Patrick gave a time hack, a weather report, and then briefed the mission lineup. For this first mission, both of the foreign general officers were “playing.” Normally, Patrick discouraged this, but he could not talk them out of it — it was part of their “prerogative,” and of course it was fun to be out on the Nellis ranges playing war. And because both foreign general officers were going to fly, naturally Patrick had to bump one of his flyers off one of the American planes so he could fly, too. Yes, rank did have its privileges.
“Ornx 101 flight of two will defend inside the range Patrick went on. “You pick your own patrol altitude. You will have your own controllers manning Tatil Control during the exercise.” The Dreamland ranges had a simple ground-controlled intercept radar facility set up for allied nations that still relied heavily on ground controllers, although most NATO nations now used airborne radar controllers. “Sila Zero One flight of two will approach the range complex from the east — that’s as specific as I get. Vampire will also enter from the east, plus or minus five minutes from Sila flight. You are cleared to Level Two maneuvers — no maximum altitude, minimum altitude of five hundred feet above ground level, maximum airspeed six hundred, maximum closure speed twelve hundred miles per hour, minimum vertical and lateral separation one nautical mile. We want you to be aggressive, but not dangerous.
“We will adjust separation from Vampire as necessary for operational security. Please be aware, Vampire may be employing a towed electronic countermeasures array, so be careful approaching from the rear quadrant. Again, if the range controllers give you a vector away from Vampire, follow their instructions exactly. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to attack. Questions?” Patrick waited for the translators to finish and the two generals shake their heads, then concluded with: “I must remind you, this briefing is classified Secret. Good luck, good hunting. This concludes my briefing. End of transmission.”
Patrick headed back to his office to pick up his flight gear and head over to the mission planning room for his crew briefing when the secure phone rang. He considered letting voice mail pick it up, but he knew that only a handful of persons had that number, so he answered it. “McLanahan.”
“Ever wonder what we do when we retire, Patrick?”
Patrick recognized the voice instantly, although they had only spoken to each other a handful of times in the past twelve years. “How are you, sir?”
“Sharp as ever,” the caller said, pleased that McLanahan had recognized his voice. “I’m fine, General. You?”
“Fine, sir. How can I help you?”
“I have a project for you and your team.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but this is not a topic for discussion, even on a secure line.”
“Don’t worry — I’ll do all the talking,” the caller said. “Been reading the intelligence files on the Balkans lately?”
“Other than what happened a few days ago with the AWACS plane — no, sir.”
“Something happened a few hours ago that could tear the whole place wide open,” the caller said. “You’ll be getting a call in the next few hours from the Pentagon, inquiring as to the possibility of your team participating in a high-risk, high-value cover mission. I need you to build a flight plan for a mission into Russia for one, possibly two, Megafortress bombers, and be ready to present it to the National Command Authority as soon as possible.”
“But I—”
“Just do it, Patrick,” the caller said — urgently, almost but not quite an order. Patrick knew he had no authority to order anyone to do anything. “Have it ready to go ASAP, as complete as you can make it without having access to the details. When the warning order is issued, I want you ready to present the plan to the NCA.” And the line went dead.
Patrick had absolutely zero time to spend on this — the crew bus was going to depart for the flight line in ten minutes — so he furiously typed out an e-mail message to David Luger, relaying the strange request and asking him to work something up. He had no way of knowing if the voice on the other end of the line was really who he thought it was, but whatever was really going on, it would be a good exercise for David and the Operational Support Group.
A few minutes later, the phone rang again. “Hey, Muck what’s this about?” It was David Luger, and he had already received the e-mail.
“A project I’m working on.”
“Did we receive a warning order?”
“No. But the requester said we will. I’d like to brief a mission package within three hours.”
“Piece of cake — seeing we have no concrete information such as a target time, weapon load, threat assessment, or mission objectives,” Luger said. “But it would be more valuable to you if I had a few more details.”
“As soon as I get more information, I’ll pass it along,” Patrick said. “Meanwhile, have OSG put a package together.”
“Should I ask General Samson to review it if you’re still up flying?”
Patrick immediately recognized what Luger was really asking: Is this job authorized? Does Samson know anything about it? Does Samson need to know anything about it? “I’ll brief him personally if and when we get a warning order,” Patrick replied. “Until then, no need to notify the boss.”
“Okay, Muck, you got it,” Luger said. “You know the boss will get a flag in his security file the minute we open a new intelligence file and start pulling overhead imagery and data on the Russian Federation?”
“I know. If he asks, I’ll brief him. But he’ll be busy at Nellis with the Ukrainians and Turks. This thing may go away — or it may start to spin up before he has a chance to notice the security flag and call a stop. Get your guys to work.”
“You got it. Have a good flight.”
Oh yeah, Patrick thought as he hung up the phone — he had a mission to fly. Enough intrigue for now — it was time to earn his living.
Aboard an F-16 fighter of the Republic
of Turkey Air Force
“Yyuz iki, nah sihl sih nihz?” the lead pilot of the American-made Turkish F- 16 Fighting Falcon fighter asked, glancing out his right cockpit canopy at the fighter jet flying loose formation on his right wingtip. “Status check, 102.”
“Cok iyiyim, shef,” his wingman responded. Then, in English, he added: “Full of joy, boss.”
The flight leader, Major-General Erdal Sivarek, smiled at his wingman’s casual use of American fighter pilot’s slang. All the years they had spent studying Western fighter tactics, military procedures, and even Western life and society, were obvious. Although using American slang was not officially approved in the cockpit, it helped to get everyone involved geared up and ready to fight.
Sivarek settled into his seat, quickly scanned his instruments, engaged the autopilot, and loosened his straps a bit, cursing his family’s bad genetic luck as he did. Unlike the average Turk, Sivarek was just over five feet tall — he needed a specially designed ejection-seat-pan cushion to get the proper cockpit sill clearance, then had to extend the rudder pedals to their full extension so he could reach them. He was built like a fireplug, with a thick chest, thick waist, square head and jaw, and lots of hair — lots of hair on his knuckles, hair on his ankles, and a perpetual “five o’clock shadow.” Sivarek, call sign “Magara oglan, “ or “Cave Boy,” was quick to tell everyone that being short and a little heavy helped him to fight off g-forces encountered in high-speed jet fighter maneuvering, which partially explained why he always pushed himself and his machine beyond the limits-and may have explained why he was the best of the best. Even though he was the commander of the Republic of Turkey’s air defense fighters, he was also that country’s best fighter pilot and one of the best F-16 Fighting Falcon pilots in the world.