Lyndy Vance raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Then just who is responsible for these terrorist attacks?” she asked. “Metal men from Mars?”
“Since the president refuses to provide me with access to national security intelligence, all I can do is speculate, Lyndy,” Farrell said. “But if I were a betting man… and I am a betting man, my money would be on Russia. And on its cruel, vengeful, and often reckless leader — Gennadiy Gryzlov.”
That drew pained stares from many of the press. Most of them had long since stopped writing glowing stories about Russia’s “charismatic” young president, but that didn’t mean they liked hearing what they considered to be worn-out, old-fashioned Cold War — style boilerplate served up this way.
One of them sneered openly. “Oh, come on, Governor. You’re clutching at straws. Every military expert we talk to comes back to one basic fact: The Poles and the mercenaries they pay are the only ones in the world with the kind of war robots that have been attacking us.”
“Last time I looked, there were a whole lot of experts around who’ve turned out to be dead wrong about a whole lot of things,” Farrell said dryly. “For example, I earned a couple of billion dollars pumping oil and gas the experts said didn’t exist.” As he’d expected, that little sally drew some laughs — albeit reluctant ones. “Weapons aren’t magic talismans,” he went on more seriously. “They’re devices made by men, pure and simple. And what one man can make, another man can copy… or steal.”
In the short silence that followed, Farrell saw Sara Patel tap her watch significantly. He nodded slightly and turned back to the reporters. “Now, folks, you’re going to have to excuse me, but I need to wrap this up.”
Undeterred, Lyndy Vance got in one more shot. “Is the line your staff has been feeding us about your plans for the next couple of weeks accurate? Or just spin?”
“What line is that?” Farrell asked.
“That you’re going to take some time off the campaign trail? That you’re retreating to that Texas Hill Country ranch of yours for the next few days?”
Farrell nodded. “It is, Lyndy.” He shrugged. “Partly, it’s to avoid further politicizing events in this time of crisis. As you’ve noted, it might be unfair of me to continue campaigning while the president is locked away, unable to respond in kind. But mostly, I want some quiet time to put serious meat-and-bone on the reform proposals I’m taking to the American people in November.” He shrugged. “My office in Austin will keep you apprised of any important developments, but I don’t expect there’ll be much to report before the convention. Now, after that, you’d best buckle up tight… because I plan to hit the campaign trail running hard. There’s no prize for second place when it comes to the White House, and I am in this race to win.”
Thirty
Regan Air Flight 281 cruised south-southwest through the night sky over Southern California. Flying from its base near Moab, Utah, it approached the border near Mexicali, Mexico.
“Regan Air 281, radar services terminated, contact Tijuana TCA on one-one-niner-point-five, good evening,” the Southern California terminal radar controller radioed.
“One-one-niner-point-five, Regan 281, roger, good evening,” the pilot aboard Regan Air 281 responded.
The controller checked the flight information strip — the flight was dead on time and course, as reported to U.S. Customs and Border Protection. He picked up his telephone and hit a button for a direct-connection line.
“CBP, Lewis,” came the reply a moment later, all for the benefit of the digital memory system recording every word.
“Simpson at SOCAL,” the controller replied. “Regan 281 is right on time and course as filed.”
“Copy. Thanks,” and the line went dead. Both operators were off the hook now — Regan Air 281 had flown exactly where and when they said it was going to do, and now it was Mexico’s target. Big, privately chartered cargo jets flying into Mexico at night always raised suspicion, but Regan Air had filed all the proper paperwork with both the U.S. and Mexican authorities and had been exactly where and when they said they’d be, and they were flying away from the United States, so it was someone else’s concern now. It was again suspicious that the flight didn’t land at the first port of entry airport at General Rodríguez International in Tijuana: flights inbound to the U.S. were required to land at the first port of entry after crossing the border and were not permitted to fly past any port of entry. But Mexico was different… and again, it was not CBP’s or SOCAL’s problem any longer.
Regan Air 281 proceeded south to San Felipe and its small nontowered regional airport for its customs inspection. The small detachment of federales and the commandante had already been paid off, so when they boarded the plane they relaxed in the 737’s six-seat passenger section forward of the walled-off cargo section, enjoyed a cigar and some cerveza, waited the proper amount of time that it might take for an inspection, then departed. After refueling, the plane took off and headed back west-northwest, and then entered a timing orbit ninety kilometers from San Felipe — on the other side of the ten-thousand-foot-high Picacho del Diablo, Devil’s Peak.
Inside the cockpit, Colonel Yuri Annenkov and Major Konstantin Uspensky were busy working their way through their attack checklist. “All four rotary launchers are online,” Uspensky said from the copilot’s seat. “They are linked to our attack computer.”
Annenkov nodded. “Activate the Kh-35 satellite navigation systems.”
While waiting for his copilot to finish this step, he took a quick look outside. Off to their left, the whole horizon glowed. From this altitude, even more than 250 kilometers away, the lights of Los Angeles, San Diego, Tijuana, Mexicali, and the sprawling suburbs around those cities were visible — reflecting off the clouds above coastal mountain ranges. Ahead, the sky blazed with stars strewn across an infinite ink-black backdrop. Distant blinking lights showed dozens of other commercial airliners and cargo jets crisscrossing the region at high altitude. The view truly was quite beautiful, he thought dispassionately. And, to the naked eye, enormously peaceful.
But those appearances were deceiving. Far off to the northwest, well out to sea, the Americans had one of their Navy E-2C Hawkeye airborne early-warning planes flying a fuel-saving racetrack pattern while they conducted training for naval reserve crews and kept watch over the approaches to this area. The Russians had detected emissions from its APS-145 radar several minutes ago. Fortunately, their converted 737 was still just outside the range where the American AEW aircraft could spot the Kh-35 cruise missiles they were about to launch. If one of the Navy’s newer E-2D Advanced Hawkeyes had been on station instead, Annenkov knew they would have had to abort this attack. But those planes, with their incredibly powerful solid-state AN/APY-9 radars, were fully committed to service aboard active-duty U.S. Navy aircraft carriers. And fortunately, for the purposes of tonight’s mission, the carriers were far out to sea — safe from attack.
The Russian pilot shrugged. True, getting the chance to sink an American aircraft carrier would have been glorious. On the other hand, if a carrier had been in port, this whole mission would have been effectively impossible in the first place. It was the old military conundrum. High-value targets generally had the strongest possible defenses. In an all-out war, that might not have mattered. But their job tonight was to strike from concealment and live to fight another day.