Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09 (86 page)

 
          
“The
weapon exploded before it hit the tanker,” Fursenko said. The infrared scanner
was still locked on to the tanker
Ustinov
;
Except for some minor damage, the tanker was still very much intact.

 
          
The
attack had looked perfect until one or two seconds before impact—w hat could
have happened? Yegorov wondered. Now the threat warning receiver was blaring
constantly, with multiple lock-on signals—and there was no longer a bomb in the
air, meaning the enemy radars were definitely locked on
them.
Yegorov
furiously scanned his instruments. Everything looked perfectly normal—no speed
brakes or flaps deployed, no engine malfunctions that might be highlighting
their position. no warning or caution lights, no—

 
          
Wait,
there was one caution light, but not on the “Warning and Caution” panel, but on
the “Weapons” panel on the lower right side—the bomb doors were still open.
“Fursenko, damn you!” Yegorov shouted, staring wide-eyed at the engineer in his
rearview mirror. “The bomb doors are still open! Close them immediately!”

 
          
Fursenko
looked down at his instrument panel, then up at Yegorov almost immediately. “I
can’t,” he said in a calm, even, voice. “The hydraulic system B circuit breaker
has popped, and it will not reset. I have no control over the doors.”

 
          
If
Yegorov thought the scrawny pencil-necked scientist had it in him, he would've
thought the old man was lying to him! “Disengage the hydraulic system B and
motor the doors closed with the electric motor.”

 
          
“I
tried that,” Fursenko said, still in that calm, even voice— the voice of
someone who was resigned to his fate. “The door mechanism must be jammed—I
cannot motor the doors closed. Maybe the Kh-73 dropping on partially opened
doors caused it to malfunction and detonate early."

           
The bastard, he
was
doing
this on purpose! He didn't believe for a second it was a malfunction! “Damn
you, Fursenko, do you realize what you’re doing?" Yegorov shouted in utter
fury. Whatever Fursenko had done to the bomb doors, Yegorov couldn’t undo them
from the front seat. “You are signing our death warrants!"

 
          
“Why,
Yegorov?" Fursenko asked. “Don’t you think your buddy Pavel Kazakov will
understand when you tell him your bomb doors were jammed open?"

 
          
“Fuck
you!" Yegorov shouted. He immediately started a turn back toward the
tanker, then hit a switch on his weapons panel to override the backseater’s
laser aiming control. “I advise you not to touch another switch or circuit
breaker back there, Fursenko," he warned. “If we strike our intended
target, Kazakov may let you live, even if he does discover it was sabotage.”

 
          
“You
fool, look at that threat scope," Fursenko shouted. Yegorov had indeed
been looking—it appeared as if the entire Turkish Air Force were after them.
“Forget this bomb run—the Turks will be all over you in one minute, long before
you can line up for another bomb run. Get us out of here while you still
can!"

 
          
“No!”
Yegorov shouted wildly. “This is my mission! Comrade Kazakov ordered me to take
command and complete this mission, and that’s what I’ll do! No one is going to
stop me!"

 
          
The
threat warning receiver now showed two sets of enemy fighters—one set Turkish,
the other Russian-made fighters, probably Ukrainians—bearing down on them.
“We’re not going to make it!" Fursenko shouted. ‘Turn away! Turn back
before they shoot us down!"

 
          
“No!”
Yegorov shouted again. He armed his internal R-60 missiles. “No one is going to
get me!
No one!
He flicked on the Metyor-179’s infrared scanner, lined
up on the closest set of fighters coming in from the north, waited until he got
a lock- on indication, opened fire with one missile per fighter, then turned
back toward the tanker
Ustinov
.
The aiming pipper
had drifted off the tanker slightly, and he—

           
The
master caution
light
snapped on. Yegorov checked the warning panel and saw two
launcher hot
lights
on. Both internal launchers that he had just used were on fire. “I’m going to
cut off power to the stores panel!” Fursenko shouted.

           
“No!” Yegorov shouted. “Keep power
on until after bomb release.”

           
“We can't!” Fursenko shot back.
“There's a serious short or fire in the wing launcher, and there’s no way to
stop it unless we cut off all power to the weapons panel. If you allow that
fire to continue, it could completely burn through the wing. I’m going to turn off
weapons power before that wing fails and we are both killed!”

           
“I said, leave it on. you traitorous
bastard!” Fursenko was reaching for the master weapons power switch when he
heard a tremendous
BANG!
and felt a sharp stinging sensation in his I
left shoulder. To his amazement, he realized that Yegorov had pulled out his
survival pistol, reached back between the seats, and shot him! The bullet tore
through his shoulder, bounced off the metal ejection-seat back, and lodged deep
in his left lung. Fursenko tasted blood, and soon blood was pouring from his
mouth and nostrils.

 
          
Fursenko’s
head was spinning, and he tried to keep himself upright and find the weapons
power switch. He felt as if he was only moments away from passing out when he
looked out the left side of the cockpit canopy and saw a flash of fire burst
from just aft of the leading edge of the wing beside the fuselage. He knew
precisely what it was. At that same moment, he felt a jolt and a rumble as the
last Kh-73 laser-guided bomb fell free from the bomb bay.

 
          
He
reached between his legs just as the burst of fire became an explosion, and the
entire left wing separated from the fuselage. With his last ounce of strength.
Fursenko pulled the ejection handle between his legs and fired himself out of
the Metyor-179, The spinning, flaming remnants of his longtime pride and joy
narrowly missed him as he plummeted toward the
Black Sea
. His man-seat separator snapped him free
from his ejection seat, and his body began a ballistic arch through the air,
decelerating as he fell. At exactly fourteen thousand feet above the water, his
baro initiator shot his pilot chute out of his backpack, which pulled his main
chute safely out of its pack, He was thankfully unconscious through the entire
ride.

           
Once he hit the water, his life vest
automatically inflated and infrared seawater-activated rescue lights
illuminated, and he lay halftangled in the parachute riser cords, halfsubmerged
as his parachute began to sink. Luckily, a Turkish Coast Guard patrol boat was
just a few miles away, and he was picked up just moments before the parachute
dragged his head below the surface.

 
          
The
Metyor-179 splashed down about ten miles away, with Gennadi Yegorov still in
the front pilot’s seat, trying to fly his bird down to a safe ditching in the
Black Sea
. The impact broke the stealth warplane—and
Yegorov—into a thousand pieces and scattered them across the ocean.

 
          
Unguided,
without even an initial beam to get it moving in the right direction, the
second Kh-73 one-thousand-kilo bomb missed the tanker
Ustinov
by two
hundred and fifty yards and exploded harmlessly in the sea.

The White House,
Washington
,
D.C.

The next day

           
“The Russian and German governments
vehemently demand an answer, sir.” Secretary of State Edward Kercheval said.
They keep on insisting we have information on this so-called Black Sea
Alliance, and they claim we are secretly supporting them.”

 
          
President
Thomas Thom sat with his fingers folded on his chest, staring as usual into
space, leaning back in his seat behind his desk in the Oval Office. “They have
any proof of this?” the President asked absently.

 
          
“Several
radio transmissions between Turkish and Ukrainian aircraft and an unidentified
aircraft flying over the
Black Sea
in Turkish airspace, protected by aircraft that are part of this Black Sea
Alliance,” Secretary Goff replied. “The transmissions were picked up by a
Russian intelligence-gathering ship operating in the free navigation lane created
by this Black Sea Alliance for international ships. The Russians claim the
broadcasts were directing
Alliance
aircraft to an intercept with another unidentified aircraft.”

 
          
“This
second unidentified aircraft being the Russian stealth fighter that was about
to attack the tanker in the Turkish port,” President Thom added.

 
          
“Yes,
sir.” Goff said. “Of course, the Russians and the Germans claim they know
nothing of this stealth fighter.”

           
“So no one is offering any ideas as
to the identity of any of these unidentified aircraft,” Thom went on, “except
we had something to do with them?" Kercheval nodded, “Tell the German and
Russian governments that we will cooperate in any way possible to help identify
these aircraft and to find out exactly what happened last night near Eregli,
but we maintain we have nothing to do with this incident or with the Black Sea
Alliance.

 
          
“Furthermore,
the
United States
does not recognize or oppose this Black Sea
Alliance.” the President went on. “The
United States
remains an interested but completely
neutral third-party observer in all foreign military alliances and treaties. We
urge all governments and all alliances to come to peaceful settlements of
arguments and conflicts, but the
United States
will not interfere with any nation’s
foreign or domestic activities unless, in my opinion, it directly affects the
peace and security of the
United States of America
. Deliver that message right away to the
Russian and German governments and to the world media. I’ll make myself available
for a press conference to discuss the statement later today. Have the Vice
President's office set it up for me.”

 
          
Kercheval
departed, leaving the President alone with Robert Goff. The Secretary of
Defense had a big, childlike grin on his face. Thom pretended not to notice and
went back to making notes and sending e-mail messages from his computer: but
finally he said without looking up, “What are you grinning at, Robert?”

 
          
“Okay,
spill it, Thomas,” Goff said. “What did you do?”

           
“Do?”

           
“That incident over the
Black Sea
? It’s got HAWC written all over it. That
Turkish frigate said they detected a bomb dropped from what was apparently a
stealth bomber—but it was shot out of the sky by a missile fired from another
aircraft that never appeared on radar. Did you authorize HAWC to send in one of
their Megafortress ABM bombers to patrol that area?”

           
“Directing military aircraft on
combat operations, secret or otherwise, is your job, Robert. If you didn’t
direct such a mission, it never happened.”

 
          
“Spoken
like a real twenty-first-century president, Mr. President,” Golf said, beaming.
“I’m proud of you.”

 
          
“I
still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

           
“So you actually assisted
Martindale's Night Stalkers?"

 
          
“Martindale's
who?"

 
          
“Stalkers—the
call sign he used during that mission, the call sign the Black Sea Alliance
aircraft used, and the call sign he once mentioned to me that he was going to
use." Goff said. "Was it just a coincidence that there happened to be
a bunch of folks using ‘Stalkers’ call signs flying around last night?"

 
          
“Robert.
I'm not in the mood for word games and puzzles right now," the President
said. “I’ve never heard the name ‘Night Stalkers’ before, and if there is such
an organization, it was probably just a coincidence. But that's not what’s
important here.

 
          
“In
case you haven't noticed, nothing has really changed in that region, even after
all this fuss about phantom bombs and missiles and strange call signs and radio
messages.
Russia
and
Germany
still occupy most of the Balkan states, and they’re sending in a
thousand troops a day as reinforcements against any more so-called terrorist
actions against their peacekeeping forces. The rest of NATO has all but left
the Balkans. This Black Sea Alliance is threatening to start a naval war in the
Black Sea
. World oil prices arc skyrocketing in
response to what's happened with that tanker—the media thinks this Black Sea
Alliance is really out to torpedo all Russian oil shipments. Russia may start
escorting tankers across the Black Sea wath warships, and then what’s this
Black Sea Alliance going to do? And do we want American warships in the
area?"

 
          
Goff
looked on the young president as a proud father looks on his son who has just
won a science fair ribbon. “Press conferences? Statements to the world media?
Concern over what the media thinks? Analysis of world military events? Even considering
sending American warships into harm's way?" Goff asked with feigned
surprise, beaming happily. “Why, if I didn’t know better. I'd say you were giving
a damn about foreign affairs, President Thomas Nathaniel Thom."

 
          
Thom
glanced at Goff, then gave him a barely perceptible smile. “Have you been keeping
up with your meditation exerciscs, Robert?” he asked seriously.

 
          
“No—but
I think I will," Goff said as he headed for the door to the Oval Office.
He stopped before he opened the door, turned to the President, and asked, “I
wonder if that wristband you’re wearing right now would help my meditation
exercises?”

 
          
The
President smiled contentedly as he absently fingered the strange new electronic
wristband on his right wrist, and suddenly he became acutely aware of the spot
on his right shoulder recently irritated by the subcutaneous miniature
transceiver and what it meant to him now. But he just replied, “Talk to you
later, Mr. Secretary,” he said.

 
          
“Yes,
Mr. President,” Robert Goff replied. I’m sure I won’t be the only one you’ll be
talking with, my friend, Goff said to himself as he departed the Oval Office.

Codlea
,
Romania

A short time later

           
When the Metyor-179 aircraft did not
report in before its scheduled landing time, Pavel Kazakov’s security forces
were put on immediate alert and reviewed their preplanned escape procedures.
When the aircraft became overdue, one hour past its maximum possible fuel
endurance time, Pavel Kazakov’s security forces went immediately to work. They
worked quickly and with grim efficiency. Explosives were set in a pile in the
main hangar, classified records and documents having anything to do with the
Metyor-179 were set atop them .. .

 
          
...
and then the bodies of the Metyor Aerospace engineers, technicians, and workers
at Codlea were stacked atop those.

 
          
Pavel
Kazakov was notified a few hours later when the grim work was done, and he went
out to inspect their work. The whole gory pile had been covered with tarps and
then weighed down with tires to contain the blast. More explosives had been set
up on the hangar’s roof, designed to blow downward to simulate a gravity bomb
dropped through the roof. “Good work,” Kazakov said. “We wait until we are
clear of the area, and then—”

 
          
“Aircraft
inbound
7” one of the security men shouted. “Unidentified aircraft inbound!”
Security men with machine guns and assault rifles ready rushed outside. Other
security men pushed Kazakov's helicopter back inside the main hangar to keep it
out of sight.

 
          
“It's
a tilt-rotor aircraft!" someone shouted. “Still in full airplane mode! I
do not see any markings or insignia. Probably American or NATO Marines or
special forces commandos. We’ve been discovered."

 
          
Kazakov
looked through a set of binoculars and saw the big aircraft bearing down on
them. "Don’t worry." Kazakov said. It will still need to slow down to
drop off its soldiers. When it does, blast it with everything you have."
But the aircraft did not slow dow n It was traveling well over three hundred
nautical miles per hour when it passed directly overhead. “It may try to drop
paratroopers, or land and off-load its commandos away from the compound."
Kazakov said. "That'll give us time to escape and time for you to hunt
them down. Pull my helicopter out and get it "

 
          
"Look'”
someone shouted. Kazakov looked. They saw three soldiers leap off the
tilt-rotor’s open rear cargo ramp. Each soldier was carrying a very large rifle
and appeared to be jumping directly into the center of the compound between the
hangar door parking apron and the runway . . .
but none of the three was
wearing a parachute!
"What in hell are they doing? Are they
insane?" As a stunned Pavel Kazakov and his security men watched, the
three crazy soldiers hurtled earthward, still in a standing position, still
with the rifles at port arms. They were sure they were going to see three
broken bodies bounce off the concrete aircraft parking apron in just half a
second.

 
          
But
at the very last moment, a loud
WHOOOSH!
of high pressure air erupted
from each of the strangers’ boots—and all three soldiers touched down gently on
the concrete apron with about as much force as if they had jumped off a chair
after changing a lightbulb, still standing upright, still with their large
rifles at port arms, as if they had just materialized there. Each soldier was
wearing a dark gray combat bodysuit, a thick utility belt, thick boots, some
sort of harness or device on his shoulders, a full-face helmet, and a thin
backpack. The rifles were of completely unknown origin, resembling
fifty-caliber sniper rifles but with a complex firing mechanism unlike any
other firearm they'd ever seen.

 
          
“I
don't know who they are,” Kazakov said, "but if they are not all dead in
the next sixty seconds, we
will
be." Kazakov bolted and ran for
cover around the back of the main hangar, followed by three of his bodyguards,
while the other security officers spread out and opened fire on the strangers.
Kazakov saw at least three lines of bullets fired on full automatic walk across
the ramp and intersect right on the strangers—but they did not go down.

 
          
He
then remembered the stories from frantic crewmen aboard his oil tanker
Ustinov
about invincible commandos who shot
lightning from their eyes, and he ran faster than he ever ran in his life. They
were real, and they were here.

 
          
The
security officers got only one burst off at the strangers before all three of
them disappeared—only to reappear moments later several dozen yards away,
leaping into the air by using jets of compressed air from their boots. One by
one, the commandos shot a round from their weird rifles into any available
target—the helicopters, vehicles, communications rooms, power-generating
facilities, any valuable target. They appeared only slightly staggered if hit
by a bullet, then resumed their methodical attack on the compound. If they got
close enough to a security officer, he was immediately put down either by a
short blast of electrical energy, like a massive Taser blast from as far as
twenty feet away, or by a fist or knife-edge hand that landed as hard as a
chunk of steel.