“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.
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.”