Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (4 page)

January 2003

C
aptain Wakil Mohammad Zarazi deployed two of his youngest, most inexperienced—and therefore most expendable—troops right beside the road for the ambush, promising them promotions and high honors if they survived—and a place at the right hand of God if they were killed. Yes, they still believed they would get both.

The boys hid behind piles of snow and rocks until the lead armored personnel carrier, an old Russian-made BMP, cruised by, and then they threw RKG-3 antitank hand grenades under the chassis. When the grenades were rolled under the BMPs, they righted themselves, then fired copper-sheathed, high-explosive, hollow-charge warheads up into the crew compartment. The molten copper blew through the ten-millimeter armor underneath and spattered molten copper throughout the crew compartment, instantly killing any soldiers inside. The BMP died quickly and messily—and, Zarazi hoped, all on board did, too.

His men, emboldened by the success of this first attack, streamed out of their hiding places and went on the attack, hitting the other vehicles in the convoy with small-arms fire. To Zarazi, the company commander of the guerrilla forces that surprised this small United Nations detachment, the apparent success of the hastily planned ambush was unexpected. His men had been on the move for months in some of northern Afghanistan's worst weather; they were cold, tired, starving, and low on ammunition, morale, and courage, continually hounded by American and United Nations air forces.

Maybe they had such clear success because starving men made fiercer fighters—if they didn't succeed, they were dead.

Their intelligence said this detachment, moving west from Andkhvoy since just yesterday to set up a communications relay site somewhere along the border, would have better security. Zarazi's unit was well below full company strength, but they hurried to be in position to make this ambush anyway because of the chance to capture some superior weapons and vehicles to use in their guerrilla war against the Northern Alliance. Zarazi was disappointed at the small size of the detachment—he was hoping for more weapons and more captives. He might get only fifty captives and a few weeks' worth of food and supplies out of this convoy. Still, it was better than nothing.

Zarazi was suspicious, too—a quality that had kept him alive for most of his thirty-eight years, twenty-two of them as a Taliban freedom fighter. Zarazi was born in northwest Afghanistan near Sheberghan. Originally members of the Mujahidin guerrilla fighters that battled the Russians, Zarazi's tribe refused to join the so-called Northern Alliance, composed mostly of ethnic Uzbeks, Tajiks, and Pakistanis, and instead took large numbers of Russian weapons and vehicles and moved back to the tribe's historic provinces in the northwest. Zarazi became a provincial commander of the Hezbollah, or “Army of God,” a radical and fundamentalist sect of the Taliban regime, and continued to harass the Northern Alliance forces at every opportunity.

This substantial and apparently important detachment, moving thirty kilometers west of Andkhvoy toward the northeastern edge of the Bedentlik wastelands on the Turkmenistan-Afghanistan border, presented the perfect opportunity to make a major strike against the Northern Alliance and its Western puppet masters. Still, it was strange they had no heavy armor or helicopter support anywhere nearby. The closest helicopter base camp was twenty minutes away; the closest large military base was over an hour away by helicopter. And with some bad weather closing in—a sandstorm, most likely—help would take even longer to arrive.

The intelligence data was remarkably detailed and timely as well—maybe too detailed and timely. Although the Northern Alliance forces, aided by the United States, had effectively wiped out the Taliban militias in this area, Zarazi thought it strange that the United Nations would dare send such an important detail so far away from their strongholds without support. The Taliban still had a large and for the most part well-equipped and viable guerrilla force, especially near the Uzbekistan and Tajikistan frontiers, where friendly forces were more plentiful and the terrain more hospitable. The Turkmenistan-Afghan frontier was nothing but desert for a thousand kilometers—obviously the United Nations forces never thought they would encounter any resistance out here in the wastelands.

The infidels' overconfidence would be their downfall.

The scout vehicles deployed in front of the column were Russian BTR-40 and larger BTR-60 wheeled reconnaissance vehicles, fast and nimble and very well armed. They turned and scattered as soon as the first BMP exploded. Zarazi's men started lobbing smoke grenades from all over the area—it took dozens of the things to create enough of a screen in the ever-increasing, swirling winds, but within moments visibility had been cut to just a few yards. The gunports were already open, the soldiers inside looking for targets.

That was exactly what Zarazi was waiting for. His men dashed out from their hiding places under cover of the smoke, jumped aboard the BTRs, and stuffed tear-gas grenades into the open gunports. Within moments the drivers were forced to stop their vehicles to evacuate the soldiers inside before they were asphyxiated by the noxious gas. Soon all of the vehicles in the convoy were stopped, billowing with tear gas. The hatches and doors opened, and terrified and nearly suffocating United Nations soldiers and workers dashed out, their eyes swollen and burning. The battle took less than five minutes. Zarazi's men had destroyed one BMP and one BTR and captured one BMP, four BTR scouts, and four five-ton trucks loaded with supplies. No casualties. Perfect.

“We hit the mother lode, Captain,” Zarazi's lieutenant, Jalaluddin Turabi, said a few moments later as the crews and workers were being herded together. “Looks like they were going to set up a semipermanent outpost. They have two weeks' worth of food for about fifty men, plus boxes labeled ‘Communications Equipment.' I see power generators, fuel tanks, cold-weather tents and clothing, and fencing material. This stuff will sell for millions on the black market!”

“Stop gawking and start unloading those supply trucks, Jala,” Zarazi snapped. “If this detail has air support nearby, they'll be on us any minute. We need to be out of here as soon as possible.”

The United Nations soldiers were lined up kneeling in the snow, hands on their heads. Captain Zarazi paced back and forth in front of them, studying each man and woman carefully. Many nations were represented, mostly from the Northern Hemisphere: Canada, Northern Ireland, Norway, South Korea. Zarazi allowed his men to strip off the peacekeepers' gloves, scarves, and parkas—many of his men had perished in the Turkestan and Selseleh'ye Mountains due to exposure, and keeping warm was more important than eating to most of them.

“I am Captain Wakil Mohammad Zarazi, servant of God and commander of the Balkh Armed Resistance Regiment,” Zarazi said in Pashtun. He noticed the uncomprehending stares, then said in halting English, “Who is interpreter?” There was no reply. Zarazi continued to examine the captives, finally coming across one soldier in the robin's-egg blue helmet, but with a beard, who appeared to be Afghan. Zarazi dragged him to his feet. “Do you understand me?” The man nodded. “Who is the commanding officer?” He did not respond. Zarazi pulled a long knife from his belt, turned the interpreter, and raised the blade to his throat.

“Stop,” a voice said. Zarazi looked around as one of the officers kneeling right beside the interpreter got to his feet, his bare hands still on top of his helmet. “I am Major Dermot O'Rourke, Republic of Ireland, commander of this detachment. We are on a peaceful mission on behalf of the United Nations Afghan Relief and Rehabilitation Council.”

After the interpreter translated, Zarazi said, “You are spies for the Northern Alliance and their wild dogs from the United States of America, invading territory claimed by his holiness Mullah Mohammad Omar and his sword of vengeance, General Takhir Yoldashev.”

“We are not spies,” O'Rourke said. “We are here to set up a cellular phone and radio-relay site, that's all.”

“You are spies, and you will all be executed according to the laws of Islam and under the orders of General Yoldashev,” Zarazi said. “You—”

Just then Zarazi's lieutenant came running up to him. “Wakil, there's trouble,” Turabi said. He ran past Zarazi and over to O'Rourke, yanked his beret from his head and stripped off his jacket, searching him. Moments later he pulled a small black box on a wire out of the back of the man's battle-dress uniform jacket.

“What is it, Jala?” Zarazi asked.

“Our communications officer picked up some kind of high-frequency transponder that was just activated,” Turabi said. “It looks like a sort of radio beacon. He must've set it off when the convoy was attacked.”

“A trouble signal?” Zarazi asked. “We've detected no other forces in this area. And a helicopter patrol would take hours to come from Andkhvoy or Mazar-e-Sharif. What good would it do . . . ?”

“An air attack—with a jet already in the area, covering the convoy,” Turabi said. “That's why our intelligence was so detailed and why this convoy was so poorly protected—it's being covered from the air. It might even be one of those American Predators, the unmanned little aircraft that can fire Maverick missiles. They could be starting their attack
right now.
”

Zarazi looked at the officer in puzzlement—and then his eyes grew wide and his mouth dropped open. “Get the men ready to get out of this area and take cover.” He stepped over to O'Rourke. “Who is watching us? What is happening?”

“I'd advise you to surrender, Captain,” O'Rourke said. “Just lay down your weapons, put your hands in the air, and kneel down. They won't attack if you surrender.”

“Who are ‘they'?
What
are they?”

“There's no time for questions, Captain. Surrender right now.”

“Bastard! Unholy bastard!” Zarazi pulled his sidearm and shot O'Rourke in the forehead, killing him instantly.

Several of his men had started unloading crates and removing tarps from pallets in the back of the supply trucks. “
Run for your lives!
Get away from those trucks!
Run!
”

Four hundred miles away, orbiting at twenty-eight thousand feet fifty miles south of the Pakistani coastline over the Arabian Sea, an EB-1C Vampire orbited lazily, watching and listening. The EB-1C was a U.S. Air Force B-1B Lancer long-range bomber, built in the mid-eighties, but it had been upgraded and modified so much since then that its builders would probably never recognize it now. But as incredible as the Vampire was, the aircraft it controlled were even more amazing—in fact, they represented Patrick McLanahan's future of aerial combat.

“Oh, my God, they killed Major O'Rourke,” U.S. Air Force Major General Patrick McLanahan said in disbelief. He studied the high-resolution digital video display on a large, multifunction “supercockpit” monitor before him. “That bastard! He was unarmed! He surrendered. . . .” He closed his eyes for a moment, hoping the image he saw would go away. When it didn't, his hate bubbled up past the boiling point. “I count about a hundred men, about two dozen Toyota pickups off away from the road. Stand by to attack.”

His aircraft commander, U.S. Air National Guard Brigadier General Rebecca Furness, squirmed restlessly in her seat. “Let's get busy and nail those suckers, sir,” she spat.

The images Patrick and Rebecca were watching were coming from a StealthHawk Unmanned Combat Air Vehicle, or UCAV. It had been launched several hours earlier from the EB-1C Vampire's forward bomb bay and had been scanning the area around the United Nations truck convoy with its infrared sensors and high-resolution digital cameras. The StealthHawk resembled a big, wide, fat surfboard, its lifting-body fuselage slightly triangular in profile. There was a large air inlet, mounted atop the fuselage to lower its radar cross-section, for the aircraft's single turbofan engine. It had no wings—the StealthHawk had a special flight-control system called a “mission-adaptive lifting-body skin” that actually used computers and tiny microhydraulic actuators to change the outer skin on the fuselage to increase or decrease lift as necessary. The EB-1C could carry three StealthHawks in its bomb bays, one in the forward bomb bay and two in the center. Each StealthHawk could carry a payload of five hundred
pounds, along with enough fuel for several hours of flight.

Patrick touched a control button and spoke, “StealthHawk, commit attack,” and the fight was under way. Orbiting at ten thousand feet over the truck convoy was a second StealthHawk, launched from the EB-1C's center bomb bay. Instead of sensors this one carried weapons—six AGM-211 “mini-Mavericks,” hundred-pound, short-range, precision-guided attack missiles.

“Commit StealthHawk attack, stop attack,”
the computer responded. When Patrick did not countermand the order, the computer added,
“StealthHawk engaging.”

“Excellent,” Patrick said. “StealthHawk reporting code one so far.”

“Then that would be a first for one of Masters's gadgets,” Furness said dryly. Rebecca Furness was the wing commander of the one and only EB-1 Vampire squadron in the world, the 111th Bombardment Wing of the Nevada Air National Guard based at Battle Mountain Air National Guard Base. Although the Vampire bomber had been used in several conflicts and skirmishes around the world in recent years, from Korea to Russia to Libya, it was still considered experimental, and therefore the aircraft's designer, Dr. Jon Masters, worked closely with Furness's unit to make improvements and fixes to the state-of-the-art weapon system to get it ready for initial operational capability.

But Jon Masters, a Ph.D. since the age of thirteen and a world-class aeronautical and space engineer, was also a world-class pain in the ass—not exactly a people-friendly person. Rebecca's job was hard enough—standing up a new unit with an experimental high-tech bomber at a newly constructed air base in the middle of nowhere in north-central Nevada—without the nerdy and conceited Dr. Masters disrupting her life.