Return to Honor (17 page)

“Oh great.” Chiu’s body was flung forward and his feet hit the floor all in one motion. The message was repeated as Chiu sprinted across the room.

Second Lieutenant Dubois, the only other person in the launch control room, and Chiu’s trainee, made it to the red safe that was embedded in the wall. He arrived just as Chiu got there.

Chiu took a deep breath and said formally: “I received authentication Charlie, Zulu, Xray, niner and am opening the safe.” He received a nod from Dubois, then twirled the knob and completed the first part of the opening sequence.

As he finished, Dubois announced, “I, too, received authentication Charlie, Zulu, Xray, niner and am completing the code.” He entered his part of the combination and took a step backward.

Chiu reached inside the small safe and withdrew an envelope, which he tore open. As he scanned the contents his shoulders sagged minutely. “That’s it; the authentication matches.” He looked up. Dubois hadn’t been in the hole for more than a few weeks, and now he got a live one on his first tour of duty. Chiu tried to put the younger officer—younger by all of two years—at ease. “All right, the code is good. Let’s get the targeting computer ready for the feed.”

“What do you think’s up?”

“No telling. But with any luck we’re not at war. And at least we’re not in a hole in Minot; otherwise we’d be launching nukes instead of runway clearers, and we could kiss our butts goodbye.”

“Some consolation.”

“Hey, you volunteered for this, didn’t you?” Chiu shot a glance at the wall clock. “Let’s get a move on. The targeting feed hits in thirty seconds.”

They moved to their respective consoles, and each inserted a small key hanging from around his neck into a three-positioned hole. The keyholes were the standard twelve feet apart, preventing one person from turning the keys simultaneously on command, as required for independently loading the targeting information and launching the missile.

As the wall clock’s hand swept past the seconds the intercom came back to life. “Prepare to open the feed link on my count.…three, two, one,
mark.
”

At the sound, Chiu and Dubois turned their keys. They had no idea of the targeting information being downloaded into the missile’s one-board targeting computer. The message was scrambled, requiring on-board crypto to decode the information. The only confirmation they had that the information was being received and decoded was a small green light that burned above the keyholes.

The green light blinked off as the intercom squawked once again. “Targeting information echoed and verified; your launch window is open for the next twenty seconds. Twenty, nineteen, eighteen …”

As the voice counted down, Chiu shouted above the din. “Ready, ready …
now.”
They both turned the keys. Chiu felt as though his key would break off, but a satisfying click filled the air as the keys popped into position.

Three hundred feet away, separated by layers of concrete, steel, and dirt and buoyed by springs, the seventy-foot Peacekeeper popped out of its silo in a cold launch.

Once clear of the ground, the missile’s solid fuel rocket ignited and rose like a roman candle in the California sky. The silo was relatively unharmed; within minutes, a new missile could be inserted and the silo used again.

“I wonder where we sent it.”

“Turn on CNN. If it’s anything big, we’ll find out soon. But it couldn’t be too important; they aren’t loading in a new missile yet. If this was the big one, we’d be popping those babies out of here like they were going out of style.”

“Yeah,” said Dubois. “Some consolation.”

Do’brai

Montoya’s screams pierced the room. President-for-Life Ash’ath viewed the scene without emotion from behind the spotlight’s glare.

President Montoya hung from the ceiling, barely a foot off the ground. Blood dripped onto the floor, mixing with tears from Montoya’s sobbing.

Ash’ath spoke to General Kamil without turning his head. “How much longer?”

Kamil bowed slightly. “We will finish the foot we’re working on now and probably do one toe on the other foot.”

“Even if he memorizes the speech correctly?”

“We are not worried about that, Excellency. He already knows the speech without error. He must be convinced that the apology is true and is his own.”

Ash’ath raised an eyebrow. “Is that possible?”

“With enough pain, anything is possible.”

Ash’ath studied the man a few moments longer before turning away and walking down the corridor. “Pity. The last time I met him I was impressed by the amount of aid he wanted to give our country. Too bad there could not be another way to vault the ALH into worldwide attention.”

“You yourself convinced us that this would be the only way to clear up the ALH question, Excellency. Only when the world knows that the ALH can strike anyone, anytime, will this matter be put to rest. Then Do’brai can stop playing haven to ALH politics and take overt control of the united Arab front. You will emerge as the most powerful leader in this hemisphere.”

“And you the second most,” retorted Ash’ath dryly.

Kamil bowed his head.

“But I do not need to be reminded of the obvious,” said Ash’ath. “I just despise doing things this way for now.”

“Your name will never be attached to this, Excellency.”

Ash’ath snapped,
“Do’brai
must never be connected with this. You have ensured that Air Force One is well hidden?”

“Yes—it was pulled into our largest maintenance hangar after it landed. No one can see it.”

“Good,” said Ash’ath. “Have the servants that are working on President Montoya eliminated once they are through with him. And those ALH scoundrels—”

“Hujr ibn-Adi?”

“Yes. And his cohort, and that Ghazzali fool—dispose of both of them. When the ALH delegates arrive, only you and I will know what has happened. As far as everyone else is concerned, President Montoya is simply to be loaded on board the ALH plane once it lands. The details of how he got here and this torture must never be known to the West. There must be no connection to Do’brai.”

“And the remainder of the people who were on Air Force One?”

“Take them to the airport with Montoya. Once the ALH plane clears Do’brai airspace, load them on Air Force One, pull it out of the hanger and destroy it. Afterward we will broadcast an alert to the American authorities telling them we offered to help Air Force One, but the plane was commandeered by ALH terrorists who kidnapped Montoya and destroyed his plane.”

“Will they believe us?”

Ash’ath shrugged. “How can they not? With no witnesses, they can only take us at our word. Especially when we serve Hujr’s head up to them on a platter as proof.”

Kamil’s mouth parted, revealing a thin smile. “So Do’brai will remain in favor with the West. And once the American President is dead, you will no longer need the ALH to unite the Arab front.”

“That is correct, my friend. I will no longer need the ALH—for the other countries will flock to Do’brai. They are not fools. They will know Do’brai’s power, even though the Americans will not. Just remember, Kamil. What is happening here is unknown to everyone. You and I—that is all who should know. That way, we may be completely innocent when we tell the West that we had nothing to do with the ALH.”

Kamil bowed at the request.

Chapter 8

0230 ZULU: SATURDAY, 8 SEPTEMBER

If you greatly desire something, have the guts to stake everything on obtaining it.

Brendan Francis

If you start to take Vienna—take Vienna.

Napoleon Bonaparte

Ojo-1: Crew Compartment

The decision for Krandel to go—and to be first out—was entirely his. He massaged his neck, trying to relieve the tension that had mounted at the back of his head, and thought for the twentieth time about the decision.

Hell, yes, Weston was angry that he’d relieved him of his platoon. Weston was poised to lead the platoon himself—that was what he had spent years training for, and what was expected under the chain of command.

But when the decision was made to take only two TAVs, what else could Krandel do? The RDF
had
to be split up; someone had to stay behind. Krandel had no other choice. Weston knew that dragging another officer along would have been taking deadweight, but for Weston to take the order to stay, and to take the order from someone without operational experience was the final blow.

Krandel rolled his head to ease the tension. He jumped as an intercom set into the bulkhead crackled to life. “Attention in the hold. We have received final approval from the White House: The mission is a go. Stand by to rocket in three minutes.”

A cheer ran through the compartment. Inwardly excited, Krandel kept the smile off his face and nodded to himself. He could hardly believe it. After all these years, he finally had a live one.

And it wasn’t like the White House was trigger-happy, either. After the Mexican fiasco, no politician was willing to risk American lives for
anything.
Public support for any type of military action had dwindled to nothing; this could be his only chance at combat.

The TAV began to shake. Buffeted by the winds, the 747 below them prepared for the nose-down maneuver that would release the TAV into the atmosphere. “Thirty seconds!” Krandel finished strapping himself in and sat back, rigid against the webbing.

The waiting was the worst. That’s when the thought of every possible thing that could go wrong raced through his head. But once the waiting was over, things happened too fast for him to worry about them. His thoughts drifted to his first parachute jumps with the men. The first three had been night jumps—not because it was dark outside, but because his eyes were tightly shut.…

He felt a slight bump and he opened his eyes as the TAV was released from the 747. He was almost weightless; the bottom seemed to drop from below him.…then he was squashed into his seat as the TAV jerked up and to the right. The maneuver had been honed to perfection with the early space shuttle.

The Trans-Atmospheric Vehicle accelerated upward as the scramjets hungrily gulped air. The scramjets strained as they fought the craft’s inertia, trying to build up the TAV’s speed for maximum efficiency; slowly, the acceleration increased.

Krandel forced his head to one side and tried to wet his lips. The effort wasn’t worth the trouble. His face drew back in a tight mask as the TVA pulled more and more g’s, clawing for the upper reaches of the atmosphere until its ramjet would extinguish in the rarefied air.

This was a critical period. With a launch over California, the distance the TAV had to travel dictated a maximum velocity trajectory insertion. And with the TAV’s low glide ratio, unless they reached the correct insertion point, they would fall short of their destination, dropping like a rock.

Krandel was pressed harder into his seat; the air was squeezed from his lungs. He breathed in short, laborious gasps, then suddenly the pressure lifted and he floated up against the straps. His stomach flipped; he gulped, then was all right. The craft was bathed in an eerie silence. Most conspicuous was the absence of the buffeting winds.

A voice broke the silence: “Twenty minutes.” Krandel jerked his head to the left and stared at the battalion sergeant. Gunnery Sergeant Balcalski looked like the relic from the nineties he was. Krandel flushed involuntarily. Fifteen years older than he, Balcalski made Krandel acutely aware of his fast-burning road to lieutenant colonel. Try as he might, Krandel didn’t have the influence on others that the sergeant had. Balcalski seemed to ooze confidence. It was the way Balcalski carried himself.

Balcalski’s battle uniform told the story. A row of hash marks barely visible on his desert-brown camouflage—thirty years’ worth—ran up his left sleeve. His field experience overwhelmed Krandel’s. All Krandel could boast about was putting out fires at the Pentagon. But how could Krandel be as influential as someone like Balcalski—especially today, when a staff job was the
only
way to get ahead in the scaled-down military?

Krandel raced through his own career: Distinguished grad from Annapolis volunteers for the marines and makes lieutenant colonel while the rest of his classmates are still captains. And with no field experience. But that’s the beauty of getting staff jobs at the Pentagon. Management’s the key—and if you can get sponsored by a fast-rising general, then
hold on tight!

But Krandel’s experience commanding a chair couldn’t stand-up to someone like Balcalski. While Krandel was at the Pentagon, sitting on his fanny, Balcalski had led the Fightin’ Fourth up Azcapotzalco, right before the massacre that brought the boys home. There was just no comparison.

Balcalski released his straps. Floating upward, he grabbed the webbing to steady himself. He caught Krandel’s attention. “Twenty minutes until landing, sir. Is there anything you want me to pass on to the men?”

“No, Sergeant. Just have your squad leaders check for anyone with the willies or who’s spacesick. I’ve done my bit. Anything more I try to do will only make them nervous.”

“Very well, sir.” He twisted to leave. “Colonel, these are the best men we’ve got. We’ll get you to hell and back.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.” Krandel hesitated for a moment; he felt he needed to say something appropriate. “When we land I want those men out of here fast. I want them so close behind me I expect to have a rifle jammed up my rear on the way out. Now get with your squad leaders—their men should be primed and ready to go.”

“Yes, sir.” Balcalski nodded and turned, pushing off for the rear of the craft. As he left, Krandel watched him float down the narrow line of men. Unlike Krandel’s stiff interchange with the men before the launch, Balcalski joked with the troops. Holding on to the webbing, he tightened a helmet strap, slapped an ammo clip to see if it was secure. Balcalski
belonged,
while Krandel felt he was forcing it.

No matter. In sixteen minutes the TAV would swoop down, decelerating from Mach 25 to subsonic speeds, and—he hoped—surprise any air defenses that might be in place.

Krandel studied the hastily scribbled plastic checklist floating up from his belt. Each event was preceded by a time; times were given in plus-and-minus touchdown times.