Patrick had never spent any time in logistics, but he knew that logistics officers liked their world as neat, orderly, and organized as possible. Although they learned to expect the unexpected, they very much preferred to anticipate, predict, and manage the unexpected, and therefore anything unexpected was not welcome. He knew Huffman, however, and he knew that’s precisely the way Huffman liked it: no surprises. “McLanahan, what in hell happened out there?”
“Calling Genesis, say again, please,” Patrick said, trying to remind the general that although the connection was encrypted and as secure as they could make it, it was still a wide-open satellite-based network and prone to eavesdropping.
“We’re secure here, McLanahan,” Huffman thundered. “What in hell is going on? What happened?”
“We hit an insurgent rocket launcher, and apparently detonated its explosive chemical-weapon warhead, sir.”
“What did you hit it with?”
“A XAGM-279 with a kinetic warhead, sir,” Patrick responded, using the SkySTREAK’s experimental model number instead of its name to confuse any eavesdroppers. “Almost no explosives in it — just enough to fragment the warhead.”
“What is a XAGM-279? An experimental precision-guided missile?”
So much for communications security, Patrick thought, shaking his head. It was five years after the American Holocaust and seven years since 9/11, and many folks had forgotten or abandoned the tight security measures that had been put in place after those two devastating attacks. “Yes, sir” was all Patrick said.
“Launched from that unmanned B-1?”
“Yes, sir.” Anyone listening to this conversation — and Patrick didn’t delude himself that any number of agencies or units around the world could’ve done so easily — could piece together their entire operation by now. “I briefed the staff two days ago on the operation.”
“Dammit, McLanahan, you briefed minimal collateral damage, not dozens of dead women and children lying in the street!” Huffman cried. “That was the only way we could sell your idea to the President.”
“The weapon produced virtually no collateral damage, sir. It was the chemical warhead on the insurgents’ rocket that caused all those civilian casualties.”
“Do you believe anyone is gong to care about that one bit?” Huffman said. “This is a major fuckup, McLanahan. The press is going to have a field day with this.” Patrick remained silent. “Well?”
“I don’t feel it’s my task force’s or my responsibility to worry about what the enemy’s weapons do to the civilian population, sir,” Patrick said. “Our job is to hunt for insurgents firing rockets into population centers in Tehran and destroy them.”
“The Qagev members inside the Turkmeni insurgent network and Buzhazi’s spies inside Mohtaz’s security staff briefed us that the insurgents could use weapons of mass destruction at any time, McLanahan,” Huffman said. Patrick suppressed another irritated breath: Huffman had just revealed two highly classified intelligence sources — if anyone was eavesdropping, those sources were dead meat in just a matter of days, perhaps hours. “You should have adjusted tactics accordingly.”
“Tactics were adjusted, sir — I was ordered to reduce the number of bombers on station from three to one,” Patrick responded—by you, he added to himself. “But we don’t have enough coverage of the city to effectively deal with the number of launchers being reported. I recommend we launch two more bombers so we can hunt down more launchers before the insurgents actually start firing live chemical warhead munitions into the city.”
“Are you crazy, McLanahan?” Huffman retorted. “The President will probably order the entire program shut down because of this! The last thing he will do is put more bombers up there. As it is, we’ll spend a week defending ourselves from being accused of releasing those chemical warheads. You will recall your aircraft immediately, then prepare to debrief the JCS and likely the entire national security staff. I want a full report on the incident on my desk in one hour. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And after the briefing is complete, get your ass off that damned space station,” Huffman said. “I don’t know why my predecessor allowed you to go up there, but you’ve got no business traipsing up to that floating pile of tubes every time you feel like it. I need you down here—if for no other reason than to have you personally answer to the national command authority regarding another lapse in judgment.”
“Yes, sir,” Patrick replied, but the transmission had already been ended by the time he spoke. He terminated the videoconference link, thought for a moment, then spoke, “McLanahan to Mace.”
Another window popped open on the opposite lower corner of Boomer’s large multifunction screen, and he saw the image of Brigadier General Daren Mace, the operations officer and second-in-command of the Air Battle Force attack wing at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base in northern Nevada. The air wing at Battle Mountain was the home base and central control facility for the unmanned long-range bombers, although commanders at HAWC could also issue instructions to the bombers as well.
“Yes, General?” Mace responded. Older than Patrick by just a few years, Daren Mace was a veteran B-1B Lancer strategic bomber OSO, or offensive systems officer, and bomb wing commander. His expertise on the B-1’s attack systems and capabilities led him to be chosen to head the Air Battle Force’s long-range supersonic attack fleet.
“Recall the damned Vampires,” Patrick ordered tonelessly.
“But sir, we’ve still got three more Streakers on board the Vampire, and it’s got at least two more hours’ endurance before it has to head back to Batman Air Base in Turkey,” Boomer interjected. “Intel briefed us that—”
“The operational test was successful, Boomer — that’s what we needed to find out,” Patrick said, rubbing his temples. He shook his head resignedly. “Recall the Vampire now, General Mace,” he said quietly, his head lowered, his voice sounding utterly exhausted.
“Yes, sir,” the veteran bomber navigator responded. He entered keyboard instructions on his computer console. “The Vampire’s on the way back to Batman Air Base in Turkey, sir, ETE forty-five minutes. What about the follow-on sorties?”
“Hold them in their hangars until I give the word,” Patrick replied.
“And what about our shadow, sir?” Daren asked.
Patrick looked at another monitor. Yep, it was still there: a Russian MiG-29 Fulcrum jet fighter, one of several that had been hanging near the bomber since it started its patrol, always within one or two miles of the Vampire, not making any threatening moves but certainly able to attack at any second. It certainly had a front-row seat for the SkySTREAK launch. The Vampire bomber had taken several photographs of the fighter with its high-resolution digital camera so detailed that they could practically read the pilot’s name stenciled on the front of his flight suit.
“If it locks onto the Vampire, shoot it down immediately,” Patrick said. “Otherwise we’ll let it—”
And at that moment they heard a computer-synthesized voice announce, “Warning, warning, missile launch! SPEAR system activated!”
Patrick shook his head and sighed audibly. “The game’s afoot, crew,” he said. “The battle begins today, and it has little to do with Persia.” He turned to the computer screen of the command center at Battle Mountain. “Shut that bastard down, Daren,” Patrick radioed.