Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (217 page)

There was a long pause, with the command net crackling and popping from the shifting encryption decoding routines; then: “
Tsentr,
this is
Rayetka,
deploy
Fanar
. Repeat, deploy
Fanar
. Stand by for engagement authentication.”

“Repeat that last,
Rayetka
?” Kundrin asked. For God's sake, the regimental commander cried to himself, I just recommended to the guy that we shut
everything
down—now Darzo wants to roll out the biggest gun and the biggest sensor they had! “Repeat,
Rayetka
?”

“I said, deploy
Fanar
and stand by for engagement authentication,” the order came back. It was followed by an authentication code.

“I copy,
Rayetka,
moving
Fanar
to firing position, standing by for engagement authentication.” Darzov must be getting desperate, Kundrin thought.
Fanar,
the anti-spacecraft laser, was probably their last chance. The anti-aircraft artillery units scattered around Mashhad had no chance against fast, low-flying bombers. He picked up his regiment's command network phone: “Security, this is
Tsentr,
move
Fanar
to firing position and notify the crew to prepare to engage enemy aircraft.” He gave the security commander an authentication code to move the trucks.

“Sir, we managed to get all units to respond to a weapons-tight order,” Sokolov said. “We're down to twenty percent primary rounds available.”

“Twenty percent!”
Shit, they wasted
eighty percent
of their missiles on
ghosts
! “They had better be reloading, dammit!”

“We're in the process of reloading now, sir,” Sokolov went on. “The Tor-M1 units will be done within fifteen minutes, and the S-300 units will be done before the hour.”

“Get on it. The real attack may be happening at any moment. And make sure they
do not
respond to any more targets unless they have optronic verification!” Kundrin rushed to the exit, down the corridor, out the emergency exit, and up to the roof of the administration building. From there, using night-vision binoculars, he could see the progress of the security units.

The four
Fanar
trucks were just emerging from their hiding places. They had been hidden in a tunnel that ran under the runways which allowed vehicles to go from one side of the airport to another without going all the way around the runways. They were headed for a firefighting training pad on the north side of the runways, which had some old fuel tanks arranged to look like an airliner which could be filled with waste jet fuel and ignited to simulate a crashed airliner. The command vehicle was just now unfolding the huge electronically scanned radar antenna and datalink mast, which would allow the radar to tie into the S-300 fire control network.

Kundrin's secure portable radio crackled to life: “
Tsentr,
this is
Rayetka,
” Darzov spoke. “Status.”

“
Fanar
deployment under way, sir,” Kundrin replied.

“
Tsentr,
this is the TAO,” Sokolov radioed.

“Stand by, TAO,” Kundrin said. “I'm talking to
Rayetka
.”

“They are setting up on the southeast pad as directed?” Darzov asked.

Southeast pad? There was a fighter alert pad on the southeast side, but it was still in use by Revolutionary Guards Corps tactical attack helicopters and also as secure parking for the Russian transports. They had never briefed using it to employ the anti-spacecraft laser. “Negative, sir, we're using the north firefighting training pad, as briefed.”

“Acknowledged,” Darzov said. “Proceed.”

Moments later, the TAO burst through the door to the roof observation post. “Stop, sir!” he shouted.

“What in hell is going on, Sokolov? What are you doing up here?”

“The authentication from
Rayetka
—
it was not valid
!” Sokolov said. “The order to deploy
Fanar
was not valid!”

“What?”
A dull chill ran through Kundrin's head. He had
assumed
that because the person on the radio used the proper code name and was on the proper encrypted frequency that he was who he said he was and gave a valid order—he didn't wait to see if the authentication code checked…

…and he realized that he had just told whoever it was on the other end of that channel
exactly where
Fanar
was located
!”

He frantically raised his radio to his lips: “Security, this is
Tsentr,
cancel deployment, get those trucks back in hiding!” he shouted. “Repeat, get them into—!”

But at that exact moment there was a flash of light, and milliseconds later an impossibly thunderous explosion, followed by several more in quick succession. Kundrin and Sokolov were blown off their feet by the first concussion, and they frantically crawled away as crashing waves of raw heat roiled over them. They could do nothing but curl up into protective balls and cover their ears as the explosions continued one after the other.

It seemed to last an entire hour, but it was actually over in less than twenty seconds. Kundrin and Sokolov, their ears ringing from the deafening noise, crawled over to the shattered front of the administration building and peered out across the runways. The entire area north of the runways was on fire, centered on the
firefighting training pad. The fire on the pad itself—obviously the burning chemicals used by the laser—seemed so hot and intense that it was radioactive. The alert aircraft parking area to the southeast had been hit too—every helicopter and transport was on fire.

Then they heard them, and in the brilliant reflection of the fires they soon saw them too, as plainly as if in daytime: a pair of American B-1 bombers, flying right down the runway. They obviously knew that all of the air defense units had been ordered to shut down their systems and not open fire. The first one wagged its wings as it passed by the administration building, and the second
actually did an aileron roll,
flying less than two hundred feet aboveground. When they finished their little airshow spectacle, they ignited afterburners, sped off into the night sky, and were soon out of sight.

 

L
AS
V
EGAS
, N
EVADA

T
HAT SAME TIME

Stacy Anne Barbeau loved casinos, and she spent quite a bit of time in them on the Mississippi River in Louisiana and on the Gulf Coast in neighboring Mississippi. But this was the first time in many years that she had been in a big Las Vegas casino, and she was impressed. They were much more than gambling halls now—they were spectacular destinations, a sensory bombardment not only of lights, colors, and sounds, but of scenery, landscaping, architecture, and art that was truly amazing. The last time she was here, the decorations seemed cheesy and campy, almost Disneyesque. Not anymore. It was definitely Las Vegas elegant—bright, a little gaudy, loud, and extravagant, but it
was
elegant nonetheless.

“You know what I love the most about these places, darlin'—you can be completely anonymous so easily, even dressed like this,” Barbeau said to her assistant Colleen Morna as they strode from the hotel elevators through the wide, sweeping hallway and across the rich red carpeting of a very large Italian-themed casino on the Strip in Las Vegas. She was wearing a silvery cocktail dress, diamond earrings and necklace, and carrying a mink stole, but except for the frequent and appreciative glances, she felt as if she was just another part of the scenery. “So where is ‘Playgirl'?”

“Private poker room in the back,” Morna said. She produced what appeared to be a thick ruby-encrusted brooch and pinned it to Barbeau's dress. “This is all you need to get in.”

“It's ugly. Do I have to wear it?”

“Yes. It's an identification and tracking transponder—an RFID, or radio-frequency identification tag,” Morna said. “They've been tracking us ever since I picked it up a half hour ago while you were getting dressed. They track all your movements; it sends information to all the cashiers, croupiers, maître d's, security, hotel staff, and even to the slot machines about who you are, what you play or do, and—more
importantly to them, I'm sure—how much is left in your account. The security staff watches you with their cameras and automatically compares your description to their database to keep an eye on you while you're on the property. I think if you took more than one or two wrong turns anywhere around this place, they'd send a couple hospitality guys after you to steer you in the right direction.”

“I like the sound of that—‘hospitality guys,'” Barbeau cooed. “I don't much like the idea of being tagged like a brown bear in the woods, though.”

“Well, keep it with you, because it's your room key, access to your line of credit, your charge card, and your admission pass to all the shows and VIP rooms—again, you don't need to know a thing because these guys will escort you everywhere 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 whoever you
want
to be. Tonight you're Robin Gilliam from Montgomery, telecommunications and oil money, married but here alone.”

“Oh, do I have to be from Alabama?” she deadpanned. Morna rolled her eyes. “Never mind. 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.

“You used the billing codes from the White House for this trip for a line of credit in the casino? Smart girl.”

“It's just to get us in the door, Senator—don't actually
use
any of it, or the sergeant at arms will crucify you,” Morna said.

“Oh, pish on him—he's an old fuddy-duddy,” Barbeau said.

Morna rolled her eyes, silently hoping she was kidding. Washington careers were ended by a lot less. “Everything is all set. The management is as attentive as they are discreet. They'll take good care of you. I'll be in the room next door to yours if you need me, and I've got a casino employee bought and paid for that will tell me exactly where you are at all times.”

“Thanks, but I don't think I'll need a wingman tonight, darlin',”
Barbeau said in her best man-slaying voice. “Captain Hunter ‘Boomer' Noble will go down as easy as catching catfish in a barrel.”

“What do you plan to do, Senator?”

“I plan to show Captain Noble the best way to get ahead in the United States Air Force, which is very simple: Don't cross a United States senator,” she said confidently. She stuck out her chest and moved the mink aside. “I'll show him a couple advantages of pleasing me instead of opposing me. You're sure he's here?”

“He checked in last night and has been playing poker all day long,” Morna said. “He's doing pretty well too—he's up a little.”

“Oh, I'll make sure he's
up,
all right,” Barbeau said. “Trust me.”

“I know where his suite is—it's right down the hall from ours—and if he takes you there my guy will tell me,” Morna went on.

“Any other ladies with him?”

“Just a few that have stopped by briefly at the table—he hasn't invited any of them to his room.”

“We'll see about that, won't we?” Barbeau said. “Don't wait up, sugar.”

Exactly as Colleen said, the casino staff knew she was coming without a word being spoken. As Barbeau left the main casino floor and began walking toward the ornate gold entryway of the private poker room, a man in a tuxedo with a communications earpiece in one ear smiled, nodded, and said, “Welcome, Miss Gilliam,” as she passed by.

As she approached the doors she was met by a tall, good-looking man in a tuxedo and a woman in a tuxedo suit and skirt, carrying a beverage tray. “Welcome, Miss Gilliam,” the man said. “My name is Martin, and this is Jesse, who will be your attendant for the rest of the evening.”

“Why thank you, Martin,” Barbeau said in her best Southern accent. “I'm quite taken by this extraordinary level of attention.”

“Our goal is to assist you in any way possible to have the best evening while a guest at the hotel,” Martin said. “Our motto is ‘Anything at All,' and I will be here to be sure all your desires are met tonight.” The waitress handed her the glass. “Southern Comfort and lime, I believe?”

“Exactly right, Martin. Thank you, Jesse.”

“My job is to make you comfortable, get any dinner or show reservations you may like, get you a seat at any gaming table you'd prefer, and make any introductions while you're in the private hall. If there's anything at all you'd like—
anything
at all—please do not hesitate to tell Jesse or myself.”

“Thank you, Martin,” Barbeau said, “but I think I'd like to just…you know, prowl around a little bit to get comfortable. That's all right, isn't it?”

“Of course. Whenever you need anything, just motion to us. You don't have to look for us—we'll be looking out for
you
.”

It was a very secure feeling, Barbeau thought, to know that she was being watched every second. She took her drink and began to stroll around the room. It was plush and ornate without being too ostentatious; there was just a hint of cigar smoke, not too bad, almost pleasant and reassuring. A room in the back had several sports games on huge wide-screen flat-panel monitors, with women who definitely didn't look like spouses hanging onto the shoulders of the spectators—male and female alike.