Able One (17 page)

"Congresswoman McClintock?"

"We’re due to be with the President of the United States this evening at the Cow Palace," Sylvia said in a tone that you could pour over pancakes.

"The President?"

"The President," said Sylvia sweetly. "And Congresswoman McClintock. And the chairman of the Senate Transportation Committee. Among others."

The man groaned, but then said, "Wait right here. I’ll see what can be done."

Sylvia gestured for her daughters to take the two wooden chairs in front of the desk. She herself remained standing while the badly stressed director of flight operations picked up his telephone again.

ABL-1: Cockpit

“Kamchatka Peninsula coming up." Colonel Christopher heard her navigator’s voice in her headphone. The kid sounded more sure of himself since they’d made the rendezvous with the first tanker.

"There it is," Major Kaufman said, pointing to a smudge of gray clouds on the horizon, at about the two o’clock position.

Christopher said into her lip mike, "Jon, we need to stay well away from Russian airspace."

"Workin’ on it," the navigator replied. "I’ll have a course correction for you in two minutes, Colonel."

"Colonel, we’re getting pinged by Kamchatka," said the communications officer. O’Banion’s voice sounded worried. "Oh-oh. Message coming in."

"Pipe it to me," she commanded. A smooth baritone voice said in flawless midwestern American English, "Unidentified aircraft, you are approaching Russian airspace. Please identify yourself."

Christopher thumbed the comm switch on her control yoke and said crisply, "This is U.S. Air Force ABL-1. We intend to remain over international waters."

"We have no information on your flight plan," said Kamchatka, without the slightest trace of anxiety.

The colonel bit her lips momentarily, then replied, "We are on our way to Japanese airspace. We will stay well away from your territory."

Silence for several heartbeats. He’s waiting for his superiors to tell him what he should say, Christopher reasoned.

Finally, "U.S. ABL-1, our air defense command has sent a flight of interceptors to accompany you away from Russian airspace. They have no hostile intent."

"Copy," Christopher said curtly. "No hostile intent." Then she clicked off the radio switch and grinned at her copilot. "Bet they’ve got plenty of cameras on board."

"They’ll have air-to-air missiles, too, count on it," Kaufman muttered.

"Of course." She turned the situation over in her mind for a few moments, then said, "We better make a left turn, Obie."

"I guess so."

Lieutenant Sharmon gave them a new heading and the big 747 turned southward twelve degrees. Not enough, though.

"Hey!" Kaufman yipped. "We got company."

Following his pointing finger with her eyes, Christopher saw a trio of swept-wing jet fighters boring in on them from above and ahead.

"Fulcrums," Kaufman said. MiG-29s, the mainstay of the Russian fighter forces.

"No," Christopher said, eyeing the sleek, silvery fighters. "They look too new. More like MiG-35s."

"There’s another one," Kaufman said, "comin’ up fast."

"That’s not a MiG," said Christopher.

"Looks a lot like one of our F-15s."

She nodded, making her flight helmet wobble slightly on her head. "Sukhoi SU-27. Photo recon plane."

Kaufman had an Air Force catalog displayed on the small screen to his right. "Flanker. Supersonic."

"She’s not carrying any missiles."

"The other three are."

"That Flanker’s a photo plane. Looks like a two-seater."

The three MiGs pulled up alongside ABL-1 on the right, speed brake flaps down to slow them to the 747’s lumbering pace.

Kaufman said, "They’re keeping themselves between us and Mother Russia."

"Just following orders," said Christopher, "same as us."

At that moment all three MiGs pulled their flaps up and roared ahead of ABL-1. The lead fighter suddenly jinked straight up, then sideways.

"He’s viffing," Colonel Christopher said. Then she added for Kaufman’s benefit, "Vectoring in flight."

"I know what viffing is," Kaufman replied testily. "Like the Marines’ Harriers. They can take off straight up, like a helicopter."

The three MiGs made a tight turn and circled around to take up a station off the 747’s left wing tip. Before Christopher could say anything, they zoomed ahead again and turned the other way, then settled into formation again off the right wing.

Christopher laughed. "They’re flying rings around us."

"Showing off," Kaufman grumbled.

The Sukhoi pulled up even closer. Christopher could see two helmeted heads inside its elongated canopy.

O’Banion’s voice piped up in her earphone. "They’re painting us with radar, Colonel."

"I’ll bet they are," said Christopher. "And with everything else they’ve got. They’d x-ray us if they could."

She saw the pilot of the flanker looking over at her as he held the fighter alongside. On an impulse, she waved at him. After a moment he waved back.

"Next thing you know he’ll be asking for your phone number," Kaufman muttered.

"That’s better than shooting at us."

"Guess so." But Kaufman didn’t sound convinced of it.

U.S. Route 12, Bitterroot Mountains, Idaho

The snow was getting thicker. Charley Ingersoll nudged the windshield wiper control and the blades smeared freshly fallen flakes across the SUV’s windshield.

The weather report on the radio had called for "cloudy and mild" all afternoon, with a chance of snow after sunset. We oughtta be home before sunset, Charley said to himself. Specially if we don’t stop for lunch.

Sure enough, Charley Jr. piped from the backseat, "I’m hungry! When are we gonna eat lunch?"

The boy must have mental telepathy, Charley thought.

"Me too!" Little Martha added. She never wanted to be left out of anything her older brother did.

Charley scowled at the thickening snow. The highway was still dry, nothing much had accumulated on the paving, but Charley knew it was only a matter of time before the road became slick and slippery.

"We got anything to feed them?" he asked his wife.

Martha gave him one of her you-always-blame-everything-on-me looks as she said, "No, dear. You said we’d stop for lunch on the way home, remember?"

"Okay, okay."

The gas gauge had dipped well below half, Charley saw.

"Look out for a gas station," he said to Martha. "One with a convenience store. You can get something for the kids to eat while I fill the tank."

They passed a big sign for another RV park up the road. It looked like an old sign, beat-up and weathered. Just as they sped past the entrance to the park, Charley Jr. announced, "I gotta go."

"Me too," said Little Martha.

His wife turned in her seat and said sternly, "Just control yourselves for a few more minutes. Your father’s looking for a gas station. You can go there."

The snow was getting heavier. Charley punched the radio on again. Still nothing on the satellite stations. Martha fiddled with the dial until they got the tail end of a local weather report.

"... cloudy and mild, with a chance of snow this evening," a cheery male voice was saying. "Snow accumulation could be more than a foot in the upper elevations."

"It’s snowing now," Martha said, sounding a little nervous.

Charley saw a sign that announced a gas station five miles ahead.

"Five miles, kids," he said. "Just hang in there for another few minutes."

The gas station was nothing much: just a couple of pumps and a little building that looked barely big enough to hold an attendant. A sign saying NO CASH TRANSACTIONS was plastered by the door.

Charley pulled the SUV up to the pumps. Almost before he stopped the kids had the side door slid open and were racing for the side of the building. Martha got out and hurried after them, bundling her coat around herself as she ran through the thick wet flakes of snow that had already covered the parking area with white.

Charley was surprised by how cold it felt. A stinging wind cut through the light jacket he was wearing. His face felt cold, raw. Muttering to himself about weather forecasters, he slid his credit card into the pump’s slot. Nothing happened. The screen was blank.

Grumbling now, Charley stomped through the wet snow to the building and pushed its door open. A pimply-faced kid sat huddled in a tatty-looking wool coat. His hair looked as if it hadn’t been combed in a week and hadn’t been washed in Lord knows how long.

"The pump won’t take my card," Charley complained.

"Yeah, I know," the kid said, his voice raspy. "No electricity. We lost power ‘bout half an hour ago. Soon’s my pop comes to pick me up I’m outta here."

"Don’t you have a manual pump?"

"Nope."

"How do I get gas?" Charley demanded. "Beats me," the kid said.

The Pentagon: Situation Room

“Where are they now?" General Higgins asked. "Over the Pacific, approaching Japan," replied General Scheib, pointing to the electronic map on the wall screen. A tiny winking light gave the position of ABL-1, a thin trace of blue line showed its course so far. Scheib wondered if Higgins couldn’t see the map clearly; maybe he’s nearsighted or something.

Higgins had loosened his tie and hung his blue jacket on the back of his chair. The situation room looked lived-in, plastic coffee cups dotting the oblong conference table, the cart that once held pastries and other snacks now bearing nothing but crumbs and three empty stainless steel urns.

Zuri Coggins had moved from her seat at Higgins’ right hand down the table to be next to Michael Jamil, who was still bent over his iPhone. He had connected it wirelessly to the DoD computer that served the situation room and was slaving away over calculations of some sort.

On the wall opposite the big map, screens showed satellite views of North Korea. The two missiles still stood on their launch pads. No sign of the troops that Pyongyang had reportedly sent, but the satellite imagery was spotty, at best.

The admiral seated halfway down the table looked up from his laptop screen. "The Russian planes have turned back," he said, looking relieved. Like Higgins, the admiral had long since taken off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair.

"They got a damned good look at our plane," Higgins muttered.

General Scheib nodded. He was on his feet, pacing the length of the situation room as if he were doing his daily exercises.

"They can’t tell much from the exterior," Scheib said, trying to sound reassuring. But then he added, "Of course, that turret on the nose could be a giveaway. There’s been enough publicity about the airborne laser that they’ll recognize ABL-1 from that potato nose."

General Higgins shot an angry look at him and Scheib remembered the general’s "Possum" nickname. Smart, he berated himself. Real smart.

"Who’s flying the plane?" Higgins asked. "I hope we’ve got a good man at the controls."

Scheib started for his chair and the notebook computer opened on the table in front of it.

"This was supposed to be a test run for them," he said to Higgins. "They weren’t expecting this crisis."

"Who the hell was?"

Scheib sat and pecked at his notebook. "Damned security red tape," he muttered, his head bent over the tiny keyboard. "Slows everything down."

Jamil looked up from his calculations. "I think it’s imperative that we send a warning to the civil defense operations in Honolulu, Hilo, Anchorage, Juneau--"

"Not San Francisco?" one of the civilians asked.

Jamil looked up the table at General Higgins. Very calmly, he replied, "I seem to be the only one here who’s worried about San Francisco."

Higgins made a sound halfway between a grunt and a snort.

Gently, Coggins asked, "You still think it’s possible that they’ve targeted San Francisco?"

"I do. And we ought to be watching what the Chinese are doing. Watching very carefully." "There doesn’t seem to be anything unusual--"

"They’ve put their missiles on high alert, haven’t they?"

"Well, so have we. And the Russians."

"And the Iranians?" Jamil asked.

Coggins studied his coffee-colored face with its fringe of beard as she wondered, What’s he after? Why is he pushing us into his disaster scenario? And the answer immediately came back to her: because he believes it. He’s scared that we’re about to unleash a nuclear holocaust.

To Jamil she murmured, "The Israelis will take care of Iran."

"Before or after Tehran launches its missiles on Israel?"

Coggins hesitated.

"We should at least warn the Israelis of the possibility," Jamil urged with quiet intensity.

"And have those hotheads launch a preemptive strike on Iran? That would start your Sarajevo scenario all by itself, wouldn’t it?"

Jamil slumped backing his chair. "Damned if we do, damned if we don’t."

General Scheib called from his seat halfway up the table, "Okay, I’ve got it. The crew for today’s flight of ABL-1, civilians and blue suits."

"What kind of experience does the pilot have?" General Higgins asked.

"Let me scroll down to ..." Scheib’s face reddened, then went white.

"Well?" Higgins demanded.

His voice dead flat, Scheib replied, "The pilot is Lieutenant Colonel Karen Christopher--"

"A woman?"

"One of the best pilots in the Air Force," Scheib said without looking up from his miniature computer’s screen. "She piloted B-2s in actions over Afghanistan and Iraq. Very experienced, decorated ..." His voice fell off.

"What’s she doing driving a test program plane?" Higgins groused. "A pilot with that much experience and seniority."

Scheib knew, of course. It wasn’t printed out on Karen’s dossier, but he knew that she’d been stuck in the airborne laser program as punishment for refusing to divulge the name of the married Air Force officer she’d been sleeping with. Her career’s been blighted because she was loyal to me, Scheib knew.

And now she’s flying right into what could be the start of a nuclear war.