“Implanted?”
A subcutaneous satellite transceiver,” Samson explained. “We monitor all personnel constantly, year-round, worldwide. We can listen in on their conversations, talk to them, locate them, even record vital signs.”
“Extraordinary,” Secretary of Defense Goff breathed. “I’ve heard of such devices, but I never believed they would ever be used in my lifetime.”
“Never mind the gee-whiz stuff — what in hell’s happening out there?” Busick interjected hotly. “And I still want to know why the National Security Council wasn’t apprised of this operation? Who the hell has the balls to put a mission like this in motion without getting permission first?”
“Sir, firstly, I take full responsibility for whatever’s happening out there,” Samson said. “Those are my people and my aircraft. No one else is responsible.”
“I see plenty of heads rolling here — but the first one will be yours, General Samson. Count on it. Now what in hell is happening?”
Not since he had been a seventeen-year-old enlistee doing ditch-digging jobs in a Civil Engineering unit in Thailand during the Vietnam War — literally digging ditches, trenches, latrines, and garbage pits — had Terrill Samson ever felt so helpless and clueless. Back then, it had been because he was a know-nothing airman. This time, it was because of Patrick McLanahan and David Luger. McLanahan and Luger had gone behind his back and executed this goat-fuck mission without one word to their superior officer. It was betrayal of the worst kind. Samson felt humiliated, castrated by his own people.
McLanahan wasn’t a genius, a legend, a hero — he was a back-stabbing traitor.
“We … we have another aircraft flying as air support for the Intelligence Support Agency operatives,” Samson said, putting as much strength and authority in his voice as he could, even though he realized it had all but completely drained away. “The support aircraft is one of mine, too. Colonel Furness of the One-Eleventh Bomb Squadron and General Patrick McLanahan, my deputy, are flying the backup EB-1C Vampire bomber. They apparently heard about the shootdown, reversed course, returned to Russian airspace, and are now engaging the Russian attackers …”
“My God!” someone gasped — Samson couldn’t tell who it was.
“Two Russian helicopter gunships have already been shot down … no, wait, now one Russian jet fighter has been shot down,” Samson reported, still listening to the action being played literally in his head through the subcutaneous satellite transceiver. “The Ukrainian helicopter with the other two Vampire crew members on board is airborne and almost back into Ukrainian airspace. Two more gunships are in the area, and one or more fighters. The Vampire is reengaging all of them.”
“A bomber … hunting down fighters?” Secretary of State Kercheval exclaimed. “How can they do that?”
“I still want to know, who in hell gave the order for them to be shooting down Russians?” Busick thundered. It was a rhetorical statement — aimed not at General Samson, not at Secretary of Defense Goff, but right at the President of the United States.
But President Thorn wasn’t going to be drawn into a conflict with anyone, not even his friend and closest advisor — and perhaps also his biggest critic. He rested his head in his left hand, tapping on the corner of his mouth with his index finger, studying the videoteleconference screen with Terrill Samson’s anxious, animated face looking back at him. It was as if he was watching someone watch a video replay of a bad car accident, or a bullfight, something potentially violent-you felt like asking, “What’s going on?” every five seconds.
Finally, the President picked up the phone beside him and said to the White House communications officer: “Get me President Sen’kov of the Russian Federation on the line.” It took only a few moments until someone in the Russian president’s office answered. “This is President Thorn. I am in the White House with members of my national security staff.”
“This is President Sen’kov,” the voice of the Russian translator said. “I am in my residence surrounded by generals and defense ministers who believe we are under attack by the United States. You are calling about the illegal violation of Russian sovereign airspace near the Russia-Ukraine border, I assume? Is this some sort of prelude to war, Mr. President? What is the meaning of this?”
“I’d be happy to explain,” Thorn said. “The United States was conducting an intelligence operation inside Russia, near Moscow.”
The men in the Situation Room looked stunned. Sen’kov must’ve been equally stunned at that revelation, because it took him several long moments to respond: “Please repeat, Mr. President.”
“I said, the United States was conducting an intelligence mission near Moscow,” Thorn repeated, as calmly as if he were describing a rare painting or a Mozart opera. “We were trying to rescue an agent that was spying on one of your military installations. We inserted a special operations team inside your country, and we used a long-range stealth aircraft to cover the team in case it was discovered.”
“Mr. President!” Lester Busick retorted. “What are you doing? You can’t reveal that information to the Russians?”
Thorn hit the microphone kill-switch on the telephone. “Les, don’t you think the Russians already know all this?” he asked. He released the switch: “As you know, President Sen’kov, the special ops team made it out, but your military forces shot down the stealth bomber. Some of our special operations forces and another stealth aircraft went in to try to rescue the crew of the first stealth aircraft before your forces could imprison them.”
“One moment, please, Mr. President,” the translator said. The men in the Situation Room could only imagine what was going on in the minds of the Russian president and military advisors. The translator finally said, “President Sen’kov thanks you for your candor, Mr. President, but he still demands that the United States take full responsibility for what your forces have done.”
“I fully intend to,” Thorn said. “Allow me to continue: At the present moment, our respective forces are engaging one another in an air battle. Three of your helicopters and one fighter have already been shot down. But I do not wish for the battle to go on. I am hereby ordering the crew of the stealth aircraft to disengage if you order your defensive forces to let them go.
“With all due respect, Mr. President,” Sen’kov said through the translator, “the Russian people would not care to see its forces merely surrender with a hostile enemy force flying overhead. They are and always will be determined to fight to the last man to defend their homeland.”
“Mr. President, I will order my forces to disengage, but I will also tell them that they are free to defend themselves if they are attacked,” Thorn said. “I feel guile certain my aircrews can survive and make it out of your country, but I don’t wish for them to hurt any more Russians. I strongly urge you to accept my suggestion and order your forces to disengage.” Thorn kept the line open and said to the videoteleconference screen, “General Samson, order the Vampire to disengage immediately. It may open fire only if fired upon first.”
A moment later: “Order received and acknowledged, sir,” Samson responded. “Vampire is proceeding direct to the Ukrainian border at maximum speed and at low altitude.”
“I’ve issued my orders, and they have been acknowledged, Mr. Sen’kov,” President Thorn said. “Let’s stop this right now, shall we?”