibility. Why? Because you don't want your parents to think you're taking their throne? Azar, for God's sake, this is the twenty-first century, not the fourteenth. Besides, your parents are either dead or cowards themselves if they haven't proven themselves in almost two...

"Shut up!" Hazard screamed, and before Boujazi could react, she spun around and kicked him hard in the solar plexus with her right foot, knocking the wind out of him. Bujazi dropped to one knee, more embarrassed at being caught off guard than at being offended. By the time he rose to his feet and was able to take at least half a normal breath, Mara Saidi was covering Hazard, pointing an automatic pistol at him.

"Nice hit, your highness," Bujazi grumbled, rubbing his stomach. Apparently he guessed that one of her adaptations to hand defects was her ability to fight with her legs. "The rumors said you could take care of yourself-I see it"s true."

"The meeting is over, General," he heard a man"s voice behind him. Boujazi turned and nodded to Parviz Najjar, who in the blink of an eye ran out of cover and pointed another machine gun at him. "Go quickly."

"After you both lower your weapons," they heard another voice shout. They all turned to see Major Kulom Haddad hiding behind the back of a smoldering truck, an AK-74 rifle pointed at Najar. "I'm not going to repeat myself!"

"Everyone, put your guns down," Boujazi said. "I think we both said what we needed to say here." Nobody moved. "Major, you and your men, stand down."

"Sir-"

"Colonel, captain, stand back too," Azar ordered. Slowly, reluctantly, Najar and Saida obeyed, and when their weapons were out of sight, Haddad lowered his. "There are no enemies here."

Bujazi took his first full, deep breath, smiled, nodded respectfully again, then extended his hand. "Your Highness, it was a pleasure talking with you. I hope we can work together, but I assure you, I am going to keep fighting."

Azar took his hand and also bowed her head. "It was nice talking to you too, General. I have a lot to think about."

"Don't take too much time, Your Highness. Salaam alaykom." Boujazi turned and headed back to his men, with Haddad and two other soldiers carefully hidden nearby, covering his back.

"Peace be with you, general," Azar shouted after him.

Bujazi half turned to her, smiled and shouted: "Unlikely, Your Highness. But thanks anyway."

WHITE HOUSE RESIDENCE

IN THE SAME TIME

Chief of Staff Walter Cordus knocked on the door of the presidential living room on the third floor of the White House family residence. "Sir? She is here."

President Gardner looked up over his reading glasses and put down the documents he was reviewing. He had a large flat-screen TV on, playing a boxing match, but the volume was muted. He was wearing a white shirt and business slacks with a loose tie-he rarely wore anything other than business attire in the minutes before bed. "Fine. Where?"

"You said you didn't want to meet in the West Wing, so I had her brought to the Red Room-I thought it was appropriate."

"Cute. But she asked to see the Meeting Room. Bring her here."

Cordus took a step into the living room. "Joe, are you sure you want to do this? She's the chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, probably the most powerful woman in the country besides Angelina Jolie. This should remain a business..."

"It's a business, Walt," Gardner said. "I'll be there in a few minutes. Did you get the notes I asked you for?"

"They're on their way."

"Fine". Gardner returned to studying his papers. The chief of staff shook his head and left.

A few minutes later, Gardner walked down the Central Corridor, now wearing his suit jacket, straightening his tie as he walked. Cordus intercepted him and handed him the folder. "Right after printing. Do you want me to-?"

"No. I think we're done for today. Thanks, Walt." He rushed past the Chief of Staff and entered the Meeting Room. "Hello, Senator. Thank you for meeting me at this ungodly hour."

She stood next to a huge mahogany table made in an American grant office, and lovingly ran her long fingers over the cherry-colored inlaid elements. The steward placed the tray of tea on the coffee table at the other end of the room. Her eyes widened and that magnetic smile appeared as she saw Gardner enter the room. "Mr. President, it is certainly an honor and a privilege to be with you tonight," said Senator Stacy Ann Barbeau in her famous silky Louisiana accent. "Thank you very much for the invitation." She stood up, hugged the President and exchanged polite kisses on the cheek. Barbeau wore a white business suit with a plunging neckline that subtly but dramatically showed off her bust and cleavage, accentuated for the evening with a shimmering platinum necklace and dangling diamond earrings. Her red hair bounced as if on a motor, in time with her smile and the batting of her eyelashes, and her green eyes glowed with energy. "You know you can contact me any time, sir."

"Thank you, Senator. Please. He pointed to the Victorian sofa and, taking her hand, led her to it, then took the ornate chair to her right, facing the fireplace.

"I hope you will convey my best wishes to the first lady," Barbeau said, settling down just like that on the sofa. "She"s in Damascus, if I"m not mistaken, at an international conference on women"s rights?"

"Exactly, Senator," the President said.

"I wish my Senate duties would allow me to attend," Barbeau said. "I sent my senior staffer Colleen to attend, and she brought a resolution of support from the entire Senate that the First Lady will present to the delegates."

"Very thoughtful of you, Senator."

"Please sir, could you call me 'Stacy' here in the privacy of the residence?" Barbeau asked, giving him one of her breathtaking smiles. "I think we both deserve the right to a little break and freedom from the formalities of our offices."

"Of course, Stacy," Gardner said. He didn't ask her to call him "Joe," and she knew enough not to ask. "But the pressure never really lets up, does it? Not in our line of work."

"I have never considered what I do as a "job," Mr. President," Barbeau said. She poured him a cup of tea, then leaned back and crossed her legs, sipping hers. "Of course, it"s not always pleasant, but taking care of people"s business is never a chore. I guess stress is part of what makes a person feel alive, don't you agree?"

"I've always thought you thrive under pressure, Senator," Gardner commented. He suppressed a grimace after taking a sip of his tea. "Actually, if I may say so, I think you enjoy creating it a little."

"My responsibilities often require me to do things outside of what most people would call 'political,'" Barbeau said. "We do whatever we need to do in the best interests of our constituents and our country, right, Mr. President?"

"Call me Joe. Please."

Barbeau's green eyes flashed and she bowed her head, her gaze never leaving his. "Well, thank you for the honor... Joe."

"Not at all, Stacy," Gardner said with a smile. "You're right, of course. Nobody likes to admit it, but the ends often justify the means if the goal is a safer nation." He picked up the phone on Monroe's desk. "Could you have the libation table moved to the Meeting Room, please?" He hung up. "It's past nine o'clock in the evening, Stacey, and I'm not in the mood for tea. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all, Joe." The smile returned, but it was more introspective, more reserved. "Perhaps I"ll just join you."

"I know what can convince you." The steward brought a table on wheels with several crystal decanters. Gardner poured himself a glass of dark Bacardi with ice and poured Barbeau a drink. "I thought I read in People magazine that you prefer 'Creole Mom,' right? I hope I got this right... bourbon, madeira and a splash of grenadine with a cherry, right? Sorry, we only have red cherries, not green."

"You really surprise me sometimes, Joe," she said. They touched glasses, their eyes met. She tasted hers, her eyes sparkled again and she took another sip. "My goodness, Mr. President, a little intelligence work, even after hours, and a good hand at the bar. I'm impressed again."

"Thank you". Gardner also took a long sip of his drink. "Not as sophisticated as Creole Mom, I'm sure, but when you're a Florida politician, you better know your rum. To your health". They clinked their glasses and took another sip of their drinks. "Do you know where touching glasses came from, Stacey?"

"I'm sure not," Barbeau replied. "I didn"t even know there was an origin to it. So it"s not just a cute little noise maker?"

"In medieval times, when opponents met to discuss the terms of treaties or alliances, when they drank after the negotiations were concluded, they would pour a little of the contents of their cups into each other's cups to show that neither was poisoned. The custom has become a sign of friendship and camaraderie."

"Wow, this is exciting," Barbeau said, taking another sip, then running her tongue over her full lips. "But I certainly hope you don't see me as an enemy, Joe. I'm not like that at all. I have been a fan of yours for many years, as has my father. Your political skills are surpassed only by your intellect, charm and true dedication to serving the nation."

"Thank you, Stacy." He glanced over Barbeau's body as she took another sip. Even when she seemed focused on enjoying her drink, she noticed him looking her over...again. "I knew your father when we served in the Senate together. He was a powerful man, very strong-willed and passionate in his endeavors."

"He considered you one of his most trusted friends, even though you and he were then on opposite sides of the political and ideological aisle," Barbeau said. "After I was elected to the Senate, he often reminded me that if I wanted a frank conversation with the other side, I should not hesitate to come to you." She paused, adopting a rather thoughtful expression. "I wish he was still here now. I could use his strength and wisdom. I love him so much."

"He was a fighter. A strong opponent. You knew what he was capable of and he wasn't afraid to tell you. He was a damn good man."

Barbeau put her hand on Gardner's and shook it. "Thank you, Joe. You are a sweet man." She took a moment to stare at him, then allowed her lips to part slightly. "You...look a lot like how I remember him in his younger, hotter years, Joe. We had a cafeteria in Shreveport very similar to this one, and we spent endless hours together just like this one. I wanted to talk about politics and he wanted to know who I was dating."

"Dads and daughters always stay close, right?"

"He made me tell him my deepest secrets," she said, a mischievous smile spreading across her face. "I couldn"t refuse him anything. He made me tell him everything - and I was a very naughty girl as a child. I've dated guys from all politicians. I wanted to learn everything about politics: strategy, planning, fundraising, candidates, issues, alliances. They wanted..." She paused, giving him another sly smile and a wink of her eyes. "...well, you know what they wanted." Gardner swallowed hard, imagining what they got from her. "It was a mutually beneficial relationship. Sometimes I think my daddy set me up on some of these dates just so I could be his spy-the Cajun political version of banishing your daughter, I suppose."

Gardner grinned and unconsciously let his eyes wander over her body again, and this time Barbeau allowed herself to show that she had noticed, smiling and blushing - she was one of those women who could blush at any time, anywhere, in any situation, at will. He leaned back in his chair, wanting to get this meeting started quickly so they could focus on other things if the opportunity presented itself. "So, Stacy, we both know the problem we're facing. What is the White House's position regarding the Armed Services Committee? Will we fight over the military budget or can we come to an agreement and present a united front?"

"Unfortunately, I'm afraid, Joe, we are more confused than ever," Barbeau replied. She removed her hand, watching as the sudden pain of loss clouded his face. "Is this all confidential, Mr. President?"

"Certainly". He touched her hand and her eyes fluttered. "At both sides. Strictly confidential."

"My lips are sealed." Barbeau smiled, then pressed her red lips together, made a closing motion with her long fingers and thrust an invisible key into the wide valley between her breasts. Gardner took this as open permission to look at her breasts this time, and he did so generously. "The committee is in turmoil, Joe. They are, of course, concerned about the health and well-being of General McLanahan. Have you heard anything else about him?"

"Not so much. Doctors initially told me not to expect him to return to duty for several months. Kind of like a heart attack."

That matched what her sources at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center had told her, she thought-until Gardner lied to her. This was a good sign. "For such a strong young man to suddenly collapse like that, the stress of living on this space station and flying back and forth multiple times on the Black Stallion must have been enormous, much more than anyone could have imagined."

"McLanahan is a tough guy, but you're right - although he's in his fifties and has a family history of heart disease, he was incredibly fit. Shuttle astronauts typically have several days between liftoff and return-McLanahan has made five round trips to the space station in the past four weeks. This is unprecedented, but has been the norm for the past few months. We are restricting travel to the space station and are in the process of conducting thorough medical screening of all participants. We need answers about what happened."

"But that's exactly my point, Joe. McLanahan is tough and strong, especially for a middle-aged man, and he is a combat veteran and national military figure - my God, he is a hero! - which I'm sure undergoes regular fitness testing. However, he was still incapacitated and God knows what kind of injuries he suffered. This calls into question the safety and usefulness of the proposed military space plan. For God's sake, Joe, why are we risking good people on a project like this? I agree with you that it's modern, exotic and exciting, but it's a technology that simply hasn't been perfected and probably won't be perfected for another ten years - not to mention the fact that it's four-fifths fewer aircraft and one-tenth the payload for the same money. If a strong guy like General McLanahan passes out while operating this thing, is it safe for the other crew members?"

"What do the committee think, Stacy?"

"It's simple and logical, Joe," Barbeau said. "This isn't about impressing people with global Internet access or half-meter-resolution photos of everyone's backyard-it's about creating value and benefit for our nation's defense. As far as I can tell, the spaceplanes only benefit the handful of contractors assigned to the project, namely Sky Masters and their supporting companies. We have a dozen different space boosters with a proven track record that can do a better job than the Black Stallion." She rolled her eyes. "For God's sake, Joe, who else is McLanahan in bed with?"

"Of course, not Maureen Herschel anymore," Gardner chuckled.

Barbeau rolled her eyes in mock disbelief. "Oh, that terrible woman-I will never understand why President Martindale chose her, of all people, to be his vice president," Barbeau retorted. She looked curiously, then playfully at Gardner over the rim of her glass, then asked, "Or was cold fish a common dish for public consumption only, Joe?"

"We became close friends because of the demands of work, Stacy, just business. All the rumors going around about us are completely false."

Now he's lying, Barbeau thought, but she expected nothing less than complete and blatant denial. "I completely understand how the work environment in Washington brings two people together, especially those who seem to be polar opposites," Barbeau said. "Combine power politics with a looming war in the Middle East and long nights of briefings and planning sessions, and sparks can fly."

"Not to mention, McLanahan clearly couldn't handle things at home," Gardner added. They both laughed and Gardner took this opportunity to shake Barbeau's hand again. "He was too busy playing space cadet to pay attention to her." He pierced Barbeau with a deep, serious gaze. "Look, Stacy, let's get straight to the point, okay? I know what you want-you've been going for it since you set foot on the Beltway. Considering that most of the Air Force's bomber bases were destroyed by the Russians during the nuclear attacks of Holocaust 04, Barksdale Air Force Base is a natural home for a new fleet of long-range bombers-"

"If the Pentagon doesn't continue to pour money into that dusty desert base in Battle Mountain, the black programs in Dreamland, another base in Nevada that's largely outside the scope of congressional oversight, I might point-or the space station."

"It's no secret that McLanahan's stock has skyrocketed since his efforts in the counterattacks against Russia," Gardner said, "and his pet projects have included drone bombers in Battle Mountain, high-tech laser devices in Dreamland, and now the space station. This gave Martindale something to point to and boast to the American people about what he had developed and supported..."

"Even though President Thomas Thorne was the one who authorized their construction, not Martindale," Barbeau noted.

"Unfortunately, President Thorne will always be known as the president who allowed the Russians to launch a sneak attack against the United States that left thirty thousand men, women and children dead and a quarter million more wounded," Gardner said. "It doesn't matter that he was as interested in high-tech toys as Martindale: Thorne will always be thought of as a weaker president.

"But the question is, Stacy, what do we think is in the best interests of the American people and national defense-those fancy space planes that can't carry as much cargo as Secret Service suburbs, or proven technologies like stealth bombers, unmanned combat aircraft and aircraft carriers? McLanahan convinced Martindale that spaceplanes were better, even though he used unmanned bombers almost exclusively in his attacks on Russia."

"And as you've pointed out many times, Joe," Barbeau added, "we can't afford to put all our eggs in one basket again. The Russian attack was so successful because the bombers were all at a small handful of undefended bases, and if they weren't all in the air, they were vulnerable to attack. But carrier battle groups deployed to bases around the world or far out at sea are well equipped to defend themselves and are much less vulnerable to surprise attack."

"Exactly," Gardner said, nodding with satisfaction that Barbeau had mentioned aircraft carriers. "That's the point I've been trying to make all these years. We need a combination of forces - we can't throw all the money for new weapons systems on one unproven technology. A carrier battle group costs no more than what McLanahan suggests we spend on these spaceplanes, but they are much more versatile and have proven themselves in combat."

"The Senate Armed Services Committee needs to hear this argument from you and your administration, Joe," Barbeau said, stroking his arm once more and leaning toward him sympathetically, further exposing her ample cleavage. "McLanahan was a war hero to avenge the Holocaust in America, but that was in the past. Many senators may be afraid to contradict McLanahan, fearing there will be a backlash against them if the American people question why they don't support America's most famous general. But with McLanahan's silence, if they receive direct support from the President, they will be more inclined to break ranks. Now is the time to act. We have to do something, and it has to happen now, while McLanahan... well, with all due respect, while the general is out. Undoubtedly, the committee's confidence in the spaceplane program has been shaken. They are much more willing to compromise."

"I think we need to come together on this, Stacy," Gardner said. "Let's develop a plan that both the committee and the Pentagon will support. We must present a united front."

"That sounds great, Mr. President, really great."

"So I have the full support of the Senate Armed Services Committee?" - Gardner asked. "I have allies in the House of Representatives that I can turn to as well, but the support of the Senate is critical. Together, united, we can stand before the American people and Congress and make a compelling argument."

"What if McLanahan comes out of this? He and that ex-senator, astronaut, science geek Anne Page make a formidable team."

"McLanahan is out - he will probably resign or be forced to resign."

"This man is a bulldog. If he gets better, he will not retire."

"If he doesn't do it for his own good, he'll do it because I tell him to do it," Gardner said. "And if he still resists, I will make sure the world understands how dangerous this man has been for many years. He is uncontrollable - the world simply does not know about it. For God's sake, this man killed dozens of innocent civilians in Tehran."

"He did?" She hated letting it slip that the US Senate Majority Leader didn't know something, but there was nothing she could do about it. It was a surprise, and she didn't like surprises. Could Gardner bring her up to speed? "When?" - I asked.

"On the same mission that we discussed when he had this episode, an operational test mission that he controlled from the Armstrong space station," Gardner responded. "He launched a missile that released chemical weapons near a residential building in Tehran, killing dozens of people, including women and children, and then he attacked a Russian spy plane with some kind of death ray - probably to cover up the attack on Tehran."

Thank God Gardner turned out to be a talker. "I had no idea...!"

"That's not half of what this joker does, Stacy. I know of a dozen different criminal violations and direct acts of war for which he has been responsible over the years, including an attack that likely prompted Russian President Gryzlov to plan atomic attacks against the United States."

"What?"

"McLanahan is a loose cannon, a real wild card," Gardner said bitterly. "He attacked Russia absolutely without permission; he bombed a Russian bomber base simply out of personal revenge. Gryzlov was a former Russian bomber pilot - he knew that this was an attack against him, a personal attack. "Gardner was on a roll-it was better than the Congressional Research Service," Barbeau thought. "That"s why Gryzlov targeted bomber bases in the United States-not because our bombers posed any serious strategic threat to Russia, but because he was trying to get McLanahan."

Barbeau's mouth was open in shock... but at the same time, she was teasing, even excited. Damn it, she thought, McLanahan seemed like such a boy scout, who the hell knew he was some kind of maverick action hero? This made him more attractive than ever. What else was hidden under this incredibly quiet, unassuming appearance? She had to shake off her sudden reverie. "Wow..."

"The Russians are afraid of him, that's for sure," Gardner continued. "Zevitin wants me to arrest him. He demands to know what he was doing and what he intends to do with the space station and these space planets. He's crazier than hell and I don't blame him."

"Zevitin views the space station as a threat."

"Of course he knows. But that's the only fucking advantage of this thing? It's costing us two whole carrier battle groups to keep that thing there...for what? I have to assure Zevitin that the space stuff does not pose a direct offensive threat to Russia, and I don't know exactly what this thing can do! I didn"t even know McLanahan was on board that thing!"

"If this is just a defense system, I see no reason not to tell Zevitin everything there is to know about the space station if it helps ease the tension between us," Barbeau said. "The McLanahan situation may have resolved itself."

"Thank God," Gardner grumbled. "I'm confident that for every crime that I know McLanahan is guilty of, there are ten more that I don't know about... yet," Gardner continued. "He has weapons at his disposal from dozens of different black research programs that I don"t even fully know about, and I was the damn Secretary of Defense!"

She looked closely at Gardner. "McLanahan will certainly resign voluntarily, or you can retire him for medical reasons," she said. "But outside he could be even more dangerous for us."

"I know, I know. That"s why Zevitin wants to be imprisoned."

"If I can help you put pressure on McLanahan, Joe, just tell me," Barbeau said sincerely. "I will do everything in my power to convert him, or at least get him to think about what his opinions mean to others in government and around the world. I'll make him understand that this is personal and not just business. I will destroy him if he persists, but I am confident that I can convince him to see it our way."

"If anyone can convince him, Stacy, it's you."

They looked into each other's eyes for a long time, each silently asking and answering questions that they did not dare to voice. "So, Stacy, I know this isn"t your first time at the residence. I assume you"ve seen Lincoln"s bedroom before?"

Barbeau's smile was as hot as a fire, and she unabashedly looked Gardner up and down with a greedy gaze, as if she were sizing him up at a pickup bar. She slowly rose from her seat. "Yes, I saw it," she said in a low, hoarse voice. "I played there as a little girl when my father was in the Senate. Then it was a children's playroom. Of course, now it has a completely different meaning - still a playroom, but not for children."

"This is still the best fundraising event in the city-twenty-five thousand per night per person is the going rate."

"It"s too bad that we stooped to such tasteless actions, isn"t it?" - asked Barbeau. "It ruins the feel of the place."

"The White House is still a house," Gardner said absently. "It's impossible for me to see this as more than just a workplace. I haven't seen even a tenth of the rooms here yet. I was told there were thirty-five bathrooms - I saw three. To be honest, I don"t have much desire to explore this place."

"Oh, but you have to, Joe," Barbeau said. "I think you'll understand once you get through the turbulent first few months in office and have a chance to relax."

"If McLanahan can stop stirring up shit, maybe I could."

She turned, arms outstretched, looking around the room. "I asked Mr. Cordus if we could meet here in the Meeting Room because I don't remember ever being here, even though it's right next door to the Lincoln Bedroom. But the history of this place is so strong that you can feel it. The meeting room was used as a Cabinet meeting room, reception and waiting room, and as the President's office. Historically, this has been the place in the White House where the real political business is done, even more so than the Oval Office."

"I"ve had a few informal meetings here, but it"s mostly staff who use it."

"The staff is usually too busy to appreciate the energy that flows through this room, Joe," Barbeau said. "You should take the time to feel it." Still holding her arms outstretched, she closed her eyes. "Imagine: Ulysses S. Grant holding his drunken cabinet meetings here, followed by card games and arm wrestling matches with his friends; Teddy Roosevelt nails animal skins to walls; Kennedy signs the Nuclear Test Ban Treaty here, and then a few days later seduces Marilyn Monroe in the same place, just down the hall from where his wife and children slept."

Gardner stood behind her and placed his hands lightly on her waist. "I've never heard this story before, Stacy."

She took his arms and wrapped them around her waist, pulling him closer. "I just thought of the last one, Joe," she said in a whisper, so quietly that he pressed his cheek to hers and pulled her close to him so that he could hear. "But I'm willing to bet it happened. And who knows what a man like Kevin Martindale did here after his divorce - a divorce that should have ruined his political career but only strengthened it - with all his Hollywood starlets constantly coming and going here at all hours of the day? " She took his hands, circled them around her stomach, then took his fingers and gently lifted them to her breasts, circling her nipples. She felt his body tense and could practically hear his mind buzzing as he tried to decide what to do about her sudden onslaught. "He probably had a different bitch here every night of the year."

"Stacy..." She felt Gardner's breath on her neck, his hands gently caressing her breasts, barely touching...

Barbeau turned to him and roughly pushed him away. "Martindale was an idiot, Joe, but he spent two terms as President and two terms as Vice President and became one hell of an integral part of the White House - and he managed to fuck Hollywood starlets here! What are you going to do to beat this, Joe?"

Gardner froze in shock. "What the hell is wrong with you, Stacy?" he finally managed to blurt out.

"What do you want, Mr. President?" Barbeau asked loudly. "What's your game plan? Why are you here?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You are the President of the United States of America. You live in the White House... but only used three bathrooms? You don't know what has been done in this room, in this house, in the vast history of this place? You have a three-star general under your command who has a voter approval rating twice as high as you, with just as much heart disease, and he's still in shape? There's a space station orbiting a planet that you don't need, and it's still there? You've got a woman in your arms, but you're touching her like some sweaty, lovesick teenager on his first date trying to get to second base? Maybe all you really did with Maureen Herschel was 'business,' right?"

Gardner was excited, then angry, then outraged. "Look, Senator, this is not a damn game. You"re damn hot, but I came here to discuss business."

"You've been honest with me since I called you to this meeting, Joe - don't fucking lie to me now," Barbeau snapped, taking a step away from him and glaring at him with her green eyes. Her sudden change of image, from seductress to barracuda, amazed him. "I didn"t have to threaten you to invite me to the residence; I didn't drag you down that corridor to that room. We are not children here. We're talking about joining forces to do important work, even if it means siding with the Russians and ruining a distinguished military career. What do you think we should do - shake hands about this? Sign contract? Shall we cross our hearts and hope to die? Not for your life. So, if you don't want to do this, let me know right now and we can both go back to our offices and responsibilities and forget this meeting even happened."

"What kind of crap is this?"

"And I don"t need to pretend to be an innocent waif, Gardner. I know this is how politics is played in Louisiana - don't tell me you never played it this way in Florida or Washington. We're going to do it right here, right now, or you can just tuck your tail between your legs and crawl back to your nice, safe, cozy apartment down the hall. What will it be?" When he didn't answer, she sighed, shook her head, and tried to get around him...

... but when she felt his hand on her chest and his palm on her chest, she realized that she had him in her hands. He pulled her closer, grabbed her head with his other hand and pulled her lips to his, kissing her deeply, roughly. She kissed him back just as urgently, her hand finding his crotch, rubbing it impatiently. Their lips parted and she smiled at him confidently, self-assuredly. "It won't be enough, Mr. President, and you know it," she said. She smiled at his mocking expression, this time in a dark, confident way, and his mouth fell open as he realized what she meant, what she wanted. "Well?" - I asked.

He frowned at her, then moved his hands back to her breasts, then to her shoulders, pushing her down. "Let's make a deal, Senator," he said, leaning back on Grant's conference table to calm himself.

"Good boy. Come here." She knelt down and quickly began unbuckling his belt and pants. "Oh my God, oh my God, look what we have here. Are you sure you"re not a little bit of a bully, Mr. President?" He didn't respond as she began her vigorous, rhythmic ministrations.

CHAPTER FOUR

A man who must be persuaded to act before he takes action is not a man of action.... You must act as you breathe.

- GEORGE CLEMENCEAU

ON BOARD THE ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

NEXT MORNING EAST COAST TIME

"Joining us live from the Armstrong space station, orbiting more than two hundred miles above Earth, is a man who needs no introduction: Air Force Lt. Gen. Patrick McLanahan," the cable news morning show host began. "General, thank you for joining us today. The question everyone wants answered, of course, is: How are you doing, sir?"

There was a delay of a second or two due to the satellite relay, but Patrick was used to waiting those few seconds to make sure he wasn't talking through the host. "Nice to be with you, Megyn," Patrick replied. He was, as usual, velcroed to the station commander's console, wearing his signature black flight suit with a black insignia. "Thank you for having me on the show again. I'm fine, thank you. I feel pretty good."

"All of America is glad to see you on your feet, General. Have they determined what exactly happened?"

"According to Navy Captain George Summers at Walter Reed National Medical Center, who ran all my tests remotely from here, it's called long QT syndrome, Megyn," Patrick responded. "This is a rare prolongation of electrical activation and inactivation of the ventricles of the heart caused by stress or shock. Apparently, other than vision, this is one of the most common disqualifying conditions in the astronaut corps."

"So you were disqualified from flying ever again?"

"Well, I hope I don"t," Patrick said. "Officially, I'm not really an astronaut in the conventional sense. It is my hope that the paperwork will determine that disability due to Long QT Syndrome is most likely to occur during space travel and will not prevent me from performing all other missions."

"You do have a history of heart disease, is that correct?"

"My father did die of heart problems, yes," Patrick replied grimly. "Dad suffered from what they used to call 'heart flutter' and was treated for anxiety and stress. Long QT runs in families. Apparently in my dad's case it was the police department and running the family business that led to it; in In my case it was a flight into space."

"And he died at about the same age as you are now?"

A cloud passed across Patrick's face for a moment, which was clearly visible to millions of viewers around the world. "Yes, a couple of years after leaving the Sacramento Police Department and opening McLanahan's store in Old Town Sacramento."

"Shameless plug for your family tavern, eh, General?" - asked the owner, trying to liven up the conversation.

"I'm not at all ashamed of McLanahan in Old Town Sacramento, Megyn."

"Another plug. Fine. Okay, that's enough, General, you did a fantastic job," the presenter said, laughing. "Was this heart condition already noted in your records, and if so, what did you do while making multiple trips to the Armstrong space station?"

"I've put family history in my medical records," Patrick replied, "and I get an Air Force First Class flight physical twice a year, plus pre- and post-spaceflight exams, and no problems have ever been found before. Even though long QT syndrome is a common disqualifying condition in the astronaut corps, I wasn't specifically tested for it because, as I said, I'm not technically an astronaut-I'm a unit commander and an engineer who just happens to ride in research vehicles. my unit when I feel it is necessary."

"So, do you think your lack of astronaut training and screening contributed to this disease?"

"Megyn, one of the things we're trying to prove with the Black Stallion and the Armstrong space station program is to make space more accessible to everyday people."

"And it looks like the answer might be, 'No, they can't,' right?"

"I don't know everything there is to know about long QT syndrome, Megyn, but if it usually only occurs in combat aviators over fifty years of age who have to fly frequently in space, perhaps we can test for it and rule out only those who shows a tendency to this disease," Patrick said. "I don"t see why this should disqualify everyone."

"But does that disqualify you?"

"I'm not ready to give up yet," Patrick said with a confident smile. "We have incredible technology at our disposal, and new, better technology is being developed every day. If I can, I will keep flying, believe me."

"Have you not seen enough battles and orbited Earth enough times yet, General?" - said the presenter with a cheerful laugh. "I understand that you have been to the station several times in the last few months alone. That's more than a NASA astronaut goes into space in his entire career, right? John Glenn only flew into space twice."

"Pioneers like Senator John Glenn will always be the inspiration our future astronauts need to have the courage and resilience to thoroughly prepare to go into space," Patrick responded, "but, as I said, one of the goals of our military space programs - to gain greater access to space. I don't consider episodes like mine a failure. It's all part of the learning process."

"But you also have to think about yourself and your family, don"t you, General?"

"Of course-my son sees me more on TV than in person," Patrick said bravely. "But no pilot likes losing his wings, Megyn-we have an innate aversion to doctors, hospitals, scales, eye charts, sphygmomanometers and anything else that might stop us from flying..."

"Okay, general, you've got me confused here. Sphygmo... sphygmo... What is this, one of your high-tech laser guns?"

"Blood pressure meter."

"ABOUT".

"It will depend on the flying credentials, but you can bet I'll be fighting the disqualification all the way," Patrick said. A beep in his comm headset caught his attention and he turned, briefly activating his command monitor and reading the display. "Sorry, Megyn, I have to go. Thank you for having me on this morning." The host managed to utter a confused and amazed "But General, we"re live on everything-!" before Patrick cut the call. "What do you have, Master Sergeant?" - he asked over the command module intercom.

"There's a COMPSCAN alert in the target area, sir, and it says the problem is serious, although we may have nothing on our hands other than a major glitch," responded Master Sergeant Valerie "Finder" Lucas. COMPSCAN, or Comparative Scanning, collected and compared radar data and infrared images during sensor scans and alerted the crew whenever there was a significant concentration of personnel or equipment in a specific target region-thanks to the power and resolution of Armstrong's spaceborne radar and other satellites and unmanned aerial vehicles, the target region could be the size of a continent, and the difference between comparison scans could be as small as four or five vehicles.

"What is the goal?"

"Soltanabad, an airfield on a highway about a hundred miles west of Mashhad. An image recently taken by the new unmanned surveillance aircraft "Night Owl" that Captain Noble just launched." The Seeker examined the intelligence file in the area before continuing: "Last year, the Air Force attacked a Vampire bomber once with ammunition leaving craters on the runway because it was suspected that it was being used to deliver weapons and supplies. Islamists operating from Mashhad. The highway portion of the base was reopened by the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, reportedly to allow the delivery of humanitarian aid. We put the entire base on a watch list and flew Nite Owls over the area to make sure they weren't repairing the ramps and taxiways or flying military equipment there."

"Let's see what they do," Patrick said. A few moments later, an incredibly detailed image of the spot above appeared on his monitor. It clearly showed a four-lane runway with aircraft distance markings, taxi lines and landing zone markings - it looked like a typical military runway, only with cars and trucks moving along it. On both the north and south sides of the highway/runway were wide paved areas with aircraft taxiways, large aircraft parking areas, and the remains of bombed buildings. Many of the destroyed buildings were demolished and in their place several tents of various sizes were erected, some of which bore the seal of the Red Crescent humanitarian aid organization. "Do these tents look like they have open sides to you, Master Sergeant?" - Patrick asked.

The seeker took a closer look at the image, then enlarged it until it began to lose resolution. "Yes, sir," she replied, unsure of why the General had asked-it was quite clear to her. According to an agreement between the United Nations, the Persian occupation forces of Boujazi and the Iranian government-in-exile, large tents erected in certain combat areas to serve refugees or others traveling through the Iranian deserts were required to have their sides open during reconnaissance flights to allow everyone the parties could look inside, or they could be identified as enemy firing points and attacked.

"Looks like a big shadow on the other side, that's all," Patrick said. "This photo was taken at night, correct?" Lucas nodded. "The sides look open, but the shadows on the ground from nearby spotlights make it look like...I don't know, they just don't look right to me, that's all." He re-enlarged the former aircraft parking ramps. Both paved areas were littered with dozens of bomb craters ranging in width from a few yards to more than a hundred feet, with huge chunks of concrete rising from the edges. "I think he still looks broken. How old is this image?"

"Only two hours, sir. There is no way they could have sealed all these craters and moved the planes in two hours."

"Let's see how the computer compares the scan results." The image split first into two, then four, then sixteen images of the same place, taken over several days. The images looked identical.

"Looks like a glitch - a false alarm," said the Seeker. "I'll pull down the images and take a look at the comparison options for-"

"Wait a minute," Patrick said. "What does the computer say has changed?" A moment later, the computer drew rectangles around several craters. The craters were exactly the same - the only difference was that the rectangles were not exactly oriented the same way in all the images. "I still don't understand what COMPSCAN flags."

"Me too, sir," admitted the Seeker. "It might just be a miscalculation of the viewing angle."

"But in this part of the world we are in sync with the sun, right?"

"Yes, sir. We are located exactly over Tehran at the same time - approximately two o'clock in the morning local time - every day."

"So the viewing angle should be the same, except for minor changes in the position of the station or sensor, which the computer has to correct," Patrick said.

"Obviously something went wrong with the setup procedure, sir," Seeker said apologetically as she anchored at her terminal to begin work. "Don't worry, I'll fix everything. I'm sorry about that, sir. These things need recalibrating - apparently a little more often than I thought. I should probably take a look at the station's attitude gyro readings and fuel consumption readings to see if there's a major shift happening - we might have to make a gross adjustment to the alignment, or just throw out all the old attitude control readouts and come up with new ones. I beg your pardon, sir."

"No problem, Master Sergeant," Patrick said. "From now on, we will know to look for things like this more often." But he continued to look at the computer's images and comparison windows. The flags disappeared when Lucas erased the old comparison data, leaving very clear images of bomb craters on ramps and taxiways. He shook his head. "The space radar pictures are amazing, Seeker - it's like I can measure the thickness of these concrete blocks lifted by bombs. Amazing. I can even see the colors of the different layers of concrete and where the steel mesh was applied. Cool."

"SBR is incredible, sir - it's hard to believe that this is almost twenty years old technology."

"You can clearly see where the concrete ends and the road base begins. This-" Patrick looked at the images carefully, then put on his reading glasses and looked more closely. "Can you enlarge this image for me, Seeker?" he asked, pointing to a large crater on the south side of the highway.

"Yes, sir. Get ready."

A moment later, the crater filled the monitor. "Fantastic detail, that's right." But now something was bothering him. "My son likes 'I Spy' and 'Where's Waldo?' - maybe someday he will become an image analyst."

"Or he will develop computers that will do it for us."

Patrick chuckled, but he still felt awkward. "What's wrong with this picture? Why did the computer ring its bell?"

"I'm still checking, sir."

"I spent a short but insightful period of time as a unit commander in the Air Force Air Intelligence Agency," Patrick said, "and the one thing I learned about interpreting overhead multispectral imagery was not to let my mind fill in too many blanks."

"Analysis 101, sir: Don't look at what isn't there," said the Seeker.

"But never ignore that there is something wrong there," Patrick said, "and there is something wrong with the placement of these craters. They are different... But how?" He looked at them again. "I think they're rotated, and the computer said they moved, but-"

"This is impossible for a crater."

"No... Unless they're craters," Patrick said. He zoomed in again. "Perhaps I'm seeing something that isn't there, but these craters look too perfect, too uniform. I think these are baits."

"Decoy craters? I have never heard of such a thing, sir."

"I've heard of every other kind of bait - planes, armored vehicles, troops, buildings, even runways - so why not?" Patrick noticed. "This may explain why COMPSCAN flags them-if they are moved and not placed in exactly the same location, COMPSCAN flags that as a new target."

"So you think they have rebuilt this base and are secretly using it right under our noses?" Lucas asked, still not convinced. "If that's true, sir, then space radar and our other sensors should have picked up other signs of activity-vehicles, tire tracks, storage heaps, security personnel patrolling the area..."

"If you know exactly when a satellite will pass overhead, it's relatively easy to fool it-just cover the equipment with radar-absorbing cloaks, erase the tracks, or disguise them as other targets," Patrick said. "All those tents, trucks and buses could hold an entire battalion and hundreds of tons of supplies. As long as they unload the planes, get people and vehicles out of the area and clear the area within two to three hours between our sorties, they are safe."

"So all our equipment is practically useless."

"Against whoever is doing this, yes - and I'm willing to bet it's not Islamist clerics or even remnants of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps," Patrick said. "There's only one way to find out: we need eyes on the ground. Let's prepare a report for STRATCOM and I'll add my recommendations for action... but first I want Rascal to come up with a plan." While Lucas began downloading sensor data and adding her observations-and reservations-about activity in Soltanabad, Patrick selected a command channel on his encrypted satellite communications system. "One for the Scoundrel."

A moment later, an image of a large, blond, blue-eyed, strong-looking man appeared on Patrick"s monitor: "There"s a scoundrel here, sir," Air Force Major Wayne Macomber responded rather irritably. Macomber was the new commander of the Army Combat Forces based at Elliott Air Force Base in Nevada, replacing Hal Briggs, who was killed while hunting for mobile medium-range ballistic missiles in Iran the previous year. Macomber was only the second person to ever lead the Fighting Forces. He needed to take high positions, and this, according to Patrick, would never happen.

Macomber was not Patrick's first choice to command "Scoundrel" (which was Hal's call sign and was now the new unclassified call sign of the Fighting Forces). To put it mildly, Macomber had serious problems with authority. But he somehow managed to use this personality glitch to put himself in increasingly difficult situations, which he was eventually able to adapt to, overcome, and succeed in.

He was kicked out of a public high school in Spokane, Washington, due to "behavioral incompatibilities" and sent to the New Mexico Military Institute in Roswell in the hope that 24-hour military discipline would reform him. Sure enough, after a difficult first year, it worked. He graduated near the top of his class both academically and athletically and won a nomination to attend the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, Colorado.

Although he was a linebacker on the national football team, the Falcons, where he earned his nickname "Zipper," he was kicked off the team his senior year for aggressive play and "personality conflicts" with several coaches and teammates. He used the extra time-and probation-to improve his grades and graduated again with honors, earning a Bachelor of Science in physics and a place in pilot training. He again dominated his undergraduate pilot training class, graduating at the top of his class, and won one of six F-15E Strike Eagle pilot slots awarded straight out of flight school-almost unheard of for a first lieutenant at the time.

But again, he couldn't keep his drive and determination in check. The F-15 Eagle air superiority fighter is a completely different bird with an attack systems operator, a large radar, adequate long-range fuel tanks and ten thousand pounds of ammunition on board, and for some reason Wayne Macomber could not understand that the body of the aircraft was flexing in unnatural directions as an F-15E Strike Eagle pilot loaded with bombs attempts to dogfight another fighter. It didn't matter that he was almost always a winner-he achieved victories by bending expensive airplane bodies, and eventually...eventually...he was asked to leave.

But he did not remain an orphan for long. One organization in the Air Force welcomed and even encouraged aggressive action, out-of-the-box thinking, and dangerous leadership: Air Force Special Operations. However, to his disappointment, the unit that most wanted the rough "Strike" was the Tenth Combat Weather Squadron at Hurlburt Field, Florida: because of his physical background, the Air Force quickly made him a combat weather paratrooper. He received the coveted Green Beret and Air Force Commando parachute wings, but he still resented being called a "weatherman."

Although he and his squadron mates were always ridiculed by other commando units for being "combat weather forecasters" or "marmots", Macomber soon fell in love with the specialty, not only because he liked the science of meteorology, but also because that he parachuted out of excellent planes and helicopters, carried a lot of weapons and explosives, learned how to set up airfields and observation posts behind enemy lines and how to kill the enemy at close range. Zipper made over one hundred and twenty combat jumps over the next eight years and quickly rose through the ranks, eventually taking command of the squadron.

When Brigadier General Hal Briggs planned the attack and occupation of Yakutsk Air Base in Siberia as part of Patrick McLanahan's response to Russia after the Holocaust in AMERICA, he turned to the only nationally recognized expert in the field to help plan operations behind enemy lines: Wayne Macomber . At first, Vack didn't like taking orders from a guy eight years his junior, especially one who outranked him, but he quickly came to appreciate Briggs' skill, intelligence, and courage, and they made a good team. The operation was a complete success. Macomber received the Silver Star for rescuing dozens of military personnel, both Russian and American, by placing them in fallout shelters before Russian President Gryzlov's bombers attacked Yakutsk with nuclear-tipped cruise missiles.

"I'm sending you the latest pictures of an air base on a highway in northeast Iran, Wayne," Patrick said. "I think it"s being secretly repaired, and I"m going to ask your permission to come in, inspect it, and put it back into disrepair-for good."

"Ground operation? Just in time," Macomber replied hoarsely. "Almost all I've done since you brought me here is sweat, either in physical training or trying to squeeze into one of those damn Tinmen union suits."

"And complains."

"Was the Sergeant Major talking about me again?" Marine Staff Sergeant Chris Wohl was the noncommissioned officer in charge of Rascal, the Air Force ground team, and one of the highest-ranking members of the unit. Although Macomber was Rascal's commander, everyone knew and understood that Chris Wall was in charge, including Macomber, a fact that really irritated him. "I wish that son of a bitch would retire like I thought he would, so I could choose my first jersey. He is ready to be put out to pasture."

"I'm the commander of the air combat force, Wayne, and even I wouldn't dare say that to the staff sergeant's face," Patrick said, only half jokingly.

"I told you, General, that as long as Vol is around, I will have to carry his unit and his luggage with me," Zipper said. "All he does is follow Briggs." Patrick couldn't even for a moment imagine Vol moping, but he didn't say so. "Guys die in special ops, even in tin can suits like the robot he was in, he better get used to it. Resign him, or at least transfer him, so I can run this unit my way. "

"Wayne, you're in charge, so be in charge," said Patrick, who didn't like how this conversation was going. "You and Chris can make a great team if you learn to work together, but you are still in charge whether you use him or not. I expect you to get your team ready to fly out and fight as quickly as possible. If things are not set up the way you want for the next operation, put Vol in charge until-"

"I'm in charge of a unit, general, not a slacker," Macomber retorted, using his personal term "slacker" instead of the Air Force acronym NCOIC, or non-commissioned officer in charge.

"Then lead it, Wayne. Do whatever you need to do to complete the mission. Chris Wall, Infantry cybernetic devices and Tin Man armor may be part of the problem or part of the solution , it's up to you. These people are professionals, but they need a leader. They know Chris and they will follow him into hell - you must prove that you can lead them along with the NCOs."

"I'll make them line up, General, don't worry about it," Macomber said.

"And if you haven't already, I would advise you not to use that 'dickless' expression in front of Vol, otherwise you two might stand before me bloodied and broken. Fair warning."

Macomber's facial expression gave absolutely no indication that he understood or agreed with McLanahan's warning. This was unfortunate: Chris Wohl had little patience for most officers below flag rank and was not afraid to risk his career and freedom to deal with an officer who did not show due respect to a veteran non-commissioned officer. Patrick knew that if the situation was not resolved properly, the two would go into confrontation. "It would be a lot easier if I didn"t have to train in the Tin Woodman costume."

"The Gear, as you call it, allows us to go into hot spots that no other special operations team would ever think of," Patrick said.

"Excuse me, General, but I can't think of a single hot spot that I've ever thought not to go to," Macomber said irritably, "and I didn't wear long underwear."

"How many men would you need to go and destroy the airfield, Major?"

"We don't 'destroy' airfields, sir - we conduct reconnaissance or disrupt enemy air operations, or we build our own airfields. We carry out air strikes if we want to -"

"The fighting forces are destroying them, Major," Patrick intervened. "Remember Yakutsk?"

"We did not destroy this airfield, sir, we occupied it. And we brought in a hundred guys to help us do it."

"The fighting force was prepared to destroy this base, Major-if we couldn't use it, the Russians weren't going to do it either."

"Destroy the airfield?" The skepticism in Macomber's voice was obvious, and Patrick felt the heat rise under the collar of his black flight suit. He didn't want to waste time arguing with a subordinate, but Macomber needed to be made aware of what was expected of him, not just arrested for being a junior officer. "How can a handful of lightly armed men destroy an airfield?"

"That's what you're here to learn, Wayne," Patrick said. "When we first talked about taking command, I told you that I needed you to think outside the box, and in this case, that means not just learning how to use the gadgets you have at your disposal, but embracing and expanding the technology and developing new ways to use it. Now I need you to bring me up to speed quickly because I have an airfield in Iran that I may want to destroy...tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? How could this happen, General? I just now learned of the target's location - if we hurry, we can leave the base by tomorrow, and that's without intelligence and without rehearsals on how to attack the target! You can't successfully infiltrate a military base without intelligence and training runs! It'll take me at least a week to just...

"You're not hearing what I'm telling you, Major: you need to start thinking differently here," Patrick insisted. "We locate targets and attack them, period-little or no rehearsals, no strategic intelligence, no raw data acquired en route, no joint support packages and small but mobile and high-tech ground units with minimal but destructive air support. I told you all this when I first told you about Rascal, Wayne..."

"I assumed you received the information and assignment from higher headquarters, sir," Macomber countered. "You mean you're starting an operation without gathering strategic information from-?"

"We don't get any help from anyone and we still launch and do the damn job, Zipper," Patrick interjected pointedly. "Are you finally getting the picture?" Patrick waited a moment and received no answer - given Macomber's mercurial, almost frantic nature, the silence was truly stunning. "Now I know you are accustomed to Air Force special operations tactics and methodology, and I know you are a good operator and leader, but you must become comfortable with the lake program. I know PT technology is important, but knowing the equipment and resources we have is more important. This is not only a job, but also a way of thinking. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," Macomber said-probably the first real hint of agreement Patrick felt from the guy. "It seems to me that I will still need Vol"s help if I go on a mission... tomorrow?"

"Now you get the idea, Major."

"When can I receive the information you have, sir?"

"I'm posting this now. I need a developed plan of action, ready to report to the authorities in an hour."

"In one hour...?"

"Is there something wrong with this connection, Major?"

"No, sir. I heard you. One hour. One more question?"

"Hurry up".

"What about my request to change the unit's call sign, sir?"

"Not again, Major..."

"That was Briggs' call sign, sir, and I need to change that name. Not only do I hate it, but it reminds the guys of their dead former boss and it distracts them from the mission."

"Bill Cosby once said that if it were up to him, he would never choose a name for his children-he would just send them out onto the streets and let the neighborhood kids call him," Patrick said.

"Which Bill?" - I asked.

"When the time comes to change the name of the unit, Major, the entire unit will come to me with a request."

"This is my unit, sir."

"Then prove it," Patrick said. "Get them ready to launch immediately, teach them how to use the tools I worked my ass off to acquire, and show me a plan-put together as one piece-that will get the job done and get immediate approval. Get to work, Major. Genesis is coming out." He broke the connection by hitting the button with such force that it nearly lifted him from his Velcro perch. For God's sake, Patrick thought, he never realized how lucky he was to work with the men and women under his command, and not with real prima donnas like Macomber. He might have been one of America's best special operations operatives, but his interpersonal skills needed a serious re-evaluation.

Taking an irritated sip of water from the tube, he opened the satellite connection again: "One is calling the Condor."

"Condor on call, security," responded the senior controller at the Joint Functional Component Space Command Post (JFCC-Space) at Vandenberg Air Force Base, California. "Saw you on the news a while ago. You looked... Fine, sir. Glad to see you're feeling well. This Megyn is a fox, isn"t she?"

"Thanks, Condor, but unfortunately I've never seen the presenter, so I'll have to take your word for it," Patrick replied. "I have an urgent reconnaissance alert and a request to report ground operations missions to the boss."

"Understood, sir," replied the senior dispatcher. "Ready to copy when you're ready."

"I have discovered the possible covert re-establishment of an illegal Iranian air base in the Persian Republic, and I need 'eyes only' confirmation and authority to target closure if confirmed." Patrick quickly laid out what he knew and what he assumed about the airbase on the Soltanabad Highway.

"Understood, sir. Sending to JFCC space is IN PROGRESS now." The DO, or deputy commander of operations for the Joint Functional Component Command-Space, would report to his commander after assessing the request, examining force availability, collecting intelligence, and calculating estimated timelines and expected damage. This was time consuming, but likely kept the commander from being flooded with requests for support. "We should hear back soon if the DO wants to act. How are you feeling, sir?"

"Just great, Condor," Patrick replied. "Of course, I wish I could load my requests directly into STRATCOM or even SECDEF," Patrick noted.

"I hear you, sir," the dispatcher said. "I think they're afraid you'll bury them with the data. Besides, no one wants to give up their kingdoms." In a confusing and rather unpleasant combination of responsibilities, tasking and coordinating air missions involving the Armstrong space station and HAWC B-1 and B-52 unmanned bombers flying over Iran had to be handled through two different major commands, which both reported directly to the President through staff national security: JFCC-Space in California, which transmitted information to the United States. Strategic Command (STRATCOM) at temporary headquarters in Colorado and Louisiana; and U.S. Central Command (CENTCOM) at MacDill Air Force Base in Florida, which directed all military operations in the Middle East and Central Asia. The various CENTCOM and STRATCOM intelligence agencies involved in plans and operations will review the data individually, make their own recommendations, and present them to the Secretary of Defense and the President's National Security Advisor, who will then make recommendations to the President.

"I don't even understand why these reports have to go to STRATCOM," Patrick grumbled. "CENTCOM is the theater commander-they have to get reports, put together a plan of action, get approvals, and then direct everyone else to get support."

"You don't need to convince me, sir-if you ask me, your reports should go directly to the Department of Defense," the senior controller said. There was a short pause; then: "Get ready for the Condor, Odin. Glad to speak with you again, General."

A moment later: "Condor One on the line, security," came the voice of the commander of the Fourteenth Air Force, Air Force Major General Harold Backman. U.S. Air Force Fourteenth Air Force Commander Backman wore a "double hat" as the Joint Force Command and Space Component, or JFCC-S, a unit of U.S. Strategic Command (which was destroyed during Russian air attacks against the United States and was being rebuilt at various locations around the country ).

JFCC-S was responsible for planning, coordinating, equipping, and executing all military operations in space. Before McLanahan, his Advanced Aerospace Weapons Center and the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane, "military operations in space" usually meant deploying satellites and monitoring the space activities of other countries. No more. McLanahan gave JFCC-Space global strike and ultra-fast mobility capabilities, and frankly, he didn't feel like they were up to the task yet.

"One is here, safe," Patrick said. "How are you doing, Harold?"

"As usual, up to our necks in business, sir, but better than you, I suppose. The officer on duty said he saw you on TV, but you suddenly ended the interview without warning. Are you okay?"

"I received a COMPSCAN alert and responded to it immediately."

"If this scared the crap out of one of my supervisors, it will make the bosses panic, you understand that, right?"

"They have to learn to relax. Have you received my information?

"I'm looking at it right now, Mook. Give me a sec". A few moments later: "My intelligence chief is looking at this now, but to me it just looks like a bombed out airbase on the highway. I take it, don"t you think so?"

"I think those craters are decoys, Harold, and I'd like a few of my guys to go down there and take a look."

Another short pause. "Khorasan province, just a hundred miles from Mashhad, this area is controlled by Mohtaz and his Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps," Backman said. "Within armed response distance from Sabzevar, where many Pasdarans are probably hiding. If Soltanabad is truly empty, you'll still be in the eye of the storm if the bad guys spot you - and if it's active, like you said, it'll be a meat grinder. I"m guessing you want to go there with just a couple of your robots, right?"

"I confirm."

"I thought so. Can"t your things up there give you more detailed images?"

"Our only other option is a direct flyby from a satellite or drone, and that would certainly alert the bad guys. I'd like to take a look first before I plan to blow up the place, and a small squad would be the fastest and easiest. "

"How fast?"

"I haven"t looked at the orbital geometry, but I hope we can launch them in four, be on the ground in seven, back in the air in eight, and back home in twelve."

"Days?"

"Watch".

"Shit," Backman swore. "Bloody incredible, sir."

"If my guys were based here, Harold, as I would like to do, as I informed you and STRATCOM, I might be able to get out of there and back home in four hours."

"Damn confusing. I'm all for it, Mook, but I think this idea just boggles too many minds here on good old planet Earth. You know that National Command has instructed us to limit all spaceplane flights to resupply and emergency situations only, right?"

"I consider this an emergency, Harold."

"I know what you want... But is it really urgent?"

Patrick suppressed a flare of anger at having his judgment doubted, but he was used to everyone doubting him in second and third place, even those who knew and loved him. "I won't know for sure until I send a few of my guys out there."

"I don't think this will be allowed, sir. Do you still want me to ask the question?"

Patrick answered without hesitation: "Yes."

"OK. Get ready." The wait wasn't long at all: "Okay, Mook, STRATCOM brass says you can send your guys in this direction, but no one is putting the boots-or whatever the hell your robots are wearing on their feet-on the ground, and no one the aircraft does not cross any lines on any charts without permission from CENTCOM."

"Can I load up some Black Stallion spaceplanes and launch them into orbit?"

"How many are there and what are they loaded with?"

"One or two with operators, staggered and in different orbits, until I can pinpoint the time on the hour; one or two cover aircraft equipped with precision weapons; perhaps one or two decoys to be used as reserves in orbit; and one or two Vampire bombers flying in from Iraq, ready to destroy the base if we found it functioning."

"That many spaceships could be a challenge, and an armed spaceship could be a deal-breaker."

"The more I can transfer and the more support assets I can put into orbit, the faster this will all be over, Harold."

"I get it," Backman said. This time the pause was longer: "Okay, approved. No one crosses any political boundaries in the atmosphere without permission, and do not release weapons for re-entry until the green light is given." He chuckled, then added, "God, I sound like the fucking Commander Adama of the Battleship Galactica or something. I never thought in my life that I would approve of an attack from space."

"From now on, everything should be exactly like this, my friend," Patrick replied. "I will send you a complete package plan within an hour, and the air mission order to move the spacecraft will be sent to you sooner. Thank you, Harold. One came out."

Patrick's next video conference call was to his command area at Elliott Air Force Base: "Macomber notified us that you have assigned him a ground operation in Iran and that he has little time to plan, so we are already connected," his deputy said. Commander, Brigadier General David Luger. The two navigators worked together for more than two decades, first as fellow crew members on the B-52G Stratofortress and then assigned to the Aerospace Advanced Weapons Center as aircraft and weapons flight test engineers. Tall, lean, calm and deliberate in nature, and in appearance, Luger's best quality was that he acted as Patrick McLanahan's conscience whenever his fiery, determined, driven side threatened to destroy all common sense. "We should have something for you in no time." "The guy is fast and pretty well organized."

"I knew you'd do it, buddy," Patrick said. "Surprised by the news from Zipper?"

"Surprised? How about "thunderstruck"? Luger is unfazed. "Everyone in the Airborne Forces tries their best to avoid this guy. But when he gets down to business, everything works out for him."

"Any thoughts on Soltanabad?"

"Yeah, I think we should skip the preliminary tests and just hit a couple of rips in the sky or meteors with powerful explosives down there, instead of wasting the time to bring in a group of combat forces," Luger replied. "If the Iranians are hiding something there, our guys will land right on them."

"As much as I love blowing things up, Texas," Patrick replied, "I think we should take a look first. If these craters really are bait, then they are the best I've ever seen, which means...

"They're probably not Iranian," Luger said. "Do you think maybe Russians?"

"I think Moscow would like nothing better than to help Mokhtaz destroy Boujazi's army and place several brigades there as a reward," Patrick said.

"Do you think this is what Zevitin wants to do?"

"An AMERICA-friendly state in Iran would be completely unacceptable," Patrick said. "Mohtaz is a nutcase, but if Zevitin can convince him to allow Russian troops into Iran to help defeat Boujazi's army - or for any other reason, such as defense against American aggression - Zevitin can send troops to counter American dominance in the region. At the very least, he can pressure President Gardner to withdraw support for former Soviet bloc countries that are moving into the American sphere of influence."

"All this geopolitical nonsense is giving me a headache, Mook," Dave said with feigned weariness. Patrick could see that Dave's attention had wandered away from the video conference camera. "I have the first draft of the plan ready - I will upload it to you," he said, entering instructions into his computer.

"Okay, Mook, here are the preliminary status reports," Luger continued a moment later. "We have two Black Stallion spaceplanes available within four hours with dedicated tankers and sufficient fuel and supplies for orbital missions, and three available in seven hours if we cancel several training flights. Macomber says it can boot up in time to launch. How do you want to structure the order of air tasks?"

Patrick made quick mental calculations, counting down the time from the moment he wanted the Black Stallion to get off the ground and leave Persian airspace. "I would certainly like to have decoys, backups, more information and more rehearsals for Whack and the ground forces, but my main concern is to inspect this base as quickly as possible without attracting the attention of the Revolutionary Guards," he said. "I'll see if I can get permission to put in two studs right now. If we launch in four hours, we'll be over the target by midnight to 1 a.m. local time-let's call it 2 a.m. to be on the safe side. We do reconnaissance for an hour at most, take off before sunrise, refuel somewhere over western Afghanistan and head home."

"The duty officer is making preliminary assumptions for the air mission order," Luger said. The "Duty Officer" was a central computer system based at the Aerospace Advanced Weapons Center that linked all the various departments and laboratories around the world and could be securely accessed by any HAWC member anywhere in the world - or, in the case of the Armstrong Space Station, around it. "The biggest question mark we have right now is support for the KC-77 tanker for air refueling. Our closest tanker dedicated to the XR-A9 is at Al Dhafra Air Base in the United Arab Emirates, which is a two-hour flight to the nearest possible refueling point over Afghanistan. If everything worked absolutely perfectly - they loaded the tanker without a hitch, received all diplomatic and air traffic clearances in a timely manner, etc. - they would reach a possible rendezvous point over western Afghanistan just as the Black Stallion ran out of fuel ".

"And when was the last time our mission went absolutely flawlessly?"

"I don't remember this ever happening," Luger assured him. "There are several emergency landing sites in the area that we can use, but they are very close to the Iranian border and we will need a lot of ground support to secure the base until the fuel arrives. We can deploy recovery teams to Afghanistan to assist in the event the stallion has to make an emergency landing, or we can delay the mission for a couple of days..."

"Let's move forward with this plan," Patrick said. "We'll present it as is and deploy as many contingency funds as we can-hopefully we won't need any of it."

"You got it, Mook," Dave said. "I need...to be close, Patrick...I'm getting a call from your flight doctor at Walter Reed. He wants to talk to you."

"Connect me and stay on the line."

"I understand you. Prepare..." A moment later the video image split in two, with Dave on the left side and the image of a rather youthful-looking man in a Navy work uniform, the camouflage blue digital uniform typical of all military personnel in the United States since the American Holocaust. "Continue, captain, general on the line, security."

"General McLanahan?"

"How are you, Captain Summers?" - Patrick asked. US Navy Captain Alfred Summers was the chief of cardiovascular surgery at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center and the man responsible for Patrick's case.

"I saw your interview this morning," the surgeon said irritably, "and with all due respect, General, I was wondering where you got your medical degree?"

"I take it you had some problems with what I told the interviewer?"

"You made it sound like long QT syndrome could be cured by taking a couple of aspirins, sir," Summers complained. "It's not that simple, and I don't want my staff to be blamed if your request to maintain flight status is denied."

"Who is to blame, captain?"

"Frankly, sir, the vast majority of Americans consider you a national treasure who should not be neglected for any reason," the doctor replied. "I'm sure you know what I mean. In short, sir, long QT syndrome is an automatic denial of flight privileges-there is no appeal process."

"My staff reviewed the condition, Captain, as well as the medical records of several astronauts who were disqualified from spaceflight but still retained pilot status, and they told me that the condition is not life-threatening and may not be serious enough to justify denial of- "

"As your physician and the leading expert on this disease in the United States, General, let me clear this up for you, if I may," Summers interjected. "The syndrome was most likely caused by what we call myocardial stretch, where severe overload strains the heart muscles and nerves and creates electrical disturbances. The syndrome apparently lay dormant all your life until you flew into space, and then it manifested itself in full force. It's interesting to me that you apparently experienced some symptoms during some or perhaps all of your spaceflights, but then they died down again until you had a simple video conference confrontation - I would imagine it was just as intense like flying through space, or maybe just tense enough to serve as a trigger for another full-blown episode."

"The White House and the Pentagon can do it, Doctor," Patrick said.

"Without a doubt, sir," Summers agreed. "But don't you see the danger in this state, General? The stress of this simple video conference episode, combined with your repeated missions into orbit, caused power outages that eventually led to the arrhythmia. It was so severe that it caused cardiac fibrillation, or irregular heartbeat, a real heat 'flutter' which, like a cavitation pump, means that not enough blood is getting to the brain even if the heart has not stopped. It goes without saying, sir, that any stress could now trigger a new episode, and without constant monitoring we have absolutely no way of knowing when or how severe it will be. Allowing you to remain in flight status would jeopardize every mission and every piece of equipment under your control."

"I suppose you were going to add, 'not to mention your life,' huh, Captain?" Patrick added.

"I believe we all have your welfare first and foremost, sir-I may be wrong about that," Summers said dryly. "Your life is at risk every minute you spend up there. I cannot stress this too much."

"I got it, I got it, Doctor," Patrick said. "Let us now move past the dire warnings. What is the treatment for this condition?"

"'Treatment?' You mean other than avoiding stress at all costs?" Summers asked with obvious irritation. He sighed loudly. "Well, we can try beta blockers and close monitoring to see if any electrical abnormalities reappear, but this course of treatment is only recommended for patients without syncope-those who have never lost consciousness from the condition before. In your case, sir, I would strongly recommend an implantable ICD cardioverter defibrillator."

"You mean pacemaker?"

"ICDS is much more than just a pacemaker, sir," Summers said. "In your case, the ICD will perform three functions: closely monitor the condition of your heart, shock your heart in the event of fibrillation, and provide corrective signals to restore the normal rhythm in the event of any tachycardia, hypocardia or arrhythmia. Modern devices are smaller, less intrusive, more reliable, and can monitor and report on a wide range of body functions. They are extremely effective in correcting and preventing electrical abnormalities of the heart."

"Then it doesn't affect my flight status, right?"

Summers rolled his eyes in annoyance, completely upset that this three-star general hadn't given up on the idea of regaining his flying status. "Sir, as I'm sure you understand, installing an ICD is a disqualification for all flying duties except FAA Part 91, and even then you would be limited to single daytime VFR flights," he said, stunned simply by the fact that any Anyone who had an episode like this man might even consider flying. "After all, this is an electrical generator and transmitter that can momentarily cause serious cardiac injury. I cannot think of a single aircrew member, military or civilian, who was allowed to retain airman status after receiving the ICD."

"But if they are so good, what"s the problem?" - Patrick asked. "If they correct the deviations, I will be ready to leave."

"They're good, much better than in years past, but they're not reliable, sir," Summers said. "About one in 10 patients experience presyncope or syncope episodes-dizziness, drowsiness, or loss of consciousness-when the ICD is activated. Three in ten experience enough discomfort to cause them to stop what they're doing-truck drivers, for example, will feel scared or uncomfortable enough to pull over to the side of the road, or executives in meetings will get up and walk out of the room. You can't pull over in an airplane, especially a spaceplane. I know how important flying is to you, but it"s not worth it-"

"Isn"t it worth risking my life?" Patrick interrupted. "Again, Doctor, with all due respect, you are wrong. Flying is essential to my job, as well as an important skill and source of personal enjoyment. In my current position, I would be ineffective."

"Would you rather be dead, sir?"

Patrick looked away for a moment, but then shook his head decisively. "What other alternatives do I have, Doctor?"

"You don"t have them, General," Summers said sternly. "We can put you on beta blockers and constant monitoring, but this is not as effective as ICD and you will still be limited in flight duties. It is almost guaranteed that you will have another LQT episode within the next six months, and there is a greater chance that you will experience some degree of disability similar to, or perhaps more severe than, what you have experienced before. If you are in space or at the controls of an airplane, you are an instant danger to yourself, your crewmates, and innocent people in the path of your flight and your mission.

"General McLanahan, in my expert opinion, your current job, or virtually any military position I can think of, is too stressful for someone in your condition, even if we install an ICD. More than any treatment or device, what you need right now is rest. Unless there is a history of drug abuse or trauma, long QT syndrome is almost always caused by physical, psychological, and emotional stress. The damage done to your heart by your position, responsibilities, and spaceflight will last for the rest of your life, and as we have seen, the stress of just one simple video conference was enough to cause a syncope episode. Take my advice: get an ICD, retire and enjoy your son and family."

"There have to be other options, other treatments," Patrick said. "I'm not ready to resign. I have an important job, and maintaining flying status is a big part of it-no, it's a big part of who I am."

Summers looked at him for a long time with a stern and irritated expression on his face. "Bertrand Russell once wrote: "One of the symptoms of an impending nervous breakdown is the conviction that one"s work is terribly important," he said, "except in your case, you will not have a nervous breakdown - you will be dead."

"Let's not get too dramatic here, Captain..."

"Listen to me carefully, General McLanahan: I am not being dramatic-I am being as honest and open with you as I can," Summers said. "It is my opinion that you have suffered unknown but severe damage to your cardiac muscles and myocardium as a result of your spaceflight which is causing episodes of QT prolongation causing arrhythmia and tachycardia leading to presyncoptic and syncoptic events. Is that undramatic enough for you, sir?"

"Captain-"

"I'm not finished, sir," Summers interjected. "Even with rest and medication, the odds are that you will have another syncope event more severe than the last one within the next six months, and without monitoring and immediate medical attention, your chances of survival are twenty percent at best. With ICD, your chances of surviving the next six months increase to seventy percent, and after six months you have a ninety percent chance of surviving."

He paused, waiting for an argument, and after several minutes of silence continued: "Now, if you were any other officer, one who had not met with the Vice President of the United States, accompanied by the Secret Service, I would simply advise you that I would recommend your commander to place you in hospital for the next six months. I will-"

"Six months!"

"I will still advise your commander that way," Summers continued. "Whether you choose to install an ICD is your decision. But if you insist on not getting an ICD and don't have 24/7 monitoring, you have virtually no chance of surviving the next six months. No. Am I making myself clear to you, sir?" Patrick looked like a rapidly deflating balloon for a moment, but Dave Luger could see his despondency quickly giving way to anger-anger of what, he wasn't quite sure yet. "It seems to me that the final decision rests with you. Have a nice day, General." And Summers emerged from the video conference shaking his head sadly, confident that the three-star general had no intention of following his orders.

As soon as Summers left the conference, Patrick leaned back in his chair, took a deep breath, then stared at the conference room table. "Crap," he breathed after several long moments of silence.

"Are you okay, Mook?" - Asked Dave Luger.

"Yes, I think so," Patrick replied, shaking his head in mock confusion. "I always thought it was Will Rogers who said that quote about mental illness, not Bertrand Russell."

Dave laughed; this was a guy he knew, cracking jokes at a time when most sane men would be on the verge of tears. "I think Mark Twain was right when he said, 'It's not what you know, it's what you know it's not true.'

"It wasn"t Mark Twain, it was Josh Billings."

"Who?" - I asked.

"Whatever," Patrick said, becoming serious again. "Dave, I need to learn all about long QT syndrome and treatment of cardiac arrhythmias before I can decide what I can handle and what I can"t. There are probably a dozen companies researching modern ICDs or whatever the next generation of these devices will be - I need to know about the latest advances before I decide to install any old technology. John Masters probably has an entire laboratory dedicated to treating heart disease."

"Sorry to say it like that, buddy, but you just had probably the best cardiologist in the country ready to answer any questions you had, and you practically blew him off."

"He wasn"t ready to help me-he was standing there, ready to push my ticket to medical retirement," Patrick said. "I have to deal with this in my own way."

"I'm worried about how much time you have to make this decision, Patrick," Dave said. "You've heard the document: Most patients with this disease either begin ongoing monitoring and medication or get an ICD straight away. The rest will die. I don"t see what other research you need to do on this."

"I don't know either, Dave, but that's what I always do: I check them myself, using my own sources and methods," Patrick said. "Summers may be the best cardiologist in the Army, maybe even in the country, but if that's the case, my own research tells me that too. But riddle me this, bro: What do guys like Summers do to heart attack victims who are on active duty and who are still alive?"

"They retire them, of course."

"They retire them," Patrick echoed, "and then they are cared for by the Veterans Administration or private doctors partially paid for by the government. Summers does what he always does: discharges sick guys and sends them to the VA. Most of his patients are so grateful to be alive that they never think about retirement."

"Aren"t you glad you"re still alive, Mook?"

"Of course I am, Dave," Patrick said, scowling at his longtime friend, "but if I'm going to hit, I'm going to do it on my terms, not Summers's. In the meantime, perhaps I will learn something more about the condition and possible treatments that these documents don't know, something that will allow me to maintain my flying status. Maybe I am -"

"Patrick, I understand that flying is important to you," Luger said sincerely, "but it"s not worth risking your life for-"

"Dave, I risk my life almost every time I fly in a combat aircraft," Patrick interrupted. "I'm not afraid of losing my life because of..."

"The enemy... an external enemy," Dave said. "Hey Patrick, I'm just playing devil's advocate here-I'm not arguing with you. You do what you want. And I agree: it is worth risking your life using your skills, training and instincts to fight an enemy who seeks to destroy the United States of America. But the enemy we're talking about here is you. You cannot outsmart, outsmart, or outsmart yourself. You are not equipped or trained to control your own body, which is trying to kill you. You must approach this battle like any battle you have ever prepared for..."

"That's exactly what I intend to do, Dave," Patrick said decisively. "I'm going to study it, analyze it, consult with experts, gather information and develop a strategy."

"Great. But while you're at it, remove yourself from your pilot status and check into the hospital for 24-hour observation. Don't be stupid."

That last remark caught Patrick off guard and he blinked in surprise. "Do you think I'm being stupid?"

"I don"t know what you"re thinking, man," Luger said. He knew Patrick wasn't stupid and he regretted saying it, but the one thing his longtime friend had taught him was to say what was on his mind. Patrick was scared, and this was his response to fear, just as it had been in the cockpit of a strategic bomber all those many years: fight the fear, stay focused on the goal, and never stop fighting, no matter how dire the situation may seem.

"Look at it from the doc's point of view, Mook," Luger continued. "I heard the doctors tell you that this thing is like a ticking time bomb with a hair trigger. It might not work at all, but chances are it might work in the next ten seconds while we're standing here arguing. Damn it, I'm afraid you might piss me off while I'm arguing with you right now, and I won't be able to do anything from here except watch you die."

"My chances of dying here in Earth orbit are only slightly better than average because of this heart thing-we could be torn apart and sucked into space by a pea-sized hypersonic fragment at any moment and we'd never know." Patrick said.

"If you're not sure about the ICD, then go ahead and research it; talk to John Masters or the dozen or so smart guys on our list and think about it," Dave said. "But do it from the safety of a private hospital room where doctors can look after you." Patrick's eyes and features remained determined, stoic, emotionless. "Come on, Muk. Think about Bradley. If you continue to fly without an ICD, you may die. If you don't stress, you'll probably move on with your life. What's the question?"

"I'm not going to give up, Dave, and this is . I'm here to do an important job, and I...

"Job ? Mook, are you willing to risk hurting yourself because of your job? This is important, of course, but dozens of young and strong guys can do it. Give the task to Boomer, or Raydon, or even Lucas - anyone else. Haven"t you figured it out yet, Patrick?"

"Find out what?"

"We are expendable, General McLanahan. We are all disposable. We are nothing more than 'politics by other means'. When it comes down to it, we're just tough Type A military prima donnas, gung-ho military men in ill-fitting monkey suits, and no one in Washington cares whether we live or die. If you mess up tomorrow, twenty other bad asses will take your place - or, more likely, Gardner could just as easily order us to close down the day after you die and spend the money on new aircraft carriers. But there are those of us who you care about, your son tops the list, but you don't pay attention to us because you're focused on work - work that doesn't care about you one iota."

Luger took a deep breath. "I know you, man. You always say you do this because you don't want to tell another pilot to do something you haven't done yourself, even if the pilots are trained members of the test team, the best of the best. I always knew it was bullshit. You do it because you love it, because you want to be the one to pull the trigger to take down the bad guys. I understand it. But I don't think you should do this anymore, Mook. You are needlessly risking your life - not by piloting a virtually untested machine, but by exposing yourself to stresses that could kill you long before you reach the target area."

Patrick was silent for a long time; then he looked at his old friend. "I think you know what it"s like to face your own mortality, don"t you, Dave?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Luger said. As a young navigator-bomber on a secret mission to destroy the former Soviet Union's ground-based laser complex at Kavazna, Dave Luger was captured by the Russians, interrogated, tortured and imprisoned for several years before being brainwashed into believing he was Russian. aerospace engineer. The effects of this treatment affected him emotionally and psychologically-the stress caused him to suddenly enter a distant fugue state that left him virtually incapacitated by fear for minutes, sometimes hours-and he voluntarily withdrew his active flight status many years ago. "It was one hell of a ride... But there are other rides."

"Don"t you miss flying?" - Patrick asked.

"Hell no," Dave said. "When I want to fly, I fly one of the combat drones or my radio-controlled model airplanes. But I have enough going on that I don"t have the desire to do anymore."

"I'm just not sure how it will affect me," Patrick admitted honestly. "I think I"d be fine-no, I"m sure I would be-but would I always be clamoring for one more flight, one more mission?"

"Mook, you and I both know that manned aircraft are going the way of the dinosaurs," Dave said. "Have you suddenly developed some romantic idea of aviation, some strange idea of 'shedding sullen ties' that somehow makes you forget about everything else? Since when did flying become anything more than "plan the flight and then execute the plan" to you? Man, if I didn't know you, I'd swear you cared more about flying than Bradley. That's not the Patrick Shane McLanahan I knew."

"Let's leave it at that, okay?" Patrick asked irritably. He hated it when Luger (or his former girlfriend, Vice President Maureen Herschel) brought up the issue of his twelve-year-old son Bradley, feeling that it was an overused argument to try to get Patrick to change his mind about something. "Everyone worries about my heart, but no one stops arguing with me." He made sure Luger smiled as he added, "Maybe you're all trying to make me collapse. Change the subject, damn it, Texas. What's going on at the lake?

"The rumor mill is running, Mook," Dave said. "Guess who might come back to HAWC?"

"Martin Tehama," Patrick replied. Dave blinked in surprise; he was a guy who was rarely surprised by anything. "I saw a strange email address on CC from the Department of Defense and checked who was in that office. I think he will be reinstated as HAWC commander."

"With your buddy in the White House? Without a doubt." Air Force Col. Martin Tehama was named commander of the Advanced Aerospace Weapons Center following the departure of Maj. Gen. Terrill "Digger" Samson, bypassing Patrick McLanahan. A respected test pilot and engineer, Tehama wanted to curb the "extracurricular" activities that HAWC often engaged in-such as flying experimental aircraft and weapons on "operational test flights" around the world-and get back to the serious business of flight testing. When Patrick left his position as White House counsel, he was given command of HAWC, displacing Tehama. He hit back by providing members of Congress with a trove of information about HAWC's secret missions. "Once Summers has provided a full report on your condition, he will reappear and assume leadership as soon as you announce your retirement-or the President announces that you are retiring for medical reasons."

"The President and Senator Barbeau will use my heart to cancel the Black Stallion program citing health concerns, and their errand boy Tehama will immediately shut it down within a few months."

"Not even that long, Mook," David said. "The rumors coming out of the Senate are that they are going to push the White House to move faster to shut us down."

"Barbo wants his bombers, that"s for sure."

"It's not just her, but she has the loudest voice," Dave said. "There are lobbyists for every weapon system imaginable-aircraft carriers, ballistic missile submarines, special operations, whatever you want to call it. President Gardner wants at least four more carrier battle groups, maybe six, and he'll probably get them if the space program is cancelled. Everyone has their own plans. The spaceplane lobby is practically non-existent, and your injury simply casts a shadow on the program, which pleases the other lobbyists to no end."

"I hate this political crap."

"Me too. I'm surprised you lasted this long working in the White House. You certainly weren't cut out to wear a suit, listen to meaningless speeches, spend weeks testifying before another congressional committee, and be duped by lobbyists and so-called experts."

"Accepted," said Patrick. "In any case, the intensity has been increased, and Tehama will increase it even more - right under our noses. All the more reason to complete this mission in Soltanabad, return the crew safe and sound, and gain good intelligence - 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 fall apart."

"That"s what I do," Dave said. "The air mission order will be ready by the time you get the green light. I will send you the orbital game plan and full force schedule immediately. Genesis is coming out."

CHAPTER FIVE

Honesty is praised, but it dies of hunger.

- DECIMUS JUNIUS JUVENALIS

HIGH-TECH AEROSPACE WEAPONS CENTER, ELLIOTT AIR FORCE BASE, NEVADA

A little while later

"It's ten times more boring than playing video games," complained Wayne Macomber, "because I can't even play this thing."

"There's a pretty deep washout ahead, Bang," said Army National Guard Capt. Charlie Turlock. "It's going off target, so eventually we'll have to get out. We have to-"

"I see it, I see it," Macomber grumbled. "Vol, clear these train tracks again."

"Acknowledged," replied Marine Corps Sergeant Major Chris Wohl in his usual raspy whisper. A moment later: "The tracks are clear, Major. Satellite reports that the next train is twenty-seven miles to the east, moving in our direction at twenty-five miles per hour."

"Accepted," Macomber replied, "but I keep seeing a return to my three o'clock position, five miles away, somewhere right in front of you. She appears for a second and then disappears. What the hell is this?"

"Negative contact, sir," Wohl radioed.

"This is crazy," Macomber muttered, knowing that both Turlock and Vol could still hear him, but he didn't care at all. This wasn't how he pictured planning a mission... Although he had to admit, it was pretty damn cool.

As incredible as the spaceplane was, even the passenger module was a pretty neat device. It served not only to transport passengers and cargo inside the Black Stallion, but also as a docking adapter between the spaceplane and the space station. In an emergency, the module could even be used as a lifeboat for the crew of a spacecraft: it had maneuvering engines to facilitate the lifting of the repair ship in orbit and keep it upright during return; small wings for stability in case it is thrown overboard in the atmosphere; there was enough oxygen for six passengers to survive for up to a week; sufficient protection to survive re-entry if the module was jettisoned during re-entry; and parachutes and float/impact cushion bags that will cushion the module and its occupants upon impact with the ground or water. Unfortunately, all this protection was available only to passengers - the crew of the Black Stallion had no way to get inside the module after takeoff, except by going into outer space in orbit and using the transfer tunnel.

Macomber and Ox were wearing the full Iron Man armor system, a lightweight suit made of BERP, or Ballistic Electron Reactive Process Material, that was completely flexible, like fabric, but protected the wearer by instantly hardening to a strength one hundred times that of steel. upon impact. The suit was completely sealed, providing excellent protection even in harsh or dangerous conditions, and was complemented by an extensive array of electronic sensors and communications that relayed data to the wearer via displays on the helmet visors. The Tin Man system was further enhanced by a microhydraulic exoskeleton that gave the wearer superhuman strength, agility, and speed by enhancing his muscular movements.

Charlie Turlock - "Charlie" was her real name, not her call sign, the young woman whose father had given her a boyish name - was dressed not in a tin lumberjack costume, but simply in a flight suit over a thin layer of thermal underwear; she rode in the cargo hold behind their seats. She was wearing a standard HAWC flight helmet, which displayed sensory and computer data on an electronic visor similar to Tin Man's sophisticated displays. Fit, athletic, and slightly above average height, Turlock seemed out of place in a unit full of large, muscular commandos-but she brought with her something of her years in the Army Research Laboratory's Infantry Transformation Combat Lab that more than compensated for her smaller physical size.

The three watched a computer animation of their planned infiltration of the Soltanabad Highway airfield in Persia. The animation used real-time satellite sensor imagery to paint an ultra-realistic view of the terrain and cultural features in the target area, complete with predictions of things like personnel and vehicle movements based on past information, light levels, weather forecasts and even soil conditions. The three fighting force commandos were spaced about fifty yards apart, close enough to quickly support each other if necessary, but far enough apart to not give each other away if discovered or engaged by a single enemy patrol.

"Now I see the barrier, the distance is one point six miles," Charlie reported. "Now we"re moving over the pond. 'Goose' reports that there are thirty minutes left in the flight." The "goose" was GUOS, or Grenade Unmanned Surveillance System, a small flying drone about the size of a bowling pin launched from a backpack launcher that transmitted visual and infrared images to the commandos over a secure data link.

"That means we're behind," Macomber grumbled. "Let's break this down a little."

"We're right on schedule, sir," Vol whispered.

"I said we were behind, Sergeant Major," Macomber hissed. "The drone will run out of fuel and we"ll still be inside the damn complex."

"I have another goose ready," said Charlie. "I can run this-"

"When? When will we get close enough for the Iranians to hear it?" Macomber growled. "How noisy are these things anyway?"

"If you had come to my demonstrations, Major, you would have known," Charlie said.

"Don"t you dare dare me, captain," Macomber spat. "When I ask you a question, give me the answer."

"They won't hear anything beyond a couple hundred yards from the engine ignition," Charlie said, not hiding her irritation at all, "unless they have sound sensors."

"If we had the proper information before this mission, we would have known if the Iranians had audio sensors," Macomber grumbled some more. "We need to plan to delay the drone launch until we are within two miles of the base rather than three. Do you understand this, Turlock?"

"Got it," Charlie confirmed.

"The next one I need..." Macomber stopped when he noticed that the target indicator had reappeared at the very periphery of his electronic visor's field of view. "Damn it, here it comes again. Vol, did you see this?"

"I saw it that time, but it disappeared," answered Ox. "I'm scanning this area... negative contact. Perhaps just a short-term glow of the sensor."

"Vol, in my book there is no such thing as a 'sensor spark'," said Macomber. "Something ahead of you is causing this return. Get to work."

"Got it," Vol replied. "We are going off course." He used a small mouse with a wheel to change the direction of the animation, waiting every few meters for the computer to add available details and provide more warnings about what lay ahead. The process was slow due to all the wireless computer activity, but it was the only available means they had to rehearse their operation and prepare for flight at the same time.

"We're supposed to be commandos-there's no such thing as a track for us," Macomber said. "We have a goal and a million different ways to achieve it. It should be a piece of cake with all these beautiful pictures floating in front of us - why does this give me a headache? "Neither Turlock nor Vol responded - they were already accustomed to Macomber"s complaints. "Is there anything else, Vol?"

"Get ready."

"Looks like tire tracks right after a wash," Charlie reported. "Not a very deep vehicle, about the size of a Hummer."

"This is something new," Macomber said. He checked the source data tags. "Fresh intelligence downloaded from just the last fifteen minutes of low altitude SAR. Perimeter patrol, I would guess."

"No sign of vehicles."

"That's why we do this, isn't it, kids? Perhaps the general was right after all." To both Vol and Turlock it sounded as if Macomber was uncomfortable admitting that the general might be right. "Let's continue and see what-"

"Crew, this is MS," the mission commander, Marine Major Jim Terranova, intervened over the intercom, "we have begun the countdown to takeoff, T-minus fifty-six minutes and counting down. Run your pre-takeoff checklists and prepare for the report."

"Understood, S-One is listening," Macomber replied... except, as he himself noted with no small shock, his words came out of an instantly dry, hoarse throat and vocal cords, barely able to breathe enough for the words to come out. his lips.

If there was one thing those guys at the Advanced Aerospace Weapons Center and the Air Force were really good at, Macomber realized it early on, it was definitely computer modeling. These guys were simulating everything-for every hour of actual flight time, these guys probably had twenty hours of practice in the computer simulator beforehand. The machines ranged from simple desktop computers with photorealistic displays to full-scale mock-ups of aircraft that did everything from dripping hydraulic fluid to smoking and catching fire if you did something wrong. Everyone was doing this: aircraft crews, maintenance, security, combat personnel, the command post, even the administration and support staff regularly conducted exercises and simulations.

A significant percentage of all personnel at Elliott and Battle Mountain AFBs, perhaps a tenth of the approximately five thousand at both locations, were engaged exclusively in computer programming, and other private and military computer centers associated throughout the world provided the latest codes, procedures and devices ; and at least a third of all the code that these top-secret super-geeks wrote 24/7 was related exclusively to simulations. This was his first real journey into space, but the simulations were so realistic and numerous that he truly felt as if he had done this dozens of times before...

...until just now, when the mission commander announced that there was less than an hour left before takeoff. He was so busy preparing to approach and penetrate Soltanabad - only three hours of preparation when he required at least three days of training in the combat weather squadron! - that he completely forgot that they were going to fly into space to get there!

But now this frightening reality has hit us with full force. He wasn't just going to load his gear into a C-17 Globemaster II or C-130 Hercules for a multi-day flight to some isolated airstrip in the middle of nowhere - he was going to be thrown almost a hundred miles into space, then zip through the atmosphere in hostile airspace before landing in the desert in northeastern Iran, where it was quite possible that an entire brigade of fighters from the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, the elite terrorist army of the former theocratic regime, could be waiting for them.

In the time it would normally take him to simply arrive at his first jumping base en route to his destination, this mission would be completed! This simple fact was absolutely amazing, almost incredible. The compression of time was almost too much to comprehend. And yet, here he is, sitting in a real spaceship - not a simulator - and the clock is ticking. By the time the sun rose again, this mission would be over and he would take stock. It would go into low Earth orbit, fly halfway around the globe, land in Iran, survey it, take off again, go into low Earth orbit again, and hopefully land at a friendly base...

...or he would be dead. There were a million unforeseen and unsimulable things that could kill them, along with a hundred or so simulable things that they practiced dealing with day after day, and even when they knew something bad was going to happen, sometimes they couldn't handle it. Either everything will be fine, or they will be dead... or a hundred other things could happen. Whatever happened, it all had to happen now.

Macomber certainly felt danger and uncertainty... but, as so often happened, the frantic pace of every activity involving McLanahan and everyone at the Advanced Aerospace Weapons Center and the Air Force quickly pushed all other feelings of fear out of his mind. It seemed like a dozen voices - some human, but most computerized - were talking to him at the same time, all requiring confirmation or action or the speech would quickly change to "demanding." If he didn't answer quickly enough, the computer would usually report him, and rather annoyed a human voice-usually the mission commander, but sometimes Brigadier General David Luger, the second-in-command himself, if it was critical enough-repeated the demand.

He was used to performing and succeeding under intense pressure - that was the common denominator for any special operations commando - but this was something completely different: because at the end of all the sometimes chaotic training, they were going to send his ass into space! Terranova seemed to have made the announcement just moments earlier as Macomber felt the Black Stallion come into motion as the four Laser Pulse Missile System engines, or Leopards, at full turbofan power, easily propelled the aircraft into takeoff. - a four-mile Dreamland dry lake bed runway.

Zipper wasn't afraid of flying, but takeoffs were definitely the scariest part of flying for him - all that power behind them, the engines running at full power consuming tons of fuel per minute, the noise deafening, the vibration the worst, but the plane still moving relatively slowly. He'd done a lot of Black Stallion takeoffs in the simulator and knew that the performance numbers even with the spacecraft still in the atmosphere were impressive, but he was definitely on pins and needles in this part.

The initial takeoff from Dry Lake Bed Runway at Elliott Air Force Base was truly impressive - a powerful push as the LPDRS engines turbofaned to full combat thrust, then a rapid, high-angle climb at over ten thousand feet. per minute after a short run. The first few seconds of the takeoff and takeoff seemed normal... but that was it. At full combat power in turbojet mode, the four LPDRS engines produced one hundred thousand pounds of thrust each, optimized by solid-state laser igniters that superheated the jet fuel before ignition.

But high-performance takeoffs were nothing new to Whack or to most of the commandos and others who flew in and out of enemy airstrips. He flew several huge C-17 Globemaster II and C-130 Hercules transport aircraft, where they had to perform takeoffs at maximum speed to get out of range of enemy shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missiles near the runway, and these aircraft were many times larger and much less high-tech than Black Stallion. There was nothing more frightening than the feeling of a screaming, five-hundred-thousand-pound C-17 Globemaster III cargo plane on its tail, clinging to every foot of altitude.

The Tin Man's gear actually helped his body absorb some of the overload and even gave him a little extra dose of pure oxygen when it felt his heart and breathing rate jump up a bit. Because the thrust was so powerful and the air so dense at low altitudes, the laser igniters had to be "pulsed," or turned off and on quickly, to avoid exploding the engines. This created a distinctive "string of pearls" in the Nevada sky that conspiracy theorists and "Lake Hunters"-guys who sneaked into classified test sites in hopes of photographing the top-secret aircraft for the first time-associated with the Air Force's hypersonic spy plane, the Aurora.

They had a short flight at high subsonic speed over the Pacific coast to a refueling area and then rendezvoused with an Air Force KC-77 tanker. The secret of the Black Stallion spaceplane program was in-flight refueling, where they received a full load of jet fuel and oxidizer just before entering orbit - instead of launching from zero altitude in the thickest part of the atmosphere, they began their flight into space from twenty-five thousand feet and three hundred knots in much less dense air.

Refueling always seemed to take forever on every plane Whack had ever flown, especially the big intercontinental range transport planes, but the Black Stallion took even longer because they actually required three refuelings in a row: the first to refuel fuel tanks, since they were not taking off with a full load and needed to be refueled immediately; the second is for filling large containers with boron hydrogen tetraoxide oxidizer - BOHM, nicknamed "boom"; and the third - for one more refueling of the fuel tanks just before pressurization into space. Filling the JP-7 jet engine fuel tanks was fairly quick each time, but filling the larger BOHM fuel tanks took over an hour because the mixture of boron and enhanced hydrogen peroxide was thick and soupy. It was easy to feel the XR-A9 getting heavier and noticeably slower as the tanks filled, and at times the pilot had to engage the afterburners on the larger LPDRS engines to keep up with the tanker.

Macomber spent time checking the intel updates downloaded to his onboard computers in their target area and studying maps and information, but he began to get frustrated because there seemed to be very little new data coming in, and boredom was taking hold of him. It was dangerous. Although they did not need to pre-inhale oxygen before this flight, as they would if they were going to put on a pressure suit, they could not remove their helmets during refueling operations; and unlike Vol, who could take a nap anywhere and anytime, like right now, Macomber couldn't sleep before a mission. So he reached into his personal bag, attached to the bulkhead, and...

...to Turlock's stunned amazement, he pulled out a ball of red yarn and two knitting needles, on which some of the knitted material was already strung! He found it surprisingly easy to manipulate the needles in the Tin Woodman's armored gloves, and he soon picked up speed and was almost at his normal working pace.

"Crew, this is S-Two," Turlock said over the intercom, "you guys won't believe this."

"What is this?" - asked the commander of the spacecraft, Lieutenant Commander of the US Navy Lisette "Frenchie" Moulin, concern was heard in her voice. There was usually very little conversation during mid-air refueling-what was said over the ship's open intercom was usually an emergency. "Do we need a disconnect...?"

"No, no, SC, not an emergency," Charlie said. She leaned forward in her seat to get a better look. Macomber sat in front of her, on the opposite side of the passenger module, and she strained against her restraints to get a full view of his knees. "But it's definitely shocking. The major seems to be ... knitting."

"Shall I say it again?" - Asked Jim Terranova. The Black Stallion spaceplane purred for a moment, as if the spaceship commander was momentarily so stunned that he almost flew out of the refueling area. "Did you say knitting?" Knitting...as inside, ball of yarn, knitting needles... knitting ?"

"Affirmative," Charlie said. Chris Wall, who was sitting next to Macomber, woke up and looked at Macomber for a few seconds, surprise visible even through his helmet and Tin Man vest, before he went back to sleep. "He's got needles, a red ball of yarn, 'ply one with two', the whole show. Martha fucking Stuart is right here."

"Are you kidding me?" Terranova exclaimed. "Is our resident snake-eating badass commando knitting?"

"He looks sooo cute too," Charlie said. Her voice changed to that of a small child: "I can"t tell if he"s making a cute napkin, or maybe it"s a warm and cozy sweater for his French poodle, or maybe it"s-"

In a blur that Turlock had never actually seen, Macomber pulled another knitting needle from his bag, turned to his left, and threw it at Turlock. The needle whizzed past the right side of her helmet and pierced three inches into the headrest of her seat.

"Why, you bastard...!" Turlock exclaimed, pulling out the needle. Macomber waved his armored fingers at her, grinning under his bug-eyed helmet, then turned and returned to his knitting.

"What the hell is going on there?" Moulin asked angrily.

"Just thought that since the captain spoke in baby talk, maybe she wanted to try knitting too," Zipper said. "Do you want something else, Turlock?"

"Take off this helmet and I will give it back to you - right between your eyes!"

"You idiots stop this-maintain radio discipline," Moulin ordered. "The most important part of refueling is in the air, and you idiots fart like snot-nosed children. Macomber, are you really knitting?"

"What if this is who I am? It relaxes me."

"You have not received permission from me to bring knitting supplies on board. Take that shit away."

"Come back here and do me, Frenchie." There was silence. Macomber glanced at Vol - the only one on the spaceship who could probably force him if he wanted - but he looked like he was still asleep. Zipper was sure that this was not the case, but he made no move to intervene.

"You and I are going to have a little talk when we get home, Macomber," Moulin said ominously, "and I will explain to you, in terms that I hope you can understand, the powers and responsibilities of a spaceship commander-even if it requires a quick kick in the pants." ass to clear that up."

"Looking forward to it, Frenchie."

"Fine. Now stop the commotion, remove all unauthorized equipment in the passenger module and stop the intercom chatter, or this flight is terminated. Did everyone understand this? There was no answer. Macomber shook his head, but put down his knitting as instructed, smiling at the feeling of Turlock's angry gaze on the back of his helmet. The rest of the refueling was done with just normal calls and responses.

Once the refueling was completed, they cruised north along the coast at supersonic speed for about an hour, flying in loose formation with the KC-77 - now the tanker could easily keep up with the Black Stallion because the spaceplane was so heavy. They reconnected with the tanker to resupply the JP-7, which didn't take long, and then the tanker headed back to base. "Orbital insertion checklist programmed to hold, crew," Terranova reported. "Let me know when your checklist is complete."

"S-One, Wilco," Macomber growled. Another checklist. He brought up an electronic checklist on his helmet's electronic data visor and used an eye cursor and voice commands to check off each item, which mostly concerned securing loose objects, checking the oxygen panel, increasing cabin pressure, blah blah blah. It was a routine job that a computer could easily check, so why do people do it themselves? Probably some touching human engineering thing that made passengers feel like they were something other than what they actually were: passengers. Zipper waited until Turlock and Vol completed their checklists, marked it as complete, then said, "MC, S-One, checklist complete."

"Accepted. The checklist is completed here. Crew, prepare to enter orbit."

It all sounded very routine and rather boring, just like the endless simulator sessions they were putting him through, so Macomber started thinking about the target area in Soltanabad again. Updated satellite imagery again confirmed the presence of heavy vehicle tire tracks, but did not show what they were - whoever was there did a very good job of hiding the vehicles from satellite view. The Goose drones weren't much better than the space radar network at detecting very small targets, but maybe they should have stayed away from the highway runway and sent the Goose drones out first to take a look in real time before...

... and suddenly the LPDRS engines began to fire, not in turbojet mode, but now in hybrid rocket mode, and Macomber was suddenly and violently thrown back into the here and now. No simulator could prepare you for the push - it was like hitting a football tackling practice sled, except it was completely unexpected, the sled hit you instead of the other way around, and the force of the impact was not only maintained, but increased with every second. Soon it seemed to him that the entire offensive line was pressing on him, which was soon joined by the defensive line. Zipper knew he could call up data on their altitude, speed, and G-force levels, but all he could do was just focus on controlling his breathing to fight the effects of the G-force and not pass out.

The G-forces seemed to last for an hour, although he knew that the insertion into orbit took only seven or eight minutes. When the pressure finally eased, he felt exhausted, as if he had just finished running up the steps of Academy Stadium before football season or running through the Iraqi desert with a hundred-pound backpack.

Apparently his labored breathing was loud enough to be heard over the intercom, because moments later Charlie Turlock asked, "Still feel like farting with your knitting needles, Macomber?"

"Bite me".

"Get your barf bag ready, Major," Charlie continued cheerfully, "because I won't clean up after you if you puke in the module. I bet the macho commando didn't take any motion sickness medication."

"Stop the chatter and run your 'After Orbital Insertion' checklists," Moulin said.

Macomber's breathing quickly returned to normal, more out of embarrassment than effort of will. Damn, he thought, this hit him too suddenly and much harder than he expected. Getting back into a routine would certainly take his mind off the nausea, and the Air Force was nothing if it wasn't driven by checklists and routine. He used his eye-targeting system to bring up the appropriate checklist by looking at the tiny icon in the top left corner of his electronic visor and saying...

... but instead of giving the command, all he could squeeze out was a lump of bile in his throat. Scanning the electronic visor with his eyes suddenly gave him the worst case of vertigo he had ever experienced - he felt like he was being suspended by his ankles from a rope, upside down, a hundred feet above the ground. He couldn't stop the spinning sensation; he had lost all sense of up and down. His stomach churned as the spinning intensified, a thousand times worse than the worst spinning and tilting he'd ever had at the worst all-night party of his life...

"Better take the Major's helmet off, Frenchie," Charlie said, "because he looks like he's about to ruin dinner."

"Fuck you, Turlock," Macomber wanted to say, but all that came out was a gurgle.

"You are free of the helmet, S-One, the pressure level in the module is green," Moulin said. "I hope you kept a vomit bag handy-vomiting in zero gravity is the most disgusting thing you've ever seen in your life, and you might be too sick to do your job."

"Thank you so much," Macomber said through gritted teeth, trying to delay the inevitable until he could remove the damned Tin Woodman helmet. Somehow he managed to unfasten his helmet - he had no idea where it had floated to. Unfortunately, the first bag he was able to reach wasn't the one for motion sickness - it was his personal bag containing his knitting supplies. To his shock and horror, he quickly discovered that vomit in zero gravity did not behave as he expected: instead of filling the bottom of his bag with a disgusting but controlled lump, it curled back into a stinking, dense cloud right back in his face , eyes and nose.

"Don't let it out, Zipper!" - he heard Turlock shout behind him. "We'll spend the next hour cleaning up the vomit clumps from the module." That little image didn't help settle his stomach one bit, nor did the horrible smell and feeling of warm vomit spreading across his face inside the bag.

"Relax, big guy," he heard a voice say. It was Turlock. She unfastened the straps and held his shoulders, calming his convulsions and helping to tie the bag around his head. He tried to push her hands away, but she resisted. "I said relax, Impact. It happens to everyone, whether it's drugs or not."

"Get away from me, bitch!"

"Shut up and listen to me, asshole," Charlie insisted. "Don't mind the smell. The smell is the trigger. Get it out of your mind. Do this, or you'll be a vegetable for at least the next three hours. I know you badass commandos know how to control your senses, your breathing, and even your involuntary muscles to endure days of discomfort in the field. Hal Briggs continued to fight for several minutes after being shot by the Iranians..."

"Fuck Briggs, and fuck you too!"

"Be careful, Macomber. I know you can do it. Now is the time to turn on everything you have. Concentrate on the smell, isolate it and put it out of your mind."

"You don"t know shit..."

"Just do it, Wayne. You know what I'm telling you. Just shut up and do it, or you'll be as drunk as if you were on a three-day bender."

Macomber was still incredibly angry at Turlock for being there for him at that most vulnerable moment, taking advantage of him, but what she said made sense - she obviously knew something about the agony he was experiencing . The smell, right? He had never thought that much about his sense of smell-he had been trained to be hypersensitive to sight, sound, and an indefinable sixth sense that always warned of imminent danger. Smell was usually a confusing factor that could not be neglected. Turn it off, blow. Turn it off.

Somehow it worked. He knew that breathing through his mouth shuts off his sense of smell, and when he did this, most of the nausea went away. His stomach was still in painful knots and waves of raging convulsions, as violent as if he had been stabbed in the stomach, but now the cause of these terrible spasms had disappeared and he had regained control of himself. The disease was unacceptable. He had a team counting on him, a mission to accomplish-his damn weak stomach wasn't going to let his team and his mission down. Several pounds of muscle and nerve endings could not control it. The mind is the master, he reminded himself, and he was the master of the mind.

A few moments later, as his stomach emptied and the aroma faded from his mind, his stomach quickly began to return to normal. "Are you okay?" Charlie asked, handing him a napkin.

"Yes". He accepted the napkin and started to clean up, but stopped and nodded. "Thank you, Turlock."

"Sorry about the crap I told you about knitting."

"I get it all the time."

"And you usually break someone's head for making fun of you, except it was me and you weren't going to break my head?"

"I would do it if I could reach you," Wack said. Charlie thought he was serious until he smiled and chuckled. "Knitting relaxes me and it gives me a chance to see who is getting into my shit and who is leaving me alone."

"Sounds like a fucked up lifestyle, boss, if you don"t mind me saying," Charlie said. He shrugged. "If you're okay, drink some water and stay on pure oxygen for a while. Use a vacuum cleaner to clean up any bits of vomit you see before we get back, or we'll never find them and they 'll turn into projectiles. If they latch on to our equipment, the bad guys will smell it from a few meters away."

"You're right, Tur is Charlie," Wack said. As she headed back to her seat, he added, "You're okay, Turlock."

"Yes, I am, boss," she replied. She found his helmet stuck somewhere in the cargo hold at the rear of the passenger module and returned it to him. "Just don't forget about it." She then unplugged the cleaning vacuum from the charging station and handed it to him as well. "Now you really look like Martha Stewart, boss."

"Take your time, captain," he growled, but smiled and picked up the vacuum cleaner.

"Yes, sir." She smiled, nodded and returned to her seat.

PRESIDENT'S REJECTION, BOLTINO, RUSSIA

A little while later

They didn't always meet like this to make love. Both Russian President Leonid Zevitin and Foreign Minister Alexandra Khedrov loved classic black-and-white films from around the world, Italian cuisine and rich red wine, so after a long day of work, especially when there was a long trip ahead, they often stayed after the rest of the staff were dissolved and spent some time together. They became lovers soon after they first met at an international banking conference in Switzerland almost ten years ago, and even as their responsibilities and public visibility increased, they still managed to find time and opportunity to meet.

If any of them were bothered by the whispered rumors of their affair, they didn't show it. Only the tabloids and celebrity blogs talked about it, and most Russians paid little attention to it-of course, no one in the Kremlin would ever wag their tongues about such things and such powerful people louder than a quiet thought. Khedrov was married and the mother of two grown children, and they had long ago realized that their lives, as well as the lives of their wife and mother, now belonged to the state, not to themselves.

The Presidential Dacha was as close to security and privacy as anything they could ever expect in the Russian Federation. Unlike the president's official residence in the Senate building in the Kremlin, which was rather unassuming and utilitarian, Zevitin's dacha outside Moscow was modern and stylish, suitable for any international business executive. Like the man himself, this place revolved around work and business, but at first glance it was difficult to define.

After flying to Boltino from the President's private airport located nearby, visitors were transported to the residence by limousine and escorted through the spacious foyer into the large living and dining room, dominated by three large fireplaces and furnished with luxurious leather and oak furniture, works of art from around the world, framed photographs of world leaders and mementos from his many celebrity friends, and floor-to-ceiling windows offering breathtaking panoramic views of the Pirogovskoye Reservoir. Special guests will be invited to ascend the double marble curved staircase to the bedrooms on the second floor or descend to the large Roman-style baths, indoor pool, thirty-seat HD movie theater and game room on the first floor. But all this still constituted only part of the area of the room.

A guest dazzled by the magnificent view outside the great room would have missed the dark, narrow dome on the right side of the foyer, almost resembling a doorless closet, on whose curved walls hung small and unimpressive paintings, illuminated by rather dim LED spotlights. But if anyone were to enter the dome, they would be immediately but secretly subjected to electronic X-ray screening for weapons or listening devices. His facial features would be scanned and the data would be passed through an electronic identification system that was capable of detecting and filtering out disguises or impostors. After positive identification, the hidden door inside the dome will be opened from the inside, and you will be allowed into the main part of the dacha.

Zevitin's office was as large as the living room and dining room combined, large enough that a group of generals or ministers could confer with each other on one side and not be heard by a similarly sized meeting of presidential advisers on the other-inaudible except by audio - and video recording devices installed throughout the territory, as well as on the streets, neighborhoods and roads of the surrounding countryside. The Zevitin table, inlaid with walnut and ivory, could seat eight people for dinner with plenty of elbow room. Videotapes and television reports from hundreds of different sources streamed onto a dozen high-definition monitors throughout the office, but none of them were visible unless the president wanted to view them.

The president's upstairs bedroom was furnished for show: the bedroom adjacent to the office complex was used by Zevitin most of the time; it was also the one that Alexandra preferred, the one that she felt best reflected the man himself-still grand, but warmer and perhaps more luxurious than the rest of the mansion. She liked to think that he did it that way just for her, but that would have been foolishly arrogant on her part, and she often reminded herself that she shouldn't indulge in any of that around this man.

They crawled under the silk sheets and duvet of his bed after dinner and movies and just held each other, sipping tiny glasses of brandy and talking in low, intimate voices about everything except the three things that worried them most: government, politics and finance. Telephone calls, official or otherwise, were strictly prohibited; Alexandra couldn't remember ever being interrupted by an assistant or a phone call, as if Zevitin could somehow instantly put the rest of the world into a coma while they were together. They touched each other from time to time, exploring each other's silent desires and mutually deciding without words that tonight was meant for communication and relaxation, and not for passion. They had known each other for a long time, and she had never thought about the fact that he might not be meeting his needs or desires, or that he might be ignoring her. They hugged, kissed and said goodnight, and there was not a hint of tension or displeasure. Everything was as it should be...

... so it was doubly surprising for Alexandra to wake up from something she had never heard before in this room: a telephone beeping. The alien sound made her sit up abruptly after the second or third ring; Soon she noticed that Leonid was already on his feet, the bedside lamp was on, the receiver was pressed to his lips.

"Continue," he said, then listened, looking at her. His eyes weren't angry or mocking or embarrassed or scared like she was sure hers were. He obviously knew exactly who was calling and what he was going to say; like a playwright watching the rehearsal of his latest work, he waited patiently for what he already knew would be said to be said.

"What is this?" she asked with just her lips.

To her surprise, Zevitin reached out to the phone, pressed a button and hung up, turning on speakerphone. "Repeat the last thing, General," he said, catching and holding her gaze with his.

General Andrei Darzov's voice, crackling and fading from time to time due to interference, as if he was speaking at a great distance, was still clearly audible: "Yes, sir. The KIK and measurement control command posts detected the launch of an American spaceplane over the Pacific Ocean. It flew over central Canada and was safely inserted into low-Earth orbit while above Canada's Arctic pack ice. If it stays on its current trajectory, its target is definitely eastern Iran."

"When?" - I asked.

"They can start re-entering in ten minutes, sir," Darzov replied. "It may have enough fuel to reach the same target area upon re-entry after a full orbit, but this is doubtful without mid-air refueling over Iraq or Turkey."

"Do you think they discovered it?" Khedrov didn't know what "it" was, but she assumed that since Zevitin had allowed her to eavesdrop on the conversation, she would find out soon enough.

"I think we have to assume they did, sir," Darzov said, "though if they had positively identified the system, I'm sure McLanahan would have attacked it without hesitation. They may have just discovered activity there and are bringing in additional intelligence collection capabilities to check."

"Well, I'm surprised it took them so long," Zevitin noted. "Their spaceships fly over Iran almost every hour."

"And these are only the ones that we can accurately detect and track," Darzov said. "They may have many more that we cannot identify, especially unmanned aircraft."

"When will he be within our striking range, General?"

Khedrov's mouth opened, but under Zevitin's warning gaze she said nothing. What the hell were they thinking...?

"By the time the spaceplane crosses the horizon of the base, sir, they will be less than five minutes from landing."

"Damn, the speed of this thing is mind-boggling," Zevitin muttered. "It"s almost impossible to move fast enough against him." He thought quickly; then: "But if the spaceplane stays in orbit instead of returning, it will be in an ideal position. We only have one good chance."

"Exactly right, sir," said Darzov.

"I assume your men are preparing to attack, General?" Zevitin asked seriously. "Because if the spaceplane lands successfully and deploys its Tin Woodman ground forces-which we have to assume they'll have on board-"

"Yes sir, we must."

"-we won"t have time to pack up and get out of Dodge."

"If I understand you correctly, sir, yes, we would certainly lose the system to them," Darzov admitted, not knowing what or where "Evasion" was, but not bothering to show his own ignorance. "The game will be over."

"I see," Zevitin said. "But if it doesn"t come back and stays in orbit, how much time do you have to use it?"

"We should detect it with optical-electronic surveillance sensors and laser rangefinders as soon as it crosses the horizon, at a distance of about one thousand eight hundred kilometers, or about four minutes" drive," Darzov replied. "However, for accurate tracking we need radar, and it is limited to a maximum range of five hundred kilometers. So we will have a maximum of two minutes at its current orbital altitude."

"Two minutes! Is this time enough?"

"Hardly," said Darzov. "We will have radar tracking, but we still need to hit the target with an airborne laser, which will help calculate focusing corrections in the optics of the main laser. This should take no more than sixty seconds, provided the radar remains on and the proper calculations are made. This will give us a maximum of sixty seconds of exposure."

"Will this be enough to turn it off?"

"This should be, at least in part, based on our previous battles," Darzov replied. "However, the optimal time to attack is when the target is directly overhead. As the target approaches the horizon, the atmosphere becomes thicker and more complex, and the laser's optics cannot compensate for this quickly enough. So-"

"The window is very, very small," Zevitin said. "I understand, General. Well, we have to do everything we can to make sure the spaceplane stays in that second orbit."

There was a noticeable pause; then: "If I can help in any way, sir, please do not hesitate to contact me," said Darzov, obviously completely unsure of what he could do.

"I will keep you posted, General," Zevitin said. "But for now, you can engage in battle. I repeat, you are allowed to engage in combat. Written permission will be sent to your headquarters via secure email. Let me know if anything changes. Good luck".

"Fortune favors the brave, sir. We cannot lose if we give battle to the enemy. Exit."

As soon as Zevitin hung up, Khedrov asked: "What did all this mean, Leonid? What's happening? Was it because of Phanar?"

"We are going to create a crisis in space, Alexandra," Zevitin replied. He turned to her, then ran the fingers of both hands through his hair, as if completely clearing his thoughts to start over. "The Americans think they have unlimited access to space - we're going to throw some obstacles at them and see what they do. If I know Joseph Gardner, and I think I do, I think he will hit the brakes on McLanahan's vaunted cosmic forces, and hit them hard. He would destroy one of his own simply to prevent someone else from achieving a victory that he could not claim for himself."

Alexandra rose from the bed, kneeling in front of him. "Are you so confident in this man, Leonid?"

"I'm sure I figured this guy out."

"What about his generals?" - she asked quietly. "What about McLanahan?"

Zevitin nodded, silently acknowledging his own uncertainty about this very factor. "The American attack dog is on a leash and appears to be injured...at this point," he said. "I don't know how long I can expect this leash to last. We must encourage Gardner to incapacitate McLanahan... or be prepared to do it ourselves." He picked up the phone. " Connect me to American President Gardner immediately on the hotline."

"You're playing a dangerous game, aren't you?" - Khedrov asked.

"Of course, Alexandra," Zevitin said, running the fingers of his left hand through her hair as he waited. He felt her hands slide from his chest to below his waist, soon tugging at his underwear and then caressing him with her hands and mouth, and although he heard the beeps and clicks of the satellite communication system quickly transferring the call to the hotline in Washington, he didn't stop her. "But the stakes are so high. Russia cannot allow the Americans to claim dominance. We have to stop them and this is our best chance right now."

Alexandra's efforts soon increased in both gentleness and urgency, and Zevitin hoped that Gardner was busy enough to allow him to spend a few more minutes with her. Knowing the American President as he was, he was well aware that he could be distracted in this way.

ON BOARD PLANE ONE OVER THE SOUTHEASTERN UNITED STATES

IN THE SAME TIME

Relaxing in his newly upholstered desk chair in the executive suite aboard the first Air Force aircraft en route to his oceanfront "Southern White House" complex near St. Petersburg, Florida, President Gardner studied his very ample chest and shapely rear. a female Air Force staff sergeant who had just brought a pot of coffee and some wheat crackers into her office. He knew she knew he was checking up on her because every now and then she would glance at him and give him a faint smile. He had a newspaper in his lap, but he leaned just enough to watch it unnoticed. Yes, he thought, she was in no hurry to put his things away. Damn, what an ass...

Just as he was about to make his move and invite her to bring those tits and ass to his big desk, the phone rang. He was tempted to press the DND button, cursing himself for not doing so after finishing his last meeting with the staff and getting settled, but something told him he had to answer this call. He reluctantly picked up the phone. "Yes?" - I asked.

"The President of the Russian Federation Zevitin is calling you on the hotline, sir," the communications officer replied. "He says it's urgent."

He held down the mute button on the receiver, groaned loudly, then winked at the flight attendant. "Come back in ten minutes with fresh materials, okay, Staff Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir," she replied enthusiastically. She stood at attention, sticking her chest out at him, before giving him a mischievous look, slowly turning on her heel, and walking away.

He knew he had her hooked, he thought happily as he released the button. "Give me a minute, Signals," he said, reaching for a cigarette.

"Yes, sir."

Damn, Gardner cursed under his breath, what the hell does Zevitin want now? He pressed the bell to call his chief of staff, Walter Cordus. He was going to reconsider the policy he had established by immediately answering calls from Zevitin, he thought - he began talking to him almost daily. Ninety and a half seconds later, a cigarette: "Connect him, signals," he ordered, extinguishing the cigarette.

"Yes, Mr. President." A moment later: "President Zevitin on the line, security, sir."

"Thank you, signals. Leonid, this is Joe Gardner. How are you doing?"

"I'm fine, Joe," Zevitin replied in a not very pleasant tone. "But I'm worried, man, really worried. I thought we had an agreement."

Gardner reminded himself to be on guard when talking to this guy-he sounded so American he could have been talking to someone from the California congressional delegation or some union leader in Indiana. "What are you talking about, Leonid?" The Chief of Staff walked into the President's office, picked up the disconnected internal phone so he could listen, and turned on his computer to begin taking notes and issuing orders if necessary.

"I thought we agreed that we would be notified whenever you fly manned spaceplanes, especially to Iran," Zevitin said. "This is really worrying, Joe. I'm working hard trying to defuse the situation in the Middle East and keep the hardliners in my government in line, but your activities with the Black Stallions only serve to-

"Wait, Leonid, wait," Gardner interrupted him. "I have no idea what you're talking about. What are the missions on the black stallion?"

"Come on, Joe, you think we can't see it?" You think it's invisible? We spotted it as soon as it crossed the horizon over the Greenland Sea."

"Is one of the spaceplanes flying over Greenland?"

"It's over southwest China now, Joe, according to our space surveillance and tracking systems," Zevitin said. "Come on, Joe, I know you can't talk about current secret military missions, but it's not hard to guess what they're going to do, even if it's the Black Stallion spaceplane. Orbital mechanics are as predictable as the rising and setting of the sun."

"Leonid, I-"

"I know you can"t confirm or deny anything-you don"t have to, because we know what"s going to happen," Zevitin continued. "Obviously, in the next orbit, in about ninety minutes, it will be directly over Iran. We expect it to begin deorbit maneuvers in about forty-five minutes, which will take it directly over the Caspian Sea when its atmospheric engines and flight control become active. Apparently you're on a mission to Iran, Joe. I thought we had an agreement: hands off Iran while we pursue a diplomatic solution to the military coup and assassination of elected Iranian officials."

"Hold on, Leonid. Just a second." Gardner pressed the mute button. "Get Conrad here," he ordered, but Cordus had already pressed the button to call the National Security Advisor. Gardner released the mute button. "Leonid, you"re right, I can"t talk about any current operations. You just have to-"

"Joe, I'm not calling to discuss anything. I point out to you that we can clearly see one of your spaceplanes in orbit right now, and we had no idea you were going to launch it. After everything we've discussed over the past few weeks, I can't believe you would do this to me. When they find out about this, my cabinet and the Duma will think that I have been fooled and will demand that I take action, otherwise I will lose all support for our joint efforts and the rapprochement that has taken me months to develop. You pulled the rug out from under me, Joe."

"Leonid, I have an important meeting and I need to finish what I'm doing first," the President lied, getting to his feet impatiently and resisting the urge to yell outside the door for Carlisle and Cordus to tell him what the hell was going on. "I assure you that we are not taking any action against Russia anywhere in any way-"

"'Against Russia?' This sounds like a disturbing double entendre, Joe. What does it mean? Are you starting an operation against someone else?"

"Let me clear my desk and finish this briefing, Leonid, and I'll bring you up to speed. I will-"

"I thought we had an agreement, Joe: only necessary flights until we have a treaty governing military space flights," Zevitin insisted. "As far as we can tell, the spaceplane is not going to dock with the space station, so this is not a logistics mission. I know things are bad in Iran and Iraq, but bad enough to cause widespread fear by launching the Black Stallion? I think not. This is a complete disaster, Joe. I am going to be destroyed by the Duma and the generals-"

"Don't panic, Leonid. There is a rational and completely harmless explanation. I'll call you back as soon as I can and-"

"Joe, you better be straight with me, otherwise I will not be able to rein in the opposition leaders and some of the more powerful generals - they will all demand an explanation and a decisive response in the same spirit," Zevitin said. "If I can't give them a plausible answer, they'll start looking for it themselves. You know I'm hanging on by a thread here. I need your cooperation, or everything we've worked for will fall apart."

"I"ll call you right back, Leonid," said Gardner. "But I assure you, I swear on my honor, that nothing is happening. Absolutely nothing ".

"So our ambassadors and observers on the ground in Tehran don"t have to worry about another hypersonic missile hitting the ceiling at any moment?"

"Don"t even joke about it, Leonid. It will not happen. I'll call you back". He hung up the phone impatiently, then wiped beads of sweat from his upper lip. "Walter!" - he shouted. "Where the hell are you? Where is Conrad?"

Two advisers ran into the executive's office a few moments later. "Sorry, Mr. President, but I was downloading the latest status report on the spacecraft from Strategic Command," National Security Adviser Conrad Carlisle said. "It should be on your computer." He accessed the computer on the president's desk, opened the secure file storage, and quickly scanned the contents. "Okay, it's right here... Yes, General Cannon, Commander of US Strategic Command, authorized the launch of the spaceplane about four hours ago, and the mission was approved by Secretary Turner."

"Why wasn"t I notified about this?"

"The mission is described as 'routine,' sir," Carlisle said. "Crew of two, three passengers, six orbits around the Earth and return to Elliott Air Force Base, total flight duration ten hours."

"What is this, a fucking joyride? Who are these passengers? I only ordered the main missions! What the hell is going on? I thought I had landed all the spaceplanes."

Carlisle and Cordus exchanged puzzled expressions. "I... I'm not aware of the spaceplane grounding order, sir," Carlisle replied weakly. "You recalled the SKYSTREAKE bombers from their patrols, but not the space mission..."

"I had a deal with Zevitin, Conrad: no more launches of spaceplanes without notifying him first," Gardner said. "He's going crazy about the launch, and so am I!"

Carlisle's brow furrowed and his mouth opened and closed in confusion. "Sorry, Joe, but I am not aware of any agreement we have made with Zevitin to inform him of anything related to spaceplanes," he said finally. "I know he's been demanding this - he's ranting and raving all over the world's media about how spaceplanes are a danger to world peace and security because they can be mistaken for an ICBM, and he's demanding that we notified him before launching one of them - but there was no formal agreement about -"

"Didn"t I tell Cannon to make sure that these space planes and any space weapons did not enter sovereign airspace, even if that meant leaving them on the ground?" The President thundered. "They were to remain outside the airspace of any country at all times. Didn"t I give this order?"

"Well... Yes, sir, I believe you did," Cordus replied. "But space planes can easily fly over the country's airspace. They can-"

"How can they do this?" - asked the President. "We have airspace limited from the surface to infinity. Sovereign airspace is all airspace over a nation."

"Sir, as we discussed previously, under the Outer Space Treaty, no nation may restrict access to or travel in outer space," Carlisle reminded the President. "Legally, space begins a hundred kilometers from the surface of the Earth. A spaceplane can rise into space fairly quickly while over friendly nations, open ocean, or pack ice, and once there, can fly without violating anyone's sovereign airspace. They do this-"

"I don"t give a damn what the outdated forty-year-old treaty says!" - the president thundered. "We have been engaged in discussions for many months with Zevitin and the United Nations to come up with a way to reduce the concerns felt by many around the world regarding the operation of space planes and stations, without limiting our own access to space or revealing classified information. Until we came up with something, I made it clear that I didn't want spaceplanes flitting around, unnecessarily making people nervous and interfering in negotiations. Important missions only, and that meant resupply and national emergencies - I had to personally approve all other missions. Am I mistaken, or have I not approved any other spaceplane flights recently?"

"Sir, General Cannon must have considered this important enough to begin this flight without-"

"Without my approval? Does he think he can just fly off into space without anyone's permission? Where is the emergency? Is the spaceplane going to dock with the space station? Who are the three passengers? Do you even know?"

"I'll contact General Cannon, sir," Carlisle said, picking up the phone. "I"ll find out all the details right away."

"This is a fucking nightmare! This is getting out of control!" - the president thundered. "I want to know who is responsible for this and I want his ass out! Can you hear me? Unless war is declared or aliens attack, I want whoever is responsible for this crap to be canned! I want to talk to Cannon myself!"

Carlisle put his hand over the phone while he waited and said, "Sir, I suggest we speak with General Cannon. Stay at arm's length from this. If it's just a training flight or something, you don't want to be perceived as skydiving, especially after you just talked to the President of Russia."

"This is serious, Conrad, and I want to make it clear to my generals that I want these spaceplanes to be tightly controlled," the President said.

"Are you sure this is how you want to handle it, Joe?" Cordus asked in a quiet voice. "Reaching past Secretary Turner to humiliate a four-star general is in poor taste. If you want to beat someone up, pick Turner-he was the final authority on that spaceplane launch."

"Oh, I'll give Turner my opinion too, you can bet on that," the president said angrily, "but Cannon and that other three-star guy-"

"Lieutenant General Backman, Commander, CENTAF."

"Doesn't matter. Cannon and Backman have fought me too hard and too long over McLanahan's Space Defense Force idea, and it's time to get them back on track-or better yet, get rid of them. They are the last of the Martindale Pentagon brain trust, and they need space materials because it strengthens their empires."

"If you want them gone, we will get rid of them - they all serve at the pleasure of the commander-in-chief," Cordus said. "But they are still very powerful and popular generals, especially among congressmen who support the space program. They may push their own plans and agendas while they wear their uniform, but as disgraced and disgruntled retired generals, they will attack you openly and personally. Don"t give them a reason."

"I know how the game is played, Walter-hell, I made most of the rules," the President said heatedly. "I'm not afraid of generals, and I don't have to worry about tiptoeing around them - I'm the fucking commander in chief. Connect Turner to the line immediately." He reached out and snatched the phone from the National Security Advisor's hands. "Signals, what the hell is going on? Where's Cannon?

"Get ready, sir, he should be in touch any minute." A few moments later: "The gun is here, secured."

"General Cannon, this is the President. Why the hell did you allow this spaceplane to take off without my permission?"

"Uh... good afternoon, sir," Cannon began, puzzled. "As I explained to the Secretary of Defense, sir, this is a positioning flight only while we await final approval for the mission inside Iran. With a spacecraft in orbit, if we get approval, it would be easy to bring in a crew, do their job, and then take them out again. If this had not been approved, it would have been just as easy to return them to base."

"I have specifically ordered no spaceplane to cross foreign borders without my permission."

"Sir, as you know, once the spaceplane is above the sixty-mile threshold, it-"

"Don"t give me this nonsense about the Outer Space Treaty!" thundered the President. "Should I spell it out for you? I don't want spaceplanes in orbit unless it's to support the space station or it's an emergency, and if it's an emergency it better be damn serious! The rest of the world thinks we're getting ready to launch attacks from space... which is apparently exactly what you're planning behind my back! "

"I'm not hiding anything from anyone, sir," Cannon countered. "Without orders to the contrary, I launched the spaceplanes at my own discretion with strict orders that no one should cross any sovereign airspace. This is my standing general order from the Secretary of Defense. These instructions were followed to the letter."

"Well, I revoke your authority, General," the President said. "From now on, all movements of any spacecraft will require my express permission before execution. Am I making myself clear, General? You better not even send a rat into space without my permission!"

"I understand, sir," Cannon said, "but I do not recommend this course of action."

"ABOUT? Why not?"

"Sir, maintaining this level of control over any military asset is dangerous and wasteful, but it is even more important for space launch systems," Cannon said. "Military units need one commander to be effective, and that must be a theater commander with instant and constant access to information from the field. Spaceplanes and all of our space launch systems are designed for maximum speed and flexibility, and in an emergency they will lose both if final power remains with Washington. I strongly recommend against taking operational command of these systems. If you are unhappy with my decisions, sir, then let me remind you that you can fire me and appoint another theater commander to control the spaceplanes and other launch systems."

"I am well aware of my authority, General," Gardner said. "My decision stands."

"Yes, sir."

"So, who the hell is on board this spaceplane, and why wasn"t I informed about this mission?"

"Sir, along with two members of the flight crew, three members of General McLanahan's Air Force ground operations division are aboard the spaceplane," Cannon answered tonelessly.

"McLanahan? I should have known," spat the President. "This guy is the definition of a loose cannon! What was he up to? Why did he want to launch that space plane?"

"They were pre-positioned in orbit pending approval of a reconnaissance and interdiction mission inside Iran."

"'Pre-positioned'? You mean you sent a spaceplane and three commandos over Iran without my permission? On your sole basis?"

"I have the authority to preposition and deploy forces anywhere in the world to support my standing orders and carry out the duties of my command, sir," Cannon said irritably. "Spaceplanes were specifically ordered not to enter any foreign airspace without permission, and they fully complied with this order. If they do not receive permission to continue with their plan, they will be ordered to return to base."

"What kind of nonsense is all this, general? This is the spaceplane we're talking about-loaded with McLanahan's armed robots, I assume, right?"

"This is not bullshit, sir-this is how this command and all major theater commands typically operate," Cannon said, struggling to contain his anger and frustration. Gardner was a former Secretary of the Navy and Secretary of Defense, for God's sake - he knew that better than anyone...! "As you know, sir, I order the prepositioning and deployment of thousands of men and women around the world every day, both in support of routine day-to-day operations and in preparation for emergency missions. They all operate within the framework of standing orders, procedural doctrine, and legal restrictions. They will not retreat one iota until I give a direct order to execute, and that order will not be given until I get the go-ahead from the national command - from you or the Secretary of Defense. It doesn"t matter whether we"re talking about one spaceplane and five personnel or an aircraft carrier battle group with twenty ships, seventy aircraft and ten thousand personnel."

"You seem to believe that spaceplanes are just simple little wind-up toy airplanes that no one notices or cares about, General," the President said. "You might think it's commonplace to send a spaceplane over Iran or an aircraft carrier battle group off someone's coast, but I assure you, the whole world is deathly afraid of them. Wars began with much smaller forces. Obviously, your attitude towards the weapons systems under your command must change, General, and I mean now." Cannon received no response. "Which members of McLanahan's fighting force are on board?"

"Two Tin Woodmen and one from the CID, sir."

"Oh my God... This is not a reconnaissance team, this is a damn strike team! They can take on an entire infantry company! What were you thinking, General? Did you really think McLanahan was going to fly all this way with those powers and not use them? What the hell were McLanahan's robots going to do in Iran?"

"Sensors detected unusual and suspicious activity at a remote air base on a highway in eastern Iran that was previously used by the Iranian Revolutionary Guard," Cannon said. "General McLanahan believes the base is being secretly reopened by either the Iranians or the Russians. His satellite imagery cannot give him accurate enough images to say for sure, so he has requested the dispatch of a three-man combat team to inspect and, if necessary, destroy the base."

"Destroy the base?" thundered the President, angrily throwing the phone into his open palm. "Oh my God, he authorized McLanahan to send an armed spaceplane over Iran to destroy a military base and I didn't know about it? Is he sane? He picked up the phone: "And when were you going to tell the others about McLanahan's little plan, General - after World War IV began?"

"McLanahan's plan has been communicated to us here at Strategic Command, and my operations staff is reviewing it and will make a recommendation to the Secretary of Defense," Cannon responded. "We have to make a decision at any moment-"

"I will make a decision for you right now, General: I want this spaceplane to land at their home base as soon as possible," the President said. "You understand me? I don't want these commandos deployed or this space plane landing anywhere but Nevada or wherever the hell it's from unless it's a life or death emergency. And I don't want anything launching, ejecting, or otherwise leaving this spacecraft that could be construed as an attack on anyone... nothing. Am I making myself abundantly clear, General Cannon?"

"Yes, sir."

"And if this spaceplane crosses a single political boundary anywhere on the planet under that damn sixty-mile altitude limit, you will lose your stars, General Cannon... all of them!" The President continued heatedly. "You have exceeded your authority, General, and I sure as hell hope I don't have to spend the rest of my first term in office explaining, correcting, and apologizing for this colossal failure. Now get to work."

The President hung up the phone, then took his seat, seething with anger. After a few moments of muttering to himself, he barked, "I want the gun to go off."

"Sir, technically he has the authority to move his assets anywhere while performing routine assignments," National Security Adviser Carlisle said. "It does not need authorization from the Office of National Defense-from you or the Secretary of Defense-for day-to-day operations."

"But we usually tell the Russians before we move any weapons systems that could be mistaken for an attack, right?"

"Yes, sir, that's always a reasonable precaution," Carlisle said. "But if the theater commander needed to position his assets in preparation for an actual mission, we don't have to say anything to the Russians. We don't even have to lie to them and tell them it's a training mission or anything like that."

"Part of the problem with these spaceplanes, Conrad, is that they go too fast," Chief of Staff Cordus said. "Even if it was an ordinary mission, they scattered all over the world in the blink of an eye. We need to get tighter controls on these guys."

"If Cannon was up to something, something important, he should have told me or Turner before the launch of this spaceplane," the president said. "Walter is right: these spaceplanes are too fast and too dangerous to simply launch them at any time, even for a completely peaceful, harmless, routine mission - which this certainly was not. But I thought I made it clear to everyone that I don't want space planes going up unless it's an emergency or war. Am I wrong about this?"

"No, sir, but apparently General Cannon thought it was a pretty serious sign because he acted very quickly. He-"

"It doesn"t matter," the president insisted. "The Russians have spotted him and I'm sure they're radioing the Iranians, the Turkmens and half the spies in the Middle East to be on the lookout for fighting forces. The concert was a failure. The Russians are going crazy, and so will the United Nations, our allies, the media, and the American people once they hear about it-"

"Which is likely to happen any minute," Cordus added, "because we know that Zevitin is running and leaking his information to the European press, which is eager to reprimand us on the most trivial matter. For something this big, they're going to have a great day. They will roast us alive for the next month."

"Just when things were starting to calm down," the president said wearily, lighting another cigarette, "Cannon, Backman and especially McLanahan managed to stir it all up again."

"The spaceplane will be on the ground before the press can talk about it, Joe," the chief of staff said, "and we will simply refuse to confirm or deny any of the Russian claims. This thing will go extinct soon enough."

"It will be better," Gardner said. "But just in case, Conrad, I want the spaceplanes to be grounded until further notice. I want them all to stay in place. No training, no so-called routine missions, nothing." He looked around the room and, raising his voice just enough to show his annoyance and allow anyone outside the room to hear, asked, "Is this clear enough for everyone? No more unauthorized missions! They stay on the ground and that"s it!" There followed a chorus of muffled "Yes, Mr. President" replies.

"Find out exactly when this spaceplane will be on the ground so I can notify Zevitin before anyone impeaches him or kills his ass," the president added. "And find out from the flight documents when McLanahan can leave this space station and be flown back to Earth so I can fire his ass too." He took a deep drag from his cigarette, stubbed it out, then reached for his empty coffee mug. "And when you leave, ask that flight attendant to bring me something hot."

CHAPTER SIX

It is difficult to overcome your passions and impossible to satisfy them.

- MARGUERITE DE LA SABLIÈRE

On ON BOARD COSMOPLAN XR-A9 BLACK STALLION

IN THE SAME TIME

"Two minutes until reentry begins, crew," Major Jim Terranova announced. "The countdown has started. First automatic hold countdown after one minute. Let me know when your checklist is complete."

"S-One, I understand," Macomber replied.

"How are you feeling, Zipper?" - Asked Terranova.

"Thanks to lots of clean oxygen, a little transcendental meditation, giving up obsessive electronic checklists, and the mind-numbing routine of doing even more damned checklists, I'm feeling pretty good," Macomber replied. "I wish this thing had Windows."

"I'll put it on the bucket list, but don't count on it anytime soon."

"That's pretty impressive, guys," Frenchy Moulin said. "This is my eleventh flight into orbit, and I never get tired of it."

"It looks pretty much the same after the first turn," Chris Wall grumbled. "I've been to the station three times and it just feels like you're standing on a really tall TV tower and looking down."

"Only a senior sergeant could minimize a spectacle like this," Moulin said. "Ask to spend a couple of nights at the station, Bach. Bring plenty of data cards for your camera. It's pretty cool. You'll find yourself waking up at all hours of the night and scheduling window times the day ahead just to take a photo."

"I doubt it very much," Macomber said dryly. He received a notification beep through his helmet. "I'm getting another data dump from NIRTSats, guys." NIRTSats, or Need It Right This Second satellites, were small "microsatellites," no larger than a refrigerator, designed to perform a specific mission, such as surveillance or relay communications from low Earth orbit. Because they were smaller, had less propellant for the positioning engines, and had substantially less protection from solar radiation, NIRTSAT satellites remained in orbit for very short periods of time, typically less than a month. They were launched from aircraft aboard orbital boosters or launched into orbit from Black Stallion spaceplanes. A constellation of four to six NIRTSAT satellites has been launched into an eccentric orbit designed to maximize coverage of Iran, making several passes over Tehran and major military bases across the country since the military coup began. "Finish your checklists and let's get through some new stuff before we get crushed again."

"I don't think we'll have time unless we delay our entry into another orbit," Terranova said. "You"ll have to look at the data after we land."

"Listen, we have time... We'll take the time, MC," Macomber said. "We have already embarked on this mission without any proper mission planning, so we need to review this new data immediately."

"This is not another argument," Moulin said irritably. "Look, S-One, just run your checklists and get ready to re-enter. You know what happened the last time you weren't paying attention to the flight: your stomach gave you a little warning."

"I'll be ready, SC," Macomber said. "Ground crew, complete your checklist, report completion, and let's move on to the new data dump. S-One is complete." Moments later, Turlock and Wall reported completion, and Macomber reported that the passengers were ready to return. Moulin confirmed the call and, tired of arguing with Zoomi again right before the important phase of the flight, said nothing more.

Macomber carefully opened the new satellite data file, using voice commands instead of the faster but more dizzying eye-targeting system, allowing the data to flow over the old images so he could see changes in the target area. What he received was a confusing jumble of images. "What the hell...it looks like the data is corrupted," he said over a private intercom that allowed him to talk to ground crew members without disturbing the flight crew. "Nothing is in the right place. They will have to be sent again."

"Wait alone, sir," said Vol. "I look at the computer frames in the two pictures and they match." As far as Macomber understood them-which meant he understood almost nothing about them-the frames were computerized marks that aligned each image to known, fixed landmarks, which compensated for differences in the photograph's perspective and axis and allowed for more accurate comparisons between images. "I recommend that you do not delete the new data for now, sir."

"Do it quickly. I will destroy the headquarters cage." Macomber cursed into his helmet, then switched to the secure satellite network: "Scoundrel calling Genesis. Resend the latest TacSat images. We have trash here."

"Get ready, scoundrel." God, I really hate this call sign, Macomber complained to himself. A few moments later: "Scoundrel, this is Genesis, set code Alpha nine, I repeat, Alpha nine. I confirm."

"What? Is this an interrupt code?" Macomber thundered. "Are they telling us that we won"t come in?"

"Shut up, S-One, until we sort this out," Moulin snapped. "MS, did you authenticate?"

"I confirm - I just received it," Terranova said. "The mission has been cancelled, crew. We are ordered to remain in our current orbit until we receive a flight plan change to a transfer orbit that will take us back to refuel and land as soon as possible. Canceling the re-entry procedure checklist... "Leopards" are protected, the checklist is cancelled.

Macomber slammed his fist into his arm and immediately regretted it - it felt as if he had punched a steel wall. "What the hell is going on? Why didn't we get permission? This is bullshit-"

"Scoundrel, this is Genesis." This time it was David Luger himself, calling from the combat control area at HAWC. "This data dump was valid, Scoundrel, I repeat, valid. We're looking into it, but it looks like it's hot in the landing zone."

"Well, that's the reason we go there, isn't it, Genesis?" - asked Macomber. "Let"s go in there and we"ll take care of business."

"Your mission was canceled by the White House, Zipper, not by us," Luger said, the tension in his voice obvious. "They want you guys to come home immediately. We are now calculating the return schedule. Looks like you'll have to stay up for at least another day before we can-"

"One more day! You have got to be kidding me!"

"Get ready, scoundrel, get ready-"

There was a moment's pause, followed by many cryptic clicks and chattering sounds on the frequency; then another voice called, "Scoundrel, stallion, it"s Odin." It was from McLanahan, from the Armstrong space station. "Reconnaissance satellites are picking up strong India-Juliet radar signals coming from your target area. Looks like a long-range search radar. We are analyzing now."

"Radar, huh?" Macomber commented. He started studying new NIRTSat images again. Sure enough, it was the same airbase on the Soltanabad Highway... but now all the craters were gone and several semi-trailers, troop and supply trucks, helicopters and a large fixed wing aircraft were parked on the ramp. "Looks like you were right, Odin. These bastards are causing trouble again."

"Listen to me, guys," McLanahan said, and the tone of his voice, even over the encrypted satellite link, was clearly very ominous. "I don't like the way it smells. You would be safer if you deorbited, but you are ordered to return to base, so we must keep you there."

"What's the problem, sir?" - asked Moulin. "Is there something you"re not telling us?"

"You cross the target horizon in eleven minutes. We are trying to figure out if we have enough time to take you out of orbit and land you in Central Asia or the Caucasus instead of flying over Soltanabad."

"Central Asia! Do you want us to land where...?"

"Press it, bang!" - Moulin shouted. "What's going on, Odin? What do you think is down there?"

There was a long pause; McLanahan then responded simply, "Stallion One-One."

He couldn't have given a more explosive answer. Stallion number one is the black stallion XR-A9, which was shot down over Iran in the early days of the military coup, when the Air Force was hunting down and destroying Iranian mobile medium- and long-range ballistic missiles that threatened not only the anti-theocratic rebels, but also all of Iran's neighbors. The spaceplane was shot down not by a surface-to-air missile or a fighter jet, but by an extremely powerful laser, similar to the Kawaznya anti-satellite laser created by the Soviet Union more than two decades ago...which appeared not over Russia, but in Iran.

"What should we do, sir?" Moulin asked, fear evident in her voice. "What do you want us to do?"

* * *

"We're working on it," Patrick said from the Armstrong space station. "We're trying to see if we can start landing now to stay out of line of sight or at least out of radar range."

"We can translate right now and prepare," Terranova said.

"Do it," Patrick said immediately. Then he spoke, "Duty Officer, put me through to the President of the United States, immediately."

"Yes, General McLanahan," answered the computer-synthesized female voice of the virtual "Duty Officer" of Dreamland. A moment later: "General McLanahan, your call is being forwarded to the Secretary of Defense. Please get ready"

"I want to talk to the President of the United States. This is urgent ".

"Yes, General McLanahan. Please get ready." Another long moment later: "General McLanahan, your 'urgent' request has been forwarded to the President's Chief of Staff. Please get ready"

It was probably the best thing he was going to do, Patrick thought, so he didn't redirect the duty officer again. "Inform the chief of staff that this is an emergency."

"The 'urgent' request has been upgraded to an 'emergency' request, General. Please get ready"

Time is running out, Patrick thought. He thought about simply ordering the crew of the Black Stallion to declare an in-flight emergency - there were dozens of glitches on each flight that could constitute a real emergency without crap - but he needed to make sure the Stallion had a place to land, before ordering them to deorbit.

"This is Chief of Staff Cordus."

"Mr. Cordus, this is General McLanahan. I'm-"

"I don"t like it when your computerized staff calls me, General, and neither does the President. If you want to talk to the President, have the common courtesy and do it yourself."

"Yes, sir. I'm aboard the Armstrong space station and I...

"I know where you are, General - my staff was watching the live broadcast with great interest until you suddenly interrupted it," Cordus said. "When we give you permission for a live interview, we expect you to complete it. Can you tell me why you cut it off like that?"

"I believe the Russians have placed some kind of anti-missile weapon, possibly the same laser that shot down the Black Stallion over Iran last year, at an isolated airbase on a highway in Iran that was once used by the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps." , - Patrick answered. "Our sensors detected new activity at the base and alerted us. Now our unmanned surveillance aircraft are picking up extremely powerful radar signals from the same location, which are consistent with the anti-spacecraft laser detection and tracking system. I believe the Russians will attack our Black Stallion spacecraft if it passes over us while still in orbit, and I need permission to remove the spacecraft from orbit and divert it from the target area."

"Do you have positive evidence that the Russians are behind this? How did you know that?"

"We have satellite imagery showing the base is now fully active, with planes, trucks and vehicles that look similar to the vehicles we found in Iran, where we believe the laser that shot down the Black Stallion was fired from. ". Radar signals confirm this. Sir, I need permission to divert this flight immediately. We can get it to deorbit and maneuver as much as possible using all but emergency fuel until it reaches the atmosphere, and then we can fly away from the target area to an alternate landing site."

"The President has already ordered you to land the spaceplane back to the United States at its home base, General. Didn"t you copy this order?"

"I did, sir, but following this order means flying the spaceplane over the target's base, and I believe it will be attacked if we do so. The only way we can protect the crew now is to take the spaceplane out of orbit, to keep it as low as possible above the horizon until we can...

"General, I don"t understand a word of what you just said," Cordus said. "All I understand is that you have a strong feeling that your spaceplane is in danger, and you are asking the President to cancel the order he just gave. This is right?"

"Yes, sir, but I must emphasize the extreme danger-"

"I got that part loud and clear, General McLanahan," Cordus said, irritation evident in his voice. "If you start to descend the spaceplane, will you violate anyone's airspace, and if so, whose?"

"I don't know exactly, sir, but I would say that the countries of Eastern Europe, the Middle East-"

"Russia?"

"Perhaps, sir. Far West of Russia."

"Moscow?" - I asked.

Patrick paused, and when he did, he heard the Chief of Staff say something under his breath. "I don't know if it will be below the sixty-six mile limit, sir, but depending on how fast and how successfully we maneuver-"

"I will consider this an agreement. Perfect, just perfect. Your spaceplane coming out of orbit directly over the Russian capital is sure as hell going to look like an ICBM attack, isn't it?" He didn't wait for an answer. "This is exactly the nightmare scenario the president feared. He's going to rip your throat out, McLanahan. " He paused for a moment; then: "How much time does the President have to make this decision, General?"

"About five minutes, sir."

"For God's sake, McLanahan! Five minutes? Everything is in crisis!" - Cordus shouted. "But poor planning on your part is not an emergency on our part!"

"Lives may be at stake, sir."

"I am well aware of this, General!" Cordus couldn't stand it. "But if you had bothered to wait and get the plan approved by the White House and the Pentagon before launching the spaceplane, none of this would have happened!" He muttered something else under his breath; then: "I will immediately forward this request to the President. In the meantime, stay on the line, because you're going to have to explain all of this to the National Security Adviser so that he can properly advise the President, because I doubt you have the ability to explain this to him clearly enough to make him happy - or to he'll even listen to you if you try. Be ready ".

* * *

"Team, keep in mind, we are doing a y-translation in preparation for deorbiting. Get ready." Using her multi-function display and piloting skills, Moulin used the Black Stallion's hydrazine engines to spin the spaceplane so that it would fly tail first. The maneuver took almost two minutes - a record for her. The crew members in the passenger module felt exactly the same, and even Macomber's stomach did not complain. "Maneuver completed, Genesis. When do we start going down? When can we launch 'leopards'?"

"We need to find out if you can reach a safe landing strip if you deorbit right now," Dave Luger intervened. "We are also looking for a tanker that can refuel you in the event that you cannot get to a suitable airport and we need permission from the White House to land you over national borders."

"What do you need?" Macomber objected. "You think the Russians are going to shoot us with a fucking laser and you need permission to get us the hell out of here?"

"We're doing the calculations, Major-step into this and let us do our job," Luger said sternly, unaccustomed to being yelled at by a field service officer. However, the tone of his voice made it clear that he was also not very happy with the current circumstances. "Get ready."

"Do it, Frenchy," Macomber said over the intercom. "Get us the hell out of here."

"I can't do this without authorization, S-One."

"Damn it, you can't. You are the commander of a spaceship - you made that very clear to me, remember? Show some of your powers and get us the hell out of here! "

"I can't just throw us out of the sky without knowing where we'll end up when we re-enter the atmosphere," Moulin said. "I need to know where we will be when we resume atmospheric flight, what our best range will be, what runway we will approach, what the terrain is like, how long the runway is, what the political, diplomatic and security situation is. -"

"For God's sake, Frenchie, stop asking questions and press the damn button!" Macomber screamed. "Don't wait for some politician to wave his hand or give us the finger - just do it!"

"Shut up and get ready, Macomber!" - Moulin shouted. "We can't just stop and turn off the engine. Just hold your tongue, okay?"

"We will cross the horizon of the target area in approximately two minutes," Terranova reported.

"We have informed several recovery, reserve and emergency bases in Eastern Europe, India and the Western Pacific," Macomber insisted. "We know we have alternatives. Just declare an emergency and land on one of them."

"We've already passed most of the safe emergency bases," Terranova said. "The alternative landing sites we selected were designed to deal with orbital failure, re-entry engine failure, or alternative landing sites if we started deorbiting but were not cleared to enter the target area. Now we have passed this stage. If we still didn't deorbit, the plan was to fly over the target area, change orbits if we had enough fuel, or stay in orbit until we could land back in Dreamland. We can't just turn a dime the other way."

"So we screwed up," Turlock said. "We must fly over the target area immediately."

"Not necessarily, but the longer we wait to launch Leopards, the fewer options we have," Terranova said. "We can always expend more energy and descend faster through the atmosphere, trying to stay as low as possible towards the horizon, then once we are back in the atmosphere, we can use the rest of the available fuel to fly away from the tracking radar."

"Then do it!"

"If we use up all our energy and don't have enough fuel to get to a suitable landing site, we're screwed," Moulin said. "This bird glides a little better than a damn brick. I'm not going to give up all our opportunities if we don't have a plan! Besides, we don't even know if there is a Russian anti-satellite laser there. This whole thing could just be a bad case of paranoia."

"Then there is another option..."

"No way, MC."

"What's the last option?" - asked Macomber.

"We"re dropping the passenger module," Terranova said.

"What?"

"The passenger module is designed to be its own lander and lifeboat..."

"I will not release the module except in an emergency," Moulin insisted. "In no case".

"There"s no way we can go down on our own!" Macomber was crying.

"The modeling says it's possible, although we've never really tested it," Terranova said. "The passenger module is equipped with its own reaction control system, high-tech heat shields, better than studded parachutes and shock-absorbing landing bags, a pretty good environmental protection system -"

"Pretty good isn't good enough, MC-the captain isn't wearing any armor," Chris Wall chimed in.

"It will work, Master Sergeant."

"I don"t throw anything overboard, and that"s it," Moulin intervened. "This is only a last resort. I'm not even going to consider it until all this fear mongering comes true. Now everyone shut up for a minute." Via command channel: "Genesis, Odin, what do you have for us?"

"Nothing," Patrick replied. "I spoke to the chief of staff and he is going to talk to the president. I'm waiting to talk to the Secretary of Defense or the National Security Advisor. You'll have to-"

"I get it!" Dave Luger suddenly intervened. "If we deorbit now and use max-G maneuvers to lower altitude, we should have enough energy to fly to Baku on the Caspian coast of Azerbaijan. If not, you can get to Neftchala, which is the Azerbaijan border and coastal patrol base. Turkey and the United States are expanding their runway there, and you may have enough runway to do it. Third option -"

"Drop the passenger module into the Caspian Sea, then drop the Hairpin into the Caspian Sea or eject before hitting the water, depending on how out of control we get," Moulin intoned.

"Get ready, stud," Patrick said after a short pause. "Genesis, I am studying the latest images of the affected area and conclude that the trucks and installation at Soltanabad are almost identical to those we saw at Kabudar Ahang in Iran. I believe the Russians have installed their mobile anti-missile laser in Soltanabad. Can you confirm?"

"General, are you sure this Russian threat is real? If we do this, there will be no going back."

"No, I'm not sure about any of this," Patrick admitted. "But the signs look exactly like the stallion One-One. Genesis?"

"I'm double-checking, Odin," Dave Luger said. "Remember, they tampered with the installation at Kabudar Ahang to drain the fighting force. They could do the same thing again."

"We'll know in about sixty seconds, crew," Terranova said.

"We can't wait," Patrick finally said. "Stallion, this is Odin, I order you to deorbit, enter the interface profile at maximum speed and attempt an emergency landing in Baku or Neftchala, Azerbaijan. Genesis, download the flight plan to the Black Stallion and make sure it's completed. You hear?"

"One, I get it, but are you sure about this?" - asked Moulin. "It doesn't make any sense."

"Just do it, Frenchie," Macomber said. "If he's wrong and everything goes wrong, we could swim in the damn polluted Caspian Sea with caviar. Big deal. Been there, done that. If he's right, we'll still be alive in an hour. Do it ".

"Flight plan loaded," Luger reported. "Waiting to be completed."

"Stallion, let me know when you perform deorbit procedures."

"What are you waiting for, Frenchie?" Macomber screamed. "Get us down! Launch rockets!"

"I don"t want to crash into the Caspian Sea," Moulin said. "If we fail, we will have no choice but to give up-"

"Damn it, Frenchie, let us down now!" Macomber screamed. "What happened to you?"

"I don't trust General McLanahan, that's why!" Moulin shouted. "I don"t believe any of this!"

"Stallion, I'm sure this is a trap," Patrick said. "I think we have stumbled upon a Russian anti-missile laser weapon site in Iran. If you don't get out of there by any means possible, their laser will burn through your thermal shield and destroy the spaceship. I don't want to take that risk. Take the spaceship out of orbit and get out of there."

"We are now crossing the target horizon," Terranova said.

"Stallion, that was the order: remove the spacecraft from orbit," Patrick said. "Your objection has been noted. I take full responsibility. Now do it."

"I beg your pardon, sir, but I have copied valid and confirmed orders from National Command to the contrary: remain in orbit until we are able to return to Groom Lake," Moulin said. "These orders supersede yours. We're staying. Leader, delete the deorbit flight plan and reload the previous one."

"Frenchy"-

"Do it, MC," Moulin said. "That's an order. I will maintain this orientation to save fuel for the engines, but we remain in orbit and that is final."

After this, the radios and intercoms became very quiet, Luger and McLanahan transmitting a continuous stream of radar threat warnings and updated intelligence images to the crew and each other. Time seemed to drag on endlessly. Finally, Macomber said, "What the hell is going on, Genesis, and how long until we get out of this shit?"

"Four minutes and ten seconds until we return to the target area," responded Dave Luger.

"I'm sorry, Odin," Moulin said, "but I had to make a decision. I follow orders."

"I hope I'm wrong, SC," Patrick replied. "You did what you thought was right. We'll talk about this after you're safe at home."

"How are we doing at the Baku landing site, Genesis?" - Asked Terranova.

"You'll lose it in thirty seconds. You won't have enough power to fly to Warrior's Forward Operating Base in Kirkuk, Iraq after you re-enter the atmosphere - Herat, Afghanistan is your best option, but you'll still have to fly over Soltanabad. Another option could be the deserts of southern Turkmenistan - we can quickly send a special forces team from Uzbekistan to help you."

"Are you suggesting we land in Turkmenistan, sir?"

"I didn"t say land, MC."

Terranova swallowed. The Luger was apparently intended to allow them to "jet the plane"-allow it to crash-land in the desert. "What is the next interrupt base?"

"Karachi and Hyderabad are behind it."

"We are ready to open fire on the 'leopards,'" Terranova said. "Ten second checklist hold. Should I set the re-entry to maximum slowdown?"

"We are not going to deorbit," Moulin said. "The Russians wouldn't dare shoot at us. Leonid Zevitin is not crazy. This guy can dance, for God"s sake!" The radios sparkled with quiet laughter. But she looked at her camera in the aft cockpit and nodded to Terranova, silently ordering him to program the computers for maximum speed and altitude reduction. "I mean, think about it all: no man who can dance would be crazy enough to-"

Suddenly they heard, "Attention, attention, laser detected...attention, attention, hull temperature is rising, stations two hundred and fifty to two hundred and ninety... Attention, hull temperature is approaching operational limits...!

"Laser Kavaznya!" - I ordered. - Patrick McLanahan exclaimed. "They attack from extreme range. Stallion, get out of there now! "

"Initiate deorbit procedures!" - Moulin shouted. "Crew, prepare for immediate descent from orbit! The Leopard engines are increasing their speed!"

"...warning about increasing body temperature, stations two hundred and seventy to two hundred and ninety... Attention, attention...!"

The crew was thrown back to their seats as the laser pulse missile system's engines fired at full power. The enormous power of the hybrid rocket engines immediately and abruptly braked the Black Stallion aircraft, and it quickly began its descent towards Earth. Macomber screamed as the overload quickly increased, far beyond anything he had experienced before. Soon he could no longer muster the strength to make any sound at all-it took all of his concentration to get enough air into his lungs to keep himself from fainting.

"We're going through twenty-eight thousand feet per second," Terranova said amid near-constant warning messages. "We're going through ninety miles of altitude... 'Leopards' at ninety percent power, three point zero Gs..."

"Go to one hundred and ten percent power," Moulin croaked under the pressure.

"That's more than five Gs, SC," Terranova said. "We'll have to maintain this for-"

"Do it, MC," Moulin ordered. "The crew, SC, are going to get really uncomfortable for a few minutes. Get ahead of events as much as you can." A few moments later, her words were cut off by the feeling that her chest was about to explode as the G-force nearly doubled. Cries of pain and surprise were evident. "Hold on... to... the crew..."

"Five point three OB," Terranova breathed. "Jesus... We drive twenty-five kilometers, we drive eighty miles..."

"Oh God, how much longer?" - someone muttered - it was impossible to make out who was speaking.

CONTROL CENTER FOR ALTERNATIVE OPERATIONS OF STRATEGIC AIR FORCE, POLDOSK, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

IN THE SAME TIME

Following the destruction of Engels Air Base near Saratov and the American bombing of the underground command center at Raazan, Air Force Chief of Staff General Andrei Darzov restored an old civil defense shelter and reserve force recovery center southwest of Moscow called Poldosk for use as an evacuation and reserve command post. There was no airbase or even room for a large helipad, but there were underground railway lines adjacent to the facility, plenty of fresh water supplies (as fresh as could be expected in the Greater Moscow area)...

... and - more importantly, Darzov believed - it was close enough to a large number of city residents that even a madman like American bomber commander Lt. Gen. Patrick McLanahan might think twice about bombing the place.

Thanks largely to modern high-speed data and communications capabilities, Poldosk today serves another purpose: as a monitoring and control center for the Molniya air-launched anti-space missile and Fanar laser anti-space defense systems. From a simple room with four computers, Darzov communicated with his forces in the field via secure high-speed Internet and voice over IP. The command center was fully mobile, could be assembled in less than an hour and deployed to another location in about the same time, and in an emergency it could be controlled from a single laptop computer and a secure cell phone or satellite phone anywhere on the planet.

This evening the focus was on Soltanabad. It was unfortunate that the Americans found the Phanar so quickly - it must have been blind luck, or perhaps some members of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps turned traitors and reported them to coup leader Hesarak Boujazi or the Americans. But he installed the Phanar at Soltanabad precisely because so many American spacecraft flew over the area so often. It was, as the Americans put it, "an environment rich in goals."

Darzov frowned when he saw the new readings and pressed the TRANSFER button on the computer keyboard: "Forward, this is the Goalkeeper. Tell me the status. You stopped attacking...why?"

"We had full optical-electronic guidance on the target, and we opened fire as ordered, General," replied the chief engineer and project manager in Soltanabad, Wolfgang Zypris. "But a few seconds after we launched the attack, we lost contact." Zypris was a German laser engineer and scientist, and formerly a colonel in the German Air Force. He didn't know that Zipris's longtime girlfriend was a Russian spy who had hacked into his home computer and smuggled volumes of classified material to Moscow. When his girlfriend told him who she was and that the German Milit ärischer Abschirmdienst, or counterintelligence group of the Military Security Service, was on his tail, he allowed himself to be transported to Russia. Darzov immediately provided him with everything he wanted-money, a house, and all the women he could handle-to work on improving and mobilizing the Kawaznya anti-space laser system. After more than five years of work, he achieved more success than even Darzov dared to hope.

"The spacecraft appears to be descending rapidly," Tsipris continued. "We suspect our optics were blinded when the spacecraft fired its relay rockets."

"You informed me that this could happen, Colonel," Darzov said. To avoid detection, they decided to use a telescopic electro-optical acquisition and tracking system and keep their deep space tracking radar on standby. They targeted the American spaceplane seconds after it crossed the horizon and tracked it with ease. As they had hoped, it did not begin its descent through the atmosphere, although a highly magnified image showed that it had indeed turned in the right direction to begin to slow down, flying tail first. It was still in an ideal position, and Darzov ordered the attack to begin.

The next stage of laser exposure was to hit the target with a more powerful laser to measure the atmosphere and make corrections to the optics of the main laser, allowing it to focus more accurately on the target before firing the main chemical oxygen-iodine laser. Darzov and Zipris decided, as the spacecraft was deployed into position to fire its rockets, to use the main laser to make their own adjustments to begin firing faster.

"The crew apparently expected an attack," Tsipris said, "because they fired their propulsion engines a few seconds after our laser hit. We were able to maintain contact for about fifteen seconds, but the optics were still well focused, so we were probably only expending sixty percent of the power on their body. The optoelectronic system then disabled the interlock. They must be crushing their crew members like bugs inside the thing - they're slowing down three times faster than normal. I'm tracking them with infrared scanners, but that's not accurate enough for the main laser, so I need permission to use the main radar to re-lock and defeat them."

"Are they still in range and high enough to engage?"

"They're at an altitude of one hundred and thirty kilometers, with a range of one thousand six hundred kilometers, dropping quickly below seven thousand eight hundred meters per second-they're dropping like a rock, but they're within the laser's range," Zipris assured him. "The structure of this spacecraft must be incredibly strong to withstand this kind of load. They'll enter the atmosphere soon, but right now they won't be able to get away fast enough. I'll get it for you, General."

"Then permission has been received to continue the attack, Colonel," Darzov said immediately. "Have a good hunting".

* * *

"Five point seven Gs...twenty two kilometers per second...seventy five miles...five point nine Gs..." It seemed like Terranova took forever to give each reading. "We travel seventy miles... sixty-five miles, we reach the entry interface, the crew, the 'leopards' are disabled." The G-force suddenly eased, followed by a chorus of groans and curses from across the spaceship. Macomber couldn't believe he didn't pass out from the pressure for so long. He could still feel the drag forces as the spaceplane continued to lose energy, but it wasn't nearly as bad as when the Leopards were firing. "Crew, report."

"Are you guys okay?" Macomber addressed the others in the passenger module. "Sing louder."

"T-Two, I"m fine," Turlock said weakly.

"S-Three, okay," Vol responded, sounding as if nothing had happened. That Marine bastard was probably fast asleep the whole time, Macomber thought.

"S-One" is also ok. KA, passengers are ok, the whole back seat is green. It was a great ride."

"Understood," said Moulin. "The laser looks like it has a broken lock at the moment. We have begun maneuvering according to the position of the entry interface." The Black Stallion began to turn nose-first again, then rose to forty degrees above the horizon for atmospheric reentry, exposing its lower heat shields to the advancing atmosphere to protect the ship from the heat generated by friction. "Leader, let"s briefly outline the approach."

"Accepted," Terranova said. "We passed the final alignment cylinder for Baku, so I programmed Herat, Afghanistan as our landing site. We're still on our maximum power-expenditure descent profile, and Herat is pretty close-about thirteen hundred miles-so we have enough power to get to base. In sixty seconds, the airflow pressure will be high enough for the adaptive surfaces on the spike to take effect, and we will disable the reaction control system, switch to the maximum drag profile, and divert east over Turkmenistan to stay away from Soltanabad. Once we get past one hundred thousand feet, we can transition to atmospheric flight, turn off the leopards, fire up the turbojet engines, and descend on a normal approach profile."

"How much gas do we have, MC?" - asked Macomber.

"Once we fire the turbojets, we'll have less than an hour's worth of fuel left, but we'll be descending at about Mach 5, so we'll have enough energy to get rid of it before we need the turbojets." - Terranova replied. "We'll start securing the engines and get ready to secure the leopards, so when we-"

"Attention, search radar, twelve hours, nine hundred and sixty miles, India-Juliet strip," the computerized voice of the threat warning receiver suddenly rang out. A second later: "Attention, attention, target tracking radar, twelve hours, nine hundred and fifty miles...attention, attention, pulse-Doppler target tracking radar, twelve hours, nine hundred and forty miles...attention, attention, laser detected, twelve hours.. .Attention attention...!"

"They hit us with radar almost a thousand miles away?" Terranova blurted out. "This is impossible!"

"This is Kawaznya radar, crew," said Patrick McLanahan. "The range of this thing is incredible, and now it"s mobile."

"Attention, warning, emergency cooling system activated...attention, attention, hull temperature is rising, station one hundred and ninety..."

"What should we do, Odin?" Lisa Moulin cried on the radio. "What should I do?"

"The only choice you have is to turn the spacecraft so that the laser energy doesn't focus on any one point for too long," Patrick said. "Use reaction control to make the throw. Once your flight adaptation system is working, you can use your maximum bank angle to fly away from the laser, and change your course as much as possible to avoid the laser hitting you. Dave, I need you to get the vampires out of Batman's airbase and destroy that laser facility! I want Soltanabad to turn into a smoking hole!"

"They're on their way, Odin," Luger replied.

But as the seconds ticked by, it became obvious that nothing Moulin could do would work. They received almost constant overheating warnings from dozens of places on the hull, and some began reporting leaks and loss of structural integrity. One day, Moulin accidentally looked directly at a laser beam breaking through the windshield of the cockpit and was partially blinded, although both had their dark visors down.

Terranova finally turned off the threat warnings - they were no longer useful to them. "Frenchie, are you okay?"

"I can"t see anything, Jim," Moulin said over a "private" intercom so the crew in the passenger compartment couldn"t hear. "I looked at the laser beam for a split second and all I see are large black holes in my vision. I screwed up. I killed us all."

"Keep shooting, Frenchie," Terranova said. "We will do it".

Moulin began moving the side control stick back and forth, using the thrusters to turn the spacecraft. Terranova provided her with a constant stream of advice when she went too far. The temperature warnings were almost constant, no matter how hard she tried. "We have to jettison the passenger module," Moulin said, still on the "private" intercom. "They might have a chance."

"We were well over the g-force and speed limits for the jettison, Frenchy," Terranova said. "We don"t even know if they"ll survive even if we slow down enough-we"ve never dropped a module before."

"There's only one way to find out," Moulin said. "I'm going to start a powered descent to try to slow us down enough to jettison the passenger module. We use every drop of fuel we have left to slow our fall. I'll need your help. Tell me when we're on the verge of breaking down." She smoothed her wings gently, then used Terranova to spin the Black Stallion so that they flew tail first again. Over the full intercom she said: "Crew, prepare for maximum retaliatory missile fire, descent profile with power. 'Leopards' are getting in touch."

"What?" - I asked. - asked Macomber. "Are you shooting at 'leopards' again? What-?"

He didn't have time to finish his question. Moulin activated the pulse laser detonation system engines and immediately brought them into descent mode and then to maximum power, far in excess of normal loads for passengers and crew. Their speed dropped dramatically - they were still flying at over Mach 5, but it was more than half the speed they usually flew at. Everyone in the passenger module received such a strong and unexpected shock from overloads that they immediately lost consciousness. Jim Terranova also passed out...

...so did Lisa Moulin, but not before she opened the cargo bay doors on the top of the XR-A9 Black Stallion's fuselage, unlocked the mounting bolts holding the module in the cargo bay, lifted the red-labeled switch, and activated it...

...and at that very moment, when the doors were fully opened, the mounting bolts were unfastened, and the module's launch rockets were released, the Black Stallion used up every pound of fuel remaining in its tanks ... and it was torn apart by the Russian laser and exploded.

* * *

"Target destroyed, General," reported Wolfgang Zypris from Soltanabad. "Significant loss of speed is shown, many large targets, likely debris, and rapid loss of radar and visual contact. The final murder."

"I understand," replied General Andrei Darzov. Many of the technicians and officers in the room raised their fists in triumph and let out quiet cheers, but he silenced them with a warning look. "Now I suggest you get out of there as quickly as possible - the Americans have undoubtedly sent a strike group to destroy this base. They could be there in less than an hour if they start from Iraq."

"We'll be out of here in thirty minutes, General," Tsipris said. "Exit".

Darzov interrupted the connection, then activated another and said: "Mission accomplished, sir."

"Very good, general," replied Russian President Leonid Zevitin. "What do you think their reaction will be?"

"They are undoubtedly launching unmanned B-1 bombers from Batman Air Force Base in Turkey equipped with hypersonic missiles to attack and destroy the base in Iran," Darzov said. "They could be in position to fire in less than an hour - even in thirty minutes if they had an aircraft ready to launch. The target will be hit in less than a minute."

"Oh my God, this is incredible-we need to get our hands on this technology," Zevitin muttered. "I'm guessing your people are getting off their asses and getting out of this base."

"They must be far enough away before the Americans attack - I assure you, they can feel those hypersonic missiles on the back of their heads even now."

"I bet you do. Where was the spaceplane when it fell, General?"

"About a thousand kilometers northwest of Soltanabad."

"So, by chance, this is happening... over Russia?"

There was a short pause while Darzov checked his computer cards; then: "Yes, sir, it is. One hundred kilometers northwest of Machakala, the capital of the province of Dagestan, and three hundred kilometers southeast of the Tupolev-95 bomber base in Mozdok."

"What about the wreckage?" - I asked.

"Impossible to say, sir. It will likely be scattered over thousands of kilometers between the Caspian Sea and the Iran-Afghan border."

"It's a pity. Keep a close eye on this debris and let me know if any of it reaches the ground. Order the search group of the Caspian Sea Flotilla to immediately begin searching. Have our radar stations alerted our air defense systems?"

"No, sir. Conventional air defense and air traffic radar systems would not be able to track a target at that altitude and moving at that speed. Only a specialized space tracking system could do this."

"So, without such a radar, we would not yet know that something happened, right?"

"Unfortunately, no, sir."

"When do you expect the wreckage to be detected by a conventional radar system?"

"We're no longer tracking the debris as we take down the Phanar radar system in Soltanabad," Darzov explained, "but I would imagine that within a few minutes we could start picking up larger pieces as they re-enter the atmosphere. I will order our air defense facilities in Dagestan to immediately report the discovery of debris."

"Very good, General," said Zevitin. "I wouldn't want to complain too early about the latest American attack against Russia, would I?"

ON BOARD THE FIRST AIRCRAFT

IN THE SAME TIME

"My God, Mr. President," said the female staff sergeant, rising from her knees and beginning to rebutton her uniform blouse, "you certainly have my vote."

"Thank you, Staff Sergeant," President Gardner said, watching her adjust while he buttoned his fly. "I think there is an opening in my... state for someone as qualified as you." She smiled at the clearly ambiguous expression. "Interested?"

"Actually, sir, I was waiting for a vacancy at the Officer Training School," she replied, eagerly looking the Commander-in-Chief up and down. "I was told that the slot might not open for another eighteen months. I completed my bachelor's degree and just applied last semester. I am very determined to get my commissions."

"What was your degree, sweetie?"

"Political science," she replied. "I'm going to get my law degree and then I'd like to go into politics."

"We could certainly use someone with your... enthusiasm in Washington, Staff Sergeant," the President said. He noticed the CALL light on the phone was flashing-an urgent call, but not urgent enough to override the DND order. "But OTS is in Alabama?"

"Yes, sir."

"This is too bad, honey," the president said, feigning disappointment-the last thing he wanted was for that someone to show up in Washington. Maxwell Air Force Base in Alabama would be ideal-far enough from Washington to avoid rumors, but close enough to Florida that she could sneak down while he was at his Florida estate. "I would certainly like to work with you more often, but I admire your dedication to service. I'm sure I've heard about an OTS slot opening up in the next class and I think you'll fit in perfectly. We'll be in touch."

"Thank you very much, Mr. President," the steward said, smoothing the rest of her hair and uniform, then walked away without even looking back.

That's how he liked them, Gardner thought, taking a sip of juice and starting to get his heartbeat and thoughts in order: bold and aggressive enough to do whatever it took to gain an advantage over everyone else, but wise enough to get back to work and avoid emotional involvement - these were the real forces in Washington. Some did it through talent, brains, or political connections-there was nothing wrong or unusual about those who did it on their knees. Plus, she knew what he did, that both of their careers would be over if their little tryst ever got out, so it was to their advantage for both of them to do what the other wanted and, more importantly, keep their mouth shut on lock and key about this. This one was going to go very far.

A second later, his mind quickly refocused on the upcoming events and route, he pressed the "DO NOT DISTURB" button. A few moments later, his chief of staff and national security adviser knocked, looked through the peephole to make sure the president was alone, waited a moment, then entered the room. Both had cell phones pressed to their ears. Air Force One could act as its own cell phone base station, and unlike passengers on commercial airliners, there were no restrictions on cell phone use on board Air Force One-users could turn on as many land-based cell phone towers as they wanted. "What's happening?" - asked the president.

"It's either nothing... Or shit just blew up, Mr. President," said Chief of Staff Walter Cordus. "Air Force headquarters in Europe received a call from the Sixth Joint Air Operations Center in Turkey requesting confirmation of the departure of an EB-1C Vampire bomber with two scramble launchers from Batman Air Force Base in southern Turkey ... the same ones we landed after the missile attack in Iran. The USAF contacted the Pentagon for confirmation as there were no air mission orders for any bombing missions from Batman."

"You mean McLanahan's bombers?" The answer was written on Cordus's frightened face. "McLanahan ordered his two bombers to take off... after I ordered them to land? What the hell is going on?"

"I don't know yet, sir," Cordus said. "I told the US Air Force that no bomber was authorized to launch for any reason, and I ordered them to deny permission to launch. I'm calling McLanahan and his deputy Luger in Nevada, trying to figure out what's going on."

"Are the bombers armed?"

"We don"t know that yet either, sir. This mission was completely unauthorized."

"Well, we have to assume that's the case - knowing McLanahan, he would have left weapons on his planes even if they were all grounded, unless we specifically told him not to, and even then he might have done it . Just keep them on the descent until we figure out what's going on. What's the story with the spaceplane? Is it still in orbit?"

"I'll check as soon as McLanahan picks up, sir."

"It better be this way, or I'll nail his hide to my bathroom door," the president said, taking another sip of orange juice. "Listen, about the 'meet and greet' in Orlando..." And then he heard Carlisle curse into his phone. "What, Conrad?" - I asked.

"The B-1 bombers have taken off," the national security adviser said. The President's jaw dropped in surprise. "The tower controller at the airbase told the crew to stay put, but these planes are uncrewed-they are controlled remotely from Elliott Air Force Base in Nevada-"

"McLanahan."

"McLanahan is still aboard the space station, so his second-in-command, Brigadier General Luger, is in charge of the bombers from Elliott," Carlisle said. "I have to call Secretary of Defense Turner to order Luger to return these bombers to the ground. Je-sus...!"

"He's out of control!" - the president barked. "I want him to leave this space station and be taken into custody immediately! Send a damn US Marshal there if you have to!"

"Send a US Marshal into space?" Cordus asked. "I wonder if this has ever been done before... or if we could ask the marshal to volunteer to do this?"

"I'm not kidding, Walter. McLanahan needs to be slammed before he starts another damn war between us and Russia. Find out what the hell is going on and do it fast. Zevitin will be on the phone again before we know it, and I want to reassure him that everything is under control."

COMBAT CONTROL AREA, BATTLE MOUNTAIN RESERVE AIR BASE, NEVADA

IN THE SAME TIME

"Headbanger Two-One" flight of two is at flight level three-one-o, due attention, fly point nine-one, thirty minutes to launch point," the mission commander reported. "Due attention" meant they had stopped everything normal air traffic control procedures and flew without official flight escort or civil aviation monitoring... because they were going to war.

The two officers sat side by side in a separate section of the "BATMAN," or combat control area, at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base in northern Nevada, seated at what appeared to be an ordinary computer workstation that might be used by a security guard or a day trader in securities. except for the fighter jet style joysticks. The officers were flanked by two recruited technicians with their own computer monitors. The men and women in the room spoke into their microphones in hushed voices, bodies barely moving, eyes darting from monitor to monitor. Only the occasional tap of a finger on a keyboard or a hand moving a cursor with a trackball would make anyone believe that something was actually happening.

The two officers piloted two unmanned supersonic EB-1C Vampire "flying battleships" that launched from their forward operating base in eastern Turkey via northern Iran. Three high-resolution monitors showed views of the front and sides of the lead bomber, while other monitors showed performance, systems and weapon readouts from both aircraft. Although the two bombers were fully airworthy, they were typically controlled entirely by computer, autonomously responding to commands entered before departure and deciding independently what to do to complete the mission. The ground crew monitored the progress of the flight, made changes to the flight plan if necessary, and could take control at any time, but all decisions were made by computers. Technicians monitored the aircraft's systems, monitored the electromagnetic spectrum for threats, and reviewed incoming intelligence along the flight path that could affect the mission.

"Genesis copies," David Luger responded. He returned to the combat headquarters area at Elliott Air Force Base in south-central Nevada, watching the mission progress on electronic "big boards" the size of the wall in front of him. Other displays showed enemy threats detected by all Aerospace Advanced Weapons Center aircraft and satellites and other allied sensors operating in the region. But Luger's attention was drawn to two other displays: the first was the latest satellite imagery of the target area in eastern Iran...

... and the second was about satellite space tracking data, which was currently empty.

"They're taking apart the laser equipment in a hell of a hurry," Dave commented. "They must have guessed that we would send bombers to blow this base to hell. I'm not sure we'll get there in time, Mook."

"Pick them up, Dave," Patrick McLanahan said. He also observed the mission from the command module on the Armstrong space station. "Get a tanker in the air to meet the bombers on the way back, but I want those missiles on the way before the Russian cockroaches run away."

"Got it, it"s disgusting. Get ready. Cutthroat, this is Genesis. One wants the bombers to attack before the target disperses. Scramble the bombers and report the status of the support tankers."

Maj. Gen. Rebecca Furness, commander of the Battle Mountain Air Force's air combat forces . "He'll be in the air in five minutes."

"I understand you. One wants there to be as many vampires as possible."

"As soon as the tanker is at the maximum safe distance, we accelerate the Vampires to one and two tenths of mach - this is the maximum launch speed of the Skystreaks. The best we can do with the current mission parameters."

"I suggest you wipe out the tanker's hour-long supply of fuel and raise the Vampires now," Luger said.

"Negative-I'm not going to do it, Dave," Rebecca said. Rebecca Furness was the first female combat pilot in the United States Air Force and the first female commander of a tactical combat aviation unit. When Rebecca's Air Force Reserve B-1B Lancer unit in Reno, Nevada, was closed and the bombers transferred to the Advanced Aerospace Weapons Center for conversion into manned and unmanned "flying battleships," Furness agreed. She now commanded five tactical squadrons at a new reserve base at Battle Mountain, Nevada, consisting of converted manned and unmanned B-52 and B-1 bombers, unmanned QA-45C stealth attack aircraft, and KC-76 aerial tankers. "We'll get them, don't worry."

Luger looked again at the latest satellite image of Highway Air Base in Soltanabad, Iran. It was only five minutes ago, but it already showed several large trucks gone, and what looked like an entire battalion of workers dismantling the rest. "We're running out of time, ma'am. Cockroaches scatter quickly."

"I know, Dave, I see the pictures too," Rebecca said, "but I don"t risk losing my bombers."

"Like we lost the Stallion?"

"Don"t bullshit me, Dave-I know what"s going on here, and I"m just as angry about it as you are," Rebecca snapped. "But may I remind you that our bombers are the only long-range strike aircraft we have right now, and I am not going to risk them on...an unauthorized mission." This was not an exaggeration, and Dave Luger knew it: Since the American Holocaust, Russian cruise missile attacks on American bomber and intercontinental missile bases four years earlier, the only surviving long-range bombers have been a handful of bombers deployed overseas, and converted B-52 and B-1 bombers based at Battle Mountain.

The Furness bombers soon suffered losses of their own. All of the Battle Mountain bombers were sent to a Russian aerial refueling base in Yakutsk, Siberia, from where Patrick McLanahan led attacks on nuclear ballistic missile bases throughout Russia. When the American bombers were discovered, then-Russian President General Anatoly Gryzlov attacked the base with nuclear-tipped cruise missiles. Half of the forces were lost in the devastating attack. The remaining bombers successfully attacked dozens of Russian missile bases, destroying the bulk of their strategic nuclear forces; McLanahan himself, aboard one of the last EB-52 Megafortress battleships, attacked and killed Gryzlov in his underground bunker southeast of Moscow during a grueling twenty-hour mission that took him across the Russian Federation.

Following the conflict, Rebecca Furness was given command of the RAF's few remaining bombers; therefore, no one knew better than she what an incredible responsibility was entrusted to her. The surviving aircraft and a few unmanned stealth bombers built since the American Holocaust were the only long-range airborne aircraft remaining in the American arsenal-if any bombers are ever built again, it could take decades to rebuild the armed forces forces to a reliable level.

"Ma'am, I'm confident that the strike mission will be approved as soon as National Command receives our report on what happened to our spaceplane," Dave said. "This Kawaznya mobile laser represents the greatest threat our country faces right now-not just to our spacecraft, but perhaps to anything that flies." He paused, then added, "And the Russians just killed five of our best, ma'am. It's time to get a little revenge."

Rebecca was silent for a long time; then, shaking her head, she said dryly: "Three 'ma'ams' from you in one conversation, General Luger-I suppose that's a first for you." She typed some instructions into her computer. "I authorize a change to the thirty minute fuel allowance for bingo."

"One calls Headbanger, I said push them, General Furness," Patrick intervened from the Armstrong space station. "Get them up to Vmax, then slow them down to one point two to release the weapon."

"What if they don"t make it to the mid-air refueling point on the way back, General?" - she asked. "What if there was a navigation error? What if they can't connect the first time? Let's not lose sight of-"

"Get them up, General. That's an order."

Rebecca sighed. She could legally ignore his orders and make 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, "Increase them to one point five, recalculate the fuel bingo at the mid-air refueling checkpoint and advise."

The crew complied and a moment later reported: "Headbanger Two group is now at flight level three-one-o, heading, Mach one point five, due attention, green, twenty minutes to launch point." Bingo, the ARCP station is out of fuel; We have ten minutes of spare fuel left. We have a few more minutes to catch up after we receive the tanker's updated ETE."

"This is ten minutes after the second bomber looped the boom, correct?" Rebecca asked. The gloomy, ashen- pale expression and silent "no" on the technician's face told her that they were in deep shit.

CHAPTER SEVEN

There are no unharmed soldiers in war.

- JOSE NAROSCHI

ON BOARD THE ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

A FEW MINUTES LATER

"McLanahan is here, safe."

"McLanahan, this is the President of the United States," boomed Joseph Gardner. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Sir, I-"

"This is a direct order, McLanahan: deploy those bombers now."

"Sir, I would like to present my report to you before-"

"You won"t do a damn thing except what I tell you to do!" - the president barked. "You violated the direct order of the commander in chief. If you want to avoid life in prison, you better do what I tell you. And this spaceplane better still be in orbit, or I swear to God I...

"The Russians shot down the Black Stallion spaceplane," Patrick quickly interjected. "The spaceplane has disappeared and is considered lost with all souls."

The President was silent for a long time; then: "How?"

"A mobile laser, the same one that we think shot down our spaceplane over Iran last year," Patrick replied. "This was what the Russians were hiding in Soltanabad: their mobile anti-space laser. They brought it to Iran and installed it on an abandoned Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps base that we thought was destroyed - they even placed fake bomb craters on it to fool us. The Russians have placed a laser in the perfect location to attack our spacecraft flying over Iran. They received the second biggest prize of all: another Black Stallion spaceplane. The location suggests their actual target was the Armstrong space station."

Silence again on the other end of the line... but not for long: "McLanahan, I'm very sorry about your people..."

"There were two women on board too, sir."

"...and we're going to get to the bottom of this," the President continued, "but you violated my orders and launched these bombers without permission. Deploy them immediately."

Patrick glanced at the remaining time: more than seven minutes. Could he detain the President for so long...? "Sir, I have received clearance to launch the spaceplane into standard orbit from STRATCOM," he said. "We suspected what the Russians were up to, but we waited for permission to enter. Our worst fears were confirmed..."

"I gave you an order, McLanahan."

"Sir, the Russians are packing up and moving their laser and radar out of Soltanabad as we speak," he said. "If they are allowed to escape, this laser will become a huge threat to every spaceship, satellite and aircraft in our inventory. There are only a few minutes left before launch, and it will all be over in less than a minute. Just four high-precision missiles with kinetic warheads - no collateral damage. It will remove components that have not yet been moved. The Russians can't complain about the attack because then they would be admitting to sending troops into Iran to kill Americans, so there would be no international reaction. If we can get Bujazi's troops there to begin a forensic investigation as soon as possible after the attack, we might find 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 recorded and witnessed, and if you do not comply, it will 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, torn apart by that laser. It was an act of war. Unless we get direct evidence that Russia has launched direct offensive military action against the United States of America, they will get away with murder and we will never be able to avenge their deaths. And if we don't destroy, damage or disable this laser, it will appear somewhere else and kill again. Sir, we must...

"You are violating a direct order from the Commander-in-Chief, General McLanahan," the President interrupted. "I'm giving you one last chance to comply. Do this and I will allow you to resign quickly and quietly, without public scrutiny. Refuse, and I will strip you of your rank and send you to prison with hard labor for life. Do you understand me, general? Last chance...what will it be?-"

Six minutes left. Will he be able to avoid trouble because of the "creaky radio"? He decided that he was now far, far beyond that line: he had no choice. Patrick interrupted the transmission. Ignoring the stunned expressions on the faces of the technicians around him, he said, "McLanahan is calling Luger."

"Just got off the phone with the Secretary of Defense, Mook," Dave said from Elliott Air Force Base through their subcutaneous global transceiver system. "He ordered the vampires to be recalled immediately."

"My phone call beats yours, buddy: I just got a message from the president," Patrick said. "He ordered the same. He offered me a nice quiet retirement or a lifetime of breaking big rocks into little ones in Leavenworth."

"I will convert them-"

"Negative... They continue," Patrick said. "Bomb this base to hell."

"Mook, I know what you're thinking," Dave Luger said, "but it might be too late. The latest satellite image shows that at least a quarter of the vehicles have already disappeared, and that was more than ten minutes ago. In addition, we have already run out of fuel on the vampires, and there is a fuel emergency - they may not reach the tanker before they go out. It's a win-win scenario, Mook. It's not worth risking your career and your freedom. We lost this one. Let"s retreat and get ready to fight the next one."

"'Next' could be an attack on another spaceplane, a satellite, a spy plane over Iran, or the Armstrong space station itself," Patrick said. "We have to stop this, now."

"It"s too late," Luger insisted. "I think we missed it."

"Then we'll leave them a little business card in their rearview mirrors if that's the best we can do," Patrick said. "Press him."

* * *

"He's going to what?"

"You heard me, Leonid," the President of the United States said over the hotline from Air Force One, just minutes after communication with the space station was lost - he had to let out a string of epithets for a full sixty seconds after that. as the line went dead before he could talk to anyone else. "I think McLanahan is going to launch an air strike on a place called Soltanabad in northeastern Iran. He insists that you installed a mobile anti-space laser there and used it to shoot down his Black Stallion spaceplane just a few minutes ago."

Russian President Leonid Zevitin furiously typed instructions on a computer keyboard to Russian Air Force Chief of Staff Darzov during his speech, warning him of an impending attack and ordering him to scramble fighter jets to try to stop American bombers. "This is incredible, Joe, just incredible," he said in his most convincing, sincere, indignant tone. "Soltanabad? In Iran? I've never heard of this place! We do not have any troops anywhere in Iran except those guarding our temporary embassy in Mashhad, and that is there because our embassy in Tehran has become hell and Mashhad is now the only safe place in the entire country, thanks to Boujazi."

"I'm as stunned as you are, Leonid," Gardner said. "McLanahan must be crazy. He must have suffered some kind of traumatic brain injury when he had that palpitations attack. He's unstable!

"But why is an unstable officer flying supersonic bombers and hypersonic missiles, Joe? You may not be able to get to McLanahan, but you can stop him, right?"

"Of course I can, Leonid. This is being done as we speak. But these bombers can fire multiple missiles. If you have any forces on the ground, I suggest you withdraw them as soon as possible."

"I thank you for calling, Joe, but we have no forces in Iran, period." He noticed that there was still no response from Darzov - damn, he better get that laser out of there, otherwise their game would be over. "And we certainly don't have some magical super laser that can shoot down a spaceship orbiting the Earth at seventeen thousand miles an hour and then disappear like smoke. The United Nations investigated these reports last year and came up with nothing, remember?"

"I guess they said the results were inconclusive because-"

"Because President Martindale did not allow them to interview anyone in Dreamland, and Boujazi and his crazy rebel rebels did not allow them access to the wreckage or the supposed site where the laser was supposedly installed," Zevitin said. "The bottom line is that there is not a single shred of evidence pointing to some damn superhole. McLanahan is obviously fear-mongering in Congress, the media and the American public in order to keep his costly and dangerous secret programs afloat."

"Well, this will be stopped very quickly," Gardner said. "McLanahan is finished. This bastard hung up and ordered the attack to continue."

"Hung up?" It was perfect, Zevitin thought happily. They were going to not only remove McLanahan, but also portray him as a madman...his own commander in chief! There was no way his supporters in the Army or Congress were going to support him now! He suppressed his glee and continued in a low, ominous voice: "This is madness! Is he crazy? You can't let this continue! This unstable, unruly man must be stopped, Joe. You make a lot of people here really afraid. Wait until the Duma and the Cabinet of Ministers hear about another hypersonic missile attack in Iran. They're going to shit their pants."

"Tell them not to worry, Leonid," said Gardner. "McLanahan is finished, and so is his private military force."

"Turn it off, Joe," Zevitin insisted. "Stop it all-the space station, those hypersonic missiles, the unmanned bombers with their death beams-before it's too late. Then let's come together and present the world with a united, peaceful, cooperative front. This is the only way we are going to ease the tension here."

"Don't worry about anything," Gardner insisted. "In case your Caspian Sea ships are nearby, you could inform them that the bombers can launch high-speed missiles."

"Joe, I'm concerned about the backlash in Iran if these missiles hit the area," Zevitin said. "Last I remember, this base was being used by the Red Crescent for humanitarian aid and by United Nations observers."

"Oh no," Gardner groaned. "This is a fucking nightmare."

"If McLanahan bombs this base, he will kill dozens, perhaps hundreds of innocent civilians."

"Damn," Gardner said. "Well, I'm sorry, Leonid, but McLanahan is out of control at the moment. There is nothing more I can do."

"I have one radical proposal, my friend - I hope you don"t think I"m crazy," Zevitin said.

"What is your-?" And then Gardner stopped, because he soon realized it himself. "You mean you"re asking my permission to-?"

"It's the only way, Joe," Zevitin said, almost unable to contain his amazement at the direction this conversation was taking. "You know it, and I know it. I don't believe even a tortured schizoid like McLanahan would ever dare fire missiles at an aid airfield, but I can't think of any other way to stop this madness, can I?" There was no answer, so Zevitin quickly continued: "Besides, Joe, the bombers are unmanned, right? No one will get hurt on your end and we will save many lives." There was a very long pause. Zevitin added: "Sorry Joe, I shouldn"t have come up with such a crazy idea. Forget what I said-"

"Wait, Leonid," Gardner interrupted him. A few moments later: "Are there any jets nearby, Leonid?" - he heard the President of the United States ask.

Zevitin almost doubled over, not believing his ears. He swallowed his shock, quickly pulled himself together, then said, "I don't know, Joe. I'll have to ask the Chief of Staff of my Air Force. Normally, of course, we patrol this area, but since our MiG was shot down by a McLanahan bomber with an EMP T-shaped nuclear launcher, we have retreated a little."

"I understand," Gardner said. "Listen to me. My national security adviser told me that the bombers took off from Batman Air Force Base in Turkey and were undoubtedly heading straight to the launch point over the southern Caspian Sea. We can't tell you more because we just don't know."

"I understand," Zevitin said. He could hardly believe it - Gardner had actually told him where the bombers had started from and where they were going!

"We also don't know their weapons, but we assume they have the same hypersonic cruise missiles they used before, so the launch point is a couple hundred miles from Soltanabad."

"I agree with your assumptions, Joe," Zevitin said, trying to hide the surprise in his voice and remain calm and serious. "We can look for them where you offer them. But if we find them...Joe, should I continue? I think this is the only way to avoid disaster. But this should be your decision, Mr. President. Tell me what you would like me to do."

Another pause, but this time shorter: "Yes, Leonid," said Gardner, clearly overcome with intense anger. "I hate to do this, but that bastard McLanahan left me no choice."

"Yes, Joe, I understand and agree," Zevitin said. "What about the T-wave weapon? Will they use it again to attack our fighters?"

"You have to assume they're going to do it and attack from maximum range," Gardner said. "I"m sorry, but I can"t control it in any way either."

"I know that this is not your doing, my friend," Zevitin said as solemnly as he could, despite his glee. Damn it, now this guy was giving him suggestions on how to successfully attack his own people! "We will do everything possible to prevent a disaster. I will contact you soon with updates."

"Thank you very much, my friend."

"No, thank you for the responsible notification, my friend. I don't know if I can make it in time, but I'll do my best to avoid making the awkward situation worse. Wish me good luck. Goodbye." Zevitin hung up... then resisted the urge to do a little victory dance around the table. He grabbed the phone again and asked to immediately connect him to Darzov. "Status, General?"

"We're moving as fast as we can," Darzov said. "We are prioritizing the core components-radar, laser camera and adaptive optics-first. Fuel tanks and power generators will have to wait."

"Do you have any fighters patrolling over the Caspian, General?"

"Of course, sir."

"Are you following American B-1 bombers?"

"I have a whole squadron of MiG-29s in the air to try to keep up with them," Darzov said. "Unmanned Vampires are much faster than conventional B-1 Lancers, so we have equipped several fighters with Molniya missiles, adapted to operate at reduced range using the MiG-29 fire control radar. They might be able to shoot down their hypersonic strike missiles if they can be launched-"

"I just got permission from the President of the United States for you to shoot down the bombers," Zevitin said happily.

"The President of the United States ordered us to shoot down his own bombers?"

"He doesn't consider them his bombers - to him they are now McLanahan's bombers, and they might as well be invading Martians," Zevitin said. "Do it. Shoot them down... but after they launch their missiles."

"After?" Darzov asked incredulously. "Sir, if we fail to remove our equipment in time, or if they target Phanar's core components, we could lose billions of rubles of precious equipment!"

"Do your best, General," Zevitin said, "but let those missiles launch and hit the base. Do you have shielding tools in place as we discussed earlier?"

"Yes, sir, of course," Darzov replied. "But we also have..."

"If any part of the Phanar is hit, your first priority is to get it out while you continue to prepare the ground as planned," Zevitin continued breathlessly, "because within minutes of the missiles hitting, I"m going to tell the whole world about it." . The world's media will want to see for themselves, and it's important that they see it right away. Do you understand me, General?"

"Yes, sir," Darzov answered. "I will do as you ask. But I hope we don't sacrifice our most important assets for mere public relations purposes."

"You will do what I tell you, for any reason I come up with, General, whether you understand it or not," Zevitin snapped. "Just make sure that when the media hits Soltanabad-and I'm going to work really hard to make sure that happens-they see nothing but wanton destruction, or I'll tear your ass off. Am I making myself clear?"

* * *

"Sir, we are picking up a locator beacon signal!" - Master Sergeant Lucas shouted from her post in the command module of the Armstrong space station. "This is from the passenger module."

"Oh my God, they did it," Patrick said breathlessly. "Have you got any data yet?"

"Nothing yet... Yes sir, yes, we are receiving location and environmental data!" Lucas said. "She's safe! The stabilizers are deployed and everything is under computer control! Telemetry reports that the passenger module is still under pressure!"

"Oh my God, this is a miracle," Patrick said. "Moulin and Terranova must have ejected the module just before the Black Stallion was destroyed. Rebecca -"

"We're preparing two more Vampires for launch to provide air cover for the evacuation," Rebecca Furness said. "They'll be in the air in twenty minutes."

"Dave-"

"We're in discussions right now with Special Operations Command about launching a CSAR mission out of Afghanistan, Muk," said Dave Luger. "Once we know where they can land, they will launch. We hope they will land in western Afghanistan. The Pave Hawk is on standby at the airbase in Herat. We're trying to reassign a couple of Predators and Reapers to fly over the area." The MQ-1 Predator and MQ-9 Reaper were unmanned surveillance aircraft, each configured to carry air-to-surface strike missiles; both were controlled via satellite from control stations in the United States.

"Sixty seconds to launch point," Dave Luger reported. "The airspeed is returning to one and two tenths of Mach." He was alone at the command console in The Batman, but he still lowered his voice as if he didn't want anyone else to hear as he continued, "Musk, now is a good time to deploy them."

"Go ahead," Patrick McLanahan replied.

His voice sounded as determined and confident as when he first decided to attack - it at least made him feel a little better. If Patrick had shown the slightest hesitation in his decision, Dave swore that he would have deployed the bombers at his own discretion to ensure that the planes made it to the refueling checkpoint and also to save Patrick's career.

In a few seconds it would be too late...

Over the team network, he said: "I understand you, Odin, I understand you, continue. Forty-five seconds. No threats, no surveillance radar. The flight speed is stable at Mach two. Thirty seconds...twenty...ten, doors open on Headbanger Two-One...rocket one goes...doors open on Two-Two...rocket two goes, doors close...rocket one is leaving "Two-Two" ... missile two is leaving, doors are closing, flight is safe, heading west to ARIP."

"How are the vampires doing with fuel, Dave?" - Patrick asked.

"We will do it-with difficulty," Luger replied. "If the connection goes smoothly, Two-One can climb up the boom, fill up with spare fuel, turn off the cycle, and Two-Two will start refueling and have ten minutes left to drain the tanks."

"Good job, Cutthroat," Patrick breathed, clearly relieved. No response from Rebecca Furness-it wasn't over, at least not any time soon, and he knew she was still angry that her decision had been overturned.

"Thirty seconds to impact... Skyward speed of Mach ten point seven, all green... Scramjet engine burnout, warhead coasting... Flight controls active and responsive, steering OK... twenty TG , the data link is active." They all watched as a composite of millimeter radar and infrared images came to life, showing Russian transport planes and helicopters on the runway, several rows of people passing boxes and packages from different parts of the base to waiting trucks, several large unidentified buildings on trailers...

... and several large tents with clearly visible Red Cross and Crescent logos on the roofs. "Jesus!" Dave Luger gasped. "They look like aid worker tents!"

"Aim for the big trailers and portable buildings!" Patrick shouted. "Stay away from these tents!"

"We get it, Odin," Rebecca said. She had commander override authority and could have taken over targeting control from the weapons officer, but she didn't need to-the weapons officer smoothly aimed the reticle at the four largest trailers. SkySTREAK's millimeter wave radar was able to view the outer steel shell of each truck and confirmed that the trailers under the targeting reticle were indeed dense, rather than hollow or less tightly packed as a partially empty cargo trailer might be. Otherwise, all the trailers looked the same and were maintained by the same number of workers.

"Five seconds...targeting locked...launcher initiated." The final image from the SkySTREAK missiles showed nearly direct hits to the center of each trailer...all but one, which veered off target and landed in a clear area somewhere near the target trailer. A computer assessment of the area of damage, approximately fifty feet in diameter, showed nothing but a few soldiers with rifles and boxes and perhaps one lone man standing nearby, probably an overseer-the fire did not hit any of the relief tents. "Looks like one missed, but it ended up in a clearing next to the trailer."

"Nice shot, Cutthroat," Patrick said. "These trailers looked identical to the ones that attacked Herd One-One."

"They looked like a billion other trailers around the world - there's no way of knowing what we have, sir," said Rebecca Furness, annoyance evident in her voice. "We didn't see any radar arrays or anything that looked like laser fuel storage tanks or laser optics. We could hit anything... or nothing."

"Our first priority is to organize an operation to salvage the passenger module and search for any wreckage and remains of the Black Stallion and its crew," Patrick said, ignoring Furness"s irritated remarks. "I want the combat force group to be sent to Afghanistan immediately, along with all the support aircraft we have available. I want drones and NIRTSats to be ready to deploy immediately to search all possible trajectories for survivors or debris. Withdraw all resources we have for searching. I want a progress update in one hour. Are you listening, Cutthroat?"

"Stay ready, Odin," Rebecca replied, concern evident in her voice. Patrick immediately returned his attention to the mission status monitors... and immediately saw a new threat: a swarm of missiles raining down on the Vampire bombers. "After turning around, we carried out a long-range LADAR sweep and spotted them," she said. LADAR, or laser laser radar, was a system of electronic laser emitters built throughout the fuselage of Vampire bombers that instantly "painted" a high-resolution image of everything around the aircraft at a distance of one hundred miles, then compared the three-dimensional picture with a catalog of images for immediate identification. "Look at the speed of these things-they must be moving at over Mach 7!"

"Countermeasures!" Dave Luger shouted. "Knock them out of the sky!"

But it soon became clear that it was too late. Traveling at more than fourteen miles per second, the Russian missiles covered the distance long before the Vampire bombers' microwave emitters could activate, lock on, and disable their guidance systems. Three of the four hypersonic missiles scored direct hits, quickly sending both bombers spiraling into the Caspian Sea.

"Damn it," Dave cursed. "Looks like the Russians have a new toy for their MiGs. Well, I guess we won"t have to worry about whether the bombers will get to their tanker, will we, Rebecca?"

"We just lost a quarter of our remaining B-1 bombers, Dave," Rebecca Furness radioed from Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base. "This is no laughing matter. We only have two vampires in Batman right now."

"Get them in the air to provide air cover for the CSAR guys from Herat, Rebecca," Patrick ordered. "Use active LADAR to scan for intruders. If anyone comes within a hundred miles of your planes, fry them."

"My pleasure, Mook," Rebecca said. "I'm ready for a little payback. They will be ready to taxi in about fifteen." But just a few minutes later she called back: "One, this is Headbanger, we have a problem. Security forces are parked in front of the hangar and are preventing the Vampire from taxiing out. They order us to shut down or they will disable the plane."

Patrick instantly found himself on a secure video conference line, but was preceded by an incoming call: "General McLanahan, you are either insane or suffering from some kind of mental disorder," said Secretary of Defense Miller Turner. "This is an order directly from the commander-in-chief: withdraw all your forces immediately. You are relieved of command. Am I making myself clear?"

"Sir, one of my Black Stallion spaceplanes was shot down by a Russian anti-satellite laser based in eastern Iran," Patrick said. "We have indications that passengers may have survived. I want air cover..."

"General, I sympathize, but the president is furious and will not listen to any arguments," Turner said. "For God's sake, you hung up! Do you expect him to listen to you now?"

"Sir, the passenger module is intact and will be on the ground in less than fifteen minutes," Patrick said.

"What? You mean someone ejected from a spaceplane...?"

"The passenger module is jettisonable and is intended to be used as a lifeboat for space station crew members," Patrick explained. "It can survive re-entry, fly to the landing site on its own, glide safely for landing and rescue the crew. The module is intact, sir, and we hope the crew is safe. We're targeting a possible landing zone right now, and once we figure out the exact landing spot, we can send a rescue team there immediately - that's the only advantage we'll have over the enemy. But it would take at least ninety minutes for the rescue team and air cover to arrive at the recovery area. We must start immediately."

"General, you have already violated direct orders from the President," Turner said. "You're already on your way to prison, do you understand that? Don't make it worse by arguing anymore. Last time: Lights out. I am ordering General Backman to take command of all your forces. I am telling you-"

"And I tell you, sir," Patrick interrupted, "that most of the Middle East and Central Asia saw the Black Stallion fall to Earth, and the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, the al-Quds Force, all the terrorists who overran Iran after military coup, and the Russians will likely be on their way to the crash site to loot whatever they can find. We must get every aircraft and combat search and rescue team we can into the air to find survivors before the enemy does."

"Central Command will coordinate this, McLanahan, not you. You are ordered to retreat. Do not take any further action at all. You won't do or say anything to anyone. You have been relieved of your command and will be placed under arrest as soon as you are able to leave this station."

For the second time that day, Patrick hung up on the civilian military leader. His next call was directly to Gen. Kenneth Lepers, the four-star Army general in charge of U.S. Central Command, the top combatant command overseeing all military operations in the Middle East and Central Asia, to try to convince him to allow the bombers to take off.

"General McLanahan, your ass is in really big danger right now," the leper deputy said. "The General has been ordered not to speak with you, and this call will be reported to the Secretary of Defense. I advise you to settle this matter with SECDEF before the whole world shuts you down." And he hung up.

Patrick's next call was to Rebecca Furness at Battle Mountain Air Force Reserve Base. "I was just about to call you, sir," Rebecca said. "I'm sorry about the Black Stallion. I wish we could do more."

"Thank you, Rebecca. I'm sorry about your vampires."

"It's not your fault, sir." It was, she reminded herself: if he hadn't ordered launch on that unauthorized mission, she would still have her bombers. But the Vampires were unmanned and the Black Stallion was not, so she didn't feel the need to rub salt in the wound. "We had to scan for bandits - I decided to act absolutely silently. I don"t know how the Russians found out about our arrival and when, but they will return everything in full, I guarantee that."

"Are you still getting stopped by the sky cops?"

"I confirm. We have disengaged as ordered and are maintaining our positions inside the hangar."

Patrick thought for a moment; then: "Rebecca, I tried to call General Lepers at CENTCOM to get his permission to launch Vampires, but he won"t talk to me. I would imagine that if I tried to call STRATCOM I would get the same response."

"Cannon is a good guy," Rebecca commented. "The others think you're after their jobs." Or nuts, she added to herself.

"If we don't get air cover, the Pasdarans will tear our guys and possibly the CSAR troops apart," Patrick said. "I 'm going to remove these security forces from the hangar. I want you to be ready to launch as soon as they leave. "

"But you said the Lepers wouldn"t talk to you, and you haven"t talked to the CENTAF yet, so who"s going to-?" Furness was silent for a moment, then simply said, "This is crazy. sir".

"The question is, Rebecca: will you launch?"

The pause was very, very long; just as Patrick was about to repeat himself or was wondering if Furness was dialing the Secretary of Defense on the other line, she said, "Get them out of the way of my ships, General, and I'll launch."

"Thank you, General." Patrick hung up, then spoke: "One is calling Genesis."

"Keep going, Mook," Dave Luger responded through their subcutaneous global transmitter.

"Get those security guys away from the bombers."

"They've been moved, Mook. Exit. Luger turned to his command radio, "Saber, this is Genesis."

BATMAN AIR BASE, REPUBLIC OF TURKEY

IN THE SAME TIME

"Saber is copying, carry on, Genesis," replied Air Force 1st Lt. James "J.D." Daniels, commander of the combat forces ground operations team codenamed "Saber." Daniels was sent to Batman AFB to provide security for the EB-1C Vampire bombers. and also because the base was an isolated, well-equipped place to train new CID pilots in real-life scenarios.As a technical sergeant, the thirty-year-old tall, brown-eyed, brown-haired son of an Arkansas rancher was one of the first Combat Force commandos to be tested in as an infantry cybernetic device pilot. After being injured from radiation sickness while fighting at Yakutsk Air Base in Russia following the Holocaust in AMERICA, Daniels used his recovery time to earn a bachelor's degree, then attended Officer Training School and received his commission as an officer. He was now a senior officer in training and, with the exception of Charlie Turlock herself, the resident expert on the criminal investigation weapons system.

"I have a task for you, Saber, but you may not like it," said Dave Luger. "One wants to launch vampire bombers."

"Yes, sir. A minute ago we were ready to take off, but the guys from the Security Forces appeared in the hangar, and the planes closed on their own. The base commander has ordered us to assist the security forces and protect them from any remotely controlled actions by you against the aircraft. We confirmed the orders. Sorry, sir. What exactly will I not like?"

"One of our spaceplanes was shot down in eastern Iran, and there are survivors. We need air cover for the rescue mission. The NCA still says no. We still want to run vampires."

"Why does the NCA not approve the mission, sir?"

"I don't know why, Saber, but we believe that the NCA is concerned that our actions regarding Iran are spreading fear and intimidating everyone in the region."

"Sir, I have received confirmed orders to retreat, both for us and for the Vampires. The base commander has ordered us to help keep you safe. You are asking me to disobey these orders."

"I know, Saber. I cannot order you to disobey valid orders. But I tell you that the survivors of the spaceplane will be caught and captured or killed if we do nothing."

"Who shot down the spaceplane, sir?"

"We believe the Russians did it, Saber."

"Yes, sir," Daniels said. That was enough for him. Daniels spent a year in the hospital recovering from radiation poisoning that occurred when the Russian Air Force used tactical nuclear weapons to destroy their own Yakutsk air base, which was being used by McLanahan and the air combat force to track down and destroy Russian mobile ICBMs that were preparing to launch a second nuclear attack. blow to the United States. He suffered severe dehydration, nausea for days on end, incredible pain, and ultimately a liver transplant-but he survived, won the right to return to active duty, retrained for field operations, returned to the combat force, and took command of a criminal investigation team.

He won, then lost, then took back everything he had ever wanted to do in his life except one thing: avenge what the Russians had done to him, his comrades, and his own men in Yakutsk.

"Are you still there, Saber?"

"Excuse me, sir, but I have orders," Daniels said in a deep monotone voice, very different from his usually energetic, upbeat tone. "If these planes were to move, my team and I would do everything in our power to protect the security forces from harm. Good night sir."

* * *

"Genesis" summons Headbanger."

"Keep going, Dave," Rebecca Furness replied.

"Get ready."

"I can not. My ground crews say the sky police are still blocking the hangar and taxiways."

"In any case, be prepared."

"Did you order your guys to destroy the sky cops?"

"No ma'am, I didn't do that. The base commander has ordered the combat force team to assist the security forces and protect them from unauthorized aircraft movements, and that is what they will do."

This is madness, Rebecca told herself for the hundredth time, completely insane. She turned to her operations officer, Brigadier General Daren Mace, "Daren, launch them and send out the vampires immediately." She closed her eyes and imagined herself standing before a military tribunal, sentenced to prison for the rest of the best years of her life; then, thinking of her fellow pilots on the ground in Iran, pursued by the Pasdarans and Muslim rebels, she opened her eyes and said, "No way to stop."

"Yes, ma'am," Mace said. He adjusted the microphone on his headphones and said, "Thug, launch them and launch them without delay. Stop for nothing. I repeat, don"t stop for anything."

* * *

"I confirm that the Panther and the Armed Forces of Ukraine are still operating, both aircraft," the head of the Air Force security team reported to the NATO base headquarters. It was creepy enough when the APU started and stopped on its own, but it was ten times more creepy when the engines did the same. The crew chiefs and assistants of each aircraft were outside the hangars, according to the orders of the base commander.

"This is Panther. Call the fucking senior crew commander," ordered the base commander, a colonel in the Turkish army, in very good English.

"Get ready, Panther." The SF officer handed his radio to the crew chief, Air Force Technical Sgt. "This is the base commander, and he's on edge."

"Technician Sergeant Booker listening, sir."

"I ordered these planes to be closed, and I mean completely closed - the Armed Forces of Ukraine too."

"Yes, sir, I know, but you ordered us not to connect the ground power units either, and without power, the command center on Battle Mountain can"t talk to the aircraft, so I think that"s why the APU-"

"Sergeant, I am giving you a direct order: I want these planes to come to a complete stop, immediately, or I will have you arrested!" - the base commander shouted. "I don't care if no one can talk to airplanes-I don't want anyone to talk to airplanes! Now disable those APUs, and do it now! "

"Yes, sir," Booker said and handed the radio back to the SF officer.

"The first piece is here, Panther."

"I just ordered this sergeant technician to completely shut down these aircraft, including the APUs-the power units in the tail," the base commander said. If they do not comply immediately, place them all under arrest." Mallory swallowed hard, then made a gesture to his team members, a sign that read, "Get ready for action." "Do you understand me, First Squad?"

"Yes sir, I know."

"What is this sergeant technician doing right now?"

"He walks up to the other crew chiefs... he points out the planes... They put on gloves as if they're getting ready to go to work."

They were clearly in no hurry, the security officer thought - the Colonel would have a fit of shit if they didn't get their rear in order. Sure enough, a few moments later the base commander called: "What the hell are they doing? Are these planes already closed?"

"The answer is no, sir. They're just standing there talking right now, sir," Mallory replied. "One of them has a walkie-talkie and the other has a checklist. Perhaps they are discussing closing the APU from here."

"Well, go find out what"s taking them so damn long."

"Understood, Panther. Get ready." He put the radio in his holster and headed to the crew commanders. Three male and one female crew chiefs saw him coming... and then, without looking back, headed towards the hangar of their final unit, which served as the headquarters of the Air Force. "Hey, you idiots, get back here and shut down these power units, orders from the Colonel." Just as he was about to yell at them again, to his utter surprise, they started running towards the hangar! "Where the hell are you going?" he shouted. He pulled his radio out of its holster. "Panther, the crew commanders are running away towards their headquarters building!"

"What are they?" - the base commander shouted. "Arrest these sons of bitches!"

"Understood, sir. Break. Squad one to control, red alert, acceleration zone Alpha Seven, repeat, red alert, Alpha-" Then Mallory heard a sound, much louder than the APU, and a moment later realized what it was. His hand trembled, he raised the radio again: "Control, unit one, keep in mind, objects in the Alpha Seven hangars are starting the engines, I repeat, starting the engines! I request notification by code Nine-nine, complete response, I repeat, complete -"

And then he saw them coming out of the hangar, which the crew chiefs had just run up to, rushing like linebackers from hell... And he almost fell back in shock, surprise and a mad attempt to get the hell out of there. He had seen them before, of course, but usually they just walked or were folded or deployed next to a truck or a helicopter - and never ran straight at him!

"Sabers four and five answer!" - one of the robots controlled by cybernetic infantry devices said in a loud, computer-synthesized voice. "Tell me the status!" Mallory was still on his hands and knees, cowering in horror, when the first robot ran straight towards him. Both surrounded him in a matter of moments. They were wearing huge backpacks, and over their shoulders hung what looked like grenade launchers, aimed directly at him. "Group commander, I repeat: report the status!"

"I... uh... bombers... They started their engines!" Mallory paused. The muzzle of the grenade launcher was only a few feet from his nose. "Get that weapon out of my face!"

The robot ignored the order. "Have they already taxied?" - the robot barked at him. Mallory couldn't answer. "Fifth, report to Alpha Seven-Two, I am taking over Alpha Seven-One. Protect security force units." The second robot nodded and ran away, just like a football player breaking out of a crowd, except he literally disappeared in the blink of an eye. "Are you wounded, team leader?"

"I...no," Mallory said. He struggled to his feet. "Get into these hangars and find some way to disable these..."

At that moment, they heard the incredibly loud roar of aircraft engines and a monstrous burst of jet exhaust gases from the open rear of both occupied shelters. "Bombers are taxiing!" - said the robot. "Five, the bombers are moving! Protect the security forces!"

"No! Stop the bombers! Find some way...!" But the robot had already rushed off to the entrance to the hangar. Well, he thought, the bombers weren't going anywhere, and if for some reason the Humvees couldn't stop them, the robots certainly could. "Unit One, CID units are heading inside the hangars. Help them whenever possible, but monitor and report if-"

At that moment, Mallory saw an object flying out of a nearby hangar. At first he thought it was a cloud of smoke or perhaps some kind of explosion... and then, a second later, he realized it was a Humvee standing inside, blocking the hangar! A moment later, the robot ran out of the hangar, clutching a security officer in each hand, carrying him as easily as someone could carry a beach towel. Directly behind him, a B-1 bomber took off from the hangar and raced down the chute toward the main taxiway.

"What the hell is going on?" - Mallory shouted. "What's happened? What are you...?" But the robot continued to approach. It grabbed the security force team leader with a crushing blow and in the blink of an eye, threw him a hundred yards to the side, finally dumping the three dazed officers in a heap near the security fence surrounding the squad area. The robot leaned over them, as if protecting them from something. "What the hell are you doing? Leave me alone!"

"The bomber is transmitting its microwave weapons system," the robot said. "I had to get the Humvee out of the hangar before it exploded, and then I evacuated you. MPW can be lethal at close range and I had to get away or it could destroy my electronics too."

"What are you talking about?" Mallory struggled to get a better look. "The second bomber is also moving! They're taxiing for takeoff!" He fumbled for the radio, realizing he had dropped it when the robot grabbed him. "Call security!" - he told the robot. "Warn the base commander! Get units onto the taxiways and runways before these things can get into takeoff position!"

"Got it," the robot replied. "I'll call him and then see what I can do to stop them." And the robot stood up and disappeared, running away with amazing speed, the muzzle of the grenade launcher turning back and forth in search of targets. He cleared the twelve-foot fence surrounding the squad area-he had just noticed that the gate across the neck was wide open-and was out of sight within seconds.

"What the hell do these things do? Who controls these things-ten-year-old children?" Mallory ran back to the first hangar and found his radio. "Control, detail one, the bombers are taxiing. Two criminal investigation units are pursuing us. They said the bombers were transmitting some kind of microwave weapon."

"Control, Knife's Edge to the west, bombers crossing Foxtrot taxiway en route to Runway One-Nine," another security force radioed. "I park my car in the middle of taxiway Alpha at the intersection with the hotel taxiway. I'm going to dismount. Those bastards are coming here damn fast!" Mallory and the other Security Forces officers ran along the throat to the main taxiway to see what was happening...

...and just as they reached Taxiway Alpha, they saw a Humvee take off to the north as B-1 bombers roared past! "Knife-edge to the West, Knife-edge to the West, do you hear?" Mallory radioed as he watched the nearly five-thousand-pound Humvee hit the ground and roll across it like a child's toy. "What's happened? Tell me the status!"

"Those robots threw my Hummer off the taxiway!" the officer radioed moments later. "They don't try to stop them - they help them escape!"

"Those bastards!" Mallory swore. "I knew something strange was going on! Control, detail one, these robots are engaging our security units!"

"Item number one is the Panther," the base commander intervened. "I don't care what you have to do, but don't let those bombers get off the ground! Can you hear me? Stop those bombers! Then place this entire contingent of thugs under arrest! I want some butts and I want them now! "

But as he listened, Mallory saw the first unmanned B-1 bomber lift off the ground and streak across the night sky, trailing four long afterburners, followed just seconds later by a second. "Holy crap," he shouted loudly as the double discharges of the afterburner swept over him. "What the hell is going on?"

It took almost a minute for the noise to die down enough for him to speak into the radio: "Control, Panther, Division One, the bombers have launched, I repeat, they have launched. All available patrol and response units, report to the Alpha-Seven Special Forces area with restraints and transport. Command, notify the base hospital and all command units that a special security operation has begun." His ears were buzzing and his head felt like it was about to explode from the tension and sheer disbelief of what had just happened. "Inform all responding units that there are two CID robots that helped the bombers take off, and they are armed and dangerous. Do not approach criminal investigation units, only report and observe. You hear?"

The two bombers were just bright spots in the night sky, and soon those signals went out as the afterburners were turned off. It was incredible, Mallory told himself over and over again, simply incredible. Those Saber guys must be crazy or high, he thought, wiping the sweat from his brow. The robot guys must have been crazy... Or maybe the robots were captured by terrorists? Maybe they weren't air force after all, but fucking Muslim terrorists, or maybe Kurdish terrorists, or maybe...?

And then he realized that he had not thought about all this, but shouted it at the top of his lungs! It seemed as if his skin was about to burst into flames, and his head was ready to explode! What in the name of all that is holy was going on? He turned...

... and then he saw the outline of one of the robots, about thirty yards away, slowly heading towards him. He raised the radio to his suddenly sweaty lips: "Control, unit number one, one of the criminal investigation units is heading towards me, and I"m going into action," he said, wiping another trickle of sweat from his eyes. "Request reinforcements, Alpha Seven and Taxiway Alpha, get reinforcements here now." He pulled his pistol from its holster, but couldn't muster enough strength to lift it. The burning sensation intensified, completely disrupting his vision and causing him a severe headache, the pain finally causing him to fall to his knees. "Control...Control, how do you copy?"

"Sorry, Sergeant Mallory, but there is no one here right now who could answer your call," he heard an unfamiliar voice. "But don't worry. You and your friends will wake up in a nice cozy cell and you won't have a care in the world." The robot moved towards him menacingly, the muzzle of the grenade launcher aimed right between his eyes... but then, just before his vision was completely obscured by a cloud of stars, he saw the robot wave goodbye to him with its huge armored but incredibly lively fingers. "Good night, Sergeant Mallory," he heard over the radio lying somewhere on the ground, and then everything went dark.

* * *

"One", "Headbanger", "Genesis", this is "Saber", we have control of the base," Lieutenant Daniels reported a few minutes later. "These new microwave emitters built into the CID units worked perfectly at a distance of about thirty yards." "The non-lethal microwave emitters conveyed intense sensations of heat, pain, disorientation and eventual loss of consciousness, but did no actual harm to the human target. "The bombers are gone and we're securing the perimeter. The base commander is pretty pissed at us, but he's revealed his secret bar with booze, so he"s not as talkative as he used to be."

"Understood," replied Patrick McLanahan from the Armstrong space station. "Thank you, Saber."

"My pleasure, sir," Daniels replied. "Maybe we can all share a cell in Leavenworth together."

"Or Supermax if we're not so lucky," Rebecca added.

"We have obtained an encoded locator beacon and status dump from the passenger module of the Black Stallion," Luger said. "It is intact, its parachute and shock-absorbing bags have deployed, and it is landing in eastern Iran, approximately one hundred and twenty miles north of west of Herat, Afghanistan."

"God bless".

"There is no indication yet whether anyone has made it inside, but the module is intact and still under pressure. We have an army special forces team in Herat preparing for a rescue operation."

"The bombers will be at maximum launch position in sixty minutes, and overhead in ninety - unless they are attacked by Russian fighters again," said Rebecca Furness. "This time we will be on guard."

"It will probably take the SWAT team that long to get to the helicopter if they get clearance to launch," Luger added.

"I"ll talk to the commander myself," Patrick said. "I don"t have many connections with the military, but I"ll see what I can do."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute-are you guys forgetting something?" Rebecca Furness intervened. "We just captured a Turkish-NATO military base by force and ignored the direct orders of the commander in chief. You guys act like it's no big deal. They're coming for us, all of us - even the General, although he's on a space station - and they're going to send us to prison. What do you suggest we do about it?"

"I suggest we rescue our crew members on the ground in Iran, then hunt down any parts of that anti-space laser the Russians fired at us, General Furness," Patrick said immediately. "Everything else is background noise at this point."

"Background noise"? Are you calling the actions of the Turkish and US governments - perhaps our own military - pursuing us merely 'background noise'? We'll be lucky if they just send an infantry battalion to get us out of here. Do you intend to continue to ignore orders and destroy anyone who gets in your way, General? Are we going to fight against our own people now?"

"Rebecca, I"m not ordering you to do anything, I"m asking you," Patrick said. "We have crew members in Iran, the Russians are shooting lasers, and the president is doing nothing about it except ordering us to stand down. Now, if you don't want to help, just say so, call off the vampires and call the Pentagon."

"And tell them this, Patrick-that you made me launch these planes?" You're two hundred miles up on a space station, probably on the other side of the planet. I'm ready, General. I'm screwed. My career is over."

"Rebecca, you did what you did because we have friends and fellow warriors on the ground in Iran, and we wanted to save and protect them if possible," Patrick said. "You did it because you had forces standing by and ready to respond. If we had followed orders, the survivors would have been captured, tortured and then killed - you know it, and I know it. You acted. This is more than I can say about the Pentagon and our commander in chief. If we're going to lose our freedom, I'd rather it was because we tried to make sure our fellow airmen kept theirs."

Rebecca was silent for a long moment, then shook her head sadly. "I hate it when you're right, General," she said. "Maybe I can tell them that you threatened to blow me up with the Skybolt if I didn't do as you ordered."

"Maybe they'll laugh so hard they'll forget what we did."

"We need a plan, General," Rebecca said. "The Turks are going to send troops to retake Batman AFB, and if they don't, there's an entire US airborne division in Germany that could fall on our heads within half a day. In Batman we only have three CID departments and four Tinmen, plus security and maintenance forces. And we all know that Battle Mountain and probably Elliott will be next."

"We need to move Air Force units to Dreamland," Patrick said. "We can hold this base much easier than Battle Mountain."

"Do you hear what you say, Patrick?" - Rebecca asked incredulously. "You conspire to organize and direct the U.S. military against the orders of the Commander in Chief, unlawfully place it under your own command without any authority, and directly oppose and engage in combat with the U.S. military. This is a riot! This is treason! You won't go to jail, Patrick - you could be executed!"

"Thanks for the law primer, Rebecca," Patrick said. "I hope it doesn't come to that. Once the survivors are rescued and the Russian anti-space laser is destroyed, or at least discovered, this will all be over. I understand if you don't want to do what I suggest, Rebecca. But if you want to take combat aircraft and provide assistance, you cannot stay on Battle Mountain. They might come outside to grab you as we speak."

Every participant in the secure video conference could see the anguished expression on Rebecca Furness's face. Of all of them, she probably had the most to lose in this, and it was obvious that she didn't want that. But literally a moment later she nodded. "Everything is fine. For ten cents, for a dollar - from twenty to life. Maybe the military tribunal will take pity on me because I am a woman. I'll send the planes on their way immediately, Dave. Make room for me."

"Yes, ma'am," responded Dave Luger of Elliott Air Force Base. Then: "What about the personnel and equipment at Batman AFB, Mook? The Turks and our own guys can wait for them to return... Unless Turkey tries to shoot them down when they re-enter Turkish airspace."

"I have an idea for them, Dave," Patrick said. "It will be risky, but this is our only chance..."

PRIVATE RESIDENCE OF LEONID ZEVITIN, BOLTINO, RUSSIA

IN THE SAME TIME

"Calm down, Your Excellency," said Leonid Zevitin. He was in his private office with Foreign Minister Alexandra Khedrov, making phone calls and sending secure emails to military and diplomatic units around the world, alerting them to events unfolding around Iran. The phone call from Iran's Supreme Leader Hassan Mokhtaz came much later than expected, but that's undoubtedly because it was probably very dangerous for anyone to wake the guy up with bad news.

"Calm down yourself? We were attacked - and it was because of you! " Mohtaz shouted. "I allowed you to place your weapons on my land because you said it would protect my country. She did the exact opposite! Four bombs have destroyed one of my Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps bases, and now my air defense forces are telling me that American bombers are flying freely across our skies!"

"There are no bombers over Iran, Your Excellency - we took care of that," Zevitin said. "Regarding your base: remember that Russia paid to refurbish and camouflage this base so that we could use it temporarily, and we agreed that it would be handed over to you after we were done with it..."

"And now you are done with it because the Americans destroyed it!" Mohtaz said. "Now will you leave us a smoking hole in the ground?"

"Calm down, Mr. President!"

"I want an anti-aircraft weapon, and I want it now!" Mohtaz screamed. "You told me that six S-300 units and another dozen Tor-M1 missile systems were awaiting preliminary verification in Turkmenistan. How long ago was it, Zevitin? Eight, ten weeks? How long does it take to unpack some rocket launchers, turn them on, and see if all the pretty lights come on? When are you going to keep your promises?"

"They will be delivered, Mr. President, don"t worry," Zevitin said. He was reluctant to supply missiles, especially the advanced S-300 strategic anti-aircraft missile system, until he was sure that he could not extract any new concessions from American President Joseph Gardner in return. Zevitin was perfectly willing to let Mohtaz rant and rave if he could get the Americans to agree not to send troops into Poland or the Czech Republic, or to agree to veto any resolution at the United Nations that might allow Kosovo to secede from Serbia, in return. These negotiations were at a critical stage and he was not going to let Mohtaz ruin them.

"I want them now, Zevitin, or you can take all your planes, tanks and radars back to Russia!" - said Mokhtaz. "I want S-300 and Tor to defend Mashhad tomorrow. I want to erect an impenetrable shield of missiles around this city when I return in triumph with my exiled government."

"This is impossible, Your Excellency. It takes time to properly test these advanced weapon systems before deployment. I will ask Minister Ostenkov and Chief of Staff General Furzienko to inform your military advisers about-"

"No! No! No more briefings and wasting time!" Mohtaz screamed. "I want them deployed immediately, or I will make sure the whole world knows about your duplicity! What would your American friends say if they learned that you agreed to sell anti-aircraft missiles, chemical weapons and anti-personnel missiles to Iran?"

"You have agreed not to share any information..."

"And you agreed to provide me with anti-aircraft missiles, Zevitin," Mohtaz intervened. "Break any more of your promises and we"re done for. Your infantry and tanks can rot in Turkmenistan, I don"t care." And with that the connection was broken.

UNITED NATIONS REFUGEE CAMP TORBAT-I-JAM, IRAN

A little while later

"Easy, girl, you're hurt. Don't move, okay?"

Captain Charlie Turlock opened her eyes...and immediately, what little she had was dissipated in a cloud of stars as pain shot through her lower back, through her spine, and into her brain. She gasped, the pain doubled, and she screamed loudly. She felt a cool hand touch her forehead. "Oh my God, my God...!"

"Believe it or not, girl, your screams of pain are music to my ears," the man said, his thick Irish accent gradually becoming clearer and in some ways soothing, "because if you hadn"t screamed like that, I would have believed, that your spine is broken. Where does it hurt, girl?"

"My back...my lower back," Charlie breathed. "It feels like... like my whole back is on fire."

"On fire... It's funny, girl," the man said. "I'm not at all surprised." Charlie looked at the man in confusion. Now she could see the stethoscope dangling from his neck. He was very young, like an older teenager, with short-cropped reddish-blond hair, bright green eyes and an ever-present smile, but there was a deep concern in his eyes. The glare from the single light bulb upstairs hurt her eyes, but she was grateful that at least her eyes were working. "You could say that you are an angel from heaven... or maybe a fallen angel?"

"I don"t understand, Doctor...Doctor..."

"Miles. Miles McNulty," the man answered. "I'm not a doctor, but everyone here believes that I am, and for now that's enough for all of us."

Charlie nodded. The pain was still there, but she was starting to get used to it and found that it even subsided a little if she moved that way. "Where are we, Mr. McNulty?" she asked.

"Oh come on girl, you make me feel like an old man by calling me like they call me old man," Miles said. "Call me Miles, or Wuz, if you want."

"Wootz?" - I asked.

"Some of the doctors gave me that nickname after I got here - I think I'd get a little giddy seeing the crap that goes on here: the blood, the rotten water, the injuries, the infant deaths, the hunger, the damn evil that who "can do something to another person in the name of God," said Miles, and his youthful features turned hard and gray for a moment.

Charlie chuckled. "Sorry". She was pleased when his smile returned. "I'll call you Miles. I'm Charlie."

"Charlie? I know I've been out here in the desert a while, girl, but you don't look like Charlie to me."

"Long story. Someday I'll tell it to you."

"Love to hear that, Charlie." He found a bottle in his jacket pocket and shook out a few pills. "Here. These are just over-the-counter NSAIDs - all the painkillers I dare give you until I run some more tests to see if you have internal bleeding or anything is broken."

A large armored arm reached out and completely wrapped itself around the man's arm-Charlie couldn't turn her head, but she knew who it was. "I'll take a look at them first," he heard Chris Wall's electronically synthesized voice say.

"Oh, that says," said Miles. He put his hand and the pills back. Vol unfastened his helmet, stretching his neck. "Sorry to tell you, buddy, but you looked better with a helmet," he quipped, smiling widely until he saw Vol's warning look. He put the pills back into the bottle, shook it, took one out and popped it in his mouth. "I'm trying to help the lady, not hurt her." Ox allowed him to give Charlie three pills and a sip of water.

"How do you feel?" - Vol asked.

"It won't be bad if I don't... move," she said, choking on a wave of pain. "I can't believe we did this." Vol's warning glance reminded her not to talk any more about what they had just experienced. "How long have we been here?"

"Not for long," answered Vol. "About an hour."

"Where is the Third?" - I asked. Vol pointed to Charlie's left. Charlie's mouth immediately went dry. Forgetting the pain, she followed the gaze of the large Marine next to her... and she saw another Tin Man, Wayne Macomber, lying on another table next to her, as if he had been laid on a funeral bier. "He is dead?" - she asked.

"No, but he was unconscious for a while," Vol said.

"I asked your friend if there was a switch or a latch or a can opener to open it and check - I'm not even sure if it's him or the machine."

"We have to get out of here as quickly as possible," Vol said.

"I think I'd like to take a look at the lassi, if you don't mind," Miles said to Vol. "Ten minutes to check you out first, huh?"

"Five minutes".

"It's okay, it's okay." He turned to Charlie, smiling confidently. "I hate doing this when you're hurt, girl, but it will help me isolate the damaged areas. Ready?"

"I think yes".

"There is a girl from the game. I'm going to try not to worry you too much myself, so try to move with me as much as possible - you're the best judge of what "too much" is, right? We'll start at the head and work our way down. Ready? Go." With surprising gentleness, McNulty examined her head, turning it very carefully, bending down with the flashlight as low as possible to look behind her head and neck without forcing her to turn her head too much.

"Well, I don't see anything sticking out," Miles said after a few minutes. "You have a funny amount of bruises and cuts, but nothing too serious yet. I've seen much worse here."

"Where are you from, Miles?"

"I'm from God's Back Porch: Westport, County Mayo." He didn't need to specify "Ireland." "And you?" - I asked. Charlie averted her eyes to the side and lowered them, and Vol shifted his position-not too much, just enough to keep everyone aware of his presence and prevent the conversation from veering into undesirable territory. "Ah, it's okay, girl, that's what I thought anyway. The only white people in these parts are aid workers and spies, and you're not dressed like a nurse."

"Where are we?"

"You are here at Torbat-e-Jama, a United Nations refugee camp originally set up for poor souls fleeing the Taliban in Afghanistan and now used by other poor souls fleeing Muslim insurgents," Miles said. "I volunteered to help deliver a cargo of food and supplies about six months ago, but when the doctor's assistant went missing, I stayed behind. A doctor went missing about a month ago - if the Taliban or Quds Forces need a doctor, they don't send for one, they take one - so I'm filling in until the next flight arrives. Nobody says when this will be, so I play the document and help as best I can. I'm losing a little more than the doc, but I think I'm starting to get the hang of it."

"Make Bat-i-Jam?"

"Iran," Miles said. "Here they still call it 'Iran' - the insurgency hasn't gone that far yet, so they don't call it 'Persia' yet," although the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps and the al-Quds Force are starting to get pretty nervous, as if the rebels are nipping at their heels. Not much. We are about sixty kilometers from the border."

"Inside Iran?"

"I'm afraid so, girl," Miles said. "About two hundred kilometers from Mashhad, the capital of Khorasan province."

"God, this is the last place we want to be," Charlie groaned. She tried to get up from the hard plywood board she was lying on and almost fainted from the rush of pain that overshadowed everything else she had felt since waking up. "I"m not sure I can still do it," she told Vol. "Where is my... briefcase?"

"Right here," Vol said, without indicating where or what they were actually talking about.

"You're in no shape to go anywhere, girl, and neither is your friend, at least as far as I can tell," Miles said.

"I'll do it," Charlie said. "How far are we from the crash site?"

"About ten kilometers," Miles replied. "What is this thing anyway...the Chariot of Mercury? It's not really an airplane, is it - more like a tin can with balloons on it. He was badly burned, but unharmed."

"How did you find us?"

"It wasn"t a problem, girl-we saw you streak across the sky and fall to Earth like lightning from Zeus himself!" Miles said, his eyes sparkling as the memory of seeing that sight returned. "Like the biggest meteor ever seen! You must have left a tail of fire fifty kilometers long if it was an inch long! It was a miracle to see three human beings still recognized as such in the wreckage, and even more amazing to find you still alive! We nearly shit our pants watching you come running straight at us - we thought the good Lord was going to end all our suffering right here and now, on the spot - but you missed. Finding you alive was nothing short of a miracle."

"Unfortunately, this means the Pasdarans probably saw us too."

Miles nodded. "They don't show up too often, but they're probably sniffing out something in that direction, that's for sure. The sooner we get you guys out of here, the better for all of us. You must be healthy enough to travel after the pain medication has taken effect. It won't be easy, but I think you can do it." He turned to the Tin Woodman lying next to her. "Now this gentleman, I'm still not so sure. Could you tell me how to...unlock it, unscrew it, move the deadbolt, whatever, so I can take a look and check it? "

"We don't have time, Miles," Charlie said. "We will carry him." Suppressing the pain, she managed to sit up on her bed. "We're leaving now, Miles. I want to thank you for everything you have done for us."

"I"ll be sad to see you go, Charlie, but honestly, I"d rather you weren"t around when the Pasdaran or al-Quds thugs hunt you down here." He looked carefully at Ox and the Tin Woodman's costume. "I think I've been reading about these things recently, haven't I? American anti-terrorism organization." Charlie didn't answer. "Oh, I see-you could tell me, but then you'd have to kill me, right?" She laughed, causing pain to ripple through her back, but she still welcomed the humor. "Okay, no more questions, Charlie. I'll go out and see if the coast is clear. Good luck, girl."

"Thank you". She winced in pain as she began to pull herself up, but the medicine McNulty had given her must have started to work because this time the pain wasn't debilitating. After McNulty left, Charlie lowered her voice and said, "One, the fourth stallion."

"We hear you loud and clear, Fourth," Patrick McLanahan responded through the subcutaneous global transceiver system. Every member of the Air Force had a communications and data system implanted into their bodies for the rest of their lives, ostensibly for situations like this, but in reality to allow the government to track the whereabouts of every service member throughout their lives. "Thank God you are alive. We read that the Fifth is with you."

"I confirm - he is alive, but still unconscious," Charlie said. Vol began to put on his helmet, preparing to leave. "I"m going to mount my horse and we-"

Suddenly McNulty ran back into the tent, completely out of breath. "Soldiers, right outside the camp," he said desperately. "There are hundreds of them."

"Alone, haven"t we got a ride yet?" Charlie radioed.

"Boy, this is Genesis," Dave Luger chimed in. "We have a CSAR team on the way from Herat, within ninety minutes. We're launching cover planes from Batman AFB in Turkey, but they'll take about the same amount of time. What is your situation?"

"Getting tense," Charlie said. "We will call you when we are safe. The fourth stallion is eliminated." Charlie walked over to a large box lying on the dirt floor. "Any backpacks or rifles, Five?"

"Negative," Wohl replied. "Sorry".

"It's okay-you had a lot to do," Charlie said. "Let's move."

Miles pointed to the large box Wohl had been carrying with him when he entered the camp. "Are these your weapons?" Now is the time to pull them out, girl."

"Not really," Charlie said. "CID one, deployment."

As Miles watched in amazement, the box began to move, rapidly changing size and shape, like a magician's wand changing into a bouquet of flowers. In a matter of seconds, the large but nondescript metal box transformed into a ten-foot-tall robot, almost bursting out of the tent, with smooth black "skin," a bullet-shaped head with no visible eyes or ears, and large, fully articulated arms, legs, and fingers.

"CID One, pilot," Charlie said. The robot assumed a forward leaning stance, like a sprinter's starting block, but with one leg and both arms extended back. Wincing in pain, Charlie walked around the robot and climbed up the outstretched leg, using his arms as handholds. She entered a code on a tiny keypad somewhere behind the robot's head, a hatch on its back opened, and she slid inside. The hatch closed...

... and a moment later, to the Irishman's amazement, the robot came to life and stood up, resembling an ordinary person in everything except its appearance - its movements were so smooth, fluid and realistic that Miles immediately found that he had forgotten that it was a machine!

Charlie picked up the still unconscious Wayne Macomber. "This is a very bad time to be out of this, Zipper," she said. She activated the cybernetic infantry device's millimeter wave radar and scanned the area outside the tent. "It looks like they're trying to surround us," she said. "The south side looks like our best escape route-there's only one truck parked there."

"How about a little detour to the north and west?" - Vol asked, studying the radar image data transmitted to him from Charlie's criminal investigation department. "Looks like the machine gun squad is deploying to the north side. I can use one of these."

"Sounds tempting." She held out her fist and he hit it back with his own. "As a handsome Australian actor once said in a film: 'Unleash Hell.'

"I'm on the road. Better provide him with some kind of cover." The ox ran out from the front of the tent. Charlie knocked Miles to the ground and covered him with himself just as a hail of machine gun fire blew the tent to pieces.

"Hop in, Miles," said Charlie's electronically synthesized voice. Still bent over, she pushed the motionless body in her arms to the side, far enough to create a space between her body and the Tin Woodman. He hesitated, still stunned by what he had just seen. "You can't stay here. The Revolutionary Guards will think you're one of us."

"Can you carry both of us?"

"I can carry twenty of your kind, Miles. Go." He lay across her arms and she rolled Macomber back onto him and tightened her grip, holding him securely. "Hold on."

But when she stood up, something was obviously wrong - Miles felt a high-frequency vibration inside the car, and Charlie's gait was unsteady. "What's happened?" he screamed.

"The criminal investigation unit is damaged," Charlie said. "It must be because of the accident."

"I understand," Wohl said over the radio. Charlie could see his location on her electronic visor - he was moving quickly through the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps positions, stopping briefly at each gathering of troops. "Push as hard as you can. I'll be by your side in a moment."

The next few minutes were pure torture. The ox briefly drew back some of their fire, but it returned at full strength just moments after Charlie burst out of the tent, seemingly aiming for them. The sounds were deafening. They were engulfed in clouds of smoke, occasional flashes of fire, and continuous gunfire. McNulty screamed as a bullet hit his left leg, and screamed again as a devastating explosion knocked Charlie off his feet. A few moments later they were on their feet again, but now the smooth rhythm of their running had been replaced by an awkward limp, like a car with a flat tire and a bent rim.

Ox ran next to Charlie, in his right hand he had a Chinese Type 67 machine gun, in his left - a metal can of ammunition. "Can you travel, captain?"

"It's not for long".

"What the hell is going on?" - they heard.

"Hit!" Fortunately, Macomber was awake, although his voice sounded sluggish and drugged. "Are you okay?"

"I feel like my head has been split open," Macomber said hoarsely. Charlie suspected a concussion. "Am I alive?"

"For now, I hope it stays that way," Charlie said. "You can go?"

"Do I still have legs?" I can"t feel anything down there."

"Stay where you are and try not to move - you will crush the other passenger."

"Another passenger?"

Charlie tried to escape, but things were definitely going from bad to worse. A rocket-propelled grenade exploded behind her, sending them flying again. "The power has already dropped to forty percent," Charlie said as Ox helped them up. "My main hydraulic system has failed and I can"t move my right leg."

"Can you keep moving?"

"Yeah, I think so," Charlie said. Using her right leg as a crutch, she limped forward as Vol laid down suppressive fire with his machine gun until he ran out of ammunition. He half supported and half carried Charlie, and they were able to climb the low ridge faster. They could easily see their pursuers below, who were slowly advancing as more and more units joined the pursuit.

Charlie lowered Macomber and McNulty to the ground, then walked out of the CID office. "It's getting ready to shut down," she said. "It's done. There is just enough energy left to start erasing the firmware. Once we move away, it will automatically self-destruct."

"They don't seem to be sure where we are," Vol said, scanning the desert below them with his night vision optics. He zoomed in on some of the details. "Let's see... Infantry... infantry... Yeah, there's one, another machine gun crew. I'll be right back ". He sped off into the darkness.

Macomber struggled to his hands and knees. "Okay, I'm starting to tell up from down," he said. "Who is our guest?"

"Miles McNulty, UN relief worker," Charlie answered, elaborating.

A few minutes later, Vol came running back with an even larger weapon than the first - a Russian DShK heavy machine gun with a huge drum magazine on top, as well as a wooden box with other magazines. "It looks like they brought some kind of anti-aircraft weapons with them - they were clearly expecting company. How are you doing, Major?

"Excellent, Sergeant Major," Macomber replied. He looked at McNulty. Charlie was busy tying a piece of fabric torn from her uniform around his leg. "The passenger is injured. Where is the cavalry?

"At least sixty microphones out."

"Where are we going?"

"East to the Afghan border," Charlie said. "About thirty miles from here. Hilly and fairly open area. There are no towns or villages around for fifty miles."

"How are you getting on with your food, First Sergeant?" - asked Macomber.

"Reduced to thirty percent."

"Here-I can"t use it yet." He unfastened one of his coin batteries from his belt and replaced it with one of Vol's weaker batteries. "Can we use the CID unit to charge our batteries?"

"Not when he's in shutdown mode, Bah," Charlie said.

"Can"t we connect to a power source or a telephone pole?" - asked Macomber. Charlie looked at him in surprise. "Hey, I've studied this stuff-I may not like it, but I read the manuals. We're not going to follow the highway, but if we spot a breaker box or control junction, I think I can install a jumper. Let's start-"

"I hear helicopters," Wohl said. He used his night vision and enhanced hearing systems to scour the sky, pinpointing the location of the approaching aircraft. "Two light reconnaissance helicopters, about three miles from here," he said, raising his DShK machine gun.

"Let's spread out," Macomber said. But he soon discovered that this was almost impossible: Charlie was still in pain from her injuries, and McNulty was seriously injured and in shock, so he had to carry them both, although he was still not one hundred percent himself, so that things were moving slowly. Vol moved about ten yards away from them, close enough to support them if they were attacked, but not so close that one explosive round fired from the helicopter could destroy them all at once.

They had only made it a few hundred yards along the ridge when Vol shouted, "Take cover!" Macomber found the largest piece of rock nearby and hid his charges behind it, and then himself, standing between the helicopters and the others to protect them as much as possible with his armored body. The Tin Man's armor system featured an electronically driven material that remained flexible but instantly hardened when struck by a protective shield, one hundred times stronger than sheet steel.

Macomber could hear the approaching helicopters through his own enhanced hearing system, but his eyes could not focus on the electronic displays. "I can"t see them, Vol."

"Stay where you are." A moment later he opened fire with his DShK machine gun, the muzzle flash of the large 12.7mm cannon illuminating a ten-yard area around him. They heard a loud metallic scrape as several bullets penetrated the first helicopter's turbine engine and firmly captured it, then an explosion occurred as the engine was blown apart. Seconds later, they heard more explosions as a second reconnaissance helicopter opened fire on Vol's position. He managed to jump out of the way just in time to avoid the full force of the Iranian 40mm rocket fire.

Wohl opened fire on the second helicopter, but the fire soon stopped. "It"s jammed... Damn, the cartridge is stuck in the chamber... it won"t discharge." He was surprised the gun fired as many shots as it did-it looked like it was fifty years old and hadn't been cleaned in half that time. He discarded his weapon and scanned the area for other Pasdaran units nearby so he could grab another machine gun, but the three remaining units stayed behind, blindly pounding the ridge with random rifle and mortar fire and content to let the scout helicopter do a bit of fighting for them.

"The infantry units are retreating and there is still one helicopter overhead," Wohl reported. "I'm ready to throw stones." He wasn't kidding-the micro-hydraulic-powered exoskeleton in the Tin Woodman combat system gave him enough power to hurl a five-pound rock nearly two hundred yards with enough force to cause some damage, which could put him within range of a scout helicopter if he could rush towards it, jump and time his throw perfectly. He found a rock the size of a softball and prepared to do just that...

...but then his sensors picked up another helicopter, and this time it wasn't a small reconnaissance helicopter. He would recognize this silhouette anywhere: "We still have problems, ma"am," Wohl said. "Looks like a Mi-24 Hind helicopter is approaching." The Russian-built Mi-24, NATO codename "Hind," was a large attack helicopter that could also carry up to eight fully equipped soldiers inside. It carried a huge array of weapons...

... the first of which opened fire a second later, from a distance of more than three miles. Vol immediately rushed away from the rest of his team, then stopped to make sure the anti-tank guided missile was still tracking him. It was, and he realized that the helicopter itself was also following him, which meant that the helicopter crew had to keep him in sight so as not to fire a missile at him. Fine. It had to be an older guided missile, probably an AT-6 radio-controlled direct fire missile.

Ox waited another heartbeat, then charged at top speed towards the nearest group of Pasdaran ground pursuers. He could no longer see the missile, but he remembered that the AT-6's flight time was somewhere around ten seconds at maximum range. This meant that he had only seconds to do it. This Pasdaran unit was an armored vehicle with a heavy machine gun on top, which opened fire as it approached. A few rounds hit the target, but not enough to slow him down. Now he was between the armored personnel carrier and the helicopter - of course, Wohl thought, the Hind gunner should have moved the missile to the side. His mental stopwatch stopped at zero...

...just as a spiral AT-6 anti-tank missile slammed into a Pasdaran armored personnel carrier, turning it into a spectacular fireball. The ox was thrown upward from the shock. The damned Pasdaran shooter was so fixated on his target that he lined up and hit his own guys!

Vol rose shakily to his feet, alive and mostly unharmed except for the fact that his eyes and throat were clogged with oily smoke. The entire left side of his helmet, along with most of his sensors and communications, was damaged by the explosion. He had no choice but to take off his helmet. The explosion also damaged his hearing, and the acrid smoke burned his eyes and throat. He was an easy target. His first order of business was to get away from the burning cars behind him that might be illuminating him...

...but before he could move, machine gun fire tore through the ground in front of him, and a large Mi-24 Hind attack helicopter flew in front of him and stopped, its chin-mounted 30mm cannon pointed directly at him. His armor would protect his body, but it would be useless to him without a head. Vol had no idea if they would accept surrender, but if they were distracted long enough it might give the others a chance to escape, so he raised his hands. The Mi-24 began its descent for landing, and he could see the clamshell doors opening on both sides, and the soldiers ready to dismount as soon as the large helicopter landed...

... and at that moment there was a flash of fire to the right of the attack helicopter, followed by a large column of smoke, more fire, an explosion and the grinding of metal, and then the large helicopter turned to the left and crashed into the ground. Ox rushed away just as the helicopter began to fall apart as a result of several more powerful explosions. He was about to return to the others when he saw several vehicles approaching, including an armored personnel carrier. The lead vehicle, a pickup truck with a machine gunner in the back, had a flag flying, but he couldn't see it yet. He thought about running away from the place where he had last left Turlock, Macomber and the Irishman... Until he saw the cars turn to his left towards the shelter.

The ox at maximum speed rushed towards the car, which was at the tail of a column of six vehicles, whose machine gunner covered the rear of the formation. Other vehicles wouldn't shoot at their own vehicles, and hopefully he could get to the machine gunner, disable him, and take the weapon before he could fire. Only a hundred yards left to go...

...and then he saw Turlock come out of his hiding spot with his hands up. Did she give up? It might have been good timing, after all-if they'd focused on them, he'd have a better chance of getting to the last pickup and...

... but then, as he got closer, Ox realized that Turlock was not raising his hands in surrender, but was waving at him, gesturing for him to come back! Why did she do this? Now she was pointing to the lead car, the one with the flag...

... and Vol finally understood what she was trying to tell him. The flag carried by the car had the green, white and red stripes of the Islamic Republic of Iran, but the central symbol was not the stylized "red tulip" word "Allah", but the profile of a lion with a sword and a rising sun behind it - a flag representing the pre-revolutionary era and opposition to Islamists.

Chris ran towards Turlock and Macomber, keeping a close eye to make sure none of the shooters pointed their weapons at him. "Not answering calls, Sergeant Major?" Turlock asked, pointing to her ear, indicating his subcutaneous transceiver system.

"My bell rang there," Vol said. He nodded towards the new arrivals. "Who are these guys?"

"These are Bujazi people," Charlie said. "General McLanahan actually called Bujazi and asked for help."

"They arrived right on time. It's good that they brought Stinger missiles with them."

"They didn't shoot down the Hind, Sergeant Major." Charlie pointed to the sky and they saw the contrail of a very large plane high overhead. "Congratulations from the general. They will be at the station for another two hours."

"Outstanding. This should give us enough time to cross the border."

"The general suggests we go back to Tehran with these guys," Charlie said. "They'll send a helicopter to pick us up, and the Vampires will cover us."

"I don't think that's such a hot idea, ma'am."

"I will explain". She did... And Vol couldn't believe what he just heard.

CHAPTER EIGHT

You don't keep yourself in the world by standing guard, but by attacking and getting a good beating yourself.

- GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

CAPITOL HILL, WASHINGTON, DC.

A little while later

"Frankly, Brit, I don't care what the Russians say," said Senate Majority Leader Stacy Ann Barbeau. She was on the second floor of the Senate, typically used by reporters to "follow" senators for comment on their way to speeches or between committee meetings. "They have been making all sorts of claims for months and none of them have been proven. While I consider Leonid Zevitin a capable and outspoken leader, the statements made by his Foreign Minister Alexandra Khedrov seem increasingly harsh and bombastic every time we see her on the news. President Zevitin is certainly not like that at all, which naturally brings me to the obvious question: who is telling the truth there in the Kremlin these days, and who is lying and for what purpose?"

"But tomorrow there will be a key vote in the Senate on funding the US military," the reporter insisted, "and in the midst of all this arguing about where to spend money on the military, members of President Zevitin's cabinet seem to be taking great pleasure in raising alarm about yet another future confrontation. Are these two actions related, and if so, for what purpose?"

"I"m sure I don"t know what"s on the mind of a Russian, even one as pro-Western, worldly and charming as Leonid Zevitin," Barbeau said. "I would think they would want to avoid saber rattling while we in Congress are trying to determine the right direction for the greatest military force in the world."

"But this is more than just saber rattling, Senator," the reporter continued. "There's definitely something going on there, Senator, and I'm not just talking about the turmoil in Iran, but also about American military activity, right? Simply put, ma'am: we can't seem to get out of our own way. The Iranian civil war threatens to turn the entire Middle East into hell, and yet we do almost nothing except send unmanned spy planes over the region; oil prices are rising rapidly; the economy is sinking like rock; Russia accuses us daily of killing civilians, bombing a civilian aid base in Iran, and creating unrest and chaos around the world, especially with the Armstrong space station and our space planes; the space program seems reliable and essential one day, and the next day completely ineffective. We even have a famous and beloved American three-star general, essentially a hero of the American Holocaust, stranded in space because no one can tell us if he's healthy enough to come home. My question, madam: what is going on in the world that the White House and the Pentagon have told Congress, and what are you going to do about it?"

Barbeau gave him her most attractive, mind-blowing smile, once again defining the phrase "making love on camera" to millions of viewers as she responded, "Oh, sir, what a terrible picture of doom and gloom you paint here this morning! Let me assure you and everyone in your audience around the world that the United States Congress is working very closely with the President and his department officials to not only deal with current and future crises when they rear their ugly heads, but also to chart a course for America's military that is unparalleled, forward-looking, adaptable, scalable and affordable. It has been less than five years since the American Holocaust, and three different governments have had to deal with the world as it became after those horrific attacks on our land. We are making progress, but it will take time."

"So tell us how you think the debate will go, Senator. What's on our table?

"The most important question for us right now is simply this: What forces are best suited to replace the land-based long-range strategic bombers and intercontinental ballistic missiles that were destroyed during the Holocaust?" Barbeau replied, still beaming despite the stern, worried, determined expression on his face. "President Thorne has favored ground-based and sea-based tactical air forces, both manned and unmanned, along with missile defense systems. President Martindale advocated the same thing, but, as his special adviser, General Patrick McLanahan, advocated, also sought to "skip a generation," as he said, and create a fleet of spaceplanes that could hit any target, anywhere in the world with astonishing speed, launch satellites into orbit when needed, and deliver troops and equipment anywhere on the planet within hours.

"As a former Secretary of Defense, Joseph Gardner supported these ideas and encouraged the development of the Armstrong Space Station, the entire space-based capability, and the Black Stallion spaceplane," Barbeau continued. "The space program has achieved amazing successes and brought enormous benefits to the world - global The Internet access provided by our space program has, without a doubt, truly changed all our lives and united our world-but it has also suffered a number of major setbacks.As President, Joseph Gardner wisely recognized that perhaps the space-based defense force visualized by Patrick McLanahan, are not yet mature enough to serve America."

"So where does this leave us, Senator?" - asked the presenter.

"President Gardner met with leadership and proposed a more reliable, familiar, proven combination of weapons systems," Barbeau said. "He wants to take the best concepts proposed by previous administrations and combine them into a comprehensive program to quickly create a credible force to meet the needs of the country."

"And what are these concepts, Senator?"

"I can't give you any details, Brit, or I'll have a lot of very angry gentlemen hot on my heels before long," Barbeau said sweetly. "But in a nutshell, we have individual services that do what the services do best, which has served the nation and the world so well for the last three generations, but also takes into account changes in technology and our vision for the future: fully fund and support an expanded and strengthened Army and Marine Corps as the dominant ground and special operations forces; fully support the Navy as the dominant sea and air force; and the Air Force as the dominant global support and space defense force."

"Wouldn't the Air Force be the dominant air force in the US arsenal? This doesn't seem right."

"The details have yet to be worked out, and of course I am confident that we will adjust and realign the situation as necessary to provide the absolute best force we can create," Barbeau began, "but it appears to President Gardner and to us in Congressional leadership that There is wasteful and costly duplication between the Air Force and Navy regarding tactical air power. It all comes down to the basic idea, Brit, that Navy planes can do everything that Air Force planes can, but Air Force planes can't do everything that Navy planes can, namely take off and land on an aircraft carrier, which, as everyone readily admits, is the undeniable definition of power projection in the modern world."

"And the President, as we all know, is a big supporter of the Navy, being a former Secretary of the Navy."

"This is duplication of forces, plain and simple, and now is the time to address it if we are to have a credible, mature twenty-first century fighting force," Barbeau said. "We're trying to think ahead. The Air Force is the recognized expert in long-range strategic attack and rapid resupply, and the Navy does not have such equivalent capabilities - it makes sense to transfer this mission to the Air Force, and the Navy to train and equip tactical fighters for theater commanders around the world."

"Would your constituents in Louisiana object to this plan, Senator?"

"I represent the best, most patriotic and most pro-military people in the country, Brit: the good people of Barksdale Air Force Base near Bossier City, Louisiana-Bomber City, USA," Barbeau said. "But even staunch bomber advocates like me have seen a shift coming for years: a shift away from the land-based bombers of World War II to the importance of global reach, rapid mobility, unmanned aerial vehicles, space technology and, most importantly, information warfare. The Air Force has been and will continue to be a leader in these areas. We have anticipated this for years, and President Gardner and I believe it is time to shape our twenty-first century forces to reflect this new reality."

"But the battles are just beginning, aren"t they, Senator?"

"With President Gardner's strong leadership and his unwavering promise to work closely with Congress, I think the battles will be kept to a minimum. Together we will achieve victory. The alternative is too terrible to consider."

"Does this mean we will see the end of Black Stallion space planes and military space stations watching us 24/7?"

"The Black Stallion is certainly a remarkable technological achievement, but as we have seen with a man like General McLanahan, it has its risks," Barbeau said, a serious expression of concern clouding her features for a moment. "My heart." fell when I learned of General McLanahan's illness, and we are doing everything we can to get him home safely. But here's what worries me, Brit: Patrick...General McLanahan...is a powerful man. You know the stories as well as and me, Brit..."

"The ones where visiting heads of state and generals urge McLanahan to rip the phone books of their respective capitals in half?" - the reporter added with a chuckle. "I thought these were rumors from the White House press office."

"These are not rumors, I assure you!" - exclaimed Barbeau. "I've seen it with my own eyes-Patrick can rip a DC phone book in half as easily as you or I could rip a page out of your little notebook. And yet he was still hit by something difficult to detect, diagnose or treat, something so debilitating that it could endanger the lives of every member of our space crew. There is great concern that the injury has affected more than just his heart."

The reporter's mouth dropped open in surprise. "I haven't heard anything about it, Senator. Could you please clarify? What exactly do you mean?"

"I'm sure this is all just speculation and nonsense," Barbeau said dismissively, acting as if she had said something completely unintentional, but captured every viewer's attention by looking straight into the camera for a brief moment. "But we really need to fully understand what happened to him. We are indebted to him because he is truly a national treasure, a hero in every sense of the word.

"But a fundamental question remains: Can we afford to put our country"s military future on hold while we study this terrible disaster?" Barbeau asked decisively, first looking at the reporter and then straight into the camera, straight into the hearts of the audience. "As responsible stewards of our military, sworn to build the best possible force to defend our homeland and way of life, the answer is simple and obvious: the space defense force is not ready, and so we must turn to proven systems that we know will work. This is our job today, and with the cooperation of the President and the House of Representatives, we are going to get it done. The American people expect no less from us."

Stacey Ann Barbeau fielded more questions from a crowd of reporters until finally Senate press gallery staff and a Barbeau aide shooed them away and released her. On her way to an overnight meeting in the committee conference room, she received a call on her cell phone: "I thought you were praising McLanahan too much, Stacy Ann," President Joe Gardner said. "His ass will soon turn to grass here."

"All the more reason to sing his praises, Mr. President," Barbeau said as she greeted supporters and colleagues as she walked and chatted. "I advise you to do the same, Mr. President: let your defense minister, experts, Russians and anti-war media vilify him, not us."

"You won't say that when you hear what just happened, Senator."

Barbeau's mouth immediately went dry. "What happened, Mr. President?" she asked, turning with a puzzled expression to her assistant Colleen Mornay. When they reached the conference room, Morna immediately kicked everyone else out so Barbeau could talk in private.

"McLanahan lost, and I mean completely," Gardner said. She caught a slight hint of triumph in his voice, as if he had finally got what Barbeau didn't have and expected some kind of payment for sharing it with her. "His men overran a Turkish air base, captured the base commander and most of the personnel with their controlled robots, then launched another air mission over Iran."

Barbeau froze and her mouth dropped open in complete shock before she exclaimed, "What!" The expression on her face was so alarming that her assistant Colleen Morna thought she was having a heart attack. "I... I don't believe this..."

"What do you say about your knight in shining armor now, Stacy?" - asked the president. "But you didn't hear the best part. When superiors sent several security units from Incirlik Air Base to arrest McLanahan's men, they disappeared. The planes and most of their belongings were gone. We have no idea where they are."

"They...they must be on their way back to the States, Mr. President..."

"Not that anyone knows, Stacy," Gardner said. "McLanahan stole about four experimental stormtroopers and transported them somewhere. We hope they are on their way back to Dreamland, their home base in south-central Nevada north of Vegas. If so, McLanahan could be charged with conspiracy and incitement of insurrection against the US government. What about those apples? What does your hero look like now?"

"I... I just can"t believe it, Mr. President," Barbeau gasped. Damn, after what she just said to the media, all those nice things about McLanahan... God, this could be her ruin! "We need to meet and discuss this immediately, Mr. President. We need to develop a unified position, both for Congress and for the press."

"We're getting all the information we can, and we'll have a leadership briefing that we'll give first thing in the morning," the President said. "McLanahan will die, I promise you, as will his entire team. He won't be as popular after people find out what he did. We will no longer have to look like we are destroying a national hero - he is destroying himself."

"We need all the facts first, Mr. President," Barbeau said, her mind racing to make sense of the explosive news. "Why exactly did he launch these bombers? McLanahan doesn't do anything without a reason."

"It doesn't matter one bit to me, Stacy," Gardner said. "He disobeyed orders, ignored my authority, and now he has launched military strikes overseas, stolen military assets, moved and led military forces without authority, and opposed our own and allied militaries. For all we know, he could be planning a military coup against the government or even preparing a military strike against Washington. He needs to be stopped!"

"Whatever our answer, Mr. President, I propose that we first find out everything we can, discuss it carefully, formulate a plan and implement it together," Barbeau repeated. "I know that the responsibility for your military lies with the executive branch, but it would be easier to do what we need to do if we agreed on it together in advance."

"I agree," said the President. "We should meet and discuss strategy, Senator, after we present our findings. This night. Private meeting in the Oval Office."

Barbeau rolled her eyes in annoyance. The man's greatest general had just hijacked some bombers and captured a Turkish airbase, and all the man could think about was cozying up to the Senate Majority Leader. But she was suddenly put on the defensive, especially after her statements to the press, and the President gained the upper hand. If she wanted any chance of maintaining her position in the negotiations over the Space Force assets that would undoubtedly soon be released, she had to play his game... for now. "The Senate has a busy schedule, Mr. President, but I'm sure I can...squeeze you in," Barbeau said, closing the phone.

"What the hell happened?" asked her assistant, Colleen Morna. "You look as pale as a ghost."

"It could be the worst thing imaginable... or it could be the best," she said. "Make an appointment with the President after the last meeting on the agenda this evening."

"Tonight? It's already five o'clock, and you have a meeting at seven with a law firm that represents the defense and technology industry lobby. It was supposed to last until nine. What does the president want? What's happening?"

"We all know what's on the president's mind. Set it up."

"It's going to be another late night, and with Armed Services Committee hearings starting tomorrow, you'll be working your butt off. What's so important that the President wants to meet so late? Does he still want to take McLanahan to the woodshed?"

"Not just in the woodshed, he wants to put the whole damn ax in his chest," Barbeau said. She quickly brought her up to speed, and soon Morna's expression was even more stunned than her own. "I don't know exactly what happened, but I think I know McLanahan: he is the epitome of good manners. If he attacked something in Iran, he probably had intelligence that something bad was happening and didn't get the green light to fix it, so he did it himself. Gardner should encourage it, not take it upon himself. But the president wants to show that he is still in charge and in control, so he is going to destroy McLanahan." She thought for a moment; then: "We need to find out exactly what happened, but not from Gardner's point of view. We need our own information about this. McLanahan is not crazy. If we come to his aid, then perhaps we will emerge victorious in the end."

"Now you want McLanahan to win, Stacy?" Morna asked.

"Of course I want him to win, Colin, but I want him to win for me, not just for himself or even for the country!" Barbeau said. "He is a true hero, a knight in shining armor, as Gardner puts it. Gardner's pride is hurt and he is not thinking clearly. I need to find out what's on his mind, even if that means doing nasty things to him every time the First Lady is on the road, but then we need to find out what really happened and plan our own strategy. I've got to keep my eye on the prize, honey, and that's getting contracts and benefits for my buddies in Louisiana."

"What if he really went crazy?"

"We need to find out what happened to McLanahan and what he was doing in Iran, and quickly," Barbeau said. "I'm not going to blindly side with the president and go against McLanahan, unless the guy is truly crazy, which I seriously doubt. Hit the buzzer and find out everything you can about what happened. Are you still in touch with his space playboy buddy...what"s his name?"

"Noble Hunter"

"Oh yes, the charming Captain Noble, the young space cowboy. You need to pump information out of him, but don't pretend that it is. Are you still fucking him?"

"I"m one of a very long line of East Coast Hunter Noble assholes."

"You can come up with something better than this, child," Barbeau said, patting her on the back and then gently on her butt. "Don't just be another companion-be his wingman, his confidant. Tell him that the Senate Armed Services Committee is going to look into what's going on in Dreamland and you'd like to help. Warn him. Maybe he will share some useful information."

"It'll be hard to meet a guy if he's flying in space, stuck on this base in the desert... or in prison."

"We may have to plan a study trip to Vegas soon so you can really put the pressure on him. Maybe I can join too." She paused, enjoying the thought of a threesome with the "Air Force playboy." "Tell him that if he cooperates, we can keep his tight young ass out of jail." She smiled and added, "And if he doesn't cooperate, get me some dirt on the boy that I can use against him. If he doesn't behave himself, we'll use him to begin dismantling McLanahan and the rest of the characters in Dreamland."

TEHRAN MEHRABAD AIRPORT, TEHRAN, DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF PERSIA

EARLY EVENING OF THE SAME DAY TEHRAN TIME

A motorcade of armored Mercedes sedans and limousines raced along Me'Raj Avenue towards Mehrabad International Airport, encountering no obstacles on the roads. Throughout the motorcade's route, General Boujazi ordered his troops to tear down checkpoints and barricades immediately before the motorcade's arrival, let it through, then hastily put them back up. The presence of large numbers of troops throughout western Tehran that night kept citizens and rebels away from the main thoroughfares, so few were able to see the emergency procedures.

The motorcade passed the main terminal where Boujazi had set up his headquarters and instead quickly traveled along a taxiway to a row of Iran Air hangars. Here the security seemed ordinary, almost invisible - unless you had night vision goggles and a map showing the locations of the dozens of sniper and infantry units scattered around the airport.

A lone white Boeing 727, unmarked, sat in front of one of the hangars, its ramp guarded by two security officers in suits and ties. The lead sedan stopped just at the foot of the airy staircase, and four men in dark business suits, dark caps like chauffeur hats, white shirts, dark ties, dark trousers and boots, with submachine guns in their hands, got out and took places around the stairs and in the nose of the aircraft. One by one, two long limousines pulled up to the foot of the ramp, and eight more similarly dressed and armed security agents disembarked from other sedans to guard the tail and right side of the plane. Several people emerged from each limousine, including an elderly man in a military uniform, a young woman surrounded by bodyguards, and men and women wearing Western-style business suits and high-collared Iranian-style jackets.

A few moments later, all the people ran up the ramp and climbed into the jetliner. The security men remained in their positions until the plane started its engines, and then they returned to their sedans. Large armored vehicles formed a bubble on all sides of the airliner as it taxied down the empty taxiways onto the main runway, and within minutes the jetliner was airborne. The limousines retreated to a secure fenced area behind Iran Air's hangars and were parked outside a shabby-looking maintenance garage. The Mercedes sedans conducted a quick patrol of the ramp and hangar perimeters, then were parked in the same fenced area as the limousines. A few minutes after the drivers and security personnel got out and locked their cars, workers came out, wiped the dirt off the vehicles with towels and covered each of them with nylon covers with elastic bottoms. The lights were extinguished, and soon the tense silence reigned at the airport, as it had been since the beginning of the mutiny.

A group of security agents walked up the parking ramp toward the main terminal building, guns slung over their shoulders, most smoking, all speaking little. The security guard at the terminal entrance checked their IDs and they were allowed to enter. They walked through the passenger concourse to a door marked CREW MEMBERS ONLY, had their IDs checked again, and were admitted. The other agents inside picked up their weapons, unloaded and cleaned them, and the group walked down the dimly lit hallway inside to the conference room.

"I think everyone played their part as well as could be expected," said the first "guard," General Hesarak al-Kan Boujazi. "Nice to see how the other half lives, eh, Chancellor?"

"I found it inconvenient, unconvincing, unnecessary, and if these aircraft engines damaged my hearing, I will hold you personally responsible, General Boujazi," said an indignant Masoud Noshar, Lord High Chancellor of the Kagewa Royal Household. He was tall and thin, about forty years old, with long and slightly curly gray hair, a goatee streaked with gray, and long, graceful-looking fingers. Although Noshar was young and seemed healthy, he was apparently not used to much physical exertion, and was out of breath from walking quickly and taking the stairs instead of using the elevator. He took off his jacket and cap and removed his tie as if they were burning his skin with acid, then snapped his fingers at one of the other men in dark suits, one of his real guards, who went to get his ankle-length fur and leather coat. "It was nothing more than a petty parlor game that fooled no one."

"We better hope it worked, Lord Chancellor," said another of the "guards," Princess Azar Asia Kagev. Instead of handing her weapon over to a guard, she unloaded and cleaned it herself, then began disassembling the weapon in the field for inspection and cleaning. "The insurgents are penetrating our network deeper and deeper every day."

"And we also capture and kill more of them every day, your highness," Noshar reminded her. "God and time are on our side, princess, don"t be afraid." Finally, his attention was drawn to the weapon dismantling taking place in front of him. "What the hell are you doing, your highness?" - What is this? - Noshar asked in amazement as Azar's deformed but clearly skilled fingers manipulated the weapon's seemingly hidden levers and pins. He glanced uncertainly at the princess working with a submachine gun and nodded to the bodyguard, who walked up to the princess, bowed politely from the waist, then extended his hand to take the parts of the pistol from her hands. She gave him a stern expression and a slight shake of her head, and he bowed again and backed away. A few seconds later the submachine gun lay disassembled on the table in front of her.

"You should not take unknown weapons into battle, Lord Chancellor," Azar said. "How do you know if this thing will work when you want it to? How will you even know if it was downloaded if you don"t bother to check?"

"We wore these things for show to fool any rebels who might have been watching us," Noshar said. "I don't care what form it's in. That's why we have trained security guards with us. Princesses are not supposed to handle dangerous weapons."

"It's not dangerous now, Lord Chancellor - it seems to me to be in good shape," Azar said. She started collecting weapons. In less than thirty seconds it was reassembled, loaded, cocked and cocked, and she had it slung over her shoulder. "I don"t carry guns ostentatiously."

"Very impressive, your highness," Noshar said, hiding his surprise behind a bored and unimpressed expression. He turned to Bujazi. "We are wasting time here. Now that we have played out your charade, General - having exposed the princes to significant danger, I will insist - should we get down to business?"

"Let's go," Boujazi responded, using the same arrogant country club tone as Noshar. "I asked you to come here to talk about coordinating our efforts against Mohtaz and his foreign rebels. Yesterday's shootout with what turned out to be your assassination squad must never happen again. We need to start working together."

"The blame was entirely on you, general," Noshar said. "Your troops did not allow our freedom fighters to identify themselves. They had just returned from a successful raid on a rebel hideout when your men opened fire. My men found more than three dozen explosive devices ready for use on the streets, including a dozen suicide vests and explosives disguised as everything from telephones to baby strollers."

"Noshahr, I have been keeping a bomb factory under surveillance for several days now," Boujazi said. "We were waiting for the master bomb maker to arrive to load these bombs. What good would it do to kill a bunch of low-level, clueless worker bees and let the top bomb maker escape? Now it will take us another month or more to find a new factory, and by then they will have made another three dozen or more bombs to use against us."

"Don"t change the subject, Buzkhazi," Noshar snapped. "Your unit's surprise attack cost us the lives of six of our best agents. We demand reparations, and we demand that you withdraw your troops from the slums and alleys and limit your activities to the avenues, highways and airport. Or better yet, place yourself and your troops under the command of the military council, which is the legitimate government of Persia, and we will ensure that you no longer interfere with our anti-terrorist missions."

"We are equally responsible for their deaths, Lord Chancellor," Azar said.

"You don't have to apologize for the mistakes of the military council, Azar-"

"You will address Her Highness properly, Buzkhazi!" - Noshar ordered. "You don"t dare talk to the princess like she"s a commoner!"

"She is not my princess, Noshahr," said Boujazi, "and I also do not take orders from such imaginary generals or defense ministers as you!"

"How dare you! Shahdokht is the rightful heir to the Peacock Throne of Persia, and you will address her as such and give her due respect! And I will remind you that I am the appointed Chancellor of the Kagewa Court, the Royal Minister of War and Marshal of the War Council! Have some respect for the office, even if you don"t respect yourself!"

"Noshar, a year ago you were hanging out in the Monaco casino making up stories about leading freedom fighters against Pasdaran, trying to screw old rich ladies for their money," Boujazi said. "Meanwhile, your loyalists were captured and tortured because you couldn't keep your drunken mouth shut about their identities and whereabouts-"

"This is absurd!" Noshar hissed.

"Pasdaran's spies in Monaco, Singapore and Las Vegas received a constant stream of information about your network just by sitting next to you in the casinos, bars and brothels you frequented, listening to you tell your wild stories about liberating Iran alone "

"You peasant! You cheeky puppy! How dare you talk to me like that!" Noshar exclaimed. "I serve the king and his queen, have led twenty million loyalists around the world, equipped and organized a fighting force of half a million men, and ensured the safety of the royal treasury for the past twenty years! You are little more than a thief and murderer, disgraced by your own words and actions for two decades, demoted and humiliated by the government you served and then betrayed. You are rejected by your fellow citizens, and you are driven by nothing more than the fear of the next bloody rampage you will resort to, like the heinous massacre at Qom. You dare call yourself a Persian!"

"I don"t call myself what you call yourself, Noshar!" - Buzhazi shouted. He turned to Azar, his eyes sparkling. "I will have nothing to do with you or your so-called court, princess, while he is in power. I'm not in the mood to play dress up, kings and castles."

"General-"

"Sorry, princess, but this is a huge waste of my time," Boujazi said angrily. "I have a war to fight. This idiot, who calls himself a marshal and minister of war, does not know which end of the rifle to aim at the enemy. I need fighters, not parrots. I have work to do."

"General, please stay."

"I'm leaving. Good luck to you and your cute little court jesters, princess."

"General, I said stay!" - Azar shouted. She tore off her dark cap, allowing her long uniform to fly into the air. The Persians in the room were stunned by the sudden appearance of a symbol of royalty in their midst... all except Bujazi, who was instead taken aback by the commanding tone of the young woman: part drill sergeant, part disapproving mother, part field general.

"Shahdokht...Highness...my lady..." Noshar stammered, his gaze glued to the dark shiny flowing curls, as if the golden scepter had just appeared before his eyes: "I think it"s time for us to leave and-"

"You will stay and shut your mouth, Chancellor!" Hazard snapped. "We have an important matter to discuss."

"We cannot do business with this... this terrorist!" - Noshar said. "He's just a staggering old fool with delusions of grandeur-"

"I said we need to discuss the matter with the general," Azar said. This time, the word "we" that came from her lips had a different meaning: it no longer referred to him, but clearly indicated the imperial "we", meaning her alone. "Shut up, Chancellor."

"Be...quiet...?" Noshar gurgled, his mouth opening and closing indignantly. "Forgive me, Shahdokht, but I am the Lord High Chancellor of the Royal Household, the king's representative in his absence. I have the full and sole right to negotiate and enter into agreements and alliances with friendly and allied forces."

"Not anymore, Chancellor," Azar said decisively. "It has been a year since anyone has heard or seen the king and queen. Meanwhile, the court has been administered by appointed servants who, although loyal, do not have the interests of the people in mind."

"I ask you for forgiveness, Shahdokht -!"

"It's true, Chancellor, and you know it," Azar said. "Your primary purpose was to organize, secure, and house the court in preparation for administering the government upon the return of the king and queen. You did an excellent job with this, Chancellor. The court is safe, secure, well run, well funded and ready to govern this country when the time comes. But right now people don"t want an administrator-they want a leader and a general."

"I am the rightful leader, Shahdokht, until the king returns," Noshar insisted. "And as Minister of War and Marshal of the War Council, I am the Commander-in-Chief of our armed forces. Others are not allowed."

"You are mistaken, Chancellor...I am," Azar said.

"You? But this... this is extremely irregular, Shahdokht," Noshar said. "An announcement of death or abdication has not yet been made. A council consisting of myself, the religious leaders and representatives of the eleven royal houses must be convened to investigate the probable whereabouts of the king and queen and decide what action to take. This is impossible and unsafe to do during war!"

"Then, as heir apparent, I will make a statement myself," Hazard said.

"You!" Noshar repeated. "You... that is... forgive me for such words, Shahdokht, but this is an insult to the memory of your blessed father and mother, our beloved king and queen. They may still be in hiding, or perhaps wounded and recovering, or even captured. Our enemies may be waiting for you to do such a thing, and then reveal that they are still alive, hoping to sow confusion among us and stir up a rebellion against the court and the royal family. You can't...I mean, you shouldn't do this, Shahdokht...

"I am no longer Shahdokht, chancellor," Azar said. "From now on you will call me Malika."

Noshar swallowed, his eyes bulging. He glanced furtively at his bodyguards, then back at Azar, studying her carefully, trying to decide if she meant what she just said and whether she would back down or compromise if confronted. "I... I'm afraid I can't let this happen, princess," he said, finally gathering his courage. "I am responsible to the king and queen for the protection of the court. In their absence and without instructions from the council of royal houses, I am afraid I will not be able to do as you wish."

Azar lowered her eyes, nodded and seemed to even sigh. "Very good, Chancellor. I understand your point of view."

Noshar felt relieved. He would certainly have to deal with this young Americanized upstart, and soon - she obviously had aspirations far beyond her years, and that would not be tolerated. But he was willing to act as a supportive and protective uncle, all in order to better keep an eye on her while he...

"I see it's time to take back the throne," Hazard said. In one blurry motion, she suddenly picked up a German-made Heckler & Koch HK-54 submachine gun and strapped it to her hip... Aiming it directly at Masoud Noshar's chest. "You are under arrest, Chancellor, for disobeying my authority." She turned to the Persian bodyguards behind Noshar. "Guards, place the Chancellor under arrest."

"This is absurd!" Noshar screamed, more from shock and surprise than anger. "How dare you?"

"I dare because I am Malika, the chancellor," Azar said confidently, "and the throne has been vacant long enough." She looked past Noshar to the bodyguards, whose weapons were still hanging on their shoulders. "Guards, place the Chancellor under arrest. He is prohibited from having any contact with the outside world."

"They will not follow you, Azar Asiya," Noshar said. "They are loyal to me and the king and queen, the rightful rulers of Persia. They won't follow a spoiled, bewitched brat from America."

Azar glanced around the conference room, noting that neither Lieutenant Colonel Najar nor Major Saidi, her longtime assistants, had raised their weapons-they were off the shoulder, but still with the safety catch pointed at the floor. Same with Khesarak Boujazi and his bodyguard, Major Haddad, and the commander of the infantry brigade based at Mehrabad Airport, Colonel Mostafa Rahmati, both of whom accompanied them on this sabotage mission. She was the only one with a weapon raised.

"I have given the order, Master Sergeant: Arrest the Chancellor," Azar commanded. "Do not allow any external communications. If he resists, tie him up and gag him." Still no one moved.

"Master Sergeant... For all of you, it's time to make a decision," Azar said, glaring at each of them, hoping to hell that her hands didn't start shaking. "You can follow Chancellor Noshar and continue this so-called revolution as you have for the past year, or you can swear allegiance to me and the Peacock Throne and follow me in transforming this country into a free Persian republic."

"Follow you?" Noshar grinned. "You're just a girl. You may be a princess, but you are not a queen-and you are certainly not a general. Loyalists will not follow the girl into battle. What will you do if no one wants to recognize you as queen?"

"Then I will renounce my title and join the forces of General Boujazi," Hazard replied, to everyone"s absolute amazement. "The time has come to join forces and fight as one nation, and if it is not done under the Kagewa banner, it will be done under the general's flag. If you are ready to take me and my followers, General, we are ready to join you."

"That won"t be necessary," Hesarak Boujazi said... and to everyone"s great surprise, he took his submachine gun from his shoulder, held it in front of him with his arms outstretched... and knelt down on one knee in front of Hazard. "For I hand over command of my forces and pledge allegiance to Malika Azhar Asia Kagev, rightful Queen of Persia and mistress of the Peacock Throne."

Azar smiled, silently praying that she would not collapse from surprise or burst into tears herself, then nodded. "We are pleased to accept your oath of allegiance, Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi." She kissed his forehead, then placed her hands on his shoulders. "Rise, sir, take up your arms and take charge of the Ministry of War and the Military Council of the Kagewa Royal Household, and command of the combined forces of the Democratic Republic of Persia... Marshal Buzhazi."

"Thank you, Malika," said Buzhazi. He turned to Noshar. "My first official act will be to propose the appointment of Masoud Noshar as Deputy Minister of War, Vice-Marshal of the Army and my representative at court. Are you accepting?

"Do you want me to serve under you?" Noshar asked, even more shocked than before. "You take my position and then want me to come back? Why?"

"The Queen is a good and shrewd judge of people, Noshahr," said Boujazi. "If she says that you have served the court well as chancellor and prepared them to lead the country when the time comes, I believe her. I want you to keep doing your job, the one you're best at. Prepare the court to rule under a constitutional monarchy and ensure my troops are supplied. I need someone to represent me in Tehran because I will be on the streets putting down this uprising and restoring security to the country. This is what I'm good at. And as vice marshal, you will report to me. Screw up and you'll have to deal with me. Are you accepting?

For a moment, Boujazi thought Noshar was going to say something rude or offensive; instead, he did something Boujazi never thought he would do: he saluted. "Yes sir, I accept."

"Very good, Vice-Marshal. I want a meeting of the war council to be scheduled immediately." He turned to Azar. "Malik, with your permission, I would like to appoint Lieutenant Colonel Najar as my Chief of Staff and promote him to the rank of full colonel. Major Saidi will remain your adjutant."

"Permission granted, Marshal," Azar said.

"Thank you, Malika. Colonel, work with Vice Marshal Noshar to organize a meeting of the military council. Major Haddad is hereby promoted to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel and will be in charge of security." Turning to Azar, he said: "Malika, I would like you to attend the meeting of the military council and contribute to the resources and personnel that we could recruit from the streets of Tehran and the surrounding towns and villages. We'll need all the help we can find to make this work."

"With pleasure, Marshal," Azar said.

"Thank you, Malika," said Buzhazi. "If I may, Malika, Vice Marshal Noshar, I would like to show you something first before we proceed that may affect our planning. Colonel Najar, take command."

Hazard walked next to Boujazi through the airport terminal towards the exit. "You made a very dramatic gesture there, Marshal," she said. "I never thought I'd see you on your knees in front of anyone, let alone me."

"I had to do something to top your grand gesture, Highness," Bujazi said. "Besides, if all this fancy court stuff is what your people know and expect, I guess I had to play along. Were you really going to give up your throne and join my ragtag band of bandits?"

"Did you mean what you said about surrendering your troops to me and swearing allegiance?" They smiled together, knowing each other's answer. "Do you think we can pull this off, Hesarak?" - she asked.

"Well, until today I gave us no more than a one in ten chance of winning," Boujazi said honestly. "Things have improved significantly since then. Right now I give us maybe a one in five chance."

"Really? One hundred percent improvement so quickly? We haven't done anything yet, except maybe rearrange the sun loungers on the sinking ship! We have the same strengths as before, the same resources - perhaps better organization and a little extra motivation. What else has changed besides our names, titles and allegiances?"

They walked outside and were escorted by guards to a nearby Iran Air hangar. After their identities were confirmed, Boujazi stepped aside to allow Hazard to pass. "What else has changed?" he asked with a smile. "Let's just say that something from above fell into our laps."

"What...?" Azar entered the hangar ...... and was immediately confronted by a ten-foot humanoid robot with something like a cannon hanging on its shoulders. The robot approached her with amazing speed and agility, looked at them all for a moment, then stood at attention and in a loud computer synthesized voice shouted: "Attention, ten huts!", then repeated it again in Farsi. He stepped aside...

...showing that the hangar had two sleek, pitch black, massive American bombers inside. Azar recognized them as Air Force B-1 bombers, except that the cockpit windows were hermetically sealed. The hangar floor was crowded with vehicles, cargo containers of all sizes and descriptions, and perhaps two hundred American airmen in general service uniforms standing at attention.

"The way you were," Hazard said. Americans, both men and women, relaxed. Many approached the newcomers, introducing themselves with greetings and handshakes.

A few moments later, a tall man wearing a strange dark gray full-body armor that Bujazi recognized as the American Tin Woodman combat system, without a helmet, walked over and stood in front of Kagev and Bujazi and saluted. "General Boujazi?" - He said through the built-in electronic translator of his Tin Woodman suit. "Major Wayne Macomber, USAF, Unit Commander."

Bujazi returned his greeting, then shook his hand. "Thank you, Major. Let me introduce Her Highness Azar Asia Kagev..." He paused effectively, giving her a sly wink and nod, then added, "Queen of Persia."

Macomber's eyes widened in surprise, but he recovered quickly enough, snapped to attention again, and saluted. "Nice to meet you, Your Highness." She held out her hand and he shook it, his armored hand dwarfed by hers. "Never met the queen before."

"I have met the Tin Woodman before, and it gives me great pleasure and comfort to know that you are here," Azar said in such perfect English, so American, that it surprised himself. "Welcome to Persia, Major."

"Thank you". He turned his hand and looked down at hers. "Hypoplastic thumb. Great job on the fix. My little sister has it too. Double-sided?"

"Yes, Major," Azar answered rather awkwardly. "You surprise me. Most people I greet look at my hand and then look away, pretending not to notice."

"Ignorance, that's all, ma'am," Macomber said. "It"s good that you don"t hide it. My sister doesn't hide it either. She pisses people off, but that's her plan. She still has a terrible tennis backhand."

"You should have seen me at the shooting range, Major."

The big commando smiled and nodded, it was his turn to be surprised. "Looking forward to it, ma"am."

"Me too, Major." She looked at the other commando in the systems approach to the Tin Woodman combat armor. "Hello, Sergeant Major Vol," she said, extending her hand. "Nice to see you again."

"Thank you, your highness," said Wohl. "I'm glad to see you too." He looked at Bujazi. "I hope your new title doesn't mean bad news about your parents."

"I hope so too, Sergeant Major," Azar said, "but the situation forced my promotion, and so we continue." Vol nodded approvingly, but still gave Buzhazi a warning glance.

The ten-foot robot approached them. Macomber motioned to her and said, "Ma"am, I"d like to introduce you to my second-in-command, US Army Reserve Captain Charlie Turlock, piloting the cybernetic robotic infantry combat system she helped develop. She's on patrol right now, so she can't come out to greet you properly. Captain, meet the Persian queen Azar Kagev."

"Nice to meet you too, captain," Azar said, shaking the giantess"s hand, amazed by her gentle touch despite the size of the mechanical arm. "My Minister of War and Commander of my Armed Forces, Marshal Khesarak Boujazi."

"Nice to meet you, Your Highness, Marshal," said Charlie from the Criminal Investigation Department. Macomber's eyes widened at Bujazi's new title. "All patrols are reporting security, sir. Excuse me, but I will continue with my task." The robot saluted and hurried away.

"Incredible, absolutely incredible," Hazard said. "Thank you very much for the outstanding job you did tracking down Pasdaran's mobile missiles. But now I'm confused. Marshal Boujazi asked you to come to Tehran?"

"We had a little... problem, you could say, with our placement in Turkey," Macomber explained. "My commanding officer , Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan, contacted General-er, Marshal Boujazi, and he offered to shelter us until we sorted out our situation."

"McLanahan? General on the space station?"

"Let"s go somewhere and talk, okay?" Macomber suggested. They walked through the hangar, greeting more airmen, and took a quick tour of the EB-1 Vampire bombers before entering an office off the main floor of the hangar. Macomber spoke as if into emptiness; a moment later, the phone rang right next to him. He picked up the phone and handed it to Hazard. "This is for you, your highness."

Azar picked up the phone, trying to act as if sudden and mysterious phone calls were completely normal for her. "This is Queen Azar Asia Kagev of Persia," she said in English. "Who is this please?"

"Your Highness, this is Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan. How are you doing tonight?"

"I'm fine, General," she replied, trying to sound formal and coherent even as her senses became confused, trying to keep up with the amazing otherworldly technology she was encountering here at breakneck speed. "We were just talking about you."

"I was listening, I hope you don"t mind," Patrick said. "We are closely monitoring our troops around the world."

"I understand," Hazard said. "I hope you have recovered from your spaceflight injuries. Are you in Persia?

"No, right now I'm over southern Chile, aboard the Armstrong space station," Patrick said. "Your Highness, I was in a little trouble and asked General Boujazi for help. I apologize for not informing you first, but time was running out."

"You and your forces are always welcome in Persia, General," Azar said. "You are a hero and champion for all free Persians, and we consider you our brother in arms. But maybe you can explain what's going on."

"We believe that Russia has brought military forces into Iran and is working with the theocratic regime to exert influence in the region."

"Well, of course they have, General," Azar said as if nothing had happened. "Don"t tell me this is a surprise for you?" His rather embarrassed pause gave her all the answer she needed. "The Russians have for years promised significant military and economic assistance to the theocratic regime in exchange for presence and pressure on them to stop supporting anti-Russian separatist movements within the Russian Federation and its near abroad, such as in Kosovo, Albania and Romania. Russia has enjoyed its MFN status for decades."

"We knew that Russia was using Iran, along with the Iraq conflict, to distract the United States from its other activities in the periphery," Patrick said, "but we did not know that their involvement was so widely known and accepted."

"The assistance that Iran has received from the Russians is reportedly greater than what the United States provides to any other country in the region, with the possible exception of Israel," Azar said. "This was very important not only to keep the theocrats in power, but also to support the Iranian people. Unfortunately, much of this aid went to the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps and their dramatic military buildup, which they used to suppress any dissent in our country. But has anything else changed recently? Is Russia playing a different game?"

"We believe the Russians brought a new weapon, a powerful mobile anti-space laser, to Iran and used it to destroy one of our spacecraft," Patrick said. "Major Macomber, Captain Turlock and Sergeant Major Vol survived such an attack."

"You mean, one of the spaceplanes I've heard so much about?" - Asked Azar. "They were flying in one of these in space when it got hit by that laser?"

"Yes, your highness. I would like help to track down these Russian weapons and neutralize them."

"I don't think it will be difficult at all," Hazard said. She handed the phone to Boujazi, who put it on speakerphone and asked Major Haddad to translate for him.

"Marshal Bujazi?"

"Greetings, General McLanahan," Boujazi relayed through Haddad.

"Hello, Marshal. I see you got a promotion."

"And I judge from your unexpected call, the sudden appearance of such a large force at my doorstep and the alarming lack of information from your military or foreign ministries that your career has not enjoyed similar success," Boujazi said. "But you helped me when I was on the run, and I hoped to one day do the same for you. So. Did the Russians shoot down your spaceplane?"

"Can you help us find this laser, Buzhazi?"

"Certainly. I'm sure we can find it quickly if my people don't already know where it is."

"You sound pretty confident."

"General, we don't automatically distrust the Russians the way you do-in fact, we have more reasons to distrust the Americans," Boujazi said. "We are Russia's neighbors and our borders have been secure for decades; we purchased a lot of weapons and received significant military, economic, industrial and trade assistance from Russia, which was extremely important to us during all the years of the trade embargo with the West; we even still have a mutual defense treaty that is in full force."

"So you're saying that you worked with the Russians, Marshal," Patrick asked in surprise, "including supplying them with information about our activities in Iran?"

"General McLanahan, sometimes the depth of American naivety astonishes me," Boujazi said. "We have to live here; you are simply influencing events that take place here in America's national interest, sometimes from the relative comfort of the combat personnel room - or space station. Surely we supply Russia with information, just as we supply you with information about Russian activities and help you when you encounter... let's say domestic political problems?" And again no response from Patrick.

"We all have our own needs, activities and agendas," Boujazi continued. "We hope that such cooperation is enriching for all of us and is mutually beneficial, but in the end, our own goals must come first, right?" Silence again. "General McLanahan? Are you still there?"

"I'm still here."

"I'm sorry to upset or disappoint you, General," Boujazi said. "You saved my life and helped me defeat the Pasdarans in Qom and Tehran, and for this I will help you until my last days. All you had to do was ask. But you should not be so surprised to learn that I would extend the same courtesy to any other country that helps my cause, including your opponents. So. Do you want to locate this Russian mobile laser system? Very good. I will contact you immediately through Major Macomber once I know his exact location. It is acceptable?"

"Yes, that's right, Marshal," said Patrick. "Thank you. What about my people there in Tehran?"

Boujazi turned to Hazard and spoke in a low voice for a few moments; then: "The Queen wishes to give all possible assistance and comfort to you and your people. In turn, she hopes that you will help us when the time comes."

"So do I have to worry about the Russians attacking this place, Buzhazi?" - Patrick asked.

"Patrick, I think I've made myself clear enough for you," Boujazi said through his translator. "I hope you are not one of those idealists who believe that we help each other because we believe it is right, or because one side is inherently good and the other is evil. You sent your troops to Tehran for reasons that are not yet entirely clear to me, but I know that we did not invite you. We will know everything soon, with God's help. Until then, I will do what I must for the sake of our nation and our survival. You will do what you must for the sake of your people, your business and yourself. Hopefully all of these things are mutually beneficial." And he hung up without even saying goodbye.

"Is everything okay, sir?" Macomber asked through his subcutaneous transmitter after he apologized to Boujazi and Hazard.

"Major, I think we need to trust Bujazi, but I just can't bring myself to do it," Patrick admitted. "He may be a patriot, but first and foremost he knows how to survive. When he was chief of staff and commander of the Pasdaran, he was fully prepared to sink an American aircraft carrier and kill thousands of sailors, just to prove how tough he thought he was. I think he wants to get rid of theocracy and Pasdaran, but I think he'll do whatever he has to, including fuck us both, to survive. You'll have to make a call."

"Yes, sir," said Macomber. "I will let you know".

"Well, major?" - Buzhazi asked through the electronic translator when Macomber returned. "What does your commander say? Does he still trust me?"

"No, sir, he doesn't," Macomber said.

"So. What should we do?"

Macomber thought for a moment; then: "We"ll go for a little ride, Marshal."

CHAPTER NINE

Never argue with a person who has nothing to lose.

- BALTHASAR GRACHIAN

OVER SOUTH CENTRAL NEVADA

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING

"Here's the latest news, guys, so listen up," said SEAL team leader, US Navy Lt. Mike Harden. The fifteen members of his SEAL platoon, all freshly breathing oxygen in the cargo bay of their C-130 Hercules cargo plane, stopped looking at the maps and turned their attention to him. "Our guy inside tells us that this place is practically deserted. It has a total of twenty Security Forces personnel, mostly concentrated in the main computer center next to the headquarters building. The combat headquarters area is deserted, with only a skeleton security force of about six men stationed there. The hangars were closed for a couple of days. This is verified through our own surveillance. So, our goal remains the four main offices in the headquarters building: one department in each of them is sent to the security operations center, the combat control area, the communications center and the mission control center. Bravo Unit is right behind us, and his guys will take over the hangars and weapons storage area.

"Our guy inside says he only saw one of those CID-controlled robot units that patrol the hangars and weapons storage area. We know that they had a total of six nurses. One was sent to Iran, two to Turkey, and one surrendered when the Rangers attacked Battle Mountain, so that leaves two, and we have to assume they're both in Elliott. About a dozen Tin Woodman units are also listed as missing.

"Remember, only use regular ammo against the Security Force guys, if they open fire on you - don't waste ammo on the seeds or Tin Woodmen units." He raised a 40mm grenade launcher. "This is our best hope of knocking out these things: microwave pulse generators that look like a direct hit from fucking lightning. They tell us that this should shut down all their systems immediately. Possibly lethal for the guy inside, but that's his problem if he decides to fight. These guys are fast, so stay alert and concentrate your fire. Have questions?" There weren't any. "Everything is fine. We have about five minutes left. Get ready to kick some zoomi ass." A muffled "Wow!" was heard all around. wearing oxygen masks.

What seemed like only a minute had passed when Harden was notified by the cockpit crew that the jump zone was two minutes away. The SEALs quickly disconnected from the plane's oxygen system, hooked up to portable oxygen tanks, stood up and held onto the handrails tightly as the rear cargo ramp lowered. No sooner had the ramp rolled down than the red light turned green, and Harden led his platoon into the icy darkness. Less than twenty seconds after Harden's jump, all sixteen men deployed their parachutes. Harden checked his parachute and oxygen supply, made sure his infrared marker light was working so others could follow him in the dark, then began monitoring steering inputs using a wrist-mounted GPS device.

It was a HAHO, or high jump-the first jump. From an altitude of twenty-seven thousand feet, the team could sail about thirty miles from the jump point to their target: Elliott Air Force Base, nicknamed "Dreamland." Under orders from the President of the United States, two SEAL units were ordered to attack the base, neutralize the cybernetic devices of the infantry and Tin Man units patrolling the base, capture all base personnel, and secure the aircraft, weapons, computer center, and laboratories.

The wind was a bit changeable, definitely different from the forecast, which probably explained the hasty jump. Harden found himself steering his canopy through some pretty radical maneuvers to get on course. Each turn increased horizontal speed, so that meant they would have to move a little more once they were on the ground. They had to fly for about ten minutes.

When Harden finally set course, he began looking for landmarks using his binocular night vision goggles. He quickly saw that things weren't quite as planned. The first visual target was Groom Lake, a large dry lake bed south of the base into which most of Elliott's twenty-thousand-foot runway was built. It soon became apparent that they had gone too far west - they had jumped too early. The GPS said they were right on course, but the landmarks didn't lie. They had planned for this contingency, but Harden was going to give the flight crew a good beating when the mission was over. He had studied the entire surrounding area during his pre-jump exploration of the target and was confident that he could find a good place to land, even if it had to be at the very bottom of a dry lake.

He was unable to reach the dry lake bed all the way, but was able to find a level area about fifty yards north of the dirt road. The landing was much more difficult than he expected - again, the GPS lied about the wind direction and he landed with the wind rather than against it, increasing his ground speed and landing force. Luckily, they were wearing HAHO long jump cold weather gear and the extra impact force was mostly absorbed. He assembled a team in less than three minutes, and it took them less than five to remove and stow parachutes, harnesses, and additional cold-weather gear, and check and prepare weapons, communications, and night-vision systems.

Harden checked his GPS and pointed in the direction they were heading, but the first officer, who had a backup GPS, waved his hand and pointed in a different direction. They put their GPS receivers next to each other and, sure enough, their readings were completely different...in fact, they were off by about three miles!

This explained that they had veered off course and landed in the wrong direction based on GPS winds: their GPS receivers had been tampered with. Harden knew that GPS jammers were being developed, but a jammed GPS receiver could be ignored and alternative navigation methods immediately used until significant errors were made. On the other hand, the fake GPS receiver appears to be working properly. Even the C-130's GPS receivers were tampered with. He had to remember that they were up against a unit that was developing and testing next-generation weapons of all kinds, top-secret materials that the rest of the world probably wouldn't see for years, but that would revolutionize the way war was fought once it hit the streets.

The platoon leader pulled out a lenticular compass, ready to take a few sights on the ground and double-check their positions on his map, but he must have been knocked off during the accelerated landing, because the compass dial rotated as if it were connected to an electric motor. Harden wouldn't be surprised if the eggheads here also invented a way to jam or tamper with compasses! He decided that since they had landed west of the edge of the dry lake bed, they would simply move east until they found the lake, then they would move north until they found the inner perimeter fence. He again indicated the direction of their movement, ignoring all requests, and trotted away.

They removed their cold weather gear and left their parachutes on, which made their load much lighter, but Harden soon found himself wiping the sweat from his eyes. God, he thought, it must have been below zero here in the high desert, but he was sweating to death! But he ignored it and continued...

"Upwind," he heard in his headphones. He fell on his stomach and scanned the area. It was a code word for a team member in trouble. He crawled back in the direction of his movement and found the platoon leader lying on his back and the AOIC checking on him. "What the hell happened?" he whispered.

"He just lost consciousness," said the assistant officer in charge. He wiped the sweat from his face. "I'm not feeling too well either, Lieutenant. Would they use nerve gas on us?"

"Stay put," someone said over the protected FM tactical radio.

Harden looked at the line of seals scattered across the desert. "The radios are locked!" - he whispered. The AOIC relayed the message back to the others. He instructed to only use code words over radios on this mission unless they were in a firefight and the entire team was compromised.

The platoon commander sat down. "Are you feeling okay, Chief?" - Harden asked. The chief signaled that he was ready, and they prepared to move out again. But this time Harden felt dizzy-the minute he stood up, a warm, dry heat washed over him, as if he had just opened the door of a hot oven. The sensation subsided as he knelt down. What the heck...?

And then he realized what it was. They were informed of an incident in Turkey where the Dreamland boys used a non-lethal microwave weapon to knock out base security personnel - they reported that it felt like intense heat, as if their skin was on fire, and soon their brains were so badly scrambled that that they had lost consciousness. "Crocodile, crocodile," Harden said in his whisper, a code word for "enemy nearby."

"Just stay where you are and don't move," they all heard in their headphones.

Hell, the Air Force guys found their FM frequency, deciphered the encryption procedure, and were talking on their whisper-like channel! He turned and made a hand sign to switch to the secondary frequency, and the word was relayed to the others. Meanwhile, Harden took out his satellite phone and connected to the secure channel of another SEAL unit: "Silver, this is Opus, the crocodile."

"Did you know," they heard in their headphones on the new channel, "that there are no words that rhyme with "silver" and "opus" just like "orange"?" he said.... .........

Harden wiped sweat from his eyes. Communication discipline completely forgotten, he angrily switched back to whispering, "Who the hell is this?"

"Ah, ah, ah, Lieutenant, beading, beading," the voice said again, using the old code word to warn of inappropriate radio transmissions. "Listen guys, the exercise is over. We already took out another unit heading towards the flight line and weapons storage area - you guys did a much better job than them. We have prepared several nice comfortable rooms for you. Stand with your hands up and we'll take the short ride back to base. We have a truck on the way to come pick you up."

"Fuck you!" Harden screamed. He crouched low and scanned the area, ignoring the growing pain spreading throughout his body... And then he saw it, a huge robot, less than twenty meters in front of him. He raised the rifle, released the safety and released the grenade. There was a terrifying flash, the air filled with the smell of high voltage electricity, and he felt millions of ants crawling across his body... but the feeling of heat disappeared, replaced by a bone-chilling cold as his sweat-soaked uniform quickly lost body heat into the cold night air.

He ran back to his people. "Everything is fine?" he whispered. They all signaled that they were fine. He checked his GPS - it was completely dead, but the platoon leader's compass was working properly again and he quickly plotted their location on his map, got directions to their destination and set off.

On the way they passed a robot. It looked as if his limbs, torso, and neck were simultaneously twisted in different and very unnatural directions, and it smelled like a short-circuited and burnt-out electric drill. Harden felt sorry for the guy inside at first-he was an American and a soldier, after all-but he wasn't going to stick around to check on him in case he was just stunned.

It was pitch dark as they approached the inner perimeter fence, a fifteen-foot-high, double-layered chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. The lack of lights around the fence meant either dogs or infrared sensors, Harden knew. He ordered the team to split into sections and begin an attack on...

... and at that moment he heard a whirring sound, like a high-speed fan, and he looked up. Through his night vision goggles, he saw an object the size of a trash can about twenty feet in the sky and only thirty or forty yards away, with a wide round casing at the bottom, long legs and two metal arms that contained white flags - and, incredibly, , it had an illuminated LED display on top that read "DON'T SHOOT, JUST TALK, WE'RE LISTENING."

"What the hell is this?" - Harden asked. He waited until the flying robot was about ten yards away, then shot it down with a single burst from his MP5 submachine gun. He was sure he had hit her, but she managed to fly down more or less controlled, landing awkwardly a few yards away from him, still seeing the scrolling LED message. He moved his whispering sound to his lips. "Who is this?" - I asked.

"This is Brigadier General David Luger," answered the voice on the other end of the line. "You know who I am. This must end, Lieutenant Harden, before anyone else gets hurt or killed."

"I have orders to take you into custody and secure this base, sir," Harden said. "I will not leave until my mission is completed. On behalf of the President of the United States, I order you to deactivate all defenses of your base and surrender immediately."

"Lieutenant, there are another dozen drones flying overhead right now with flashbang grenades," Luger said. "We can see you and each of your fifteen comrades, and we can hit each of them with a flashbang grenade. Look carefully. In front of you, right next to the fence." A moment later, he heard a faint metallic sound! the sound was almost directly overhead... and a second later there was an amazing flash of light, followed a moment later by an incredibly loud crash! a sound and then a wall of pressure like a hurricane wind lasting a split second.

"It was about a hundred yards from us, Lieutenant," Luger said. The ringing in Harden's ears was so loud he could barely hear it over the radio. "Imagine what it would be like just five yards away."

"Sir, you're going to have to get me and all my men out because we're not going anywhere," Harden said, allowing his hearing to return to normal a little. "If you do not want to be held responsible for injuring or killing fellow Americans, I urge you to follow my orders and surrender."

There was a long pause on the line; then Luger said in a sincere, fatherly voice, "I really admire you, Lieutenant. We were honest when we said you were further along than other SEAL units. They surrendered the first time we hit them with a microwave emitter, and they even told us your identity when we captured them - that's how we knew who you were. You guys did a good job. I know you didn't want to kill Staff Sergeant Henry. He was a sergeant who piloted the CID."

"Thank you, sir, and no, I didn't mean to kill anyone, sir," Harden said. "We were informed of these microwave weapons that your robots are carrying, and we knew we had to disarm them."

"We developed the microwave disruptive grenade because we were afraid that CID technology would fall into the hands of the Russians," Luger said. "I didn"t think it would be used by our own against our own."

"I am sorry, sir, and I take it upon myself to personally inform his next of kin." He had to keep him talking for as long as he could. The main occupation force, a Marine security company from Camp Pendleton, was due to arrive in less than thirty minutes, and if this Luger guy had changed his mind about attacking more Marines, perhaps he would delay long enough for the others to arrive. "Should I go back and help the Staff Sergeant?"

"No, Lieutenant. We'll deal with that ".

"Yes, sir. Could you explain how-?"

"No time for explanations, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir." Time was running out. "Look, sir, no one wants this. Your best bet is to stop fighting, hire a lawyer, and do it the right way. There should be no more attacks. This is not who we should be fighting. Let's stop all this right now. You are the unit commander here. You're in charge. Give the order, have your men lay down their arms and allow us to enter. We won't harm anyone. We are all Americans, sir. We're on the same side. Please sir, stop this."

Another long pause followed. Harden truly believed Luger would back down. This was all madness, he thought. Have courage and stop it, Luger! he thought. Don't pretend to be a hero. Stop this or...

Then he heard a whirring sound overhead-the little scavenger robots were returning-and then Luger said, "The pain will be worse this time, but it won't last very long. All the best, Lieutenant."

Harden jumped to his feet and yelled: "All squads, for added effect, shoot grenades and run to the fence, forward, forward, forward!" He picked up his MP5, loaded an explosive grenade into the grenade launcher's breech, inserted it into place and raised the weapon to...

... and it seemed to him that his whole body instantly burst into flames. He screamed... And then everything quickly, fortunately, plunged into darkness.

WHITE HOUSE OFFICE, WASHINGTON, DC.

LATER THAT MORNING

"I can"t believe it...I can"t fucking believe it!" President Joseph Gardner groaned. Secretary of Defense Miller Turner briefed him and a handful of Senate and Congressional leaders on their efforts to apprehend members of the Air Force and secure their weapons, and the information was not good. "They defeated and captured two Navy SEAL teams in Dreamland? I can not believe this! What about other locations?"

"The SEAL team sent to Battle Mountain encountered light resistance and managed to capture one of their manned robots, but the robot apparently either malfunctioned or was damaged and was abandoned," Turner said. "The plane and most of the personnel have disappeared; The SEALs captured about a hundred people without resistance. The FAA was unable to track any of the planes due to severe interference or inoperability, and so we don't know where they went."

"Disabled'? What the hell is this?"

"Apparently, the next generation aircraft based in Dreamland and Battle Mountain are not just jamming enemy radars, but are actually using radars and associated digital electronic systems to inject things into the radar electronics such as viruses, false or inconsistent commands , decoys and even code changes," responded National Security Adviser Conrad Carlisle. "They call it 'nettruding' - network intrusion."

"Why wasn"t I informed about this?"

"This was first used on McLanahan aircraft deployed to the Middle East," Carlisle said. "He disabled the Russian fighter by ordering it to shut down. Most digital radar systems in use today, especially civilian ones, have no way of blocking these intrusions. It can do this using all kinds of systems, such as communications, the Internet, wireless networks, even weather radar. Additionally, since many civilian networks are connected to military systems, they can inject malicious code into a military network without even attacking the military system directly."

"I thought he fired a missile at a fighter!"

"The Russians claimed he fired the missile, but he used this new 'netrusion' system to force the MiG to shut down," Carlisle explained. "McLanahan had heart problems before he could explain what happened, and after that we took the Russians at their word regarding the incident."

"How can he send a virus through the radar?"

"Radar is simply reflected radio energy timed, decoded, digitized and displayed on a screen," Carlisle said. "Once the frequency of a radio signal is known, any kind of signal can be sent to the receiver, including a signal containing a digital code. Nowadays, radio energy is mostly displayed and distributed digitally, so the digital code enters the system and is processed like any other computer command - it can be processed, stored, played back, sent over a network, whatever. "

"Jissoos..." Gardner exhaled. "You mean they may have already infected our communications and tracking systems?"

"Once McLanahan decided to enter this conflict, he could order the attacks," Miller said. "Every digital electronic equipment in use that receives data from radio waves or is connected via a network to another system that is there could be infected almost instantly."

"These are all electronic systems that I know of!" exclaimed the President. "Damn it, my daughter's pocket slot machine is connected to the Internet! How could this happen?"

"Because we told him to find a way to do it, sir," replied Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Taylor Bain. "This is an incredible force multiplier, which was important when almost all of the long-range attack aircraft in our arsenal were destroyed. Every satellite and every aircraft, including its unmanned aerial vehicle and the Armstrong space station, is capable of electronic nontrusion. It could infect computers in Russia from space or simply from a drone flying within range of Russian radar. He can prevent the outbreak of war because the enemy will either never know he is coming or will be powerless to respond."

"The problem is that he can do this to us now!" - exclaimed the president. "You need to find a way to protect our systems from these types of attacks."

"It's in the works, Mr. President," Carlisle said. "Firewalls and antivirus software can protect computers that already have it installed, but we are developing ways to close security gaps in systems that are not typically considered vulnerable to network attacks, such as radar, electronic surveillance such as electro-optical cameras, or passive electronic sensors."

"The other problem," Bain added, "is that, as the department that developed and designs netrusion systems, the Advanced Aerospace Weapons Center has been at the forefront of developing countermeasures to them."

"So the guys who use this thing are the ones who know how to defeat it," the president said with disgust. "Great. It helps." He shook his head irritably, trying to collect his thoughts. Finally, he turned to the two congressmen in the Oval Office. "Senator, Representative, I invited you here because this has become a very serious issue and I need the advice and support of leadership. Most of us in this room think McLanahan is out of his depth. Senator, you seem to think differently."

"I believe, Mr. President," said Senator Stacy Ann Barbeau. "Let me try to talk to him. He knows I support his space program and I support him."

"It's too dangerous, senator," the president said. "One person was killed and several others were injured by McLanahan and his weapon."

"A frontal attack with armed forces won't work unless you're going to invade on D-Day, Mr. President," Barbeau said, "and we can't drive him into Dreamland when he's got spaceplanes and drones and bombers, roaming a thousand square miles of desert, patrolled by devices no one had ever heard of before. He won't wait for me. Besides, I think I may have people inside me who will help. They are just as concerned about the general"s well-being as I am."

No other comments were made-no one had any other suggestions, and certainly no one else was willing to stick their heads into the tiger's mouth the way the SEALs did. "Then it"s decided," said the president. "Thank you for this endeavor, Senator. I assure you all that we will do everything possible to ensure your safety. I'd like to speak with the senator privately for a moment. Thank you all ". The White House chief of staff escorted them all out of the Cabinet Office, and Gardner and Barbeau moved into the President's private office, adjacent to the Oval Office.

Before the door could close, Gardner's arms wrapped around her waist and he pressed himself against her neck. "You're a hot macho bitch," he said. "What kind of crazy idea is this? Why do you want to go to Dreamland? And who is this guy you say you have inside of you?"

"You'll find out soon enough, Joe," Barbeau said. "You sent the SEALs and they didn't do it - the last thing you want to do is start a war there. Your survey numbers will drop even further. Let me try it my way first."

"Okay, sweetie, you got it," Gardner said. He let her turn in his arms, then began to run his hands over her breasts. "But if you succeed-and I have no doubt you will-what do you want in return?"

"We already have a lot planned, Mr. President," Barbeau said, squeezing her nipples even tighter with his hands. "But I'm interested in one thing that Carlisle talked about: the idea of netrusion."

"What about this?"

"I want it," Barbeau said. "The network warfare mission goes to Barksdale-not the Navy, not STRATCOM."

"Do you understand all these things?"

"Not everything, but I will do it in a very short time," Barbeau said confidently. "But I do know that Furness in Battle Mountain has all the bombers and unmanned combat aircraft using netrusion technology - I want them in Barksdale, along with all the equipment for network warfare. All this. Reduce numbers or even eliminate the B-52 if you want, but Barksdale is waging an online war on everything that flies-drones, B-2s, satellites, space-based radars, everything."

Barbeau's fingers tightened on her nipples. "You're not talking about saving the space station?" - Gardner asked. "I want to spend these five billion on two aircraft carriers."

"The space station could fry for all I care-I want the technology behind it, especially the space-based radar," Barbeau said. "The space station is dead anyway - people think of it as McLanahan's orbital graveyard, and I don't want to be associated with that. But the nuts and bolts behind the station are what I want. I know STRATCOM and Air Force Space Command will want to use netrusion aboard their reconnaissance, airborne command posts and spacecraft, but you have to agree to fight it. I want the Eighth Air Force at Barksdale to control nontrusion."

The President's hands began their ministrations again, and she realized that she had him in her hands. "Whatever you say, Stacey," Gardner said absently. "To me, this is complete nonsense - what the bad guys around the world understand is a fucking battle group of aircraft carriers parked on their coastline, in their faces, not network attacks and computer magic. If you want the damn computer virus thing, you're welcome. Just get Congress to agree to stop funding the space station and give me at least two of my aircraft carriers and you can get your cyberwar crap done."

She turned towards him, letting her breasts press tightly against his chest. "Thank you, baby," she said, kissing him deeply. She placed her hand on his crotch, feeling him jump at her touch. "I would do our deal the normal way, but I have a plane to catch in Vegas. I will have McLanahan in jail by tomorrow night...or I will so brutally expose him as a raging lunatic that the American people will demand that you arrest him."

"I'd like to give you a big parting gift too, honey," Gardner said, playfully patting Barbeau's butt before sitting down at his desk and lighting a cigar, "but Zevitin's going to call in a few minutes, and I have to explain to him that I still in control of this McLanahan mess."

"Fuck Zevitin," Barbeau said. "I suspect everything McLanahan said about the Russians planting a superlaser in Iran and shooting up a spaceplane is true, Joe. McLanahan may be going too far by ignoring your orders, attacking without permission, and then fighting the seals, but Zevitin is on to something here. McLanahan doesn't just fly off the handle."

"Don't worry about anything, Stacy," Gardner said. "We have a good connection with Moscow. All they want is a guarantee that we're not trying to lock them up. McLanahan makes the whole world nervous, not just the Russians, and that"s bad for business."

"But it's good for getting votes in Congress for new carrier battle groups, honey."

"Not if we have a rogue general on our hands, Stacy. Remove McLanahan, but do it quietly. He could ruin everything for us."

"Don't worry about anything, Mr. President," Barbeau said, winking at him and tossing her hair. "He falls... one way or another."

Barbeau met her chief of staff, Colleen Morna, outside the executive suites hotel, and they quickly walked to her waiting car. "The trip is over, senator," Morna said as they returned to her Capitol Hill office. "I have billing codes for the entire trip from the White House, and they even gave us permission for a C-37 - Gulfstream Five. This means we can take eight guests to Vegas with us."

"Perfect. I have received a verbal agreement from Gardner to relocate and centralize all DoD network warfare units to Barksdale. Find out what contractors and lobbyists we need to organize to make this happen, and invite them to Vegas with us. This should bring tears to their eyes."

"You got it right, Senator."

"Fine. So, what about your beefy guy, Hunter Noble? He's the key to this trip to Las Vegas while McLanahan is on this space station. What did you get on him?"

"You've had him in your sights since day one, Senator," Colleen said. "Our Captain Noble seems to be stuck in junior high school. For starters, in high school he got a woman six years older than him-the school nurse, I think-pregnant."

"Where I come from, this happens every year, honey. The only virgin in my hometown was an ugly twelve-year-old girl."

"He got expelled, but it didn't matter because he already had enough credits to graduate high school two years early and get into engineering school," Colleen continued. "Apparently his way of celebrating graduation was to get some woman pregnant, because he did it again in both college and graduate school. He married a third, but the marriage was annulled when another affair was discovered."

"McLanahan, he definitely isn't," Barbeau said.

"He's an outstanding pilot and engineer, but he seems to have real problems with authority," Morna continued. "He gets high marks on his performance reports for job performance, but terrible marks for leadership and military bearing."

"It doesn't help - now he sounds like McLanahan again," Barbeau said dejectedly. "How about the juiciest one?"

"That's enough," Morna said. "Lives in the officer's bachelor quarters at Nellis Air Force Base-only six hundred square feet of living space-and base security has repeatedly warned him about loud parties and visitors coming and going at all hours of the day and night. He's a regular at the Officers' Club in Nellis and earns a pretty decent bar tab. He rides a Harley Night Rod motorcycle and has been cited for speeding and exhibitionistic driving on numerous occasions. The license was recently returned after a three-month disqualification for unsafe driving - apparently, he decided to drive an Air Force T-6A training aircraft down the runway."

"That's good, but I need some real juicy stuff, baby."

"I saved the best for last, Senator. The list of visitors allowed to visit the base is as long as my arm. Several people - wives of married men, a couple of famous bisexuals, several prostitutes - and one was the wife of an Air Force general. However, visits to the base seem to have declined slightly in the past year...mainly because he has credit signing authority at three very large casinos in Vegas totaling a total of one hundred thousand dollars."

"What?"

"Senator, this man hasn't paid for a hotel room in Vegas in over two years - he's on friendly terms with managers, doormen and concierges all over the city and takes advantage of free room and board almost every week," Colleen said. "He enjoys blackjack and poker and is often invited backstage to hang out with the dancers, boxers and headliners. There is usually at least one and often two or three ladies in tow."

"One hundred thousand!" Noticed Barbeau. "He beats every Nevada legislator I know!"

"Bottom line, Senator: He works hard and plays hard," Colleen concluded. "He keeps a low profile but has committed some pretty high-profile misdeeds that appear to have been kept quiet because of the work he does for the government. He is regularly contacted by defense contractors who want to hire him, some offering incredible salaries, so that probably makes him overconfident and contributes to his attitude that he doesn't have to play the Air Force games."

"They sound like a guy who lives on the edge, which is exactly what I like about them," Barbeau said. "I think it's time to pay Captain Noble a little visit - in his native habitat."

CHAPTER TEN

Feat is everything, glory is nothing.

- JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE

MASHHAD, ISLAMIC REPUBLIC OF IRAN

THAT NIGHT

The city of Mashhad - "City of Martyrs" in English - in northeastern Iran was the second largest city in Iran and, since it contained the shrine of the eighth Imam Reza, it was the second largest Shia holy city in the world, second in importance only to Qom . More than twenty million pilgrims visited the Imam Reza Shrine every year, making it as remarkable and spiritual as the Haji pilgrimage to Mecca. Situated in a valley between the Kuh-e-Mayuni and Azhdar-Kuh mountain ranges, the area experienced bitterly cold winters but was pleasant for most of the rest of the year.

Situated in the interior of Iran, Mashhad had relatively little military or strategic importance until the Taliban regime came to power in Afghanistan in the 1980s. Fearing that the Taliban would try to export their brand of Islam to the West, Mashhad was turned into a counter-insurgency stronghold, with the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps operating several strike forces, reconnaissance units, fighter-bombers and helicopter attack units from Imam Reza International Airport.

When Hesarak Boujazi's military coup took place, the importance of Mashhad quickly increased even more. The remnants of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps were pursued all the way from Tehran to Mashhad. However, Bujazi barely had enough resources to maintain his tenuous control over the capital, so he had no choice but to allow the survivors to escape without making a decisive effort to eliminate the commanders. With surviving Revolutionary Guard commanders moving freely around the city and a very large influx of Shia pilgrims that showed little sign of abating even during the growing violence, Pasdaran had many recruits to choose from in Mashhad. From the mosques, from the markets and shopping malls, and from every street corner, the call for jihad against Bujazi and the Kagewa impostors spread far and wide and spread quickly.

Inspired by the city's powerful spiritual aura and the strengthened power of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, Iran's acting president, head of the Guardian Council and senior member of the Assembly of Experts, Ayatollah Hassan Mokhtaz, dared to return from exile in Turkmenistan, where he lived under the protection of the Russian government. There was initially talk of all of Iran's eastern provinces separating from the rest of the country and Mashhad becoming the new capital, but the instability of the coup and the failure of the Boujazis and the Kagevs to form a government delayed such discussions. Perhaps all Mokhtaz had to do was call on the faithful to jihad, continue raising money to finance his rebellion, and wait-Tehran might soon enough be in his hands again on its own.

Three full divisions of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps numbering more than one hundred thousand people, almost the entire surviving composition of the front's elite troops, were based in Mashhad and its environs. Most of the Pasdaran forces, two divisions, were infantry, including two mechanized infantry brigades. There was one aviation brigade with counterinsurgency aircraft, attack helicopters, transports and air defense battalions; one armored brigade with light tanks, artillery and mortar battalions; and one special operations and intelligence brigade, which conducted subversion, assassinations, espionage, surveillance, interrogation, and specialized communications missions such as propaganda broadcasts. In addition, another thirty thousand al-Quds paramilitary forces were deployed in the city itself, acting as spies and informants for Pasdaran and the theocratic government in exile.

The headquarters of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps and the strategic center of gravity was the Imam Reza International Airport, located just five miles south of the Imam Reza Shrine. However, all tactical military units at the airport have been redeployed to make way for a new arrival: the S-300OMU1 Favorite air defense regiment from the Russian Federation.

The S-300 strategic air defense system was considered one of the best in the world, equal to the American PAC-3 Patriot missile system. The S-300 battery consisted of a long-range 3D scanning acquisition radar, a target engagement and missile guidance radar, and twelve trailers, each loaded with four missiles, as well as maintenance, crew support, and security vehicles. One such battery was installed at the airport, another to the northwest, and a third to the west of the city. The S-300 missile was effective against targets flying up to thirty feet above the ground, at altitudes up to one hundred thousand feet, at speeds up to Mach 3, at ranges up to one hundred and twenty miles, and lethal to even low-flying cruise missiles and theater ballistic missiles.

The S-300s were complemented by the Tor-M1 air defense system, which were tracked armored vehicles that fired eight high-speed, short-range, radar-guided anti-aircraft missiles from vertical launch tubes. The Tor-M1 was designed to protect mobile command vehicles, vehicle assembly areas, refueling areas and ammunition depots from attack helicopters, unmanned aerial vehicles and low-flying subsonic tactical bombers. Although the Tor-M1 had a crew of three, it was designed as a "set it and forget it" system, allowing for fully autonomous combat, or it could be connected to the S-300 fire control system to form an integrated air defense system. Together they formed an almost impenetrable shield around Mashhad.

On that day, Mashhad was one of the most heavily defended cities on planet Earth... and it was about to be tested.

About two hours before dawn, the first warning came from the long-range air defense radar of the second S-300 battery, located thirty miles northwest of Mashhad: "Alarm, alarm, alarm, this is the Siver battery, a high-speed low-altitude target is approaching, azimuth two -eight-zero, range one hundred and fifty, speed nine-six-five, altitude nine-zero."

"Sivir, this is the Center, accepted," responded the tactical operations officer, Captain Sokolov. Its tactical display showed three high-speed, low-altitude targets heading towards Mashhad. "Contact, sir," he reported to the regiment commander. "Looks like a bomb running across the area, right where you thought they would be."

"Absolutely predictable," said Colonel Kundrin, commander of the air defense regiment, confidently. As if sensing that something might happen that morning, he had been dressed and at his post in the Regimental Air Defense Command Center on the top floor of the Reza International Administration Building a few hours earlier. "The planes may change over the years, but the tactics remain the same. We placed this battery in an ideal position - the bomber is trying to camouflage itself on the terrain in the valley, but the mountains slope right down to where we placed this battery. A fatal flaw in their mission planning. He can't keep going straight, and if he jumps out from behind the ridges, he'll expose himself even more."

"Too fast and too low for a B-2 stealth bomber - it must be a B-1 bomber," Sokolov suggested. "And they also didn"t launch their hypersonic cruise missiles."

"I don"t think they have any stealth bombers left after President Gryzlov and General Darzov masterfully bombarded their bases and surprised the fools on the ground," Kundrin said. "Besides, we're not dealing with the US Air Force - it's just McLanahan, a general who went crazy in space. He's probably already fired all his missiles. Have the Syeveers open fire at the optimal range, and be sure to keep an eye on the trailing aircraft. If he has more than one bomber, he either follows a close trail or attacks from a different direction. I don"t want anyone slipping in."

Sokolov gave the order. "Engagement order confirmed, sir, fifteen seconds left...wait one! Sir, Zapat battery reports new enemy target approaching, bearing two-five-zero, range one hundred, altitude one hundred, speed eight hundred seventy and increasing!" Sapat was the westernmost battery, located fifty miles west of Mashhad.

"I knew it! Predictable, everything is too predictable," Kundrin said happily. "It looks like we have placed this battery number three in an ideal location too - covering the Binalud ridge to the west of the city. If I were planning an attack on an airport, I would hug the ground along the ridge, then walk around the end of the ridge and fire the missiles as I deployed. That's exactly what McLanahan did - and we were in exactly the right place to pin him! Its bomb bays will be open, and its radar signature will be enormous! Tell Zapata to fight when he"s ready!"

Each battery had three missile trailers, separated by several miles but linked to each other by microwave data link, each carrying four 48N6 vertical-launch interceptor missiles that had already been hoisted to the launch position. Once the order to attack was given and the proper mode of attack was established-launching from the optimal range-the battle was virtually automatic. Once the target was within range, a nitrogen catapult propelled the rocket out of the launch tube to a height of about thirty feet, and the rocket motor ignited, accelerating the rocket to a speed of over a mile per second in less than twelve seconds. Three seconds later, a second missile was automatically fired, guaranteeing defeat. The S-300 missiles rose to a height of only twenty thousand feet, heading towards the predicted interception point.

"Status?" asked the regiment commander.

"The batteries are hitting targets, four missiles are in the air," Sokolov reported. "Targets perform only minimal evasive maneuvers and create little interference. Secure fixation."

"The final act of overconfidence," Kundrin said. "In any case, they have no room to maneuver. It"s a pity that these are unmanned aerial vehicles, eh, captain?"

"Yes, sir. I'm worried about these T-waves or whatever they're hitting our fighter."

"We'll see in a moment, won't we?"

"Missiles are tracking perfectly...Targets are making slightly more aggressive maneuvers...Channel switching away from interference, still fixed at...three...two...one...now."

There were no other reports from the tactical officer, which left the regimental commander confused. "TAO, report!"

"Sir... sir, both missiles are reporting contact with the ground!" Sokolov said in a low, embarrassed voice. "Negative warhead explosion. A complete miss!"

"Drain the batteries and start again!" - Kundrin shouted. "Target distance and bearing?"

"Processing the second salvo... The third missile was launched... The fourth missile was launched," Sokolov said. "The distance to the target is nine-zero, the bearing is stable at two-eight-zero."

"What about the third battery? Status?"

"The third battery has entered the battle..." And then his voice cut off with a sharp intake of breath.

Kundrin jumped up from his seat and stared at the display. It was incredible... "Did they miss?" - he exclaimed. "Another hit to the ground?"

"The third battery re-engages... The third missile is launched... missile four..."

"Tell me the distance and bearing to the target of the third battery?"

"Distance eight-zero, bearing steady at two-five-zero."

"This... this doesn't make sense," Kundrin said. "The coordinates of both targets have not changed even though they were attacked? Is there something wrong..."

"Sir, the missiles of the second and third batteries of the second hit also show hitting the ground!" Sokolov said. "All battles are missed! The second battery turns on again. Third battery-"

"The answer is negative! All batteries are in place!" Kundrin screamed. "Prohibit automatic switching on!"

"Shall I repeat the last one, sir?"

"I said all batteries are charged, disable automatic switching on!" - Kundrin shouted. "We're on Mekon!"

"Have I been warned? You mean jammed, sir?"

"They broadcast decoys onto our displays and force us to shoot at ghosts," Kundrin said.

"But we have complete countermeasures and anti-jamming algorithms, sir," Sokolov said. "Our systems are in perfect working order."

"We're not being jammed, damn it," Kundrin said. "Something is inside our system. Our computers think they are processing real targets."

The command network phone rang; Only the regiment commander could answer it. "Center".

"This is Raiette." It was General Andrei Darzov himself, calling from Moscow. "We copied your retaliatory attack notification, but now we see that you have canceled all tasks. Why?"

"Sir, I think we are being directed - we are responding to decoys generated by our own sensors," Kundrin said. "I have blocked automatic replies until..."

"Sir, two S-300 and Thor batteries are receiving automatic commands to engage and are preparing to launch!" - Sokolov shouted.

"I didn"t give such orders!" - Kundrin shouted. "Cancel these orders! All batteries are in place!"

"Center, are you sure these are decoys?" - Darzov asked.

"Every rocket launched so far has hit the ground," Kundrin said. "None of our units reported visual, electro-optical or noise contact, even though the targets are at very low altitude."

"The second S-300 battery launches at numerous new incoming high-speed targets!" Sokolov reported. He ran up and pushed the communications officer out of the way, slamming his headphones on him. "Siver and Zapat batteries, this is the TAO Center, the batteries are in place, I repeat, the batteries are in place! Ignore the computer readings!" He hastily entered the date and time code for authentication - but while he did so, he watched as more S-300 and Tor-M1 launchers launched missiles. "All units, this is the TAO Center, stop launching! I repeat, stop the launch!"

"Stop the launch of these damned devices, captain, now!" - Kundrin shouted. Now more targets appeared on the display - they flew exactly the same trajectories, speed, altitude and azimuth as the first sets of targets! Soon the first battery, an S-300 company at Reza International Airport, began firing missiles. "Rayette, this is the Center, we are detecting new approaching enemy targets, but they are flying at exactly the same speed, altitude and trajectory as the first opponents! We recommend that you stop all responses and go into standby mode for all sensors. I am sure we are being deceived."

There was a long pause, during which the command network crackled and popped out due to changing encryption decryption procedures; then: "Center, this is Raietka, expand Phanar. I repeat, we deploy Phanar. Prepare to authenticate the job."

"Shall I repeat the last point, Raietka?" - Asked Kundrin. For God's sake, the regimental commander was crying to himself, I just recommended to the guy that we shut everything down - now Darzo wants to release the biggest gun and the biggest sensor they had! "Repeat, Raiette?"

"I said, unfold the Phanar and get ready for authentication when completing the mission," came the response order. This was followed by an authentication code.

"I understand, Raietka, I"m moving Phanar to a firing position, preparing to check the authenticity of entering into battle." Darzov must be falling into despair, Kundrin thought. Phanar, an anti-spaceship laser, was probably their last chance. The anti-aircraft artillery units scattered throughout Mashhad had no chance against the fast, low-flying bombers. He picked up the receiver of his regiment's command network telephone: "Security Service, this is the Center, take Phanar to a firing position and inform the crew to prepare for a collision with enemy aircraft." He gave the security commander an identification code to move the trucks.

"Sir, we managed to get all units to respond to the order to limit weapons," Sokolov said. "We only have twenty percent of our basic ammo left."

"Twenty percent!" Damn, they wasted eighty percent of their missiles on ghosts! "They better be recharging, damn it!"

"We are now in the process of recharging, sir," Sokolov continued. "Tor-M1 units will be ready within fifteen minutes, and S-300 units will be ready within an hour."

"Get on with it. A real attack can happen at any moment. And make sure they don"t respond to any more targets unless they have optical-electronic confirmation!" Kundrin rushed to the exit, down the corridor, through the emergency exit and up the roof of the administration building. From there, using night vision binoculars, he could observe the progress of the security units.

Four Phanar trucks were just emerging from their hiding places. They were hidden in a tunnel that ran under the runways, allowing vehicles to move from one side of the airport to the other without having to go around the runways. They were heading to a firefighting training area on the north side of the runways, which had several old fuel tanks rigged to look like an airliner that could be filled with spent jet fuel and set on fire to simulate an airliner crash. The command vehicle was in the process of deploying a huge electronically scanned radar antenna and data link mast that would allow the radar to connect to the S-300's fire control network.

Kundrin"s protected portable radio crackled to life: "Center, this is Rayetka," Darzov spoke. "Status".

"Phanar deployment is in full swing, sir," Kundrin replied.

"Center" is "DAO," Sokolov broadcast on the radio.

"Get ready, TAO," Kundrin said. "I'm talking to Rayetka."

"Are they setting up at the southeast site as indicated?" - Darzov asked.

Southeast site? There was a fighter alert area on the southeast side, but it was still used by Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps tactical attack helicopters and as a guarded parking area for Russian transports. They were never instructed to use it to use a laser against a spacecraft. "The answer is no sir, we are using the northern site for firefighting training as instructed."

"Accepted," said Darzov. "Continue."

A moment later, the TAO burst through the door onto the rooftop observation post. "Stop, sir!" - he shouted.

"What the hell is going on, Sokolov? What are you doing up here?"

"Authentication from Rayetka - it was invalid!" Sokolov said. "The order to deploy Phanar was invalid!"

"What?" A dull cold ran through Kundrin"s head. He assumed that since the person on the radio was using the correct code name and was on the correct encrypted frequency, he was who he said he was and gave a valid order - he did not wait to see if the authentication code had been verified...

... and he realized that he had just told whoever was on the other end of that channel the exact location of Phanar!"

He frantically raised the radio to his lips: "Security, this is the Center, cancel the deployment, take these trucks back to the shelter!" - he shouted. "I repeat, take them to-!"

But at that very moment there was a flash of light, and a millisecond later an incredibly deafening explosion, followed by several more in quick succession. The first shock knocked Kundrin and Sokolov off their feet, and they crawled desperately away as crushing waves of damp heat hit them. They could do nothing but curl into protective balls and cover their ears as the explosions continued one after another.

It seemed like it lasted an hour, but it was actually over in less than twenty seconds. Kundrin and Sokolov, their ears ringing from the deafening noise, crawled to the destroyed façade of the administrative building and looked out across the runways . The entire area north of the runways was engulfed in flames, centered on a firefighting training area. The fire on the panel itself-apparently from the burning chemicals used by the laser-appeared so hot and intense that it was radioactive. The Alert aircraft parking area in the southeast was also hit, with every helicopter and vehicle on fire.

Then they heard them, and in the bright glow of the fires they soon saw them too, as clear as day: a pair of American B-1 bombers flying straight down the runway. They apparently knew that all air defense units had been ordered to turn off their systems and not open fire. The first flapped its wings as it flew past the office building, and the second actually deployed its ailerons, flying less than two hundred feet above the ground. Having finished their little air show, they turned on the afterburners, flew into the night sky and were soon out of sight.

LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

IN THE SAME TIME

Stacy Ann Barbeau loved casinos, and she spent a lot of time in them along the Mississippi River in Louisiana and on the Gulf Coast in neighboring Mississippi. But this was the first time in years that she had been to a major Las Vegas casino, and she was impressed. Now this was much more than gambling halls - these were exciting places, a sensory bombardment not only of lights, colors and sounds, but also of scenery, landscaping, architecture and art that was truly stunning. The last time she was here, the decorations seemed gaudy, almost Disneyesque. No more. It was definitely an elegant Las Vegas - flashy, a little gaudy, loud and extravagant, but elegant nonetheless.

"You know what I like best about these places, honey-you can be so completely anonymous, even dressed like that," Barbeau told her assistant Colleen Morna as they exited the hotel elevators through a wide, sweeping hallway and walked along the luxurious red carpet of a very large Italian-themed casino on the Las Vegas Strip. She was wearing a silver cocktail dress, diamond earrings and necklace, and carrying a mink stole, but other than the frequent and appreciative glances, she felt as if she were just another part of the landscape. "So where is 'Playgirl'?"

"Private poker room in the back," Morna said. She took out what looked like a massive brooch, encrusted with rubies, and pinned it to Barbeau's dress. "That"s all you need to get in."

"It's ugly. Do I have to wear this?"

"Yes. This is an identification and tracking transponder - RFID, or radio frequency identification tag," Morna said. "They've been watching us since I picked him up half an hour ago while you were getting dressed. They track all your movements; they send information to all the cashiers, dealers, managers, security, hotel staff and even the slot machines about who you are, what you are playing or doing, and - what I'm sure is more important to them - how much money is left in your account. Security staff monitor you using their cameras and automatically compare your description with their database to keep an eye on you while you are on property. I think if you took more than one or two wrong turns anywhere around this place, they would send a couple of guys from the hotel business after you to point you in the right direction."

"I like the sound of it, the hospitality guys," Barbeau cooed. "Although I don"t really like the idea of being tagged like a brown bear in the woods."

"Okay, keep this with you because it's your room key, access to your credit line, your charge card and your admission ticket to all shows and VIP lounges - again, you don't need to know anything because these the guys will accompany you wherever you want to go. Anywhere ."

"But they don't know who I am, do they?"

"I would assume they know exactly who you are, Senator," Morna said, "but this is Vegas-here you are who you want to be. Tonight you are Robin Gilliam from Montgomery, in telecommunications and oil production, married but here alone."

"Oh, do I have to be from Alabama?" - she asked calmly. Morna rolled her eyes. "Doesn't matter. So how did I get into this private poker room if I"m not who I say I am?"

"A fifty thousand dollar line of credit is the best way to start," Morna said.

"Did you use payment codes from the White House for this trip to obtain a line of credit at the casino? Smart girl."

"This is just to get us out the door, Senator - don't actually use any of this or the Sergeant at Arms will crucify you," Morna said.

"Oh, to hell with him-he"s an old codger," Barbeau said.

Morna rolled her eyes, silently hoping she was joking. Careers in Washington ended much less often. "All is ready. The management is as attentive as it is discreet. They will take good care of you. I"ll be in the room next door to yours if you need me, and I have a purchased and paid casino employee who will always tell me exactly where you are."

"Thank you, but I don't think I'll need a wingman today, honey," Barbeau said in her killer voice. "Captain Hunter 'Boomer' Noble will go down as easily as catching a catfish in a barrel."

"What are you planning to do, Senator?"

"I plan to show Captain Noble the best way to advance in the United States Air Force, which is very simple: don't contradict a United States Senator," she said confidently. She stuck out her chest and moved the hole to the side. "I'll show him a couple of advantages of pleasing me rather than opposing me. Are you sure he's here?

"He signed up last night and played poker all day," Morna said. "He"s doing well too - he"s stepped up a bit."

"Oh, I'll make sure he gets up, everything's okay," Barbeau said. "Trust me".

"I know where his apartment is - it's right down the hall from ours - and if he takes you there, my boyfriend will tell me," Morna continued.

"Were there any other ladies with him?"

"Only a few people who stopped by the table briefly-he didn"t invite any of them into his room."

"We'll take a look at this, won't we?" Barbeau said. "Don't wait for me, sweetie."

Just like Colleen said, the casino staff knew she was coming without saying a word. As Barbeau left the main casino floor and headed toward the ornate gold entrance to the private poker room, a man in a tuxedo with a communications earpiece in one ear smiled, nodded and said, "Welcome, Ms. Gilliam," as she walked by.

As she approached the doors, she was greeted by a tall, handsome man in a tuxedo and a woman in a tuxedo and skirt carrying a tray of drinks. "Welcome, Miss Gilliam," the man said. "My name is Martin, and this is Jesse, who will be your escort for the rest of the evening."

"Well, thank you, Martin," Barbeau said in her best Southern accent. "I am absolutely captivated by this extraordinary level of attention."

"Our goal is to help you in every way possible to have the best night as a hotel guest," Martin said. "Our motto is 'Anything You Want' and I will be here to make sure all your wishes come true tonight." The waitress handed her a glass. "Southern comfort and lime, I guess?"

"Exactly right, Martin. Thank you, Jesse."

"My job is to make you comfortable, book whatever dinner or show you like, get you a seat at whatever gaming table you prefer, and introduce you to each other while you're at private room. If there is anything you would like - anything - please don't hesitate to tell Jesse or me."

"Thank you, Martin," Barbeau said, "but I think I'd like to just... you know, wander around a little to get the hang of it. Everything's okay, isn't it?"

"Certainly. Whenever you need anything, just contact us. You don't have to look for us - we'll look out for you."

It was a very safe feeling, Barbeau thought, knowing that she was being watched every second. She took her drink and began pacing the room. It was chic and ornate without being too over-the-top; there was just a slight tang of cigar smoke, not too bad, almost pleasant and reassuring. In the back room, huge widescreen flat-panel monitors were showing several sports games with women who certainly didn't look like spouses hanging on the shoulders of spectators, both male and female.

What happens in this place, Stacy thought as she took a sip of her drink, will definitely stay in this place.

After a short hunt, she finally found him at the card table in the back: Hunter Noble, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, with a single thick gold chain around his neck, an old-style metal POW bracelet on one wrist, and a black nylon velcro strap on the other wrist. with closed watch protection flap. There was a sizable stack of chips in front of him, and there were only two players and the dealer at the table with him - and the other players definitely looked worried, their stacks of chips were much lower than his, as if they were disappointed that they had been beaten by this young punk . One of the other players had a cigarette in the ashtray next to him; Noble also had an ashtray next to him, but it was clean and empty.

Now that she had seen him in his "native habitat," she liked what she saw. He was the perfect cross between lean and muscular-a naturally toned body without the need to do much heavy lifting, unlike McLanahan's stocky musculature. His hair was cut short and styled naturally, without the need to style it with mousse, which had to be the most unmanly thing Stacy had ever seen in her life. His movements were slow and easy, although she noticed his quick glance as cards and chips began to fly across the table in front of him. He certainly didn't miss much...

... and at that moment his gaze settled on her... And he didn"t miss anything either. He smiled that mischievous boyish smile, and there was a twinkle in his quick eyes, and she instantly felt like she was being visually undressed again - then, just as quickly, his attention returned to the game.

Soon after, Barbeau saw Martin watching the croupier counting Noble's winnings. He saw him ask Martin a question, the presenter answered, and soon he leisurely approached her table with a drink and a cigarette in his hand. "Excuse me, Miss Gilliam," he said, speaking very formally, but with the same mischievous smile, "but I took the liberty of asking Martin who you were and thought I should introduce myself. My name is Hunter Noble. I hope I didn't disturb you."

Barbeau took a sip of her drink, but looked at him over the rim of the glass, making him wait while she examined him. He just stood patiently in front of her with his playful boyish smile on his face, standing casually but also defiantly, as if he had no doubt that she would invite him to sit. Well, damn it, she thought, the guy makes his living flying hypersonic spaceplanes - a simple woman won"t scare him. "Of course not, Mr. Noble. Could you sit down?" Barbeau responded just as formally, enjoying playing at being strangers.

"Thank you, I would love to." He sat down on the chair next to her, set down his drink, then leaned towards her. "Senator Barbeau? It's you?"

"Captain Hunter 'Boomer' Noble," she said in response. "Nice to meet you here, sir."

"Nothing special, Senator. Did you track me here?"

"I don't understand what you mean, captain," Barbeau said. "It just so happens that the assistant manager of the hotel here is a friend of mine, and he invited me to this wonderful VIP room when I arrived in town." She looked him up and down again. "Where is your RFID tag, captain?"

"I don"t wear these things-I like to tip in cash, and I can open my room door myself without Big Brother."

"I think it's funny to be under constant surveillance. This makes me feel completely safe."

"You'll get tired of this," he said gloomily. "You're here to shut down Dreamland, aren't you, Senator?"

"I'm here to talk to the SEALs who tried to attack this place, talk to General Luger about his actions and report to the President," she replied.

"Then why are you here? Are you spying on me?"

"Well, Captain Noble, you sound like a man who has something to hide," Barbeau said. "But I'm frankly surprised to find a young Air Force captain who makes less than seventy thousand dollars a year before taxes here in a VIP gaming room where the price of admission is usually a fifty thousand dollar casino line of credit, with such a big stack of chips in front of him."

"Playing poker for money is not against Air Force regulations, Senator. Neither of them spend a significant portion of my bachelor's take-home pay on playing cards. Are you investigating guys who spend that much on cars or cameras?"

"I don't know anyone who has been blackmailed by bookmakers or loan sharks because they bought camera equipment," Barbeau said. "Being an avid gambler certainly looks... how should I say, indecent? For someone in such a demanding job like yours, to be such a gambling fan-or perhaps even a gambling addict? "This may seem very suspicious to some."

"I"m not addicted to gambling," Boomer said defensively. The senator's eyes sparkled-she knew she had struck a nerve. "But why this farce, senator? Why this campaign to destroy the program? You're up against the Black Stallion and the space station, great. Why take political opposition so personally?"

"I'm not against the XR-A9 project, captain," Barbeau said, sipping her drink. "I think it's a wonderful technology. But the space station has many very strong opponents."

"Like Gardner."

"There are many opponents," Barbeau repeated. "But some of the technologies you use are of great interest to me, including the Black Stallion."

"Not to mention, it scored a few points with the people in the White House and dozens of defense contractors."

"Don't try to play politics with me, captain-my family invented the game, and I learned from the best," Barbeau said.

"I see it. You are more than willing to ruin a military career for your own political gain."

"You mean General McLanahan? A perfect example of a smart, driven guy wading into political waters that were beyond his understanding," she said evasively, taking another sip. She finally began to feel relaxed, immersed in an atmosphere in which she was very comfortable...but not just comfortable: one in which she was in control. McLanahan destroyed himself, and since Hunter Noble cared about him, he was going to fall next.

Captain Hunter Noble was cute, and obviously smart and talented, but this was business, and he'd be just another one of her victims... after she'd had a little fun with him!

"He'll be fine-as long as he backs down and lets me tell the White House what's best for the Air Force," Barbeau continued casually. "McLanahan is a war hero, for God's sake, everyone knows that. Very few people know what happened in Dreamland and Turkey." She snapped her fingers, flicking her wrist. "It can be swept under the rug like this. With my help and his maximum cooperation, he will get away with a general military tribunal and the loss of his pension. But then he can move on with his life."

"Otherwise, you will let him rot in prison."

Stacy Ann Barbeau leaned forward, giving him a good look at her breasts under the silver plunging neckline. "I'm not here to make anyone unhappy, captain, least of all you," she said. "The truth is, I would like your help."

"My help?"

"Next to McLanahan, you are the most influential person associated with the space project," she said. "The General is finished if what he did in Dreamland and Turkey leaks out. I don't think he will cooperate with me. It leaves you."

"What is this, a threat? Are you going to try to destroy me too?"

"I don't want to attack you, captain," she said in a low voice. She looked him straight in the eyes. "Honestly, you completely captivated me." She saw the surprise on his face and realized she had him by the balls. "I've been attracted to you since the first time I saw you in the Oval Office, and when I saw you here, looking at me as if you-"

"I wasn't looking at you," he said defensively, not very convincingly.

"Oh yes you were, Hunter. I felt it. You did it too." He swallowed but didn't say anything. "What I'm trying to say, Hunter, is that I could take your career in a whole new direction if you would let me. All you have to do is let me show you what I can do for you."

"My career is just wonderful."

"In the Air Force? It's good for eggheads and Neanderthals, but not for you. You're smart, but you're savvy and in control. These are special qualities. In the military, they'll be overwhelmed by layers of old-school crap and endless, faceless bureaucracy - not to mention the possibility of dying in combat or in space piloting a plane built at the lowest cost.

"I suggest you get out of this hellish existence called ranching, Hunter," Barbeau continued in a low voice, putting as much sincerity into it as she could. "How do you think other men and women are rising above the corporate mediocrity of the Pentagon and improving their futures?"

"The general did this with dedication to the mission and his teammates."

"McLanahan did it as Kevin Martindale's whipping boy," Barbeau said firmly. "If he had died on any of the missions he sent him on, Martindale would have simply found another mindless robot to activate. Is this what you want? Do you just want to be McLanahan"s sacrificial lamb?" Once again, Boomer didn't answer-she could see the wheels of doubt turning in his head. "So who's looking out for you, Hunter? McLanahan can't do it. Even if he doesn't go to prison, his record will include a federal conviction and a less than honorable discharge. You, too, will wither there if you blindly follow idealists like McLanahan."

He didn't say it, but she knew what he was asking himself: How do I get out of this? He was putty in her hands, ready for the next step. "Come with me, Hunter," she said. "I will show you how to rise above the swamp that McLanahan has dragged you into. I will show you the real world, the one beyond spaceplanes and mysterious missions. With my help, you can dominate the real world. Just let me show you the way."

"So what do I need to do?"

She looked deep into his eyes, took a deep breath, then gently placed her hand on his left thigh. "Just trust me," she said. "Put yourself in my hands. Do what I tell you and I will take you places, introduce you to the most powerful people who actually want to hear what you have to say, and guide you through the real corridors of power. This is what you want, isn't it? She felt those rock hard thighs bounce under her touch and couldn't wait for those long legs to ride her. He was practically gasping for air, like a marathon runner at the end of a race. "Go".

He stood up and she smiled and took his hand as he helped her to her feet. He is mine, she thought... Mine.

She felt a little dizzy as she rose to her feet-one glass of whiskey after she'd been fasting for half a day in preparation for this trip had finished her off. After she dealt with Hunter Noble, she vowed to treat herself and Colleen to a late dinner in her room and toast to her success. First Gardner, then McLanahan, and now this muscular military astronaut with a strong body.

"Can I help you with anything, Miss Gilliam?" - Jessie, the waitress, asked her, appearing as if out of nowhere. She held out her hand as if to help her stand.

"No thanks, Jesse, I'm fine," Barbeau said. She watched as Martin walked up and looked like he was going to physically restrain Noble, who was following her cautiously, but she raised her hand. "Mr. Noble and I are going for a walk together," she said. "Thank you, Martin."

"If you need anything, Miss Gilliam, just pick up the phone or signal and we'll be right there," Martin said.

"Thank you very much. I'm having a great time," Barbeau said cheerfully. She tipped him fifty dollars, then headed for the door. Hunter opened the door for her; Martin took the door from him and she noticed him give Noble a stern warning look... and he didn't tip him either. Well, she thought, maybe Playgirl's reputation was a little tarnished here. That would be another weakness worth exploring if he didn't cooperate.

They walked together without speaking until they reached the elevator, and then she grabbed him by the thin waist, pulled him closer and kissed him deeply. "I've wanted to do this since the first time I saw you," she said, hugging him tightly. He whispered something back, but the music in the elevator seemed a little loud and she couldn't hear him.

They were met on their floor by the floor attendant. "Welcome, Mr. Noble, Ms. Gilliam," she said cheerfully, apparently alerted to their arrival by the hotel's ever-present security system. "Is there anything I can do for you tonight? Anything?"

"No, I took care of everything myself," Barbeau heard herself say, reaching between his legs and stroking him. "But if you would like to join us a little later, sweetie, that would be wonderful, absolutely wonderful." And then she heard herself giggle. Did she just giggle? This Southern comfort affected her more than she thought. Never throw a party on an empty stomach, she reminded herself.

As she walked past Colleen's room, she pretended to trip a little and knocked on her door, just to alert her that she was coming back, and then they were at the door to the room. "You just relax and let me drive for now, big boy," she said, starting to pull his shirt out of his pants before he even opened the door. "I"ll show you how we like to have fun on the river bank."

PRIVATE RESIDENCE OF THE PRESIDENT, BOLTINO, RUSSIA

A FEW HOURS LATER

"Why didn"t you answer my calls, Gardner?" President Leonid Zevitin thundered. "I've been trying for hours now."

"I have my problems, Leonidas," said President Joseph Gardner. "As if you hadn"t noticed, I"m having to deal with a bit of a riot here."

"Gardner, McLanahan bombed Mashhad, Iran!" Zevitin cried. "He destroyed several Russian transports and killed hundreds of men and women! You said he would be forcibly taken under control! Why haven"t you dealt with him yet?"

"I was informed of the attack," Gardner said. "I was also briefed on the target - an anti-space laser, which was supposedly used to shoot down one of our spaceplanes. You don't happen to know anything about this, do you, Leonid? What were all these Russian personnel and vehicles doing in Mashhad?"

"Don't change the subject!" - Zevitin shouted. "The Duma is meeting soon, and they are going to recommend a permanent change in the military posture, including calling up ready reserves, mobilizing ground forces and strategic air forces, and dispersing mobile ballistic missiles and submarine forces. Was this your plan all along, Gardner, to make McLanahan act like a madman, attacking targets all over the planet and forcing us to react as if we were going to fight a world war? Because that's exactly what it sounds like!"

"You think I'm in cahoots with McLanahan? This guy is crazy! He's completely out of control! He attacked the American military, seized a top-secret military base, and stole several highly classified aircraft and weapons. No one contacts him for almost half a day - we think he may have committed suicide on the space station."

Well, Zevitin thought, this was the best news he had heard in a long time. "Nobody will believe any of this," he told Gardner. "You've got to give me something to say to my cabinet and the leaders in the Duma, Joe, or this thing could get out of hand. How did he carry out that attack on Mashhad, Joe?"

"That's what they call nontrusion, Leonidas," Gardner said. Zevitin's eyes widened in surprise - the American President was really going to tell him! "Some of McLanahan's planes and spacecraft are equipped with a system where they can not only jam radar and communications, but actually inject fake code and signals into the enemy system. They can reprogram, disable or control computers, invade networks, introduce viruses, all that egghead crap."

"This is amazing!" - Zevitin exclaimed. Yes, it's amazing that you're telling me all this! "Is this how the bombers flew over Mashhad?"

"They forced the air defenses around the city to react to decoys," Gardner said. "The air defense guys apparently turned off their missile systems so they wouldn't shoot at something that wasn't there, and that allowed the bombers to sneak in. McLanahan also hacked their encrypted radio transmissions and gave them false orders, which allowed the bombers to detect the laser installation and attack it."

"If all of this is true, Joe, then we should make a deal to share this technology," Zevitin said, "or at least promise not to use it except during a declared war. Can you imagine if this technology fell into the wrong hands? This could devastate our economies! We could be thrown back to the Stone Age in an instant!"

"It was all the McLanahan assholes at Dreamland who came up with this stuff," Gardner said. "I'm going to shut down Dreamland and shoot that bastard McLanahan. I think he left the space station and returned to Dreamland. For too long he has ignored my orders and done as he pleases. I have a friend, a powerful senator, who will try to expose McLanahan, and when she does, I will push his ass to the wall."

"Who is the senator, Joe?"

"I"m not ready to divulge the name."

"This will give credibility to my arguments before the Duma, Joe."

There was a short pause; then: "Senator Stacy Ann Barbeau, Majority Leader. She went to Dreamland to try to meet with McLanahan or Luger to try to defuse this situation."

Is the Senate Majority Leader spying for him? It couldn't be better. Zevitin's mind raced forward. Would he dare to suggest it...? "You don't want to do this, Joe," he said carefully. "You don't want to expose yourself or Barbeau any further. McLanahan is a very popular person in your country, isn"t he?"

"Yes, unfortunately it is."

"Then let me propose this idea, Joe: over both the Black Sea and Iran, let us do it for you."

"What?" - I asked.

"You told us where these bombers would be and when, and we took care of them for you; you told us about the spaceplane and brought them to a position from where we could strike-"

"What? What did you do with the spaceplane...?"

"Bring McLanahan to clean water," Zevitin continued, almost choking. "Let Senator Barbeau tell us where he is. I will send a team to punish him."

"You mean, a Russian mercenary group?"

"You don't want McLanahan's blood on your hands, Joe," Zevitin said. "You want to get him out of the way because he is much more than just a nuisance to you - he is a danger to the whole world. He needs to be stopped. If you have someone on the inside, ask him or her to contact us. Tell us where he is. We'll do the rest and you don't have to know anything about it."

"I don't know if I can do this..."

"If you were seriously considering killing him personally, then you are serious about the danger he poses not only to world peace, but to the security and very existence of the United States of America. This man is a threat in its purest form. He is a wild dog that needs to be put down."

"That's exactly what I said, Leonid!" Gardner said. "McLanahan not only crossed the line, but I think he became completely uncontrollable! He brainwashed his people into attacking American troops... or maybe he used that "netrusion" crap to brainwash them. He needs to be stopped before he destroys the entire country!"

"Then we are unanimous, Joe," Zevitin said. "I'll give you a number to call, a secure and discreet reset, or you can encode a message through the 'hotline'. You don't have to do anything other than tell us where it is. You don't need to know anything. This will be completely refuted."

There was a long pause on the line; then: "Okay, Leonid. Convince your people that America does not want war and has no plans against Russia, and we will work together to stop McLanahan." And he hung up.

It was too good to be true! Zevitin exclaimed to himself. Two leading politicians in the United States were going to help him kill Patrick McLanahan! But who to entrust this project to? Not his own intelligence bureau-too many shaky alliances, too many unknowns for this kind of work. The only person he could trust was Alexandra Khedrov. There were certainly agents in her ministry who could do the job.

He went to his bedroom adjacent to his administrative office. Alexandra sat alone in bed in the dark. The speakerphone was on; he hoped that she would listen and be willing to give him advice. She was a valuable adviser and a person he trusted more than anyone in the entire Kremlin. "So, my love," Zevitin said, "what do you think? Gardner and Barbeau are going to tell us where McLanahan is! I need you to assemble a team, send them to Nevada and be ready to strike." She was silent. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, her head was down touching her knees, her arms were wrapped around her legs. "I know, my love, this is a disgusting thing. But this is an opportunity we cannot miss! Do not you agree?" She remained motionless. "Expensive...?" Zevitin flicked the light switch... and saw that she was unconscious! "Alexandra! What's happened? Are you all right?"

"I can help you with this, Mr. President." Zevitin turned around... and saw in his closet, hidden by the darkness, a figure in a dark gray uniform that was a combination of a flight suit and body armor... a Tin Woodman combat armor system, he realized. In his hands was a large weapon, a combination of a sniper rifle and a cannon. "Hands up".

He did as he was told. "Who are you?" - Zevitin asked. He took a step back...to the light switch, which, if he could quickly turn it off and on again, would send an emergency signal to his security team. "You're one of McLanahan's Tin Woodmen, aren't you?"

"Yes," the man said in an electronically synthesized voice.

"McLanahan sent you to kill me?"

"No," Zevitin heard a voice say. He turned around... and there, dressed in a different Tin Woodman battle armor but without the helmet, was Patrick McLanahan himself. "I thought I"d do it myself, Mr. President."

Zevitin turned around, pushed McLanahan away, rushed to the light switch and managed to turn it off and then on again. McLanahan watched impassively as Zevitin furiously moved the switch up and down. "It's a very impressive feat to sneak past my security into my private residence and into my bedroom," Zevitin said. "But now you have to fight your way through hundreds of trained commandos. You will never succeed."

McLanahan's armored left hand shot out, closed around Zevitin's wrist, and squeezed. Zevitin felt as if his hand was completely torn from his arm and he fell to his knees in pain, screaming in agony. "There were about sixty-two guards there, and we took care of them all on the way here," McLanahan said. "We also bypassed the connection between your security system and the military base in Zagorsk - they will think everything is fine."

"Nontrusion", I suppose you call it?

"Yes".

"Brilliant. The whole world will know about it by tomorrow, and soon we will tell the rest of the world about it when we reverse engineer the technology."

McLanahan's right hand shot up and closed around Zevitin's neck. His face was completely impassive, devoid of emotion. "I don"t think so, Mr. President," he said.

"So. Have you become an assassin now? The great Air General Patrick Shane McLanahan became a common killer. It wasn't enough for you to betray your oath and disobey your commander-in-chief, right? Now you"re going to commit the ultimate mortal sin and ruin someone"s life just because of a personal vendetta?"

McLanahan just stood there, expressionless, looking straight into Zevitin's grinning face; then he nodded and simply replied, "Yes, Mr. President," and he pressed his fingers together effortlessly until the body in his hands became completely limp and lifeless. The two Americans stood there for a minute, watching as blood stained the polished wooden floor and the body jerked several times until McLanahan finally released the body from his grasp.

"I never thought for a second that you would do this, boss," said Major Wayne Macomber in his electronic voice.

Patrick went into the closet and pulled out his helmet and electromagnetic rail gun. "I haven"t thought about anything else for a long time, Zipper," he said. He put on his helmet and raised his rail gun. "Go home".

MAIN BOX, NAVAL SUPPORT BASE THURMONT (CAMP DAVID), MARYLAND

IN THE SAME TIME

This is all going to hell, President Joseph Gardner told himself. But it's not my damn fault. McLanahan needs to leave as soon as possible. If he had to make a deal with the devil to do this, so be it.

He walked from his private office back into the bedroom of the presidential residence at Camp David, where he found his guest-the staff sergeant he had aboard the first Air Force aircraft-standing at the bar at the far end of the room, wearing only a nearly transparent negligee. open to the very bottom, with her hands seductively clasped behind her back. Damn, he thought, this was one of the hottest future officers in the Air Force! "Hey honey, sorry it took so long, but it couldn't wait. Get us a drink, okay?"

"Fix it yourself, you fucking bastard," he heard, "then go and shove it up your ass." Gardner turned around sharply...

... and found that standing in front of him was none other than Senator Stacy Ann Barbeau! "Stacy!" he blurted out. "How the hell did you get here?"

"Congratulations from General McLanahan," he heard. He turned in the other direction and saw a figure in some kind of futuristic body armor and helmet standing against the wall. He heard a sound behind him and saw another figure wearing head-to-toe body armor and a helmet, holding a huge rifle, enter the room.

"Who you are?" - exclaimed the president. "How did you get here?" He finally found out who they were. "You McLanahan Tin Woodmen! Did he send you to kill me?"

"Don't mind them, Joe!" Barbeau cried. "What did it all mean? Did you make a deal with Zevitin to have Russian agents kill McLanahan?"

"This is starting to look like a damn good idea, Stacy, don't you think?" - Gardner asked. "This is exactly what I feared-McLanahan is going to kill all his enemies and take over the government!"

"So, to plan a strategy to get out of the crisis, you bring a chick to Camp David, have fun with her for a while, and then make a deal with the President of Russia to kill an American general?"

Gardner turned around sharply. "Help! Help me!" - he shouted. "I"m in the room, and there are armed people here! Come here! Help! "

One of the armored figures stepped towards Gardner, placed a hand on his neck and squeezed. Gardner's vision exploded into a cloud of stars from the sudden intense pain. All his strength immediately left his body and he fell to his knees. "They are all incapacitated for now, Mr. President," the armored figure said. "Nobody can hear you."

"Get away from me!" Gardner sobbed. "Do not kill me!"

"I have to kill you myself, you piece of shit!" - shouted Barbeau. "I wanted to get McLanahan out of the way, maybe embarrass or embarrass him if he didn't cooperate, but I wasn't going to kill him, you stupid idiot! And I certainly wasn"t going to make a deal with the Russians to do this!"

"It's McLanahan's fault," Gardner said. "He's crazy. I had to do it."

The figure that had grabbed Gardner by the neck let go. Gardner collapsed to the floor as the armored figure stood over him. "Listen to me carefully, Mr. President," the figure said in a strange computer voice. "We have a recording of you confessing to conspiring with the Russians to shoot down American bombers and the Black Stallion spaceplane, and conspiring with the Russian President to infiltrate Russian agents into the country to kill an American general."

"You can't kill me!" Gardner cried. "I am the President of the United States!"

The figure slammed its armored fist right next to the President's head, then down two inches, punching through the maple floor and concrete base of the bedroom. Gardner screamed again and tried to run away, but the figure grabbed him by the throat, bringing his helmeted face right up to the President's face. "I can easily kill you, Mr. President," the figure said. "We stopped the Navy SEALs, we stopped the Secret Service, and we stopped the Russian Air Force - we certainly can stop you. But we are not going to kill you."

"Then what do you want?"

"Amnesty," the figure said. "Complete freedom from prosecution or investigation for anyone involved in actions against the United States or its allies from Dreamland, Battle Mountain, Batman, Tehran and Constanţa. Full and honorable discharges for all who do not wish to serve under you as their Commander-in-Chief."

"What else?"

"That"s all," said the other figure. "But to ensure that you do what we say, the Tin Woodmen and the Criminal Investigation Units will disappear. If you cross our path or anything happens to any of us, we will come back and finish the job."

"You can't stop us," said the first Tin Woodman. "We will find you wherever you try to hide. You will not be able to track or detect us because we can manipulate your sensors, computer networks and communications in any way we choose. We will track all your conversations, your emails, your movements. If you betray us, we will find you and you will simply disappear. Do you understand, Mr. President?" He looked at the two women in the room. "This goes for you two too. We don't exist, but we will be watching over you. You all."

EPILOGUE

He who falls himself never cries.

- TURKISH PROVERB

LAKE MOJAVE, NEVADA

A FEW WEEKS LATER

The boy cast a fishing line into Lake Mojave from his perch on top of a rocky outcrop next to a long, wide boat ramp. Lake Mojave wasn't actually a lake, just a wide stretch of the Colorado River south of Las Vegas. It was a popular winter hangout for seasonal residents, but even now, in early spring, they could feel the summer heat setting in, and there was a sense of excitement about the place that people couldn't wait to leave. Not far from the boy stood his father, wearing shorts, sunglasses, nylon running sandals and a Tommy Bahama shirt, typing on a laptop computer in the shade of the covered picnic area. Behind him, in an RV park, the snowbirds were breaking up their campsite and preparing to move their trailers, campers and SUVs to milder climates. Soon, only the most avid desert lovers will be left to survive the brutally hot summer in southern Nevada.

Amidst the bustle of the campsite, the man heard the sound of a heavier-than-usual vehicle. Without turning around or showing that he noticed, he exited his current program and called up another. With the press of a key, the remote wireless network camera on the telephone pole was activated and began automatically tracking the newcomer. The camera focused on the car's license plate and within seconds it captured the letters and numbers and identified the car's owner. At the same instant, a wireless RFID sensor located in conjunction with the camera reads the encoded identification signal transmitted from the vehicle, confirming its identity.

The car, a dark H3 Hummer with tinted glass all around except for the windshield, parked in the white gravel lot between the marina restaurant and the launch ramp, and three men got out. Everyone was wearing jeans, sunglasses and boots. One man, wearing a brown safari-style vest, remained by the car and began to survey the area. The second man was wearing an open white business shirt with the collar open and the sleeves rolled up, while the third man was also wearing an open brown safari style vest.

The man at the picnic table received a tiny beep on his wireless Bluetooth headset, telling him that a tiny millimeter wave sensor installed in the park had detected one of the men carrying a large metal object - and it wasn't a tackle box either. The second man in the vest stopped about a dozen steps from the picnic area next to the ramp to the launch ramp next to the trash can and began to survey the area, as did the first. The third man approached the man at the picnic table. "Is it hot enough in here for you?" - he asked.

"This is nonsense," said the man at the picnic table. He put down his laptop, rose to his feet, turned to the new arrival and took off his sunglasses. "They say it will top a hundred by May and stay above a hundred and ten throughout June, July and August."

"Great," said the newcomer. "Reduces the number of visitors, huh?" He looked past the man to the boy who was fishing near the boat ramp. "Damn, I can"t believe how tall Bradley is getting."

"Now he will be taller than the old man any day now."

"Without a doubt". The newcomer extended his hand. "How the hell are you, Patrick?"

"Just great, Mr. President," said Patrick McLanahan. "You?" - I asked.

"Great. Boring. No, I'm sick and tired of it," former United States President Kevin Martindale responded. He looked around. "Quite a dark place you have here, Muk. This is not San Diego. It's not even Vegas."

"The desert is breathtaking, especially if you come here in late winter and experience the gradual change in temperature," Patrick said.

"Are you planning to stay?"

"I don't know, sir," Patrick said. "I bought a house and an airport hangar from Searchlight. I don't know if I'm ready to assemble yet. The place is growing. I homeschool Bradley now, but they say the schools here are getting better as more and more people move to the area."

"And John Masters is just off Highway 95."

"Yes, and he pesters me almost every day to come work for him, but I"m not sure," Patrick admitted.

"This desperate astronaut Hunter Noble signed up with him. I heard that he is already vice president. But I'm sure they'll find a place for you if that's what you want."

"Been there, done that."

"There's one more thing we've both done before, Patrick," Martindale said.

"I figured that sooner or later you would come forward about this."

"You have Tin Woodmen and TIEs, don"t you?"

"What?" - I asked.

"You're a terrible liar," Martindale said with a laugh.

"Is there any point in trying to lie? I'm sure your intelligence network is good..."

"As good as the one you reportedly created? I doubt it. I very much doubt it," the former president said. "Listen, my friend, you are still needed. The country needs you. I need you. Besides, what you have hidden is the property of the government. You can"t keep this." Patrick gave him a direct glance-only a fleeting glance, but the meaning was loud and clear. "Okay, you can probably keep it, but you shouldn't just shelve it. A lot of good can be done with it." Patrick didn't say anything. Martindale took off his sunglasses and wiped them with the sleeve of his shirt. "Have you heard the latest news about Persia?"

"About the new president being killed?"

"When this hits the news, the whole Middle East will go crazy again and Mohtaz will once again emerge from under the rock he was hiding under when the Russians left and claim the presidency again. The people want Queen Azhar to take control of the government until new elections are held, but she insists that Prime Minister Noshar take responsibility."

"She is right".

"Noshar is a bureaucrat, a bean counter. He can't rule the country. Hazard or Boujazi should take charge under emergency powers until elections can be held."

"He'll be fine, sir. If this is not the case, Azar will go to parliament and recommend someone else. Bujazi will absolutely not do this."

"Do you think she will ask Sakez, the deputy prime minister?"

"I hope not. He made too many trips to Moscow to suit me."

Martindale nodded in understanding. "I knew you were following this stuff," he said. "By the way, about Moscow - what do you think about this replacement for Zevitin, Igor Truznev, the former chief of the FSB?"

"He's a bloodthirsty thug," Patrick said. "He's doing a little quiet cleaning there. They say that the next person to be "reassigned" to Siberia will be Khedrov."

Martindale smiled and nodded. "Even I haven"t heard that yet, Patrick!" - he said excitedly. "Thanks for the tip. I owe you ".

"Don't mention it, sir."

"Too bad about Zevitin, huh?" Martindale commented. "Skiing accident," they said. I heard this tree came out of nowhere and almost took his head off. Poor bastard. Have you heard anything else about this?" Patrick had no comment. "The funny thing is that this happens around the same time that Boujazi attacks Mashhad and you suddenly come back from Armstrong. I guess weird things really do happen in threes, huh?"

"Yes, sir."

"Yes. Of course they do." Martindale put his arm around Patrick's shoulders. "You see, my friend, you can't leave business behind," he said. "It's in your blood. I can name a couple hundred hot spots in the world, and you will tell me something interesting about each of them."

"Sir, I am not interested-"

"Mongolia," Martindale interjected. He smiled when he saw Patrick's eyes light up. "Yeah, you know something. What is this?"

"I heard that General Dorjin will be replaced as chief of staff because he is too friendly with the United States," Patrick said.

"So now he can run for president, right?"

"No, because he was born in Inner Mongolia - China - and as a young officer declared his allegiance to Beijing," Patrick said. "But his son will run."

Martindale clapped his hands. "Damn, I forgot about Miren Dorjin...!"

"Muren."

"Muren. Right. He graduated from Berkeley two years ago with a master's degree, right?"

"Double Ph.D. Economy and Government."

Martindale nodded, pleased that Patrick passed the two small tests he gave him. "See? I knew you were aware of all this!" Martindale exclaimed joyfully. "Come back, Patrick. Let's join forces again. We'll set this world on fire."

Patrick smiled, then looked at his son fishing and said, "See you, Mr. President," and walked out to join his son on the warm spring morning.

CONFIRMATIONS

Thanks to fellow author Debbie Macomber and her husband Wayne for their generosity.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Your comments are welcome! Email me at [email protected] or visit www.AirBattleForce.com to read my essays and comments and get the latest updates on new projects, tour schedules and more!

about the author

DALE BROWN is the author of numerous New York Times bestselling books, starting with Old Dog Running in 1987. The former US Air Force captain can often be found flying his own plane in the skies of Nevada.

Dale Brown

Unholy forces

CHARACTERS

AMERICANS

PATRICK S. MCLANAHAN, US Air Force Lieutenant General (Ret.), Partner and President, Scion Aviation International

KEVIN MARTINDALE, former President of the United States, secret owner of Scion Aviation International

JONATHAN COLIN MASTERS, Ph.D., Director of Operations, Sky Masters Inc.

HUNTER NOBLE, Vice President of Development, Sky Masters Inc.

JOSEPH GARDNER, President of the United States

KENNETH T. PHOENIX, Vice President

CONRAD F. CARLISLE, National Security Advisor

MILLER H. TURNER, Secretary of Defense

WALTER CORDUS, White House Chief of Staff

STACY ANN BARBO, Secretary of State

USMC GENERAL TAYLOR J. BAIN, Chairman, Joint Chiefs of Staff

US ARMY Major General CHARLES CONNOLLY, Division Commander in Northern Iraq

US ARMY COLONEL JACK T. WILHELM, 2nd Wing Executive Officer, Allied Nakhla Air Base, Iraq

ARMY Lieutenant Colonel MARK WEATHERLY, Regimental Executive Officer

ARMY MAJOR KENNETH BRUNO, Regimental Operations Officer

U.S. Air Force LIEUTENANT COLONEL JIA "BOXER" CAZZOTTO, Commander, 7th Air Expeditionary Squadron

CHRIS THOMPSON, President and CEO of Thompson Security, a private security company at Allied Nakhla Air Base, Iraq.

FRANK BEXAR, private intelligence officer

CAPT KELVIN COTTER, USAF, Deputy Regimental Air Traffic Control Officer

MARGARET HARRISON, Director of Unmanned Aerial Vehicles, Private Contract

REESE FLIPPIN, Private Contract Meteorological Officer

TURKS

KURZAT HIRSIZ, President of the Republic of Turkey

AYSE AKAŞ, Prime Minister of the Republic of Turkey

HASAN CICEK, Minister of National Defense of the Republic of Turkey

GENERAL ORHAN SAHIN, Secretary General of the National Security Council of Turkey

MUSTAFA HAMARAT, Minister of Foreign Affairs of Turkey

FEVSI GUKLU, Director of the National Intelligence Organization

GENERAL ABDULLAH GUZLEV, Chief of Staff of the Armed Forces of the Republic of Turkey

GENERAL AIDIN DEDE, Deputy Military Chief of Staff

MAJOR AYDIN SABASTI, liaison officer, U.S. Second Regiment, Allied Nakhla Air Base, Iraq.

MAJOR HAMID JABBURI, Deputy Liaison Officer

GENERAL BESIR OZEK, Commander of Jandarma (Turkish National Internal Security Forces)

LIEUTENANT GENERAL GUVEN ILGAZ, Deputy Commander, Jandarma

Lt. GENERAL MUSTAFA ALI, Shift Commander of Jandarma

IRAQI

ALI LATIF RASHID, President of the Republic of Iraq

COLONEL YUSUF JAFFAR, Commander, Allied Nakhla Air Base, Tall Qaif, Iraq

MAJOR JAFAR OSMAN, Iraqi Maqbara (Grave) Company, 7th Brigade Commander

COLONEL NURI MAVLAUD, liaison officer of the Second Regiment

ZILAR "BAZ" (HAWK) AZZAWI, leader of the Iraqi PKK insurgents

SADUN SALIH, assistant squad leader of Azzawi

WEAPONS AND ABBREVIATIONS

ABBREVIATIONS AND TERMINOLOGY

AMARG-Aerospace Maintenance and Regeneration Group ("Boneyard"), a U.S. Air Force facility near Tucson, Arizona that stores, dismantles, and refurbishes parts from disabled aircraft

AOR - Area of Responsibility

AQI - Al-Qaeda in Iraq, the Iraqi offshoot of Osama bin Laden's terrorist organization

"combat rattle" - personal equipment necessary for combat operations

bullseye - a designated point from which information about range and bearing to a target can be transmitted on open frequencies without revealing one's own location

C4I - Command, control, communications, computers and intelligence

Cankaya is the seat of the government of the Republic of Turkey

CHU - Container Habitation Unit, a mobile living space resembling a cargo container used by US soldiers in Iraq

Chuville is an area with a large number of BC

DFAC-Canteen

ECM - Electronic Countermeasures

EO-Electro-optical sensors that can electronically propagate or enhance optical images

FAA - Federal Aviation Administration, US aviation regulatory agency

FOB - Forward Operating Base, a military base near or on enemy territory

Fobbits - slang for staff and support staff

Fobbitville - slang for headquarters building

FPCON - Force Protection Condition, Assessment of the Level of Hostile or Terrorist Threat to a Military Installation (formerly THREATCON)

GP - Primary Target (gravity bomb or vehicle)

IA-Iraqi Army

IED - Improvised Explosive Device

IIR-Infrared image sensor, a thermal sensor with sufficient resolution for imaging

ILS - Instrument Landing System, a radio beam system that can guide aircraft to land in difficult weather conditions

IM - instant messaging, transferring text messages between computers

IR-Infrared

Clicks - kilometers

The KRG is the Kurdistan Regional Government, a political organization governing the autonomous Kurdish region in northern Iraq.

LLTV - Low Light TV

LRU-Line Replacement Units, components of aircraft systems that can be easily removed and replaced on the flight line in the event of a malfunction

Mahdi is a slang term for any foreign fighter

Adaptive Mission Technology - Automatically shapes aircraft surfaces to provide enhanced flight control capabilities

Modes and codes - settings for various aircraft identification transponder radios

MTI - Moving Target Indicator, a radar that tracks moving vehicles on the ground from a long distance

Nontrusion - transmission of false data or programming into an enemy computer network using digital communications, data links or sensors

NOFORN - No foreign; security classification that restricts foreign citizens' access to data

PAG - Congress for Freedom and Democracy, alternative name for the Kurdistan Workers' Party

PKK-Karker Party in Kurdistan, Kurdistan Workers' Party, a Kurdish separatist organization seeking to create a separate nation from the ethnic Kurdish regions of Turkey, Iran, Syria and Iraq; designated as a terrorist organization by several nations and organizations

ROE - Rules of Engagement, Procedures and Limitations for a Combat Operation

SAM - surface-to-air missile

SEAD - Suppression of enemy air defenses using jamming capabilities and weapons to destroy enemy air defenses, radars or command and control facilities

triple-A - anti-aircraft artillery

Weapon

AGM-177 Wolverine - autonomous air- or ground-launched attack cruise missile

The CBU-87 Combination Munition is an air-dropped weapon that disperses anti-personnel and anti-vehicle mines over a wide area

The CBU-97 Sensor Fuse Weapon is an air-dropped weapon that can detect and destroy multiple armored vehicles simultaneously over a wide area

CID - Cybernetic Infantry Device, a controlled robot with enhanced durability, armor, sensors and combat capabilities

The Cobra attack helicopter is a light, second-generation US Army helicopter equipped with weapons.

The CV-22 Osprey is a medium transport aircraft that can take off and land like a helicopter, but can then turn its rotors and fly like a fixed-wing aircraft

JDAM - Joint Direct Damage Munition, a kit for attaching gravity bombs that provides them with near-precise targeting using Global Positioning System navigation information

KC-135R is the latest model of the Boeing 707 family refueling aircraft

Kiowa is a light helicopter equipped with advanced sensors used to detect targets by attack helicopters

MIM-104 Patriot - American-made ground-based anti-aircraft missile system

SA-14 is a Russian-made second-generation anti-aircraft missile with manual launch.

SA-7 - Russian-made first-generation anti-aircraft missile with manual launch

Slingshot - a powerful laser defense system for aircraft

Stryker is an eight-wheeled multi-purpose armored personnel carrier of the US Army.

The Tin Man is a soldier equipped with advanced body armor, sensors, and force enhancement systems to enhance his combat capabilities.

The XC-57 "Loser" is a flying wing aircraft originally developed for the US Air Force's next generation bomber, but converted to a multi-role transport aircraft when the project lost a contract competition

EXTRACTS FROM REAL WORLD NEWS

BBC NEWS ONLINE, 30 OCTOBER 2007:

...Tensions between Turkey and the Iraqi Kurdish region have risen steadily in the months leading up to the current crisis triggered by PKK attacks that have killed some forty Turkish troops in recent weeks.

...In May, Turkey was outraged when a US-led multinational force handed over security control in three provinces of Iraqi Kurdistan and quickly raised the Kurdish flag in place of the Iraqi one.

..."You don"t need 100,000 [Turkish] troops to take your positions," said a senior Iraqi Kurdish politician. "What they are clearly planning to do is launch a major invasion and take control of the main land routes inside Iraqi Kurdistan leading into the border mountains on the Iraqi side."

... There are rumors in Kurdish circles that the Turks may also try to bomb or otherwise neutralize two Iraqi Kurdish airports, in Erbil and Sulaymaniyah, which Ankara claims have allowed PKK militants to find refuge.

... "The Turks could destroy them or bomb them, as they did in the past. What they offer is more than that. They're talking about a large-scale military invasion that makes people extremely, extremely nervous and anxious. Many people are concerned that Turkey's ambitions may extend beyond the destruction of the PKK..."

BBC NEWS ONLINE, 18 JANUARY 2008:

...Turkey has been threatening military action against the PKK since the rebels stepped up their attacks on Turkish troops, putting enormous public pressure on the government here to respond with force. Last month, the government authorized the military to conduct cross-border operations [in Iraq] against the PKK when necessary.

The air strikes on Sunday night were the first major sign of this.

...Ankara says it has tacit U.S. approval for its operations under an agreement reached in Washington last month by Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdogan and President George W. Bush.

"I believe the US provided actionable intelligence and the Turkish military took action," Turkish Foreign Ministry spokesman Levent Bilman told the BBC...

"TURKISH TROOPS DESTROYED 11 REBELLIONS IN SOUTHEAST TURKEY NEAR THE IRAQ BORDER-ASSOCIATED PRESS," MARCH 12, 2007-ANKARA, TURKEY:

Turkish troops killed 11 Kurdish rebels during clashes in southeastern Turkey near the border with Iraq, a private news agency reported on Wednesday. The fighting comes two weeks after Turkey's eight-day invasion of northern Iraq to oust Kurdistan Workers' Party rebels who have been fighting the Turkish government since 1984.

...Some Turkish nationalists fear that expanding cultural rights could lead to a split in the country along ethnic lines. They are concerned that Turkish Kurds may be emboldened by the US-backed Kurdish region in northern Iraq, which has its own government and militia...

FORECAST FOR SECOND QUARTER 2008, No STRATFOR.COM, APRIL 4, 2008:

Regional Trend: Turkey is emerging as a major regional power and will begin to exert influence throughout its periphery in 2008, especially in northern Iraq...

Turkey feels strong not only in northern Iraq, but also in the nearby Balkans and Caucasus, where it seeks to mentor newly independent Kosovo and newly oil-rich Azerbaijan...

"IRON MAN IS THE NEW FACE OF MILITARY CONTRACTORS," JEREMY SU, SPACE.COM, MAY 6, 2008:

When superhero Tony Stark isn't donning the Iron Man armor to personally take down villains, he's offering the U.S. military new gadgets to help fight the war on terror.

...Individuals and companies may not be as visible as the drones hovering over the skies of Afghanistan and Iraq, but their role has nevertheless increased dramatically during recent conflicts.

...No one questions the fact that the United States could not fight a war now without the use of military contractors...This means that military contractors have also gone beyond simply selling military equipment. They now manage supply lines, feed troops, build base camps, advise on strategy, and even fight as private security forces...

"IRAN: AM-IRAQI DEAL WILL 'ENSLAVE' Iraqis - RAFSANJANI," STRATFOR.COM JUNE 4, 2008:

Iranian Expediency Council Chairman Akbar Hashemi Rafsanjani said June 4 that the Islamic world would try to prevent a long-term security agreement between Iraq and the United States, saying the terms of the deal would "enslave" the Iraqis, the Associated Press reported. Rafsanjani said that the US-Iraq deal will lead to the permanent occupation of Iraq, and that such an occupation is dangerous for all states in the region...

THIRD QUARTER OUTLOOK, STRATFOR.COM, JULY 8, 2008:

...Regional trend: Turkey is emerging as a major regional power and in 2008 will begin to exert influence throughout its periphery, especially in northern Iraq...Turkey is becoming bolder on the international stage: sending troops to northern Iraq, mediating in Israeli-Syrian peace negotiations, promoting energy projects in the Caucasus and Central Asia and is making its presence felt with its influence in the Balkans...

"IRAQI PARLIAMENT CONVENS MEETING ON KIRKUK," ASSOCIATED PRESS, JULY 30, 2008:

... Tensions escalated on Monday following a suicide bombing in Kirkuk during a Kurdish protest against election laws that killed 25 people and injured more than 180.

Kirkuk is home to Kurds, Turkmen, Arabs and other minorities. Following the Kirkuk bombing, dozens of angry Kurds stormed the offices of a Turkmen political party that opposes Kurdish claims to Kirkuk, opening fire and burning cars amid accusations that their rivals were to blame. Nine Turkmen, or ethnic Turks, were reported injured.

Turkish Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdogan, who defends the rights of Turkmens, called on Iraqi authorities to express concern over the incidents in Kirkuk and offered to send a plane to fly the wounded to Turkey for treatment, the office of the Iraqi president said...

"TURKEY IS CONCERNED ABOUT KIRKUK CITY", ASSOCIATED PRESS, AUGUST 2, 2008:

Baghdad-The Turkish government has expressed concern about the Iraqi city of Kirkuk, where ethnic Turks are embroiled in a territorial dispute, an Iraqi official says.

An unidentified Iraqi Foreign Ministry official said Turkish Foreign Minister Ali Babican had contacted Iraqi Foreign Minister Hoshyar Zebari about the situation in the city, Kuwait news agency KUNA reported on Saturday.

Kirkuk Province demanded that the city become part of Iraqi Kurdistan, while Turkey strongly opposed such a move.

Although the city has the largest concentration of ethnic Turks in Iraq, spokesman Saeed Zebari said any attempt to resolve the dispute would be made solely by Iraq.

Zebari said any outside attempts to intervene in the dispute would not be welcomed by Iraq, a KUNA spokesman said.

"FIRST LASER GUN SHOT," WIRED, DANGER ROOM, AUGUST 13, 2008:

Boeing today announced the first-ever test of a real-life ray gun that could provide US special forces with a way to carry out covert strikes with "plausible deniability."

In testing earlier this month at Kirtland Air Force Base, New Mexico, Boeing's Advanced Tactical Laser - a modified C-130H aircraft - "fired its high-energy chemical laser through a beam control system. The beam control system detected the ground target and directed the laser beam to the target as directed by the ATL combat control system..."

"RECORD NUMBER OF AMERICAN CONTRACTORS IN IRAQ," CHRISTIAN SCIENCE MONITOR, PETER GRIER, AUGUST 18, 2008:

WASHINGTON-The American military has depended on private contractors since "sutlers" sold paper, bacon, sugar and other luxuries to Continental Army troops during the Revolutionary War.

But the scale of the use of contractors in Iraq is unprecedented in U.S. history, according to a new congressional report that may be the most detailed official account of the practice. As of early 2008, according to the Congressional Budget Office (CBO), at least 190,000 private employees were working on U.S.-funded projects in the Iraqi theater. This means that for every uniformed member of the U.S. military in the region, there was also a contracted service member-a 1-to-1 ratio.

...Critics of military outsourcing say the real problem is flexibility and command and control over private workers...

" C -300 CURIOSITY ANKARA ," STRATEGIC FORECASTING INC., AUGUST 26 , 2008:

...Turkey is in the process of acquiring several variants of the Russian S-300 air defense system, Turkish daily Today's Zaman reported on August 25...

...If Turkey succeeds in this acquisition, Ankara's follow-up will require two important approaches. The first is reverse engineering, in which key components are disassembled and their internal workings are closely examined. The second is training in electronic warfare against real systems...

"TURKISH ARMY SEEKS TO EXPAND POWERS", ASSOCIATED PRESS, ANKARA, TURKEY - OCTOBER 10, 2008:

Turkey's leaders met Thursday to discuss increasing the military's powers to fight Kurdish rebels after a surge in attacks, some of which originated from rebel bases in northern Iraq.

Turkey's parliament on Wednesday already voted to extend the military's mandate to conduct operations against Kurdish rebels in northern Iraq, including cross-border ground operations.

But the military has asked for more powers to fight rebels from the Kurdistan Workers' Party, or PKK. Thursday's meeting focused on expanding the capabilities available to the military and police...

PROLOGUE

Outside AL-AMADYAH, DAHOK Governorate, REPUBLIC OF IRAQ

SPRING 2010

The dilok, or traditional wedding celebration, had been going on for several hours, but no one seemed the least bit tired. The men danced on large defas, or frame drums, and tap-danced to folk music performed with enhanced zurna and timburas, while other guests cheered them on.

It was a warm, dry, clear evening outside. Groups of men stood here and there in groups, smoking and drinking from small cups of thick coffee. Older women and girls in colorful dresses and scarves carried trays of food to them, assisted by sons or younger brothers with lanterns.

After serving men outside the wedding reception, the woman carried the tray down the road beyond the traffic lights, her ten-year-old son leading the way, to two Toyota pickups half-hidden by the trees, one on each side of the road leading to the farm. The boy shone his flashlight at the pickup truck to his left, directly into his older brother's eyes. "May Allah bless you and greet you! I caught you sleeping again!" - he shouted.

"I was not!" - the brother objected much louder than he intended.

"Hani, don't do this. Now your brother won"t be able to see in the dark for a while," the boy"s mother scolded him. "Go and treat your brother to something delicious and tell him you're sorry. Let"s go, Mazen," she said to her husband, "I have more coffee for you."

The husband placed his AK-47 on the front bumper of the truck and gratefully accepted the treat. He was dressed for celebration, not for guard duty. "You are a good woman, Zilar," said the man. "But next time, send your lazy brother here to do the work for you. It was his idea to place guards at the entrance." He could feel her pained expression. "I understand. He's busy recruiting again, no? His own daughter's wedding and he can't stop?

"He feels very strongly-"

"I know, I know," the husband interrupted, gently placing his hand on his wife"s cheek to calm her down. "He is a patriotic and committed Kurdish nationalist. Good for him. But he knows that militias, police and military are monitoring such events, taking photographs with drones, using sensitive microphones and tapping phones. Why does he continue? He's risking too much."

"However, I thank you again for agreeing to stand guard here for safety reasons," the wife said, removing his hand from her face and kissing it. "It makes him feel better."

"I haven"t picked up a rifle in years since I left the Peshmerga militia in Kirkuk. I find myself checking the fuse every three seconds."

"Oh, is it really you, my husband?" The woman walked up to the AK-47 leaning against the bumper and examined it with her fingers.

"Ah, Los Angeles, tell me I"m not..."

"You did". She moved the safety lever back to the safe position.

"I'm glad your brothers aren't around to see you do it," her husband said. "Perhaps I need more lessons from the former Supreme Commune of Female Commanders."

"I have a family to raise and a home to take care of-I devoted my time to the Kurdistan independence movement. Let the young women wrestle a little for a change."

"You can disgrace any young woman - on the shooting range and in bed."

"Oh, and how do you know about the skills of young women?" she asked playfully. She put the weapon back and walked towards her husband, swaying her hips seductively. "I have many more lessons that I would rather teach you, husband." He kissed her. "So how much longer are you going to keep my eldest son here?"

"Not for long. Maybe another hour." He nodded towards his son, who was busy shooing his little brother away from the few remnants of baklava on the tray. "It's great to be here with Neaz. He takes this task very seriously. He-" The man stopped because he thought he heard a bicycle or small scooter approaching, something like a low whirring sound that indicated speed but not power. There were no lights on the road or on the highway beyond. He frowned, then placed his coffee cup in his wife's hand. "Take Honey back to the community center."

"What is this?"

"Probably nothing." He looked again at the dirt road and saw no signs of any movement - no birds, no rustling trees. "Tell your brother I'm going to wander around for a bit. I'll tell the others." He kissed his wife on the cheek, then went to pick up his AK-47. "I will be ready to enter after I receive..."

Out of the corner of his eye, high in the west, he noticed it: a short flash of yellow light, not dense like a spotlight, but flickering like a torch. Why he did it, he wasn't sure, but he pushed his wife aside, towards the trees next to the gate. "Get down!" - he shouted. "Lie! Stay-"

Suddenly the ground began to vibrate, as if a thousand horses had bolted right next to them. The husband's face, eyes and throat were filled with clouds of dust and dirt that appeared out of nowhere, and stones were thrown in all directions. The wife screamed as she saw her husband literally disintegrate into pieces of human flesh. The pickup truck was similarly torn apart before the gas tank ruptured, sending a massive fireball into the sky.

Then she heard it - a terrible sound, incredibly loud, lasting only a split second. It was like a giant snarling animal standing over her like a chainsaw the size of a house. The sound was followed a moment later by the loud whistle of a jet flying overhead, so low she thought it might be landing on a dirt road.

In just a few heartbeats, her husband and two sons were dead before her eyes. Somehow, the woman rose to her feet and ran back to the wedding reception venue, thinking of nothing else but warning the other members of her family to flee for their lives.

"The advantage is clear," radioed the lead pilot of the three-ship A-10 Thunderbolt II bomber. He braked hard to make sure he was far enough away from the other aircraft and the terrain. "Two, cleared in hot pursuit."

"Good approach, leader," radioed the pilot of the second A-10 Thunderbolt. "The second one is in action." He checked the infrared video display of the AGM-65G Maverick missile, which clearly showed two pickup trucks at the end of the road, one on fire and the other still intact, and with a light push of the control stick he positioned himself next to the second pickup truck. His A-10 was not modified with a dedicated infrared sensor module, but the "poor man's FLIR" video from the Maverick missile did the job just fine.

Firing guns at night is usually not advisable, especially in such hilly terrain, but what pilot wouldn't risk it for the chance to fire the incredible GAU-8A Avenger cannon, a thirty-millimeter Gatling gun that fired huge depleted uranium rounds at a rate of nearly four thousand rounds per minute? Additionally, since the first target was burning well, it was now easy to see the next target.

When the Maverick's reticle dropped thirty degrees, the pilot lowered the nose of the plane, made final adjustments, and announced over the radio, "Guns, guns, guns!" and pulled the trigger. The roar of that big gun shooting between his legs was the most incredible feeling. In one three-second burst, almost two hundred huge shells reached their target. The pilot focused on the pickup truck for the first second, firing fifty rounds at it and causing another spectacular explosion, and then raised the A-10's nose to allow the remaining one hundred and thirty rounds to blast a path toward the fleeing terrorist target.

Careful not to get too fixated on the target, and very aware of the surrounding terrain, he braked sharply and changed direction to the right to gain the target altitude. The maneuverability of the American-made A-10 was astounding-it did not deserve its unofficial nickname, "Warthog." "Two clear. Three, hot peeled."

"Third on strike," replied the pilot of the third A-10 in the formation. He was the least experienced pilot in the four-ship formation, so he wasn't going to do a cannon run... but it should have been just as exciting.

He focused the target - a large garage next to the house - on the Maverick missile's guidance screen, pressed the "lock" button on the throttle , said "Rifle one" on the radio, turned his head to the right to avoid the glare of the missile's engine, and pressed the button "launch" on the control stick. The AGM-65G Maverick missile left the launch guide on the left wing and quickly disappeared from view. He selected the second missile, moved the reticle to the second target - the house itself - and fired the Maverick from the right wing. A few seconds later he was rewarded with two bright explosions.

"The presenter has a visual image of what appears to be two direct hits."

"The third one is free," he radioed as he gained altitude and turned toward the planned rendezvous point. "Four, cleared in hot pursuit."

"Four examples, flying fast," confirmed the fourth A-10 pilot. It may have had the least exciting attack profile and was not usually even carried out by the A-10, but the A-10s were new members of the fleet and their full capabilities had yet to be explored.

The procedure was much simpler than that of his wingmen: maintain the control switches installed at stations four and eight; follow the GPS navigation directions to the unlocking point; the main arming switch is in the "arm" position; and press the release button on the control handle at the pre-planned release point. Two thousand-pound GBU-32 GPS-guided bombs are dropped into the night sky. The pilot didn't have to fix anything or risk diving into the terrain: the weapon's targeting kits used GPS satellite navigation signals to guide the bombs to the target, a large building next to a farm that was advertised as a "community center" but intelligence sources say was the main gathering place and recruitment point for PKK terrorists.

Well, not anymore. Two direct hits destroyed the building, creating a massive crater over fifty feet in diameter. Even flying fifteen thousand feet above the ground, the A-10 was shaken by two explosions. "The fourth one is free. The weapon panel is safe and sound."

"Two good infiltrates," the lead pilot radioed. He did not see any secondary explosions, but the terrorists may have moved a large cache of weapons and explosives that were reportedly stored in the building. "Muhtesem! Great job, Lightning. Make sure the arming switches are secure, and don't forget to turn off the ECM and turn on the transponders at the border, or we'll blow you to pieces like they did to those PKK scum back there. See you at anchor rendezvous."

Within minutes, all four A-10 Thunderbolts, the Turkish Air Force's newly acquired combat aircraft, were safely back across the border. Another successful anti-terrorism operation against insurgents hiding in Iraq.

The woman, Zilar Azzawi, moaned in agony when she woke up some time later. Her left hand was in terrible pain, as if she had broken a finger in a fall... And then she realized with a shock that her left hand was no longer there, torn off to the middle of her forearm. Whatever killed her husband and sons and destroyed the truck almost succeeded in killing her. Her PKK commando training took over and she managed to tie a strip of fabric from her dress around her arm as a tourniquet to stop the bleeding.

The entire area around her was in flames, and she had no choice but to stay where she was, on the side of the road, until she could get her bearings. Everything around her, except for this small section of dirt road, was burning, and she had lost so much blood that she didn't think she could get far even if she knew which way to go.

Everything and everyone disappeared, was completely destroyed - the buildings, the wedding reception, all the guests, the children...my God, the children, her children...!

Azzawi was helpless now, hoping to just stay alive...

"But, God, if you let me live," she said out loud, over the sounds of death and destruction around her, "I will find those responsible for this attack, and I will use all my strength to gather an army and destroy their. My previous life is over - they took my family from me with cruel indifference. With your blessing, God, my new life will begin right now, and I will avenge all who died here tonight."

APPROACHING JANDARMA PUBLIC ORDER COMMANDO BASE, DIYARBAKIR, REPUBLIC OF TURKEY

SUMMER 2010

"Kanak Two-seven, Diyarbakir tower, wind three-zero-zero at eight knots, ceiling one thousand kilometers per hour, visibility five in light rain, runway three-five, cleared for normal category ILS approach , security status is green."

The pilot of a US-made KC-135R tanker/cargo aircraft acknowledged the call, then pressed the passenger targeting system. "We'll land soon. Please return to your seats, ensure your seat belts are securely fastened, clear your tray tables, and stow away all carry-on luggage. Tesekkur ederim. Thank you ". He then turned to the boom control operator/flight engineer sitting behind the co-pilot and shouted across the cockpit, "Go see if he wants to come in for landing, Master Sergeant." The engineer nodded, took off his headphones and headed aft into the cargo bay.

Although the KC-135R was primarily an aerial refueling aircraft, it was often used to transport both cargo and passengers. The cargo was located in the front of the cavernous interior-in this case, four pallets filled with boxes secured with nylon mesh. Behind the trays were two trays for twelve-person economy class passenger seats, bolted to the floor so that passengers sat rear-facing. The flight was noisy, smelly, dark and uncomfortable, but valuable power-augmenting aircraft like this one were rarely allowed to fly without a full load.

The crew engineer squeezed around the cargo and approached the dozing passenger sitting at the end of the first row on the port side. The man had long and rather tousled hair, sideburns that had grown over several days, and he wore fairly normal street clothes, although anyone traveling on military aircraft was required to wear either a uniform or a business suit. The engineer stood in front of the man and lightly touched his shoulder. When the man woke up, the Master Sergeant signaled to him, and he stood up and followed the Master Sergeant into the space between the pallets. "Sorry to bother you, sir," the boom operator said after the passenger had removed the yellow soft foam earplugs everyone wore to protect their hearing from noise, "but the pilot asked to see if you would like to sit in the cockpit for the approach." landing."

"Is this normal procedure, Master Sergeant?" - asked the passenger, General Besir Ozek. Ozek was the commander of the Gendarma Genel Komutanligi, or Turkish national paramilitary forces, which combined the national police, border patrol and national guard. As a trained commando, as well as the commander of a paramilitary unit in charge of internal security, Ozek was allowed to wear longer hair and sideburns to better slip in and out of the role of an undercover agent and observe others more subtly.

"No, sir," the barrier operator responded. "No one is allowed in the cockpit except the flight crew. But..."

"I requested that I not be singled out on this flight, Master Sergeant. I thought that was clear to everyone on the team," Ozek said. "I want to remain as inconspicuous as possible on this trip. That's why I decided to sit in the back with other passengers."

"Sorry, sir," said the barrier operator.

Ozek examined the cargo pallets and noticed that several passengers turned around to see what was happening. "Well, I guess it's too late now, isn't it?" - he said. "Go". The gunner operator nodded and ushered the general into the cockpit, glad that he did not have to explain to the aircraft commander why the general had not accepted his invitation.

It had been many years since Ozek had been inside a KC-135R Stratotanker tanker aircraft, and the cabin seemed much more cramped, noisy and smelly than he remembered. Ozek was an infantry veteran and did not want to understand what attracted men to aviation. The pilot's life was subject to forces and laws that no one saw or fully understood, and it was not the way he ever wanted to live. The upgraded KC-135R was a good airplane, but the airframe had been in service for over fifty years-this one was relatively young, only forty-five years old-and it was beginning to show its age.

However, aviation seemed to be all the rage in the Turkish Republic these days. His country just acquired dozens of surplus tactical fighters and bombers from the United States: the beloved F-16 Fighting Falcon fighter-bomber, which was also built under license in Turkey; the A-10 Thunderbolt close-in air support aircraft, nicknamed the "Warthog" because of its hulking, utilitarian appearance; AH-1 Cobra attack helicopter; and the F-15 Eagle fighter jet for air superiority. Turkey was on its way to becoming a world-class regional military power, thanks to the United States' desire to divest itself of battle-tested but aging equipment.

The barrage operator handed the general a headset and pointed to the instructor's seat between the two pilots. "I know you didn't want to be disturbed, General," the pilot said over the intercom, "but the seat was open and I thought you might like the view."

"Of course," Ozek replied simply, making a mental note to remove the pilot from duty when he returned to headquarters; there were many men and women in the Turkish Air Force who knew how to follow orders waiting to pilot tankers. "What is the security status at the airport?"

"Green, sir," the pilot reported. "No change for over a month."

"The last PKK activity in this area was just twenty-four days ago, Captain," Ozek said irritably. The PKK, or Karker Party in Kurdistan, or Kurdistan Workers' Party, was a banned Marxist military organization that sought the formation of a separate state of Kurdistan, formed from parts of southeastern Turkey, northern Iraq, northeastern Syria and northwestern Iran, all of which the Kurdish ethnic majority. The PKK has used terrorism and violence, even against large military bases and well-defended locations such as civilian airports, to try to maintain itself in the public eye and to pressure individual states to reach a solution. "We must always remain vigilant."

"Yes, sir," the pilot confirmed in a muffled voice.

"Are you not performing a maximum performance approach, Captain?"

"Uh...no, sir," the pilot replied. "The safety status is green, the ceiling and visibility are low, and the tower has advised that we are cleared for a normal category approach." He swallowed, then added, "And I didn"t want to upset you or the other passengers by descending at maximum performance."

Ozek would have scolded the young idiot pilot, but they had already begun their instrument approach and it would soon become very busy. Maximum performance takeoffs and approaches were designed to minimize time in the lethal range of shoulder-fired anti-aircraft guns. The PKK has occasionally used Russian-made SA-7 and SA-14 missiles against Turkish government aircraft.

However, the likelihood of such an attack today was small. The ceiling and visibility were quite low, limiting the time available to the shooter to attack. Additionally, most attacks were made against large helicopters or fixed-wing aircraft during the takeoff phase because the heat signature the missiles were targeting was much brighter-during approach, the engines were running at lower power settings and were relatively cool , which meant the missiles had a harder time locking on and could be jammed or trapped more easily.

The pilot was taking a chance that Ozek didn't like - especially since he was only doing it to try to impress the senior officer - but now they were in a tight spot, and aborting the approach at this point, near the mountains in bad weather , was not an ideal choice. Ozek leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, showing his anger. "Continue, captain," he said simply.

"Yes, sir," the pilot replied with relief. "Co-pilot, please, before performing the interception checklist on glide path." To the pilot's credit, Ozek thought, he was a good pilot; he would be a good addition to some airline crew because he wasn't going to stay in the Turkish Air Force for very long.

Unfortunately, this apathetic attitude in the army was becoming increasingly common these days as the conflict between the Turkish government and the Kurds continued to escalate. The Kurdistan Workers' Party, or PKK, changed its name to PAG, or Congress for Freedom and Democracy, and avoided using the term "Kurdistan" in its literature and speeches in an attempt to attract a wider audience. During these days, they held rallies and published documents advocating the adoption of new human rights laws to alleviate the suffering of all oppressed people in the world, rather than advocating armed struggle solely for a separate Kurdish state.

But it was a trick. The PKK was stronger, richer and more aggressive than ever. Due to the US invasion and destruction of Saddam Hussein's regime in Iraq, as well as the Iranian civil war, Kurdish rebels fearlessly launched cross-border raids into Turkey, Iraq, Iran and Syria from numerous safe camps, hoping to capitalize on the chaos and confusion and establish a strong base in every country. Each time Turkish troops responded, they were accused of genocide, and politicians in Ankara ordered the military to stop the persecution.

This only emboldened the PKK. The latest skit: the emergence of a female terrorist leader. Nobody knew her real name; She was known as Baz, or "The Hawk" in Arabic, because of her ability to strike quickly and unexpectedly, yet seemingly fly away and elude her pursuers so easily. Its emergence as the main force pushing for Kurdish independence and the lukewarm response of the Turkish and Iraqi governments to its call for a bloody war worried General Jandarma.

"We are entering glide path interception," said the co-pilot.

"Slow down," the pilot said.

"Here it is," replied the co-pilot, and he reached just above the pilot's right knee and moved the round gear switch to the down position. "Transmission in progress... Three green, no yellow, push button pump check light on, transmission off and locked."

The pilot took his eyes off the horizontal position indicator just long enough to check the gear shift indicators and press to press the "gear hyd" indicator to check. "Check, transmission is turned off and blocked."

"On course, on glide path," said the co-pilot. "Two thousand feet to decision altitude." The copilot reached out and discreetly tapped the airspeed indicator, silently warning the pilot that his airspeed had dropped slightly-with the general in the cockpit, he didn't want to highlight even the slightest mistake. Their speed had only dropped by five knots, but the tiny errors seemed to snowball on the instrument approach, and it was better to spot them and correct them right away than to let them cause big problems later.

"Tesekkur eder," the pilot replied, admitting the catch. A simple "got you" meant that the pilot had discovered his mistake, but gratitude meant that the co-pilot had made a good approach. "A thousand left."

Filtered sunlight began to filter through the cabin windows, followed a moment later by sunlight breaking through the widely scattered clouds. Ozek looked out and saw that they were exactly in the center of the runway, and the visual approach lights indicated that they were on the glide path. "Runway in sight," the co-pilot announced. The ILS needles began to dance a little, which meant the pilot was looking out the window onto the runway instead of watching the horizontal position indicator. "Keep getting closer."

"Thank you". Another good catch. "Five hundred to decision height. Follow the 'pre-landing' checklist and..."

Ozek, focusing on the window rather than the instruments, saw it first: a white curling line of smoke coming from the intersection of streets ahead and to the left, inside the airport's perimeter fence, heading straight for them! "Arrow!" shouted Ozek, using the Russian nickname "Zvezda" for the SA-7 shoulder-launched missile. "Turn right, now!"

To his credit, the pilot did exactly as Ozek ordered: he immediately turned the control wheel sharply to the right and set all four throttles to full combat power. But he was much, much late. Ozek knew that now they had only one chance: that it really was the SA-7 missile and not the newer SA-14, because the old missile needed a bright hot spot to guide it, while the SA-14 could track any heat source, even sunlight reflected from a flashlight.

In the blink of an eye, the rocket disappeared - it flew a few meters from the left wing. But there was something else wrong. A beep sounded in the cockpit; the pilot desperately tried to turn the KC-135 to the left to level it out and perhaps even level it out again on the runway, but the plane was unresponsive-the left wing was still high in the sky and there was not enough aileron power to bring it down. Even with the engines running at full power, they completely stalled, threatening to go into a tailspin at any moment.

"What are you doing, captain?" Ozek screamed. "Down your nose and level your wings!"

"I can"t turn around!" - the pilot shouted.

"We can't reach the runway - level the wings and find a place for an emergency landing!" Ozek said. He looked out the co-pilot's window and saw a football field. "Here! Football field! This is your landing spot!"

"I can control it! I can do it ...!"

"No, you can"t - it"s too late!" - Ozek shouted. "Put your nose down and head for the football field, or we'll all die!"

The rest happened in less than five seconds, but Ozek watched it as if in slow motion. Instead of trying to lift the stalled tanker back into the sky, the pilot released the back pressure on the control levers. Once he did this and the engines were at full power, the ailerons responded immediately and the pilot was able to level the plane's wings. With the nose low, the airspeed quickly increased, and the shock was enough for the pilot to raise the nose almost to the landing position. He turned the throttles to idle, then to cut-off moments before the big tanker touched down.

Ozek was thrown forward almost into the center console, but his shoulder and lap belts held up, and he thought with regret that he had experienced harder landings before... and then the nose gear came down with a roar, and the Turkish general felt as if he had been completely broken in half. The front gearbox broke and dirt and turf poured through the windshield like a tidal wave. They crashed through a football goal post, then crashed through a fence and several garages and storage buildings before stopping at the base gymnasium.

CHAPTER FIRST

WHITE SANDS MISSILE RANGE, New MEXICO

IN THE NEXT MORNING

"Masters Two-Two, this is White Sands." The portable radio crackled to life, tearing through the quiet morning air. "Takeoff cleared, runway one-zero, wind calm, altimeter two-nine-nine-seven. The threat status is red, I repeat, red, re-read."

"Understood, Masters Two-Two copies, takeoff cleared, runway one-zero, threat status red."

The large, rather strange-looking plane started its engines and prepared to take to the active runway. It was somewhat reminiscent of the B-2 Spirit "flying-wing" stealth bomber, but was significantly more bulbous than the intercontinental bomber, implying a much greater payload capacity. Instead of engines built into the fuselage, the aircraft had three engines mounted at the rear of the fuselage on short pylons.

As the strange winged guppy plane taxied through the holding line onto the active runway, about a mile to the west, a man wearing a cloth cap, balaclava, thick protective green jacket and heavy gloves lifted a MANPADS, or man-portable anti-aircraft missile, launcher onto his right shoulder. complex. He first inserted a device about the size of a vegetable can into the bottom of the launcher, which provided cooling argon gas for the infrared finder and powered the device's battery.

"Allah Akbar, Allah Akbar," the man said in a quiet voice. He then rose to his feet and pointed the weapon east, toward the gradually increasing sound of the plane's engines revving up for takeoff. It was not yet light enough to see the plane from that distance, so the rocket man lowered his night vision goggles over his eyes, carefully adjusting his head position so that he could still aim the MANPADS through its iron sights. He activated the weapon by pressing and releasing the built-in safety and drive lever. He could hear the spinning gyroscopes in the missile guidance bay even over the noise of the airliner thundering over the desert.

As he focused his scope on the green and white image of the retreating jetliner, he heard a low growling sound in his headphones, indicating that the MANPADS' infrared sensor had just picked up the jetliner's engine exhaust. He then pressed and held the "uncage" lever and the acquisition signal became louder, telling him the missile was tracking a good target.

He waited until the plane was airborne because if he had shot it down while it was still on the ground, the crew would likely have been able to stop the plane safely on the runway and quickly extinguish the fire, keeping casualties to a minimum. The most vulnerable moment was five seconds after takeoff, because the plane was accelerating slowly and its landing gear was in motion; if its engine failed, the crew would have to react quickly and accurately to avoid disaster.

Now is the time. He whispered another "Allahu Akbar," raised the launcher so that the target was in the lower left corner of the iron sight, held his breath so as not to inhale the rocket exhaust, then pulled the trigger.

A small ejection motor fired a rocket from its barrel about thirty feet into the air. As the missile began to fall, its first stage solid rocket motor fired and the missile headed toward its target, with the sensor securely locked in place. The missile man then lowered his protective flaps and watched the battle with glee through his night vision goggles, and moments later saw the missile explode in a cloud of fire. "God damn it, Akbar," he muttered. "It was cool" .

But the counterattack was not over yet. As soon as the sound of the explosion reached him a second later, the rocket man suddenly felt a strong burning sensation throughout his body. He threw the used launcher to the ground, confused and disoriented. It seemed to him that his whole body was suddenly engulfed in flames. He fell to the ground, hoping to put out the flames by rolling, but the heat grew stronger every second. He could do nothing but curl into a protective ball and cover his eyes, hoping to avoid being blinded or burned alive. He screamed as the flames spread, consuming him...

"Whoa, boss, what happened?" he heard a voice in his headphones. "Are you okay? We're on our way. Hold on!"

The man found his chest heaving and his heart pounding from the sudden surge of adrenaline in his blood, and he found it difficult to speak for a few moments... but the intense burning sensation suddenly stopped. Finally, he stood up and dusted himself off. There was no evidence that anything had happened to him, except for the terrible memories of that intense pain. "No... Well, maybe... well, yes," answered the rocket scientist, Dr. Jonathan Colin Masters, hesitantly. "Maybe a little bit".

John Masters had just turned fifty years old, but he still looked, and probably always would look, like a teenager with his delicate features, large ears, awkward body movements, crooked grin, and naturally tousled brown hair under his headphones. He was the chief operating officer of Sky Masters Inc., a small defense research and development company he founded, which for the past twenty years has developed completely advanced aircraft, satellites, weapons, sensors and advanced materials technologies for the United States.

Although he no longer owned the company that still bore his name-the company's affairs were now run by a board of directors headed by his ex-wife and business partner, Helen Cuddiri, and the company's young president, Dr. Kelsey Duffield-and was wealthy enough to travel the world For the rest of his life, if he wanted to, John loved to spend time either in the laboratory, developing new gadgets, or testing them in the field. No one really knew whether the board of directors allowed him to do things like fire live missiles from MANPADS or stay outside the missile range during testing just to make fun of him...or because they hoped he would be ground into dust by his own inventions, which has almost happened many times over the years.

Several Humvees and support vehicles arrived, including an ambulance, just in case, shining headlights and spotlights on John. A man jumped out of the first Humvee on the scene and ran towards him. "Are you okay, John?" asked Hunter "Boomer" Noble. Boomer was a twenty-five-year-old vice president in charge of airborne weapons development for Sky Masters Inc. A former U.S. Air Force test pilot, engineer, and astronaut, Boomer once had the enviable job of designing exotic aircraft systems and then being able to fly the finished product himself. Flying the revolutionary XR-A9 Black Stallion single-stage spaceplane, propelled into orbit by the black stallion, Boomer has been in orbit more times in the past two years than the rest of the U.S. astronaut corps combined in the past ten years. "God, you scared us there!"

"I told you, I'm fine," John said, grateful that his voice didn't sound as shaky as it had a few minutes earlier. "I think we went a little overboard with the emitter power, huh Boomer?"

"I set it to the lowest power, boss, and I checked and rechecked it," Boomer said. "You were probably too close. The laser has a range of fifty miles - you were less than two when you were hit. It's probably not a good idea to take your own tests, boss. "

"Thanks for the advice, Boomer," John replied weakly, hoping no one would notice his shaking hands. "Great job, Boomer. I would say that the test of the Slingshot automatic anti-missile weapon was a complete success."

"I would too, Boomer," said another voice behind him. Two men approached us from another Hummer, dressed in business suits, long dark coats and gloves to protect us from the morning chill. They were followed by two more men dressed similarly, but their coats were open...giving them easier access to the automatic weapons slung from their harnesses below. A man with long salt-and-pepper hair and a goatee shook his finger at John and continued, "You almost managed to kill yourself, John... again."

"Nah...it went exactly according to plan, Mr. President," John replied.

The man, former President of the United States Kevin Martindale, rolled his eyes in disbelief. A Washington establishment figure for decades, Martindale served six terms in Congress, two terms as vice president and one term as president, before being removed from office; he then became only the second person in United States history to be voted in again.

He also had the distinction of being the first vice president ever to be divorced while in office, and he was still a confirmed bachelor, often seen in the company of young actresses and athletes. Despite the fact that Martindale was over sixty years old, he was still ruggedly handsome, confident and almost devilish in appearance with his goatee and long wavy hair, adorned with two curly silver locks of the famous "photographer's dream" that automatically appeared on him on his forehead whenever he was angry or emotional.

"He still likes to do his own challenges, Mr. President-the more outrageous the better," said the man next to him, retired Lt. Gen. Patrick McLanahan. Shorter than Martindale but considerably more powerfully built, McLanahan was as much a legend as Martindale, except in the dark world of strategic air combat. He served for five years as a navigator and bombardier for a B-52G Stratofortress in the United States. Air Force before being selected to join a top-secret research and development unit known as the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, or HAWC, based at an uncharted airbase in the Nevada desert known as "Dreamland."

Led by its brash and slightly out-of-control first commander, Lt. Gen. Bradley James Elliott, HAWC was tasked by the White House to carry out covert missions around the world to prevent the enemy from escalating a conflict into a full-scale war, using cutting-edge experimental technologies that would not be used by any other military forces. for many years - if ever.

HAWC's specialty was modifying older aircraft with new systems and technology to make them perform unlike anything anyone had ever seen, and then using weapons supplied by HAWC for secret real-world testing programs to quickly and quietly suppress potential enemy. Most HAWC missions are never known to the public; pilots selected to test fly a brand new aircraft will never know not only that they were not the first to fly it, but also that the aircraft had already been used in combat; the families of dozens of fallen aviators and engineers, both military and civilian, will never know what really happened to their loved ones.

Due to Elliott's single-minded determination to dominate, as well as HAWC's incredible capabilities, which far exceeded the expectations of any civilian or military commander, the unit often initiated responses to new threats without full knowledge or permission from anyone. This ultimately led to mistrust and finally outright condemnation from Washington and the Pentagon establishment, which sought to isolate and even undermine HAWC's activities.

During his fourteen years at HAWC, McLanahan, the most experienced and proven pilot and systems operator, was alternately praised, punished, promoted, fired, rewarded and disgraced. Although considered by many to be America's most heroic general since Norman Schwarzkopf, McLanahan left the Air Force as quietly as he arrived on the scene, without fanfare, praise or gratitude from anyone.

Kevin Martindale, both Vice President and President, was HAWC's most ardent supporter, and for many years he knew he could rely on Patrick McLanahan to get the job done, no matter how impossible the odds. Now that they were both retired from public life, it was no surprise to John Masters to see them standing side by side here in the deserts of New Mexico, at a secret weapons testing site.

"Congratulations again, Dr. Masters," Martindale said. "I take it you can build this Slingshot laser self-defense system into any aircraft?"

"Yes sir, we can," Boomer said. "All it requires is a power source and a twelve-inch open access panel through the aircraft's pressure tank for the infrared sensor to detect and direct the beam. We can install and calibrate the device in a matter of days."

"Does it form a protective cocoon around the entire aircraft or does it just direct the beam towards the missile?"

"We focus the beam on the enemy missile to save energy and maximize the destructive effect of the laser beam," John explained. "Once the infrared finder detects a missile launch, it sends a beam of concentrated, high-power laser energy along the same axis within milliseconds. Then, if the system can figure out the approximate launch point, it will automatically strike the enemy launch site to try to knock out the bad guy."

"What did the laser beam feel like, John?" - Patrick asked.

"It"s like being dipped in boiling cooking oil," John replied with a weak smile. "And this was at the lowest power level."

"What else can this laser do, John?" - Martindale asked. "I know that HAWC has deployed offensive laser systems in the past. Is the slingshot the same?"

"Well, sir, the laser is, of course, only for self-defense," John replied sarcastically.

"Just like the XC-57 is no longer a bomber, right, John?"

"Yes, sir. The US government does not approve of its defense contractors developing offensive weapons and using technology in ways that could harm relations with other countries or violate any laws. Thus, the laser system is quite limited in range and capabilities - primarily for use against tactical anti-aircraft systems and their operators."

"This leaves a lot open to interpretation," Patrick noted. "But you could turn the knob and increase the power a little, right?"

"As far as you know, Mook, the answer is no," John said.

The former president pointed to the sky in the direction of the retreating plane, which just at that moment was entering downwind mode, approaching to land. "It's quite risky to use one of your new big planes to test the system, isn't it, Doc?" - asked Martindale. "It was a real Stinger missile that you fired at your own plane, I take it?" Your shareholders can't be too happy risking a multi-million dollar aircraft like this."

"I certainly wanted to bring tears to your eyes, Mr. President," John replied. "What directors and shareholders don"t know won"t hurt them. Plus, this XC-57 'Loser' is unmanned."

"'Loser', huh?" Patrick McLanahan commented. "Not the coolest name you came up with, John."

"Why the hell do you call it that?" - Martindale asked.

"Because he lost the next generation bomber competition," John explained. "They didn't need an unmanned aircraft; they wanted it to be more stealthy and faster. I was focused on payload and range, and I knew I could arm it with a hypersonic standoff weapon, so we didn't need stealth.

"Also, I've been designing and building drones for years - just because they didn't like it doesn't mean it couldn't be considered. Shouldn't the next generation bomber be the next generation? Design was not even considered. Their loss. Then, to top it all off, I was banned from building an airplane for ten years."

"But you built it anyway?"

"This is not a bomber, Mr. President, this is a multi-purpose transport," John said. "It's not designed to drop anything; it"s meant to put something in it."

Martindale shook his head sadly. "Tap dancing around the law... Who else do I know likes to do that?" Patrick didn't say anything. "So you use a drone-that's not a bomber-to test a laser, which is not an offensive weapon, but then put yourself in the line of fire to test its effects on humans? It makes sense to me," Martindale said dryly. "But you, of course, brought tears to my eyes."

"Thank you, sir."

"John, how many Losers do you have flying now?" - Patrick asked.

"There are only two others - we built three for the NGB competition, but stopped working on the second and third when our design was rejected," John replied. "This is still a research and development program, so it was a low priority... until you called, Mr. President. We are considering installing our system on commercial aircraft as well as high-end airframes."

"Let's take a closer look at this, John," Martindale said.

"Yes, sir. I'll have him fly up slowly so we can take a look, then I'll bring him in to land. Look at this span - you won"t believe it." He picked up his walkie-talkie and tried to contact his control center, but the laser beam fried it. "I forgot to take this out of my pocket before the test," he said sheepishly, smiling at the muted chuckles from the others. "So I'm losing more phones. Boomer...?"

"I got it, boss," Boomer said. "Low and slow?" John nodded and Boomer winked and radioed the RV.

Moments later, the XC-57 appeared on final approach. It leveled off just fifty feet above the ground, flying surprisingly slowly for such a large bird, as if it were a huge balsa wood model drifting smoothly in a light breeze.

"Like a pregnant stealth bomber with the engines on the outside," Martindale commented. "It looks like it could fall out of the sky at any moment. How do you do it?"

"It doesn't use any conventional flight controls or lifting devices-it flies using mission-adaptive technology," Masters said. "Almost every square inch of the fuselage and wings can be either a lift or a braking device. It can be manned or unmanned. About sixty-five thousand pounds of payload, and it can take up to four standard cargo pallets.

"But the unique loser system is a fully integrated cargo handling system, including the ability to move containers internally during flight," Masters continued. "It was Boomer's first idea when he came on board, and we struggled to convert all production aircraft to include it. Boomer?

"Well, the problem I've always seen with cargo planes is that once the cargo is inside, you can't do anything with the plane, the space or the cargo," Boomer said. "It's all wasted once it's loaded on board."

"It's cargo on a cargo plane, Boomer. What else are you going to do with it?" - Martindale asked.

"Perhaps it's a cargo plane in one configuration, sir," Boomer responded, "but move the cargo and insert a modular container through the hole in the belly, and now the cargo plane becomes a tanker or surveillance platform. It's based on the same concept as the Navy littoral combat ship that's all the rage right now-one ship that can perform different missions depending on what hardware modules you put on board."

"Plug and play? So simple?"

"It wasn't easy integrating the weight and balance, the fuel system and the electrical systems," admitted Boomer, "but we think we've got the bugs right. We transfer fuel between different tanks to maintain balance. I don't think this would have been possible at all without the mission adaptation system. The loser can lift cargo or mission modules inside through the cargo hatch or bottom hatch-"

"Hatch in the belly?" Martindale interrupted with a wink. "You mean the bomb bay?"

"It's not a bomb bay, sir, it's a cargo hatch," John countered. "It used to have a bomb bay in it, and I didn't think it would be right to just seal it-"

"So it became a 'cargo hatch,'" the former president said. "Got it, Doc."

"Yes, sir," John said, feigning annoyance at having to constantly remind people of his point. "The Boomer system automatically arranges modules as needed to complete the mission, connects them and turns them on, all via remote control. He can do the same while flying. When a module is needed or one of them is used up, the cargo handling system can replace it with another."

"What modules do you have available, John?" - Martindale asked.

"We create new ones every month, sir," John said proudly. "Right now we have air refueling modules along with wingtip hose hangers that are mounted on the ground and can refuel probe-equipped aircraft. We also have laser radar modules for air and ground surveillance with satellite data link; infrared and electro-optical surveillance modules; and an active self-defense module. We're pretty close to creating the netrusion module and Flighthawk control system - launching, guiding and perhaps even refueling and rearming FlightHawks from the underdog."

"Of course, we would also like to create attack modules if we could get permission from the White House," Boomer inserted. "We're doing well with high-power microwave and laser-guided energy technologies, so this could happen sooner rather than later-if we can convince the White House to let us proceed."

"Boomer is very motivated, to say the least," John added. "He won't be happy until he sends Loser into space."

Martindale and McLanahan looked at each other, each instantly reading the other's thoughts; then they looked at the otherworldly sight of a massive failed plane gliding down the runway in the slow motion of a flying saucer.

"Dr. Masters, Mr. Noble..." President Martindale began. Just then, the XC-57 Loser suddenly accelerated with a powerful roar of its engines, climbing at an incredibly steep angle and disappearing from sight within moments. Martindale shook his head, amazed again. "Where can we go boys and talk?"

CHAPTER TWO

The road to Hell is easy to travel.

-BION, 325-255 BC.

OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT, CANKAYA, ANKARA, Türkiye

IN THE NEXT MORNING

"Close the damn door before I start bawling like a damn baby," said Kurzat Hirsiz, President of the Republic of Turkey, wiping his eyes once more before putting away his handkerchief. He shook his head. "One of the dead was two years old. Completely innocent. Probably wouldn't even be able to pronounce 'RPK'."

Thin, oval-faced and tall, Hirsiz was a lawyer, scientist and macroeconomics expert, as well as the chief executive of the Republic of Turkey. He served as chief executive of the World Bank for many years and lectured around the world on economic solutions for developing countries before being appointed prime minister. Popular throughout the world as well as at home, he received the largest percentage of the votes of members of the Grand National Assembly in the country's history when he was elected president.

Hirsiz and his top advisers had just returned from a press conference at Cankaya, the presidential residence in Ankara. He read a list of names of the dead, which was given to him minutes before the televised briefing, and then answered several questions. When the reporter told him that one of the dead was a baby, he suddenly broke down, cried openly and abruptly stopped pressing. "I need names, phone numbers and some details about all the victims. I will call them personally after this meeting," Hirsiz"s assistant picked up the phone to give orders. "I will also be present at each of the families' services."

"Don"t feel embarrassed when you lose your temper like this, Kurzat," said Ayşe Akas, the Prime Minister. Her eyes were also red, although she was known in Turkey for her personal and political toughness, as her two ex-husbands would undoubtedly attest. "It shows that you are human."

"I can just hear the PKK bastards laughing at the sight of me crying in front of a room full of reporters," Hirciz said. "They win twice. They take advantage of both weaknesses in security procedures and lapses in controls."

"This simply confirms what we have been telling the world for almost three decades - the PKK is and will always be nothing more than a deadly slime," interjected General Orhan Sahin, secretary general of Turkey's National Security Council. Şahin, an army general, coordinated all military and intelligence activities between Cankaya, the military headquarters in Baskanlıği, and Turkey's six main intelligence agencies. "This is the most destructive and despicable attack by the PKK in many years since the cross-border attacks of 2007, and by far the most audacious. Fifteen dead, including six on the ground; fifty-one wounded - including the Gendarma commander himself, General Ozek - and the tanker plane was completely lost."

The President returned to his desk, loosened his tie and lit a cigarette, which was the signal for everyone else in the office to do the same. "What is the status of the investigation, General?" Hirsiz asked.

"Full speed ahead, Mr. President," Shahin said. "Initial reports are alarming. One of the airport's deputy security chiefs did not respond to orders to return to his post and cannot be found. I hope he's just on vacation and will check in soon after he hears the news, but I'm afraid we'll find out it was an inside job."

"Oh my God," muttered Hirsiz. "The PKK is penetrating our units and offices deeper and deeper every day."

"I think there is a very high probability that PKK agents have infiltrated the very office of the Gendarma, the organization tasked with protecting the country from these bloodthirsty bastards," Sahin said. "My guess is that Ozek"s travel plans were leaked and the PKK targeted this plane specifically to kill him."

"But you told me that Ozek was going to Diyarbakir for a surprise inspection!" - Hirsiz exclaimed. "Is it possible that they are so deeply infiltrated and so well organized that they can send out a kill squad with a shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missile so quickly?"

"This has to be an inside job, not just one person's job-that base needs to be filled with insurgents in deep cover, in high-trust positions, ready to be activated and deployed within hours with specific attack objectives."

"This is the level of complexity that we feared but expected, sir," said General Abdullah Guzlev, chief of staff of the Turkish armed forces. "It's time for us to respond in kind. We can't be content with just playing defense, sir. We must go against the PKK leadership and destroy them once and for all."

"In Iraq and Iran, I assume, General?" Asked Prime Minister Akas.

"That"s where they hide, Madam Prime Minister, like the cowards they are," Guzlev snapped. "We will get updated information from our undercover agents, find some nests containing as many bloodthirsty bastards as possible, and destroy them."

"What exactly will this achieve, General," asked Foreign Minister Mustafa Hamarat, "other than further angering our neighbors, the international community and our supporters in the United States and Europe?"

"Excuse me, Minister," Guzlev said angrily, "but I don"t really care what someone on another continent thinks while innocent men, women and children are being killed-"

Guzlev was interrupted by a telephone call, which was immediately answered by the head of the presidential administration. The assistant looked stunned when he hung up. "Sir, General Ozek is in your reception area and wishes to speak with national security personnel!"

"Ozek! I thought he was in serious condition!" - Hirsiz exclaimed. "Yes, yes, bring him here immediately and bring an orderly to keep an eye on him at all times."

It was almost painful to look at the man as he walked into the office. His right shoulder and right side of his head were tightly bandaged, several fingers on both hands were taped together, he walked with a limp, his eyes were swollen, and visible parts of his face and neck were covered in cuts, burns, and bruises, but he stood upright and refused any - help from the old orderly who arrived for him. Ozek stood at attention in the doorway and saluted. "Let me speak to the President, sir," he said, his voice hoarse from breathing burning jet fuel and aluminum.

"Of course, of course, General. Take your feet off and sit down, dude!" - Hirsiz exclaimed.

The President led Ozek to the sofa, but the Jandarma commander raised his hand. "Sorry sir, but I have to get up. I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to get up again," Ozek said.

"What are you doing here, General?" Asked Prime Minister Akas.

"I felt it necessary to show the people of Turkey that I was alive and fulfilling my duties," Ozek said, "and I wanted national security officials to know that I had developed a plan to retaliate against the PKK leadership. Now is the time to act. We must not hesitate."

"I am impressed by your dedication to our country and your mission, General," the Prime Minister said, "but first we must-"

"I have a full Ozel Tim brigade equipped and ready to deploy immediately." The Ozel tim, or Special Commands, were an unconventional warfare unit of the Jandarma intelligence department, specially trained to operate near or in many cases inside Kurdish towns and villages to identify and neutralize rebel leaders. They were some of the best trained commandos in the world - and they had an equally notorious reputation for brutality.

"Very well, General," said Hirsiz, "but have you found out who is behind the attack? Who is the leader? Who pulled the trigger? Who gave the order for this attack?"

"Sir, it hardly matters," Ozek said, his eyes widening in surprise that he had to answer such a question. His intense gaze and rather wild features, along with his wounds, gave him an anxious and excitable, almost feral appearance, especially compared to the other politicians around him. "We have a long list of known PKK militants, bomb makers, smugglers, financiers, recruiters and sympathizers. Homeland Security and Border Defense can detain and interrogate the usual suspects-let me and jackass Tim handle the ringleaders."

President Hirsiz looked away from the hot-tempered general. "Another attack inside Iraq... I don't know, General," he said, shaking his head. "This is something that needs to be discussed with the American and Iraqi governments. They have to-"

"Forgive me for saying this, sir, but both governments are ineffective and do not care about Turkey's security," General Ozek said angrily. "Baghdad is quite willing to let the Kurds do as they please as long as oil revenues flow south. The Americans are withdrawing troops from Iraq as quickly as they can. Besides, they didn't lift a finger to stop the PKK. Even though they go on and on about the global war on terror and call the PKK a terrorist organization, other than throwing us a few photos or phone intercepts every now and then, they haven't done a damn thing to help us."

Hirsiz fell silent, puffing anxiously on his cigarette. "Besir is right, sir," said Guzlev, the chief of military staff. "This is the time we have been waiting for so long. Baghdad is hanging on with all its might to keep its government intact; they do not have the strength to secure their own capital, let alone the Kurdish border. America has stopped replacing combat brigades in Iraq. There are only three brigades in northern Iraq, centered in Erbil and Mosul-almost nobody on the border."

Guzlev paused, noting that no one objected to his comments, then added: "But I am proposing more than just the participation of special groups, sir." He looked at Defense Minister Hassan Cizek and National Security Council Secretary General Sahin. "I propose a full-scale invasion of northern Iraq."

"What?" President Hirsiz exclaimed. "Are you kidding, General?"

"This is out of the question, General," Prime Minister Akas immediately added. "We would be condemned by our friends and the whole world!"

"For what purpose, General?" Foreign Minister Hamarat asked. "Are we sending thousands of soldiers to root out several thousand PKK rebels? Are you suggesting that we occupy Iraqi territory?"

"I propose to create a buffer zone, sir," Guzlev said. "The Americans helped Israel create a buffer zone in southern Lebanon, which was effective in containing Hezbollah militants inside Israel. We must do the same."

Hirsiz looked at his defense minister, silently hoping to hear another voice of opposition. "Hasan?"

"It is possible, Mr. President," said the Secretary of Defense, "but it would not be a secret, and it would be extremely expensive. The operation would require a fourth of our total armed forces, perhaps up to a third, and this would certainly entail the call up of reserve forces. It would take months. Our actions would be noticed by everyone - primarily by the Americans. Whether we succeed depends on how the Americans react."

"General Shahin?"

"The Americans are in the process of an extended drawdown of troops throughout Iraq," said the secretary general of the Turkish National Security Council. "Because it is relatively calm and the Kurdish autonomous government is better organized than the central government in Baghdad, there are still perhaps twenty thousand American troops in northern Iraq helping to guard oil pipelines and facilities. It is planned that within a year their strength will be reduced to just two combat brigades."

"Two combat brigades for all of northern Iraq? It doesn't seem realistic."

"Stryker brigades are very powerful weapons systems, sir, very fast and maneuverable - they should not be underestimated," Shaheen warned. "However, sir, we expect the Americans to hire private contractors to provide the majority of surveillance, security and support services. This is in keeping with President Joseph Gardner's new policy of resting and recuperating Army forces while he increases the size and power of his Navy."

"Then it is possible, sir," said Defense Minister Dzizek. "Iraqi Kurdish peshmerga forces have the equivalent of two infantry divisions and one mechanized division concentrated in Mosul, Erbil and the Kirkuk oil fields - a third of the size of our forces, which are within marching distance of the border. Even if the PKK has the equivalent of a full-fledged infantry division, and the United States throws all its ground forces at us, we still have parity-and, as Sunzu wrote, if your forces are equal in numbers: attack. We can do this, Mr. President."

"We can mobilize our forces within three months, when Ozek Tim will conduct reconnaissance of enemy positions and prepare to disrupt private contractors conducting surveillance in the border region," General Ozek added. "The mercenaries hired by the Americans exist only to make money. If a fight is brewing, they will run for cover and hide behind the regular military forces."

"What if the Americans stood up and fought to help the Kurds?"

"We move south and crush the rebel camps and Kurdish opposition forces until the Americans threaten action, then we stop contact and create our buffer zone," Ozek said. "We have no desire to fight the Americans, but we will not allow them to dictate the terms of our sovereignty and security." He turned to Foreign Minister Hamarat. "We convince them that a no-fly buffer zone patrolled by the United Nations will improve security for all parties. Gardner doesn't want a ground war, and he certainly doesn't care about the Kurds. He will agree to anything as long as it stops the fighting."

"This may be true, but Gardner will never admit it publicly," Hamarat said. "He will openly condemn us and demand a complete withdrawal of troops from Iraq."

"Then we bide our time until we root out all the PKK rat nests and bug the border region," Ozek said. "With six divisions in northern Iraq, we can clear this place in just a few months while we commit to leaving. We can destroy the PKK so much that they will be ineffective for a generation."

"And we look like butchers."

"I don"t care what others may call me as long as I don"t have to worry about my innocent sons or daughters being killed in the damn playground by a plane shot down by the PKK," Defense Minister Jizzakh said bitterly. "It's time to act."

"We need to deal not only with the PKK, sir, but also with the security situation on the Kirkuk-Ceyhan pipeline," added Chief of Military Staff Guzlev. "The Iraqi peshmerga are still not sufficiently trained or equipped to protect the pipeline on their side of the border. We have invested billions of liras in this pipeline, and the Iraqis still cannot adequately protect their part and will not allow any outside forces other than the Americans to provide assistance. We can earn three times what we get in transportation fees if we can convince oil producers in northern Iraq, including our own companies, to increase production, but they won't because the pipeline is too vulnerable to attack."

President Hirsiz put out his cigarette in the ornate ashtray on his desk, then returned to his seat. He fell silent for several long moments, lost in his thoughts. Rarely have national security officials been so divided, especially when it comes to the PKK and its brutal insurgent attacks. Besir Ozek's surprise appearance in his office just hours after the disaster should have united their resolve to end the PKK once and for all.

But the national security staff-and himself, Hirsiz had to admit-was conflicted and divided, and the civilian military leadership wanted a peaceful, diplomatic solution, as opposed to a call for direct action by uniformed commanders. Confronting American and world public opinion with a divided council was an unwise move.

Kurzat Hirsiz rose to his feet again and stood straight, almost at attention. "General Ozek, thank you for coming here and addressing me and the national security personnel," he said formally. "We will discuss these options very carefully."

"Sir..." Ozek jerked forward in shock, forgetting about his wounds and wincing in pain as he tried to maintain his balance. "Sir, with all due respect, you must act quickly and decisively. The PKK - no, the world - needs to know that this government takes these attacks seriously. Every moment we delay only shows that we are not committed to our internal security."

"I agree, General," Hirsiz said, "but we must act thoughtfully and carefully, and in close consultation with our international allies. I will direct General Sahin to develop a plan for special teams to hunt down and capture or kill PKK militants who may have planned and led this attack, and to aggressively investigate the possibility of spies in Jandarma.

"I will also direct Foreign Minister Hamarat to consult with his American, NATO and European counterparts and inform them of the Security Council's outrage at this attack and the demand for cooperation and assistance in apprehending the perpetrators." He inwardly winced at the incredulous expression on General Ozek"s face, which only emphasized his weakness, the precariousness of his position. "We will act, General," Hirsiz quickly added, "but we will do so wisely and as a member of the global community. This will further isolate and marginalize the PKK. If we act rashly, we will be seen as no better than terrorists."

"... Global community?" Ozek muttered bitterly.

"What did you say, General?" Hirsiz lost his temper. "Do you have something you would like to tell me?"

The wounded Gendarma officer briefly but openly scowled at the President of the Turkish Republic, but quickly straightened up as best he could, assumed a stern but neutral expression and said, "No, sir."

"Then you are dismissed, General, with the sincere gratitude of the National Security Council and the Turkish people and the relief that you are alive after this treacherous and cowardly attack," Hirciz said, his caustic tone certainly not matching his words.

"Allow me to escort the general to temporary premises, sir," said the chief of staff of the armed forces, Guzlev.

Hirsiz looked questioningly at his military chief of staff, finding no answers. He glanced at Ozek, again inwardly wincing at his terrible wounds, but finding himself wondering when the best time would be to let go of the wild, angry bull in front of him. The sooner the better, but not before he took full advantage of the propaganda benefits of his incredible survival.

"We will reconvene national security officials in twenty minutes at the Council of Ministers conference center to outline a response, General Guzlev," the president said cautiously. "Please go back to that time. Dissolved."

"Yes, sir," said Guzlev. He and Ozek stood at attention for a moment, then headed for the door, with Guzlev carefully holding Ozek's less injured arm for support.

"What in the world made Ozek come all the way to Ankara after barely surviving a plane crash?" - Foreign Minister Hamarat asked incredulously. "Oh my god, the pain must be unbearable! I once had a small fracture in my wing and I was sick for weeks after that! This man was pulled from the burning wreckage of the downed plane just a few hours ago!"

"He is angry and thirsty for blood, Mustafa," said Prime Minister Akas. She approached Hirsiz, who still seemed to stand at attention as if Ozek had taken her into his arms. "Don"t pay attention to Guzlev and Ozek," she added in a whisper. "They are out for blood. We have already talked about the invasion many times and rejected it every time."

"Perhaps this is the right time, Icy," Hirsiz whispered back. "Guzlev, Dzizek, Ozek and even Sahin are for this."

"You're not seriously considering this, are you, Mr. President?" Akas whispered back with an incredulous hiss. "The United States will never agree. We would be pariahs in the eyes of the world..."

"I'm starting to not care what the world thinks of us, Ice¸e," Hirsiz said. "How many more funerals do we have to attend before the world allows us to do something about the rebel Kurds there?"

NAKHLA ALLIED AIR BASE, TALL KAIF, NEAR MOSUL, IRAQ

TWO DAYS LATER

"Nala Tower, Scion One-Seven, nine miles from target, requesting visual approach to runway two-nine."

"Scion One-Seven, Nakhla Tower, you are number one, landing cleared," responded the observing Iraqi Army controller in very good English, but with a strong accent. "I recommend enhanced arrival procedure number three to Nala, the base is in a state of force protection Bravo, admitted to enhanced arrival procedure number three, I confirm."

"Negative, Nala, Scion One-Seven requests permission to view for Two-Nine."

The supervisor was not used to someone not following his instructions exactly, and he poked a button on his microphone and fired back: "Heir One-Seven, Nala Tower, visual approach is not allowed under FPCON Bravo." Under FPCON, or force protection condition (formerly called Threat Condition or THREATCON), Bravo was the third highest level, indicating that operational intelligence had been received regarding the possibility of an attack. "You will perform the third procedure. You understand? I admit."

The phone rang in the background and the deputy tower controller answered. A moment later, he handed the phone to the dispatcher: "Sir? Deputy base commander for you."

The supervisor, even more irritated at being interrupted while working on an incoming flight, snatched the phone from his deputy. "Captain Saad. I have an incoming flight, sir, may I call you back?"

"Captain, allow this approaching aircraft to create a visual pattern," he heard the familiar voice of an American colonel. The deputy base commander was apparently listening on the tower frequency in anticipation of this flight. "This is his funeral."

"Yes, Colonel." Why the American special mission aircraft would risk coming under fire without following highly efficient arrival procedures was unclear, but orders are orders. He handed the phone to his deputy, sighed and touched the microphone button again: "Heir One-Seven, Nala Tower, you are cleared for a visual approach and flight path to runway two-nine, wind two-seven zero at twenty-five knots." with gusts up to forty, RVR four thousand, FPCON Bravo in effect, landing allowed."

"Scion One-Seven, cleared for review, and overhead two-nine cleared for approach."

The duty officer picked up the emergency phone: "Station one, this is the tower," he said in Arabic. "I have the aircraft on final approach and I have cleared it for a visual approach and pattern."

"Say that again?" - asked the dispatcher at the airport fire station. "But we are at FPCON Bravo."

"Order from the American Colonel. I wanted to let you guys know."

"Thank you for calling. The captain will probably send us to our 'hot spots' on Taxiway Delta."

"You are allowed to use a preposition on Delta." The boss hung up. He then made a similar call to base security and the hospital. If an attack was imminent - and this was the ideal opportunity for one - the more warning he could give, the better.

The observer from the tower looked for the plane through his binoculars. He could see it on his tower's radar display, but not visually yet. It was about six miles from its target, approaching straight but offset to the west, appearing to line up downwind of Runway 29 - and it was ridiculously slow, as if it was set to land with a few more to go. minutes. Did this guy have some kind of death wish? He reported the plane's location to security and emergency services so they could move to a better position...

...or get out of the way of the crash, in case the worst happens.

Finally, three miles away, he saw it-or rather, he saw part of it. It had a wide, bulbous fuselage, but he couldn't see the wings or tail. It had no visible passenger windows and a strange paint color - something like a medium bluish gray, but the shades seemed to change depending on the background clouds and light levels. It was unusually difficult to maintain visual observation of this.

He checked the BRITE tower radar display, the local Mosul approach control radar relay, and sure enough, the plane was flying at only ninety-eight knots-about fifty knots slower than normal approach speed! Not only was the pilot making himself an easy target for snipers, but he was also about to stall the plane and crash. With winds like these, a sudden gust of wind could quickly turn this guy upside down.

"Heir One-Seven, Nala Tower, are you experiencing difficulties?"

"Tower, one-seven, negative," the pilot responded.

"Accepted. You are cleared to board. We are participating in FPCON Bravo. I admit."

"Heir One-Seven copies FPCON Bravo and allows landing."

Stupid, just plain stupid. The supervisor watched in amazement as the strange aircraft made a routine left turn into the wind on the west side of the runway. It resembled the American stealth bomber, except that its engines were on the rear fuselage and it appeared much larger. He expected to see RPGs or Stinger missiles flying across the sky at any second. The plane bounced a few times in the gusty winds, but for the most part it maintained a very stable flight path despite the incredibly low airspeed-it was like watching a tiny Cessna in a diagram instead of a two-hundred-thousand-pound airplane.

Somehow the plane managed to completely bypass the rectangular pattern without crashing or being shot from the sky. The tower observer could not see any deployed flaps. He maintained this ridiculously low airspeed all the way through the pattern until the short finale, when he slowed to exactly ninety knots and then dropped as lightly as a feather on the numbers. He easily turned off the first taxiway; he had never seen a fixed-wing aircraft land in such a short distance.

"Tower, Heir One-Seven is free of active ones," the pilot reported.

The warden had to recover from shock. "Understood, One-Seven, stay on this frequency, report the security vehicles that are visible directly ahead, they will lead you to the parking lot. Be careful of fire trucks and safety vehicles on taxiways. Welcome to Nala."

"Roger you, Tower One-Seven, security vehicles in sight," the pilot responded. Several armed Humvees with machine gunners in turrets equipped with 50-caliber machine guns or forty-millimeter rapid-fire grenade launchers surrounded the plane, and in front drove a blue Suburban with flashing blue lights and a large yellow "Follow Me" sign. "Have a good day".

The convoy escorted the aircraft to a large aircraft shelter north of the control tower. The Humvees turned around the shelter as the Suburban drove inside and the controller stopped the plane. A set of air slides was towed to the aircraft, but before it was installed in place, a hatch under the cockpit behind the nose gear opened and personnel began to descend the ladder.

At the same time, several people got out of the Humvee and stood at the tip of the aircraft's left wing, one of them visibly upset. "Dude, they weren"t kidding - it"s hot in here!" John Masters exclaimed. He looked around the aircraft shelter. "Hey, there's air conditioning in this hangar-let's turn it on!"

"Let's contact the base commander first, John," suggested the second man to come outside, Patrick McLanahan. He nodded towards the Humvee below them. "I think it's Colonel Jaffar and our contact is right there."

"Jaffar looks furious. What did we do this time?"

"Let's go and find out," Patrick said. He approached the Iraqi colonel, bowed slightly and extended his hand. "Colonel Jaffar? I'm Patrick McLanahan."

Jaffar was slightly taller than Patrick, but he lifted his chin, puffed out his chest, and rose on his tiptoes to look taller and more important. When he was sure the newcomers were paying attention, he slowly raised his right hand to his right eyebrow in greeting. "General McLanahan. "Welcome to Nala Air Base," he said in very good English, but with a strong accent. Patrick saluted back, then extended his hand again. Jaffar took it slowly, smiled faintly, then tried to squeeze Patrick's hand in his own. When he realized it wouldn't work, the smile disappeared.

"Colonel, allow me to introduce Dr. Jonathan Colin Masters. Dr. Masters, Col. Yusuf Jaffar, Iraqi Air Force, Commander, Allied Nakhla Air Base." Jaffar nodded, but did not shake Jon's hand. Patrick shook his head slightly annoyed, then read the name tag of the young man standing next to and behind Jaffar. "Mr. Thompson? I'm Patrick-"

"General Patrick McLanahan. I know who you are, sir-we all know who you are." The tall, incredibly young-looking officer behind Jaffar stepped forward, grinning from ear to ear. "Nice to meet you, sir. Chris Thompson, President, Thompson International, Security Consultants." He shook Patrick's hand with both of his, shaking it excitedly and shaking his head in disbelief. "I can't believe it...General Patrick McLanahan. I'm actually shaking Patrick McLanahan's hand."

"Thank you, Chris. This is Dr. John Masters. He-"

"Hey, Doc," Thompson said, without looking away or releasing Patrick McLanahan's hand. "Welcome, sir. It is truly an honor to meet you and welcome you to Iraq. I will-"

"Please stop your chatter, Thompson, and let's get down to business," Jaffar said impatiently. "Your reputation certainly precedes you, General, but I must remind you that you are a civilian contractor and must obey my rules and regulations, as well as those of the Republic of Iraq. Your government has asked me to extend all possible courtesy and assistance to you, and as a fellow officer, I am bound by honor to do so, but you must understand that Iraqi law-that is, in this case, my law-must be respected at all times. Is that clear, sir?"

"Yes, Colonel, everything is clear," said Patrick.

"Then why did you disobey my instructions regarding the arrival and approaches to Nala?"

"We thought we needed to assess the state of the threat ourselves, Colonel," Patrick replied. "Arriving at peak performance wouldn't tell us anything. We decided to take a risk and create a visual approach and layout."

"My staff and I assess the threat status on this base every hour of every day, General," Jaffar said angrily. "I give the orders that govern all personnel and operations on this base to ensure the safety of everyone. They should not be neglected for any reason. You cannot take risks at any time for any reason, sir: the responsibility always lies with me, and that is inviolable. Break my law again and you will be asked to carry out your assignments at another base. Is that clear, sir?"

"Yes, Colonel, that"s clear."

"Very good". Jaffar put his hands behind his back, puffing out his chest again. "I think you are very lucky that you did not come under enemy fire. My security forces and I scoured the entire ten kilometer radius outside the base for threats. I assure you, you were in little danger. But that doesn"t mean you can-"

"Sorry, but we did come under fire, Colonel," John Masters intervened.

Jaffar's eyes flashed at the interruption, then his mouth opened and closed in confusion, then hardened with indignation. "What did you say, young man?" - he growled.

"We were hit by ground fire a total of one hundred and seventy-nine times while within ten miles of the base, Colonel," John said. "And forty-one of the shots were fired from inside the base."

"This is impossible! This is ridiculous! How could you know this?

"That's our job here, Colonel: to assess the state of the threat at this and other allied air bases in northern Iraq," Patrick said. "Our aircraft are equipped with instruments that allow us to detect, track, identify and pinpoint the source of attacks. We can localize, identify and track gunfire from weapons up to nine millimeters in caliber." He held out his hand and John put a folder into it. "Here is a map of the origin of all the shots we found. As you can see, Colonel, one of the most powerful salvos - a six-round burst from a 12.7 mm cannon - was fired from this base. From a security forces training ground to be precise." He took a step towards Jaffar, his blue eyes boring into the Iraqi. "Tell me, Colonel: who is at that training ground now? What caliber anti-aircraft weapons do you have here in Nala?" Jaffar's mouth moved again in confusion. "Whoever did this, I expect they will be placed under arrest and charged with deliberately targeting Allied aircraft."

"I... I will handle this... personally, sir," Jaffar said, sweat forming on his brow. He bowed slightly as he stepped back. "I'll take care of it immediately, sir." He nearly collided with Thompson in his haste to escape.

"What a dumbass," John said. "I hope we don"t have to put up with his crap every day here."

"He's actually one of the most competent commanders in northern Iraq, Doc," Thompson said. "He expects a lot of ass kissing and kneeling. But he is not one of those who gets things done - he simply breaks heads when one of his subordinates fails to do the job. So, is it true that you detect and track attacks against your aircraft?"

"Absolutely," John replied. "And we can do a lot more, too."

"We'll let you know the details as soon as we get your security clearance, Chris," Patrick said. "It will make your eyes water, trust me."

"Cool," Thompson said. "The Colonel may act like a preening peacock, but when he finds the jokers who shot at you, he will surely bring the hammer down on them."

"Unfortunately, it wasn"t just some idiots at the training ground - we found several other locations both inside the base and just outside the perimeter," John said. "The Colonel may be the best in the area, but that"s not enough. He has sappers inside the barrier."

"As I wrote to you when you told me you were coming, sir," Thompson said, "I believe that FPCON here should be Delta-active and constant contact with terrorists. In the eyes of Baghdad, Jaffar looks bad because he is above Bravo. But my guys and the Army Security Forces are acting like it's Delta. So, if you will follow me, sir, I will show you around your quarters and offices and give you a little introduction to the base."

"If you don't mind, Chris, we'd like to define our area of responsibility and schedule our first round of flights," Patrick said. "I would like to complete the first task tonight. Support staff will prepare our premises."

"This night? But you just arrived here, sir. You must be defeated."

"One hundred and seventy hits on our plane, a quarter of them from this base - we need to get down to business," Patrick said.

"Then we need to go to the operations department and see Colonel Jack Wilhelm," Thompson said. "Officially he's second in command under Jaffar, but everyone knows who's really in charge, and that's him. He is usually located at the Triple Sea Command Center."

They all piled into another armored white Suburban with Thompson behind the wheel. "Nakhla, which means bumblebee in Arabic, used to be the letter U. S. Air Force Supply Base," he said, driving along the departure line. They saw rows of cargo planes of all sizes, from C-5 Galaxys to bizjets. "During Saddam's time, this was created to suppress the ethnic Kurdish population, and it became one of the largest Iraqi military bases in the country. They say that this was the base where the chemical weapons that Saddam used against the Kurds were stored, and therefore it is a prime target for the Kurdish insurgents that we deal with from time to time, along with AQI al-Qaeda in Iraq - the Shiite insurgents and foreign jihadists.

"Earlier this year, Nakhla was officially transferred from US control to the Iraqi military. However, the Iraqis still don't have much air force, so they called it an 'allied' air base. The United States, NATO and the United Nations lease the facilities and airstrip from the Iraqis."

"We create it and then get paid for using it," John commented. "Fabulous".

"If we didn't pay to use it, we would still be considered an 'occupying force' in Iraq," Thompson explained. "This is the policy of withdrawing troops from Iraq.

"The main fighting unit here in Nala is the Second Brigade, nicknamed the War Hammer," Thompson continued. "The Second Brigade is a Stryker Combat Brigade of I Corps, Second Division, out of Fort Lewis, Washington. This is one of the last units to undergo a fifteen-month rotation - all other units serve twelve months. They support the Iraqi army with intelligence, intelligence and training. They are scheduled to be withdrawn within three months, when the Iraqis take full control of security in northern Iraq."

"Chris, do we really have half of all American vehicles somewhere in the Middle East?" - Patrick asked.

"I would say that half of the Air Force's vehicles are either on the ground in theater or flying back and forth, and the real number is probably closer to three-quarters," Thompson said. "And this does not include civilian reserve and contract regulations."

"But it will still take a year to withdraw our forces?" John asked. "This doesn't seem right. It didn"t take that long to get our stuff out of Iraq after the first Gulf War, did it?"

"Different plan, Doc," Thompson said. "The plan is to remove everything from Iraq except property at two air bases and the embassy compound in Baghdad. After the first Gulf War, we left a lot of things in Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, Qatar and the United Arab Emirates, and we had increased security measures so that we could move around without hindrance. It took over a year to get all our stuff out of Saudi Arabia when the US asked to leave the country and we just drove it down the highway to Kuwait. Here we ship all our assets either home or to new bases in Romania, Poland, the Czech Republic and Djibouti."

"Still, it can't take that long to get out, can it?"

"We worked on this non-stop day and night for almost a year, and another year was really optimistic," Thompson admitted. "It depends mainly on the security situation. The coup in Iran completely closed the Persian Gulf for a year, and several train lines and highways in and out of the country were unsafe, so we had to wait for more favorable conditions. Things urgently needed elsewhere could be flown out, but taking an entire C-5 Galaxy or C-17 Globemaster just to take out one or two M1A2 battle tanks didn't make sense. And we are not going to leave more than two thousand armored vehicles here." He looked at Patrick. "That's why you're here, isn't it, sir? Improve the security situation?"

"We'll try," Patrick said. "It is clear that the Iraqis cannot handle the security situation, and it would not be politically correct for American troops, who are not needed in the country anyway, to provide security, so they offer contracts to private companies to do the job."

"Well, you're certainly not alone, sir," Thompson said. "Contractors do almost everything here these days. We still have a Marine unit here in Nakhla that flies in support of Iraqi missions, and every now and then a Special Forces unit or SEAL team will fly in and out, but other than that the troops here don't do much other than gather gear and waiting to be taken home. Much of the training and security, intelligence, catering, transportation, communications, construction, demolition, recreation are all run by American contractors."

"After the Holocaust in AMERICA, it was easier and faster to recruit and retrain veterans than to train new recruits," Patrick said. "If you want to do more with less, you must outsource support functions and allow active-duty Soldiers to perform specialized missions."

"I hadn't heard of Scion until the Army announced you were coming here," Thompson noted. "Where are you guys based?"

"Las Vegas," Patrick replied. "Basically, this is a group of investors who purchased several high-tech but surplus aircraft from various companies and offered their services to the Pentagon. I was offered a job after I retired."

"It looks like it's the same deal with my company," Chris said. "We are a group of former and retired military physical training, communications and data security technicians and engineers. We still wanted to serve after leaving, so we formed a company."

"What do you like so far?"

"To be honest, I started the business because I thought the money would be good - all these stories about companies like Blackwater Worldwide getting these big contracts were really attractive," Chris admitted. "But this is business. Contracts may seem tempting, but we spend our money by acquiring the best staff and equipment we can find and providing an effective solution at the lowest cost. I can tell you that I haven't seen a penny of profit from the business other than what it costs me to survive. If there is a profit, it goes straight back into the business, allowing us to provide more service or provide a service at a lower cost."

"Just the opposite of military," John Masters said. "The military is spending every penny of its budget to ensure the budget doesn't get cut next year. Private companies save or invest every penny."

"So you don't have any problems with these other companies, do you?" - Patrick asked.

"I see some of these snake-eating ex-Special Forces guys roaming around the base," Thompson said, "and they're all dressed up in top-of-the-line outerwear, brand new weapons, the latest gear and tattoos to their minds. A lot of these guys just want to look cool, so they spend a lot of their own money on the latest and greatest. My company is primarily made up of computer geeks, former law enforcement officers, private investigators, and security guards. They largely ignore us. We get into trouble from time to time when my guys deny them access, but we work it out in the end."

"That doesn't seem like a good way to go to war, Chris."

Thompson chuckled. "I hope this is not a war," he said. "War should be left to the professionals. I would be just as happy to support the professionals."

The base was huge and very much like a small army post in the United States. "This place doesn't look too bad," commented John Masters. "I used to feel sorry that you guys were sent so far away, but I"ve seen worse army jobs in the States."

"We never had a regular Burger King or McDonald's like some of the superbases," Thompson said, "and if we did, the Iraqis probably would have closed them down anyway after they took over. Most of the troops here are still sleeping in the ChUS because we never got around to building regular housing units. Of course, there are no families here, so it will never compare to any regular overseas base like Germany or England. But the weather is a little better and the locals are less hostile...at least a little less."

"Chus?"

"Container housing units. They are slightly larger than a commercial truck trailer. We can accommodate them if we need the space, but as the army grows we have more space, so for now they are all on the ground floor. This is where we'll hide your guys. They are nicer than they look, trust me - linoleum floors, fully insulated, air conditioning, Wi-Fi, flat screen TVs. Two CUs share a 'wet CU' - a latrine. Much better than latrines."

A few minutes later, they came to a twelve-foot-tall fence made of jersey concrete walls and reinforced corrugated metal sheeting topped with coils of barbed wire. A few feet beyond that wall was another twelve-foot chain link fence topped with barbed wire, with heavily armed civilian K-9 security officers roaming between the fences. There was fifty feet of space behind the chain-link fence. All this was surrounded by a simple, square-looking three-story building with a sloping roof, several satellite dishes and antennas on top, and absolutely no windows. Thirty-foot-tall security towers stood at the corners of the building. "Is this the headquarters building... or a prison?" John asked.

"Command and control center, or Triple C," Thompson said. "Some people call it Fobbitville-home of the "fobbits," the guys who never leave the FOB, or Forward Operating Base-but we're doing fewer and fewer off-grid missions these days, so most of us can be considered fobbits. Roughly in the geographic center of the base - the bad guys will need a fairly large mortar to reach it from outside the base, although they'll get lucky and launch a homemade pickup-launched missile here every couple of weeks or so."

"Every couple of weeks?"

"I'm afraid so, Doc," Thompson said. He then smiled mischievously at John and added, "But that"s what you"re here to decide... right?"

Security at the entrance to Triple-C was tight, but it was still far less than what McLanahan and Masters had to put up with in Dreamland for so many years. There were no military security officers there at all; Thompson's civilian contractors ran the show. They became a little more respectful of Patrick after checking his papers - most of them were ex-military or retired; and three-star generals, even retired ones, earned their respect - but still seemed to conduct quick, sometimes brutal searches with an enthusiasm bordering on sadism. "God, I think I need to go to the bathroom to see if these guys tore off any important parts," John said as they passed the last inspection station.

"Everyone is treated the same, which is why a lot of guys just end up hanging around here rather than going back to their friends," Thompson said. "I think they made it a little thicker because the boss was here. Sorry for that." They emerged into a wide passage, and Thompson pointed down the corridor to the left. "The Western Corridor is the route to the various units that make up Troika-S - operational air traffic control, communications, data, transportation, security, intelligence, interdepartmental and foreign relations, and so on. Up above them are the commanders' offices and meeting rooms. The east corridor is the DFAC, break rooms and administrative offices; above them there are emergency platforms, bunk rooms, bathrooms, showers, and so on. The northern corridors contain computers, communications, backup power generators, and physical plant. At the center of it all is the command center itself, which we call 'The Tank'. Follow me ". Their IDs were checked and they were searched again at the entrance to the Tank - this time by an Army sergeant, their first encounter with a military security officer - and were allowed inside.

The tank actually resembled the Combat Control Center at Elliott Air Force Base in Nevada. It was a large auditorium-like room with twelve large high-definition flat screens surrounding an even larger screen at the back of the room, with a narrow stage for the human speakers. On either side of the stage were rows of consoles for various departments, which relayed data to display screens and commanders. Above them there was a closed observation area for VIPs and specialists. In the middle of the room was a semicircular row of consoles for department heads, and in the center of the semicircle were chairs and displays for the Iraqi brigade commander, which was empty, and his deputy, Colonel Jack Wilhelm.

Wilhelm was a large, bear-like man, resembling a much younger, dark-haired version of retired Army General Norman Schwarzkopf. He appeared to be chewing on a cigar, but it was actually the microphone from his headset positioned very close to his lips. Wilhelm leaned forward over his console, giving orders and instructions as to what he wanted displayed on the screens.

Thompson maneuvered himself into Wilhelm's line of sight, and when Wilhelm noticed the security officer, he gave him a questioning frown and pulled the earpiece away from his ear. "What?"

"The guys from Scion Aviation are here, Colonel," Thompson said.

"Leave them in Chuvil and tell them I"ll see them in the morning," Wilhelm said, rolling his eyes and putting the earpiece back in place.

"They want to start tonight, sir."

Wilhelm moved the earphone again irritably. "What?"

"They want to start tonight, sir," Thompson repeated.

"Start what?"

"Start observing. They say they are ready to take off right now and want to inform you of their proposed flight plan."

"They do, don't they?" Wilhelm spat. "Tell them we have a briefing scheduled for tomorrow morning at zero seven hundred, Thompson. Put them to bed and-"

"If you have a few minutes to spare, Colonel," Patrick said, approaching Thompson, "we"d like to fill you in now and get you on your way."

Wilhelm turned in his seat and scowled at the new arrivals and their interference... and then paled slightly when he recognized Patrick McLanahan. He slowly rose to his feet, his eyes settling on Patrick as if sizing him up for a fight. He turned slightly to the technician sitting next to him, but his eyes never left Patrick. "Get Weatherly here," he said, "and have him monitor the flight log and brief the reconnaissance patrol. I'll be back in a few minutes ". He took off his headphones, then extended his hand. "General McLanahan, Jack Wilhelm. Nice to meet you ".

Patrick shook his hand. "Same thing, Colonel."

"I didn't know you'd be on that flight, General, or I never would have authorized the VFR scheme."

"It was important that we did it, Colonel - it told us a lot. May we inform you and your staff about our first mission?"

"I assumed that you would want to rest for the rest of the day and evening and get yourself in order," said Wilhelm. "I wanted to show you around the base, show you Triple-C and the operations center here, meet the staff, have some good food-"

"We'll have plenty of time to do that while we're here, Colonel," Patrick said, "but we came under enemy fire along the way, and I think the sooner we start, the better."

"Enemy fire?" Wilhelm looked at Thompson. "What is he talking about, Thompson? I was not informed."

"We are ready to inform you about this right now, Colonel," Patrick said. "And then I would like to schedule an orientation and calibration flight for tonight to begin searching for the origins of this ground fire."

"Excuse me, General," Wilhelm said, "but your operations must be thoroughly scrutinized by headquarters and then conflicts resolved with every department here in Triple C." This will take much longer than a few hours."

"We sent you our operational plan and a copy of the contract from the Air Force Civil Enhancement Agency a week ago, Colonel. Your staff should have had enough time to look into this."

"I'm sure they have, General, but my briefing with headquarters is scheduled for zero five thirty tomorrow morning," Wilhelm said. "You and I were supposed to meet at zero-zero seven hundred to discuss this. I thought that was the plan."

"That was the plan, Colonel, but now I would like to begin our first mission tonight, before our other aircraft arrive."

"Other plans? I thought we just got one."

"Once we came under enemy fire on our way here, I requested and received permission from my company to bring in a second operational aircraft with some more specialized cargo and equipment," Patrick said. "This will be another loser-sized plane-"

"'Jonah'?"

"Sorry. Nickname for our plane. I'll need a hangar for this and bunks for twenty-five additional personnel. They'll be here in about twenty hours. When it arrives I will need-"

"Excuse me, sir," Wilhelm interrupted. "Can I have a few words with you?" He pointed to the front corner of the tank, motioning for Patrick to follow him; the young Air Force lieutenant wisely left his nearby console when he saw the colonel's warning glance as they approached.

As they approached the console to talk privately, Patrick raised a finger, then reached out to touch the tiny button on the nearly invisible earpiece in his left ear canal. Wilhelm's eyes widened in surprise. "Is this a wireless earphone for a cell phone?" he asked.

Patrick nodded. "Are cell phones prohibited here, Colonel? I can take it outside-"

"They... they must be silenced so that no one can receive or make calls on them - protection against homemade remote detonation devices. And the nearest cell tower is six miles away."

"This is a dedicated unit-encrypted, secure, jam-resistant, and quite powerful for its size," Patrick said. "We will look at upgrading your jamming devices or replacing them with directional sensors that will pinpoint the location of both sides of a conversation." Wilhelm blinked in confusion. "So is it okay if I take this?" Wilhelm was too stunned to answer, so Patrick nodded in gratitude and pressed the "call" button. "Hi Dave," he said. "Yes... Yes, let him make the call. You were right. Thank you." He touched the earpiece again to end the call. "Sorry for the interruption, Colonel. Do you have a question for me?"

Wilhelm quickly shook the confusion out of his mind, then put his fists on his hips and leaned towards Patrick. "Yes, sir, I know: who the hell do you think you are?" Wilhelm said in a low, muffled, growling voice. He towered over McLanahan, jutting out his chin as if challenging anyone who tried to strike him, and piercing him with a stern, direct gaze. "This is my command center. Nobody here gives me orders, not even the haji who's supposed to be in command of this fucking base. And nothing comes within a hundred miles of us without first getting my approval and clearance, not even a retired three-star. Now that you're here, you can stay, but I guarantee that the next son of a bitch who doesn't get my permission to enter will be kicked out of this base so fast and hard that he'll be looking for his ass in the Persian Gulf. Can you hear me, General?

"Yes, Colonel, I know," said Patrick. He didn't look away, and the two men locked eyes. "Are you finished, Colonel?"

"You don"t need to have anything to do with me, McLanahan," said Wilhelm. "I've read your contract, and I've dealt with thousands of you civilian extras, or contractors, or whatever the hell you call yourselves now. You may be a high-tech guy, but as far as I'm concerned, you're still just one of the cooks and bottle washers around here.

"With all due respect, General, this is a warning: while you are in my sector, you obey me; you step out of line, I'll give you hell; you disobey my orders and I will personally shove your balls down your throat." He paused for a moment, then asked, "Is there something you want to tell me now, sir?"

"Yes, Colonel." Patrick gave Wilhelm a smile that almost enraged the army colonel, then continued: "You are awaiting a telephone call from division headquarters. I suggest you take this." Wilhelm turned around and saw the duty shift officer trotting towards him.

He looked at McLanahan's smile, gave him a glare, then walked over to the nearest console, put on his headphones and logged in. "Wilhelm. What?"

"Prepare for division, sir," the communications technician said. Wilhelm looked at McLanahan in surprise. A moment later: "Jack? Connolly is listening." Charles Connolly was a two-star Army general based at Fort Lewis, Washington, who commanded a division sent to northern Iraq.

"Yes, sir?"

"Sorry, Jack, but I just heard about this myself a few minutes ago and thought I'd better call you myself," Connolly said. "This contractor assigned to carry out aerial surveillance missions on the Iraqi-Turkish border in your sector? There's a VIP on board: Patrick McLanahan."

"I'm talking to him right now, sir," Wilhelm said.

"Is he already there? Crap. Sorry about that, Jack, but this guy has a reputation for just showing up and doing whatever he pleases."

"That won't happen here, sir."

"Look, Jack, handle this guy with kid gloves until we figure out exactly how much horsepower he has behind him," Connolly said. "He's a civilian and a contractor, yes, but the Corps told me he works for some tough guys who can make a few career-changing phone calls real quick, if you know what I'm getting at."

"He just told me that he will bring another plane here. Twenty-five more personnel! I'm trying to destroy this base, sir, not gather more civilians here."

"Yes, I was told that too," said Connolly, his sullen tone making it obvious that he was no more aware than the senior officer of the regiment. "Look, Jack, if he seriously violates one of your directives, I will support you one hundred percent if you want him out of your base and away from you. But he's Patrick fucking McLanahan, and he's a three-year retiree. The corps says give him enough rope and he'll eventually hang himself - he's done it before, that's why he's no longer in shape."

"I still don't like it, sir."

"Well, deal with it any way you want, Jack," said the division commander, "but my advice is this: bear with this guy for now, be nice to him and don"t drive him crazy. If you don't do this and it turns out there's a lot of power behind this guy, we'll both be screwed.

"Just focus on the job, Jack," Connolly continued. "Our task is to transform this theater of military operations into a civilian peacekeeping operation. Contractors like McLanahan will be the ones putting their asses on the line. Your job is to get your soldiers home safe and sound with honor-and, of course, make me look good in the process."

Judging by the tone of his voice, Wilhelm thought, he was not entirely joking. "Understood, sir."

"Anything else for me?"

"The answer is no, sir."

"Very good. Continue. Separate yourself."

Wilhelm interrupted the connection, then looked again at McLanahan, who was talking on his cell phone. If he had the technology to disable all their cell phone jamming devices-the ones installed to disable remote-controlled improvised explosive devices-he must have had top-notch engineers and money behind him.

Wilhelm spoke on the console: "Duty Officer, gather the operations headquarters right now in the main meeting room to discuss the plan to monitor the Heir."

"Yes, sir".

McLanahan ended his conversation when Wilhelm took off his headphones and approached him. "How did you know the department was going to call me, McLanahan?"

"Lucky guess."

Wilhelm frowned when he heard this answer. "Of course," he said, shaking his head dismissively. "Doesn't matter. The staff will immediately bring us up to date. Follow me". Wilhelm led Patrick and John out of the Reservoir and led them upstairs to the main briefing room, a glass-enclosed, soundproof meeting room that overlooked the consoles and central computer screens in the Reservoir. One by one, staff officers arrived with briefing notes and flash drives containing their PowerPoint presentations. They didn't waste time greeting the two officers already in the room.

Wilhelm took a bottle of water from the small refrigerator in the corner, then sat down in a chair in front of the windows overlooking the Tank. "So, General, tell me about this international organization you work for, Scion Aviation," he said as they waited for the others to arrive and prepare.

"There"s not much to tell," Patrick said. He got a bottle of water for John and himself, but didn't sit down. "Educated a little over a year ago-"

"Around the same time you resigned because of the commercial?" Wilhelm asked. Patrick didn't answer. "How are you doing with this?"

"Wonderful".

"There was some gossip going around that President Gardner wanted to impeach you for some things that happened in Iran."

"I don't know anything about it."

"Right. You knew I was going to receive a secure satellite call from my headquarters ten thousand miles away, but you didn't know if you were the subject of a White House and Justice Department investigation." Patrick didn't say anything. "And you know nothing about the rumors that you are involved in the death of Leonid Zevitin, that it was not a skiing accident?"

"I"m not here to respond to crazy rumors."

"Of course not," Wilhelm smiled wryly. "So. The money must be good to keep you in the game while traveling around the world with a damn heart condition. Most guys would be sitting poolside in Florida collecting their retirement money and getting a divorce."

"The heart is fine as long as I don"t travel in space."

"Right. So, how are things going with the money in this business of yours? I understand that the mercenary business is booming." Wilhelm feigned panic, as if he was afraid that he had offended the retired three-star general. "Oh god, I'm sorry, General. Do you prefer to call it a 'private military company' or a 'security consultant' or what?"

"I don"t give a damn what you want to call it, Colonel," Patrick said. Several field officers preparing for briefing glanced at their boss, some with humor on their faces, others with fear.

Wilhelm smiled slightly, pleased that he had secured a promotion from his VIP visitor. "Or is this just another name for 'Night Stalkers'? That's the name of the organization you were rumored to be a part of a few years ago, right? I remember something about those Libyan raids, am I right? When was the first time you got kicked out of the Air Force?" Patrick didn't answer, which caused William to smile again. "Well, I personally think 'Scion' sounds a lot better than 'Night Stalkers'. Looks more like a real security consultant's outfit than a stupid kids' cartoon superhero show." No answer. "So, how's the money going, General?"

"I assume you know exactly how much the contract is for, Colonel," Patrick said. "It's not classified."

"Yes, yes," assented Wilhelm, "now I remember: one year, with an option for another three years, for a whopping ninety-four million dollars a year!" I believe this is the biggest contract in the theater unless your name is Kellogg, Brand & Root, Halliburton or Blackwater. But I meant, General, what's your share? If I don't get a star in the next couple of years, I'll probably stop working, and if money is okay, maybe you can use a private like me at Scion Aviation International. How about it, General, sir?"

"I don"t know, Colonel," Patrick said without any expression. "I mean, what are you doing here besides acting like a big fucking drummer?"

Wilhelm's face turned into a mask of rage and he jumped to his feet, nearly cracking the water bottle in his fist in anger. He stepped within inches of Patrick, face to face again. When Patrick didn't try to push him away or back down, Wilhelm's expression changed from fury to a crocodile smile.

"Good idea, General," he said, nodding. He lowered his voice. "What I will do from now on, General, is to ensure that you do what you are contracted to do-no more, no less. You'll make a mistake that's worth just the hair of a red pussy, and I'll make sure that your contract with the sweet rich bitch is terminated. I have a feeling you won't be here long. And if you put any of my people in any danger, I will solve your little heart problem by ripping it out of your chest and shoving it down your throat." He half turned to the others in the room. "Is my damn briefing ready yet, Weatherly?"

"We're ready, sir," one of the officers responded immediately. Wilhelm gave Patrick another sneer, then dashed off to his seat in the front row. Several field and company officers lined up on one side, ready to move. "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Lieutenant Colonel Mark Weatherly and I am the Regiment's Executive Officer. This briefing is classified, NO secrets, confidential sources and methods involved, premises are secure. This briefing will focus on the results of the Regimental Headquarters study of the surveillance plan submitted to Scion Aviation International for-"

"Yes, yes, Weatherly, we"re not getting any younger here," Wilhelm interrupted. "A good general here doesn't need all this dog-and-pony air warfare college routine. Let's get to the point."

"Yes, sir," said the operations officer. He quickly brought up the desired PowerPoint slide. "The conclusion, sir, is that we are simply not familiar enough with the technology Scion uses to know how effective it will be."

"They laid it out quite clearly, didn't they, Weatherly?"

"Yes, sir, but...honestly, sir, we don't believe it," Weatherly said, looking nervously at McLanahan. "One aircraft to patrol over twelve thousand square miles of land and over one hundred thousand cubic miles of airspace? This would require two global hawks - and global hawks can't scan the sky, at least not yet. And this is in MTI's widest observing mode. Scion proposes to always have half-meter image resolution throughout the entire patrol area...with one aircraft? It can't be done."

"General?" Wilhelm asked with a slight smirk on his face. "Will you bother to answer?" Turning to his staff officers, he interrupted himself by saying, "Oh, excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, this is retired Lt. Gen. Patrick McLanahan, vice president of Scion Aviation. Perhaps you have heard of him? The stunned expressions and slack jaws of the others in the room showed that they most certainly did. "Today he decided to surprise us with his majestic presence. General, my operational headquarters. The word is yours."

"Thank you, Colonel," Patrick said, rising to his feet and giving Wilhelm an annoyed look. "I'm looking forward to working with you guys on this project. I could talk about the technology developed by Dr. Jonathan Masters to improve the resolution and range of ground and airborne surveillance sensors, but I think it would be better to show you. Clear the airspace for us tonight and we'll show you what we're capable of."

"I don"t think that"s possible, General, due to the operation we just learned about this evening." Wilhelm turned to the very young, very nervous-looking captain. "Kotter?"

The captain took a cautious step forward. "Captain Calvin Cotter, sir, Director of Air Traffic Management. We just learned of a planned Iraqi operation for which they have requested reinforcements, sir. They head to a village north of Zahuk to raid a suspected Kurdish bomb-making and underground smuggling facility - supposedly a fairly large tunnel complex connecting several villages and running under the border. They requested ongoing surveillance support: dedicated Global Hawks, Reapers, Predators, Strykers, the works, and close air and artillery support from the Air Force, Marines, and Army. The spectrum is saturated. We... Excuse me, sir, but we just don't know how your sensors will interact with everyone else."

"Then take out all the other drones and let us provide all the support," John Masters said.

"What?" Wilhelm thundered.

"I said don't waste all this gas and flight time on all these drones and let us do all the surveillance support," John said. "We have three times the image resolution of the Global Hawk, five times the electro-optical sensor, and we can provide you with better, faster air command for ground support. We can relay communications, act as a LAN router for thousands of terminals...

"A thousand terminals?" - someone exclaimed.

"More than three times faster than the sixteenth link, which isn't that hard to beat anyway," John said. "Listen, guys, I don"t want to upset you, but you"ve been using the latest generation materials here almost from day one. Block ten global hawks? Some of you probably weren't even in the military when they started using these dinosaurs! Predator? Are you still using low light TV? Who uses LLTV more...Fred Flintstone?"

"How do you propose to connect all these different aircraft to your communications network and Tank...by today?" Wilhelm asked. "It takes days to link and verify a resource."

"I said, Colonel, you are using outdated technology - of course, products made ten or more years ago take that long," John replied. "Nowadays in the rest of civilized society everything is plug and play. You simply turn on your aircraft, bring them within range of our aircraft, turn on the equipment, and it's done. We can do it on the ground, or if the aircraft are not co-located, we can do it in flight."

"Sorry kids, but I have to see it before I believe it," Wilhelm said. He turned to the other officer. "Harrison? Do you know anything about what they are talking about?"

An attractive red-haired woman stepped forward, sidestepping Cotter as he made his hasty retreat. "Yes, Colonel, I've read about instantaneous high-speed broadband for remotely piloted aircraft and their sensors, but I've never seen it done." She looked at Patrick, then quickly stepped off the platform and extended her hand. Patrick stood up and allowed his hand to be shaken enthusiastically. "Margaret Harrison, sir, former officer of the Third Air Force Special Operations Squadron. I'm the contractor running the drone operations here in Nala. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir, a real pleasure. You are the reason I joined the Air Force, sir. You are real-"

"Let this man go and let's finish this damn briefing, Harrison," Wilhelm interrupted. The woman's smile disappeared and she quickly returned to her place on the platform. "General, I am not going to risk sacrificing the mission using unknown and untested technology."

"Colonel-"

"General, my AOR is the entire province of Dohuk plus half of the provinces of Ninewa and Erbil," William countered. "I am also tasked with supporting operations throughout northern Iraq. Operation Zahuk is just one of about eight offensive operations that I have to monitor on a weekly basis, plus six more minor operations and dozens of incidents that occur daily. You want to put the lives of thousands of Iraqi and American soldiers and dozens of aircraft and ground equipment at risk just to fulfill your rich contract, and I am not going to allow that. Cotter, when is the next window open?"

"The air support window for the Zahuk raid ends in twelve hours, that is, at three o"clock in the afternoon local time."

"Then you can conduct your test, General," said Wilhelm. "You can sleep all night. Harrison, what kind of drones can you let the general play with?"

"Operation Zahuk is using our division's assigned Global Hawks and all but one of the Reapers and Predators of the regiment, sir, and they will be out of service and ready to fly for at least twelve hours after landing. I could make available a Global Hawk from the south."

"Take care of it. Cotter, reserve the airspace for as long as they need to set up." Wilhelm turned to the security contractor. "Thompson, take the general and his group to support and put them to bed."

"Yes, Colonel."

Wilhelm rose to his feet and turned to McLanahan. "General, you can ask the staff here about anything else you need. Send your aircraft maintenance requests to the guys at flight line as soon as possible. See you at dinner tonight." He headed towards the door.

"Sorry, Colonel, but I'm afraid we'll be busy," Patrick said. "But thanks for the invitation."

Wilhelm stopped and turned around. "You "consultants" are very hardworking, General," he said decisively. "I'm sure you will be missed." Weatherly called to attention as William walked out the door.

As if freed from invisible chains, all the employees rushed to Patrick to introduce themselves or reintroduce themselves. "We can't believe you're here, of all places, sir," Weatherly said after shaking hands.

"We all assumed you died or had a stroke or something when you suddenly disappeared from the Armstrong space station," Cotter said. "Not me-I thought President Gardner secretly sent an FBI capture team on the space shuttle to finish you off," Harrison said.

"Really great, mugs."

"It"s Margaret, you dill," Harrison snapped with a smile. Again to McLanahan: "Is it true, sir-did you really ignore the order of the President of the United States to bomb that Russian base in Iran?"

"I can't talk about it," Patrick said.

"But you did take over that Russian base in Siberia after the American holocaust and used it to attack those Russian missile sites, right sir?" Asked Reese Flippin, an incredibly thin, incredibly young-looking private contractor with a thick Southern accent and prominent teeth. "And the Russians fired nuclear missiles at this base, and you survived there? Damn it...!" And while the others laughed, the accent completely disappeared, even the teeth seemed to return to their normal position, and Flippin added: "I mean, outstanding, sir, absolutely outstanding." The laughter got even louder.

Patrick noticed a young woman in a desert gray flight suit and gray flight boots gathering up her laptop and notes, standing apart from the others but watching with interest. She had short dark hair, dark brown eyes and a mischievous dimple that came and went. She looked somewhat familiar, as did many of the Air Force officers and aviators Patrick knew. Wilhelm did not introduce her. "I'm sorry," he said to the others crowded around him, but suddenly he didn't care. "We have not met. I'm-"

"Everyone knows General Patrick McLanahan," the woman said. Patrick was surprised to note that she was a lieutenant colonel and wore command pilot wings, but there were no other patches or unit designations on her flight suit, only empty Velcro squares. She extended her hand. "Gia Cazzotto. And in fact, we met."

"We have?" You idiot, he admonished himself, how could you forget her? "Sorry, I don"t remember."

"I was in the 111th Engineer Squadron."

"Oh," was all Patrick could say. The 111th Bomb Squadron was a Nevada Air National Guard B-1B Lancer heavy bomber unit that Patrick deactivated and then re-established as the First Combat Wing at Battle Mountain Reserve Air Force Base in Nevada - and since Patrick didn't remember it, he handpicked every member of the Air Force, it quickly became obvious to him that she had not made the cut. "Where did you go after... after..."

"After you closed the security division? It's okay to say, sir," Cazzotto said. "I actually did okay - maybe the unit closing was a blessing in disguise. I went back to school, got a master's degree in engineering, then got a position at Factory Forty-Two, piloting vampires heading to Battle Mountain."

"Well, thank you for that," Patrick said. "We couldn't do this without you." The 42nd Air Force Plant was one of several manufacturing facilities federally owned but occupied by contractors. Located in Palmdale, California, Plant 42 was known for producing aircraft such as the Lockheed B-1 bomber, the Northrop B-2 Spirit stealth bomber, the Lockheed SR-71 Blackbird and F-117 Nighthawk stealth fighters, and the Space Shuttle.

After shutting down production lines, factories often carried out modification work on existing airframes, as well as research and development work on new projects. The Air Force's B-1 bomber, redesignated the EB-1C Vampire, was one of the most complex modernization projects ever undertaken at Plant 42, adding mission-adaptive technology, more powerful engines, laser radar, advanced computers and guidance systems, as well as the ability to use a wide range of weapons, including air-launched anti-missile and anti-satellite missiles. Ultimately it was an unmanned aerial vehicle with even better performance.

"And you still fly the B-1, Colonel?" - Patrick asked.

"Yes, sir," Gia replied. "After the American Holocaust, they took a dozen bones out of AMARC and we repaired them." AMARC, or Aircraft Maintenance and Regeneration Center, known to everyone as the "Bone Graveyard," was a huge complex at Davismontan Air Force Base near Tucson, Arizona, where thousands of aircraft were taken to storage and dismantled for parts. "They're not exactly vampires, but they can do a lot of the things you guys did."

"Are you flying out of Nala, Colonel?" - Patrick asked. "I didn"t know they had B-1s here."

"Boxer is the commander of the 7th Air Expeditionary Squadron," Chris Thompson explained. "They are based in various locations - Bahrain, the United Arab Emirates, Kuwait, Diego Garcia - and are ready to carry out missions when coalition forces need them in theater. She's here because of today's operation in Iraq - we'll keep her B-1 ready just in case."

Patrick nodded, then smiled. "Boxer'? What"s your call sign?"

"My great-grandfather came to the United States to Ellis Island," Gia explained. "Cazzotto was not his real name - it was Inturrigardia - what's so difficult about that? - but the immigration officials couldn"t pronounce it. But they heard the other children call him cazzotto, which means 'hard blow', and they gave him that name. We don"t know whether he was constantly beaten or whether he himself inflicted the blows."

"I saw her on the punching bag at the gym; she deserves that call sign," Chris said.

"I see," Patrick said, smiling at Gia. She smiled back, their eyes met...

... which gave others the opportunity to act. "When can we see this plane of yours, sir?" - Asked Harrison.

"Can he really do everything you said...?"

"Are you taking command of all military units in Iraq...?"

"Okay, boys and girls, okay, we have work to do," Chris Thompson chimed in, raising his hands to stop the stream of questions raining down on Patrick. "You"ll have time to pester the general later." They all jostled to shake Patrick's hand once more, then gathered up their flash drives and documents and left the briefing room.

Gia was the last to leave. She shook Patrick's hand, holding it in hers for a moment longer. "It"s very nice to meet you, sir," she said.

"It"s the same here, Colonel."

"I prefer Gia."

"Okay, Gia." He was still squeezing her hand when she said this, and he felt an instant surge of warmth in her-or was it his own hand that suddenly became sweaty? "Not Boxer?"

"You can't choose your own call signs, can you, sir?"

"Call me Patrick. And the demolition guys didn"t have call signs when I was in."

"I remember my former operations officer at One Hundred and Eleven had several names for you to choose from," she said, and then smiled and walked away.

Chris Thompson grinned at Patrick. "She's cute, in a Murphy Brown way, huh?"

"Yes. And wipe that grin off your face."

"If it makes you feel uncomfortable, of course." He continued to grin. "We don't know much about her. We hear it on the radio from time to time, so it's still flying. She comes in from time to time to do missions, like tonight, and then goes back to another command center. She rarely stays longer than a day."

Patrick felt a sudden pang of disappointment, then quickly pushed the unpleasant feeling aside. Where did this come from...? "B-1s are great airplanes," he said. "I hope they resurrect more from AMARC."

"Infantrymen love bones. They can engage in combat as quickly as fighters; loiter around for a long time like a Predator or a Global Hawk, even without mid-air refueling; they have improved sensors and optics and can transmit a lot of data to us and other aircraft; and they have as much precision payload as the F/A-18 aircraft." Thompson noticed the calm, slightly thoughtful expression on Patrick's face and decided to change the subject. "You are a true inspiration to these guys, General," he said. "These are the most excited people I've ever seen since I've been here."

"Thank you. It's contagious - I also feel a surge of energy. And call me Patrick, okay?"

"I can't guarantee I'll do this all the time, Patrick, but I'll try. And I'm Chris. Let's get you settled."

"I can not. John and I have a lot of work to do before our test flight tomorrow afternoon. The staff will prepare cabins for us, but I'll probably take a nap on the plane."

"Same here," John added. "Of course it wouldn"t be the first time."

"Then we"ll ask customer service to bring food on the plane."

"Fine. Chris, I would like clearance to be in the Reservoir when the Zahuk operation begins."

"The Colonel doesn't usually allow off-duty personnel into the Tank during an operation, especially one this large," Chris said, "but I'm sure he'll let you listen from here."

"It will be wonderful".

"Anyway, I'm not sure if I want to be any closer to Wilhelm," John said. "I was sure he was going to knock your lights out, Mook... twice."

"But he didn't, which means he has a little common sense," Patrick said. "Maybe I can work with him. Let's see".

CHAPTER THREE

In one hand he holds a stone, and in the other he shows bread.

-TITUS MACCIUS PLAUTIUS, 254-184 BC

NAKHLA ALLIED AIR BASE, IRAQ

Thompson led Patrick and John back to the hangar where the crew chiefs and support crew were unloading bags and servicing Loser. This gave Thompson the opportunity to closely inspect the aircraft. "This thing is beautiful," he remarked. "Looks like a stealth bomber. I thought you were just going to do some reconnaissance."

"This is what we were hired to do," Patrick said.

"But is it a bomber?"

"He was a bomber."

Thompson spotted technicians working under the plane's belly and saw a large hole. "What is this, a bomb bay? Does this thing still have a bomb bay? "

"This is the access hatch to the module," John Masters said. "We don"t remove any of these-we load and unload modules through them."

"The loser had two bomb bays, similar to the B-2 stealth bomber, only much larger," Patrick explained. "We combined the two bays into one large bay, but kept both lower doors. We then divided the compartment into two decks. We can move mission modules on and between decks and maneuver each module either up or down through module hatches, all via remote control."

"A flying-wing reconnaissance plane?"

"The flying wing design is well suited for use as a long-range, multi-role aircraft," said John Masters. "The airliners of the future will be flying wings."

"Scion aircraft are designed as multi-role platforms; we connect different mission modules to perform different tasks," Patrick said. "This aircraft can be a tanker, a cargo aircraft, electronic warfare, photo reconnaissance, communications relay, command and control - even several of these functions at the same time.

"Right now we are configured for ground moving target indication, ground target identification and tracking, airborne surveillance, data communications and command and control," Patrick continued. "But if we brought different modules, we can load them and perform different missions. Tomorrow we will install aerial surveillance emitters above."

He then stepped under the plane and showed Thompson a large hole in the belly. "Here we will pause the ground target emitter module to identify and track the ground target. All modules are 'plug and play' through the ship's digital communications suite, which transmits data via satellite to end users. Other modules we have installed are designed for very large area networks, threat detection and response, and self-defense."

"Response to threat"? You mean attack? "

"I can't really get into this system because it's not part of the contract and it's still experimental," Patrick said, "but we'd like to do a little more for the bad guys than just lure their weapons into a trap."

Patrick raised Chris through the ranks and turned him into a loser. The cockpit looked spacious and comfortable. The instrument panel consisted of five wide monitors with a few conventional "steam" gauges hidden almost out of sight. "Quite a nice flight deck."

"The aircraft commander and mission commander are ahead as usual," Patrick said. He placed his hand on the side seat behind the co-pilot's chair. "We have a flight engineer here who monitors all the ship systems and mission modules."

Chris pointed to the counter behind the boarding ramp. "You even have a galley here!"

"Washing your head too; this will come in handy on such long flights," John said.

They ducked through a small hatch at the back of the cabin, walked down a short, narrow passage, and emerged into a room quite crowded with cargo containers of all sizes, leaving only narrow passages to crawl around. "I thought you contractors flew airplanes with bedrooms and gold-plated taps," Chris quipped.

"I've never even seen a gold crane, let alone been on a plane with them," Patrick said. "No, every square foot and every pound must count." He pointed to half of the cargo module, the thinnest one Chris could see installed on the plane. "This is a container for our luggage and personal belongings. Each of the twenty-five people we took with us on this flight had no more than twenty pounds of luggage, including their laptops. Needless to say, we will be visiting your commissariat frequently during this deployment."

They had to maneuver around a large gray torpedo-shaped object that took up most of the middle of the plane. "That must be the antenna that will stick out from the top, I guess?" - Chris asked.

"That's it," Patrick said. "This is a laser radar module. The range is classified, but we can see into space well, and it's powerful enough to see even underwater. Electronically scanned laser emitters "paint" images of everything they see millions of times per second with a resolution three times better than Global Hawk. There is another one below that is configured to search for ground targets."

"Looks like a rocket," Chris remarked. "And that hole down there still looks like a bomb bay to me." He looked at Patrick with a curious expression. "Response to threat", right? Maybe you haven"t moved away from the strategic bomber business after all, General?"

"Our contract includes monitoring and reporting. As the colonel said: no more, no less."

"Yeah, that's right, General-and when I open a bag of potato chips, I can only eat one," Chris quipped. He looked around. "I don't see any passenger seats on this thing. Have you already destroyed them?

"If you're going to report us to the FAA for not having approved seats and seat belts for every passenger, yes, Chris, we've already pulled them," Patrick said.

"God, you're really ruining the image of your aviation contractors, sir," Chris said, shaking his head. "I always thought you guys lived large."

"Sorry to burst your bubble. There are two extra berths in the cockpit and some engineer berths in some of the upper and lower deck modules, which we split depending on who needs real rest, but everyone brings sleeping bags and foam mats and stretches out wherever they want. I personally prefer a luggage carrier - quiet and very well padded."

"I think our container facilities will seem luxurious compared to this, sir," Chris said. "You don"t have any radar operators on board?"

"The only way we can fit all this inside the aircraft is to have the radar operators, weapons controllers and combat staff officers on the ground and feed them the information over a data link," Patrick said. "But that's the easy part. We can connect to any network pretty quickly and can send data to almost anyone in the world - from the White House all the way down to commandos in a spider hole - using a variety of methods. I'll show it to you tonight in the briefing room."

With technicians swarming around the plane like ants, Thompson soon felt like he was in the way. "I'm heading back to the Reservoir, Patrick," he said. "Call me if you need anything."

He didn't see Patrick again until nine that evening. Thompson found him and John Masters in a conference room overlooking the Tank, sitting in front of two large wide-screen laptops. The screens were divided into many different windows, most of which were dark, but some displayed video images. He took a closer look and was surprised to see what appeared to be a video feed from an aerial platform. "Where is this image coming from, sir?" - he asked.

"This is Kelly Two-Two, the Reaper on his way to Zahuk," Patrick replied.

Thompson looked at the laptops and realized they had no data connections attached-the only cords running to them were from the AC adapters. "How did you get the channel? You are not connected to our data stream, are you?"

"We've launched the loser and are scanning data channels," John said. "When it intercepts the data link, it connects to the data link."

"Your "Wi-Fi hotspot" thing, right?"

"Exactly".

"And do you have wireless connection here?"

"Yeah."

"How? We prohibit wireless networks inside Triple-C and the tank must be shielded."

John looked at Patrick, who nodded to explain. "By facing one way, you can use the shield to block everything," John said. "Turn it the other way and the shield can be used to collect things."

"A?"

"It's difficult and not always reliable, but we can usually penetrate most metal shields," John said. "Sometimes we can even make the shielding act as an antenna for us. Active electromagnetic shields are more difficult to penetrate, but you rely on metal tank walls, reinforced concrete, and physical distance to protect Triple-C. It all works in our favor."

"You'll have to explain to my physical security guys how you did this."

"Certainly. We can help you fix it too."

"Hack into our system and then have us fix the leak, General?" Thompson asked, only partly sarcastically. "Hell of a way to make a living."

"My son grows out of his shoes every six months, Chris," Patrick said with a wink.

"I'll present it," Thompson said. He didn't feel comfortable knowing that it was apparently so easy to tap into their data links. "Who else are you connected to?"

John looked back at Patrick, who nodded in agreement. "Pretty much the whole operation," John said. "We have the entire command network of VHF and microwave radios and intercom communications here at Triple-C connected to the global network established by the Stryker Combat Team, and we receive instant messages between tactical group, brigade and theater controllers actions."

"IMS?"

"Instant messages," Patrick said. "The easiest way for controllers to share information, such as target coordinates or image analysis, with other users who are on the same network but cannot share links to the data is through regular instant messages."

"Like my daughter texting her friends on her computer or cell phone?"

"Exactly," said Patrick. He expanded the window, and Thompson saw a stream of chat messages-combat controllers describing the target area, sending geographic coordinates, and even relaying jokes and commentary on the ball game. "Sometimes the simplest procedures are the best."

"Cool". When the instant messaging window was moved so Chris could see it, another window opened underneath it and he was surprised...to see himself peeking over Patrick's shoulder! "Hey!" - he exclaimed. "Have you connected to my CCTV system?"

"We didn't try to do it - it just happened," John said, grinning. Thompson didn't look surprised. "This is not a joke, Chris. Our system searches for all remote networks to connect to, and it found this one too. This is just a video system, although we have encountered some other security related networks and refused access."

"I would appreciate it if you would deny access to all of them, General," Thompson said stonily. Patrick nodded to John, who typed in some instructions. The video stream has disappeared. "It was unwise, General. If security issues arise after this, I will have to consider you as a likely source of hacking."

"Got it," Patrick said. He turned to look at the head of security. "But obviously there is some kind of gap because someone at Nala Air Base is shooting at friendly planes. Since we were hired to enhance security throughout this sector, I can claim that I can legally access something like video streams."

Thompson looked at McLanahan worriedly, his mouth frozen. After a few rather cold moments, he said, "The Colonel said you were the kind of guy who would rather ask for forgiveness than for permission."

"So I achieve more, Chris," Patrick said matter-of-factly. But a moment later he rose to his feet and came face to face with Thompson. "I apologize for that, Chris," he said. "I didn't want to seem so careless about security. This is your job and your responsibility. I will notify you the next time we encounter something like this again, and I will get your permission before accessing it."

Thompson realized that if Patrick had broken the security system once, he could just as easily do it again, with or without his permission. "Thank you, sir, but to be honest, I don"t believe it."

"I'm serious, Chris. You tell me to shut it down and it"s done... period."

What if he didn't turn it off? Thompson asked himself. What defense did he have against the private contractor? He vowed to immediately find the answer to this question. "I'm not going to argue about it, sir," Chris said. "But you are here to help me secure this sector, so you can return if you think it is important to your work. Just tell me when you get back why and what you found."

"Made. Thank you ".

"What other security-related areas were you able to access?"

"Colonel Jaffar's Internal Security Network."

Cold sweat broke out under Chris's collar. "Internal security? It has no internal security personnel. You mean his personal bodyguards?"

"It may be what you think, Chris, but it seems to me that he has an entire shadow headquarters J - operations, intelligence, logistics, personnel, training and security," John said. " "They do everything in Arabic and we don't see foreigners in it."

"This means he has his own people in charge of all the units of the regiment and the command structure," Patrick concluded, "so he is aware of everything you do, plus he has a whole J-staff operating in the background." plan, parallel to the functions of the regimental headquarters." He turned to Chris and added, "So if, for example, something happens to Triple-C..."

"He could immediately take control and continue operations on his own," Chris said. "Damn scary."

"It could be suspicious, or it could be smart of him," John said. "He might even argue that your status of forces agreement allows him to have his own separate command structure."

"Besides," Patrick added, "you guys are trying to wind down military operations in Iraq and hand them over to the locals; it might just contribute to it. There is no reason to automatically think that something nefarious is going on."

"I've been in security long enough to know that if the 'oh crap' light starts twitching, something bad is happening," Chris said. "Can you reconnect to Jaffar's network and let me know if you see anything unusual, sir?"

"I'm sure we can tie this up again, Chris," Patrick said. "We'll let you know."

"I feel bad for accusing you of hacking our security systems and then asking you to spy for me, sir."

"No problem. We're going to be working together for a while, and I tend to act first and ask questions later."

A few minutes later the mission briefing began. It was very similar to the mission briefings Patrick gave in the Air Force: timing, overview, weather, current intelligence, status of all units involved, and then briefings from each unit and department on what they were going to do. All participants sat at their posts and briefed each other over the intercom system while displaying PowerPoint or computer slides on screens at the rear of the tank and on individual displays. Patrick saw Gia Cazzotto at one of the consoles farthest from the platform, taking notes and looking very serious.

"Here is a summary of the Iraqi Army operation, sir," began "Combat Major" Kenneth Bruno. "The Iraqi Seventh Brigade is sending the entire Maqbara heavy infantry company, about three hundred riflemen, along with Major Jafar Osman himself as part of the headquarters unit. Maqbar's Company is probably the only purely infantry unit in the Seventh Brigade - all the others are focused on security, police and civil affairs - so we know it's a big deal.

"The target, which we call the Parrot reconnaissance facility, is a suspected hidden tunnel complex north of the small village of Zahuk. The contact time is three hundred zero-zero hours local time. Osman will deploy two platoons of Iraqi troops to provide security around the city to the east and west, while two platoons will enter the tunnel network from the south and clear it."

"What about the north, Bruno?" Wilhelm asked.

"I think they hope they will run north so the Turks will take care of them."

"Are the Turks involved in this matter at all?"

"The answer is no, sir."

"Did anyone tell them that IAD was going to operate near the border?"

"This is the job of the Iraqis, sir."

"Not when we have guys in the field."

"Sir, we are prohibited from contacting the Turks about the Iraq operation without permission from Baghdad," Thompson said. "This is considered a security breach."

"We'll look at this shit," Wilhelm spat. "Communications, connect the division - I want to talk to the general directly. Thompson, if you have any behind-the-scenes contacts in Turkey, call them and informally suggest that something might happen in Zahuk tonight."

"I'll take care of it, Colonel."

"Make it happen," Wilhelm snapped. "The Turks must be nervous as hell after what just happened to them. Okay, what about Warhammer?"

"Warhammer's mission is to support the Iraqi army," Bruno continued. "Special Operations Squadron Three will fly two MQ-9 Reapers, each equipped with an infrared image sensor, a laser designator, two 160-gallon external fuel tanks and six laser-guided AGM-114 Hellfire missiles. On the ground, Warhammer would send a second platoon, Bravo Company, to scout behind Iraqi lines. They will be positioned south, east and west of Maqbar's company and will be watching. The main task of strikers is to fill the picture of the battle space and provide assistance if necessary. The unit sends its Global Hawk to monitor the entire battlespace."

"The key word here is watch, kids," Wilhelm intervened. "Weapons will be tight in this operation, you know? If you come under fire, take cover, identify, report and wait for orders. I don't want to be accused of filming friendlies even if IA turns around and shoots at us. Continue."

"In Nala, Warhammer has two Apache helicopters from the 4th Air Regiment, armed, fueled and ready to fly, loaded with missiles and Hellfires," Bruno said. "We also have the 7th Air Expeditionary Squadron, one B-1B Lancer bomber on "Foxtrot patrol orbit. Colonel Cazzotto is acting as air combat controller."

"Real gangbang, all right," Wilhelm growled. "That's all we need for the Air Farce to scream and start dropping JDAM on the IAS - they can trample our Strykers as they tuck their tail between their legs and run away." Patrick waited for Gia's reaction, but she lowered her head and continued taking notes. "Okay: safety. What"s the situation at the base, Thompson?"

"Bravo for now, Colonel," Chris replied, pressing the phone to his ear, "but an hour before we open the gates and turn around, we will automatically depart for Delta."

"Not good enough. Go to Delta now."

"Colonel Jaffar wishes to be notified prior to any change to the THREATCON level."

Wilhelm looked at Thompson's station and his mouth tightened when he saw that he was not there. He turned to his deputy. "Send Jaffar a message telling him I recommend starting THREATCON now," he said, "then do it, Thompson. Don't wait for his approval." Weatherly got straight to the point. They saw Wilhelm inspecting the tank. "Where the hell are you, Thompson?"

"Upstairs, on the observation deck, I"m checking where the general is."

"Get your ass over here where you belong, send us to THREATCON Delta, then assign someone to look after the contractors. I need you at your damn post."

"Yes, Colonel."

"General, where is your plane and your guys?" Wilhelm asked, looking at the observation deck. "It"s better to remove them."

"The plane and all my equipment are in the hangar," Patrick answered. He was glad to see that Gia also looked up to him. "The aircraft is externally powered and in full communication."

"Whatever the hell that means," Wilhelm snapped, glaring at McLanahan. "I just want to make sure you and your stuff are out of my way when we break out."

"We are all in the hangar, as requested, Colonel."

"I"m not asking for anything here, General: I order, and it"s carried out," said Wilhelm. "They stay put until zero-zero three hundred unless I say otherwise."

"Understood".

"Intelligence service. Who is causing the most concern there - besides our Haji allies, Bexar?

"The biggest threat in our sector continues to be a group calling itself the Islamic State of Iraq, based in Mosul and led by Jordanian Abu al-Abadi," responded Frank Bexar, the regiment's privately contracted intelligence officer. "The Iraqis think that the network of tunnels near Zahuk is their stronghold, which is why they are sending such large forces. However, we ourselves do not have reliable intelligence that al-Abadi is there."

"The Haji must have some pretty good information, Bexar," Wilhelm growled. "Why don"t you do this?"

"The Iraqis say he's there and they want him dead or alive, sir," Bexar replied. "But Zahuk and the countryside are controlled by the Kurds, and al-Qaeda is strongest in cities like Mosul. I cannot believe that al-Abadi would be allowed to have a 'stronghold' in this area."

"Well, obviously he does, Bexar," Wilhelm snapped. "You need to strengthen your contacts and interact with the hajis so that we don't suck the back tit all the time in terms of intelligence. Anything else?"

"Yes, sir," Bexar replied nervously. "The other biggest threat to coalition forces is the ongoing conflict between Turkey and the Kurdish guerrillas operating in our AOR. They continue to cross the border to attack targets in Turkey and then retreat back into Iraq. Although Kurdish insurgents do not pose a direct threat to us, periodic Turkish retaliatory attacks across the border against PKK insurgent hideouts in Iraq have sometimes exposed our forces to danger.

"The Turks told us that they have about five thousand troops deployed along the Turkish-Iraqi border adjacent to our AOR. This is consistent with our own observations. The Gendarma had carried out a few retaliatory raids in the last eighteen hours, but nothing too large - several of their commando strike units had been unleashed in search of revenge. Their latest intelligence indicates that a rebel leader they call Baz, or Hawk, an Iraqi Kurd, possibly a woman, is organizing daring raids on Turkish military installations, possibly including the crash of a Turkish tanker in Diyarbakir."

"Woman, huh? I knew the women here were ugly, but tough too?" Wilhelm remarked with a laugh. "Are we receiving current information from the Turks about their troop movements and anti-terrorism operations?"

"The Turkish ministries of defense and interior are quite good at providing us with direct information about their activities," Beksar said. "We even contacted some of their air raids by phone to secure the airspace."

"At least you dealt with the Turks, Behar," said Wilhelm. The intelligence contractor swallowed hard and finished his briefing as quickly as he could.

After the final briefing ended, Wilhelm stood up, took off his headphones, and turned to face his battle headquarters. "Okay, kids, listen carefully," he began sharply. Employees ostentatiously took off their headphones to listen. "This is IA's show, not ours, so I don't want any heroics, and I sure as hell don't want any screw-ups. This is a big operation for the Iraqis, but routine for us, so make it nice, smooth and by the book. Keep your eyes and ears open and your mouths closed. Limit voice activity reports to urgent ones only. When I ask you to watch something, you better put it on my screen a nanosecond later, or I'll come and feed you breakfast through your nostrils. Stay tuned and let's give IA a good show. Get to it."

"The real Omar Bradley," John Masters quipped. "A true soldier of soldiers."

"He is very highly regarded in the division and corps and will likely receive a star soon," Patrick said. "He's tough, but he seems to be running the ship well and getting the job done."

"I just hope he lets us do what we do."

"We'll do it with him or against him," Patrick said. "Okay, Dr. Jonathan Colin Masters, paint me a picture of this crowd and confuse me."

The young engineer raised his hands like a neurosurgeon examining the brain he was about to operate on, picked up an imaginary scalpel, then began typing on his computer keyboard. "Prepare to be amazed, my friend. Prepare to fail."

NEAR INTELLIGENCE TARGET PARROTT, NEAR ZAHOQ, IRAQ

A FEW HOURS LATER

"I was expecting Grand Central Station or Tora Bora, not Hobbit House," grumbled Army First Lt. Ted Oakland, commander of a platoon of four Stryker infantry fighting vehicles. He scanned the field of view about a mile ahead with his night thermal imaging system, which was a repeater of the gunner's sights. The southern entrance to al-Qaeda's so-called tunnel citadel was a tiny adobe hut that a twenty-ton Stryker could easily breach. This did not quite match the information they received from local residents and their Iraqi colleagues, who variously described it as a "fortress" and a "citadel."

Oakland switched from a thermal image to an overhead shot taken by the battalion's armed MQ-9 Reaper drone flying eight thousand feet overhead. The image clearly shows the position of Iraqi troops around the hut. The area contained a cluster of huts, as well as outbuildings and small cattle pens. At least eight platoons of Iraqi regulars slowly advanced into the area.

"It's pretty quiet there, sir," the gunner remarked.

"For the bad guys' main stronghold, I would agree," Oakland said. "But the way the Iraqis are bumbling their way through, it"s a wonder the whole province hasn"t fled yet."

In fact, the presence of the Stryker reconnaissance platoon probably alerted the bad guys even more than it did the Iraqis. The platoon consisted of four Stryker infantry armored personnel carriers. The twenty-ton vehicles had eight wheels and a 350-horsepower turbodiesel engine. They were lightly armed with 50-caliber machine guns or forty-millimeter rapid-fire grenade launchers, controlled remotely from inside the vehicles. Because they were designed for mobility rather than lethal force, Strykers were lightly armored and could barely withstand conventional squad-level machine gun fire; However, on the outside, these vehicles were covered in plate armor-cage-like steel tubes designed to absorb most of the energy from a rocket-propelled grenade explosion, making them appear super-heavy.

Despite their awkward appearance and low-tech wheel sizes, Strykers brought a real twenty-first century capability to the battlefield: networking. The Strykers could create a node in a global wireless computer network for miles around, so that everyone from an individual vehicle to the President of the United States could track their location and status, see everything the crew could see, and relay target information to everyone else in the area. networks. They brought an unprecedented level of situational awareness to every mission.

Along with the commander, driver, and gunner, the Strykers carried six dismounted troops-a squad leader or assistant commander, two security soldiers, and three reconnaissance infantrymen. Oakland ordered them to dismount to check the area ahead on foot. While security teams established a perimeter around each vehicle and monitored the area through night vision goggles, the squad leader and scout soldiers carefully moved forward along the intended route, checking for booby traps, cover, or any signs of the enemy.

Although they were marching behind the Iraqis and should not have made contact, Oakland kept the dismounted there because the Iraqi soldiers often did things that made absolutely no sense. They found "lost" Iraqi soldiers-men walking in the wrong direction, mostly away from enemy lines-or soldiers taking a break, eating, praying or relieving themselves away from their units. Oakland often suggested that his platoon's main job behind the main force was to steer the Iraqis in the right direction.

But today the Iraqis looked like they were making good progress. Auckland was confident that this was because it was a relatively large-scale operation, because Maqbar's company was in the lead, and because Major Othman was on the battlefield rather than hiding under an abaya whenever an operation began.

"About fifteen microphones before contact," Oakland said into the platoon's secure network. "Be alert." Still no sign that they had been discovered. This, Oakland thought, would either go relatively well, or they had stumbled upon an ambush. The next few minutes will tell...

COMMAND AND CONTROL CENTER, ALLIED AIR BASE NAKHLA, IRAQ

IN THE SAME TIME

"I'm impressed, John, really impressed," said Patrick McLanahan. "The mechanism works as advertised."

"Did you expect anything less?" John Masters retorted smugly. He shrugged, then added, "Actually, I'm surprised myself. Connecting the regimental equipment to the network was a bigger hurdle than connecting our own sensors, and everything went quite smoothly."

"This could be bad: it shouldn't be so easy to connect the regiment's network," Patrick noted.

"Ours are not nearly as easy to hack as the regimental ones," John said confidently. "It would take an army of Sandra Bulloxes to crack our code." He pointed to one empty window on his laptop monitor. "Global Division hawk is the only player that hasn"t been brought on board yet."

"I may have been responsible for this," Patrick admitted. "I told Dave that we would be ready to begin surveillance tonight, and he probably relayed it to President Martindale, who probably relayed it to Corps Headquarters. The department may have reassigned the "Global Hawk."

"It"s not your fault-it"s William"s fault," John said. "If he let us fly, we'd be on him like stink on shit. Well, they have a lot of eyes up there as it is."

Patrick nodded, but he still looked worried. "I'm concerned about the northern part of these tunnels," he said. "If any AQIs escape, we need to keep an eye on them so we can send the Turks to capture them or use the Reaper to deal with them." He brought up John's laptop window onto his display, studied it for a moment, entered a few commands on the keyboard, and spoke. "Miss Harrison?"

"Harrison. Who is this?"

"General McLanahan."

He could see the drone contractor looking around in confusion. "Where are you, general?"

"Upstairs, on the observation deck."

She looked up and saw him through the large slanted window panes. "Oh, hello, sir. I didn"t know you were on this network."

"I'm not officially one, but Chris said it's okay. I need to ask you something ".

"Yes, sir?"

"You have Kelly Two-Two on duty in the southern part of the operation, and Kelly Two-Six ready to go as cover. Could you move Two-Two north to cover the northern tunnel entrance and move Two-Six to cover the southern one?"

"Why, sir?"

Global Hawk is not on station, so we don't have any coverage in the north."

"I would have to fly the Reaper within the missile's maximum range of the Turkish border, and that would require permission from the Corps and probably the State Department. We could load a weapon from Two-Six and send it up."

"It'll probably all be over by then, Lieutenant."

"That's right, sir."

"If we can bring attention to this, I'd be a little more relieved," Patrick said. "How about we send Two-Two to extreme range until I contact the Corps?"

"I'll have to take out Two-Six so he can take off," Harrison said. "Get ready." Patrick switched to the radar image of Nala Air Base's approach and found it relatively devoid of traffic, no doubt because the airspace had been closed as a result of the operation to the north. A moment later: "Airspace says we can take off when we're ready, sir. Let me get permission from the combat major."

"It was my idea, Lieutenant, so I would be glad to call him and explain what I meant."

"You shouldn't be on this network, sir," Harrison said, looking at Patrick and giggling. "Also, if you don"t mind, I"d like to take credit for your idea."

"I'll take the blame if there's any confusion, Lieutenant."

"No problem, sir. Be ready." She disconnected the connection, but Patrick was able to overhear her conversation with Major Bruno and the conversation between Bruno and Lt. Col. Weatherly about the launch. They all agreed that moving the Reaper was a good idea as long as it didn't violate any international agreements, and soon Kelly Two-Six was airborne and Two-Two was moving north to take up a patrol orbit near the Turkish border. .

"Whose idea was it to move the Reaper north... Wow," Wilhelm said over the tank network.

"Harrison's idea, sir," Weatherly said.

"Did I spend a great 'wow' on a contractor?" Wilhelm said, feigning self-disgust. "Oh, well, I know we have to throw the mercenaries a bone every now and then. I warn you in advance, Harrison."

"Thank you, Colonel."

"Is this his way of giving out praise?" John asked. "What a nice guy."

The picture of the operation looked much better when the Reaper entered a patrol orbit near the Turkish border, although it was still too far south to completely fill the picture. "It was a good idea, sir," Harrison told Patrick, "but the ROE constraints still can't give us an idea of where the tunnel supposedly exits. I'll check on Global Hawk."

"We would have shut down this whole area seven ways on Sunday with the underdog," John said. "Wait until these guys see us in action."

"I really want you to change that name, John."

"I'll do it, but first I want to rub the Air Force's face into it for a while," John said happily. "I can not wait".

INTELLIGENCE OBJECTIVE - PARROT

AFTER A SHORT TIME

"There they come, sir," said the gunner aboard Lt. Oakland's Stryker, studying the image of the tunnel entrance through his infrared sights. Several bright flashes of light flashed on the screen, and a second later the sounds of an explosion echoed across them. "It looks like the leading platoons are on the move."

Oakland looked at his watch. "And just in time. I am impressed. It would be difficult for us to complete an operation of this magnitude on time." He flicked a switch on his monitor, checking the areas around each of his Strykers deployed around the area, then turned on his microphone. "Weapons at the ready and stay alert, guys," he radioed to his platoon. "OVR in motion." The leader of each section pressed yes.

Once they had all checked in, Auckland sent an instant message to Tank in Nala, reporting the movements of friendly forces. He briefly switched to Maqbar's company command radio network and was greeted by a frantic and completely incomprehensible cacophony of excited shouts in Arabic. He quickly turned it off. "Good radio discipline, guys," he said under his breath.

"They're coming in, sir," said the Stryker's gunner. He and Oakland watched as a squad of eight Iraqi soldiers approached the building. Two soldiers used grenade launchers to blow open the door, showering themselves with wood and stone fragments because they got too close.

"Come on guys, where is your entry team?" Oakland said out loud. "You should know that the guys who blew up the door will not be able to enter unhindered. One squad breaks down the door while the other squad, protected from light and shock, gets inside. My seven year old knows this." But he soon saw the sergeant reorganize his infiltration team and move the infiltration team out of the way, so that after a brief stutter the operation seemed to be moving forward.

Back at the Tank, Patrick and John watched the action via Stryker and drone feeds... Except that Patrick wasn't watching the raid on the supposed tunnel entrance, but further north along the Iraqi-Turkish border. The view from the MQ-9 Reaper's infrared imaging scanner showed rolling hills interspersed with high, rocky cliffs and deep, forested valleys.

Margaret Harrison, the regiment's Reaper liaison officer, told him over the intercom . "Reapers are designed to look down at a fairly steep angle, rather than across the horizon."

"Accepted," Patrick replied. "Just a few more seconds." He touched another key on his keyboard and said, "Mr. Bexar?"

"Bexar is listening," replied a privately hired intelligence officer.

"This is McLanahan."

"How are you, general? Do you have the right to be online now?"

"Mr Thompson said everything was fine. I have a question."

"I personally do not know your security clearance, General," Bexar said. "I assume that you are classified as Top Secret, otherwise you would not be able to attend the briefing, but until I verify, I will have to refrain from answering any questions that might compromise operational security."

"Understood. Have you been informed that the Turks have five thousand troops in the area immediately adjacent to the regiment"s area of responsibility?"

"Yes, sir. The equivalent of two mechanized infantry brigades, one each in Sirnak and Hakkari provinces, plus three Jandarma battalions."

"That's a lot, isn't it?"

"Given recent events, I don't think so," Bexar said. "Over the last couple of years, they have tried to roughly replicate the level of the US and Iraqi militaries. In the past, the gendarme maintained a much larger force in southeastern Turkey depending on the level of PKK activity. The problem is that we do not always receive regular updates about the movements of Jandarma units."

"Why is this?"

"The Turkish Ministry of Interior is quite reserved - the agreement with NATO does not oblige them to share information, as the Ministry of Defense does."

"But the movement of mechanized infantry in this area is a relatively new development?"

"Yes".

"Interesting. But my question is, Mr. Bexar: where are they?"

"Where is who?"

"Where are all these Turkish forces? A mechanized infantry brigade is quite difficult to hide."

"Well, I guess..." The question apparently took the intelligence officer by surprise. "They... could be anywhere, General. I assume they are garrisoned in provincial capitals. As for the gendarmes, they can easily elude our observation in this area."

"Kelly Two-Two has been scouting the border for the last few minutes and I haven't seen any sign of any vehicles at all," Patrick said. "And according to my maps, Two-Two is looking directly at the city of Uludere, right?"

"Get ready." A moment later, after checking the telemetry readings from the Reaper's infrared image sensor: "Yes, General, you are right."

"We look at the city, but I don't see any lights or even any signs of life there. Am I missing something?

There was a short pause; then: "General, why are you asking about Turkey?" The Turks are not participating in this operation."

Yes, Patrick thought, why am I looking at Turkey? "Just curious, I guess," he finally answered. "I'll let you get back to work. I apologize for-"

"Harrison, what is Two-Two looking at?" Wilhelm asked over the intercom. "He's looking fifteen miles in the wrong damn direction. Check your ground surveillance plan."

Patrick knew he had to intervene himself-it wasn't Harrison's idea to look across the border into Turkey. "I just wanted to look across the border, Colonel."

"Who is this?"

"McLanahan."

"What are you doing on my network, General?" Wilhelm thundered. "I said you could watch and eavesdrop, not talk, and I'm damn sure I didn't authorize you to supervise my sensor operators!"

"Sorry, Colonel, but I had a strange feeling about something and I had to check it out."

"It"s better to ask for forgiveness than to ask permission, eh, General?" Wilhelm chuckled. "I heard that about you. I don't care about your 'weird feelings', McLanahan. Harrison, take this Reaper to cover..."

"You're not even going to ask what I wanted to see, Colonel?"

"I"m not like that because nothing in Turkey interests me at the moment. In case you forgot, General, I have a reconnaissance platoon in the field operating in Iraq, not Turkey. But since you brought it up, who the hell were you...

"Rocket launch!" - someone intervened. On the monitor showing images transmitted from Kelly Two-Two, dozens of bright streaks of fire arced across the night sky - from across the border in Turkey!

"What the hell is this?" Wilhelm lost his temper. "Where does it leave from?"

"This is a salvo of rockets from Turkey! "Patrick shouted. "Get your people out of there, Colonel!"

"Shut the hell up, McLanahan!" Wilhelm screamed. But he jumped up from his seat in horror, studied the image for a few moments, then pressed the regimental network button and shouted: "To all Warhammer players, to all Warhammer players, this is Warhammer, artillery is approaching you from the north, in the opposite direction, now get away from Parrot! "

"Repeat?" - one of the reconnaissance sections responded. "Say it again, War Hammer!"

"I repeat, all Warhammer players, this is Warhammer, you have twenty seconds to change direction away from the Parrot target, and then five seconds to take cover!" Wilhelm screamed. "Artillery is approaching from the north! Move! Move!" Over the tank's intercom he shouted: "Someone get the fucking Turkish army on the line and tell them to cease fire, we have troops on the ground!" Scramble the ambulance helicopters and get reinforcements there immediately!"

"Send a B-1 across the border to these launch points, Colonel!" Patrick said. "If there are any more launchers, they will be able to-"

"I said shut up and get out of my network, McLanahan!" Wilhelm lost his temper.

The Stryker reconnaissance patrols moved quickly, but not as fast as the incoming missiles. It took only ten seconds for two dozen missiles to travel thirty miles and shower the area of the Zahuk tunnel complex with thousands of high-explosive anti-personnel and anti-vehicle mines. Some mines exploded several yards overhead, showering the area below with white-hot tungsten pellets; other mines detonated on contact with the ground, buildings or vehicles with a high-explosive fragmentation warhead; and yet others were on the ground, where they exploded when disturbed or automatically after a certain period of time.

A second bombardment occurred just moments later, aimed several hundred yards west, east, and south of the first target area, designed to catch anyone who might have escaped the first bombardment. It was an attack that caught most of the retreating members of the American reconnaissance platoon. The mines penetrated the light upper armor of the Strykers from above, tearing them apart and leaving them open to other high explosive munitions. Many of those who dismounted and escaped the carnage inside their vehicles were killed by submunitions that exploded overhead or beneath their feet as they tried to flee for their lives.

Thirty seconds later it was all over. Stunned employees watched it all in absolute horror, broadcast live by Reaper and Predator drones high above.

WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, DC.

AFTER A SHORT TIME

President Joseph Gardner was exiting his computer in a private office adjacent to the Oval Office and was just reaching for his jacket to call it a day and head into the residence when the phone rang. It was his national security adviser, longtime friend and former assistant secretary of the Navy, Conrad Carlisle. He pressed the speakerphone button: "I was just about to wrap up, Conrad. It can wait?"

"I wish I could, sir," Carlisle said on a secure cell phone, likely in his car. His friend rarely called him "sir" when they spoke one-on-one unless it was an emergency, and this immediately caught the President's attention. "I'm on my way to the White House, sir. Reports of Turkey's Cross-Border Attack on Iraq."

Gardner's heart rate dropped several percentage points. Neither Turkey, nor especially Iraq, posed a strategic threat to him right now - even what was happening in Iraq rarely caused long sleepless nights. "Are any of our guys involved in this?"

"Heap."

The heart rate returned again. What the hell happened? "Oh shit". He could almost taste that glass of rum with ice he had been thinking about back at the residence. "Have they already been created in the Situation Room for me?"

"No, sir."

"How much information do you have?"

"Very little".

Time to grab a drink before the action really starts to pick up steam. "I'll be in the Oval Office. Come and get me."

"Yes, sir".

Gardner put a few ice cubes in an Old Navy coffee mug, poured some Ron Caneca rum into it, and carried it into the Oval Office. There was a crisis brewing somewhere, and it was important for viewers around the world to look out their windows and see the President of the United States hard at work-but that didn't mean he had to deprive himself of it.

He switched the TV in the Oval Office to CNN, but there was nothing on it yet about any incident in Turkey. He could get feeds from the situation room in his office, but he didn't want to leave the Oval Office until the emergency was broadcast worldwide and everyone could see he was already watching it.

It was all about image, and Joe Gardner was a master at presenting a specific, carefully crafted image. He always wore a collared shirt and tie except when going to bed, and if he wasn't wearing a jacket, his sleeves would be rolled up and his tie slightly loosened to give the impression that he was working hard. He often used speakerphone, but when others could see him, he always used the handset so everyone could see him talking busily. He also never used fine china cups, preferring heavy, thick, dark blue coffee mugs for all his drinks because he thought they made him look more masculine.

Besides, like Jackie Gleason on TV with his cup filled with booze, everyone would assume he drinks coffee.

White House Chief of Staff Walter Cordus knocked on the Oval Office door, waited the necessary few seconds in case there was any sign of protest, then entered himself. "Conrad called me, Joe," Cordus said. He was wearing jeans, a sweatshirt and boat shoes. Another longtime friend and ally of Gardner, he was always available at a moment's notice and was probably holed up somewhere in the West Wing instead of at home with his wife and impressive array of children. He looked at the flat screen TV hidden in the closet. "Is there anything already?"

"No". Gardner raised his mug. "Have something to drink. I"m almost one ahead of you." The chief of staff obediently poured himself a mug of rum, but, as usual, did not drink a drop.

It wasn't until Carlisle burst through the doors of the Oval Office, briefing file in hand, that something appeared on CNN, and it was just a mention on a scroll at the bottom of the screen about a "shooting incident" in northern Iraq. "This looks like a friendly fire incident, sir," Carlisle said. "An Army platoon was supporting an Iraqi infantry company in clearing a suspected al-Qaeda in Iraq tunnel entrance when the area was attacked by Turkish medium-range unguided rockets."

"Shit," the president muttered. "Bring Stacy Ann here."

"She's on her way, and so is Miller," Carlisle said. Stacey Ann Barbeau, a former U.S. senator from Louisiana who was as ambitious as she was flamboyant, was recently confirmed as the new Secretary of State; Miller Turner, another longtime friend and confidant of Gardner, was Secretary of Defense.

"Losses?"

"Eleven dead, sixteen wounded, ten in critical condition."

"Yes".

Over the next ten minutes, the president's advisers or deputies filtered into the Oval Office one by one. Last to arrive was Barbeau, looking like she was ready for a night on the town. "My staff is in contact with the Turkish Embassy and the Turkish Ministry of Foreign Affairs," she said, heading straight for the coffee tray. "I expect a call from each of them soon."

"The number of casualties has risen to thirteen and is expected to rise, sir," Turner said after receiving a call from the Army Corps commander. "They can't say the platoon itself was the target, but it appears the Iraqis and Turks were pursuing the same goal."

"Then if our guys were supporting the Iraqis, how did they come under attack?"

"Initial assessment contractors say the second round of missiles was intended to catch any survivors fleeing the target area."

"Contractors?"

"As you know, sir," said National Security Advisor Carlisle, "we have been able to significantly reduce our uniformed military forces in Iraq, Afghanistan and many other forward locations around the world, replacing them with civilian contractors. Almost all military functions that do not involve direct action-security, reconnaissance, maintenance, communications, the list goes on-are performed by contractors these days."

The President nodded, already moving on to other details. "I need the names of the victims so I can call the families."

"Yes, sir".

"Did any of these contractors get hurt?"

"No, sir."

"Figures," the president said lazily.

The phone on the President's desk rang, and Chief of Staff Walter Cordus picked it up, listened, then handed it to Barbeau. "Turkish Prime Minister Akash herself, Stacey, got involved on behalf of the state."

"That's a good sign," Barbeau said. She activated the translator on the president's computer. "Good morning, Madam Prime Minister," she said. "This is Secretary of State Barbeau."

At the same moment another phone rang. "Turkish President Hirsiz is on the line for you, sir."

"He better have some explanation," Gardner said, picking up the phone. "Mr. President, this is Joseph Gardner."

"President Gardner, good evening," Kurzat Hirsiz said in very good English, his voice quite trembling with concern, "Sorry to bother you, but I just heard about a terrible tragedy that occurred on the border with Iraq, and on behalf of To all the people of Turkey, I wanted to immediately call and express my sadness, regret and grief to the families of the men who died in this terrible incident."

"Thank you, Mr. President," Gardner said. "So, what the hell happened?"

"An unforgivable mistake on the part of our internal security forces," Hirsiz said. "They received information that Kurdish PKK insurgents and terrorists were massing in a tunnel complex in Iraq and were planning another attack on a Turkish airport or military airfield, larger and more destructive than the recent attack in Diyarbakir. The information came from very reliable sources.

"They said the number of PKK fighters was in the hundreds in the tunnel complex, which is very extensive and crosses the Iraqi border over a wide area. It was determined that we did not have enough time to assemble sufficient forces to destroy such a large group in such a dangerous area, so it was decided to attack using rocket fire. I gave the order to attack personally, and therefore it is my mistake and my responsibility."

"For God"s sake, Mr. President, why didn"t you tell us first?" - Gardner asked. "We are allies and friends, remember? You know that we have forces in the area operating day and night to secure the border area and hunt down insurgents, including the PKK. One quick phone call that would alert us and we could withdraw our forces without alerting the terrorists."

"Yes, yes, I know that, Mr. President," Hirsiz said. "But our informant told us that the terrorists would soon be on the move, and we had to act quickly. There was no time-"

"No time? Thirteen dead Americans who served only a supporting role, Mr. President! And we don't even have a count of Iraqi casualties yet! You should have found the time!"

"Yes, yes, I agree, Mr. President, and it was a terrible omission for which I deeply regret and for which I personally apologize," Hirsiz said, this time with clear irritation in his voice. There was a short pause; then: "But let me remind you, sir, that we were not informed about the Iraqi operation by either you or the Iraqi government. Such notice would also have prevented this accident."

"Don't start shifting the blame now, Mr. President," Gardner snapped. "Thirteen Americans are dead because of your artillery fire, which was aimed at Iraqi territory, not Turkish soil! This is unforgivable!"

"I agree, I agree, sir," Hirsiz said stonily. "I don't dispute that, and I don't seek to place blame where it shouldn't be. But the tunnel complex was under the Iraqi-Turkish border, terrorists were amassing in Iraq, and we know that insurgents are living, plotting, and collecting weapons and supplies in Iraq and Iran. It was a legitimate target, no matter which side of the border. We know that the Kurds in Iraq are harboring and supporting the PKK, and the Iraqi government is doing little to stop them. We have to act because the Iraqis won't."

"President Hirsiz, I'm not going to get into an argument with you about what the Iraqi government is or isn't doing with the PKK," Gardner said irritably. "I want a full explanation of what happened, and I require your promise to do everything in your power to prevent it from happening again. We are allies, sir. Disasters like this can and should be avoided, and it appears that if you had fulfilled your duty as an ally and friendly neighbor of Iraq and communicated better with us, it might..."

"Bir saniye! I beg your pardon, sir?" Hirsiz said. There was a long pause on the other end of the line, and Gardner heard someone in the background say the word sik, which, according to the computer translator, meant "the head of the penis." "Forgive me, Mr. President, but, as I explained to you, , we thought we were attacking PKK terrorists who just recently killed nearly two dozen innocent men, women and children in a major Turkish city. The Zahuk incident was a terrible mistake for which I take full responsibility and sincerely apologize to you, the families of the victims and to the people of America. But that doesn't give you the right to demand anything from this government."

"There is no reason for obscenity, President Hirsiz," said Gardner, so agitated and angry that the veins stood out on his forehead. He noted that Hirsiz did not deny or dispute the allegation or was surprised that Gardner knew about it. "We will conduct a full investigation into this attack and I look forward to your maximum cooperation. I want full confidence from you that in the future you will communicate better with us and your NATO partners so that similar attacks do not happen again."

"This was not an attack against your troops or Iraqis, but against alleged PKK insurgents and terrorists, sir," Hirsiz said. "Please choose your words more carefully, Mr. President. It was an accident, a tragic mistake that occurred while defending the homeland of the Turkish Republic. I take responsibility for the terrible accident, sir, not the attack.

"Okay, Mr. President, everything is correct," Gardner said. "We will contact you shortly regarding the arrival of judicial, military and criminal investigators. Good night sir."

"I am yi akşamlar. Good night, Mr. President."

Gardner hung up. "Damn, you"d think he"d lost thirteen people!" - he said. "Stacy?"

"I caught a little of your conversation, Mr. President," Barbeau said. "The Prime Minister was apologetic, almost excessively. I felt that she was sincere, although she clearly views this as an accident for which they only share responsibility."

"Yes? And if it was an American missile attack and Turkish troops were killed, we would be crucified not only by Turkey, but by the whole world - we would get all the blame and then some," Gardner said. He leaned back in his chair and ran his hand over his face in irritation. "Okay, okay, screw the Turks for now. Someone screwed up here and I want to know who, and I want some asses - Turkish, Iraqi, PKK or American, I don't care, I want some asses." He turned to the Minister of Defense. "Miller, I'm going to appoint a chairman to lead the investigation. I want it to be public, right in your face, rough, tough and direct. This is the highest death toll in Iraq since I've been in office, and I don't intend to let this administration get bogged down in Iraq." He glanced briefly at Stacy Barbeau, who made a very faint gesture with her eyes. Gardner immediately realized this and approached Vice President Kenneth T. Phoenix. "Ken, how about this? You definitely have experience."

"Absolutely, sir," he replied without hesitation. At just forty-six years old, Kenneth Phoenix could have become one of America's fastest-rising political stars-if only he hadn't worked so hard. J.D. from UCLA, four years as a Judge Advocate in the United States Marine Corps, four years in the U.S. Attorney's Office in the District of Columbia, then various offices in the Department of Justice before being appointed Attorney General.

In the years following the horror of the American Holocaust, Phoenix worked tirelessly to reassure the American public and the world that the United States would not slide into martial law. He was ruthless against lawbreakers and prosecuted anyone, regardless of political affiliation or wealth, who sought to profit from victims of Russian attacks. He was equally ruthless in his dealings with Congress and even the White House to ensure that individual rights were not violated as the government began the work of rebuilding the nation and restoring its borders.

He was so popular among the American people that there was talk of him running for President of the United States against another very popular man, then Secretary of Defense Joseph Gardner. Gardner switched party affiliations due to his differences with the Martindale administration, a move that hurt his chances of winning. But in a stroke of political genius, Joseph Gardner asked Phoenix to be his running mate, even though they were not members of the same party. The strategy worked. Voters perceived this move as a strong sign of unity and wisdom, and they won a landslide victory.

"Do you think, Mr. President, is it a good idea to send the Vice President to Iraq and Turkey?" - asked the chief of staff. "It's still pretty dangerous out there."

"I've been monitoring the security situation in Iraq, and I think it's safe enough for me," Phoenix said.

"What he said makes sense, Ken," the president said. "I was thinking about your qualifications and experience, not your safety. I'm sorry."

"No need, sir," said Phoenix. "I will do it. It is important to show how seriously we take this attack - to all players in the Middle East, not just the Turks."

"I don't know..."

"I'll keep my head down, sir, don't worry," Phoenix said. "I will assemble a team from the Pentagon, the Department of Justice and the National Intelligence Service and leave tonight."

"Today ?" Gardner nodded and smiled. "I knew I picked the right guy. Okay, Ken, thanks, you're in. Stacy will get all the permits you need in Baghdad, Ankara and wherever your investigation takes you. If we need you back to the Senate to break the tie, perhaps I'll send the Black Stallion spaceplane after you.

"I'd love to ride one of these, sir. Send one for me and I will take it."

"Be careful what you wish for, Mr. Vice President." Gardner rose to his feet and began pacing. "I know I said I wanted to get our forces out of Iraq in sixteen months, but it took longer than I thought. This incident highlights the dangers our troops face there every day, even when we are not in direct contact with the enemy. It's time to talk about drawing down our forces more quickly and withdrawing more of them. Thoughts?"

"The American people will certainly agree, Mr. President," said Secretary Barbeau, "especially after news of this disaster breaks in the morning."

"We've talked about this possibility many times, sir," National Security Adviser Carlisle said. "One mechanized infantry brigade in Baghdad on a twelve-month rotation; one training regiment on a six-month rotation; and we often conduct joint exercises with units deployed from the States for no more than a month or two throughout the country. Daily security and surveillance provided by private contractors, with infrequent special operations missions throughout the region as needed."

"Sounds good to me," the president said. "One soldier is killed and it's front page news, but it takes at least six contractors to die before anyone notices. Let"s work out the details and make a plan without delay." Turning to his other advisers, he said, "Okay, I want an update on the attack in Iraq at the headquarters briefing at seven this morning. Thank you all ". As the group left the Oval Office, the President asked, "Secretary Barbeau, can I have a few words with you in the office?"

After the door closed, the president poured the former Louisiana senator some bourbon and water. They toasted each other, then she kissed him lightly on the lips, being careful not to get too much lipstick on him-after all, the First Lady was upstairs in the residence. "Thanks for the Phoenix recommendation, Stacy," Gardner said. "Good choice - this will get him out of here for a change. He always gets in the way."

"I agree-sometimes he's too nosy," Barbeau said. She pouted her lower lip. "But I would like you to consult me first. I can name a dozen more qualified people from our party who could lead the team."

"Walter informed me that there were rumors in Washington that Phoenix was being pushed too far into the background and was undermining his political future," Gardner said.

"Well, that's what usually happens to vice presidents."

"I know, but I need to keep him on the ticket when I run for reelection, and I don't want pissed off party bosses encouraging him to quit so he can run for himself," Gardner said, pouring himself another mug. Puerto Rican rum with ice. "It's a good high-profile assignment that will please his supporters, but it's outside the country where there's not much media; it will show that I am serious about investigating the incident, but nothing will come of it, so if anyone gets hurt, it will be him; but more importantly, it is a topic that will quickly fade from public attention because it concerns fallen American soldiers. Send the names of your experts to Phoenix and let's see if he accepts any of them."

"Perhaps," Barbeau said, her eyes sparkling with intrigue, "the vice president will forget to duck or wear a bulletproof vest, and just like that, we"ll need a new vice president."

"Jesus, Stacey, don"t even joke about crap like that," Gardner gasped. His eyes rose in surprise at her words; he waited to see if she would smile and laugh away the dark thought, but he wasn't shocked to see that she didn't.

"I would never wish any harm on sweet and hard-working Kenneth Timothy Phoenix," she said. "But he's walking into danger, and you need to think about what we'll do if the worst happens."

"Of course, I would have to appoint a replacement for him. I have a list."

Barbeau put the bourbon on the table and slowly, teasingly, approached the president. "Am I on your list, Mr. President?" - she asked in a low, passionate voice, running her fingers under the lapels of his jacket, caressing his chest.

"Oh, you're on a lot of lists, honey." But then I'd have to hire a local taster, wouldn't I? "

She didn't stop-and, he noticed, she didn't deny his joke either. "I don't want to inherit a position, Joe - I know I can earn it myself," she said in a low, rather sing-song voice. She looked at him with her beautiful green eyes... and Gardner saw nothing but threat in them. She kissed him lightly on the lips again, her eyes opening and looking straight into his, and after the kiss she added, "But I'll take it any way I can."

The President smiled and shook his head sadly as she headed for the door. "I don't know who's in more danger, Miss Secretary: the vice president in Iraq... or whoever gets in your way right here in Washington."

RESIDENCE OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE REPUBLIC OF TURKEY

IN THE SAME TIME

"How dare he?" Turkish National Defense Minister Hasan Cizek was furious when President Hirsiz picked up the phone. "It is an insult ! Gardner must apologize to you, and do it immediately! "

"Calm down, minister," said Prime Minister Aise Akas. With her, Hirsiz and Cizek were all the national security personnel: Secretary General of the Turkish National Security Council General Orhan Sahin, Foreign Minister Mustafa Hamarat, Chief of Staff of the Armed Forces General Abdullah Guzlev and Fevsi Güclu, Director of the National Intelligence Organization, which carried out all internal and external intelligence operations. "Gardner was upset and had trouble thinking. And he heard this obscenity. Are you crazy?"

"Don't apologize for this drunkard Lech, Prime Minister," Foreign Minister Mustafa Hamarat said. "The President of the United States should not lash out at a head of state and an ally-I don"t care how tired or upset he is. He lost his head during the crisis and it was wrong."

"Everyone, calm down," said President Kurzat Hirsiz, raising his hands as if in surrender. "I'm not offended. We made the necessary call and apologized -"

"Crawling is more like it!" Jizek spat.

"Our missiles killed a dozen Americans and probably several dozen Iraqis, Hassan; perhaps a little groveling is warranted here." Hirsiz frowned at the Minister of National Defense. "What he says or does next will show." He turned to the Secretary General of the National Security Council. "General, are you absolutely sure that your information was accurate, actionable and required an immediate response?"

"I'm sure, sir," he heard a voice say. He turned around to see General Besir Ozek, the commander of Jandarma, standing in the doorway of his office, with a frightened aide behind him. Ozek removed all the bandages from his face, neck and arms, and the sight was truly repulsive.

"General Ozek!" Hirsiz blurted out, momentarily shocked by the general's presence and then sickened by his appearance. He swallowed hard, narrowing his eyes at the disgust he felt and then ashamed of letting others see it. "I didn't call you, sir. You don't feel well. You should be in the hospital."

"We also did not have time to notify the Americans-and if we had, the information would have leaked to PKK supporters and the opportunity would have been lost," Ozek continued, as if the president had not said a word.

Hirsiz nodded, turning away from Ozek's terrible wounds. "Thank you, General. You're fired".

"If I may speak freely, sir, my heart breaks at what I just heard," Ozek said.

"General?"

"It makes me sick to my stomach how many times I have heard the President of the Republic of Turkey apologize like a little boy caught feeding a goldfish to a cat. With all due respect, Mr. President, it was disgusting."

"That is enough, General," said Prime Minister Akas. "Show some respect."

"We did nothing more than defend our nation," Ozek said angrily. "We have nothing to apologize for, sir."

"Innocent Americans died, General..."

"They thought they were going after al-Qaeda in Iraq terrorists, not the PKK," Ozek retorted. "If the Iraqis had any brains, they would know as well as we do that the tunnel complex was a PKK sanctuary, not al-Qaeda."

"Are you sure about this, General?"

"Positive, sir," Ozek insisted. "Al-Qaeda insurgents hide and operate in cities, not in rural areas like the PKK. If the Americans had bothered to find out about this-or if the Iraqis had cared-this incident would not have happened."

President Hirsiz fell silent and turned away - to think, and also not to look at Ozek"s terrible wounds. "However, General, the incident has caused anger and outrage in Washington, and we must be conciliatory, apologetic and cooperative," he said moments later. "They will send investigators and we must help them investigate."

"Sir, we can't let this happen," Ozek shouted. "We cannot allow the Americans or the international community to stop us from defending this nation. You know as well as I do that the focus of any investigation will be our mistakes and our policies, not the PKK or their attacks. We must act, now. Do something, sir!"

The Prime Minister's eyes flashed with anger. "As are you, General Ozek!" - she shouted. Veteran Officer Jandarma's eyes flashed, making his appearance even more terrifying. The Prime Minister raised a finger at him to silence his expected remark. "Say no more, General, or I will order Minister Jizek to relieve you of your position and personally remove the rank from your uniform."

"If everyone we hit were PKK terrorists, few people outside our country would care," Ozek said. "Our people would have seen this for what it really was: a major victory over the PKK, not an example of military incompetence or racism."

"Minister Dzizek, you relieve General Ozek from command," Akas said.

"I recommend remaining calm, Madam Prime Minister..." Jizek hissed. "There was a terrible accident, yes, but we were only doing our duty to protect our country..."

"I said, I want Ozek fired!" - shouted the Prime Minister. "Do it now!"

"Shut up!" President Hirsiz screamed, almost pleading. "Everyone, please shut up!" The President looked as if his internal struggle was ready to tear him apart. He looked at his advisors and seemed to have no answers. Turning back to Ozek, he said in a low voice, "Many innocent Americans and Iraqis were killed tonight, General."

"I'm sorry, sir," Ozek said. "I take full responsibility. But will we ever know how many PKK terrorists we killed tonight? And if the Americans or Iraqis leading this so-called investigation ever tell us how many terrorists were killed, will we ever get a chance to tell the world what they did to the innocent Turks?" Hirsiz didn't answer, just stared at a spot on the wall, so Ozek snapped to attention and turned to leave.

"Wait, General," Hirsiz said.

"You are not going to consider this idea, Kurzat!" Prime Minister Akas said, her mouth falling open in surprise.

"The general is right, Icy," Hirsiz said. "This is yet another incident for which Turkey will be vilified..." And with these words, he leaned over, grabbed his chair with both hands and knocked it over with a quick push: "And it makes me sick! I am not going to look Turkish men and women in the eye and make new promises and excuses! I want this to end. I want the PKK to be afraid of this government...no I want the Americans, the Iraqis, the whole world to be afraid of us! I'm tired of being everyone's scapegoat! Minister Jizek!"

"Sir!"

"I want to see an action plan on my desk as soon as possible that outlines the operation to destroy PKK training camps and facilities in Iraq," Hirsiz said. "I want to minimize civilian casualties, and I want it to be quick, effective and thorough. We know that the whole world will come down on us, and almost from day one there will be pressure to withdraw troops, so the operation must be fast, effective and massive."

"Yes, sir," Jizek said. "With pleasure".

Hirsiz walked up to Ozek and placed his hands on the general's shoulders, this time not afraid to look into his badly wounded face. "I swear," he said, "never to allow one of my generals to take responsibility for an operation that I authorized. I am the commander in chief. When this operation begins, General, if you are ready for it, I want you to lead the force that will strike at the heart of the PKK. If you are strong enough to get out of the crashed plane and then come here to Ankara to confront me, you are strong enough to crush the PKK."

"Thank you, sir," Ozek said.

Hirsiz turned to the other advisors in the room. "Ozek was the only one who expressed his opinion to the president - this is the kind of person I want to see as my adviser from this day forward. Develop a plan to defeat the PKK once and for all."

CHAPTER FOUR

Neither reasons nor friendship are needed for an argument.

-IBICUS, 580 BC

NAKHLA ALLIED AIR BASE, IRAQ

TWO DAYS LATER

The voices in the Tank were much more muffled than before; no one spoke except to inform or make a remark. If they weren't doing something else, department heads, operators and specialists sat straight in their seats and looked straight ahead - no talking with their comrades, no stretching, no signs of idleness.

Colonel Wilhelm entered the battle room, took his place at the forward console and put on his headphones. Without turning to face his headquarters, he spoke over the intercom: "We are ordered to suspend all operations except logistics, intelligence and intelligence. No IA combat support until further notice."

"But it's all done by contractors, sir," someone said over the intercom. "What are we going to do?"

"We're going to train in case things go wrong with Turkey," Wilhelm replied.

"Are we at war with Turkey, sir?" - asked the senior officer of the regiment, Mark Wetherby.

"Negative," Wilhelm answered colorlessly.

"Then why are we retreating, sir?" asked Regimental Operations Officer Kenneth Bruno. "We didn't screw up. We must beat the Turks to hell for-"

"I asked the same questions and made the same comments," Wilhelm interrupted, "and the Pentagon also told me to be quiet, so now I'm telling you: be quiet. Listen and pass the word to your troops:

"We are constantly in Delta force protection mode. If I see you in the sun without your full battle rattle, and you're not already dead, I'll kill you myself. This base will be sealed tighter than a flea poop garbage disposal. Woe befalls anyone who is seen without identification visible and displayed in the proper place, and this includes senior personnel and especially civilians.

"From this moment on, this base is put under martial law - if we are not allowed to defend the Iraqi army that lives and works with us, we will damn well defend ourselves," Wilhelm continued. "We will not sit back with our thumbs up our asses - we will continue to train as long as we are allowed until we are relieved. Next, Triple-C will be transferred to IA as soon as-"

"What?" - someone exclaimed.

"I said shut up," Wilhelm snapped. "The official message from the Pentagon: we are not going to get relief. We are closing the store and turning Triple-C over to Internal Affairs. All combat forces are being withdrawn from Iraq ahead of schedule. Homeland Security takes over." It was a day that many in that room had prayed for, the day they were going to leave Iraq for good, but strangely, no one was celebrating. "Well?" Wilhelm asked, looking around the tank. "Aren"t you Mokes happy?"

A long silence followed; then Mark Weatherly said, "It makes us look like we're running, sir."

"It makes us look like we can't take a hit," someone else chimed in.

"I know it is," said Wilhelm. "But we know differently." This didn't seem to convince anyone-the silence was palpable. "We will remove all classified materials, which, as far as I understand, in the absence of detailed instructions will make up the majority of our equipment, but the rest will be transferred to the Iraqi army. We will still be here to train and assist the IA, but not in combat operations. It's unclear whether their idea of 'security operations' matches ours, so we may still see some action, but I wouldn't bet on it. Where's McLanahan?"

"I'm ready, Colonel," Patrick replied over the command network. "I'm in the hangar."

"The main task of the regiment now is to support the contract soldiers," Wilhelm said, his voice deathly cold and dispassionate, "because all surveillance and security will be carried out by them. The army now is just the powerhouse we were in Korea before unification, and we will probably be reduced to an even smaller number than before we left there entirely. General McLanahan, meet with Captain Cotter and sort out airspace coordination with logistics flights, drones and your surveillance aircraft."

"Yes, Colonel."

"McLanahan, meet me in the hangar in five. Everyone else, the Executive Director will meet with you to discuss removing classified equipment and starting a training program. Oh, one more thing: the memorial service for Second Platoon is tonight; Tomorrow morning they will be sent by plane to Germany. That's all ". He threw his headphones on the table and walked out without even looking at anyone else.

The XC-57 was moved to a large outdoor tent so that the air-conditioned hangar could be used to prepare fallen members of Second Platoon for their departure from Iraq. A C-130 Hercules transport aircraft delivered the aluminum transfer cases from Kuwait and they were unpacked in preparation for loading. Tables of soldiers' remains in body bags were lined up, and medical personnel, morgue and registration volunteers, and fellow soldiers walked up and down the rows to help, pray for them or say goodbye. A refrigerated truck was set up nearby to store the remains of more seriously injured soldiers.

Wilhelm found Patrick standing next to one of the body bags while a volunteer waited to zip up the bag. When Patrick noticed the regimental commander standing opposite him, he said, "Specialist Gamaliel came last night before the mission. He said he wanted to know what it was like to fly heavy bombers and space planes. He told me that he had always wanted to fly and was thinking about joining the Air Force so he could go into space. We talked for about fifteen minutes and then he left to rejoin his platoon."

Wilhelm looked at the mutilated and bloody body, said a silent thank you, soldier, then said out loud: "We need to talk, General." He nodded to the waiting soldiers, who reverently finished zipping up the body bag. He followed Patrick along a row of body bags, then into an isolated part of the hangar. "We'll have VIPs flying in later today in a CV-22 Osprey," he said.

"Vice President Phoenix. I know".

"How the hell do you know all this so quickly, McLanahan?"

"He's flying in on our second XC-57, not an Osprey," Patrick said. "They are afraid that Osprey is too big a target."

"You guys must be pretty tightly connected to the White House to pull this off." Patrick didn't say anything. "Did you have anything to do with the decision to stop fighting?"

"You knew you were winding down combat operations, Colonel," Patrick said. "The incident in Zakho only accelerated events. As for how I know certain things...it is my job to know or learn something. I use every tool at my disposal to gather as much information as possible."

Wilhelm took a step towards Patrick... but this time it was not threatening. It was as if he had a serious, direct, and urgent question that he didn't want others to hear, in case it might reveal his own fears or confusion. "Who are you guys?" he asked in a low voice, almost a whisper. "What the hell is going on here?"

For the first time, Patrick softened his opinion of the regiment commander. He certainly knew what it was like to lose men in battle and lose control of a situation, and he understood how Wilhelm felt. But he hasn't earned an answer or an explanation yet.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Colonel," Patrick said. "Now if you"ll excuse me, I have a plane arriving."

The second failed XC-57 aircraft landed at the Allied air base Nala at eight o'clock in the evening local time. This was preceded by a CV-22 Osprey tilt-rotor transport aircraft, which the press and local dignitaries were told would carry the vice president. The CV-22 performed a standard "high-performance" arrival-a high-speed roll into the base from high altitude, followed by a steep circle over the base to reduce speed and altitude-and encountered no difficulties. By the time security forces escorted the Osprey into the hangar, the XC-57 had already landed and taxied safely to another part of the base.

Jack Wilhelm, Patrick McLanahan, John Masters, Chris Thompson and Mark Weatherly, all wearing the same civilian clothes - blue jeans, boots, a plain shirt, sunglasses and a brown vest much like what Chris Thompson's security forces usually wore - stood next to the XC-57 as the Vice President walked down the ramp.

The only one in uniform was Colonel Yusuf Jaffar, the Iraqi commander of the Allied Nakhla Air Base. He was in his usual gray desert combat uniform, but this time he was wearing a green beret with many medals pinned to his blouse, black ascot boots, highly polished boots, a pistol holster and a .45 caliber automatic pistol. He didn't say anything to anyone except his assistant, but he seemed to be watching Patrick, as if he wanted to talk to him.

No one except Jaffar saluted as Vice President Kenneth Phoenix stepped onto the ground. Phoenix was dressed much the same as the other Americans - it looked like a group of civilian guards. Several more men and women dressed similarly came out.

Phoenix looked around, grinning at the sight, until his eyes finally landed on a familiar face. "Thank God I recognize someone. I started to feel like I was having a strange dream." He walked up to Patrick and extended his hand. "Nice to see you, General."

"I'm glad to see you too, Mr. Vice President. Welcome to Iraq."

"I wish it had happened under happier circumstances. So now you work for the "dark side": the evil defense contractors." Patrick didn't answer. "Introduce me to everyone."

"Yes, sir. Colonel Yusuf Jaffar, Commander of Allied Air Base Nala."

Jaffar held his salute until he was introduced, and then he stood at attention until Phoenix extended his hand. "Nice to meet you, Colonel."

Jaffar shook his hand as stiffly as he stood up. "I am honored that you have visited my base and my country, sir," he said in a loud voice, his words clearly well rehearsed. "Es-salaam alekum. Welcome to the Republic of Iraq and Nakhla Allied Air Base."

"Es-salaam alekum," Phoenix said in a surprisingly good Arabic accent. "I'm sorry for your loss, sir."

"My men served with honor and died as martyrs in the service of their country," Jaffar said. "They are seated at the right hand of God. As for those who did this, they will pay dearly." He snapped to attention and turned away from Phoenix, ending their conversation.

"Mr. Vice President, Colonel Jack Wilhelm, Regimental Commander."

Phoenix extended his hand and Wilhelm took it. "I'm very sorry for your losses, Colonel," he said. "If you need anything, anything, come straight to me."

"At this time, my only request is that you attend the Second Platoon ceremony, sir. It will be in a couple of hours."

"Of course, Colonel. I will be there ". William introduced the rest of his command, and the Vice President introduced the rest who came with him. Chris Thompson then led them to the waiting armored vehicles.

Before Patrick got into the armored Suburban, Jaffar's assistant approached him and saluted him. "My apologies for the interruption, sir," the assistant said in very good English. "The Colonel wishes to speak with you."

Patrick looked at Jaffar, who was partially turned away from him. "Can this wait until our briefing with the Vice President is over?"

"The Colonel will not be present at the briefing, sir. Please?" Patrick nodded and motioned for the driver to move away.

The Iraqi snapped to attention and saluted as Patrick approached him. Patrick returned his greeting. "General McLanahan. I apologize for the interruption."

"You will not be attending the briefing with the Vice President, Colonel?"

"It would be an insult to my commander and the chief of staff of the Iraqi army if I attended such a meeting before them," Jaffar explained. "These protocols must be followed." He stared at McLanahan, then added: "I think your commanders and diplomats in Baghdad would be offended in this way."

"This is the vice president"s decision, not ours."

"The Vice President cares little about such protocols?"

"He's here to find out what happened and how our government can help smooth things over, rather than follow protocols."

Jaffar nodded. "I understand".

"He may think that your absence from the briefing is a violation of protocol, Colonel. At the end of the day, he's here to help Iraq and the Iraqi Army."

"Is that so, General?" Jaffar asked, his voice razor sharp. "He comes uninvited to our country and expects me to attend a briefing that our president has not yet heard?" He pretended to consider his point, then nodded. "Please convey my apologies to the vice president."

"Certainly. I can fill you in later if you prefer."

"That would be acceptable, General," Jaffar said. "Sir, may I have permission to inspect your reconnaissance aircraft at my earliest convenience?"

Patrick was a little surprised: Jaffar had shown no interest in their activities at all in the short time he had been there. "There are some systems and devices that are classified and I cannot-"

"I understand, sir. I believe you call it NOFORN - no foreign nationals. I completely understand."

"Then I would be happy to show it to you," Patrick said. "I can brief you on today's reconnaissance flight, show you around the aircraft before pre-flight inspection, and review unclassified data as we receive it to show you our capabilities. I'll have to get permission from Colonel Wilhelm and my company, but I don't think that will be a problem. Nineteen hundred hours in your office?"

"That is acceptable, General McLanahan," Jaffar said. Patrick nodded and extended his hand, but Jaffar snapped to attention, saluted, turned on his heel and quickly walked to the waiting car, followed by his assistant. Patrick shook his head in confusion, then jumped into the waiting Hummer, which took him to the Command Post.

Wilhelm was waiting for him in the conference room overlooking the Reservoir. Mark Weatherly introduced the VP to some employees and explained the layout of the Triple-C and the tank. "Where is Jaffar?" Wilhelm asked in a low voice.

"He won't come to the briefing. Said it would offend his commanders if he talked to the vice president first."

"Damned haji-it had to be for his own good," said Wilhelm. "Why the hell didn"t he tell me himself?" Patrick didn't answer. "What were you two talking about?"

"He wants to tour Loser, get a briefing on our capabilities, and see the next reconnaissance mission."

"Since when is he interested in all this?" Wilhelm growled. "It was today, of all days, right after we got our asses kicked and Washington crawled up and down our backs."

"I told him I need your permission first."

Wilhelm was about to say no, but he simply shook his head and muttered something under his breath. "He has the right to be in the Tank during all operations - for God's sake, we leave the commander's seat open for him, although he has never been there - so I guess I have no choice. But he won't be able to see the NOFORN material."

"I told him the same thing and he understands. He even knew the term."

"He probably saw it in a movie and likes to repeat it at every opportunity. I bet it got stuck in his throat." Wilhelm shook his head again, as if erasing the entire conversation from his mind. "Are you still going to tell the Vice President your theory?"

"Yes".

"Only you can put two and two together and get five. This is your funeral. Okay, let's get this over with." Wilhelm nodded to Weatherly, who interrupted his speech and motioned for the Vice President to take a seat in the waiting room.

Wilhelm stood awkwardly on the dais while everyone took their seats. "Mr. Vice President, distinguished guests, thank you for this visit," he began. "Your presence so soon after last night's tragedy sends a clear and important message not only to the regiment, but to everyone involved in this conflict. My staff and I are ready to assist you in your investigation.

"I know there are a lot of important people - the Prime Minister of Iraq, the Ambassador, the commander of coalition forces in Iraq - who are waiting to greet you, who will be very angry to learn that you came here instead of going to base headquarters, to meet them," Wilhelm continued, "but General McLanahan and I thought you needed to hear us first. Unfortunately, the base commander, Colonel Jaffar, will not be here."

"He said why not, Colonel?" - asked the vice president.

"He told me it would be against protocol to speak to you before his superior officers did, sir," Patrick replied. "He sends his regrets."

"It was his people who were killed and his homeland attacked. What difference does it make who hears from us first?"

"Do you want me to bring it back here, sir?"

"No, let's continue," Phoenix said. "Right now, I'm not really worried about stepping on toes except for those who are responsible for killing our soldiers, and then I'll make sure that bastard is destroyed.

"Okay, gentlemen, I wanted to get this briefing from you because I know the Iraqis, Kurds and Turks want to brief me soon, and I know they are going to spin this their way; I wanted to hear your first word. The Turks say they are doing nothing but defending their homeland from the PKK and that the bombing was a tragic but simple mistake. Let's hear your opinion."

"Understood, sir." The electronic display behind Wilhelm came to life, showing a map of the border region between northern Iraq and southeastern Turkey. "Over the last year or so they have increased their border forces in Jandarma, including special forces battalions, as well as several more air units, to help deal with cross-border PKK incursions. They also sent several regular army units to the southwest, perhaps one or two brigades."

"Much more than normal deployments, I assume?" asked the vice president.

"Much more, sir, even considering the recent PKK terrorist attacks in Diyarbakir," Wilhelm replied.

"And what do we have on this side?"

"Together with the Iraqis, sir, about a third of their forces and a small part of the air force," Wilhelm replied. "The biggest threat is their tactical air force in the region. Diyarbakir is home to the Second Tactical Air Force Command, which is responsible for the defense of the border areas of Syria, Iraq and Iran. They have two wings of F-16 fighter-bombers and one wing of F-4E Phantom fighter-bombers, plus one new wing of two A-10 Thunderbolt close-in air support aircraft and one wing of F-15E Strike Eagle fighter-bombers recently acquired from United States as surplus equipment."

"The F-15 surplus is the craziest thing I've ever heard," the vice president said, shaking his head. "Aren"t they still defeated in battle?"

"I believe so, sir," said William. "But with the recent reduction of US Air Force fighters in favor of carrier-based tactical fighters of the Navy and Marine Corps, there are many good American weapons on the export market."

"I know, I know-I fought hard to stop the outflow of such high-tech material," Phoenix said. "But President Gardner is a true military expert as well as a great supporter of the Navy, and Congress has strongly supported his transformation and modernization plans. The air force has been hosed and countries like Turkey are reaping the benefits. If we can't convert the F-22 for carrier operations, Turkey will probably get Raptors too. Okay, the soapbox is over. Please continue, Colonel. What other threats do you face?"

"Their larger anti-aircraft systems, such as Patriot missiles, large-calibre radar-guided triple-A missiles and British Rapier surface-to-air missiles, are aimed at Iran and Syria," Wilhelm continued. "We can expect them to move some systems further west, but of course Iraq is not an air threat, so I think they will keep their SAMs deployed against Iran and Syria. Small cannons and Stinger rockets can be found anywhere and are widely used by armored battalions.

"The Turkish Gendarma paramilitary forces are deploying several special operations battalions, mainly to hunt down and destroy PKK rebel and terrorist units. They are highly trained and we consider them the equivalent of a Marine reconnaissance unit-light, fast, mobile and lethal."

"Their commander, General Besir Ozek, was seriously wounded during the last major PKK attack in Diyarbakir," Patrick added, "but he appears to be up and leading his forces in search-and-destroy operations in the border areas. He is undoubtedly the one who carried out the rocket attack on Zakhu."

"I definitely need to talk to him," the vice president said. "So, Colonel, what is your explanation for all this activity?"

"It's not my job to analyze, sir," Wilhelm said, "but they are preparing to attack the PKK. They support the Jandarma with regular armed forces in a show of force. The PKK will disperse and keep its head down; the Turks would strike a few bases, and then everything would return to relative normality. The PKK has been doing this for over thirty years-Türkiye cannot stop them."

"Sending in regular military forces is something they haven't done before," Phoenix noted. He glanced at Patrick. "General, you suddenly became quiet." He looked back at Wilhelm. "There seems to be some disagreement here. Colonel?

"Sir, General McLanahan is of the opinion that this buildup of Turkish forces in this region is a prelude to a full-scale invasion of Iraq."

"Invasion of Iraq?" Phoenix exclaimed. "I know they have made many cross-border raids over the years, but why a full-out invasion, General?"

"Sir, it is precisely because they have conducted many raids and have failed to stop or even slow down the number of PKK attacks that this will prompt them to launch an all-out offensive against the PKK in Iraq - not only on strongholds, training bases and supply depots along the border, but also on the Kurdish leadership itself. I think they will want to solve the PKK problem with one lightning strike and kill as many people as possible before American and international pressure forces them to leave."

"Colonel?"

"The Turks simply don"t have the manpower, sir," said Wilhelm. "We are talking about an operation similar in scale to Desert Storm - at least two hundred and fifty thousand troops. In total there are about four hundred thousand people in the Turkish army, mostly conscripts. They would need to commit one-third of their regular military forces plus another half of their reserves for this one operation. This would take months and billions of dollars. The Turkish army is simply not an expeditionary force - it is designed for counterinsurgency operations and self-defense, not for invading other countries."

"General?"

"The Turks would be fighting on their own soil and fighting for self-preservation and national pride," Patrick said. "If they deployed half of their regular and reserve forces, they would have about half a million troops at their disposal, and they have a very large pool of trained veterans to draw on. I see no reason why they wouldn't order a full mobilization of all forces to have a chance to destroy the PKK once and for all.

"But the new game-changer here is the Turkish air force," Patrick continued. "In past years, the Turkish military was primarily an internal counterinsurgency force with a secondary role as a NATO tripwire against the Soviet Union. Its navy is good, but its mission is mainly to defend the Bosphorus and Dardanelles and patrol the Aegean Sea. The air force was relatively small because it relied on the support of the United States Air Force.

"But in just the last two years the situation has changed, and Turkey now has the largest air force in Europe, with the exception of Russia. They bought much more than surplus F-15s, sir - they bought all sorts of surplus attack aircraft that were not carrier specific, including A-10 Thunderbolt tactical bombers, AC-130 Specter and Apache attack helicopters, along with weapons like missiles." Patriot surface-to-air missiles, AMRAAM air-to-air missiles and Maverick and Hellfire precision air-to-surface missiles. They manufacture F-16 fighters under license right in Turkey; they have as many squadrons of F-16s available for action as we had in Desert Storm, and they will all be fighting right at home. And I wouldn't discount their air defense so easily: they can very easily use their Patriots and Rapiers to counter anything we do."

Vice President Phoenix thought for a moment and then nodded to both men. "You both make compelling arguments," he said, "but I am inclined to agree with Colonel Wilhelm." Phoenix looked at Patrick warily, as if expecting an objection, but Patrick remained silent. "I find it very hard to believe that-"

At that moment the phone rang, and it was as if a klaxon had gone off - everyone knew that no phone calls were allowed during this briefing unless it was extremely urgent. Weatherly picked up the phone... and a moment later, the look on his face made everyone in the room take notice.

Weatherly walked over to a computer monitor nearby, read the dispatch silently with trembling lips, then said, "Urgent message from the department, sir. The State Department has notified us that the President of Turkey may declare a state of emergency."

"Damn, I was afraid something like this would happen," Phoenix said. "We may not be able to meet with the Turks to investigate the shelling. Colonel, I need to talk to the White House."

"I can install it right now, sir." Wilhelm nodded to Weatherly, who immediately got on the phone with the communications officer.

"I will get information from the ambassador, the Iraqis and the Turks, but my recommendation to the president will be to tighten border controls." The Vice President turned to Patrick. "I still can't believe that Turkey invaded Iraq with three thousand US troops on the way," he said, "but obviously the situation is changing quickly and we're going to have to pay attention to that. I guess that"s what your pregnant stealth bomber is for, General?"

"Yes, sir".

"Then I'd get it ready to go," Phoenix said as Wilhelm motioned to him that his White House connection was ready, "because I think we'll need it... soon. Very soon". Weatherly motioned to him that his communications installation was ready, and he and the Vice President left.

Patrick stayed behind Wilhelm as everyone else filed out of the conference room. "So, what do you mean, General?" Wilhelm asked. "Are you planning to send your pregnant stealth bomber over Turkey this time, and not just over our sector? This will really calm the nerves of everyone here."

"I'm not going to send a loser through Turkey, Colonel, but I'm also not going to let the Turks relax," Patrick said. "I want to see what the Turks have in mind if any plane gets too close to the border. We know they will retaliate harshly against any PKK ground incursions. What will they do if it starts to look like the United States is flying around too much on their side of the border?"

"Do you think that's smart, McLanahan? This could increase the tension here even more."

"We have a lot of dead soldiers there in your hangar, Colonel," Patrick reminded him. "I want to make sure that the Turks know that we are very, very angry with them right now."

Over SOUTHEASTERN TURKEY

NEXT EVENING

"Contact, mark target bravo!" the MIM-104 Patriot tactical control officer shouted in Turkish. "I think this is the same one that appeared and disappeared with us." The Turkish Army's AN/MPQ-53 Patriot radar system identified the aircraft and showed the target to Patriot combat management system operators. The tactical control officer quickly determined that the target was directly on the border between Iraq and Turkey, but since it was not in contact with Turkish air traffic controllers and was not transmitting any transponder beacon codes, it was considered a violation of the thirty-mile protected Turkish air defense buffer zone; she was too low to be on approach to any airfields in the region, and was far from any established civilian air routes. "Sir, I recommend designating the target 'bravo' as hostile."

The tactical director checked the radar display - no doubt. "I agree," he said. "Design target Bravo as hostile, transmit warning messages on all civil and military emergency response and air traffic control frequencies, and prepare to engage." The Director of Tactics picked up a secure telephone connected via microwave directly to the Air Defense Sector Commander of the Fourth Border Defense Regiment in Diyarbakir. "Kamyan, Kamyan, this is Ustura, I have identified target Bravo as hostile, ready."

"Ustura, is this the same pop-up target you"ve been watching for the last two hours?" - asked the sector commander.

"We think so, sir," said the tactical director. "This is almost certainly a drone in reconnaissance orbit, judging by its speed and flight path. We couldn't get an accurate altitude reading earlier, but it appears to have climbed to a higher altitude to get a better view of the north."

"Civil transport?"

"We broadcast warning messages every time a target appeared, and we are now broadcast on all civil and military emergency response and air traffic control frequencies. No answers at all. If the pilot hasn't turned off his radios completely, he's the enemy."

"I agree," said the air defense commander. He knew that some air defense sectors in busier areas used multi-colored lasers to visually warn pilots when leaving restricted airspace, but he didn't have that courtesy-and he really didn't want to use it even if he had it. Any innocent pilot stupid enough to fly in this area during this surge in hostilities deserved to have their ass shot. "Be ready". He ordered his liaison officer: "Connect me with the second regiment in Nakhla and Ankara."

"Second regiment on the line, sir, Major Sabasti."

This was fast, the sector commander thought - usually direct calls to the American Command and Control Center were filtered and redirected several times before connecting, and this took several minutes. "Sabasti, this is Kamyan. We are not showing any US air missions in the buffer zone scheduled for tonight. Can you confirm an American flight along the border?"

"I'm looking at the sector map now, sir," the liaison officer replied, "and the only aircraft in the buffer zone has been pre-agreed with you, clearance number Kilo-Juliet-two-three-two-one, operating in the Peynir area."

"We're watching a low-altitude aircraft appear up and down outside the radar range. Is this not an American or Iraqi plane?"

"I'm showing three American and one Iraqi reconnaissance aircraft in the air, sir, but only one is in the buffer zone."

"What is this?"

"His call sign is Guppy Two-Two, an American surveillance aircraft operated by private security contractors." He read out the plane's coordinates and the location of its orbital box - everything was exactly as agreed upon earlier, inside Peynir's buffer zone, but forty miles from the pop-up target.

"What kind of plane is this, Major?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but you know I can't tell you that. I saw this with my own eyes, and I know that this is an unarmed spy plane."

"Well, Major, maybe you can tell me what it is not," the sector commander said.

"Sir..."

"Who the hell are you working for, Major - the Americans or Turkey?"

"I beg your pardon, sir," a voice intervened. "This is an American translator. I work for Mr. Chris Thompson, Thompson Security Service, Second Regiment, Allied Nakhla Air Base, Iraq."

"I know who the hell you are and where you are," the sector commander snapped. "Are you monitoring my radio messages?"

"Mr. Thompson says that the status of forces agreement between the United States, Iraq and Turkey allows for the monitoring of routine and emergency radio traffic between military units participating in the agreement," the translator said. "He says you can check this with your Foreign Office if necessary."

"I am well aware of the agreement."

"Yes, sir. Mr. Thompson wants me to tell you that specific information regarding systems involved in operations inside Iraq is only permitted to be released in accordance with the status of forces agreement. The agreement allows the observer to see the aircraft that will be used and follow it throughout the mission, but he cannot reveal any other details."

"Thompson, I am going to shoot down an unidentified aircraft violating the Turkish airspace buffer zone," the sector commander said. "I wanted to get more information to make sure I didn't attack an American or Iraqi plane. If you want to play word games or undermine the power status agreement in my face instead of helping me verify the identity of this target, then so be it. Major Sabasti."

"Sir!"

"Inform the Americans that we are tracking an unknown aircraft in the buffer zone and that we consider it hostile," the sector commander said in Turkish. "I recommend to them that all allied aircraft and ground patrols remain at a sufficient distance, and reconnaissance aircraft may want to clear the patrol area."

"I will pass on the message immediately, sir."

"Very good". The sector commander interrupted the connection with an angry blow of a knife. "Is Ankara already on the line?" it thundered.

"Ready, sir."

"This is Mat," the voice answered. The sector commander knew that Mat, which means "checkmate" in Turkish, was the operations officer of the chief of staff of the armed forces. "We are tracking your radar contact and the liaison officer at Nahla has informed us that you have contacted them for coordination and identification and they say it is not one of them. Recommendation?"

"Engage immediately, sir."

"Be ready". These two damned terrible words... But a moment later: "We agree, Kamen. Proceed as directed. Out."

"Kamyan copies, engaged in accordance with instructions. Kamen out." The sector commander switched to his tactical channel: "Ustura, this is Kamian, act as directed."

"Ustura copies, engage in battle as directed. Ustura leaves." The tactics director hung up. "We have been ordered to engage in combat as directed," he announced. "Are there any changes in the target's trajectory or height? Is there any response to our broadcasts?"

"No, sir."

"Very good. Join the fight."

"I realized 'get into the fight.' The tactical control officer reached out, lifted the red lid, and pressed the big red button, which activated the alarm for all four Patriot line batteries scattered across southeastern Turkey. Each line battery consisted of four Patriot platoons, each with one Patriot Advanced Capability-3 (PAC-3) launcher with sixteen missiles, plus an additional sixteen missiles ready for loading. "Join the fight."

"I understand 'engage in battle,'" the tactical control assistant repeated. He checked the location of the target with the deployed batteries of the Patriot battalion, selected the one closest to the enemy and pressed the communication button with this battery. "Ustura two, Ustura Two, this is Ustura , act, act, act."

"Two copies 'work'. There was a short pause, and then the status report for the second firing battery changed from "standby" to "on," which meant the battery's missiles were ready to fire. "The second battery reports status as 'on', ready for combat."

"Accepted". The tactical control officer continued to press the warning signal while watching his computer readout. From that point on, the entire attack was computer controlled- there was nothing people could do except turn it off if they wanted to. A few moments later, the Battle Management Computer reported that it had assigned one of the platoons located west of the mountain town of Beitusebap to engage in battle. "The fifth platoon is activated... The first rocket is fired." Four seconds later: "Second missile removed. Radar active."

Patriot missiles, traveling at more than three thousand miles per hour, took less than six seconds to reach their victims. "One direct missile hit, sir," the tactical control assistant reported. A moment later: "Second missile hits second target, sir!"

"Second goal?"

"Yes, sir. Same altitude, rapidly decreasing airspeed... Direct hit on the second enemy, sir!"

"Were there two planes?" the tactical director thought out loud. "Could they have flown in formation?"

"Perhaps, sir," the tactical control officer replied. "But why?"

The tactical director shook his head. "It doesn't make sense, but whatever they are, we got them. It could have been debris from the first hit."

"It looked very big, sir, like a second plane."

"Well, whatever it is, we still got merde. Good job everyone. These two targets were south of the border, but in a security buffer, right?"

"Actually, sir, for a brief moment it was in Turkish airspace, no more than a few miles, but definitely north of the border."

"A good kill then." The Director of Tactics picked up another phone connected to the Jandarma headquarters in Diyarbakir, where someone was supposed to be in charge of organizing a search party for debris, victims and evidence. "Kuruk, this is Ustura, we entered the battle and destroyed the enemy plane. Now I"m transmitting the target interception coordinates."

"It certainly didn't take them long," John Masters said. He was in Tank's observation room on the second floor, watching the battle on his laptop. "Two minutes from the moment we changed the target"s altitude to downed. It's fast."

"We may not have shot down the decoy fast enough...they could see the target even after the first Patriot 'hit,'" Patrick McLanahan said.

"I tried to simulate the wreckage by maintaining the image for a few more seconds," John said. "I slowed it down a lot."

"Let's hope they think they hit both of them," Patrick said. "Okay, so we know that the Turks have moved their patriots closer to the Iraqi border, and we know that they mean business - they won't hesitate to open fire, even on something as small as a predator or a hawk."

"Or a decoy netrusion," John Masters said happily. "We were easily able to hack the Patriot system's battle management system and install a drone-sized target into their system. Once we raised the decoy's altitude high enough, they reacted as if it were a real enemy."

"When they go there and don't find any debris, next time they'll be curious and on guard," Patrick said. "What else do we know from this battle?"

"We also know that they can see and engage up to a thousand feet above the ground," John said. "It's pretty good on pretty rough terrain. They may have modified the Patriot's radar to improve its clutter removal and low-altitude detection capabilities."

"Let's hope that's all they did," Patrick said. He touched the intercom button: "Did you see the battle, Colonel?"

"I confirm," Wilhelm replied. "So the Turks really sent their patriots to the west. I'll notify the unit. But I still don't think Turkey will invade Iraq. We must relay to them all the information we have about PKK movements, reassure them that our troops and the Iraqis have no intention of retaliating, and allow the crisis level to cool down."

NORTH OF BEITUSEBAP, REPUBLIC OF TURKEY

NEXT EVENING

A squad of eight Iraqi Kurdish guerrillas used sniper team tactics-self-taught, reading books, using the Internet, and studying information passed on to them by veterans-to make their way to their target: crawling dozens of miles, sometimes an inch at a time, without getting up for any reason above the knee; changing the camouflage on clothing every time the terrain changed; taking care to erase any sign of their presence as they lugged heavy backpacks and rocket-propelled grenade barrels behind them.

One of the militants, a former Erbil police officer named Sadoun Salih, broke off a piece of a fig candy bar, tapped the shoe of the man standing in front of him, and handed it to him. "One last detail, commander," he whispered. The person made a "quiet" movement in response to him - not with her left hand, but with a crab-like device attached to her wrist where her hand would normally be. The rake then deflected with an open palm and the fighter threw the candy at him. She nodded in gratitude and continued walking.

They only brought food and water for five days for this reconnaissance patrol, but with all the activity in the area, she decided to stay behind. The food they brought ran out three days ago. They cut their daily rations to an absurdly low level and began subsisting on food they found in the fields-berries, roots, and insects, sometimes receiving handouts from a sympathetic farmer or shepherd they dared approach-and sipping stream water filtered through dirty scarves.

But now she found out what all the military activity was about, and it was much more than just troops of Jandarma thugs attacking Kurdish villages seeking revenge for the attack in Diyarbakir: the Turkish army was building these small fire bases in the countryside. Has Türkiye brought in regular armed forces to strengthen the Jandarma?

They had changed their reconnaissance patrol plan due to the spectacular double missile launches they had observed the previous night. They were used to seeing artillery and air attacks from Turkey on Kurdish villages and PKK training camps, but these were not artillery shells - these were guided, highly effective missiles that maneuvered as they climbed, rather than along a ballistic flight path, and they exploded high in the sky. The Turks had new weapons on the ground and they obviously had something to do with all this base building activity along the Turkish-Iraqi border. It was up to her and her troops to test it.

Along with water and camouflage, the most important aid to the fighters was maintaining night vision. All the fighters wore glasses with red lenses, and the closer they got to their target, the more often they had to use them so as not to ruin their night vision, because the perimeter of their target was illuminated by rows of outward-facing portable floodlights that immersed the camp beyond in complete darkness. It was an interesting tactic, the squad leader thought: the Turkish army certainly had night vision technology, but they didn't use it here.

It might have been a trap, but it was definitely an opportunity they couldn't pass up.

The squad leader, Zilar Azzawi, motioned for her riflemen to move forward. As they spread out and began to settle in, she scanned the perimeter with her binoculars. A fire nest of sandbags was installed between each portable searchlight, separated by about twenty yards. Seventy yards to her right was a truck entrance constructed of sandbags and planks, blocked by a troop transport truck , the right side of which was covered by a solid wall of green plywood panels forming a simple movable gate. Between the sandbag emplacements was a single layer of thin, five-foot-tall metal fencing supported by lightweight stakes. It was definitely not a permanent camp, at least not yet.

If they were going to take advantage, now was the time.

Azzawi waited until her team was ready, then took out a simple Korean-made travel radio and pressed the microphone button once, then pressed it twice. A few moments later she received two clicks in response, followed by three clicks. She clicked her radio three times, put it away, then touched the hands of the two men on either side of her with a quiet signal to "get ready."

She lowered her head, closed her eyes, then said "Mal esh - nothing matters" in a low, calm voice. She paused for a few more heartbeats, thinking about her dead husband and sons - and as she did, the rage inside her sent jet energy through her body, and she stood up smoothly and easily, raised the RPG-7 grenade launcher and fired at the gun mount from the bags of sand opposite her. As soon as her round hit, other members of her squad opened fire on other emplacements, and within seconds the entire area was wide open. At this point, two other squads under Azzawi's command on opposite sides of the base also opened fire with grenade launchers.

Now the lights that prevented the attackers from seeing the base area gave them an advantage because they could see survivors and other Turkish soldiers preparing to repel the attack. Azzawi's sniper teams began picking them off one by one, forcing the Turks to retreat further from the perimeter into the darkness of their camp. Azzawi threw the grenade launcher aside, took out her walkie-talkie and shouted: "Ala tūl!" Move!" She raised her AK-47 assault rifle, shouted: "Ilha'ūn ī! Follow me!" - and ran to the base, firing from the hip.

There was no alternative but to rush across the illuminated no man's land to the base - they were an easy target for anyone inside. But without her backpack and RPG launcher, and with the rush of adrenaline mixed with fear coursing through her body, running fifty yards seemed easy. But, to her surprise, there was little resistance.

There were several bodies in the destroyed gun nests, but she saw no sign of items such as mine fuses, anti-tank weapons, heavy machine guns or grenade launchers, only light infantry weapons. Apparently they didn't expect much trouble, or they didn't have time to prepare properly. That assumption was reinforced moments later when she found construction equipment, concrete, mold lumber and tools in piles nearby.

In less than five minutes of sporadic fighting, the three Azzawi squads met. All three moved forward with relative ease. She congratulated each of her fighters with handshakes and motherly touches, then said, "Casualty report."

"We have one killed, three wounded," said the commander of the first squad. "Seventeen prisoners, including an officer." Another squad leader reported the same thing.

"We have four wounded and eight prisoners," said Salih, assistant commander of Azzawi's squad. "What is this place, commander? It was too easy."

"First things first, Sadoun," Azzawi said. "Post a guard around the perimeter in case their patrols return." Salih ran away. She said to the commander of the second squad: "Bring the officer to me," wrapping a scarf around her face.

The prisoner was a captain in the Turkish army. He pressed his left hand over the gaping wound on his right bicep, and blood flowed freely from it. "Bring the first aid kit here," Azzawi ordered in Arabic. In Turkish she asked: "Name the unit and target here, captain, and quickly."

"You bastards almost shot my damn arm off!" - he shouted.

Azzawi raised her left arm, allowing the sleeve of her hijab to fall down, revealing her homemade prosthesis. "I know exactly what it"s like, captain," she said. "Look what the Turkish Air Force did to me." Even in the semi-darkness, she could see the soldier's eyes widen in surprise. "And this is much better than what you did to my husband and sons."

"You... you Baz!" - the officer exhaled. "The rumors are true...!"

Azzawi removed the scarf from her face, revealing her dirty, but proud and beautiful features. "I said name, unit and mission, Captain," she said. She raised her rifle. "You must understand that I have no desire or ability to take prisoners, captain, so I promise you that I will kill you right here and now if you do not answer me." The officer lowered his head and began to tremble. "Last Chance: Title, Unit and Mission." She raised the weapon to her hip and released it from the safety with a loud click. "Very good." May peace be with you, captain-"

"Good good!" - the officer shouted. It was obvious that he was not a trained or experienced operative-probably an armchair jockey or a lab rat called into duty at the last minute. "My name is Ahmet Yakis, Twenty-third Signal Company, Delta Platoon. My mission was to make a connection, that"s all."

"Means of communication?" If it were simply a communications relay site, that might explain the lax security and poor preparedness. "For what?"

Just at that moment, assistant squad leader Azzawi Sadoun Salih ran up. "Commander, you have to see this," he said breathlessly. She ordered the prisoner to be bandaged and ensured his safety, then ran away. She had to jump over many cables strung throughout the camp and saw a large truck carrying what looked like a large steel container with most of the cables attached to it. They followed a bundle of cables up a short rise to a large fence covered with camouflage mesh.

Inside the enclosure, Azzawi found a large transport truck with a squat, square steel body on a platform, as well as two antenna masts lowered onto the deck of the truck and folded into a road march configuration. "Well, here are the communications antennas that the captain said he was installing," Azzawi said. "I think he was telling the truth."

"Not really, commander," Salih said. "I recognize this equipment because at home I guarded an American convoy carrying similar items that was prepared to defend against an Iranian attack on Iraq. This is called an array of antenna masts, which transmits microwave command signals from the radar to missile launch sites. There's an electric generator in the back of that truck... for the Patriot anti-aircraft missile battery."

"Patriot missile battery?" - Azzawi exclaimed.

"They must be the advance team setting up a base station for a Patriot missile battery," Salih said. "They'll bring a huge flat-screen radar and control station and be able to control multiple launchers spread out over miles. It's all very portable; they can operate anywhere."

"But why on earth are the Turks installing an anti-aircraft missile system here?" - Asked Azzawi. "If the Kurdish government in Iraq has not somehow built up an air force, who are they defending against?"

"I don"t know," Salih said. "But whoever it was, they must have been flying over Turkish territory and the Turks fired at them last night. I wonder who it was?"

"I don't really care who they are - if they're fighting the Turks, that's good enough for me," Azzawi said. "Let's take these vehicles home. I don't know what value they have, but they look brand new and maybe we can use them. At least we won't have to walk that far to get home. Good job today, Sadoun."

"Thank you, commander. I am pleased to serve under such a strong leader. I wish we had done so much damage to the Turks, although..."

"Every little cut weakens them a little more," Zilar said. "We are few in number, but if we keep making these little cuts, eventually we will be successful."

ÇANKAYA K Ö ŞK Ü, ANKARA, REPUBLIC OF TURKEY

LATER THAT DAY

"The initial reports were true, sir," said General Orhan Sahin, secretary general of Turkey's National Security Council, running a hand through his dark sandy hair. "PKK terrorists stole several components of a Patriot surface-to-air missile battery, such as a group of antenna masts, a power generator and cables."

"Incredible, simply incredible," muttered President Kurzat Hirsiz. He convened his National Security Council for an update on planning for the Iraq operation, but the situation seemed to be worsening by the day and threatened to spiral out of control. "What's happened?"

"Last night early in the morning, a PKK platoon, reportedly led by a terrorist commando they call Hawk, attacked a Patriot headquarters gun emplacement that was being set up near the town of Beitusebap," Shahin said. "The terrorists killed five, wounded twelve and tied up the rest. All our soldiers and equipment are accounted for - they took no prisoners, which means this was probably just an observation group or patrol, not a strike force. They escaped with the major components of a Patriot missile battery, which were truck-mounted for ease of deployment, parts that allow headquarters to communicate with remote launch sites. Fortunately, the staff vehicle itself and the missile transporter-launchers were not there."

"Should I feel relieved about this?" Hirsiz screamed. "Where was the security? How could this happen?"

"The base was not yet fully equipped, so there was no fencing or barriers around the perimeter," Sahin said. "Only tentative security forces were on the scene - the rest had been sent to help search for debris from the collision that had occurred the previous night."

"Oh my God," Hirsiz gasped. He turned to Prime Minister Akas. "We have to do this, Icy, and we have to do it now," he told her. "We must speed up the operation in Iraq. I want to declare a national emergency. You must persuade the Grand National Assembly to declare war on the Kurdistan Workers' Party and all affiliated groups throughout Turkey's neighboring region and order the conscription of reservists."

"This is madness, Kurzat," Akas said. "There is no reason to declare a state of emergency. Whoever spread this rumor should be thrown in jail. And how can you declare war on an ethnic group? Is this Nazi Germany?"

"If you do not want to participate, Prime Minister, you should resign," said Minister of National Defense Hasan Jizek. "The rest of the cabinet is on the president's side. You are on the way to getting this operation fully underway. We need the cooperation of the National Assembly and the Turkish people."

"And I don"t agree with this plan, and neither do the legislators I spoke with behind closed doors," Akas said. "We are all disgusted and disappointed by the PKK attacks, but invading Iraq is not the way to solve the problem. And if anyone should resign, Minister, it is you. The PKK has infiltrated Jandarma, stolen valuable weapons, and is rampaging throughout the country. I'm not going to resign. I seem to be the only voice of reason here."

"Cause?" Jizek was crying. "You stand there and call for meetings and negotiations while Turks are being killed. Where is the reason for this? He turned to Hirsiz. "We're wasting time here, sir," he growled. "She will never comply. I told you she's a brainless ideological idiot. She would rather resist than do the right thing to save the republic."

"How dare you, Dzizek?" Akas screamed, stunned by his words. "I am the Prime Minister of Turkey!"

"Listen to me, Icy," said Hirsiz. "I can't do this without you. We have been together for too many years in Ankara, in the National Assembly and in Cankaya. Our country is under siege. We can't just talk anymore."

"I promise you, Mr. President, I will do everything in my power to make the world realize that we need help to stop the PKK," Akas said. "Don't let your hatred and frustration lead you to bad decisions or rash actions." She stepped closer to Hirsiz. "The Republic is counting on us, Kurzat."

Hirsiz looked like a man who had been beaten and tortured for days. He nodded. "You're right, Icy," he said. "The Republic is counting on us." He turned to the chief of military staff, General Abdulla Guzlev: "Do it, General."

"Yes, sir," said Guzlev, walked up to the president"s desk and picked up the phone.

"What should we do, Kurzat?" Akas asked.

"I am accelerating the deployment of military forces," Hirsiz said. "We will be ready to begin the operation in a few days."

"You cannot launch a military offensive without a declaration of war by the National Assembly," Akas said. "I assure you, we don"t have the votes yet. Give me more time. I'm sure I can convince-"

"We won"t need votes, Ice," Hirsiz said, "because I"m declaring a state of emergency and dissolving the National Assembly."

Akas's eyes bulged out of his sockets in complete shock. "What are you...?"

"We have no choice, Ice ¸e."

"We? Do you mean your military advisors? General Ozek? Are they your advisors now?"

"The situation calls for action, hey, not talk," Hirsiz said. "I was hoping that you would help us, but I am ready to act without you."

"Don"t do this, Kurzat," Akas said. "I know the situation is serious, but don't make any hasty decisions. Let me enlist the support of the Americans and the United Nations. They sympathize with us. The American Vice President will listen. But if you do this, we will lose all support from everyone."

"I'm sorry, Icy," Hirsiz said. "It's done. You can inform the National Assembly and the Supreme Court if you want, or I will."

"No, it"s my responsibility," Akas said. "I will tell them about the agony you are experiencing due to the death of so many Turkish citizens at the hands of the PKK."

"Thank you".

"I will also tell them that your anger and frustration has made you mad and drunk on blood," Akas said. "I will tell them that your military advisers are telling you exactly what they want you to hear instead of what you need to hear. I'll tell them you're not yourself right now."

"Don't do this, Icy," Hirsiz said. "It would be disloyal to me and Turkey. I do this because it needs to be done and it is my responsibility."

"Isn"t that, as they say, the beginning of madness, Kurzat: insisting that you have responsibilities?" Akas asked. "Is this what all dictators and strong men say? This is what Evren said in 1980 or Tagma ç said before him when they dissolved the National Assembly and took over the government in a military coup? Go to hell ".

CHAPTER FIVE

Don't wait for the light to appear at the end of the tunnel - get out there and light the damn thing yourself.

-DARA HENDERSON, WRITER

NAKHLA ALLIED AIR BASE, IRAQ

THE NEXT DAY

"It's chaos and confusion out there in Ankara, Mr. Vice President," Secretary of State Stacy Ann Barbeau said from her office in Washington via secure satellite video conference. Also present was Vice President Ken Phoenix for a meeting with Iraqi leaders and the US ambassador in Baghdad; and Col. Jack Wilhelm, commander of U.S. forces in northern Iraq at Nakhla Allied Air Base near the northern city of Mosul. "The Prime Minister of Turkey herself called our ambassador to the carpet for an ass-kicking over an apparent violation of airspace by an American plane, but now he sits and waits in the reception area under heavy security due to some security noise."

"What do they say at the embassy, Stacy?" Phoenix asked. "Are they in contact with the ambassador?"

"Cellular service is currently down, but outages have been the norm for several days following rumors of a state of emergency, Mr. Vice President," Barbeau said. "Government radio and TV described numerous demonstrations both for and against the Hirsiz government, but they were largely peaceful and police were coping with it. The military behaved quietly. There was some shooting incident at the Pink Palace, but the Presidential Guard says the President is safe and will address the nation later today."

"That's pretty much what I was told at the embassy here in Baghdad," Phoenix said. "Baghdad is concerned about the confusing news but has not raised its alert level."

"I need an explanation of what happened on the Iraqi-Turkish border, Colonel Wilhelm," Barbeau said. "The Turks claim they shot down an American spy plane over their territory and they are going crazy."

"I can assure everyone that all American aircraft, unmanned or otherwise, are accounted for, ma'am," Wilhelm said, "and we have not missed a single aircraft."

"Does this include your contractors, Colonel?" Barbeau asked pointedly.

"That's right, ma'am."

"Who controls the reconnaissance planes operating along the border? Is this that international organization Scion Aviation?"

"Yes, ma'am. They fly two large and fairly high-tech long-range surveillance aircraft, and they attract smaller drones to complement their activities."

"I want to talk to a representative right now."

"He's ready, ma'am. General?

"'General'?"

"The Scion guy is a retired Air Force general, ma'am." Barbeau's eyes blinked in confusion; she obviously didn't have that information. "Most of our contractors are retired or former military."

"Well, where is he? Doesn"t he work there with you, Colonel?"

"He usually operates not from the Command and Control Center," Wilhelm explained, "but on the flight line. He connected his aircraft to the Triple-C network and to our few remaining assets."

"I have no idea what you just said, Colonel," Barbeau complained, "and I hope the Scion guy can look into it and give us some answers. Connect it to the line now."

Just then, a new window opened on the video conference screen and Patrick McLanahan, wearing a light gray vest over a white collared shirt, nodded at the camera. "Patrick McLanahan, Scion Aviation International, is safe."

"McLanahan?" Stacy Barbeau exploded, rising partially from her seat. "Is Patrick McLanahan a defense contractor in Iraq?"

"Nice to see you too, Miss Secretary," Patrick said. "I assumed Secretary Turner briefed you on Scion's management."

He suppressed a smile as he watched Barbeau struggle to control his senses and his voluntary muscles. The last time he saw her was less than two years ago, when she was still the senior senator from Louisiana and chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee. Patrick, who had secretly returned from the Armstrong Space Station, where he was under virtual house arrest, oversaw the loading of Barbeau aboard the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane to take her from Elliott Air Force Base in Nevada to Naval Air Station Patuxent River in Maryland - a flight that took less than two hours.

Of course, Barbeau didn't remember any of this because Patrick had Hunter "Boomer" Noble seduce and then drug her in a luxurious Las Vegas hotel-casino suite in preparation for her short flight into space.

Patrick's armored tin lumberjacks and Device commandos' cybernetic infantry then smuggled her into the Presidential residence at Camp David, subdued the Secret Service and US Navy security forces, and set up a confrontation between her and President Joseph Gardner over the future of the men and women who made up the US Space Defense Force. , which the president was ready to sacrifice in order to make peace with Russia. In exchange for not disclosing Gardner's secret dealings with the Russians, the President agreed to allow any subordinate of McLanahan who did not want to serve under Gardner to be honorably discharged from military service...

...and Patrick ensured the President's continued cooperation, taking with him the entire remaining force of six tin men and two cybernetic infantry combat systems, as well as spare parts, weapons kits and plans for their production. Advanced armored infantry enhancement systems had already proven they could defeat the Russian and Iranian armies, as well as the US Navy SEALs, and infiltrate the most heavily guarded presidential residences in the world-Patrick knew he had reliable support if the president will try to get rid of his problem with McLanahan.

"Is there some problem here, Miss Secretary?" Vice President Phoenix asked. "I know you met General McLanahan before."

"I assure you, we have prepared all the proper notifications and applications - I did them myself through the Air Force Civil Support Agency," Patrick said. "There was no conflict with-"

"Can we please get this over with?" Stacy Ann Barbeau suddenly blurted out indignantly. Patrick smiled to himself; he knew that a seasoned political professional like Barbeau knew how to stay in the here and now, no matter how shocked she was. "General, it"s nice to see you healthy and cheerful. I should have known that retirement would never mean a rocking chair on the porch for someone like you."

"I think you know me too well, Miss Secretary."

"And I also know that you are not shy about stepping right into the lines, and sometimes overstepping them by a foot or two, in your quest to get the job done," Barbeau continued bluntly. "We have received complaints from Turks about stealth aircraft, possibly unmanned, flying over Turkish airspace without permission. Pardon me for saying this, sir, but your fingerprints are all over this. What exactly did you do?"

"Scion's contract is to provide integrated surveillance, intelligence gathering, reconnaissance and data relay services along the Iraqi-Turkish border," Patrick said. "Our primary platform for this function is the XC-57 multi-role transport aircraft, which is a turbofan-powered manned or unmanned aircraft that can be equipped with various modules to modify its functionality. We also use smaller drones that...

"Get to the point, General," Barbeau snapped. "Did you cross the Iraqi-Turkish border or not?"

"No, ma'am, we didn't do that-at least not with any of our planes."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"The Turks fired on a decoy that we fed into their Patriot detection and tracking computers through their phased array radar," he said.

"I knew it! You really provoked the Turks to launch their missiles!"

"Part of our contract intelligence mission is to analyze and classify all threats in this area of responsibility," Patrick explained. "After the attack on the Second Regiment in Zakho, I consider the Turkish army and border guards a threat."

"I don't need to remind you, General, that Turkey is an important ally in NATO and in the entire region - they are not enemies," Barbeau said passionately. It was clear to everyone who she thought the enemy really was. "Allies are not replacing each other's radars, forcing them to waste two million dollars worth of missiles chasing ghosts, and spreading fear and mistrust in an area that is already experiencing critical levels of fear. I won"t let you derail our diplomatic efforts just so you can test some new device or make some money for your investors."

"Madam Secretary, the Turks have moved their Patriot batteries further west to confront Iraq, not just Iran," Patrick said. "Did the Turks tell us about this?"

"I'm not here to answer your questions, General. You are here to answer my questions...!"

"Madam Secretary, we also know that the Turks have long-range artillery systems similar to the ones they used to attack the Second Regiment in Zakho," Patrick continued. "I want to see what the Turks are planning. The shake-up in their military high command, and now the loss of communication from the embassy, tells me that something is going on, perhaps something serious. I recommend to us-"

"Forgive me, General, but I am also not here to listen to your recommendations," Secretary of State Barbeau intervened. "You are a contractor, not a cabinet or staff member. Now listen to me, General: I want all your tracking data, radar images and everything else you've collected since your company signed the contract. I want-"

"Sorry, ma'am, but I can't give it to you," Patrick said.

"What did you tell me?"

"I said, Madam Secretary, I can"t give you any of this," Patrick repeated. "The data belongs to US Central Command-you'll have to ask them for it."

"Don't play games with me, McLanahan. I'll have to explain what you did to Ankara. It looks like this will be another case of contractors overstepping their boundaries and acting too independently. Any costs incurred by the Turks for your actions will come from your pocket, not the US Treasury."

"That will be decided by the court," Patrick said. "In the meantime, the information we collect belongs to Central Command or whoever they designate to receive it, such as the Second Regiment. Only they can decide who gets it. Any other information or resources not covered by the contract with the government belong to Scion Aviation International and I cannot disclose it to anyone without a contract or court order."

"You want to play hard games with me, mister, fine," Barbeau snapped. "I will sue you and your company so fast your head will spin. In the meantime, I am going to recommend that Secretary of State Turner terminate your contract so that we can prove to the Turkish government that this will not happen again." Patrick didn't say anything. "Colonel Wilhelm, I am going to recommend to the Pentagon that you resume security operations along the border area until we can hire another contractor to replace us. Await further orders in this regard."

"Yes, ma'am." Barbeau ran the back of her hand over her camera and her image disappeared. "Thank you, General," Wilhelm said angrily. "I'm at a dead end here. It will take me weeks to send replacements, return and unpack the equipment, and organize patrols again."

"We don"t have weeks, Colonel, we have days," Patrick said. "Mr. Vice President, I regret the diplomatic row I caused, but we have learned a lot. Türkiye is preparing for something. We must be prepared for this."

"Like what? What is your theory about invading Iraq?"

"Yes, sir".

"What happened to make you think this invasion is imminent?"

"A lot has happened, sir," Patrick replied. "Scion's own analysis shows that the Turks now have twenty-five thousand Gendarma paramilitary forces within a three-day march of Mosul and Erbil, and another three divisions-one hundred thousand regular infantry, armor and artillery-within a week's march."

"Three divisions?"

"Yes, sir, that's almost as many troops as the United States had in Iraq at the height of Operation Iraqi Freedom, except the Turks are concentrated in the north," Patrick said. "These ground forces are supported by the largest and most advanced air forces between Russia and Germany. The heir believes that they are ready to strike. The recent resignation of the Turkish military leadership and this very recent confusion and loss of contact with the embassy in Ankara confirms my fears."

There was a long pause on the line; Patrick saw the Vice President lean back in his chair and rub his face and eyes-in confusion, fear, doubt, disbelief, or all four, he couldn't tell. Then: "General, I didn"t know you that well when you worked in the White House," Phoenix said. "Most of what I know is what I heard in the Oval Office and the Cabinet Room, usually during someone's angry tirade directed at you. You have a reputation for two things: pissing a lot of people off... and providing timely, correct analysis.

"I am going to speak with the President and recommend that Secretary Barbeau and I make a visit to Turkey to meet with President Hirsiz and Prime Minister Akash," he continued. "Stacy may be responsible for apologizing. I'm going to ask President Hirsiz what's going on, what he thinks, what his situation is politically and security-wise, and what the United States can do to help. The situation is clearly getting out of control, and simply declaring the PKK a terrorist organization is not enough. We must do more to help the Turkish Republic.

"I am also going to recommend, General, that you be allowed to continue your surveillance operations along the Iraqi-Turkish border," Phoenix continued. "I don't think he'll buy it, but if Colonel Wilhelm says it will take weeks to get back into position, we don't have much of a choice. Obviously, there will be no more action against the Turks without special permission from the Pentagon or the White House. Clear?"

"Yes, sir".

"Fine. Colonel Wilhelm, Secretary of State Barbeau is not in your chain of command, and neither am I. You must complete your last set of orders. But I would recommend taking a defensive position and being prepared for anything, in case the general's theory comes true. I don't know how many warnings you'll get. Sorry for the confusion, but sometimes that's how it goes."

"That's what happens most of the time, sir," said Wilhelm. "Message understood."

"I will be in touch. Thank you gentlemen." The Vice President nodded to someone off-camera, and his worried, conflicted expression disappeared.

OVAL OFFICE, WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, DC.

AFTER A SHORT TIME

"Patrick McLanahan in Iraq!" - Secretary of State Stacey Ann Barbeau squealed as she entered the Oval Office. "I just spoke to him on a conference call with Phoenix and the Army. McLanahan is in charge of aerial reconnaissance throughout northern Iraq! How the hell could this guy show up in Iraq without us knowing about it?"

"Relax, Stacy Ann, relax," said President Joseph Gardner. He smiled, loosened his tie and leaned back in his chair. "You look even more beautiful when you're angry."

"What are you going to do with McLanahan, Joe? I thought he'd disappear, move into some apartment in Vegas, play with his kid, go fly fishing or something. Not only has he not disappeared, but now he is muddying the waters between Iraq and Turkey."

"I know. I received a briefing from Conrad. That's what this guy Stacy does. Don't worry about him. Sooner or later he'll go too far again, and then we can bring him to justice. It no longer has its own high-tech air force to fight for it."

"Did you hear what he told me? He refuses to hand over his mission data to the State Department! I want him thrown in jail, Joe!"

"I said, relax, Stacy," Gardner said. "I'm not going to do anything that will bring McLanahan's name back into the press. Everyone forgot about him, and I prefer this way. We'll try to get him in federal court for posting some fake radar images to deceive the Turks, and we'll turn him into a media hero again. We'll wait until he does something really bad and then we'll put him down."

"This guy is bad news, Joe," Barbeau said. "He humiliated us both, shit on us and rubbed our noses in it. Now he's got some big government contract and is flying around northern Iraq." She paused for a moment, then asked, "Does he still have those robots he...?"

"Yes, as far as I know, he still has them," the president said. "I haven't forgotten about them. I have a task force at the FBI that is reviewing police reports around the world looking for witnesses. Now that we know he's working in Iraq, we'll expand our search there. We'll get them."

"I don't understand how you can let him keep these things. They belong to the US government, not McLanahan."

"You know damn well why, Stacy," Gardner said irritably. "McLanahan has enough dirt on both of us to end our careers in the blink of an eye. Robots are a small price to pay for his silence. If the guy was destroying cities or robbing banks with them, I would prioritize finding them, but the FBI task force didn't report any sightings or get any tips about them. McLanahan is being smart and keeping these things under wraps."

"I can't believe he has weapons as powerful as these robots and armor or whatever it is and he didn't use them."

"Like I said, he's smart. But the first time he exposes these things, my task force will pounce on him."

"Why are they taking so long? The robots were ten feet tall and strong as tanks! He used them to assassinate the Russian President at his private residence and then used them to break into Camp David!"

"There are only a few of them, and from what I have been told, they roll up and are quite easy to hide," the president said. "But I think the main reason they didn't is because McLanahan has some powerful friends who are helping to lead investigators astray."

"Like who?"

"I don't know...yet," Gardner said. "Someone with political clout, powerful enough to get investors to buy high-tech gadgets like this spy plane, and savvy enough on Capitol Hill and the Pentagon to get government contracts and get around technology export laws."

"I think you should terminate his contracts and send him packing. This man is dangerous."

"He's not stopping us, he's doing work in Iraq that allows me to get troops out of there faster - and I don't want to wake up one morning and find one of these robots standing over me in my bedroom," Gardner said. "Forget about McLanahan. Eventually he'll screw up and then we can take him out... quietly."

HEADQUARTERS IN GANDARMA PROVINCE, VAN, REPUBLIC OF TURKEY

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING

The eastern regional headquarters of Turkey's internal security forces, Candarma, was located near Van Airport, southeast of the city and close to Lake Van. The main headquarters complex consisted of four three-story buildings forming a square with a large courtyard, cafeteria, and seating area in the center. Across the parking lot to the northeast was a single, square, four-story building that housed the detention center. To the southeast of the headquarters there were barracks, a training academy, sports fields and shooting ranges.

The headquarters building was located right on Ipek Golu Avenue, the main thoroughfare connecting the city to the airport. Because the headquarters had been subject to numerous attacks from people passing by-usually rocks or debris being thrown at the building, but sometimes a pistol or Molotov cocktail being fired through the window-the sides of the complex facing Avenue NW, Summerbank Street SE west and Ayak Street in the northeast, were surrounded by a ten-foot reinforced concrete wall, decorated with paintings and mosaics, as well as some graphites against Jandarma. All the windows on that side were made of bulletproof glass.

No such defensive walls existed on the southeast side; the sounds of gunfire on the ranges day and night, the constant presence of police and Jandarma trainees, and the large open distance between the building and the main buildings meant that the perimeter was simply a twelve-foot illuminated chain-link fence topped with barbed wire, patrolled by cameras and cruising patrols in pickup trucks . The area around the complex was light industrial; the nearest residential area was a residential complex four blocks away, occupied primarily by Jandarma officers and academy staff and instructors.

The Academy trained law enforcement officers from all over Turkey. Graduates were assigned to city or provincial police departments, or stayed on for further training to become Gendarma officers, or took advanced courses in riot control, special weapons and tactics, bomb disposal, counter-terrorism operations, intelligence, drug interdiction and dozens of other specialties. . The academy had one hundred staff and teachers, and the number of resident students was about a thousand.

Along with gunfire from gun ranges, another constant at the Jandarma complex in Van were protesters. The detention center held about five hundred prisoners, mostly suspected Kurdish rebels, smugglers and foreigners captured in the border areas. The facility was not a prison and was not designed for long-term confinement, but at least a fifth of the prisoners remained there for more than a year, awaiting trial or deportation. Most protests were small-mothers or wives held signs with photos of their loved ones, demanding justice-but some were larger, and some turned violent.

The demonstration that began that morning started out big and grew quickly. A rumor spread that the gendarme had captured Zilar Azzawi, the notorious Kurdish terrorist leader known as the Hawk, and was torturing her for information.

Protesters blocked Ipek Golu Avenue and blocked all main entrances to the Jandarma office. The gendarma reacted quickly and with force. The academy outfitted all students in riot gear and surrounded the two main buildings, concentrating on the detention center in case a mob tried to break into the building and free Azzawi and the other prisoners. Traffic was diverted around the protest site along Sumerbank and Ayak streets to other highways to avoid a complete closure of traffic to Van Airport.

The chaotic situation and the diversion of students, faculty, staff and most of the security forces to the main street where the protesters were located made it too easy to enter the building from the southeast.

The tipper easily passed through the outer and inner service gates of Samerbank Street, then sped past the weapons range and through the sports fields. A handful of guards gave chase and opened fire with automatic weapons, but nothing could stop it. The truck drove straight into the academy barracks building...

...where three thousand pounds of powerful explosives packed in a dump bay detonated, destroying the three-story student barracks and severely damaging the main academic building nearby.

PUBLIC COMMUNICATION CENTER, CANKAYA, ANKARA, Türkiye

AFTER A SHORT TIME

"Today, I regret to announce that I am declaring a state of emergency in the Republic of Turkey," said President Kurzat Hirsiz. He read his statement from the government communications center in Çankaya in an impassive, wooden voice, without even looking up from his newspaper. "The despicable PKK attack this morning on the Jandarma regional headquarters in Van, which left at least twenty people dead and dozens wounded, compels me to urgently respond.

"Effective immediately, local and provincial law enforcement agencies will be supplemented by regular and reserve military personnel," he continued, still not looking up from his prepared statement. "They exist only to assist in security operations. This will allow local and provincial police to make arrests and investigate crimes.

"I must report that several threats from the PKK have been received through radio messages, coded newspaper advertisements and Internet postings calling on followers and sympathizers around the world to rise up and attack the Republic of Turkey. Our analysts have concluded that the messages are intended to activate sleeper cells throughout the region to launch concentrated attacks on government targets throughout the country.

"After the Van incident, I am forced to take these threats seriously and respond with force. Therefore, I am ordering the temporary closure of all government offices in Turkey, a strict dusk-to-dawn curfew in all cities and towns, and mandatory 100% body and vehicle searches by security personnel.

"The following actions I have ordered require the assistance and cooperation of the public at large. Due to the danger of unknowingly spreading terrorist instructions, I request that all newspapers, magazines, radio, television and all private media outlets voluntarily cease publishing any advertisements, articles or notices submitted by anyone who is not a reporter or editor of the publication, or if the source of information is not verified or personally known. My intention is to avoid a complete shutdown of the media. It is imperative that the transmission of coded messages to sleeper cells is stopped completely, and my government will contact all channels to ensure they understand the importance of their prompt and thorough cooperation.

"Finally, I request that all Internet providers in the Republic of Turkey and those providing services to Turkey voluntarily install and update filters and redirectors to block access to known and suspected terrorist websites and servers. This should not lead to a massive failure of Internet services in Turkey. Email, trading and access to regular websites and services should continue as normal - only those servers known to host terrorist or anti-government sites will be closed. We will closely monitor all Internet providers available to the Turkish population to ensure that access to legitimate sites is not affected."

Hirsiz nervously took a sip of water from a glass outside the camera, his hand visibly shaking, his eyes not looking at the camera. "I sincerely apologize to the people of Turkey for having to take these actions," he continued after a long, uncomfortable pause, "but I feel I have no choice and I ask for your prayers, patience and cooperation. My government will work tirelessly to stop terrorists, restore security and order, and return our nation to normalcy. I ask the citizens of Turkey to be vigilant, assist government officials and law enforcement agencies, and be strong and brave. Our nation has been through this before, and we have always come out stronger and wiser. We'll do it again. Thank you ".

Hirsiz threw away the pages of his statement when Prime Minister Ice Akas approached him. "This is the hardest speech I've ever given," Hirsiz said.

"I was hoping you would change your mind, Kurzat," she said. "It"s not too late, even now."

"I have to do this, Icy," Hirsiz said. "It"s too late to change course now."

"No, that's not true. Let me help you do this. Please." The assistant handed the note to Akas. "Perhaps this will help: the American embassy is requesting a high-level meeting in Erbil. Vice President Phoenix is in Baghdad and wants to be present with the Secretary of State."

"Impossible," Hirsiz said. "We can't stop this now." He thought for a moment. "We cannot meet with them: a state of emergency has been declared in the country. We cannot guarantee the safety of the President or our ministers in Iraq."

"But if you were actually present, I'm sure they would offer significant military, technical and economic assistance if they met us - they rarely come empty-handed," Akas said. "The American Ambassador has already sent a message to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs about compensation for the Patriot missile launches."

"Compensation? For what? What did they say?"

"The Ambassador, speaking on behalf of Secretary Barbeau, said that an unarmed surveillance aircraft flown by a private firm contracted to provide surveillance of the northern Iraqi border region inadvertently emitted what they called 'random electronic interference' that caused us to launch those missiles. Patriot. The Ambassador was very apologetic and said that he was authorized to offer substantial compensation or replacement of the missiles, and also offered assistance in providing information on any unknown vehicles or persons crossing the border into Turkey." Hirsiz nodded. "This is a great opportunity, Kurzat. You can hold a meeting and then lift the state of emergency after the American Vice President makes an agreement. You save face and there will be no war."

"Rescued by the Americans again, huh, Ice?" Hirsiz said dispassionately. "Are you so sure they"ll want to help?" He motioned to an assistant, who handed him a secure cell phone. "The schedule has been moved, General," he said after quickly dialing the number. "Move your troops and get your planes in the air, now!"

COMMAND AND CONTROL CENTER, ALLIED AIR BASE NAKHLA, IRAQ

THAT EVENING

"It looks like the wheels are getting ready to come off in Turkey, doesn"t it?" Chris Thompson said. He sat at the security director's console in the Tank, watching news reports of security measures taking place in the Republic of Turkey on one of the large screens at the front of the Tank, which was always tuned to an American news channel. Reports showed police and military forces clashing with protesters on the streets of Istanbul and Ankara. "Hirsiz is crazy. State of emergency? Sounds like a military coup to me. I wonder if he's still in power? "

"Keep your voice down, Thompson," said Jack Wilhelm, who was sitting at his console nearby. "We can all see what's happening. Bring the eighth sensor forward and zoom in ten-X. He studied the image of three delivery trucks driving down the road, the cargo sections swaying noticeably as they turned. "They're moving pretty fast, wouldn't you say? Enlarge the image fifteen times, get a description, send it to IA. Who do they have in this area, Major Jabbouri?" The Turkish liaison officer laid out his maps and logbooks, then picked up the telephone. "Come on, Major, we don"t have the whole day ahead of us."

"The Border Patrol unit is moving in the opposite direction, about ten miles from here, sir," replied Major Hamid Jabbouri, deputy liaison officer for the Turkish Army, after a long delay. "They were notified of the vehicle investigation. They asked us to continue monitoring and report if they contacted us."

"Sure - what else do we need to do here other than serve IA?" Wilhelm grumbled. "A monkey can do the job." At this moment, Patrick McLanahan approached the brigade commander. "Talk about the devil. I have to admit, General, your pregnant stealth bomber is a killer. We get equal views across the sector with a quarter of the gliders; we save network bandwidth, fuel and personnel; and the ramp and airspace are less congested."

"Thank you, Colonel. I'll pass this on to John and his engineers."

"You will do this". Wilhelm pointed to the television monitor. "So, have you talked to the Vice President about this shit that's going on in Turkey?"

"He's heading to Erbil to meet with Iraqi, Kurdish and possibly Turkish leaders," Patrick said. "He said he would get an update from us when he landed."

"Still think Türkiye will invade?"

"Yes. Now more than ever. If Hirsiz does not support the war, the only legal way he can start it is to dissolve the National Assembly and order it personally."

"I think this is madness, General," said Wilhelm. "The attack in Zakho was a big mistake, that"s all. The military is involved because the generals want to show who is in charge and force the Kurds, Iraqis and Americans to the negotiating table."

"I hope you're right, Colonel," Patrick said. "But they have great forces there, and their numbers are increasing every hour."

"It"s a show of force, that"s all," Wilhelm insisted.

"Let's see".

"Let's say they do invade. How far do you think they will go?"

"I hope they can just take over Dohuk province and then stop," Patrick said. "But with these forces rushing to the border, they could seize Erbil International Airport, lay siege to the city and half of Erbil province and force the Kurdish government to flee. After that, they can march all the way to Kirkuk. They might say it's to protect the CPC pipeline from Kurdish rebels."

"Besiege" - I"m listening to you, General," said Wilhelm, chuckling and shaking his head. "Have you ever been under siege, General, or are you just bombing places that are out of sight?"

"Have you ever heard of a place called Yakutsk, Colonel?" - Patrick asked.

Wilhelm's jaw dropped, first in shock-at himself-and then in shame. "Oh... Oh damn, General, I'm sorry," he said quietly. He had definitely heard of Yakutsk, the third largest city in Russian Siberia...

... and the location of a major air base that was used as a forward tanker base to refuel Russian long-range bombers involved in the American Holocaust - a nuclear attack on the United States that killed thirty thousand people, wounded almost one hundred thousand, and destroyed almost everyone American long-range manned bombers and ground-launched intercontinental ballistic missiles, just six years earlier.

Patrick McLanahan devised a plan to retaliate against Russian land-based nuclear missiles by landing the Tin Woodman and Cybernetic Infantry Commando team in Yakutsk, capturing the base, and then using it to launch precision air raids by American bombers into Russia. Russian President Anatoly Gryzlov retaliated against his own air base... with nuclear-tipped cruise missiles. Although Patrick's defenses stopped most of the cruise missiles and allowed most of Patrick's bombers and tankers to escape, thousands of Russians and all but a handful of American ground crew members were burned.

"When did you acquire this habit of speaking first and thinking later, Colonel?" - Patrick asked. "Is it just being in Iraq, or have you been working on the technology for a long time?"

"I said I'm sorry, General," Wilhelm said irritably, again speaking directly to himself. "I forget who I'm talking to. And I could blame it on the fact that I spent almost eighteen months in this hole - it could drive anyone into hysterics or worse. This is my third deployment to Iraq, and I have never done a good job-ever. They change it every couple of months anyway: we're here to stay, we're leaving, we're staying, we're leaving; we fight foreigners, we fight Sunnis, we fight Shiites, we fight Al-Qaeda; now we may be fighting the Turks." He paused, looked at Patrick apologetically, then added, "But I won't blame it on anything other than being an asshole. Once again, sir, I apologize. Forget I said that."

"It"s forgotten, Colonel." Patrick looked at the sector summary map, then at the news coverage of the unrest in Turkey. "And you made your point: if the Turks march towards Erbil and Kirkuk, they will not 'besiege' them - they will raze them to the ground and kill hundreds of thousands of people in the process."

"Understood, sir," said Wilhelm. "The final solution to their Kurdish problem." The intercom signal sounded, and Wilhelm touched the microphone button: "Go... got it... Roger, I"ll tell him." Warhammer is out. Listen carefully, ladies and gentlemen. The unit informed us that the Vice President would travel to Erbil in about an hour to meet with members of the Kurdistan Regional Government in the morning. It will fly through our sector before being handed over for its approach to Erbil, but Baghdad will control the flight and they will follow normal VIP and diplomatic flight procedures. General, I was ordered-"

"I can closely monitor the vice president's flight path for any signs of movement," Patrick intervened. "Just give me the waypoints and I"ll set everything up."

"Can you do this and keep an eye on our sector?" Wilhelm asked.

"If I had two more losers here, Colonel, I could watch all of Iraq, southeastern Turkey and northwestern Persia 24/7 and I would still have a spare ground force," Patrick said. He touched his protected earpiece. "Boomer, did you understand the last thing?"

"Already setting it up, sir," Hunter Noble replied. "The loser we've got in the air right now can track his flight inside Erbil Province, but I'm guessing you want to track the Vice President all the way from Baghdad, huh?"

"Company A"

"I thought so. We'll have loser number two at the station... in about forty minutes."

"As quickly as possible, Boomer. Move the first loser to the south to track the vice president's flight, then place the second one on the surveillance track to the north as he takes off."

"Understood."

"So we can watch his flight from Baghdad all the way to Erbil?" Wilhelm asked.

"No - we will be able to track and identify every aircraft and every vehicle that moves in the seven Iraqi provinces, from Ramadi to Karbala and everywhere in between, in real time," Patrick said. "We will be able to track and identify every vehicle that approaches the vice president's plane before departure; we will be able to watch his plane taxi and monitor all other planes and vehicles in his vicinity. If there is any suspicious activity before he leaves or arrives in Erbil, we can alert him and his security."

"With two planes?"

"We can almost do it with one, but for the precision we need, it's better to split the coverage and use the highest resolution possible," Patrick said.

"Pretty cool," Wilhelm said, shaking his head. "I wish you guys were around a few months ago; I missed my youngest daughter's high school graduation last year. This is the second time I've missed something like this."

"I have a son who is getting ready to go to high school, and I can't remember the last time I saw him at a school play or football game," Patrick said. "I know what you feel".

"Sorry, Colonel," the Turkish liaison officer, Major Jabbouri, intervened over the intercom. "I have been notified that the Turkish Air Force Air Transport Group is sending five Gulfstream VIP transport aircraft from Ankara to Erbil to participate in joint negotiations between the United States, Iraq and my country, which begin tomorrow. The aircraft is airborne and will be within our range in approximately sixty minutes."

"Very good," said Wilhelm. "Captain Cotter, let me know when you receive the flight plan."

"Understood now, sir," replied Cotter, the regimental air traffic control officer, moments later. "Origin confirmed. I will contact the Iraqi Foreign Minister and clarify his route."

"First put it on the big board, then make the call." A blue line arced across the large-screen main monitor, heading straight from Ankara to Erbil's northwestern international airport, some eighty miles to the east, passing just east of the Allied airbase at Nala. Although the flight path was curved rather than straight, the six-hundred-mile "great circle" route was the most direct flight path from one point to another. "It looks good," said Wilhelm. "Major Jabbouri, make sure IAD has a flight plan as well, and make sure Colonel Jaffar is aware."

"Yes, Colonel."

"Well, at least the parties are talking to each other. Maybe this whole thing will settle down eventually."

Over the next twenty minutes things calmed down significantly until: "Guppies Two-Four in the air," Patrick reported. "He will be at the station in fifteen minutes."

"It was fast," Wilhelm noted. "You guys don't bother with getting those things in the air, do you, General?"

"It"s unmanned, already loaded and fueled; we just input the flight plans and sensors and let it go," Patrick said.

"No restrooms to empty, packed lunches to fix, parachutes to set up, right?"

"Exactly".

Wilhelm just shook his head in amazement.

They watched the progress of the Turkish VIP plane as it headed towards the Iraqi border. There is nothing unusual about the flight: flying at an altitude of thirty-one thousand feet, normal airspeed, normal transponder codes. With about twelve minutes left before the plane crossed the border, Wilhelm ordered: "Major Jabbouri, double check that the Iraqi air defense forces are aware of the approaching flight from Turkey and that they do not have weapons."

"Jabbouri is off the grid, sir," Weatherly said.

"Find his ass and bring him back here," Wilhelm barked, then Wilhelm switched his command channel: "All Warhammer units, this is Alpha, a Turkish VIP aircraft is arriving in ten minutes, all air defense stations are reporting weapons availability directly to me."

Weatherly switched one of the monitors to a map of the position and status of all air defense units along the border zone. The units consisted of Avenger mobile air defense vehicles, which were Humvees equipped with a steerable turret containing two reloadable pods containing four Stinger heat-seeking anti-aircraft missiles and a 50-caliber heavy machine gun, along with electro-optical sensors and a duct. data transmission, allowing the tower to be connected to the air defense radars of the second regiment. The Avengers were accompanied by a cargo Humvee carrying maintenance and security forces, spare parts and ammunition, provisions, and two missile transfer bays.

"All Warhammer advertising departments are reporting a shortage of weapons, sir," Weatherly said.

Wilhelm checked the monitor, which showed all Avenger units with steady red icons indicating they were functional but not ready to attack. "Where is your second loser, General?" he asked.

"Three minutes to the patrol site." Patrick brought up the XC-57 icon on the tactical display so Wilhelm could see it among all the other markers. "We pass flight level three-five-zero, climb to four-one-zero, quite far from the arriving Turkish flight. We'll start scanning the area soon."

"Show me the vice president's flight."

Another icon began to flash, this time far to the south, over Baghdad. "It just took off, sir, about thirty minutes early," Cotter reported. Flight data readings showed a very rapid increase in altitude and a relatively low ground speed, indicating maximum climb out of Baghdad International. "It appears to be aboard a CV-22 tilt rotor, so it will be significantly behind the Turkish Gulfstream when it arrives," he added. "ARRIVAL TIME, forty-five minutes."

"Understood."

Everything seemed to be going as usual, which always bothered Patrick McLanahan. He scanned all the monitors and instrument readings, looking for any clue as to why something might be wrong. Nothing yet. The second XC-57 reconnaissance aircraft reached its patrol area and began a standard oval patrol. Everything looked...

Then he saw it and pressed the intercom button: "The Turkish plane is slowing down," he said.

"What? Repeat, General?

"Gulf Stream. The speed dropped to three hundred and fifty knots."

"Is he getting ready to descend?"

"So far from Erbil?" - Patrick asked. "If it had made a normal approach, it might have made sense, but what Turkish plane would fly into the heart of Kurdish territory on a normal approach? He did the approach with maximum efficiency - he didn't start the descent until thirty miles, maybe less. Now he's about a hundred out. He, of course, also drifts south. But its height-"

"Bandits! Bandits! " It was Hunter Noble, monitoring data from the second XC-57. "Several high-speed aircraft approaching from Turkey, heading south at low altitude, fifty-seven miles, mach speed one point one hundred five! "The tactical display showed multiple tracks of air targets moving south of Turkey. "Many heavy vehicles have also been found on the A36 and-" His voice suddenly cut off in a sharp roar of static...

... the tactical display was the same. The entire screen was suddenly filled with sparkling colored pixels, junk symbols, and waves of static. "Shall I say it again?" Wilhelm screamed. "Where are these vehicles? And what happened to my board?"

"Lost contact with Loser," Patrick said. He began typing instructions on the keyboard. "Boomer...!"

"I'm switching now, boss, but the data link is almost completely down, and I've reduced the speed to sixty kilometers per hour," Boomer said.

"Will it switch automatically?"

"If it detects a data link dropout, it will, but if interference is blocking the signal processors, it may not."

"What the hell is going on, McLanahan?" Wilhelm shouted, jumping to his feet. "What happened to my photo?"

"We are being jammed on all frequencies - UHF, VHF, LF, X, Ku- and Ka-bands and microwave," Patrick said. "And extremely powerful. We're trying-" He fell silent, then looked at the regimental commander. "Turkish Gulf Stream. This is not a VIP plane - it should be a jamming plane."

"What?"

"Electronic jammer and it shut down the entire network," Patrick said. "We let it fly right over us, and it's powerful, so we can't get through the interference. Frequency hopping doesn't help - it burns through all frequencies."

"God, we are blind down here." Wilhelm switched to the regiment's command channel: "To all Warhammer units, to all Warhammer units, this is...!" But his voice was drowned out by an incredibly loud screech emanating from all the headphones that could not be turned off. Wilhelm threw off his headphones before the sound ruptured his eardrums, and everyone else in the Tank was forced to do the same. "Damn, I can"t get through to the Avengers."

Patrick activated his secure cell phone. "Boomer..." But he quickly had to take the earphone out of his ear because of the noise. "Get ready, Colonel," Patrick said. "Noble will shut down the intelligence system."

"Are you closing this? Why?"

"The interference is so strong that the data link between us and the XC-57 is completely out of order," Patrick said. "The only way we can get this going again is to close."

"What good will this do?"

"The fail-safe for all losers is to switch to secure laser communications mode, and as far as we know, no one has the ability to jam our laser communications," Patrick said. "As soon as we restore power, the system will immediately default to a clearer and more secure communication channel. The laser is line of sight and not transmitted from a satellite, so we will lose a lot of capabilities, but at least we will get the picture back...at least we should."

The system reboot took less than ten minutes, but the wait was excruciatingly long. When the picture finally came back, they saw only a small part of what they were used to seeing - but it was still quite terrifying: "I have three groups of aircraft approaching - one each towards Mosul, Erbil, and the third, I assume, is heading to Kirkuk," said Hunter Noble. "There are many high-speed aircraft ahead, and many low-speed aircraft behind them."

"This is an air attack," Patrick said. "Naval aviation to take out radars and communications, then tactical bombers to destroy airfields and command posts, close air support to stand watch, and then paratroopers and cargo planes to attack on the ground."

"What about Nala?" - Weatherly asked.

"The western cluster is passing to the west of us - I assume they will target Mosul instead of us."

"Negative-let"s assume we"re next," Wilhelm said. "Weatherly, organize a team and have them give everyone the order to seek shelter. Do it any way you can - use megaphones, car horns or scream like crazy, but take the regiment to cover. Radio contact the Avengers to-"

"I can't, sir. The Scion reconnaissance aircraft is back on the air, but our communications are still being jammed."

"Damn," Wilhelm cursed. "Okay, let's hope the Avengers find good places to hide because we can't warn them. Start taking action." Weatherly hurried away. "McLanahan, what about the vice president?"

"We have no way to contact his plane while we're stranded," Patrick said. "Hopefully, once he switches to our frequency, he hears interference and decides to turn back to Baghdad."

"Is there any way you can shoot down that Gulf Stream or whatever it is up there?" Wilhelm asked.

Patrick thought for a moment, then headed towards the exit. "I'm heading to the departure line," he said, adding: "I'll get you back in touch." Patrick hurried outside, jumped into one of the Humvees assigned to his team, and sped off.

He found the departure line in complete chaos. Soldiers stood on Humvees, shouting warnings; some had loudspeakers; others simply honked their horns. Half the Scion Aviation International technicians stood around, unsure whether to leave or not.

"Get into cover, now!" - Patrick shouted after he came to a screeching stop outside the hangar, jumped out and ran towards the command center. He found John Masters and Hunter Noble still sitting at their consoles, trying unsuccessfully to resist the furious interference. "Are you guys crazy?" Patrick said as he started to grab the laptops. "Get the hell out of here!"

"They're not going to bomb us, Mook," John said. "We are Americans, and this is an Iraqi airbase, not an insurgent stronghold. They are coming for-"

At that moment, he was interrupted by triple sonic booms that rolled directly overhead. It was as if the hangar was a giant balloon that filled with air in an instant. Computer monitors, lamps, and shelving were blown off tables and walls, light bulbs shattered, walls cracked, and the air suddenly became foggy as every speck of dust in the entire room was wrenched free by the excess pressure. "Hello, god...!"

"I hope this was a warning. Don't try to launch any planes, otherwise the next run will be to launch a bomb," Patrick said. Under the table with one of the laptops displaying the laser radar image from the XC-57, he studied it for a few moments, then said, "John, I want that Turkish plane shot down."

"With using what? Spittoons? We don't have any anti-aircraft weapons."

"The loser does. Slingshot."

"Slingshot?" John's eyes narrowed in confusion, then understanding, followed by calculation, and finally agreement. "We need to get closer, maybe within three miles."

"And if the Turks catch the loser, they will surely shoot him down... and then they will come for us."

"I hope they don't want to mess with us - they're after Kurdish rebels," Patrick said. "If they wanted to bomb us, they would have done it already." This did not sound very convincing even to him; but after another moment of reflection he nodded. "Do it".

John cracked his knuckles and began barking instructions, altering the XC-57's programmed flight path to enter the Turkish aircraft's parking area, then having it fly behind and below it on its own, using its laser radars to keep it in precise stationary control. "I don't see any escort," Boomer said, studying a hyper-detailed laser radar image of the area around the Turkish plane as the XC-57 approached. "This is a single ship. Quite cocky, aren't they?

"What kind of plane is this?" - Patrick asked.

"I can"t see it yet - although it is smaller than the Gulf Stream."

"Less?" That feeling of impending doom returned, creeping up and down Patrick's spine. "It has a lot of power for an aircraft smaller than a Gulfstream."

"Within a ten mile radius," John said. "I'll hit him from five miles away. Still trying to get the engine nacelles apart." The XC-57 quickly closed the distance.

"I don't see any gondolas - this is not a passenger plane," Patrick said. As he got closer, he could see more details: a small twin-engine bizjet, but with three compartments under each wing and one compartment under the belly. "Definitely not civilians," he said. "Grab everything you can, John, and shoot as soon as you can..."

Before he could finish, the Turkish plane suddenly turned sharply to the left and began a rapid climb-and its turn speed was not the same as that of a large passenger jet such as a Gulfstream. From this close, with his full profile displayed on the laser radar image, his identity was unmistakable: "Oh crap, it's an F-4 Phantom fighter! "Boomer shouted. "F-4 with jamming capability? No wonder they didn't take any escorts with them - he can probably accompany himself."

"Hit it, John," shouted Patrick, "and get the loser out of there!" The Phantom must have defensive weapons!"

"Hit, Boomer!" John said as he frantically typed commands to summon the XC-57.

"Slingshot activated!" Boomer said. "Full power. Range six miles...it won't be enough."

"Don't worry - he'll close that distance very quickly," Patrick said ominously. "Start a rapid descent, John - the F-4 may not want to descend. Lay it on the deck."

"We"re going down!" John Masters said. Using the XC-57's "adaptive wing" technology, which turned almost every surface of the aircraft into a lifting device, the XC-57 descended at speeds of over ten thousand feet per minute, with only its composite structure keeping it from falling apart.

"Connection has been restored," the technician reported. "All interference is turned off."

"He's slowing down," Boomer said. "Three miles...he should be feeling the heat about..." And at that moment, the laser radar image showed two missiles leaving each wing of the Turkish F-4E. "Sidewinders!" he shouted. But a few seconds after the start of the flight, the Sidewinder missiles exploded. "The slingshot finished them both off," Boomer said. "The laser is redirected to the Phantom. It is still slowing down even though it is on the decline."

"I think we hit something vital," John said. The enlarged laser radar image clearly showed smoke coming from the fighter's right engine. "He needs to break it off. It's five thousand feet above the ground-fighter planes don't like flying near dirt."

"Two miles and still coming," Boomer said. "Come on, aptal, the game is over."

"Aptal?"

"It means 'idiot' in Turkish," said Boomer. "I thought that if we are going to face the Turks, I better learn a little Turkish."

"I"ll leave it to you to learn the bad words first," John said. He returned to the chase unfolding on his laptop. "Come on buddy, it's over, it's-" That's when a bunch of warning messages appeared on John's laptop. "Damn, engines one and two are shutting down... The hydraulics and electrical system are in disrepair! What's happened?"

"He came within shooting range," Patrick said. In daylight, with clear skies... the XC-57 was doomed and everyone knew it.

"Come on baby," John urged his creation, "you"ll be fine, just keep going..."

And as they watched, they saw a cloud of smoke coming from the front of a Turkish F-4 Phantom, the canopy folded back, and the rear ejection seat flew into the sky. They waited for the front seat to leave... but as they watched, the altitude numbers continued to decrease, finally showing zero seconds later. "Got him," Boomer said quietly, without a trace of joy or triumph-watching the death of any pilot, even an enemy, was never a cause for celebration. "It must have really hurt him when the Slingshot was aimed at his face at full power, but he wasn't about to let the Loser get away."

"Can you give her back, John?" - Patrick asked.

"I don't know," John said. "The lower laser array of the radar does not retract - it is a lot of resistance, and we only have one engine left. We are also losing gasoline. With only thirty miles to go, it will be close."

There was a lot of crossing fingers, but the XC-57 did return. "Good job, John," Patrick said from his Hummer parked at the end of the runway as he peered at the plane through his binoculars. He and John watched as Loser prepared to go straight in. There was a long dark trail of smoke trailing behind the crippled bird, but its flight path was fairly stable. "I didn"t think she would survive."

"Me too," John admitted. "This landing is not going to be pleasant. Make sure it's clear to everyone - I don't know what type of braking or directional control we have left, and it could..."

"Scion, this is the Third!" - Boomer shouted over the radio command channel. "Incoming plane from the south, extremely low altitude!" Patrick turned around and looked at the sky...

... and at that moment John shouted: "Holy shit!" Two massive clouds of fire erupted onto the front of the XC-57. The plane seemed to simply hover in the air for a few moments; then another explosion, and the plane turned over on its nose and dived straight into the ground. There was not enough fuel in the tanks to cause a large fire.

John Masters' eyes practically bulged out of his sockets in confusion. "What happened to my-"

"Get down, John!" Patrick screamed, knocking him to the ground. Two American-made F-15E Eagle fighter-bombers streaked overhead at low altitude, heading north toward Turkey.

John tried to get to his feet. "Those bastards hit my-"

"I said duck!" Patrick screamed. A moment later, a series of eight powerful explosions thundered right down the center of the runway, the closest of which was only a few hundred yards away. Both men felt as if their Hummer had rolled over on top of them. They were showered with debris and smoke, screaming and clasping their hands to their ears as the terrible shaking knocked the air from their lungs. Chunks of concrete whizzed past them like bullets and then rained down on them. "Get in the Hummer, John! Hurry up!" Both men climbed inside just as larger and larger chunks of concrete rained down on them from above. They had no choice but to crawl along the floor as far as they could and hope that the roof would hold. The windows shattered and the big Hummer rocked on its wheels before they too exploded.

A few minutes later, John was still writhing on the floor of the Hummer, covering his ears and cursing loudly. Patrick could see a small trickle of blood seeping between the fingers covering John's left ear. Patrick turned on his portable radio to ask for help, but he couldn't hear anything and could only hope his message got through. He climbed onto the roof of the Humvee to inspect the damage.

Pretty good bombing, he thought. He saw eight blast marks, probably thousands of pounds, each no more than five yards from the center line of the runway. Luckily they didn't use runway-crater-piercing bombs, just general-purpose high-explosive bombs, and the damage wasn't too bad - the detonations made holes but didn't bring up large chunks of steel reinforcement. This was relatively easy to fix.

"Dirt?" John had difficulty getting out of the Hummer. "What's happened?" He screamed because his head was ringing so loudly that he couldn't hear his voice.

"A little payback," Patrick said. He got off the hummer and helped John sit up while he examined his head for other injuries. "Looks like your eardrum burst and you got some pretty good cuts."

"What the hell did they hit us with?"

"F-15E Strike Eagles drop high-explosive GPS rounds, another military surplus purchased from the good old United States of America," Patrick said. Despite being one of the world's best fighter-bombers, capable of both bombing and air superiority in a single mission, the F-15Es were unable to land on an aircraft carrier and were therefore mothballed or sold as surplus to AMERICA'S allies. "They have marked the runway quite well, but it can be repaired. It doesn't look like they hit Triple-C, the hangars, or any other buildings."

"What does 'damn assholes' mean in Turkish?" John Masters asked, slamming his hand down on the Hummer in obvious anger. "I think I'll borrow Boomer's phrase book and learn a few choice Turkish curse words."

A few minutes later, Hunter Noble pulled up in a Humvee ambulance. "Are you guys okay?" he asked as the paramedics attended to Patrick and John. "I thought you were missing."

"The good thing is those teams were good," Patrick said. "A quarter of a second longer and a quarter of a degree heading error and we would have been right under that last one."

"I don"t think this is the end," Boomer said. "We are tracking several slugs throughout the area; the nearest one is twenty miles to the east, heading here."

"Let's go back to the hangar and see what we have left," Patrick said gloomily. "We will need to get an update on the third loser and what mission modules we can use." They all got into their humvees and sped off to the departure line.

By the time they stopped at the infirmary to drop John off and then reached the hangar, the ringing in Patrick's ears had subsided enough that he could function fairly normally. When the interference stopped, they were back in full reconnaissance mode and relayed communications with the first XC-57, which had returned to a new patrol orbit southeast of Allied Nala Air Base, within laser radar range of three major cities in northern Iraq - Mosul, Erbil and Kirkuk, which were attacked.

Patrick ran a noticeably trembling hand over his face as he studied the intelligence display. The adrenaline coursing through his veins began to subside, leaving him tired and nervous. "Are you all right, sir?" Hunter Noble asked.

"I'm a little worried about John. He looked pretty bad."

"You look pretty worse for wear too, sir."

"I'll be ok". He smiled at Boomer's worried expression. "I forgot what it was like to be under such bombardment. It really scares you."

"Maybe you should rest a little."

"I"ll be fine, Boomer," Patrick repeated. He nodded at the young pilot and astronaut. "Thank you for being so concerned."

"I know your heart's affairs, sir," Boomer said. "The only thing worse than returning from space is being almost destroyed by a string of thousand-pound bombs. Maybe you shouldn"t push your luck."

"Let's get the Vice President in safe and sound and get a clear picture of what's going on, and then I'll go take a nap." This didn't ease Boomer's worry one bit and it showed on his face, but Patrick ignored it. "Are any jets bothering the loser?"

No point arguing with the guy, Boomer thought-he was going to work until he dropped, plain and simple. "No," he replied. "Every fighter within a fifty-mile radius set it on fire, but no one attacked. They also don't bother our drones."

"They know that most of the planes flying here are unarmed reconnaissance planes, and they're not going to waste ammunition," Patrick suggested. "Damn disciplined. They know that there is very little resistance to what they are doing right now."

"There are a lot of slow moving vehicles approaching and several convoys of vehicles are headed our way," Boomer said. They closely watched several dozen low-speed aircraft, mostly circling near Kirkuk and Erbil. However, one plane was heading west directly to Nala. "Are there any modes or codes for this?" - Patrick asked.

"No," Boomer replied. "He's very low and fast. No connection yet. The laser radar image shows it as a two-seat C-130 turboprop, but it changes speed from time to time, slower than expected for a tactical airlift aircraft. It may have mechanical problems."

"Do we have contact with the Avengers?"

"I think they are all talking to Colonel Wilhelm in the Tank again."

Patrick opened a command channel: "Scion Odin calling Warhammer."

"It's good to see you're still with us, Scion," Wilhelm said from his command console in the Tank. "You're still screaming into the microphone. May your bell ring there?"

"I advise you to ask your Avengers to ensure the visual identification is correct before entering battle, Warhammer."

"The Turks just bombed the hell out of my airstrip, Scion, and their cars are heading this way. We have received reports of three separate columns of armored vehicles. I'm not going to let them just trudge into this base without killing a few first. "

"The one approaching from the east may not be a Turk."

"Then who do you think it is?"

"Off the open channel, Warhammer."

Wilhelm fell silent for a few moments; then: "Got you, son." He didn't know who or what McLanahan was thinking about, but the guy was on a roll; better help him maintain his streak. "Break down. All Warhammer units, this is Alpha, keep in mind we don't have any aircraft cleared to approach the base and we wouldn't be able to land them here if we did, but I want to get positive visual identifiers for all incoming aircraft. I repeat, I need a positive EO or direct visual identifier. IR and no modes and codes are not, I repeat, good enough." He paused for a moment, rethinking his next order, then continued: "If you do not have positive identification, report direction, speed, altitude and type, but ignore it. If you are unclear, shout but hold your weapon tightly, if you don't have a positive ID, it's a bandit. Warhammer is out."

It didn't take long for the first report to come in: "Warhammer, this is Piney One-Two," came the easternmost Avenger unit. "I have visual contact with a single scarecrow ship, one-five-zero degrees bullseye, heading west, one hundred and eighty knots, base altitude minus one-eight, negative modes and codes." The "base" altitude was two thousand feet, which meant the plane was two hundred feet above the ground. "Looks like Winner Two-Two."

"Oh, thank you, Lord," Wilhelm muttered under his breath. How many the hell drinks and dinners will I owe McLanahan after this is all over...? "Understood, one or two. Continue patrolling, weapons at the ready. All Warhammer units, this is Alpha, incoming aircraft, weapons ready until it hits the ground, then return to FPCON Delta. Weatherly, take command here. I'm heading towards the departure line. Thompson, send your boys down there to intercept this incoming message, and I want security as tight as a mosquito's ass. Air service, let this guy in and make sure there are no tails on him. Thompson, hand him over to Alpha Security." He threw off his headphones and rushed to the door.

He found McLanahan and Chris Thompson in a secure aircraft parking lot, a section of an aircraft apron surrounded by exhaust barriers in front of a large hangar. Thompson positioned his security forces along the south taxiway and the ramp leading from the taxiway to the apron. Wilhelm's eyes narrowed when he saw McLanahan. The retired general's head and the backs of his hands were covered in wounds from flying shrapnel. "You should be in the infirmary, General," he said.

McLanahan was drying his face, head and hands with a large white dampened towel, which was already dirty from his departure. "It can wait," he said.

"How long? Until you pass out?"

"I dropped John off at the medic and asked them to examine me."

Bullshit, Wilhelm thought, but didn"t say it out loud. He shook his head sadly, not wanting to argue with the guy, then nodded east. "Why does he come here?"

"I don't know".

"Not very smart, if you ask me." Wilhelm took out a walkie-talkie. "The second one is Alpha. Where is the nearest convoy of vehicles?"

"Twenty kilometers north, still approaching."

"I understand you. Continue monitoring, let me know when they are within ten kilometers." Not yet within range of shoulder-fired missiles, but the approaching aircraft was in mortal danger if spotted by Turkish warplanes.

A few minutes later they heard the distinctive heavy high-speed boom-boom-boom sound of a large rotorcraft. The tilt-rotor CV-22 Osprey flew low and fast over the base, made a sharp turn to the left as it transitioned to vertical flight, then hovered along a line of security vehicles along the ramp onto the apron and landed. He was directed inside the secure parking lot, where he locked himself.

Thompson's security forces redeployed throughout the aircraft parking area while Wilhelm, McLanahan, and Thompson closed in on the Osprey. The rear cargo ramp opened and three US Secret Service agents, wearing body armor and armed with machine guns, stepped out, followed by Vice President Kenneth Phoenix.

The vice president was wearing a Kevlar helmet, goggles, gloves and body armor. Wilhelm approached him, but did not salute - he had already been distinguished enough. Phoenix began to remove his protective gear, but Wilhelm waved for him to stop. "Keep this device on just in case, sir," he shouted over the roar of the twin propellers overhead. He escorted the Vice President to a waiting armored Humvee, and they all piled inside and sped off to the conference room on the top floor of the Tank.

Once they were safe inside and guarded, Secret Service agents helped Phoenix remove his protective gear. "What's happened?" Phoenix asked. He looked at Wilhelm's gloomy face, then at McLanahan. "Don"t tell me, let me guess: Türkiye."

"We detected an air attack, but they sent a jamming plane that took away our eyes and ears," Wilhelm said. "Damn good coordination; they were clearly ready to strike and were simply waiting for the right opportunity."

"It was me wanting to meet everyone in Erbil," Phoenix said. "I didn"t think I"d be their cover for the invasion."

"If it weren't for you, sir, it would have been someone else - or they might have staged something, like I believe they staged that attack in Van," Patrick said.

"Do you think it was a set-up?" Chris Thompson asked. "Why? It was classic PKK."

"It was classic PKK-too classic," Patrick said. "What struck me was the timing. Why a daytime attack, no less in the morning, when all the personnel and security are awake and on alert? Why not attack at night? They would have more chances to succeed and more losses."

"I thought they were pretty successful."

"I believe it was a set-up to ensure there weren't enough students in the barracks," Patrick said. "They made sure the actual death toll was low and simply inflated the figure for the media-enough for the president to declare a state of emergency."

"If Turkey has a president," Phoenix said. "The message from our ambassador in Ankara said that the president 'conferred with his political and military advisers.' The Ministry of Foreign Affairs will not say anything more, and no one answered the President's call to the Prime Minister and President of Turkey. On television he looked like a robot; he may have been pressured, even drugged."

"Sir, before we waste any more time trying to figure out what the Turks are going to do next, our first priority is to get you out of here and back to Baghdad-preferably back to the States," Wilhelm said. "Your Secret Service may have better options, but I recommend-"

"I'm not ready to leave yet, Colonel," Phoenix said.

"Excuse me, sir?" Wilhelm asked incredulously. "We're in the middle of a firefight, sir. They just bombed this base! I can"t guarantee your safety-I don"t believe anyone can right now."

"Colonel, I came here to meet with the Iraqis, the Turks, the Kurds and the Americans to try to resolve the situation with the PKK," Phoenix said, "and I will not leave until my boss orders me to." Wilhelm was about to say something, but Phoenix stopped him with a raised hand. "That's enough, Colonel. I need access to a telephone or radio to contact Washington and I will need...

At that moment the bell rang, and Wilhelm rushed to the phone. "Go."

"Several high-altitude aircraft are approaching from the north, sir," Mark Weatherly reported. "Lower speed, possibly turboprop engines. We suspect these are vehicles, possibly disembarking paratroopers. The Iraqi army is also reporting new communications interference. We haven't picked it up yet."

"Continue to monitor and advise," Wilhelm said. He thought for a moment, then added, "Advise all Warhammer units to keep their weapons ready, for self-defense only, and to recall the Avengers back to base."

"Sir? Say it again -"

"We are not fighting the damned Turks, Weatherly," William interrupted. "Our intelligence says we're already outnumbered at least ten to one, so they might just drive right over us if they get angry enough. I will explain to them that they can buzz around Iraq all they want, but they are not going to take this base. Recall the Avengers and all other Warhammer units that are out of sight. As soon as they return to the fence, we move into a full defensive position, ready to repel all attackers. Got that?"

"Understood, sir."

"Advise Jaffar and tell him that I want to meet with him and his company commanders about what to do if the Turks invade," Wilhelm said. "They might want to fight, but we"re not here to get into a shooting war." He looked at the vice president. "Still want to stay here, sir? This could get dangerous."

"As I said, Colonel, I am on a diplomatic mission," Phoenix said. "Maybe when the Turks realize I'm here, they'll be less likely to start shooting. I might even be able to start negotiating a ceasefire from here."

"I would feel better if you were at least in Baghdad, sir," said Wilhelm, "but you have a good and positive voice, and I could use some positive vibes here right now."

The phone rang again and Wilhelm picked it up.

"The weather is fine here, sir. We have a problem: I called Jaffar's office - he is not here. No one from the OVR management team answers phone calls."

"Ask Mavlud or Jabbouri where they went."

"They're not here either, sir. I tried to call Jabbouri on the radio: no one answers. He moved away from the Tank even before the attacks began."

Wilhelm looked out of the conference room window onto the main floor of the Tank; of course, the Turkish liaison officer's console was empty. "Find some Haji in charge and tell him to come here in double order, Weatherly." He hung up. "Thompson?"

"I"m checking, Colonel." Chris Thompson had already turned on his portable radio. "Security reports that a convoy of military buses and trucks left the base about an hour ago, Colonel," he said a moment later. "They had people and equipment, the appropriate permits, signed by Jaffar."

"No one thought to notify me about this?"

"The gate guards said it looked routine and they had orders to do so."

"Have any of your guys seen any Iraqi soldiers anywhere?" Wilhelm thundered.

"I"m checking, Colonel." But everyone could tell by watching the incredulous expression on Thompson's face what the answer was: "Colonel, IA headquarters is clear."

"Empty?"

"Just a couple of soldiers busy removing hard drives and memory chips from computers," Thompson said. "They seem to have switched off. Do you want me to stop these guys and interrogate them?"

Wilhelm ran his hand over his face, then shook his head. "Negative," he said wearily. "This is their base and their materials. Take pictures and statements, then leave them alone." He practically threw the phone back on the cradle. "Damn unbelievable," he muttered. "An entire brigade of the Iraqi army just picks up and leaves?"

"And right before the attack," Thompson added. "Could they have gotten wind of this?"

"It doesn"t matter-they"re gone," Wilhelm said. "But I can tell you one thing: they won't be coming back to this base unless I know about it first, that's damn sure. Tell that to your boys."

"It will be done, Colonel."

Wilhelm turned back to the vice president. "Sir, do you need any more reasons to return to Baghdad?"

At this moment the alarm sounded. Wilhelm picked up the phone and turned to the displays at the front of the tank. "What now, Weatherly?"

"The nearest column of Turkish armor approaching from the north is ten kilometers away," Weatherly said. "They have spotted Piney Two-Three and are holding position."

Wilhelm ran as fast as he could downstairs to his console, the others following behind him. Video footage from an Avenger anti-aircraft unit showed a dark green armored vehicle flying a large red flag with a white crescent. His machine guns were raised. The XC-57's laser radar image showed other vehicles lined up behind it. "Second or third, this is Alpha, weapons at the ready, position to march down the road."

"Acknowledged, Warhammer, we are already on the march," the Avenger vehicle commander responded, making sure his weapons were safe and the barrels of his Stinger missiles and twenty-millimeter Gatling gun were pointed at the sky and not at the Turks.

"Can you retreat or turn around?"

"I confirm to both."

"Very slowly, back up, turn around, and then return to base at normal speed," Wilhelm ordered. "Keep your barrels pointed away from them. I don't think they'll bother you."

"I hope you're right, Alpha. Just two or three copies, on the go."

It was a tense few minutes. Because the camera on board the Avenger only faced forward, they lost the video feed, so they could not see if the Turkish armored personnel carrier crews were preparing any anti-tank weapons. But the XC-57's image showed that the Turkish vehicles held position as the Avenger turned around, then followed it from about a hundred yards away as it headed back to base.

"Here they come," Wilhelm said, taking off his headphones and throwing them on the table in front of him. "Mr. Vice President, at the risk of stating the obvious, you will be our guest in the near future, courtesy of the Republic of Turkey."

"Well done, Colonel," said Ken Phoenix. "The Turks know they can blow us up, but they are holding back. If we had struck back, they would have attacked for sure."

"We're allies, right?" Wilhelm said sarcastically. "Somehow I almost forgot about it. Plus, it"s easy not to hit back if you have little to retaliate with." He turned to Chris Thompson. "Thompson, cancel the withdrawal order, but close the base, get everyone up and secure the gates and perimeter. I want a strong presence but minimal visible weapons. Nobody shoots unless they shoot at him. Weatherly, keep an eye out for other arriving Avengers, let them know we have guests, weapons at the ready. I think the Turks will let them through."

In less than an hour, a group of two Turkish armored personnel carriers were parked at each main entrance to the Nakhla Allied airbase. They looked very unfriendly, with their weapons raised, and the infantrymen remained near their vehicles with rifles on their shoulders... but they did not allow anyone to approach. The base was definitely closed.

CHAPTER SIX

Failing to recognize opportunities is the most dangerous and common mistake you can make.

-MAE JEMISON, ASTRONAUT

OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT, CANKAYA, ANKARA, Türkiye

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING

"This is the third call from Washington, sir," the assistant said, hanging up. "This time it"s the Secretary of State herself. Her voice sounded angry."

President Kurzat Hirsiz waved to an aide to shut up, then said into the phone: "Continue with your report, General."

"Yes, sir," General Abdullah Guzlev said over a secure satellite phone. "The 1st Division advanced to Tal Afar, northwest of Mosul. They surrounded the military air base and captured the pipeline and pumping station in Avgan. The Iraqis can still block the flow from the Baba Gurgur fields to the east and transfer oil from the southern fields, but the oil from the Kuale field is safe."

Amazing, Hirsiz thought. The invasion of Iraq went better than expected. "The Iraqi army did not secure the pipeline or pumping station?" he asked.

"No, sir. Only private security companies, and they didn"t resist."

This was really great news; he expected the Iraqis to vigorously defend the pipeline and infrastructure. Oil flowing through the Kirkuk-Ceyhan pipeline accounted for 40 percent of Iraq's oil revenues. Indeed, an interesting development of events... "Very good, General. Your progress has been amazing. Well done. Continue."

"Thank you, sir," Guzlev continued. "The 2nd Division advanced all the way to Mosul and captured the southern airport of Qayyarah. Our air force bombed the airstrip at Nakhla, an Iraqi air base north of the city, near Tall Qaifa, and we surrounded the airfield. We are currently landing transport and armed patrol aircraft at Qayar South Airport."

"Was there any resistance from the Iraqis or Americans in Nakhla?"

"The Americans are not resisting; however, we are not making contact with any Iraqi forces based there."

"Not in contact?"

"It looks like they left the base and retreated to Mosul or Kirkuk," Guzlev said. "We are on guard in case they suddenly appear, but we believe they have simply taken off their uniforms and are hiding among the population."

"This may become a problem later, but hopefully they will remain hidden for a while. What about General Ozek"s forces?"

"The two Gendarme divisions operating in the east faced stronger resistance than the other two divisions, mostly facing Peshmerga guerrillas," Guzlev responded, "but they surrounded Erbil"s northwestern airport."

"We expected resistance from the Peshmerga - that's why we decided to send two Gendarme divisions to the east, with the remaining three divisions ready to move if necessary," Hirsiz said. The Peshmerga, which means "those who stare death in the face" in Kurdish, began as Kurdish freedom fighters who fought Saddam Hussein's army against his brutal attempts to oust the Kurdish minority from the oil-rich areas of northeastern Iraq that the Kurds see as part of the future. state of Kurdistan. After the US invasion of Iraq, the Peshmerga fought Saddam's army alongside the US. strength. Thanks to years of American training and assistance, the Peshmerga have become an effective fighting force and protectors of the Kurdish regional government.

"We are still in the minority if what our intelligence says is the full strength of the Peshmerga," Guzlev continued. "We must move two gendarme divisions south to strengthen supply lines and keep the last one in reserve. If General Ozek's forces can firmly hold and take control of highways three and four leading into and out of Erbil, plus clear the approaches to the airport, we will have a strong line of defense from Erbil to Tal Afar and we will be able to push the Peshmerga into the mountains to east of Erbil."

"Then I will give the order," Hirsiz said. "In the meantime, I will negotiate a ceasefire with the Iraqis, Kurds and Americans. We will eventually come to some kind of agreement on a buffer zone, including multinational patrols and monitoring, and we will eventually leave..."

"And when we retreat, we will destroy every last stinking PKK training base we find," Guzlev said.

"Absolutely," Hirsiz said. "Do you have a casualty report?"

"Casualties have been minimal, sir, except that General Ozek reports two percent casualties as he moves through predominantly Kurdish areas," Guzlev said. With Jandarma divisions of about twenty thousand men each, losing four hundred men in one day was a serious problem; these three reserve divisions of the Jandarma were urgently needed. "We have no difficulty evacuating the dead and wounded back to Turkey. Aviation losses were also minimal. The worst was the loss of a transport plane that was flying out of Erbil to bring in more supplies - it may have been shot down by enemy fire, we're not sure yet. A heavy transport helicopter was lost due to mechanical problems, and an RF-4E electronic jamming aircraft was shot down by a US reconnaissance aircraft."

"American reconnaissance plane? How can a spy plane shoot down one of ours?"

"Unknown, sir. The intelligence systems officer reported that they were under attack, which he described as high levels of radiation."

"Radiation?"

"That's what he said moments before he lost contact with the pilot. The pilot and aircraft were lost."

"Why the hell are the Americans shooting us with ray weapons?" Hirsiz thundered.

"We were careful to minimize casualties, military and civilian, on both sides, sir," Guzlev said. "Division commanders are under strict orders to tell their men that they can only fire if they come under fire, except for known or suspected PKK terrorists they spot."

"What kind of forces are you facing, General? What units are you engaging with?"

"We are encountering light resistance throughout the region, sir," Guzlev reported. "The Americans did not engage us in battle. They have taken up strong defensive positions inside their bases and are continuing unmanned aerial reconnaissance, but they are not attacking and we do not expect them to do so."

"That's right, General - make sure your units remember this," Hirsiz warned. "We have no indication that the Americans will attack us until we attack them. Don"t give them a reason to go out and fight."

"I brief my generals every hour, sir. They know," admitted Guzlev. "The Iraqi army appears to have disappeared, likely fleeing towards Baghdad or simply taking off their uniforms, stashing their weapons and waiting it out like they did when the Americans invaded in 2003."

"I don't expect them to fight either, General; They don't like the PKK any more than we do. Let them hide."

"PKK terrorists are on the run, trying to reach larger cities," Guzlev continued. "It will take hard work to dig them up, but we will do it. We hope to keep them in the countryside so they don't flee to Erbil or Kirkuk and mix with the population. The Peshmerga remain a significant threat, but they are not yet engaging us - they are fierce defenders of their cities, but they are not attacking us. This may change."

"It will take a diplomatic solution with the Kurdish regional government to find some way that allows us to look for PKK terrorists without having to fight the Peshmerga," Hirsiz said. "Washington called all night demanding an explanation. I think now is the time to talk to them. Carry on, General. Tell your people: a job well done. Good luck and happy hunting."

"Great news indeed, sir," said General Orhan Zahin, secretary general of Turkey's National Security Council. "Better than expected. No one is opposing us except for a few Peshmerga fighters and PKK terrorists." Hirsiz nodded but said nothing; he seemed lost in thought. "Don't you agree, sir?"

"Of course," Hirsiz said. "We expected to get bogged down in the mountains, but without organized opposition, northern Iraq is wide open ... especially Erbil, the capital of the Kurdistan Regional Government, which refuses to crack down on the PKK."

"What do you want to say, sir?"

"I say that if we squeeze Erbil, we can force the KRG to help us hunt down the PKK terrorists," Hirsiz said. "Everyone knows that companies owned by the KRG cabinet and senior leadership funnel money to the KRG. Maybe it's time to make them pay the price. Destroy these businesses, shut down the CPC pipeline, close the border crossings and airspace to anything or anyone associated with the KRG and they will be begging to help us." He turned to Defense Minister Jizek. "Get a list of targets in Erbil that will specifically target KRG assets and work with General Guzlev to add them to his target list."

"We have to be careful about mission creep, sir," Jizek said. "Our goal is to create a buffer zone in northern Iraq and clear it of the PKK. The attack on Erbil goes far beyond this goal."

"This is another way to destroy the PKK - to enlist the help of the Iraqis," Hirsiz said. "If they want to end our attacks and our occupation, they will help us destroy the PKK, as they should have done years ago." Jizek still looked worried, but he nodded and made notes to himself. "Very good. Now I will go talk to Joseph Gardner and see if he is willing to help us."

OVAL OFFICE, WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, DC.

SOME TIME LATER, EARLY EVENING

The phone next to Chief of Staff Walter Cordus's elbow beeped, and he immediately picked up the phone. "Calling from Ankara, sir," he said. "The signals say it"s from the president himself."

"Finally," said President Joseph Gardner. He sat at his desk watching cable news coverage of the invasion of Iraq with his national security adviser, Conrad Carlisle, Secretary of Defense Miller Turner, and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, U.S. Marine Corps Gen. Taylor J. Bain. Present via videoconference were Vice President Kenneth Phoenix from Allied Nakhla Air Base in Iraq and Secretary of State Stacey Barbeau from Aviano Air Base in Italy, where she traveled instead of continuing to Iraq from Washington. "Connect it." He thought for a moment, then shook his hand. "No, wait, I'll make him wait and see how he likes it. Tell him to wait for me and I"ll talk to him in a minute."

Gardner turned to the others in the Oval Office. "Okay, we've been watching this shit fly all day. What do we know? What should we say to the person on the other end of the phone?"

"It is clear that the Turks are targeting PKK hideouts and training camps and are being very careful not to cause any Iraqi or American casualties," said national security adviser Conrad Carlisle. "If this is indeed the case, we tell our guys to lay low and stay out of it. We then tell the Turks to retreat in case there are unforeseen consequences."

"Sounds reasonable to me," Gardner said. "They're moving quite deep into Iraq, aren't they, much further than their usual cross-border raids?" Everyone in the Oval Office and on the video conference monitors nods. "Then the question is, are they going to stay?"

"They'll be here long enough to kill any PKK rebels they find, and then I'm sure they'll leave," Secretary of State Stacy Ann Barbeau said on her secure video conference line from Italy. "We must call on the United Nations to monitor as soon as possible in case Kurzat Hirciz is no longer in charge and the Turkish army wants to go into unrest."

"They won't do that on my watch, Stacy," Gardner said. "I will not tolerate a bloodbath while American soldiers are there and the Iraqis are not strong enough to protect their own people. They can deal with their own Kurdish rebels in their own country if they want, but they are not going to commit genocide in front of American soldiers."

"I think they will agree to international monitors, Mr. President," said Secretary of State Stacy Ann Barbeau, "but they will want to create a buffer zone in northern Iraq with 24-hour international surveillance looking for PKK activity."

"I can live with that too," Gardner said. "Okay, Walter, connect Hirsiz."

A few moments later: "Mr. President, good afternoon, this is President Hirsiz. Thank you for talking to me, sir."

"I'm really glad to see you're okay," Gardner said. "We have not heard anything from you since the declaration of a state of emergency in the country. You haven't answered any of our calls."

"I'm sorry, sir, but as you can see, things are very serious here and I've been busy almost non-stop. I assume this call concerns our ongoing anti-terrorism operations in Iraq?"

Gardner's eyes widened in disbelief at what he had just heard. "No sir, I'm talking about your invasion of Iraq!" Gardner exploded. "Because if this was just an anti-terrorism operation, I'm sure you would have told us when, where and how you were going to start it, wouldn't that be it?"

"Mr. President, with all due respect, such a tone is not necessary," Hirsiz said. "If I may remind you, sir, it is a lack of respect such as this that has caused this animosity between our countries in the first place."

"And may I remind you, Mr. President," Gardner retorted, "that Turkish warplanes are bombing bases and installations manned by Americans? May I also remind you that I sent Vice President Phoenix and Secretary Barbeau on a diplomatic mission to Iraq to meet with their counterparts, and Turkey used the meeting as a smokescreen to attack positions inside Iraq, putting the Vice President in mortal danger? The Vice President is an emissary of the United States of America and my personal representative. You have no right to initiate hostilities while at the same time you..."

"I don't need your reminders, sir!" Hirsiz interrupted. "I don't need lectures about when Turkey can take military action against the terrorists who threaten our people! The Republic of Turkey will do everything necessary to protect our land and our people! It is America and Iraq that must help us defeat the terrorists! If you don't do anything, then we have to go it alone."

"I'm not trying to lecture anyone, sir," Gardner said, controlling his anger, "and I agree that Turkey or any other nation can take any steps necessary to protect its self-interest, even preemptive military action." . All I ask, sir, is that Washington be informed first and ask for advice and assistance. This is what allies do, am I right?"

"Mr. President, we had every intention of notifying you before the outbreak of hostilities, if time permits," Hirsiz said. Gardner rolled his eyes in disbelief, but said nothing. "But that did not happen".

"This is the same thing you said before the attack on the border that killed more than a dozen Americans," the president interjected. "Obviously, you do not feel the need to consult with Washington in a timely manner."

"I'm sorry, Mr. President, but what I'm telling you is true - there is enormous pressure on us to act before another death occurs," Hirsiz said. "But this time we took extreme caution to minimize civilian casualties. I have ordered my Minister of Defense to inform and constantly remind our division commanders that only PKK terrorists should be targeted. We have taken extraordinary steps to minimize civilian casualties."

"And I recognize those efforts," Gardner said. "As far as I know, not a single American or Iraqi was killed. But there were injuries and significant losses and damage to equipment and structures. If hostilities continue, bloodshed may occur."

"However, to the best of my knowledge, sir, there has already been a significant, deliberate and egregious Turkish loss of equipment-and at least one death caused by American forces."

"What? Americans? Gardner stared in surprise at his national security adviser and secretary of defense. "I was assured that none of our combat units engaged in combat with anyone, let alone Turkish troops. There must have been a mistake."

"So you deny that a US Flying Wing reconnaissance aircraft was in orbit over northern Iraq with orders to use beam weapons to shoot down a Turkish combat support aircraft?"

"Flying wing... scout plane... beam weapon...?"

"We have been watching this plane flying near the Turkish border for many days, sir," Hirsiz said. "Although it resembles an American stealth bomber, our intelligence analysts assured our government that it was an unarmed surveillance aircraft owned and operated by a private United States Army contractor. Air Attache &# 233; at the American Embassy in Ankara admitted that this was true.

"Obviously our analysts were wrong and your ambassador lied to us because the crew of the combat support aircraft reported that they were attacked by the same aircraft," Hirsiz continued. "The surviving crew member reported that the so-called reconnaissance aircraft was actually firing what he called a beam weapon; he reported feeling intense heat, strong enough that it killed the pilot and destroyed the plane. Do you deny that such an aircraft operated during our operations over Iraq, Mr. President?"

The President shook his head in confusion. "Mr. President, I know nothing about such an aircraft, and I certainly did not order any American aircraft to attack anyone, let alone an Allied aircraft," he said. "I will find out who it was and make sure something like this doesn"t happen again."

"This is little consolation to the family of the pilot who died in the attack, sir."

"I will find those responsible, Mr. President, and if this was a deliberate attack, they will be punished, that I promise," Gardner said. "What are Turkey's intentions in Iraq, sir? When are you going to start withdrawing troops?"

"Retreating? Did you say 'retreat', sir?" Hirsiz asked in a high, theatrically incredulous voice. "Türkiye is not withdrawing troops, sir. We will not leave until every single PKK terrorist is killed or captured. We did not start this operation and risk thousands of lives and billions of valuable equipment simply to turn around before the job was done."

"Sir, Turkey has committed an act of armed aggression against a peaceful country," Gardner said. "You may be hunting terrorists, sir, but you are doing it on foreign soil, terrorizing innocent civilians and damaging the property of a sovereign nation. This cannot be allowed."

"And how are our actions different from the American attack on Iraq, Mr. President?" Hirsiz asked. "It is your doctrine, isn't it, to hunt down and destroy terrorists wherever they are, at any time of your own choosing? We do the same."

Joseph Gardner hesitated. The bastard was right, he thought. How could I object to Turkey's invasion of Iraq when that's exactly what the United States did in 2003? "Um...Mr. President, you know that this is not the same thing..."

"It's the same thing, sir. We have the right to defend ourselves, just like America does."

Luckily for the President, Walter Cordus was holding a postcard with the letters "UN" scrawled on it. Gardner nodded with relief, then spoke: "The difference, sir, is that the United States received permission to invade Iraq from the United Nations Security Council. You weren"t looking for that kind of approval."

"We have been seeking this approval for many years, sir," Hirsiz said, "but we have always been refused. The best thing you or the United Nations could ever do is declare the PKK a terrorist organization. We were authorized to name them, but they could kill Turks with impunity. We decided to take matters into our own hands."

"America has also been offered assistance by many other countries in its efforts to hunt down al-Qaeda terrorists and jihadists," Gardner said. "This surprise attack looks more like an invasion than an anti-terrorism operation."

"Are you offering assistance, Mr. President?" Hirsiz asked. "This would certainly hasten our progress and ensure a quicker retreat."

"Mr. President, the United States has offered assistance in hunting down PKK terrorists on numerous occasions in the past," Gardner said. "We have provided intelligence, weapons and financial resources for years. But the goal was to avoid open war and violations of sovereign borders - to prevent exactly what happened, and what other disasters might happen if hostilities did not stop."

"We are grateful for your assistance, sir," Hirsiz said. "Türkiye will always be grateful. But this was simply not enough to stop the terrorist attack. It's not America's fault. The ruthless PKK forced us to act. Any help you can provide in the future would of course be extremely helpful and greatly appreciated."

"We would be happy to help you hunt down the terrorists, Mr. President," Gardner said, "but as a sign of good faith, we would like to ask if a United Nations peacekeeping force could replace Turkish ground troops, and if you could allow international observers and personnel law enforcement agencies to patrol the Turkish-Iraqi border."

"I'm sorry, Mr. President, but this is not at all appropriate," Hirsiz said. "We are convinced that the United Nations is an ineffective force and has made no progress in any area of the world where its peacekeepers are deployed. In fact, we believe that such forces would be biased against Turkey and in favor of the Kurdish minority, and that the hunt for PKK terrorists would take a back seat. No sir, Türkiye will not accept peacekeepers at this time."

"I hope you and Prime Minister Akas will be willing to discuss this matter, sir? By the way, I expected to hear from the Prime Minister. She is all right? We haven't seen her or heard from her."

"I think you will find that the Prime Minister is as firm on this issue as I am, Mr. President," Hirsiz said flatly, ignoring Gardner's questions. "International observers would only complicate the security situation, cultural, ethnic and religious tensions in the region. I'm afraid there is no room for compromise at the moment."

"I understand. I also want to discuss Vice President Phoenix," Gardner continued. "He was forced to evade Turkish warplanes and ground forces while flying to Erbil for our scheduled talks."

"This is an unfortunate incident, sir. I assure you that no attempt was made to attack any aircraft at all. As far as we know, the PKK does not have an air force. Where is the Vice President now, sir?"

"The vice president is effectively a prisoner of the Turkish army and air force at the Iraqi air base at Tall Qaifa, north of Mosul," Gardner said, having carefully considered whether he should disclose this information. "It is surrounded by Turkish troops and has been shot at repeatedly by Turkish warplanes. He definitely fears for his safety. I demand that all Turkish forces evacuate the area and allow the Vice President to leave the base and proceed to his next destination."

"His next destination?"

"His original destination: Erbil," Gardner said. "The Vice President still has a mission: to negotiate a settlement between Iraq, America, the Kurdish Regional Government and Turkey to crush the PKK and restore peace, security and order in the border region."

"Lofty goals, that is," Hirsiz said dismissively. There was a significant pause on the other end of the line; then: "Mr. President, I am sorry, but the security situation is completely unstable and uncertain throughout northern Iraq and southern Turkey. No one can guarantee the security of the vice president in cities, especially those controlled by the Kurds and infested with the PKK."

"So you will keep the vice president in prison in Iraq? Is this what you want to tell me, sir?"

"Of course not, sir," Hirsiz replied. "I only think about the safety of the vice president, nothing else." There was another long pause; then: "I swear on my honor that I will see to it that the Vice President is escorted safely to the Turkish border under heavy security, with the full cooperation of your Secret Security Service, and from there he can be escorted to the American air base at Incirlik for his return to the United States." States. I also promise that Turkish forces will not interfere in the slightest if the Vice President decides to go to Baghdad. But since Turkish troops have not advanced further south than Mosul, I cannot guarantee its safety. I'm afraid traveling is simply not recommended right now."

"Let me get this straight, Mr. Hirsese-are you telling me that you are going to dictate the terms, routes, and procedures by which the Vice President of the United States of America can travel around a sovereign country that is not yours?" Gardner asked incredulously. "Let me advise you, sir: I am going to send the Vice President or anyone else whenever I want, to any place, to Iraq or any other friendly country, and I swear to God, if I see or receive any indication that If anyone makes even a gesture in his direction with the slightest thought of harm, I will see to it that he is pushed ten feet into the ground. Am I making myself clear, sir?"

"Rude and loud as always, but I understand," Hirsiz said in a completely neutral tone.

"Make sure you do this, sir," President Gardner said. "And when can I expect to have a direct conversation with the Prime Minister about the emergency and start a dialogue to resolve the issue of troop withdrawal from Iraq?"

"Prime Minister Akas is understandably very busy, sir, but I will convey your request to her immediately. I thank you for talking to me, sir. Please keep us in your prayers until we speak again-"

"Tell me, Mr. Hirsiz," Gardner interrupted, "is Prime Minister Akas still alive, and if so, is she still in power?" Are the generals now in command in Turkey, and are you president in name only?"

Another long pause; then: "I am offended by your insinuations, sir," Hirsiz said. "I have nothing more to tell you. Have a good day". And the connection was interrupted.

"Bastard," Gardner gasped, hanging up. "Who does he think he's talking to?" He paused, firing with red-hot intensity, then almost shouted, "What the hell was that about a stealth bomber flying over Turkey with a damn ray gun? What was it?"

"There is only one unit that flies a surveillance aircraft like the one Hirsiz described: Scion Aviation International," said Defense Secretary Miller Turner.

"You mean...McLanahan Organization?" Gardner asked incredulously. "Did he bring ray weapons into Iraq?"

"I don't know anything about radiation weapons. He certainly was not authorized to bring any offensive weapons into Iraq or anywhere else," Turner said. "But if anyone has such high-tech weapons, it"s McLanahan."

"I"ve had enough-get him out of here, and do it today." Gardner pointed his finger at his defense secretary like a dagger. "Get his ass out of Iraq and bring him to the STATES now. I want his contracts canceled and all funds owed to him and his company frozen until I have justice investigate him and his activities." Turner nodded and picked up the phone. "Perhaps we will get more cooperation from the Turks if we open an investigation into McLanahan."

"McLanahan briefed me on what happened, Mr. President," Vice President Phoenix said from Allied Nala Air Base. "The Turks completely jammed the base - they cut off all communications and data transmission channels from sensors. McLanahan used a defensive laser on board his unmanned surveillance aircraft to..."

"Defensive laser? What the hell is this? He shot a Turkish plane with a laser...?"

"Only to get the Turkish plane to turn off the jamming," Phoenix said. "He didn't know he was going to kill the pilot. The Turks ended up shooting down the spy plane."

"Serves him right," the president said. "He must have known that the laser would have harmed the pilot; he was testing this thing, wasn't he? He remains responsible for the death of the pilot. I want him detained and charged."

"If he hadn't turned off that jamming, I could have flown right into the center of the Turkish attack," Phoenix said. "He acted responsibly against an unknown attack in theater, doing exactly what he was contracted to do."

"He didn't hire himself out to kill people, Ken," the president said. "No American is responsible for killing anyone in Iraq, let alone an ally. We should be there to help and train, not shoot people with lasers. McLanahan did what he always does: he uses whatever force he commands to solve a problem, no matter what happens or who he kills or injures while doing it. If you want to testify on his behalf, Ken, be my guest, but he will answer for what he did." Phoenix received no response. "Miller, how soon can you get McLanahan to the States?"

"Depending on what the Turks do, I may send a plane from Baghdad and pick him up tonight."

"Do it".

Turner nodded.

"Mr. President, Colonel Wilhelm is here in Nala, keeping all his forces inside the base," Vice President Phoenix said. "Here, outside the base, there is a company-sized detachment of Turks, but everyone is trying to keep a low profile. We even gave the Turks food and water."

"It just shows me that the Turks don't want war unless you're a card-carrying PKK member," the president said. "What is the Iraqi army doing? I hope they don"t stick out either?"

"Very low, Mr. President - in fact, they evacuated the base and are nowhere to be found."

"What?"

"They just got up and left the base," Phoenix said. "Everyone left and they destroyed everything they couldn"t carry."

"Why? Why on earth would they do that?" - the president thundered. "Why the hell are we helping them when they take off and run away at the first sign of trouble?"

"Mr. President, I would like to go to Baghdad and talk with the President and Prime Minister of Iraq," Vice President Phoenix said. "I want to find out what's going on."

"Jeez, Ken, haven"t you had enough action for a while?"

"I think not, Mr. President," Phoenix said, smiling. "Also, I love flying this tilt-rotor contraption. Marines don't fly slow and leisurely unless they really have to."

"If you're serious about going, Ken, meet with the commander of the Army and your Secret Service staff and figure out the safest way to get you to Baghdad," the president said. "I don't like the idea of you being in the middle of an invasion, but having you right there in the country might help matters. I don't trust the Turks as much as I can, so we'll rely on our own guys to get you safely to the capital. I just hope the Iraqis don't leave us behind, otherwise it could be bad there. Keep me posted and be careful."

"Yes, Mr. President."

"Stacy, I would like to get you to Ankara or Istanbul as soon as possible, but we may have to wait until things calm down," the president said. "How about a meeting with representatives of the NATO alliance in Brussels - together we can put enough pressure on Turkey to force them to withdraw their troops."

"Good idea, Mr. President," Barbeau said. "I'll get to it right now."

"Fine. Tell the Turkish Prime Minister that the suspect in the downing of their spy plane will be in our custody within a few hours; it should make them a little more enjoyable."

"Yes, Mr. President," Barbeau said and hung up.

"Miller, let me know when McLanahan is on his way back to the States so I can inform Ankara," the president said. "I'd like to offer them a few carrots before I have to start throwing a spanner in the works, and McLanahan should end up being a good carrot. Thanks everyone."

COMMAND AND CONTROL CENTER, ALLIED AIR BASE NAKHLA, IRAQ

AFTER A SHORT TIME

"I said, this is too dangerous, masters," Jack Wilhelm said irritably. He was at his console in the Reservoir, studying what little information was coming to him. "The Turks stopped all aerial reconnaissance and restricted troop movements in and around the base. Everything is too tense right now. If we try to go outside to the crash site, they might get scared. Besides, you still don"t look your best."

"Colonel, a quarter of a billion dollars worth of equipment is piled up there, less than two miles from the fence," John Masters claimed. "You can't let the Turks and locals just get away with this. Some of this is classified."

"This is a crash site, masters. It was destroyed-"

"Colonel, my planes are not made of flimsy aluminum - they are composite. They are a hundred times stronger than steel. The loser was flying slowly and approaching the ground. There is a good chance that some systems and avionics survived the impact. I must go there to restore what I can before-"

"Masters, I have orders: no one goes outside the base, including you," Wilhelm insisted. "The Turkish army is in control of the situation there and I am not going to risk a confrontation with them. They allow food, water and supplies to be brought in and out - that's enough for me right now. We're trying to negotiate with the Turks about access to the wreckage, but they're pissed because you used it to shoot down one of their planes. So stop pestering me until they cool down and start talking to us, okay?"

"Every box they remove from the crash site costs me money, Colonel."

"I'm sorry about your money, Doc, but I really don't give a fuck right now," Wilhelm said. "I know you helped me by shooting down that spy plane, but right now we have no choice."

"Then I will go there and try my luck with the Turks."

"Doc, I'm sure the Turks would be happy to have a little chat with you right now," Wilhelm said. "They would have your lasers, all the top secret black boxes, the guy who designed and built them all, and the one who used them to shoot down one of their planes and kill one of their soldiers. If you don't like the taste of truth serum or don't like having your fingernails pulled out with pliers, I think you're safer behind bars." This made John Masters gulp, turn whiter than he looked before, and fall silent. "I thought not. I think we're damn lucky they're not demanding that we hand you over to them right now. I'm sorry about your stuff, Doc, but you stay put." He watched John turn away and couldn't help but feel a little pity for him.

"I think you scared him, Colonel," said Patrick McLanahan. He stood with Security Director Chris Thompson next to Wilhelm's console. "Do you really think the Turks would torture him?"

"How the hell do I know, General?" Wilhelm growled. "I just wanted him to stop pestering me until I sorted this out and until someone in Washington or Ankara told me to stop. But the destruction of this "Phantom" will not please the Turks. He studied one of the data screens with updated air traffic information. "Are you still bringing in one of your planes tonight? Haven"t you already lost enough planes?"

"It's not an XC-57, it's a regular 767 freighter," Patrick said. "This has already been purified and manifested by the Turks."

"Why bother? You know your contract will be terminated, right? Shooting down this Phantom - with a laser, no less - will land you in hot water. You'll be lucky if the Turks don't intercept him and force him to land in Turkey."

"Then I'll still need a cargo ship to start moving my stuff out of the country now that they've shot down the Loser."

"It's your decision, General," said Wilhelm, shaking his head. "I think the Turks approved the flight only to intercept it, force it to land in Turkey, confiscate everything you're bringing to Iraq, and hold the cargo and your plane hostage until you pay reparations for the Phantom and probably , you will not stand trial for murder. But it's your choice." Mark Weatherly walked up to Wilhelm and handed him a note. He read it, shook his head wearily, then handed it back. "Bad news, General. I have been ordered to detain you in your cabin until you can fly back to the States. Your contract has been canceled by the Pentagon, effective immediately."

"Phantom incident?"

"He doesn"t say, but I"m sure that"s why," said Wilhelm. "From what we have seen, the Turks are extremely careful not to attack us or the non-PKK Iraqis. That reticence may be weakening now that they've lost the plane and the pilot, and Washington needs to do something to show that we don't want to get into a firefight with the Turks."

"And I"m that guy."

"High-ranking retired bomber commander turned mercenary. I hate to say it, General, but you are the poster child for vengeance."

"I'm sure President Gardner was all too happy to oblige you too, Mook," John Masters added.

"Sorry, General." Wilhelm turned to Chris Thompson. "Thompson, would you mind taking the general to his department? I don"t even know if you"ve ever slept in it before-I"ve always found you in the hangar or on your plane-but that"s where I have to keep you now."

"Do you mind if I go with him, Colonel?" John asked.

Wilhelm waved him off and turned back to his console, and the group headed into the living area.

The residential area - Chuvil - seemed almost deserted. No one said anything as they walked along the rows of steel containers until they found the one that was reserved for Patrick. "I'll have your things brought here, sir," Chris said. He opened the door, turned on the light and looked around the room. There was an inner room to keep sand and dust out. Inside there was a small galley, table and chair, chairs for guests, a closet, storage shelves and a sofa bed. "We have enough space, so you have both a Chu and a vet-Chu in the middle. We have equipped the second control room as a conference room for you and your guys; this side is your personal space. You have full Internet access, telephone, TV, everything you need. If you need anything else, or if you want another seat closer to the departure line, just call."

"Thank you, Chris. Everything will be fine ".

"Again, Patrick, I'm sorry things turned out this way," Chris said. "You were trying to get our communications and data links back, not kill the guy."

"It's politics coming into play, Chris," Patrick said. "The Turks feel completely justified in what they are doing and they don"t know or care why we opened fire on their plane. The White House doesn't want the situation to get out of hand."

"Not to mention, the President would love to pester you, Mook," John Masters added.

"There's nothing we can do about it here," Patrick said. "I will fight as soon as I get to the states. Do not worry about me ".

Thompson nodded. "Nobody said thank you for what you did, but I will. Thank you, sir," he said, then walked away.

"Great, just great," John Masters said after Thompson left CHU. "The Turks are going to pick through the wreckage of a loser, and you are stuck here under house arrest with the President of the United States ready to turn you over to the Turks as a berserker warmonger. They swell. What do we do now?"

"I have no idea," Patrick said. "I'll contact the boss and let him know what's going on-if he doesn't already know."

"I bet Pres..." Patrick suddenly raised his hand, which startled John. "What?" John asked. "Why do you...?" Patrick put his finger to his lips and pointed towards the room. John furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. Rolling his eyes in annoyance, Patrick found a pencil and paper in his desk and wrote: I think CHU is bugged.

"What?" John exclaimed.

Patrick rolled his eyes again, then wrote: No mention of the President. Only casual conversations.

"Okay," John said, not quite sure if he believed it, but willing to play along. He wrote, has the error been fixed?

Video only, if they have it, Patrick responded in writing. John nodded. Patrick wrote: Tell Zipper and Charlie on the freighter and the rest of the crew in Las Vegas what happened to Loser... and me.

John nodded, gave Patrick a sad look, then said, "Okay, Mook, I'll go back to the hangar, send messages, check on the first loser, and then go to bed. It was a really bad day. Call me if you need anything."

"Thank you. See you later ".

Jack Wilhelm pressed a button on his console and took off his headphones, listening to the recording a few minutes after Chris Thompson returned from Chuville. "I heard almost nothing, Thompson," he said.

"They started to be very careful about what they said, Colonel," Chris Thompson responded. "I think they suspect they are being bugged."

"The guy is smart, that's for sure," Wilhelm said. "Can we confiscate the paper they write messages on before they destroy them?"

"Of course, if we want them to discover that they are being bugged."

"It's a shame you didn't put a video bug there instead of just audio. There's so much high tech equipment and you can't install one simple crib camera? Thompson didn't say anything - he could easily fix the video bug, but he didn't feel comfortable fixing the audio bug in the general's control room; the video error was too big. "He mentioned 'boss,' and then Masters said it as if he was going to say 'president,'" Wilhelm commented. "President of what?"

"Company, I guess," Thompson said. He paused, then added awkwardly: "I don"t feel like I have the right to bug the general"s command center, Colonel."

"I received orders directly from the Chief of Staff of the Army, who received them through the attorney general and the secretary of defense, to collect information on McLanahan's activities, including eavesdropping and wiretapping, until the FBI and State Department took over," Wilhelm said. "They're after this guy, that's for sure. The President wants his head on a platter. They ordered his cargo ship to be searched and every piece of equipment on board to be checked against the official manifest. If he's bringing in any unauthorized materials, they want to know about it. I don't think the Turks will allow him to land here, but if they do, Washington wants to be searched for unauthorized weapons."

"What kind of weapon?"

"How the hell should I know, Thompson? You have a declaration - if it is not there, then it is contraband. Confiscate it."

"Is no one here going to support McLanahan at all? The guy is just trying to do his job. He saved our skin during the attack and probably also saved the vice president's skin."

"McLanahan will be fine, Thompson, don't worry about him," Wilhelm said. "Besides, we have orders, and they come from the very top. I won't let guys like McLanahan ruin my career. Submit records to the department as soon as possible."

"Hey big guy."

"Dad?" Nothing compares to the sound of your son"s voice saying "Dad," Patrick thought; it always left him in awe. "Where are you?"

"Still in Iraq."

"ABOUT". Bradley James McLanahan, who had just turned thirteen, was still a child of few words-like his old man, Patrick guessed. "When are you coming home?"

"I don't know for sure, but I think it will happen soon. Look, I know you're getting ready for school, but I wanted..."

"Can I try out for football this year?"

"Football?" This was something new, Patrick thought. Bradley played soccer and tennis and could water ski, but had never shown any previous interest in contact sports. "Of course, if you want, as long as you have good grades."

"Then you should tell Aunt Mary. She says it will hurt me and my brain will turn to mush."

"Not if you listen to the coach."

"Will you tell her? Here." Before Patrick could say anything, his little sister Mary was on the line. "Patrick?"

"Hi Mar. How are you-"

"You're not going to let him play football, are you?"

"Why not, if he wants his grades too -"

"His grades are okay, but they could be better if only he would stop daydreaming and journaling and drawing spaceships and fighter jets," his sister said. Mary was a pharmacist with good grades, good enough for medical school if she had time between raising Bradley and two of her own. "Have you ever seen a high school football game?"

"No".

"These players are getting bigger every year, their hormones are raging, and they have more physical strength than self-control skills. Bradley is more of a bookworm than an athlete. Besides, he just wants to do it because his friends are going to try out and some of the girls in his class are going to try out for cheerleading."

"It always motivated me. Listen, I need to talk to-"

"Oh, I received an email this morning saying that the automatic deposit from your company from last week has been cancelled. No explanation. I'm overspending, Patrick. It would cost me fifty dollars plus any other fines from whoever I wrote the checks to. Can you work this out so I don"t get stuck with check bounces?"

"This is a new company, Mary, and salaries may be a problem." His entire salary from Scion went to his sister to help with expenses; his entire Air Force retirement went into Bradley's trust fund. His sister didn't like it because payments from Scion were irregular depending on whether the company had a contract and whether it had the money to pay senior management, but Patrick insisted. This made Bradley more of an underdog than he wanted, but it was the best deal he could make right now. "Give it a week or so, okay? I will get all charges thrown out."

"Are you coming home soon? Steve wants to go to the rodeo in Casper next month."

And in the trailer they took with them on such trips, there was no room for a third child, Patrick thought. "Yeah, I think I'll be home by then and you guys can head out. Let me talk to..."

"He's running to catch the bus. He's always doodling or doodling or writing in his notebook and I have to tell him dozens of times to move or he'll miss the bus. Everything is fine?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, but there was a little incident recently and I wanted to tell Bradley and you about it before-"

"Fine. There's been so much in the news lately about Iraq and Turkey, and we think about you every night when we watch the news."

"I think about you guys all the time. But early this morning-"

"This is cute. I have to run, Patrick. This morning I'm interviewing several pharmacy technicians. Steve and the kids send their love. Bye bye". And the connection was interrupted.

This was how most of their phone conversations went, he thought as he hung up: a very short conversation with his son, a complaint and a request from his sister or brother-in-law-usually a request for family time that didn't involve Bradley-followed by a hasty goodbye. Well, what did he expect? He had a teenage son, who spent most of his life either being dragged around the country or left with relatives; he didn't see his father very often, only read about him in the newspapers or on television, usually accompanied by harsh criticism about his dubious involvement in some near-catastrophic global disaster. His relatives certainly cared for Bradley, but they had their own lives to live and often saw Patrick's antics as a means of escaping the mundane family life at home.

He made several calls to Scion headquarters in Las Vegas about his salary; they assured him that "the check was in the mail," even though it was always transferred electronically. He was then put in touch with Kevin Martindale, former President of the United States and the silent owner of Scion Aviation International.

"Hi, Patrick. Heard you had a rough day."

"Rough as sandpaper, sir," Patrick said. One of the code words Scion Aviation International employees were taught to use was sandpaper-if it was used in any conversation or correspondence, it meant they were under pressure or being bugged.

"Understood. I regret terminating the contract. I'll try to work it out from here, but it doesn't look good."

"Do you know if they are going to arrest me?"

"Someday tomorrow or the day after tomorrow. I have not seen the warrant, but I expect it to be served shortly."

"The Turks jammed the hell out of us. We had to stop the plane."

"Don't worry about it, just do what they tell you and keep quiet. You should send your cargo plane to another location. It won't be safe in Iraq."

"We"ll need this to start packing."

"It's risky. The Turks will want this. They may try to capture it as it flies through their airspace."

"I know".

"It's your choice. Anything else for me?"

"Some kind of confusion with salaries. The deposit that was made a few days ago has been withdrawn."

"There"s no confusion," Martindale said. "Our accounts were securely frozen. I'm working on it too, but now we have several departments and the White House working on it, so it will take longer. Try not to worry about it."

"Yes, sir". And the call was suddenly interrupted. Well, it will be impossible to sleep now, Patrick thought, so he turned on his laptop. Just as he started going online and reading news from the outside world, he received a call. "McLanahan is listening."

"Patrick? I just heard! Thank God you're okay."

It sounded as if his sister Mary was calling him back, but he wasn't sure. "Mary?"

"This is Gia Cazzotto, stupid... I mean, stupid, sir," the voice of Lt. Col. Cazzotto, commander of the 7th Air Expeditionary Squadron, said with a laugh. "Who is Mary? Some young engineer in a lab coat and big glasses who turns into Marilyn Monroe when she pulls a pin out of her hair?"

Patrick's laugh was much more forced and high-pitched than he intended. "No, no, no," he said, embarrassed that his mouth was suddenly dry. "Mary is my sister. Lives in Sacramento. I just spoke to her. I thought it was her calling back."

"Of course, of course, of course, I've heard that before," Gia said. "Listen, Patrick, I just heard about the attack on Nala, and I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"John and I rang some bells, but we're okay, thank you."

"I'm in Dubai now, but I've been given permission to come as soon as they allow staff to come north," she said. "I want to see you and find out what happened."

"That would be great, Boxer, really great," Patrick said, "but I might be leaving soon."

"Are we leaving?"

"We're going back to Washington. Long story."

"I have plenty of time, Patrick. Lay it on me."

"Not 'long' as in time, but 'long' as in...many things I can't talk about."

"Gotcha." There was a slightly awkward pause; then: "Hey, our seventh plane just arrived here in the United Arab Emirates today, and we got our eighth plane today in Palmdale. This one has all sorts of strange things in the front bomb bay, and I figured it must be one of yours. "

"Did you take this to the cemetery?"

"No, it was at the flight depot in Tonopah." Tonopah Proving Ground was an air base in southern Nevada used to test secret weapons before sending aircraft to active duty. "It's got all kinds of fuel lines running here and there through the bomb bays, and what looks like a car-assembling robot with arms and claws everywhere."

"We had B-1 bombers that could recover, rearm, refuel and relaunch FlightHawk cruise missiles in flight. This must be one of them."

"No shit! This is great. Maybe we can put this system back together again."

"I'm sure I can ask John Masters from Sky Masters Inc. send you the diagrams."

"Great. Any other cool stuff like this, please send them too. I no longer have Air Force acquisition officers and government employees hang up on me when I call to ask about getting money for stuff-they seem to be really interested in building bombers these days."

"Probably because they are taking everything else from the Air Force except tankers and transports."

"I'm sure". There were a few more moments of silence; then Gia said, "I hope you don"t mind me calling."

"I'm glad you did it, Gia."

"I also hope you don"t mind me calling you Patrick."

"I'm glad you did it. Besides, it"s my name."

"Don't tease me...Unless you really want to."

A high-pitched screech sounded in Patrick's ears and he felt his face flush as if he had uttered a curse word in the presence of his saintly grandmother. What the hell was that? Did he just blush...? "No...no..."

"Don't you want to tease me?"

"No... I mean, I really want to-"

"Are you really trying to tease me? Oh, well done."

"No... God, Boxer, you're making me stupid."

"I also like to flirt a little sometimes, but I prefer teasing rather than flirting."

"Okay, Colonel, okay, that's enough."

"Are you promoting me now, General?"

"If I have to," Patrick said. A laugh escaped like a muffled donkey's bray.

"Hi, Patrick".

"Yes?"

"I really want to see you. What about you? Do you want to see me?"

Patrick felt the blush on his cheeks turn into a warm spot in his chest and he breathed it in, letting it fill his entire body. "I would really like that, Gia."

"Is Mary really your sister and not Mrs. McLanahan?"

"Actually my sister. My wife, Wendy, passed away several years ago." That was only true if you thought being nearly beheaded by a crazy female Russian terrorist in Libya counted as a "pass," but he wasn't going to discuss that with Gia now.

"Sorry to hear this. I can"t go up there?"

"I... don't know how long I'll be here," Patrick said.

"But you can"t tell me what or why?"

"Not on the phone." There was an awkward pause on the line, and Patrick hastily said, "I"ll find out by tomorrow evening, Gia, and then we"ll agree to meet." He paused, then asked, "Uh, Mr. Cazzotto isn"t here, is he?"

"I was wondering if you would ask," Gia said with a pleased note in her voice. "Most guys I encounter then ask about their spouse."

"Then?"

She laughed. "If you want me to describe it to you in detail, cowboy, make yourself comfortable."

"I get the picture."

"Anyway, before I digress: I had a husband, but not since I returned to the Air Force and was assigned to Plant Forty-Two. He's still in the Bay Area with our teenagers, a boy and a girl. Do you have children?"

"A boy who just turned thirteen."

"Then you know how hard it is to be away."

"Yes". There was another pause, as if they were silently acknowledging the new connection between them; then Patrick said, "I"ll let you know what"s going on and tell you all about it when we see each other."

"I"ll be waiting to hear from you."

"One more question?"

"I have the whole night for you."

"Where did you get my mobile number? It's not published."

"Oooh, secret number? Well then I feel privileged. I called Scion Aviation and your friend David Luger gave me this. Thought you wouldn't mind."

"I am in his debt."

"In a good way, I hope."

"In a very good way."

"Perfect. Good night, Patrick." And she hung up.

Well, Patrick thought as he hung up, this was turning into a very strange day - lots of surprises, both good and bad. Time to rear up and see what tomorrow has in store-

Just at this moment there is a knock on the door. "Patrick? It"s me," he heard John Masters say. "I brought a report on the number one loser you wanted to see."

"Come in, John," Patrick said. He didn't ask to see any report...what happened? He heard the outer door open and close, and then the inner door open. "It could wait until tomorrow morning, John, but for now you-"

He looked at the doorway and saw none other than Iraqi Colonel Yusuf Jaffar, commander of the Allied Nala Air Base!

Patrick put his finger to his lips and Jaffar nodded that he understood. "How about a cup of coffee, John? It happens instantly, but it"s no big deal." He pulled out a notepad and wrote: ????

"Sure, Mook, I"ll try," John said. On the paper he wrote, New Client. Patrick's eyes widened in surprise and stared at Jaffar, who was simply standing in the doorway with his hands behind his back, looking impatient. "Here is the report," he said. "The number one loser is code one. There's a ton of spare parts on the freighter that we don't need right now - we'll need room to start hauling out our gear. The loser can take a lot of it, but we'll need more space."

"We'll worry about that when the cargo ship arrives," Patrick said. He wrote: Hire a son? John nodded. Patrick wrote: When? Why?

John wrote: Tonight. Defend Iraq from Turkey.

How? Patrick wrote.

Take Nahla, John wrote.

I don't see how, Patrick said.

Jaffar's eyes widened with anticipation. He snatched the pencil from John's hands and wrote: My base, my country, my home. Help or get out. Decide. Now.

Over SOUTH TURKEY

A FEW HOURS LATER

"Ankara Center, Heir Seven-Seven, level, flight at level three-three zero over Afsin control point, Simak control point estimate in twenty-six minutes."

"Heir Seven-Seven, copies from Ankara Center, good evening. Expect the transfer to Mosul to arrive five minutes before Simak."

"Seventh Scion - Seven Spears."

The radios fell silent for several minutes until it sounded: "Heir Seven-Seven, switch to the approach frequency to Diyarbakir VHF one-three-five point zero point five."

This was a rather unusual request - they were well above the airspace of the local approach control tower - but the pilot did not argue: "Understood, Ankara, Scion Seven-Seven is moving on approach to Diyarbakir." He changed the frequency, then: "Approach to Diyarbakir, Heir Seven-seven, level, flight level three-three zero."

A voice with a strong Turkish accent responded in English: "Heir Seven-Seven, this is approach to Diyarbakir, descend and maintain altitude one hundred seven thousand feet, turn left, heading three-four-five, vectors to Irgani intersection, altimeter reading two nine nine eight."

"Let's go," the pilot said from across the cockpit, taking a deep cleansing breath to control his rapidly growing excitement. He pressed the intercom button: "They just directed us to an ILS approach to Diyarbakir, sir."

"Question it, but choose a vector," David Luger said over an encrypted satellite link from Scion headquarters in Las Vegas. "We are ready".

"Understood." On the radio the pilot said: "Uh, Diyarbakir, Seven-Seven, why the vector? We are operating a priority international flight as scheduled, destination Tall Kaif."

"Your passage through Turkish airspace has been canceled by the Turkish Ministry of Defense and Border Security, Seven-Seven," the approach controller said. "You are instructed to follow my vectors for approach and landing in Diyarbakir. Once your aircraft, crew and cargo have been checked, you will be cleared to continue to your destination."

"This is wrong, come in for landing," the pilot protested. "Our flight did not start or end in Turkey and we filed a flight plan. We are not subject to inspection while we are only flying over your airspace. If you wish, we can leave your airspace."

"You are instructed to follow my approach vectors to Diyarbakir or you will be considered an enemy aircraft and we will respond accordingly," the controller said. "There are soldiers at the ready who will intercept you and escort you to Diyarbakir if you do not comply. I admit."

"As we approach, we are turning to your course and descending," the pilot responded, "but I will report to my headquarters and inform them of your threat. We will submit in protest."

"I have been advised to notify you that the American Consulate has been notified of our actions and will meet with you in Diyarbakir for inspection and interviews," the controller said after a long pause. "They will remain with you the entire time you are on the ground and will oversee all of our enforcement activities."

"This is still wrong, come in for landing," the pilot continued. "You can't distract us like that. It is illegal ". Over the intercom, the pilot asked, "Do you want us to continue descending, sir?"

"Just one more minute," Dave Luger said. The Boeing 767 cargo plane was actually a test plane for the high-tech sensors and transmitters installed on the XC-57. Most of these were still established, including the ability to network intrusion or "disable"-sending digital instructions to an enemy computer or network by inserting a code into the return signal of a digital receiver. Once the appropriate digital frequency was discovered, Luger could remotely send computer instructions to an enemy network, which, if undetected and protected by a firewall, could be distributed throughout the enemy's computer network around the world like any other shared piece of data.

"The Diyarbakir radar is not digital, so we will have to do it the old-fashioned way," Luger continued. Netrusion only worked with digital systems-if the enemy had older analog radar systems, it wouldn't work. "You guys, buckle up a little tighter, this could be a problem." Both the pilot and co-pilot have their seat belts and shoulder harnesses pulled as tight as possible and can still reach all controls.

Suddenly the radio frequency exploded into a thunderous cascade of squeals, pops and hisses. The voice of the Turkish dispatcher was heard, but it was completely unintelligible. "Okay guys, the radar is jammed," Luger said. "You are cleared for Nala Straight, descend smoothly to seventeen thousand feet, maintain speed. We are monitoring your threat alert receiver." The pilot swallowed hard, executed a turn, reduced power, and turned the nose until the airspeed reading was right at the barber's speed limit. At their given airspeed and rate of descent, they lost sixteen thousand feet in less than six minutes.

"Okay guys, here's the situation," Dave radioed after they leveled off. "They just launched a couple of F-16s from Diyarbakir - that's bad news. I can jam the approach radar, but I don't think I can jam the fire control radars on airplanes - that's really bad news. We think the F-16 having infrared sensors to determine your location is really, really bad news. They've also moved some Patriot missile batteries into the area you're about to fly through - it's really, really - well, you get the picture."

"Yes, sir. What's the plan?

"We're going to try to do a little low-level terrain camouflage while I try to connect to the Patriot surveillance system," Luger said. "The Turkish F-16s on the front line have digital radars and data links, and I think I can get in, but I'll have to wait until the data link becomes active, and it may take a while for the Patriot to see you."

"Uh, sir? It's dark outside and we can't see anything outside."

"It might be best," Luger said. The co-pilot furiously took out his aviation route maps for the area they were flying in and laid them out on the protective screen. "I think the F-16s will try to vector the Patriot fire control radars at you until they can pick them up with either their radar or infrared."

"Accepted". Over the ship's intercom, the pilot said, "Mr. Macomber? Miss Turlock? Will you step into the cabin please?"

Moments later, retired U.S. Air Force Special Operations Officer Wayne "Zipper" Macomber and retired Army National Guard engineer Charlie Turlock walked through the door and took their seats. Macomber, a former Air Force Academy football star and Air Force special operations meteorologist, had a little difficulty squeezing his large, muscular body into the port jump seat. On the other hand, Charlie - her real name, not a nickname given to her by her father who thought he was having a son - found it easy to fit her lean, toned, athletic body into the folding jump seat between the pilots. Both newcomers put on headphones.

"What the hell is going on, Gus?" Wayne asked.

"The situation that Mr. Luger informed us about? It happens. The Turks want us to land at Diyarbakir and are probably going to send fighters after us."

"Is Luger-"

"Trying to penetrate their air defense and data communications systems," the pilot said. "We jammed the approach control radar and began to evade them, but Mr. Luger cannot disable their analog systems; it must wait for the digitally processed signal to arrive."

"I didn't understand it when Luger first said it, and I don't understand it now," Macomber grumbled. "Just don"t let us crash or get hit, okay?"

"Yes, sir. Thought you might want to know. Buckle up a little tighter-it won"t be pleasant."

"Have all your passengers buckled up?" - Asked David Luger.

"You just turn off those Turkish radars, or I'll come back and haunt you for all eternity, sir," Zipper radioed.

"Hi, Zipper. I'll do my best. Is Charlie wearing a seatbelt too?"

"I'm ready to fly, David," Charlie replied.

"Excellent, Charlie."

Even when faced with the dangerous journey ahead, Charlie turned around to see a pleased grin on Macomber's face. "Excellent, Charlie," he mimicked. "Ready to fly, David." The general wants to be sure that his beloved is safely hidden. How nice."

"Bite me, Punch me," she said, but couldn"t help but smile.

"Are you guys ready?"

"As ready as we will ever be," the pilot said.

"Fine. Descend now to eleven thousand feet and fly on a heading of one-five-zero."

The pilot pushed the yoke forward to begin his descent, but the co-pilot extended his hand to stop him. "The minimum descent altitude in this area is thirteen-four."

"The high ground in your sector is twelve hours, twenty-two miles. You will be above everything else... Well, almost everything else. I will guide you around the higher ground until your moving map begins to show the terrain." The pilot swallowed again, but pressed the controls forward to begin his descent. The moment they descended to fourteen thousand feet, the computerized female voice on the terrain advisory and warning system roared, "Highlands, pull up, pull up!" and the GPS moving map display in the cockpit began flashing yellow, first ahead of them and then to their left where the terrain was highest.

"Great job, guys," Luger radioed. "On your moving map you should see the valley at your position at the hour. Floor nine-seven. Capture this valley. For now, stay at eleven thousand." The pilots saw a very narrow band of darkness surrounded by flashing yellow and now red rectangles, red indicating the terrain that was above their altitude.

"What is the width, sir?"

"It's wide enough for you. Just watch the turbulence." At that very moment, the crew was thrown from their seat belts by wave after wave of turbulence. The pilot struggled to maintain heading and altitude. "This...is...getting...worse," the pilot grumbled. "I don"t know if I can hold this."

"This valley should be fine until you reach the border in about eighteen minutes," Luger radioed.

"Eighteen minutes! I can"t hold this for-"

"Get up!" Luger interrupted. "Full power, sharp climb to thirteen, heading two-three-zero, now!"

The pilot set the throttles to full power and pulled back on the controls as hard as he could. "I can't turn! Terrain-"

"Turn around now! Hurry up!" The pilots had no choice but to turn, pull the controls until the plane hovered on the very edge of a stall... and pray. The flashing red blocks on the terrain warning display were touching the very tip of the aircraft icon...they were seconds away from disaster...

...and then at that moment the red color changed to yellow, meaning they were within five hundred feet of the ground. "Oh Jesus, oh God, we did it..."

And at that moment, a flash of fire rushed past the cabin windows, less than a hundred yards in front of them. An eerie yellow flash of light filled the cabin, as if the world's largest photo flash had just gone off right in front of them, and the pilots even felt a rush of heat and pressure. "What was it?" - the co-pilot shouted.

"Course two-three-zero, eleven thousand feet," Luger reported. "Everything is fine? I admit."

"What was it?"

"Sorry guys, but I had to do it," Luger said.

"Do what?"

"I have brought you into the range of a Patriot missile battery."

"What?"

"This is the only way I could get the data frequency for the Patriot and between the Patriot and the F-16," Luger said.

"Holy crap... We were almost hit by a Patriot missile...?"

"Yeah, but one thing is that they must be trying to save the missiles," Dave said. "They may have just launched it as a warning, or it could have been a decoy missile."

"How about a little warning the next time you hold us at gunpoint, sir?" Macomber lost his temper.

"No time for chatter, Zipper. I've blocked the Patriot's datalink frequency and I'm waiting for them to start talking to the F-16. Once they do, I can turn them both off. But I need you to be at your best, right on the edge of Patriot commitment. If I keep you too low, the F-16 might switch to its infrared sensor and not use the Patriot radar. This means I'll have to give him another good look at you. Fly on a heading of one-nine-zero and climb to an altitude of twelve thousand. Fifteen minutes left to the Iraqi border."

"This is crazy," muttered the 767 pilot, flexing the knots in his hands and fingers. He began a gentle climb and turn towards-

"Okay guys, the Patriot is back and it caught you, seven hours, twenty-nine miles," Dave said moments later. "Still in sector scanning mode... Now it's in target tracking mode... Come on guys, what are you waiting for...?"

"If he verbally controls the movement of the F-16, he can get into range of his IR sensor without using a data link, right?" - asked the cargo ship pilot.

"I was hoping you wouldn't think about it," Luger said. "Fortunately, most Patriot radar technicians are not air traffic controllers; their job is to make the system do its job. Okay, go down to eleven thousand, and let's hope that as you go down they'll..." A moment later: "Got it! The data link is active. Just a couple more seconds... Come on, baby, come on... Got it. Quickly turn to course one-six-five, continue until eleven thousand. The F-16 at your six o'clock position is fifteen miles and approaching, but it should be turning to your right. You'll be at the Iraqi border at eleven o'clock, about thirteen minutes."

The picture looked better and better. "Okay guys, the F-16s are within six miles, but he's way to your right," Luger said a few minutes later. "He is pursuing a target sent to him by the Patriot battery. Go down to ten thousand."

"What happens when he gets into range of his IR sensor and we"re not there?" - asked the cargo ship pilot.

"I hope he thinks his sensor is faulty."

"Heir Seven-Seven, this is Yukari One-One-Three second level, air defense interceptor fighters of the Republic of Turkey Air Force," they heard on the UHF emergency security frequency. "We are at your six o'clock position and are in radar contact with you. You are ordered to climb to seventeen thousand feet, lower the landing gear and turn right on course two-nine-zero, straight towards Diyarbakir."

"Go ahead and answer him," Dave said. "Stay the course. Your blip on the radar will follow his orders."

"Yukari, this is Heir Seven-Seven, we are turning around and gaining altitude," the cargo ship pilot radioed. "Take care of your weapons. We are unarmed."

"Heir Squad, leader of Yukari One-One-Three, will join you on the left side," the F-16 pilot radioed. "My wingman will remain at your position at six o'clock. You will see our control light. Don't be alarmed. Continue your turn and climb as ordered."

"He's six miles from the ghost target," Dave said. "Hang in there, guys. Eight minutes left to the border."

Another sixty seconds passed without any radio traffic until: "Heir Flight, what is your altitude?"

"One hundred and four thousand," Dave Luger said.

"Scion of Seven-Seven is giving one hundred and four thousand for one hundred and seven thousand," replied the cargo ship pilot.

"Turn on all your exterior lights immediately!" - ordered the Turkish fighter pilot. "Turn on the lights everyone!"

"Our lights are burning, Yukari's flight."

"He's two miles from the decoy," Dave Luger said. "He probably has his warning light on and is only looking at..."

The cargo ship pilots waited, but heard nothing. "The heir base, this is Seven-Seven, as you understand?" No answer. "Heir Base, Seven-Seven, what do you hear?"

The co-pilot's mouth dropped open in shock. "Oh, shit, we've lost downlink to headquarters," he gasped. "We are dead meat."

"Great. The perfect time for all this high-tech equipment to come into play," complained Zipper. "Get us out of here, Gus!"

"We're heading straight for Nala," the pilot said, pushing the throttles forward. "I hope these guys don't shoot at us if we cross the border."

"Let's try this terrain camouflage thing again," suggested the co-pilot. The terrain shown on the moving map display in the cockpit still showed some hills, but it quickly smoothed out as we moved south. "We can go down to nine-seven in a few miles, and in twenty miles we can go all the way to-"

At that moment, the cockpit was filled with intense white light coming from the left side, hot and bright as at noon. They tried to see who it was, but they couldn't look anywhere in that direction. "Holy shit!" - the pilot shouted. "I'm blinded by the flash, I can't see-"

"Straighten up, Gus!"

"I said I can"t take control, I can"t see damn anything," the pilot said. "Ben, get behind the wheel...!"

"Scion of Seven-Seven, this is Yukari One-One-Three, second flight, you are in our sights," the Turkish fighter pilot radioed. "You will immediately retract the landing gear and turn right on course two-nine-zero. You are being tracked by Turkish surface-to-air missile batteries. Submit immediately. The use of deadly force was authorized."

"Your light blinded the pilot!" - the second pilot radioed. "Don't flash that in the cockpit! Turn that thing off!"

A moment later, the light went out... And a second later, a second burst of cannon fire followed from the twenty-millimeter nose cannon of the Turkish F-16. The muzzle flash was almost as bright as an inspection spotlight, and they could feel the thick supersonic projectiles cutting through the air around them, the shock waves bouncing off the 767's cockpit windows just a few dozen yards away. "That was the last warning shot, Scion of Seven-Seven," said the Turkish pilot. "Follow my instructions or you will be shot down without further warning!"

"What the hell do we do now?" - Asked Zipper. "We are sunk."

"We have no choice," said the co-pilot. "I'm turning..."

"No, keep moving towards Nala," Charlie said. She reached over and switched her rotary transmission switch from "intercom" to "UHF-2." "Yukari Flight One-One-Three, this is Charlie Turlock, one of the passengers on Scion Seven-Seven," she radioed.

"What the hell are you doing, Charlie?" - asked Macomber.

"Playing the gender and likes cards, hit - they're the only ones we have left," Charlie said from the cockpit. Over the radio she continued, "Flight Yukari, we are an American cargo plane on a peaceful and authorized flight to Iraq. We are not a warplane, we are not armed, and we have no hostile intentions against our allies, the people of Turkey. There are nineteen souls on board this flight, including six women. Let us continue our flight in peace."

"You must obey immediately. This is our last order."

"We're not going to turn around," Charlie said. "We are almost at the Iraqi border, and our transmissions on the international emergency channel are, of course, being monitored by listening posts from Syria to Persia. We are an unarmed American cargo plane on an authorized flight over Turkey. There are nineteen souls on board. If you shoot us down now, bodies and debris will fall in Iraq and the world will know what you've done. You may think you have valid orders or good reason to fire, but you will be responsible for your own judgment. If you believe your leaders and want to follow their orders to kill us all, fine, but you have to pull the trigger. Now our lives are in your hands."

A moment later, they saw and then felt a tongue of white-hot flame rush past their left cockpit windows - the only afterburner plume from the F-16 fighter. "He's going around, maneuvering behind us," the co-pilot said. "Crap; Oh shit ...!" They could feel the presence of the jets behind them, practically feel the adrenaline and sweat emanating from the bodies of the Turkish pilots as they turned for the kill. Seconds passed...

... then more seconds, then a minute. No one breathed for what seemed like an eternity. Then they heard: "Heir Seven-Seven, this is Mosul approach control on SECURITY frequency, we are showing you your planned border crossing. If you hear approaching Mosul, turn on modes three and C normal and contact me by phone two-four-three point seven. Confirm immediately."

The co-pilot responded hesitantly, and everyone else let out a collective sigh of relief. "Man, I thought we were done," Macomber said. He reached out and patted Charlie on the shoulder. "You did it, honey. You talked us out of this. Good job ".

Charlie turned to Macomber, smiled, nodded in gratitude... and promptly vomited on the floor of the cabin in front of him.

NAKHLA ALLIED AIR BASE, IRAQ

AFTER A SHORT TIME

"Are you eggheads, crazy?" Colonel Jack Wilhelm exploded as Wayne Macomber and Charlie Turlock escorted other passengers and crew off the Boeing 767 cargo plane as it was parked at the base. "Don"t you understand what"s going on there?"

"You must be Colonel Wilhelm," said Macomber, reaching the bottom of the air staircase. "Thank you for the warm welcome in Iraq."

"Who are you?"

"Wayne Macomber, Chief of Security for Scion Aviation International," Wayne replied. He did not offer his hand to Wilhelm, which angered the regiment commander even more. The two men were about the same height and weight, and they immediately began sizing each other up. "This is Charlie Turlock, my assistant." Charlie rolled her eyes but didn't say anything. "I'm going to drain the dragon-and maybe change my underwear after this flight-and then I need to talk to General and Chief Egghead John Masters."

"First of all, you are not going anywhere until we check your documents and cargo," Wilhelm said. "You"re not even supposed to get off the damn plane before customs checks you."

"Customs? This is an American plane landing at an American base. We don't deal with customs."

"You are a private jet located on an Iraqi base, so you need to be cleared through customs."

Macomber looked at William. "I don't see any Iraqis here, Colonel, just private security... and you." He took the folder from the pilot's hands. "Here are our documents, and here is the pilot. He'll do all the customs crap with you and whatever the Iraqis want to take with them. We don't have time for customs. Let's do our thing. You stay away from us and we will stay away from you."

"I'm ordered to inspect this plane, Macomber, and that's what we'll do," Wilhelm said. "The crew will remain on board until the inspection is completed. Thompson and his men will conduct the inspection, and you better cooperate with them, or I'll send you all to the brig. Clear?"

Macomber looked as if he was going to object, but he nodded slightly to Wilhelm, smiled, and returned the bag of documents to the pilot. "Ben, go with Gus." Wilhelm was about to object, but Macomber said: "The pilot was injured while flying in. He needs help. Make it quick, guys," and motioned for the others to follow him back up the air staircase. They were followed by two of Thompson's security officers and a German shepherd on a leather leash. Thompson's team of security guards began opening the cargo doors and luggage compartment hatches to begin their inspection.

Inside the plane, one security officer began searching the cockpit while another placed Macomber and the other passengers in their seats and inspected the inside of the plane. At the front of the Boeing 767 cargo plane, behind the flight deck, there was a removable galley and toilet on one side, and on the other side, next to the front door, there were two fiberglass containers labeled "LIFE RAFTS" with reinforced tape seals wrapped around them. inscription DEPT OF DEFENSE. Behind them was a removable forward-facing passenger seat tray with seating for eighteen passengers. Behind them were eight semi-circular cargo containers, four on each side of the aircraft, with narrow passages between them, and behind them was a tray of luggage covered with nylon mesh and secured with nylon straps.

The second security officer put his radio to his lips: "I counted eighteen crew and passengers, two life raft containers, a galley and toilet, and eight A1N cargo containers. The liferaft inspection seals are securely attached."

"I understand," came the answer. "The number of passengers is being checked. But the manifest only lists six A1Ns." The officer looked at the passengers suspiciously.

"No wonder it took so long to get here - we're overwhelmed," Macomber said. "Who brought extra containers? Is that all your makeup back there, Charlie?"

"I thought it was your knitting, Zipper," Turlock replied.

"I"m going to walk down the aisle with a K-9," the security officer said. "Don't make any sudden movements."

"Can I go pee first?" - asked Macomber.

"After the closet has been searched and the K-9 has gone through the cabin," the officer responded.

"How long it will be going on?"

"Just cooperate." The security guard began walking the dog down the aisle, touching the seat pockets and gesturing under and between the seats to indicate where he wanted the dog to sniff.

"Nice dog," Wayne said as the dog approached him.

"No talking to the K-9," the officer said. Macomber smiled, then frowned back.

"The cabin is clear," said the first security officer. He began looking around the galley and lavatory, finishing in a few minutes.

"Come on man, I'm going to explode here."

"No talking," said the second officer. It took another three minutes for the K-9 to complete. "You can get up and leave the plane," the second officer announced. "You must go directly to the officer outside who will check your passports and identification documents. Leave all your belongings on the plane."

"Can I use the jar first?"

The second guard looked like he was going to say no, but the first guard waved his hand. "I'll keep an eye on him," he said. Macomber rushed to the toilet while the others were leaving. The second officer continued his search in the rear of the cabin among the cargo containers.

It was controlled bedlam outside the plane. Security officers used forklifts to unload containers from cargo bays underneath the plane, which were sniffed by K-9s. The crew could see K-9s standing in front of some of the containers; they were tagged and moved to a separate area of the adjacent hangar. Another officer checked each passport against its holder, then made each person wait with others nearby, under the watchful eye of an armed security officer.

Chris Thompson arrived a little later and looked at the group of passengers. "Where is Macomber?"

"Still in the toilet," Charlie Turlock replied. "He's not a very strong pilot."

Thompson looked up at the airy staircase. "Chuck? What's going on up there?

"Lots of grumbling and moaning and brown clouds," replied the first security officer waiting for Macomber.

"Hurry him up." Thompson turned back to Charlie. "Could you help me with the declaration, miss?" he asked. "There are a few inconsistencies that I hope you can clear up for me."

"Certainly. I am familiar with everything on board." She followed Thompson to various piles of containers.

Up in the cabin, the first security officer said, "Let's go, buddy."

"Almost done". The officer heard the sounds of flushing, then water running, and the toilet door was unlocked. Even before the door was fully opened, the unbearable odors inside caused the officer to choke. "Jeez, buddy, what the hell did you eat on this-"

Macomber hit him once in the left temple with his right fist, knocking him unconscious without a sound. He quickly pulled the officer forward, laid him on the floor of the cabin, closed the door, then returned to the cabin and tore off the protective tape around the first container of the life raft.

Outside the plane, Thompson pointed to various piles of containers. "They are clear and consistent with the declaration," he told Charlie, "but these ones here are not the same." He pointed to a large pile of containers across the taxiway in the hangar, now under armed guard. "The dogs warned of either drugs or explosives in them, and they also did not comply with the declaration. The declaration does not mention that you are importing explosives."

"Well, it"s certainly not drugs," Charlie said. "There is a great explanation for all these undocumented containers."

"Fine".

Charlie pointed to the square containers. "These are CID battery packs," she explained. "Each case has four pairs of battery packs. Each pair is attached to the indentations behind the hips. These other containers also have battery packs, but they are designed for Tin Man devices. They are worn in pairs on the belt."

"Criminal investigation? Tin Woodman? What is this?"

"CID stands for Cybernetic Infantry Device," Charlie said matter-of-factly. "CID is a manned combat robot. The Tin Man is the nickname of a commando who wears armor called BERP, or Ballistic Electron Reactive Process. The suit has an exoskeleton that gives the commandos increased strength, and the BERP material makes it invulnerable to... well, any infantry and squad level weapons and even some light artillery. Those things over there are mission packs for criminal investigation units, some of which contain grenade launchers and UAV launchers." She smiled at Thompson's shocked expression. "Do you understand all this?"

"Are you... are you kidding me, miss?" Thompson paused. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"This is not a joke," Charlie said. "Look. I'll show you." She turned to a large, irregularly shaped device about the size of a refrigerator and said, "CID One, activate." As Thompson watched in disbelief, the device began to unfold piece by piece until a few seconds later a ten-foot tall robot appeared in front of him. "This is a criminal investigation." She turned and pointed to the top of the airy staircase. "And this is the Tin Woodman." Thompson looked and saw a man dressed from head to toe in sleek dark gray clothing, he was wearing a multi-faceted helmet without eyes in the shape of a bullet, a belt with two round devices attached to it, thick knee-length boots and gloves with thick mittens reaching to the elbows.

"CID One, pilot," she said. The robot crouched down, stretched its leg and both arms back, and a hatch opened on its back. "Have a nice day," Charlie said, patting Thompson on the shoulder, then climbing up the outstretched leg into the robot. The hatch closed, and after a few seconds the robot came to life, moving just like a human with incredible fluidity and animation.

"Now, sir," the robot spoke in a male voice through a hidden speaker with a low, electronically synthesized voice, "order your people not to interfere with me or the Tin Woodman. We don't intend to harm you. We are going to-"

At that moment, someone inside the plane shouted: "Stop, or I"ll send my dog!" The Tin Woodman turned inside the cargo bay and shots were immediately heard. Thompson saw the Tin Woodman flinch, but did not fall.

"Oh god, that wasn't a good idea," said the woman inside the CID robot. "Zipper really hates being shot at."

The Tin Man didn't raise any weapons, but Thompson saw a bright flash of light briefly illuminate the plane's cargo bay. No more shots were heard. The Tin Woodman jumped from the plane onto the runway as easily as he had stepped off the curb. He called one of the guarded men and pointed his finger at the plane. "Terry, get dressed. José, come on board." He conducted an electronic search of his list of radio frequencies stored in the on-board computer. "General? Hit here."

"Hi, Zipper," Patrick replied. "Welcome to Iraq."

"We dropped trou and this shit is sure to hit the fans real soon. Do something to quiet the grumblers if you don't want to have to fight."

"I'm on my way to the ramp. I'll ask Masters, Noble and the rest of the Scion guys to help you. I am sure that we will soon meet Colonel Wilhelm there."

"Without a doubt. We're dealing with-"

"Stand!" - the security officer guarding the passengers yelled, raising his MP5 submachine gun.

"Excuse me, just a second, General," Macomber radioed. Once again, the Tin Woodman did not move or even look at the officer, but Thompson saw blue lightning shoot out from the Tin Woodman's right shoulder and hit the security officer square in the chest, immediately knocking him unconscious.

The Tin Woodman approached Thompson. The other security officers around them froze in surprise; some retreated and ran to warn others. None of them even dared to reach for their weapons. The Tin Man grabbed Thompson by the jacket and lifted him off the ground, thrusting his armored head right into Thompson's face. "Charlie asked you to tell your people that we won"t harm anyone here as long as you leave us alone?" Thompson was too stunned to respond. "I suggest you pull your head out of your ass, get on the radio and tell your people and army guys to stay in their barracks and leave us alone or we might hurt somebody. And they better not break any of our stuff, the way they operate those forklifts." He abandoned Thompson and let him get away.

Macomber electronically scanned the radio frequencies detected by his sensors built into the Criminal Investigation Department and compared them with a list uploaded by the international Scion Aviation group in Nala, selected one, then spoke: "Colonel Wilhelm, this is Wayne Macomber. Can you hear me?"

"Who is this?" Wilhelm responded a moment later.

"Are you deaf or just stupid?" - asked Macomber. "Just listen. My men and I unload our equipment onto the ramp and prepare for flight. I don't want to see any of your people anywhere in sight, or we're going to tear you a new one. You understand me?"

"What the hell did you say?" Wilhelm thundered. "Who is this? How did you get on this frequency?"

"Colonel, this is Charlie Turlock," Charlie interrupted on the same frequency. "Pardon Mr. Macomber's expression, but he's had a long day. What he meant was that we are here on the ramp starting our new contract operations and we would appreciate it if your people didn't show up here. Would that be okay?" There was no answer. "Great job, Zipper," Charlie radioed. "Now he"s furious and he"s going to bring the whole regiment."

"Not if he's smart," Wayne said. But he knew that was exactly what he would do. "You and José, put on your backpacks and be ready. Terry, let's assemble the rail guns and get ready to rumble."

Charlie hurried to the hangar where the weapon backpacks were laid out, soon followed by another CID unit and they selected and attached large backpack-like devices to each other. The backpacks contained forty-millimeter grenade launchers, each with twin movable barrels, which could fire in almost any direction, regardless of which way they were facing, and could fire a variety of ammunition, including high explosive, anti-tank and anti-personnel. Zipper and another Tin Man discovered and assembled their weapons - massive electromagnetic rail tracks, each of which electrically fired a thirty-millimeter shell of depleted uranium thousands of feet per second faster than a bullet.

It didn't take long for Wilhelm to arrive in the Humvee. He pulled into the parking lot, far enough away to get a good look at the scene. As he scanned the area in dazed disbelief, three soldiers with M-16s jumped out of the Humvee, one hid behind the Humvee, and the other two fanned out and took cover behind nearby buildings.

"Warhammer, this is Alpha, these Scion guys are not under arrest," Wilhelm radioed from the Hammer. "They are unloading their planes. There is no security at all. They deployed unidentified robot-like units with visible weapons. Bring the First Battalion here to double. I want-"

"Hold on, Colonel, hold on," Macomber broke in on the command frequency. "We don't want to quarrel with you. Calling in troops and starting a firefight will only anger the Turks outside."

"Warhammer goes Delta."

But on the secondary channel, Macomber continued: "You can change channels all day long, Colonel, but we'll still find it. Look, Colonel, we won"t bother you, so don"t bother us, okay?"

"Sir, a car is approaching, five o"clock!" - one of the soldiers shouted. A Hummer approached Macomber's position.

"Don't shoot, Colonel, it's probably McLanahan," Macomber radioed.

"Shut the hell up, whoever you are," Wilhelm radioed, pulling a .45 caliber pistol from his holster.

The rookie stopped and Patrick McLanahan walked out with his hands up. "Calm down, Colonel, we are all on the same side here," he said.

"The hell with it," Wilhelm shouted. "Sergeant, take McLanahan into custody and place him in Triple C under guard."

"Carefully!" - one of the soldiers shouted. Wilhelm just caught a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye - and, as if by magic, a figure in a gray suit who had been near the hangar appeared from the sky right next to the soldier closest to McLanahan. In an instant, he snatched the M-16 rifle from the soldier's frightened hands, bent it in half and returned it to him.

"Now stop this crap, all of you," Macomber shouted, "or I'll smash the next M-16 into someone's head."

Other armed soldiers raised their weapons and aimed them at Macomber, but William raised his hands and shouted: "Guns strong, weapons strong, put them down." Only then did he notice that one of the large robots had appeared right next to him, crossing the twenty or thirty yards that separated them with incredible speed and stealth. "God...!" - he gasped, amazed.

"Hello, Colonel," Charlie said in her electronically synthesized voice. "Good call. Let's chat, okay?"

"McLanahan!" - Wilhelm shouted. "What the hell is going on here?"

"Mission change, Colonel," Patrick replied.

"What mission? Whose mission? Your mission is over. Your contract has been cancelled. You are under my jurisdiction until someone takes your ass back to Washington."

"I have a new contract, Colonel, and we are going to launch it right now."

"New contract? With whom?"

"With me, Colonel," the voice said, and to Wilhelm's surprise, Iraqi Colonel Yusuf Jaffar emerged from the back seat of Patrick's Hummer, followed by Vice President Ken Phoenix and two Secret Service agents.

"Jaffar...I mean, Colonel Jaffar...what's the matter? What's happening?"

"General McLanahan's company was hired by the government of the Republic of Iraq to provide... let's call it specialized services," Jaffar said. "They will be based here in Nala, under my supervision."

"But this is my base...!"

"You are mistaken, sir. This is an Iraqi airbase, not an American one," Jaffar said. "You are guests here, not homeowners."

"McLanahan can't work for you! He is American".

"Scion Aviation International has received State Department approval to operate in three dozen countries around the world, including Iraq," Patrick said. "The original contract was a joint cooperation agreement with both US Central Command and the Republic of Iraq - I just reported to you. I now report to Colonel Jaffar."

"But you are under arrest, McLanahan," Wilhelm objected. "You are still under my protection."

"As long as the general is in my country and on my base, he is subject to my laws, not yours," Jaffar said. "You can do with him as you wish when he's gone, but now he's mine."

Wilhelm opened his mouth, then closed it and opened it again in complete confusion. "This is crazy," he said finally. "What do you think you're going to do, McLanahan?"

"Baghdad wants to help convince the Turks to leave Iraq," Patrick said. "They think the Turks will start ravaging the country, trying to eradicate the PKK, and then create a buffer zone along the border to make it harder for the PKK to come back."

"All we will achieve is to anger the Turks and widen the conflict," Wilhelm said. "You're crazy if you think President Gardner will let you do this."

"President Gardner is not my president, and he is not Iraq," Jaffar said. "President Rashid is doing this because the Americans will not help us."

"Help you? Can I help you with anything, Colonel?" - Wilhelm asked, almost begging. "Do you want us to start a war with Turkey? You know how these Turkish invasions work, Colonel. They come, they attack some isolated camps and shelters, and they return home. This time they went a little deeper. So what? They are not interested in grabbing any land."

"And General McLanahan will be here to make sure that doesn't happen," Jaffar said. "America will not interfere in this."

"Are you going to replace my regiment with McLanahan and his robot planes and robot...whatever those things are?" Wilhelm asked. "His little company against at least four Turkish infantry divisions?"

"They say that Americans have little faith - they only believe in what is under their noses," Jaffar said. "I saw that this was true for you, Colonel Wilhelm. But I look at General McLanahan's amazing aircraft and weapons, and all I see is opportunity. Perhaps, as you say, the Turks will not seize our land and kill innocent Iraqis, and we will not need the general's weapons. But this is the largest group that has ever entered Iraq, and I am afraid that they will not stop at destroying a few camps."

Jaffar walked up to Wilhem and stood right in front of him. "You are a fine soldier and commander, Colonel," he said, "and your unit is brave and has sacrificed much for my people and my country. But your president is leaving Iraq."

"That's not true, Colonel," said Wilhelm.

"Vice President Phoenix told me that he was ordered to go to Baghdad and talk to my government about the Turkish invasion," Jaffar said, "including the creation of a security buffer zone in Iraq. Gardner not only condones this invasion, but is willing to give up Iraqi soil to appease the Turks. This is unacceptable. I look at you and your forces here at my base and I see only hardship for my people."

He walked over to Patrick and looked at the Tin Man and the CID unit there on the ramp. "But I look at General McLanahan and his weapons, and I see hope. He's ready to fight. It may be about the money, but at least he's willing to lead his men into battle in Iraq."

Wilhelm's expression changed from anger to surprise and outright confusion. "I don't believe what I'm hearing," he said. "I have a whole brigade here... And I have to do nothing in the middle of a Turkish invasion? I have to sit back and watch while you complete tasks and send out these... these tin toys? Is Baghdad going to war with the Turks? Five years ago you did not have an organized army! Two years ago, your unit didn"t even exist."

"Excuse me, Colonel, but I don't think you're helping yourself here," Vice President Phoenix said. He approached the army colonel. "Let"s go to your command center, let me inform Washington of what"s happening and ask for instructions."

"You're not buying this nonsense, are you, sir?"

"I don't see that we have much choice right now, Colonel," Phoenix said. He put his hand on Wilhelm's shoulders and led him back to his Humvee. "Kind of like watching your daughter go off to college, right? They are ready for a new life, but you are not ready to see them off."

"So, General McLanahan," said Yusuf Jaffar after William and his men left, "as you Americans say, the ball is now in your court. You know Baghdad's wishes. What will you do now?

"I think it's time to check the real intentions of the Turks," Patrick said. "Everyone has been very cooperative so far, which is good, but they are still in your country with a lot of troops and airpower. Let's see what they do when you insist."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Courage is the price that life charges for giving peace.

-AMELIA EARHART

NAKHLA ALLIED AIR BASE, IRAQ

IN THE NEXT MORNING

"Traffic at the main gate, sir!" - the Turkish captain of the troops surrounding the Nakhla airbase heard on his portable radio. "Combat vehicles are lining up for the exit!"

"Bomb!" - the captain swore. "What's happening?" He threw his coffee out the window and got out of his armored personnel carrier. A Humvee with an American flag and a trailer drove into the capture zone, and another Humvee with a trailer waited outside. Each vehicle had machine guns and grenade launchers installed in the weapon turrets , but they still had canvas covers, were locked in the stowed position, and the gunner positions were not equipped.

"Where do they think they are going?" asked the Turkish infantry captain.

"Should we stop them?" - the first sergeant asked him.

"We have no orders to interfere with their actions unless they attack us," the captain said. "Other than that, we just observe and report."

The Turks watched as the first Humvee pulled out, then drove away from the main gate and stopped to wait for the second. The Turkish captain approached the front passenger seat of the lead car. "Good morning, sir," he said. He saw that it was a civilian. He knew that the Americans hired many civilians to work on their military bases, but seeing one of them here was rather strange.

"Okay morning...er I mean, jiünaydin," the man said in awkward but understandable Turkish. "How are you?"

"Very good, sir," said the captain in a low voice. The American simply smiled and nodded. The Turk took the opportunity to look inside the Hummer. There were two civilians in the back seats, and in the very back seat there was a lot of supplies under a green tarp. One civilian passenger appeared to be military and was wearing strange equipment that looked like a scuba diver's wetsuit covered by a jacket. He looked straight ahead and did not respond to the Turk's gaze. The twenty-foot flatbed trailer was empty.

The American extended his right hand. "John Masters"

The Turkish captain frowned, but took his hand and shook it. "Captain Evren."

"Nice to meet you," John said. He looked around. "Are you guys okay here? Is there anything we can offer you?"

"No, efendim," Evren said. He waited for some explanation, but the man seemed uninterested in offering anything other than chatter. "May I ask where you are going, sir?"

"Just driving around."

Evren looked at the flock of Humvees, then back at John with a stern expression on his face. "At this hour and with trailers?"

"Why not? I've been here in Iraq for a couple of weeks and I haven't seen anything in the countryside. Thought it would be better to do it while things were looking up."

Evren didn't understand half of what the guy had just said, and he was starting to get tired of his stupid smile. "May I please ask where you are going, sir, and what you intend to do with the trailers?" he repeated, much more insistently.

"Very close." John drew a circle with his finger. "Around. Somewhere here."

Evren was starting to get angry at the guy, but he had no authority to detain him. "Please be aware of other military vehicles, sir," he said. "Some of our larger vehicles have limited driver visibility. A collision with a main battle tank would be unfortunate for you."

The veiled threat seemed to have no effect on the American. "I'll tell the others," he said lazily. "Thanks for the tip. And now goodbye." And the convoy set off.

"What should we do, sir?" - asked the first sergeant.

"Have the checkpoints tell me their location as they go," Evren said, "then send someone to follow them." The first sergeant hurried away.

The Humvee convoy drove around the base from the north side along the public highway. They passed a Turkish army checkpoint at one intersection where they were stopped so soldiers could look inside the vehicles but were not stopped or searched. They drove north a couple more miles, then got off the highway and drove further north through a muddy open field. Ahead they saw stakes driven into the ground with yellow "Caution" and "Do Not Trespass" tape stretched between them, and several hundred yards behind them was the wreckage of a Scion Aviation International XC-57 Loser. The Turkish missiles apparently missed aircraft directly, but proximity fuses detonated warheads near the engines mounted on the fuselage, shearing off two of them and sending the aircraft to the ground. It landed on the left front, crushing most of the left wing and the left part of the nose, and there was a fire, but the rest The aircraft suffered what could be described as moderate damage; most of the right side of the aircraft was relatively undamaged.

A lone Russian IMR engineering vehicle was parked at the Lenta border, with two Turkish soldiers on guard duty. The IMR had a crane mounted at the rear and a blade at the front, reminiscent of a bulldozer. The soldiers gave up cigarettes and coffee and turned on their walkie-talkies when they saw the convoy approaching. "Khayir, khair!" - one of them shouted, waving his arms. "Durun! Gidin!"

John Masters climbed out of the Humvee and walked through the mud towards the soldiers. "Good morning! Gunaydin!" - he shouted. "How are you? Do any of you guys speak English?"

"Don't come here! Don"t stay!" - the soldier shouted. "Tehlikeli! It's dangerous here! Yasaktir! Forbidden!"

"No, it's not dangerous at all," John said. "You see, this is my plane." He patted his chest. "My. It belongs to me. I"m here to pick up a few pieces and check it out."

The first soldier waved his hands in front of his face in a cross motion, while the second raised his rifle, not pointing it, but making it visible to everyone. "No entry," said the first one sternly. "Forbidden".

"You can't stop me from exploring my own plane," John said. "I have permission from the Iraqi government. You guys aren't even Iraqis. What right do you have to stop me?"

"No entry," said the first soldier. "Leave. Go back." He pulled out his walkie-talkie and began talking as the second soldier raised his rifle to the port side in an obvious threatening gesture. When the first soldier finished radioing his report, he waved his arms as if trying to shoo the teenager away, shouting, "Get out now. Siktir git! Forward!"

"I'm not leaving without looking at my plane...what you guys did to my plane," John said. He walked quickly past both soldiers, then walked back to the plane. The soldiers followed him, shouting orders in Turkish, confused and growing angrier by the second. John raised his hands and walked back faster. "I won't be long, guys, but I'm going to take a look at my plane. Leave me alone!" John ran towards the plane.

"Dur! Stop!" The second broad man raised his rifle to firing position, but did not aim at John, apparently to fire a warning shot. "Stop or I-"

Suddenly, the rifle was snatched from his hands in the blink of an eye. The soldier turned around... and saw a man dressed in a dark gray suit from head to toe, an eyeless helmet straight out of a science fiction comic book, a frame of thin flexible tubes all over his skin, thick gloves and boots. "Aman Allahim...!"

"Don't be rude," the figure said in electronically synthesized Turkish. "No weapons," he reached out with incredible speed and snatched the portable transmitter from the second soldier, "and no walkie-talkies. I will only return them if you show me that you can behave yourself." The Turks retreated, then began to run away when they realized they were not going to be captured.

"Come on guys, let's go," John said, heading towards the damaged XC-57. "See, I told you it wouldn"t be so bad."

"Scoundrel number one, this is Genesis," Patrick McLanahan radioed to Wayne Macomber. "There are a couple of cars heading your way, about ten minutes away." Patrick launched a small unmanned attack aircraft, the AGM-177 Wolverine, which was carried by a 767 freighter. It resembled a cross between a cruise missile and a surfboard. It was typically air-launched, but had the capability of being launched from a truck-mounted catapult. Wolverine carried infrared and millimeter-wave imaging and targeting sensors so it could autonomously find, attack and re-attack targets programmed for it. It had three internal weapon bays for attacking different types of targets, and could also attack a fourth target by flying into it kamikaze style. "The radar picked up the helicopter about ten minutes to the east," he added. "We don't know if it's heading this way or just patrolling, but it's close."

"Acknowledged, Genesis," Macomber replied. He waved for the humvee to come along. "Come on, we have company, go there and help the egghead," he ordered. "I want to get out of here as soon as possible." The Humvees pulled up and technicians began unloading power tools to begin opening up the plane.

"I'll be here at least all day, probably for the next two days," John Masters said over the radio.

"Masters, I"m not here to ferry the entire plane back to base," Macomber responded over the radio. "Grab all the classified materials and only the essential black boxes that remain untouched, and let's get out of here. We are operating openly, with three hundred Turkish soldiers behind us and another fifty thousand in the area." This reminder seemed to make everyone work a little faster.

"This helicopter is definitely heading your way," Patrick radioed. "In about seven minutes. The number of ground troops has increased - there now appears to be six vehicles, four armored personnel carriers and two armored vehicles. What does the plane look like?"

"Masters says it doesn't look that bad," Zipper said. "I think he would have said that if it was nothing more than a smoking hole in the ground."

"You're right about that. Okay, they're setting up roadblocks north and south of the highway, and all six cars are headed your way."

"Accepted".

"No fighting unless absolutely necessary, Scoundrel. We're still friends, remember."

"I know. I have been extremely cordial and sweet so far."

"They should be in sight on the highway now."

Wayne turned around to see a total of about twenty soldiers with rifles being unloaded from the trucks, armored personnel carriers standing guard on the sides of the trucks and unloading their own equipment, and the same Captain Evren John who had spoken to at the main gate was inspecting them with binoculars. "In sight. So far I only see infantry weapons. Scoundrel, this is one, we have a bloodhound, get ready." A few minutes later, Zipper saw several soldiers and Captain Evren get into their armored personnel carriers and slowly drive towards them. "Here they come."

Evren's APC stopped about thirty yards in front of Zipper, and the five soldiers dismounted, fanned out about six yards apart, and lay prone on the ground with their rifles raised. Zipper noticed that there was a man in the gunner's turret on the roof of the armored personnel carrier, and the barrel of a 12.5 mm machine gun was pointed directly at him; a Russian-made AT-3 Sagger anti-tank missile was installed on the launch guide, aimed at one of the Humvees. The second armored personnel carrier moved away, turning sharply towards the XC-57.

"You!" Evren shouted in English. "Raise your hands and turn around!"

"Hayir," Zipper responded in Turkish through his electronic translator. "No. Leave us alone."

"You are not allowed on the plane."

"We have permission from the Iraqi government and the owner of the aircraft," Wak said. "This is a legitimate rescue operation. Leave us alone."

"I repeat, raise your hands and turn around, or we will open fire."

"I am an American, I am unarmed, and I have permission from the Iraqi government. You are a Turkish soldier. I disobey your orders."

Now Evren seemed confused. He took out his portable transmitter and spoke into it. "He has obviously reached the limit of his rules of engagement," Vak said over the command network. "This is where it starts to get interesting. Watch out for the second armored personnel carrier; he is covering my flank and is heading towards you."

"Caught in sight, First," came the reply from Charlie Turlock.

"The helicopter is about five minutes away, scoundrel," Patrick said.

"Accepted. Let's hope it's just TV news." Zipper thought for a moment. "I'm starting to get nervous about this machine gun and the Sagger missile on this armored personnel carrier, guys," he said. "Everyone, find some cover away from the Humvee." Through his translator, he said, "Put away your weapons immediately!"

"You will surrender immediately, or we will open fire!" Evren shouted back.

"I'm warning you, put your weapons away and leave us alone, or I'm going to deal with you," Zipper said. "I don"t care about this NATO allies crap-put your guns down and walk away, or you"ll all wake up in a hospital."

Through sensitive microphones built into the Tin Woodman's suit, Vak heard Evren say the word ates. A three-round rifle burst was fired, and all three bullets struck Macomber's left thigh. "God bless it," Macomber growled. "This guy shot me in the damn leg."

"He was only trying to hurt you," Charlie said. "Calm down, Zipper."

Evren was clearly startled to see that the figure was still standing, although he could clearly see that all the bullets had hit. "Another warning, buddy," Zipper shouted in Turkish. "If you don't drop your weapon, I'm going to play a little tune on your skull with my fists."

He heard Evren say: "On ekey, bebe, sikak!", which meant: "Twelve and baby, go ahead," and Zipper radioed: "To cover, knock out the armored personnel carriers, now!" Just at the moment when the 12.5 mm machine gun gunner opened fire.

Throwing out a stream of super-compressed air, Zipper flew into the air and landed on an armored personnel carrier. The gunner tried to follow him as he swam towards him, nearly knocking himself out of the dome. After Zipper landed, he bent the barrel of the machine gun until the weapon exploded from the pressure of the unreleased gases. But he wasn't fast enough to stop the AT-3. The wire-guided missile derailed and struck one of the Humvees, sending it flying in a cloud of fire. "Everything is fine?" he radioed.

"It was clear to everyone," John Masters said. "Thanks for the warning".

"Can I break some heads now, General?" - asked Macomber.

"I don't want anyone getting hurt, you scoundrel, unless they attack John and the technicians," Patrick said. "Only take their weapons."

"When are we going to end this 'Kumbaya' routine, sir?" - Macomber asked in a low voice. "Scoundrel two, can you take out twelve point five and the Sagger without causing harm..." But at that moment, a small explosion occurred on the roof of the second armored personnel carrier, and the gunner jumped out of the dome, knocking out sparks and a small flame from your uniform. "Thank you".

"Don't mention it," Charlie said.

The Turks opened continuous rifle fire on Zipper as he jumped off the APC and approached Evren; They didn't stop shooting until Zipper grabbed Evren by the jacket and lifted him off the ground. "I politely asked you to leave us alone," Zipper said. "Now I'm going to be less nice, Arcadas." As easily as throwing a tennis ball, the Impact sent Evren flying a hundred yards through the air, almost all the way to the highway. He then ran up and did the same to the other Turkish soldiers around him who did not run away. "Is this normal, Genesis?"

"Thank you for your restraint, scoundrel," Patrick replied.

Macomber jumped onto another APC, but the Turkish troops had already fled... because they saw Charlie Turlock aboard a cybernetic infantry device guarding the other side of the crash site. She carried her own electromagnetic rail gun and a backpack with a forty-millimeter rocket launcher, which contained eight vertically launched missiles with high-explosive fragmentation, anti-personnel bombs and smoke warheads, plus a backpack for reloading in the Humvee. "Is everything okay, Second?"

"Everything is clear to me," Charlie replied. She pointed to the east. "This helicopter is in sight. Looks like a standard Huey. I see the door shooter, but there are no other weapons."

"If he points that gun anywhere near our guys, get it."

"I already shot him. It looked like there was a cameraman at the door with him. Smile - you are being filmed on a hidden camera."

"Just wonderful. Owners...?"

"I don't even have all the access doors open yet, Wayne," John said. "It will take me at least an hour just to figure out what's what. Removing the main components and LRU should not take much time - three hours at most. But I'd like at least eight hours to...

"I don't know if you have eight minutes, even eight hours, but move and we'll hold them off as long as we can," Zipper said.

"Maybe if you helped us, we would finish faster," John suggested.

Zipper sighed inside his armor. "I was afraid you would say that," he said. "Charlie, you have security. I'm going to be a mechanic for a while."

"I understand you. This helicopter is entering our orbit. Looks like they're taking pictures. The door shooter is not tracking anything on the ground."

"If it looks like he's going to fight, pin him down."

"With pleasure".

"We are engineers, not mechanics," John corrected him. "But you will be a bomber."

"Well, that"s more like the truth," said Zipper.

OVAL OFFICE, WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, DC.

AFTER A SHORT TIME

The President picked up the phone. "Hello, President Hirsiz. This is President Gardner. What can I do for you today?"

"You can withdraw your fighting dogs for once, sir," said Kurzat Hirciz from Ankara, "unless you are looking for war."

"You mean the incident at the crash site north of Mosul?" - Gardner asked. "As far as I understand, three of your soldiers were wounded and two armored vehicles were damaged. That's for sure?"

"Do you have an explanation for this deliberate attack?"

"You'll have to talk to the Iraqi government. The United States government had nothing to do with this."

"It is not true. These... these things are American weapons systems. The whole world knows it."

"The robot and the armored commando were experimental designs and were never used directly by the US government," Gardner said, using a story he and his staff came up with the minute they received a call from Vice President Ken Phoenix from Nala. "They belong to a private company that is contracted by the US Army to provide security for its forces in Iraq."

"So they really work for the American government!"

"No, because after the incident with your spy plane, their contract with my government was immediately terminated," Gardner said. "The company then received a contract from the Iraqi government. They were working for the Iraqis when this incident happened. To be honest, I don"t even know why your troops ended up at the crash site. They didn"t rob the plane, did they?"

"I am outraged by such an insinuation, sir," Hirsiz said. "Turkish soldiers are not criminals. The aircraft was involved in the downing of a Turkish plane and the killing of the Turkish pilot; the troops simply guarded the plane until an official investigation could begin."

"I understand. You should have communicated your intentions better to the Iraqis and to us. But that would be difficult in the middle of an invasion, wouldn"t it?"

"So, is this your plan now, Mr. Gardner: to let the Iraqis take the blame for America's actions?"

"Mr. President, your troops are on Iraqi soil, bombing Iraqi villages and killing Iraqi civilians-"

"We are only targeting PKK terrorists, sir, terrorists who kill innocent Turks!"

"I understand, sir, and I agree that something needs to be done about the PKK, and the United States has promised more help to Turkey for this. But we do not approve of a full-scale ground invasion of Iraq. I warned you about unintended consequences.

"As for the contractors in Nakhla: they work for the Iraqis and are not under our direct control, but we are still allies of Iraq and can stand up for you. The United States would be happy to sit down with Turkey, the Kurdish Regional Government, and Iraq to facilitate an immediate ceasefire by all parties, including contractors; troop withdrawal schedule; and more comprehensive security measures on the Iraqi-Turkish border, including international monitors, to prevent PKK terrorists from crossing the border. But nothing will happen while Turkish troops are engaged in combat operations inside Iraq, sir."

"So this is a conspiracy: America uses these robots against Turkish troops, pretends they are not involved, but then offers to mediate the negotiations as long as there is a ceasefire," Hirsiz said angrily. "Once again Turkey is a victim, forced to give in on everything, pushed aside and ignored. Then no one notices when another Turkish plane is shot down or another police station is smashed to smithereens."

"Believe me, Mr. President, we want to help Turkey," Gardner said. "Türkiye is one of America's most important friends and allies. I understand your anger. We can send observers, technology, even personnel to patrol the border. But nothing will happen as long as the fighting continues. They must stop immediately and Turkish troops must leave Iraq. There is no other way."

"There is only one way we will agree to international observers along our border, Mr. Gardner: the Kurdistan Regional Government must disavow the PKK and all plans to form an independent state of Kurdistan," Hirsiz said. "The KRG must remove its flag from all public places, arrest PKK leaders and hand them over to us for trial, dismantle all PKK training bases and close down all companies that support the PKK."

"Mr. President, what you are asking is impossible," President Gardner said after a moment of confusion. "The KRG governs the constitutionally authorized Kurdish region of northern Iraq. As far as I know, they never supported the PKK."

"As long as the KRG exists and tries to separate its territory from the rest of Iraq, the PKK will use terrorism to try to achieve this," Hirsiz said. "You know as well as I do that some members of the KRG leadership have businesses that secretly launder money and transport weapons and supplies from Iraq and abroad to Turkey. Many, not only Turkey, consider the Iraqi PKK to be the secret military wing of the KRG."

"This is nonsense, Mr. President," Gardner insisted. "There are no relations between the KRG and the PKK."

"They both want an independent Kurdistan, divided into provinces of Turkey, Iraq, Persia and Syria," Hirsiz said angrily. "The Kurdistan Regional Government apparently does not want to openly recognize a terrorist group like the PKK, so they support them secretly and oppose any efforts to shut them down. This will stop immediately! The KRG can govern the three Iraqi provinces of Dohuk, Erbil and Sulaymaniyah, but they must do so without advocating an independent Kurdistan or attempting to expand into the Turkmen-majority western provinces. Otherwise, our advance continues."

Joseph Gardner ran his hand over his face in despair. "So you will agree to negotiate, Mr. President?"

"No negotiations until the KRG agrees to stop supporting an independent Kurdistan state and agrees to condemn the PKK and put its leaders on trial for crimes against humanity," Hirsiz said. "If Baghdad and Erbil cannot control the PKK in Iraq and force them to stop killing innocent Turks, we will do the job. Good afternoon, sir." And he hung up.

The President hung up. "People shouldn't be allowed to have so much fun," he muttered. He addressed his advisers in the Oval Office. "Should I tell the KRG to stop all plans for independence?" He snapped his fingers. "Of course we can do it. The only part of Iraq where everything is fine, and Hirsiz wants it closed. Fabulous".

"But he opened the door to negotiations, sir," said Chief of Staff Walter Cordus. "Always take the high ground and hope everyone meets somewhere in the middle." The President looked at him sideways. "At least this is the start of negotiations."

"I guess you could call it that," the president said. "Did you hear all this, Ken? Stacey?

"Yes, Mr. President," said Ken Phoenix from Nala Allied Air Base. "The Turkish Air Force is carrying out strikes in the northeastern provinces of Iraq, especially in the provinces of Erbil and Dohuk. I doubt that the KRG or Baghdad will negotiate while the Turks are attacking their cities and villages."

"NATO will meet later today to discuss a resolution ordering Turkey to cease fire," Secretary of State Stacy Anne Barbeau said from Brussels, Belgium, headquarters of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization. "But the resolution has already been reduced to a request for a ceasefire. The Turks have significant support on the council here - they are sympathetic to the PKK's continued attacks, despite Turkey's attempts to provide the Kurds in Turkey with more aid, a stronger voice in government and fewer cultural and religious restrictions. I don't think Turkey will face much pressure from NATO or the European Union."

"They don't get much from Congress either," the president said. "Most don't understand the whole Kurdistan issue, but they understand terrorism, and right now they see the PKK as a problem. Turkey will end up staying in Iraq and public opinion will change, especially if they try to expand the conflict."

"And the last thing they need is an excuse to escalate the conflict... which brings me back to McLanahan," Barbeau said caustically. "What the hell is he doing there, Mr. Vice President?"

"He's apparently going to help the Iraqis defend against the Turks," Phoenix replied. "This mission to his crashed plane was a test to see what the Turkish army would do. They didn't seem to do anything until they went to the crash site. The Turks were preparing to move or dismantle the plane, and they tried to drive them away."

"And McLanahan attacked."

"I was watching the images coming from the drone over the scene," Phoenix said, "and I was listening to the audio as it happened. McLanahan's forces did not attack until the Turks did, and they even gave them a second warning after a soldier shot the Tin Woodman commando. After it became obvious that the Turks were going to attack the workers, the Tin Man and the Criminal Investigation Unit went to work."

"So what happens now?"

"Some of the Turks surrounding Nakhla Air Base here deployed near the crash site," Phoenix said. "Dr. Masters and his staff are still at the scene of the disaster, recovering the black boxes and sensitive equipment. McLanahan's drones have detected several Turkish ground units en route, but they fear the Turkish Air Force is attacking. The Turks lowered helicopters near the site and fired several mortars at them, trying to scare them into retreating."

"You know, I don't have a lot of sympathy for McLanahan right now," Gardner said. "He decided to put the tiger"s tail between his legs, and now he might get his ass bitten off. We try to find ways to de-escalate the conflict, and he just goes and finds new ways to escalate it."

"We'll find out what happens next once Masters starts returning here to Nala," Phoenix said. "There's about a hundred soldiers and six armored vehicles waiting for him on the highway, and I bet they're pissed."

"I want our guys to stay out of this," the president ordered. "The Americans should not interfere. This is McLanahan's fight . If his guys get hurt or killed because of him, it"s his fault."

"We must contact the Turkish Prime Minister and urge restraint, sir," Phoenix said. "McLanahan's guys are outnumbered. Even with the Tin Woodman and SID on the loose, there is no way they can get through the Turkish army. The Turks will want a little revenge."

"I hope McLanahan is smart enough not to try to confront the Turks," the president said. "Stacy, contact Akas's office again, explain the situation and ask her to contact the Department of Defense so that the army will restrain itself."

"Yes, Mr. President."

"McLanahan stepped in big time," the president said, moving on to other matters. "Unfortunately, it"s his guys who will suffer for this."

NEAR NAKHLA ALLIED AIR BASE, IRAQ

AFTER A SHORT TIME

"They"re coming!" Charlie Turlock screamed. "Hit...?"

"I understand," Wayne Macomber responded. He had kept his electromagnetic rail gun at the ready since the first mortar shell had been fired in their direction about an hour ago. Charlie Turlock's millimeter wave radar system built into her CID robot scanned the skies around them for miles, allowing her to detect projectiles and instantly transmit tracking and targeting information to Wayne's targeting computers.

Charlie Turlock also carried her electromagnetic rail gun, but all of its rounds had already been spent destroying the mortars, and its reload was blown when the Sagger destroyed the first Humvee. The forty-millimeter rockets in her pack might not have been fast enough to intercept mortar shells, but Macomber's rail gun was more than capable. He simply raised his rifle, using his suit's powered exoskeleton as a platform for precise aiming, and followed the tracking information relayed from the CID. He didn't have to direct much of the mortar fire - the electromagnetic rail gun shells flew tens of times faster than a bullet from a sniper rifle and easily destroyed the shell.

"Salvo!" Charlie screamed. "Four more are approaching!"

"Bastards," Zipper muttered. This was the first time they shot more than one at a time. He easily hit all four of them, but now there were problems. "I"m running low on bullets-I"m down to my last magazine, six more left," he said. "I will also need fresh batteries for the rifle and for myself."

One of the technicians ran up to the remaining Humvee, searched it for a few moments, then ran up to Macomber. "There are no more fresh batteries left," he said. "We"ll have to hook you up."

"Great," said Zipper. The technician disconnected the power cord from the storage compartment on the back of Macomber's suit, ran it back to the Humvee, and plugged it into the power outlet. "Charlie, you'll have to try to intercept some more bullets. I'm going to increase my power level before we start moving out. I have just enough charge in my gun to fire the last remaining rounds."

"Got it," Charlie replied. "I did not see any of these shells explode and the projected track shows that they missed us. Maybe it's not live ammunition. They throw them in just to see what we will do."

"Glad we're giving them some entertainment," Zipper said. "Can you figure out the location of the attack?"

"Have already done. They didn't budge him. I can destroy them if you want, or drop a gas rocket on them."

"I don"t want these guys to lose their temper just yet, and we need to conserve our ammo," Zipper said.

"There's another helicopter coming, guys," Patrick McLanahan radioed. "This time from Turkey, the speed is higher. Perhaps this is a warship. In about ten minutes."

"Acknowledged," Wayne Macomber replied. "Okay, Doc, time to get ready."

"Patrick said ten minutes? I will take it ".

"No, because in ten minutes we will be within range of the missiles that the helicopter can carry, and then it will be too late," Zipper said.

"Okay," John said sadly. "We received a laser radar and satellite communication units. I think this should be enough. Too many things for one Humvee; we"ll have to fit it all into a trailer."

It didn't take long for the group to gather their gear. Zipper walked in front, holding his rail gun high so that all the Turkish soldiers could see him. Charlie carried her spare backpack in her armored left hand and her unloaded electromagnetic rail gun in her right, hoping that the mere sight of it might scare some of the Turks. All the engineers were gathered in the surviving Humvee, and all their tools, equipment, and recovered boxes were in the trailer.

"How soon will our help arrive, General?" - Zipper asked over his secure command channel.

"They look like they're changing formation, Zipper," Patrick asked. "Try to stall for as long as possible."

"What about that helicopter?"

"A couple more minutes."

"These numbers don"t match, General," Zipper said gloomily. Over the Turkish command channel he found, he said, "Listen, Captain Evren. We go out. We don't want to quarrel with you guys. We're going to return our things to base. Make way."

"No, Americans," Evren replied a moment later, his voice showing surprise that his radio channel was being used by robots. "You will be detained and this equipment will be confiscated. You attacked members of my unit and myself. For this you must be punished."

The impact stopped the convoy. "Captain, listen to me very carefully," he said. "You know what we can do. What you may not know is that there is a drone circling overhead. If you don't believe me, look up." At this point, Patrick shut down and restarted the AGM-177 Wolverine engine he was keeping in orbit over the area, causing a trail of brown smoke to become visible for several seconds. "This is an attack drone, and it can destroy all your armor and your people with guided bombs. I'll order a flyover over your positions before we move there, and when that's done we'll take care of anyone still standing. Now step aside."

"I have orders, American," Evren said. "You will lay down your weapons, turn off the power to the robot and the drone, and surrender. If you don't, we will attack."

"There's an ID for this incoming helicopter, Zipper," Charlie said. "Warship "Cobra". More surplus in the US. I don't see his weapon, but I bet it's loaded for bear.

"Last chance, captain," said Zipper. "Otherwise we will start shooting. Step aside ".

"I won't. Surrender or be killed. In case you haven't noticed, we have our own air support. It is not as advanced as your drone aircraft, but I assure you, it is deadly. After it attacks, there will be nothing left of you that we, as you say, need to take care of."

"I'll have to destroy this Cobra first, Charlie," Zipper said. "Watch my back - they will definitely open fire when -"

Suddenly Charlie shouted, "Rocket launch!"

"Where from, Charlie?"

"Behind us!" Just then they heard a loud BANG! Zipper and Charlie turned around just in time to see a spiral of white smoke shoot up and hit the Cobra. The helicopter began to roll sharply to the right, seemed to wobble, then began a downward autorotating spin until it crashed into the ground in a hard but survivable crash.

"Stop shooting! Don"t open fire!" Zipper's scream was heard over the Turkish command channel. On their separate channel, he radioed: "I hope it was you, Jaffar."

"Yes, Macomber," Colonel Yusuf Jaffar responded over a separate command channel. His northern battalion shot down a Cobra gunship with a shoulder-fired Stinger missile. "Sorry we're late, but I guess you came early. Doesn't matter. We are all here and ready to fight the Turks."

"I hope no one attacks anyone here," Zipper said. He gave Jaffar the frequency of the Turkish company, then said on this channel: "The Cobra gunship was shot down by an Iraqi anti-aircraft missile, Captain Evren," he said. "The Iraqi Nakhla Brigade is advancing into this position." At this moment he could see how the Turkish troops on the right began to fidget and rustle; they apparently obtained a visual representation of the northernmost battalion. "Captain Evren?"

After a somewhat long and uncomfortable pause: "Yes, American."

"I am not in command of the Iraqi army, and you did invade their country," Wak said, "but my forces are not going to attack unless we are attacked first." I ask Colonel Jaffar not to attack either. He's eavesdropping. He's going to escort my team back to Nala Air Base. I urge everyone to remain calm and not pull the trigger. Captain, if you want to send a team to inspect the downed Cobra, you can do so. Colonel Jaffar, would that be acceptable?"

"That would be acceptable," Jaffar replied.

"Fine. Captain, we're moving out. Make way and everyone remain calm."

It was quite an impressive sight. Pulling off the main highway north of Nala, the Tin Man and the forensic robot, now carrying rail guns on their shoulders, drove the Humvee, towing a trailer full of parts and tools, across an open field. Turkish platoons were lined up on both sides of the highway in front of them. A full battalion of Iraqi infantry was advancing from the northwest, and another Iraqi battalion was advancing along the highway northeast of the base. They all converged at the intersection of two highways.

Wayne found Captain Evren on the side of the highway, stopped and saluted him. The captain saluted back, but kept his eyes on the ten-foot CID unit striding towards him, also saluting. "My God...!"

"Charlie Turlock, Captain Evren," Charlie said, extending a large armored hand after lowering the salute. "How are you? Thank you for not shooting."

Evren was stunned by the robot's flexibility and realistic movements. It took him several long, amusing moments to take the robot's hand and shake it. "It...it's a machine, but it moves like a person...!"

"Woman, if you don"t mind," Charlie said.

Colonel Jaffar arrived a few minutes later. Evren saluted, but Jaffar did not return it. "So, are you in command of this company, Turk?"

"Yes, sir. Captain Evren, Saya Company, 41st Security Division -

"I don"t care who you are or what unit you"re in, Turk," Jaffar said. "All I care about is when you come home and leave my country alone."

"It depends on when Iraq stops protecting the Kurdish killers who drive bomb trucks into police buildings and kill innocent Turks, sir!"

"I'm not here to listen to your political tirades, Turk! I need to know when you will get your thugs out of my country!"

Zipper looked at Charlie. She didn't need to move much, but a ten-foot robot simply raising its armored arms in surrender was enough to get everyone's attention. "Can"t we all just get along?" - she said. She pressed her hands to her cheeks. "Darling, please?" The sight of a large combat robot acting like a shy schoolgirl made even the gruff Colonel Jaffar laugh, and hundreds of soldiers, both Turkish and Iraqi, joined in the laughter.

"This is not the time or place to argue, guys," Zipper said. "Why don't we take this back to base? If I'm not mistaken, it's almost lunch time. Why don"t we all sit down, have a snack and take the load off?"

ERBIL, IRAQ

IN THE SAME TIME

"Where is my damn air?" General Besir Ozek shouted. "They're ten minutes late!" He snatched the microphone from the communications officer's hands. "Resim, this is Sicansky one. Your squadron better get a grip or I'll be back there to kick your ass!"

Ozek was in the cockpit of an ACV-300 command post vehicle that was part of Headquarters Company of the Third Division, which defeated eastern Iraq. Ozek's forces were ordered to advance only as far as Erbil's northwestern airport, capture it to resupply and cut off trade with the Kurdistan capital and hold, but he ordered a battalion of mechanized infantry to advance to the outskirts of the city itself.

The battalion established a security perimeter in a large area that had been cleared of old buildings to make way for new high-rise housing, northwest of the city itself. He could clearly see around him any signs of a counterattack from the Peshmerga, the PKK, regular Iraqi forces or the Americans; So far, none of these fighting organizations had truly threatened his army, but it was better to be safe than sorry. The Peshmerga were the biggest threat. Reports differed on the size of the Peshmerga, but even the most optimistic estimates put them at twice the size of the four divisions Ozek commanded, and they also had few armored vehicles.

And there were reports of growing resistance in Iraq. Like obedient rats, the PKK was, of course, deeply hidden, but the Americans were beginning to become restless, and Iraqi units that had mysteriously disappeared right before the invasion began to appear. Ozek has heard several reports of contact with American and Iraqi troops near Mosul, but no word yet on any casualties.

Ozek chose the area for other reasons: it was north of Sami Abdul Rahman Park, a memorial park for a murdered Kurdistan Regional Government official and PKK supporter; he was also within mortar range of the Kurdistan Regional Government's parliament building, so Kurdish politicians should be able to get a good look at his army advancing on their city.

Ozek got out of the command post car and shouted: "Major!" A very young looking infantry major quickly approached him. "Our broadcast is late, so you will have to stay a few more minutes."

"We hit every target on the list, sir," the battalion commander said. "We attacked the top ten on the list again."

Ozek pulled out a piece of paper from his jacket. "I made a new list. The Ministry of Defense was talking about attacking businesses in Erbil that support the PKK... Well, until they give me official permission, I found a bunch of them myself. These are their addresses. Find them on the map and throw them."

The major studied the list and his eyes widened in surprise. "Uh, sir, this address is inside the Citadel."

"I know that," Ozek said. "This is a bazaar that has shops owned by some of the same guys we've already targeted. Why should they be left out?"

"But this is inside the Citadel, sir," the Major repeated. The Erbil Citadel was an ancient stone wall in the center of the city surrounding the archaeological ruins of the original city, which dated back to 2300 BC. Although the city was occupied by many peoples over the centuries, the Citadel was considered sacred ground to all of them, and some sections of it were a thousand years old. "What if we hit archaeological sites?"

"I'm not worried about a few adobe huts and cart paths," Ozek said. "I can look out and see the Kurdistan flag waving from inside this place, so I know the PKK is hiding there. I want these stores destroyed. Do it ".

"With all due respect, sir," the major said, "our mission is to eradicate the PKK. They may run and hide in cities, but they do not live in Erbil. Our intelligence and counterintelligence units tell us that the Peshmerga were following us, but they did not dare make contact. We shouldn't give them a reason to do this. We have already fired at targets in the city; the bombing of the Citadel may be the last straw."

"I understand that you are afraid of the Peshmerga, Major," Ozek said. "During my career, I have encountered them more than once in border areas. They are good in the mountains and in the outback, but they are nothing more than glorified partisans. They are not going to attack a regular army unit in a frontal attack. They never fought like anyone other than tribal enforcers. They're just as likely to fight each other as we are. In fact, I would welcome the chance to force a few of their battalions into battle with us - destroy a few of their braver units, and the entire Kurdistan conglomerate can come together once and for all."

"Yes, sir," said the Major, "but may I recommend that we release only smoke into the Citadel? You know how some people revere this place, especially in the Kurdish region. They-"

"I don"t need a history lesson from you, Major," Ozek snapped. "Start making this list immediately. Same procedures as before: smoke to disperse inhabitants and mark for accuracy, explosives to bring down roofs, and white phosphorus to burn the place to the ground. Get on with it."

As soon as he dismissed the artillery commander with a wave of his hand, a soldier ran up to him and saluted. "The gunship is moving into position, sir."

"At the most damned time." He returned to the command post car and grabbed the radio microphone. "Change One-Eight, this is Sikan One, how do you read?"

"Loud and clear, Sikan," reported the pilot of the AC-130H Specter attack helicopter. "One minute until we arrive at the station."

"Show me Tango number one," Ozek said. The television monitor came to life, showing sensor images transmitted from the gunship. It showed a wide-angle view of southern Erbil, about eight hundred yards south of the Citadel. The sensor operator switched to narrow field of view and zoomed in on the Erbil Bazaar from above. He followed the main thoroughfare south along the edge of the bazaar until he crossed the main street, then began counting buildings as he continued south. "South of the bakery, north of the apartment building... This is the one," Ozek radioed. The sensor operator captured the headquarters of Masari Bank of Kurdistan, one of the largest banks in northern Iraq... and widely known for supporting the PKK through money laundering, international money exchanges and collecting donations around the world.

"Resim locked and ready, Sikan," the pilot reported. The AC-130 entered a left orbit around the target, with a side-mounted information display and instrument landing system-like control arrows showing the pilot exactly where to position the aircraft.

"Continue," Ozek said, then got out of the command car and looked southeast. This was his first time seeing an AC-130 attack in person...

...and he felt a little disappointed. Most AC-130 attacks occur in darkness, when the flashes of the aircraft's 40mm cannon and 105mm howitzer lit up the night like nothing else. He saw a howitzer shell hit and a plume of smoke rise into the sky before he heard a ROOM! about the gun and the explosion on the ground, and he regretted not staying to watch the hit on the screen - he had to wait for the video replay.

He returned to the command vehicle and looked at the sensor image. The smoke still mostly obscured the view, but the bank building appeared destroyed, as did parts of the bakery and apartment building across from the bank. The accuracy of this warship was amazing - the shot was fired from a height of over twenty thousand feet!

"Looks like a good shot, Resim," Ozek radioed. "No signs of anti-aircraft response. If you're ready to go, we have quite a few goals on the list. We will fire several mortar shells from our position into the northern part of the city; they shouldn't matter to you. Let's take a look at Tango two."

OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT, PINK PALACE, ANKARA, REPUBLIC OF TURKEY

LATER THAT EVENING

"This is the first engagement with an Iraqi military unit," said National Defense Minister Hasan Cizek as he entered President Kurzat Hirsiz's office. "Report from Tall Qayfa, north of Mosul. The brigade based in Nala reappeared and reoccupied their base."

"Has there been any contact with our forces?" Hirsiz asked.

"Yes, sir. The helicopter pilot and crew member were injured when his plane was shot down by an Iraqi man-portable anti-aircraft missile."

Hirsiz waited, but that was all Jizek could say. "And it's all? Are there any other victims? What about the Iraqis?"

"No casualties, sir."

"What were they doing, throwing water balloons at each other? What do you mean, there were no casualties?"

"They didn't fight, sir," Jizek said. "Our unit allowed the Iraqis and the American engineers who were on their reconnaissance plane back to Nakhla Air Base."

"Did they let them come back? Americans too? I ordered this plane to be dismantled and delivered back to Turkey! Were the Americans allowed to return to base with parts of the plane?"

"The unit commander was about to stop them, but the armored commando and robot threatened to retaliate with their weapons and from an orbiting drone. Then the Iraqi brigade arrived. The unit commander saw that he was outnumbered and decided not to engage. The Iraqis and Americans also did not engage in combat. They entered the base and the security unit returned to their posts."

The anger Hirsiz felt at having his orders ignored quickly subsided and he nodded. "It was probably a good decision on the commander"s part," he said. "Send 'well done' to his parent unit."

"Our unit there reports that the Americans have launched an unmanned combat aircraft to support their detailed inspection of the aircraft," Jizek said. "The head of the American private security service, McLanahan, explained that it was a long-range aircraft capable of firing several types of precision and area munitions. Apparently it was delivered on that Boeing 767 cargo plane that eluded our interceptors."

"McLanahan. Yes," Jizek said. "He's the wild card in all of this. Remember, he commanded a very advanced bomber unit in the United States Air Force, and he was known for some pretty daring and successful operations - many of which apparently were carried out without official sanction, if we can believe the US media pundits. Now, apparently, he is working for the Iraqis. I would assume that if he says he has a cruise missile, then he does, and probably more than one. The question is: as a tool of the Iraqis now, would he use it against us?"

"I hope we never find out," Jizek said. "However, I would like to take a look at this reconnaissance aircraft. The American Secretary of State said that our plane was disabled by a laser self-defense system, and not by a beam weapon. It had to be a powerful laser. If we could look at this system and rebuild it, we would be decades ahead of most European and all Middle Eastern armies."

"I agree," Hirsiz said. "Try again to return this plane to Turkey. Deliver as many troops as possible by helicopter tonight. Send the entire First Division if necessary. They don't seem to have any problems in their area of responsibility; I am concerned about the Kurdish regions, not the Arab ones."

"But what about the Iraqi Nakhla Brigade?"

"Let's see if they want to risk getting into a fight over an American plane," Hirsiz said. "I think they might think twice. We may have to deal with an American robot and an armored commando, but how many of those things can they have? Let's find out. I think the aircraft and its technology will be worth it."

"We have more information about the robot and the armored commando; we won't be as surprised as our smaller unit was, and we'll be keeping an eye on their supposed unmanned attack aircraft," Jizek said. The assistant rushed with the message and gave it to him. "I was able to get some details about the plane, the XC-57," he said as he read. "It entered the next generation bomber competition but was not selected, so it was remade into...lanet olsun!" - he swore.

"What?"

"The 3rd Brigade shelled Erbil," Jizek said, stunned. Hirsiz did not react. "General Ozek, personally in command of the mortar battalion, moved to the outskirts of Erbil, less than a mile from the Kurdistan Parliament building, and began shelling the city with mortars," he continued. "He even fired shells at the Citadel, the ancient center of the city. For targets he couldn't reach with mortars, he called in an AC-130 gunship and destroyed numerous targets in the south of the city with heavy cannon fire from above!"

Instead of anger or surprise, Hirsiz smiled and leaned back in his chair. "Well, it looks like our skeleton-faced berserker has decided to strike Erbil for us," he said.

"But how-" Jizek paused, concern crossing his face. "The proposed list of targets that the Intelligence Directorate has drawn up...?"

"I gave it to Ozek," Hirsiz said. "It did exactly what I hoped it would." The expression of concern on Jizek's face gave way to one of clear disbelief. "The Security Council was undecided whether we should escalate the conflict by attacking the capital of the Kurdistan Regional Government; Ozek did it for us."

"This is a serious matter, sir," Jizek said. "Erbil is a city with a population of one million. Even when using precision firepower, which mortars most definitely are not, innocent civilians will be harmed. And the big howitzer on those AC-130s can destroy an entire building with one shot!"

"A few civilian casualties will only help us," Hirsiz said. "This battle was too easy, too fruitless. The PKK and the Iraqi army are running and hiding, the Peshmerga remain out of reach, the Americans are locking the gates to their bases, and the Iraqi people are turning on their televisions and watching us drive through their streets. This is not a war, this is a parade... until now." Then a worried expression appeared on his face. "Ozek didn"t attack any schools or hospitals, did he?"

Dzizek requested a more accurate list of targets hit and received them a few minutes later. "A Kurdish bank... a small shopping center... a few shops inside the Citadel... a memorial park... One mortar even landed next to the parliament building in the parking lot, close enough to break several windows-"

"It was on the list - a parking space for a pro-PKK politician," Hirsiz said. "He followed the list to the last letter. Strike the Citadel... It was his idea, but he borrowed the idea from that list. I am sure that the store was owned by the same businessman who owned the other stores in the city on the list. Ozek is scary and a little crazy, but he learns quickly."

"The Security Council did not decide on an attack on Erbil because we wanted to see the world's reaction to the operation first," Jizek said. "So far the reaction has been very calm... Surprisingly calm. There were a few outcries of outrage, mostly from militant Muslim groups and human rights organizations. It was tacit approval of what we were doing. But now we have attacked directly the Iraqi people, the Kurds. You should have gotten Security Council approval before giving such an order, Kurzat!"

"I didn"t order anything, Hasan," Hirsiz said. The Minister of National Defense looked unconvinced. "Don't believe me if you want, but I did not order Ozek to shell Erbil. I gave him the list, that's all. But I knew it wouldn't disappoint." He looked at his watch. "I guess I should call Washington and explain everything to them."

"Are you going to tell them that these attacks were carried out by a robber general?"

"I'm going to tell them exactly what happened: we discussed attacking businesses and organizations known to be friendly to the PKK, and one of our division commanders took it upon himself to do just that." Hirsiz waved his hand at Jizek's incredulous expression and lit a cigarette. "Besides, you and the rest of the council now also have the opportunity to deny everything. If this does not force the Americans and Iraqis to come to our aid, you can blame Ozek and me." He became serious again. "Make sure Ozek gets back to the airport. If we encourage him too much, he'll probably try to take over the whole city."

"Yes, sir," Jizek said. "And we will send a second division on these American planes."

"Very good". Hirsiz picked up the phone. "I will call Gardner and set the stage with him and have him talk about the attack on Erbil."

COMMAND AND CONTROL CENTER, ALLIED AIR BASE NAKHLA, IRAQ

LATER THAT EVENING

"Just got off the phone with the President," Vice President Ken Phoenix said as he entered the Reservoir. Colonel Jack Wilhelm sat at his desk at the front of the senior staff room, but next to him, in a real command chair, was Colonel Yusuf Jaffar. The tank was very crowded because both an American and an Iraqi were now sitting at every battle control console in the room. Also in the room were Patrick McLanahan, Wayne Macomber and John Masters. "He spoke with Turkish President Hirsiz and Iraqi President Rashid.

"First of all, he wanted me to praise you for a "job well done" for your actions today. He said that while he didn't think the risk was worth it, he thanked you all for showing restraint and courage. It was an explosive situation and you handled it well."

"I also spoke with President Rashid," Jaffar said, "and he wanted me to convey similar thoughts to everyone."

"Thank you, Colonel. However, we still have a situation. Turkey wants access to the XC-57 wreckage to gather evidence for a criminal trial against Scion Aviation International. They are requesting permission for experts to examine the aircraft, including what you removed from the aircraft, Dr. Masters."

"This material is classified and proprietary, Mr. Vice President," John said. "Allowing the Turks to study it gives them a chance to reverse engineer it. That's why we risked our lives getting this stuff out of there! They don't care about the lawsuit - they just want my technology. There"s no way I"m going to let the Turks get their dirty paws on this!"

"You may have no choice, Dr. Masters," Phoenix said. "At the time of the attack, Scion was a US government contractor. The government may have the right to order you to return the equipment."

"I'm not a lawyer, sir, and I don't particularly like them, but I know a whole army of them," John said. "I'll let them handle it."

"I'm more concerned about what the Turks will do, Mr. Vice President," Patrick said.

"I'm sure they will go to the World Court or NATO, perhaps the International Admiralty Court, bring criminal charges and try to force you-"

"No sir, I don't mean a trial. I mean, what will the Turkish army do?"

"What do you mean?"

"Sir, do you expect the Turkish army to simply forget everything that happened here today?" Patrick answered. "They have twenty thousand soldiers scattered between the border and Mosul, and fifty thousand soldiers within a day's march of here. This is the first defeat they suffered in their Iraq operation. I think John is right: they want the systems on this plane, and I think they'll come back and take it."

"They wouldn"t dare!" - Jaffar exclaimed. "This is not their country, this is mine. They won"t do as they please!"

"We are trying to prevent this conflict from escalating, Colonel," Vice President Phoenix said. "Honestly, I think we were lucky today. We caught the Turks by surprise along with the Tin Woodman and CID units. But if Jaffar's brigade had not appeared when it did, or if the Turks had decided to attack immediately instead of waiting for instructions, the results could have been much worse."

"We could handle them just fine, sir," Wayne Macomber said.

"I'm glad you think so, Mr. Macomber, but I disagree," Phoenix said. "You yourself told me that you are low on ammunition and energy. I appreciate the fear factor associated with the Tin Man and the CID, but these Turkish troops marched almost two hundred miles into Iraq. They weren't going to run away." Zipper lowered his eyes and said nothing in response; he knew the vice president was right.

"Mr. Vice President, I think General McLanahan may be right," Jaffar said. "I don't know about these secret things that Dr. Masters talks about, but I know the generals on the ground, and they don't take defeat well. Today we bypassed a small security unit and forced them to retreat, but here they outnumber us.

"The Turks have two brigades surrounding Mosul and deployed south of us," Jaffar continued. "The Iraqi Army has enough units in the shelter to hold them off if necessary. But my brigade is the only significant force opposing the two Turkish brigades to the north of us. It is there that I will concentrate my forces and prepare for any actions of the Turks." He stood up and put on his helmet. "General McLanahan, you will position your reconnaissance aircraft and ground teams in the northern approach sectors, as far north as possible without making contact, and warn of any Turkish advance."

"Yes, Colonel," said Patrick. "I am also concerned about the Turkish air force, in particular the F-15E, A-10 and AC-130 attack helicopters of the Second Tactical Air Force based in Diyarbakir. If they decide to bring them in, they could destroy our forces."

"What are you suggesting, Patrick?" Vice President Phoenix asked.

"Sir, you must convince President Gardner that we need surveillance of Diyarbakir and a response plan if the Turks launch a massive attack against us." Patrick pulled out a secure digital memory card in a plastic case. "This is my proposed reconnaissance schedule and plan of attack. Our primary reconnaissance platform is a constellation of microsatellites that Sky Masters Incorporated can launch into orbit to provide continuous coverage of Turkey. They can be up and running within a few hours. The attack plan is based on the use of specialized modules in our XC-57 aircraft that can disrupt and destroy command and control facilities in Diyarbakir."

"I thought the XC-57 was just a transport and reconnaissance aircraft, Patrick," Phoenix said with a knowing smile.

"As long as we don't attack Diyarbakir, sir, that's all there is," Patrick said. "The attack will combine nettrusion - network intrusion - to confuse and overload their networks, followed by a high-powered microwave weapon to destroy electronics on board any operational aircraft or facility. We can continue with bombing attacks if necessary."

"Bomber attacks?"

"Air Expeditionary Squadron 7," Patrick said. "This is a small unit of B-1B Lancer bombers, formed by an engineering group in Palmdale, California, that puts the aircraft into flight storage and brings them back into combat readiness. They currently have seven bombers deployed in the United Arab Emirates. They were used to conduct emergency support missions for the Second Regiment and other Army units in Iraq."

"Is this an Air Force unit, Patrick?"

"They have the Air Force designation, I believe they are organized under the command of the Air Force Materiel, and they are commanded by an Air Force Lieutenant Colonel," Patrick replied, "but most of the members are civilians." "

"Is the entire military taken over by contractors, Patrick?" - Phoenix smiled crookedly. He nodded grimly. "I don't like the idea of bombing Turkey even if they hit us directly, but if this is the final option, it seems small and powerful enough to get the job done without causing a world war between NATO allies."

"My thoughts are exactly the same, sir."

"I'll present your plan to Washington, Patrick," Phoenix said, "but let's hope we don't get anywhere near that level of escalation." He turned to the Iraqi commander. "Colonel Jaffar, I know this is your country and your army, but I urge you to show the same restraint you showed today. We don't want to get into a firefight with the Turks. This thing with the secret boxes from that wreckage doesn't matter if lives are at stake."

"With all due respect, sir, you are wrong on two counts," Jaffar said. "Like I said, I don't know about black boxes and I don't care. But we're not talking about black boxes-we're talking about a foreign army invading my home. And today I did not show restraint towards the Turks. We outnumbered them; there was no reason to fight unless they wanted to. They were the ones who showed restraint, not me. But if the Turks return, they will come in large numbers, and then we will fight. General McLanahan, I expect a briefing on your deployment plan within the hour."

"I'll be ready, Colonel," Patrick said.

"Excuse me, sir, but I must prepare my troops for battle," Jaffar said, bowing to Vice President Phoenix. "Colonel Wilhelm, I must thank you for ensuring Nala's safety in my absence. Can I rely on you and your men to keep Nala safe during our deployment, as you have already done? "

"Of course," said Wilhelm. "And I would like to attend your deployment briefings if I could."

"You are always welcome, Colonel. You will be notified. Good night." And Jaffar left, followed by Patrick, Wayne and John.

"Do you still think this is a good idea, General?" Wilhelm asked before they left. "Jaffar is fighting for his country. What are you fighting for now? Money?"

Jaffar froze, and they could see him clenching and unclenching his fists and straightening his back in indignation, but he did nothing and said nothing. But Patrick stopped and turned to William. "You know what, Colonel?" Patrick said with a slight smile. "The Iraqis didn't pay me a cent. Not a cent." And he left.

CHAPTER EIGHT

There are no great people in this world, only great challenges that ordinary people face.

-ADMIRAL WILLIAM FREDERICK HALSEY JR (1882-1959)

NEAR NAKHLA ALLIED AIR BASE, IRAQ

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING

Two eight-man teams of Turkish special forces rangers, bordo bereliler, or "Bordo Bereliler", or "Burgundy Berets", arrived at the station around three o'clock in the morning. They performed a perfect HALO skydive, or high-altitude, low-opening skydive, into an area about five miles north of Tall Qaifa. Having landed and stowed their parachutes, they confirmed their location, checked personnel, weapons and equipment and headed south. Once near a checkpoint approximately two miles from the XC-57 crash site, they split into reconnaissance teams of two and headed to their individual objectives.

It took the Burgundy Berets less than thirty minutes to determine that all the intelligence they had received from Captain Evren's unit stationed outside the Allied Nala Air Base was true: the Iraqis had deployed four infantry platoons around the XC-57 crash site and were setting up machine gun nests out of beanbags with sand to protect it. The rest of the brigade was nowhere to be seen. Evren also said that the Americans are still at the base, undergoing training and conditioning, but are also remaining very discreet.

The Iraqis obviously expected something to happen, the Ranger platoon leader thought, but they put up nothing more than a token defense. They obviously weren't looking for a fight over a spy plane. The Rangers could have called off their operation if the Iraqis had deployed any more forces in the area, but they did not. The operation was still ongoing.

The schedule was razor thin, but everyone executed it perfectly. Aviation elements of the First and Second Divisions sent light infantry squadrons in low-flying UH-60 Black Hawk and CH-47F Chinook helicopters from six different directions, all of which converged on the Nala area under the protection of AH-1 Cobra attack helicopters. The helicopters landed under a blanket of interference across the electromagnetic spectrum, which disabled all radar and communications other than the bands they wanted to use. At the same time, ground forces rushed to reinforce them. In less than thirty minutes-in the blink of an eye, even on a modern battlefield-the four Iraqi platoons surrounding the XC-57 crash site were themselves surrounded... and outnumbered.

Iraqi defenders, using night vision goggles, could see the red lines of Turkish laser pointers crossing the field in front of them, and they squatted behind machine gun nests made of sandbags and XC-57 debris. The attack can begin at any moment.

"Attention, Iraqi soldiers," they heard in Arabic from a loudspeaker on board a Turkish armored infantry vehicle. "This is Brigadier General Ozek, the commander of this task force. You've been surrounded, and I'm bringing in more reinforcements as I speak. I order you-"

And at that moment, one of the Chinook helicopters, which had just landed to unload soldiers, disappeared in a huge fireball, followed by a Cobra gunship, which hovered several hundred yards from the patrol, and a Black Hawk helicopter, which just took off. The entire horizon north and northeast of the XC-57 crash site suddenly appeared to be on fire.

"Karsi, Karsi, this is Kuvet, we are under heavy fire, the direction is unknown!" - the commander of the operational group of the second division radioed. "Say it. End!" No answer. The general glanced over his left shoulder at Highway 3, along which his eastern battalion would race to outflank the Iraqis...

... and through his night vision goggles he saw an eerie glow on the horizon about three miles behind him - and the flickering of some very large objects, burning and exploding. "Karsi, this is Kuvet, say your name!"

"Nice shot, Boomer," Patrick McLanahan said. The first AGM-177 Wolverine attack missile fired a CBU-97 sensor-fuse munition at the lead vehicles of the easternmost battalion moving south as part of Operation Nala. Dropped from an altitude of fifteen thousand feet, the CBU-97 dispenser released ten submunitions, each employing four skits and laser and infrared seekers. As the submunitions fell toward the column of vehicles, they began to rotate, and as they did so, they detected and classified all the vehicles below. At the desired height, each saucer exploded above the vehicle, raining down a molten drop of copper onto its victim. The droplet of superheated copper easily penetrated the usually thinner upper armor of the Turkish vehicles, destroying every vehicle on the road within a quarter-mile radius.

"Understood, General," said Hunter Noble. "Wolverine" maneuvers toward the western column for GBU-97's second pass, then attacks the troops closest to Nala with the Eighty-Seventh." The CBU-87 Combined Action Munition was a mine-explosive device that could carry more than two hundred bombs over a three thousand square foot rectangular area, effective against soldiers and light vehicles. The "second Wolverine" is in parking orbit to the south in case The Iraqis will have problems with the Mosul brigades."

"I hope we don't need it," Patrick said. "Let me know if-"

"Problem, Patrick-I think we lost the first Wolverine," Boomer interjected. "Contact lost. He could have been shot down if he had been detected on radar as he made his attack."

"Send the second Wolverine to the western battalion," Patrick ordered.

"They are moving. But Jaffar's boys may make contact before he arrives."

The eastern column of Turkish infantry vehicles was initially stopped by the first Wolverine attack, but the survivors soon began to move. As they raced forward to meet the Center Battalion, several Iraqi anti-tank teams hidden in spider holes along the highway opened fire, destroying five Humvees and an M113 armored personnel carrier. But the Iraqis soon came under intense fire from other Turkish troops, and they became trapped in their "spider holes." A line of three Humvees discovered three spider holes and quickly destroyed the first of them with fire from forty-millimeter automatic grenade launchers.

"Wife hena! Wa'if hena! Stop!" - the Turks shouted in Arabic. They stepped out of their Humvees, weapons raised. "Get out now, hands on...!"

Suddenly they heard a loud crash! and one of the Humvees exploded in the blink of an eye. Before the explosion died down, they heard another bang! and a second Humvee exploded, followed by a third. The Turks lay flat on their stomachs, searching for the enemy who had just blown up their vehicles...

... and a few moments later they saw who it was: a ten-foot-tall American robot with an incredibly large sniper rifle and a large backpack. "It"s time to get lost," the robot said in electronically synthesized Turkish. He aimed a large rifle and ordered: "Drop your weapon." The Turks did as they were told, turned around and ran after their comrades. The Iraqis emerged from their spider holes, picked up the Turks' weapons and their remaining anti-tank missiles, and went in search of new targets.

"Jaffar's guys are doing pretty well on the east side," Charlie Turlock said. "I think the rest of this battalion is defeated, thanks to Wolverine. How are things in the west, Zipper?"

"Not that good," Wayne Macomber said. He "fired his tanks" at every large armored vehicle that came within range, but the column of Turkish vehicles approaching them seemed endless.

"Help is needed?"

"General?"

"Second Wolverine in five minutes," Patrick said. "The first one was wearing a tango uniform. But we still have two companies in the east that I want to deploy first. We have to hope the Iraqis will hold out."

"Colonel Jaffar?"

"I'm sorry I left such a small force behind the reconnaissance plane," Jaffar radioed amid the loud noise of the engine and many gasping people. "Some of our vehicles also broke down."

Patrick could see where Jaffar's battalion was in relation to the four platoons guarding the XC-57, and like the second Wolverine, he had no intention of doing so before the Turks attacked. "General, I"m closer," Charlie Turlock radioed. "Zipper and I together may be enough to at least delay the Turks for a long time."

"No, you have the eastern flank, Charlie; we don"t want anyone lingering from that direction," Patrick said. "Martinez, I need you to get ahead of Jaffar"s guys and engage."

"With pleasure, General," replied Angel Martinez, commander of the criminal investigation unit accompanying Yusuf Jaffar"s battalion. Martinez was a jack of all trades at Scion Aviation International: he had police training; he repaired and drove trucks and construction equipment; he even knew how to cook. When they were looking for volunteers to go to Iraq, he was the first one to raise his hand. During the long flight, Wayne and Charlie gave him ground school lessons on how to operate a cybernetic infantry device; when Wayne Macomber ordered him into the saddle after they arrived in Nala and were about to destroy the local security forces, it was his first time actually piloting the CID.

Now this was only his second time - and he was about to face an entire battalion of the Turkish army.

"Listen here, Angel," Charlie radioed. "The armor and rail gun are great, but your main weapons aboard a CID are speed, mobility and situational awareness. Your main weaknesses are massed platoon or company level weapons because they can quickly drain your strength. You must move so that heavy weapons cannot focus fire on you. Shoot, move, scan, move, shoot, move."

"Charlie, you taught me this mantra for so long that I repeat it in my sleep," Martinez said. He raced ahead of Jaffar's battalion at a breathtaking speed, over fifty miles an hour across the open field. "Target in sight."

"The Turks are concentrating on the front platoons," Zipper said, "but the minute you open fire, they-"

"Projectile away," Martinez said. He threw himself on the ground in a prone position, selected a Turkish armored personnel carrier in his sights and fired. The armored personnel carrier did not explode or even stop when hit by the tungsten steel alloy projectile because the sausage-sized bullet passed right through it as if it had never existed - but every person inside the vehicle was torn to pieces by fragments of the armored personnel carrier's thin steel fuselage, uncontrollably flying inside the car. "Damn, I must have missed," Martinez said.

"No, but you have to remember to address the engine compartment, transmission, magazine or tracks, not just the crew compartment," Zipper said. "The projectiles will easily pass through thin steel or aluminum. Every infantryman on board may be dead, but the vehicle can still fight if the driver or commander survives."

"Got it, Zipper," Martinez said. As soon as he stood up, they opened fire on him, including automatic forty-millimeter grenade launchers. He rushed sideways a hundred yards, looking for the source of these bullets. He soon found it - not one, but two armored personnel carriers.

"Angel, keep moving!" Charlie screamed. "These two armored personnel carriers lined you up!"

"Not for long," Martinez shouted back. He took aim and fired directly through the front of one armored personnel carrier. It immediately shook and stopped, and soon a fire broke out in the engine compartment. But Martinez couldn't enjoy the view because two more armored personnel carriers were targeting him. He immediately downloaded their location into his target computer's memory, took aim, and fired. But they moved quickly and he was only able to catch one before he had to run because he was being fired upon by the other. "Guys, I have a feeling they expected to find us here," he said. "They are beating me."

"Aim as you run and shoot as many as you can when you stop," Zipper said. "Don't aim until you're stopped."

"Looks like they're probably after us," Charlie said. She fired four ballistic missiles from her backpack, which contained infrared and millimeter-wave radars that aimed them at a group of four Turkish armored personnel carriers that appeared out of nowhere from the east. "At least this gives Jaffar's troops a chance-"

"Helicopters approaching, heading northwest, five miles!" - Patrick shouted. "They look like warships accompanied by a scout! Too low to notice them any further!" Before Martinez could begin searching for the new arrivals, the Turkish gunship Cobra fired a Hellfire laser-guided missile.

"Evasion moves, Angel!" Zipper screamed. Now that the US-licensed but Turkish-built Kiowa Scout helicopter had to keep its laser on Martinez, it became an easy target for Macomber's rail gun, and he blew the touchpad on the helicopter's mast apart a second later... but not before a Hellfire missile struck Martinez in the left chest.

"Angel is defeated! The angel is defeated!" Zipper screamed. He tried to run towards him, but continuous fire from the battalion in front of Jaffar's security platoons pinned him to the ground. "I can't get to him," he said, firing at the other approaching APCs, then reloaded his rail pistol. "I'm not sure how long we can hold these guys off. I have fifty percent energy and ammo left."

"Wolverine will be overhead in a minute," Patrick said. "More helicopters are coming!"

"I'm going to try to get to Martinez," Zipper said.

"The Turks are too close, Wayne," Patrick said.

"We may have to retreat, but I will not leave without Martinez." Zipper fired a few more times, waited for the return fire to die down, then said, "Here I am-"

At that moment, several dozen flashes of light flashed from the west, and a few moments after that, Turkish armored vehicles began to explode like firecrackers. "Sorry I'm late again, gentlemen," Yusuf Jaffar radioed, "but I'm still not used to your speed. I think you can get your mate, Macomber."

"On my way!" Zipper started the engines on the boots of his Tin Man armor and in three leaps he was next to Martinez. At that moment, the ground in front of him began to sizzle and burst like water splattered in a hot frying pan as Wolverine began dropping bombs and landmines on the Turkish troops. The air became thick with smoke and the screams of the trapped Turks. "Are you okay there, Angel?" Zipper knew from his biometric datalink that Martinez was alive, but most of the robot's left side was destroyed and he was unable to move or communicate. Zipper picked up the robot. "Hold on, Martinez. It might hurt a little when you land."

Just as he turned on the engines, a Hellfire missile fired from the Turkish gunship Cobra exploded in the spot he had just left, and Zipper and Martinez were knocked out of the sky like clay pigeons shot down by a bird shot.

The BERP armor protected Zipper from the explosion, but after he landed, he discovered that all of his helmet's systems had gone dark and were silent. He had no choice but to take off his helmet. Illuminated by nearby fires of burning cars, he could see Martinez lying about fifty yards away and ran towards him. But as soon as he got within twenty yards, the ground exploded with large caliber shells, littering the area around the robot. The Cobra gunship approached within firing range and was spraying it with twenty-millimeter shells. Zipper knew he was next. Without the power, his BERP armor would not protect him.

He looked around for a place to hide. The nearest Iraqi machine gun nest surrounding the XC-57 was about a hundred yards away. He didn't want to leave Martinez, but there was no way he could carry him, so he ran. Damn it, he thought grimly, maybe running away made it a little harder for the Cobra pilot to kill him. He heard the machine gun open fire and he tried to duck and dodge a little like he did as a football player at the Air Force Academy. Who knows how good these Turkish artillerymen are, he thought, waiting for the shells to explode in him. May be-

And then he heard a terrible explosion, strong enough and close enough to knock him off his feet. He turned and looked up just in time to see a Cobra gunship crash into a field just a couple of dozen yards away. As the sound and sensation of burning metal enveloped him, he jumped to his feet and ran. The heat and choking smoke forced him to duck as he ran, and he could hear and feel the rockets and ammunition on the burning helicopter scattering behind him. Wouldn't it be a bitch, he thought, to avoid being turned into Swiss cheese by a Cobra attack helicopter only to have the helicopter's spent ammo get to him? Of course, this is my luck, he thought, this is how I should-

Suddenly it seemed to him that he had run headlong into a steel barricade. "Hey, hey, slow down there, Mr. Rabbit," he heard the electronic voice of a criminal investigation officer. It was Charlie who fled her position to the east. "Everything is clear with you. Take a moment. Have you lost your headdress?"

"I lost everything... The suit is dead," Zipper said. "Go and get Martinez." Charlie waited a few moments, shielding Zipper with her armor until the explosions stopped on the downed Cobra, then ran around the burning wreckage. She returned a few minutes later, carrying another CID unit. She then pulled Martinez with one hand and scooped Macomber back to the security post near the XC-57 with the other.

"More gunships are approaching," Charlie said, raising her railgun and scanning the sky with the CID's sensors. "Most are after Jaffar's brigade, but there are a couple who are after us." She paused for a moment, studying the electronic images of the battlefield. "I'll distract them," she said, then sped off to the east.

Zipper peeked out from behind the sandbag bunker... and as he looked up into the sky, he saw the unmistakable flash of a rocket engine igniting, he jumped to his feet and ran away from the bunker as fast as he could-

He was instantly knocked down, blinded, deafened, half fried and pelted with supersonic shrapnel as the missile landed just a few yards behind him. Unfortunately for him, he didn't pass out, so all he could do was lie on the ground in pain, his whole head feeling like a coal briquette. But a few seconds later he was lifted from the ground. "C-Charlie...?"

"My rail gun is DOA," Charlie said as she ran. "I'm getting you out of-" She suddenly stopped, turned and crouched, shielding Wak from the deafening burst of Cobra cannon fire. "I"m going to lay you down and get this thing," she said. "He doesn't want you, he wants-" The Cobra pilot fired again. Zipper felt the large-caliber shells pushing him and Charlie as if they had their backs to a hurricane. "I... I'm losing power," she said after the latest shelling ended. "The last explosion hit something... I think it was a battery. I don"t think I can move." Cobra opened fire again...

At that moment, they heard an explosion behind them, the cannon fire stopped, and they heard the sounds of another helicopter falling. Neither of them moved until they heard the cars approaching. "Charlie?"

"I can move, but it's very slow," she said. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine". Zipper painfully wriggled out of the mechanical hands of the criminal investigation unit and looked around for the Turks. "Stay where you are. We have company." The cars were almost upon them. He had no weapons, nothing with which he could fight. There was nothing he could-

"Raise your hands and don't move," he heard a voice say...an American voice. Zipper did as he was told. He saw that the vehicle was a mobile air defense unit Avenger. An army sergeant approached him wearing night vision goggles, which he raised. "You must be a couple of Scion guys because I haven"t seen anything like you two before."

"Macomber, this is Turlock," Zipper said. "I have another guy there." The sergeant whistled and waved, and a few moments later a Hummer pulled up with the back open. Zipper helped load Charlie into the Hummer. When she was taken back to Nala, he took another humvee, returned and found Martinez, ordered several soldiers to load him up and also took him back to the base.

Martinez was unconscious, had several broken bones and minor internal bleeding, and was taken to the infirmary for emergency surgery; Charlie and Zipper were examined and were fine, Zipper had several cuts, burns and bruises. She and Zipper were taken to a security post at the end of the runway, where two Humvees, a Stryker wheeled armored command post, and an Avenger unit were partially hidden by the light structures at the end of the runway and the instrument landing system transmitter building. Standing outside the Stryker, watching the battle through image-enhanced binoculars, were Patrick McLanahan, Hunter Noble, John Masters, Captain Calvin Cotter, an air traffic control officer, and Vice President Kenneth Phoenix and his Secret Service team.

"Glad you guys are okay," Patrick said. He handed out water and energy bars. "It was close."

"Why are you guys here?" - asked Macomber.

"The interference knocked out all of our radar and most of our communications," Cotter said. "There's quite a bit of darkness in Triple-C. I can get line-of-sight laser communication from here."

"What is this word, General?" Wayne asked. "How badly were we hurt?"

"They say it's all about to end," Patrick said. Wayne hung his head dejectedly... Until Patrick added, "It's almost over, and it looks like we've won."

"Not a damn thing?"

"With the help of CIDS, you and the Wolverines, we almost completely stopped the Turks," Patrick said. "The Turks did not expect the Iraqis to fight so hard, and Jaffar's boys attacked them with fury. Then, when William joined them, the Turks turned around and headed north."

"I had a feeling that Wilhelm wasn't going to just sit back while Jaffar went back and forth," Zipper said.

"It was four brigades to two, plus you guys and cruise missiles, but it was enough for the Turks," said Vice President Phoenix. "I feel like their hearts weren't really in it. They came to Iraq to hunt down the PKK, not to fight the Iraqis and the Americans. They then started fighting robots and armored soldiers firing Buzz Lightyear's rail guns and they split up."

"I hope so, sir," said Patrick. "But I don"t trust Hirsiz one bit. The PKK has already pushed him over the edge, and now we have defeated him. He'll probably lash out. I don't think he's likely to stop at bombing some supposedly PKK-friendly businesses in Erbil."

"It looks like Jaffar will be reinforcing his forward battalions and starting to take his losses back to base," Cotter said as he stepped out of the Stryker and scanned the area north of their position with his binoculars. "Colonel Wilhelm and Major Weatherly will keep their battalions on the line in case...yes! " Cotter shouted as an incredibly bright flash of white light pierced the night sky, exactly where he was looking.

The first flash was followed by hundreds of others, each brighter than the last, and then came the sound of powerful explosions and the roar of superheated air. Clouds of fire rose hundreds of feet into the sky, and soon they felt the heat wash over them, like ocean waves crashing onto a beach.

"What the hell was that?" Phoenix was crying. He and John Masters helped Cotter, who had been blinded by the flash, to the ground and poured water on his face.

"It smells like napalm or thermobaric bombs," Macomber said. He took Cotter's binoculars, reconfigured the optical-electronic circuits so that the flashes would not blind him too, and examined the area. "Je...sus..."

"Who got hit, Wayne?" - Patrick asked.

"Looks like Jaffar"s two forward battalions," Zipper said quietly. "God, this must be what hell looks like down there." He scanned the area around the explosion zone. "I don't see our guys. I will try to contact Wilhelm and-"

Just then, two huge bright flashes occurred, followed a moment later by two powerful explosions... this time, behind them, inside the base. The crushing tremors threw everyone to the ground and they crawled for any safety they could find. Two massive fiery mushroom clouds rose into the sky. "Take cover!" Patrick shouted over the hurricane-like chaos as plumes of smoke billowed above them. "Get down under the Stryker!" The Secret Service agents pulled Phoenix into his Hummer and everyone else crawled under the Stryker just as they were hit by massive pieces of falling debris.

It took a long time for the deadly debris to stop falling, longer before anyone could breathe well enough through the choking clouds of dust and smoke, and even longer before anyone found the courage to stand up and survey the area. Somewhere in the center of the base there was a strong fire.

"I"ve been too close to a bomb exploding twice already!" John Masters screamed. "Don"t tell me - there are Turkish bombers again, right?"

"That would be my guess," Patrick said. "What did they crash into?"

One of the Stryker's crew members stepped out of his vehicle, and when everyone else saw his eyes widen and his jaw drop, a chill of fear ran down their spines. "Holy crap," he breathed, "I think they just caught Triple-C."

PINK PALACE, CANKAYA, ANKARA, REPUBLIC OF TURKEY

AFTER A SHORT TIME

"What do you mean they retreated?" President Kurzat Hirsiz asked. "Why did they retreat? They outnumbered the Iraqis five to one!"

"I know it, Mr. President, I know it," said Defense Minister Hassan Dzizek. "But they weren't just fighting Iraqis. The American army helped them."

"God...so we also fought the Americans," Hirsiz said. He shook his head. "It was bad enough that we decided to engage the Iraqis in the fight; I never expected the Americans to react too."

"And also two American robots and one of the armored commandos... the Tin Woodman soldiers," Jizek added. "They also had two cruise missiles that attacked with bombs and anti-personnel mines."

"What?" Hirsiz exploded. "How badly were we hurt?"

"Very bad, sir," Jizek said. "Perhaps twenty percent or more."

"Twenty percent...in one battle?" a voice shouted. It was Prime Minister Ice ¸e Akas. She has not appeared in public since the declaration of the state of emergency and the dissolution of the National Assembly, but has spent most of her time meeting with lawmakers. "Mr. President, what do you think you are doing?"

"I did not call you here, Prime Minister," Hirsiz said. "We also did much worse to the Iraqis. What do you want? To resign, I hope."

"Kurzat, please stop this madness now before it escalates into a full-scale war with Iraq and the United States," Akas pleaded. "Get it over with. Declare victory and take the troops home."

"Not until the PKK is destroyed, Ace," Hirsiz said.

"Then why are you attacking High Kaif?" Akas asked. "There are few PKK in this area."

"There was a situation at this air base that needed to be resolved," Hirsiz said.

"I know about the American spy plane - you still allow me to watch TV, even though you took my phone and passport and keep me under 24-hour guard," Akas said. "But why would you waste Turkish lives for a piece of burnt metal?" She looked at Jizek. "Or are the generals in charge now?"

"I am still in charge here, the prime minister, you can be sure of that," Hirsiz said.

"So you gave the order to bomb Erbil?"

"What do you want, Prime Minister?" Hirsiz asked irritably, looking for a cigarette.

"I think you should let me meet with Vice President Phoenix in Erbil or Baghdad."

"I told you no," Hirsiz said. "In a state of emergency, the President must make decisions about all actions, and I do not have time to meet with Phoenix or anyone else until the crisis is resolved. Besides, Phoenix is still in Nala and it"s too dangerous for him to travel."

"I will not go as an opponent of the war, but as the prime minister of Turkey, who, as you said, has little power during a war when the National Assembly is dissolved and the military council replaces the cabinet," Akash said. She stopped and blinked in disbelief. "You said Phoenix is still in Nala? Is he at Nala Air Base? Isn"t that where the fighting is going on, where all these people died?" She saw Hirsiz and Jizek exchange glances. "Is there anything else? What?"

Hirsiz hesitated to tell her, then shrugged and nodded to Jizek. "Anyway, it will be in the news soon."

"We bombed Nala Air Base," Dzizek said. Akas's jaw dropped in amazement. "We targeted the Iraqi and American military headquarters building."

"What are you doing? Was their headquarters bombed?" Akas screamed. "You are mad, both of you. Is Phoenix dead?

"No, he was not in the building at the time," Hirsiz said.

"You're lucky!"

"I didn"t start shooting at the Iraqis and Americans until they started shooting at the Turks!" Hirsiz screamed. "I didn"t start this war! The PKK is killing innocent men, women and children, and no one says a word to us. Well, now they will talk to us, won't they? They will scream, complain and threaten me! I do not care ! I'm not going to stop until Iraq stops harboring the PKK and promises to help root them out. Maybe after several American deaths in Iraq at our hands, they will talk to us about destroying the PKK."

Akas looked at Hirsiz as if she were studying an oil painting or an animal in a zoo, trying to find some hidden understanding or meaning in what she saw. All she could discern was hatred. He didn't even look back at her. "How many Americans were killed on the base, Minister?"

"Twenty or twenty-five, I don"t remember; about a hundred wounded," Dzizek replied.

"My God..."

"Hey, maybe it's a good idea for you to meet Phoenix and talk to Gardner," Cizek said. Hirsiz turned around, his eyes wide in surprise and his jaw clenched in anger. Jizek raised his hand. "Kurzat, I am afraid that the Americans will strike back - perhaps not militarily, not immediately, but with all other means at their disposal. If we don't negotiate with them, they will most likely strike back. Declare a ceasefire, order our forces to hold their positions and allow Ice to go to Baghdad. In the meantime, we will replenish our forces, bring back our wounded and dead, and begin gathering intelligence on the whereabouts of the PKK and their supporters. We need to make sure we don't lose the support of our allies, but we don't have to give up everything we've achieved."

Hirsiz's expression was a mixture of rage and confusion, and his head jerked back towards his two advisors as if it had gotten out of control. "End? End it now? Are we any closer to destroying the PKK than we were five thousand lifetimes ago? If we do not complete this, the five thousand soldiers who lost their lives will die for nothing."

"I think we have shown the world our crisis, Kurzat," Akas said. "You have also shown the world, and especially the PKK and their Kurdish supporters, that Turkey can and will act to protect its people and interests. But if you let things get out of control, the world will just think you're crazy. You don"t want that to happen."

Hirsiz studied both of his advisors. Akas could see that the president was looking more and more lonely by the second. He returned to his desk and sat down heavily, staring out the large picture window. The sun was just rising and it looked like the day was going to be cold and drizzly, Akas thought, which must surely make Hirsiz feel even more alone.

"All I was trying to do was protect the Turkish people," he said quietly. "All I wanted to do was stop the killing."

"We will do it, Kurzat," Akas said. "We will do this together - your cabinet, the military, the Americans and the Iraqis. We will involve everyone. You don"t have to do this alone."

Hirsiz closed his eyes, then nodded. "Declare an immediate ceasefire, Hassan," he said. "We have already drawn up a phased withdrawal plan: complete the first and second phases."

The Minister of National Defense's jaw dropped in surprise. "Phase two?" he asked. "But, sir, this is drawing troops back to the border. Are you sure you want to back off that much? I recommend to us-"

"Ice, you can notify the Foreign Minister that we want to immediately meet with the Americans and Iraqis to negotiate about international inspectors and peacekeepers to monitor the border," Hirsiz continued. "You may also notify the Speaker of the National Assembly that, pending a peaceful and successful withdrawal from Iraq, I am lifting the state of emergency and reconvening Parliament."

Ice Akas approached Hirsiz and hugged him. "You made the right choice, Kurzat," she said. "I will get to work immediately." She smiled at Jizek and hurried out of the president's office.

Hirsiz stood for a long time at his desk and looked out the window; he then turned around and was surprised to see his Minister of National Defense still in his office. "Hasan?"

"What are you doing, Kurzat?" - Asked Jizek. "Ceasefire: great.

This will give us time to rearm, strengthen and regroup. But retreat all the way to the border before we have a chance to create a buffer zone and destroy the PKK?"

"I"m tired, Hassan," Hirsiz said wearily. "We have lost too many people..."

"Soldiers died defending their country, Mr. President!" Jizek said. "If you retreat before the operation is completed, they will die in vain! You said so yourself!"

"We will have other opportunities, Hassan. Now we have the attention of the whole world. They will understand that we are serious when it comes to fighting the PKK. Now give your orders."

Jizek looked like he was going to continue arguing, but instead he nodded curtly and walked out.

NAKHLA ALLIED AIR BASE, IRAQ

AFTER A SHORT TIME

"I believe it could have been a lot worse for us," Colonel Jack Wilhelm said. He stood again in their makeshift morgue in the large aircraft hangar, overseeing the preparation of the remains of the soldiers killed in the previous night's battle. "Twenty-one soldiers killed in Triple C, including my operations officer, plus another thirty-two in action against the Turks, as well as over two hundred wounded, two dozen in critical condition." He turned to Patrick McLanahan. "Sorry about Martinez, General. I heard that he died a while ago."

"Yes. Thank you ".

"Your guys and your devices did a great job, General. You really went through it."

"Unfortunately, not for our client," Patrick said. "The Iraqis lost more than two hundred and fifty."

"But Jaffar and his men fought like wild cats," Wilhelm said. "I always thought this guy was all bluff and bluster. He turned out to be a good field commander and a tough warrior." His walkie-talkie beeped and he listened through his earpiece, answered, and hung up. "The Turkish Prime Minister announced a ceasefire and said that Turkish troops were retreating to the border," he said. "Looks like it's all over. What the hell were the Turks thinking? Why did they start this?"

"Frustration, anger, revenge: dozens of reasons," Patrick said. "Türkiye is one of those countries that simply doesn't get any respect. They are not European, not Asian, not Caucasian, not Middle Eastern; they are Muslim but secular. They control major land and sea routes, have one of the largest economies and militaries in the world, are powerful enough to have a seat on the United Nations Security Council, but they are still not allowed into the European Union and are treated as red-haired stepson. I think I would be disappointed too."

"They may deserve respect, but they also deserve to get their asses kicked," Wilhelm said. "So, I'm guessing your contract is up... or is it? Maybe the Iraqis need you now more than ever?"

"We"ll stay for now," Patrick said. "I will recommend that we monitor the Turkish ceasefire and troop withdrawal, and we will likely be here for some time until the Iraqis establish their own surveillance force. They have a small fleet of Cessna Caravans that have been modified for ground surveillance and communications relay, and there is talk of them leasing a few drones."

"So you might soon be out of work?"

"I think yes". Patrick took a deep breath, so deep that Wilhelm noticed. "It's a good job and a good group of guys and girls, but I've been away from home too long."

"To tell you the truth, it was nice to get out of the tank and lead a group of troops into battle again," Wilhelm said. "I've been watching my guys do this on video screens and computer monitors for too long." He smiled slightly at McLanahan. "But this is a young man"s game, right, General?"

"I did not say that." Patrick nodded toward the tables of body bags lined up again in the hangar. "But I"ve been dealing with this for too long."

"You pilots see war completely differently than the soldiers on the ground," Wilhelm said. "For you, combat is about computers, satellites and drones."

"No, that's not true."

"I know you have done and seen a lot, General, but this is different," Wilhelm continued. "You control systems, sensors and machines. We control the fighters. I don't see dead men and women here, General-I see soldiers who put on their uniforms, took their rifles, followed me, and who fell in battle. I'm not sad for them. I'm sad for their families and loved ones, but I'm proud of them."

PINK PALACE, CANKAYA, ANKARA, REPUBLIC OF TURKEY

THAT EVENING

The phone on the president's desk rang. "Uh...Mr. "The President, Minister Dzizek and General Guzlev are here to see you," the presidential assistant muttered, stuttering.

President Kurzat Hirsiz looked at his watch, then at the calendar on his computer. "Did we have a meeting planned, Nazim?"

"No, sir. They...they say it's urgent. Very urgent."

Hirsiz sighed. "Very good. Tell my wife I'll be a little late." He began to organize the papers on his desk, prioritizing his tasks for the next day, when he heard the door to his office open. "Come on in, gentlemen," he said absently, continuing to work, "but can we do this quickly? I promised my wife that I-"

When he looked up, he saw the Minister of National Defense, Hasan Cizek, and the Chief of Military Staff, General Abdullah Guzlev, standing in the middle of the office, patiently waiting for him - and both men were dressed in green camouflage combat uniforms and shiny paratrooper boots, and both were carrying American-made M1911 pistols. 45 caliber in polished black leather holsters.

"What the hell is going on here?" Hirsiz asked incredulously. "Why are you in military uniform, Hassan, and why are you carrying weapons in the Pink Palace?"

"Good evening, Kurzat," said Dzizek. He waved his hand over his right shoulder, and several members of the presidential guard rushed in with the receptionist, Hirsiz, cuffed in plastic handcuffs. The guards grabbed Hirsiz and also cuffed his wrists with plastic handcuffs.

"What the hell is this?" Hirsiz screamed. "What are you doing? I am the President of the Turkish Republic!"

"You are no longer the president of Turkey, Kurzat," Dzizek said. "I met with General Guzlev, the chiefs of staff and the Ministry of Internal Affairs, and we decided that you are no longer competent to give orders. You said so yourself, Kurzat: you are tired. Well, your fatigue poses a danger to the brave men and women on the ground who are risking their lives at the word of the President. We believe that you cannot be trusted to issue any more orders during a state of emergency. Prime Minister Akas, of course, is not in the best shape. So, we have decided to take control instead of you."

"What? What are you talking about? What the hell are you doing?"

"You know what's going on here, Hirsiz," Jizek said. "The only question is, what will you do? Will you play a confused and embattled president, or will you take responsibility for your failures and act responsibly?"

"What the hell are you talking about? Are you...are you going to stage a coup?"

"That won't be necessary," Jizek said. "In a state of emergency, you can appoint anyone as commander-in-chief of the armed forces. You appoint me and receive a well-earned rest for a few years until you are well enough to resume your duties; I am rescinding the order for the second phase of withdrawal and we are consolidating our gains in Iraq."

"This is madness! I will not obey! I will never leave my post! I am the President of Turkey! I have been elected by the Grand National Assembly...!"

"You swore an oath to protect the people of Turkey, but instead you stand by and do nothing but moan and drool while the Iraqis and Americans kill thousands of soldiers," Dzizek shouted. "I won't tolerate this anymore. The only proper response is military, not political, and therefore the army must be free to end this crisis. You are afraid to unleash the army and the Jandarma: I am not. What will it be, Mr. President? Obey my orders and you and your family will be allowed to stay in a very comfortable residence in Tarsus or maybe even in Dipkarpaz, under very close guard and privacy-"

"As your puppet?"

"As President of the Republic, Hirsiz, you are taking sound and urgent advice from your military advisors to put an end to attacks on our country," Jizek said. "If you do not agree to this, you will have a terrible heart attack and we will banish you and your family from Ankara forever."

"You can't do this!" Hirsiz protested. "I didn't do anything wrong! You have no authority...!"

"I took an oath to protect this country, Hirsiz," Jizek shouted, "and I will not sit idly by while you undo all the achievements our brave soldiers have made for this country. You leave me absolutely no choice!"

Hirsiz hesitated again, and Guzlev pulled out his .45 and pointed it at the president. "I told you he wouldn't do that, Hassan...!" - he said.

Hirsiz's eyes bulged, his arms and shoulders went limp, and his knees shook - it was as if all the fluids in his body had left him. "No, please," he whined. "I don't want to die. Tell me what to do."

"Good decision, Hirsiz," Dzizek threw some papers on the table. "Sign these papers." Hirsiz signed them without reading or even looking up, except to find the signature line. "We will escort you to the national communications center, where you will personally address the people of the republic." In his hands was a stack of papers. "That's what you say. It is important for you to reach out to the people of Turkey as soon as possible."

"When can I see my wife, my family...?"

"Business first, Hirsiz," Jizek said. He nodded to the officer of the presidential guard. "Take him away." Hirsiz muttered something as he and his assistant were escorted out of the office under heavy military guard.

Guzlev, with an irritated movement, put his .45 caliber into his holster. "Damn it, I thought I was going to have to shoot that fucking bastard, Jizek," he cursed. "He'll look like crap on TV."

"So much the better," said Jizek. "If he can"t or won"t do it, I"ll read it myself." He stepped towards Guzlev. "Cancel the order to withdraw phases one and two and get ready to march on Erbil. If one peshmerga fighter, Iraqi soldier or American - especially these robots and tin lumberjacks - sticks his head out even an inch, I want a squadron of jets to send them all straight to hell." He thought for a moment, then said, "No, I'm not going to wait for those robots and Tin Woodmen to come for us. I want Nala Air Base to be closed. Do they think they can kill a thousand Turks and just leave? I want this place razed to the ground, do you understand me? Aligned!"

"With pleasure, Hassan...I mean, Mr. President," said Guzlev. "With pleasure".

NAKHLA ALLIED AIR BASE, IRAQ

IN THE NEXT MORNING

After a memorial service for the fallen soldiers of the Second Regiment, Patrick McLanahan, Jack Wilhelm, John Masters and Chief of Security Chris Thompson escorted Vice President Ken Phoenix to the departure line, where a recently arrived CV-22 Osprey rotary-wing aircraft was waiting to take him to Bahrain.

The Vice President shook Wilhelm's hand. "You did an outstanding job last night, Colonel," Phoenix said. "I'm sorry for your losses."

"Thank you, sir," said William. "I wouldn"t want to see us set up like this, but I"m glad that the Turks decided to declare a ceasefire, retreat and start negotiations. This will give us a chance to get our boys home."

"I'll feel better when you're all home, safe," Phoenix said. "Thank you for leading these men and women so well."

"Thank you, sir," said William, saluting.

Phoenix returned the greeting. "I'm not in your chain of command, Colonel," Phoenix said. "I don"t appreciate the greeting."

"You stood with my troops, you took enemy fire, and you did not cry, whine, command us or get in our way," Wilhelm said. "You deserve it, sir. If I may say so, you looked very... presidential."

"Well, thank you, Colonel," Phoenix said. "Coming from you, this is high praise. Lousy policy, but high marks."

"It"s a good thing I don"t get involved in politics, sir," said Wilhelm. "Have a nice trip."

"Thank you, Colonel." Phoenix turned to Patrick and shook his hand. "I don't know when I'll see you again, Patrick," he said, "but I thought you and your team did an extraordinary job last night."

Thank you, sir," Patrick said. "Unfortunately, I still don"t think this is the end, but the ceasefire and the withdrawal of troops is definitely good news."

"I read your plan of action against Diyarbakir," Phoenix said. "I don't think there's any chance the President will approve of this, especially when he finds out it's coming from you. But I'll talk to him about it."

"We can get this up and running in less than a day, and at least it will make it clear that we are serious."

"That"s true," Phoenix agreed. "I'd also like to talk to you about this company of yours and your incredible weapon systems like the CID, the Tin Man and those electromagnetic rail guns. I don't know why we don't expose thousands of them. He looked at Patrick with a puzzled expression, then added, "And I'd like to know why you have them and not the US Army."

"I'll explain everything, sir," said Patrick.

"I doubt it," Phoenix said with a wry smile, "but I still want to talk to you about them. Goodbye, General."

"Have a nice trip, sir." The Vice President nodded, boarded the CV-22, and within moments the large twin propellers began to spin.

At first it was difficult for Patrick to hear anything over the roar of the Osprey's twin propellers at full VTOL power, but he heard and opened the radio. Wilhelm was doing the same at that very moment. "Go ahead, Boomer," he said.

"Bandits!" The noble hunter screamed. At that moment, air raid sirens sounded. "Two formations of ten supersonic bombers have just crossed the Turkish-Iraqi border, heading here in five minutes!"

"Get Osprey out of here!" Patrick screamed. He waved for John Masters and Chris Thompson to follow him. "Get him the hell away from the base!"

Wilhelm also shouted into his radio: "Shelters, shelters, shelters!" - he shouted. "Everyone to the bomb shelters, now!"

As they ran out into the open, they could still see the CV-22 as it took off and headed south. At first, its flight path looked completely normal - a standard climb, gradual acceleration, a smooth transition from vertical flight to turboprop. But a moment later the Osprey banked sharply to the left and dove toward the ground, and they heard the engines whine in protest as the large transport switched from turboprop to helicopter mode. He dodged left and right and moved low toward a group of buildings in High Kaif, hoping to hide in the radar clutter.

But it was too late - Turkish missiles were already in the air. Turkish F-15s had already blocked the CV-22 at more than a hundred miles and fired two Turkish-modified AIM-54 missiles, ironically nicknamed "Phoenix," at the Osprey. Previously serving in the U.S. Navy to provide long-range defense to carrier battle groups, the AIM-54 was the backbone of the U.S. Navy's carrier-based air wings, capable of destroying large formations of Russian bombers before they could get within range of anti-ship cruise missiles. After it was decommissioned in 2004, the S. Military's stockpile of longest-range, highest-kill air-to-air missiles was put up for auction, and the Turkish Air Force snapped them up.

After launch, the Phoenix missiles rose to an altitude of eighty thousand feet at nearly five times the speed of sound, and then began diving toward the target area, guided by the powerful radar of a Turkish F-15E. Within seconds of impact, AIM-54 activated its own targeting radar to close in for destruction. One missile malfunctioned and self-destructed, but a second missile struck the right rotor disk of the CV-22 Osprey as the aircraft maneuvered to land in the parking lot. The right engine exploded, sending the aircraft into a violent left-hand spin for several seconds before crashing to the ground and then flipping upside down from the force of the explosion.

There, in Nala, complete chaos reigned. Since the Command Post had already been destroyed, the main targets of the Turkish bombers were the airstrip and the barracks. Each hangar, including the XC-57 Loser's storage hangar and the makeshift morgue housing the remains of fallen American and Iraqi soldiers, was hit by at least one two-thousand-pound Joint Direct Attack bomb, an advanced satellite-guided system over a conventional gravity bomb delivered radar This time, parking ramps and taxiways were damaged, which had not previously been attacked by the Turks during their initial invasion.

The soldiers in Nala were on edge and ready for anything after the previous night's battle, so when the air raid siren sounded, the men immediately walked out of the barracks doors and headed to the shelters. Several soldiers lingered too long to collect weapons or personal effects and were killed by bombs, and several other soldiers helping the wounded evacuate the building were caught in the open. Overall, losses were insignificant.

But the devastation was complete. Within minutes, most of the Allied airbase at Nala was destroyed.

SITUATION CENTER, WHITE HOUSE, Washington, DC.

AFTER A SHORT TIME

President Gardner hurried to the Situation Room, a high-tech conference room in the West Wing used for high-level national security meetings, and took his seat. "Take your seats," he said. "Someone talk to me, right now. What's happened?"

"Turkey declared martial law and launched a series of air strikes across northern Iraq," said national security adviser Conrad Carlisle. "Turkish Defense Minister Jizek says he was put in charge of the military and ordered to launch a full-scale attack against the PKK and their supporters in Iraq and Turkey." An electronic map of northern Iraq was displayed on a large, wall-sized computer monitor at the front of the room. "Twenty cities and towns were attacked by fighter-bombers, including Kirkuk, Erbil, Dohuk and Mosul. Strikes were carried out on three joint Iraqi-American military bases in Erbil, Kirkuk and near Mosul. There are now reports of casualties. The bases only had a few minutes of warning." He paused long enough to get the President's full attention, then added, "And the Vice President's plane disappeared."

"Missing?" - the president shouted.

"The vice president flew to Baghdad minutes before the attack occurred," Carlisle said. "The pilot was performing evasive maneuvers and was looking for an emergency landing when they lost contact. The Allied airbase commander at Nala organized a search and rescue team, but the base was heavily damaged and nearly destroyed. It had already been subjected to a Turkish air raid last night. An Air Force search and rescue team is dispatching from Samarra, but it will take several hours to get there."

"Good God," the president gasped. "Call Hirsiz or Cizek or whoever is really in charge in Ankara. I don't want any more Turkish planes flying over Iraq - not one! Where are the carriers? What can we get up there?"

"We have the Abraham Lincoln Carrier Battle Group in the Persian Gulf," responded Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Taylor Bain. "It won't be easy because of the distance, but we can begin air patrols over Iraq with E-2 Hawkeye radar aircraft flying C4I and pairs of F/A-18 Hornet fighters in patrol orbits."

"Do it," the president ordered. "Keep them over Iraq until they are attacked." Secretary of Defense Miller Turner picked up the phone to give the order.

"Turkey has a very large air force, with a lot of surplus American combat aircraft and weapons," Carlisle noted. "Some of them, like the F-15 Eagles, can match the Hornets."

"If Turkey wants to get into a shootout with the United States, I'm willing to play," Gardner said angrily. "What about ground attack weapons? Tomahawks?

"Conventional sea-launched cruise missiles are out of range in the Persian Gulf," Bain said. "We would have to move ships and submarines closer in the Mediterranean to be within range of eastern Turkish air bases."

"Any ships or submarines in the Black Sea?"

"No submarines, according to the treaty," Bain added. "We have the only surface combat group patrolling the Black Sea, also under the treaty, and they have T-LAMs, but they are also the most vulnerable ships right now. We would have to assume that if the Turks wanted to fight, they would attack this group first."

"What else do we have?"

"We have several tactical aircraft based in various locations in Europe - Greece, Romania, Italy, Germany and the UK - but these will not be quick strike options," Bain said. "Our only other option is the conventionally armed B-2 Spirit stealth bombers launched from Diego Garcia. We have six surviving aircraft ready to fly."

"Arm them and prepare them," the president said. "That's all we have? Six?"

"I'm afraid so, Mr. President," Bane said. "We have two XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplanes that can launch precision weapons and they can be armed and hit targets within hours, and we also have several conventionally armed ICBMs that can hit targets quickly in Turkey ".

"Instruct them and prepare them too," Gardner said. "I don"t know what Ankara has in mind, or if they even have anything in mind, but if they want to attack us, I want everything ready to go."

The phone next to White House Chief of Staff Walter Cordus blinked and he picked up. "The Prime Minister of Turkey greets you, sir."

The President immediately picked up the phone. "Prime Minister Akas, this is President Gardner. What the hell is going on there? Twelve hours ago you declared a ceasefire. Now you have attacked three American military bases! Are you crazy?

"I'm afraid that the Minister of National Defense Dzizek and General Abdullah Guzlev may be, Mr. President," she said. "Last night they arrested President Hirsiz, staged a military coup and took over the Presidential Palace. They were unhappy with the president's decision to retreat to the border before the PKK and their supporters were destroyed."

"So why attack American bases?"

"Retribution for the defeat near Tall Kaif," Akas said. "Two thousand Turks were killed or wounded in that battle. Dzizek and the generals considered it cowardly to retreat to the border after such losses."

"Are you still the Prime Minister, Mrs. Akas?"

"No, I"m not like that," Akas said. "I am allowed to use my cell phone, which I am sure is tapped, but I cannot travel freely or visit my office. Under the state of emergency, the National Assembly was dissolved. Dzizek and the generals are responsible."

"I want to talk to them immediately," Gardner said. "If you can get a message to Jizek, tell him that the United States is going to establish a no-fly zone in northern Iraq and I am warning them not to violate it or try to attack any of our aircraft, otherwise we will consider this an act of war and immediately Let's strike back. We are preparing all our military resources and will respond with everything we have. It's clear?"

"It's clear to me, Mr. President," Akas said, "but I don't know if Jizek will take it as anything more than a clear threat of an imminent attack. Are you sure you want me to convey this message, sir?"

"I have no intention of attacking Turkey unless they violate Iraqi airspace again," Gardner said. "All our other answers will be by other means. But if Türkiye intends to fight, we will give them a fight." And he hung up.

OUTSIDE TALL QAIFA, IRAQ

AFTER A SHORT TIME

Two Humvees rushed to the crash site of the CV-22 and immediately surrounded the area with security forces while Chris Thompson and a medic rushed to the tilt-rotor aircraft. Fortunately, the Osprey fire suppression system stopped the major fire, and Iraqi civilians extinguished the rest. They found the vice president, the flight crew and a Secret Service agent being treated by a local doctor, while another Secret Service agent was covered with a rug. "Thank God you're alive, sir," Chris said.

"Thank you to these people," said Ken Phoenix. "If they hadn't helped, we probably would all have died in the fire. What's happened?"

"The Turks bombed the base-again," Chris said. "This time everything was practically destroyed. Several victims; we have received sufficient warning. The Turks are conducting bombing raids throughout northern Iraq."

"That's it for a ceasefire if there ever was one," Phoenix said.

"We're setting up an evacuation center here in the city," Chris said. "The Colonel plans to join friendly forces in Mosul. I'll get you out of here and then we'll figure out a way to get you to Baghdad."

Ten minutes later they met up with some survivors from Nala, including Patrick McLanahan, Hunter Noble, John Masters and a handful of contractors and soldiers, most of whom were wounded. "Glad you came, Mr. Vice President," Patrick said.

"Where is the colonel?"

"Watching the evacuation," Patrick said. "He is going to send us to Mosul and wait for the convoy to leave. Almost every building that was still standing after last night is no longer standing."

"Your plane, an XC-57?"

"They took over all the hangars, even the one we used as a morgue."

Ken Phoenix motioned for Patrick to come with him and they walked away from the others. Phoenix reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic carrying case containing the secure digital card Patrick had given him. "What about this?" - he asked. "Can we still do this?"

Patrick's eyes widened. He thought quickly and his head began to nod. "We won't have netrusion systems running," he said, "and I'll have to check the status of the Lancers in the UAE."

"Find the phone and do it," Phoenix said. "I'm going to talk to the president."

PRESIDENTIAL PALACE, CANKAYA, ANKARA, Türkiye

AFTER A SHORT TIME

"What did he say?" Hasan Dzizek shouted. "Is Gardner threatening war with Turkey?"

"What did you expect to hear from him, Hassan?" Asked Turkish Prime Minister Ays Akash. With them was the former Chief of the General Staff of Turkey, General Abdullah Guzlev. "You killed a lot of Americans today after Turkey declared a ceasefire! Did you expect him to say 'I understand' or 'Don't worry'?"

"What I did was retribution for what he, his robots and his Iraqi thugs did to my troops!" Jizek was crying. "They killed thousands!"

"Calm down, Hasan," Akas said. "The President said he's going to establish a no-fly zone in northern Iraq, and he doesn't want you to cross it. If you try, he will consider it an act of war."

"Is he threatening war with Turkey? Is he crazy or just a megalomaniac? He doesn"t have enough forces in this part of the world to attack Turkey!"

"Is he planning to use nuclear weapons against us?" - Asked Guzlev.

"Hasan, shut up and think," said Akas. "We are talking about the United States of America. They may be less powerful due to the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, but they are still the most powerful military machine in the world. You can get away with attacking two or three bases in Iraq, but you won't be able to counter the full force of their military might. They could level this building in a hundred different ways in the blink of an eye. You know it. Why are you denying it?"

"I don't deny it, but I will not back down from my mission until it is completed," Dzizek said. "The United States will have to use its vaunted military might to stop me." He paused to think for a moment, then told Guzlev: "The fastest way he can establish a no-fly zone in northern Iraq is through carrier-based aircraft flights from the Persian Gulf."

"Yes," said Guzlev. "The Mediterranean and the bases in Europe are too far away."

"How long?"

"Fighters, tankers, planes with radar - it will take several hours to brief them and get them ready to deploy, maybe longer, then at least an hour or two to fly into northern Iraq," Guzlev said.

"This means we only have a few hours, maybe five or six, to act. Can we do this?

"About half of the forces are just being restored in Diyarbakir and Malatya," Guzlev said, looking at his watch. "The other half is armed. If there are no delays or accidents... Yes, I think we can get them in the air again in five or six hours."

"What are you going to do?" Akas asked.

"I have no intention of violating the American no-fly zone; I"ll just make sure my tasks are completed before they install it," Jizek said. To Guzlev: "I want all available aircraft loaded and launched to strike the final targets in Erbil, Kirkuk and Mosul. Every known or suspected PKK and Peshmerga base, every known PKK supporter, and every Iraqi and American military base that could threaten the Turkish occupation of Iraq will be destroyed as quickly as possible."

OVER THE PACIFIC OCEAN, THREE HUNDRED MILES WEST OF LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

AFTER A SHORT TIME

"Get ready to be released," said the mission commander. He was on board Sky Masters Inc. Boeing DC-10 carrier aircraft high above the Pacific Ocean. "Let"s make it good and I"ll buy the first round."

The aircraft, originally built by McDonnell Douglas Aircraft before that company was acquired by Boeing, has been heavily modified for many purposes, including mid-air refueling and instrument testing, but its main modification gave it the ability to launch satellite boosters into space. The launch vehicle, called ALARM or Air Launched Alert Response Missile, resembled a large cruise missile. It had three solid rocket motors and folding wings to give it lift in the atmosphere. ALARM essentially used the DC-10 as its first stage engine.

The signal boosters carried four satellites inside them. The satellites, called NIRTSats, or Need It Right These Second Satellites, were multi-mission reconnaissance satellites the size of a washing machine, designed to stay in orbit for less than a month; they had very little propellant for maneuvering and had to remain in one established orbit, with only a few minor orbital changes or realignments allowed. These satellites were put into orbit to serve warlords in Afghanistan.

"It's pretty damn amazing," said the mission commander, a U.S. Air Force major from the Thirtieth Space Wing at Vandenberg Air Force Base in California. "Less than twelve hours ago I received orders to launch this constellation. We're going to do that now. It usually takes the Air Force a week to do something like this."

"That's why from now on you should just call us," said the pilot-in-command, a civilian employed by Sky Masters Inc., proudly.

"Yeah, but you guys are too expensive."

"You want the job done quickly and correctly, you have to pay for the best," the pilot said. "Besides, it"s not your money, it"s the Air Force"s money."

"Well, guys, no matter how you do it and no matter how much we pay you, it's worth it," said the mission commander.

"We strive to please," the pilot said. He turned the page on his multifunction display when he received a flashing Annunciation message, read the incoming satellite message, returned it to the main navigation page, switched his intercom to "private" and spoke.

"What was it?" - asked the mission commander.

"Nothing, just a quick request to the crews to release," the pilot said. The Air Force major didn't notice him, but the flight engineer sitting behind him suddenly pulled out maps and started typing on his flight planning computer. "How long until graduation?" - asked the pilot.

"Sixty seconds... now," the mission commander said. He checked his own multi-function display, which was displaying mission data. They flew to a precise location and course that would put the alarm on the ideal trajectory for successful deployment. Because the NIRTSats had so little fuel, the closer they could get the launch vehicle into an ideal orbit, the better.

"Get ready, flight crew," the pilot said. "Report completion of checklists to facilitator."

"The flight deck is set up and ready for departure, MS," the flight engineer said.

"The cabin deck is ready, MC," the civilian in charge of the cabin reported after his Air Force colleague gave him a thumbs up as he watched the release. The cockpit of the modified DC-10 was divided into pressurized and unpressurized compartments. In the sealed compartment there was a second ALARM amplifier suspended on cargo ropes; the compartment could accommodate two alarms, plus one in an unpressurized compartment.

The first emergency booster had already been loaded into the unpressurized launch bay, from where it would be ejected into the slipstream beneath the DC-10. Upon release, its first solid rocket motor would fire and it would fly under, then in front of, the DC-10, then begin a sharp climb. The second and third stage engines will fire alternately until the launch vehicle reaches orbital speed and is at the desired altitude in space-in this case, eighty-eight miles above Earth-and then it will begin releasing NIRTSAT satellites.

"Get ready," said the presenter. "Five... four... three... two... one... throw." He waited until the momentary pitch drop caused by the DC-10's emergency signal amplifier disconnected before the fuel and trim systems were able to restore the aircraft's balance. This has always been the hardest part of these releases; if the aircraft did not regain balance and began rapid pitch movements, and if the HARNER amplifier became caught in a disturbed slip flow, it could go off course or spin out of control. This was a rare case, but...

Then the presenter realized that he could not feel the movement of the serve. He looked at his multifunction display... and saw that the ALARM amplifier had not worked! "Hey, what happened?" He checked his indicators... and saw that the pilot had disabled the launch. "Hey, you stopped the launch! You've canceled the release! What's happening?"

"We have received orders," said the pilot. "We're going to refuel and then we're going to move to another launch axis."

"Orders? Another launch? You can't do that! This is an air force mission! Who told you to do this?"

"Boss".

"What boss? Who? The owners? He can't change this mission! I'm going to report to my command post."

"You can tell them what we did after launching this accelerator."

"This launch vehicle, this mission belongs to the US Air Force! I won't let you hijack the Air Force missile."

"I'm sorry to hear that from you, Major," the pilot said kindly... Just as the flight engineer reached behind MC, placed the stun gun against the Air Force officer's neck and pressed the switch, instantly rendering him unconscious.

"How long will he stay outside, Jim?" - asked the pilot.

"I think a couple of hours."

"Long enough," said the pilot. He clicked on the intercom: "Okay, John, send him upstairs." Moments later, the Air Force technician assigned to oversee the launch entered the flight deck and he too was knocked unconscious by the flight engineer. "Okay, while the NIRTSats are being reprogrammed by Vegas headquarters via satellite, I need a potty break before we meet the tanker. Double check your new launch plan. Good job everyone. Thanks for thinking on your feet. After this, we will all deserve a raise... unless, of course, we end up in prison."

"Where is the new task?" - asked the launch deck technician.

"Türkiye," said the pilot. "Looks like there's a lot of shit going on out there."

MARDIN PROVINCE, SOUTHEAST Türkiye

EARLY EVENING OF THE SAME DAY

"Contact with radar! Radar contact!" shouted a tactical command officer, or TAO, from the Patriot anti-aircraft missile regiment stationed in the area. "Multiple incoming contacts, medium altitude, medium subsonic, heading straight towards us. It will enter Syrian airspace in three minutes."

The tactical director, or TD, studied the Patriot radar display. "Medium speed, no maneuvering, medium altitude - probably reconnaissance drones," he said. "How many are there?"

"Eight. They are heading straight to our radar stations."

"I don"t want to waste missiles on drones," he said, "but we have to close this sector." He thought for a moment, then said, "If they change altitude, engage. Otherwise we will try to hit them with anti-aircraft artillery."

"What if they're diving onto our radar, sir?" - TAO asked.

"I am not aware of any cruise missiles that are launched at vulnerable altitudes and then dive towards their targets," the tactical director said. "Strike missiles will fly very low or very high. This is exactly what is needed for anti-aircraft artillery. Heck, even the lousy Syrian artillerymen might have a chance to pin them down. Watch them for now. If they start to speed up or slow down, we-"

"Sir, Sector Four is also reporting several scarecrows approaching!" - the communications officer shouted. This sector was the one that adjoined them to the east. "Eight more scarecrows, medium altitude, at medium subsonic speed, also headed towards our radar points!"

"Sixteen reconnaissance drones, all flying to Turkey at the same time... and from where?" - the tactical director said loudly. "Türkiye attacked all American bases this morning. There was no way they could launch that many drones that fast. They must be launched from the air."

"Or they could be decoys like the last time we launched," TAO said.

Sixteen targets...that meant thirty-two Patriots, since the Patriot always fired two missiles at each target to ensure defeat. Thirty-two Patriots represented every launcher in the regiment. If they fired all their missiles at drones or decoys, it would be a huge waste of missiles and leave them vulnerable until reloading, which would take about thirty minutes.

The Director of Tactics picked up the phone and relayed all the information to the Air Defense Sector Coordinator in Diyarbakir. "Knock them down," said the sector coordinator. "They are in the attack profile. Check your systems for any signs of tampering."

"Accepted," said the tactical director. "TAO, get ready for-"

"Sir, they are going into orbit," TAO shouted. "They're right along the border, some in Syria. They seem to be orbiting."

"Reconnaissance drones," TD said with relief. "Keep watching. What about the Fourth Sector scarecrows?"

"We are also entering orbit, sir," said TAO.

"Very good". TD needed a cigarette, but he knew that would be impossible until these creatures were out of his area. "Keep an eye on these things and..."

"Bandits!" - DAO suddenly shouted. "Four targets approaching, subsonic, extremely low altitude, range forty miles!"

"Join the fight!" - DAO said immediately. "Batteries are out! All batteries...!"

"The drones are leaving their orbits, accelerating and descending!"

Damn it, thought the Director of Tactics, they just went from alert to attack in the blink of an eye. "Prioritize high-speed bandits," he said.

"But the drones are coming!" - said DAO. "Patriot gives priority to drones!"

"I'm not going to waste missiles on drones," TD said. "Fast people are a real threat. Change your priorities and join the fight!"

But that decision apparently wasn't going to stand, because it soon became apparent that the drones were heading straight for Patriot's phased array radars. "Should I change my priorities, sir-"

"Do it! Do it! "- said TD.

TAO furiously entered commands into its targeting computer, ordering the Patriot to attack closer, slower targets. "The Patriot Enters the Battle!" - he reported. "High-speed ships accelerate to supersonic speed... sir. The fourth sector reports that the drones have left their orbits, are descending, accelerating and heading towards our sector!

"Can they fight?" But he already knew the answer: one Patriot radar could not hit the other due to interference, which created decoys that the combat computer could fire on. Only one radar could cope with the battle. Their battery would have to hit all twenty-two targets...

...which meant they would run out of missiles by the time the fast-movers arrived! "Reprogram the combat computer to launch only one missile!" - ordered the tactical director.

"But we don"t have enough time!" - said the tactical operations officer. "I would have to terminate this agreement and..."

"Don't argue, just do it!" DAO never typed as fast as he did then. He managed to reprogram the combat computer and reconnect the batteries...

... but he couldn't do it fast enough, and one radar was shot down by cruise missiles. The missiles, which were AGM-158A JASSMs, or Joint Air to Surface Standoff Missiles, were turbojet-powered air-launched cruise missiles with thousand-pound high-explosive fragmentation warheads and a range of over two hundred miles.

Now one radar had to control the entire battle. Patriot radars did not scan like conventional mechanically scanned radars and did not need to be controlled, but they did have a specific area of the sky allocated to them to avoid interference problems. The remaining radar, located at Batman Air Force Base sixty miles east of Diyarbakir, was tasked with looking south into Iraq rather than west toward Diyarbakir. Following their current course-essentially tracking Syria-they were at the extreme edge of the radar's airspace.

"Order Batman's radar to turn west-southwest to interdict this flight path," the tactical director ordered. DAO transmitted the order. The AN/MPQ-53 radar system was typically trailer-mounted, and although it was fairly easy to move it to cover a new area of sky, this was usually never done, especially when under attack. However, the Batman's location was different: even though the Patriot was designed to be mobile, the Batman's location was semi-permanently installed, meaning its radar array could be easily moved as needed.

"Radar reset, good track for fast engines," TAO reported a few minutes later. "The Patriot Enters the Battle"-

But at that moment all radar readings went out. "What happened?" - shouted the tactical director.

"Batman's radar is off the air," TAO reported. "Shot down by a cruise missile." Moments later: "Observers on the ground report two fast-moving aircraft flying overhead at low altitude from the east." It was now obvious what had happened: switching the radar to the west resulted in a decrease in coverage in the east. Two jets simply slipped through the gap in the radar coverage between Batman and Van and attacked the radar.

Now Diyarbakir was wide open.

ON BOARD "FRACTURE ONE-NINE"

IN THE SAME TIME

"Corruption flight, this is 109, you have a clear tail," Lt. Col. Gia "Boxer" Cazzotto radioed to the rest of her small squadron of B-1B Lancer bombers. "Let"s take them, what do you say?"

"Fracture One-Nine, this is Genesis," Patrick McLanahan radioed through their secure transmitter. "Are you getting the latest downloads?"

"Buckeye?"

"Got it, I got them," the offensive systems officer, or OSO, responded. "The images are great-even better than radar." He was looking at ultra-high-resolution radar images of Diyarbakir Air Base in Turkey taken by NIRTSat reconnaissance satellites just moments earlier. Images downloaded from satellites could be processed by the AN/APQ-164 B-1's bombing system as if the image had been taken by the bomber's own radar. They were more than forty miles from the target, well beyond the range of low-altitude radar, but OSO could see and calculate the target's coordinates long before flying over the target.

The OSOs began collecting target coordinates and loading them into their eight remaining JASSM strike missiles, and once all the missiles had loaded targets, they coordinated the launches in time and azimuth and released them into flight. This time, the turbojet-powered cruise missiles flew low, avoiding known obstacles, using inertial navigation with global positioning system updates. Six B-1 bombers fired eight JASSMs each, filling the skies with forty-eight stealth cruise missiles.

There was no time to select different warheads for the missiles, so they were all equipped with the same thousand-pound fragmentation warheads, but some were loaded to explode on impact, while others were set to explode in mid-air upon reaching their target coordinates. Air-burst missiles were fired over aircraft stands, where powerful explosions destroyed anything and everything for two hundred yards in all directions, while impact missiles targeted buildings, weapons storage areas, fuel depots and hangars. The OSOs could refine the missile's target using a real-time infrared data link, which gave crews an image of the target and allowed them to accurately guide the missile to the target.

"Genesis", this is a Turning Point, a clean sweep," Cazzotto radioed. "All weapons expended. How are we doing?"

"We'll get the next NIRTSat uploads in about an hour," Patrick responded, "but judging by the images I received from JASSMs, you did an excellent job. All Patriot radars are disabled; I'm showing you that the climb and RTB are free. Good show."

"See you...well, someday, Genesis," Gia said.

"Looking forward to it, Fracture," Patrick said. And he really meant it.

EPILOGUE

Go crazy. Then deal with it.

-COLIN POWELL

OVAL OFFICE, WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, DC.

IN THE NEXT MORNING

"What the hell do you mean when you say the United States attacked Turkey last night?" - President Joseph Gardner shouted. In the Oval Office with him were his chief of staff, Walter Cordus; National Security Advisor Conrad Carlisle; and Secretary of Defense Miller Turner. "I did not give the order to attack! Who? Where...?"

"The target was Diyarbakir, the main airbase that Turkey used to launch air strikes against Iraq," Turner said. "Six B-1B Lancer bombers launched from the United Arab Emirates-"

"By whose authority?" the President thundered. "Who gave them the order?"

"We're not sure, sir..."

"Not sure ? Six supersonic heavy bombers loaded with bombs take off from a base in the Middle East and bomb an air base in Turkey, and no one knows who authorized it? Who was the commander?

"Her name is Cazzotto."

"She? A female bomber wing commander?"

"Apparently this is an engineering squadron, sir," Turner said. "They're getting the planes out of the mothballs and getting them operational again. They were tasked with providing air support for operations in Afghanistan and Iraq."

"And they just took off and bombed Turkey? How is this even possible? Who ordered them to do this?

"Colonel Cazzotto refuses to talk other than to say that the person who expedited the mission will make contact," Turner said.

"This is unacceptable, Miller," the president said. "Find this man and throw him in jail! This is madness! I'm not going to let six B-1 bombers fly around every time someone wants to destroy a few buildings." He accepted the note from Cordus, read it, then crumpled it up and threw it on his desk. "So what did they crash into?"

"Along the way, they destroyed two Patriot radar sites," Turner said, "then they struck various military targets in Diyarbakir, including parked and taxiing aircraft, hangars, fuel depots and command and control centers. Very effective target selection. They used Joint Air to Surface strike missiles, which are conventionally armed, precision-guided subsonic cruise missiles. All planes returned safely."

"And put up a stockade, I hope!"

"Yes, sir. It appears that the Turks were preparing for a major air raid on Iraq. They had over a hundred tactical aircraft ready to fly into Diyarbakir. Looks like they were trying to suck up a little bit before we set up a no-fly zone in northern Iraq."

This softened the president's rage somewhat, but he shook his head. "I need some answers, Miller, and I want some ass!" - he shouted. Cordus answered the flashing phone call, looked at the President until he looked away, then nodded toward the door to the President's private office adjacent to the Oval Office. "Jesus, just what I need when the shit starts - a VIP visitor."

"Who is this?" - Carlisle asked.

"President Kevin Martindale."

"Martindale? What does he want?

"It amazes me that he waited an hour," Gardner said. "I'll get rid of him. Answer me a few questions, Miller!" He entered his private office and closed the door. "I'm sorry, Mr. President," he said. "Something urgent has happened."

"This happens a lot in this business, Mr. President," said Kevin Martindale, standing and shaking hands with his former defense secretary. "I apologize for the surprise visit, but there is something I needed to tell you."

"Can this wait until lunch, Kevin?" - Gardner asked. "You know, this whole Turkey thing is threatening to fall off its hinges-"

"It has to do with Turkey," Martindale said.

"ABOUT? What about this?"

"Air strike on Diyarbakir last night."

Gardner's eyes widened in shock. "Air strike...Oh my God, Kevin, I found out about this two minutes ago! How do you know about this?

"Because I helped plan it," Martindale said. Gardner's eyes bulged even more. "I convinced the commander of Minhad Air Base in the United Arab Emirates, General Omair, to release the bombers. He was in my debt." Gardner was absolutely dumbfounded. "Listen, Joe, you have to promise me not to do this," Martindale continued. "Don"t investigate Cazzotto, Omair or anyone else."

"Don't investigate? A group of six American supersonic bombers attacked an air base in Turkey, and I shouldn"t investigate?"

"It would be better if you didn't do this, Joe," Martindale said. "Besides, the air strike probably stopped the war between us and Turkey. From what I'm told, we destroyed a quarter of Turkey's tactical air force in that single raid. They were preparing to strike Iraq again, likely destroying much of Erbil and Kirkuk."

"Kevin... How the hell do you know all this?" - Gardner asked. "What did you do?"

Martindale looked at Gardner for a moment, then smiled and said quietly, "I'm Scion Aviation International, Joe. Have you heard of them?

The bulging, incredulous expression returned. "Aviation of descendants? Scion... You mean, McLanahan's organization? "

"My outfit, Joe."

"You...you have robots...Tin Woodman...?"

"Less than we had before, thanks to Hirsiz and Jizek," Martindale said, "but we still have the rest." He looked at Gardner and remained silent until the President looked back at him. "I know what you're thinking, Joe: you capture McLanahan in Iraq and force him to reveal where the other robots are, and then hand him over to Uzbekistan for the rest of his life. Do not do that ".

"Why the hell shouldn"t I?" Gardner said. "This is exactly what he deserves!"

"Joe, you need to do what I did: stop fighting the guy and learn to work with him," Martindale said. "This man went there, planned an air strike against one of the most powerful countries in that region of the world, assembled the aircraft, weapons and satellite support he needed, and succeeded. Isn"t this the guy you want working for you?"

"This guy sent two of these tin men after me to Camp David, and one of them grabbed me by the neck...!"

"And I know why, Joe," Martindale said. "I have all the evidence tucked away just in case. Now it's not just McLanahan you have to take down: now it's me and a small group of lawyers who know where all the copies of all this evidence are hidden ." He put his hand on Gardner's shoulder. "But I'm not here to threaten you, Joe," he continued. "I'm telling you, McLanahan doesn't want to fight you, he wants to fight for you, for America. He's got a gift, man. He sees a problem and moves heaven and earth to fix it. Why don"t you want him on your side?"

He patted Gardner on the shoulder, then picked up his coat. "Think about it, Joe, okay?" he said, getting ready to leave. "And stop the investigation, or record it, or classify it, do whatever. If this forces the Turks to retreat, all is well. You can even take credit for it. I will keep an eye on you, Mr. President."

Palm Jumeirah, DUBAI, UNITED ARAB Emirates

A FEW DAYS LATER

From the rooftop restaurant of the impressive new Trump International Hotel and Tower in Dubai, Patrick McLanahan and Gia Cazzotto were able to see the many incredible trunks, crowns, branches and breakwater of the Palm Jumeirah, one of the three palm islands, artificial islands and reefs that form one of the most extraordinary and the only residential and entertainment complexes of its kind in the world. Shaped like a huge palm frond, it adds over three hundred miles to the Gulf coast of the United Arab Emirates.

Gia raised her glass of champagne to Patrick and he touched his glass to hers. "So tell me, General," she asked, "how did you manage to find a hotel for you, me and your entire team in the most exclusive hotel in the world that cannot be booked?"

"Very grateful boss," Patrick said.

"Oh, very mysterious. Who is he? Or can't you tell? Is he like the Charles Townsend character, rich and powerful but choosing to remain in the shadows?"

"Something like that".

They stood and admired the view for a few moments; then she asked, "When are you coming back to the States?"

"Tomorrow morning".

"You can"t stay any longer?"

"No". He looked at her, then asked, "When are you coming back to Palmdale?"

"Day after tomorrow. I thought I was heading to Fort Leavenworth, but all of a sudden it all disappeared." She looked at him carefully. "You wouldn't happen to know why all those State Department and Defense Intelligence Agency investigators suddenly disappeared, would you?"

"No".

"Perhaps your Charlie has become my guardian angel?" Patrick didn't say anything. She frowned mockingly. "You don't talk much, do you, sir?" - she asked.

"I asked you not to call me 'sir' or 'general'."

"Sorry, I can"t help it." She took a sip of champagne, then intertwined her fingers with his. "But maybe if you did something less general, I would get more comfortable with it." Patrick smiled, leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about, Patrick." She smiled mischievously at him, pulled him closer, then said before kissing him again, "But that"s not all I"m talking about."

UKURKA BORDER CROSSING, HAKKARI PROVINCE, REPUBLIC OF TURKEY

THAT SAME EVENING

On the way through the Ukurca border crossing on the Turkish-Iraqi border, a small crowd of well-wishers gathered, waving Turkish flags and cheering as the leading vehicles of the Turkish Gendarma forces returned to their homeland. Border guards held them back while patrol dogs were led back and forth along the line.

It had been a long, exhausting and humiliating ride home, General Bezir Ozek thought as he stepped out of his armored car as soon as he crossed the border, but that made the whole shameful defeat somewhat worth it. The border post commander saluted and the small ceremonial orchestra began playing the Turkish national anthem. "Welcome home, General," the commander said.

"Thank you, Major," said Ozek, "and thank you for this welcome."

"Don"t thank me, thank the people," said the major. "They heard that you were returning home, and they wanted to welcome you and your people back from the victorious campaign against the PKK."

Ozek nodded without saying what he really thought: his campaign had failed, interrupted by the coward Hasan Jizek. After the American air raid on Diyarbakir, Cizek disappeared completely, leaving the government wide open. Kurzat Hirsiz resigned and handed over power to Ais ¸e Akas, and the campaign to defeat the PKK ended. He has spent the last week fighting off ambushes by PKK and Peshmerga guerrillas as they returned home.

"Please come and meet your well-wishers," said the major. He leaned toward Ozek and said, "All precautions have been taken, sir."

"Thank you, Major," Ozek said. He turned to the crowd and waved, and the crowd erupted in cheers. Well, he thought, that sounds real enough. He started shaking hands. Men and women looked at him with Google eyes as if he were some kind of rock star. Hundreds of hands reached out to him.

He was almost at the very end of the crowd when he noticed that one woman was waving at him with her right hand and holding a child in her left. She was very attractive, which was further emphasized by the fact that she was breastfeeding her baby, with only a light, transparent blanket covering her bare breasts. He grabbed her free hand. "Thank you, my dear, thank you for this welcome," he said.

"No, thank you, General," the woman said joyfully. "Thank you for your hard fought battles."

"I do my best to serve the people of Turkey, and especially wonderful women like you." He took her hand and kissed it. "This is a job that I treasure, just as I will treasure meeting you."

"Well, thank you, General." The thin blanket shifted slightly and Ozek grinned as he looked at her breasts. Damn it, he thought, he's been in the field too long. "And," she said, blinking her eyes at him, "I have work to do, too."

The thin blanket fell to reveal a beautiful, firm, sexy breast... and a horribly mangled left shoulder, half of a left arm... and a wooden stick with a cancer-like end attached to the stump. "My job to avenge the people of al-Amadiyah is coming to an end, General, and so is yours... thanks to the Base."

And with that, Zilar Azzawi pulled the dead man's trigger on the detonators connected to the twenty pounds of explosives hidden in the doll she carried like a baby, killing everyone within a twenty foot radius.

about the author

DALE BROWN is the author of numerous New York Times bestselling books, including Edge of Battle and Shadow Command. The former US Air Force captain can often be found flying his own plane in the skies of the United States.

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