FLIGHT OF THE OLD DOG [081-011-4.9]

By: Dale Brown

Synopsis:

The Soviets have developed the world's most powerful laser
installation.

They have already killed an American satellite and a rc-135 aircraft
and now they're after the space shuttle.  General Brad Elliott, head of
a super-secret installation called "Dreamland' has the responsibility
of stopping them.  He puts together an intrepid crew and a specially
modified B-52 bomber to do the job.  Modern military fiction at its
page-turning best.

BERKLEY BOOKS, NEW YORK

This novel is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places and
incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are
used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of
either the author or publisher.

This Berkley book contains the complete text of the original hardcover
edition.

It has been completely reset in a typeface designed for easy reading
and was printed from new film.

FLIGHT OF THE OLD DOG

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with Donald I. Fine, Inc.
PRINTING HISTORY Donald I. Fine edition / June 1987

Berkley edition / May 1988

All rights reserved.

Copyright (K) 1987 by Dale Brown.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or
any other means, without permission.

For information address: Donald I. Fine, Inc. 128 East 36th Street,
New York, New York 10016.

ISBN: 0-425-10893-7

A BERKLEY BOOK * TM 757,375

Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, 200

Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

The name "BERKLEY" and the "B" logo are trademarks belonging to Berkley
Publishing Corporation.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to extend my gratitude to George Wieser and Donald I.

Fine, who took a chance on me; to Rick Horgan, senior editor at Donald
I. Fine, Inc with whom I spent many long hours hammering this story
into shape; and to my wife Jean, who gave me the support to get the job
done.  Thanks.

This book is dedicated to the thousands of men and women of the United
States Air Force Strategic Air Command who assure the quality of our
nation's strategic deterrent force.  I was proud to serve in SAC for
seven years, and I know it is a thankless, lonely,
sometimes frustrating job.  They work in old alert shelters,
underground launch centers, dark command posts, and cold hangars-and
they are the nation's best.  More Sol than any high-tech machine, it is
the dedication and professionalism of these men and women that insure
the peace and security of the United States.

To all the bomber pukes, tanker toads, missile weenies, sky cops,
knuckle-busters, and BB stackers of the Strategic Air Command-this
one's for you.

ABOARD A B-52 BOMBER

The Strategic Air Command B-52 was ready to begin its final assault.

Though half its bomb load had already been expended.

one gravity bomb and four Short-Range Attack Missiles (SRAMs) still
stood in the bomb bays.  So far, the crew of six had successfully
guided their aged bomber through a crucial air refueling-, a
high-altitude bomb run from thirty-seven thousand feet, with a surprise
S.A-2 surface-to-air missile attack shortly afterward; and three
subsequent bomb runs through a maze of hills and valleys.

Up ahead, closing in on them at a speed of six miles per minute, was
the target area--defended by surface-to-air missile sites, radar-guided
antiaircraft artillery, and prowling patrols of the most advanced
interceptors in the world.

I.P inbound in three minutes.  crew."  First Lieutenant David Luger
announced over the interphone.  He was following the B-52's course on a
narrow cardboard chart.  mentally measuring the distance and computing
the time to the I.P. or "initial point," the start of a low-altitude
nuclear bomb run.  Time to start reviewing checklists, Luger thought.

The action was going to start soon.

He glanced down at the plastic-covered checklist pages.

anticipating each step of the "Before Initial Point" and "Bomb Run
(Nuclear)" checklists before he came to it.  Long years of training had
enabled him to fix in his mind the exact details of what he was about
to do.

-SRAM missile pre-simulated launch check, completed."  he said.

"Computer launch programming completed."

No one acknowledged him.  but he had not expected a reply.

The checklist had been reviewed hours earlier.  As Luger reread the
checklist items over the interphone to key everyone else that the
busiest portion of the ten -hour sortie was about to begin.  he found
himself squirming in his seat.  trying to get comfortable.

"Radios set to RBS frequency."  Luger said.  He glanced at his chart
annotations.  "Two seventy-five Point three," "Set," Mark Martin.  the
co-pilot replied.  -RBS bomb scoring plot is set in both radios.  I'll
call I.P inbound when cleared by the radar."

"Camera on, one -to-four," Luger announced, flicking would now record
the bomb run and missile - A special camera small black knob near his
right shoulder a e launches on thirty five millimeter film for later
study.  "E.W.

measures point in sixty seconds."  start-counter "Defense copies,"
First Lieutenant Hawthorne replied, double-checking his jammer and
trackbreaker switch Positions.

The same age as Luger, Hawthorne was the E.W or electronic-warfare
officer.  His job was to defend the B-52 against attack by jamming or
decoying enemy surface-to-air missile or artillery-tracking radars, and
to warn the crew of missile or aircraft attacks.

"Rog, Luger said.  "Checklist complete."  He checked the
Ai TG meter, an antique gear-and-pulley dial that showed the time in
seconds to the next turn point, Luger flipped the plastic covered page
over to the "Bomb Run (Synchronous)" list, then glanced over at the
radar navigator's station check "About one-fifty TG to the I.R radar,"
Luger asked. "Got it, Patrick McLanahan said. He was bent over a pile
of bomb run charts and radar scope predictions, intently " studying his
bombing huh, " of him.beside together, buddy?"

His work area was littered with snippets of "game plan" as if this was
the first time he had seen it.paper , drawings and notes. A thermos,
which lay underneath several books and papers atop his attack radar
set, was leaking coffee over the cathode-ray tube display and the radar
controls.

Luger impatiently waited for his partner to begin. The two navigators,
representing their SAC bombardment wing in this important competition
sortie, were a study in contrasts. Luger was a tall lanky Texan with
emaculately spit-shined boots, closely cropped black hair, and a
penchant for Perfection. He was fresh out of the textbook for B-52
Combat Crew Training after graduating top of his class from both the
Air Force Academy and Undergraduate Navigator Training, and was easily
the Wing's most conscientious and professional navigator. He studied
hard, performed his duties to perfection, and constantly drove himself
to higher levels of achievement.

McLanahan .. . was McLanahan. He was of medium height and husky
build, a blond and tanned Californian who looked as if he was fresh off
the boardwalk at Venice Beach.

Despite McLanahan's casual appearance and disdain for authority, he was
acknowledged as the best navigator in the Wing, and quite possibly the
best in SAC.Together he and Luger combined to make the most effective
bomber crew in the United States Air Force. And they were about to go
to work.

"Well, let's get this over with," McLanahan said finally.

"Good idea," Luger said. He proceeded to run down the remaining items
on the checklist, pausing at intervals to check switch positions with
the pilot, Captain Gary Houser. Two minutes later, all switches had
been configured and it only remained to activate the bombing system and
tie all of the individual components together with the bombing
computers.

"Master bomb control switch."

"Good," McLanahan asked. "I mean, on, light on."

"Bombing system switch."

"Auto. "The bombing computers now had control of everything-the
steering, when to release the bomb, even crosshairs precisely on a when
to open and close the bomb doors. McLanahan had only to position a set
of electronic preselected aiming point on the radar scope, and the
bombing computers would do the rest.

The computers would translate the crosshair positioning into range and
azimuth data and display the target direction on the Flight Command
Indicator (FCI) at the pilot's station. The computers fed altitude,
heading, airspeed, groundspeed, and drift through a set of precomputed
ballistics data, and derived an exact release point based on that
information. Even if the airspeed changed slightly, or if the winds
shifted, the computers would recompute the exact point for bomb
release.

"Coming up on sixty seconds to the I.P crew," Houser announced.-FCI
centered. Sixty TG, ready, ready .. .

now!

"Got it," Luger said, starting a stopwatch as a backup.

"Bomb run review."

Them.

us.

"Roger," McLanahan replied. "Rocket, rocket, bomb .. . uh, concrete
blivet .

rocket, rocket. This is the live drop over the range. Let's not fuck
this one up, ladies.

Some joker is going to run out there with a tape measure to see how we
score. Nav?"McLanahan said, turning to Luger.

"SRAM fixes will be on the Airport, fix number thirty; target Bravo,
fix number thirty-one; and the pumping station, fix number
thirty-two.

We are running fully synchronous, all computers fully operational, with
a drift rate less than-" "What he means," McLanahan said, "is that the
SRAM is tighter than that virgin lieutenant Gary's been seeing."

A conspiratorial snicker could be heard over the interphone.

"Thirty seconds to lp," Houser announced. "Defense?"

"Electronic warfare officer ready for I.P inbound, pilot," Mike
Hawthorne replied.

India-band radar is searching but hasn't locked onto us yet."

Gunner has back-up timing, radar," Bob Brake, the crew gunner,
replied.

"Fire control radar is clear. I'll get back on watch after the bomb
run and get set for those Air National Guard fighters they told us
about."

"Twenty seconds to I.P," McLanahan announced.

"Better stay on watch, guns," Houser asked. "Sometimes those Air
National Guard guys get a little antsy. Remember last year's Bomb
Competition-they didn't wait for the bomb run to finish before they
jumped us. The rules committee let them get away with it, too.

Realism, you know."

"Okay," Brake asked. "I'll still be keeping backup timing until I see
something. "He flipped some switches and returned to his small
five-inch square tail radar display. At the tail of the huge bomber,
the turret with four fifty-caliber machine guns slowly came unstowed
and began a PreProgrammed search pattern.

"Guns unstowed, system capable, radar-search, radar track," Brake
reported.

"Ten seconds to I.P- Luger asked. "Next heading will be
zero-one-zero.

Airspeed three-five-zero true. Clearance plane five hundred feet."

He turned to McLanahan. His Partner had just removed his helmet and
was rubbing his ears, then snapping his neck hard from side to side.

"What the hell are you doing?"Luger said.

"Loosening up, Dave," McLanahan replied. "My brain bucket is killing
me. "Luger answered calls for his partner until the radar navigator
finally put his helmet back on.

Houser's FCI slowly wound down. "Coming up on the I.P, crew .. .

ready .. . ready .. . now!

"Right turn, heading zero-one-zero, pilot," Luger said. The huge
aircraft banked in response. "Boy, is it flat out there," McLanahan
said, studying the radar scope.

"I guess that means we're clear of terrain.""Roger, radar," Houser
replied. That information was important to Houserhe who was handflying
the huge bomber only five hundred feet off the ground at almost six
miles per minute. Houser used the EVS, or Electro-optical Viewing
System, and terrainavoidance computer to provide a "profile" of the
peaks and valleys ahead, but the best warning was McLanahan's
thirtymile range radar and his experience in guiding the huge bomber
around trouble. The "Muck"-McLanahan's lessthan-flattering
nickname-wasn't always by the book, but he was the best and Houser
trusted him with his life. Everyone did.

"Ten degrees to roll-out," Luger reminded the pilot. "Drift is zero,
so heading is still zero-one-zero. Radar, I'll correct gyro heading
after roll-out. Pilot, don't take the FCI until it's displayed on the
EVS scope."

"We're I.P inbound, crew," Luger reported. "Pilot, center the FCI and
keep it centered. Pat, I'll check your switches when you-" "Pilot,
airborne radar contact at two o'clock!"Hawthorne yelled suddenly over
the interphone. "Possibly an F-15.

Breakingapartnow .. . there'stwoofthem. Searchradaron us .. .

switching to target track .. . they've seen us."

"Roger, E.W," Houser said. The fighter-intercept exercise area was
still over eighty miles away, Houser thought.

Hawthorne must be picking up signals from some other airplane engaging
the fighters. He put the E.W's warning out of his mind.

Hawthorne tried to say something else, but he was quickly interrupted
as the action of the B-52's bomb run began.

"Co-pilot, call I.P inbound," Luger said. McLanahan had switched
off-sets and was now peering intently at a radar return that was almost
obscured by terrain features around it.

"Pilot," Hawthorne said nervously, "this is not a simulation."

Glasgow Bomb Plot, Glasgow Bomb Plot, Sabre Threethree, India Papa,
Alpha Sierra," Martin radioed.

In a small trailer complex located at a municipal airport fifty miles
from the ground-hugging bomber, a set of four dish antennas swung
southward. In a few seconds, they had found the speeding B-52 and had
begun to track its Progress toward the target on a mapping board.

Other antennas began emitting jamming signals to the B-52's radar, and
other transmitters simulated surface-to-air missile site tracking
radars and antiaircraft guns. The scoring operator insured that they
had Positive lock-on, then turned to his radio.

"Sabre Three-three, Glasgow clears you on range and frequency and
copies your I.P call. India band is restricted. Do not jam India band
radar. Range is clear for weapons release.

Just then, the scoring operator noticed two extra n release."tracking
display He immediately called his targets on his range supervisor.

"They're at it again, sir, " the Operator explained, pointing to the
two newcomers.

as he studied the display He shook his head, then asked,
Those National Guard hot-dogs," the Supervisor muttered
the next competition plane called I.P yet?""Has "Yes, sir, the
operator replied. "Sabre Three-three, a Buff out of Ford.

Ford , huh The supervisor smiled at the mention of the
B-52's nickname. Once, decades earlier, calling a B-52 a "Buff"-short
for Big Ugly Fat Fucker-was a sign of respect. Not any more. "You got
a Positive track on the Buff?

ighters interfering with the bomb scoring?"

"Let 'em go. I
Mark Martin switched to interphone. "We've been cleared onto the
range, crew. Patrick, You're cleared for weapon release.

"Rog, double-M," McLanahan replied plastic cover of the release He
opened the -circuits-disconnect switch and closed the circuit. "Let's
go bombin'!"he yelled.

No chance of the f.i "I don't think so, sir.

He thought for a moment, then shrugged.

like watching a duck shoot."

"Yes, sir," the operator said.

"India band restricted, Mike," Martin called down to Hawthorne over
interphone.

opy," Hawthorne replied. "Crew,we are under attack.

Airborne interceptors at two o'clock and closing fast.

"Mike, are you sure they're on us?"Houser asked.

"Positive."

"Mark, switch radio two to the fighter control frequency and- "We can't
do that," Luger asked. "We need both radios on plot frequency.

"Well, we'll call the site and tell them to chase the fighters off the
bomb range," Houser replied, irritation showing in his voice. "They
can't do this."

"Bob can guns.take 'em," McLanahan asked. "Go get 'em, "You're crazy,
radar," the gunner replied. "It'll mean maneuvering on the bomb run
.

. . " "Shoot the bastards down. "McLanahan asked. "Let's give it a
try. If it gets dicey, we'll call a safety-of-flight abort."

"Now you're talkin'," Brake said, turning to his equipment.

"Are you sure, Pat?"Houser asked. "This is your bomb run .. . " I
IBut it's our trophy," McLanahan asked. "I say let's stick it to em.

"All right," Houser replied, flipping switches on the center instrument
console. "I'm taking steering away from the computers.

"The fighters are moving to four o'clock," Hawthorne "Infra reported.

"They're staying out of cannon range so far."red missile attack,"
Brake said, studying his tracking radar and waiting for the fighters to
appear. "Simulated
Sidewinders."

"Coming up on the SRAM launch point," Luger said.

"We're going to need to maneuver in a few seconds," Brake warned.

I've got a safe-in-range light and missiles for launch," Luger said.

"We can't maneuver until after these missile launches. Guns, give me a
few more seconds .. . Tone!

Fighters now four o'clock, three miles and closing rapidly .. .

Luger pressed the MANUAL LAUNCH button. The missile computer began its
five-second countdown. "Missile counting down," Luger called out.

"Doors coming open It had been hard at first to spot the B-52 down
there at low level, the pilot aboard the lead F-15 thought. Radar
lock-on had been intermittent at high patrol altitude with all the
ground clutter, and then it was nearly impossible because of the heavy
jamming from the Buff. Visually, the Buff's camouflage made it
difficult to spot and hard to keep in sight if there were any
distractions.

Now, though, with its huge white bomb bay doors open, it was like a
diamond in a goat's ass. The pilot waved his wingman off to the
observation position and began his roll into I.R (infrared) missile
firing position. At three miles, with the B-52's eight big jet engines
spewing out heat, an infrared lock-on would be easy and he'd be out of
range of the Buffs little peashooter guns. No sweat. An easy kill.

On its bomb run, the Buff wouldn't do much jinking, and it had to jam
the groundbased threats, too.

"Missile away, missile away for Sabre Three-three," Martin called to
the bomb scoring site.

"Acknowledge tone break," the site replied.

"Missile two counting down," Luger began.

"Six o'clock, two miles," Brake said nervously.

"Missile two away," Luger asked. "Bomb doors closed.

Clear for evasive action."

"Pilot, chop your power!"Brake yelled. "We'll suck this cocky
bastard in."

Houser responded immediately, bringing the throttles back to idle.

Simultaneously, Martin raised the airbrakes to maximum up and dropped
the gear. The airspeed suddenly and rapidly decreased from three
hundred and fifty to two hundred knots. On the tail gunner's radar
scope, the result was exhilarating and immediate. For the fighter
pilot, it was a nightmare come true.

The F-15 fighter chasing them had been flying nearly two hundred miles
an hour faster than the B-52 in order to catch up with it from behind
and get into an ideal firing position; suddenly, it was as if the huge
bomber had just frozen in midair. The fighter pilot was now closing on
his target at almost six hundred yards a second. The sight of the
massive bomber filling his windscreen froze his trigger finger. The
fighter pilot was staring into four fifty-caliber machine gun barrels
pointed directly at him.

"Six o'clock, two miles," Brake called out, watching his -Two miles and
holding .. . goddamn!one mile, half
radar.-four
mile Fox-four!All guns firing!Call Fox !"

Up on the attack observation position, well above and to the right of
the bomber, the leader's wingman was watching a perfectly executed I.R
missile run. Suddenly, something happened. Spoilers and airbrakes and
landing gear doors and landing gears began to spring out of nowhere out
of the bomber's huge frame, and the distance between the two planes was
chopped to nothing in the blink of an eye. The wingman thought he'd
see his first midair collision.

At the last second, his partner ducked under the bomber's belly, flying
his F-15 a mere three hundred feet over the hills of Wyoming. The
Buff's fifty-caliber guns followed him all the way. The wingman could
easily visualize the guns spitting fire, the three-inch-long shells
plowing into the fighter's canopy and ieces and crashing fuselage, the
F-15 exploding into a billion p -three, Glasgow," into the green hills
below "Fox-four, Fox-four for sabre Three Martin called to the scoring
site.

"Roger, Three-three.will relay Fox-four. "The young operator working
the bomb-scoring-site tracking radar looked in amazement at his NCO
Supervisor "Holy shit," the veteran NCO said.' That Buff just shot
down a goddamned F-15-" "It's a duck shoot, all right, Sarge," the
operator said, chuckling. "But who is shooting who?"

"Dead meat," the F-15's wingman said to himself, peeling off and
preparing to start his own run at the B-52, keeping a respectful
distance away from the fifty-caliber machine gun turret that, he knew,
was now looking for him.

Luger and McLanahan could easily hear the wild jubilation of the
defensive crew upstairs through the to, of the plane's eight turbojet
engines.

Brake shouted "One down, one to go, unit to McLanahan manually stepped
the automatic offse target Bravo and pushed a small button on a console
near his left thigh. Over the interphone, he said, "Pilot, I'm in BOMB
mode. Center it up. We're gonna bomb the crap outta them now.

Dave, check my switches.

"You got it," Luger said. He compared the bomb computer's countdown to
the time remaining on his backup timing watch. "Two minutes to bomb
release on my watch."

"Checks with the FC1, nav," Houser confirmed, carefully watching as
Martin reconfigured the B-52 for normal flight.

Pilot, fighter at two O'clock, five miles," Hawthorne said.

Break right!" "Radar?"Houser asked. "Should I turn?This is your
ballgame.

jammin' my"One second," McLanahan asked. "S.O.B."s are scope. "He
leaned forward so close to the ten-inch radar scope that his oxygen
mask almost touched it, then tried to refine his crosshair
replacement.

Luger couldn't see how his partner could Possibly make out any radar
returns through all the strobing and clutter. When McLanahan was
satisfied, he
shouted, "Go for it!"

"Breaking right!"Houser shouted. He put the huge bomber in a
thirty-degree bank to the right, urning so suddenly that charts and
paperwork flew madly around the navigator's compartment. "Fighter now
at twelve o'clock," Hawthorne asked. "Moving rapidly to one O'clock .

. . almost two O'clock now .. ."

"We can't hold this turn long, E.W," Martin, the co-pilot, reminded
him.

"The corridor narrows to two miles on this bomb run."as if in reply
to the co-pilot's warning, he said, "Fighter now at three O'clock!"

Hawthorne shouted. Then, "Break left.

at five o'clock."

"Center the FCI, Pilot," Luger asked. "Coming up on one hundred TG.

" "Checks," Houser replied.

"Pilot, accelerate if possible, " Brake said. Houser began to push the
throttles up. "Stand by to chop Power again."

"Do it after the bomb run, guns," Luger asked. "Pilot, keep the
throttles steady.

"Radar?"Houser queried. "This is your run."

"Bring airspeed up as slow as you can," McLanahan said.

Guns, stand by for Al P "Roger, E.W," Brake replied.

"Shoving it up too fast will screw the ballistics up, not to mention
Dave's precious backup timing. He might get upset with us."

"Standing by," Luger replied, smirking through his oxygen mask.at
McLanahan "Pilot," Brake yelled, "fighter at seven o'clock, four miles,
moving to eight o'clock. Break left!"

"Do it!"McLanahan said. This time, Houser threw the bomber over into
about thirty-five degrees of bank. The forty year-old aircraft
shrieked in protest.

"Fighter moving to seven o'clock .. . now six o'clock.

The bomber snapped out of the turn and began a slow turn to the
right.

Pilot, roll out and center the FCI," Brake said.

to center the thin white needle in the case of the Flight scanning the
computer panel Command Indicator. Luger, before him, pointed to a
single glowing red warning light.

It's hung up," Luger shouted. The Doppler "The Dopp was the system
that provided groundspeed and wind information to the bombing
computers-without it, the computers were useless, transmitting false
information to the steering and release systems.

Luger tried recycling the Doppler power switches-turning them off and
on several times to allow the system to reset itself-but no luck.

"Pilot, it looks like the Doppler has gone out. Disregard the FCI.

Radar, we need to get out of BOMB mode now!"

"Damned fighters," Martin said.

Luger held up his running stopwatch. "I've got backup timing, radar,"
he asked. "Coming up on seventy seconds to release. Pilot, hold the
airspeed right here."

Luger was about to read the Alternate Bombing (Nuclear) checklist to
McLanahan, but his partner was already accom pushing the items from
memory, disconnecting the computers from aircraft and bombing
controls.

They were now relying on visual course control, Luger's backup time and
heading, and the radar scope to drop the bomb. Instead of the bombing
computers sending the release pulse to the bomb racks, McLanahan would
send the signal himself with the "pickle," the bombs-away switch.

"Bomb door coming open, guys," McLanahan asked. "Alternate delivery
checklist complete. Dave, check my switches when you get a chance.

Where's my coffee cup?"

"13-two switch," Luger called out, reminding McLanahan to find the
manual bomb release "Pickle" switch. Luger's gloved fingers flew over
the SRAM computer panel, reprogramming it to take a final position
update at the same time the B-52 flew over the bomb target.

"Why did this have to happen to us now," Luger asked. "We ought to make
a formal complaint about those fighters."

"Relax, nav, relax," McLanahan said. He was sitting back casually in
his ejection seat, a contented smile on his face.

Then, suddenly, he swept every chart, book, and piece of paper off his
desk with a flourish.

"Hey!"Luger yelled across the compartment. "What the hell are you
doing?"

"Nothing partner, nothing," McLanahan said with a grin.

-everything's great."

"Want me to reset the range-coordinate integrator?"Luger asked
excitedly, beginning to pull off his parachute shoulder belts.

"No," McLanahan said, loosening his helmet chin strap.

"No sweat. Stay strapped in."

"How 'bout I just give that damned stabilization unit a kick or
something?Damn those fighters. They screwed up our chances for a
trophy!"

"Cool out, nav," McLanahan said.

Luger shot him a look. Had he gone off the deep end?Here they were,
on an SAC bombing run with the Doppler on the fritz, and McLanahan
hadn't even glanced at the radar scope since the computers failed.

Finally, McLanahan looked at the radar scope, studying it casually.

"Five right, pilot, he asked. "Nav, how much time on your watch?"

"Coming up on sixty seconds," Luger said. He was still looking at his
partner in disbelief.

"Okay," McLanahan asked. "Disregard your timing-it's at least seven
seconds off. I'm dropping on release range and bearing. Subtract
seven seconds from your timing just in case the radar scope goes out or
something crazy like that. "He studied the radar scope again. "Four
more right, pilot."

"Seven degrees right of planned heading, radar," Luger reminded him.

"Not to worry, McLanahan asked. "Check my switch Positions and get
ready for the overfly fix. Co-pilot, let me know as soon as you pick
up any visual timing points. I know there's not many on this target,
but do the best you can. "I'll try, radar," Martin asked. "Nothing so
far."

"Ready for "Okay," McLanahan said. He smiled at Luger the overfly fix,
Dave?"

"I'm ready," Luger asked. "But you're going ob.m-y"man, Two more right,
pilot," McLanahan said.

where are those fighters?"

Fighters!Luger couldn't believewhat he was hearing. His partner
probably just had the worst of all possible things happen to him on a
Bombing Competition sortie, and he was worried about fighters with less
than a minute to bomb release "Clear for now," Brake replied. "They'll
be "Al radar is searching," Hawthorne reported.

around again in a minute."

"Okay," McLanahan said.

,Pilot, hold your airspeed," Luger said over the interphone.

"It's drifting too much."-We're going to nail this "Relax, nav,"
McLanahan said.

one.

"Nine degrees right of planned heading," Luger said, nervously studying
his own five-inch scope. He glanced over at his partner. McLanahan
was lounging back in his seat, toying with the pickle switch in his
left hand.

"I missed the final visual timing point, radar," Martin said.

le-M," he asked. "Thanks anyway."

The0crkeawywdaosusuddenly very quiet-everyone but McLanahAn.

"I'm going to bypass this overfly fix, radar," Luger said.

They were going farther and farther off course, and McLanahan fix,
nav," McLanahan said, his voice suddenly han"Twakesrithtisdoing
anything about it.

quiet. He gave Luger the thumbs-up signal.

"But .- ."

"Don't worry, nav," McLanahan asked. "I have a feeling about this
one."

Luger could do nothing else but comply. He called up the target
coordinates, checked them, and prepared for the fix.

"Pilot, I want you to just caress that left rudder," McLanahan said.

He leaned forward a bit, staring at one of the seemingly thousands of
tiny blips tracking down his scope.

"One left. Maybe a half left."

"A half a degree?"Houser said.

"Just touch it," McLanahan urged quietly. "Ever so gently .. . a
little more just a touch more .. . hold it. That's it .. . still
zero drift, nav?"

"No Doppler," Luger replied. "The winds and drift are out to lunch.

So is the ground speed and backup timing. I'm working strictly off
true airspeed and last known reliable winds. "Luger shook his head,
bewildered. What was going on?Was McLanahan doing all this for
show?

Christ, they were eight degrees off heading!

"Okay. Never mind- I forgot. Coming up on release, nav .. . stand
by Luger looked over at McLanahan's radar. The cathodetube was a mass
of arcs and spokes driving through it from r jamming. How could his
partner see anything in that mes# McLanahan reached down and flicked
the frequency-control knob, and the spikes and streaks of jamming
cleared for a few seconds. He smiled.

The D-2 switch was nestled gently.casually, between McLanahan's
fingers, his thumb nowhere near the recessed button. "Caressing that
rudder, Gary?"was all he said.

Suddenly McLanahan's thumb flashed out, too fast for Luger to see it,
and the BRIC flashed once as the last bomb fell into space. Luger
counted three seconds to himself and pressed the ACQUIRE button on the
SRAM computer. Three seconds after bomb release, at their altitude and
irspeed, should put them right over the target-if McLanahan had hit the
target.

To Luger's immense surprise, the green ACCEPT light illuminated on the
SRAM panel.

"It took the fix," Luger said, his voice incredulous.

"We nailed 'em, guys!"McLanahan shouted.

"Sure, sure," Luger said. McLanahan was carrying the act a little too
far. They were eight degrees off planned heading and seven seconds
short of planned timing-that equated to at least a ten-thousand-foot
miss, and probably even a worse missile score. The bad Present
position update, combined with the bad At, velocities the SRAM computer
would derive from the fix, would nail the lid down on Bomb Comp for
crew E-05-with them inside the coffin. "Tone!"The high-pitched radio
tone came on.

Luger flipped the AUTOMATIC LAUNCH switch down.

"Missile counting down .. . doors are already open .. . missile
away. Missile two counting down .. .

missile two away. All missiles away. Doors coming closed "Missile
away, missile away," Martin called to the bomb scoring site.

"Very good, boys," McLanahan said, finally opening his eyes. "Nav, you
have navigation. I'll call post-release information soon. Right now,
I'm going to take a piss. Guns, don't let us get shot down after all
that work."

Go take your piss, radar," Brake replied. "You're as safe here as if
you were in your mother's arms. Or Catherine's arms.

Whichever.

"Wait a minute, radar," Houser asked. "Before you unstrap-which, I
might add, is illegal as hell while we're lowlevel but par for the
course for you-how about those releases?

How far off track were we?"

"Not sure," McLanahan replied. "Might have been two or three hundred
feet.

"Keep dreaming," Martin asked. "It looked close, but not that close.

"C'mon, really," Houser said.

"I took into account all the turns and the changes in airspeed,"
McLanahan deadpanned. "I was waiting for the Doppler to go out, you
know. I knew it would.

"Case of beer says you pitched it long," Martin said.

"Thanks for the confidence, double-M," McLanahan replied, "but you're
on. "He turned to Luger. "What do you think, nav?"he asked.

"I think .. . I think you're way off, radar," Luger said.

Martin laughed. "Want to call it off, radar?"

"It was a shack," Luger asked. "Zero-zero. Perfect. Better than the
others. I don't know why .. . but it was.

OVER THE SKIES OF KAvAZNYA, KAMCHATKA PENINSULA, SOVIET UNION
Two thousand miles to the west of where the Strategic Air Command was
holding its annual bombing competition, a drama of a different
sort-this one carrying consequences far more serious for the
crewmembers involved-was playing itself out. Two types of surveillance
machines---one a U.S. Alpha Omega Nine Satellite traveling in a
geosynchronous orbit at an altitude of twenty-two thousand three
hundred miles, the other a U.S. RC- 135 surveillance aircraft flying at
an altitude of forty thousand feet-were following courses that would
bring them roughly over the same part of the globe in a matter of
minutes. The RC- 1 35, with a crew of twelve men and women, had
penetrated the Soviet Air Defense Zone to gather data on a strange
radar that had begun tracking the aircraft as it passed within a
hundred miles of the Soviet coast on its way home from Japan to
Alaska.

Suddenly the world got very bright.

The pilots aboard the RC-135 were bathed in an eerie redorange glow for
several seconds, wiping out their night vision.

They felt as if they had stepped inside the core of a nuclear
reactor--every inch of their bodies felt warm and viscous, as if their
skin was about to melt away.

When the red-orange illumination disappeared, the cabin went to
black.

Several tiny spotlights and some engine gauges operating off the
aircraft's batteries could still be seen, but everything else snapped
off. The roar of the engines began to subside.

"All of the generators went off-line," the RC-135s co-pilot 3p, said.

"We've lost engines two.three and four," the pilot said "Airstart
checklist. Fast.

"Crew, this is the pilot. We are starting engines. Check your oxygen,
check your stations, report in by compartment damage and casualties.

All departments reported in with only minor equipment malfunctions.

The pilot gave an order to code a message to SATCOM.Suddenly the
aircraft's reconaisance officer came on the interphone. "Radar
target-tracking signal strength is increasing.

The pilot pushed on the yoke, forcing the RC-135s nose steeply
downward. "That last shot was aimed at something else, now it's us .

. . We're going down to one thousand feet.

"Pilot," the RSO said, "signal strength increasing .. .

blanking out my-" He never finished his report.

An intense beam of orange-red light slashed across the top and sides of
the RC-135.Once it had pierced the aluminum skin of the jet, the beam
found little resistance. It tracked precisely along the center of the
aircraft, instantly superheatin the heavy oxygen atmosphere and
creating a huge bubble Of plasma. The resulting explosion turned the
two hundred million dollar aircraft into flecks of dust in a fraction
of a second. The beam ignited the vaporized fuel that erupted from the
disintegrated airplane and added the force of fifty thousand pounds of
jet fuel to the detonation.

As fast as it had begun, it was over. The fireball grew to three miles
in diameter, then hungrily feeding on itself in the intense plasma
field, dissolved into the black Siberian night.

WASHINGTON.D.C. General Wilbur Curtis, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs
of Staff, stood at ramrod attention as the President of the United
States entered the White House Situation Room, the emergency alternate
conference center and shelter. The President was followed closely by
Marshall Brent, the Secretary of State, and Kenneth Mitchell, Director
of the Central Intelligence Agency.

Trailing behind them was a man in civilian clothes but with a short
military haircut. He carried a black leather briefcase.

The President, wearing a blue and red athletic warmup suit, glared at
Curtis as he sat down at the head of a large oblong table. His thick
brown hair was tangled, and beads of sweat dropped from the ends and
trickled down his neck. Curtis went over to the steel vaultlike door
and checked that it was locked.

The President unzipped the warmup suit half-way and picked up a
telephone on the table in front of him.

"Jeff?."he asked. "Have some coffee and croissants brought down to
the Situation Room right away. And see if you can move the morning
Budget Committee meeting to this afternoon. If you can't, let me know
and I'll try to shake loose .. . what?No, I don't know how long
this will be."

He slammed the receiver down on its cradle.

The man with the briefcase set it down at a console in a far corner of
the room. He put on a headset and punched a series of numbers into the
keyboard. He spoke briefly, then watched the few moments later, he
nodded and indicators on the console. A turned to the President.

"Full connectivity, Mr. President," the man asked. "Sir, your
helicopter is fifty seconds from touchdown on the south lawn.

Air Force One is ready for immediate takeoff."

The President said nothing. The man at the communications console was
in charge of the "football," a tiny transceiver and several sets of
authentication and coding documents packed inside the briefcase. That
briefcase was always within arm's reach of the President. In case of a
surprise attack or other emergency, the President could instantly
direct all of the United States' strategic forces by typing a series of
coded instructions into the miniature portable transceiver. Now, in
the emergency command post under the White House, the President had
instant communications capability with command centers all over the
world.

"All right, General," the President asked. "This seems to be your
little party. Another unscheduled emergency exercise?if so, it
couldn't have come at a worse time. I was in the middle of my first
workout in a week, and I've got a_" "It is no exercise, sir, " Curtis
asked. "Exactly fifteen minutes ago, we received confirmation that an
Alpha Omega Nine surveillance satellite was lost. It-" "A
satellite?"

the President asked. "That's all?"

"This particular satellite," Curtis went on, "was this nation's primary
missile-launch detection vehicle for eastern Russia and the western
Pacific areas, Currently, Mr. President, we have absolutely no missile
launch detection capability for an estimated one-fifth of the Soviet's
ground- and sea-based intercontinental ballistic missiles."

"Surely, you're exaggerating," Kenneth Mitchell asked. "We have dozens
of surveillance satellites-" "But only one over eastern Russia," Curtis
interrupted, specifically designed to warn us of an I.C.B.M launch from
sea or land. Now we have none-at least, until we can reposition
another satellite over that area. That may take some time."

Curtis turned back to the President. "Meanwhile, sir, we need to have
you available to evacuate Washington in less than ten minutes.

"Why ten minutes?"the President asked, not sure he wanted to hear the
answer.

"That, Mr. President, is how much warning time we have," Curtis
explained. "Ten minutes from when the Soviet I.C.B.Ms cross the
horizon in the midcourse phase until the warheads impact. We believe
none of those missiles would be targeted on Washington, but we can't
take the chance. "The President was quiet for a moment. The stillness
was broken by the arrival of the President's chief of staff, Jeffrey
Hampton, followed by an aide with a tray of coffee and pastries. The
aide circled the table, making sure that everyone's coffee cup was
filled.

"I couldn't reach all of the Committee members, Mr. President,"
Hampton asked. "I'll keep trying."

"Never mind, Jeff," the President asked. "We're going to wrap this up
shortly."ilk General Curtis stiffened. This President, he noted, was
never very serious during the few simulations they had held, testing
the emergency communications and evacuation plan.

Now it was the real thing, and he was already anxious to leave.

"I have more news, sir," Curtis said, not touching his coffee. "We
lost an RC- 135 reconnaissance plane near Russia sometime this
morning."

The President closed his eyes and let his coffee cup clatter back onto
its saucer. "How?Where .. . ?"

"it was on a routine training mission from Japan to Eielson Air Force
Base in Fairbanks," Curtis said, "when it diverted to investigate some
strange signals somewhere between the submarine base at Petropavlovsk
and a large research complex north on the peninsula called Kavaznya."

The President nodded. "Any survivors?"

"None so far," Curtis asked. "Search teams from Japan are just arriving
on the scene. Soviet searchers have been out there, but they haven't
found anything."

The President nodded. "How many "Ten men, two women."

"Damn. "The President pressed his fingers of his right hand to his
temple and gently began to massage it. "What the hell happened?Why
were they over there?"

"A routine radar mapping sortie-a spy mission," Mitchell the CIA
director, chimed in. "They fly off the coast, trying to get the
Russians to bring a threat radar up against them. They plot out the
radar's location, identify it, see what it does."

"How close to the coast were they?"the President asked.

Curtis hesitated. "How close?"the President asked again.

"Its closest approach was about thirty-five miles," Curtis replied.

"When we lost contact with the plane, they were about ninety miles from
the coast.

"Well, dammit," the President said, "I'd be upset if a Russian spy
plane was thirty miles from Washington. "The President turned to
Brent, the Secretary of State, who anticipated the President's next
question.

"Technically, Mr. President, they stayed in international airspace as
long as they did not overfly Soviet territory," Brent asked. "However,
the Soviets guard their ADIZ-the air defense identification zone-quite
zealously. The ADIZ extends one hundred and twenty miles from
shore."

"How did they shoot them down?"the President asked.

Again, Curtis hesitated. "General?"

We .. . we're not sure, Mr. President," Curtis replied.

The President looked at the oak-paneled walls around him as if they had
begun closing in on him. "Sir, at this time we can't even confirm that
the Russians did in fact down the plane."

"You're not sure "There was no way we could be sure what happened."

"Goddamnit, General," the President asked. "We've lost twelve men and
women and an unarmed spy plane and you can't tell me what happened?"

"We don't have all the data in yet, sir.

"But you are accusing the Soviets of shooting down that plane?"

Marshall Brent asked. "Without evidence?"

"It had to be the Soviets," Curtis shot back. "There was no way"Well,
what have you got, General?"the President asked impatiently, pouring
himself and Brent more coffee. "From the beginning. And it better be
good."

Curtis cleared his throat and began: "Sir, the RC-135 concentrated its
patrol on a large research area north of Petropavlovsk-" "We've
received intelligence about secret weapons research activities there,"
Mitchell interjected. "They've built up defenses there, too.

They have an airfield and fixed surface-to-air missile batteries almost
as large as at the sub pens at Petropavlovsk. But all we're certain of
is a huge nuclear power plant at the facility."

"That may not be all," Curtis asked. "We received data from the RC-135
about several new long-range early-warning and surveillance radars in
the area, including one of tremendous power.it was powerful enough to
disrupt the data coming from the RC-135 in all bands."

"They were jamming us?"jamming," Curtis asked. "Interference. They
blotted "Not out a wide frequency spectrum with that one radar."

"So what is it out there?"the President asked everyone in the room.

"Are you saying it's a new antiaircraft site?A jammer?What?"

"We have reason to believe, sir," Curtis replied, "that the Soviets
have been conducting research into high-energy antisatellite and
antiballistic missile lasers at Kavaznya. That radar has enough power
and enough capability to find and track objects in Earth orbit. Sir,
we believe they may have a laser defense system in operation there.

The President's jaw lowered. He looked quickly at Mitchell and
Brent.

"Jesus, Curtis," Mitchell said, giving the General an exasperated
look.

"Pure speculation. You don't have enough information to-" "Do you know
what they do have out there, Mitchell?"

Curtis asked.

"Of course," the CIA chief asked. "A huge reactor, a large airfield,
increased air defense sites-but not some pie-in-thesky laser defense
system. We suspect they have a myriad of weapon experiments being
conducted out there-nuclear warhead production, nerve gas, maybe some
particle-beam and laser experiments dealing with future antisatellite
and ABM devices. But an operational system'?Impossible."

"That radar is immensely powerful," Curtis asked. "They could easily
have constructed a radar with far less power to guide missiles to an
atmospheric target. This one can track targets, we estimate, as far as
our highest orbiting satellite-as far as thirty thousand miles."
"Suspect. Possibly. Estimate. "The President glanced at his watch
again. "Is that it?Nothing more definite?"

"We know it is a giant research facility," Curtis said, trying to
regain his lost credibility. "They have the energy source and a
tracking and targeting capability. They've also spent enough money on
that complex to achieve spectacular results-" "We also know," Mitchell
interrupted, "that despite the massive amount of money the Soviets have
spent on research, they are still at least twenty years from developing
a laser sophisticated enough to deploy a credible laser-based ABM
system."

"How far are we?"Brent asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Atleasttenyearsforalasersystem," Curtisasked. "Turnof the century at
most. But we have a working antisatellite system now-the two F-15
antisatelite groups operational at Andrews and Tacoma. Plus we have
the Ice Fortress polar missile defense space station project. We can
put it up next year on the Shuttle if we want to. We can upgrade it to
a rail-gun or kinetic energy ASAT system by-" "We cancelled Ice
Fortress, didn't we?"the President asked absently as he sipped his
coffee. He turned to Brent. "We cancelled it, right?"

"Absolutely, sir," Brent said. He turned to Curtis. "I hope the fact
has merely slipped your mind, General, that launching Ice Fortress
would be a flagrant violation of the first ratified arms agreement
we've had with the Soviets in over twenty years.

"Ice Fortress isn't at issue here," Curtis asked. "The point is: we
can't simply double the estimate of our own technology and apply it to
the Soviets. This 'just because we don't have it the Russians can't
have it' is nonsense. The Russians play by a whole different set of
rules than we do. They don't answer to Congress, the press, the
public, or the world. They don't cancel projects, close plants, lay
off workers, or worry about a budget. If they want a laser defense
system now, they build one. If they need more money, they buy twenty
percent less meat and thirty percent less toilet paper and to hell with
public opinion.

"C'mon, General," Mitchell said, "I'm on your side, but our information
just doesn't support your theories. The technology involved in
creating a laser-based antisatellite system that can hit even a
geostationary satellite is tremendous.

It is almost mind-boggling to apply that same technique to shooting
down warheads a little bigger than a yard in length.

The degree of accuracy required is enormous."

"And just because we can't do it," Curtis said, "the Russians certainly
can't, eh, Mitch?"

"All right, all right," the President asked. "Let's stop trying to win
debating points. "He ran a hand through his sweaty brown hair and
tried hard to think. "All I see is two of our country's leading
experts arguing and contradicting one another. You say that complex
could house a Soviet antisatellite or anti-I.C.B.M laser, but then you
say they don't have the technology to deploy such a system. Excuse my
impertinence, gentlemen, but it sounds like paranoia to me."

"I assure you, Mr. President," Curtis said quickly, "that it's not-"
"Mitch, we need more information on that facility in Siberia," the
President said, turning to the CIA director. "Can you get it for
us?"

"We have some possibilities, sir," Mitchell replied. "At the very
least, we should be able to get a more detailed diagram of the
complex.

I'll give you a complete progress report as soon as possible.

"Good. "The President glanced at his watch again. "General, I realize
the importance of insuring my fast departure from Washington in case of
an emergency, but I simply don't think the world situation warrants
this degree of caution. I've got a heavy schedule today and I can't
interrupt it.

Curtis looked at the President disbelievingly Wasn't there any way to
convince him of the seriousness of the damage done to the nation's
defense?

"I want details of that plane crash as soon as possible. If the
Russians aren't cooperating in the search, I want to know about it."
Plane crash, Curtis thought. Not downing. Not destruction.

Not murder. He's totally disregarded my suspicions.

"We have no evidence of any lack of cooperation, sir," Curtis said
quietly.

"Marshall, I think it's time for you to put some feelers out to the
Russians," the President asked. "Start at the U.N. See if we can get a
special Security Council meeting together. We'll hit Karmarov with
whatever information we can present there and see how the Russians
react. Tell Greg Adams to hit 'em hardaccuse them of everything. See
how that polite bastard Karmarov reacts. Maybe we have to jerk off
these guys a little to find out what they're up to."

"I'll avoid ..

. 'jerking' anyone off, Mr. President," Brent said, blanching at the
locker room words as if they had a foul odor.

"Do what you have to," the President said. He turned to Curtis.

"Wilbur, I'm truly sorry for the loss of your people.

Unfortunately, we don't have enough information to accuse the
Russians of foul play We have to treat it as an accident. There's no
sign of survivors, the Russians claim they don't have the bodies or the
wreckage, and there was no cockpit voice recorder or flight data
recorder even if it was recovered, is that right?A tragic loss."
"Analysis of the signal data from the plane and the destroyed satellite
haven't been completed yet, sir," Curtis asked. "I'll report to you
when that's finished."

"That's fine, General," the President asked. "Report to me directly
about-" "I'd also like authorization to develop a response in case we
find they do have an ASAT and ABM laser at that complex," Curtis added
quickly.

"Develop a response'?"the President asked. "That sounds like
militarese for an attack plan.

"This is getting quite out of hand, General," Brent asked. "I don't
feel it's necessary to-, "Hold on, Marshall," the President said. He
looked closely at General Curtis. "Go ahead, Wilbur. What kind of
response?"

"I'm talking about what this Administration will do," Curtis said, "if
it is discovered that my suspicions are correct."

The President glanced at his watch again, seeing his rest time slipping
away. "What you're proposing, General-it could stir up a mess of
trouble if word were to leak out. You know how close we are to signing
that arms-reduction treaty."

"There will be nothing to leak, sir," Curtis asked. "I can handle it
through my office only. It will consist only of collection and
analysis of data on the Kavaznya site, and a compilation of possible
options. There will be no military mobilization, no generation of
forces, no funding."

The President stood without replying, lost in thought.

Everyone in the room jumped to their feet. The President headed for
the door, and General Curtis opened it for him.

"Authorized," he said simply as he walked past the four-star general.

He stopped and glared at Curtis. "If it leaks, if it damages the
negotiations in progress, you'll answer for it. You have my
guarantee
General Curtis caught up to Marshall Brent as they walked toward the
underground garage of the White House.

"Drop you somewhere, Mr. Secretary?"Curtis asked, falling into step
beside Brent.

Brent hesitated a moment, frowning at the Chairman of the Joint
Chiefs.

Then.he nodded with a resigned shrug.

"Thanks. General."he replied. "I'm heading out to Andrews to catch
the diplomatic shuttle to New York. "Curtis, his aide, and Brent
climbed into an Army-green Lincoln Continental and headed out into the
raw Washington weather.

As the driver maneuvered onto the Beltway, Curtis signaled his aide to
secure the thick glass separating the driver from his arms
passengers.

"Rough week, eh, General?"

"I've had worse .. . and better," Curtis replied.

"Do you really believe they have this .. . laser of yours?"

"I may be an old stubborn pack-mule, Mr. Secretary," Curtis said,
unbuttoning his jacket, "but I listen. Our intelligence sources have
been saying for ten years that the Soviets are on the verge of
developing the capability to track and hit satellites with lasers.

That complex at Kavaznya could easily be the culmination of all that
research. I have a feeling in these old bones that some young hotshot
in the Pentagon is going to come running to me in the next few days
with something from that RC-135's data transmission that says the
Russians have something big going on over there."

"I find it hard to believe," Brent said, "that the Russians would
actually conduct such an attack. The Russians may be a lot of things,
but they are not reckless."

"Reckless no. But if they thought they could get away with it, they
might just take the chance," Curtis said.

"Hell, it wouldn't be the first time they fired on one of our recon
planes."

"You're saying they've fired on us before."

"Hell, yes," Curtis said, laughing. "Those sons-of-bitches have brass
balls sometimes. They lock onto an RC-135 with fire-control radars,
like they're gonna launch a missile at it.

They shoot bullets across the aircraft's nose, fly with overlapping
wingtips. They even alter their radio navigation beacons to transmit
false navigational information to aircraft near their shores, hoping to
get a reconnaissance plane to fly into a restricted area. That's why
our boys aren't allowed to use outside navigational aids. They
transmit false messages or orders on high-frequency radio all the time,
or interfere with real messages, or just plain jam the frequencies."

"But what do we do about it?"

"Ignore them, mostly," Curtis asked. "As long as we follow the rules
and no one gets hurt, we just let them make asses outta themselves. We
lodge formal complaints, but they file counter-complaints just as fast
and twice as wild as anything they've ever done. After a while, it
burns itself out."

"But that Korea Air Lines flight flies near "See that?You just can't
trust 'em. Sometimes they get serious. "Curtis was silent for a
moment.

"But that didn't happen with our RC-135," he continued.

No matter how bad the shit hit the fan, the guys aboard her would've
stayed cool. If they were under direct attack, or even believed they
might soon be under attack, they would have flushed their data."

"Flushed it?"

"As they collect data on Soviet radar and other electromagnetic
signals.it's coded and stored in a buffer-a computer storage space.

If there's a hint of anything going wrongairplane problems, attack,
equipment problems-the buffer can be transmitted to a Defense
Department satellite within seconds. They hit one button and it's
gone, all of it. Most operators now have a hair trigger on that
button; one engine coughs a bit and the data's gone. The buffer
transmits itself periodically after a complicated error-checking
routine done L between the plane and the satellite.

"If the RC-135 crew knew they were under attack, we would I've gotten
the rest of their data and an attack or distress code. Even a
momentary threat signal from anywhere, especially with that plane so
close to shore, would've caused them to flush their data. But they
didn't. They never knew what hit them.

"A sneak attack?"Brent suggested. "A fighter could have shot at them
without their knowing it, couldn't it?"

Curtis nodded. "At night.a passive infrared missile attack-sure.

But it's unlikely. Those RC-135s can monitor hundreds of
communications frequencies, especially Soviet Command frequencies. If
the crew intercepted any air-to ground or ground-to-air radio
transmissions ordering a fighter to attack, they would have flushed
their data, turned tail and run. No Soviet fighter makes a move like
that unless it receives an order from the Kremlin itself-unless, of
course, the intruder plane actually makes an attack. The Korean Air
Lines attack was preceded by two hours of communications, all of which
were monitored as far away as Japan. No. Our guys never knew what
killed them."

Both men were silent for a long time-Brent searching for an
explanation, Curtis simply hopping mad.

"So what can we do about it?"Brent asked.

"There ain't shit we can do about it," Curtis said, sighing.

"Unless the Russians try to do something stupid, something really
flagrant. If they have a new toy over there, they've had their little
fun with it. But if they play with it some more, our young President
may go over and kick their little butts for them.

"Something flagrant," Brent said, thinking to himself.

"That's what I like about our boy President," Curtis said, his voice
growing suddenly exuberant. "He's a politician and a half, but you can
rile him. Just like his ol' football quarterback days-he's all
finesse, pretty moves, bobbing and weavin', until he's behind by a
touchdown and a field goal. Then he starts throwin' the bomb, going'
for the score."

Brent looked at Curtis and shook his head. "God help us," he said, "if
he goes all the way"

THE UNITED NATIONS.NEw YORK
"This emergency meeting of the United Nations Security Council is
hereby called to order," Ian McCaan, the United Nations
Secretary-General and ambassador from Ireland, announced. It was
almost eleven Pm.in New York. Most of the fifteen delegates and
their aides and secretaries held steaming cups of coffee or tea. A few
wore angry, tired faces. A few looked anxiously at, it was certain,
the two principals for which this meeting was called--Gregory Adams,
the ambassador from the United States, and Dmitri Karmarov, the Soviet
ambassador.

"Let the record show," McCaan continued, his Irish brogue thick despite
two decades spent in the United Sates, "that this meeting was urgently
requested by the government of the United States of America under
Provision Nine, unprovoked and excessive use of military force against
an unarmed vessel or aircraft near territorial boundaries. The charge
of violation of Provision Nine is hereby submitted. The United States
delegation has asked that this meeting be closed to all but Security
council members, although confidential audio transcripts of this
emergency meeting will be made available to all member nations.

Ambassador Adams, please proceed with specifications of the charge."

Gregory Adams adjusted his microphone and looked around the table at
the other fourteen delegates. This was not a receptive audience. The
Russian ambassador looked completely bored. The other delegates looked
equally uninterested, and now Adams began to question the wisdom of
calling an emergency meeting under these circumstances. Adjusting the
dark horn-rimmed glasses that he wore to make himself look older, he
cleared his throat and began: "Thank you, Mr. Secretary-General. On
the night of November thirteenth, two nights ago, an unarmed American
RC- 1 35 reconnaissance aircraft was making a routine patrol of the
eastern shore of the Kamchatka peninsula of the Soviet Union. The
aircraft had been on a peaceful training mission "I'm sorry, Mr.
Adams," Dmitri Kartnarov interrupted, holding his translator earpiece
closer to his left ear. He smiled and said in English, "The
interpreter has told me that the RC135 was on a training mission. I
wish to be clear on this point-is that the same as a spy mission,
sir?"

"American aircraft of all types fly near shores all over the world for
a variety of reasons, Ambassador," Adams replied.

"This particular RC-135 was on a training and routine survey mission,
collecting signal coverage data for satellite navigation units for
civil and military use."

"Navigation information!"Karmarov's sixty-one-year-old face fairly
cracked with suppressed laughter. He made an exaggerated point of
hiding his face and choking down a chuckle. "Navigation information
very well, Mr. Adams. I apologize for the interruption. "Another
stifled laugh. The rest of the delegates, although not suppressing any
laughter, clearly did not believe for one moment Adams' excuse for the
RC-135's mission. Its capabilities were well known.

"That aircraft," Adams said, much louder this time," was destroyed.

Suddenly, without warning and without provocation. "Adams looked at
the faces of the other delegates, but found nothing in their blank
expressions. "This poses a threat to air traffic for all of us,
gentlemen. It was not over Soviet airspace-" "Incorrect, Ambassador
Adams," Karmarov asked. "I have a report from our air defense radar
tracking station at Kommandorskiy Island and Ossora Airbase on
Ust-Kamchatka. They i; report the RC- 135 aircraft came within
thirty-three miles of our shore "Thirty-three miles," Adams retorted,
"is hardly over Soviet airspace.

"Not according to the International Civil Aeronautics Organization,"
Karmarov asked. "Article Seventeen, Chapter one-thirty-one, establishes
a one-hundred-and-twenty-milewide Air Defense Identification Zone
around countries that have borders on open ocean. Flight is prohibited
in the Zone without permission from the country controlling that
Zone.

I believe I can safely assume that your RC- 135 did not have permission
to enter that area "Flight is not prohibited in an Air Defense Zone,"
Adams said. He referred to a folder his aide passed to him.

"According to paragraph one-thirty-seven of the ICAO regulations,
Ambassador, aircraft entering an ADIZ without permission or proper
identification risk engagement of a country's sea or air defense forces
for the express purpose of positive aircraft identification and precise
position, altitude, airspeed, and heading verification only. They can
proceed through the area as long as they do not pose a threat to air
traffic or national security. They are certainly not to be fired
on."

"An American military jet the size of the one that intruded into our
airspace is most definitely a threat to our security, sir, Karmarov
asked. "The Article specifies that, if the intruding aircraft is
military and has the capability of carrying long-range air-to-air or
air-to-ground weapons, it may be turned away from land, challenged,
forced to land, or fired on. "Karmarov pointed a finger directly at
Adams. "It was you who risked disaster, not us."

"The RC-135 has no capability of carrying weapons."

"Positive identification of the aircraft was never made until your
government contacted us, sir," Karmarov asked. "It followed an unusual
flight path for a spy plane-not the usual course. Considering the
sensitive nature of our activities in that area, I believe the Soviet
government acted with considerable restraint."

"Restraint!"Adams said. He contorted his face to display the maximum
in indignation.

"You destroyed that aircraft. You fired on it without warning, without
any consideration of any of the lives on board. You murdered twelve
innocent men and women. An unarmed aircraft carrying out a peaceful
mission!"

"I caution you to keep your wild accusations in check, Mr. Adams,"
Karmarov said, louder this time. "We deny any involvement with the
missing aircraft except to warn that aircraft out of Soviet airspace.

We did not know the exact identity of the aircraft until your
Department of Defense notified us of the disaster. We immediately
initiated an air and sea search for the aircraft. We do not know what
happened to your spy plane. Do not put the blame for your unfortunate
disaster on the hands of the innocent Soviet people."

"The RC-135 aircraft reported unusual radar emissions tracking it, just
before it was attacked," Adams asked. "The crew believed it was
target-tracking radar signals from a ffound radar installation
preparing to attack."

"Show us the data, then," Karmarov asked. "You say it was a hostile
radar. We say we had nothing but surveillance radars on the
aircraft.

Show us the data that you say exist, Ambassador Adams. Confront the
accused with the evidence-if you can."

"Mr. Adams?"McCaan said, peering over his podium to the American
delegate's seat. "Can you at this time provide the Council with this
information?"

"The crucial information is being collected for presentation, Mr.
Secretary-General."

"You mean decoded, deciphered, edited, and altered," Heinrich
Braunmueller, the East German ambassador, said wryly. "Intelligence
data takes time to be made presentable."

I "We'll bring the data in, you can be sure of it," Adams said.

"It clearly shows a tracking radar, one strong enough to steer dozens
of nuclear -tipped surface-to-air missiles to it."

"That is a wild, baseless accusation, sir," Karmarov said once again,
shaking his head in exasperation. "You'll not get the Soviet Union to
admit any culpability in this unfortunate accident.

"Tell the Council, Ambassador Karmarov," Adams said, folding his hands
in front of him. "What sort of activities do you pursue at Kavaznya?

Why is it so important?Why is it so vital that you'd shoot down an
unarmed survey aircraft in international airspace?"

"You are beginning to become tiresome, Ambassador Adams," Karmarov
asked. "I will repeat myself for the last time-we do not know what
happened to your aircraft.

Kavaznya is the site of an important research facility that I am not
permitted, and this council is not entitled, to discuss.

Further, your aircraft, by your own admission, was not in international
airspace. It was intruding into a Soviet controlled defense zone. It,
or, more precisely, the military leaders in your Pentagon that ordered
those men and women into violating the airspace of another nation, were
the guilty party, not the Soviet Jnion. The aircraft made no attempt
to identify itself, ask for help, state its intentions, or file a
flight plan. It was an unidentified aircraft-" "That you shot down!"

Adams said, pointing his finger at Karmarov. He was ready to play one
last card. "We know you are conducting research into particle-beam
weapons, lasers, and other such devices, Ambassador. You may as well
admit it.

You decided to test your new toy on an unarmed American aircraft.

"And you are on a fishing expedition, Adams," Karmarov said. He turned
to Ian McCaan. "Mr. Secretary-General, the Soviet Union pleads
innocent to the trumped-up charges levied against us by the United
States. We demand that the United States shows its evidence against us
immediately. If there is no evidence, as I suspect will be the case,
or if the evidence is not found to be accurate, reliable, or in clear
support of the charges against us, I demand all charges be dropped and
a formal apology be delivered by both Ambassador Adams and the
President of the United States."

"Ambassador Adams," Ian McCaan said, "are you prepared to present your
evidence supporting your charge"' Adams glared at Karmarov, then
studied the faces of those around him. He saw only tiredness,
confusion "The United States will present its evidence to the Council
by the end of the week, in a regular session of-" "Then the delegation
from the United States has wasted our time," Karmarov declared.

"Ambassador Adams, I feel the need to remind you that an emergency
meeting of this Council is not the proper forum for a political
diatribe against the Soviet Union. Further, be prepared to confront
the accused with evidence if you make such damaging charges. I will
ask the Steering Committee of the United Nations to investigate this
rash and irresponsible abuse of your privilege and see if charges of
impropriety are not warranted against Gore. Mr. Secretary-General, I
move for adjournment.

"Seconded," Braunmueller said quickly.

Even McCaan, a long-time supporter of the United States and a friend of
Gregory Adams, looked irritated. The rest of the Security Council
members were already departing.leaving trails of angry comments
behind, when McCaan's gavel tapped the stone.

BARKSDALE AIR FORCE BASE, BOISSIER OTY, LouisiANA
Lieutenant-General Bradley Elliott.the honorary master of ceremonies,
glanced at the typewritten winner's name at the bottom of the
five-by-seven card. His shock deepened. In his three years as
honorary awards officer for the annual Strategic Air Command Bombing
and Navigation Competition.he had never seen anything like it. One
organization---A)nc crew.in fact-had blown the doors off the
competition as no other crew in history had. The oddsmakers and the
crystal-ball gazers were not just wrong about this one-they weren't
even in the ballpark.

General Elliott waited until the two stagehands were ready and the
audience escorts had moved into position. He straightened his
shoulders and smiled. These poor crewdogs.he said to himself. They
wait months for the results of the SAC Bombing and Navigation
competition.and whoever presents the awards teases them with sly
innuendos and hints as to who won. And then, to increase their
agony.

the escorts walk through the aisles in the audience, stopping in front
of a unit's row just long enough for the victory cries to begin, then
move on.

A few years ago, Elliott recalled with pride.he stood on stage
accepting the trophies for his unit.feeling the applause ripple
through the massive hangar. His old unit, the sleek, supersonic
FB-111s at Pease Air Force Base in New Hampshire, had been top dog for
years. It was different now.though.

It wasn't that the modern, super-sophisticated new bombers were taking
all the trophies. Rather, crew quality had become the crucial
factor.

"The Curtis E. LeMay Bombing Trophy," General Elliott continued,
immediately hushing the crowd, "is awarded to the #1 bomber
crew-whether from B-52s, FB-111 s, or B-1Bs-who compiles the most
points competing in both high- and low level bombing. To give you a
little background, this trophy was known simply as the Bombing Trophy
from 1948 until 1980, then renamed in honor of General Curtis E. LeMay
for his contributions to the Strategic Air Command and his support of
strategic air power.

"For eight of the ten past competition years, the crews from Pease and
Plattsburgh have walked away with the LeMay trophy. It was thought by
some that the upgraded Offensive Avionics System and the B-1B Excalibur
would finally bump the FBs out of the running. "The General paused,
waiting for a reaction from the crews in the audience. Then, he smiled
a sly, secretive smile, and glanced at the Eighth Air Force commander
and the fB-111 crews beside him.

"With a score of ninety-five point nine percent damage expectancy in
low-level bombing and an unbelievable ninety percent effectiveness in
high altitude bombing, the 715th Bombardment Squadron "Eagles' of Pease
Air Force Base in New Hampshire set a record in all-purpose bombing-"
At that, a huge roar went up from the audience.and the FB-111 crews
from Portsmouth, New Hampshire.began to go berserk. The "
fastburner" FB-111 crews had gone through the entire competition in
fear and loathing of the "heavies," the B-52s with their spanking-new
digital computers and the sleek, deadly B-1s with an even more
sophisticated version of the solid-state bombing equipment. A B-52
crew had won the previous year, and the FB crews had felt their
superiority in this annual international competition slip.

The FB-111 guys had not done too well in the awards ranking until then,
although their performance had been up to their usual near-perfect
levels. This, an all-time Bomb Comp record, was their turning point.

Elliott let the celebration continue for a few seconds. "Sorry, boys,
I hate to do this to you He had to raise his voice to make himself
heard over the shouts of the FB-111 crews. More effectively than a
gunshot or a cannon blast, a single word from Elliott quieted the
audience and broke more hearts, including his own: "But .. .

The winner of the 1987 Curtis E. LeMay Bombing Trophy, with an
unprecedented ninety-eight point seven-seven percent damage
effectiveness score and an unbelievable one hundred percent score in
low-level bombing, is .. . crew E-05, from the 470th Bombardment
Squadron."

A massive scream went up from the members and guests of the winning
bomb squadron and, as the winning B-52 crew stood and made their way to
the stage, an equally noticeable groan went up from the rest of the
crews in the huge converted aircraft hangar-now Competition Center at
Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana. The restlessness was not unlike
the reaction of a crowded football stadium when the visiting team had
just scored another touchdown and gone ahead by twenty points with only
a few minutes remaining in the game. The outcome of the contest,
although far from over, was already obvious.

The 470th Bombardment Squadron, and Crew E-05 in particular, had just
walked off with five trophies, losing only one trophy to another B-52
unit and three other trophies that could only be awarded to either an
FB-111 or B-1B unit. In addition, the 325th Bomb Wing, of'which the
470th was a part.

had taken three other trophies for their KC-135B tanker unit and also
brought home the Doolittle Trophy for the 470this Numbered Air Force
award. Everyone knew the final outcome.

If it were not a military formation, the huge converted aircraft hangar
may well have been empty by the time the grand prize, the coveted
Fairchild Trophy, ever made it into the winner's hands. It was
certainly an anticlimactic finish.

Patrick McLanahan, his crew.and officers and invited guests of the
325th Bomb Wing were on stage for a solid hour after the ceremonies,
getting pictures taken, holding interviews with military and civilian
reporters, and letting the gleam of two long tables full of silver
trophies dazzle their eyes. Colonel Edward Wilder, commander of the
bomb wing, and Lieutenant-General Ashland, the commander of Fifteenth
Air Force and Wilder's boss, then took turns lifting the huge
ten-gallon Fairchild Trophy cup over their heads in triumph as a dozen
photographers jockeyed for the best positions.

Two men stood away from the jubilant crowd at the front of the hangar,
watching the festivities on stage from a deserted-looking projection
room over the hangar.

Lieutenant-General Elliott had been going over several pages of
computer printout and notes as the other man, in civilian clothes,
shook his head in amazement.

"A B-52 won Bomb Comp," Colonel Andrew Wyatt exclaimed. "Hard to
believe. We've spent megabucks on the B-1, on the Avionics
Modernization Program on the FB-111, on the Offensive Avionics System
for the B-52s to carry cruise missiles-and an unmodified vacuum-tube
B-52 that entered the service when I did almost thirty years ago wins
the Fairchild Trophy. Incredible."

"Those guys are good. That's all there is to it," Elliott said,
closing the classified notes he was reading and handing them back to
Wyatt. Wyatt did a fast page-count and locked the folder away in his
briefcase.

"I thought the FB-111s were gonna pull it out," Elliott said, "but this
was the first year of their AMP weapons delivery system modification
and I think they still have some software bugs in it.

Wyatt nodded. "So. What about a tour of your funny-farm in Nevada?

The general is brainstorming. He thinks your research and development
center might have some toys he can play with."

Elliott smiled and nodded. "Sure-that's why we call it Dreamland."
For a few moments both men looked at the celebrations on the floor of
the Awards Hangar. Then, General Elliott cleared his throat.

"What's going on, Andy?"he asked. Colonel Wyatt took a fast look
around the projection room and decided there was no way the room could
be secure.

"Not here, sir," he said in a low voice. "But General Curtis is very
anxious to meet with you. Ven anxious. And not in an .. . official
capacity."

Elliott narrowed his eyes and looked sideways at the young aide to the
Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. "Not in an official capacity?

What the hell does that mean?"

"It means it's to be a private tour," Wyatt asked. "He'll be in
civvies. He wants to get some ideas, enlist some assistance."

"On what?"

"He'll make that plain to you when he sees you.sir," Wyatt said.

Elliott rolled his eyes in frustration.

"More JCS doubletalk," Elliott asked. "All right, all right.

Day after tomorrow. Staff will be at a minimuni--skeleton crew. He'll
get the royal tour, but not the royal reception."

"I believe you've got the right idea, General," Wyatt said.

He extended a hand. "Very nice to see you again, General."

"Same here, Andy," Elliott said, shaking the aide's hand.

"You ever going to get your fighter wing back, or are you content with
being a general's patsy?"

Now it was Wyatt's turn to look exasperated. "The old Elliott
eloquence," Wyatt asked. "Cut right to the heart. No, I'm busier than
I'd ever thought I could be, sir. Besides, that fighter stuff is for
the young bucks."

Elliott's face darkened. "Well, you're welcome to stay for the rest of
the Symposium, Colonel. SAC's biggest bash. The Vice President is
showing up in a few hours. The ladies in the Strategic Air Command get
better and better looking every year.

"You know General Curtis, sir," Wyatt asked. "If I'm not back in
Washington before supper, I'll be lucky to get command of a security
police kennel. Thank you anyway, sir.

Wyatt hurried away.

Elliott made his way downstairs and into the hallway behind the huge
awards ceremony hangar. There, standing alone in front of a huge model
of the B-1B Excalibur, beer cup in hand, was Captain Patrick
McLanahan.

He was easy to recognizethe young bombardier had been up on stage
receiving trophies for most of the afternoon.

Elliott studied McLanahan for a moment. Why were the good ones always
like that?Loners. Too intense. The best bombardier in SAC-probably
the best in the world-standing out here, alone, looking at a damn
airplane model. Weird.

Elliott studied him closer. Well, maybe not that intense.

Boots unpolished. No scarf. Flight suit zipped down nearly to his
waist. Hair on the long side. Drinking during a military formation.

At least a dozen Air Force regulation 35-10 dress and appearance
violations. He had to restrain himself from going over there and
chewing the guy out.

But he did stroll over to the young officer. "Is that your next
conquest, Captain McLanahan?"Elliott said.

McLanahan turned, took a sip of beer, and casually studied
Elliott-something that Lieutenant-General Bradley Elliott was very
unaccustomed to. The general noticed none of the panic that usually
accompanied confronting a three-star general; no stumbling over words,
no overly exuberant greeting, no great big macho handshake.

After a moment, McLanahan smiled and extended his hand.

"Hello, General Elliott. "He glanced back at the B-1B Excalibur
model.

"This thing?No. Too high-tech for me."

"Most young B-52 troops are standing in line for a B-1 assignment,"
General Elliott remarked.

"Not me," McLanahan said. He nodded toward an old, dusty model of a
B-52 hanging in a corner. "There's my baby.

He gave an amiable grin and said, "Sorry about Pease. Those guys were
tough this year."

"Thanks. The FB-111s will come back next year, I'm sure of it.

They were beat out by the best. "No reaction from the young radar
navigator.

"You say you want to stay in B-52s, Patrick?"Elliott asked
curiously.

"Why?The B-1s will be replacing them by the turn of the century."

McLanahan paused before answering. "I don't know. I guess it's just
that people see a new aircraft come on-line and they think all of the
older planes are history. "He took another sip of beer. "They've
condemned the B-52 a little early. She's still got a lot of fight left
in her."

Elliott raised his eyebrows. His thoughts exactly. "Old warhorses can
still kick ass," he said.

McLanahan smiled. "You know it, sir."

"Well, congratulations again. Patrick. Fairchild Trophy, Bombing
Trophy, two years in a row. You're unbeatable, it seems."

"I got the best crew in the business, General. "McLanahan said. He
drained the last of his beer and crumpled the cup in his hand. "We
work hard-and party even harder. Gotta go."

"Stop by the Headquarters Hospitality Room later," Elliott said as he
shook hands. "Let's discuss the old monster some more."

"You got it, General," McLanahan said. He hurried off after his
crew.

Not much spit and polish to him, Elliott thought. But then he smiled
as he recalled a young pilot thirty years before of whom the same could
have been said. Had it been that many years?

Elliott shook his head. Like the B-52, he was fast becoming a relic.

He only hoped that, like the B-52, he had a little fight left in him
yet.

The Strategic Air Command Giant Voice Bombing and Navigation
Competition Center was an immense aircraft hangar, remodeled and
converted into the awards and hospitahty center that was used only once
a year for just this event.

Surrounding the hangar itself were dozens of smaller offices and
conference centers that, on Hospitality Night, were used by all of the
units represented in the competition as specialized drinking and
socializing rooms. Each room had a theme, depending on the unit's
mission or its geographical location.

The first task at hand, however, was to get inside to visit them. The
Competition Center was so crowded, so packed with military men and
women in various stages of inebriation, that Gary Houser's crew took
ten minutes, once they entered the hangar's immense lobby, to even get
near the hospitality rooms. There was a large directory inside the
lobby that described where each unit was located, but that defeated the
purpose of Hospitality Night. The object was to visit each and every
room before the three A.M. closing time.

"I don't believe this," Luger said as he and Patrick moved through the
crowd. "This Hospitality Night gets bigger and better every year."

Their first stop was the Texas Contingent, where five rooms had been
combined into one long beerhall. The center of attraction in the
jam-packed room was a massive Brahma bull lounging in the middle of the
beerhall. It had a mural of a B-1B painted on each side. The bull was
standing in a huge sandbox.

In the back part of the sandbox, already half-covered with bull
droppings, was a strip of red sand labeled, "To Russia With Love, From
the Excalibur. "The bull wore a ten-gallon cowboy hat and was busy
eating out of a trough filled with party snacks and corn.

Luger and McLanahan were welcomed by two girls dressed like Dallas
Cowboy cheerleaders, who promptly filled their hands with Lone Star
beer and bowls of chili.

"Where y'all from?"one cheerleader asked.

"Amarillo," Luger drawled. "Patty here's from California but he's
okay."

"I just love Amarillo, " the other cheerleader said, giggling.

"And I just love California," the first one said.

-Well,- McLanahan said, slipping an arm around one cheerleader's waist
while the other took his arm. "Why don't you two Southern belles show
us around your little Texas tearoom here?"

McLanahan weaved unsteadily in a corner of an old-time Western saloon,
wearing a toy six-gun at his side and a red felt cowboy hat behind his
neck. The place was packed with riotous crewmen, some celebrating,
some trying to drown their sorrows with massive amounts of beer and
chili. A non-com bartender, a crew chief from the 5th Fighter
Interceptor Squadron from Minot, North Dakota, patiently waited on each
one of them.

With one hand, McLanahan picked up a huge mug of beer from the end of
the bar. He strolled over to a dartboard at the far end of the saloon
and looked over the target-five darts lodged in the exact center of the
corkboard.

"Pretty good shootin', huh, Sergeant Berger?"McLanahan said to the
bartender. The sergeant, dressed like a Barbary Coast innkeeper,
smiled.

"Your Sergeant Brake's the one who can do some shooting, " Berger
said.

"If anyone had told me a B-52 would shoot down an F-15 in broad
daylight, I'd have said they were crazy.

I was the crew chief on that F- 15 that got shot down, but send Bob
Brake over here and I'll buy him a beer."

"It would have been different if things were for real," McLanahan said,
taking a deep pull of the draft. "You would have nailed us from thirty
miles away with one of those new Sidewinders or an AMRAAM, but you
don't get any points for a beyond-visual range shot. "McLanahan took
another swig of beer. That's why it's all just a big game, he
thought.

Just a game.

As he ambled over to the bar and found himself an empty seat, his
thoughts took a depressing turn. He had been in the Air Force, what?

Six years now. And he had never dropped a live bomb on a target. Each
time that he had pressed his finger down on the pickle switch, it had
been a concrete blivet that dropped out the botab bay doors.

Not that he should complain. The whole point of what he was doing was
to defend his country, after all. If defending it meant undergoing
exercise after exercise, then so be it. He couldn't help wondering,
though, what it would be like to drop a bomb under true "game"
conditions. He felt like a fireman who is waiting to be called to his
first fire, dreading and welcoming it at the same time.

McLanahan looked up from his beer to find a pretty young brunette in
civilian clothes seated next to him. She was talking to another woman
who had long blond hair tied up in a bun. On the blonde's uniform
lapel were lieutenant's insignia.

"Excuse me, ladies," McLanahan said, his voice slurring a bit. "But
can I interest either of you in a game of darts?"

The blonde smiled. She looked at her friend. "Wendy," she said, "why
don't you give it a try?I never could shoot those things. "The
brunette demurred. "I don't think so," she said.

"Besides, what chance would I have competing against the King of Bomb
Comp himself. "She fixed McLanahan with a bemused took, as if all the
honors he'd received counted little in her estimation.

McLanahan mistook the look for active interest and charged forward.

"Well, if I'm the King of Bomb Comp, then I'm willing to let you be my
Queen. "He clinked his beer mug against hers and made a toast. "To
.

. . what was it?Wendy.

To Wendy, Queen of Bomb Comp and a credit to the United States Air
Force."

Wendy smiled. "Actually, I'm employed by an independent contractor.

We build and test ECM gear."

"Well, we won't hold that against you," McLanahan said.

He glanced at the blond lieutenant.

Wendy looked at McLanahan for a moment as if deciding something, then
rose from her seat and straightened her dress.

She reached out her hand. "So nice to have met you, uh-" McLanahan
told her his name. "Yes, of course. Patrick. Well, it was nice to
meet you. But I must be going."

She waved to the blonde. "Catch you later, Cheryl," she asked. "Stay
out of trouble, okay?"

"I'll try," Cheryl said, but something in her eyes told McLanahan she
had no intention of doing any such thing. As Cheryl looked at him over
her beer mug, McLanahan thought of the woman who'd just left.

FIGHTER WEAPONs TRAINING RANGE, NELLis AIR FORCE BASE, LAS VEGAS,
NEvADA 19 -ISO IV 19

Two days after the Bomb Comp festivities ended, LieutenantGeneral
Elliott rode with General Curtis in a blue Air Force four-wheel drive
truck, bouncing and skidding on dark, dusty, pitted desert roads.

Elliott was wearing short-sleeved olivedrab fatigues and a blue flight
cap. Curtis was wearing a conservative gray suit and tie, even in the
dry desert warmth of the early evening. The sun had set a few minutes
earlier beyond the beautiful mountain ranges of the high Nevada
desert.

"It's incredible," Elliott said, closing the top secret file he held in
his hand. "Absolutely incredible."

"And those are the things we're sure of," Curtis said.

"Those are the things that'll be presented in the United Nations. I
believe-and I'm alone on this so far-that the Russians have an
extremely advanced, fully operational laser defense system in place,
right now. As a matter of fact, I believe it's been operational for
months, ever since the Iceland summit."

"This is amazing. The Russians are further ahead of us in beam defense
than anyone ever imagined. So what do we do?

Go to the United Nations?Ask them to shut the thing down?"

"That's one option we're pursuing," Curtis replied, loosening his tie
against the lingering heat. "But I've been authorized to explore two
other possible responses. "He paused. "Ice Fortress is one of
them."

Elliott looked surprised, but nodded thoughtfully."seat SWI certainly
will get people's attention," he asked. "But it's a sitting duck, if
that laser is as capable as you say it is."

"They wouldn't dare shoot down a manned space platform," Curtis
declared.

Elliott shook his head. "Tell that to the widows and widowers of that
downed RC-135, sir."

Curtis glared at Elliott, but said, "Ice Fortress is different."

"You bet, sir," Elliott replied. "It's worse. "They rode on in
silence. Elliott added: "Besides, wasn't Ice Fortress cancelled?I
know the Vandenburg control center is closed."

"It was cancelled," Curtis said, "but not because it wasn't feasible.

We had to cancel it because of that damned treaty we signed. It's
frustrating. The Russians can shoot down one of our RC- 135s, but we
can't violate a treaty. We come out losers both ways. "His angry
voice seemed loud enough to be heard by the sentries at the guard shack
a hundred yards ahead of them.

"I haven't heard anything about the incident," Elliott remarked.

"Everything seems very quiet."

"The situation politically has stabilized somewhat," Curtis asked. "The
White House is hoping this whole thing will just fade away. I'm sure
the President will be more than happy to let the matter fizzle out,
take the Russians' excuses and minimal reparations. The President is
really counting on Secretary of State Brent to defuse the whole
affair."

"But the Russians aren't offering excuses or reparations, are they?"

Elliott asked, stretching his aching muscles.

"Hell, why should they?"Curtis asked. "They're holding all the damn
cards. We, the military, whine and bitch that the Russians are
shooting down our spy satellites. Half the White House doesn't believe
us-and the other half doesn't want to believe us. "He paused for a
moment, then added, "I'm sorry about the RC- 135 crew, Brad. I know
you worked with them in the past. I'm sorry those crewmembers died.

"I'm sorry, too, Curtis," Elliott asked. "Those men and women were
doing their job, their duty, something they trained hard to perfect.

Their murder was senseless-premeditated, cruel, and senseless."

Elliott shook his head and tried not to think of the friends he had
lost. "So," he said finally, "Ice Fortress is one option. And you're
out here to see what else we have up our sleeves."

"Putting you in charge out here was the best move the
Defense Department ever made, Brad," Curtis asked. "What we needed was
a guy who never said it can't be done. A guy happy to lock horns with
Congress or anyone else who stood in the way of developing new ideas.

Now, I need you to find some for me. I want-" "To take out this ..

.

this site," Elliott said quickly, glancing sideways at the driver.

"Attack it."

Curtis was somewhat taken aback. "No one said anything about 'taking
out' anything, especially in goddamned Russia."

He smiled. "Jesus, Brad, you're a sonofabitch."

General Elliott smiled back at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of
Staff, then leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder.

"We'll walk from here, Hal. Meet us back at the guard shack in an
hour.

The truck ground to a halt, and the driver, a young second lieutenant
wearing fatigues and carrying a small Uzi submachine gun, trotted
around to General Curtis' door and held it open for him. Both men
stepped out.

"You won't get lost from here, will you, General?"the lieutenant
asked Elliott in a low enough voice to keep Curtis from hearing.

"Straight down the road, about four hundred "This is my desert, Hal,"
Elliott growled. With a smile he said, "Get out of here. Make sure
they have fresh coffee at the guard shack, and don't drink it all."
The young officer saluted, trotted back to the driver's seat, and drove
off.

"This, sir, is Dreamland," Elliott said, beaming. He spread his hands
out across the desert as he spoke. "Ideas become reality here.

Theories become machines. Men like you don't come here just to
visit-you come here to get answers."

Elliott's mind was racing-it was exhilarating for Curtis just to
watch.

"Kavaznya. Heavily defended, I'd say, according to your intel.

"That would be an understatement," General Curtis replied.

"They converted their small supply airfield into a full-scale
year-round base.

"Rule out a carrier task force, then," Elliott said, nodding.

"They'd be blown out of the water thirteen hundred miles north of
Japan. The Russians would see a flight of F-15s and their tankers long
before they reached Kavaznya, and you might need two squadrons to beat
past the defense and take that complex out. "He looked at Curtis.

"Bombers. Heavy bombers. B-1s, perhaps?"

"What else would I get from an old SAC warhorse?"Curtis said,
smiling.

Elliott went on: "We don't want the Russians to think we just declared
war on them. One bomber, launch three, but pick the best for the
attack. One lone penetrator, even against heavy defenses, has a
chance. Especially a B- L" "My thoughts exactly."

It was Elliott's turn to smile. "You didn't come here to shop, did
you, sir?You came to buy. Cash and carry. Price is no object. All
that stuff."

"I wanted to see your little playland here, too," Curtis said, "but I
knew you'd have what I'm looking for."

"I don't have a B-1 here," Elliott said as they approached the guard
shack. "But I've got something .. . you won't believe.

"I knew you'd put on a show for me," Curtis asked. "But where the hell
are we?"

"We're in Nevada, sir," Elliott said, scanning the horizon with the
corners of his eyes. It was an old Navy seadog trick taught to him by
his father: the corners of the eyes can detect motion easier than the
center, because of the lesser concentration of light receptors at the
edges."in the middle of nowhere.

That's the Groom Mountain range over there," Elliott said, pointing to
the twilight-streaked horizon. "You can just barely see Bald Mountain
over there. Papoose Range is over there to the south. We are on the
northwest corner of Groom Lake."

"Lake?"Curtis said, kicking up a cloud of hard-packed sand and
dust.

"Dry lake," Elliott explained. "Properly tested and reinforced. It
makes a natural and easily concealed three-mile-long runway. "Elliott
scanned the horizon, breathing in the fresh, clean, slightly chilling
air. "Dreamland. They walked for a while longer. Suddenly, two
streaks of light could be seen several miles in the distance, diving
and turning over the nap of the rugged mountains. A moment later, two
ear-shattering sonic booms rolled across the desert floor and echoed up
and down the valley.

"What the hell was that?"Curtis asked.

"Red Flag," Elliott said with a smile. "Probably a couple of FB-111s
on a night terrain-following sortie out there on range
74.Going max afterburners and supersonic at two hundred feet."

"But that was so close," Curtis asked. "What about-" "Relax, relax,"
Elliott asked. "They were at least fifteen miles away. Besides, those
bomber pukes know better than to come any closer to Dreamland. The
airspace from ground level to eighty thousand feet is absolutely
prohibited from overflight-civilian, military, anybody. It's an
instant aircrew violation and a security debriefing they'd not soon
forget-I'd guarantee that.

Finally, after a few minutes of searching, Elliott spotted the low,
dimly lit guardhouse and steered Curtis and himself toward it. "I come
out here once a week," Elliott said, "and I still have trouble finding
the damn guard shack."

"I don't think your sky-cops would let us wander around out here for
too long," Curtis observed.

"True," Elliott asked. "They'd send a German shepherd to fetch us
back."

A few moments later, they all ived at a small concrete block
building.

The shack had one large bullet-proof double-paned glass window in
front, one door, and numerous gunports around it on the other walls. A
twelve-foot-tall fence stretched on either side of the building, and
the fence was topped with large, silvery coils of sharp barbed wire.

Three fully rigged Air Force security guards emerged from the building
and quickly and quietly surrounded Elliott and Curtis. All three were
armed with M-16 rifles, one with a mean-looking M-203 grenade launcher
attached to the underside of his rifle barrel. A German shepherd dog
was led out and began sniffing around the two visitors. The dog took
one sniff of Wilbur Curtis and sat down directly in front of him, no
more than six inches from the tips of his shoes.

" Don't move, sir, " the dog handler asked. "Is your identification in
your breast pocket?"Curtis nodded, once, very slowly.

The guard removed Curtis' wallet while another guard quickly
pat-searched him.

"Should I raise my hands?"Curtis asked.

"He means 'don't move , sir," Elliott said, as his ID was examined.

"Bambi there weighs over a hundred and fifty pounds and could probably
drag you up a vertical ladder."

"Bambi?"Curtis felt his body stiffen as he looked at the dog.

" I didn't know you were carrying a weapon," Elliott said to Curtis as
the guard pulled a nine-millimeter automatic from a shoulder holster.

Curtis grunted, afraid to move his lips any further. The dog was led
reluctantly to Elliott for a quick search, and then taken away.

As the two generals drank steaming cups of coffee just outside the
guard shack waiting for their ID verification, Curtis surveyed what
little visible landscape there was inside the compound. Inside the
tall fence, the area was completely dark leading to a row of three
hangars. No lights at all were visible anywhere. The large hangars
were flanked by several smaller ones. A wide ramp emerged from the
opposite side of each hangar, and stretched out over the horizon.

"Why no lights inside the compound, Brad?"Curtis asked after their
IDs were rechecked and they were cleared inside the fence.

"Oh, they have lights on, sir," Elliott asked. "All infrared.

To the guards with their sensors and sniperscopes, it's just as clear
as day. The darkness also helps the Dobermans."

Curtis gulped. "Dobermans?"

" Yes, unattended guard dogs. They're more effective if they're
allowed to prowl, and they're very shy of lights. They all have
laryngectomies, too, poor devils. If they spot you, they won't even
give you the courtesy of a warning bark before they go for your
throat.

" Curtis looked around nervously.

"They're not around now," Elliott asked. "At least, I hope they've
recalled them. We'd never know what hit us if they haven't.

They reached the back entrance to the hangar after another hundred-yard
walk. "One at a time," Elliott said. They heard a buzzing sound, and
Elliott grabbed the doorhandle, pulled the large metallic door open,
and stepped inside. A few moments later, Curtis heard the same buzzer
and did the same.

Curtis was standing in a long corridor. The walls of the corridor were
clear, thick plastic on all sides, even the floor, and Elliott was just
stepping out of the second half of the unusual walkway. More security
guards studied Curtis carefully as he walked down the corridor and
stopped at a plastic door.

He was aware of a large cannon-like device tracking him as he walked
along, humming like a dentist's X-ray machine. The remote-controlled
lock buzzed, and he stepped into the second half of the plastic hallway
Another door later, he joined up with General Elliott.

"Well, that's new even to me. "Elliott asked. "An X-ray chamber.

Must've put it in just in the past few days. It checks for implants.

That X-ray device, I'm told, can find microdot transmitters embedded in
your teeth, fingernails--even your intestines.

"Hmm. I'm not sure how much good it will do," General Curtis asked. "I
bet the Russians have Dreamland scoped out from six different angles.

A jackrabbit probably can't screw in this desert without some Soviet
spy satellite watching him.

"Well," Elliott replied, "they might know about all the activity going
on around here, and all the security, and maybe even have snapshots of
you and me taking a stroll. But, at least for now, they don't know
anything about .. . this!"

They emerged from the security chief's office into the main hangar
area. Curtis let out a gasp.and even Elliott, who had seen this
plane in nearly every step of its metamorphosis, felt a thrill of pride
and anticipation as he studied the immense form before them.

"General Curtis," Elliott said, "meet the Old Dog."

The huge B-52 was completely black, a strange, eerie jetblack that
seemed to absorb light, totally negating the effect of the hundred
maintenance floodlights surrounding it. The surface was absolutely
clean and as smooth as a bowling ball.

It was as if the B-52, the veteran of over thirty years of service, was
in some sort of futuristic, comical costume.

"What the hell Curtis said.

"Don't recognize it, huh?"Elliott laughed. "Officially, the B-52

I-model, although it's only a B-52 H-model with a bunch of
modifications. It is without a doubt one of a kind. We use it as a
test bed for Stealth-type technology, air-to-air weaponry, weapons
mating tests, computer hardware, everything. But she's in top flyin'
condition-she can fly right now if you want. The workers have renamed
her from Stratofortress to Megafortress, and you'll see why. Let me
show you around."

Curtis followed Elliott around to the most prominent exterior change on
the bomber-a long, needle-sharp nose and sharply angled cockpit
windows.

" An SST-style nose, Brad?"Curtis asked. "Isn't this going a little
too far?"

"We checked out every aspect of this plane's performance," Elliott
asked. "You'd be surprised how much a long, pointed nose, pointed tip
fuel tanks, more streamlined cockpit windows, smoothed and polished
skin, and no external TV or infrared cameras help to increase this
plane's top speed. The limiting Mach on this plane before modification
was point eight-four Mach; now, the limiting Mach speed of this baby is
point nine-six without the externals. And it's just as comfortable at
low altitude as it is in the stratosphere."

Curtis ran his hand over the skin. "What kind of metal is this?"he
asked. "Fiberglass?It's not aluminum. What is it?"

"Radar-absorbing fibersteel," Elliott asked. "A composition of
fiberglass and carbon steel, stronger than aluminum but as
radar-transparent as plastic.

"We can't make it invisible, of course," Elliott asked. "It's all a
matter of time. If we can get thirty or forty miles closer to the
target without being detected, all the expense and trouble is worth
it.

If an enemy fighter has to come in another ten or twenty miles before
he can get a solid missile lock-on, it just improves our chances of
getting him first and surviving. At night, the special black
antisearchlight paint is worth its weight in gold. This plane will be
virtually invisible to the naked eye at night. A fighter can be flying
side-by-side with the Megafortress and he'll never see it. "Elliott
smiled as they walked around the smooth, pointed nose. "Besides, the
black paint and the nose make it look mean as hell."

As they approached the huge bomber, Curtis stopped short.

"You can't .. . Elliott, you really did it this time, dammit.,
Curtis was staring at a long pylon on each wing, mounted between the
fuselage and the inboard engine nacelles.

Each pylon carried six long, sleek missiles.

"Beautiful, aren't they?"Elliott asked. "Advanced MediumRange
Air-to-Air Missiles. Radar guided, with terminal infrared and
home-on-jam guidance. Twenty-five mile range.

High-explosive proximity flak warheads. We've modified the main attack
radar to act as a guidance radar for these Scorpions."

"Scorpions," Curtis muttered. "Dammit, Elliott. We don't even have
Scorpions on our front-line fighters yet."

"But I've put them on an SAC bomber, sir," Elliott said.

"And they'll go on your B-1s, too.

"Also on each wing we've put two thousand-gallon external fuel tanks
instead of the one normal fifteen-hundred gallon tank. Both the
missile pylons and all four external tanks are jettisonable.

" We also have split fibersteel bomb bay doors, which are lighter and
more radar-transparent. You'll see why they're split in a moment.

There are many places in this beast that radar energy will just pass
through with zero reflectivity. The radar cross-section of the B-52
used to double with the bomb doors open-but not anymore. By applying
the same technology to a B-1, which already has half the radar
cross-section of a B-52.

you can make it practically invisible."

They reached the strange, unrecognizable tail of the airplane. "We
eliminated the typical horizontal and vertical stabilizers and replaced
them with a short, curved V-tail assembly. We built all of the
tail-warning receivers and aft jammer antennas into the tail. We've
also included an infrared search and warning system that is designed to
detect air-to-air missile launches from the rear."

"You took the tail guns MP" Curtis said, pointing up at the very end of
the plane. "No big Gatling multibarrel gun, like on the H-models?"

"Tail guns are antiquated," Elliott asked. "Even a radar guided Gatling
gun is not effective enough against the current class of Soviet
fighters we're expecting. Hell, some Soviet interceptors can actually
outrun a fifty-caliber shell."

Curtis checked the tail end closer. "Well, you've got something up
there. A larger fire-control radar, that's for sure.

What else?A flame thrower or something?"

"Land mines, " Elliott explained. "Actually, air mines. That enclosed
cannon in the back fires twelve-inch-long flak canister rockets. The
aft fire-control radar on the Megafortress tracks both the rocket and
the enemy fighter, and it transmits steering signals to the rockets.

When the range between the fighter and the flak rocket is down to about
two hundred yards or so, the fire-control computer detonates the
rocket. The explosion s a pattern of metal chips out a couple hundred
yards, send which acts like thousands of fifty-caliber bullets being
fired all at once. There doesn't have to be a direct hit on the
fighter.

"The fire-control radar has an increased detection range of about
thirty miles," Elliott continued, as Curtis shook his head. "The
rockets have a range of nearly three miles, which is very close to
optimum infrared missile firing range."

' "Elliott," Curtis asked. "This is too much. Way too much. I don't
believe you-" "General," Elliott interrupted, "you haven't seen nothin'
yet. "Elliott waved to a nearby guard standing near the left
wing-tip.

The guard spoke briefly into a walkie-talkie, received a reply, then
waved to the general in response. Crouching below the ebony belly of
the plane, Curtis and Elliott went inside the back half of the bomb
bay. Once inside, Curtis stopped short.

"What the Mounted on a large drum-like rotary launcher in the aft
portion of the sixty-foot-long bomb bay were fourteen long, sleek
missiles.

"Our ace-in-the-hole, sir," Elliott asked. "Ten more brandnew AIM-120

Scorpion AMRAAM missiles. They can be guided by the fire-control
radar, the bombing radar, or they can home-in on an enemy fighter's
radar or on the fighter jamming transmissions. We have them facing
aft, but they can attack any threat at any angle. If one of those
radars has found a fighter, or if the threat-warning receivers can see
it, a missile can hit it. The rotary launcher can pump out a missile
once every two seconds."

" Unbelievable," Curtis asked. "Well, I suppose I should say it's about
time, eh, Brad?Nuclear bombers with little machine guns going against
Mach one fighters seemed awfully silly to me. "He examined the
launcher. "I can't wait for you to tell me what the other rockets
do."

"Ah, yes. Glad you reminded me," Elliott asked. "Four AGM-88B HARM
missiles. HARM stands for High-speed Anti-Radiation Missile. They
were the stars over Libya in 1985.The missiles home-in on either the
radars themselves or, if the radars are turned off, they'll fly the
last computed path to the target.

"Twenty-two air-to-air missiles, four air-to-ground missiles, and a
total of fifty air mine rockets, all for bomber selfdefense," Elliott
said, summing up. "Together with the usual chaff and flares and
specialized electronic countermeasure packages installed on board, we
think we've greatly increased the chances of this Megafortress reaching
the target. Like I said, sir-a flying battleship."

"Armed to the teeth, all right," Curtis said. He closely examined the
long, slender missiles on their launcher and looked forward. "What's
this?"

"The only space left for offensive weaponry," Elliott explained. "In
using the Megafortress as a test-bed we've concentrated mostly on
defensive armament for strategic bombers. But she can still carry
fifteen thousands pounds of ordnance-nukes, iron bombs, missiles,
mines, anything. Or we can put extra fuel, additional defensive
missiles, decoys, even personnel up there. How about side gunners,
like a B-17 in World War Two?We've already done that with the Old
Dog.

"We've been running tests with the new AGM-130 Striker TV/infrared
guided glide bomb, the biggest non-nuclear bomb in the inventory. The
damn thing weighs a ton and a half but can glide twelve miles when
released at low altitudes."

"I don't believe it," Curtis asked. "This thing is amazing."

The two men exited the bomb bay, and several security officers closed
the four clamshell bomb bay doors. Elliott then led Curtis to the
entrance hatch on the bomber's belly and both men climbed inside.

"Hard to believe," Curtis commented, "that a huge plane like this has
so little room inside."

"Believe me, this is spacious now compared to a line B-52," Elliott
asked. "A lot of things have been taken out, miniaturized, or moved to
the fuselage area. There's almost room on the lower deck here for a
couple airliner seats-in a line Buff, you can't stand side-by-side down
here. We've taken out as much extraneous stuff as possible to lighten
the plane."

They sat in the navigators' seats downstairs.

"Where's all the navigation and bombing stuff down here?"

Curtis asked, examining the blank panels before him. The entire
compartment was almost devoid of equipment. There was the radar
navigator's ten-inch radar scope and associated controls on the left
side, plus a small video monitor beside it with a small typewriter
keyboard. Between the left and right sides were three small control
panels. The navigator's side had a few flight instruments, but nothing
else. All the rest of the equipment slots were covered with blank
plastic panels.

"The world's biggest video game," Elliott said with a smile.

"Simple, straightforward navigation. The Megafortress uses the
Satellite Global Positioning System for navigation, along with a
ring-laser gyro inertial navigation set. The INS is updated by the
satellite, so the radar scope isn't needed for navigation-we've
modified it more for threat detection than for navigation.

"The radar nav uses a plug-in cartridge with all the navigation points
and computer subroutines in it. The gyro takes three minutes to
spin-up to full alignment, and it's accurate to a quarter of a degree
per hour just by itself. The satellite system automatically locks onto
two of the eight Air Force navigation satellites orbiting the Earth and
fixes its position once every five minutes, and it's accurate to a few
feet every time. The radar nav also has a combination computer and TV
monitor and a keyboard for reprogramming the computer.

Elliott pointed to the ten-inch attack radar scope. "The Old Dog now
has a Hughes APG -75 attack radar from the Navy F/A-18 Hornet fighter,
which can feed targeting and tracking information to any of the
Scorpion missiles. The radar can also serv e as a navigation radar, if
necessary, and it can be used as a terrain-avoidance mapping display
"There's more, sir," Elliott asked. "Let's go upstairs."

The two men climbed another ladder to the upper deck.

"Pilots won't be happy about this," Elliott commented, "but we didn't
do much in the pilot's compartment. Their job hasn't changed much.

This Megafortress has the capability of automatically monitoring its
fuel system and electrical panel, so it frees the co-pilot to help
out.

"One major addition is the automatic terrain avoidance system," Elliott
explained. "It's an adaptation of the cruise missile's terrain
comparison system. We needed a system that could help the Old Dog fly
as close to the earth as possible, but without using radar
transmissions that would give away the plane's location.

"The satellite navigation system and inertial nav system sends present
position, heading, and groundspeed information to a computer, which
already has all significant terrain and man-made obstacles for the
proposed flight planned region programmed into it. The system finds
where it is and figures out what altitude is safe for the proposed
flight path. It then sends instructions to the autopilot to fly a set
altitude over the terrain. Radar is only used intermittently as a
back-up to the syst .e .m. so electronic emissions that could
expose the plane's position are almost eliminated."

They half-walked, half-crawled aft of the cockpit to the defensive crew
compartment. "Not many changes at the electronic warfare officer's
station, either," Elliott asked. "His equipment is more specialized and
a bit more automatic. The gunner's station is quite different. He has
an eight-inch firecontrol radar, the controls and indicators for the
defensive missile launcher, and the controls for the air mine cannons
and forward-firing missiles.

He'll be one busy man back here."

"All off-the-shelf, General?"Curtis asked, finding his tongue.

"If it wasn't, sir, you'd know about it. You didn't."

Elliott led Curtis back down the entrance way ladder. A pair of
security guards climbed inside and did a quick inspection of the bomber
interior while Curtis and Elliott were watched.

After the guards reemerged, the two men were free to leave.

Elliott escorted Curtis toward the exit.

"You realize, Brad," Curtis said as they headed for the security gate,
"that this whole trip was just a friendly visit. I wasn't asking about
any special project or piece of equipment.

Just a friendly visit, that's all."

"Perfectly clear, General," Elliott said.

"Good. Now that we understand each other, I want to know-" "My test
bed B-1B arrives in three weeks," Elliott interrupted him. "It's been
on the books for months, far earlier than your meeting with the
President. No connection could ever be made.

Curtis smiled. Then: "Only one B-1T' Elliott thought for a moment.

"I'm having lunch with the commander of the test and evaluation unit at
Edwards in a few days. Colonel Jim Anderson, a real fireball but a
great stick. I wanted to invite him in on some of the new Old Dog
weapons tests I'm conducting. I think he can supply us with a B-1

A-model the contractors aren't using. We won't be able to bring it
here to Dreamland without raising some curiosity, but I think he can
arrange to have it..... at our immediate disposal. We can get it here
when..... the time comes."

Curtis shook his head in disbelief. "And I thought I had influence."

He smiled - "If I didn't know better, Brad, I'd say you knew what I was
thinking all along."

"After Andy Wyatt got hold of me, sir," Elliott said, "I didn't spend
time shining my latrines up for your visit. "He thought for a moment,
then said, "it just so happens that those Old Dog tests will coincide
perfectly with the refit of those B-1s. Most of the equipment you've
seen here tonight can be put in those B-1s in no time at all."

"All right, all right, Brad.

This is starting to get spooky," Curtis asked. "Remember, I never asked
you for anything, you never saw those intelligence notes, and "I
understand completely, General. "He looked sideways at the Chairman of
the Joint Chiefs and said, "Two months.

Curtis shook his head in disbelief. "You mean-?"

"The tests will be completed in two months, sir," Elliott asked. "For
.

. . whatever reason.

"I may need a plane sooner .. . for whatever," Curtis said.

Elliott thought for a moment-but only a moment.

"Then I'll send the Old Dog."

Curtis started to laugh but choked back the urge when he saw that
Elliott was serious.

"You're crazy, Elliott Curtis asked. "A thirty-year-old B-52?You've
been wandering around this desert for too long.

Elliott smiled. "Just a thought, General," he asked. "Just a thought
Dowwowlv MANHAnAN
Andrina Asserni, confidential secretary and aide to Ambassador Dmitri
Karmarov, Soviet Ambassador to the United Nations, could scarcely
believe it when she was informed by security that Secretary of State
Marshall Brent was waiting in the outer reception area of the
Ambassador's private residence.

"Show him in immediately," she told the guard. And a minute later he
appeared.

"Secretary Brent .. .

"Zdrastwayti. Good evening, Miss Asserni," Marshall Brent said in
fluent Russian. Asserni's eyes twinkled. How strange and wonderful
her language sounded, coming from such a tall, distinguished
American.

"May I speak with the Ambassador, please?"

Asserni stammered. "Why, uh, yes .. . of course. My apologies, Mr.
Secretary. Please, please come in. "She stood in awe as Brent strode
into the outer apartment. She had never seen the American Secretary
travel like this, alone.

"My sincerest apologies, Mr. Secretary," Asserni asked. "I had no idea
you would call on us - - - " "This is a very informal and impromptu
visit, Miss Asserni, I assure-" At that instant, Ambassador Karmarov
entered the outer apartment. He wore a simple blue robe in place of a
coat, and carrying a can of beer, looked exactly the opposite of his
stiff, official persona. "Comrade Asserni, get me the file on-"
"Comrade Ambassador!"

Karmarov looked up from his papers and took a step back.

"Marshall .. . Brent .. . I mean, Mr. Secretary."

"I hope I am not intruding, Ambassador Karrnarov "No .. . no, of
course not. "He turned to Asserni and handed her the documents he was
carrying. "Take the Secretary's coat, Asserni, what possesses you?

Why wasn't I notified?"Brent removed his long dark coat with slippery
ease, and Asserni took it in her arms like a newborn baby.

"This is an unexpected surprise "Ochin zhal. I do apologize for any
inconvenience this visit has caused, Ambassador," Brent asked. "But I
was hoping to speak with you on an urgent matter.

"Of .. . of course. "Karmarov motioned to his inner apartment. "Do
come in. "He turned to Asserni. "Bring coffee and brandy
immediately.

And I will strangle anyone who interrupts us. Is that understood?"

Asserni was too astonished to reply. As she hurried off to the
kitchen, Karmarov followed the tall, lean, impeccably dressed American
into his inner apartment and closed the door behind him.

The Russian ambassador's apartment resembled a large study, with walls
covered mostly with floor-to-ceiling shelves of books of all kinds The
most imposing item in the room was Karmarov's massive desk, a huge,
ornately carved antique, well over half the width of the apartment
itself. Brent ran a hand over plush leather chairs, noticing that the
coffee table in the center of the apartment was genuine Chippendale.

"A most exquisite room, Ambassador Karmarov," Brent said without
turning around. Karmarov wrung his hands with impatience as he waved
Asserni into the apartment. She set the tray with a silver urn, a long
fluted decanter of brandy, china cups, and large snifters onto the
Chippendale table and hurried out.

"Balshoye spasibe. Thank you," Karmarov said.

"Mr. Secretary, we may speak English if you prefer. You need not-" "I
am in Russia now, Mr. Ambassador," Brent said, continuing in urban
Muscovite Russian. "It would be a presumption to speak anything but
your native tongue."

Brent turned, his hands folded behind his back. The two men observed
each other for a moment. Karmarov saw a tall, elegant frame; a
silver-maned head; a firm chin thrust defiantly up and outward; a thin
silver mustache perfectly symmetrical.

The suit was conservative, tailored to razor-sharp perfection, the
shoes were polished to a gleaming shine despite the harsh Manhattan
streets.

Brent saw a shorter but powerful man, with a full head of gray hair
atop broad shoulders. The years of plush living in the most
fashionable section of New York had begun to tell on the Ambassador's
waistline and chin, but Karmarov's eyes were still as fiery and bright
as in his revolutionary youth.

Karmarov finally motioned Brent forward. "Pazhaloosta saditis. Please
sit down, Mr. Secretary."

Brent took the wide-armed leather chair offered him by the Russian and
lightly seated himself. He kept his knees, legs and back perfectly
straight as Karmarov joined him. Karmarov reached for the coffee urn
but, correctly interpreting a sly grin in Brent's eyes, his hand
slipped over to the decanter. He poured a generous amount of brandy
for both of them and offered one to the American Secretary of State.

"To your health, Mr. Secretary," Karmarov said in English.

Brent raised his glass. "Za vasha zdarovye!And to you and yours,
Ambassador," Brent replied.

They let the strong spirits flood their insides, then Brent set his
glass down on the table.

Karmarov spoke first. "I am totally embarrassed, Mr. Secretary," he
asked. "I had no idea "It is I who should apologize, sir," Brent
said.

"This may seem most inappropriate, but I simply felt that I must speak
with you immediately."

"By all means," Karmarov said. He took a bigger sip of brandy.

"It concerns the fears some in my government have of the research being
done at the Kavaznya complex," Brent began.

"They feel-" "Please. Mr. Secretary," Karmarov said, his eyes
serious.

"I am not permitted to discuss Kavaznya. It is more than a classified
facility, sir. It is a forbidden subject."

"Then permit me to speak," Brent asked. "Consider this a message from
my government to yours-you need not reply."

Brent interlaced his fingers and let his arms rest on the chair's wide
armrests. "The Pentagon is convinced on what I feel is sketchy "
information, that your government is responsible for the destruction of
an American reconnaissance satellite and an American RC-135
aircraft."

Kannarov said immediately, "My government has already categorically
denied any involvement-" '.Yes, Ambassador. I know," Brent
interrupted. He picked up his brandy snifter, passed his nose over it,
letting the palm of his left hand warm the liqueur. He settled back
into his chair.

"Allow me to be frank with you, Ambassador," Brent said.

Karmarov's eyes widened. "I am not a friend of my country's military
hierarchy. I believe it was Montesquieu who once said 'if our world
should ever be ruined, it will be by the warriors.

"He referred to Europe, I believe," Karmarov said, his eyes
narrowing.

Brent nodded.

"It applies to affairs between our nations as well," Brent continued.

"Ambassador, we are on the threshold of an historic arms-control
agreement. In the two years since those negotiations have been
conducted, both sides have mainaged to keep the uniformed military out
of the negotiations. We have dealt on a level never before
attempted-instead of throwing our bloody swords on the table and
staring into each other's faces to see who will blink first, like some
medieval combat, we have sat down like men and talked true
disarmament.

"Ambassador, in our lifetime we can see nuclear weapons eliminated.

Not just a phony controlled escalation, not even a numerical
reduction.

No, I talk of true disarmament."

Brent swirled the brandy in his glass and stared into it. "But there
are those who see disarmament as a weakness. They seek to disrupt our
efforts at every turn. It is the actions of these 'disrupters' that I
wish to warn your government about, Ambassador.

"What .. . actions, Mr. Secretary?"Karmarov asked.

"As I said, there are many in my government who are convinced of your
culpability in the loss of our aircraft," Brent asked. "They have
conjured up a magical laser device, straight out of one of our
Hollywood films, and planted it on UstKamchatkskiy, at your research
center at Kavaznya. Evidence or.not, they have all but convinced the
President that this laser exists and that it threatens the security of
the United States."

Karmarov could not keep his eyes focused on Brent's.

Brent's fingers curled a bit tighter around the brandy snifter as he
noticed Karmarov's uneasiness.

Dammit, Brent thought. Could it be true?Is it possible .. . ?

"You must convince them. Mr. Secretary," Karmarov said quickly,
forcing his eyes back toward Brent's. "I plead with you, my government
is deeply and firmly committed to lasting peace and the total
elimination of all nuclear weapons from the face of the globe. Nothing
must interfere."

"I have come to offer you my guarantee," Brent continued, "that I will
make every effort to achieve a workable arms greement. But I must tell
you what is afoot. There is talk of matching the so-called killer
laser with a construct of our own.

I'm not at liberty to give details, but-" "Ice Fortress."' Karmarov
said suddenly. "The armed space platform!That's what your military
means to deploy, isn't it?"

Brent sighed. "Again, I'm not at liberty to discuss-" "But that's it,
isn't it?"Karrnarov's face was flushed with anger. "Marshall, you
know that deployment of Ice Fortress is a clear violation of the 1972

Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty. It is a violation of the 1982 Space
DeMilitarization Agreement. It flies in the face of our entire arms
elimination negotiations. It is madness.

"Key elements in our military are convinced of the existence of a
killer laser," Brent asked. "That is also a violation "Such a
device-should it ever exist in our lifetime-is not a violation of the
ABM Treaty," Karmarov interrupted. "The Treaty clearly never mentioned
such exotic devices because they exist only in the imagination of a few
excitable scientists and physicists. Why write a treaty forbidding
something that does not exist?"

Karmarov's rising tone of voice, with the strained chuckle punctuating
his last sentence, rang like an echo from the walls of a canyon in
Brent's ears. Karmarov continued: "The Space DeMilitarization
Agreement does not apply, of course, to a ground-based defensive
device. It was specifically written to eliminate the placement of
weapons of any kind in orbit over the Earth. It was supposed to have
averted a madness that swept both our countries. It cannot be possible
for your country to deploy Ice Fortress. It cannot."

"I have made no admission that such is the case," Brent asked. "But I
can tell you that many options are being considered. "He looked
directly into Karmarov's eyes and paused, as if to lend emphasis to
what he was about to say "The laser is a menace, Dmitri," Brent said.

His voice sounded as if it came from the bottom of a deep well. "Find
some way to reassure the leaders of my government that their fears
about a laser at Kavaznya are groundless. Make some sort of
presentation about the research you conduct there, or at least describe
the facility in a bit more detail. But put the saber-rattlers to rest
"I can guarantee little," Karmarov said.

We must not fail, Dmitri," Brent replied. He got up and took
Karmarov's hand in his. "The future-our children's future-may depend
on it. "Slowly, Brent released his grip on Karmarov's hand. He gave
the Ambassador a curt nod and made his way out of the room.

Karmarov watched him leave, then sat down in one of the plush leather
chairs. He did not move for a full two minutes.

Finally, he rang for Asserni.

"Do they know?"Assemi asked.

"They suspect. How could they not suspect?"Karmarov reached down to
the table and gripped his snifter with both hands. "What the hell are
they doing over there, Assemi?Are they trying to destroy the arms
agreement?What do they want the Americans to do?"

Asserni did not reply. Karmarov stared into the brandy for a long
time.

"I want the secure line to the Kremlin open al I morning, " he finally
ordered.

."Of course, Comrade Ambassador."

He drained the liqueur and winced-both at the bite of the spirits and
from the threats that were now bombarding him from both sides.

"What are they doing?What?"

FORD AIR FORCE BASE, CALIFORNIA
to
Patrick McLanahan was in trouble.

His partner, Dave Luger, had been severely injured by flying glass and
metal after his five-inch radar scope exploded from a near-hit by a
Soviet S.A-4 surface-to-air missile. Their aircraft had just been
jumped by a small squadron of four MiG-25s.

Climbing out of the low-level bomb run area in broad daylight, the B-52
was a sitting duck for the advanced Soviet interceptors.

Luger, lounging in his ejection seat, watched his partner switch the
bomb-nay radar scope from off-center present position mode to
station-keeping, bringing the radar antenna up to level with the
aircraft's longitudinal axis. The display was now configured from
attack mode to scanning mode, with a maximum of five miles range with
range marks displayed every half mile. He was trying to save their
lives.

"Anything I can do for you, Pat?"Luger asked nonchalantly.

"Watch for the damn fighters," McLanahan said.

"Can't do that, buddy," Luger asked. "I've got serious injuries over
here, remember?"

As if to emphasize his point, he lolled lifelessly across the aisle,
his parachute harness barely keeping him in his ejection seat. He
stared up at the overhead circuit breaker panel of the B-52 Ejection
and Egress Trainer, his arms flung out awkwardly. McLanahan muttered
something about how stupid he looked.

"When did they add that into the scenario?"McLanahan asked.

"I don't know," Luger asked. "I like it, though."

"You're havin' too much of a fucking good time,- McLanahan said.

"I like watchin' you work your butt off, partner."1@ "Too bad your
injuries haven't affected your mouth. "McLanahan flipped switches on
the instrument panel in front of A him and looked over at his
partner.

"Get strapped in like You're supposed to. Can you still reach your
ejection trigger ring, or are your hands blown off too?"

Luger went through the charade of inspecting his hands.

"Nope, they look fine. "As he reached for his parachute harness
straps, he noticed a faint ripple of light in the upper left-hand
corner of the radar navigator's ten-inch radar scope.

"Ten o'clock," Luger said, pointing at the scope. "Interference
patterns. Could be "No cheating now, Luger," the instructor, Paul
White, interrupted from the control console outside the trainer.

"You're blind, remember?Are you ready for the finale?"

"They've got this place bugged," Luger said, hurriedly pulling on the
parachute.

"You'd be dead meat right now if those fighters launched a missile,
Dave," White asked. "Don't tell me you're going to unstrap yourself
like that during the real thing?"

"Only if there aren't any instructors around," Luger said.

White did not share in the joke, and Luger quieted up and finished
strapping himself into his seat.

"Pilot," McLanahan said, acting as if he was talking to the Pilot, "I'm
picking up a bogey at ten O'clock, five miles.

Moving rapidly to eleven o'clock."

"Roger," White said, acting now as the pilot. Then, switching roles to
the crew electronic warfare officer, he shouted, "Pilot, break left
now. "Simultaneously, he turned a large black knob on the console in
front of him, putting the trainer into a sharp left turn. The
compartment in which McLanahan and Luger were sitting was mounted on
four ten-foot hydraulic legs, enabling it to move in any direction at
the instructor's command.

"Bogey at one O'clock, three and a half miles," McLanahan reported.

The interference pattern on his radar scope, the telltale sign of the
enemy fighter's radar transmissions intermingling with the B-52s radar,
disappeared and then hardened into a solid white dot on the upper-right
corner of the ten-inch scope. By the time the radar sweep picked up
the dot again, it had moved considerably. "Beginning to go off my
scope rapidly at three o'clock, three miles. Guns, you should be able
to pick him up."

"Pilot," White said, now as the crew gunner, "my firecontrol system is
broken. All gun barrels are jammed. No radar contact. "White
switched back to the E. W. "Pilot, the fighter's radar has gone down.

Last contact was five o'clock, two miles.

Expecting a cannon attack or infrared missile attack. Continue evasive
maneuvers. "White swung the control knob to the right, and the
real-motion simulator responded by slamming both crewmembers into their
seats. "Dispensing chaff and flares. Continue evasive maneuvers."

A long pause. The gyro compass and altimeter were both spinning madly
as White, striving for maximum realism in his trainer, jerked the
"plane" around as quickly as he could without locking up the
hydraulically operated moving trainer.

Then he leveled the trainer out and said, "Crew, this is the
co-pilot.

We've taken a missile hit on number four nacelle.

Generators seven and eight are off-line. Pilot, seven and eight engine
fire T-handles, pulled."

White studied a hidden closed-circuit TV picture of the inside of the
egress trainer-another modification he hadn't told the trainees
about.

Both McLanahan and Luger were sitting bolt-upright in their seats,
heads shoved back, work tables stowed, their hands gripping the
ejection trigger rings between their legs. They were fighting to
remain upright in the oscillating box. White twisted the controls, and
the wildlybucking box on its hydraulic legs slowly came back to
normal.

Both navigators were still tense, waiting for the order to eject.

Not yet, boys, White said to himself. He turned and signaled the
technicians assisting him to get ready, then clicked on his
interphone.

"Okay, gents," White asked. "Fun's over. I was just checking out my
new full-motion range. What do you think?"

"I'll tell you," McLanahan said, "after I puke on your shirt.

"Thanks," White asked. "Okay. You're level at ten thousand feet.

Plenty of time to get ready for ejection, right, Luger?"

"No sir," Luger answered. "Last I remember before you blew my radar
scope up---and that was a nifty addition to your little chamber of
horrors here, by the way-the terrain was mountainous. Some peaks went
up to six or seven thousand feet. Maybe more."

"Very good," White asked. "Pressure altitude is secondaryit's feet
above ground you need to worry about. You're still flying over
mountains. What else do you have to worry about, McLanahan?"

"The only damn thing I'm going to worry about," McLanahan said, "is how
far upwind I can get of that one-point-one megaton bomb I just
dropped.

"You guys are sharp, real sharp," White said, beaming. "I guess that's
why you picked up eight trophies at Bomb Comp.

All right, now, you only dropped your bomb ten minutes ago.

We were balls-to-the-wall after bomb release, so we escaped the blast
effects, but the fallout is still spreading. So if you were the pilot,
Luger, what would you do?"

"Well, we only lost two engines," Luger said after thinking for a few
moments. "I'd try to keep this Strato-Pig flying as long as I could
toward the coast until she wouldn't stay up any more, then start
punchin' people out."

"Even with a squadron of MiGs on your tail?"

White prompted.

"Well, shit, " McLanahan asked. "Our day has already gone to hell.

Maybe they'll blow us up, or maybe they'll miss, or maybe they'll go
home when they see our right wing on fire.

Who knows?I'm bettin' that, even if they hit us again, we'll still
have a couple of seconds to get out before the damn plane falls out of
the sky. Our goose is cooked either way."

"Okay, Patrick," White asked. "Don't get all worked up.

This trainer is here primarily to give you practice in using your
downward ejection seat, true, but I want you guys to get more out of
it. Some guys will punch out as soon as they hear the word 'fire."

Others will wait for an order. Some guys will freeze. Some guys will
never punch out--they think they're safer in the plane, or that they
can ditch it or crash land it. I want you guys to think about what to
do. That's all. Ejecting is a traumatic and dangerous thing to do-and
I should know, because I've done it three times. I've seen too many
guys die unnecessarily because they don't think first. Okay?"

"Okay," McLanahan said.

"Well, then," White said, "I, uh .. . listen, I have to use the
little boy's room. I'll be back in a few minutes, and we'll just talk
about the ejection sequence and finish early. Okay?"

"Sure," McLanahan replied.

"Good. Don't go away" The interphone clicked dead. Luger turned a
puzzled glance toward McLanahan. "Leave early?That's a first."

"I smell a rat," McLanahan said.

"Big deal," Luger said. He placed a hand near the yellow ejection
trigger ring, now stowed on the front of his ejection seat between his
legs. "I've punched out of this thing a dozen-" Luger never finished
that sentence.

The trainer suddenly swerved and heeled sharply to the right. Almost
immediately afterward, it pitched down so suddenly that both
navigators' helmets bumped against their work tables.

he red ABANDON light between the two navigators' seats snapped on.

Luger reached for the ejection ring with his free hand, but the cabin
rolled over to the left so hard that it appeared it was completely
flopped on its side. Not only did Luger's left hand never find the
ring, but his right hand was flung away from it.

Swearing softly to himself, McLanahan flicked a small lever on the
front left corner of his ejection seat. With his right hand, he
grabbed the side of his seat and straightened himself up. The shoulder
harness inertial reel took up the slack, anchoring McLanahan's back
upright in the seat.

His partner, caught completely unawares, was almost bent in half when
the cabin swung over to the left. Straining, McLanahan reached across
the narrow aisle and locked Luger's shoulder harness. Luger, propelled
by rage that surely could be heard outside on the instructor's control
panel, hauled himself upright in his seat.

"C'mon, boys," Major White said, gleefully watching the two navigators
struggle on his closed-circuit TV.He glanced over his shoulder to
make sure his safety observers and technicians were in place. "Time's
a-wastin' .- ."

The lights in the compartment had gone out. The cabin was lit only by
the eerie glow of the ABANDON light, but a few seconds later that too
blinked out. The normally quiet hum of the trainer had been replaced
by super-amplified sounds of explosions, screeching metal, hissing gas,
and more explosions. Smoke began to fill the compartment. White had
really laid on the realism this time, McLanahan thought to himself the
smoke began to sting his eyes. The cabin pitched over again, rolling
slowly to the right and tipping downward.

Luger swore, louder than ever. He crossed his hands, wrapped his
fingers around the trigger ring between his legs, s lammed his head
back against the headrest, and pulled the ring as if he were doing a
biceps curl.

Closing his eyes and grimacing, Luger yelled, "Damn you, Major
Whiiiite. "McLanahan saw a rectangle of light appear under Luger's
seat, and then his partner was gone, blasted clear of the
wildlypitching trainer by powerful thrusters. Grunting with
satisfaction, McLanahan gripped his own trigger ring, braced himself
with his legs and feet, and pulled.

Nothing happened.

It was McLanahan's turn to swear, very loudly, but his actions were
immediate. With two quick, fluid jerks, he pulled a yellow ring on
either side of his ejection seat, freeing himself of the bulky global
survival kit underneath him and popping the connections that held him
fast. He reached upward, his blind fingers instantly finding the
handhold bolted onto the overhead circuit breaker panel, and hauled
himself up and out of the malfunctioned seat. The remains of his lap
belt and shoulder harness clattered away.

The trainer was now tilted several degrees to the right, and McLanahan
had to scramble for a handhold to keep himself clear of the gaping hole
where his partner had been sitting a few moments earlier. He clutched
the ladder behind Luger's seat and the catapult railing that had shot
Luger's seat down into space.

Like a blind man feeling for a chair, McLanahan carefully maneuvered
himself around the catapult railing, propping his feet against the
hatch edge, feeling for the rim of the hatch.

The cabin tilted over and down even further, and his helmeted head
banged against the side of the open hatch. His parachute felt like a
huge concrete block on his back, dragging him closer and closer to the
opening. The sounds behind him were deafening.

He was now straddling the open hatch, his feet against the back edge of
the opening, his hands on either side, his head staring down through
the hatch. There was another terrific explosion inside the cabin. A
brilliant white light flashed. With one motion, McLanahan let go of
both sides of the hatch. His right hand seized the D-ring ripcord on
the harness of his parachute, and his left wrapped around his middle.

He tucked his head down and rolled out through the open hatch, curling
his knees up to his chest.

He felt a split-second of weightlessness as he somersaulted out. The
next instant he was landing with a loud thunW on the thick nylon safety
bag eight feet below. The bag carefully deflated with a loud, relieved
sound of gushing air, and McLanahan settled slowly and gently to the
floor. The ripcord was in his right hand, and a large green ball that
activated his emergency oxygen supply was in his left.

A horn blared somewhere, and several green-uniformed Air Force
technicians rushed over to him. McLanahan remained motionless, curled
up Re an embryo within the mountainous billows of the safety bag.

"Are you okay, Patrick?"White asked as he helped McLanahan off with
his helmet. "Hurt anywhere?"

McLanahan uncurled himself and stared at the bottom of the trainer
cabin looming over him. "Son of a bitch!"

"You're okay," White said with an amused Cheshire-cat smile. He helped
McLanahan up to his feet and out of his parachute harness.

"You did great," White asked. "It took longer for Luger to punch out on
his ejection seat than it did for you to manually bail out after you
realized your seat had malfunctioned. Most guys never even make it
out. If they don't make it within thirty seconds then they never will,
especially at low altitude. You did it in fifteen.

White handed him a beer-fortunately it was their last class of the
day-and they walked over to an adjacent classroom.

Luger was sprawled on a chair, his flight suit half unzipped one empty
beer can near an elbow and another can in his hand: looking rumpled and
angry. He scowled at White.

"No more surprises," he told White. "I'm telling the whole squadron
about your tricks.

"No, you won't," White said, chuckling. "I know you, Luger-you'd like
me to stick it to your buddies just like I stuck it to you. Besides,
if you tell them anything I'll just have to think up some other nasty
additions. When was the last time you did a manual bailout?"

Luger started to mutter something but then thought better of it.

"Oh, by the way," White said, turning to McLanahan. "You had a phone
call from Colonel Wilder's office. Did you get an assignment?"

"Wilder," McLanahan said. He looked puzzled. "No, I didn't get an
assignment as far as I know."

"Could be the big time, Muck," Luger said, finishing his beer with a
happy belch. "I told you, didn't I?

You're going to SAC Headquarters.

I can feel it. The wing king wants to tell you himself."

"Any other message, sir?"McLanahan asked White.

"No," White replied. "You've got an appointment to see him, though.

Tomorrow morning. Seven-thirty In his office.

What assignment did you put in for?"

The puzzled expression still had not left McLanahan's face.

"Hell, the usual wet-dream things a six-year captain puts in for. Air
Command and Staff College with a waiver. SAC Headquarters. Numbered
Air Force job. B-1s to Ellsworth.

King of Canada. The usual stuff."

"Well, best of luck," White asked. "Always like to see a good man move
up.

Outside the trainer building, Luger could hardly contain his enthusiasm
as he and McLanahan headed for their cars.

"Man, I knew you'd get your ticket out of here," Luger asked. "Hot
damn."

"I don't have anything yet," McLanahan asked. "But why is Wilder
telling me?"

"Who knows?"Luger asked. "But, it must be good. If it was bad news
he wouldn't wait until tomorrow. Besides, you're Wilder's showpiece,
his trophy-producing machine. If Wilder makes general it'll be because
of "Shack' McLanahan."

Luger looked over at his partner and noticed his faraway look. He
frowned.

"Man, you don't believe it can happen, do you," he said angrily. "You
can't stay here forever, Pat. You've got to decide-" "I'll decide what
I want when I want," McLanahan interrupted. "And I don't need any
advice from you."

Luger grabbed McLanahan by the arm. "Maybe you're right. Maybe you
don't need my advice. But I'm your friendand that gives me the right
to tell you when I think you're making a mistake. And I think you'll
be making a big mistake if you don't grab whatever the big boys decide
to give you."

McLanahan sighed and shook his head. "It's not that simple, Dave. You
know it isn't. My mom .. . Catherine .. .

they're both down on this Air Force thing. Have been for a while.

Ever since my dad died it's been a real struggle for my mom to keep the
bar going. I've had to watch over things. And Catherine-well, you
know Catherine. Her idea of the good life has nothing to do with being
an Air Force wife. She keeps prodding me to separate from the service
and go into business.

Lately, it's begun to make some sense."

" Shit, " Luger said, "what are you saying to me?That you'd rather be
in a three-piece suit shuffling papers, or helping your mom out with
the bar?That doesn't make sense. Here, at Ford, you're the best.

Hell, you're probably the best damn navigator at SAC.What would you
be outside of the service?Just another guy picking up a paycheck,
that's what. "Luger shook his head. "It's just not you, Pat. You've
got a talent. And you can't turn your back on it. "McLanahan looked
out across the airfield at a B-52 taxiing down the runway, then turned
back -to Luger. "Sometimes," McLanahan said, "I think it might not be
bad being a civilian again. At least, I'd be making a difference,
getting things done, having an effect. Sometimes it seems as if all we
do here is run simulations, conduct exercises. "He paused. "Take that
trainer session today. A part of me sees the point, and another part
sees it as just another game."

"It's a game that could save your life someday," Luger said, "but you
don't need me to tell you that."

"No, I guess not," McLanahan said. He gestured toward his car.

"Listen, Dave, I .. . I gotta get going. See you tomorrow, okay?"

Luger nodded. He waited until McLanahan had made his way to the
parking lot, then called out. "Hey, Muck!"

McLanahan turned.

"We make a good team, don't we, buddy?"

McLanahan smiled and flashed him the thumbs -up sign.

Thirty minutes later, McLanahan parked his car in front of "The
Shamrock," the family restaurant and bar, and made his way through the
side entrance upstairs to his third-floor apartment. For some reason,
he had no desire to run into his mother or siblings just yet.

An assignment!The more he thought about it, the more confused he
became. He knew that this time there weren't going to be any more
extensions or delays. If he turned down another important assignment
it was probably the end of his Air Force career, He threw his flight
jacket and briefcase in the closet and dropped onto the sleeper sofa
with a tired thud. Unzipping his flight suit to the waist, he looked
around his tiny efficiency apartment and shook his head.

The place was spotless-but not because he was a tidy person. Despite
the fact that he lived alone, his mother came by every day at ten
o'clock and cleaned and straightened it up.

He once tried to discourage her by locking the door and not giving her
the key, but his mother, assuming that the lock had broken somehow, had
Patrick s brother Paul call a locksmith to open it. She never
considered the possibility that her son might just want his privacy He
got up, kicking his flight boots into a comcr of the dining room, and
went to the kitchen. He found three six-packs of beer in the
refrigerator. Popping open a can, he chuckled to himself. His mother
hated to see him drinking anything but milk and water, but she always
kept his refrigerator stocked.

Without looking, he knew there were fresh towels hanging on the rods in
the bathroom and clean dishes in the cupboards.

For a brief second, he felt a pang of guilt. Christ, he thought,
what's wrong with this setup?Shouldn't he be happy, living with his
family, not worrying about cleaning or cooking?

Luger would probably give his right nut to have such a life.

Around his family, McLanahan was treated as much more than just the
oldest sibling. He was the father, the head of the household, the
provider and the decision-maker. It was Paul who ran the restaurant
and tavern, and it was his mother who cooked and cleaned and served,
but Patrick was the oldest, the manager, and therefore got top
treatment. That was the way it was supposed to be. That's how Patrick
McLanahan, Senior, was treated. That's how things were. Patrick was
not even called "Patrick junior" or "Junior" or even "Pat, " the way
his family used to differentiate between him and his father. Patrick
was now Patrick, Senior, even though it was unspoken.

Patrick's father was a city policeman who knew nothing else but work
from age twenty to age sixty. After he retired from the force, he took
jobs as a security guard and private investigator until Paul was old
enough to Find "The Shamrock," and even then he slaved over his new
enterprise like a teenager. The tavern was everything-not a gold mine,
but a family symbol, an heirloom.

Patrick's mother turned immediately to her oldest son after the death
of her husband. Selling the tavern, and the apartments that went with
the building, was unthinkable. Maureen McLanahan gathered her children
around her, told them that selling out would be a dishonor, and charged
them with keeping the business open. Because Patrick was the oldest,
it was up to him to see they did not fail.

With help from his brothers and sister, and large infusions of his Air
Force paycheck for improvements, Patrick kept the old tavern in
business. He had been determined to turn that money into the security
he wanted for his family, and his mother knew he would succeed. After
all, he was the head of the household, n am and he was a McLanahan.

The thought of failure never entered Maureen McLanahan's mind.

Surprisingly, the Air Force had cooperated. They had assigned Patrick
to a base close to his family and had extended him a few extra years so
that he could finish a master's degree and work on the family business'
' His success at the annual SAC Bomb Competition two years in a row,
plus his knowledge and skill as a navigator, now made him a very
valuable commodity But that extension was about to run out. His future
destination-SAC Headquarters in Omaha, Nebraska; the Pentagon in
Washington; or a staff position in a B-1 Excalibur unit in South Dakota
or Texas-meant high-visibility and prestige, but it also meant moving
to a location light-years from home. It was a painful thought.

Why is it so painful?McLanahan asked himself. Why is it so
difficult?

"Hello there."

McLanahan jumped- "Christ, Cat, " he asked. "Did you ever hear of
knocking?"

Catherine McGraith glided over, took a genteel sniff of him in his hot,
sweaty flight suit, and daintily kissed his lips at a maximum
distance.

"I thought I'd surprise you," she asked. "Evidently, I succeeded."

Just seeing Catherine seemed to make things better, he thought. For a
moment, he forgot what it was that had been bothering him. Catherine's
slender figure-skater body, her tiny upturned nose, her white skin and
glistening hair, always made him stop and just watch her, study her,
take her in.

He reached out, gathered her in his arms, and kissed her full on the
lips. "Hmmm. You look very nice," he said. He proceeded to carry her
into the living room and fall back with her onto the sofa.

"Patrick!"Catherine said. She pushed him away, but not too hard.

"You'd think you were on alert for a whole month."

"You make me crazy all the time," McLanahan asked. "It doesn't matter
how long I've been on alert."

"It must be the green," Catherine asked. "The green flightsuits, the
green planes, the green buildings-all that green must make you guys
terminally horny."

"You make me terminally horny," he said.

Catherine finally managed to push herself away. "C'mon, now," she
said, rising to her feet. "I finally succeeded in perfectly timing
your arrival home. We have a reservation at the Firehouse in Old
Sacramento for seven-thirty. Your mom had your suit cleaned, and you
can-" McLanahan groaned. "Oh, Cat, c'mon. The trainer today was
crazy. I had to manually bail out. Besides, I go on alert tomorrow.

I'm really not in the mood for-" "Alert!Again?You just got back
from Bomb Comp. They should give you guys a rest. "She paused,
looking at him.

"Oh, Patrick. Nancy and Margaret from school will be there tonight.

Please, let's go?"

McLanahan looked up at the ceiling. "I think they are getting rid of
me," he said.

?"

"Getting rid of you?What do you mean "I got a call from Colonel
Wilder, the wing commander," he asked. "I didn't talk to him, but Paul
White did. He thinks I got an assignment.

"An assignment. Where?"

"I don't know where. But a few months back Colonel Wilder specifically
recommended me to a guy in Plans and Operations at SAC Headquarters.

I've got a feeling that's where I'm going."

"SAC Headquarters!In Omaha?Nebraska?"Catherine frowned. "You got
an assignment to Nebraska?"

I'm not certain, Cat," McLanahan said - He could feel the excitement
washing away. "That's what I wanted."

"I know, I know," Catherine said. She fiddled with her nails.

"It would be a giant step forward, Cat," McLanahan said, looking at
her, trying to read her thoughts. "I think I've worn out my welcome
here at Ford. It's time for me to move on."

Catherine's eyes met his. "But you were thinking of getting out of the
service, Pat," she asked. "We were going to get married and settle down
and- "I'm still thinking of doing it," McLanahan replied.

"Especially the marriage part. But .. . I don't know it depends on
what the Air Force has to offer. If I get an assignment to SAC
Headquarters-it'll be great. A perfect "Patrick, you run a restaurant,
the biggest opportunity.d, "C'mon, Cat, it's not that big," he
said.

"It's a little neighborhood pub that can't support me or us. And I
just watch over things, that's all. "He walked over to her and put his
arms around her waist.

"You don't have to worry about supporting us," Catherine asked. "You
know that. You've established yourself in this town. Daddy will-"
"No," McLanahan interrupted. "I don't want your dad to bail me out.

"He wouldn't do that-he doesn't need to do that, Pat," she replied,
kissing him on the nose. "I want you to be happy. Are you happy in
the military?I don't think so. "McLanahan waited a moment before
replying. "Sure," he said, "I'd like to get into business-be my own
boss someday.

But I'm doing a job I like right now, and the Air Force is paying for
my education at the same time."

"And tacking two years onto your commitment every time you take a
class," she pointed out. "It seems as if they're making out better on
the deal."

"Maybe," McLanahan said. He sat up on the sofa. "Cat, I don't like to
blow my horn, but I'm good at what I do. I like being very good at
something. It's important to me."

"You can be good for Patrick McLanahan, too," Catherine replied. "The
Air Force is pulling your strings like a puppet, Pat. You deserve
better than that. Do what you want to do, what's best for you. Not
what's best for the damn Air Force."

She sat down in an armchair in the far corner of the room.

"You're not a bridge-burner, Pat," she asked. "But I'm not a nomad,
either. The thought of moving every two or three years, chasing a
carrot held out by some general sitting on his fat behind in the
Pentagon well, it sickens me. Those B-52s sicken me, your job sickens
me. "She rose suddenly from the chair and headed for the kitchen. At
the doorway she paused and turned.

"I don't know if I can follow you, Patrick," she said.

"Because I'm not sure what you're following. Your own plans and
goals--or the damned military's."

She gave him a final look. "Please be ready by seven."

"Hello, Mrs. King. I'm here to see Colonel Wilder."

Colonel Wilder's secretary glanced at her appointment calendar and
smiled. "Good morning, Patrick. Colonel Wilder is expecting you in
the Command Post. I'll buzz him and tell him you're on your way.

In the Command Post?That was odd-but everything about this meeting
was odd. "Thank you, Mrs. King."

"Congratulations again on winning Bomb Comp this year, Patrick," Mrs.
King said with a smile. "I know the Colonel is very proud of you and
your crew."

"Thanks," McLanahan said. He was about to leave, but paused in the
doorway "Mrs. King?"

"Yes?"

"Everyone knows that you executive secretaries are pretty powerful
persons, working so close to the commander. "Mrs. King gave a sly
smile.

"Yes, Patrick?"

"Any idea what Colonel Wilder wants to see me about?"

"You a" a worrywart," she asked. "That's probably why you won so many
trophies. No, Patrick, this all-important, highpowered secretary has
no idea why the commander wants to see you. "She smiled at him.

"Why?

Got a guilty conscience?"

"Me?C'mon."

"Well, then, you'd better get going. I'll tell him you're on your way
"Thanks.

In his six years at Ford Air Force Base, McLanahan had only been in the
Command Post less than a half dozen times. The first time was for his
initial Emergency War Order unit mission certification, when every SAC
crewmember has to brief the wing commander on the part he will play,
from takeoff to landing, if the Maxon sounded and he should ever go to
war.

Most of the time, he simply stopped by to drop off some mission
paperwork to the command post controllers after a late-night mission,
or drop off some classified communications documents for the night.

Despite his experience, he was still somewhat awed whenever he had to
report to the Command Post.

Part of the aura of the Command Post was the security required to get
near it. McLanahan dug his line badge out of his wallet-luckily, he
had taken it out of its usual place in a flightsuit pocket-and pinned
it to his shirt pocket. He then stood in front of the main entrance to
the Command Post, which was a heavy iron grate door. He pushed a
buzzer button, and the grate was unlocked for him by someone inside.

As he stepped inside the short corridor, called the "entrapment" area,
he heard the iron grate door lock behind him.

If there's one thing I hate, McLanahan said to himself, it's doors
locking behind me like that.

He walked to the other end of the corridor and stood before a door that
had a full-length one-way mirror on it. Spotlights were arranged on
the mirror to completely flood out the dim images of the men and women
working beyond it. McLanahan picked up a red telephone next to the
door.

"Yes, sir?"came a voice immediately on the other end.

"Captain McLanahan to see Colonel Wilder."

The door lock buzzed, and McLanahan opened it and stepped inside.

The security didn't stop once he was inside. He was met by Lieutenant
Colonel Carl Johannsen. Although McLanahan and Johannsen had crewed
together for several months, Johannsen, wearing a revolver strapped to
his waist, came up to his old navigator and took a peek at his line
badge.

"Morning, sir," McLanahan said, as his badge was quickly checked.

"Hi, Pat," Johannsen said. He looked a bit embarrassed. "I probably
taught you everything you knew when you were still a
wet-behind-the-ears nav. But the boss is here, so we're making it look
good. Not under duress or anything?"

"No.

"Good. And call the boss 'sir,Chr(34)+ okay?I'm still your old pilot to
you.

"Yes, sir," McLanahan asked. "How do you like the Command Post job?"

"Sometimes I wish I was still flying a Buff low-level in the Grand
Tetons," he asked. "The boss is in the Battle Staff Situation Room
right through there. See you."

On the way to the office, McLanahan passed by the main communications
room itself. That was the most fascinating part of the place. It was
hard to believe that the wing commander or duty controllers could put
themselves in contact with almost anyone else in the world, on the
ground or in the air, through that console. They had direct links to
SAC Headquarters, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the perpetually-flying
Airborne Command Post, and links to hundreds of other command posts
throughout the world. They communicated by telephone, computer,
satellite, high-frequency radio, and by coded teletype. In an instant,
the SAC Commander in Chief in Omaha, Nebraska, could send a message
that could launch all of Ford's bombers and tankers within a matter of
minutes. Or, just as easily and just as fast, the President could
order those same planes to war.

The Battle Staff Situation Room was the hub of the Command Post during
situations, whether real or simulated, where the wing commander and
members of his staff met to coordinate the wartime actions of Ford Air
Force Base's two thousand men and women, twenty B-52 bombers, and
twenty-five KC-135 tankers. McLanahan knocked on the door.

"C'mon in, Patrick."

Colonel Edward Wilder was seated behind the center desk in the Battle
Staff office. Colonel Wilder, the commander of all the forces on Ford
Air Force Base, looked about as old as a college freshman. He was
tall, trim and fit from running marathons a few times a year, and had
not a touch of gray in his light brown hair despite being well past
forty. He stood, shook McLanahan's hand, and motioned to a thick,
cushiony seat marked "Vice Commander."

Wilder poured two cups of coffee. "Black, right, Patrick?"

Wilder asked, pushing the cup toward him.

"That's right, sir."

"I should have that memorized by now," the wing commander asked. "I
watched you put away enough of it during
Bomb Comp. As he spoke, he pushed a button on his desk. A curtain
over the window separating the Battle Staff Office from the
communications center rolled closed on metal tracks.

T1

Lieutenant Colonel Johannsen and the others glanced up at the moving
curtain but quickly went back to their duties.

Colonel Wilder had a red-covered folder on his desk in front of him.

"I tried to get hold of you before your trainer began yesterday, but
you had already started."

"Yes, sir," McLanahan asked. "Major White's egress trainers are getting
extremely realistic."

"The guy is a basement inventor. A genius," Wilder said.

"The small amount of money we could spare for White's group was the
best money we ever spent. We may have created a monster, though.

McLanahan laughed, but it was short and strained. Wilder noticed the
atmosphere, took a deep breath, and went on.

"Any idea why you're here this morning?"

I hate when they start out that way!McLanahan thought.

"No, sir," he asked. "I thought it might have something to do with an
assignment."

"It does, Patrick," Wilder said. He paused a bit, looked at his
desktop, then said, "Good news. SAC Headquarters wants you.

Soonest.

Plans and Operations for the B-1 program.

Congratulations-that was my first Headquarters job, although I was with
the B-52 program when that monster was the hot new jet."

McLanahan shook Wilder's proffered hand. "That's great, sir. Great
news."

"I hate to lose you, Patrick," Wilder went on. "But they're hustling
you out pretty damned quick. Your reporting date is in three months.

McLanahan's smile dimmed a bit. "That soon?For a Headquarters
position?"

"It just came open," Wilder explained. "It's a great opportunity."

Wilder studied McLanahan's face. "Problems?"

"I need to discuss it with my family," McLanahan said.

"It's a big step "I need an answer now. It won't wait."

McLanahan averted his eyes, then said, "Sorry, Colonel. I have to
discuss it with my family. If an immediate answer's required, I have
to say-" "Hold on, Patrick. Don't say it," Wilder interrupted.

"Patrick, I'm not trying to blow smoke in your face, but you're the
best navigator I've ever worked with in my eighteen years in the
service. You're energetic, intelligent, highly motivated, and you have
as much expertise in the inner workings of your profession as anyone
else in the command. Your Officer Evaluations Reports have been
firewalled to "Outstanding' every year you've been in the service, and,
for the last two years, I've had the unusual honor of being the lowest
rater on your OERs because they've always gone up to a higher command
level. This year it's gone up to SAC Headquarters, and we didn't even
request it--the SAC Commander in Chief asked for it. Personally.

You'd be a real asset to the Plans people. "Wilder punched a fist into
an open palm in frustration, then looked at McLanahan. "But you can't
balk like this all the time. You have to grab at opportunities when
you can."

"Another one will come along "Don't count on it, Patrick," Wilder said
quickly. He looked into McLanahan's puzzled eyes, then continued. "I
meant what I said. You're the best radar nav I've seen. The best.

But .. . you need to straighten up a little bit.

McLanahan glared at the wing commander. "Straighten up?"

"C'mon, Patrick," Wilder asked. "Gary must've mentioned this to you.

Look at yourself. Most guys who go to see the commander polish their
shoes, get a haircut, and wear a clean uniform. "McLanahan said
nothing, but crossed his arms impatiently on his chest.

"Your record outshines everyone else's, Pat .. . but the Air Force
wants officers nowadays, not just .. . technicians.

They want guys who want to be professionals. You've got to look and
act like a professional. Real all-around full-time officers, not
part-time performers."

Wilder opened a folder-McLanahan's squadron records.

"You finished your master's degree, and you're halfway through a second
master's degree, but you have hardly any military education. It took
you six years to finish a correspondence course that should only take
twelve months. No additional duties. Your attitude toward- "There's
nothing wrong with my attitude, Colonel," MeLanahan interrupted. "I
wanted to be the best. I worked hard to prove that I am. "He paused,
then said, "I've been busy at the tavern. I- "I don't doubt that,
Patrick," Wilder asked. "I know your situation at home. But you need
to make a commitment."

Wilder stood and walked over to the aircraft status board covering a
wall in the Command Post Battle Staff Situation Room. "It's a
different Air Force nowadays. You know that.

The way things are, Patrick, even just meeting standards won't get you
anywhere. You've got to excel at everything .. .

and then some. And not just in your field of expertise.

"The so-called 'whole person concept,"' McLanahan said "It may sound
like b. s. to you, and to a lot of folks," Wilder said, "but it's still
true. They want total immersernent nowadays. Being good ..

.

hell, even being above average is the norm. I know you have the raw
material to make that commitment, Patrick. You just need to make the
decision. Yes or no."

Wilder closed the folder. "Well, that's enough of the party line," he
asked. "Get back to me as soon as you've made your decision about the
assignment. I'll work on keeping it open, but there are no
guarantees."

After a long moment, McLanahan got to his feet and s aid, "Well, I hope
that's all, sir, because I've got some thinking to do.

"I've got one more thing," Wilder said, returning to his seat.

McLanahan did the same.

"It's the reason why we're meeting here, in the Command Post," Wilder
explained, "and another reason why I need your answer to this
assignment offer. I received an unusual request for a senior, highly
experienced B-52 radar navigator to participate in an exercise. The
message was highly classified!didn't think there was a classification
higher than TOP SECRET, but there is. I had to receive the message
from the communications center personally-in fact, they kicked everyone
else out of the place but me. Anyway, naturally I thought of you."
"Sure, why not?I'll do it," McLanahan asked. "What is it?

What kind of exercise?"

Wilder opened the red-covered file folder in front of him.

"I .. . I don't have any idea, Patrick," he asked. "I have very
simple instructions. Can you be ready to leave in two days?"

"Two days," McLanahan said. He thought for a moment.

"Well, it's not much time, but .. . sure I can leave. Leave for
where?"

"I don't have that information."

"What .. . I don't understand," McLanahan said.

"Patrick, this is a highly classified exercise. They want you to go to
Executive Airport, to the information booth, the day after tomorrow at
eight A.M. You show your ID card and this letter. "He handed the
letter to McLanahan. "You bring othing else but a change of civilian
clothes and toilet articles in one piece of carry-on luggage. They'll
give you further instructions when your identity and the letter have
been verified. "Wilder studied the young radar-navigator for a
moment.

"Got all that?"

"Yes, sir," McLanahan replied, shaking off the cloud of confusion. "I
understand everything. It just sounds a bit .. . weird, that's
all."

"You'll find out, when you've been in as long as I have, Patrick,"
Wilder said, standing, "that all this hush-hush stuff becomes old
hat.

Second nature. It may seem like a real exercise in frustration. But
they've got to play their games, you know.

McLanahan rose. "Oh, I understand that, Colonel," he said.

"Remember, now," Wilder asked. "Nobody needs to know about this duty.

Keep this letter out of sight. Don't tell anyone else about what
you'll be doing or where you're headed, even after you find out at the
airport.

"Yes, sir, " McLanahan asked. "That won't be difficult to do, since I
don't know anything about what I'm doing.

"Well, don't tell anyone that, either, Pat," Wilder said, smiling.

"Yes, sir. "McLanahan turned to leave. Just before he stepped out, he
turned to Wilder and said, "Sir, when I get back I need to talk to you
about assignments-and the Air Force.

Wilder nMded and folded his hands before him on the desk.

"I understand, Pat," Wilder replied. "I'm glad, at least, that you're
going to talk before doing anything else. Believe me, I know what
you're feeling. We'll talk when you get back, but don't let it spoil
this exercise."

"I won't, sir," McLanahan said. He turned and left.

Wilder stood, paced the floor for a few moments, then reached into a
desk drawer and lit up a cigarette, the first in several years.

""You'll find out, my boy, when you've been in as long as I have,"'
Wilder said sarcastically, mimicking himself, "'that this hush-hush
stuff becomes old hat."' What horseshit, Wilder thought. Real
horseshit. And he saw right through it all.

Wilder sat there for a long time smoking the cigarette.

SUNRISE CALIFORNIA
"I don't understand any of this," she said finally McLanahan had just
stuffed the last pair of socks in his bulging gym bag when his mother
came into the bedroom to watch him pack. She stood, arms crossed
impatiently on her slim chest, staring in dismay He slowly pulled the
zipper closed.

"Mom," he said, picking up the bag, "there's nothing to understand.

"Is this some kind of secret mission?"Maureen McLanahan asked,
half-jokingly. "Are you a spy?Come on, Patrick. Can't you give me a
hint?"

"You've been reading too much John LeCarre, Mom," McLanahan said.

"I've got orders, just as if I was going to Bomb Comp or off-station
training. You know, TDYs, Mom.

They come up suddenly."

"But your orders don't say where, or for how long, or for what.

"Mom, c'mon. I don't have written orders. I went in to see Colonel
Wilder. He gave me all the information."

"Which is?"

"Which I'm not allowed to say. "He turned and put his hands on his
hips. "C'mon, now. You know better than to pump me for information I
can't give."

Maureen McLanahan watched her son for a while. Then: "Catherine said
something about the Colonel giving you a new assignment. Patrick
nodded. "I received the assignment I wanted-an excellent position at
SAC Headquarters. I had to call them and beg and plead with them to
keep the slot open until I get back from this TDY Any other guy in the
Air Force would have packed his bags and been on his way in three
days.

I may lose that assignment. I may already have lost that
assignment."

Maureen tried to be soothing.

"It sounds like .. . a wonderful opportunity .. ."

"It is," Patrick asked. "But Catherine may not follow me to
Nebraska-she thinks that the military is manipulating me.

And you well, I know what your reaction would be if I moved out.

Patrick slung the bag over his shoulder and hurried past his mother.

"Is that all you're taking?"his mother asked as she watched him enter
the living room.

"This is all they wanted me to take," he replied. "I imagine they'll
supply me with whatever else I need."

"Oh, Patrick," his mother said, wringing her hands. "I want to help
you make the right decision, but I can't help it.

The restaurant is our life. If you move away, I don't know if we could
handle it by ourselves."

Patrick walked back to where she was standing and kissed her on the
cheek. "I understand, Mom. I really do. But .. .

the business is almost running itself now. And you have Paul.

You don't need me like before. "He gave her a hug. "It will be all
right, Mom. Believe me."

Maureen McLanahan buttoned the top button of her son's shirt. "You'll
be back, won't you, Patrick?"

She hadn't really heard a thing. "Yes," he sighed. "I'll be back."
She brushed back a lock of hair from her forehead and smiled. "I love
you, Patrick."

"I love you too, Mom," he said. He gave her a firm reassuring look,
turned and walked out.

The ride to the airport in Catherine's Mercedes was fast and very
quiet. McLanahan held hands with Catherine right up until she pulled
up to the curb in front of the United Airlines terminal, but few words
were exchanged. She did not stop the engine, but only put it into
neutral and watched as he retrieved his bag and jacket from the back
seat.

"I'm going to miss you," he said as he piled his belongings on his
lap.

"I'll miss you, too," she replied. There was an uncomfortable pause.

Then she added, "I wish you didn't have to go."

"Part of the job, Cat," he asked. "It's kind of exciting, all this
mystery. A ticket on the Orient Express.

"Well," she said, "I don't think it's exciting. It's stupidsending you
off to God knows where and not even telling you when you'll be back."

He stared back at her and said nothing.

"Thank God you won't have to do this much longer," she went on. "This
just underscores how the military treats people like you. The best nav
in the Air Force, bundled up like a sack of dirty laundry and hustled
off to Timbuktu."

"The Air Force has been a good life, Cat. A good job. It's had its
ups and downs .. . " " Oh, Pat, that sounds like you, all right," she
said, glaring at him. "Here you are, on your way to some nonsense at a
moment's notice, and you're still spouting the ol' party line."

She watched him as he opened the car door.

"Got to go, Cat," he said, leaning over and giving her a peck on the
cheek. "Thanks for the lift. "He started to step out of the car .

.

.

"Patrick," she said suddenly, "when you .. . get back, we have to
talk-about us."

He looked at her for a moment, trying to read her expression, then
shrugged. "Okay," he asked. "Fine. "He stepped out of the car and
watched for a few seconds as she drove away.

The information counter handled McLanahan's request as if cryptic
orders for tickets were honored every day. He produced his ID card-the
only piece of identification he was allowed to bring-and he was
promptly given a sealed envelope and directions to the boarding gate.

Curiosity overcame him on the escalator ride to the upper floor, and he
opened the envelope. Inside was a round-trip ticket to Spokane,
Washington, with an open return date. The office symbol of the ticket
purchaser was a strange four-letter military official symbol with no
base or office location.

He exchanged one of the tickets for a boarding pass at the gate and sat
down to wait. Why all the damn mystery, he asked himself. Spokane was
the location of Fairchild Air Force Base, the Air Force's basic
survival school. He had already been to basic survival right after
undergraduate navigator training, but
Fairchild had a number of survival schools and other training
courses.

Well, that was it, then. He had been tapped for some exotic survival
training school-maybe it was a special school under development. He
had heard rumors of a new school in the works that taught survival in
environments contaminated by nuclear fallout. Or perhaps it was a new
twist on the mock-up prisoner-of-war camp located at Fairchild, a
facility complete with interrogation centers, a prison camp, and real
Eastern bloc-trained guards and interrogators.

The waiting became much, much easier after McLanahan had sorted it all
out for himself. Fairchild. All this lousy secrecy, all the hassles,
all the worrying-all for some dumb exercise, some stupid class where
CIA or DIA interrogators could get their hands on a real crewdog for a
while. What a waste.

McLanahan did not have long to wait until his flight was called, and
all the passengers were on board in a matter of minutes. Only a
handful of people-a few obviously G.l. by the looks of their haircuts,
a few civilians-were headed for Spokane. McLanahan scanned an inflight
magazine, wishing he'd brought a magazine or a book, wishing the damned
military had let him bring one.

He was fast asleep, the gentle roar of the engines acting as a narcotic
for his settling nerves, long before the plane's wheels ever left the
ground.

A waste of time, he nodded to himself just before he dropped off. A
complete waste of time.

SPOKANE, WASHINGTON
It was late in the evening when McLanahan finally collected his baggage
and stood at the entrance way to Spokane International's central
lobby.

He put his single carry-on bag down on an empty chair and reread the
cryptic, computer-printed instructions he received when he departed:

ARRIVE SPOKANE 2135L.HAVE BAGGAGE IN POSSESSION BY 2200L AND WAIT FOR
FURTHER DIRECTIONS.

It was 2345, almost two hours after his scheduledschedul@d what?

Another classic example of the military's standard "hurry up and wait"
procedures. Get to where you're going on time or else, but sit on your
butt and wait till they're ready.

McLanahan slung his gym bag over a shoulder and went over to a counter
with a sign that read SHUTTLE TO FAIRCHILD.The desk was empty, but a
sign with two moveable hands on an Air Force recruiting clock face
promised that an Airman Willis would be back by twelve o'clock. The
hands looked as if they hadn't been moved in months.

McLanahan chose a seat near the counter and waited.

A few minutes later, a tall, muscular Air Force enlisted man in a neat
pair of combination one double-knits with a few impressive rows of
ribbons arrived at the desk. He filled out a line of a clipboard log
beneath the counter, turned on a huge portable tape deck, and took a
seat on a tall stool. McLanahan approached the desk.

"Good evening, Sir," Willis asked. "Headin' out to the base, Sir?"

"I guess so," McLanahan asked. "When's the next shuttle?"

"Twelve-oh-five, or thereabouts, Sir," Willis replied. He retrieved
his clipboard. "Can I see your orders and ID, Sir?"

"I don't have orders," McLanahan said. He fished his plastic-coated
card out of his jeans pocket. Willis examined the card, made a few
entries on his log, and returned it.

"Do you have any quarters arranged, Sir?"

"No," McLanahan replied. "I left .. . on pretty short notice.

"Do you have someone we can contact at the base?

Someone who knows you're coming?Your sponsor perhaps?"

McLanahan pulled out the original message and scanned it.

"All I have is a Major Miller, but he only has a Washington office
symbol and number. Nobody at Fairchild. I didn't .. .

I mean .. . I wasn't sure I'd be coming here Willis looked at Patrick
McLanahan quizzically, suppressing a slight, "Jesus, another space
cadet," remark.

"Well, Sir, I can give billeting a call, but without orders or a point
of contact you'll be space-available only and that's pretty slim
pickins right now.

McLanahan put the message back in his pocket and said, "The shuttle
leaves at five after twelve, right?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Okay Please give billeting a call and see what the room situation is
like. My contact, whoever it's supposed to be, was scheduled to meet
me by ten. If he doesn't show I might as well get a room and try to
contact him in the morning."

"You got it, Sir," Airman Willis said cheerfully. He dialed a number,
spoke for a few minutes, then hung up with a smile on his face, his
head bobbing in time with the beat of the music throbbing from his
portable stereo.

"You lucked out, Sir," Willis said, filling out his log. "One room at
the Qs, ready and waiting. If your Major Miller shows, I'll tell him
where you are."

"Thanks," McLanahan asked. "I appreciate your help."

"No problem a-tall, Sir," he said, maintaining the rhythm with a
pencil. "You here for survival school?Got your OdorEaters and flea
collars ready?"

"I went through all that stuff years ago," McLanahan replied. "I guess
they thought I needed a refresher."

"Sure, Sir," Willis replied, already tuning himself out now that the
goofy lost captain was taken care of. "Everyone needs a little
practice bleeding every now and then. "McLanahan was going to reply,
but Willis was far away in his music and a copy of Playboy.

The shuttle arrived not-so-promptly at twelve-fifteen. No one, not
even Airman Willis, had talked to him since he made his room
reservations. The entire terminal was almost empty.

McLanahan thanked Willis once again and climbed aboard the blue school
bus when it beeped outside. Again, he was the only one on the bus as
it rattled away.

It was a short drive to Fairchild Air Force Base. McLanahan showed his
ID to the gate guard and opened his gym bag for the M-16-carrying guard
and his huge German shepherd. Fifteen minutes later, McLanahan
sprawled sleepily on a queen-sized bed in the Visiting Officer's
Quarters.

He undressed, showered, and lay awake on top of his bed for a few
confused minutes. It was just after one A.m. Restlessly, he picked up
the base phone book and scanned the personnel directory. There were
several Millers listed, and even two Major Millers, but neither with a
similar office symbol as the one on his printout. McLanahan checked
the organizational listings, but there were no organizations on base
even resembling the office symbol on the message.

He threw the directory back on the nightstand.

"Screw 'em," he said half-aloud. "If they want me, they should figure
out where to find me. "He left a six-thirty wakeup call at the front
desk and slipped under the coarse olive-drab G.I. horse blankets.


McLanahan awoke with a violent start to the furious sound of impatient
knuckles rapping on wood. He felt as if he had been asleep for
hours-perhaps it was the billeting clerk pounding on his door because
he got no answer on the wake-up call. McLanahan glanced at the clock
on the dresser. Nope, he'd only been asleep for an hour.

He slipped on a pair of gym shorts from his bag, smoothed down his
blond hair, and opened the door. Two black men, one in a civilian suit
and the other an Air Force security guard, were standing impatiently in
the doorway.

"Captain McLanahan?"the guy in the suit asked. He did not even look
at McLanahan-he was scanning up and down the hallways.

"Yeah," McLanahan replied irritably, scratching his head.

"Patrick McLanahan?"

"Yeah, yeah. "McLanahan wasn't in a conversational mood, but his gruff
attitude didn't faze these guys.

The guy in the suit looked immensely relieved. He put a finger on the
security guard's chest as if driving his commands into the guard's
body.

"We got him. Notify the gate guards. Then get an unmarked car and
have it sent over here pronto. No Air Force or DOD crap on the
doors."

"We got one. "The guard trotted away. The guy in the suit pushed his
way into McLanahan's room and closed and locked the door.

"I need your ID, Captain McLanahan," he said brusquely.

Like hell," McLanahan said, finally beginning to wake up.

"I want to see your ID right now or I'll call back that sky cop you
just chased away."

The guy muttered a "Jesus H. Christ" under his breath, but pulled out a
wallet and held it up. McLanahan turned on the room light and squinted
sleepily at the card and badge.

"Staff Sergeant Jenkins, Air Force Office of Special Investigations, "
the man said, snapping the wallet closed. "Now, sir, if you don't mind
"Yeah. Okay. "McLanahan fumbled through his jeans and produced the
card. Jenkins already had a walkie-talkie in his hand. He studied the
card, nodded, and thumbed the mike.

"Control, seven-seven," he said as softly as he could.

"Seven-seven, go," came the reply.

"I've located our subject. I'll be escorting him back to the main
rendezvous point."

"Copy, seven-seven. "Jenkins returned the card.

"Captain McLanahan, please get dressed and get your gear together."
"Hey, wait a minute," McLanahan protested. "What's going on?"

Jenkins was frowning impatiently, his fists on his hips.

Apparently he didn't like anyone, even officers, asking him why" and
"what."

"Sir, we are going back to meet Major Miller," he said in short,
clipped words. He glanced down at his walkie-talkie and clicked it
off. "You were supposed to wait at the airport for further
instructions, were you not, sir?"

"Yeah," McLanahan said, feeling his ears redden. Shit, he thought. I
screwed up. He reached for the jeans, wondering if Jenkins was going
to stand there and watch him dress. "Ten o'clock. Nobody showed up.

I thought I'd get a room at the base and wait .. . " "Why the base,
sir?"Jenkins interrupted.

"What do you mean, 'why the base'?I get orders to Spokane. It's
gotta be .. . " "Sir. "Jenkins was obviously holding in check the
massive urge to lash out with a 'you dumb shit officer, who the hell
told you to assume anything?"but he said instead, "That was an
unfortunate .. . misjudgment. You were to meet Major Miller at the
terminal. He was delayed, but he expected you to sit tight until you
received further directions. "The spitting emphasis on misjudgment was
too obvious.

"Okay, okay. Yeah. You're right, sergeant," McLanahan replied. "I'll
be ready in a minute."

Obviously, Jenkins had no intention of leaving.

"Where are we going?"

Jenkins did not reply, but he looked more exasperated than ever with
every question. McLanahan glared at him as he finished repacking the
gym bag and pulling on his jacket. It really did take McLanahan only a
minute to get ready because he carried so few items.

McLanahan retrieved his key, stepped out into the hall an turned toward
the lobby.

"This way, sir," Jenkins said, grabbing McLanahan's arm and swinging
him around toward a dimly lit hallway to the back.

"But my room .. . "Will be taken care of, sir. This way" Jenkins led
him to a side door that opened up to a laundry delivery dock and a
dumpster in the rear of the building. A blue sedan, its engine idling,
was waiting. As McLanahan headed for the steps leading down from the
dock to the pavement below, Jenkins grabbed the gym bag off McLanahan's
shoulder.

"I'll take this, sir," he said quietly "Get in and we'll leave. "He
trotted down to the sedan, knocked on the window, and trotted around to
the trunk just as it popped open. He hid the gym bag under some
blankets and then slid quietly in the back seat next to McLanahan.

As they drove out the gate and onto the highway leading back to Spokane
International, Jenkins picked up a device from the front seat and
clicked it on.

"Bear with me, sir," he said, passing the device quickly over
McLanahan's body. He repeated the sweep once more, then clicked it off
and set the device next to the driver.

"Now, Sergeant Jenkins," McLanahan said, "can you tell me what the
hell's going on?"

"As far as I'm allowed, sir," he replied. "Major Miller was supposed
to meet you at ten o'clock at the airport. He was delayed arranging
for secure transportation. When he wrote your instructions he assumed
that, when your printed instructions left you off at the airport, you
would stop at the airport. A bad assumption on his part,
apparently."

"Well, since we're admitting to poor assumptions tonight, I've got a
few more," McLanahan asked. "I assumed that my final destination was
Fairchild-why else would I be sent to Spokane?Now I'm assuming all
this to mean that Fairchild is not my final destination."

"I don't know anything about your final destination, Captain," Jenkins
replied. "You were sent to Spokane for one reason only " "Which
was?"

-Because they only had eight people booked on that flight," Jenkins
said, as if that explained everything.

"Say again?"

"They needed to know if you were being tailed, Captain McLanahan,"
Jenkins explained. "They knew who had reservations on your flight, who
signed on after you checked in, who arrived at Spokane, and where
everyone went and A what everyone did when they got off your flight.

They could do this because of the small number aboard. They simply
picked a time, date, and location with the fewest passengers and had
you get on that flight. It just happened to go to Spokane,
Washington.

It had nothing to do with Fairchild at all-as a matter of fact, it will
probably take some fast explaining to someone when the billeting folks
find you gone suddenly."

"Tailed!Me?Why would anybody tail me?"

Jenkins let out a half laugh, half snort in the car's darkness.

Shee-it, " he said, chuckling humorlessly again. "If you don't know,
Captain, it must be bad news. "And, at that, the hairs rose on the
back of McLanahan's neck. Jenkins' words echoed through his head as
the lights of the airport grew larger and brighter.

If you don't know, Captain, it must be bad news.

Jenkins' monotone voice finally penetrated McLanahan's reverie as the
car bypassed the main terminal and headed for a row of hangars adjacent
to the taxiways, away from the jet parking ramp. The car's driver had
already doused the headlights.

"Your bag will catch up with you, Captain, don't worry," he was
saying.

"Remember now-walk away from the car about ten steps then just stop and
. . . wait. "McLanahan had to smile at Jenkins' emphasis on the word
'wait,Chr(34)+ but apparently Jenkins didn't notice. "Someone will meet you
and tell you what to do.

The car pulled to a stop in the middle of a deserted parking ramp, far
from the brilliantly lit terminal. The door on McLanahan's side was
opened by some dark figure outside. He noticed no interior courtesy
lights illuminated-someone had punched holes in the plastic lenses with
a knife.

"Sorry for the mixups, Sergeant Jenkins," McLanahan said in a low voice
in keeping with the hushed, tense atmosphere.

"No problem, sir, " Jenkins said. His walkie-talkie crackled, and he
spoke a few words into it. Then, he added, "Good luck," and pulled the
door closed. The car moved off and was soon lost in the darkness.

"I don't need luck," McLanahan said to himself, looking around in the
gloom. "What I need is out of here."

The ramp was completely dark-even the small blue taxiway lights leading
from the runway were turned off.

McLanahan put the terminal on his right side and stepped forward ten
paces, as carefully as if he was following a pirate's treasure map.

Somehow, he could feel people all around him, lots of eyes watching
him, talking about him, but he couldn't see a thing. He could make out
a large, seemingly deserted hangar behind him, its huge front bay door
open like a dark cave entrance. As his eyes grew accustomed to the
dark, he spotted a few light single-engined Cessnas tied down to his
left. The parking ramp was breezy and beginning to grow cold.

He made a motion to pull down his jacket sleeve and check his watch,
but he suppressed that urge. This time, he was just going to stand and
wait. Checking the time would only make him that much more
impatient.

He zipped his jacket up all the way, shoved his hands in his pockets,
and stood watching the runway McLanahan guessed that about fifteen
minutes had passed since Jenkins dropped him off. His eyes were fully
adjusted to the dark now.

There were small birds everywhere, jumping and peeping nervously around
him. An occasional rabbit scampered down the asphalt, stopping every
now and then to test the air and sniff for danger. Once McLanahan
thought he heard the static of a walkie-talkie nearby, but he saw no
one. He watched every plane that landed-there were only two-expecting
it to pull up in front of him any minute, but they never did.

Another ten minutes passed-or was it another fifteen or twenty?The
sky was beginning to clear, and the temperature was taking a noticeable
dip. Whoever he was supposed to meet out here was going to find a
frozen navigator Popsicle because McLanahan was determined not to screw
it up again, even if it meant catching pneumonia. He stamped the cold
from his sneakers a few times, then removed his hands from the pockets
of his light nylon windbreaker and blew warm air on them.

Let's get on with it, boys, McLanahan said to himself. He blew on his
palms once again, cursing the air nipping at his uncovered ears, and
slapped two chilly palms together irritably.

He never heard the slap. At that exact instant, in the dark hangar
directly behind him, a high-pitched whine erupted.

McLanahan jumped an easy six inches and spun quickly toward the
noise.

As he turned, he was blinded by the glare of a set of four landing and
taxi lighis aimed directly at him. He had completely misjudged the
distance. The lights were less than fifty yards away.

The whine became a low, bellowing roar, and a twin-engined jet taxied
rapidly from within the dark hangar, the blinding lights focused
directly on the lone figure on the ramp. It seemed to leap out at him,
like a tiger springing through a hoop at a circus. McLanahan could not
have moved if he had wanted to.

The jet sped up beside him, the wingtip fuel tanks passing a mere five
feet from where he stood anchored on the ramp. A curved airstair door
was flung open, and a lone man with an Air Force-looking uniform
grabbed McLanahan's upper arm with a tight grip and half-guided,
half-dragged him to the doorway of the screaming jet.

He was guided with a push onto a hard airliner seat, and a seat belt
was quickly yanked around him. The belt was snapped tight around his
waist, and McLanahan felt a prickle of panic. They weren't concerned
for his safety at all-they wanted him to stay put.

He watched as the man who had pulled him aboard placed a headset over
his head and thrust his face forward. He ordered, "ID card. Quickly"
McLanahan was startled by the sudden command, and impulsively reached
into his right back pocket where the card always was. It wasn't
there.

He squirmed around and felt for the card in his left back pocket. Not
there, either.

"Quickly!"the man said again. He pulled a boom mike near his lips
and spoke a few clipped words into it. McLanah an glanced at a pair of
wild-looking, dark eyes, then turned away as he furiously patted his
pockets. Glancing toward the front of the jet, he saw the co-pilot
leaning to his left into the narrow aisle between him and the pilot.

The co-pilot wore a camouflaged helmet and a green flight suit. With a
start, McLanahan noticed the co-pilot half-concealing a stubby,
short-barrelled Uzi submachine gun behind the cockpit curtain.

"Oh, shit," McLanahan said. His hands flew over his pockets, finally
finding the card in his left front pocket. He fished it out and held
it up to the man pinning him in the seat, nearly clipping a piece of
the man's nose off in the process.

The man snapped on a tiny red-beamed flashlight, examined the card,
then swept the tiny beam of light across McLanahan's dumbfounded
face.

The man's hard features softened a bit, washing clear with an immense
sense of relief.

He pulled the mike closer to his lips and leapt to his feet.

"Let's roll, pilot," he shouted, dropping the card in McLanahan's
lap.

The Uzi peeking behind the curtain disappeared. The man with the
headset scurried back and hauled up the airstair door and dogged it
closed. A few short moments later, the jet was screaming skyward.

The guard wearily dropped into a seat across from McLanahan and took a
moment or two to take a few deep breaths.

"Sorry about all that, Captain," the man said after the plane was
safely on its way. "When you disappeared from the airport terminal, we
got a little nervous. We may have overreacted a bit. I'm sorry if we
got a little rough."

"I'm the one who should be apologizing, I think," McLanahan said,
slowly recovering from his shock. "I've handled this whole thing
pretty irresponsibly Are you Major Miller, the one I was finally
supposed to contact?"

The man laughed and nodded toward the e aulets on his shoulders. "No,
Captain. I'm First Lieutenant Harold Briggs. I work for the project
coordinator. We are Major Miller."

"Major Miller was a code name for you," Briggs explained.

"Whenever you or someone from your unit mentioned Major Miller, my
section was notified. I'm in charge of getting you to the project
coordinator."

"The project coordinator?Who is he?"

"You'll find that out soon," Brigs replied. "We're on our way,
finally, to meet him. Meanwhile, if you need anything, just let me
know. Call me Hal, please. I'll be working with you for the entire
duration of the project.

"The project?"

"Yes, sir," Briggs said, smiling. "I can't tell you about that.

You'll have to see the project coordinator for that. But, I am your
aide from now on.

"Aide, huh?"McLanahan asked. "Well, I don't know if I can handle
that. "He extended a hand. "Call me Patrick and can the 'sir' stuff,
okay?"

"You got it. "They shook hands, and Briggs stowed his headset in an
overhead rack and flicked on a light. Hal Briggs was very, very young,
with short-cropped black hair on top of a lean, thin face and dark
brown eyes. He wore lieutenant epaulets on his blue fatigues, a pair
of Army paratrooper's wings, and an Air Force Security Police badge
over his left breast pocket. McLanahan noticed he wore a green webbed
infantry belt over his blue Air Force trousers, but he couldn't see the
weapon bolstered there.

"Sergeant Jenkins said something about me being tailed," McLanahan said
as Briggs opened a small refrigerator near his seat and pulled out a
couple of beers.

"Yeah," Briggs said, popping open his can and handing the other to
McLanahan. Briggs tipped his can to McLanahan and took a long
swallow.

"Call it youthful exuberance. When you showed up at the terminal, then
suddenly disappeared, I got .. . nervous. I called Sergeant Jenkins,
who was my backup out there from Fairchild, and I sounded the alarm.

Aoy, those O.S.I guys can move out."

"We?"

"You're not OSIT' "No. "Briggs smiled. "Anyway, Jenkins had a search
organized in no time. We were more or less in control of the tactical
environment, as we say in the game, at the airport.

When you moved to the base, we lost control. Hell, we .. .

painted a half-dozen different scenarios about what happened to you.

All bad."

"Whoa, whoa!"McLanahan held up a tired hand. "Happened to me?I
don't get it. What are you guys so afraid of?"

What can happen to me?And why me in the first place?"

Briggs drained his beer and reached for another.

"Pat, you are very, very hot property right now," he said, watching
McLanahan's wide-eyed expression from behind the upturned beer can.

"if we lost you, if something happened to you, if you didn't arrive at
the project headquarters by tomorrow noon He finished the beer in a few
long, 10 furious gulps, then said, "The vibrations would be felt all
the way .. . to the top."

"Hal," McLanahan said, his mouth suddenly very dry, "that's not an
explanation. "For the second time, the hairs on the back of his neck
were catching a breeze from somewhere.

"The top?Top of what?"

"I'm sorry," he said. He reached for the refrigerator door, then
stopped, reconsidering, and sat back in his chair and looked at
McLanahan. "Listen, there's very little I can tell you. But I do know
this. I was authorized to make that fucking little airpatch out there
look like Entebbe. I was authorized, Patrick. Authorized to do any
damned thing It was at that moment that McLanahan noticed the Uzi
strapped to Briggs' waist.

NELMS AIR FORCE BASE, LAs VEGAs, NEvADA
It was late in the evening when Harold Briggs escorted McLanahan from
his small, musty billeting room to another building a few hundred yards
away. McLanahan realized that all his movements-from the time he
landed on that long long jet flight from Spokane till now-were intended
to keep his location a secret.

Why Briggs and the others were trying to keep his location a secret
from him, he couldn't figure-but they had only partially succeeded.

Although he had been taken from the jetport to his room at night
through the back door, and although they had apparently tried to erase
all traces of his location, he stumbled across the words "NELLIS AUX 5"
engraved on the side of a desk in his room. The Learjet they had
picked him up with at Spokane, he knew, had a range of about a thousand
miles at the speed their pilot was flying-the pilot had kept the
engines at full bore the whole way And if that hadn't been enough, the
dry, cold evening and the roar of high-performance jets-not airliners,
but military fighters-screaming in the distance gave it away.

Well, so what?He was at Nellis or one of the myriad of airfields,
stations, training camps, or ranges in the vicinity. He hoped more
answers were on the way when, after an entire day of nothing to do,
Briggs knocked on his door and told him they were going to meet the
project coordinator McLanahan and Briggs now sat alone in a small
briefing room. They had been sitting in the same room for twenty
minutes.

McLanahan was about to turn to Briggs and ask how much longer it would
be when the door opened and in stepped .. .

" General Elliott!"McLanahan said. He sprang so quickly to his feet
that he felt as though he had left some part of himself back in the
chair.

"At ease, Patrick," General Elliott said, smiling. He took McLanahan's
hand and shook it. "Welcome to my nightmare."

McLanahan was too stunned to clasp hands. Elliott recognized this and
steered him to his chair again.

Elliott wore a flightsuit with three subdued stars on each shoulder and
subdued Strategic Air Command insignia on the arms and front. The
squadron patch read -3 ACCS," the Airborne Command and Control Squadron
from SAC Headquarters. He also wore a .45 automatic pistol strapped to
his waist, and carried a large chart-carrying case and three Thermos
bottles.

Elliott flipped his wooden chair around and sat down on it with a tired
thud. He studied McLanahan's still-surprised face.

"Relax, Patrick. You'll have your explanation in a moment."

McLanahan blinked at the words. Was his mouth hanging open or
something?He took a deep breath and wiped moisture from his palms.

"Coffee?"Elliott asked, extending separate Thermoses to McLanahan and
Briggs. "Actually, Hal, there's Coke in yours.

I know you'd prefer a beer but .. . " Briggs nodded and smiled. "I
understand, sir."

"All right," Elliott said, "here we go. This entire conversation is
top secret. It is restricted to just us. No one else at all. I have
no assistant, aides, or staffers that need to know what's been
discussed. I don't have to ask if the room's secure, because it's my
room and my compound and I know it's secure.

That's the way this project is being run.

By the way, Hal, you're in on this because I want you to realize all
that's happening from here on in. I think you'll be able to operate
better when you've got the complete picture.

Patrick, Hal here has been on my security staff for a year now.

He was assigned to security units for the Pentagon and at SAC until I
grabbed him. Now he works for you. He'll make sure that foul-ups like
the one we had at Spokane don't happen again.

McLanahan tried to keep his face from reddening but failed.

"This job is very simple, Patrick," Elliott began. "We run a highly
classified research and development center here at Dreamland. I'm sure
that's little surprise to you; during all the Red Flag sorties you've
flown I'm sure you've heard speculation about Dreamland, wondered why
you'd get your butt kicked so hard for overlying it. Well, that's
why.

Most every new design for a fighter, bomber, or missile built in the
past ten years probably had its first tryout here at Dreamland.

He paused for a moment, taking a sip of coffee. "We've got another
plane that we'd like to test-fly. We'd like you to run it through its
paces. Test out the avionics, make some practice bomb runs, wring out
the aircraft as much as you can. Much of the equipment you'll be
testing will eventually be installed in selected B-1 aircraft."

McLanahan looked puzzled. "That's it?"

"You'll be plenty busy, I assure you, Patrick," the general said.

"We're on a very tight schedule. We could be .. .

well, let's just say our data might be needed at any time. The more
information we have to pass on, the better.

McLanahan shrugged his shoulders. "Sounds fine to me," he asked. "But
you sure went through some very strange gyrations to get me here. I've
got a feeling I still don't know the entire story."

"I hate to sound overly cryptic, Patrick," Elliott said, smiling, "but
you know all you're supposed to know right now. You may figure out
more as the project progresses. But I must remind you-your location,
your duties, everything you see and do, is classified top secret. No
one outside this room-I don't care how high their clearance or rank-is
to know what goes on here. Understood?"

:"Yes, sir," McLanahan asked. "One question, though."

Shoot."

"Why me?"

Elliott smiled, finished his coffee, and stood. "Simple.

You're the best. I can't pass up a guy who's won as many Bomb Comp,
trophies as you."

McLanahan wasn't satisfied with Elliott's answer but nodded anyway.

"Want to see her?"Elliott asked.

McLanahan looked puzzled. "See what?"

"The ship," Elliott asked. "Your ship. The Old Dog."

"Old Dog?"McLanahan rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"Good recruiting technique, General. I'm supposed to get excited about
a plane called the Old Dog?"

"You will," he said.

"Is this thing for real?"Briggs asked. McLanahan would have posed a
similar question had he been able to speak; instead, he stood
dumbstruck, staring at the massive form of the Megafortress.

They did a walk around inspection of the airplane. General Elliott let
them walk at their own pace, answering all their questions.

"It can't be the same airplane," McLanahan said finally, running his
fingers across the slippery skin. "This can't be a B-52."

"A wolf in sheep's clothing," Elliott asked. "I assure you."

Briggs entered the bomb bay and McLanahan followed him in a moment
later.

"Expecting trouble, General?"McLanahan remarked. He examined the
missiles. "Scorpions!Eight .. . no, ten of them!On a B-52!

They've just come out with these things.

They're not even modified for the F-15 yet. And you've got twelve more
on the wings. I don't believe it."

Briggs read the lower missiles on the rotary launcher.

"HARM.What's HARMT' "Antiradiation missiles," McLanahan asked. "Homes
in on and attacks radar-guided antiaircraft gun and missile sites. "He
looked at Elliott, and the young man's gaze caused the general's smile
to fade a bit. "Trouble and a half, I'd say."

"Nine-tenths of everything on the Megafortress is geared toward
self-defense and target penetration," Elliott explained.

"That has been my number-one priority. This is just a test-bed
aircraft. Over the past few years, we've just kept on adding
refinements to it. Building a better mousetrap, I guess. "He patted
the bomber's smooth skin. "We're going to incorporate the data we get
from our best sorties into several other types of aircraft, notably the
B-1.

"Let's go inside," Elliott said finally. "The technicians are doing a
simulated flight on the avionics right now. It'll give you a chance to
see your new gear operate downstairs. "They received clearance from
the guards surrounding the huge bomber and climbed inside. Out of
instinct, McLanahan immediately climbed into the left seat and scanned
the instrument panel before him-his hand even positioned itself on the
crosshair tracking handle as if drawn there by magnetism. Briggs,
standing behind them near the aft bulkhead door leading to the forward
wheel well, merely stood and gaped at the cramped compartment.

"Simple, direct, high-speed, highly accurate navigation equipment,"
Elliott asked. "Satellite global navigation, with position accuracy
down to twenty feet, time down to the hundredth of a second, and
groundspeed down to the quarterknot. Plus an inertial navigation
system with a ring-laser gyro with heading accuracy to the tenth of a
degree after twelve unupdated hours.

McLanahan rested his hands near the computer terminal, studied the
keyboard and the video monitor, and then said, "You took the second
navigator's seat out. Where's he going to sit?"

"Second navigator?"Elliott was genuinely startled. "Patrick, I just
explained to you. This thing has automatic accuracy a navigator only
dreams about. You can handle it yourself.

Why do you need someone else?"

"What if all this stuff is destroyed?What if it dumps?"a "Dumps?"

Elliott looked insulted. "You can't dump this 10 6 stuff. If you turn
off all the power, the ring-laser gyro has a 1121 half-hour backup
battery. Once power is restored, the gyro realigns in ninety seconds
back to original specifications. And it'll take one satellite
cycle-about ten minutes-for the GPS to find itself and start navigating
again. It doesn't dump."

"Well, sir," McLanahan said, "I don't know. "He studied the controls
on the left side and the small rack of relays and boxes behind him.

"You kept the original radar set, is that right, sir?"

"Yes," Elliott said, looking puzzled. "It's interfaced with the
defensive weapons more, with target tracking modes and-" "But I still
have radar crosshairs?"he interrupted. "Fixtaking capability?Wind
runs?Altitude calibrations?"

"Yes, Yes," Elliott said impatiently. "You can still update the
inertial navigation set with the radar set, and you can put a memory
point wind into the system, but you don't need-" McLanahan didn't let
him finish. He simply reached down to the radar controls near his left
knee and, with both hands, pushed three buttons simultaneously.

The results were dramatic. Instantly, a relay behind McLanahan's
ejection seat smoked and sputtered, every circuit breaker of the few
remaining above McLanahan's head popped, and the entire lower deck
compartment went completely dark.

"What the hell Elliott shouted.

A technician from the cockpit upstairs dashed over to the hatch
connecting the upper and lower decks and shined a flashlight on the
enraged three-star general.

"What happened down there?"he asked timidly.

"How the hell should I know!"Elliott asked. "Get down here and-' "The
BNS a/c exciter power circuit breakers are popped down here," McLanahan
said calmly from the darkness.

Briggs could be heard breathing in the background. "You'll find the
BNS right TR control circuit breaker popped on the right load central
panel upstairs, along with the RDPS power supply breakers number one,
two, the plus six hundred volt, and the negative three hundred/negative
one-fifty volt breakers down here. That smell is the left BNS control
system relay. No replacement is usually carried in the spares box.

"Everything tied into the BNS radar is dead, General," McLanahan
said.

"I can swap around components and bring the radar back, but it won't
bring back all the associated equipment including the inertial
navigation set and these monitors and keyboard. The satellite system
is still operational and it may know where it is, sir, but it can't
tell you because there's no screen. I've also erased the navigation
waypoints stored in the computer memory, and I'll bet the cartridge
reader is dead, also. No automatic navigation."

"God damn it!"Elliott said.

"General, may I make a suggestion, sir ..."Briggs said.

"Do it and you'll be guarding a commissary warehouse in Iceland,
Briggs!"the general snapped. "Masuroki, get the damn power back
on.

"But I don't .. ."

"Reset the power cart first before it drops off the line completely,"
McLanahan offered, "Then reset the circuit breakers. The ECM and
fire-control stuff will need to be turned off and rewarmed up before
you do that. That takes thirty minutes-and with all the stuff you've
added, probably closer to an hour. I'll need a new relay down here."

He made a little pause, then added, "And a right ejection seat. And a
sextant.

And a nav- "That's unrealistic, Patrick," Elliott said as Masuroki
scrambled to restore power. "You're not going to hit all those
controls all at once like that."

"That simulates about a half-dozen ways to overload the BNS left
control relay, General," McLanahan asked. "A little moisture, a bad
wire, some sort of voltage spike or surgepoof!"

General Elliott thought of the skimpy intelligence data Curtis had
shown him-the last words of the crew of the downed RC- 1 35.The
awesome power of the strange radar they had encountered .. . the
thought made him wince in the cramped darkness of the Megafortress.

"All right, all right, hotshot," Elliott said, exasperated. "I guess I
got a bit carried away with my toys down here. Let's get out of
here.

You'll be spending enough time in this beast, anyway.

As they climbed down the ladder, Briggs turned to the general and said,
"I think you found the right dude for the job, General.

"Yes," Elliott agreed. He was silent for a moment, then said, "But I'm
worried about exactly what the job will turn out to be."

It was the largest group of people McLanahan had been with since
arriving at Spokane Airport-how many days ago?It had only been three
days, and only one since first seeing the Megafortress, but it seemed
like he had been cooped up in that desert for an eternity. Most of the
time since seeing the bomber had been spent in intense study of the
handtyped notes and tech orders on the avionics and performance
capabilities of the bomber and the Striker glide-bomb. It was
incredibly simple to operate-highly sophisticated, but simple.

They were in another windowless, stifling, nearly empty office.

McLanahan and Hal Briggs had joined a room crowded with eight people
already there waiting for General Elliott. The most surprising
additions were four women. Two were obviously security guards, but the
third was a middle-aged woman in jeans and a safari jacket who stood
beside an older gentleman, and the fourth was a much younger woman,
perhaps in her late twenties, who stared at the newcomers in
surprise.

The others took quick glances at the two newcomers and promptly ignored
them.

A few moments later, General Elliott entered the room, now wearing
civilian slacks and a short-sleeve shirt but still sporting the huge
.45-caliber automatic under his left armpit.

"I think it's about time we were introduced to one another," General
Elliott said immediately, "although you've all been working with each
other for the past few weeks and may in fact have run into each other
quite often while working on the Old Dog. Colonel Anderson.

A tall, dark-haired man in a green SAC flightsuit turned and faced the
group. He had taken the front and center chair and had leaped to
attention when Elliott entered the room.

"Colonel James Anderson," he said in a deep, resonant voice. "Deputy
commander of the 4135th Test and Evaluation Center, Strategic
Development and Testing, Edwards Air Force Base.

"Colonel Anderson brings a wealth of experience from several different
weapon systems to Dreamland," Elliott said.

"He has been the singlernost important source of ideas and our premier
trouble-shooter. The Old Dog wouldn't be where it is right now without
him.

"Thank you, sir," Anderson said. He returned to his seat and with
narrow, piercing eyes scanned the others around him.

He looked right past McLanahan, disregarding him.

McLanahan pegged him immediately: the huge silver ring, dwarfing his
wedding band; the jump wings beneath his command pilot wings; his thin
waist and chin-zoomie. Air Force Academy grad. A Colorado Cuckoo.

Not exactly a navigator lover, either.

The man next to Anderson stood. He was a bit shorter, less chiseled
and much younger version of Anderson, but he had nodded politely to
Briggs and McLanahan earlier and he seemed friendly. "Lieutenant
Colonel John Ormack, from the engineering and development section at
Wright-Patterson Air Force Base."

"The man responsible for a lot of the Old Dog's new tricks in the
cockpit," Elliott added. "He's made his job as co-pilot a million
times easier-obviously selfishly motivated. He's released the co-pilot
to help out with bomber defense and crew coordination. He's also
racked up a few thousand hours in several aircraft as well. The deputy
project officer. "Anderson gave Mac a prou no an a quick um s-up as he
sat down.

The younger civilian woman then stood up. Everyone else in the room
looked around and past hen-everyone but McLanaban and Harold Briggs.

She was of average height, with dark hair tied in a scholarly bun atop
her head. Her eyes and face were dominated by huge, thick glasses,
but, McLanahan thought, she was pretty in a-well, teacherly sort of
way. She could not have been much older than McLanahan himself. She
looked familiar.

"Doctor Wendy Tork," she said briefly, brandishing the word doctor like
a sword in front of the SAC officers.

"Strategic electronic defense engineer, Palmdale, California.

McLanahan nearly bolted out of his seat. No, it couldn't be, he
thought. He turned and met the friendly smile of the woman he had met
in the hospitality bar back during the Bomb Comp Symposium. He could
barely keep his jaw from swinging open.

"One of the country's foremost experts on electronic countermeasures,
counter-countermeasures, Stealth technology, and radar," Elliott
said.

"The electronic warfare operator."

"Holy shit," McLanahan said under his breath. He continued to stare at
her, studying her, trying to imagine her in a flightsuit. Then out of
a flightsuit. Both seemed weirdly difficult in their present
circumstances .. .

He looked around and noticed Anderson's disgusted, exasperated
expression as the colonel studied Tork. Well, McLanahan thought, he
likes women even less than navigators, I guess. Heads swiveled around
in his direction, so McLanahan decided he was next and sheepishly
stood.

"Captain Patrick McLanahan, B-52 radar navigator from Ford Air Force
Base," McLanahan asked. "This is Lieutenant Harold Briggs."
"Mornin'," Briggs said with a big smile. The icy glare he got from
Anderson made him wish he hadn't said that, and he zipped his smile
away.

Everyone in the small, stuffy room gave them a cursory nod but little
else.

"Thanks for the intro, former buddy," Briggs whispered to McLanahan.

"If I gotta sweat in front of Anderson, so do you," McLanahan whispered
back.

"The best in the business," Elliott said proudly "Without a doubt the
most gifted, knowledgeable, and professional bombardier in the United
States military. Probably in anyone's military. The Old Dog's radar
navigator."

"Where's Mentzer, General?"Anderson said sharply.

"I had a problem with Joe's background investigation, James," Elliott
replied. Anderson gave Elliott an exasperated, impatient look.

"General, forget that," he said, shaking his head. "I'll vouch for the
man, dammit. He modified and tested both the Striker TV-guided bomb
and the new sub-atomic munitions.

He's the perfect man for the job. "Anderson glared at Tork when he
said man.

"Sorry, James," Elliott asked. "Captain McLanahan, however, has
recently convinced me of the need for an additional crewmember
downstairs. If Mentzer's clearance comes through-well, we'll discuss
it."

"Another crewmember?"Anderson asked. "A navigator?

The Old Dog doesn't need another navigator."

"Patrick has demonstrated otherwise, Colonel."

"What we need, General," Anderson said, "is the man who built the
Striker and the decoy drones, the man who helped-" Colonel Anderson."
Elliott had lost all trace of goodnaturedness in his voice, although
his expression was still light and easy. "Joseph Mentzer is not
available at this time. When he is, I'll inform you. Until then,
Captain McLanahan is the radar navigator. All right, Colonel?"

The emphasis on Anderson's rank suppressed the last spark of
resistance, and Anderson fell silent.

"Last but certainly not least," Elliott said, nodding to the last man
and the woman beside him.

"Thank you, General," the man asked. "I am Doctor Lewis Campos, retired
Air Force. This is my assistant, Doctor Angelina Pereira. We are
weapons design consultants representing several industries-actually, a
mix of several militaryindustrial complexes."

"And a duo with loads of imagination," Elliott added.

"Designers of the defensive armament aboard the Old Dogthe guns,
missiles, rockets. Lew Campos will be the gunner in all of the tests
we conduct.

"There you have it, ladies and gentlemen," Elliott said.

"From now on, you'll be working very closely with one another to gather
the information we need. All of you, with the possible exception of
Patrick, are intimately familiar with your own devices and
equipment-and Captain McLanahan has demonstrated a knowledge of his own
systems that would rival anyone here. But it'll be most important that
you all learn to work with each other to insure the success of these
tests.

Elliott was silent for a moment. Then: "Some of you are not military
people. You've worked in military centers, designing military
weaponry, working closely with other military members, but you never
planned on actually flying or participating in operational tests
yourselves. We simply don't have the time to train flight test
engineers or military personnel to your level of expertise.

"I am heartened by the fact that all of you are volunteers, but that
doesn't bind you to a seat aboard the Megafortress. If any of you,
either now or later on, feel you cannot handle the rigors we'll place
on you, see me in private and you'll be released. "There was a sort of
relieved nod from everyone--everyone except Anderson.

"Colonel Anderson, the floor is yours."

Anderson nodded thanks to General Elliott, then swung on the rest of
his newly assembled crew like a disgusted drill sergeant at an
induction "The routine is simple, ladies and gentlemen. Our mission is
to collect data on avionics, weaponry, hardware, and software aboard
the B-52 India model for use in other specialized military aircraft.

Very simple.

"To do this, we study. Every waking minute, every free moment, you
will spend studying the missions and the scenarios faced in each one.

You will not concentrate only on your own specialty. You will be
intimately familiar with the duties and responsibilities of every
member of this crew.

"When the plane is available to fly, we spend all afternoon, from
thirteen hundred hours until eighteen hundred hours, in mission
planning. The crew briefing will be three hours prior to takeoff. All
of our flights will be night sorties to help insure security, and they
will be four hours in duration. There will be three hours debriefing
following the sortie, then eight hours crew rest before duty begins the
next day.

"When the plane is not available, we will use the simulator.

Simulator sessions are five hours long, and there will be five hours
for mission planning and briefing and three hours for post-briefing."
Anderson started to pace in front of his assembled crew, staring each
one down.

"This is not a scientific laboratory, an office, or a board he said.

"This is a classified tactical unit on an urgent room, assignment.

Because of the need for speed and accuracy, we will consider this field
conditions from here on. Their will be no leave, no absence, no sick
call, no vacation, no days off.

You will have no visitors, receive no calls from your other place of
employment, or work on any other project save this one. Am I
understood?"

No reply.

You are expected to be familiar with the entire contents of the I-model
technical order by noon tomorrow. Then, we will meet here and talk
about the plane and its characteristics.

Questions?"

Again, no reply, Anderson turned to Elliott. "General?"Elliott shook
his head.

"You will be sorry," Anderson said menacingly, "if you come here
tomorrow and you don't know your shit. Dismissed.

The Old Dog's crewmembers filed out, everyone afraid to speak or make
any comment with Anderson anywhere within earshot. Elliott, McLanahan,
and Briggs were the last to leave.

"That man," Briggs said, "is one intense sonofabitch."

"I can see working with him is going to be a real blast," McLanahan
asked. "Thanks for the great assignment, General.

"Don't mention it," he replied, smiling. "I hope you've been
studying.

You're starting out with two strikes against you already.

"I know," McLanahan asked. "I'm a nav--and I'm not Mentzer. Who is
Mentzer, anyway?"

An aerospace engineer who has worked closely with Anderson for five
years," Briggs replied.

"But he had a clearance problem?"

"Hal here unearthed some .. . discrepancies in Mentzer's background
before he came to Dreamland," Elliott asked. "TOO many overlapping
jobs. Our Hal here is the suspicious typebut I haven't gone wrong yet
trusting his instincts.

"Why, thanks, General_ "But there's always a first time," Elliott said,
smiling.

"Wait until Anderson hears it was a lowly lieutenant keeping Mentzer
out of the project. "Briggs groaned. "Anyway, I'm keeping him out of
this phase of the project until we get it straightened out."

"Then can I get out of this loony bin?"McLanahan asked, only half
jokingly.

"Mentzer only builds them," Elliott asked. "He can't drop them. You
can. Better than anyone else in the country."

"Great. "McLanahan glanced at Briggs. "Hal, my friend, there had
better be some beer around this dustbowl, or I'm gonna get real cranky
studying tonight."

"You can count on me," Briggs replied.

On the way outside, McLanahan noticed Wendy Tork standing alone between
her barracks and the briefing room. He excused himself and walked
over.

"I didn't recognize you at first-with the glasses and all."

"How is the King of Bomb Comp," Wendy said, placing her hands on her
hips.

"Can't complain," McLanahan said, smiling. "Well, actually I can..

.

. This Colonel Anderson seems to be really bad news. I'd like to drop
him out of the Old Dog's bomb bay instead of one of those Striker
bombs."

"Maybe you'll get your chance," Wendy said, smiling.

"But they don't give trophies for that, do they?"

"Not the last I heard," McLanahan said. He shifted his feet
uncomfortably, trying to think of what to say next. "So," he said
finally, "why didn't you tell me when we met what a crackedack
electronics warfare operator you were?I thought you were some sort of
technician."

"You didn't ask," Wendy asked. "Besides, you seemed busy basking in
your own limelight. I figured you weren't interested.

"But I was," McLanahan said, realizing as he said it that he was much
too emphatic. "I mean .. . sure I was interested. "God, he was
making a mess of this.

Wendy began walking toward the women's barracks and McLanahan fell into
step with her. "Hey," he said, "you've got to explain your ECM gear to
me. It was the most confusing part of that damn manual. I think I
need some expert advice.

Tonight Wendy stopped a few yards short of the barracks and folded her
arms over her chest. "Tonight?"

"if it wouldn't be much trouble," McLanahan said quickly.

Wendy hesitated a moment while giving him an appraising look. "All
right," she said finally, "tonight it is. See you after dinner.

"Fine," McLanahan said. He waved to her as she disappeared inside the
barracks. This may not be a bad TDY after all, McLanahan thought to
himself.

THE UNITED NATIONS
Ian McCaan, Secretary-General of the United Nations, had just called
the meeting of the United Nations Security Council to order when
Gregory Adams spoke: "Mr. Secretary-General," Adams said, "information
has been brought to the attention of the government of the United
States concerning the incident described in the specification of
charges against the government of the Soviet Union. I have been
instructed by my government to allow the ambassador from the Soviet
Union to respond to the charges in lieu of presenting evidence to the
Security Council."

McCaan looked confused. "Am I to understand, Ambassador Adams, that
your government is dropping its charges against the Soviet Union?"

"Allow me to explain, Mr. Secretary-General," Dmitri Karmarov
interjected. "My government has been in careful negotiations with the
American government since the charges were first preferred agahist us
in the emergency session. The ,; sensitive research and development
charges concern a high, facility in the Soviet Union, which my
government would rather not discuss even in closed Security Council
session.

Therefore, we have taken steps to enter into negotiations with the
United States directly."

"I wish to make it clear," Adams immediately added, staring directly at
Karmarov, "that the charges against the Soviet Union still remain. I
am prepared at any time to present my evidence against the Soviet Union
in this forum.

"That is understood, Ambassador Adams," Karmarov said.

"As part of the agreement between our governments, I would like to make
the following statement: "The government of the Soviet Union pleads
nolo contendere before the Security Council of the United Nations in
response to the charges brought against us by the government of the
United States. The Soviet Union acknowledges, incomplete evidence
notwithstanding, that activity at the Kavaznya research facility may
have caused a situation to develop in which an American aircraft in the
vicinity may have experienced difficulties of an unknown type or
severity. It is not known for certain if such difficulties resulted in
the loss of the aircraft.

"The government of the United States acknowledges that their RC-135
intelligence aircraft was within the Air Defense Identification Zone at
the time of question," Karmarov continued, "without proper
identification, without a properly filed flight plan, and without
clearance from any Soviet controlling agency. The United States has
not confirmed that the plane was on a spy mission, which my government
condemns, but-" "But that doesn't mean any-" Adams interrupted.

"I was going to say," Karmarov said, his voice rising, "that the
military air defense operators on duty did not take the proper action
in the case of such an intrusion, nor did they warn the aircraft of
ongoing activity that may have serious effects on aircraft in the
area.

"In the spirit of peace and international harmony, therefore, the
government of the Soviet Union has agreed to cooperate in the
investigation into the causes of the loss of the American spy plane.

In return, the United States has consented'to let the Soviet Union
enter a plea of no contest to its charges until that investigation is
completed. As to the matter of possible interference with free-flying
aircraft and the alleged negligence of Soviet military operators, we
request that the Security Council reserve judgment until a complete
analysis of the controller's transcripts and records can be
completed.

" Karmarov put his head down over his notes and, reading quickly and
unemotionally, continued: "The Soviet Union extends its regrets to the
families of those lost near our shores.

We assure all concerned that we will do everything in our power to
resolve the matter. Thank you. "The Russian translator barely was
able to spit out the last few sentences trying to keep up with
Karmarov. The Russian put his notes down and glanced at the assembled
ambassadors.

Ambassador Braunmueller, the representative from East Germany, stood
and held out his hands to Karmarov. "Your statement, Comrade
Ambassador," he said, "was magnificent.

The Soviet Union's willingness to cooperate with the investigation and
their openness is to be commended.""They haven't admitted to anything
. . . " Adams said, but he was drowned out by Braunmueller's booming
voice.

"Mr. Secretary-General, I move that final judgment be reserved until
the full results of the investigation are presented.

"Seconded," another ambassador said.

"I, too," McCaan said, "am impressed and heartened by the spirit of
cooperation exhibited by the Soviet Union. I call for a vote.

Adams abstained. As he expected, the vote was unanimous.

"Nemine contradicente," McCaan announced. "Let the record show the
vote is unanimous. The plea of nolo contendere is to be officially
entered. The matter involving the charges against the government of
the Soviet Union is hereby suspended indefinitely.

"The government of the United States is hereby requested by the
Security Council of the United Nations to respect the spirit of
cooperation exhibited by the Soviet Union by cooperating fully with
their government in the investigation of the aircraft disaster and not
to retaliate or otherwise impose any restrictions or sanctions against
the Soviet Union because of this incident."

McLanahan was alone inside the bomber, inside the plastic skinned,
stifling Old Dog. Hal Briggs was with him, watching the activities in
the downstairs compartment and taking notes, but effectively McLanahan
was alone with the bomber and its equipment.

They were flying three hundred feet above the high desert and looming
mountain ranges of Nevada. McLanahan was studying the radar scope,
which was now in TTG, or Target Tracking and Guidance mode, searching
for attacking fighters.

If he spotted any fighters, he would put a circle cursor on it and tell
Campos that he was tracking a target. The computer would feed range,
azimuth, elevation, direction, and airspeed information to the Scorpion
air-to-air missiles and with that information a hit was almost
guaranteed.

But the scope was blank and had been for several minutes, and Wendy
Tork in the electronic warfare section had reported no airborne
interceptor radar signals. McLanahan could feel a j cold, prickly
sensation on his neck. The mountains were too damn close.

He glanced at his chart. Some of the highest mountain ranges in
southern Nevada were right off the nose, and he felt uncomfortable not
monitoring their position by radar, even though the automatic
terrain-avoidance system had proved its reliability.

Well, damn the fighters, McLanahan thought to himself. If the aircraft
hits a mountain, the fighters won't matter.

"He punched a button, thinking about the twenty-first century equipment
guiding their two-hundred-ton bomber. The blank track-while-scan radar
scope changed into a mapping display of the terrain within thirty miles
of the Old Dog. Guided by a ring of satellites and by a tiny
"game-cartridge" of terrain elevations, the Old Dog was automatically
diving and climbing, attempting to hug the ground as close as
possible.

The satellites, orbiting in geosynchronous orbits twenty-three thousand
miles above the Earth, told them exactly where they were; the Inertial
Navigation System, INS, told them where they were going; and the
computer, ROM, Reading Only Memory, terrain-data cartridge told them
how high the terrain was.

A computer fed all this to the autopilot, which told the Old Dog-what a
damn stupid name, McLanahan thought-when to climb or dive, and the
autopilot would climb or dive in time to keep the plane within a few
feet of the selected clearance plane setting. Simple.

Except it wasn't working. His terrain-mapping scope was almost blank,
but for a completely different reason. A five-mile-long ridge loomed
ahead, its tree-lined crest still seven hundred feet above the Old
Dog's altitude. The ridge cast a dark shadow behind it, as if the
radar beam was a headlight being blocked by an oncoming brick wall.

McLanahan knew that if the shadow behind the ridge got larger instead
of smaller they'd eventually plow into the ridge.

At over seven hundred feet per second, the two-hundred-ton bomber would
smear itself right up and over the ridge and scatter pieces of itself
for tens of miles beyond. The radar altimeter readout on the video
display was flashing, warning that the aircraft was below the desired
terrain clearance altitude.

McLanahan glanced at the flight instruments. The vertical velocity
indicator was showing a climb, but it didn't seem like a very steep
one. The ridge was now only three miles away, and the shadow beyond
blotted out all else right to the edge of the scope.

"High terrain, three miles," McLanahan reported over the interphone.

"I've lost TTG signals, navigator," Campos radioed to McLanahan.

He quickly glanced at the annotations he had placed on the chart the
night before. "Elevation eight thousand feet," McLanahan asked. "Blank
scope. Not painting over it. Also a blinking radar altimeter."

The terrain-avoidance computer was not designed tofollow the contours
of the surrounding hills and valleys as it would in the B-1 Excalibur
or the FB-111 - The B-52 didn't have enough power. The
terrain-avoidance system anticipated the terrain ahead of the aircrafts
flight path and chose a safe altitude to clear it, as close to the
pilot-selected clearance plane setting as possible. Approaching a
ridge, the altitude should not be less won than the selected
altitude-it should be more. Much more. And the Old Dog should be
climbing a lot faster .. .

"Pilot, climb!"McLanahan ordered. The plane suddenly jumped, nearly
tripling its former climb rate, and the throttles were jammed to full
military thrust. The airspeed, however, bled off rapidly as the Old
Dog traded altitude for airspeed, crawling skyward.

The radar scope was blank. The ridge was less than one mile off the
nose .. . eight seconds before impact .. .

The radar altimeter indicated less than a hundred feet as the Old Dog
ballooned over the ridge, at near minimum low-level safe airspeed. The
automatic flight control system immediately commanded nose-down as the
ridge line dropped behind them, but McLanahan didn't start to breathe
again until they had regained the two hundred knots lost in the
emergency climb and were safely clear of terrain.

"Clear of terrain for fifteen miles," McLanahan reported.

"Ground position freeze," Colonel Anderson said over the interphone.

The digital readouts and radar images froze on the screen. McLanahan
sat back in the Old Dog's ejection seat, wiping sweat from his forehead
and palms, and took a gulp of Tab.

"What the hell was all that, McLanahan?"Anderson shouted over the
interphone. McLanahan backed the volume of the interphone panel down a
notch in the anticipation of yet another yelling match. Harold Briggs,
sitting in the newly installed navigator's seat beside McLanahan, slid
off his headset.

"What was what, sir?"

"All those calls, goddammit!Terrain this, terrain that.

That's not your job."

"What do you mean, it's not my job. My first responsibility is to keep
the plane out of the dirt.

Harold Briggs made an obscene gesture directed at Anderson. He felt
fairly safe doing so, because Anderson and Ormack were in a B-52
simulator some two hundred miles away and were tied electronically into
the computer simulation aboard the Old Dog. At the same time, Wendy
Tork was at a research computer terminal twenty miles from Anderson,
participating in the same exercise, and Campos and Pereira were sitting
at a fire control test bench elsewhere at Dream land, also linked to
the computer controlling the test. Briggs and McLanahan were inside
the Old Dog itself, still in its hangar at Groom Lake, watching and
responding to the computer-generated battle scenario.

"There's a multimillion dollar computer that can do that faster,
easier, and better than you ever can, McLanahan," Anderson asked. "Why
do you need to call out terrain elevation when if I wanted that useless
piece of information I can just call it up on the screen?And I can
see the damned radar altimeter blinking. I don't want you garbaging up
the radios with all that stuff."

"I was calling to your attention, sir, " McLanahan said over the
voice/data link, "the fact that we were fifty feet lower than the
goddamned set clearance when we still had seven hundred feet to
climb.

If the system was working right, we should have started the climb three
miles earlier to cross that ridge line at two hundred feet. As it was,
we barely had enough airspeed to cross the ridge at a hundred feet, and
then we ballooned over it another thousand feet and almost hit initial
buffet to a stall. The radar altimeter should never be blinking, and
sure as hell not so close to a mountain. "Anderson had no reply to
that, but someone else chimed in: "Excuse me, Captain," Campos
interjected, his voice sounding hollow and metallic over the secure
voice-data transmission line, "but please understand the situation
here.

Right now you have two attackers off the nose, just within radar
range.

You must spend less time in mapping mode and much, much more time in
TTG mode. The Scorpions can be launched off threat detection signals
from the receiver unit, but without range, elevation and tracking data
the chances of a hit at long range are slim. We're relying on using
the main radar to guide the Scorpions.

"Besides," Lieutenant Colonel Ormack added from Ed wards, "this is only
a practice run. The elevation data in this simulation isn't plotted as
accurately as the operational cartridge. There's bound to be some
belly-scrapers. We're trying to nail down procedures, McLanahan-and
until we get to the target area, your procedure is to help guide the
defensive missiles. Let the computers keep us out of the dirt."

McLanahan rubbed his eyes and took a long, deep breath.

"This is such bullshit," he said to Briggs.

"Hang in there, buddy. You're really running this show, and they all
know it.

"Like hell," McLanahan asked. "I'm a passenger. Extraneous material.

"You mean 'dead weight,"' Briggs said.

"Thanks for the clarification."

"Okay," Anderson radioed over to the widely separated crew. "We'll
back up five minutes and do the leg over again.

This time, McLanahan, find the damn fighters before they find us.

McLanahan called up the prerecorded flight plan and waypoint readouts
and watched as the present position coordinates slowly scrolled back to
the beginning of the low-level navigation leg.

"You want to see what a collision with the ground looks like, Hal?"

McLanahan asked. "Just keep watching the scope."

"I saw," a voice behind them said. McLanahan whirled around to see
General Elliott sitting in the back of the navigator's compartment,
taking notes and listening to the interphone conversations from the
instructor nav's station.

"Hello, General Nightmare," McLanahan asked. "How are we doing?I
think we suck big-time."

"Patrick," the general said, "I don't want to undermine Anderson's
authority-he's a great pilot and a genuine asset to the project-but
follow your own instincts, your own training.

Everyone but you is trusting all this gadgetry with their lives because
they don't know any better. Both Anderson and Ormack could see the
terrain warning signals in the cockpit and they both ignored them.

Keep an eye out for the terrain and for fighters as you see fit."

The general paused, looking around the tiny compartment measuring his
words, then said, "I've watched your work, Patrick. You seem to know
when the fighters are near before the warning receivers do. You switch
in TTG mode before Wendy tells you there are fighters, and you switch
into mapping mode and call terrain just in time to avoid a mountain.

"Well, thanks for the encouragement, General," McLanahan asked. "My
sixth sense or whatever the hell it is tells me to bail out of this
project before Colonel Disaster plows us into downtown Las Vegas.

"You'll be doing it some other time, Patrick," the general asked. "Or
maybe not at all. "Elliott flipped the interphone switch. "Colonel
Anderson, this is General Elliott. The rest of today's session is
canceled. I need to speak to everyone back at the mission center as
soon as possible."

"Yes, sir," Anderson asked. "Colonel Ormack and myself will be back in
two hours. I expect everyone in the mission center when we arrive."

Everyone else acknowledged Anderson's instructions, and the data/voice
link went dead.

"What's up, General?"Briggs asked. He looked worried and pale in the
dim red lights of the downstairs compartment.

McLanahan, for some reason, was suddenly very calm, serene.

General Elliott seemed to notice the change, and he frowned a bit
before continuing.

"You've been shelved, Patrick," Elliott asked. "I've been informed that
the Old Dog project has been ordered to stand down.

"That means .. . " "Unfortunately, it doesn't mean going home,"
Elliott said.

I've managed to get your temporary duty extended here at Dreamland. I
can't do the same for the civilians, unfortunately, so it's going to be
real quiet around here. But-well, let's call it a slowdown. They
don't have the same all-fired need for the Old Dog's data as before.

We'll keep busy, I assure you."

McLanahan looked skeptical. "Sorry, my friend," Elliott said, "can't
explain it better than that. Let's go and get a cold one while
Anderson and the others zoom back."

"I heard that," Briggs said happily.

"I meant McLanahan," Elliott said. The three climbed out of the Old
Dog's fibersteel belly. Outside, an army of workmen were surrounding
the Old Dog with engine inlet covers and defueling equipment, and
weapons dollies were being pushed over to the Megafortress.

Elliott stood and watched for a moment as the workmen completed the
task of plugging up and taking apart the Old Dog. He then led the
group quickly out of the building.

FIFTY MILEs EAST OF KAvAzNYA, iNTRE NORTH Nam
A lone figure huddled against a steel mast on the wildlyheaving deck of
a hundred-foot fishing vessel bobbing in the rough North Pacific
seas.

The man, wearing layers of fur-lined jackets under his oilskins, braced
himself and tried to chop ice from a large winch bolted onto the
mast.

His mitten-clad hands were covered with freezing rain and ice; only the
thick leather thong on the handle kept the rubber mallet he was using
from spinning off into the icy sea.

A wall of water crashed against the gunwale and showered the deck.

Bits of instantly frozen water penetrated the face mask he wore and cut
into his cheeks. He no longer worried about slipping on the pitching
deck, unless his boots somehow came off-he was anchored by a
quarter-inch of ice to the steel deck.

A deep howl penetrated the roar of the wind and waves around him. He
took a better grip on the winch with his mittened right hand and
reluctantly turned his eyes seaward.

The sting of the wind shot a rod of pain deep into his eyeballs.

He squinted against the icy gusts and searched the horizon, trying to
follow the howl, which was rising in intensity.

There it was. It descended out of the racing clouds and horizontal
sheets of frozen rain like a giant bird of prey. It leveled off,
seemingly only a few scant feet above the icy foaming waters, and flew
directly at the fishing vessel.

The man let the mallet drop on its thong, reached into a pocket of the
oilskin, and withdrew a small walkie-talkie. He turned his face away
from the wind and the oncoming predator, bent down a bit, lifted his
ski mask and keyed the microphone.

"Bridge, Marceaux. Here comes that Bear, full on the port beam. "The
man heard a feeble voice come over the radio, but couldn't understand
it. No matter. They heard him. He couldn't stand another few seconds
with his face uncovered anyway. He dropped the radio back into his
pocket, made sure the pocket cover Velcroed closed, and turned to watch
the plane.

It was a Russian "Bear" bomber, one of several that had been dogging
the fishing vessel in the past few days. This one had the guts---or
the poor judgment-to drop below the scuzzy cloud cover and risk direct
visual identification of the vessel.

It was truly an imposing sight, especially the turboprop engines. Two
massive, ungainly engines hung underneath each huge wing. Each engine
had two large four-bladed propellers, an unusual sight on so large an
aircraft. The propellers made the aircraft unusually quiet-its low
whine did not get louder as it approached. Even in the poor
visibility, the large red stars under the wings could easily be seen.

This Bear had two radomes on the underside of its fuselage, marking it
as a highly odified Bear-F maritime reconnaissance aircraft. Its other
notable modification was the addition of two pylons, one on each wing
and each loaded with six AS-12 air-to-sea antiship missiles, direct
copies of the U.S. Navy's Harpoon antiship missiles.

The bomber didn't need that many, the seaman named Marceaux thought.

Just one could send this old tub to the bottom.

The Bear flew right over the U.S.S. Lawrence's bow-a violation of
international maritime law and a direct warning to the ship. Its size
made it look much closer, but Marceaux estimated the bomber was at one
thousand feet above the ship, the internationally legislated minimum.

Despite the relatively quiet turboprops, the roar of the bomber passing
overhead cut through the howl of the storm. It seemed to drive the
storm before it, adding to its fury.

" Cochon, " Marceaux said, but the curse was lost in the roar of the
Bear's engine. A moment later the bomber lumbered skyward and
disappeared again into the scuz. Marceaux waited until he was sure the
Bear was gone for good, then slowly and carefully made his way along
the icy deck toward the midships hatch and the welcoming warmth
below.

of Sheets ice dropped off Marceaux's oilskin as he unbuttoned the
jacket and stowed it in a locker in the crew's bunkroom. As he peeled
off the fur jackets, the ship's chief petty officer passed by and
tapped him on the shoulder.

"Intel," he asked. "Before anything else."

-Zut!I'm freezin', Chief," Marceaux asked. "I've been up there for
"Intel, " the CPO said behind him. "On the goddamned double."

Marceaux reluctantly bypassed the galley and the scent of hot coffee
and made his way to the ship's hold.

The Intelligence section of the disguised fishing vessel Lawrence was
formerly the fish processing hold. Indeed, the front one-fifth of the
area still held some fish-slicing and freezing equipment-all
inoperable, in place for disguise purposes only. The Intel section was
now a mass of electronic sensors, radios, maps, computers, and
humorless men.

The chief of the Intel section, Commander Markham, passed Marceaux in
the doorway. He carried a steaming cup of coffee.

"Well, Marceaux?"it was obvious to Markham that Marceaux's attention
was elsewhere. He passed the cold seaman the cup of coffee.

Marceaux drained half of it in one gulp, his breath exhaling as long
wisps of steam.

"Now. Fill me in, then fill out a hostile contact log."

"Merci, Commander," Marceaux asked. "Bear-F, maritime antiship
configuration, no numbers that I could make out. Two radomes, one
forward, one aft. Observation blisters in the middle and aft, but I
couldn't tell if they were manned. K-7 camera door open on the
belly.

Refueling probe, iced over badly. Useless, I'd say. Twelve total
AS-12 missiles, six on each wing, maybe stations for two more on each
pylon. Bomb bay closed but not sealed. Ice all over the wings. The
pilot had tres grands bouettes, I'd say.

"Altitude?Speed?"

"One thousand feet right on the dot, although he flew right over the
bow. Speed two hundred knots but no flaps hanging.

Low and slow."

"He radioed a warning," Markham asked. "Said we were too close to
Karanginsky Island. "Marceaux shrugged. "It is a warning he could
back up.

Definiment.

"Those AS-12s will drop into the sea if he tries to launch them,
Markham said, heading back to the Intel section's small alley for more
coffee. "He might send some naval buddies 9 out after us, but I doubt
it. This is the ugliest weather I've seen A out here.

"Is he still out there, sir?"Marceaux asked.


 "No. He headed home in a hurry. Probably getting iced over pretty
bad.

Like you said, he had to have king-sized balls to fly p around in
freezing rain like that."

"Think he made us?"

"They made us as an intel ship days ago," Markham said, Iling a mug.

"But they're nervous about something. Risking Bear like that
something's going on a As Marceaux refilled his mug from the pot,
Markham wandered over to one of his signal operator's consoles. He
Studied several oscilloscope-like displays on the console.

His attention focused on a pair of ten-inch signal display scopes,
manned by a gray-haired Navy signalman. Markham looked over his
shoulder, sipping his coffee. The two signals on the man's scopes,
although much different from each other, were perfectly
synchronized-when one wave on the scope became active, the other did
also. When one stopped, the other stopped.

"Any change, Garrity?"Markham asked the sensor operator. Garrity
shook his head.

"They're linked, that's for sure, sir," Garrity replied. He handed
Markham a computer printout, then pointed to the left of his two main
displays. "That's complete computer verification-frequencies, timing,
the works-coded and ready to transmit. Kavaznya is getting stronger.

This one"--he pointed to the right oscilloscope-" is still weak but in
perfect sync."

"Identification?"

Garrity adjusted some controls on his board, then sat back.

"Wild, wild guess," he asked. "A satellite data link."

"A satellite?"Markham whistled. "That radar at Kavaznya is talking
to a satellite?"

"Maybe two satellites," Garrity asked. "Now this is really wild, I
know, but I keep on seeing an embedded data signal in the Kavaznya
radar transmission. It's slightly out of sync with these two signals
"Meaning?"

"Meaning these two, Kavaznya and this second-whatever it is-may be
talking. "Garrity rubbed at his eyes and went on.

"Kavaznya is talking to something else, though. Not a radar signal. A
data signal."

"What kind of data?"Markham asked, trying to make some sense of what
the operator was telling him.

"Hey, I'm just guessing here," Garrity said, shaking his head.

"Guess some more."

Garrity rubbed once again at his eyes. Then: "Steering signals. "As
Markham bent forward to study the signals, Garrity pointed at his
displays and explained: "Here and here.

Kavaznya and Joe Blow satellite. Simple transponder-type
signals-interrogate and reply. That means azimuth and elevation
"Position data," Markham said.

"It has to be," Garrity asked. "Kavaznya telling Joe Blow here where he
is and vice versa. But then Kavaznya sends this blurb out.

Garrity drew a circle on a sheet of notebook paper. He recreated the
Kavaznya oscilloscope signal as best as he could.

"Right here. I see it every now and then. "He drew a squiggle almost
parallel to the Kavaznya signal, but much smaller and of a slightly
different frequency, or shape.

"The timing is the most critical difference," Garrity explained. "The
timing between Kavaznya and the second party is clear, but Kavaznya
tells someone else something. And it's not just position data. I
think it's a steering signal.

"Steering what?"Markham asked.

"Don't know," Garrity replied. "I've never seen anythin like it-hell,
I'm not even sure if I am seeing it. A data signal embedded in a radar
emission?"He shook his head. "I've been on duty for eighteen
hours.

I might be seeing beeps and buzzes in my dreams."

"Code it," Markham said.

Garrity looked at him in surprise. "Code what?"

"Exactly what you told me," Markham asked. "Everything."

"I told you a fairytale," Garrity asked. "A wet dream. I don't have
anything concrete. The computer hasn't verified any of my inquiries
about the second signal destination.

"That doesn't matter," Markham asked. "They told us to report any
findings of significance in the Kavaznya area. I heard that request
came from very high. Code it and send it up for the Old Man's
signature, then send it.

"This isn't a finding," Garrity protested. "It's an opinion .. . a
guess. It's not really even an educated guess-" "Listen, Garrity,"
Markham said, "something screwy is going on. The Russians risk a fifty
million ruble bomber in a freezing rainstorm to scare us away. Now
Kavaznya is active It's been active for days," Garrity said.

"Then how come you haven't seen these side data signals before?"

Garrity had no answer for that.

"Something's going on, and we're right on top of it," Markham said.

"Code exactly what you told me, then send it. "Garrity shook his
head.

"You're the boss. But do I need to put my signature on it?

They'll laugh me right outta the Service.

"They might give you a goddamned medal," Markham said."if you're
right.

VANDENBURG AiR FoRcE BAsE, CAuFomm
A single green and gray camouflaged locomotive wound around a curve on
a deserted railroad siding. It pulled a quarter-mile-long train of
long, six-sided rail cars, moving easily at about twenty miles an
hour.

Eight miles away in an underground control center, a group of Air Force
officers were being briefed by another group of civilian contractors on
the test that was about to take place.

"Range reports ready, Mr. Newcombe," a technician said.

Newcombe, the chief civilian contractor, nodded. "Tell them to stand
by. General Taylor, gentlemen, the range has just reported ready. All
of the Air Force tracking stations from here to Guam are ready for the
first operational test launch of America's newest strategic weapon-the
GLM- 123 Javelin Small Mobile Intercontinental Ballistic Missile, or,
as the press has so fondly christened it, "Midgetman."

"What can I tell you about her that you don't already know?"Newcombe
searched the faces around him. Taylor shook his head and smiled,
lighting a briar pipe. These Air Force generals had been working with
him for years. MajorGeneral Taylor, the chief of the Strategic
Development Branch, Aerospace Systems Division, Air Force Logistics
Command, was an old friend. This test-its success an almost foregone
conclusion, after seven previous successful launches-would ensure
Taylor's third star and another promotion. Of course, Newcombe's new
position as senior vice-president of the Javelin's prime contractor was
already in the bag.

"The train orbiting the test track is typical of a normal Javelin
mobile rail deployment," Newcombe asked. "Six cars in all-the
locomotive, two missile cars, two security cars, and the launch command
and control car. Each car is super hardened against EMP-that's
electromagnetic pulse effect, for you neophytes-caused by nearby
nuclear explosions.

"The new arms-elimination agreement have you worried, Ed?"one of
General Taylor's aides asked Newcombe. "Javelun would be the first to
lose research and development funding."

"Of course, we all want to see world peace," Newcombe asked. "The
arms-elimination treaty would be a great break through. But I feel
it's just as important to continue with serious research and
development. This will mark the culmination of those tests-the birth
of a new kind of strategic weapon for the United States.

"The Javelin is the most versatile weapon of its kind in the world,"
Newcombe continued. "Our quick-reaction rail launch test today
demonstrates just one possible way it can be deployed; we've done other
deployment tests that you won't believe.

"The Javelin is small enough to be carried aloft on cargo aircraft,
such as a C-513 or even a modified Boeing 747, Dropped via parachute,
an successfullyy air-launched-no silo, no launch vehicle or submarine
needed. Versions of the Javelin have successfully accomplished what
we've called 'telephone pole' tests. We've rolled a Javelin missile
off the deck of a Navy destroyer. In the water, it floated into a
perfect upright launch attitude and was successfully fired by remote
control.

"Its potential is unlimited. The Javelin has an advantage over other
small tactical or strategic nuclear vehicles-despite its small size,
the Javelin carries three warheads, not just one or even two. In
addition, the Javelin is designed to carry the new maneuverable reentry
warhead, which makes the Javelin's business end many times more
survivable should the Soviets decide to redeploy antiballistic missile
defenses in the future. It might be worth it to replace cruise
missiles and gravity weapons with Javelins if the arms-elimination
treaty is ratified. "Interested nods from General Taylor-he was
already planning on star number four.

Newcombe walked over to a map of the Vandenburg Air Force Base rail
test track. "The Javelin missile has been riding Vandenburg's track
for only a few hours. In a few moments we'll demonstrate the ability
of our Javelin to launch within sixty seconds of a launch order.

"We've 'leaked' it to the Javelin test crew that the launch will be
sometime this afternoon. The crew is completely isolated and has no
idea that we're about to stage the test.

"When the order is given, the train stops right where it is. A
continually-running ring-laser gyro navigation unit instantly feeds
position and gyro alignment data to the missile guidance system. By
the time the rocket is ready for launch, the erector has raised it to
firing position and the crew has authenticated the President's launch
order."

Newcombe checked the control panel, then studied the map.

"General, the crew is right .. . here. "He pointed to the map.

"Eight miles south of our position. We should be able to see the
launch after you transmit the launch command. Sir?"

General Taylor stepped forward and glanced at his watch.

"Ten o'clock on the dot," he asked. "Let's do it. "Newcombe directed
the general to a large red button mounted on a box on the master
control panel. The Air Force general pressed the button, and Newcombe
started a clock. Everyone else glanced at his watch.

"If you'll follow me, gentlemen. "General Taylor led the way out of
the control room and outside into a large stretch of sand dunes and low
scrub trees. Newcombe put the sun on his left shoulder and pointed
westward.

"General Taylor's command has alerted the launch crew as well as the
tracking and telemetry stations," he explained.

"The rest is simple. While the train comes to a complete stop, the
doors of the train open and the missile canister begins to erect. The
canister is raised rearward, so the exhaust end of the missile is
hanging off the end of the railcar.

"Meanwhile, the crew decodes and authenticates the launch order. All
of the missile's internal 'housekeeping' functions are automatic. By
the time the crew verifies the message and inserts their launch keys,
the missile is ready to go.

Newcombe checked his watch; seventy-five seconds had already elapsed.

He looked up at his military spectators.

"I told you gents this would be a surprise At that instant, a
thunderous roar rolled across the dunes.

Several of the spectators, Newcombe included, jumped. All looked
southward.

The missile itself could not be seen except as a tiny dark speck, but
the half-mile-long tail of flame was clearly visib] from eight miles
away The pillar of fire rose, accelerating at unbelievable speed. It
felt as if the rocket exhaust was blasting at them from directly
overhead.

"A few seconds late, gents," Newcombe said over the slowly receding
noise. "But spectacular, eh?"Newcombe pulled out a walkie-talkie.

"Control, this is Newcombe. Pipe the telemetry narrative outside,
please."

"Amazing," General Taylor asked. "An intercontinental missile with an
eight-thousand-mile range, ready for launch in a little over sixty
seconds.

"Javelin at sixty nautical miles altitude, seventy-three miles
downrange," the voice of the launch controller reported.

"Expecting first stage burnout in forty seconds. Speed approaching two
thousand miles per hour. Altitude now eighty three nautical miles, one
hundred seven miles down range .. .

"Very impressive," General Taylor asked. "A most successful launch.

"The Javelin hasn't begun to perform, General," New combe asked. "We'll
begin receiving telemetry from Guam and the Marshall Islands soon.

They'll tell us the progress of the Javelin's warheads. We expect a
circular error pattern of not more than a hundred feet.

"One hundred feet!"one of Taylor's aides asked. "After an eight
thousand mile flight on a small I.C.B.M?Why, that's-" "Unbelievable,
I know. "Newcombe smiled. "Although the Javelin is transportable and
deployable in dozens of ways, we haven't just created a mini-I.C.B.M.

The Javelin is just as accurate as the new MX Peacekeeper missile, yet
it's one-third the size and one-half the cost."

"Javelin at two hundred seventy-three miles altitude, turning further
seaward now at three hundred miles downrange," the controller
intoned.

"Successful first stage burnout and second stage ignition. Velocity
seven thousand miles per hour.

"Inertial systems functioning well.

"We can listen in on the rest of the launch from the visitor's area,"
Newcombe asked. "We have champagne ready."

"Minor inertial course correction," the launch controller said. His
voice sounded a bit more strained - Newcombe shot a puzzled glance at
the loudspeaker, then wiped his face clean and replaced the puzzlement
with a broad smile. No one else had noticed the inflection, or they
weren't showing it .. .

"Guam reports tracking Javelin on course. Javelin at four hundred
nautical miles altitude, one thousand one hundred miles downrange," the
controller reported. Suddenly his reports were coming faster.

"Javelin con -ecting course .. .

reestablished on course .. . now correcting course again for
premature third-stage ignition .. . Guam reports loss of tracking and
telemetry from Javelin. Mr. Newcombe, to the control center,
please."

Newcombe's beeper went off, but he was already running for the command
center.

"We have lost the Javelin," the monotonous voice continued. "We have
lost the Javelin."

ABOARD THE U.S.S. ILAwRENCE
"Damage report!All Sections, damage report!"

If anyone could see Commander Markham's hands at that moment, they
would see knuckles as white as chalk as they crushed the seatbacks he
was gripping for support. Every one of the thousands of lights in the
U.S.S. Lawrence's intelligence section had snapped out. A few
battery-powered lights automatically came on, but they did little to
penetrate the solid darkness of the steel-lined, windowless chamber.

Markham wondered how the order for a damage report was being
broadcast.

It had to be a battery-operated backup intercom. Hand over hand, he
felt his way along the double rows of seats on either side of the aisle
toward the front of the intelligence section. He felt a few men rising
from their seats, and he risked letting go of the seatbacks to push
them back down.

"Keep your seat, Kelly," he ordered. "The damn lights just went out,
that's all. Check your station. "He heard a timid, "Yes, sir" in
reply.

Markham made his way to the ship's radio box mounted on the section's
forward bulkhead. The radio was hardly ever used-stray transmissions
from the intel section's computers could be picked up for miles through
such an antiquated telephone. He picked it up.

The hum he heard in the receiver was deafening, but someone was still
trying to use it. "Intel section. Do you read me?Intel section-"
"Intel, Markham here," he shouted into the phone.

"Bridge, this is Markham. How do you hear?"

"Very weak," replied the voice-Lieutenant Commander Christopher
Watanabe, the first officer, Markham guessed.

"Damage report."

"No structural damage noted yet, Chris," Markham said.

"All our power is out. All our equipment is shut down."

"Understand no structural damage," Watanabe reported back. "Could not
copy the rest. Send a runner forward with a report on the double. The
ship is on Condition Yellow. Repeat, Condition Yellow."

"Copy."

Markham dropped the phone back on its hook.

"All right, now hear this," he called out into the pitch-dark intel
section. "The ship is on Condition Yellow. Everyone, one more check
of your area for damage and sing out. Kelly!"

"Yes .. . yes, sir?"came the broken, timid voice again.

"You wanna leave so fast, here's your chance. Get up here. "The young
seaman ran forward. "You're the runner for our section. You don't go
topside without a parka, arctic mittens, life vest, and a lifeline-and
this time use the damn thing."

Markham pushed the youngster aside and peered into the gloom of his
now-impotent electronic stateroom. "Listen up.

Any damage?Water?Cracks?Gas?Strange sounds?Sing out.

No reply "Move out, Kelly Tell Watanabe no damage. Tell him I'll give
a report on operational status myself later. "Kelly nodded and
disappeared through the useless magnetic-lock security door and into
the storm beyond.

Markham started to make his way aft through his dark, dead multimillion
dollar intelligence section. "Anything?"he asked no one in
particular. "Battery backups?Printer buffers?

Anything?"

"I've got nothing," one operator asked. "That entire battery backup
system we had installed is dead. It doesn't work for shit."

"What the hell hit us?"someone else asked. "All my sensors and
screens flared, like a huge power surge.then-POOF."

"All right, all right," Markham said, pulling on an orange life vest.

"if you don't have anything recoverable, forget it.

Pair up and start collecting your hard copy printouts. You'll have to
use the hand-crank shredders if Engineering can't get the power back
on. If that doesn't work, or if you start to backlog, we'll bag the
printouts and start a bonfire in the dumpster on deck. Masters, Lee,
suit up and get that dumpster now. No sense in waiting until the
Russians start boarding us.

The two men hurried off.

"Printer ribbons, handwritten notes, logbooks, memos, scribbles,"
Markham recited as he began to pace the aisle, monitoring the
destruction preparations. "Astleman, goddamnit, put that life vest
on!"Markham made his way over to Garrity's station and knelt down to
face the veteran intelligence man.

"What was it, Garrity?"

Garrity ripped the cover off his computer printer's ribbon cartridge
and wadded up the ribbon. When he turned toward Markham, there was
genuine fear in his eyes.

"I could see it comin'," he whispered. "It was like .. .

like a wave of energy It kept on building up, then everything went
dark."

"Kavaznya?"Markham whispered. "Did it come from Kavaznya?"

Garrity nodded, wiping a carbon-blackened hand across his sweating
forehead. "Whatever the Russians got out there, Commander, if it
didn't blow us out of the Pacific, it at least tagged something' else
for sure WASHINGTON, D.C. "Where the hell is he?"Curtis asked Jack
Pledgeman, the President's press secretary, who was trying to ignore
the four star general.

"He's late," Curtis said, loud enough for everyone in the White House
Conference Room to hear. Fortunately, the only ones who paid any
attention were members of the President's immediate staff and Cabinet
who were quite accustomed to Curtis' outbursts. The two dozen
cameramen and technicians, Fill, putting in final touches to their
extensive camera and lighting gear, were too intent on their work to
notice. And the members of the White House press corps and other
correspondents were outside, hoping to corral the President in the
hallway for one on-one questions before the scheduled morning Cabinet
photo session.

Curtis punched a palm in irritation. "When he hears what-" "Dammit,
General, keep it down," Pledgeman interrupted.

"Those tapes are rolling over there."

"They won't be-" "I asked you to-" Pledgemen didn't get to finish. At
that instant, the President strode quickly into the room. The men and
women at the large oblong conference table rose to their feet. The
President was followed closely by a tight knot of reporters and
correspondents. Cameras and lights clicked on and filled the room with
a buzz.

The President brushed deep, thick brown hair from his forehead and
waved toward the seats. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, take your
seats. "Nobody sat down until the President had stepped over the yards
of sound and light cables taped to the rich carpeting and reached his
executive's chair.

A bright floodlight snapped on directly in front of the President,
right over the Secretary of Health and Human Services' head. "If you
don't mind?"the President said, scowling at the light. "You're going
to fry one of my people."

The light was immediately extinguished. The President nodded his
thanks, removed his half-lens Ben Franklin glasses, and wiped them with
a handkerchief. Pledgernan quietly admonished the photographer and
pointed to a twelve-inchsquare opening in a distant corner where he
could set up his camera.

"Quite a crowd today, eh, Jack?"the President said to his press
secretary. Pledgeman nodded. The President replaced his glasses on
his nose and looked over his agenda for the meeting, a shortened and
mostly staged version of a formal Cabinet meeting.

A network television anchorwoman, microphone in hand, was stepping
quickly into the place vacated by the cameraman.

General Curtis steered himself around her, maneuvered around the backs
of the chairs occupied by the Secretary of State and the Secretary of
Defense, and finally made his way to the President's side. He arrived
just as the anchorwoman took one last glance at her notes and smiled at
the President. She, not Curtis, had the President's full attention.

"Mr. President, before we get started, I'd like to ask you-"
Simultaneously, Curtis bent down between the Secretary of Defense,
Thomas Preston, and the President. He said in a halfwhisper, "Mr.
President, I have some important developments that can't wait.

The President, eyes drawn to the attractive Oriental newswoman,
scarcely noticed Curtis. The general's deep voice interrupted the
woman's question.

Pledgernan, on the alert for this sort of embarrassing scene, stepped
between the newswoman and the Secretary of Agriculture at the
conference table.

"Problem, General?"Pledgeman asked quietly.

General Curtis leaned closer to the President. "Sir, I must speak with
you immediately. There are new developments at that .. . power
facility we talked about.

"After the Cabinet meeting," Pledgeman said.

Curtis hesitated.

"Wilbur, it has to wait," the President finally said."is it an
immediate emergency?"

Everyone watched Curtis. No one knew exactly what an "immediate"
emergency was, but it would be plastered all over page one of every
newspaper in the country if he said yes. "Coming directly from the
chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the classification "immediate emergency"
ould mean only one thing. He'd have some tough explaining to do.

"It'll have to wait, General," Pledgernan said, repeating the
President's words. "We must get started here."

"I'll be in my office as soon as I'm through here, General," the
President said as Curtis was ushered out by one of Pledgeman's
associates.

As the door to the conference room slammed behind him, Curtis turned on
his aide.

"Colonel Wyatt, you will stand here and wait for the President. The
instant he comes out of that room, you are to confront him and remind
him that I am waiting for him in the Oval Office. Tell him that it is
now a matter of national security. Don't speak with anyone else but
the President. If Pledgeman or anyone else tells you differently, you
have a direct order from me to bust him in the chops. All clear?"

Wyatt, amazed at his boss' behavior, nodded and watched as the general
marched down the corridor.

"It's incredible. Absolutely incredible."

The President of the United States stared out the window of the White
House Oval Office, making the announcement to the gently falling flakes
of snow outside. General Wilbur Curtis collected the sheaves of notes
and computer printouts, glanced at the Secretary of Defense, Thomas
Preston, and sat down.

Secretary of State Marshall Brent stood at the opposite side of the
President's cherry desk, looking over copies of the intelligence
analysis Kenneth Mitchell, the CIA director, had shown the President.

United Nations Ambassador Gregory Adams sat on a couch, seething as he
thought of Karmarov's apparent duplicity at the Security Council
session.

"Merry goddamn Christmas," the President muttered.

For the first time in months, Curtis felt a huge weight lift off his
shoulders. He's finally beginning to believe me, Curtis thought. It
had taken the deaths of twelve men and women and the loss of a billion
dollars worth of military hardware, plus the new evidence in hand.

"But how can we be sure that this is an orbiting mirror, General?"the
President asked over his shoulder, not bothering to turn away from the
window. He was holding an eleven-by-fourteen black-and-white
enlargement of a large, rectangular object. The object was silvery and
slightly curved, with a surface resembling a reflective quilted
blanket. A thin web of girders surrounded it, along with several
oblong tanks and other vessels.

"Mr. President, the evidence indicates that-" "The President asked you
a specific question, General," Tom Preston interrupted. "How can we be
sure?"

"We can't be sure, Mr. President," Curtis asked. "That photo could be
various things-solar collection panels, solar shielding but look at the
facts: Our RC-135 recon plane records massive energy discharge from the
Kavaznya facility.

Simultaneously, we record the destruction of a geosynchronous satellite
directly over the complex in space. I believe the RC-135 was destroyed
by another energy blast to keep it from reporting the data it was
gathering.

"Less than two weeks later, the Lawrence intelligence vessel we sent
over there to monitor the site records another massive energy blast
from the Kavaznya site. Seconds later, the third stage of our
Midgetman missile prematurely ignites and we are forced to destroy
it.

Information from the Lawrence exactly matches the data on the blast
that we received from the RC-135 before we lost contact-" Secretary of
Defense Preston interrupted. "So how does that prove there's an
orbiting mirror, General Curtis?"

"Before the energy blast, the Lawrence reported unusual data signals
being transmitted from the Kavaznya radar," Curtis went on. "Their
information is still being analyzed, but the experts on the Lawrence
have described data transmissions between the radar at Kavaznya and two
Soviet satellites in Earth orbit.

"They believe the first satellite was furnishing position data to
Kavaznya during the time that the Midgetman missile was in the boost
phase. The Kavaznya radar was tracking a second satellite and was also
furnishing steering signals to it. Such sophisticated steering signals
could be used to align a mirror on the missile.

"After the destruction of the Javelin missile was reported, I ordered a
simple backtrack. Assuming a lesser blast from Kavaznya-which we
didn't know at first since the Lawrence's report hadn't reached us
yet-and again assuming an orbiting mirror, we computed all the possible
points where a mirror would have to be placed to hit the Javelin, and
used our Spacetrack optical space tracking telescope at Pulmosan, South
Korea to photograph those sections of the sky.

"You have the result, sir," Curtis said, forcing down his anger. To be
fair, he told himself, it wasn't that the President did not believe him
--he didn't want to believe him. "The mirror is one hundred and fifty
feet long, seventy feet wide. It is attached to the underside of
Salyut Nineteen, which has been in orbit for almost a year. The
satellite has docking bays, large fuel tanks, and small crew quarters
although we do not believe it's manned.

arsa Brent motioned to the President, who passed the photograph to
him.

He examined it quickly.

"I assume your experts analyzed this photo for you, General?"Brent
asked.

"Yes. Why?"

"Because to the untrained layman's eyes, this could be a photograph of
anything," Brent asked. "Any satellite. An aircraft.

"But it's not-" "It could even be faked?"Brent was testing, which he
considered his job.

"Do you want me to send a Shuttle full of U.N. members up with Brownies
to take snapshots?"

Brent started to reply but was cut off by the President.

"General, I think I believe your analysis," the President said
unhappily. "But who is going to believe such a thing exists?

And we risk much by accusing the Soviet Union of murder The President
turned to Kenneth Mitchell. "Kenneth, you said you had information on
that site. Can you give it to me now?"

"Yes, sir. "The Director of the CIA nodded to an aide, who stood
nervously and faced the President.

"Analysis of data from the missing RC-135 aircraft as well as
information obtained from the Lawrence has been completed. Much of it
is still speculative, sir."

"Go on," the President said irritably.

"Most of our analysis centers around the nuclear power facility, sir.

They have built what appears to be a five hundred megawatt facility in
the middle of nowhere, without any associated power transmission
facilities such as transformers or transmission towers nearby.

Therefore, the power plant is at the exclusive disposal of the complex
itself. The complex is located on the northeast corner of the
Kamchatka peninsula, in what used to be a small fishing village. Its
small supply airfield was rebuilt into a full-scale military airfield,
originally for construction supply but now used as a headquarters for
the site's defenses. About ten thousand people live in the area,
civilian and military."

The aide shifted nervously as all eyes focused on him. "The
intelligence vessel Lawrence has provided valuable data on the energy
blasts reported from the complex, and we have concluded that a laser
blast of approximately two or three hundred megawatts could have caused
the electronic interference reported in the area and could indeed have
sufficiently damaged both the Alpha Omega satellite and the Javelin
missile. The power of the tracking radar could only have come from the
nuclear power plant."

"Weren't we watching the construction of the facility?"the 1

President asked. "How could they build something of this magnitude and
then spring it on us so suddenly?Why were we so surprised?"

"CIA and DIA have been watching the construction of Kavaznya for four
years, sir," Mitchell said, "but .. . well, to tell the truth, sir,
we really didn't think too much of their activities there. It has been
impossible to get informants anywhere near the complex. We had noticed
activity akin to weapons experiments or construction there, so we
pegged it simply as a new weapons research facility. The powerful
radar wasn't found until the RC-135 mission. We never imaginedwe had
no idea that the Russians were building an antisatellite or
antiballistic-missile laser there."

Are we really that arrogant," the President said to everyone in the
room. "If the Americans can't do it, nobody can. Is that it?"

Mitchell was quiet for a moment, then cleared his throat and nodded to
his aide to continue. The President didn't let him.

"So we are decided," the President asked, "that there exists a powerful
antiballistic-missile laser device at this Kavaznya complex?"

Mitchell glanced at Preston, then at Curtis. "The data seems all but
conclusive, Mr. President."

"Goddamn," the President murmured, then nodded at Mitchell's aide: "Go
on."

"As I've said, the Soviets have constructed a huge power plant
exclusively for use by the killer laser. They can easily pump over
three hundred megawatts into their laser, and they can continue to do
so shot after shot. We believe, once they've worked the kinks out-it
won't be long now-that they can fire the laser at full power twice
every second. Potentially, over a hundred satellites a minute."

"Or I.C.B.M warheads," the President said.

"That's only a projection, sir," Mitchell interjected. "Hitting a
geosynchronous satellite is a relatively easy trick.

Besides, the Omega was only blinded-the Air Force had to push it into
the atmosphere themselves because it was out of control and they were
trying to retrieve it intact if possible.

That means the laser is not as powerful as we originally believed.

"And the Midgetman missile was only slightly damaged by the laser. We
had to abort it," Mitchell continued. "As a matter of fact, we don't
agree with General Curtis that the laser caused the missile to
malfunction. There are a number of things that could have caused the
premature third stage ignition-" "The laser could easily have caused it
to malfunction," Curtis said.

"General, I agree it could," Mitchell said, raising a hand.

"But that's your conclusion-not the CIA:s. Finding and hitting an
I.C.B.M warhead is infinitely more difficult than finding and hitting
these other targets we've been talking about. The Omega the Soviets
downed is several times larger than an I.C.B.M warhead, and it was
stationary.

The Midgetman is another huge target, easily tracked and disabled.

Besides, it was alone-a retaliatory American I.C.B.M strike would
involve hundreds of missiles and thousands of warheads. The laser
might tag a few, but not many. Certainly not enough to justify the
huge expense of that complex."

"What about the RC-135?"Curtis asked.

"The most vulnerable of all the targets," Mitchell said quickly.

"Slow-moving, large, and the closest to the site. And that's if the
RC- 1 35 was downed by the laser-that hasn't been proved yet. "Before
Curtis could object, Mitchell quickly added: "Although the CIA believes
there's more than enough information to conclude that it was."

The President shook his head. "The nuclear power plant, the laser
facility, the radar, and, the laser cannon. All in one tiny fishing
town on the Kamchatka peninsula "Along with two squadrons of MiG-27

Fulcrums, a squadZ ron of MiG-25 Flogger Gs, two S.A-10 surface-to-air
missile sites, possibly two antiaircraft artillery sites, and
early-warning radar picket ships patrolling the coast when the ice
breaks up," Mitchell added. "A seagull can't get close to that site
without the Soviets spotting it.

The President's frustration was etching deep furrows in his forehead
and at the corners of his eyes, and he tried to massage the pain out of
both. "Anything else?"he asked.

"Yes, sir," U.N. Ambassador Adams said, standing. "The United Nations
Security Council session. When I accused the Soviets of firing a laser
at the recon plane, Karmarov lost his usual cool and jumped down my
throat denying it. But the official Soviet position remains the
same-they maintain the right to protect their shores and deny launching
a missile or ordering a fighter to attack the RC- 1 35.They never
specifically denied shooting it down with a laser-" "That's because the
idea is so unbelievable," Mitchell said, echoing the President's
earlier comment. "Our Strategic Defense Initiative was called Star
Wars for a reason-it was meant as a futuristic, long-range plan. We
never expected to have an operational system before the turn of the
century-it's even more incredible that the Soviets would have one."

"Yet the evidence unfortunately points to the contrary," Marshall Brent
asked. "Mr. President, I must add my concern to that of Gregory. I
have met with Ambassador Karmarov myself-" "You did?"the President
asked, surprised. "When) I never heard anything about it."

"I went to his residence quite unannounced," Brent said.

"It had the desired effect-Karmarov lost his famous poker face. He all
but admitted .. . he'd deny it, of course .. .

that such a defensive laser device existed. I believe our meeting
resulted in the Soviet's face-saving decision to enter into a 'mutual'
investigation."

"Which has never taken place," Curtis asked. "They lied to us from the
beginning."

Brent paused, then crossed in front of the President's desk and faced
him. "Karinarov mentioned another important point, sir: If it is
proven to the world that the anti-satellite laser exists, the Soviets
can also prove that such a device does not violate any international
treaty or agreement. It is not a space-based system like our Ice
Fortress system, which violates the 1982

DeMilitarization of Space Agreement; nor is it a violation of any ABM
treaty, since neither the 1972 agreement nor its 1976 amendment mention
ground-based laser systems-the idea of activating such a site was many
times more implausible fifteen years ago than it is today. The
orbiting mirror may be a violation of the 1982 agreement-if we prove it
exists, if we prove it is a mirror, and if we prove that it was used
against an atmospheric or orbiting vehicle of another country-" "But
then they are guilty of murder," Curtis asked. "They should be
convicted of murder. We should demand the dismantling of that laser
site as minimal reparation for their crime.

The Secretary of State shook his head. "We could never prove they
downed the RC-135 reconnaissance plane, General, " Brent asked. "Even
if we had conclusive evidence that they used their laser system to
destroy a satellite and the Javelin missile, we could never prove, or
convince, that they turned that laser on an unarmed aircraft. It's
just too provocative an act to be believed."

There was silence in the President's office for a long time.

No one wanted to speak. Each could feel a transition taking place. It
was the awful transition from disbelief and even outright denial of
what had occurred, to now facing the realization that the weight of
damning evidence dictated that something had to be done.

"We need options, gentlemen," the President said finally.

"There is only one option, sir," Adams asked. "The Soviets must
deactivate that laser complex."

"They have absolutely no reason to do that, Gregory," Brent said
quickly. "As I said before, there is no agreement between our
countries prohibiting a ground-based defensive device."

"it sure as hell isn't just a defensive device, Marshall."

Brent held up a hand. "Please, Gregory. What would you argue if you
were in the Soviets' shoes?Tracking error, technical malfunction,
even errors in judgment on the part of some obscure bureaucrat. The
bureaucrat is fired, heads roll, and the site remains open-" "And a
threat," Curtis put in. "They have already seriously crippled our
intercontinental ballistic missile warning capability. "He turned to
the President. "Sir, the Soviets may claim it's not an offensive
weapon, but as long as it's active it can always be used as one. What
if they accidentally start shooting down satellites all over the
hemisphere?They may agree to pay for the ones they accidentally
destroy, but we're still out the satellites and the vital surveillance
information they provide."

"And if they have the capability to knock down I.C.B.Ms as well ..
."

the President muttered.

"They can easily neutralize one-third of our land and sea based
missiles," Curtis asked. "And when our bombers try to attack, they can
take pot shots at them. Hell, even turning on that radar of theirs is
enough to scramble the electronics of any aircraft in the area-" "All
right," the President interrupted. "Dammit, you make it sound like a
preemptive strike is our only option. "He looked angrily at the men
around him, settled on the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

"General Curtis," the President asked slowly, carefully, what is the
status of your project at Dreamland?"

"Currently deactivated, per your order, Mr. President," Curtis
replied. "We wanted to avoid any possible provocation during what
seemed a cooling off period."

"But it can be reactivated immediately?"

"Certainly, Sir," Curtis replied. "I can see to it that the full team
is reassembled.

The President hesitated, then rapped his knuckles on his desk. "Then
do it.

General Curtis smiled and nodded, which ignited Marshall Brent.

"The very thought of considering a military option against the Soviets
is crazy," he said, his face reddening. "I've told you, General-until
current treaties and agreements are modified that complex is perfectly
legal. We may demand reparation for the hardware they destroyed-and I
have no doubt, when confronted with the evidence, that they will pay a
reasonable amount-but we have no legal reason to attack that site.

"Reason?How about the lives of twelve innocent men and women aboard
that RC-135, Mr. Brent?"General Curtis shot back. "That's reason
enough for me."

"Marshall, I've authorized General Curtis to keep one special military
option open-period," the President Sala.

"The time for discussion is rapidly running out. I want you to find a
way to force the Soviets to deactivate that laser complex.

If the Secretary of State felt any surprise at the enormity and sheer
impossibility of that task, he did not show it-he merely nodded
resolutely. "It will be difficult," he said, "but it's our best
hope."

Maybe our only one, he added to himself.

"We can confront the Soviets with our information," Gregory Adams
said.

"Present the evidence to the United Nations, as we did during the Cuban
Missile Crisis. Force world opinion to turn against them.

Convince the world that the destabilizing force of that laser system is
a threat to everyone.

"You've put it well, Gregory," Brent asked. "Exactly what we must
do."

"All right," the President said hopefully. "I like it.

Marshall, Greg, I'm counting on you. This can't go any further. Make
sure they know we mean business."

"I have another option that may prod the Russians a bit faster toward a
negotiated settlement," Curtis said. The President's smile
disappeared. Marshall Brent glared at Curtis.

"Ice Fortress, " Secretary of Defense Preston asked. "ReactiVate Ice
Fortress.

"Or at least threaten to reactivate it," Curtis added quickly.

"It's out of the question," Brent asked. "The 1986 ArmsReduction
Treaty, which took us two long years to hammer out, strictly forbids
Ice Fortress. If we bring it back, we are guilty of lying. Our
credibility will go down the drain.

"Ice Fortress is the only thing we have that can even begin to match up
to that laser system," Curtis argued. "Without it, we have nothing to
bargain with. Why should the Russians agree to anything we want?Why
should they shut down that site?Because we say 'pretty please'?"

"The Soviets won't ignore us," Brent asked. "Gregory and I will
confront them in the U.N. We'll present the data you've received and
challenge them to deny it. I believe that will be the last we'll hear
of any laser defense site. "The President looked grim. "You're right,
Marshall," he said slowly.

"We hold off with any movement on Ice Fortress.

It's not an option. Not now."

Marshall Brent looked relieved. "There will be a settlement, sir. We
will end this. "And at the moment, he had managed to convince
himself.

The President nodded, then swiveled around and stared wordlessly out
the triple windows of the Oval Office as the others quietly filed
out.

THE UNITED NATIONS SEcurity COUNCIL NEw YORK
"Last item on the agenda before the New Year's recess," Ian McCaan
announced before a regular meeting of the United Nations Security
Council, "is a presentation by the American delegation on the progress
of the ongoing investigation of the alleged loss of the American Air
Force RC-135 off the east coast of the Soviet Union. We are pleased to
have in attendance the distinguished Secretary of State of the United
States of America, Mr. Marshall Brent. Mr. Brent, please-" "Excuse
me, Mr. Secretary-General!"Karmarov interrupted, a shocked
expression on his face. He half-rose out of his seat as Marshall Brent
walked down the center aisle of the closed Security Council chamber.

"Mr. Secretary-General, this .. . " he fought for composure, ". .

.

I was not aware that this matter had been placed on the agenda. No one
has consulted my office .. . " By this time Marshall Brent had
reached the floor of the chamber. Greg Adams, the U.N. ambassador, had
relinquished his seat to the Secretary of State and now sat behind and
to his right. Brent held up a hand and smiled at the Soviet chief
delegate.

"I'm afraid I am at fault, Mr. Karmarov," Brent began.

Karmarov's protest died in midsentence, and he slowly lowered himself
to his seat. "I have taken the liberty of invoking a little-used and
rather esoteric regulation in the Security Council's rules of order.

"A 1957 addendum to Article Thirty-nine of the Security Council's
Affairs of Conduct allows either side of any dispute before the
Security Council to provide periodic progress reports of any
council-ordered investigation. I have taken the liberty of putting
together a report that I'm sure your fellow delegates will be most
interested in-" "Pardon me, Mr. Brent," Karmarov interrupted again,
even more forcibly this time. He bent over to Andrina Asserni,
whispered a few words to her, and watched as she rushed out to an
anteroom. "That matter is still under investigation. I know that
little progress has been made, sir, but it is still fairly early-"
"That's right, Mr. Ambassador," Brent asked. "But a status report is
still allowed. I'm sorry Miss Asserni was called away to double-check
the article, but its validity here has already been examined and
approved by the Central Steering Committee. "Karmarov looked at Ian
McCaan, who nodded.

"Apparently, Mr. Karmarov," McCaan said, "the Soviet secretary on the
Steering Committee did not notify you. The request is in order. Of
course, you will have an opportunity to add any remarks you wish."

Assemi returned just then with her finger in a thick red leather-bound
book. She whispered a few words to Karmarov, who narrowed his gaze and
fixed it on Marshall Brent.

"The article you mentioned does not deal with the matter you wish to
discuss," Kannarov said, "and apparently gives little authority or
justification for such a presentation. It is entirely out of order-"
"The nature of the presentation," McCaan broke in, "and the subject
matter convinced the Steering Committee to adapt the rules. Besides,
Ambassador Karmarov, it is the last order of business for the Council
and no other matters are scheduled until the spring. I'm sure the
Council will be interested in the contents of this presentation."

The Russian offered no resistance-in fact, his voice became a bit more
apologetic. "The investigation has only been open less than a month
"And yet it has gone nowhere," Brent said immediately, his tone clipped
but steady. "American requests for transcripts, ordinary transcripts
of your military controllers on duty at the time of the loss of the
RC-135 have been ignored. Similar requests by the International Civil
Aeronautics Organization have also been ignored. According to ICAO
convention, such transcripts are usually submitted to the parties
involved in less than twenty-four hours. "Karmarov staged his
indignation. "I will personally investigate the incompetence of-" "My
office has already investigated the matter," Brent said.

"The Soviet Foreign Ministry advises me that the transcripts were
turned over to your United Nations delegation. "Karmarov again was
about to reply, but Brent held up a hand.

understand the situation, Mr. Ambassador," Brent said in a forgiving
tone. "The Foreign Ministry did advise me that your office has not had
time to fully study the transcripts.

Turning the transcript over to us before looking at them yourself
wouldn't make sense, I agree."

"I beg the Council's indulgence," Karmarov asked. "Pressing matters in
my delegation and the last-minute flurry of activity prior to the New
Year's recess have delayed my study of those documents."

"Of course, Mr. Ambassador," Brent asked. "The Foreign Ministry was
kind enough to answer a few questions, though. I hope you at least
have had an opportunity to glance at the transcripts so as to enlighten
the Security Council on a few points.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Secretary, I-" "The Foreign Ministry assures me that,
although three launched from Ossora MiG-29 fighter-interceptor aircraft
were Airfield on the northern Kamchatka peninsula near Kavaznya, they
never closed with the so-called intruder aircraft. The RC-135 aircraft
was allowed to fly toward the coast without being challenged. Mr.
Ambassador, why in the world would the Soviets allow an unidentified
aircraft to fly to within thirty-five miles of the coastline, within
thirty-five miles of a top secret research installation, without being
challenged by three interceptors assigned to pursue it?"

Heads turned toward Karmarov. "Mr. Secretary," Karmarov said through
tight lips. "I cannot at this time answer-" "The Foreign Ministry also
reports that no efforts were made to reach the RC-135 on normal,
internat a y recognized emergency channels. Now, Mr. Ambassador, the
Soviet Union launched three advanced interceptors out after an American
aircraft it says was intruding into highly sensitive Russian airspace,
yet never closed on the intruder. They obviously saw the aircraft-yet
never tried to raise the aircraft by radio, never tried to warn it
away. Why?Perhaps I can offer a reason," Brent hurried on. At his
signal, a rear-projection screen began to descend over the mural of
"The Rise of the Phoenix" at the head of the Security Council
chamber.

Ambassador Adams pushed an electronic pointer into his hands and Brent
stepped quickly toward the head of the circular
Council table.

Flaring to life as Brent stepped up to a small podium at the head of
the table, the screen showed several rows of words and numbers on the
left and several bar graphs on the right.

"I will show the Council exactly what took place aboard that unarmed
reconnaissance plane," Brent began. "This is the exact, unedited
position and status data transmitted from the RC-135 aircraft as it
approached Kavaznya. It shows summaries of the aircraft's performance
and summaries of what the aircraft's sensors were receiving."

Brent hit a button on the console. A second slide appeared beneath the
first, this one a map of eastern Asia centered on Kavaznya.

"To better understand the data presented on the left," Brent said, "we
will plot the location of the RC-135 aircraft on the map below. The
bar graphs are readouts of electromagnetic energy levels outside the
RC-135 aircraft. The graphs show levels of heat, visible light,
radiation, transmitted energy, and polarized single-frequency light.

All of the presentations have been time-synced to show exactly what was
happening at each moment. "The screens went into motion. "The RC-135
is one hundred and forty miles from Kavaznya when surveillance radars
from Ossora Airfield north of Kavaznya begin to track it. "A circle
appeared on the chart. "The circle represents the computer's estimate
of the range of the surveillance radar scanning the RC-135the plane is
well within that range. "The transmitted energy bar moved upward-all
of the other graphs were motionless.

Brent motioned to the scrolling printout. "The RC-135 is now ninety
miles from Kavaznya. It is still being tracked by surveillance radar,
as shown by this line on the printoutstandard India-band surveillance
radar. I assume air defense forces have been alerted, but only the
missing controller's transcript can tell us this. Here Brent pointed
to the transmitted energy bar graph, "is where a new radar comes on.

The plane is still over ten minutes from reaching land.

"See how much the energy level has increased?The printout confirms it
. . . here. Frequency, carrier power, modulation-all significantly
different, thousands of times more powerful than the ordinary
surveillance radars. "A new circle appeared on the map, this one
several times larger than the first.

"Mr. Secretary-General, I must protest this," Kannarov said.

Brent stopped the scrolling display. "Mr, Karen, arov, this
presentation has been approved by the Steering Committee for
presentation," McCaan asked. "What are the grounds for your objections"
"This appears to be what Mr. Brent says it is," Karmarov said, "but it
can also be a clever forgery. Why, I can create such a grand display
on my own computer."

"If you are challenging the Steering Committee's judgment," McCaan
said, "you must enter a protest with the Steering Committee-" "But I
have not yet had an opportunity to examine any of the evidence being
presented.

The Steering Committee-" "I know about the Steering Committee. But
such a .. .

jumble of information cannot be brought before the Security Council
without-" "It seems your objection is a procedural one, Mr. Karmarov,"
McCaan said, "and as such I must overrule it. The admissibility of
this data and the manner of its presentation have already been approved
by the Steering Committee as per this body's regulations. Mr. Brent,
proceed.

The screen went into motion once again. "The RC-135 is now forty-two
miles from shore. "Brent pointed at the readout on the left. The map
magnified into a much larger scale of the Kavaznya area itself. The
red line plotting the course of the RC-135 began to change. "It is
here that the plane begins a right turn away from the coastline. As
you can see, the transmitted energy scale has greatly increased. At
the same time, all other radars in the area have been turned off-all
but One. No India-band radars, only the much more powerful Lima-band
radar at Kavaznya."

Brent turned to Kan-narov. "Why, Mr. Ambassador, would your air
defense operators turn off their radars with an intruder in the area?

With three fighters airborne that rely on that radar deactivated?

Where are for vectors to the intruder, why was it the fighters?"

Karmarov decided his only response was silence.

The screen froze. The bar graphs had all suddenly pegged at the top of
their scales.

"Suddenly, here," Brent said, "there is a massive explosion visible
light, radiation, and polarized of transmitted energy, light."

The display began to move slowly. "The blast lasts for almost a full
second. Gentlemen, the readout for polarized light is a readout of
levels of visible light that meets very strict the wavelength, one
parameters. The light must be pure--o frequency, one direction.

Polarized light. "He turned and Laser light. A laser on the order of
two looked at Karmarov.

hundred megawatts has Just been fired from Kavaznya."

The scrolling continued, but the printout display on the left and the
movement of the bar graphs halted for several minutes.

"The data transmission was interrupted after the laser blast," Brent
asked. "The tremendous amount of energy disrupts electronic circuits
for hundreds of miles. Is that why there are Mr. Karmarov?A fighter
near that laser no fighters in the area, blast would fall into the
ocean."

No reply from Karmarov.

A few moments later the stream of data returned. "As you can see,"
Brent went on, "the levels of radiation and transmitted energy are
still high. The bar graphs for polarized light and thermal energy have
been removed. That is because that data was obtained from an Alpha
Omega Nine reconnaissance satellite over Kavaznya. That satellite was
destroyed by the laser blast."

"Impossible," came a voice from the Council table. The rumble of
voices increased in volume.

"The crew aboard the RC-135, which is now almost ninety miles from
shore, are probably already exposed to lethal doses of radiation, but
they are still alive."

One bar graph jumped. "Transmitted energy is increasing again," Brent
asked. "The radar at Kavaznya is active againsearching for another
victim."

"Unfounded accusations," Karmarov protested. "Mr. Secretary-General-"
"The Lima-band radar is at full power again. "Brent was no longer
looking at the screen but directly at Karmarov, who stared at the data
flowing on the screen. "There is a pulseshift-the radar has locked
onto the aircraft, an unarmed reconnaissance aircraft almost ninety
miles from shore with ten men and two women aboard."

The screen went blank, and the room went dark. Slowly, the lights were
brought back up in the Council chamber.

"Witho aid ut warning, with malice aforethought," Brent s to Karmarov,
"the Soviets disabled a satellite, then, trying to cover their first
crime, turned that laser on an unarmed aircraft, killing twelve
people."

The chamber was silent. "In America, Mr. Ambassador, we call it
murder in the first degree. "Brent turned and faced the Council
members seated around him.

"Four days ago a test of a new intercontinental missile design was also
attacked by the laser at Kavaznya. I will present the data when it
becomes available. This time, the data was collected by a vessel
anchored offshore from Kavaznya, e that not only has and not by another
satellite. Yet it will prove the Soviet Union used its new laser to
attack another American vehicle, but that it used this. "The lights
were immediately lowered. Brent clicked a button again, and a
magnified, computer-enhanced picture of Salyut Nineteen with the large
rectangular mirror attached flashed on the screen.

"Salyut Nineteen, gentlemen," Brent announced, "but with a new and
frightening twist-a mirror used to bounce the laser beam to targets
over the horizon from Kavaznya!"The murmur in the Council chamber
became one of disbelief.

"I know you're not going to respond to any of this, Mr. Ambassador,"
Brent said, turning back to Karmarov. "You are going to request a
video tape of this session, take it back to the Embassy, and talk it
over with Moscow. Fine. But the United States requests the
reinstatement of charges made back on November fifteenth. We charge
the Soviet Union with premeditated murder, conspiracy to commit murder,
piracy, perjury, and conspiracy to suppress evidence. We also charge
violation of the 1972 Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty with the deployment
of the laser, the Lima-band radar used to steer the laser, and the
Salyut Nineteen spacecraft refitted with a mirror for the reflection of
laser beams with the purpose of destroying ballistic weapons. We call
for the immediate dismantling of the Salyut Nineteen spacecraft and the
closure of the entire
Kavaznya complex until an on-site United Nations inspection can be
made. We are also demanding reparations in the amount of five hundred
million American dollars for the death of the American service
personnel aboard the RC- 135 aircraft and the loss of the RC-135
aircraft, the Alpha Omega Nine satellite, and the Javelin missile."

He turned to the Security Council delegates. "I know that, despite our
lofty ideals, justice meted by the United Nations is slow and sometimes
ineffective. But the government of the United States considers the
laser device and the orbiting mirror a major threat to its security,
and we cannot, we will not, wait for these devices to be disarmed."

He turned again to Karmarov and raised his voice. "We give the Soviet
Union three days to dismantle or render inoperative the Salyut Nineteen
spacecraft. If it is not proved to our satisfaction that the Salyut
Nineteen's mirror is incapable of steering a laser beam projected from
Kavaznya to an atmosheric or ballistic vehicle anywhere on the globe,
we will Passume that the 1972 Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty and the
1986

Iceland Summit Arms Reduction Treaty are null and void and take
appropriate steps to insure our national security."

"And what steps are those?"Karmarov asked. "Will you go to war to
back up your silly rhetoric, Mr. Secretary?Will you destroy
civilization because of a baseless, insignificant, pie-inthe-sky
threat?"

Brent turned to the Russian ambassador, planting his hands firmly on
Karmarov's desk. In a voice so low few could hear except Karmarov
himself, Brent said, "Why, Dmitri?Why?

We suspected almost from the beginning, and I took a tremendous risk
and told you of our suspicions. Yet your government continued to use
that laser device. Why?It doesn't make sense.

"you were foolish to expose your so-called evidence like this, Brent,"
Kannarov said softly. "I need not try to explain.

But forcing my government into a corner with outlandish grandstanding
will not yield the results you want."

"I asked you why, Dmitri," Brent asked. "Dammit, I-" "The device is an
instrument of defense, of territorial security," Karmarov said between
clenched teeth. "It is years ahead of its time, a device that even the
most optimistic in your country would not have expected to become
operational in another ten years, It violates no existing treaty. It
affords a
J
defensive umbrella, its existence cannot merely be shouted away with
threats."

"You've got a choice," Brent said in a normal voice, stepping away from
the Russian ambassador so the rest of the delegates could hear. "Start
with the Salyut Nineteen aircraft.

Disarm it, go up there and dismantle the mirror, burn it up in the
atmosphere-I don't care. But prove to the United States that you will
pledge to use the laser as a defensive device only.

Right now it's an offensive weapon, and it's already been used to
murder innocent American lives. The other choice is to prepare to
accept the consequences of your actions. "Brent returned to his seat
and slid into it slowly, studying the faces of those around him.

"And what would those consequences be, Mr. Brent?"

Karmarov said quietly in English. "Global war?Global death?"He was
taunting his American colleague, but Brent folded his hands serenely
and returned Karmarov's gaze in silence. Then the memory of their
private meeting returned to him. Brent saw that Karmarov had
remembered, too. Brent gathered his notes together and nodded to
Adams, preparing to leave.

"Zal Lyot, " Kartnarov said, almost in a whisper. Delegates scrambled
for translation earpieces. Brent's gaze narrowed, as if in pain.

"You cannot," Karmarov asked. "It will mean the end. You cannot-" "We
can, we will," Marshall Brent said, hoping he sounded more convincing
than he felt. He stood, nodded to Ian McCaan, and left the Security
Council chambers.

The scene in the hushed, dimly-fit blast-proof chamber beneath the
White House known as the Situation Room could best be described as
funereal-and, at that point, the atmosphere exactly matched Secretary
of State Marshall Brent's mood.

Brent waited for the President to signal that he was ready, then picked
up the sheet of paper that lay in front of him and began: "Ladies and
gentlemen, I have received the reply from the Soviet Premier to our
charges concerning the use of the avaznya laser installation and the
Salyut Nineteen orbiting mirror on the RC- 135 aircraft, the Alpha
Omega Nine satellite, and the Javelin small I.C.B.M. It reads as
follows--Quote:

THE GOVERNMENT OF THE UNION OF SOVIET SOCIALIST REPUBLICS CATEGORICALLY
DENIES THE CHARGES LEVELED AGAINST IT IN CLOSED SESSION OF THE UNITED
NATIONS SECURITY COUNCIL.THE USSR REJECTS THE EVIDENCE PRESENTED IN
CLOSED SESSION AS FABRICATION AND INADMISSIBLE.THE USSR DENIES ANY
CULPABILITY IN THE ALLEGED LOSS OF ANY AIRCRAFT ON OR ABOUT THE
THIRTEENTH OF NOVEMBER, NINETEEN EIGHTY-SEVEN, OR THE ALLEGED LOSS OF
AN ILLEGAL SPY SATELLITE ON OR ABOUT THE SAME DATE.WE WILL NOT
DIGNIFY THE BASELESS AND LUDICROUS CLAIM OF SHOOTING DOWN A MISSILE
OVER THE PACIFIC OCEAN WITH A DENIAL."

"Those sonsofbitches," Curtis muttered.

Brent went on, THE SOVIET UNION MAINTAINS THAT ANY GROUND-BASED LASER
DEVICE IN EXISTENCE IS NOT A VIOLATION OF THE 1972 ANTI-BALLISTIC
MISSILE TREATY, SINCE SUCH WEAPONS WERE NEVER ADDRESSED BY THAT TREATY,
NOR IS THE PRESENCE OF A SPACE VEHICLE WITH A MIRROR ATTACHED TO IT IN
ANY WAY IN VIOLATION OF ANY TREATY THE AMERICAN GOVERNMENT"S
PROVOCATIVE ULTIMATUM DELIVERED BY THE AMERICAN SECRETARY OF STATE TO
THE SOVIET UNITED NATIONS DELEGATION IS GROUNDLESS AND AGGRESSIVE, AND
IT IS HEREBY REJECTED.THE UNITED STATES MUST OFFER PROOF, REAL PROOF,
THAT THE ALLEGED LOSS OF THEIR EQUIPMENT WAS NOT CAUSED BY THEIR OWN
INCOMPETENCE OR MALFUNCTION BEFORE THEY CAN BEGIN TO REQUEST ANYTHING
FROM THIS SOVEREIGN NATION.

WE FURTHER REJECT THE ATTEMPTS BY THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT TO
COERCE THE SOVIET UNION BY THREATENING UNILATERALLY TO DISOBEY THE
1972

ANTIBALLISTIC MISSILE TREATY AND THE UNRATIFIED 1986

ARMS REDUCTION TREATY.A RESPONSIBLE NATION WOULD MAINTAIN THE PATH OF
FAIR AND OPEN NEGOTIATIONS TO SOLVE A DISPUTE, AND NOT IMMEDIATELY
JEOPARDIZE WORLD PEACE BY OPENLY THREATENING TO CANCEL AND VIOLATE
INTERNATIONAL TREATIES.

THE SOVIET UNION, AS ALWAYS, STANDS READY TO REOPEN THE INVESTIGATION
OF THE LOSS OF AN AMERICAN AIRCRAFT OFF OUR SHORES, AND TO ENTER INTO
TALKS ON ANY OTHER QUESTIONS OR POSSIBLE TREATY VIOLATIONS THAT MAY BE
CONNECTED WITH RESEARCH BEING CONDUCTED IN EASTERN SIBERIA.WE PLEDGE
OUR FULL AND UNCONDITIONAL COOPERATION IN THE SPIRIT OF PEACE.

"So they've denied everything," Brent summarized.

"They're willing to start talks on whether or not the radar violates
the ABM treaty, but that's all."v'o We're back to where we started,"
Curtis said. He turned to the President. "Sir, with all due respect,
I recommend immediate deployment of Ice Fortress.

Brent shook his head. "And trigger World War Three?The solution
would be worse than the problem."

"Mr. Brent, we've had this argument before," Curtis said.

"It's time to act. "He turned to the President. "Mr. President, if
you prefer, we can launch the station itself in two consecutive Shuttle
launches, one from Canaveral, one from Vandenburg, in one month. We
can delay arming the station until all possible diplomatic avenues are
exhausted. If we have no other choice, two follow-on launches can make
the Fortress fully armed and ready two weeks later."

There was a murmur of assent that filled the White House Situation
Room. Brent looked around at the assembled advisors.

"We'd be stooping to their level," Brent asked. "It would mean an
escalation that we might not be able to control."

"Why are they doing this?"the President asked rhetorically, massaging
his temples. "Why?They can't be trying to provoke US."

"They've achieved their goal of crippling our strategic warning and
surveillance capabilities," Curtis asked. "That's why.

Brent sighed. "Dammit, General, you see Russian invasions at every
turn. We could launch another spy satellite-we could launch ten of
them-and I believe they'd be safe because the Russians' objective has
already been met. They've disorganized, confused, and scared this
government. Don't you see, General?They want us to launch Ice
Fortress. They want us to try to bomb Kavaznya or start a fight
somewhere else in the world. No matter what they have already done,
our response will be seen as much more aggressive in the eyes of the
world.

"So what you're saying," Curtis shot back, "is that our best move is to
do nothing at all. Make big threats and then wait and wait after
they've thumbed their noses at us. "He ran fingers through his hair,
then slammed down his fist. "No. It's not a matter of being macho.

I'm not convinced that the Russians don't have an attack plan behind
this."

Brent said nothing.

"I'm sorry, Marshall," the President asked. "I know you tried. I'm
thankful to you for your efforts. But it doesn't seem to have
worked.

"No, but-" "We gave them exactly what they needed-more time. They
rejected it. Its implication is clear. They'll feel emboldened to do
more The President turned to Curtis.

"general, I want a detailed briefing on Ice Fortress this aftermoon.

"Yes, sir.

"It makes no sense to launch Ice Fortress, " Brent continued to
argue.

The members of the President's Cabinet shifted uncomfortably.

"We've heard all your arguments, Marshall "The Ice Fortress would be
just as vulnerable as the Alpha Omega satellite, wouldn't it, General
Curtis?Why launch a seven hundred million dollar target for the
Soviets to beat on?"

"Marshall," Ken Mitchell said, "in the case of Omega and the Javelin,
both vehicles were destroyed by us, not by the laser. "The President
looked surprised. "What?"

"Remember, sir, I briefed you on this shortly after the attack on the
Midgetman. "Mitchell had the look of an impatient schoolmaster. "The
Omega was blinded and damaged, but not destroyed-we lost it when we
tried to steer it through the atmosphere in an attempt to recover it
intact. The Javelin apparently had sustained enough damage to
prematurely ignite the third stage booster, but we don't know exactly
how much damage was done-it was automatically destroyed when it flew
off course.

Brent slapped the table with his hand. "That doesn't answer my-" "In
no case," Curtis cut him off, "was either vehicle shielded against a
laser attack. A space station the size of Ice Fortress, assembled in
space, can be armored to withstand as much direct energy as that
nuclear power plant can put out. A beam of laser light, no matter how
powerful, is still a beam of light-it can be reflected. I can have the
researchers at Wright Patterson present a more detailed analysis, sir,
but Ice Fortress can be protected."

"We're betting a lot of money on your analysis, General," Brent said,
shaking his head.

"You're worried about the money, Mr. Brent-?"

"No, dammit," Brent said, exploding. "Mr. President, it's not only
the risk of losing the hardware, sir-Ice Fortress represents the worst
fears about the militarization of space.

Can we stand the pressure of world opinion if we launch that thing?"

"I'm more concerned about losing the ability to maintain deterrence,"
Curtis said. Perhaps you don't understand we have lost a good
percentage of our strategic nuclear deterrent power. Right now, right
this minute, Mr. Brent, we can't detect a missile launch from eastern
Asia. There are twelve submarines docked at Petropavlovsk, each with
an average of fifteen sea-launched ballistic missiles. Each of those
carry three warheads, maybe more. Mr. Brent, we can't tell if the
Russians launch those missiles until they are ten minutes from
impact.

That's not speculative-that's fact. And the Soviets have demonstrated
a capability of destroying our missiles in the boost phase. So, if
they did launch those missiles, and we retaliated, a good percentage of
our missiles wouldn't reach their targets.

Curtis had everyone's attention.

"It may be everyone's image of Armageddon," Curtis concluded, "but we
need Ice Fortress. The risk of losing it is far outweighed by our need
for a bargaining chip."

Brent offered no further argument.

"Marshall, draft a statement of protest to the Kremlin for my
signature," the President asked. "Get with Karrnarov at the U.N. and
ask him what the hell is going on. I want the Soviets to know they've
committed an act of war and that we intend to respond.

"I'd advise against using such language, sir," Brent said.

The President glanced around the Situation Room chamber at the shaking
heads. He too shook his head.

"An act of war, Marshall. That's what it is.that's what I said.

The United Nations, SEVERAL WEEKs LATER "It is an act of war!"

Marshall Brent sat back in his seat, turning down the volume of Dmitri
Karmarov's tirade on the floor of the United Nations Security
Council.

Beside him, Gregory Adams took careful notes, penciling in occasional
comments.

Karmarov held aloft five books in his hands and waved them in the air
for the rest of the Security Council to see. "Five treaties, fellow
delegates. The United States has wantonly violated five important
treaties with the Soviet Union and with this body. They have wrecked
years of vital negotiations that have sought to bring a lasting peace
to the world. "He threw the books into the aisle in front of him, and
the delegate from Rumania quickly reached back to pick them up.

"They are useless. Wasted. Dust. "Karmarov waved away the five
volumes, pointed a finger at the American delegation.

"The militarization of space is not merely a threat to the Soviet
Union, fellow representatives. It is a threat to us all. The United
States will now continue to build vast machines of destruction orbiting
over our heads, over our homes, over our seats of government. This Ice
Fortress of theirs may now be orbiting over the North Pole, as the
Americans claim, but it has the capability to be instantly steered and
repositioned anywhere over the Earth. Anywhere. Don't be fooled by
comforting assurances. No one is safe.

"They say it has no nuclear weapons on board--they even offer to have
observers come aboard and examine it, as if it took only a short boat
ride to get to it. But don't be fooled.

They also say their carriers and warships that dock in Japanese ports
carry no nuclear weapons, and they are technically correct-until all
the critical components are assembled and the weapon is prearmed, no
nuclear weapons exist. It is a sham."

Karmarov turned toward the American delegation. "I don't care," he
said, "what possible reasons the United States could have for launching
their Ice Fortress. Doubtless, they will blame it on the Soviet Union,
as they have blamed so many incidents on us in the past. Doubtless,
they will invent another tale of disaster. But there exists no
possible reason on this earth for the United States to violate five
international agreements and jeopardize the peace and well-being of not
only the Soviet Union but of the rest of the world by launching this
doomsday device.

"I call upon the United States to immediately deactivate their illegal
Ice Fortress. Because it appears they cannot be trusted to abide by
any agreements between nations, I call upon an independent United
Nations team of observers to examine all future Space Shuttle launches
to guarantee that they are carrying no weapons of any kind to be used
aboard their space platform. I further demand that no corrections be
made to the existing platform's orbit so that it may be allowed to
reenter the atmosphere and be destroyed. "When Gregory Adams
straightened to address the Council, Marshall Brent held his arm.

Keeping his hands folded before him on the long, curved table, he
glanced around at the assembled delegates and began: "There comes a
time," Brent said, "when international agreements lose meaning. There
was a time when the government of the United States felt secure
negotiating a lasting peace and true disarmament. Our respective
governments hoped against hope that our talks would eventually lead to
the elimination of all nuclear weapons from the face of the earth by
the year two thousand. I assure you, our government is still willing
to continue those negotiations .. . even though we have evidence that
the Soviet Union has wantonly attacked American space vehicles,
including a satellite, a missile testfiring, and a reconnaissance
aircraft with the resultant loss of twelve innocent lives and a billion
dollars worth of valuable equipment. We regretfully conclude that the
Soviet Union will continue on its reckless course. The evidence is
overwhelming, incontrovertible. No treaty of agreement, past, present
or future, can oblige us to give up our ability to defend ourselves.

"Our original charges and the evidence we presented to support those
charges stand. Absent the desired approval of this body, we must use
our own resources to protect ourselves.

"The antiballistic missile space platform will remain until it is
demonstrated to our satisfaction that .the Soviet Union will tellites
and cease all attacks against our reconnaissance sa aircraft. We ask
again that the Soviet Union show its good will by deactivating the
Salyut Nineteen orbiting mirror spacecraft immediately We can wait no
longer. "He bowed his head, "I am very sorry, we can trying to summon
additional strength.

wait no longer."

He then stood and quickly left the Security Council, with Gregory Adams
following close behind.

THE SPACE SHUTTLE, TLANTIS They were in business again.

Navy Commander Richard Seedeck prepared his spacesuit for his upcoming
EVA, extravehicular activity-his space walk. The forty-two-year-old
veteran astronaut, now on his second Shuttle mission, was having the
time of his life.

Seedeck had just returned from Atlantis' flight deck, where he had been
pre-breathing pure oxygen for the past hour. He was now in the
airlock, smoothly but quickly putting on his equipment. Jerrod Bates,
a civilian defense contractor on board Atlantis as an expert advisor
and engineer, watched Seedeck put on his suit, marveling at the speed
with which he dressed.

It always took Bates twice as long to accomplish the same task.

There was nothing like being in space, Seedeck thought, and nothing
like being on board the Space Shuttle. No one on board was a
passenger-everyone was a crewman, a necessity. Each was busy seventeen
hours a day.

And there were fewer "mice and monkey" research flights, too. Like
this one. This one was top secret all the way, all heavy-duty military
hardware. Even the usual press speculation about the payload was
nonexistent-or it had been effectively quashed.

"What are you smiling about, Commander?"Bates finally asked.

"I'm smiling at how good this feels, Bates," Seedeck said, talking
through the clear plastic facemask he was wearing. He finished donning
the lower torso part of his spacesuit and unbuckled the upper part from
a holder in the airlock. Bates reached out to hold the bulky suit for
Seedeck to climb into, but that was unnecessary-Seedeck merely let go
and weightlessness held the suit exactly where Seedeck had left it.

"I've been doing that for four days now," Bates said through his
faceplate. "I forget-nothing falls up here."

"I still do it sometimes," Seedeck admitted. "But I've learned to use
it. "And he did-Seedeck had his helmet, gloves, his "Snoopy's hat"
communication headset and his POS, his portable oxygen system, all
floating around the airlock within easy reach.

In one fluid motion, Seedeck held his breath, removed his POS face
mask, and slipped into the upper torso part of his suit. If Seedeck
started breathing cabin air, he would reintroduce deadly nitrogen into
his bloodstream and risk dysbar ism, nitrogen narcosis, the
"bends"-Bates had also been pre breathing oxygen for the same reason.

Still holding his breath, he attached several umbilicals from the huge
life support backpack to his suit and connected the two halves of his
suit together, nodding as both he and Bates heard a distinct series of
clicks as the unions and interlinks joined.

Stu Bates couldn't believe the brush-cut veteran he was watching. It
had been well over two minutes, and Seedeck was still holding his
breath and still acting like a kid in a candy store.

Seedeck locked on both gloves, put on his "Snoopy's hat' communications
headset, locked his helmet in lace, and watched the pressure gauge on
his chest indicators as the suit pressure gradually increased to 28
kilopascals. When the suit was pressurized and Seedeck had
double-checked that there were no leaks, he finally released his breath
with a whoosh.

"I don't believe it," Bates said as he put on a mid-deck cabin headset
to talk to Seedeck. "You went nearly six minutes without breathing.

"You'd be surprised how easy it is after pre-breathing oxygen for an
hour," Seedeck asked. "Besides, I've done this once or twice before.

Check my backpack, please?"

"Sure," Bates said, and double-checked the connections and gauges on
Seedeck's suit and gave him a thumbs-up. "It's goo d.

"Thanks. Clear the airlock. Admiral, this is Seedeck.

Preparing to depressurize airlock."

"Copy, Dick," the Atlantis' mission commander, Admiral Ben Woods,
replied. "Clear any time. "Woods repeated the to Mission Control in
Houston five hundred nautical message miles below them.ed the Seedeck
turned to the airlock control panel and moved "AIRLOCK DEPRESS SWITCH"
to 5, then to 0, and waited for air to be released outside. Three
minutes later, Seedeck was exiting the airlock.

It was a sight he would never get used to-the mindboggling sight of the
Earth spinning above him, the colors, the detail, the sheer size and
spectacular beauty of Planet Earth five hundred miles away. Atlantis
was "parked" right over the North Pole, and Seedeck could see the
entire Northern Hemisphere-the continents of North America, Europe, and
Asia, as well as the North Arctic region and the Atlantic and Pacific
oceans. Clouds swirled around the globe like g Ising strokes of a
painter's brush, occasionally knotting and pu the Shuttle's normal as a
storm brewed below. Because of his upside-down orientation, Earth
would actually be his "sky" during the entire E.V.A. Seedeck closed and
locked the airlock hatch, clipped a safety line onto a bracket near the
hatch and began working his way hand-over-hand along the steel
handholds to where Atlantis' three MMUs, manned maneuvering units, were
attached inside the forward bulkhead of the cargo bay. He He inspected
one of the bulky, contoured devices, then uncapped it from its mounting
harness.

Miming around so his backpack was against the MMU, Seedeck guided
himself back against it. He felt his way back with his knees and sides
until he heard four distant clicks as the MMU locked itself in place on
his backpack.

"MMU in place, Atlantis."copy.

With his safety line still attached, Seedeck made a few test hruster
shots then unclipped his safety line from the MMU's tether and moved
himself out of the MMU's holder. Pushing gently, he propelled himself
away from Atlantis' cargo bay and out into space.

"Clear cargo bay, Atlantis. Beginning MMU tests."

Seedeck knew that Admiral Woods, who would be watching him from one of
the eight cameras installed in the cargo bay and remote manipulator
arm, was choking down a protest, but Seedeck had an urge he couldn't
ignore and this was his time.

A normal MMU maneuverability test consisted of short distances,
short-duration movements, all with a safety tether connected. He was
supposed to go up a few feet, stop, do a few side-to-side turns and try
some mild pitch-ups, all within a few feet of the airlock hatch and
manipulator arm in case of trouble.

Not Seedeck. With his safety line disconnected, Seedeck nudged his
thruster controls and Performed several loops, barrel rolls, full
twists, and lazy-eight maneuvers several meters above the open cargo
bay doors.

"MMU maneuvering tests complete, he finally reported as he expertly
righted himself above Atlantis'

cargo bay.

"Very Pretty, " Woods asked. "Too bad NASA isn't broadcasting Your
Performance in Prime time."

Seedeck didn't care There was only one word to describe this
feeling---ecstasy Without a tether line, he was another planetary body
in the solar system, orbiting the Sun just like the planets, asteroids,
comets, and other satellites around him.

He was subject to the same laws, the same divine guiding force as they
were.

Seedeck floated, for a few moments before bringing his thoughts back to
the business at hand. He spotted his objective immediately "Inventory
in sight , Atlantis. Beginning translation."

They weren't allowed to call it anything but on an open radio
channel.

The Atlantis had be "the inventory" six hundred meters away from the
huge object, en Parked about e the closest the -it would be a short
translation, w re allowed to approach it Y jargon for space-walk, over
to it. Seedeck opened a bin in the center of the right side of the
cargo bay and extracted the end of the steel cable from its reel
mounted on the cargo bay walls, attached the cable to a ring on the
left side of his MMU, then maneuvered back into open space and headed
for the object floating in the distance.

It was the first time Seedeck had seen it, except of course for
photographs and mock-ups. It was a huge steel square, resembling some
sort of massive POP-art decoration suspended in space. Each side of
the square was a hundred-foot-long, fifteen-foot-square tube. One
large rectangular radar antenna, two thousand square feet in area, was
mounted on each of two Opposite sides of the square, pointing
earthward. Mounted on transmission dish antennas, one Pointing
earthward, the Other one Of the other two sides of the square were two
smaller data r pointing spaceward. On the remaining side was an
eighteeninch diameter cylinder twelve feet long with a large glass eye
at one end, also pointing to Earth. Enclosed within heavily armored
containers on the four sides of the square were fuel cells, rocket fuel
tanks, fuel lines, and other connectors and control units running
throughout the steel frame.

Mounted in the center of the square was a huge cylinder, seventy feet
in diameter and thirty feet long, armored and covered in shiny
aluminum-Atlantis had to move its position now and then to keep the
brilliant reflection of the sun from MP ruining its cameras. The
spaceward end was closed, but the earthward side had a removable armor
cover that revealed five shining, polished walls inside, all empty.

fifteen-foot-diameter tubes, earthlight reflecting around the
This was Ice Fortress.

n all the articles, presentations, and drawings, it looked like a Rube
Goldberg tinker-toy contraption, but out here in position it looked
awesome and as mean as hell. The two large radar antennas, Seedeck
knew, were target-tracking radars searching for sea- or land-launched
intercontinental ballistic missiles. The smaller dish antennas were
data-link antennas, one for transmitting steering signals from the
platform, the other for receiving target tracking data from
surveillance satellites at higher orbits around earth. The large
cylinder with the glass eye was an infrared detector and tracker
designed to search and follow the exhaust of an I.C.B.M in the boost
phase.

The radars could track warhead carriers, "busses," in the midphase or
even individual reentering warheads as they plunged through the
atmosphere, and it could even differentiate between decoy warheads and
the real thing.

The large center cylinder was the "projectile" container, which housed
the launch tubes for Ice Fortress' weapons. The entire station was
armored in heat-resistant carbon-carbon steel, and smooth surfaces and
critical components like the missile cylinder covers and fuel tanks
were also covered in reflective aluminum film. Seedeck had heard
rumors about all these strange additions to Ice Fortress, but that
wasn't his concern.

Seedeck's job today was to make Ice Fortress operational for the first
time.

The station was almost a military unit unto itself, Seedeck thought as
he completed his inspection of Ice Fortress. The station received
missile-launch detection information from orbiting surveillance
satellites that would tell Ice Fortress where to look for the
missiles.

The station could use either its radars or its heat-sensing infrared
detectors to locate and track the rockets as they rose through the
atmosphere. Ice Fortress would then launch its "projectiles" against
I.C.B.Ms heading toward North America.

Projectiles. Weird name for Ice Fortress weapons, Seedeck thought.

Ice Fortress carried five X-ray laser satellites. The satellites
consisted of a main reaction chamber and fifteen lead pulse rods
encasing a zinc lasing wire surrounding it, like knitting needles in a
bag Of yarn - The reaction chamber was, in essence, a twenty kiloton
uranium bomb-roughly equal to the destructive power of the first atom
bomb that exploded over Hiroshima, Ice Fortress sensors would track any
attacking intercontinental ballistic missiles and eject the X-ray laser
satellites toward them. When the satellite approached the missiles,
Ice Fortress would detonate the nuclear warhead within the satellite.

The nuclear explosion would create a massive wave of X-rays that would
be focused and concentrated through the Pulse rods. The X-ray energy
would create an extremely powerful laser burst that would travel down
the rods and out in all directions. Any object within a hundred miles
of the satellite would be bombarded into oblivion in milliseconds.

The explosion, would, Of course, destroy the satellite, but the awesome
power of the X-ray laser blast would decimate dozens, Perhaps hundreds,
of I.C.B.Ms or warheads at on time-a very potent and, if nothing else,
cost-effective device.

Seedeck knew a lot about the X-ray laser satellites that would be used
with Ice Fortress-the Atlantis carried five of them in her cargo bay,
and it would be Seedeck's job to load them into the launch cylinder on
Ice Fortress.

Seedeck now attached the cable to the front of the central launch
cylinder and turned back toward Atlantis. While Seedeck had been
inspecting Ice Fortress, Bates had been putting on his own spacesuit
and was just emerging from the airlock when Seedeck completed his
inspection.

"Seedeck to Atlantis. The inventory appears OK.No damage. We'll be
ready to proceed at any time."

"COPY," Woods replied.

"This is Bates. I copy. "Bates had moved into Atlantis, cargo bay and
had begun to unlock the canisters containing the partially disassembled
Ice Fortress satellites. His job would be to remove the mountains of
packing material from the satellites, then reassemble the component
parts. It would not and it would become an actual nuclear device until
reassembly, not even be possible to arm it until it was installed in
its launch tube on Ice Fortress.

Meanwhile, Seedeck had returned to Atlantis. He maneuvered over to the
cable reel and activated its motor, tightening the cable. He
double-checked the controls. To avoid breaking the cable, a friction
clutch device would keep the cable tight during small shifts in
distance or motion between Atlantis and Ice Fortress and an emergency
disconnect button would open the pawl on Ice Fortress and release the
cable. The release could be activated by Bates from the cargo bay, by
Seedeck from Ice Fortress, or by Woods inside Atlantis. Seedeck then
attached a plastic saddle onto the cable that rode along it on a Teflon
track.

"Guide ready, Atlantis," Seedeck reported. He carefully maneuvered
closer above Bates, who was putting the finishing touches on the first
X-ray laser satellite. The satellite, its leadzinc rods folded along
its sides, was well over ten feet in diameter and, at least on earth,
weighed over a ton; Bates handled the massive object like a
beachball.

"Ready," Bates said, and unhooked the remaining strap holding the huge
satellite from its stowage cradle in the cargo bay. Using a hydraulic
lift on the cradle, Bates raised the cradle a few inches, then suddenly
stopped it. The satellite continued to float up out of the cargo bay
and right into Seedeck's waiting arms.

Seedeck grabbed a handhold on the satellite and steered it easily
toward the saddle. As if he had been doing this procedure all his
life, he expertly clamped the cylindrical satellite onto the saddle and
steadied it along the cable.

Although the satellite was weightless, Seedeck was careful not to
forget that the thing still had two thousand pounds' worth of mass to
corral-it was hard to get it to stop moving once it got going. He
attached a safety line between the saddle and the satellite, and the
satellite was secured.

"Heading toward the inventory with number one," Seedeck reported.

Despite himself, Bates had to chuckle at the sight.

Seedeck had maneuvered over the satellite and had sat down on top of
it, as if he were sitting on a huge tom-tom drum. He was gripping the
satellite with his boots and knees, riding atop five hundred pounds of
high explosives and ninety-eight pounds of uranium. One tiny nudge on
his right-hand MMU control, and he and the satellite slid along the
two-thousand-foot-long cable toward Ice Fortress.

It turned out to be a very efficient way of getting the X-ray laser
satellite to the platform. In two minutes, Seedeck and his mount eased
their way toward Ice Fortress, carefully slowing to a stop with gradual
spurts of the MMU's nitrogen-gas thrusters. As Woods and the crew of
Atlantis watched through telephoto closed-circuit cameras, Seedeck
jetted away from the satellite, maneuvered underneath it, unhooked the
safety strap and latch, and slid the satellite away from the saddle.

Seedeck gave the saddle a push, and it skittered back down the cable to
Atlantis.

Using a set of utility arms mounted on the MMU, Seedeck guided the
satellite toward the open center launcher. With the ease acquired from
several days practicing the maneuver in the huge NASA training pool in
Texas, Seedeck guided the device straight into the launcher. Once the
laser satellite was inserted a few feet into the tube, a pair of
fingerlike clips latched onto the satellite and pulled it back into the
tube. Seedeck waited until he felt a faint CLICK as the unobtrusive
yet frightening device seated itself against the arming plate at the
back of the tube.

"Atlantis, this is Seedeck. Confirm number one latched into
position.

"Stand by," Woods told him. He relayed the request to Mission
Control.

The answer came back a few moments later.

"Seedeck, this is Atlantis. Control confirms number one in position.

" "Roger, Atlantis. Returning to Orbiter."

It took Seedeck two minutes to return to Atlantis' cargo bay, where
Bates had another satellite ready for him. The saddle had slid the two
thousand feet all the way back to Atlantis with Seedeck's one little
push.

"Seedeck is back in the bay, Admiral," Bates reported.

"Copy. Stand by. "Woods relayed to Houston that no one was near the
Fortress.

A few minutes later Woods reported: "Control reports full
connectivity.

The inventory is on-line. Good job, Rich. You're hustling out
there.

Seedeck nodded as Bates gave him a thumbs-up. The Fortress was now
operational. It was America's first strategic defense device, the
first of the "Star Wars" weapons-and the first time nuclear weapons had
been placed in orbit around the Earth.

"Forty-five minutes from start to finish each," Seedeck asked. "Should
be done by dinnertime."

"It's my turn to cook," Admiral Woods asked. "Thermostabilized beef
with barbecue sauce, rehydratable cauliflower with cheese, irradiated
green beans with mushrooms. Yurn.

"I ordered the quarter-pounder with cheese, Admiral," Seedeck
protested. Bates was smiling as he watched the navy commander maneuver
the second X-ray laser satellite onto the saddle. Moments later,
Seedeck was riding along the cable toward the menacing latticework
square in the distance.

"That's the one thing I miss up here," Bates said as he turned back
toward unpacking and reassembling the next satellite.

Bates noticed the first light, a bright deep flash of orange that
illuminated everything. It got brighter and brighter until it flooded
out his eyesight, then turned to bright white. It was as if Seedeck
had come back and pushed him in the side, rolling him over, or as if
Seedeck had slid the saddle back along the cable and it had come back
and hit him in the backpack. Bates sn't wearing an MMU, but he was
secured to the forward bulkhead of Atlantis above the airlock hatch by
his tether.

There was no sound, no trace of anything actually wrong. It felt .

.

. playful, in a way. It was easy to forget you were in space. The
work was so easy, everything was so quiet. It felt playful Bates spun
upside down and slammed against the left forward corner of the cargo
bay. Some invisible hand held him pinned against the bulkhead. The
only sound he heard was a hiss over his headset. He tried to blink
away the stars that squeezed across his vision.

He opened his eyes. Seedeck and the second X-ray laser satellite were
gone.

"Atlantis, this is Bates Nothing. Only a hiss. He found it hard to
breathe. The pressure wasn't hurting him, only squeezing him
tight-like a strong hug .. .

"Atlantis .. . ?"

"Seedeck. Rich, answer. "It was Woods. The hiss had subsided,
replaced by Admiral Woods on the command radio.

"Atlantis, this is Bates. What's wrong?What-?"

An even brighter flash of light, a massive globe of redorange light
that seemed to dull even the brilliant glow of the Earth itself. Bates
opened his eyes, and a cry forced itself to his lips.

A brilliant shaft of light a dozen feet in diameter appeared from
nowhere. It was as if someone had drawn a thick line of light from
Earth across to Ice Fortress. The silvery surface of Ice Fortress'
armor seemed to take on the same weird redorange glow, then the beam of
light disappeared.

A split-second later a terrific explosion erupted from the open end of
the launch cylinder aboard Ice Fortress. A tongue of fire several
yards long spit from the earthward side of the station. Sparks and
arcs of electricity sputtered from one of the spindly sides, and Ice
Fortress started a slow, lazy roll backward, sending showers of sparks
and debris flying in all directions. Bates ducked as the cable
connecting Atlantis to the space station snapped back and hit the
forward bulkhead of the
Al
cargo bay Bates' voice was a scream. "Commander Seedeck. Oh, Bates
heard Admiral Woods report. "We have lost Ice Fortress. Repeat, we
have lost Ice Fortress. Bright orange light, then massive explosion.

One crewman missing.

" This is Bates. What's-T' "Bates, this is Admiral Woods. Where are
you?You all right?"

Bates reached up with his left hand for one of the handholds on the
forward bulkhead, found that the pressure was all but gone.

"I fell into the cargo bay. I'm okay-" Just then a sword of pain
stabbed into his skull and he cried out into the open communications
panel.

"Bates .. . T' Bates looked down. The lower part of his left leg was
sticking out at a peculiar angle from his body.

"Oh God .. . I think I broke my leg.

"Can you make it to the airlock?"

"Admiral, this is Connors. I can suit up and-" God .. . " "Mission
Control, this is Atlantis "Not if you haven't been pre-breathing,"
Woods told him.

"Everyone, make a fast station check, report any damage, then get on
the cameras. Find Seedeck. Connors, Matsumo, get a POS and start
pre-breathing. Bates, can you make it back to the airlock?"Bates
grabbed the handhold. He expected a tough time hauling himself upright
but suddenly found he had to keep from flinging himself up out of the
cargo bay in his weightless condition. Slowly, he began to haul
himself back toward the airlock hatch.

"Bates, what happened out there?"

"God, it looked like .. . like one of the damn projectiles laser
satellites had numerous safety devices to prevent an detonated, " Bates
said as he crawled for the airlock. The X-ray accidental nuclear
detonation, but the reaction chamber needed a big explosion to start
the atomic chain reaction, and those explosives had no safety
devices.

Something, some massive burst of energy, had set off the five hundred
pounds of high explosives in the satellite's reaction chamber.

Just as he safely reached the airlock, Bates looked back to Ice
Fortress. It took him a moment to spot it again, several hundred yards
from where it had been a few moments before.

It was lazily, almost playfully spinning away, its radars and antennas
and electronic eyes and spindly arms flopping about as if it was waving
goodbye. Occasionally a shower of sparks erupted from its surface.

And a trail of debris hovered in its wake, as if it were dropping
crumbs on the trail to help find its way back .. .

Commander Richard Seedeck left nothing. Nothing was left of him.

WASHINGTON, D.C. The President examined a large wall-sized chart
projected on the rear wall of the White House Situation Room. He ran a
finger over the black line, making sure it ran right through
Kavaznya.

The line wasn't quite straight--Arawn by a computer, the Great Circle
course was a series of straight lines representing dozens of heading
changes. But it was the shortest istance, the President knew, to an
encounter that now seemed unavoidable.

General Wilbur Curtis and his aide stood behind their chairs watching
the President. Curtis knew that the President was looking at something
no other American president had ever seen-a chart of an actual
peacetime attack plan against the Soviet Union. Even though hundreds
of such plans existed, none had ever been presented to the President
for his direct approval.

After quickly examining the chart, the President took his seat at the
head of the oval table. Curtis kept watching the President as the
other advisers all took their seats after him.

Dark rings had formed under the President's eyes, he was noticeably
thinner, and his shoulders drooped.

Well, it was a terrible strain on all of them, because this young
President relied so heavily on his advisors in foreign affairs. He was
extremely effective when it came to domestic problems and he was
immensely popular at home, but overseas it was a different matter. He
and his Cabinet had tried to convince the world that the Soviet Union
was threatening the United States, trying to provoke a conflict-but few
believed him, mostly because they were afraid to find out it was the
truth. The consequences of that were too scary. The war of words had
reduced Secretary of State Marshall Brent as well.

His usual polish and spirit were noticeably dimmed.

Now, the laser had taken another life, and the President was looking at
what he feared most-a direct assault against Kavaznya. In the
U.S.S.R.

. . .

Assembled were his National Security Council, his Cabinet and the Joint
Chiefs of Staff. They had already held a hastily formed meeting of
their own. Now it was time for them to present the plan they had come
up with.

"Let's have it, General," the President said, prompting the chairman of
the Joint Chiefs. Wilbur Curtis nodded and stood.

"Yes, sir," the general began. "Two B-1B Excaliburs from the new Tenth
Bombardment Wing at Ellsworth Air Force Base will execute this
mission.

Yesterday they were flown from Dreamland, where they were undergoing
design modification, to Ellsworth, where each was armed with two
AGM-130

Striker TV-infrared-guided bombs. Per your order, sir. It's the
largest non-nuclear standoff weapon in our arsenal. It uses a small
strap-on rocket motor to glide as far as fifteen miles from a
low-altitude release, and it has the explosive power of one ton of
TNT.

The bombardier can steer it to its target using a TV eye in the nose,
or it can lock-on to a target with an infrared seeker.

"Two Strikers, General?"

"An added insurance factor, sir. Two weapons targeted for the same
point. If the first weapon fails to detonate, the second, impacting
five seconds later, will take out the target. If the first works, the
second bomb will be destroyed in the blast. The second aircraft
insures destruction of the primary target and has the additional task
of air defense suppression."

There was a rustle of uneasiness, even from those who had been in on
the entire Kavaznya crisis from the start. This was not an exercise or
simulation Curtis was talking about.

"The bombers have been equipped with the standard coded switch and
permissive-action-link security arrangements," Curtis continued.

"Those are the electronic switches between the weapons and the
bombardiers' control panels. We're treating the Strikers just like
nuclear weapons-no prearming or launch possible without a coded strike
message from you, sir, transmitted via satellite communications or
normal U.H.F traflic and entered into those switches. Two of the most
experienced Excalibur crews will fly the missions-both senior
Standardization-Evaluation crews. They've been briefed and are
standing by.

"The aircraft will follow the routing as shown," Curtis said, pointing
to the large computer-drawn chart. "From Ellsworth, they'll fly
through Canada and then through Alaska. They'll be refueled by two
KC-10 tankers out of Eielson Air Force Base, then proceed northward to
the Arctic Ocean. They'll orbit just north of Point Barrow, in their
SNOWTIME exercise orbit area, and wait for your first authorization
message. The SAC Green Pine communications center at Point Barrow will
relay the message.

"They will not be allowed to prearm the weapons at this point. If they
are ordered to remain in this orbit area, it will appear to any outside
observers as just another SNOWTIME arctic defense exercise. SAC holds
them several times a year.

Both the Russians and the Canadians are accustomed to our bombers
orbiting the Arctic Ocean on training missions.

"If they receive the first strike authorization, the aircraft will
continue southwest to approximately sixty-seven degrees north latitude,
escorted by the second group of KC-10 tankers. They will orbit in open
airspace over the Chukchi Sea, north of Siberia, and wait for the
second strike authorization messageif we haven't transmitted both
messages at the same time. If they receive the second authorization,
they finish their final refueling and head over the target."

"How accustomed are outside observers to bombers orbiting so close to
Russia?"Secretary of Defense Thomas Preston asked. "That's not one
of our usual operating areas."

"True, sir," Curtis replied. "But the B-1s will still be well outside
Russian radar coverage and still well within international airspace.

It's unlikely they will even be spotted. If the Russians do detect
them, they may be suspicious, but we feel it's unlikely they will mount
any counterforce. Air defense forces are extremely light this far
north."

"Any chance of that laser attacking the B-1s?"the President asked.

He still could not believe the explanation he had been given for why
the laser had managed to knock out the Fortress.

By timing their attack when they did, the Russians had managed to hit
the space platform when the X-ray satellite launch cylinder was open
and exposed. Had they waited only a few hours later, all the X-ray
satellites would have been armed and the cylinder would have been
closed.

"No chance, sir. "The President looked skeptical.

"The Soviets have to find a target before they can hit it, sir.

The B-1s won't be in range of the main tracking radar at Kavaznya until
much later, within twenty or thirty miles of the target-they'll be
terrain-masking in the mountains along the Kamchatka peninsula until
then-and by the time the radar does spot them they'll be within range
of the Striker glide bomb.

"But the orbiting mirror?"

"They used the orbiting mirror against an I.C.B.M four hundred miles
up," Curtis asked. "An I.C.B.M with its motors running and red-hot
climbing through the atmosphere is an easy target to be tracked by
infrared-seeking satellites, and the Soviets have a data-link setup
with the laser to attack I.C.B.Ms tracked by satellite. An aircraft
flying only seven miles high can't be tracked accurately by an enemy
satellite. They can't hit what they can't see. But if they somehow
did fire the laser against the B-1s, we feel the dissipation of heat
from shooting through the atmosphere, then reflecting the beam down
through the atmosphere again would dilute the energy sufficiently for
the aircraft to escape. No, sir, the B-1s are safe from the laser
until close to Kavaznya. Then, the standoff range of the Strikers will
keep them away from the laser. The laser should be destroyed before it
can get a shot off."

Curtis now moved his pointer down into Asia. "Our people encounter
little resistance or even chance of detection until fairly close to the
target. They drop to low altitude just prior to crossing the north
coast of Siberia, just before entering highaltitude warning radar c
overage around the town of Ust-Chaun, but they can return to high
altitude all across eastern Siberia to save fuel until approaching the
northern edge of the Kamchatka peninsula. They drop to
terrain-following attitudes down the Korakskiy and Sredinny mountain
ranges to the target."

Curtis changed the slide, showing a greatly enlarged overhead
photograph. "This is the latest satellite reconnaissance photo we have
of Kavaznya, Mr. President, taken early last year. The B-1's primary
target is here. "Curtis switched to an even more highly magnified
view.

"This is the mirror housing, a large dome maybe forty feet in diameter
from which, the CIA believes, the laser beam is projected into space.

Two Strikers will be programmed to impact here. Another glide-bomb is
programmed for the main area and another is programmed for Ossora laser
tracking rad Airfield north and east of Kavaznya.

"As you can see, sir, the mirror housing is very isolatedthe rest of
the complex, except for the nuclear power plant, is underground. The
nuclear power plant is considered an alternate target. If the crew
experiences-" "No," the President asked. "Not the power plant, for
God's sake. We might as well drop a nuke on them if we destroy a
nuclear power plant. I won't be blamed for another Chernobyl.

No alternative target. If the B-1s can't attack the mirror dome, they
don't go."

Curtis, not altogether happy with that, nodded, then again switched to
a map of the North Pacific. "After their attack, the B-1s get back
into the mountains and stay there at terrainfollowing altitudes until
they exit low altitude radar coverage, then cross the water toward
Alaska. Possible landing sites are Attu, Shrmya, Elmendorf, and
Eielson.

"After landing, they'll refuel and return to Ellsworth .. .

undoubtedly they will be regenerated and put on hard Slop strategic
nuclear alert."

"If the base still exists," someone n#ittered.

The President stared at the sortie chartz' "It seems too .. .

easy," the President muttered.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. President?"

"It seems too simple," the President said, not much louder.

Curtis strained to hear. "Where are the defenses) You've told me for
years about stiff Russian air defenses. Here .. .

there's no threat?"

"The target area is still heavily defended, the defenses include-" "The
Excaliburs can make it, General?"the President interrupted. "They
can get in?"

Curtis turned to Lieutenant-General Bradley James Elliott, who stood
and faced the President.

"Gener al Elliott," the President asked. "Good to see you again. Well,
what's your opinion, Brad?Can they make it?"

"I think so, sir. With the new equipment we've tested at Dreamland and
built into these B-1s, they should stand a hell of a lot even see the
chance. At low altitude, the Russians won't launch Excaliburs until
forty, fifty, maybe sixty nautical miles from the target- At nine miles
a minute, the Excaliburs will be on top of them before fighters could
ever launch-and at two hundred feet in the mountains it'll be
impossible to find them.

If they are attacked the Excaliburs have the fuel reserves for a
supersonic sprint across the target, and they have specialized jammers,
antiradar missiles, and even flying decoys to handle surface-to-air
missiles. But the Strikers will be launched fifteen miles from the
laser facility, so the B-1s can stay in the mountains all the way."

The President looked away and stared at the enlarged photograph of
Kavaznya, then turned back to his advi sets.

"I know what you're thinking. This attack, the last thing any of us
have wanted even to consider, now looks as if it will happen .. . our
repeated attempts in the past few days to Move the Soviets from their
inflexible position have failed.

Diplomatic channels remain open and it's still my hope that Secretary
Brent will somehow get a commitment from the Soviets that will let me
order these B-1s to scrub their mission.

But if he doesn't and I am forced to give the strike order, I want it
very clear to everyone that what we will be conducting is, in a real
sense, a police action. Every effort has been made to control and
contain the scope of this mission. We do not want war with the
Soviets. We do not want a nuclear exchange. But we must face the fact
that the existence of the laser facility and the Soviet Union's Policy
of a peacetime quarantine of Asia will ( ventually cripple our ability
to defend ourselves against attac or to mount a second strike in
reprisal. We must, it seems, take this action now, with its inherent
risks, to avoid the certainty of far greater risks later .. . General
Curtis, go over the fail-safe procedures again.

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs stood. "Sir, we need a direct order
from you to launch the two bombers, a second one to allow them to
proceed past the established SNOWTIME arctic exercise orbit area they
usually operate in, and we need a third, separate order to allow the
bombers to cross the fail-safe point and prearm their missiles. The
third message is their authorization to strike.

"Bombers will continuously monitor SATCOM and HF radios for coded
recall or termination instructions, and they can be recalled at any
time. They cannot proceed on their missions unless they have two
one-hundred-percent operable missiles and an aircraft that meets their
tactical doctrine specifications.

Our communications satellites will be programmed to automatically
transmit a recall message every half hour unless we instruct them not
to. So if communications are disrupted the mission will automatically
terminate."

The President nodded, looked around the room. No one else offered any
comment or suggestion. After an unendurably long moment, the President
reached down and opened the redcovered folder prepared for him the day
before. He broke the sea] and reviewed the document inside authorizing
the first step of Curtis' plan.

DREAmLAND
Patrick McLanahan was sitting alone in the semidarkness of his cramped,
rickety wooden barracks room when he heard a faint knock on the door.

He smiled and opened it.

Standing in the doorway, wearing a dark gray flight jacket, fliehtsuit
and insulated winter flying boots just like his own, was his partner,
Dave Luger. Luger had his hands thrust in his pockets and was
scuffling the sand around with his toes.

"Ready to go, Muck?"he said, still poking around in the dirt.

McLanahan glanced at his watch and looked at the sky. "Oh
seven-hundred hours," he asked. "You're a bit late, aren't you?"Luger
checked his watch and shrugged.

"What difference does it make?Last two days, there hasn't been any
reason to be on time. All we've been doing is sitting on our
behinds.

McLanahan had turned to pick up his jacket, which was slung over the
bedpost behind him. "Wait a minute," he said, glancing over his
shoulder. "What am I hearing?Is this the same guy who has been
bitching for the past two months about the hours we've been putting
in?

The same guy who every night for three weeks threatened to strangle me
for arranging it so he'd be brought here to Dreamland?"

Luger fell into his ever-familiar gunfighter's slouch. "Yeah, well, I
still don't have fond memories of Lieutenant Briggs barging in on me
while I was with Sharon to say that I was going to be taking a little
trip. And having that prima donna Anderson on my ass fourteen hours a
day hasn't been any picnic either. But ever since those B-1s lit out
for Ellsworth two days ago, it's been boring as hell. I mean, what the
hell is there to do if you're not in the simulator or out on a training
jaunt?"

"Not a damn thing," McLanahan said as he closed the door to his room
and locked it. Actually, that wasn't true, he thought. He had been
able to spend more time with Wendy these past couple days, and was
thankful for that. It was the first real chance he'd had since she
came back with the other civilians working on the project to get past
that stony facade she put up and find out what she was about. Before
these past two days, even in their late-night study sessions together,
she had stayed detached. Now, after spending some relaxed hours with
her, he understood better the reason for her detachment.

She wanted first and foremost to be accepted as a professional, as
someone who could step into any man's role and perform with maximum
efficiency. He guessed she'd had a tough time in this male-dominated
Air Force world, and that concealing a part of herself-the part that
was soft and feminine-had after a while become an automatic defense.

He couldn't help comparing her to Catherine, whose privileged
upbringing had made her much more self-assured and outgoing and yet
well, less interesting .. .

"Hey, Pat," Luger said as they walked to the briefing shack, why do you
suppose Elliott called a meeting this morning?

Think he's going to give us our walking papers?"

"Maybe it's more than that."

"What do you mean?"

McLanahan continued walking. They were nearing the women's barracks.

"Well, it seems to me that we wouldn't have spent all that time testing
out that equipment on the Old Dog, and then installing equivalent
systems in those B-1s, if the B-1s weren't being used for something.

Maybe something big. Take that terrain cartridge we were testing
before the B-1s left. Well, Bill Dalton, the nav for Zero-Six-Four,
said something about it corresponding to an area over the Sarir
Calanscio Desert in Libya. That's complete bull. Those planes will be
flying through the mountains," Both men were silent for a moment, lost
in their own thoughts. "Hey, there's Wendy and Angelina," Luger said,
spotting the two coming out of the women's barracks. He waved to them
and the four joined up a few yards short of the briefing shack.

see we're not the only ones who're late," Angelina Pereira said with a
smile. She was the only one of them not wearing a flightsuit. Nice
lady, McLanahan thought to him self. Nice and tough.

She reminded him a little bit of his mother. He nodded toward Luger.

"Dave here had to get his beauty sleep. Good buddy that I am, I
decided to wait for him."

Wendy looked worried. "Pat," she said, "do you have any idea why
General Elliott called us together?"

McLanahan shrugged. "I expect we'll find out soon enough," he said as
he opened the door to the shack.

General Bradley Elliott removed a pair of sunglasses and looked out
over his captive audience. He wore a thick green nylon winter-weight
flight jacket over a set of standard starched Air Force fatigues with
subdued green and black name tags, a subdued Strategic Air Command
patch, and subdued black stars on his collar. He propped himself on a
desk at the front of the room and twirled his sunglasses absently.

"Well, I'm glad that all of you have seen fit to put in an appearance,"
Elliott asked. "Even if a bit late. "He looked at the four stragglers
who had just entered the room.

"I've called all of you here," he said, "to provide some explanation
for the events of the past two days, and of the past few months. As
most of you have surmised, the improvements and modifications we made
in those two Excaliburs were not implemented on the off chance that
they might prove of use at some future date. They were carried out
with a definite purpose in mind. "Elliott paused to stare at the faces
around the room. Directly in front of him, Colonel James Anderson sat
straight in his chair. To his immediate left was Lewis Campos, his
forehead shiny with sweat. At the back of the room, Patrick McLanahan
sat staring at the floor, his legs straight out.

"Ladies and gentlemen "Elliot said, 'approximately twenty-five minutes
ago two B-1s-the B-1s you've worked on these past few months-took off
from Ellsworth Air Force Base. They are launching as part of a
possible strike force on an area in the Soviet Union."

There was a collective gasp from those in the room.

McLanahan felt suddenly sick to his stomach. He looked over at Luger
and shook his head.

"I said possible. They'll orbit in narrowing circles near Russia while
the politicians still work for a negotiated solution.

If there isn't one, the B-1s go in .. ."

"A negotiated solution to what?"Lewis Campos asked, his voice rising
above other whispered comments.

"Quiet down, people," Elliott said, opened his locked briefcase,
extracted a series of photographs and handed them to Lieutenant Colonel
John Ormack, who passed each to his left.

" The photographs that are being circulated," Elliott went on "show a
facility that has been built in the Soviet Union in a small fishing
village called Kavaznya. The Soviets have built an actual
anti-satellite and anti-ballistic missile laser there. In the past few
months they've been using it."

"On what?"Dave Luger asked as McLanahan studied the satellite
reconnaissance photographs. "There hasn't been anything in the news-"
"And there won't be," General Elliott interrupted. "Injecting public
sentiment into the situation could make it more volatile than it
already is. The fact of the matter is that the Kavaznya laser has
proved very effective. Although the Russians haven't even admitted the
presence of the weapon, it has.destroyed over five billion dollars
worth of American equipment and has taken thirteen lives."

"MY God," Luger said, reflecting the collective sentiment.

"Our job is nearly finished here," Elliott continued. "I'll want all
of you to stand by for the next few hours in the unlikely event SAC
command needs your input on some aspect of the B-1s' gear that may not
be functioning correctly, but after that you'll be free to go. I've
already had the Transportation office arrange your flights back. You
also are ordered not to reveal a word of what I have just told you.

You all have topsecurity clearance, and I felt you were entitled to
know what you've been a part of. Knowing should also make you acutely
aware of the necessity of not revealing to anyone ever what you have
been doing here."

Suddenly the door to the briefing shack was thrown open and Lieutenant
Harold Briggs hurried into the room. He halted two steps away from
Elliott. "General," Briggs said, "we've got a problem.

Elliott's face turned pale- He noticed that Briggs was wearing his
short-barreled Uzi submachine pistol mounted on a shoulder harness, and
that the harness had three hand grenades clipped into it. "Hal?"

"Got a report of a light airplane that dropped off radar coverage into
the area a few minutes ago, General," Briggs asked. "Ridge-hopped in
from Vegas, we think. We've got security patrolling the area from
Dreamland on out."

"Did it make it into Dreamland?"Elliott asked. The odds against it
were tremendous-any kind of aircraft over a few hundred pounds in
weight would be picked up by a dozen different sensors patrolling the
desert.

"We're anticipating the worst. "Luger and McLanahan were already out
of their chairs.

Anderson was leaning forward, ready to move on Elliott's order.

"James," he said, "get your people over to the Old Dog's hangar right
away. They'll be safer there."

Anderson nodded and turned to the others. "All right, you heard the
general. Let's get moving."

As McLanahan hurriedly led Wendy out of the briefing shack and over to
the Old Dog's black hangar, he heard the sound of gunfire and
explosions. Looking to his left, he noticed a billowing cloud of smoke
at the entrance to the compound.

" Holy shit, " Luger said behind him, " we're under attack!" In less
than half a minute each member of the Old Dog test team was in the
hangar and McLanahan was bolting the door.

He had just turned away from the door and was heading into the bowels
of the hangar when he heard a pounding outside and Elliott's voice. He
opened the door for General Elliott and Briggs.

"It's more serious than we thought," Elliott told Anderson, who had
moved forward to join them. "You must-" He never finished. The first
explosion was felt rather than seen. Its impact point was on the far
corner of the black hangar, on the roof. To Elliott, it felt as if the
entire four-acre roof above their heads was vibrating like a sheet of
tin.

Elliott and Ormack were thrown off their feet by the shock wave.

Anderson tumbled against the Old Dog's front wheels, landing on his
head and shoulders.

Briggs managed to stay on his feet. Still gripping his Uzi, he helped
Elliott up off the hangar floor.

"Take cover, General," Briggs said as the second explosion came, three
times more powerful than the first. A fifty-foot hole was blown into
the roof a hundred feet from the Old Dog's left wingtip, showering the
wing with bits of metal and concrete. The wall beneath the hole ripped
open as if someone had pulled a giant zipper down the side of the black
hangar all the way to the ground. An acetylene line burst and flames
shot skyward. Automatic gunfire erupted outside the open mouth of the
hangar. The opening was filled with running workers and armed security
police trying to spot the attackers and dodge the stampede of terrified
workers. Bodies began to fall.

Elliott shook debris out of his hair and struggled to clear his eyes
and throat of dust and gas. He turned and saw the first impact point
on the far corner, the second right beside the bomber, and the gunfire
outside the hangar. He did not need to be a general to realize that
the next mortar round was going to be right over their heads and that
more bodies were going to pile up outside.

"John. "He grabbed Ormack and put his mouth next to his ear. "Get
aboard. Start 'em up."

"What?"

"The engines. Start 'em up. Get this thing moving."

"Moving?"

"Taxi the goddamn plane out of here, they're going to blow this place
apart. Move. "He shoved Ormack toward the hatch.

Ormack tumbled to the polished concrete floor, and for a split second
Elliott thought he wasn't going to get up. Then Ormack scrambled up on
his hands and knees, found the boarding hatch, and climbed inside.

"Campos, Pereira. "He found the defensive system operator and his
assistant stumbling around the bomber's right wing, bumping into the
Scorpion pylon, not sure which way to turn or run. Elliott grabbed
them both by the necks, ducked them under the bomber's belly. "Get
aboard."

Angelina reacted instantly, scrambling up the ladder. Campos,
confused, watched as his assistant disappeared inside. He turned to
Elliott.

"No, I can't "Get up there, goddammit.

"I won't get into that thing. "Campos used his bony elbows and fists
and broke free, bolted toward the open hangar door, ignoring bursts of
gunfire erupting all around him. He crashed against the edge of the
hangar opening and paused, then turned and took one last look at the
black bomber.

s," Elliott ordered, "take cover "Campo Too late. Just as Elliott
called out Campos turned and ran outside. As he turned, a third
explosion tore into the front of the black hangar, ripping out the
entire left side of the building, and Campos disappeared in a blinding
flash of light and a screech of burning, shattering metal. The left
side of the hangar opening sagged and crashed to the floor.

Elliott could only watch and duck as the hangar opening crashed down
and bullets whistled around him. He turned and saw Anderson just
getting to his feet at the front of the plane, his head and face
bleeding.

Elliott hurried over to help Anderson climb aboard the bomber. He felt
a sting on his right calf, reached down and his hand came back covered
with blood. He put his right leg down to stop himself and see what was
wrong. It refused to support his weight and he sagged helplessly to
the floor.

"General," Anderson said, crawling over to where Elliott lay bleeding,
"we've got to get out One of Anderson's eyes refused to stay steady,
rolling from side to side.

"Get on board," Elliott ordered. A high-pitched scream issued from the
number four engine. Anderson turned and saw exhaust fumes bellowing
from the nacelle.

"The engines .. . they're starting "Ormack's on board. Get going."

Elliott noticed a huge gash on Anderson's head, struggled to push
himself off the floor to help Anderson get to the hatch. The scream of
the engine changed to a roar, and soon the number five engine
sounded.

"Jim hurry Elliott managed to rise to his left leg. As he did a line
of six red holes, big as quarters, appeared on Anderson's gray
flightsuit from his collar bone to right thigh. Anderson did not seem
to notice. He continued to walk toward the open hatch, then stumbled
into the bomber's sleek black side and crashed to the floor, leaving a
red streak on the Old Dog's polished surface.

Suddenly Hal Briggs was beside Elliott, firing his automatic pistol
one-handed at whatever moved outside. Again he dragged the general to
his feet, the Uzi smoking in his right fist. "We've got to get you on
the plane, General."

"No, I've got- "Get on that plane.

"Chocks .. . got to disconnect the-" "I've done all that, General.

Chocks, air, power, pins, streamers. Now get your ass on board."
Briggs fired at a running figure in the doorway, then hauled the
resisting general up into the hatch, where a pair of
handsMcLanahan's-grabbed the general by the lapels of his fatigues and
hauled his feet clear of the hatch.

"Briggs," Elliott yelled. "Get up here, now."

McLanahan put Elliott's hands on the ladder, and the general realized
what he had and pulled himself painfully up to the upper deck.

McLanahan then turned back to the open hatch and extended a hand to
Briggs, who was on one knee, firing into the distance.

"Get on board, you jerk," McLanahan said.

"Not my plane, my friend," he said as a loud ringing started in
McLanahan's ears. "Adios."

Briggs was gone, and a second later the hatch snapped shut and the
outside latch locked into position.

McLanahan was about to open the hatch, but the Megafortress made an
incredible lurch and he was thrown toward the back of the offensive
crew compartment.

"We're movin'," Luger said in amazement.

"Either that or they just blew half the fucking plane away," McLanahan
said, got back to his feet and went for the ladder to the upper deck.

What McLanahan saw on the upper deck made his guts turn.

Wendy Tork and Angelina Pereira were standing over a dazed and bleeding
Bradley Elliott. Pereira had been knocked off her feet by the sudden
motion of the bomber and was just regaining her balance, her jeans and
blue workshirt covered with blood.

Elliott looked as if he had been wading in red dye. His right leg was
covered with dark, clotted blood. Blood was everywhere--on Pereira, on
Tork, on Elliott, on the deck, on the circuit breaker
panels-everywhere. Wendy was trying to wrap an arm of her flight
jacket around the two large openings in Elliott's calf. Elliott
himself was hovering just above consciousness; awake enough to feel the
intense pain, groggy enough to be unable to move or help anyone. Sweat
poured down his face.

McLanahan. "Ormack swung around in his seat. "Get up here. "Ormack
was in the co-pilot's seat, checking the gauges.

McLanahan half-ran, half-crawled up front and knelt between the pilot
and co-pilot's seats. He stared out through the sleek cockpit windows
over the drooping needle nose of the Old Dog.

"We're moving."

"Damn right," Ormack said, "Sit down. Help me."

McLanahan stared at Ormack.

"Well, sit down. "Ormack grabbed McLanahan by the jacket and yanked
him forward into the pilot's seat. He grabbed Anderson's headset and
slappej it over his head.

"We taking off?"

"If we can," Ormack said.

"We have clearance?"

"I got an order. From him."ormack jerked a thumb toward Elliott.

"He owns the six thousand square miles we're sitting on, not to mention
this plane. And this hangar, which they're about to blow up on to.

Now listen. Just watch the gauges-RPMs, fuel flow the left."

Ormack pushed , EGTs. If anything looks like it's winding down,
yell.

Watch me on the throttle forward, and the huge plane rushed toward the
hangar opening.

"The door's down, we won't make it. Cut it right-" Ormack gripped the
wheel, moved the steering ratio lever on the center console from
TAKEOFF LAND to TAXI, nudged the right rudder pedal. The bomber swung
gently to the right.

Ormack reached down to the center console and moved the steering ratio
lever back to TAKEOFF LAND."That's all the room I got."

"I don't think it'll make it McLanahan watched as the hangar door came
toward them.

Before they reached the opening he saw Hal Briggs kneeling at the door
opening, trying to take cover behind a fallen steel beam. Letting the
Uzi He saw the wingtip rushing toward drop onto its neck strap, Briggs
held his hands out and apart as far as he could, gave McLanahan a
thumbs-up, then took off at a dead run outside the hangar.

"How're we looking?"

"Hal said four feet."

"Four feet what?"

His answer was a head-pounding, wrenching scream of metal that
thundered from the left wingtip. The Old Dog veered sharply to the
left. A less painful but still frightening crunch of metal exploded
from the right wingtip.

Ormack looked at the fuel gauges. "We lost the left tiptank.

Maybe both of them."

McLanahan didn't want to look back. All he could see were dozens of
bodies littering the road ahead of them, a burning fuel truck and
overturned security police trucks. There was still a handful of cops
firing into the wooden barracks outside the fence surrounding the black
hangar.

"Lucky this whole dry lake is a runway," McLanahan said.

Ormack nodded. "Just watch the gauges. I hope they can get the fence
open-" A Jeep pulled up beside them, sped ahead of the bomber
easily-although Ormack had jammed the Old Dog's eight throttles up as
far as they could go, the half-million-pound bomber accelerated
slowly.

Z "It's Hal!"

In the distance McLanahan could see Briggs' Jeep speed toward the
closed gates. He could tell brakes were being applied, but the Jeep
crashed headlong into the right side of the gate going at least fifty
miles an hour. Intentionally or not, it did the trick. The right side
of the wide gate burst open. The Jeep did two full donuts in the
sand-covered concrete, then came to a stop. Steam poured out of the
radiator. The right side of the gate was half-open, the Jeep was
stalled on the runway driveway, and the left side of the gate was free
but still closed.

"C'mon, buddy," McLanahan murmured, "you can do it. "The distance
between the bomber and the gate was decreasing rapidly. Briggs was
trying to get the Jeep restarted. He gave it a few seconds, then
jumped out and started pushing.

Ormack brought the throttles back to idle, which seemed to make no
difference.

"We gotta slow down."

As if in reply, three mortar shells exploded in front of the bomber.

Briggs tripped and sprawled in the sand. Another explosion created a
huge waterspout of sand off the right wing, and Briggs and his Jeep
were lost in the rolling cloud.

The explosions rocked the bomber as if it were caught in a typhoon.

Ormack checked the airspeed. "Seventy knots. If we hit the brakes at
this speed, they'll explode. We can't stop in time anyway. Briggs
Briggs had managed to get the Jeep cleared off the runway behind the
fence. He ran over and hauled on the right side of the gate. The
heavy wide fence slowly opened. Briggs sprinted through the sandstorm
and pulled on the left gate. A securing pole was dragging in the sand,
and Briggs had to throw his entire skinny body against the fence to
move it.

"It's stuck," Ormack said.

"This is going to be a real short flight if he doesn't open that gate,"
McLanahan said.

But the fence wasn't moving. Briggs' legs were pumping, his once
spit-shined boots scraping against the sand, but it wasn't helping.

half-open when Briggs slipped and slumped The fence was to the sand,
then rolled to his right to jump back to his feet. As he did he saw
the Old Dog.

The aircraft looked like a gigantic pterodactyl coming toward him. And
the pencil nose of the bomber, tilted down for takeoff, was aimed right
at his heart.

Briggs jumped up, his eyes on the monster with wings speeding toward
him, and body-tackled the fence. The fence jumped a few feet, but
Briggs kept on going, his legs didn't stop pumping until the blast of
the eight turbofan jet engines swept him off his feet and into the
fence.

"He did it," McLanahan said.

"We aren't out of it yet. "Ormack slowly throttled up to full power,
then reached down and hit the flap switch. "After the fence we got
three miles of concrete left. It'll take another minute to get the
flaps down, another minute to accelerate this pig to rotate speed. We
run out of hard surface in less than a minute.

McLanahan finally found the flap indicator. "It's not moving .. . "
"It probably jammed during one of those explosions," Ormack said,
holding tight to the wheel."it might take them longer to come down-or
the flap motors will burn out. One or the other.

The indicator moved to ten percent. Twenty percent. A pause-then a
longer pause. Thirty percent. The bomber began to.rattle.

"Forty percent. "McLanahan scanned the instruments, then looked out
the window. Through the dim morning light he saw the glitter of steel
on the horizon. He stared harder. Perched directly in front of them
was a large, boxy aircraft, with some men scattered around it.

"What the hell is that?"Ormack was staring into the distance.

"It's an airplane on the concrete," McLanahan said "They're blocking
our path. "He glanced down at the flap' indicator again. Still forty
percent.

"The flaps stopped."

"We can't do it. We need the whole dry lake now. "Ormack reached down
and shut off the flap switch, freezing them at forty percent down.

"Can we rotate with the flaps stopped?"

"We'll run out of time before we hit that plane. We'll have to stop
.

. . pull the 'chute-" "Wait. "McLanahan searched the control panel
near his le it arm, finding a switch marked "DEFENSE CONSENT."He
flipped the switch from SAFE to CONSENT "Angelina. "He arched around
in his seat. "Angelina. Turn on the missiles. The forward
missiles."

"What?"

"The Scorpions. Turn 'em on.

Pereira scrambled forward, clutching onto the pilot's seat.

"Turn them on?We can't. They need to align, lock onto a target-" "I
don't need them to align. "McLanahan looked out the sloped windows.

Angelina followed his gaze, finally spotting the aircraft sitting on
the runway. They could now see the attackers trying to level a bazooka
at them. "Do it," McLanahan ordered.

Angelina hurried back to her station. To McLanahan, the wait was
excruciating. He glanced backward a few times, but as the plane rushed
forward he focused on the camouflaged attackers. There were four of
them-two firing rifles from behind the plane, two others loading the
bazooka. "Angelina "Ready," she called behind him.%, "Fire."

McLanahan threw his arms up in front of his face as he said it.

IT He never saw the results-but then, no human could see the advanced
AMRAAM air-to-air missile as it fired off the left pylon at Mach two.

The missile leapt forward on a stream of fire. The primary solid-fuel
engine had just barely reached full impulse burn when it plowed into
the plane less than a half mile in front of the Old Dog.

What McLanahan did see was a blinding flash of light and massive black
cloud of smoke and dust. A split second later.

the needlelike nose of the Old Dog plunged through the chaos Nothing
happened-no crunch of metal, no explosion of the windscreen in front of
him. A moment later the cockpit windows cleared, revealing a barrier
infinitely larger than the plane they had just blown away--the seven
thousand feet of granite called Groom Mountain.

" Go for it," McLanahan called out to Ormack.

Far behind the Megafortress, Hal Briggs had been pinned to the fence,
his face mashed into the chain link by the force of the jet blast. He
heard an explosion a few moments later, expecting the crash, the sound
of exploding fuel, waiting for the fireball to engulf him. It didn't
happen. It was an eternity until he could clear the stinging sand out
of his face and eyes and look toward the horizon.

What he saw was the Old Dog lifting off through a cloud of y and black
dust over the morning Nevada desert. A lurr of burning metal lay se
gra runway, with smoking bodies flung hundreds of feet away several
yards from the sand-covered The Old Dog hovered perhaps fifty feet
above the desert floor, nearly obscured by the cloud of dust. He could
barely see the huge wheels retract into the huge body rocket into the
clear morning air.then the aircraft rose like
"Jesus H. Christ," Briggs muttered, sitting in a three-foot drift of
sand and tumbleweeds. "They did it. They did it.

Ormack flipped a switch on the overhead console beneath the cabin
altitude indicator. Slowly the long, black needle moved upward and
snapped into position. Half the windscreen was now obscured by the
long SST nose, the windoi blending in with its sleek lines.

"Watch the instruments," Ormack said cross-cockpit. E spite the noise
inside the bomber, he and McLanahan were s' talking loud enough to be
heard without the interphone. "Ge coming up. I hope someone got all
the ground locks.

reached across and moved the gear lever up. The red light the handle
snapped on, "Instruments are okay," McLanahan said. He found the gear
and icators on the front panel beside the gear level. One by one, the
little wheel depictions on the indicators changed to crosshatch and
then to the word UP, and the bumping and screeching of tires stowing in
the wheel wells could be heard.

"Right tip gear up .. . forward mains up .. . aft mains up .. .

the left tip gear is still showing crosshatch."

Ormack cross-checked the indicator with the TIP GEAR NOT IN TRAIL
caution light-it was showing unsafe too. "It might be hanging there,
or it could be part-way up. We probably ripped out the whole left
wingtip. "He did some experimental turns left and right. "Steering
feels okay. The spoilers seem like they're still working. "He glanced
down and double-checked that he had shut off the fuel valves from the
left externals. "We can try emergency retraction later."

He ran a hand over his sweating face and scanned instru ents, left and
right, as the Megafortress cleared the snowcovered Groom Mountain ridge
line. "Looks like we lost all the eighteen thousand pounds in the left
external A tankrobably lost the whole tank. The left external B is
still with us p but it's feeding too fast, faster than the right
externals. It's probably dumping all that fuel overboard. "He shut
off the fuel transfer switch to the left external B tank. "That means
we're short about forty thousand pounds."

He looked over at McLanahan, who was still staring at the mountain
ridges sliding under the Old Dog's sleek black nose.

"Pat, check the hydraulics."

McLanahan scanned die quarter-sized hydraulic gauges on the left
control panel. At first he was diverted by the fancy schematics added
on to the panel showing the direction and metering of hydraulic power
from the six engine-driven hydraulic pumps.

"Well?"

McLanahan then noticed it. "Pressure on the left outboard spoiler-tip
gear is low."

Ormack shook his head. "Well, we're going to lose the left outboard
system pretty soon. Make sure the standby pump switch is off."

"It's off."

"We're not going to try to emergency raise the tip gear," Ormack
said.

"The entire wingtip is probably smashed. We'd deplete the hydraulic
system for nothing. "He checked airspeed and altitude. "Okay. We're
airborne. Flaps coming up.

McLanahan watched the gauge closely. A half-minute la they indicated
full-up.

"Well, something's finally working okay," Ormack asked. "Good job,"
General Elliott said above the noise in the cockpit. Ormack and
McLanahan turned in surprise. The general was standing between the two
ejection seats, nodding approval. McLanahan looked at his leg. There
was a large bandage and elastic cloth wrapped around the calf and
thigh. "How's your leg, General?"

"Hurts like hell, Patrick. Feels like something took a bite out of
it.

But Wendy and Angelina did a fine job. Lucky we got so many first aid
kits on board."

"What the hell happened, General?Who were those guys that attacked
us?"

"I'm not sure, Patrick. I was advised by intelligence of certain
rumors, but I never thought .. . it looks like now there was a leak
somewhere.

My hunch is that whoever authorized that attack expected those B-1s to
be still in Dreamland.- Elliott cleared his throat. "I'll take it now
Patrick.

"You sure you feel up to it, General?Your leg-" "I'll let John push
on the rudder pedal if I need it, Otherwise I can handle this beast.

Get everyone else on belt and oxygen and stand by for a climb check."

So saying, Elliott moved himself aside and let McLanahan climb out of
the left side seat and pass around him to go downstairs. Then with
help from Ormack, he settled himself into the pilot's ejection seat
fastened the parachute harness.

"All right," he said, readjusting the headset and placing his hands
around the yoke. "I've got the aircraft."

"Roger, you have the aircraft," Ormack acknowledg assuring positive
transfer of control with a slight shake of the control column.

"Let's clean up the after takeoff checklist. Landing gear?""Gear up,
indicating five up," Ormack replied. "Left gear is reading
crosshatch.

Left outboard hydraulic system low and will probably fail soon."

"Confirmed. "Elliott rechecked the hydraulic gauges.

be okay for the time being. Flaps.

"Lever up and off, flaps up."

"Throttles.

"Set for MRT climb. Nav, you up?"

"Nav's up," Luger replied immediately.

"Outside air temp zero, anti-ice off."

"MRT EPR two point one seven."

"Throttles set," Ormack said, checking the gauges.

"Start switches."

"Off and FLIGHT" "Air conditioning master switch."

"Seven point four-five PSI, radar and defense, normal cooling air
available," Ormack said as conditioned air rushed from the cabin
vents.

"Offense copies," Luger replied as McLanahan buckled his parachute
harness and rechecked his equipment.

"Defense copies," Pereira said mechanically, watching as Wendy Tork
secured herself into her seat. Angelina scanned her instrument panels,
then opened her checklist and began to bring up her array of armament
equipment.

"Slipway doors, open then closed. "Ormack reached up and flipped the
SLIPWAY DOOR switch to OPEN on the overhead panel - The green CLOSED
AND LOCKED light went on. He flipped the switch to NORMAL CLOSED and
the indicator came on again.

"Open then closed, check closed."

"This beast climbs like an angel," Elliott asked. "We're past twelve
thousand already. Crew, oxygen check. "He glanced around his seat.

His helmet was nowhere in sight.

"Go ahead and check them in, John," he asked. "I'll check mine when I
get leveled off. "Ormack looked slightly embarrassed. He pulled the
boom mike closer and said, "Defense?"

"Uh .. . defense is not complete."

"Neither is offense.

Elliott looked in surprise at his co-pilot. "We don't 9" "Nobody,"
Ormack said.

"Nobody has an oxygen mask?No helmet?"Elliott said over the
interphone.

"We didn't exactly have time to pack a lunch, General, McLanahan
said.

"Goddamn it," Elliott said. He checked the cabin altimeter on the
eyebrow panel; it held steady at seven thousand feet.

"Cabin altitude is steady at seven thousand. How about any masks at
all?Emergency masks?Anything?"

Ormack checked behind his seat. "The firefighter's mask is in place,"
he said, pulling the bag around and examining the mask. It was a
full-face mask with a bayonet clip for the ship's oxygen system,
designed for a crew member to plug into a portable oxygen "walk around"
bottle and battle a cabin fire.

"One oxygen mask," Elliott asked. "No helmets.""We'll just have to
stay below ten thousand feet," Ormack asked. "We can't risk a higher
altitude. A subtle loss of cabin altitude, the entire crew gets
hypoxic-we'd be dead before we knew it.

"We can't do that," Elliott asked. "This aircraft is top secret.

We've got to get to a higher altitude and isolate ourselves until my
staff or someone comes up with a suitable landing base.

Under ten thousand feet, too many air and ground eyes can watch us."
"Then I'll just keep this thing on until we land, sir," Ormack said.

"A few hours at best. I can handle it."

"No," Elliott asked. "The mask restricts your vision too much, and
there's no communications hookup. Okay, ladies and gents, listen up.

Until we get back on the ground, we're all in jeopardy. No one has any
oxygen, at least not a safe supply.

You can stick your oxygen hose in your face and go to "EMER' to get a
shot of oxygen-as a matter of fact, we'll do that-but it's a real
danger. We'll do station and compartment checks every fifteen
minutes.

Check around more often. Keep alert for signs of hypoxia. The
co-pilot and I will take turns with the fire mask. Check around your
stations to see what else we're missing."

"Does it matter, General?"

Wendy asked. "We're going to land soon, aren't we?"

"When it gets dark, and when we find a base that can take us.

Obviously, Dreamland is out. Tonopah or Indian Springs might be
alternates. Angelina, Wendy, get in contact with mission control and-"
"Problem, General," Angelina interrupted. "No secrets."

"No communications documents?No encoding tables?

I.F.F?"

"I'm afraid not."

"What do we have on board?"

"The whole world will know about us in no time, General," Ormack
said.

"The attack on Dreamland, this plane, the whole thing. They can't keep
all this secret. When this plane lands, the whole world will be on
hand to see it.

Elliott pushed on the yoke to level off at seventeen thousand feet,
staring straight ahead over the long, sleek nose of the Megafortress.

"I suppose you're right," he asked. "Level-off checks, John. Angelina,
get a U.H.F phone patch through Nellis to Cobalt Control. That's my
section in Washington. Advise them that we're okay and request a
secure radio setup and frequency as soon as possible.

"Roger.

Just then a loud voice over all the U.H.F radios on board interrupted
them. "This is Los Angeles Center on guard.

Aircraft heading two-eight-five, altitude seventeen thousand feet,
squawk five-two-one-nine and ident if you can hear me.

"That's us," Ormack said. Elliott reached down to his side panel, set
the I.F.F frequency, turned the transmitter to ON, and hit the IDENT
button.

"Aircraft is radar contact," the air traffic controller replied.

"Change to frequency two-nine-seven point eight."

Elliott changed the frequency. "Los Angeles Center, this is Genesis on
two-nine-seven point eight.

"Genesis, ident and spell full call sign," Los Angeles came back.

Elliott spelled the name.

"Genesis?"Ormack asked. "What's that?"

"It's an old classified collective call sign for military experimental
aircraft from Edwards," Elliott told him. "We used it when we wanted
to go to the high-altitude structure but didn't want anyone, even the
military airspace controllers, to know who we were. Drearniand has
launched a lot of aircraft without flight plans all over this area. I
hope the guy asks someone else about it instead of me."

"Genesis " the confusion in the controller's voice was apparent.".

Genesis, we show no flight plan for you. Say your departure point.

"Unable, Los Angeles."

There was a longer pause. Then: "Genesis, your primary target is very
weak. Say type of aircraft, intentions and destination.

"This guy is trying to gut it out even if he doesn't know what he's
doing," Elliott said to Ormack. He switched to the radio.

"Los Angeles, Genesis is requesting direct Friant, direct Talon
intersection and holding at Talon within fifty nautical flight level
three-niner zero."

"Unable your request through valley traffic witho plan, Genesis
"Request you contact our command post on AUTOVON or Department of
Defense DTS nine-ei, one-four-two-four, for our flight plan if it isn't
in you in the next two minutes. Meanwhile, request direc direct Talon
at the three-niner zero."

"Genesis the controller, not accustomed telling him what to do, was
clearly agitated. "Unable standard holding north of the Coaldale
two-five-three radial between twenty and thirty DME, right hand
one-seven thousand five hundred until we straighten & "Genesis is
proceeding VFR at this time, Los A Elliott said.

"Maintaining sixteen thousand five hundred proceeding direct Tacon.

We'll file a VFR flight plan with Coaldale Flight Service.

"Genesis, you have your instructions," the controller shot back.

"Enter holding as directed."

"Passing over the Coaldale VORTAC, General," said.

"Nuts to that," Elliott said, and switched the mode 7600, the radio-out
I.F.F advisory. "Climbing to two zero, crew," he said over
interphone.

"John, dial up "He's gonna be pissed," Ormack said as he changed the
TACAN frequency to steer themselves to the next n point.

"If he never gets our flight plan, he'll never know are unless he
scrambles interceptors against us," Ell' "If he get our flight plan, it
won't matter. If he sc fighters .. . well, we don't have a tail
number.

even look much like a real B-52."

"Genesis, this is Los Angeles Center--the voice was ragged--you are
violated at this time. Turn to heading-" Elliott switched off the
radio.

"I'll keep the emergency radio-out squawks going until we're out over
water, asked. "He may be pissed but he'll clear the airspace "Not the
best way to begin," Luger said to McLa the downstairs compartment.

McLanahan gave a shrug. He opened his chec, began to activate the
radar, satellite navigation system, and the ring-laser gyro. A few
minutes later the radar was warmed up and ready for use.

Luger meanwhile was plotting a fix on a high-altitude airways chart he
found in a flight publications bag behind his seat.

"Any jet charts in there?GNC charts?Anything?"McLanahan asked.

"No, standard FLIP bag," Luger told him.

"Great. Just great. Well, we do have a flight plan. There should be
Red Flag bomb range training data in here.

McLanahan checked that the correct mission cartridge was inserted into
the reader, then flipped the READ lever. Twenty seconds later the
flight plan, target coordinates, fixpoints, weapon coefficients, and
terrain elevations for the entire southwest United States were resident
in the master computer.

He then checked the gyro, nav computer, and satellite global
positioning systems.

"The ring-laser gyro and satellite systems are ready to go," McLanahan
said. He turned the satellite navigator to SYNCHRONIZE."We need a
present position fix to align the gyro and start the nav computer.

After that it'll take a minute to start navigating on its own.

As Luger took radar fixes and began a rough D.R log on the margins of
the enroute charts, McLanahan waited for the satellite to lock on.

After two minutes the SYNC ERROR advisory light was still lit.

"Okay," Luger said, putting his plotter down. "We're on a pretty good
heading to Talon intersection. How's it going over there?"

"Bad to worse," McLanahan asked. "I just realized why. The satellite
GPS needs a synchronizer code."

"And naturally we don't have one."

"Naturally," McLanahan said. He punched the Scorpion missile radar on
to TRANSMIT and switched it to its original navigation radar mode. He
looked into the scope, watching the Pacific coastline come into view in
one hundred mile range, A then in frustration switched it back to
STANDBY "It's hard to take a radar fix without a radar chart or
description of the fixpoints," he asked. "The ring-laser gyro will
probably align with an overfly fix or a D.R position, but I don't know
how accurate the heading will be.

"Bottom line-Luger to the rescue!"Dave asked. "You were a psychic,
partner. You needed a nav right from the beginning.

McLanahan flipped his interphone switch. "Want an update on the
situation down here, General?"

"I'm afraid to guess. Well, if we don't have a satellite
communications channel or I.F.F mission squawk, we certainly don't have
a GPS code. No GPS, no reliable gyro. What else?"

"How about no charts and no target and fixpoint descriptions?"

The interphone clicked dead for a moment. Then: "Well, do the best you
can.

"You bet," McLanahan asked. "We're deaf, dumb, blind, and lost, but
we'll do the best we can."

WASHINGTON, D.C. "All right. Let's have it," the President said,
wearily.

General Curtis nodded and continued, pointing to a map of the
California coast that was projected on the rear-wall screen in the
White House Situation Room. "Yes, sir. "He pointed to the Dreamland
area. "As you know, an attack was staged on the project base.

Approximately a dozen individuals were involved.

"Good lord, things are going to hell already. "He turned to Jack
Pledgeman, his press secretary. "What about the press?"

"They know about it, of course," Pledgernan told him.

"The Air Force comment was standard 'no comment. "It's no secret in
southern Nevada that Dreamland is a highly classified research area.

Speculation runs rampant, of course, but the press has no inkling of
the projects we're conducting there. I'm sure they don't know about
the Old Dog or the runway at Groom Lake. The biggest problem, in my
estimation, will be the casualties, Eight military and three
civilians," "Put a clamp on that, too," the President asked. "I'll
write a letter to the families regarding the sensitivity of the project
they were working on and the importance of secrecy. The families must
know that their family members were involved in highly classified work
for the government. They'll be notified of what happened in due
time.

Clear, Wilbur?"

"Yes, sir," Curtis replied.

"This is not a formerly classified project," the President
emphasized.

"We keep a clamp on things right now. Control of this project starts
right here, " He turned again to Curtis.

"General, what's the status of the Old Dog test team?"

All eyes turned to the Chairman Of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

"Colonel Anderson, the chief operational designer of the Old Dog, was
killed in the attack ., ."The President's shoulders slumped.

"Lewis Campos, the civilian designer of the Scorpio, defensive armament
interface and the airmine tail defense system, was also killed."

"Well, who the hell is flying that B-52?"Secretary of Defense Thomas
Preston asked.

"The aircraft commander is now Lieutenant-General Bradley Elliott, the
Old Dog project director.

"Elliott?"the President asked. "How did he get on board?"

"General Elliott was there when the attack started," Curtis told him.

"When Colonel Anderson was killed he got on board and he and Lieutenant
Colonel John Ormack, the crew co-pilot, taxied the bomber out of the
hangar and launched it."

Curtis checked his notes: "General Elliott's aide, Lieutenant Harold
Briggs, reported that Elliott was wounded in the right leg during the
attack. All of the other members of the test team are aboard. He also
reported that the bomber suffered damage taxiing out of the hangar-lost
four feet of the left wingtip and one external fuel tank.

"X g "Are we in contact with the plane?"the President asked.

"Yes, sir," Curtis asked. "So far, only nonsecure U.H.F contact. They
launched without any classified code documents.

What we are trying to do right now is code a message to the crew to get
them to set a three-digit address code into their satellite
transceiver. Once we're hooked up that way, we can transmit
instructions."

"Where are they now?"

"They're orbiting one hundred and twenty miles off the coast of Big Sur
at high altitude, as far off the jet airways as possible. Elliott is
obviously trying to hide his plane as best he can."

"Why is he still in the air?"asked Thomas Preston. "It's loaded down
with weaponry, modified to the hilt-it should be back on the ground
immediately."

"I believe General Elliott feels that in broad daylight there's nowhere
the plane can land without attracting attention. The Dreamland runway
is usable but the hangar was destroyed and there are newspeople all
over the place."

"Any alternate landing sites for the plane?"the President asked.

A,
"There are several possibilities," Curtis said, "and the Old Dog still
has eight hours of fuel. Two airfields on the Red Flag restricted area
are prime sites, although they're not nearly as secure as Dreamland. A
few possibilities in Seattle, Washington, and Alaska."

The President leaned back in his chair. "We can't send the Old Dog
instructions without risking eavesdropping or discovery. Meanwhile, we
have two other fully armed bombers on their way to Russia .. . If
Elliott isn't in danger, then he can wait until tonight and land the
plane somewhere where it can be concealed. Preferably back in
Dreamland or Southern Nevada. "The President closed his eyes and said
to his press secretary: "Jack. Ideas on how to call this?"

"We'll call it a terrorist attack on a deactivated Air Force research
facility. The base was being dismantled by military and civilian
workers, a shadowy terrorist group with ties to Qaddafi struck the
facility, believing it still to be active.

"We may never know the real truth about where the attackers came from
or how they managed to slip through the base defenses," Curtis said.

"We've established that they were flying an American-made cargo plane,
but so far the wreckage has yielded few clues as to its ownership. All
of the bodies have been shipped to DIA labs in Washington for dental
and fingerprint analysis and examination of personal effects, but
whoever the hell organized the attack was damn careful to cover his
tracks. There were Caucasians as well as Orientals, and all of them
wore American-made clothes. Except for a piece of metal we found, that
appears to have come from a Soviet-made bazooka, there's really nothing
to suggest, let alone prove, Soviet involvement "Who else would want to
attack that base?"Preston asked.

"I've asked myself the same question, Mr. Secretary, but so far the
evidence against the Russians is almost entirely circumstantial-" The
President cut him off. "We'll go with the terrorist story for now and
revise it if we have to. "He turned again to his press secretary.

"Jack, don't forget those letters to the families.

I want them on my desk A.S.A.P" "Half-hour, Mr. President," Pledgeman
said, and left the room.

From behind closed eyes the President asked, "Anything else,
gentlemen?"No reply. "Any Soviet reaction?"

"Nothing, Mr. President," Marshall Brent asked. "Probably waiting for
us to accuse them. I'll be meeting with Karmarov shortly," The
President turned to General Curtis. "Status of the B-1s, General?"

"Dead on time, sir. They'll be getting their first refueling over
Canada right about now."

The President was silent for a moment. Curtis was positive the
President was going to cancel the B-1 sorties when he finally said:
"I'll be upstairs in my office. Keep me advised of their progress
every half hour. I'll monitor the mission from there.

"Yes, Mr. President."

"And get Elliott and his .. . his Old Dog on the ground.

Have them keep their plane hidden as best as possible. They can wait
for a night landing, but that's all. I've got three planes too many
flying already."

"We'll send the Old Dog up to Seattle, sir," Curtis offered as he
headed for the door. "They've got the room and the right people to
disarm it-" "Disarm it?"the President said. Everyone in the
Situation
Room froze. "Disarm it?What the hell is it armed with, General?"

"Sir, General Elliott's plane, if you remember, was a testbed
experimental aircraft.it .. - it probably has all of the weaponry
the Excaliburs have-the air-to-air missiles, the-" They don't have any
nuclear weapons on board, do they, General?"Tom Preston, the
Secretary of Defense, asked. "No one authorized- "No, sir," Curtis said
quickly. He turned to the President.

"General Elliott's B-52 was conducting tests on the Striker Tv-guided
glide bomb. He is probably carrying one of them."

"Well, make damn sure that plane is disarmed as soon as it lands, " the
President said.

"We don't need another screw-up. "The President didn't wait for
Curtis' muted "Yes, sir," but stormed past the Marine guards and headed
for the elevator.

Curtis waited until the others had left, then headed for the Situation
Room communications center, where communications experts were working
out a transmission routine for the Satellite Communications code,
SATCOM.Once Elliott had the code and had set it into his SATCOM
receiver aboard the Old Dog, Curtis could talk to the crew. But first
he had to figure out how to give the code to the crew without
compromising the code itself.

He walked into the communications center. "Well?"

"Transmitting now, General," the chief of the center, reported. "It'll
be picked up by the SAC Emergency action Network in a few minutes, and
it'll continue until ordered to stop."

"Good. You know that the crew has no decoding documents, no
secrets."

"Yes, sir. They shouldn't need any. We have direct voice backup
routines being put together if necessary."

Curtis nodded. "Word from the Excaliburs?"

"Ops normal message three minutes ago from both birds,Chr(34)+ the chief
said.

"Still hadn't finished refueling."

Curtis accepted the full printout of the Excalibur crews messages and
put it in his briefcase. He sighed, louder than he intended.

"Keep me informed. "And wondered what next could go wrong.

"Genesis, this is Los Angeles Center."

General Elliott put down the can of water Dave Luger had found in a
rations container downstairs and readjusted his microphone. "Go ahead,
Los Angeles.

"Your emergency flight plan has been received," the controller said.

"Your call sign is now Dog Zero-One Fox. Yo are cleared to orbit as
required. Acknowledge.

Elliott looked quizzically at Ormack. "Strange call sign,Chr(34)+ Elliott
said.

"Dog Zero-One Fox acknowledges, center," Elliott replied over the
radio.

"Any other messages, Los Angeles?"

"Negative, Zero-One," the controller replied. "Radar sen ice
terminated, cleared to contact oceanic flight following."

"Zero-One Fox, thank you. "Elliott picked up the olive drab can of
water from the crew survival kit and took a sip he stared out of the
cockpit windows.

"Well," Elliott said, "we're cleared-but to where?How For how
long?"

"They'll try to contact us-somehow," Ormack asked. "We're monitoring
all the SAC Command Post frequencies SATCOM, all the emergency
frequencies, and the S.A Emergency Action Alpha monitor periods on
high-frequency radio. Maybe they haven't decided what to do yet.

"Well, I've decided," Elliott said, rubbing at the pain spreading in
his right calf. "We've got to land this beast tonight. If they don't
tell us where, we'll pick the place.

Tonopah, Indian Springs-wherever we need to go. "Over the ship's
interphone, he said, "Crew, we've received notification from Center
that our call sign is now Dog Zero-One Fox."do M ' cLanahan said:
"Any word on what we're supposed to "Not Elliott asked. "Just keep
monitoring your yet, assigned frequencies. We should hear something
soon.

, Can someone take HF for a while?"Luger asked. "The static is
driving me nuts."

"I'll take it," McLanahan said, reached across and took the 0
high-altitude general aviation chart that Luger was using to copy the
high-frequency radio messages on. He glanced at his watch. "Three
more minutes until Alpha monitor. "He switched his interphone panel
waver switch to the HF setting and winced as he turned the switch on.

He fumbled for the
S
volume knob. "Sorry I volunteered. You got three-eleven, I
remember.

Here's the log I made up.

Luger looked over the mountain of radio messages on the 9

U.H.F alternate SAC command post frequency "Just routine messages," he
asked. "What are we looking for?"

"Anything," McLanahan asked. "A clue. Something unusual.

"Can't they just say, "Hey you guys, set A-B-C in SATCOM "Then everyone
who hears the message sets it in their printers. It's not secure
anymore."

"Or, "Hey, Dog, land at Tonopah'?Oh, never mind. Same reason."
"Real smart boy," McLanahan asked. "Alpha monitor i period - " He shut
off all the radio switches except HF and pressed the headset pads
closer to his head to hear better the Strategic Air Command emergency
action message broadcasts.

Alpha monitor was the primary time period for worldwide Strategic Air
Command messages over the high-frequency radio spectrum.

"How's the fuel look, John?"Elliott asked Ormack.

"Still about seven hours at this throttle setting," Ormack said,
checking his homemade flight plan filled out on the back of a piece of
cardboard- "We can still fly across the country twice if we need to,
"My butt won't hang in there that long, Elliott said.

"How about your leg?"

"Still smarts," Elliott said, gently touching his calf.

ight publications holder behind his Ormack reached into a fl seat and
pulled out the North America IFR supplement. "I've got the frequency
for McClellan Global Command Control," he told Elliott. "I'll give
them a call, tell them we're exiting the ADIZ.- Over the interphone he
asked, "Anyone using the HF?"

"The Muck's copying a message," Luger replied. He glanced over at
McLanahan, who was intently listening to the static-charged radio
message, occasionally tapping a pencil on the characters he was
transcribing.

"Let me know when he's finished," Ormack asked. "Any problem with
keeping up with our position?"

"No, sir."

"I'll need some more endurance figures in a minute. I'l probably need
an ETA to a fix somewhere when I call McClellan.

Ask and ye shall receive," Luger said, and looked over again a It
McLanahan, who had just switched his interphone knobs to their normal
positions.

"HF is yours, Colonel," Luger asked. "Nav clearing off to the
sextant.

Hey, Muck, I gotta take a sun shot. You wanna do the honors or count
me down?"

"I've done the last three shots on the sextant," he said.

"Gimme the watch. "As Luger got up to head to the upper deck to take
the sextant positions, McLanahan grabbed his arm. "Anything unusual
about any of these HF messages you copied, Dave?"He tapped his pencil
on the long lines of numbers and letters, together with the time of
transmission ant the call sign of the command post that made the
transmission "No, the usual number of characters, no special order o
anything. Of course, we can't decode the messages."

"Something in the messages .. . Dave, did the message say 'fox' or
'foxtrot'?"

"What?Oh, the phonetic spelling for the "Fs,Chr(34)+ you mean?He thought
for a moment. "Yeah, you're right. "Fox'!No 'foxtrot'!But it's
the same thing, right?"

"Maybe, maybe not. "McLanahan pulled the mike closer "Angelina?Any
luck?"

Angelina made an obscene gesture at the row of buttons on the SATCOM
printer, which were used to set the address enable codes into the
printer-receiver. "My finger's getting numb setting codes."

"I think I might have something," McLanahan asked. "We just got HF
traffic. They're using 'fox' in their messages instead of 'foxtrot."

It's the same as that strange suffix on our call sign.

Fox'?Sure, why not?I've tried dozens of other codes."

In the gunner's compartment, Angelina set the address enable switch on
the SATCOM printer to DISENABLE.She then set the address code windows
to "F-O-X' and changed the address switch to ENABLE."Nothing," she
said.

"Try those characters backwards," McLanahan told her.

"That has to be the key."

Angelina entered "X-O-F' into the printer address code and switched the
receiver to "ENABLE."Instantly, the SATCOM printer rumbled to life.

"It worked!"

"Great," Elliott asked. "Read out any messages you get as soon as
possible.

"Just a stream message with our call sign in it so far," Angelina
said.

"I'll get an acknowledgment message out right away. "She unstowed the
SATCOM keyboard and began to type out an acknowledgment message.

Fifteen minutes later she keyed the mike again.

"Message, General," she announced.

."Go ahead."

"it reads, "Orbit at SHARK intersection for recovery at Boeing
Auxiliary Eleven at zero-eight-hundred hours Zulu.

Insure weapons safe for recovery. JCS."That's it. I got the codes
for the satellite navigation system, too. I'll pass down the GPS code
to the nav in a minute."

"Well, that's it," Elliott asked. "We'll have this beast down on the
tarmac in a few hours. "He turned to Ormack. "Sure was nice getting
behind these controls again, John. I'm just sorry about the
circumstances."

Elliott stared out the windowscreen and watched the Old Dog's nose as
it veered into the sun. The pain continued to throb in his right leg
as he thought about the two Excaliburs headed toward Russia.

OVER THE ARCTIC OCEAN NORTH OF BARROW' ALAsKA
"Disconnect, seven-seven.

The boom operator hit a trigger on his control stick, and the KC-10

Extender's refueling boom popped out of the nozzle of the jet fuel
vapor the receptacle, a small white cloud of JP A B Excalibur below.

streaming away in the slipstream of the B The boomer pulled on the
stick, and the boom moved quickly away from the black shape hovering
below his panoramic window beneath his toes. He hit another switch,
and the boom motored up and automatically stowed itself under the
modified McDonnell-Douglas DC-10's tail.

"Clear One-Three to the wing," the pilot aboard the B-1 requested.

The lead B-1 replied.

"Clear to the right wing, One-Three," The B-1 that had just completed
its refueling slowed, dipped its right wing, and slid out of view of
the KC-10 boom operator.

Just as he cruised out of view, the boom operator got another glimpse
of the pylon full of missiles slung under the Excalibur's wings.

"Refueling complete," the boom operator radioed to the co-pilot. He
swiveled his headphone microphone away from his lips and wiped sweat
from his face and neck. Refueling a B-1 was always hard--even though
they were steady platforms, their dark NATO camouflage made it hard to
find their open receptacles, even during the daytime.

But these two B-1s were different-very different. Their dark gray
coloring was gone, replaced by dull jet-black surfaces. Even with the
electrofluorescent aiming grid on the
D
Excalibur's nose, the boomer had been very reluctant to extend the
nozzle into that dark, shapeless void. He knew he had only about a
six-foot margin for error before he stuck the nozzle into the bomber's
radome-or, worse, through its windscreen.

Even though he had been a boom operator for fifteen years and six feet
was a lot of free space to work with, there was always the possibility
of error. Two planes flying twelve feet away from each other,
traveling at almost three hundred and eighty miles an hour-well, it was
easy to screw up.

The co-pilot was giving the off load report to the two bombers: "Kelly
One-Two flight, you received a total of one hundred and seventy
thousand pounds, about equally divided.

Clear to tactical frequency Clear us for a right climbing turn. "The
lead B-1 aircraft commander, Colonel Bruce Canady, checked his left
window. "See One-Three out there, Bill?"

Canady's co-pilot checked his right window. At that moment, the second
B-1 slipped into fingertip position about twenty feet from his leader's
right wingtip, its position lights and anticollision beacon popping
on.

"Got him. He's in fingertip."

"Gascap flight, clear for a right climbing turn. Thanks for.

the gas."

"Gascap flight copies. Good luck, you guys. "Canady watched as the
huge KC-10 tankers banked to the right and flew above and out of sight
of the B-1s.

"Kelly flight, post-refueling checks," Canady radioed to his wingman.

"Two," came the reply.

"Ed, got the Post-refueling message ready?"Canadyaasked his offensive
systems operator. The radar navigator had just finished composing the
coded message for transmission via AFSATCOM, notifying the Joint Chiefs
of Staff that they had received their last scheduled refueling before
approaching the continent of Asia.

"Ready to go."

"Send it. Did we get our hourly 'go' message?"

"Received the last one five minutes ago," the navigator replied. "I'm
expecting the first fail-safe message any minute.

Just then his Air Force Satellite Communications printer clattered to
life. The navigator transcribed the phonetically coded message into a
code book, then passed it to the defensive systems operator, the DSO,
across the narrow aisle from him.

Together, the officers carefully decoded the message, then rechecked
it.

-We got it," the navigator asked. "Cleared to proceed on course to the
second fail-safe point. We can expect the 'strike'

message within the hour."

"Confirmed," the defensive systems officer added.

Canady didn't reply. He did a quick station check of his instrument
panel, then was silent.

,I'm still betting we get terminated," the co-pilot said.

"I'm hoping so," Canady said. He switched to interplane radio.

"One-two flight, cleared to route formation when postAR checks are
complete.

Ex"Post-all checks complete, moving to route. "The second calibur
banked slightly right, moving out to approximately a half-mile beside
his leader. It was much less strenuous on the pilot to move away from
the leader than stay in close formation for long periods of time.

"Confirm receipt of Golf, Tango, Sierra, Oscar, Pappa," the navigator
radioed to the wingman's nav, checking to be sure the other aircraft
had received and decoded the same 'go' message.

"Copied and confirmed," from the second nav.

"Status, One-Three?"

"One-Three is in the green," from the second Excalibur.

"One-Two is in the green too," Canady replied- Both bombers were one
hundred percent ready-no malfunctions, no abnormal readings, no fuel
shortages- The mission would be canceled if either bomber had a serious
malfunction.

" copy. "To the crew Canady said: -Two good bombers, guys. So far
we're a go- Nav, I'm ready to do a TFR check whenever you ARE."He
handed his checklist to the INFLIGHT "Rog. "The nav opened sySTEM
CHECK TERRAIN-FOLLOWING RADAR S g autopilot selftest navigation,
running the automatic terrain-following test.

As the two pilots and the navigator began the systems check, the
defensive systems operator began another electronic countermeasures
equipment check while listening to the highfrequency radio. As he
flipped through transmitters and receivers, running self-tests on the
mostly automatic equipment, an "S" symbol blinked on at the top of his
computer generated threat receiver scope.

The intermittent signal caught his eye, but he ignored it-the symbol
did not return, and it wasn't accompanied by an audio warning tone.

probably a glitch or a stray signal from the second B-1.He continued
his checks.

A few minutes later the "S" reappeared-this time with a fast,
high-pitched warning warble. The defensive systems officer put away
his checklist and took all of his electronic gear out of their
"self-test" modes back into STANDBY "Pilot," the DSO called over the
interphone, "where's the wingman?"i The pilots were beginning to
check the second TFR channel.

I "On our wing," the co-pilot answered irritably. "We're doing a A,
TFR check. Can it-" The DSO flipped over to the interplane frequency
on his radio panel.

"One-Three, say your position."

"Route," came the terse reply.

"Behind us?"

"That's where 'route' usually is."

"Do you have us in sight?"asked the DSO, his voice betraying
excitement. He hesitated, then switched all of his transmitters from
STANDBY to TRANSMIT "Affirmative," the pilot of the second B-1
replied.

"I see him too, Jeff. "That was from the second Excalibur's DSO.

Something was out there .. .

"Pilot, defense has search radar, twelve o'clock, extreme range but
closing slowly."

"Roger. "Canady wasn't too concerned. The nearest land at twelve
o'clock, other than pack ice, was six hundred miles away. "Probably a
glitch. Did you say closing, Jeff?"

"His signal is getting stronger," the DSO reported. "I can count a
twelve-second antenna sweep now. Moving just to the left of the
nose.

" "Moving?Jeff, recycle your equipment and see if it-" "The other DSO
sees it, too, Colonel. Either we both got the same glitch, or it's a-"
At that instant the computer verified the signal, changing the symbol
on the threat scope from " S " to a batwing-like symbol "Airborne early
warning aircraft," the DSO asked. "Right off our nose."with a circle
inside it.

"A what?"e airborne surveillance."

"A radar plane. Long-rang "Well, what the hell is it doing up over the
goddamned North Pole?"the co-pilot asked. "We're thousands of miles
from any military base-" "It's locked onto us," came from the DSO.

"He's got us."

"Maybe it's one of ours," the co-pilot asked. "It can't be
Russian-we're only a hundred miles north of Barrow. Maybe we should
cruise toward him and take a look, or try to raise him on-" "Like
hell. "Canady reached down to the center contro console and flicked
the running lights on and off, signaling his wingman to rejoin him
without using the radios. His co-pilot watched his signal, then
searched the sky out of his right window. A moment later the second
Excalibur bomber appeared out of the semi-darkness and rejoined on
Canady's right wingtip, tucVed in so close the co-pilot was sure their
wingtips were overlapping.

,Two's in the co-pilot said.

"Jeff, could he have seen both planes?"

"Probably. Depends on his range, but I'd say yes."

"Those S.O.B-s found us. Out here a thousand miles north of nowhere,
we run smack into a surveillance plane .. .

well, we don't have to let him get a visual identification on us.

he'd the throttle up. The Canady pushed his stick right and inc
co-pilot immediately checked that their wingman was turning with
them.

'd be turning the co-pilot said.

"He must've anticipated you "He's right with us."the "The signal's
turning left toward us. "Canady moved throttles up to full military
power.the co-pilot. "Wing "Approaching Mach One," from ndle aft, and
the sweep. "Canady pulled the wingsweep handle. Excalibur's long,
graceful wings disappeared from view, sweeping back until they nearly
merged with the B-1's dark, sleek fuselage..

, Are we putting any distance between him and us"" Canady asked. "He's
got the cutoff on us."

"No," the DSO said.' reported. There was no difference "Mach one,"
the co-pilot n the feet of the plane; only the airspeed and Mach
indicator tapes told them they were flying faster than the speed of
sound.

Canady's co-pilot checked for the wingman out his window.

"One-Three's moved out a little to get out of the shock barrier," he
said, "but he's still with us."

"Signal is moving to ten o'clock," the DSO asked. "We're getting some
space between us, but he's heading perpendicular to our course. He'll
get a solid visual on us."

"Mach one point five."

"If he didn't know who we were before, he can take a good guess now,"
Canady said.

"One-Three's still with us.

"Signal almost abeam us now."

Canady looked out his left cockpit window. There, about ten miles off
their left side, was a large white transport-like aircraft with a big
disk-like radome mounted on top of its fuselage.

"I can see it. Ten o'clock," Canady asked. "It looks like an E-3

AWACS.Can it be one of ours?"

"Look at the tail," the DSO asked. "T-tail or conventional?"

Canady had to strain to see it as the Excalibur whisked past.

"T-tail," he asked. "And .. . escorts. He's got escorts, two
fighters on his wings."

"Russian Mainstay surveillance plane," the DSO said, his voice
cracking. "Looks like a C-141 with a radome on top, right?It's the
Russian version of our AWACS.It pulls doubleduty as a tanker, too.

"He's going to pull his double-duty right on our ass," Canady said.

"Nav, cleartext a message over SATCOM.Tell them we have a Russian
AWACS and two fighter escorts behind us. Give our position and flight
data and ask for instructions.

"Already sent.

"We can't keep this up for long, Colonel," the co-pilot put in. "We're
behind on the fuel curve and we don't have authorization to cross the
second fail-safe point. If we start a second orbit, that Mainstay will
catch up to us with its fighters. "Canady unbuckled his oxygen mask
and pounded his instrument panel in frustration.-DSO, can you see
those fighters behind us?"

"No. All I see is the AWACS-but the fighters won't need to turn on
their radars to find us. If the AWACS can see us it can vector in the
fighters better than the fighter pilots."

"Can you jam that AWACS' radar?"

"At this range, yes, barely."he follow us?"

"If we ducked down to low altitude, could "The Mainstay has good
look-down capability," the DSO asked. "We might lose him if we combine
jamming and a hard, fast descent "But then what?"the co-pilot
interrupted, "We're still an hour from landfall and we're still not
authorized to cross the second fail-safe point. He's got two fighters
to look for us.and the fighters have plenty of fuel. We're behind
the fuel curve as it is."

"To hell with the fuel and the second fail-safe point," Canady said.

"I won't risk being caught or shot up by those fighters. I'll keep it
at Mach one point five until we reach land, then throttle back and hide
in the terrain radar ground clutter.

II "Or we can engage those fighters and the AWACS,- the radar nav
said.

Everyone else grew quiet. He had voiced the unthinkable-attempt a
dogfight with the Russian fighters. The Excaliburs were the first
American strategic bombers to be fitted with air-to-air missiles@the
attack would be completely unexpected.

"If we have to, we will," Ca nady asked. "Arm the Scorpion missiles,
DSO.Let's have them ready Canady looked out his left cockpit
window.

Illuminated by the faint glow of the sun just below the horizon was a
Russian fighter, cruising directly cockpit-to-cockpit across from
Canady, so close to the Excalibur that the Russian pilot and his
back-seat weapons officer could clearly be seen. Canady noted the red
star on the MiG-31 Foxhound's vertical stabilizer and the four
air-to-air missiles slung under its wing. Even traveling over a
thousand miles per hour, the massive Russian fighter kept up easily
with the Excalibur, flying in perfect side-by-side formation.

"A MiG-31," the co-pilot asked. "Right beside us. "He turned and
looked out his right-side window. "The other one is off One-Three's
right wing."

"Nav .. ."

"I'm sending it now," the radar navigator said, typing in a new uncoded
emergency message into the satellite communications terminal.

"They got us," Canady said quietly. Silence from the crew, which felt
naked, vulnerable. Nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. Their protective
camouflage, their weaponry, their terrainfollowing capability, even
their speed was useless.

g jI
"Priority messages from the B-1s, sir. "Jeff Hampton rushed into the
Oval Office with a long computer printout strip. At a stern glance
from General Curtis, Hampton gave the message to him.

"Well, General?"the President said irritably, taking a sip of
coffee.

"First message is a coded post-refueling message, sir. They completed
their last refueling successfully. Next message acknowledges the first
fail-safe order, authorizing them to proceed to-The President saw the
color drain from Curtis' face. "What is it?"

"Seven minutes ago .. . oh, goddamn .. . two more messages
transmitted in the clear-they didn't code them. First Z message
indicates the formation was spotted by a Russian Mainstay airborne
warning and control aircraft one hundred three miles north-northwest of
Point Barrow, Alaska."

"Spotted by a what?"

"A Russian radar plane. "Curtis walked over to a map of the Northern
Hemisphere. "Here-just a few miles away from the first orbit point.

That Mainstay is a copy of our E-3A AWACS surveillance plane. It can
scan hundreds of miles around itself, track planes at high or low
altitude, vector fighters-" "Did the Russians actually see the B-1s?"

"They .. . yes, visual sighting was made. "Curtis began to read the
last message, then reached out his hand and held onto the back of a
chair.

"I don't believe it," the President asked. "General, you told me there
wouldn't be any Russian planes within two thousand miles of that orbit
point."

"Mr. President .. ."

"What?There's more?"

"Yes, sir, the General Curtis didn't know if he could read it.the
Excaliburs were intercepted by two Russian MiG-31 Foxhound fighters."

What!" shortly after being spotted. "Curtis' face had turned even
whiter. The President dropped back into his leather seat.

"Did the fighters attack?"

"No. "Curtis looked again at the message. "This last report says the
fighters were shadowing the bombers. The B-1s tried to outrun them but
couldn't. Last reported speed was Mach one point five, still four
hundred miles from the second fail-safe point. The fighters are still
with them."

The President bent over his desk. "General, how can those fighters be
so far from Asia?"

"The Mainstay is a tanker, too," Curtis asked. "It can sustain two
fighters like that for five thousand miles. "He paused, then turned
and walked back to the President's wide cherry desk.

"Sir, there has to be a leak somewhere. First, the timing of the
attack on the Fortress, then the attack on Dreamland, and now these
B-1s being spotted so fast. It can't be coincidence-" "Yes, I agree,
but that's not the problem now. We've got two bombers up there headed
for Russia, and two fighters alongside them ready to blow them out of
the sky.

"Sir, I've got an-" "We have to recall the bombers. Those fighters
could take them out any time-" "Yes, sir, but if they were ordered to
do so they would have done it already.

"They could be waiting for orders from Moscow."

"That's possible, but Canady and Kamanski, the commanders; aboard those
Excaliburs, are the best in the business. They just won't let the
fighters take them out. The Excaliburs have the new Scorpion
air-to-air missiles, advanced jammers, and better camouflage, plus
they're just as fast as a Foxhound at high altitude and faster at low
altitude."

"Curtis," the President said, shaking his head in disbelief, you're not
suggesting that the Excaliburs fight off those MiGs and continue."
"No, sir, but .. . they shouldn't be recalled, either."

"For God's sake, why?"

"Sir, the objective is still the neutralization of that laser site-"
"Without starting a war, may I remind you."

"Yes, sir. Like we agreed, limited resources, precision bombing,
little or no collateral damage. The B-1s are now essentially
neutralized. They probably could escape the Foxhounds, but they
wouldn't have the fuel reserves to continue their mission. Plus the
Russian air defenses are alerted. All the
Russians need to do is draw a straight line from the bombers' present
position to Kavaznya and look along that line to find two B-1s."so?

"Sir," Curtis said, leaning toward the President, "there is only one
aircraft in our inventory more heavily armed, more capable, and more
prepared to accomplish this mission than even those two Excaliburs-the
Old Dog."

"The Old .. . you mean that B-52 test airplane?The one that almost
got blown up in Nevada?"

"The Old Dog has more defensive weapons, more power, better range and
better countermeasures than the B-1s. That plane is manned by the
experts that designed all the gear aboard the Excaliburs. And they
have the best bombardier in the Strategic Air Command aboard.

"Curtis, that's out of the damned question. "The President began to
pace the office, then abruptly stopped and faced Curtis.

"How the hell could a B-52 get in when two B-1s got caught?"

Curtis took a deep breath to hide his excitement. He didn't want to
blow this. "The Old Dog wouldn't go in the same way" He walked over to
the large map, found the President had come along with him. "The
Russian air defenses will be swarming over the north area, waiting for
more attackersthey'll probably be expecting a mass of bombers. General
Elliott could pick his way in from the south-" "How would he know what
route to take to avoid being spotted?"

"Sir, General Elliott, who's now in command of the Old Dog, has spent
months studying the defenses of the Kavaznya area and the Kamchatka
peninsula. He knows them much better than I do. I'm betting he can
find a gap in the radar coverage and get in without giving away his
position. And once he gets in the mountainous terrain of the Kamchatka
peninsula, a whole air wing of fighters couldn't find him."

The President shook his head, turned his back to Curtis.

"Sir, the Old Dog is already airborne," Curtis reminded him. "It
doesn't have a flight plan-it's a non-mission. The Russians may even
believe it was destroyed in the attack-we can leak that it was
destroyed. It can be diverted easily.

"What about the damage, the injuries?"

"I'll check on its operational status," Curtis asked. "Get a report
from General Elliott, have him make a decision whether or not he can
accept this assignment."

"Would Elliott say no?I know him. He's gung-ho as they come-" "But
he wouldn't risk the lives of his crew unless he knew there was a
chance of success. That I know."

To Curtis' surprise, and relief, the President said: "Get Elliott's
decision."

"Yes, sir. "Curtis turned to leave the room, then hesitated a
moment.

"The Old Dog is vulnerable to the same security leak that has
compromised us all along. Under the circumstances it would be wise to
take certain steps-" "Such as?"

"Well, sir, such as keeping knowledge of the Old Dog's involvement
between just the two of us."

"No way," the President asked. "I rely on the support of my advisers,
and I've no doubt about their integrity. We'll restrict knowledge of
this to the Cabinet, but the Cabinet must be involved."

"Very well, but I would like to suggest one more thing. If the Old Dog
is to get through this, it will have to play it by ear.

A set of recall options can't be reliably built into the mission plan
without compromising it. And there's always the possibility of a leak
if the crew had to radio back for a go-ahead."

"What I think I'm hearing, General, is that you want me to give the
strike order now, even with negotiations going on?"

The President shook his head.

"Sir, right from the beginning the Soviets have failed to negotiate in
anything like good faith. They've kept us at the bargaining table
under false pretenses while they've carried out their own hidden
agenda. The loss of the Midgetman and Ice Fortress both happened while
so-called negotiations were going on. They've demonstrated that
they've never intended to do anything but stall for time. Negotiations
are in name only. "There was a long silence as the President
considered Curtis' words. "There's truth in what you're saying. And
I'm not unaware of history .. . FDR thought that Secretary of State
Cordell Hull could work out an agreement with the Japanese just before
they attacked Pearl Harbor. He underestimated their duplicity. It
seems I've made the same mistake, and for the same reasons. We both
wanted a result so much we lost sight of realities For a moment all
that could be heard was the ticking of the brass clock on the
President's desk and the muted sound of trees swaying in the wind
outside.

"All right, General .. . you ask Elliott if he's up to this. If he
is, there'll be no turning back
McLanahan and Luger were dozing in the downstairs offensive crew
compartment when Elliott came over the radio: "Crew, listen up. We
have received orders from the Joint Chiefs. It was why I had you
accomplish a thorough equipment check a few minutes ago. Now, I want
to make another check-a people check. You all remember earlier today
when I told you about the planned B-1 sorties that launched early this
morning. Well, it seems those B-1s were discovered and intercepted
just north of Point Barrow about fifteen minutes ago."

"Intercepted?"Ormack asked.

"Somehow the Russians knew where the B-1s would be coming from. They
had a Mainstay early-warning and control radar plane waiting for them,
dragging two MiG-31 Foxhound fighters with it. The B-1s didn't have a
chance to evade."

"Did .. . the B-1s get shot down?"Wendy asked.

"No, but the fighters are dogging them. They've been ordered to hold
at a fail-safe orbit point over the Chukchi Sea just outside Soviet
airspace. It's presumed the MiGs will follow."

"But why are the B-1s continuing?"Luger asked. There was a long
moment of silence.

"Don't you get it?"McLanahan asked. "They want us to do it.

"How the hell are we supposed to make it if two B-1s couldn't?"

Elliott took over. "It'll be risky trying to get past their
earlywarning radar net, much less flying over the Soviet Union, I
agree. I need your thoughts, people. We've got some left wing damage
but our offensive and defensive weapons and systems are all
operational. We don't have proper military charts but we have general
aviation charts plus, fortunately, a terrain cartridge for the Kavaznya
site. We'll also get refueling support going in and fighter coverage
coming out."

Elliott hoped it was sinking in, hoped his crew was buying it .. .

his crew?It hadn't been his crew until a few short hours ago when
they were close to death in that hangar in the high Nevada desert.

"I won't go on unless I have everyone's support," he said.

"I know none of you thought you'd be part of an actual mission, much
less a raid against an installation in the Soviet Union. We've only
flown together a few times-hell, I wasn't even a part of the crew.

John and I are the only ones who have ever flown in combat. If we
aren't one hundred percent agreed, we land in Seattle and that's
that.

But consider the situation.

The Russians have continued to use their laser at Kavaznya in spite of
all our diplomatic protests. They have, literally, crippled our
ability to detect ballistic-missile launches over the Pacific or the
Pole. If they decide to launch an attack we have only a few minutes'
warning before the warheads impact. I believe that if the B-1 mission
has failed-and it has-the next step is either a cruise missile attack
from long range, a naval strike force, or an intercontinental ballistic
missile attack on Kavaznya. The laser site can probably protect itself
against all those threats. And the sight of cruise missiles or an
I.C.B.M heading toward Asia could well result in someone pushing an
even bigger button and triggering a thermonuclear exchange .. . " Was
he laying it on too thick?No, dammit, he was laying out the awful
option.

Speaking the unspeakable .. . "I truly believe this crew and this
plane is the one answer left. I believe we have a very good chance of
getting past Russian radar, avoiding their air defense, neutralizing
that laser facility, and getting back."

It was the longest speech he had ever given. The throbbing in his
right leg that had stopped over the past hour now was returning full
force.

"If you like the odds, say so. If you don't say so. Without everyone
pulling together, we for sure won't make it."

Ten minutes later Elliott sat back in his seat, drained. He no longer
had feeling in his right heel, and the throbbing pain had reached his
knee. He thought again of what Curtis had told him. So far the
Russians had been one step ahead. Curtis was obviously afraid that
they might be tipped off to the Old Dog's mission too. Well, that
wasn't going to happen, the odds were too damn long. Seattle seemed as
good a place as any to stage his protective aerial sleight of hand .

.

.

in sight," McLanahan reported, returning Seattle coastline his ten-inch
radar display to the two hundred mile range. "One o'clock, one hundred
miles."

These were the first words anyone in the crew had spoken since their
decision. Elliott turned to Ormack.

"Get us clearance into Seattle Center airspace, John. Wendy, see if
you can raise Boeing Field on HE Get us permission to land.

"Seattle Center, Dog Zero-One Fox is with you at two-five thousand."
Traffic Control Center controller The Seattle Air Route checked his
radar display. He had already received a call from command Control
radio operator McClellan Air Base s Global Co would be appearing in his
sector. And -One x that Dog Zero there he was-right where McClellan
said he would be.

"Dog Zero -One Fox, good evening, radar contact at two five thousand
feet.

Earlier the Seattle controller had passed along a Mode 3

"Squawk" identification code to McClellan for the airplane to set in
its I.F.F, its Identification Friend or Foe system. The I.F.F would
transmit the four-digit code to the controller's computer, which would
display a data block near the airplane's radar dot with the plane's
call sign, altitude, groundspeed, and a computer ID number. The
Seattle controller checked the area from which McClellan said the
aircraft would be coming and, as advertised, the data block and beacon
target symbols appeared at the extreme outer edge of his one hundred
and fifty mile range scope. There was no primary target return-a
smaller symbol superimposed on the larger beacon target symbol-but that
wasn't unusual at extreme ranges.

"Dog Zero-One Fox, confirm your destination is Seattle Boeing Field."

"That's affirmative, Seattle. We'll be requesting permission for a
visual to an auxiliary field when within ten miles. Boeing has been
notified."

That was very strange, but the controller had heard of it before. To
avoid attention some experimental or classified planes used one of
Boeing's numerous auxiliary fields scattered around Seattle instead of
the main corporate terminal. When they did, they didn't tell the
controller which one until in the vicinity of all of them. The
approach controller would have to clear the airspace and grant
clearance to make an approach to a very wide area, which really
complicated air traffic control in the already super-congested
Seattle-Vancouver-Portland area, but at this time of day it wasn't too
much of a hassle. The procedure wasn't limited to military flights,
either-the private aircraft firms guarded their newest developments
almost as zealously as the military."

"I've been advised, Zero-One Fox, the controller replied.

"I'll pass it along to Seattle Approach in-" The controller saw
something that made him blanch-a beacon code being changed to 7700, the
emergency code. The plane's data block was instantly surrounded by a
flashing border, and the letters "EMRG" began to flash above the beacon
target.

It was the newcomer-Dog Zero-One Fox.

"Mayday, mayday!Seattle Center, Dog Zero-One Fox!"

"Zero-One Fox, I copy your emergency code The controller buzzed his
shift supervisor, who hurried over and plugged his headset into a jack
on the console.

"Shift supervisor A. Watt on console seven, ID number
Sone--one-three-one, time two-three-one-seven local time."

That was for the benefit of the continuously running tape that was
monitoring all communications-the tape that would be used in an
accident investigation.

"Dog Zero-One Fox is declaring an inflight emergency at this time,"
came the hurried transmission. The voicepresumably the pilot, the one
who had made the initial call-in to Seattle-was nearly drowned out by a
thunderous noise in the background.

"It sounds like .. . waters A waterfall)" the controller murmured.

"He's depressurized, Ed," the supervisor asked. "It's windblast. A big
one, too. If it's a depressurization, the noise should stop. If it's
glass panel failure, it won't .. ."

The shift supervisor switched to a Center-wide intercom.

"This is Watt to all controllers. Clear airspace from radial
two-six-zero to three-two-zero from Hoquiam VORTAC for inbound
emergency aircraft in ten minutes. Advise Boeing McChord, Bowerman,
and Portland of possible divertin emergency aircraft type unknown.

Advise McChord and Coast Guard search-and-rescue. Aircraft is
currently on the two-eight-two degree radial from Hoquiam at one
hundred an thirty nautical miles, flight level two-five-zero,
groundspeed four-twenty knots.

Meanwhile, the first controller watched transfixed as the altitude
readout of the emergency aircraft began to wind down.

"Zero-One Fox, are you encountering difficulty maintaining altitude?"

Through the roar in the background the pilot said, "Seattle, descending
below ten thousand feet .. . lost pressurization .. . fire on board
. . . emergency!Emergency!Mayday!Mayday!" "Understand, Zero-One
Fox. We are clearing the airspace for you. If possible, turn left,
heading two-eight-zero, vectors for emergency landing at Boeing Field,
cleared to descend and maintain ten thousand feet."

No reply. The altitude readout was winding down, faster and faster.

"TWenty thousand .. . eighteen thousand..... fifteen thousand .-Andy,
rate of descent increasing..... passing through ten thousand feet Over
the radio he said, "Dog Zero-One Fox, climb and maintain ten thousand
feet.

Acknowledge.

The noise of the windblast over the frequency all but drowned out any
reply.

"Passing eight thousand .. . rate of descent slowing but he's still
going down .. . passing five thousand low altitude warning!" Over
the channel the controller said, "ZeroOne Fox, climb. Pull up, pull
up. If you're in a spin release your controls. Acknowledge .. ."

"Beacon target lost," the supervisor asked. "This is A. Watt plugged
into console seven, local time two-three-two-zero, Seattle ARTCC.We
have lost Dog Zero-One Fox on radar.

Last report from the pilot said he was descending to ten thousand feet
due to inflight emergency, fire, and loss of pressurization. Rate of
descent from flight level two-five-zero estimated at fifteen thousand
feet per minute, slowing to approximately ten thousand feet per minute
but mishap aircraft never regained altitude or appeared to level off.

No primary or secondary targets visible at this time. No flight data
visible. No aircraft within sixty nautical miles of mishap aircraft
noted. No emergency locator beacon transmissions yet received. Coast
Guard and Air Force search-and-rescue forces have been alerted.

WASHINGTON, D.C. Several minutes later the President, still in the Oval
Office with General Wilbur Curtis, took the message from Jeff Hampton
that the FAA had lost Dog Zero-One Fox from radar, that the plane had
experienced a major emergency and had plummeted twenty-five thousand
feet into the ocean in less than two minutes.

The President forced his left hand steady as he replaced the phone
receiver on its cradle. He looked at Curtis. "Dog ZeroOne Fox has
disappeared. Presumed lost a hundred and thirty miles off the west
coast.

Curtis said nothing. Apparently too shocked, the President decided.

"How long can the Excaliburs stay in their orbit, General?"

Curtis checked his watch, made a fast calculation. "They must leave in
six hours to have enough fuel to reach Eielson with the necessary
reserves. We'll have a tanker back in the first orbit area to give
them extra fuel, but six hours is the most.

"Order them to depart the orbit area in five," the President asked. "I
know it doesn't make much sense keeping them out there. They'd be
sitting ducks if they tried anything, but at least it will make the
Soviets nervous having two B-1s heading toward their backyard. We may
even be able to bluff them into thinking those Excaliburs have more
fuel and firepower onboard than they thought. It might even get them
to negotiate for real The President's voice was flat. Who could blame
him?He was still thinking of the Old Dog-thinking of another plan
that had failed, and of the crew that would never come back.

He swiveled his seat around and stared, unseeing, into the gray,
snow-covered world outside the Oval Office.

ABOARD THE OLD dog
Dave Luger checked the master computer's clock on his TV display.

Weird, he thought. Watching a machine doing his navigation for him.

Playing a big "video game" in the belly of a B-52 somewhere over the
north Pacific.

Well, not exactly "somewhere. "With the GPS up and running, he knew
within sixty feet where they were at any given moment-and the GPS
measured those moments within one-hundredth of a second.

Luger plugged his nose and blew against the pressures I'valsalva,"
designed to clear his ears after their hair-raising dive to "disappear"
from Seattle Center radar. "General?"

"Go ahead, Dave," Elliott said.

"Fifteen minutes to the decision point. "Luger quickly called up a
fuel reading on his video display. "I've got us right on your updated
fuel curve, Colonel."

"Checks up here," Ormack acknowledged.

"So we're not leaking fuel?"Wendy asked.

"Negative," Ormack asked. "At least there's some good news.

"Well, it's time we talked about the bad news," Elliott said.

"This is what we're looking at. According to Patrick and Dave, and
courtesy of those twelve navigation satellites feeding our computers
information, we're fifteen minutes from a major decision point.

"We now have about thirty-four thousand pounds of fuel left. Thanks to
that phony screaming-ass descent back there that had all those air
traffic controllers buffaloed, and the hour long cruise at five hundred
feet above the water, we'll soon be running on fumes. From our
decision point ahead we can divert to Elmendorf Air Force Base in
Anchorage and have about fifteen thousand pounds of fuel. That's the
absolute minimum amount of landing fuel for a normal B-52.With this
plastic monster of ours we can overfly Elmendorf and with favorable
winds and a lot of luck divert again to Eielson Air Force Base in
Fairbanks with about three thousand pounds remaining. That figure is
significant because that's the normal tolerance of the fuel gauges we
have-we can have six thousand at Eielson-" "Or we can have zero,"
Angelina said.

"Exactly But that plan does give us two available airfields to set this
beast down on."

"Is there another option?"McLanahan asked.

"Yes, Patrick. We can continue on our planned flig route.

The only available airfield with a halfway decent runway for us becomes
Shemya in the Aleutians. Fuel reserve over Shemya would be about five
thousand pounds."

"Five thousand pounds?"Wendy asked. "That's cutting it close. Are
there any-T' "There are other airfields nearby," Elliott said,
anticipating her question. "All of them are shorter and narrower than
Shemya, but we should be able to put down on any one of them. I bring
up this option because Shemya has two things that we could use-a fairly
isolated runway and fuel. We need the isolation if we ever hope to
keep this plane and this mission secret. The decision becomes
this-head toward Elmendorf with one good option but an end to our
mission, or head toward Shemya with only a few poor options but an
outside chance of continuing on."

"I don't see there's an option, General," Ormack said.

"We've come this far .. ."

Elliott nodded at Ormack, silently thanking him. To the crew he said,
"I guess I'm bringing all this up to give each of you another out,
another chance to put this bird down."

"We've given you our answer, General," Wendy said.

"I know, and I thank you. But you've had a few hours to think about
it. I'm putting the question again."

"I've got a different question," McLanahan asked. "How's your leg,
General?We can't complete this mission with less than a one hundred
percent effort from everybody-you said so yourself. Are you one
hundred percent, General?"

"Of course I am. "Elliott turned and found Orinack looking at him
carefully.

"I can handle it, John."

"He has a point, General. You're worried about us not having the
commitment--but do you have the capacity?"

Elliott paused, then spoke into the interphone. "I won't deny it,
crew. My leg hurts like a sonofabitch. But if I didn't think I could
get this beast to Kavaznya and back again, well, I would have said so
back there when we were over Seattle.

Silence. Then McLanahan spoke. "All right, General.

That's good enough for me."

"Me, too," Angelina said.

"And me," Luger added.

The entire crew voiced their assent.

"All right, then," Elliott said, "do any of you have any brilliant
ideas about how we can get enough gas to finish this mission?"

Downstairs in the lower offensive crew compartment McLanahan gave his
partner Luger the thumbs-up sign and spoke into the interphone.

"I have an idea, General," McLanahan asked. "But it may involve
breaking some rules."

"If there was ever a time to break rules, Patrick, this is it.

Let's hear it."

"Well, we'll have to call you General Jean Lafitte after this one,"
McLanahan said, "but here's what I had in mind
Elliott flipped his radio over to HF TRANSMIT, took a deep breath:
"Skybird, Skybird, this is Genesis on Quebec. Emergency. Over. "The
command post senior controller on duty in the tiny SAC Command post on
the tiny island of Shemya, perched nearly at the tip of the Aleutians,
had to restrain himself from spilling his coffee as the emergency call
blared through his speaker.

Calls over HE especially emergency calls, were few and far between up
here at the extreme northwestern tip of the United States of America.

He whipped out a grease pencil and noted the time on the slate of glass
covering his desktop.

He switched his radio to HF and keyed his microphone.

"Calling Skybird on HF, this is Icepack on Quebec. Spell your call
sign phonetically and go ahead with information.

"We got him," Elliott said over interphone. Over the high frequency
radio, he said, "Copy you, Icepack. I spell Golf.

Echo, November, Echo, Sierra, India, Sierra, SAC Special Operations.

We are one-eight-zero miles east-southeast of' your station. We have
declared an emergency for a double engine fire and fire in the crew
compartment. Massive fuel leaks. Request emergency random refueling
with strip alerter and emergency recovery at Shemya."

The deputy controller was furiously writing the information down on a
logbook. He opened the classified call signs book.

"Checks," the controller said to his partner. "Special ops out of
Edwards."

"So what's he doing way the hell up here?"the senior controller
said.

"Call the commander. "He checked the weather forecast printout on his
console, then turned back to his radio.

"Understand your request, Genesis," the controller replied.

"Shemya is reporting marginal conditions. Can you divert to
Anchorage?

Repeat, can you divert to Anchorage?"

"Negative, negative," Elliott replied. "Less than one-five minutes of
fuel at present rate of loss. No navigation equipment. Magnetic
instruments only. We are only estimating our present position.

"Understand, Genesis," the senior controller said and looked over to
his NCO partner.

"Got the boss on the line, sir," the NCO said. The senior controller
grabbed the phone.

"Colonel Sands here."

"Major Falls in the Command Post, sir. Inbound inflight emergency
requesting a strip alert tanker.

"How far out is he?"Sands asked.

"He estimates about one hundred and seventy miles now.

sir. He said less than fifteen minutes of fuel."

"Hell, we might not make it even if we launched right now.

Who is it?"

"They're using a strange call sign, sir," Falls said "Genesis. It's a
special ops call sign out of Edwards."

Sands swore under his breath. Special Operations. An experimental or
highly classified mission. But from Edwards'."

"How's the runway now?"

Slick as owl shit, sir. RCR still about ten. Fifty feet either side
of centerline is free of ice to about twelve RCR.Taxiways are about
eight RCR.

"Status of the strip alert bird?"

"In the green, sir," Falls said, glancing over at his assistant.

The NCO cupped his hand over the telephone he was using.

"The crew's being recalled to the pad, sir," the NCO reported.

"Have them report directly to their plane," Falls said. He turned to
his telephone. "Crews are responding to their planes, sir.

"Get an authentication from this Genesis," Sands said.

"I'm on my way."

"Command post clear. "Falls opened the communications code book,
checked that the date and time were good and turned to his radio.

"Genesis, this is Icepack control. Authenticate Alpha Echo.

Elliott turned to Ormack. "They want me to authenticate."

"We don't have any code documents."

"Unable to authenticate, Icepack," Elliott replied quickly.

Falls winced. What the hell was going on?

"Genesis, we cannot provide strip alert support without
authentication.

"Icepack, this is the senior controller aboard Genesis," Elliott said
over the high-frequency radio. "The communications compartment has
been severely damaged. Half the crew is dead or injured. We have no
means to authenticate."

A few moments later Colonel Sands was wriggling his chubby desk-bound
body out of his parka. "Status?"

"He said he was unable to authenticate, sir," Falls said.

"Fire inside their crew compartment and communications center,
injuries. The senior controller seems to be the one in command."
"Senior controller?Communications center?Sounds like an AWACS or
EC-135--but it's an Edwards call sign?"Sands picked up the
microphone.

"Genesis, this is Icepack. Over. "He bent toward the speaker.

"Go ahead, Icepack. Urgently need strip alert support."

Sands searched his memory. "I recognize that voice.

Where?"He keyed the microphone. "Genesis, say type of aircraft and
souls on board.

"Unable, Icepack."

"Son of a bitch," Sands said half-aloud. "What's going on?

Damn .. . thatvoice. "Hethoughtquickly "Gethold of Anchorage Center,
find out where this guy came from.

"Already did that, Colonel," the NCO told him. "Nothing.

No squawk. Not even radar contact. He's been outside the ADIZ until
now."

"Then screw him," Sands asked. "This sounds too fishy. We due for an
air defense test or something?"Falls shook his head. Sands grimaced
and keyed the microphone. "Genesis.

strip alert support is not authorized without proper authentication.

Unless you identify yourself, you'll have to swim back. Elliott looked
preoccupied as Ormack said, "What do we do now, we've only got-"
"Sands!"Elliott suddenly blurted out. "Eddie Sands!That sorry son
of a bitch. They stuck his ass in Shemya. "Elliott keyed his
microphone.

"We are unable to authenticate .. . scum-maggot.

Sands paled as if he had seen a ghost. Slowly he brought the
microphone to his lips.

Falls glared at his wing commander as if he had been slapped in the
face. Sands angrily jammed the mike button down. "Say again,
Genesis."

"You heard me, slime-worm," Elliott shot back. "Unable to
authenticate.

To Falls' immense surprise, a hint of a smile began to creep across
Sands' face.

"Genesis," Sands said carefully, the smile still working its way across
the pudgy face of the Shemya wing commander.

"Once more. Is this for real?"

"Affirmative .. . dirt bag. "Aboard the Megafortress, Ormack looked
befuddled.

"What .. . T' "He'll have the tanker airborne in five minutes,"
Elliott told Ormack, relaxing in his ejection seat. "Crew, prepare for
refueling. "Sands dropped the microphone into Falls' lap.

"Has the strip alert crew called in?"

"No, sir, I expect them any-" p his "Call the vice commander," Sands
said, zipping u parka. "Tell him he's got the store. Put me on the
strip alert flight orders. Notify Reynolds that I'm coming aboard for
his emergency refueling."

Faster than any of his men had ever seen the pudgy commander move,
Sands was out the door. Falls' partner looked baffled as the full-bird
colonel sped down the hallway and into the subzero cold outside.

"What the hell?"

"Don't ask me, Bill," Falls said.

"What about the old standard operating procedures?"

Falls thought a moment. "We follow them, even if the colonel
doesn't.

Notify the interceptor squadron on alert. Tell them the KC-10 is
taking off in support of emergency refueling, but that the aircraft
they'll be rendezvousing with is unidentified. The unidentified
aircraft is not considered hostile but it has refused or is somehow
unable to establish contact with any civilian or military agency.

"Got it. "The NCO picked up the phone and dialed as rapidly as he
could.

McLanahan was announcing: "Eleven o'clock, seventy miles. "Over the
newly assigned U.H.F command post frequency they were using as the air
refueling frequency, he said, "Icepack one-oh-one, Genesis has radar
contact at seventy miles at your two o'clock position."

The pilot of Icepack 101, the KC-10 tanker from Shemya, looked to
Colonel Sands, who was sitting in the I.P jumpseat between himself and
his KC-10's co-pilot.

"A new voice," the pilot, Joe Reynolds remarked. "Sounds like a nav if
I ever heard one. I thought there was only one survivor on board?"

"Radar contact at seventy miles?"Sands echoed. "Maybe not as
helpless as they said they were.":"Do we keep on going?"Reynolds
asked.

"We keep on going," Sands told him. "I recognize a voice on board.

Precontact check complete," Ormack said aboard the Old Dog. "All
external lights are off right now."

"Good," Elliott said.

Just then Wendy Tork reported, "I've got search radar contact at eleven
o'clock."

"That's the tanker," McLanahan said. Wendy checked the c
Oscillos ope-like frequency pattern on the frequency video display.

"Confirmed," she said.

McLanahan flipped on a switch marked BEACON on his manual tuning radar
control panel, checking that the radar frequency remained on the preset
"doghouse" beacon frequenCy range. The tiny dot representing the
tanker on his radar changed into a line of six tiny rectangles in a
one-two-three dot pattern. "I've got his beacon. "He switched to
interplane.

"One-oh-one, contact your beacon. Beacon to standby."

The six-dot pattern disappeared. "Go back to operate. II The pattern
reappeared.

"Positive ID, our eleven o'clock, sixty-five miles."

"Check on air-to-air TACAN, " the pilot aboard Icepack IO 1
acknowledged. The mileage on the air-to-air TACAN receiver.

the two aircraft, slowh which gave the distance between filed 11
clicked down.

"What do you hope to find, sir?"Reynolds asked the wing commander
alongside him.

"I don't know," Sands told him, "but I wouldn't want to miss whatever
it is."

"But who are these guys?They don't sound like they're in trouble to
me-" sound like they're in trouble, Sands shook his head. "They but
not like they've told us. We had to launch-but we don I have to
rendezvous with them."

"Then what-" "I'm up here to investigate, Joe. Gather information.

But I'd be breaking a dozen rules if I allowed this aircraft to join
with an unidentified aircraft. If we'd refused to launch they'c have
disappeared forever. No, we'll head toward them. But instead of
turning we're going to buzz right past this joker."

"And then?""And then we'll let them escort them back to the Shemya.

"The interceptors?Are they up there"" "If I know Falls it's the first
thing he did after we took off," Sands said.ey said fifteen
minutes."

"But what about their gas?""It's been fifteen minutes right about
now," Sands said checking his watch. "Do those guys sound like they're
abou to fall into the ocean?Someone's screwing with us, Joe Nobody
does that with me. We'll lead these guys back to the base, then find
out what the hell's going on."

"Inside sixty miles," McLanahan reported, switching his radar back into
search-while-track mode.

"Copy," Elliott asked. "Ready, Wendy?Angelina?"

"Ready," Angelina said.

"All set, General," Wendy told him, "but I don't see the other ones
yet."

"Believe me, they're coming," Elliott asked. "Hit 'em wit just a little
at first. When he switches over, blot 'em out."

"Will do.

"Sixty miles," McLanahan called out to the tanker. Part of his
transmission was interrupted by a high-pitched squeal.

Sands winced and fumbled for his volume control knob "Genesis, you have
a loud squeal on your radio," Ashlethe KC-10s co-pilot, called out.

"Copy," McLanahan replied. His transmission was almo completely
blotted out by noise. "Switching radios. "McLanahan waited a few
moments, then said, "How do you copy no% Icepack?"

The noise was almost unbearable. "Genesis, this is Icepack Your radios
seem to be malfunctioning. Do you have FM or VHF capability?"

"Roger," Elliott asked. "Switching to VHF now."interphone he said,
"Okay, Wendy. Shut 'em out."

Wendy smiled and flicked a transmitter switch to MAX carefully checking
the frequency video display.

"This is Icepack on VHF air refueling freq," Ashley saic "How copy?"

"Too high, General," Wendy said, studying the new VH frequency range on
her video display. "Lower. To at least one twenty megahertz."
"Icepack, take it over to one-One-two point one-five, Elliott said.

Sands, aboard the KC-10, looked curiously at Ashley who,i along with
Reynolds shared his confusion. Ashley switched frequencies.

"How do you copy, Genesis?"

"Loud and clear, Icepack, " Elliott said. Over interphone k.

said, "Okay, I got him, Wendy. Take 'em all down."

"Will do, General."

"Range, Patrick?"

"Fifty-five miles, General," McLanahan told him. "And I've got
additional radar contact at twelve o'clock, eighty miles,
fast-moving.

You were right."

"He's only following SOP,- Ormack said.

"He's still a snake," Elliott asked. "He was a snake at the Academy,
and he's still one. Patrick, I've got it.

"Go get 'em, General."

"Icepack, this is Genesis," Elliott said over the new VHF frequency.

"Go ahead, Genesis."

"The name is Elliott, Eddie," the general began, staring into the
twilight. "We're at fifty-five miles at your one o'clock.

You launched without proper authentication, leaving me to believe that
you have no intention of rendezvousing with us.

You're going to turn the opposite direction, or fly past us.

Either way, it'd be a mistake."

"Why, General Elliott," Sands said, grinning. "I figured it was you.

What's a big SAC cheese like you doing in a hell-hole like this?"

"You're going to make this rendezvous, Colonel-" Or else, were you
going to say') We're getting feisty in our old age, aren't we?Well,
I've got news for you, sir-we're heading back to Shemya, and we're
going to-- "Just watch your one o'clock, Icepack."

Now listen, Elliott-"

As Sands was posturing aboard the KC-10 tanker, Wendy ejected four
bundles of chaff from the wings of the Megafortress. Angelina locked
her airmine radar onto the cloud of metallic tinsel behind them, and
when they moved about a mile behind the bomber fired a single airmine
rocket at the cloud.

From the cockpit of the KC-10 Extender tanker it resembled a giant
flower-like fireworks display, even at their range. The airmine rocket
plowed into the cloud of chaff and exploded mixing thousands of chips
of metal into the explosion and fire caused by the exploding rocket.

The detonation ignited the chaff and the shrapnel from the rocket,
creating a fiery cloud that spread rapidly across the evening sky.

" Turn range is twenty-two, Eddie," Elliott said over interplane.

"Left turn. Or we'll make another little fireworks display on your
tail."

"Switch radio two back to command post," Sands said sharply. "The
fighters'll be on three-eleven. Have them get their asses up here."
He stared at the slowly dissipating cloud of fire ahead and clenched
his fists. "Screw you," he muttered, "I'm running this show,
General."

As Ashley switched frequencies from VHF and U.H.F range and keyed the
microphone, an ear-splitting squeal drowned out his call.

"He's trying to transmit on three-eleven," Wendy said, studying her
emitter video display "We're jamming U.H.F and VHF too," Elliott said
to the KC-10."So forget about calling those fighters. We're jamming
I.F.F and we'll squeal out HF, too."

"Thirty-five miles, General," McLanahan said.

"One more convincer, Eddie," Elliott told him. "I understand you folks
have threat-warning receivers now. Well, check it out. "On the
interphone he called down. "Lock onto him Patrick. "McLanahan hit his
TRACK switch, pressed the ENABLE lever on his tracking handle, and
guided a circle cursor over the radar skin-paint of the KC-10 tanker.

When he released the ENABLE lever the circle remained on the return and
a green numeral "one" lighted on McLanahan's TV screen.

"Got him," McLanahan announced. On board the KC-10 the results were a
bit more dramatic. On the threat-warning receiver on the instrument
panel between the pilots, Elliott's plane had been showing as an "S,"
for search radar. The "friendly" symbol on the threat radar video
display suddenly changed into a hostile "bat-wing" threat symbol.

Moments later a red MISSILE ALERT illuminated as the threat receiver's
internal computer interpreted the steady "lock-on" signal from the
unknown aircraft as a missile tracking signalindicating a missile ready
to launch.

"We gotta get out of here," from Ashley.

"Easy, co-pilot, easy," from Reynolds.

"How do we know who he is?"

The S.O.B. is bluffing," Reynolds asked. "He's a goddamned friendly.

He won't shoot. Set the I.F.F to EMER.Get on GUARD and call those
fighters."

Sands waited a few moments while Reynolds directed his crew. The
anticipated results came a few seconds later.

"I.F.F's faulted," Ashley asked. "No interrogate indication."

"Heavy jamming on all emergency frequencies," the flight engineer
reported.

"Okay, okay," Sands asked. "Tie the autopilot back into the rendezvous
computer. Make the turn.

"But we can't-" "Yes, we can. Someone's either playing a very big joke
. . . or is very serious. It doesn't matter-we're committed," he said,
and flipped over to the interplane channel.

"Okay, Genesis, you convinced us," Sands asked. "Or should I say,
General Elliott?Don't worry, we'll make the turn.

Are we going to have to listen to that missile alert bull all through
the refueling?"

Elliott smiled. "Take it down, Patrick. "McLanahan deselected the
TRACK switch and punched in "one" on his keyboard, and his circle
cursor went to the "home" position in the upper left corner of the
radar scope.

"Icepack turning left heading two-seven-one," Ashley said nervously on
the radio.

On board the Old Dog, McLanahan watched the radar return carefully for
a few moments, then said, "He looks fine, General, normal turn rate,
correct direction. He should roll out two miles ahead of us.

"Good. Get back on long range and get a fix on those fighters. I've
got a visual on his lights."

McLanahan switched from thirty to eighty miles range and immediately a
large bright return appeared, just passing the thirty-five-mile range
mark.

"Thirty-five miles, General. Closing fast."

"Genesis has visual contact," Ormack said. He pointed out the cockpit
windows into the growing blackness.

"So, General," Sands said, "last I heard you were in the Looking Glass
unit in Omaha. You're a long way from Nebraska, sir. "He paused,
then: "I thought the missile alert stuff was sort of childish,
General.

You wouldn't fire a missile at one of our own. Now let's cut the
crap-" "Not now, Eddie," Elliott broke in. "Now, I know you have a
code-word that sends those F-15s home. We'll release your fighter
frequency so you can tell them they're not needed."left. "Then you
also know, General, that I got a word that'll have those trigger-happy
jocks blow you into atoms."

Elliott looked at Ormack. "He's right."

"Game's over. If I say nothing-or if you keep jamming and I'm not
allowed to say anything-those boys come in hellbent for blood and with
itchy trigger fingers on real Sidewinders. It may be too late already,
sir, what with their interplane frequency being jammed like that. If
this is some sort of exercise.it's gone way too far-but I'm not
yelling uncle. You are. Right now. What'll it be?"

"I'll tell you what, Eddie- "Go ahead, General, I've got plenty of
gas-and firepower."

"I've got more than a code-word, Eddie, I've got a story. A story
about a certain wing commander at a conference in Omaha. About a
certain air division commander's wife. A story about a blond kid in an
Italian family "Stop crappin' around, Elliott-" "My mission is no crap,
Sands. I may not be doing it by the book but I'm Special Ops. We both
get to tell our stories to headquarters when we land. "Elliott quickly
switched to interphone. "Patrick. Range to the interceptors?"

"Twenty-five miles."

"Well I've got a story about a certain hot-shot one-button in the
Philipines that should prove entertaining," Sands hit back.

"I had dinner with the Secretary two weeks ago, Eddie.

While you were chipping ice cubes out of your undies I told him that
story. He bought me a martini afterwards. Look, we're running out of
time, I don't want those fighters any closer. "On interphone he said,
"Frequency clear?"

"Yes, sir," from Wendy. "The interceptors are contacting their command
post for engagement authorization" "You're on, Eddie," Elliott said.

"Cutlass flight, this is Alpha aboard Icepack one-oh-one on channel
nine.

"Copy you loud and clear now, Icepack," the lead pilot of the F-15

Eagle two-ship formation replied. "We have visual contact on you but
not on your receiver. Heavy Milling on all frequencies. Permission to
join on your receiver's wing for positive ID."

"Negative," Sands told him wearily. "Positive ID already
established.

Status is Red Aurora. Red Aurora. Alpha out."

"Patrick?"

Fighters are turning," McLanahan reported. "Heading back toward the
coast."

"Shut down U.H.F again, Wendy," Elliott said. His order was instantly
confirmed by a loud crackle of static on the radio he was monitoring.

"That won't be necessary, Genesis," Sands said over the VHF refueling
frequency. "We'll play ball, damn you. But the fighters and my
command post will just get nervous if they can't talk to us."

"I'm counting on you, Eddie."

:"Open a window and we'll shake on it, Genera "Wendy, open up
three-eleven again," Elliott asked. "Leave everything else shut
down."

Sands unplugged his interphone and oxygen connections and cleared off
to the air refueling pod in the back of the converted DC-10 airliner.

He strapped himself into the long wide boom operator's bench and stared
out the window beneath their feet.

"What's his ranges" Sands asked the boom operator.

"Almost two miles. Still can't see him. And it's not even completely
dark yet."

"Genesis, this is Icepack. You guys are either very small, very dark,
or both. Turn your lights back on or we'll be up here a long time
trying to plug you."

"Who's in the pod, Eddie?"Elliott asked.

"Just me and the boomer."

"No other spectators, Eddie. Deal?"

"I got a feeling I don't want to see this," Sands muttered over VHE '
Okay, agreed. Let's see what's such a big goddamned deal - " "Lights
are coming on."

The formation lights revealed the size of the unknown receiver, but
nothing else. It appeared like a group of stars flying the formation
behind the KC-10 tanker.

"We're also going to need fuselage lights, Genesis," the boomer said.

"I've got your receptacle light okay but no azimuth or elevation
references."

"Give 'em the fuselage lights, John," Elliott said. He was busy
adjusting his seat down and forward for the best position for
refueling.

Roger," from Ormack. Just then the Old Dog began to slide to the
right. Ormack pressed on the left rudder pedal and looked anxiously at
Elliott.

"General?You okay?"

"Sure, I've got it."

"We're yawing to thexight. Straighten her out. Let up on the ly
straightened out.

right rudder. "The Old Dog slow" "You've got the refueling, John,
Elliott said, relaxing his grip on the yoke. His head rested on the
headrest on the back of the ejection seat, his chest heaved.

"But-" "I was testing out the rudders," Elliott told Ormack. "I pushed
the right pedal but didn't feel anything happen so I sscd harder. I
still can't feel anything .. . I think I've lost pre my right leg."

"Goddamn," Ormack said, grabbing the yoke and putting his feet on the
rudder pedals. "I've got the aircraft."

"You've got the aircraft," Elliott responded, shaking the yoke. Ormack
gave it a shake to confirm he had control. Elliott slid a hand down
his right leg and over the calf. A few hours earlier such an
exploration would have caused almost excruciating pain. Now,
nothing.

He could feel his finger pressing on the muscle beneath his knee, but
he felt nothing. It was an eerie feeling, like touching a hunk of
salami .. .

Ormack looked anxiously at the huge KC-10 looming before them, its boom
extended, waiting.

"General," Orinack said firmly, "I'm aborting this mission-" "No."
"McLanahan had a point, sir. It's not worth your le 9 "Refuel this
aircraft, Colonel," Elliott said finrily. "We're not stopping now."

"But, General, I-" "I said refuel this bomber. Two men have already
sacrificed their lives for this mission. "He grabbed the yoke, gave it
an angry shake and put a gloved hand back on the throttle cluster
between them. "And if I have to refuel this plane without your help I
will. Understand?"

Ormack slowly nodded. "All right, General, all right .. .

I've got the airplane .. . but I need a pilot, General. A onehundred
percent combat ready pilot. Do I have one?"

"Well, my right calf is about twenty-five percent, John. But your
pilot who also happens to be commander of the Old Dog is one hundred
percent. Refuel this plane."

Ormack nodded in surrender, looked at the air-to-air TACAN distance
readout. "Icepack, Genesis is approaching one-half mile. "The boom
operator gripped his fly-by-wire digital boom controls and stared into
the darkness below. The wingtip position lights of the mysterious
receiver were just barely visible, as were some fuselage and
upper-position lights. The slipway-door light danced eerily in the
gloom before him, and he had to close his eyes to avoid getting the
"leans," a loss of equilibrium caused by the moving light without any
horizon references. There were lights out there, but even at a
half-mile he couldn't see any airplane body to go with them.

"Genesis," the boom operator said, "be advised I have your lights but
have insufficient vertical, horizontal, and depth references for a safe
call to precontact position."

"We have a good tally on you," Ormack told him. "Clear us to
precontact and we'll give you range countdown to contact. If you can't
see us that way He looked to Elliott.

"Clear us to precontact," Elliott said, filling in for Ormack.

"Stick the boom out there, booms. We'll put this plane underneath it
and you plug us."

"Roger, Genesis," the boomer said uneasily. "You are cleared to
precontact position, with caution."

"Roger. Moving in."

Sands and the boom operator stared anxiously as the slipway door light
moved toward them.

"One hundred feet," Ormack reported as his own depth perception finally
snapped in. Before, he had merely aimed the top of the Old Dog toward
the nozzle light ahead; now he could better gauge the actual distance
involved.

"Still no-" The boom operator paused. For an instant he could discern
an object passing just on the edges of his wide pod window. He tried
to piece that glimpse into a whole airplane, but it was impossible.

"Stabilized precontact," Ormack reported.

"What?"from the boom operator.

Nothing. The boom operator saw nothing below him except a single
light. Everything else melted completely into the space around it.

The precontact position on most large aircraft was twenty feet behind
and ten feet below the nozzle, less than sixty feet from where he and
Colonel Sands sat in the boom pod. They were looking directly below
the nozzle, in the glow of the small nozzle light, and there was
nothing. In the depths of the growing twilight, Mason thought he could
see the outline of a large aircraft-but it could just as easily be his
imagination playing tricks on him. "Genesis, I'm going to turn on the
belly lights."

"Who's in the pod?"Elliott asked quickly.

"Colonel Sands and Tech Sergeant Mason," the boom operator replied.

"Okay. Eddie, make sure that's all that goes in there."

L @g
"Hell, I'm not sure if I want to be here."

"Clear on the belly lights," Ormack said, taking a firm grip on the
yoke. The boom operator reached above him and flicked a switch.

And suddenly there it was. The long, pointed nose stretched underneath
the boom pod. Just on the edge of the pod window the outline of the
eleven missiles were visible on their gray pylons. In the direct glare
of the tanker's light the forward fuselage could now be seen, but the
rest of the plane, aft of the training edge wing roots and beyond, was
invisible. Through the sleek, sharp, Oriental-like angles of the
strong-looking cockpit windows, the pilot and co-pilot, without helmets
or oxygen masks, could barely be made out.

"What the The boom operator's words stuck in his throat.

"You got him, booms?"Reynolds asked over the tanker's interphone.

"What is it?"

"It's .. . it's a B-52 .. . I think," Mason stammered over
interphone.

"You think?What the hell is it?"

"It's a damned spaceship. It's .. ."

"Acknowledge, Icepack," Ormack repeated. "Stabilized precontact and
ready."

"Elliott, what the hell are you flying?"Sands demanded.

"Gas first, Eddie. Questions later."

"Forward ten," the boomer asked. "Cleared to contact position. Icepack
is ready. "Ormack expertly slid the Megafortress ahead. His practice
and experience made for a steady platform, so all the boomer had to do
was extend the nozzle a few feet.

"Genesis showing contact," Ormack asked. "Nice job, boom.

Icepack has contact," Mason reported. He started the fuel pumps.

"Taking fuel, no leaks."

"Taking fuel," Ormack acknowledged.

"All right, Genesis," Sands asked. "How about some answers?"

"Eddie, you don't want to know," Elliott told him, glanced over at John
Ormack and managed a smile. The Megafortress was so smooth and steady
that it was easy for Ormack to keep the huge bomber in the boom's
refueling envelope-it seemed he was scarcely touching the controls.

"You don't want to know where we've been, where we're going, or what
we're doing."

"Where you're going?There's no question about where, General. You
know-hell, you knew about my code words so you must know-that I can
only give you enough fuel to make it to Shemya or a suitable
alternate.

I can't fill you up."

"You've got to, Colonel. We need as close to full tanks as possible.

"General, I've busted more rules in the past twenty minutes than I've
done in two years. And that's a lot, even for me. I can't give you
that much-" "This isn't a strip alert refueling any more, Eddie,"
Elliott asked. "This is now an unscheduled, alternate tactical
refueling.

We had tanker support from Eielson and Fairchild scheduled but they
didn't launch. Now you're it."

"You had two tankers?"Sands asked. "Where the hell you going with
two-T' And then Sands stopped, looked in disbelief at Mason. They
arrived at the answer simultaneously.

Missiles on the strange B-52's wings .. .

"Elliott," Sands finally asked. "What the hell is going on?"

No reply.

Jesus Christ," Sands said. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and stared
at the bomber below them.

"Ashley?"

"Computing max off load now, Colonel," the co-pilot replied, pulling
out his performance manuals, charts, and flight plans.

"Give us enough to land at Anchorage with ten thousand over the high
fix," Sands told the co-pilot. "We may need it if runway conditions at
Shemya deteriorate. God damn."

Under the close eye of Mason on board the KC-10 and Elliot aboard the
Old Dog, it was nearly an hour later when Ashley nodded to the flight
engineer, who radioed back to the boompod on the tanker's interphone.

Elliott looked across the cockpit and rechecked the fuel distribution
system's indicators. Ormack had taken it off automatic" to avoid
putting fuel into the left outboard wing tank in case it sustained any
damage when the tip ripped off at Dreamland, and now the system
required careful monitoring.

"Showing no flow down here," he radioed to the tanker.

"That's it, Genesis," Ashley asked. "We've got enough to return to
Shemya, shoot one approach, go missed approach, and arrive at Anchorage
with ten thousand over the fix."

Elliott totaled up the gauges and checked it against the fuel
totalizer. It would have to do.

-I'll take a disconnect, Icepack," Ormack said. In the refueling pod
Mason gave a short countdown and punched the nozzle out of the Old
Dog's receptacle. Ormack reached up and closed the slipway door.

"Descending to two-seven zero," Ormack reported.

"Eddie, I want to thank you for your cooperation," Elliott said as the
Old Dog began its descent away from the KC-10 tanker. "I assure you,
I'll take full responsibility for any heat you might take."

"I'm counting on that, General," Sands asked. "I guess this makes us
even."

"We were always even."

"Maybe .. . You know I have to file a report about this.

The refueling, the comm jamming, the expended munitions.

Everything.

"Of course. No offense intended, Eddie, but I know you'll file the
report in your usual complete, timely, thorough manner.

"Anything else you need, General?"Sands asked, biting out the
words.

"A name, Eddie," Elliott asked. "A tanker, a deployment, a large
aircraft from Anchorage that passed by within the past twelve hours.

-Sure, why not?"Sands turned to the interphone, asked the co-pilot
for the communications kit, then said over the radio, "Might as well
set an all-time record for breaking the rules in one glorious day."

""Bag' was a KC-10 fighter drag from Elmendorf to Nellis," Ashley said,
checking his classified call sign booklet.

""Crow' was an AWACS from Eielson to Sapporo. "Lantern' was a KC-10
from Elmendorf to Kadena."

"I'm not going to ask why you needed that," Sands said.

"Can we turn around now?How much further toward never never land do
we have to follow you?"

"Clear to turn, Eddie-and thanks."

"See you Sands watched as the descending bomber melted into the
darkness.

"Genesis is clear," Elliott reported to him- Then, silence.

iw@ The lights on the huge aircraft blinked out, and it disappeared
completely.

The boom operator looked wearily at Colonel Sands.

"Reynolds, are the radios clear?"

"Negative," the pilot told Sands. "Still heavy jamming.

"Well, he can't jam SATCOM,- Sands replied angrily.

"Transmit a post-refueling report directly to SAC.Label it URGENT.

Report the receiver's call sign, direction of flight, onload,
everything. As soon as we're out of range of their jammers, direct
command post to make a transcript of the radio transmissions. "Sands
stared out the boom window into the inky blackness. "I'll file it in
my usual timely, efficient manner,Chr(34)+ you old bastard," Sands muttered.

"And I'll be there to watch you roast on a spit.

"So what's the news?"Elliott asked Ormack. The co-pilot had just got
off the interphone with McLanahan, coordinating the distances,
altitudes, and fuel flows. Elliott had just finished a five-minute
stint on the firefighting oxygen mask and had done a.station check of
the cockpit and left and right load central I circuit breaker panels,
the two massive walls of circuit breakers and fuses lining the pressure
cabin between the ilot's and defensive operator's compartments. He had
also checked for fuel leaks around the air refueling valve in the upper
deck walkway.

"Want the good news or bad news first?"McLanahan asked him.

"Better give me the bad news first."

"We are some sixty thousand pounds short of fuel," Ormack said.

Elliott had no answer to that one. The enormous quantity involved .

.

.

"Eighteen thousand of that, of course, was the left outboard drop
tank," Ormack went on. "I Put some fuel in the left inboard drop and
left outboard wing tanks during refueling, but there's a serious leak
in both those tanks and it's almost goneabout fifteen thousand
pounds.

I transferred the rest into the mains to keep from losing it all.

There might also be a small leak in the right outboard tank, which
happened when we hit the hangar. Our automatic fuel management system
is now out the porthole until the right drop tank and outboards are
dry.

That's why we have so much rudder trim in-the right wing is twenty-one
tons heavier than the left."

"Sixty thousand pounds short," Elliott muttered. "Two hours' fuel.

Well, what's the good news?"

"I've been looking at the aeronautical charts on board," McLanahan
began. "There are some civil aviation airways from Alaska to Japan
that cross very close to the Kamchatka peninsula. "Elliott said, as
Ormack pulled out his copy of the high-altitude navigation chart from
his publications bin. "The Russians can't completely close off their
airspace, even their air defense identification zone. But we'd need a
flight plan to enter that airway. If we just appear out of nowhere
we'll get intercepted for sure.

"But they won't see us Ormack asked, "How can they miss us?That
air-way is Wendy Tork said.

only he measured the distance with a pencil about a hundred and twenty
miles from their radar."

"Well, Seattle Center couldn't see us at that same distance.

Remember, they only had a secondary beacon target on us, on our
transponder. And I'd guess that Seattle's radar is better than a
Siberian one. Our fibersteel skin has already proved itselfLos Angeles
Center couldn't see us after we launched out of Dreamland, and we were
right in the middle of their airspace."

"But we've somehow got to jump into their coastline," Ormack said.

"How do we do that?"

"Dave and I have been doing some wagging on the computer down here,"
McLanahan said, "and here's what we've come up with .. . there's an
island off the east coast of the Kamchatka peninsula, midway between
Kavaznya to the north and the sub pens at Petropavlovsk to the south.

It's pretty big and has an airfield-if I'm not mistaken they've got sub
communications gear there.

"Beringa," Dave said, pointing to his high-altitude map.

"They've got a circle around it that looks like surveillance radar
only. No high-altitude coverage. "He went back to his work on the
computer terminal.

"Beringa island," McLanahan took it up, "is right in a gap in
high-altitude radar coverage between Ossora Airfield near Kavaznya and
Petropavlovsk. It's also only a few miles off the high-altitude airway
between Anchorage and Japan. We can head toward that gap, cut just to
the south of surveillance radar coverage at Beringa, and still be at
high altitude all the way Once we get inside high-altitude radar
coverage, we'll only be about seventeen minutes from the coast. We
duck under high altitude radar and then get into the mountains along
the spine of the Kamchatka peninsula. If we stay away from Beringa
radar, the lowest we'll have to go is about five thousand feet until we
get into Kavaznya low-altitude surveillance radar coverage."

"Did you work out the fuel for a plan like that?"Elliott asked.

Yes, " Luger told him, "and it's close. We'd never make it back to
Eielson, that's for sure. We'd barely make it back across the Bering
Strait, but we'd do it. "I hope, he added to himself.

Ormack looked at Elliott, who shrugged. "Looks like one of those
ice-bound alternates will have to do," he said.

"We do have another problem," Luger said, checking the computer display
again. "The computer doesn't have elevation data for any of the
Kamchatka peninsula except for about a hundred miles around Kavaznya.

That means that most of the ride up the mountain ranges would be either
at safe-clearance attitudes or manual terrain-avoidance. That's a
pretty wild ride even for our experienced crew. We're good, but good
enough for two hours of manual terrain-following?We have no detailed
charts, no terrain elevations. We'd be relying on radar the whole way
until the Computer could start driving the boat."

"Well," Elliott said, "now I know why we brought two navigators
along.

Do you think you could have come up with all that so fast, John?"

Ormack shook his head. "Not with all the computers in Japan,
General.

" "well, we've got the gas, and now we've got a plan.

Patrick, Dave, how long will it take you to reenter your new flight
plan in the computer?"

In reply, the steering bug on the pilot's Attitude-Directional
Indicator swung around until it was pointing about twenty degrees left
of their present heading. "Steering is good to intercept the airway,"
Luger asked. "The new flight plan is entered and active."

"Are we clear of Attu airspace?"Elliott asked.

"Affirmative," McLanahan said, checking his chart and the satellite
navigator's present position readout. "Attu is off our lour o'clock,
just over a hundred miles. We're in international airspace.

"Second-station computer control coming in," Elliott said.

He engaged the autopilot. The Old Dog banked left in response to the
new information to the navigation computers, and the ming signals.

Soon the heading bug was centered at the top of the heading indicator
case.thin high radar coverage of Ossora Airfield in "We'll be wild.

about an hour," Luger reported "Good," Elliott said. He forced himself
to relax and found that his grip on the yoke was that much tighter.

"If there are any last-minute equipment checks to do, now's the time to
do them. If not, try to get some rest. "Ormack looked across at the
three-star general beside him, and they exchanged smiles.

"Well, at least try to relax," Elliott corrected himself.

Luger checked the position and heading readouts and marked a fix point
on his chart.""Relax,Chr(34)+ he says. Better said to the target-a target
in goddamned Russia-and he than done. Less than an hour from low
level, about two hours wants us to He glanced over at McLanahan. His
partner had his arms wrapped around his body, his head awkwardly lying
back on the headrest of his ejection seat. His snoring could be
clearly heard over the roar of the Old Dog's eight turbofan engines.

"Amazing," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Absolutely fuckin'
amazing."

"Ten minutes from horizon crossing," Luger announced.

McLanahan had just caught Luger's last announcement as he plugged into
the defense instructor's interphone cord once again. He handed Wendy
and Angelina two cans of water each and a green packet of freeze-dried
food. "Leave one can out for now, and stick the rest in the pockets in
the liner of your jackets. "He watched as both women unbuckled their
parachute harnesses. They were now wearing life preservers, small
green pouches on a harness on their waists, and had to unbuckle those
to unzip their jackets and stuff the water and food into the jacket
pockets.

Angelina's water and food rations stuck out in bulky bulges from her
denim jacket. With McLanahan's help she refastened her parachute
harness and slipped on the silver firefighting gloves she was using as
flight gloves. Wendy had already given Angelina her thermal underwear
tops and was drinking hot soup made in the cup downstairs. Angelina,
however, still shivered in the chill of the Old Dog's upper cabin
"Comfy?"McLanahan said to Angelina. "I hope you ladies don't have to
go potty now.

Angelina turned on him. "Are we supposed to eat this stuff in a life
raft bobbing in the North Pacific Ocean?What's the int?"

McLanahan looked at Wendy-that scenario had never occurred to her.

He cleared his throat and said quickly, "Nah. Down low level the
aircraft shakes around a bit. Things tend to roll around. You don't
want to have to unstrap to look for your water. "It was a lame excuse,
but Angelina, noticing Wendy's thin-lipped expression, nodded and
turned again to her equipment.

Wendy was staring blankly at her threat receiver display. "I wonder if
we're kidding ourselves about what we're doing "The thought has crossed
my mind," McLanahan asked. "It's impossible to be certain about that.

I think that .. . well.

you have to listen to your gut I keep seeing Hal Briggs trying to open
that fence for us back at Dreamland, I wonder it' he's okay General
Elliott came over the interphone. "Patrick, get strapped in. Time,
Dave?"

"Two minutes to horizon passage," Luger reported.

McLanahan gave Wendy what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze on the arm,
then turned and climbed downstairs back to his seat.

"Horizon passage," Luger announced, marking a fixpoint on the
high-altitude airways chart he was using. "Two hundred J!and seventy
miles to Kavaznya."

"Scope's clear," Wendy reported quietly, still thinking about what
McLanahan had said. Her voice recovered its strength, though, as she
brought her attention back to business. "We're still at extreme
detection range. With our fibersteel body and anti-radar enhancements
they might not get a radar return from us until we're about one hundred
miles out. If then."

"Will you be able to tell if they can see us?"Elliott asked.

"I'll be able to see their transmission signal when it comes up," she
replied. "I've got an idea from Seattle Center's radar and from the
Shemya tanker and the fighters Colonel Sands chased us with what signal
strength it takes to get a solid skin on us, so I can tell you when
we're getting close to that. I can also see if they search or try to
lock onto us with any height-finding or missile-guidance radars.

"And nothing so far?"

"Nothing. Not even search radar. But being so close to the horizon
does strange things to electronic transmissions. They could've spotted
us even before we crossed the plane of their horizon without my
knowing, or they might not see us until we're well above the horizon.

It's hard to predict-radar bounces off the ionosphere in weird ways.

Like I said, they may already have detected us.

Elliott checked the I.F.F controls to make sure they were all off.

"Crew, double-check around your stations to be sure you're not
transmitting on anything. Radars, radios, jammers, anything. Switch
your wafer switches to INTERPHONE to keep from accidentally talking
over the radios."

McLanahan double checked his interphone switches, also checked to make
sure the circuit controlling the bomb bay walkway lights were off-if
they had to open the bomb doors the walkway lights could easily give
the bomber away at night.

"Offensive checks," McLanahan reported.

"How far are we from-" "Search radar at two o'clock," Wendy suddenly
called out.

The announcement shook up McLanahan and Luger in the lower offensive
crew compartment.

"Here we go," Luger said. He was bundled up with his jacket zipped up
to his chin, collars pulled up. He had long ago cleared off his
retractable work desk. Only the high-altitude chart remained.

"It feels so weird," McLanahan asked. "They can see us now. It feels a
lot different."

"Yeah," Luger said, "Kind of a joy ride-until now."

"Two o'clock?"Elliott asked. "What's at two o'clock?Korf
Airfield?

Anadyr?It can't be Ossora or Kavaznya-unless we're off course-they
should be at twelve o'clock."

Wendy studied her frequency video. "It's a different frequency than a
ground-based radar, and it's stronger than the radar should be so far
away."

"Could it be the laser's tracking radar?"

No, this one has a very low frequency-an old system. I think this is
an airborne search radar."

"Airborne?"Ormack said in surprise. "Maritime reconnaissance or some
sort of patrol-" "Or a chance encounter," Elliott asked. "Let's wait to
sec what-" He's got us," Wendy announced, studying the frequency shift
and listening to the radar's real audio. "Change from a slow scan to
lock-on. No height-finder or uplink-just a faster scan."

"Like station-keeping?"McLanahan asked. "Like a mapping radar
switched to narrow sector?"

"That would explain it," Wendy asked. "He's transmitting on
UHE
"Can you get a frequency?"Elliott asked her.

"Only a wide frequency range. High UHE I can't tell if he's getting a
response."

Let me try to get him on attack radar," McLanahan said.

"At least confirm if he's airborne.""Go ahead," Elliott asked. "No
more than a few seconds, though.

McLanahan adjusted the antenna controls to point his large attack radar
at two o'clock, set the range for a hundred miles, then greased the
TRANSMIT button. After three full sweeps he turned the radar back to
STANDBY "Looks like he's airborne, all right. Two o'clock, sixty
miles. With my antenna tilt two degrees below level I'd estimate his
altitude at thirty-three thousand feet-" And then came the challenge:
"Unknown aircraft, two hundred and forty kilometers northeast of Ostrov
Kornmandorskiye, respond. "Followed by another message, which sounded
like the same request, this time in Russian.

"That's us," Luger confirmed. "About a hundred and thirty miles
northeast of Beringa."

"Sounded like he was on GUARD channel," Ormack said.

monitoring the emergency U.H.F channel. "Do we answer him?"

"You're sure he's tracking us, Wendy?"Elliott asked.

"He can see us, all right, but I don't think he's tracking us.

Just following us with his radar. There's no guidance-type tracking
signal."

"How far are we from the Alaska-Japan airway?"Luger checked his chart
against the computer's present-position readout. "Just a few minutes
ahead-" "Unknown aircraft, please respond. Pazhaloosta."

"Please?"General Elliott smiled. "Sounds like a kid. A polite
kid."

Orinack looked at his pilot with surprise. "I didn't know you
understood Russian."

"I learned just enough to get my head blown off," Elliott said. He
thought for a moment. "If we tried to duck down to low-level now-" "He
might lose us if we pushed it over hard enough," Orinack asked. "We
might make it."

"I don't think he could follow us with his radar," Wendy added. "It
doesn't seem to be a sophisticated system, but he'd report losing us.

He's also in contact with someone out there. It might be Ossora Or it
might be a wingman," McLanahan put in. "Maybe am escort.

"Can you jam his transmissions, Wendy?"Elliott asked.

"Yes, but that would be a dead giveaway."

"All right. Let's get on the airway and see what this guy does. "He
turned the wheel, and the bomber banked steeply to the left. "If he
intercepts us, we'll have to-try to down him.

No other choice. Copy, Angelina?"

"I'm ready, General," she said, checking her weapon-status
indications.

"We'll be just outside radar range of Beringa on this heading," Luger
reported as the Old Dog completed its steep turn.

"Permission to use the tail radar to pick him up, General," Angelina
called.

"Not yet. "Elliott took a deep breath, pulled the microphone closer to
his lips, then switched his radio switch to GUARD.

"Calling unknown aircraft, this is Lantern four-five Fox on
GUARD.Say your call sign. Over."

"Lantern four-five Fox, this is Besarina two-two-one on GUARD.I read
you loud and clear. "The Soviet pilot then said something in
Russian.

"Besarina two-two-one, I read you, but I don't understand Russian."

Elliott paused, then said, "Ya in gavaryoo na vashim yizikye
kharasho.

Say again."

"Prastiti. I am sorry, four-five Fox. You .. . you are United
States aircraft?"

"Da.""Amirikanskaya "the Soviet pilot said excitedly Then, more
officially, reported, "Four-five Fox, you are at our twelve o'clock
position, seven-six kilometers. "A slight pause.

I never talk to United States before."

Orinack let out a long breath of air. "Looks like you may have made a
friend, General."

"Two-two-one, you are Soviet military plane?"Elliott asked.

"Yes!"came an enthusiastic reply. "Pay Vay Oh Strany. Far East
Command. "Elliott translated to the crew, as he did all the Russian.

"I"VO Strany," Elliott said over interphone. "Air Defense unit. Could
be a Bear or Backfire recon plane."

"Or a fighter," Angelina said.

"Gyda vi zhivyoti-excuse, pazhaloosta. Where you from, four-five
Fox?"

the Soviet pilot asked. "New York?Los Angeles?I know San
Francisco."

"Butte, Montana," Elliott asked. Let him chew on that.

"Mon-tanya?My English not very good. They teach English but we do
not use much. Difficult."

A pause, then: "Four-five Fox, contact Kommandorskiye Approach on
two-six-five decimal five. Immediately. "The new voice was clipped,
military, authoritative.

"Da, tovarisch," Elliott replied.

"I report .. . I report you on course okay, commander," the Russian
pilot said in a low, almost secretive voice. "You correcting back.

Not okay to come closer. Okay, commander?"

"Balshoya spasiba, tovarisch," Elliott replied. "Thank you.

"Pazhaloosta. Nice to talk English to you, Montanya."

"Two-six-five decimal five, roger," Elliott repeated. Just before he
changed channels he asked, "Atkooda vi?Where are you from,
two-two-one?"

"Yaiz-er, I from Kevitz," the Soviet pilot said with hometown pride.

"Big fisherman. Nice to talk, Montanya.

Dasfidamya, mnyabileochin priyatna!"

Ormack shook his head as he changed the radio frequency.

"Nice son of a bitch, wasn't he?"

"Kevitz," Elliott asked. "That's what Kavaznya was known as before they
built the laser there."

"He gave us a break," Luger asked. "I'll bet he plotted our position.

He must've noticed us because we were so far outside the airway "He's
not scanning us on radar anymore," Wendy reported.

Elliott reset the frequency on the number one radio.

"You're not going to contact Kommandorskiye, are you General"" Ormack
said.

"We don't have any choice, John. If we don't contact them, our
friendly Bolshevik back there comes back and blows Montanya and his
friends away."

Elliott keyed the microphone. "Kommandorskiye Approach, Lantern
four-five Fox is with you at flight level fourfive-zero.

"Lantern four-five Fox, roger, at flight level four-five-zero," the
Russian air traffic controller replied in hesitant English.

"Say your heading, please."

"Sto shizfisyat. Heading is one-six-zero, Approach."

"Roger, four-five Fox. Spasiba. "There was a slight pause, then: "I
do not have a flight plan for you, Lantern four-five Fox.

"No shit," Ormack said over interphone.

"We are on a military flight plan from Alaska to Japan, Elliott said.

"I show no flight plan," the controller repeated. "Please relay type
of aircraft, departure base, destination base, time enroute, hours of
fuel on board, and persons on board, please."

"No way," Ormack said.

"I haven't done an international flight plan in years, but at least I
know it's never relayed to a Soviet controller.

"Yes," Elliott said, "you're right. This guy's just fishing for
information. "On the radio Elliott said, "Kommandorskiye, we will ask
Kadena overwater flight following to relay our flight plan to you."

"I will be happy to take the information, sir," the controller said "as
a convenience."

Nice try, Ivan, Elliott said to himself. Over the radio: "Thank you
Kommandorskiye. We will notify Kadena. Stand by.

"Very well," the controller replied coldly "Lantern fourfive Fox,
squawk three-seven-seven-one and ident.

"Shit," Ormack asked. "Now he wants us to get a squawk.

"Looks like we're digging a hole for ourselves," Elliott said, reached
down and set the four-digit I.F.F identification and tracking code,
leaving the altitude encoding and modes one, two, and four switchs
off.

He then switched the I.F.F to ON and hit the IDENT button.

"Four-five Fox squawking," Elliott said.

"Radar identified, Lantern four-five Fox," the Soviet controller
replied. "I am not reading your altitude. Please recycle mode C."

"Recycling," Elliott said. He turned the mode C altitude encoder on.

"I am reading your altitude-" Elliott switched him off .

"I have lost your altitude again, four-five Fox. Recycle again,
Please. "Elliott repeated his "failed" mode C routine.

"Your mode C appears to be intermittent, four-five Fox," the controller
at Beringa finally said.

"Roger, we'll write it up, sir."

"I cannot allow you to cross into Petropavlovsk airspace without a
fully operable identification encoder, four-five Fox," the controller
asked. "Please turn twenty degrees left, vectors clear of Soviet
airspace. Maintain heading for one-five minutes, then resume own
navigation. Ochin zhal. Sony."

"How far does that put us off the airway?"Elliott asked Luger.

We're almost on the airway now. We'd end up seventy, eighty miles
west."

Elliott turned the Old Dog to the new heading.

"How long are we going to be in Beringa's radar coverage?"

"We're only on the edge of it now," Luger said.

"Their radar signal is very weak," Wendy asked. "No guarantee-but I
don't think they've got a primary target on us.

"Meaning Ormack began.

"If we shut the I.F.F off, we disappear," Elliott asked. "Just like
Seattle. Patrick, how far are we from your next planned turn-point
inland?"

"We'll never hit it on this heading."

"Call it up," Elliott said, taking manual control of the Old The
computer heading bug swung almost fifty degrees to right.

minutes," Elliott estimated. "That puts us "About twenty between both
Bcringa and Petropavlovsk radars."

"And as close to the coast as we can get between the two radars,"
McLanahan added.

"I don't think it'll take Beringa that long to discover we don't have a
flight plan," Elliott asked. "Things are going to get hairy pretty
soon. Wendy, you're sure he can't see us?"

"As sure as I can be."

"Can you jam their radar in case he spots us?"

-Yes, I'm positive of that."

Elliott adjusted his parachute harness. "This means we're close to the
penetration descent, crew. Wendy, prepare to take the Center radar
down. We'll be making a power-off descent in a few seconds. When
everyone's ready to go, we'll start a gradual turn toward the gap in
the radar coverage. When Beringa notices us off-course we'll engage
the terrainavoidance computers, make a rapid descent to five thousand
feet and a quick turn toward the gap. Once we go coast-in we'll stay
at five thousand unless the navigators tell us differently.

We'll rely on the shorter-range mapping radar to stay down just low
enough to clear the terrain until the computer enters the
altitude-plotted region, then put it on the deck when we get within
range of Kavaznya's radars--or if we get chased down beforehand.

Questions?Okay, how much time to the gap?"

"About fifteen minutes, General," Luger said.

"Anyone looking at us, Wendy?"

Wendy was studying her scope, cross-checking some of the signals
present with a frequency comparison chart in her checklist. "I can see
Beringa looking for us, but I'm sure they can't get a primary target on
us-their signal is very weak. No airborne radars up. There's .. .

"What?"

"Another search radar comes up only every few minutes or so," she said,
puzzled. "It's not a Soviet radar, at least not one I've seen
before.

It's extremely weak and intermittent-like it's being turned on and off
at random."

"Can it see us?"Elliott asked her. "Could it spot us if we were at
low altitude?"

"I don't think so. It doesn't come up long enough for me to analyze,
but the signal is so intermittent that I don't think they could spot us
even if they could see us. It could be nothing more than a trawler or
cargo ship with a weather radar."

"Well," Elliott said, unclenching his hands from the yoke, trying to
relax, "it seems we've got more than enough to think about.

Gently he eased the wheel to the right and pointed the sleek nose of
the Old Dog toward the Soviet Union.

"Here we go The Chief of Intelligence aboard the U.S.S. Lawrence ran
down the metal hallway to the radio room, where a small knot of
officers, enlisted personnel and civilian technicians clustered around
one bank of radio scanners.

"What the hell is going on?"Markham asked as he pulled off his orange
fur-lined jacket.

"An American aircraft, Commander Markham," Lieutenant J.G. Beech, the
senior controller, reported hastily, cocking one earpiece of his
headset to the side-but not enough to keep him from listening to the
channels he was monitoring. A seaman 44 came up to him with a short
message. The senior controller read it quickly, swearing softly to
himself.

:f "Well, what the hell is it, Beech?"

"An American aircraft, Commander," Beech asked. "Came over U.H.F GUARD
emergency channel a few minutes ago."

He shook his head. "The aircraft is in Soviet airspace, being
controlled by a Soviet controller-" "An American aircraft?"Markham
grabbed the note out of Beech's hand.

"Lantern four-five Fox," Markham read. "Lantern. That sounds
familiar."

"It should," Beech asked. "We monitored four Lanterns from Elmendorf
dragging a bunch of F-4s to Japan yesterday. Those were KC-10s with an
international flight plan-coordinated days in advance. Lantern two-one
through two-four."

"Did you get this guy's flight plan?"

"There's no Lantern four-five Fox," Beech asked. "Never was. It didn't
come out of Elmendorf.

A i "Where, then?"

"We're double-checking," Beech asked. "But this guy has no flight
plan.

We're trying to get confirmation from Elmendorf but so far we have
nothing.

"Did you get anything?"Markham asked. "Type aircraft?

Anything?"

"Nothing. I'll get the tape for the staff meeting, but there was
nothing. A Soviet controller in Beringa Island in the Kornmandorskiyes
asked him all that when he looked up his flight plan, but he didn't
tell him anything .. . Here's how it went, sir .. . a PVO Strany
jet out of Petropavlovsk picks up a Lantern four-five Fox on airborne
radar and calls for him in the blind on GUARD.When he started to call
we got on the radar and looked for him, too. We had the PVO jet all
the way but we couldn't find the other guy until the PVO jet called out
his range and bearing. We plotted him forty miles east of the
airway-and then we got a track on him. This four-five Fox plane looked
like he was heading toward Russia " "Toward Russia?"Markham swiveled
in the navy-gray seat.

"From where?Didn't we see him before?"

"He just sort of appeared out of nowhere. We weren't really scanning
for aircraft but we should have spotted him before the Strany
surveillance plane did. I don't know how we-" PVO "Where is he now?"

"We lost contact with four-five Fox right after he crossed back onto
the airway," Beech asked. "Apparently he was crossing south of the
Kommandorskiyes, and that's just about the limit of our coverage.

"But get this-when we picked him up on radar he wasn't squawking
anything. When he contacted Befinga they assigned him a mode three
squawk, but his mode C altitude readout was out. Then Beringa kicks
him out of their airspace and gives him a vector out around
Petropavlovsk airspace."

"Jesus," Markham said, wiping his forehead. "Someone's screwing up but
bad here. "He thought for a moment. "No mode one?Mode two?

Four?"

Those were U.S. military-only identification codes.

"Nothing-not even after Beringa talked to him."

"An aircraft with a military call sign," Markham said, "but with
nothing but mode three-and that assigned by a Soviet controller.

"He was speaking Russian to him, too, sir," a technician said from a
nearby radio console.

"Russian?"Markham asked. "What the hell was he saying?"

"Conversational. Please, thank you, that sort of thing.

Asked the PVO Strany recon jet pilot where he was from."

"Did the Lantern pilot sound Russian?"

"No, sounded like maybe he used to speak it in the past, but he was
definitely American. Even said he was from Butte, Montana.

"We have no further contact with this guy?"

"Radio contact only," Beech said, "but he hasn't talked to Beringa for
some time so we couldn't get an updated DF steer on him. "He motioned
over to a large glass plotting board near the Communications center,
which he and Markham walked over to.

"Here's our Position," Beech told the intelligence chief, pointing to a
tiny ship sticker, "a hundred and fifty miles west northeast of the
Kommandorskiyes. Here's the airway-we're sitting almost directly under
it. We first plotted the unknown aircraft here, northwest of us and
forty miles east of the airway, heading southeast. He intersected the
airway here and flew along it for a few minutes until Beringa chased
him further away from Petropavlovsk airspace, which he'd run into in
about twenty to thirty minutes. Our last DF steer put him south of the
Kommandorskiyes, a little bit west of the airway. But Beringa control
had confirmed him on a mag heading of onefour-zero, which would put him
well outside Petropavlovsk airspace. Even if he went direct to Sapporo
or Tokyo he'd never get close enough to worry anyone."

" Is there any chance this could be a Soviet aircraft?"

Markham asked. "How do we know it's American?"

Beech looked puzzled. "Well except for his call sign, we don't,
sir."

"But you've said there's no Lantern four-five Fox from anywhere.

"We haven't received confirmation from Elmendorf," Beech asked. "They
won't talk about their aircraft on unsecured radios. All we know is
that no flight plan has been filed on a Lantern four-five Fox. It
could've been dropped, or filed late It's unusual but it can happen.

And .. . well, he sounded American, sounded military.

"Enlightened speculation goes down okay here, Beech," Markham said,
trying to smile but not managing it.

do we account for this?"Markham pointed to the "But how projected
trackline of the unknown aircraft. "What's he doing way the hell over
here?"

Beech shrugged. "Maybe he got lost. Really lost. Maybe he's
sightseeing. Joyriding. Some jet jockey with a fake call sign playing
fucking Red Rover with the Russians?"

"Well, we'll leave that one to the CIA or the Air Force," Markham
said.

He stood and stretched. "Send a report to headquarters about this
guy.

Advise to obtain positive identified airspace. Suggest a cation before
allowing him into Japanes navy or DIA investigation on him when he
lands. "He ran his hands over his expanding belly. "I'm going to see
if they've dreamed up anything new to do with hamburger in the mess.

I'll be upstairs."called out, sir.

"LieutenantChBaenencehl,Chr(34)+s'evoenneteoefnthe radio operators suddenly
Beech replaced his headset. After a moment he said Sir, listen to
this."urgently, "Jonesy, put it on speakers.

The operator flipped a few switches, and soon the room was filled with
static. A few moments later a Russian accent boomed, "Lantern
four-five Fox, acknowledge."

"It's Beringa," Beech said to Markham.

"Lantern four-five Fox, this is Kommandorskiye Approach
Control on GUARD frequency. Urge Soviet airspace. Lantern four five
Fox, turn thirty degrees left nt. You are violating immediately and
ident. Repeat. You are one-zero-zero kilometers off course and in
violation of Soviet airspace. Turn left thirty degrees immediately and
ident. "The warning was then repeated in Russian and in clumsy
Chinese.

"One hundred kilometers," Beech asked. "What the hell is that guy up
to?"

"Whatever," Markham said, "he's in deep shit now."

"Lantern four-five Fox, this is Kommandorskiye Approach on GUARD.I
have lost your beacon. Repeat, I have lost your beacon. Check your
I.F.F is in NORMAL and squawk ident immediately. You are in violation
of Soviet airspace. Identify yourself immediately."

"That's it," Markham asked. "Cancel that last report. Prepare a
priority One message for Pacific Fleet headquarters. Say that an
unidentified aircraft, presumed American military, has violated Soviet
airspace. Give our position and the last reported and estimated
position of the aircraft. Soviet intentions are unknown but we expect
them to search, intercept and destroy. We do not have any reason to
believe that the unknown aircraft has an emergency, but tell them that
he may be having navigational difficulties. More details to follow.

I'll have the
Captain sign it immediately And get a report ready for the Old Man,"
Markham told Beech. "He's gonna want one fast. I'm going to get
permission to send up a radar balloon."

"We may be able to move closer to his last reported position," Beech
suggested. "Get on the other side of the Kommandorskiyes. If this
guy's in trouble we can-" "We haven't even established if the son of a
bitch is American," Markham cut in. "He could be part of some
elaborate Russian scheme to pull us away from monitoring Kavaznya.

I'll suggest it, Beech.but I won't recommend it.

Besides, he'd be too far inside Soviet territory for us to do
anything.

As his intelligence people hurried to execute his orders, Markham
studied the plotting board. In front of him a technician made a series
of computations and drew another line, plotting the unknown aircrafts
possible location.

"I don't know who you are," Markham said under his breath, "but, buddy,
you just stirred up one hell of a hornet's nest.

"Call up the next point," Elliott said. His arms were extended almost
straight out from his body, straining to hold the control yoke forward,
forcing the Old Dog down toward the dark waters of the north Pacific.

The heading bug swung twenty degrees to the right. As the Old Dog
started a right turn to the new computerized heading, Elliott spun the
large trim wheel by his right knee forward to help him hold the
bomber's nose down-at the current rate of descent and high airspeed,
the Megafortress wanted nothing except to zoom skyward.

As he reached for the trim wheel Elliott touched his right knee. The
feeling-a tingling sensation, like it was asleep-had still been there a
few hours ago, but it was gone now. A ring of pain encircled his thigh
midway between his knee and hip like a clamp. A muscle twitched
involuntarily on his right buttock. He looked over and saw Ormack
carefully watching him.

"Bad?"

"Just watch your damn instruments, John."

Ormack nodded, not reassured.

Nearly forty years earlier, Elliott recalled, he had hurt that knee
falling out of a hayloft on his father's farm. While sitting in the
school library, sidelined from the football team, he had read all the
books printed on the subject of knee injuries, vitamins to help mending
ligaments, special exercises to strengthen muscles.

After the cast came off he nursed the weakened knee back to health in
only a few weeks, just in time the state for baseball season. The year
his school won championship. He remembered the pride he felt at the
time.

Would he be as proud when this was over?

"Will that heading keep us clear of Beringa's radars" "it should,"
Luger asked. "It'll take us around on a onehundred-twenty-mile arc."

He checked the altimeter on his front instruments panel.it was
spinning down faster than he'd ever seen, like a clock gone haywire.

He was so light in his seat that he had to snatch his charts and pencil
in midair to keep them from floating away in the negative Gs. "Passing
twenty-five thousand for-five thousand," he called out. He was
remembering the way Major White's egress trainer back at Ford made his
huge mechanical beast dance on its ten-foot hydraulic legs. Well, this
was for real-and it was much more than White could ever dream up
"Passing twenty thousand. "For Air Force Base seemed very, very far
away.

"How far were we from your start-descent point, McLanahan?"Ormack
asked.

"Still about six minutes.""That long "I'm surprised," Luger said,
"that they took to catch us.

Hell, we were almost seventy miles off-course before they called us."

"Coming up on fifteen thousand," McLanahan sang out "Both radar
altimeter channels are ready," Ormack repeated. "Clearance plane is
set to five thousand feet. Autopilc pitch command mode slaved to radar
altimeter."

"Good. "Elliott flipped switches on his left panel beside his ejection
seat. "Okay, crew, listen up. You now have fit authorization for all
defensive measures. Angelina, you have Scorpion missile consent.

Scorpion bay doors are at yo command. Keep your radar transmissions to
an absolu minimum. Wendy, you have full jamming authority. If any
tracking or guidance signals come up that you think are strong enough
to paint us, jam the piss out of them. Patrick, you' now on
interceptor watch. Leave navigation to Dave unless he needs help in
the mountains.

If Wendy sees any fighters if it looks like they're trying to track us,
you've got authority transmit and lock onto them."

"Passing ten thousand, General," Luger asked. "Five thousand to go.

Elliott slowly began to pull back on the yoke and bring the throttles
forward from idle to cruise thrust. The roller-coaster descent began
to subside. As Luger counted the altitude down, Elliott decreased the
descent rate until the Old Dog was leveled off.

"Radar altimeter lock-on," Ormack announced. He flipped a switch,
double-checking the readouts. "Both radar altimeter channels are
ready" "Autopilot coming on," Elliott said. He flipped the auto pilot
switch on. The Old Dog remained rock-steady at five thousand feet.

Now a pitch computer, slaved to signals from the radar altimeter, would
work to keep the Old Dog at a mere five thousand feet above the
water.

"Autopilot's engaged," Elliott confirmed. "Setting four thousand for a
system check. "He turned the clearance-plane knob down one notch, and
the Old Dog started a gentle dive, settling to precisely four thousand
feet above the water.

"Resetting five thousand. "He turned the knob clockwise and the huge
bomber started a slow climb back to five thousand "X, feet.

"Anybody looking for us, Wendy?"Elliott asked.

"Very low-power radar signals. Much too low to see us.

Nothing from Petropavlovsk radar. Lots of U.H.F and VHF radio
transmissions, though."

"But none of it on GUARD any more, I'll bet," Ormack asked. "They know
we can monitor GUARD."

"Which means they're no longer interested in rescue," Elliott said.

"No more Mister Nice-Guy. "He thought for a moment. "Time to the
coast, Dave?"

"Twelve Minutes," Luger said, checking the computer readouts.

"I feel exposed down here," Elliott asked. "I feel everyone can see
us.

I can't wait to get back into the dirt."

"I'd expect company long before that," Ormack asked. "I'd expect a
fighter sweep of the area along our projected track line, then a second
flight on the landward side."

"What altitude you figure the fighters will come in?"Elliott asked.

"If they have the resources-and I'll bet they do--it'll be a high-cap,
low-cap arrangement. The lowest might be five thousand feet. More
likely, eight to ten thousand. High-ca will be up around thirty
thousand.

"How's the fuel situation?"

"Worse than I thought," Ormack told him. "I've just put the fuel
management system back to automatic. The early descet had little
effect on the curve, but the tip gear we're dragging just sucking our
gas up. I have us at least five thousand belo, the revised fuel
curve."

"Every pound of gas is critical now," Elliott asked. "Patric' can we
cut off any points on your flight plan'?Cut this corner a bit?"

"Risky," McLanahan said, studying his chart. "We can head for the next
point on the flight plan. It'll save us about five minutes or so, but
it'll put us closer to a small town on the coastline. I wanted to
avoid this town by at least ten miles, we cut the corner, we almost
overfly it.""Ten minutes worth of fuel is a drop in the bucket," high
altitude, bucket," Ormack asked. "Down here "Is that town defended?"

Elliott asked. "Any airfield there?Naval docks?"

"I don't know," McLanahan asked. "There's no detail like that on the
charts I'm using."

"We'll have to risk it," Elliott asked. "The faster we get bac over
land, the better I'll feel. Call up the next point, Patrick McLanahan
punched up the new destination number on his keyboard, verified the
coordinates with his penciled notes in the margin of his makeshift
chart and displayed the destination. The pilot's heading bug shifted
thirty degrees more to the right The Old Dog banked right in
response.

"Landfall in six minutes," Luger said.

"Stay on watch, everyone," Elliott asked. "Stay on watch.

"They're launching the whole goddamned Russian Eastern Defense
Command," Beech said. He was sitting in dire command of the
intelligence section; Markham and Capt. Jacobs, captain of the
Lawrence, were on the bridge.

"The son of a bitch couldn't have picked a worse place this side of the
Caspian Sea to disappear off Russian radar Markham told Jacobs.

"Directly between Petropavlovsk and seven nuclear submarines in the
pens to the south, z Kavaznya to the north.

"But how did he go off their radar?"Jacobs asked, studying the slides
Markham's group had prepared of the situation. "I thought a mosquito
couldn't get through their radar coverage."

"We're not sure, Captain.

More than likely, the guy crashed or ditched. Right from the beginning
it sounded like the guy was having navigation problems."

"Navigation problems don't make planes ditch," Jacobs asked. "If he had
a catastrophic emergency, enough to cause navigation or flight control
problems, why the hell didn't he declare an emergency?The Russians
would've helped him I've seen them do it before. "I don't know, sir.

He may have panicked. "Markham got up and pointed at the chart.

"Radar coverage is sort of skimpy around here, too," he said, as much
to himself as to Jacobs.

"Petropavlovsk radar coverage doesn't quite extend this far north, but
Beringa's radar does cover this entire gap."

Jacobs was about to say something but was interrupted by Beech on the
intercom.

a "Captain, message from PVO Strany, Far East Command headquarters, to
all units. In the clear. Uncoded."

"I'm surprised they didn't read part of it in English," Jacobs said.

"What are they saying?"

"Air Defense Emergency declared for the area. General orders for
deploying searching fighters in the area. Complete closing of Soviet
airspace."

"Send it, Markham asked. "Direct CINCPAC via JCS.

Priority One.

"Yes, sir."

Jacobs studied the chart closer, finally picked up a pair of dividers
lying on the console near his seat.

"We use two hundred and fifty nautical miles for Center radars,
right?"

Yes, sir," Markham asked. "Standard line-of-sight-ranging.

A bit more, depending on altitude.

"But you don't have a big circle around Beringa," Jacobs noted,
measuring the lines around the islands that composed the Russian
members of the Aleutian chain.

"They don't have a Center radar," Markham said, his excitement
rising.

.

"They have shorter-range, low-altitude I capable radar. Approach
control radar."

Jacobs measured a two hundred and fifty mile circle from
Petropavlovsk.

The circle barely intersected the radar circle from Beringa.

"They overlap "But there's a gap," Markham said, pointing at the
chart.

"They overlap, but there's still incomplete coverage. If you avoid
this circle-" ,-he's out of range. "Jacobs stabbed the chart excitedly
and looked at Markham. "And Petropavlovsk won't see him if- "If he's
low level. Below five or six thousand feet, he gets lost in the
background radar clutter, even over water.

"Wait a minute. "Jacobs held up a hand. "You said this guy was a
tanker.

"He had a tanker call sign," Markham said, checking his notes.

"Lantern four-five Fox. Out of Elmendorf. But he had no flight plan,
and Elmendorf reports no four-five Fox."

"So he's not a tanker. Then what?"

"A low-altitude penetrator?"Markham muttered.

"A bomber?"he knew exactly where to go. Exactly. How else "It seems
would he know about the gaps in radar coverage?"spotted by that recon
jet."

Markham nodded. "But .. . he surpris "Got his fingers caught in the
cookie jar, maybe?"

Markham shook his head. "Spotted by a recon plane, he .. . he turns
around before they figure out he's headed inland-" Jacobs said.

wizard Kavaznya "And he's disappeared again, going in the back way."

"Goddamn," Jacobs muttered. "Why me?Why now') sir," Markham reminded
the captain, "None of our communications on this entire boat are
completely secure, second-guessing him. "If we blow the whistle-" "Why
the hell doesn't anybody tell us what's going on?

Well, it's too late now anyway. The whole Far East Command is after
him. He won't get far."

"So what do we do?"

Jacobs shook his head. "We do nothing. Nothing we can do.

That guy, whoever he is, is all on his own.

Elliott jerked himself out of his reverie. He hadn't been "Four
minutes to coast-in," Dave Luger announced.

sleeping-he couldn't really remember the last time he had .dbut he
had been in some sort of daydream ever since descending to low level.

Now his eyes were locked onto the dim glow of the small Russian town
they were approaching.

The tiny town, too small to have a name on Luger's generalpurpose
navigation chart, appeared as a scattering of lights off in the
distance. Just one small blob of lights, with a small string of lights
trailing away-probably a lighted path down to the docks for the
fishermen, or the main road in and out of town.

It wasn't the first Russian town he'd seen, but this one seemed
different. Innocent. Peaceful. Moscow, the last time he was there as
an Embassy adviser back in the seventies, was enacing. Even during the
newlywed years of detente, he felt its choking, suffocating presence.

Here, over the cold rough pioneer-like badlands of eastern Siberia, it
seemed different .. .

Elliott unconsciously gripped the yoke tighter. The sight of the long
SST nose of the Old Dog reminded him where he was, what they were
doing. He readjusted his microphone.

"Wendy?"

"Nothing, General," Wendy replied, nervously anticipating his query.

"Random, low-power VHE" Her voice was a clipped monotone.

"Distance to the coastal mountains, Dave?"

"General, I don't know for sure. My enroute chart doesn't show any
detail of the Kamchatka peninsula. I'll need a few radar sweeps to
range them out."ew Elliott considered that. He couldn't wait to get
within the safety of the mountains, but still .- - "All
right-authorized But no more than a few seconds."

"Better let me take a look," McLanahan said, readjusting his attack
radar controls. "I can look out eighty miles in fullscan, Dave's
limited to thirty in a small cone."

"Do it," Elliott told him. "Dave, can you draw a picture of the
terrain?Give yourself a little topographic map?"

Luger blocked out a section of his high-altitude chart and measured out
a rough eighty-mile-range radar-scope diagram, then loosened his
parachute and ejection seat straps and leaned over as far as possible
to look at McLanahan's ten-inch display.

"Ready."

"Here we go. "McLanahan finished reconfiguring and pretuning his
scope, then pressed the RADIATE button. The radar image of the eastern
shore of the Kamchatka peninsula appeared-the first radar picture,
McLanahan thought, from an American bomber about to make an attack on
an installation of the Soviet Union.

Don't dwell on it, he told himself .. .

"Gently rising terrain in the next forty miles."

-graphing the scope presentation Luger was furiously shadow on his
chart. "Navigation looks good-we're about thirty miles from the coast
on radar, our heading looks good to avoid overflying that town. It
should pass about two miles to our left.

High terrain starts in about thirty-seven miles, but so far nothing is
above us. Some high stuff at sixty miles but still no big shadows."
d, "that five thousand feet "Which means," Ormack said might be a safe
altitude for us.

"Got all you need, Dave?"McLanahan asked.

Luger shook his head as he added some detail of some longrange peaks to
his bastardized terrain chart. "Few more seconds he muttered.

McLanahan nodded and continued studying the scope.

"That town looks pretty big," he said over interphone as he studied the
display, adjusting the video and receiver gain controls to eliminate
the terrain returns, then turned to his partner. "Done with the long
range, Dave?"Luger nodded.

"I'm checking that town in thirty-mile range. It looks funny."

He moved the range selector to thirty-mile range. The small town was
now magnified in good detail at the top of his scope.

"Make it quick," Elliott warned.

"Funny?"Ormack asked. "How funny?"

"Funny as in bad news. Real bad news," McLanahan said.

He stared at the magnified scene for a few more sweeps, then quickly
put his radar scope to STANDBY "General, we gotta turn. Now. At least
twenty degrees right."

"Why .. . T' "Ships," McLanahan asked. "One dock full of big mother
ships .. ."

"Search radar at twelve o'clock," Wendy sang out.

ddenly called Elliott shoved the eight throttles forward and banked the
Megafortress hard to the right.

"Give me COLA on the clearance-plane setting, John," Elliott ordered.

Ormack reached across and turned the clearance plane knob down to its
lowest setting. COLA--computer generated Lowest Altitude. Now the
terrain-avoidance computer would select the lowest altitude possible
for the Alegafortress based on a small error factor of the radar
altimeter or terrain-avoidance computer, plus aircraft bank angle and
terrain elevation.

The computer, starting at a COLA altitude of about a hundred feet,
would then evaluate itself and readjust its minimum COLA altitude,
continuously striving for the lowest Possible altitude. Since the Old
Dog's terrain-avoidance computer was slaved only to the radar
altimeter, the new lowest altitude would equate to the highest error
tolerance of the radar altimeters scant thirty feet-plus a few feet for
the normal rolling oscillations of any autopilot.

The huge bomber plunged its nose toward the inky blackness of the
Russian Pacific, then slowly back to level as it quickly reached its
commanded altitude. Now.nearly four hundred thousand pounds of man
and machine, guided by a single thin radar beam from the bomber's
belly, were skimming only a few dozen yards from the surface of the
water at over four hundred miles an hour.

"Still only search radar," Wendy reported, leaning forward intently
toward her TV-like threat display. "High power but still scan mode.

They're A chill worked its way up
McLanahan's spine even before Wendy finished her analysis of the new
signals being transmitted.

"New signal coming up," Wendy said suddenly. "Narrowcan search ..

.

height-finder coming up .. . they've got us, General. They've found
us, surface-to-air missile signals coming up
Jeff Hampton's voice sounded strained and excited as the President
picked up the telephone near his chair. "Say that again, Jeff?"the
President said, rubbing interupted fitful sleep from his eyes. He
massaged a knotted muscle in his neck and forced himself to
concentrate.

"An Air Defense alert was called about fifteen minutes ago over the
Kamchatka peninsula," Hampton repeated, gulping for air."in
Russia."

"I know where the goddamned Kamchatka peninsula is, Jeff - Go on.

peared off their "An unidentified aircraft, Presumed to be American,
disap radar. Real close-in. Violated airspace.

It .. . it had a call sign similar to .. . to the one General
Elliott was using."

"Elliott?Brad Elliott?My God!"

"Not confirmed, sir, but-" "I'll be right down. Alert General
Curtis.

Have him meet me in the Situation Room on the double."

The President hurried out of the parlor, quickly dressed and went
downstairs.

Brad Elliott, you old devil .. . You got in. You son of a bitch-you
made' it in.

Wendy could only focus on the video threat display. Millions of watts
of energy, directed along specific frequency and power ranges, were at
her command, yet she stared transfixed at two erratic waves along one
line of that threat display. Her hands were flat on her thighs, palms
down, despite the Old Dog's steep bank turn which usually made her grab
onto her ejection seat armrests.

The audio pickup of the two radars was hypnotizing. The first radar
emitted a scratchy bleeping sound, like a seal's bark.

It had begun as an intermittent signal but was now coming over twice as
fast-India-band narrow- scan search radar, aimed directly at them. The
second radar gave off a higher-pitched squeal, like a rusty hinge. It
signaled the presence of a Golfband height-finder, supplying altitude
information to a surface to-air missile's guidance computer.

The computer-controlled threat analyzer apparently couldn't make up its
mind-it was switching its analysis symbol from "2" to " 3, " indicating
S.A-2 or S.A-3 strategic missiles, which were usually designed for
high-altitude penetrators. The missiles..... they called them
"telephone poles" in Vietnam..... were barely capable against
low-altitude penetrators-but the Old Dog was well within the missile's
lethal range.

"All radars in standby," Luger announced, double-checking both his and
McLanahan's controls. He blinked in surprise at his pressure
altimeter-it read minus sixty feet. He checked the radar altimeter
readout on McLanahan's video screen and saw that it was pegged at a
hundred feet. One hundred fee0 If the COLA computer didn't compensate
property, at this altitude with only twenty degrees of bank they'd drag
a wingtip in the water.

With an unsteady hand he reset the Kollsmann window on his pressure
altimeter until it read a hundred feet. He could almost see the water
skimming below him at over six hundred
"I feet a second. He could do nothing else but monitor the
instruments, watch and wait.

"Wendy?

"Yes?"

"Wendy," McLanahan shouted over the intercom.

"Wendy.

Answer me."

"Patrick, I voice. She opened her eyes, took a deep breath, again of
the threat analyzer in front of her.

"Steady tracking and surveillance signals," she reported, her voice
stronger. "Tracking us, but no guidance or uplink."

Elliott watched the tiny blob of lights in the distance.

Suddenly he saw a small shaft of light flare brightly, erupting from
the outskirts of the town.

"Missile launch!S.A-2!"from Wendy.

"I've got it, I can see it," Elliott said.

"I've got the uplink shut down. "Wendy carefully adjusted "J the
jammer's frequencies, as if she were adjusting the focus on a
microscope. She glanced up at her radar altimeter repeater.

"How does it look?"

"It's heading right for us," Ormack said.

"Make a hard turn into it," Wendy ordered.

"Into it?That will-" "Do it, General," Wendy said over the
interphone. The Old Dog rolled into a steep bank to the left.

"I can still see it .. . wait. "Elliott's voice was suddenly less
strained. "I can see the whole tail of the missile .. . it's gone.

It went behind us "Come back to the right, maximum bank, military
thrust," Wendy said. Elliott immediately did it.

"S.A-2 signal coming back up," Wendy said suddenly. Her hands flew
over the High-speed Anti-Radiation Missile control panel. "Anti-radar
missile one programmed and ready for launch.

Angelina checked her switches, watching her indicators as a map HARM
missile on the aft bomb bay's rotating launcher was pulled into the
lower launch position. "Ready."

Wendy hit the LAUNCH button. The fibersteel bomb-bay doors swung open,
and the first HARM missile was ejected
She closed her eyes, focusing on his became aware
X
into the slipstream. The launcher automatically rotated another
HARM into launch position.

ported. "S.A-2

"HARM has a good lock-on," Wendy re -2 missile alert .. . HARM still
locked on .. . S.A solid missile alert. "Suddenly both the MISSILE
ALERT threat signal and the HARM missile's lock-on status indication
blinked off.

"S.A-2 radar down," Wendy said, her breath coming back.

Angelina sat back in her seat, her body relaxing. "They've the threat
audio from her receivers. "No other missile tracking switched back to
wide-area search," Wendy said, monitoring signals. They've lost us.

The town was passing out of view. Elliott watched the distant lights,
now almost obscured by the horizon so close beneath them, as it slid
past the left cockpit windows.

"Good shooting, people. "He didn't say "ladies. "There Elliott told
were no "ladies" aboard. "Call up the next point, the navigators. "I
don't want to head back to the same point. If they look for us,
they'll plot our track and find us along that path. "McLanahan punched
instructions into the computer, the bomber made a slight turn back to
the left. A few minutes later Luger announced they were crossing the
coast.

ack there?"

"Hey, Tork. What the hell were you doing but Ormack said.

Wendy was waiting for him.

"Colonel Ormack," Wendy said, "the next time I give an evasion command,
I don't want it second-guessed. An S.A leaves the rails three times
faster than any speed this plane could hope to reach. At our range it
gives us only a few seconds to react. Our best defense is to acquire
the missile visually. Once we see it, our chances of evading it go way
up if you're unsure of the right defensive maneuvers it would be best
to keep quiet and do as you're told. "Ormack closed his mouth.

She was right.

"Crew, that was only "He got the message," Elliott said.

the first test. There'll be a lot more before we're through with
this.

Dave, how long until Kavaznya?"

Luger looked at his chart. "I'd say we'll be overlying it in forty
minutes, General."

Forty minutes. The thought was like a damp chill permeating the'
pressurized interior of the Old Dog.

THE WHITE HOUSE SITUATION Room
sident ordered.

"Give it to me right now," the President asked. "Yes, sir," General
Curtis said enthusiastically The President and the JCS Chairman were
alone with the President's aide Jeff Hampton and several Marine guards
and military Communications technicians in the White House Situation
Room. Curtis looked as spit-shined and polished as alwa, even in these
early-morning hours and in spite of the short notice. The President,
in sharp contrast, had pulled on a football warm-up suit after
receiving the notification and ran down to the Situation Room.

Curtis walked rapidly to the rear of the chamber.

Here, Curtis thought, was a President who wanted acti Quite a switch
from the political animal he'd always krim He went over to a large
projection chart on the rear wall depicted the State of Alaska and most
of Asia. The Kavaz laser complex was highlighted with a large
triangles target symbol. Several circles were drawn: large circles
around radar sites clustered all along the Russian coastline and near
cities, small circles representing defensive surface-to-air-misile
sites.

A very large circle was centered over the north Pac midway between
Hawaii and the Aleutians-the kill zone the Soviet's new orbiting
steerable mirror. The circle enc passed the entire north Pacific, the
State of Alaska, all of arctic and even large parts of Canada.

One black-lined route was depicted-the attack route of B-113

Excaliburs, which were still orbiting over the Chu Sea six hundred
miles west of Alaska. "The alert was c,
293

because of an unknown aircraft that disappeared from Soviet radar here
a hundred and fifty miles south of the Kommandorskiye Islands. It was
under radar control from Kommandorskiye Center.

The President looked at him. "Elliott?General Elliott's plane?"

"We know its call sign," Curtis asked. "Lantern. Lantern Four-Five
Fox-" "I believe so, sir. It seems he made it.

"Son of a bitch," the President said, not knowing whether he should be
elated or worried-he was happy that the Old Dog had done what the B-1s
had failed to do, but now it too had been discovered. "What about the
Lantern part?"

"Lantern was yesterday's Zulu call sign of SAC's Sixth Strategic Wing
at Elmendorf Air Force Base in Anchorage," Curtis asked. "The Sixth has
several KC-135 and KC-10 tankers, Plus RC-135 reconnaissance planes."

"So it wasn't Elliott?"

"Well, sir," Curtis said, hesitating, his Kansas draw] leaking through,
"we called the Sixth. They had no Lantern Four-Five Fox at all that
day They had a fighter drag earliersome tankers escorting F-15s-that
flew fairly close to So let airspace on its way to Kadena, but no
four-five call sign. Rv lit 9 now, we're checking out some
possibilities. Kommandorskiye Center apparently had no flight plan on
file for Lantern Four Five Fox. Kommandorskiye was told by Lantern
that they would have Kadena Global Command Control relay their flight
plan. That's standard procedure for military flight plans.

Meanwhile Kommandorskiye assigned Lantern an identification code and
allowed it to continue southward, A few minutes later Kommandorskiye
kicked Lantern Out of its airspace because of a malfunctioning
identification signal. It was given a heading well clear of Soviet
airspace. A half-hour after that
Kommandorskiye calls Lantern and says they are seventy miles inside
Soviet airspace.

"Inside their airspace?How did that happen?"

"We're not sure but I'm operating under the assumption that Lantern
Four-Five is Elliott and his crew. I haven't figured out how he got
the fuel-he didn't have nearly enough to fly all the way across the
north Pacific Ocean. I should receive some word soon
"Then our game is on-for real," the President said. He "Your plan
seems to have worked, looked up at Curtis.

General "Yes, sir. When that Russian Air Defense emergency was called,
those B-1s were tying up three quarters of the Soviet fighters in the
area. The intelligence ship Lawrence didn't report any fighter
activity further south. If it is Elliott, and I'm betting it is, he's
got quite a head start."immediately. If the Russians find Elliott
over the Kamchatka peninsula they'll shoot down the Excaliburs for
sure."

"Yes, sir. And if I know those bomber crews they'll put the pedal to
the metal getting back here."

"So that shrewd old bastard made it. "The President shook his head,
still finding it difficult to believe what had happened.

He turned to Hampton. "Eight A.M Jeff. I want the National Security
Advisors, JCS, House Speaker, minority and majority leaders of both
houses of Congress and Armed Services Committee chairman of both
houses. Request a secure videophone connection with the prime
ministers of the NATO countries and the attendance of all available
NATO ambassadors. Those who can't meet in the Oval Office will confer
via secure videophone.

The President nodded his head decisively "That's when I will inform
them of the strike against the laser complex at Kavaznya. "He turned
to Curtis. "General, I want you airborne, right away, to direct
Elliott's sortie and withdrawal."

Curtis nodded.saluted his Commander-in-Chief, turned and exited the
White House Situation Room. As he did so his step was firmer, his eyes
brighter than at any time in the past few months
"Fox. The same as Elliott's .. . The President absorbed that, then:
"General, recall the B-1s
As the Old Dog streaked across the skies of the Kamchatka peninsula in
eastern Russia, one of its electronic eyes looked straight ahead and
kept the crew of six from crashing into the rugged mountains of the
Kamchatka, while other eyes scanned the skies for electromagnetic
signals aimed at it, looking for enemies who were looking for them.

It was Dave Luger who controlled the first "eye"-a beam of radar energy
that swept in a forty-five degree cone on either side of the Old Dog's
sleek nose. If there was an obstacle along the beam's path it would
reflect the radar energy directly back to be displayed on Luger's
scope.

The other eyes-the sensors and antennas of the electronic
countermeasures sYstem-were mostly computer-controlled. A computer
would instantly analyze a signal, identify it, determine its danger
level and jam it if necessary. Luger's "eye" was different. He
constantly had to adjust the radar presentation, search the scope for
tiny peaks or ridge lines, be able instantly to evaluate the terrain
around them and determine a safe altitude.. . .

Luger suppressed a yawn and directed the stream of cool air from a vent
right into his face. He had been leaning forward, intently studying
the scope, for the past thirty minutes. The parachute he wore felt
like a boot resting on each of his kidneys, but he was afraid to take
his eyes off the scope to readjust it. He knew the pilots upstairs
were blind-all they could see were some jagged peaks in the gray
starlit horizon, which just made them all the more nervous.

Without the terrain-avoidance computer, it was his radar against the
mountains. When the scope was clear he would direct a shallow descent
until terrain appeared, then climb again until it disappeared. It was
like terrain-avoidance in the G- and H-model B-52s-except there was no
TV screen for the pilots to watch, no terrain-avoidance trace that gave
the pilots an exact picture of the disasters waiting for them. He was
their eyes now.

At the moment Luger was watching one particular reflection on his
SITUATION scope. It had a range of thirty miles, but for some reason
he hadn't seen this large ridge line until it was much closer. Quickly
he pressed the interphone button under his left boot.

"High terrain, thirteen miles, twelve o'clock."

Elliott and Ormack both sat up, and Ormack instinctively pushed on the
throttles, preparing to pull the Old Dog's nose skyward. "Thirteen
miles," he asked. "How come you didn't see it before?"

"Climb first, ask questions later, Colonel .

Ormack gritted his teeth and pulled back on the yoke as soon as he
noted a definite increase in airspeed, added five hundred feet to the
Old Dog's altitude and leveled off.

"Clear of terrain for thirty miles," Luger reported. Ormack reengaged
the low-altitude autopilot and Elliott checked the switch positions.

"I repeat, why the hell didn't you see that terrain earlier, Ormack
asked. "The most critical phase of this mission so far and you're
asleep down there-" "That's bullshit, Colonel," McLanahan said.

"There's a dozen reasons reasons why terrain won't show until it's
closer in, snow, trees, fog.

It sure as hell isn't because anyone's sleeping down here. Maybe you
ought to come down here for a while, Colonel, and you keep this hunk of
metal out of the dirt-" "Enough. "Elliott told them. He had been
quiet ever since aded the S.A-2 missile but was furious now. He glared
across at Ormack. "This is no goddamn time for squabbling."cockpit,
he said, "John, what the hell is it?Those guys down there sure as
hell aren't sleeping and you know it."

"Ah ormack rubbed his eyes, stared straight ahead "I'm sorry, I guess
into the inky blackness all around them.

He took a deep breath and tried to rub the kink I'm just beat of his
left shoulder. "I guess I've been on the edge ever out since-" lanced
over at Elliott. The general was slumped forward He g in his seat, his
hands looped over the control yoke, his head awkwardly dangling to one
side.

s right "General. "He reached across and shook Elliott shoulder. No
response. "Angelina looked forward around "Pereira. Get up here.

her seat and saw Elliott's limp body. She began to unfasten the
buckles around her chest and crotch.

"What happened?"

"The general. He's out cold, Pat. "Ormack disengaged the low-level
autopilot and started a slow climb, leveling off at five thousand feet,
reengaged the autopilot, unfastened his straps and leaned across to
help Elliott.fasten his Not until he was far enough over to Elliott
to un chest straps did he smell it-the thick, cloying stench of dried
blood. The overpowering scent forced his eyes down to Elliott's right
leg. The general's fatigue pants from the knee down oozed a crusty red
film. His boots stuck to the floor when Ormack tried to move the
leg.

The general's face made pale look healthy.me, began to breathe again
Ormack shouted the general's name when he saw Elliott's eyes flutter
open. Eyes that looked at the instrument panel and somehow found the
radar altimeter indicator "We're .. . we're too high, John "Never
mind that, General. "Angelina crawled forward with some web straps cut
from her walk around oxygen bottle harness. "Lie back," she said, and
turned to Ormack. "We're going to have to tie a tourniquet around that
leg. "Ormack nodded. "General, lie still. We're going to lift your
leg up so we can tie this around your knee."

"Won't hurt a bit, Angelina," Elliott said, smiling weakly at his
gunnery specialist. "I haven't felt anything in this damn leg for
three hours."

Ormack and Pereira carefully pulled Elliott's leg up and across the
throttle quadrant. Angelina then wrapped the web strap around
Elliott's leg beneath the knee and pulled it tight as she could. When
she had finished Elliott's leg looked less than half its normal
diameter.

"I should have been more realistic about the leg-" "Don't apologize,"
Angelina asked. "Sometimes the pain
4,
just takes over, no matter how hard you try to fight it."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience."

I'm no spring chicken either, General. I know there's some things you
can't do a damn thing about."he two looked at each other a moment,
then Elliott struggled back into his seat. By the time he refastened
his harness buckle, he was near total exhaustion.

Abruptly Ormack ordered Angelina back to her seat as he took a firm
grip on the yoke and pushed the Old Dog down once again.

"On the double. We're under attack."

Angelina half-crawled, half-ran back down the narrow aisle to her seat
and began strapping herself in. Wendy was studying her video threat
display. Every few moments she glanced at the countermeasures receiver
set, waiting for the computer positively to identify the new signals
and plot their direction from the Megafortress.

As Angelina plugged in her headset she heard Wendy report: "Golf-band
search only."

"Position?"

"No clock position yet."

"High terrain, ten miles," from Luger. "Slight climb to clear it."

"Take fifteen degrees right," McLanahan directed, leaning over in his
seat and studying Luger's tiny.five-inch display "Looks clear in that
direction at this altitude We can't afford to do any more climbs."

Ormack turned the control yoke in a ten degree-bank turn to the
right.

Luger asked. "We can "Clear of terrain for twenty miles," les.

turn back to track at this altitude in five mi "Tork?"

"Signal strength increasing slightly but not as fast as I thought.

Rough guess would be the MiG-25s or -31s out of Ossora, Airfield.

Probably converging on our tail at high altitude.

"The 3 Is are their -it'll be the Foxbat-Es," Angelina said.

front-line fighters. They'll send the 25s with external tanks out r
position and let the us out-then report you to find us--or draw
Foxhounds have us-" "Wendy," McLanahan broke in, "can you tell if they
find us?"

"I should be able to see a change in their-" She stopped ignals rapidly
abruptly, staring at the large video screen. The s e signals just went
to began to change - "Missile alert. One of the tracking mode - " u
said-" "But I thought yo ndy asked. "They can't be locked "They're too
faraway," We on. Their signal isn't strong enough. "Confused by the
sudden threat signals and the responding increase in thrust as Ormack
pushed up the power, Wendy hurriedly rechecked her receivers and
indicators. All self-tested normal.

SILE LAUNCH indicator blinked on her panel. At the same time a
repeater warning light blinked on the front instrument panel in the
cockpit.

ced. "Clear for evasive "Missile launch," Ormack announ maneuvers?"

"Clear left and right, ten miles," Luger called out.

"C'mon, Tork, get with it," Ormack asked. "Which way""

1; "It can't be, they're .. . they're bluffing, wait .. .

"Pereira. "Ormack was over the edge. "Find those damn fighters."

Before Wendy could answer, Angelina had turned ADIATE.Since there was
her tail Scorpion tracking radar to R no azimuth information from
Wendy's receiver Angelina began a complete rear-hemisphere sweep behind
the Megafortress.

"I don't understand A red MIS "Nothin Angelina reported after several
sweeps. "No 9 in targets for thirty miles."

"They're bluffing," Wendy repeated, sounding surer of herself now. She
reached across the defensive compartment and grabbed Angelina's denim
jacket. Angelina was still searching her rectangular scope for the
fighters.

"They wanted us to turn on our radars," Wendy asked. "They couldn't
find us down here so they're faking a lock-on. Stop."

"Angelina, shut down," McLanahan said."if you haven't AN seen them by
now, shut down. "Angelina put her radar to STANDBY "Damn Wendy
whispered as she studied the video threat receiver. "Back to search
radar .. . signal strength increasing-" An inverted "V" airplane
symbol appeared at the bottom of Wendy's countermeasure receiver
scope.

"Fighter at six o clock!"A second "V" appeared. "Second fighter,
both at six o'clock.

With Ormack having already throttled to military power, the the roar of
the eight turbofan engines was deafening sound was amplified as it
vibrated off the mountains barely three hundred feet beneath them.

"He's still at extreme detection range," Wendy reported.

"He can't shoot at us down here."

"Scorpions are ready, Angelina said.

"How far until the computer can start driving the auto Pilot?"Ormack
asked.

"Still a hundred miles," McLanahan told him.

"We might not make it that long-" :"VHF transmissions," Wendy called
out.

"Shut them down," Ormack told her. "They'll report our position. "But
Wendy was already adjusting her jammers, matching the frequency marker
of the jammers with the wavy oscilloscope-like radio transmissions.

" Narrow-scan tracking signals," she asked. "Sweeping around us ..

.

his computer can't find us so it looks like he's searching manually
"High terrain, twelve o'clock, seven miles," Luger reported.

"Pretty deep canyon on all sides," McLanahan added quickly. "Better
climb over this one. Slow climb."

Ormack slowly pulled back on the yoke and began a gentle two hundred
foot-per-minute climb.

"Clearing terrain on either side," Luger asked. "Five degrees left."

Ormack nudged the Old Dog to the left. "Looks like 1I be clear of
terrain for thirty miles after this last ridge.

we Level off. This is a good altitude, ridge crossing in ten seconds
"Signal strength decreasing," Wendy asked. "He's still trying manual
track but he's falling behind."

"Coming up on the ridge "Looks like the fighter behind us lost us
"Cresting the ridge now In the dim cockpit Ormack could just make out
the sno wcovered ridge line they had just crossed, the mountains harply
to a white-covered valley below. "Hey," dropping off s he said, "it
looks pretty flat out-" A thunderous explosion echoed just outside
Elliott's canopy.

Ormack caught a glimpse of two dark streaks against the hazy stars.

The shock wave hit the Old Dog's nose like a giant invisible hand.

"We nearly had a midair with two of them," Ormack said, and pushed the
Old Dog's nose down to the snow-covered plain below, watching the radar
altimeter and canopy windows. He leveled the aircraft at two hundred
feet. "Terrain-following autopilot reengaged, slaved to the radar
altimeter. Set to two hundred feet.

"Clear of terrain for thirty miles," Luger reported.

"The two fighters are turning," Wendy asked. "Infrared tracker has one
of them .. . going high .. . stabilizing-" A large red MLD light
blinked rapidly on Ormack's threat repeater lights.

"Missile launch detection, infrared missile launch," Wendy broke in.

"Break right .. ."

Ormack lurched the Old Dog into a furious dodge to the right, steered
the huge bomber past the maximum thirty degrees of bank. The
autopilot, slaved to the now failed radar altimeter, immediately
commanded a two-G max climb. That climb command, with the Old Dog now
in a forty degree bank to the right, increased the G load on the bomber
and tightened the turn.

Simultaneously with the "break" call, Wendy popped two high-intensity
flares from the Megafortress' left ejectors. The flares were shot a
hundred yards from the bomber and burned hotter and moved slower than
the Old Dog. They lowered themselves slowly to the snow-packed ground
with tiny streamers as the Megafortress turned hard in the opposite
direction.

The fury of the turn shook up Elliott, but he had the presence of mind
to watch the altimeters before reaching for the ejection trigger in
each armrest. He was scanning the engine instruments, making sure the
roar echoing in his confused head was coming from all eight
turbofans.

Out of the front cockpit window he spotted two fiery streaks of light
flashing past the windscreen and exploding in the valley below.

"Engine instruments okay, John," Elliott reported to Ormack who looked
in amazement at the man, barely able to support his head upright,
scanning the eight rows of instruments crowded on the forward panel.

"Fighters passing overhead," Wendy said, her report confirmed by the
roar of turbojets in full afterburner skimming over the jet-black
bomber. "But coming around for another pass."

"Like hell," McLanahan said, pressed the RADIATE button on his attack
radar and slaved the azimuth-elevation controls to Wendy's threat
receiver. The attack-radar's antenna immediately swung to the azimuth
of the fighter and began a heightt:1nding scan of the sky The radar
reflection of the attacking fighter only a few miles away showed clear
as a mountain on McLanahan's radar, He typed "TRACK I" on his keyboard
and a small circle cursor centered itself on the return. The LED
azimuth and elevation readouts flickered as the antennas raced to keep
up with the retreating fighter.

"Locked on, Angelina," McLanahan asked. "Take over."

Angelina was ready. With Pilot consent already given, she pressed the
COMMIT button on the forward Scorpion missile pylons. In one
twenty-fifth of a second the fire-control computer selected a missile
on the right pylon, gave it the initial elevation, azimuth and distance
computations from the attack radar and ejected the air-to-air missile
from the pylon down into the Old Dog's slipstream.

The advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missile's gyros stabilized the
ten-foot-long missile in the slipstream as if it were a sprinter
feeling for a footing in the starting blocks. In the next three
hundredths of a second static ports on the missile's body sensed the
slipstream around it and armed the Scorpion's one-hundred-pound high
explosive warhead. The same sensor set the Scorpion's large thirty-G
rear fin to the proper angle, took one last look-around self-test, and
fired its solid propellant motor.

Elliott and Ormack saw a blinding flash of light race a few hundred
yards ahead of the Old Dog, then suddenly change direction up and over
their heads. An instant later a huge fire with a red
benaltlireeruupptsetdaijrsusctrbeewhicnodmEpllairottmtesnstidoef
wthiend(olwd, Dilolugminating the yellow glare.

"A hit," Elliott said, shielding his eyes from the glare.

"I've got the second low-altitude fighter," Angelina said, confirming
the fire-control computer's radar lock on the target.

She held the safety levers of the Stinger airmine rockets down and
fired twice.

"Second fighter decelerating," Angelina reported. "Sitting stable off
our left rear quarter .. . slowing .. . we got him. I think we
FODed him out."

"What?"Wendy asked.

"FODed him out. He sucked in an engineful of scrap metal. "Upstairs
Wendy signaled a gloved okay to Angelina as the gunnery expert watched
the range gate of the fighter rapidly increase as it fell behind.

Wendy noted that her infrared tailwarning seeker had locked itself onto
the disabled fighter, but she ignored the indication-Angelina had
already tagged that one.

The Soviet pilot aboard the Mikoyan-Gureyvich E-2heM "Foxbat-E"
interceptor was preparing to abandon his aircraft.

He was watching two hydraulic system failure-warning lights and two
engine overspeed-warning lights, aware that although the flash of light
was far behind him he had flown through a cloud of something .. . he
could almost hear the flak rattling around in his engine's turbines,
tearing through the hydraulic lines, ripping the compressor blades
apart. The intruder, whatever it was, was invisible through the glare
of the warning lights on his canopy.

But he did notice one more set of lights-the lock-on indication of two
of his K-13A Atoll missiles tracking the intruder. Seconds before
power drained from his interceptor, the pilot selected every last one
of his remainin missiles, and with his other hand on his ejection ring,
pres e sed the missile launch trigger.

Ormack was checking his switches and asking General Elliott
cross-cockpit how he was feeling. McLanahan had just put his attack
radar to STANDBY and was leaning over to help Luger with terrain
calls.

Angelina had completed a quick scan of the rear hemisphere of the Old
Dog before putting her radar to STANDBY Wendy was readjusting a twisted
parachu strap, trying to unwind a bit from her first real fighter
engagement.

But the supercooled eye of the infrared seeker mounted on top of the
short curved V-tail of the Old Dog wasn't relaxing. It was tracking
the dimming heat signature of the fighter far behind them when it
noticed the sudden increase in the heatsignature of the target as two
heat-seeking missiles streaked toward the Old Dog's eight Pratt and
Whitney TF33 turbofan engines. The increase quickly surpassed the
delta-pK thermal threshold programmed into it months earlier by Wendy
herself, and an MLD indicator flashed at both Tork's and Ormack's
position. Simultaneously with the warning light, the decoy system
ejected one bundle of chaff and one phosphorous flare from both left
and right ejectors.

The automatic response to the infrared missile attack would have been
successful-had anyone noticed the MLD warning indicators and initiated
evasive action. The warning tone sounded in everyone's headsets at the
same time the light illuminated, but both Ormack and Tork had to be
watching for the target on the threat display and expecting the attack
to escape the heat-seeking missiles, By the time Wendy noticed the
blinking red Missile Launch Detection light, the Atoll missiles had
accelerated to nearly Mach 2 and had closed the short distance between
them in the blink of an eye.

Even so, the automatic system had its saving effect. The flares, shot
two hundred yards away from the bomber's belly, caught the Atoll
missiles' attention, providing a momentary distraction. But at less
than a mile away the missiles could not ignore the huge globes of heat
emanating from the Old Dog's turbofan engines.

One missile locked momentarily onto the right flare, then back onto the
right engines. The sudden swing of the I.R seeker head from one hot
target to another-a sign that the seeker had picked up a
decoy-triggered a proximity detonation signal to the sixty-pound
warheads-the missile exploded less than twenty yards from the Old Dog's
V-tail vertical stabilizer, blowing off the top nine feet of the Old
Dog's right stabilator tail and leaving a short jagged stub of metal
where the stabilator used to be.

The other missile took a sideways glance at the decoy flare and swung a
few precious feet to the left toward the flare, but it wasn't enough to
divert it. Driven by the solid propellant engine just approaching full
thrust, it plunged into the exhaust port of the number one engine and
detonated. That explosion immediately turned the number one engine
into a blob of molten metal and New what remained of the already
damaged left wingtip into a shower of fire.

and pulled by one lost engine, skidded violently to the left The Old
Dog, pushed by an exploding missile on one side
Ormack was able to keep the bomber a fe knots above the stall only
because all eight engines were already at maximum thrust. Stomping on
the right rudder, he turned the control wheel full to the right. The
lights flickered in the crew compartment and the interphone began to
squeal.

"We're hit," Ormack reported, and pushed the right rudder hard all the
way to the floor. The Old Dog slowly, slowly began to straighten its
sideways slide. As it did, Ormack scanned the caution lights and
engine instruments, but it was Elliott who noticed the engine
instruments while Ormack fought for aircraft control.

"Fire on number one," he called out. Ormack glanced quickly at number
one's engine instruments to confirm the call, then pulled the number
one throttle CLOSED.Elliott, his hand on the fire-shutoff switch,
pulled the T-handle when be saw Ormack's hand reaching for it. He then
began reciting the emergency checklist: "Starter switch off."

Ormack checked the switch. "Off."

"Electrical panel."

"Checking," Ormack said, scanning the a-c and d-c electrical panel on
his right instrument panel. "Crew, we've shut down number one
engine.

Shut off all unnecessary equipment or we'll lose another generator."

He checked the generator panel and confirmed total loss number-one
generator.

"All other generators are on high load but they're okay so far."

"Bleed selector switch, normal left hand inboard," Elliott continued,
now reading from the emergency checklist displayed On the cockpit
computer monitor.

"Normal.

Elliott painfully hauled himself forward out of his seat and strained
to look out the cockpit window.

" Fire light has gone out," Ormack confirmed, then began a check of the
fuel panel.

"I think we have a leak in the number one wing tank, but it doesn't
look too serious. "He reached down to a large knob on the center aisle
control stand and cranked in full right-rudder trim. "General, check
the rudder hydraulics. We might have a problem with the rudder now."

Elliott checked the warning lights on his left instrument panel. "All
the lights are out."

"Well, we got rudder problems, too," Ormack asked. "I'm retarding
engines seven and eight to help keep straight.

Number two engine has to stay in military, " Ormack started a slow
climb to four thousand feet and carefully engaged the low-level
autopilot. He waited a few moments to be sure that the autopilot could
hold the Megafor tress straight and level. "All right, we've got
control of the aircraft. Pereira, McLanahan, check for fighters before
we get too involved in damage assessment.

Angelina and Patrick went to RADIATE on their radars and took careful
but fast full hemisphere sweeps of the sky. With both radars
operating, they could scan almost three thousand cubic miles of
airspace in a few seconds.

"Clear," McLanahan reported.

"No pursuit," Angelina said.

"Scope's clear," from Wendy "A few extremely low Powered search signals
The Power fluctuation put some of my jammers into STANDBY but they
should reset in a few minutes."

"Clear Of terrain for thirty miles," Luger said.

"All right. "Ormack relaxed his grip on the control yoke.

"We're level at four thousand feet. "We've lost number one engine and
its enerator. We can't visually confirm it but I 9 think we lost the
rest of the left wingtip. There's a slight leak in the number one wing
tank supplying the number two engine but I don't think it's fatal.

Something's also gone haywire with the rudder, it's hard to keep her
straight I feel a pretty good shudder in the airmine turret-controls,"
Angelina asked. "Need to check out the cannon steering. "She activated
the Stinger airmine rocket cannon controls and began self-test of her
system.

"The navigation system went to STANDBY for a few seconds from
dumping.

We're reloading the mission data now from the game cartridge."

In a few moments Angelina was back on the interphone "Colonel Ormack, I
think we lost the whole damn tail. My infrared scanner is dead.

Everything's faulted. We won't have any more automatic I.R detection
from the tail anymore."

"Well," Luger said, "can't the threat-receiver-" "The threat-receiver
only detects fighters when they use their radar," Angelina told him.

"If they get a visual infrared lock-on they can launch missiles at us
all day and we can't see them. They can drive in as close as they want
and get a point-blank kill."

"The Scorpions," Ormack asked. "What about them?"

"I'm getting a flickering low-pressure warning light on the rotary
launcher," Angelina said, checking a set of gauges on her right control
panel. "Still in the green, but that last attac.

might have done some missile damage."

"High terrain, thirty miles," Luger reported.

"Any way around it?"Ormack asked.

"Solid rijge line. No other way."

Ormack cursed and nudged the Old Dog skyward. They were almost back at
their preestablished five thousand for safe-clearance altitude before
Luger finally reported clear terrain.

"Goddamn," Ormack said, "over four thousand feet above the ground-"
"But we may belly-flop that ridge line when we cross it, McLanahan
reminded him. "We should be able to engage the auto terrain-following
computer any second-" "Airborne interceptors at twelve o'clock," Wendy
interupted. "At extreme detection range but closing rapidly. Multiple
indications."

"And we're stuck up here," Ormack asked. "No other way around it.

Pereira, McLanahan, engage at long range. We' have to blast our way
out of here. "No one offered any alternative. McLanahan
reactivated.

"Can't see the nacelle, don't see any fire out there .. . seconds,"
Luger reported, "but the battery kept everythin
Scorpion attack radar and tuned it immediately to fifty-mile range.

Slaved to Wendy Tork's threat receiver, the radar immediately
pinpointed the aggressors ahead.

"Locked into one," McLanahan called out. Just as he designated the
first target he heard the whoosh of a Scorpion missile leaving the left
pylon.

"Locked onto a second One-" "Fighter at six o'clock high," from
Angelina. Instantly she activated her own radar and locked onto the
fighter. A moment later she gave a look of surprise and reached for
the airmine triggers. "Range decreasing rapidly," she asked. "He's
diving at us .. .

"Radar's gone down, " Wendy asked. "And we don't have an infrared
scanner to pick up-" "It's an I.R attack," Angelina announced. "Pilot,
break right.

Ormack threw the Old Dog into a hard -banking turn to the right. The
bomber, already without several thousand pounds of thrust from the
number one engine, rumbled in protest, hovering just above a stall.

Wendy punched out two flares from the left ejector while Angelina tried
to locate the attacker on her radar.

"I got him, I got him on radar," she said, hit the green TRACK button,
watched the circle cursor surround the fighter's radar reflection and
squeezed the Stinger airmine rocket triggers.

But the attacking fighter had the advantage. Following a vector to the
intruder from his low-patrol mates-both of whom he had lost contact
with soon afterward-he had spotted the intruder on radar long enough to
point his MiG-25s infrared search-and-track seeker at the penetrator.

Once the seeker had locked onto the target, he had no need for the
lookdown radar and turned it off. His AA-7 missile immediately locked
onto the two engines on the left inboard nacelle of the Old Dog, and he
hit the launch button just as he noticed a short burst of flame from
below him.

Angelina's right break had been perfectly timed. The AA-7 missile's
I.R seeker lost the engines in the break and locked Onto the flares,
but the change was too quick and the proximity and decoy-detection fuse
exploded the missile.

Saved from destruction, the Old Dog was nonetheless naked .. . the
missile's high-explosive detonation, together with the
one-thousand-degree-Fahrenheit parachute-equipped ares and the low wide
burst of an airmine rocket, perfectly fl lined the Old Dog against the
snow-covered mountains.

out The MiG pilot attacking from above and behind the Megafortress had
watched his missile streak toward the target. Then suddenly he saw a
dark silhouette of incredible size. He blinked, not able to believe it
as the outline of the massive aircraft materialized below him. A
low-attitude warning horn sounded in his helmet, and he managed to pull
out of his dive only a few hundred feet above the ground and force his
fighter skyward.

Although the sleek nose confused him, there was no misidentifying the
rest of the plane. An American B-52 bomber.

He had always thought that if he was called on to defend Kavaznya
against attack, it would be against an F-15 or even the American Navy's
F-18 or F-14.Never, never an Straining to keep the antediluvian
bomber in view as he aging dinosaur like the B-52.

pulled on his control stick and crawled for altitude, he frantically
keyed his microphone.

"Aspana. Danger. American B-52 bomber. Paftariti. American B-52
visually identified."

Another warning beep sounded in his helmet. He recognize the
stall-warning buzzer, applied maximum afterburner and leveled off to
wait for his airspeed to increase. He repeated his warning over the
radio, including the bomber's direction and estimated speed.

Could the B-52 possibly have destroyed the other fighters?The MiG
pilot had seen what he thought were gunblasts from the puny .50 caliber
guns in the tail, but none of the pilots at Ossora would be stupid
enough to fly that close to the intruder.. . .

Angelina had to haul herself upright by the armrests of her ejection
seat to regain her balance. The sudden turn and the abrupt roll-out
had her head spinning and she fought to refocuse. She grasped the
triggers and fired twice at the almost stationary fighter.

The last thing the MiG pilot saw was the glass around him seeming to
melt like cellophane. His canopy disintegrated a twenty pounds of
metal chips from both Stinger rockets sheared through the
plastic-laminated canopy, shredding everything in its path. His
fighter flew on for several minutes, its pilot sightless and bleeding,
before crashing into the low mountains.

"Angelina!Twelve o'clock high!Another MiG coming in fast
Bathed in the bright sunburst of the descending flares, the MiG-25
attacking from the nose had a solid visual contact on the intruder.

The Old Dog was approaching a high ridge line, very close to the ridge
but well above the snow-covered valley behind, and the attacking MiG
was well above the bomber, which was perfectly highlighted. The
Russian pilot had to strain, but even after the flare plunged the sky
back into darkness the bomber was still visible.

He refocused his eyes on the heads-up display for a few seconds,
rapidly checking his instruments to see if he could establish a more
reliable shot on the bomber below him. The infrared seeker had not
locked on -that would have been difficult unless he was behind the
B-52.His tracking radar was randomly locking onto hundreds of targets
all over the scopecompletely jammed. Useless. A B-52, he knew,
carried more jamming power than ten MiG-25s combined. He shut the
radar off, banked hard to the left and began to dive at the bomber,
fighting to keep it in sight as he approached the ridge .-. .

"He's closing in fast," McLanahan called out. "Ten miles."

Angelina had to take a few precious seconds to select a Scorpion
missile and align it with McLanahan's steerin signals, then launched
the Mach three missile within six seconds of McLanahan's second
warning. Still, in that time the MiG had halved the distance between
them.

The MiG's warning receivers immediately detected the missile launch and
the pilot quickly switched hands on the stick, activated the forward
deception jammers with his right hand, switched hands again and hit the
chaff-dispenser on his control stick.

A B-52 launching an air-to-air missile' It was worse than he ever
imagined. He could easily see the fiery plume behind the missile below
him, pointed his fighter directly at the missile-showing the missile
only his smallest radar profile.

The glare from the missile spoiled his night vision some, L the bomber
was still in sight. The MiG saw a slight shift in the shape of the
missile's plume-instead of a round dot, it was a bit more oblong. He
smiled and relaxed his grip on the control stick. The American missile
had locked onto one of the false targets his jammers had created.

Instantly he released another bundle of chaff and pulled right and up
on his stick. The missile's egg-shaped ball of fire became a long,
orange line it harmlessly passed underneath his MiG.

The pilot, who had his eyes squinted against the explosion he had
feared as he watched the missile streak past, nc opened his eyes-the
huge B-52 was centered in his gunsight Even so he felt he was a
heartbeat too late-he should have been firing his cannon before the
B-52 entered his sights. He shoved the stick down now to lead the
target more, but t' snow-covered ridge line popped into view ahead of
t' bomber. He had only an instant left. His finger closed on the
trigger and held it until trees began to show on the edge of the ridge,
then released the trigger and hauled back on the stic with all his
strength .. .

"The missile missed," Ormack answered as he watched the the Scorpion
disappear into the night.

"Break right," McLanahan told him, watching the rad target grow to
horrifying size.

The split-second the Soviet pilot had wasted realizing he w, too late
for a real kill had saved the Old Dog's life. Twenty millimeter shells
plowed into the leadin edge of the Old Do 9 9 left wing where Elliott's
cockpit windows had been an insta before. The shells ripped into the
left Scorpion missile pylo destroying half of the remaining missiles.

The explosion would have ripped the wing apart, but one ricocheting she
fired ajettison squib in the pylon and the entire burning pylon
exploded into space. The pylon missed the remaining fragments of the
Old Dog's V-tail and the Stinger airmine rock cannon.

The MiG's strafing track continued through the wing and fuselage,
piercing the number-two main center wing and forward body-fuel tanks,
but the shells created no deadly spar: and dissipated most of their
heat in the fibersteel skin of the Megafortress.

Elliott could see sparks flying from the hardpoint where the Scorpion
pylon used to be. "Angelina, the left missile pylon's hit.

McLanahan glanced up and checked the selective jettison board on his
weapons-monitoring panel. "We lost the whole damned pylon," he called
out, deselecting jettison power from the pylon circuitry.

Angelina immediately reached to her overhead circuit breaker panel and
pulled a group of circuit breakers. "Pylon deactivated."

"That left wing must be getting awful light. "McLanahan tried for a
bit of grim humor.

it was wasted on Wendy, who called out, "Fighter at six o'clock.

"Here he comes again."

"I see him," Angelina said as she steered the circle-cursor on the
radar return and hit the TRACK button, then began aligning a
weapons-bay Scorpion for launch.

The Soviet pilot saw the missile lock-on indication on his threat
receiver and immediately activated his own electronic
countermeasures.

Angelina depressed the TRACK button once again. The green light stayed
on but the circle cursor kept on walking away from the return.

"He's jamming me," she said, "Switching to manual track. "She
deselected radar-track, grabbed the steering handles and carefully
tried to position the circle cursor on the fighter.

The Soviet pilot noted the persistent missile-alert signal even though
his jammers were breaking the radar lock. He promptly began a series
of random S-turns, rapidly closing the distance between them, trying to
push his MiG-25 closer to the bomber's altitude.

The Old Dog cleared the ridge line by a scant forty feet, the wingtip
vortices snapping fir trees like straw as it skimmed the ridge.

Rooster-tails of snow and dirt were blasted dozens of feet in the
air.

Suddenly, a large green TERRAIN DATA PROCESS and TERRAIN DATA GOOD
readout flashed across McLanahan's computer monitor. "Computer
terrain-following is active," McLanahan asked. "Clear to engage."

Elliott and Ormack quickly engaged the terrain-followingpitch autopilot
to the navigation computers. Now the computer, which already knew the
elevation of all the terrain around them for thousands of square miles
and had the accuracy of the satellite navigator for positioning, would
put the Old Dog at the lowest possible altitude but climb her in
anticipation of terrain ahead.

Through the MiG-25's windscreen the B-52 could be seen diving sharply
toward the rocks below and disappearing. From radar, infrared, visual,
everything. The pilot searched. No sign. The huge bomber had
disappeared. Swearing into his mask, he throttled back and climbed to
begin a search.

"I can't find him," Angelina asked. "I can't lock onto him. His
jamming is too powerful. We can try a home-on jam launch but we don't
have the missiles to waste."

"He's back there, waiting for us to pop up into him," Luger said,
staring at the radar altimeter readout on his computer screen. "He's
not going to drive into our laps. "He sucked in his breath as the
readout dipped to thirty feet before climbing again to a hundred feet
above the ground.

"We've got to suck him in," McLanahan asked. "Draw him in, then chop
the power."

"He'll blow us out of the sky," Ormack asked. "We're staying down
here."

"He's also vectoring in his buddies," McLanahan asked. "If he doesn't
get us in the next five minutes he's gonna have lots of help."

"We've got a dozen missiles left," Ormack said.

"Great, but we can't take on all of them. "McLanahan shook his head.

Ormack was about to answer when Elliott put a hand on his wrist. "We
have no choice, John."

"If we can't find him, General," Ormack yelled over the roar of the
turbofans, "if we lose him .. . if he shoots first "We've got to be
the hunter, not the hunted," Elliott said.

The two pilots looked at each other. Then Elliott took the throttles
from Ormack, placed a tight grip on the yoke and gave it a shake.

"I've got the aircraft."ormack looked at the exhausted general as a
wave of turbulence rumbled through the bomber. "We're taking a big
gamble, General.

"Now's the time for one, John."

Orinack nodded. "You've got the aircraft, General."

"Thanks, John. Stand by on airbrakes and gear."rmack reached across
the throttle quadrant and put his hand on the gear lever.

"Wendy?Angelina?"

Angelina nodded at Wendy who reported, "Ready, General. "Landing and
taxi light-switches off. Setting two thousand feet. "Elliott twisted
the clearance plane knob from COLA to 2000, and the Old Dog's SST nose
angled skyward.

powered
The Soviet pilot was busy cursing himself and his low radar when the
American B-52 suddenly appeared from here just off to the right of his
MiG's nose. The radar range now gate immediately set, azimuth locked
on and his last AA-3 radar missile aligned and reported ready for
launch.

"He's right behind us," Angelina called out.

:"Missile alert," Wendy followed, and hit the right chaff ejector.

"Jink left."

Elliott put the Old Dog in a sharp turn to the left just as the MISSILE
ALERT indication changed to a MISSILE LAUNCH.

"Missile launch, break left!"Wendy punched out eight bundles of chaff
from the right ejector as Elliott threw the bomber from a twenty to a
forty-five degree bank to the left.

The MiG pilot watched in frustration as another huge radar target
appeared on his scope. The aiming reticle moved across to the bigger,
brighter, unmoving blob just as he thumbed the LAUNCH button .. . and
watched as his last missile disappeared into empty space.

Immediately he shoved the throttles of his twin Tunnansky engines to
maximum afterburner and swerved to the left to get into cannon-firing
position .. .

"Range decreasing rapidly," Angelina asked. "Still no automatic
lock-on. I'm setting the detonation range for the airmines manually.

"Range decreasing," Wendy reported. "Stand by for a break to the
right."

"If we have our gear and airbrakes hanging out," Ormack said, "and then
break to evade a missile we'll stall for sure. We may not have enough
altitude to recover.

Three miles and closing fast," Angelina said.

"if he was going to launch one, he'd do it now," Wendy asked. "Two
miles. "She was staring hard at the threat video.

The bat-wing interceptor threat symbol hovered behind them, inching
closer and closer. "Approaching one mile .. . now.

Hit it.

"Gear. Airbrakes six," Elliott ordered. Ormack dropped the
landing-gear handle and flipped the airbrake lever full up. The Old
Dog pitched down, throwing everyone hard against his shoulder straps.

Elliott brought the power back to eighty percent, then quickly back to
full military thrust as the initial buffet to stall again rumbled
through the bomber. He had lost a thousand feet before he was able to
bring the Old Dog under control.

The Russian pilot wasn't caught unaware. He had just throttled back to
cut his closure rate on the B-52 when he noticed the radar range gate
rapidly decreasing.

He immediately disregarded the indication. He had no radar guided
missiles to launch anyway, and the B-52's jamming probably had broken
the range lock. Catching glimpses of the huge bomber's outline against
the snowy backdrop, he kept his power in minimum afterburner and rested
his finger against the cannon trigger: The range gate wound past one
thousand meters-well inside firing range. He stepped on the right
rudder to completely align himself, and took a deep breath.

He saw several bright flashes of flame from the rear of the bomber,
instinctively rolled his fighter left to begin S-turning behind the
B-52.The .50-caliber machine gun could never hit the bomber without
reliable radar guidance, he thought, and his own twenty-millimeter
shells had a greater range and reliability. He started a right roll
and pressed the trigger.

The flashes of light suddenly grew into huge, pulsing shafts of
color.

Immediately he threw his fighter into ninety degrees of bank to the
right and pulled on the stick, breaking hard away. He caught a glimpse
of his airspeed indicator-in his attempt to match speed with the
intruder he had allowed his airspeed to decrease drastically..

He rolled until the stall-warning horn came on again, then rolled
out.

His stick would not respond to his control. He was
A inking fast, in the grip of a near-stall. His MiG-25 wasn't s made
for low-altitude intercepts, it was designed for fast high altitude
dog-fighting. It was with huge relief that he saw his airspeed
increasing steadily. Ochin. In a moment, he thought, he'd finish this
Amirikanskaya.

He looked out the left side of his canopy just in time to see a
colorful line of fireworks explode less than fifty meters outside his
canopy, the blossoms of light reminding him of starburst fireworks he
had once seen-big and bright with thousands of tiny stars racing out
from a red center.

A moment later those stars riddled the entire left side of his
MiG-25.

The canopy became one giant mass of holes and jagged cuts, yet somehow
stayed intact, but the left engine flamed out immediately, then seized
as the engine oil drained from a hundred punctures in the engine
cowling.

The radar signature of the MiG blossomed momentarily as the Soviet
pilot ejected from his stricken fighter, but neither Wendy nor Angelina
noticed. Angelina was congratulating her partner, who was busy
watching her frequency video display. One transmitter band at the top
of her display began to show low power, high-energy activity.

She watched it, studied it-and her sweat turned cold.

"Activity, Wendy?"Ormack asked amid the quiet jubilation of the Old
Dog's crew.

"Search radar .. . twelve o'clock."

"Identification?"

Wendy answered, but the words were uttered too softly to be
understood.

"Say again?"

"Kavaznya. "Wendy's voice was flat now, emotionless.

"Kavaznya. The laser. It's looking for us."

FiFTY MaEs FRom KAVAZNYA
The throttles were at maximum-the right outboard engine had been pulled
back to ninety percent to compensate for the destroyed number one
engine but all the rest were at full military power.

General Elliott tightened the throttle friction lever on the center
throttle quadrant-he wasn't going to move any one of those throttles
unless he had to shut down another engine. The number two engine had
been restarted for the target run, but the RPMs were erratic and the
vibration from the engine threatened to shear what remained of the left
wing loose from the fuselage.

"Bomb run checklist," Dave Luger announced.

McLanahan nodded, taking a quick glance at his partner The navigator
had one finger on the checklist page ready to read off each step, but
his hands were a shade unsteady.

"You all right, buddy?You look a little nervous."

"Me?Nervous?Why should I be nervous?Just because we're about to
end the Russians a candygram loaded witf TNT?What's to be nervous
about?"

"Think positive, the man said."

"I've been trying-" McLanahan interrupted. "We're going to shove this
one down their throats and get out of here quick like a bunny.

Okay?"

"Yeah, right, like a bunny."

McLanahan turned back to his instrument panel.

"Weapons monitor select switch," Luger recited.

"Center forward.

"Low altitude calibrated mode selector."

"Automatic."

"Target coordinates, elevation, and ballistics."

"Set, displayed, checked, locked in. "McLanahan then made a swift
check of the coordinates. "Ballistics set for glide mode. "His
response was reflexive; he had no master printout to check the
coordinates.

"Consent switches, pilot and radar," Luger answered.

General Elliott painfully reached back along his left side instrument
panel and checked that the three gang-barred consent switches-the
permission switches for the forward and rear-firing Scorpion missiles
and the Striker glide-bomb and bomb decoys-were in the full UP
position.

"Pilot's switches are-" A warning tone sounded in the crew's headsets,
and the Old Dog pitched violently skyward, its pointy nose at a high,
unnatural angle.

Ormack hit the AUTOPILOT DISCONNECT button on his ontrol yoke and
pushed the nose back toward the ground.

@"Flyup. Nav, clear terrain for me and get us back down. Radar, what
happened?"

McLanahan was already investigating. "The terrain-data computer
dropped off the line. "He looked over at Luger.

"Dave, clear terrain for him. I'm going to reset the computer and
reload the data.

"High terrain, three miles," Luger called out. "I'm starting to paint
over it. Don't descend yet. "McLanahan's gloved fingers flew over the
switches. "Computer's back on-line. "He flipped the cartridge lever
from LOCK to READ."It'll take a few moments more."

"The Kavaznya radar is getting stronger," Wendy reported.

"Well above detection threshold now."

"Clear of terrain for twenty miles," Luger asked. "Start a slight
descent. Possible high terrain in ten miles.

"Fighter radars have all gone down," Wendy asked. "The Kava,znya radar
has blotted them all out--or the fighters are now getting their vectors
from that big radar McLanahan glanced at the radar altimeter readout as
the LOADING DATA indication appeared on his screen. The Old Dog's
fail-safe flyup maneuver, designed to protect the aircraft in case of a
failure of any of the components of the terrainfollowing computer, had
zoomed the huge bomber to over two thousand feet above the terrain.

The engines were at full military thrust, holding the bomber in the
sky.

"Altitude's still increasing," McLanahan warned.

"Dammit, I know," Ormack said. He leaned on the yoke helping Elliott
force the SST nose of the Old Dog toward the protection of the rough
Kamchatka hills. The Old Dog crested the flyup at twenty-three hundred
feet above the ground before Ormack and Elliott together finally had it
descending again "Fighters at seven o'clock," Angelina called out.

"Maneuvering to intercept .. ."She steered the circle cursor of the
airmine rocket tracker over one of the attackers but at electronic
quiver in the scope sent a shower of interference waves through the
display, sending the tracking cursor spinnin off the radar return.

"Something's screwing up my radar."

"Terrain-data computer is back on-line," McLanahan reported. Ormack
immediately reengaged the autopilot to the computer, and the Old Dog
nosed earthward.

"First HARM missile programmed and ready," Wend, reported to
Angelina.

"Bay door coming open."

Wendy hit the LAUNCH button. The aft bomb-bay door snapped open and
the hydraulic launcher rotated to position one of the High-speed
Anti-Radar Missiles on the bottom launch position. Wendy had already
entered the radar' frequency range into the missile's sensor. Powerful
ejector pushed the missile into the slipstream, its rocket motor
ignited and the launcher immediately rotated to put another HARN
missile into launch position.

Wendy monitored the HARM TRACK light on her missile status panel,
indicating that the missile had found the source of the preprogrammed
frequency transmissions and was heading straight for it. Suddenly
Wendy's entire threat panel and missile status board flickered. The
HARM TRACK light illuminates again for a moment, then disappeared.

"It's the Kavaznya radar," Wendy asked. "It's creating the interference
in my equipment. The HARM missile won't track Luger held his breath as
a stream of ridgelines rushed toward them, their shadows speeding
toward the edge of his wedge shaped radar scope. As the Old Dog
climbed over them, he stared transfixed "Dave!We got the computer
back," McLanahan said as he finished recycling the computer. "Let's
finish the checklist."

He reached across to his left instrument panel and flipped a red
guarded switch up. "Radar's consent switch on.

Luger had to tear his eyes away from the scope to read the checklist.

"Weapon and decoy power."

I "On and checked," McLanahan said, and moved the tracking handle once
more to check that the Striker's seeker head was still activated.

"Bomb-release lights."

Elliott sat forward and pressed-to-test his indicator lights.

"Off and checked."

"Off and checked down here too," McLanahan replied.

"Release configuration check," Luger read. "Special weapons lock.

Suddenly the Old Dog threw itself skyward once more.

Ormack swore, punched off the autopilot once again. Immediately
Luger's full attention was riveted on the narrow wedge-radar display.

"High terrain, five miles."

"Reset the computer," Ormack ordered, but McLanahan was already
resetting the computer power-switches. He tried the circuit
reset-switch. It corrected the fault but only for a few seconds, and
then the computer faulted once again. He tried severa more quick
resets. "Something's wrong, it's not resetting. I'll have to recycle
it. Maintain heading .. . god damn, the inertial navigation computer
died. We've lost navigation information. I'll try to reset "Just do
it," Ormack asked. "Nav "Clear to descent," Luger told him. "Slowly.

Small ridge three miles, but we should clear it okay-" "Fighters are
closing," from Angelina. "It's hard to keep tracking them, my radar
keeps spooking out - " "It's Kavaznya," Wendy told her. "The radar is
interfering with all our equipment."

"We'll be flying right over that thing," Elliott said.

"Pilot, turn right!Fighter swinging over to eight o'clock on a left
quartering attack-" "McLanahan, can I turn?"

"We'll get shot down if you don't. Do it. "The Old Dog -IMP banked to
the right and moments later the muffled puffs of three airmine rockets
rumbled through the bomber.

"Can't tell if I got them .. ."Angelina said.

"I've got nothing to jam," Wendy said, pounding in frustration on her
ejection seat armrests. Her threat display was now a solid sheet of
white--every frequency band that was possible to be displayed was
filled with endless waves of energy. A jamming package put up against
the energy transmitted by the nuclear-powered Kavaznya radar was lost
in the spillover created by Kavaznya radar's sheer power.

"Clear of terrain for thirty miles. "Luger double-checked his radar.

They had cleared the last of the high coastmountain ranges surrounding
Kavaznya. At the edge of the scope was blackness-the Bering Sea, he
suddenly realized.

Only a few hundred miles further on was home-friendly, territory.

Right now, though, it seemed like a million miles away.

At the very edge of the sea was a huge, compact blob of radar
returns.

He got two sweeps of the radar on the Kavazny complex itself before the
ground-map scope blanked out.

"Just lost my radar, Kavaznya's at twelve o'clock, thirty miles.

McLanahan heard the warning and glanced over at Luger's blank five-inch
radar scope, but he was concentrated on recovering the navigation and
terrain-data computers. The firs computer recycle failed, so he began
the second.

"Try recycling your radar, Dave," McLanahan told him Luger furiously
switched the radar controls from STBY to TRANSMIT The radar scope would
paint a picture for only a few sweeps, then blank out again.

"It's not working, we're blind down here."

"You said we were clear of terrain--the pilots should be able to see
enough out the cockpit windows to keep us from hitting the ground.

We'll use the radar as much as we can law on. Keep the radar down
until we make our escape turn."

"Two fighters at six o'clock," from Angelir@; then, "M3 radar's failed,
I can't see them anymore .. .

McLanahan shook his head, then slapped his hands excitedly as a green
NAV light illuminated on the computer monitor a his workstation. "Nav
computer's back on-line. Pilot, center up on the target and try like
hell to hold your airspeed steady Dave, get a groundspeed and mileage
to the target and start watch. We might have to start the glide-bomb
and decoys witf a dead-reckoning position. "Luger immediately wrote
down the mileage to the Kavazny target and the groundspeed and started
the timer on his wristwatch. When he rechecked it a moment later he
found that his electronic LCD watch, like the three radar scopes on the
Old Dog, had failed. He started the tiny forty-year-old wind-up ship's
clock on his front panel and made a mental note to compensate for the
extra twenty seconds lost.

"Reloading terrain data," McLanahan said, but before he could move the
cartridge lever from LOCK to LOAD the navigation computer failed
again.

"Four minutes to go," Luger announced.

"It's not going to come back up," McLanahan asked. "The Kavaznya
radar's interference is just too strong."

Ormack and Elliott had managed to get the Old Dog's nose down after the
flyup, but after flying with a terrain-following computer for so long
they weren't ready to fly at the same low altitudes. Ormack trimmed
the bomber for level flight at about a thousand feet altitude and
rechecked his instruments before the actual weapon release,
Unfortunately the effect of the change to higher altitude was to make
the Old Dog an all-tooeasy target for the two Soviet fighters chasing
it.

Taking vectors from interceptor radar operators at Ossora Airfield near
the laser complex, the MiG-29 Fulcrum interceptor pilots didn't need
their sophisticated look-down shoot-down A equipment to launch their
missiles. The controller gave the pilots range and azimuth information
to ideal launch positions.

once they visually acquired the huge bomber, they maneuvered around it
to stay away from its deadly tail and turn their missiles' seeker-heads
away from the glare and heat of the city beyond it.

"We can't drive into the target like this," Wendy said.

"Colonel, I need you to make random maneuvers all the way toward the
target-" "We've got to program the weapons in a D.R position," Luger
interrupted. "We can't-" "She's right, Dave," McLanahan asked. "We'll
get hosed if we drive straight and level all this way. Clear to
maneuver."

"Random jinks," Wendy asked. "Not left and right .. .

left twice, right once, random all the way. I'll eject chaff just
before each reversal."

Ormack nodded and began the first j ink to the left. "Now we sound
like a fighting-" Suddenly a blinding flash erupted from just beyond
OrMack's right cockpit window. Ormack, who was staring out the front
windscreen, with the cockpit lights turned down so the pilots could
start visually picking out terrain, caught the flasl full intensity.

"I'm blind "Easy, John," Elliott said, took a firm grip on the yoke a
trimmed it for level flight about five hundred feet abo ground.

"We just had a missile explode off our right wing," Elliott said over
the interphone. "The co-pilot got flashblinded. But the engines look
okay "Three minutes to go," Luger said, flicked his radar in TRANSMIT
and took a fast range, azimuth and terrain chec before the scope went
blank again. "Four degrees right. Cleof terrain, General. You can
descend, slowly.

"The radar altimeter should be good for terrain clearan now that we're
clear of the mountains," McLanahan saic "How can they still be shooting
at us?"Luger said, puzzle "if Kavaznya's radar blotted out our
radar-they should', taken out the fighter's radars too.

"Infrared search-and-track system," Wendy told him "They use an
airborne I.R tracker for azimuth and elevation data and the Kavaznya
radar for range data. They can take shots at us all night like that.

"Well, we're running out of time, Dave," McLanahan said He punched in
range, elevation and azimuth data into the Striker glide-bomb's initial
vector catalog. "We'll launch the bomb at maximum range-twelve miles,
ninety seconds to go I've set the initial steering data for twelve
miles at twel-, o'clock. Give me a countdown to the two minute
point."

"Roger," Luger said.

"Amplitude shift in the Kavaznya radar signal," Wendy suddenly
announced. "Looks like .. . looks like a targe tracking mode. The
laser .. . it's locked onto us .. . " McLanahan reacted as if he
had been rehearsing the actio although he never had. In one fluid
motion he moved Weapons Monitor and Release Switch from the Striker
forward center position to forward left, the weapon-rac position of one
of the weapon decoys, moved the bay doc control switch to MANUAL, hit
the DOOR OPEN switch at reached down to his left knee and hit the
recessed black button on the manual release "pickle" switch.

"Bay doors are open," Elliott announced as a large yello, BOMB DOORS
OPEN light flared on the forward instrume panel. A moment later a
similar light marked WEAPON RELEASE flicked on-then off.

"What the hell?"

"The decoys," McLanahan told Elliott. "We can't jam the laser's radar,
but the decoys should draw it away long enough for us to get within
range.

A moment later Elliott flinched as an object resembling a huge
blue-orange meteor burst to life and flew diagonally away from the Old
Dog. The mass of fire spit tiny, blinding balls of light from its
flaming body, and streams of gleaming tinselradar-decoy chaff-poured
from behind the drone. The glare from the decoy was almost blinding,
but Elliott squinted anyway and watched the decoy fly earthward,
jinking left and right as it burned away.

The next instant McLanahan moved the weapon-select switch to forward
right and punched out the second decoy.

Elliott noticed the WEAPON RELEASE button light once again; then, as
the second decoy ignited and flew awa to the right, Elliott's gaze was
drawn to the right cockpit window.

The launch of the second decoy, and Elliott's attempt to spot it, saved
the general's eyesight-and the life of the crew.

Although the tiny Quail decoy-an improved version of an old bomber
defensive drone used on SAC bombers for yearswas many times smaller
than its parent B-52 bomber, its design made its radar, infrared and
radiation signature more than tentimes larger than the Old Dog. Its
refrigerator-size body had dozens of radar-reflecting nodules
surrounding it, and even the design of the wings and tail, as well as
the fifty pounds of chaff-bundles it ejected in regular intervals,
enhanced its radar reflectivity. Its shape alone made it a more
appealing target than the quarter-million-pound bomber.

But there was much more packed into the tiny drone. It automatically
broadcast a wide spectrum of radio transmissions < to attract
anti-radiation and home-on-jam missiles. To heatseeking missiles and
infrared trackers the phosphorus flares and burning jelly oozing along
its surface made it appear as hot as a nuclear reactor.

The Kavaznya radar, even with its solid nuclear-powered lockon, was
drawn off its intended target. The first Quail bloomed like an
electromagnetic stain across the target-tracking radar scope of the
Russian laser weapons officer. The tracking computer quickly locked
onto the larger return, and the tar officer did not override the
shift.

There was nothing, he thought, bigger than a B-52 so close to the
complex.

insured the new target lock-on, searching and not finding a
malfunctions and signaled clear for laser firing. Just as Elliott
attention was drawn to the right cockpit window to watch the launch of
the second Quail decoy, a thick beam of red-oran light split the
darkness and lit up the interior of the Old Dog like a thousand
spotlights turned up full-blast. The atmosphere around the huge B-52

Megafortress seem humid, almost tropical.

The vaporized air around the laser blast created a vacuum around
itself, sucking thousands of cubic acres of air into the shaft of
light.

The turbulence and lower-density superheated air caused the Old Dog to
sink, and only Elliot fast reactions and the screaming thrust of the
seven remaining turbofan engines kept the Old Dog from crashing into
the rugged Kamchatkan shoreline.

The tiny Quail decoy was not merely destroyed by the la blast-it was
vaporized. There was no time, no fuel remainir even to form a
secondary explosion or a puff of smoke. The tiny drone simply ceased
to exist.

Elliott felt as if he had been violently sunburned. He pull on the
yoke, fighting to arrest the sudden descent and gale force
turbulence.

The MASTER CAUTION light snapped on as did other warning lights, but
Elliott had his hands full trying to control the bucking mountain of
metal beneath him.

Dave Luger was thrown against his right instrument panel the Old Dog
swung sharply left into the vacuum, his outburst lost in the groaning
metal of the Megafortress and the protesting roar of its engines.

Still, he and the Old Dog made out better than some others. A MiG-29
had just closed to ideal I.R missile-firing range and had not heard the
call to clear the area when the laser beam sliced through the subzero
Siberian air.

The gale-force wind-blast created by the mini-nuclear explosion within
the krypton-fluoride laser beam, which had thrown the
four-hundred-thousand-pound B-52 bomber arou the sky like a paper
airplane, reached up and swatted the thirty thousand-pound Fulcrum
fighter into the ground like an insec The pilot of a second Russian
fighter was too busy fighting for control of his own machine to
notice.

"What the hell was that?"Angelina said. All of her equipment went
blank-the airmine rocket system, the Scorpion missile system, her
radar, all of it. She glanced at Wendy Tork alongside her, switching
her equipment into STANDBY in an attempt to reset it.

"The laser," Elliott asked. "They shot the laser at us. Two generators
dropped off the line. "He scanned the instruments quickly. "Engines
appear okay. John, can you get the number two and three generators
back on-line?"

"I can try," Ormack said. He wiped his eyes and felt carefully along
his right generator panel for the proper switches .. . The power
interruption had blanked out everyA thing in the downstairs navigator's
compartment, but Ormack's practiced fingers were able to reset the
generators and get them back on-line. Trouble was, the only things
that reactivated after power was applied were the downstairs lights.

"Dave, how much time?"McLanahan asked.

Luger was fumbling around his workdesk with a tiny battery flashlight,
shining the weak beam on the few pieces of equipment on the right
side.

"We have to get out of here," he asked. "We have to go back "Easy, man,
easy," McLanahan shook his partner's shoulders. Luger finally stopped
his flailing and stared at McLanahan. "It's over, Pat."

"No it's not. Now give me a time to the twelve-mile point, dammit."
McLanahan was just about to push Luger out of the way and check
himself, but Luger finally relaxed enough to check his ship's clock.

"Two minutes ten seconds."

"All right. Switch all your stuff to STANDBY It'll come back up by
launch time. If it doesn't we'll slick the bomb, fly over that laser
and drop it like a regular bomb. "He rechecked the DCU-239
weapon-arming panel. "We might have another problem.

"Such as?"from Elliott.

The generator fluctuation knocked out DC power to the arming panel,"
McLanahan told him. "I've got no weapon indications at all."

"It should still be good-" "I don't know what the bomb will do,"
McLanahan said quietly. Everyone on board heard the muted statement,
even over the roar of the turbofans.

"You mean it won't explode?"Wendy asked. "We've co all this way, and
it won't work?"

"I mean I don't know its status. It may or may not be arm it may be
armed but be a dud .. . I just don't know."

"All this way .. . all this sacrifice .. . for nothing "One minute
to launch point," Luger said.

"I'll try to rearm the weapon," McLanahan said, and began to run the
prearming checklists again. "Nothing," he said finally. "Battery
power .. . recycling .. . Laser power .. . nothing. I've still
got uplink power, so the thing will fly, but I still don't know what it
will do."

The crew of the Old Dog grew very quiet.

"I've got my threat receivers back," Wendy announced "Signal from
Kavaznya .. . beginning to shift again."

"All the decoys are gone," McLanahan asked. "I launched' them just
before the laser fired- "Power won't be back on the anti-radiation
missiles for two minutes," Angela asked. "That was our last hope."

"Angelina .. . preparation for ejection checklist," Elliott ordered,
face tight.

Luger looked at McLanahan, who stared straight ahead, clenching and
unclenching his fists.

"Wendy, try to give us some warning before the laser fire Elliott told
her.

Wendy clicked her microphone in response, said nothing She could barely
see the subtle frequency shifts through interference, and even if she
did spot the radar lock-on she knew they wouldn't be able to eject
before the laser beam blew them into atoms.

"I'll trim it for a slight climb," Elliott asked. "Maybe beast will
stall right over their heads, the sonsofbitches.our mission was to
destroy that laser complex. I'll give the command to eject, wait until
everyone is out, then crash plane into the complex. Prepare for-"
"Wait," McLanahan asked. "You can't do that. We'll drop the damn
bomb-" "You said it wouldn't explode."

"I said I don't know its status. My job is to drop it on target. Your
job, sir, is to get us out of here."

"We can't risk it. If the bomb doesn't go off we've failed we'll take
the heat for nothing-" "We can't just quit "McLanaban, this is an
order. Prepare for ejection."

Luger began to tighten the straps of his parachute harness.

He zipped his jacket up all the way, looked over at his partner.

"Pat, you'd better-" "How much time, Dave?"

"Pat "Dave, how much time?""Thirty seconds. But-" "Close enough."

McLanahan hit the AUTOFIX button on his control keyboard, which entered
a present-position update into the Striker glide-bomb's computer. He
then opened the bay doors with the mechanical handles on the overhead
panel and pulled a yellow-painted handle next to it marked SPECIAL
WEAPONS ALTERNATE RELEASE.

"Bomb away, General, now please get us out of here."

Elliott had been adjusting his straps when he saw the BOMB DOORS OPEN
and WEAPON RELEASE lights snap on.

"We're too far, we won't have time to-" "We're not bombing that laser
with this plane," McLanahan challenged. "Break left, get us out of
here After that everything seemed to happen in slow motion.it was
like watching a slide show, the frames clicking off one by one, the
sound turned off .. .

Elliott stood the Old Dog on its left wingtip, whipping it to
forty-five degrees of bank. The stall-warning horn blared but no one
paid attention to it, if they could hear it. The general could feel
the Old Dog slipping sideways-which was downward at forty-five degrees
of bank-as it changed heading in its rudderless turn. Remarkably, it
didn't hit the frozen ground .. .

Wendy released her grip on her ejection seat's triggers, held her
finger on the CHAFF SALVO button, ejecting fifty bundles of chaff in
one massive cloud just as the Old Dog began its turn. She would have
kept ejecting chaff if the force of the turn hadn't pushed her finger
off the button .. .

Ormack, unable to help out in any other way, tried by
"seatof-the-pants" to hold in enough back-pressure on the yoke to keep
the turn going without forcing the Megafortress into a stall. To his
surprise, he found that his and Elliott's efforts were in almost total
coordination .. .

In spite of the hard break McLanahan managed to stay focused on the
flight path of the Striker glide-bomb as it dropped from the Old Dog's
bomb bay, saw the Striker's T monitor flare to life as the glide-bomb
cleared the weapons. McLanahan's hand-entered position was almost
perfect. The center of the Kavaznya laser complex was dead in the
center of the low-light TV screen. When a message printed on the
monitor stating that a visual low -light sensor lockwas available, he
pressed the LOCK switch to insure that the bomb would make it to the
target.

Even if the Old Dog did survive the bomb would now fly itself to the
target .. .

"Radar switching to target-tracking mode," from Went.

"Prepare for ejection, crew," from Elliott. "Blinking lig coming
on."

He reached down to the center console a flicked on the ejection-warning
switch. The large red lig between the two navigators began to blink
furiously.

"Steady light is the order to eject-" "No. Continue the break. If you
do a complete one-eigh do another one to the right. Don't give up
now-" "If they let go with that laser there won't be time to
eject"You'll be murdering this crew if you order us to eject McLanahan
said.

"But the bomb McLanahan now acted on his own. He switched to the
infrared display-the picture was near simulator-perfect. He could make
out the "warm" town above the "hot" la complex, and the "cold" Bering
Sea beyond. He shifted the tracking handle slightly to the left,
centering the aiming reticule onto the hottest infrared return in the
complex. The Strike steering uplink system was working perfectly. The
strapmini-rocket engine had not yet fired-it was flying over thousand
feet higher than programmed, and the extra altitu meant a longer
unassisted gliding ability The infrared orange laser site slowly began
to enlarge as got closer-the Striker was locked onto a huge power
substation. McLanahan was just about to switch to narrc field-of-view
and begin precise aiming when he noticed another "hot" object in the
upper left corner of the infrar display, far above the main reactor
complex in the valley He had only moments to study it before it went
out of view but he could make out a huge complex .. . only the base
was "hot," four-fifths of the structure was "cold. "Just before it
went out of view he switched back to low-light Visual display In this
visual mode there was no mistaking it. The dome, large as a stadium,
was clearly visible, with a large rectangular slot open and pointing
directly at the Old Dog. McLanahan remembered back to Elliott's first
briefing on the Kavaznya site, when he passed around early
reconnaissance photographs of the complex.

The mirror building.

McLanahan's reaction was instantaneous. He moved the tracking handle
left and aft all the way to the stops to get the dome back on the
screen.

Luger was watching his own monitor in shock. "Pat .. .

what are you-?"

"The mirror," McLanahan asked. "It's the mirror building .. .

"But the substation McLanahan said nothing as he watched while a yellow
SRB IGNITE appeared on the screen, indicating that the glidebomb's
strap-on rocket booster had fired in response to new steering
commands.

The substation slowly moved out of view.

"The substation Luger said again.

"I'm gonna punch a hole in the mirror building. Even if the bomb
doesn't go off it should do enough damage to put this place out of
commission. "The visual scene began to grow darker as the rugged hills
above the Kavaznya complex and the town rushed just below the visual
display. McLanahan had to hold the tracking handle full-back as the
rocky ridgelines grew closer and closer.

Luger yelled, "It's going to crash."

But a moment later the last rock-covered ridgeline disappeared from
view and the huge mirror-housing dome filled the TV monitor. McLanahan
pushed the tracking handle down and Both navigators watched in
fascination as the dome rushed centered the aiming reticle on the top
of the dome's pedestal.

forward right into the TV screen.

The six-inch glass eye of the Striker somehow stayed intact through the
one-inch-thick fiberglass panels of the dome, so the two navigators
were able to eavesdrop on the Striker's exact impact point-the steel
girders and counterbalances supporting the massive mirror.

The robot eye passed precisely through two support arms, and the bomb
came to rest on the very base of the mirror support-structure.

Instantly Russian technicians and security guards could be seen running
around the weapon.

"It didn't go off," Luger asked. "It's a dud, it didn't go off-" "Radar
locked onto us," Wendy broke through. "Solid lock-on, they've got us
McLanahan had tuned out the hubbub of noise inside the Old Dog and was
staring, transfixed, at the Striker's TV screer More soldiers
surrounded the Striker as it lay inside the mirror building.

"Crew, eject light coming on .. . get ready Ormack was rigid in his
seat, his ejection levers raised, his control column stowed, ready for
ejection. Elliott had just reached down to the center console and was
about to flick the eject signal from WARNING to EJECT when something
exploded off the Old Dog's right wing and a ball of flame hundreds of
feet in diameter arched skyward, lighting up the entire coastline, the
blast easily heard over the roar of the engines.

"What was that?"Ormack shouted, holding onto his seat a!

the shock wave rolled over the Megafortress. "The reactor?"

"We got the mirror building, Patrick got the mirror. The thing went
off. It wasn't a dud," Luger reported, voice rising "The radar's
down," Wendy said, "no tracking signals from Kavaznya.

Elliott began to pick out the ridgelines looming toward them, and
slowly lifted the Old Dog's nose above the ridgelines, desperately
trying to trade some slowly buildin airspeed for life-saving
altitude.

He noticed that most of the lights in the town above the laser complex
were out "The explosion must have knocked out power to the area Check
your equipment are back on-line. "He quickly synchronized the
navigation McLanahan quickly scanned his instruments. "Computer
satellites to his computers, and the green NAV light snapped on.

Moments later the terrain data was reloaded from the game"
cartridges.

"Terrain computers back up," he told Elliott who reengaged the pitch
autopilot to the terrain-dat computers, selected COLA on the terrain
clearance-plan selector and watched as the long pointed nose again
faithfully dipped earthward.

"Jesus," Ormack asked. "We actually did it."

"Threat receivers and all jammers back up," Wendy reported.

-my radar's back up," Angelina said, as though back from the,Sdead.

Instrumentation check, crew," Elliott ordered, switched the ejection
arning light off, pulled the firefighter's oxygen mask to his face and
breathed deeply "The ride's not over yet," he reminded them after his
hit of oxygen. "Those fighters will be after us any minute."

McLanahan lay awkwardly in his seat, supported by his parachute harness
straps that he never had time to tighten.

"True, General, but there's no denying that it's Miller time."

"You're cleared to the potty, radar," Elliott said, helping Ormack put
on the oxygen mask. "That's all. After that get back on watch. We're
coming up on Ossora. Kavaznya may be down, but I repeat, four
squadrons of MiGs will be after our butts.

McLanahan looked down at the warm stain between his legs."it seems I
don't need the john."

Dave Luger managed an exhausted chuckle. Sorry for falling apart back
there, partner. You can count on me from here on out-" "Search radar
at two o'clock. It's Ossora Airfield," Wendy announced suddenly.

The two navs exchanged looks. "Back to work," McLanahan said,
switching his attack radar to target-tracking mode.

OVER THE SKIES OF KAvAzNYA
"Radar contact is lost, Element Seven", Yuri Papendreyo, heard the
Soviet radar controller say over his command radic "Report your
position immediately. "As if in reply, a large re LOW ALTITUDE WARNING
light came onto the contrc panel of Papendreyov's advanced MiG-29

Fulcrum fighter.

He muttered unhappily to no one in particular and started a shallow
climb away from the inky blackness around him. Suddenly the earth was
his enemy, as much an enemy as the American warplane he was chasing.

He held his headin steady and switched on his pulse-Doppler attack
radar and nose infrared sensor pod.

He had been receiving steering signals from the radar site Kavaznya to
the attacking American B-52 bomber, signals the fed a stream of
missile-launch data to his missile fire control system and provided
range and bearing data to intercept the B-52.With the Kavaznya radar
operating he didn't need his Fulcrum's radar for hunting, a big
advantage of the advance Russian interceptor. Nothing could jam the
Kavaznya radar and without the Fulcrum's onboard radar acting like a
locatir beacon the fighter could sneak up behind the American B-52
without being detected.

All that was gone now. Somehow the Kavaznya radar was off and he was
forced to use his own narrow-beamed radar to search thousands of square
miles of sky for the bombe, diverting his attention away from flying
his Fulcrum an avoiding the rugged Kamchatka mountains.

The young PVO Strany interceptor pilot activated his command radio and
reported in a tight voice, "Element Seven has lost vectors to intruder
"Wait, no, still chasing. "A huge radar return appeared at the very
left edge of his on-board radar, then disappeared.

He began a thirty-degree bank turn to the left, quickly but futilely
scanning for terrain to his left.

"Element Seven has possible radar contact he radioed, but he was too
busy to report his position.

"Element Seven, repeat. Element Seven.report your position. "Which
was when he saw it out of the corner of his eye-the fire was so big and
bright that despite his training and discipline he took several
precious seconds to study the destruction. Debris from the massive
mirror dome in the hills above the Kavaznya research complex was spread
out for at least a kilometer in all directions, and a huge twisted mass
of metal sprawled awkwardly in the center of what used to be the mirror
building. The blast must also have done some collateral damage, he
figured, cut power to the complex .. .

Papendreyov throttled back to ninety-five percent power on the
screaming Tumansky R-33D turbofan engines and divided his attention
between the radar and the infrared detector while continuing his
shallow turn. He made a quick scan for his wingman-nothing. They had
been separated long before when the laser had fired and the incredible
turbulence and windblast nearly wrecked him, and he assumed the
worst-that either the laser had inadvertently hit him or that the
American had gotten him.

This flying at night without radar monitoring was suicide, the pilot
thought to himself. The Soviet ground radar controller was usually
responsible for everything-terrain clearance, vectoring toward the
intruder, closure, firing position-he did everything but pull the
trigger. Now Papendreyov was completely blind, relying on an easily
jammed nose radar and a range-limited infrared detector that wasn't
worth A diamond symbol appeared in the lower right corner of his
heads-up display-the infrared detector had found the B-52.

Strange that the radar had not. He tried to get a radar range to the
target but it still was not locking onto anything. He swung right,
centered the diamond up in azimuth on his display and waited for a
radar lock-on. Still nothing. The infrared scanner told him only
elevation and azimuth, not range. One of his two
AA-8 heat-seeker missiles could lock onto the bastard but they were
close-range missiles and worked best under eight kilometers' range.

He hesitated to drop the nose through the horizon until he found where
he was and checked terrain elevation. Papendreyov throttled back to
ninety percent and waited. No sense in driving blindly into the B-52's
guns, he thought. The twentyseven-year-old Soviet PVO-Strany Air
Defense pilot then realized he hadn't talked to anyone, hadn't gotten
permission to do anything, hadn't received one word of direction. He
was still two years from being qualified to perform autonomous
intercepts-going out to hunt down enemy planes without direction from
ground controllers-but he was performing one now. It was easy,
painfully easy-suicidal, but very easy. Easy to kill oneself.

He checked his engine instruments and fuel. If he stayed out of
afterburner he could stay and track this intruder for another
half-hour. He still had four missiles-two radar-guided missiles and
two heat-seekers. Enough to get the job done?

"Airborne radar contact," Wendy Tork announced into the interphone.

"Seven o'clock. Looks like .. . like .. . a Fulcrum.

Pulse-Doppler attack radar."

At the same time Wendy sounded her warning the computerdrawn terrain
trace zipped across General Elliott's video monitor. He grunted in
relieved satisfaction and reached for the clearance plane knob.

"Terrain-avoidance computer back on-line, General," McLanahan said, but
Elliott had already selected COLA on the clearance knob-the
computer-generated lowest altitude, which meant a harrowing ride no
higher than a hundred feet above the now-rapidly rising terrain. His
lips were dry, but he felt clammy inside. "Get that strike message
out, Angelina?"he asked, rechecking his switch position.

"Repeated it twice, General. "She reset her fire control radar to
clear the faults created by the interference of the powerful Kavaznya
radar, then switched it to SEARCH and the radar instantly found the
fighter behind them.

"My gear's working again. Radar contact, seven o'clock high, twelve
miles," Angelina reported. She watched it for a moment. "Holding
steady She hit the TRACK button on her console and a green TRACK light
illuminated. She lowered the safety handles on the twin turret
handgrips, put a finger on the Stinger airmine trigger and watched the
range countdown. When it reached five miles she gently squeezed the
trigger, and fired once .. .

The Fulcrum pilot heard a warbling ALERT tone in his headset, quickly
jammed his throttles to maximum afterburner and yanked his fighter into
a risky ninety-degree, twentydegree climb to evade a possible missile
launch. He leveled Off a thousand feet above his initial pursuit
altitude and searched the horizon out his left cockpit window for the
source of the missile alert.

"A fighter launching a missile at me?"Yuri Papendreyov asked himself,
eyes searching the blackness. "An enemy fighter over Russia?"

Luck had followed the young Soviet pilot into that wild evasive
snaproll. The tiny Stinger rocket, with its small directional fins,
could not keep up with the Soviet fighter and its half-scared,
half-genius pilot. The Stinger did a lazy turn trying to follow the
steering signals from Angelina's radar, but its turn radius was twice
the Fulcrum's. Suddenly it was behind and to the right of the Fulcrum,
and there was no way the tiny solid-fuel rocket could catch the
fighter. It tracked behind the Fulcrum's wake, its propellant almost
exhausted. Not receiving a detonation signal, and realizing its fuel
had run out, the tiny rocket issued its own detonation signal.

Papendreyov's attention was immediately directed to his right, where a
huge fiery flower blossomed out of the grayness all around him. He
could almost feel the sparks, the myriad bits of metal, flying out
toward him, seeking him. Instinctively he tried to jam his throttles
to maximum afterburner, then realized they were already there and began
a shallow climb, watching the flower of death disappear behind him.

His breath was coming out in rapid, shallow heaves. Sweat trickled
down his heavy glass faceplates. Thanking the stars and the shades of
comrades Mikoyan and Gureyvich, the designers of his beautiful jet, he
banked left and began to lop reaquire his quarry.

"Al at five o'clock," Wendy called out again.

Angelina was already shaking her head in disappointment.

"This guy is good," she asked. "He jinked just in time."

"Well, he's coming for us again," Wendy said.

Luger was watching his five-inch terrain scope, now clear and operating
normally after their unwieldy three-thousant pound Striker glide-bomb
leveled the Kavaznya mirror built ing and, at least temporarily, took
the radar site with it. "We" get to the mountains in twelve miles."

"He's staying up high," Angelina said, glancing at the elevation and
azimuth readouts on her console. "He's good bL he's not ready to mix
it up in the dirt yet.

"Can he still get an I.R shot at us?"Ormack asked.

"He can track us, but unless he's ready to descend to within a few
hundred feet of us we have a chance. "Just then, the elevation
readouts began to steadily decrease. Angelina swallowed hard.

"He's descending, crew. Get ready."

Yuri Papendreyov had finally gotten a reliable navigation beacon
lock-on and found himself on his cardboard chart. He nodded to
himself. At his present speed--over eight hundred kilometers per
hour-he could descend another thousan meters and spend almost two
precious minutes acquiring the B 52 bomber before the threat of the
frozen peaks of Koryakskiy Khrebet began to loom outside his cockpit-a
completely invisible to him. He nudged his Fulcrum down, set the
altimeter reminder bug on three thousand two hundred meters and
maneuvered his fighter to center the I.R TRAC diamond in his heads-up
display.

That few hundred meters of altitude did the trick. The pulse Doppler
attack radar signaled lock-on, and firing information was instantly fed
to the AA-7 radar-guided missile.

Yuri smiled. A solid infrared and radar lock-on, with for missiles
ready to go. The range continued to click down. The memory of that
fiery missile explosion snapped back to him and his decision was
made.

He throttled back, holding al range at fourteen kilometers, selected
the two AA-7 radar guided missiles, fired.

A MISSILE ALERT warning generated by the pulse-Doppler attack radar
focusing on the low-flying Old Dog had put it crew in a state of tense
readiness. When Yuri Papendreyc selected the AA-7 missiles for firing
his attack-radar switched to missile-guidance mode. The
continuous-wave radar sign that guided and steered the AA-7 missiles
triggered a MISSILE LAUNCH indication on Wendy Tork's threat panel,
which was heard over ship-wide interphone and repeated up in the
cockpit.

Wendy immediately ejected eight bundles of chaff from the left ejectors
and ordered an immediate right break. Elliott and Ormack, having
already accelerated to maximum thrust, threw the Old Dog into a
coordinated hard turn to the right.

Simultaneously Wendy found the continuous-wave missile steering signal
from the Russian fighter and began to set a jamming package against
it.

From directly on the stem the Old Dog's radar signature was
minuscule.

When Elliott and Ormack hauled the bomber into forty degrees of bank,
however, that radar signature bloomed several times its original size
.

. . it was like seeing a book edge-on, then turning it so the whole
cover could be seen.

There was no mistaking it for ground clutter now.

The right AA-7 missile was distracted by the chaff, but that
distraction added up to scarcely seven feet. The missile passed
directly over the center of the Old Dog's fuselage and just in front of
the leading edge of the right wing. When the seeker head snapped over
to try to follow the steering signal, its eighty-nine-pound warhead
detonated.

Dave Luger felt nothing. It was simply as if his entire right side
instrument console, his computer keyboard and parts of his radar had
freed themselves from their secured places on the aircraft and ended up
in his lap and in his face all at once. The concussion would have
knocked him clear out of his seat and across the Megafortress' tiny
offensive compartment, but his shoulder and lap belts held him securely
in his seat and subjected his upper body to the entire force of the
blast that penetrated the fibersteel skin.

He felt hands across his shoulders and chest, but still no pain. He
fought to focus his eyes and finally gave up on that.

Air sucked out of his chest, debris from everywhere flew around him.

"Dave. "McLanahan reached across the narrow aisle between their two
downward ejection seats and propped Luger upright, straining against
the weight of the two-G turn that Elliott and Ormack were still
executing. "Dave's hit!"

"Yer crazy, radar," Luger muttered, but as McLanahan moved him upright
his head dropped against the headrest on his ejection seat and rocked
uncontrollably as the pilots fougu for control of the crippled
bomber.

Luger could feel his head jolted from side to side but was unable to
convince his neck muscles to do anything abot it "I'm fine, I'm fine,"
he asked. "Hey, my scope is out .. .""Out" was a considerable
understatement-it was as if a giant metal-eating monster had bitten off
half the milion-dollar cathode-ray tube. McLanahan reached down and
locked Luger's inertial reel on his ejection seat, which helped his
partner stay upright in the seat. "How are the computers.

Patrick?"

"Screw the computers for now," McLanahan replier unstrapping himself.

"Stay strapped in, Pat- "Just shut up for a second, Dave," McLanahan
said quietly. He reached for the first aid kit secured to the bulkhead
behind his seat, glancing at the computer displays as he opened it they
were still working, no faults or interruptions.

"The computers are fine, Dave. "He braced himself again the sliding
nav's table and examined his partner. "Oh God "I'm fine, I told you,"
Luger mumbled again. McLanaha held up a large gauze square from the
first aid kit but was unsure about what to do first. He had never seen
bone before clean, white bone, except on a T-bone steak .. . the
thougl made him gag, but he forced the thought away .. .

"Put a bandage on whatever's wrong there, Pat," Luger: said, "and let's
get back to work. "Luger raised a finger to wipe moisture out of his
right eye. When he looked at it his entire hand was covered in
glistening red blood.

"Ohhh "Sir still," was all McLanahan could say as he covered the right
side of Luger's face with a thick pad of gauze and taped it secure.

Luger sat through it all as if he were getting a haircut McLanahan
checked Luger's neck and chest, brushing awa fragments of glass and
fibersteel.

The flight jacket an flightsuit had protected Luger's upper body, it
seemed.

"I'm all right," Luger said, his voice now muffled slightly through the
gauze. "I twisted my leg a little, that's all, forget it .. . but
turn the heat up, will ya?It's getting' cold i here "Let me take a-"
"I said forget it."

But McLanahan had already ducked under the table to investigate. He
stayed out of view for a few moments, came up to retrieve the first aid
kit, then emerged again a few moments later.

Luger had felt nothing but a few tugs on his right leg. "See?

I told you, mom.

McLanahan returned to his seat, his body jerking from side to side from
the turbulence as the Old Dog crested another ridgeline in the
mountains of the Kamchatka. He stared silently down at his
worktable.

"All done playing Florence Nightingale?"Luger said as he reached down
to his right thigh, touched, felt nothing. But when he brought his
hand up he found it covered with sticky, darkening blood.

He finally met McLanahan's eyes. "Strong like a bull. "He readjusted
his headset, lowered the microphone to his lips.

"Nav's up and okay," he said over the interphone.

General Elliott began, "David .. . T' "Lost my radar, sir," Luger
said, forcing iron back into his voice. He tried to punch up a
systems-diagnostic routine on his terminal but only a few buttons were
left on his keyboard. He strained across the worktable to use
McLanahan's terminal.

"Looks like we're still talking to the Scorpion missiles through our
controls but I've no search video. All the terrain-following computers
look okay, all the weapons controls are out but that's a moot point now
. . . " "All right," Elliott said, trying to steady his voice. "Crew
we've lost cabin pressurization. Wendy, Angelina, can you see that guy
out there?"

"I've got his search radar shut down," Wendy replied. "I lost him
right after he launched .. . " It was, of course, no longer just "a
launch"-the Russian had hit one of their own, hurt him .. .

"Wendy, I'm okay," Luger said quickly, as though sensing her
thoughts.

"You .. . you ladies nail him .. ."

"My scope's clear," Angelina asked. "We'll get him."

"Sure .. . they've taken their best shot and they couldn't flame
us.

Sure
Yuri Papendreyov angrily switched frequencies on his attack radar. The
heavy jamming from the American B-52 attacker had begun precisely when
he hit the missile-launch button on his control stick. The missile
left the rail with a good steer TRACK indication but he lost it soon
afterward. He saw primary or secondary explosions, saw no crash
indications the jamming was continuing harder than ever. So he hat
assume his AA-7s had missed, and that he had to start all over
again-but this time closer to the mountains, at least, two hundred
meters above the bomber with no radar and with two thousand kilograms
less fuel.

He leveled off at the minimal sector altitude, throttled back to ninety
percent and began a slow roll to the left to try to reacquire the
B-52.

The auto-frequency shift mode of attack radar, which randomly changed
frequencies to try to defeat the B-52's jamming, was all but useless.

The shift was too little, too late, and it always seemed to shift right
into jammed band. Yuri changed the frequency all the way to lower end
of the scale and swept the area for the bomb Who would have believed
it?

he thought. A B-52 in middle of restricted Soviet airspace. A lone
B-52, at that.

escort, no wave of cruise missiles preceding it, no multiple defenses,
no B1, no FB-111 raid like the one on Libya Syria two years before.

One B-52.

Well, why not, Yuri said to himself as he began to search another
twenty-degree quadrant. The plan was working very damn well so far.

The B-52 had obviously flown several thousand kilometers, drove right
up the Kamchatka peninsula and dropped a bomb on just about the most
important piece of land in the Soviet Union next to Red Square
itself.

There .. . at the very bottom of his radar .. . j before another
wave of interference flooded his scope, a cr with a circle around it
appeared, then disappeared. Hos radar emissions. The B-52's own
radar, the one that obviously was used to steer whatever weapon they
had launched against him, had given them away.

He rolled further left on an intercept course. Switching attack radar
to STANDBY to avoid giving himself awaywas useless, anyway, with the
heavy jamming-he maneuvered to parallel the B-52's course. The radar
emission from the B-52 was sporadic-they were looking for him, he was
sure, but being careful not to transmit too long. Not careful enough,
though. They transmitted on their radar long enou for him to compute
their track.

He set the infrared search-and-track seeker to maximum depression and
waited for the supercooled eye of the seeker to find the B-52-there
was, he knew, the possibility of the seeker locking onto a warm
building with the angle so low, but eight jet engines should be
brighter than anything else in the sky or on the ground right now. He
was already at the minimum safe altitude for the sector he was in, and
without solid visual contact on the terrain, descending any lower would
be suicide.

He increased throttle to ninety-five percent and waited. Soon, he was
sure, the range would decrease to the point where the seeker would
lock-on, and then he'd stay high and pick off the intruder .. .

When a few minutes later the infrared seeker locked onto a hot target
there was no mistaking the size or intensity of the target. The
infrared seeker had a longer range than the AA-6 missile, so, he
realized, he would need to close in on the B-52 a bit more.

Yuri thought about using the attack radar once more to get a range-only
estimate on the B-52, but that would give him away. If he was in range
of a surveillance-radar site they could give him a range to the B-52,
but for some reason he couldn't hear the station at Korf or Ossora.

Probably too low, too close to the mountains .. . if he couldn't hear
them on the radio they surely couldn't see him on radar.

Yuri's track had been fairly constant for the last few moments, meaning
that the B-52 was making no evasive maneuvers. He relaxed his grip on
his control stick and throttles .. . maybe they didn't know he was
behind them.

The B-52's tail radar hadn't been activated for several minutes.

He had to launch before they spotted him on that tail radar Suddenly he
felt it-a slight shudder through the titanium body of his Fulcrum
fighter. He scanned his engine instruments for a malfunction, but
already suspected the cause-wake turbulence from the B-52's engines, he
was closing quickly. He stared as hard as he could out the canopy of
his Fulcrum but couldn't see it.

But that too was unnecessary A moment later a green light spewed on his
weapon-control panel .. . his selected AA-6 heat-seeking missiles
were tracking the target.

TMIA He released the safeties on the launch button on his control stick
and A scratchy, faded message blared on both of his command radios.

"For all Ossora and Korf units, code yellow. Repe, code yellow.

Acknowledge immediately and comply.

His fingers didn't move from the missile launch button, but neither did
it squeeze. A general forces recall .. .

"All Ossora units, code yellow. Acknowledge and comply.

He tried to force himself to make a decision. He had the B-52 in his
sights, but if he transmitted on his radio, so close to the B-52, they
might hear or detect his transmission and evade or reattack. The Korf
interceptor units had all responded immediately to the recall
instructions. All of the Ossora units had probably responded as
well-all but him. His career was probably already in jeopardy. A
young pilot commanding a long-range fighter, capable of reaching Japan
or Alaska, who didn't respond immediately to recall instructions could
easily end up attacking vegetables in a warehouse in some isolated
Siberian base. Or worse.

"Vawl. "Papendreyov swore aloud, maintained track on the target,
activated his command radio and said, "Element seven acknowledges.

Triangulate position immediately. Stand by. Closing on intruder."

"Element seven, comply immediately with instructions, came the voice
once again. His number had been called in time-he was indeed the last
one to rejoin at the navigation beacon over Ossora. His ticket to
Ust-Melechenskiy three hundred miles north of the Arctic Circle was
probably already being processed .. .

Fat harebrained dogs, Yuri let loose, this time to himself. Enraged,
he pressed the missile-launch button and began a climbing left turn
toward Ossora .. . before realizing that the green I.R TRACK light
had long extinguished. The two hundred thousand ruble missiles
vanished into the darkness. Yuri proceeded to curse all his superiors,
the flight commander, the ground controllers, the command post officers
at everyone else he could think of on his way back to the rendezvous
point. He wasn't worried about that icy base Siberia-he was worried
about exactly how he'd wring the neck of the first person unlucky
enough to get in his way General Elliott and Lieutenant Colonel Ormack,
acting unison, forced the Old Dog lower and lower into the mountains.

The terrain-following computer was already set COLA, the lowest setting
possible in the automatic mode, but with the threat of a Soviet fighter
on their tail, even a hundred feet above the ground was like ten
thousand. There were constant warning beeps as the automatic-climb
commands were overridden by the two pilots, and the bomber's radar
altimeter, measuring the exact distance between the bomber's belly and
the ground, occasionally entered the double-digit area.

Dave Luger's one good eye, and both of Patrick McLanahan's, were on the
ground-mapping display of McLanahan's ten-inch scope. The two
navigators carefully called out even the smallest peaks and ridges that
could pose a threat. Elliott and Ormack reacted in sync--one man
forcing the bomber lower, the other scanning the instruments and
nudging it higher in response to the warnings from the
terrain-following computer and what he heard over the interphone.

"He was so close," Wendy said, "his radio signal was so strong I swear
I heard him over interphone. "She swallowed, studying her video
displays. "His signal is decreasing .. . I think he's leaving "My
scope's clear," Angelina reported, shivering for a moment, "I saw him
for a second, but he's gone."

Elliott relaxed his grip on the yoke and let the terrainfollowing
computer control the Old Dog again. "Well, that was close. I saw the
missiles hit out there .. . they were so damned close, and we didn't
even know he was out there. We didn't even know
Ossom AIRFIELD
Yuri Papendreyov stood at attention before his squadron-leader's desk
in the PVO Strany Interceptor Squadron reads room at Ossora Airfield.

The squadron leader, a thin, age naval commander named Vasholtov, still
on active duty from the Great Patriotic War, paced behind his desk.

Not a word had been spoken yet, even though Papendreyov had been
standin at attention for two minutes.

He had to chew this young Papendreyov cub out a few minutes longer, the
squadron leader thought to himself-although that didn't always mean a
verbal tirade. The squadron-and his superiors-expected a good five to
ten minutes of closed-door time, perhaps a slammed door, a curse or two
then an administrative reprimand. It would go no farther that the
squadron records-good pilots who didn't drink on the job were hard to
find in the cold, barren Kamchatka-and the reprimand would disappear
after a month or two. How he hated these chewing-out sessions. But it
had to be done to maintai the discipline and integrity of his unit.

"You have disappointed your entire squadron, Papendrey ov," the old
squadron leader finally said, glancing at the youn_ Fulcrum pilot.

"Failure immediately to acknowledge a recal instruction is almost as
serious as treason. Or desertion. "The youngster didn't blink.

Didn't move a muscle-most youn_ pilots would be melting at the mention
of the word "treason."

Vasholtov studied the youngster for a moment. Papendreyov could have
been from Berlin or even further west--Copenhagen or Britain. He was
of average height but broad shouldered with close-shaved blond curls
and narrow blue eyes gazed straight ahead. His boots were polished to
a high gloss, every zipper was closed and every patch on his flight
suit was perfectly aligned. Five years from now this young pilot would
probably be a flight commander .. . The new breed, Vasholtov thought,
but just now this "new breed" needed a tongue-lashing. Vasholtov knew
how fast unrest, boredom, lack of discipline and insubordination grew
in a unit where the men, especially the young ones, thought the
commander didn't care. Might as well get it over with .. .

"I suppose you will now tell me that your radio was malfunctioning.

"There was nothing wrong with my radio, sir."

"Silence, Papendreyov. Silence or I will have your wings here and
now. "The squadron leader circled the young pilot few times like a
shark circling in for the kill. Papendreyov remained at rigid
attention.

"Ice-and-snow-removal detail for forty-eight hours for that outburst,
Flight Captain. Perhaps a few nights in the Siberian winds will cool
down your hotheadedness. Pray I don't put you on that detail
permanently."

Papendreyov blurted out, "I had the intruder, Squadron Leader. I saw
the American B-52.I took a missile shot at it."

"You what .. . T' Papendreyov still stood firmly at attention. "I
found the B-52 at three hundred meters above the ground, Squadron
Leader. I pursued him down to seventy meters-" "Sevenly meters?You
took your interceptor to seventy meters?Without authorization?

Without-" "I found him. I found him on radar but his jamming was too
strong. So I locked onto him on the infrared search-and-track
system.

I closed to within three kilometers of him."

Vasholtov stifled his annoyance at the interruption. "Go on."

"I was then ordered back to base. I waited as long as I could. I
fired just before obeying the order to return but I had lost track by
then. They must have detected my radio trans-" You fired on the
B-52?"

In forty years he had never heard of any man under his command actually
firing on anything or anyone except target drones. "Did you .. . hit
it?"

"My first radar shot .. . yes, I believe I hit him," Papendreyov
said, wishing he hadn't sounded so unsure, so hesitant-now it sounded
like he was lying.

radar is not used."

"Not use radar "You could have been killed," Vasholtov asked. "You
could have crashed at any time. Flying at seventy meters at night in
the mountains with the flight director radar down .. . you risked too
much. This will have to be reported-" " Let me go after him,"
Papendreyov interrupted once again. "I can find him again. He is
using a tail-mounted radar that can be detected for forty kilometers.

He is only traveling five hundred, perhaps six hundred kilometers an
hour .. . I can catch him. I can stay low enough for the infrared
system to lock onto him. He cannot detect a fighter closing on him if
Vasholtov was almost too flabbergasted to reply. Papendreyov had been
down in the Kamchatka mountain range at night-he had only recently been
certified for night duty-at seventy meters, about a thousand meters
lower than he should have been, without using his radar. He had broken
more rules in one hour than the entire squadron had done in months.

The Defense Force Commander would retire him for sure when they saw
this report.

"You are lucky, very lucky," Vasholtov said, "to be alive.

Very, very lucky. The rules of engagement exist to protect stupid
young hotheads like you. You broke at least four of them-not including
the crime of ignoring a unit recall-order.

You are very close to a flight tribunal, Flight Captain. Very close.

" "Punish me, then," Papendreyov said defiantly "Send me to y
Ust-Meryna or Gorky. Take my wings. Just let me take one more crack
at the Americans-" "Enough. "Vasholtov's tobacco-singed throat
throbbed from all his yelling. "You will report to the intelligence
branch and give them a complete debriefing on your supposed contact
with the American B-52.Then you will immediately report to your
barracks. I'll have to decide what to do with you-give you to a flight
tribunal or a criminal board."

"Please, tovarisch, " Papendreyov said, his sharp blue eyes now round
and soft. "I deserve punishment, Squadron Leader, severe punishment,
but I also deserve to shoot down this intruder. I know where to find
him and how to take him.

Please .. . " "Get out," Vasholtov ordered, dropping into his rough
wooden chair before he collapsed into it. "Get out before I have your
insubordinate hide arrested."

Papendreyov's round eyes hardened and narrowed. He snapped to
unbending attention, saluted, spun on a heel and left the office.

Papendreyov quickly returned to his barracks room as ordered-without
stopping at the flight intelligence branch. He turned on the light to
his desk and fished out a pen and paper.

As he wrote he picked up the telephone and dialed.

"Alert maintenance, crew sergeant speaking."

"Starshiy Serzhant Bloiaki, this is Flight Captain Papendreyov. I am
calling from the ready room. Is one-seven-one combat ready?"

"One-seven-one, sir?Your plane?The one you just returned-" "Of
course, my plane, sergeant. Is it ready?"

"Sir .. . we .. . it has been towed to recovery area B sir, but it
hasn't-" "Starshiy Serzhant Bloiaki, this is not like you," Papendreyov
asked. "This is the worst time not to get the orders. My plane was to
be immediately reconfigured with one four hundred decaliter centerline
drop tank and four infrared missiles. It was to be ready on the
hour."

He paused, then said quietly, "I'll have to tell squadron leader
Vasholtov that my sortie will be delayed- "That won't be necessary,"
Bloiaki said quickly. "One drop tank and four infrared missiles ..

.

they will be ready in fifteen minutes, sir."

Papendreyov checked his watch."it will be ready in ten minutes or we
will both have a chat with Squadron Commander Vasholtov. I must refile
my flight plan once more," he said.finishing his hurried
scribbling.

"I'll be out there right away.

He hung up the phone and went to his bureau, took one last long loving
gaze at the photo of his wife and infant daughter then opened the top
drawer. As he studied his wife's dark chestnut hair and his daughter's
blonde curly locks he began stuffing his pockets with packets of
freeze-dried survival food and dried beef. He quickly unzipped his
flight suit and put on a second thermal shirt over his flameproof
underwear, and replaced his lightweight flight boots with insulated
flying boots. He touched the picture of his wife, then put on his
flight jacket, gloves and fur hat and hurried toward the flightline.

He had left the hastily written note and last will an testament
unsigned; there was no longer time even for that. No matter. His
career was over the minute he stepped foot on the flightline. His
life-period-would have been over as he taxied onto the main runway
except that on account of the emergency declared over the entire
eastern air-defense region the air traffic controllers allowed him to
take off without a full verified flight plan. In an emergency, better
to have the fighter airborne first, question their procedures later.

Papendreyov had known this, of course, and was airborne again within
thirty minutes of landing from his first sortie.

It had only been an hour and a half since he had broken off the attack
with the American B-52.The B-52, obviously wounded, was flying
slow-at the most, he figured, it had gone some seven hundred fifty
kilometers from ssora since he had fired his last missiles. His
MiG-29

Fulcrum fighter could chase after it easily at three times the B-52's
speed with fuel from the drop tank only, then spend two, three hours
searching for the intruder.

Papendreyov gave his call sign to Ossora Intercept Contro which
questioned him briefly about his absent flight-taskil code but quickly
gave him vectors to the bomber's last know position, nearly five
hundred kilometers ahead. The young Fulcrum pilot kept the throttles
at max afterburner and began ten-degree climb at seven hundred
kilometers per hour. With' minutes he was at twenty thousand meters,
screaming nord east at seventeen hundred kilometers per hour, almost
twice the speed of sound.

Quickly he was handed off to Korf Intercept Control, which had few
updates on the bomber's position, but Papendreyc made his own estimate
where the American B-52 would be The fuel in his centerline drop tank
having exhausted itself lethan ten minutes after his takeoff, he made
another calculation then jettisoned the tank, not having the luxury of
considerit who or what might be underneath .. . he was high over the
mountains, but they were still sparsely populated. He continued at
maximum afterburner for five more minutes, then pulled his throttles to
cruise power and set his autopilot.

He had fifty thousand liters of fuel remaining to find the American,
and he was wasting two thousand liters per hour-just w hourju hoping to
catch up. But Papendreyov wasn't worried. He knew, thanks to his
subtle course corrections, that the nose of his Fulcrum was pointed
right at the Americans' heart.

"We aren't going to make it," Ormack felt obliged to report.

"We've got thirty minutes of fuel tops."

General Bradley Elliott double-checked the autopilot and flight control
annunciators while Ormack went over his fuel calculations. They had
been flying for well over an hour at ten thousand feet, forced to that
altitude by the damage to the pressurized crew compartment.

"Fuel flow?"

44 "Pretty steady," Ormack said, "but the fuel curve is getting orse.

Looks like a major leak from wing and body tanks. I've jumped all the
fuel out of the body tanks but I can't do anything about the mains .

.

. I've got the minimum in them to keep the engines going as it is.

We've had low-pressure lights on for a long time-" "Can we make it to
the ocean?"Elliott asked, scanning his engine instruments and
checking them by moving the throttles.

"Put it down on an ice floe or punch out near the coastline?"

"Punch out?"Angelina Pereira asked. "You mean eject?"

"We'd have to cross high mountain ridges to get to the coast," Luger
said, warming his hands on an overhead air vent. "It would be real
close."

"Now's the time to decide," Elliott asked. "Patrick, give me a heading
toward the ocean, away from any active Russian fighter bases. Crew,
prepare for-" "Hold on," McLanahan broke in. "General, what does WXO
near an airfield mean?"

1 -WXO?Warm-weather operations only. They close the place during
winter because it's too expensive and too difficult to maintain.

Why?"

"I found one," McLanahan said, putting a finger on his high-altitude
navigation chart and checking the satellite navigation system's
present-position counters. "Straight ahead, fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen minutes?"Ormack asked. "You're crazy. That's in Russia.

1. They got a long runway at the very least," McLanahan asked. "Maybe
they'll have gas and oil for the number two engine. If it's abandoned
or vacant we could-" "They're not abandoned," Elliott asked. "At least
our
Alaskan warm-weather bases aren't. We usually have care takers, mostly
locals, that look after the place. Maybe some minimal security,
National Guard or Reserve deployment Ormack stared at Elliott.

"General, you're not seriously considering .. . You're both crazy
Maybe you ought to go back on oxygen. "He looked hard at Elliott,
expecting him to turn and shrug off McLanahan's notion. Some
last-minute humor .. .

"General "We're armed "We've got your automatic and two lousy
thirty-eight revolvers in the survival kits," Ormack asked. "They're
more a hazard to us than they'd be to anyone else. They could have
been stowed on this plane for years."

Elliott said, "I've done that, lots of times," McLanahan put in,
excitement rising in his voice. Luger was staring at McLa han pretty
much the way Ormack was looking at Elliottdisbelief. "Global Shield
missions. Remember, Dave?Sir lated post-strike recovery at an
emergency airfield. Keep number two nacelle running, pump gas into the
right outboa right external, or right drop tank, then transfer gas to
the rest the plane. I once hand-pumped ten thousand pounds of"The
Russians aren't going to just let us take their gas," Luger said.

"It's crazy."

"We'd end up captured," Angelina asked. "I'd rathertake chances in the
mountains than be captured by them-especially after this mission."

"No, you don't want to go down in the mountains," Elliott asked. "Even
if you come out of the ejection unhurt the chances are at best
fifty-fifty even with the global survival kit we've got. And we can't
ditch the Old Dog. She wouldn't withstand the impact."

"I still think those odds are better than landing at a Russian
airfield-" "Do you, John?"Elliott asked. "How long do you think we
could survive out there in those mountains?"

"If we made it to the coast we'd have a chance.

Elliott ignored that, asked his navigators for the distance to the
oastline.

"One hundred miles is the closest," Luger asked. "But "We could do the
refueling to himself than anyone else.

cross two ranges, each about nine or ten thousand feet, and we're
within radar range of Trebleski Airfield the whole way After we cross
the mountains we can cut away from Trebleski to the northeast."

"We can stay near the mountains," Wendy offered. "Get as much distance
as possible from Trebleski and hide in the ground clutter."

Can we go around Trebleski at MIT' "Not on the coastal side of the
mountains," Luger told him, rubbing his one uncovered eye, "unless we
turn around."

"So it's unlikely we'd make it to the coast," Elliott said.

"And that means we get out over the mountains in the dead of winter,
hundreds of miles from any kind of friendly forces. We could try to
evade but I wouldn't give us much of a chance of making it to the
coast, much less into Alaska.

"General, are you saying that landing at a Russian military airfield,
abandoned or not, is a better option?"Ormack said.

"We'd be surrendering. We'd be handing ourselves and this lane over to
them. And I sure as hell wouldn't give us a snowball's chance in hell
of making it out of a Soviet prison alive.

Elliott kept silent for a long moment, then: "Distance to that
airfield, Patrick.

McLanahan already had the geographic coordinates of the field typed
into his navigation computer. "Anadyr is eighty miles, five degrees
left."

"Any radar circles around it?"

"Yes. "McLanahan said, studying his civil-aviation chart.

"Can't tell what they are but they've got something there."

"Wendy, any activity?"

Wendy Tork had been carefully studying her threat displays ever since
McLanahan had first made his wild suggestion.

"Clear scope ever since Ossora Airfield."

"I've got no terrain on my scope for a hundred miles," McLanahan said,
tuning his ten-inch radar scope in onehundred-nautical-mile range. "If
there were any threat signals they're not being blocked by terrain. I
can't make out the base, though."

"Okay," Elliott said, "you've all heard the arguments.

There's no guarantee that we'll get gas, oil or anything but our asses
in a sling if we land at Anadyr. On the other hand it's possible that
we could land this beast and walk away from it uninjured, steal a truck
and have a better than even chance of evading toward the Bering Strait,
where our chances of being rescued significantly increase. If you're a
wild dreamer like Patrick you'll actually believe there's an outside
chance of pumping this aircraft full of gas, restarting the number two
engine and running it enough to lift off again, and, making it back to
Alaska."

"Crazy," Ormack muttered. "If the base is occupied, we won't have any
chance of taking off again-we'd flame out long before liftoff. If we
can't find gas we're stuck a couple hundred miles from friendly
territory on a Russian base. The Russians would get the Old Dog and
we'd be trying to evade all the way back to Alaska. Fat chanc "Well, I
can't have this crew bail out over the mountains," Elliott said.

"Chances of surviving the ejection itself are slim If we did survive
we'd be faced with a three-hundred-mile hike across Siberia with the
Red Army chasing us. I say we take our chances on solid ground, At
least we'll be all in one piece to fight or run."

"I'm for it," Luger asked. "Hell, that base will be the last place on
this earth they'd look for us, except down in Moscow.

"All right, General," Wendy said, closing her eyes in silent prayer,
"let's try to land it."

Angelina shrugged. "Check. I don't know if I could get myself out of
this damn thing anyway."

"I'm giving a crash course, anyway," McLanahan told her. "You may
still have to do it. General, I'm clearing off upstairs. Dave, watch
my scope for me."

Ormack agreed they really didn't have much choice, out the emergency
landing checklists as McLanahan upstairs and knelt between Wendy and
Angelina. He put his headset into the defense instructor's station and
told the women to switch their interphones to the "private" position
which allowed them to talk without bothering the rest of the crew.

"How are you warriors doing?"

Angelina nodded but looked almost as bad as Luger Because of the damage
to the downstairs crew compartment McLanahan had been forced to
transfer most of the available heat downstairs to keep Luger from going
back into shock. Even with Wendy's borrowed jacket and thermal top,
there was more protection then the rest of the crew had, Angelina was
losing to the cold.

Her lips were purple, her eyelids drooped as if she were struggling to
stay awake.

Her hands, in stiff, metallic firefighting gloves, were shoved deep
inside her jacket for warmth.

Bomber defense was almost out of the question, McLanahan thought. It
would be difficult if not impossible for Angelina to try to operate her
equipment under these conditions. Landing was absolutely the only
option.

"Hang in, Angie," he said.

"I'll be all right .. ."

McLanahan turned to Wendy. "How you doing?"

"Holding up. I could use a drink.

"Champagne when we get home .. . okay, you were taught this months
ago, but let's go over it again. If we get attacked while trying to
land, or if the pilots can't land this thing, we've got no choice but
to eject. Listen carefully, watch the warning light and don't
panic-but don't hesitate either.

There's a simple three-step system for using upward seatsjust remember,
ready, aim, fire.

"The ready is to pull the safety pin out of the handle on your
armrests, trip the handle release lever and rotate the handle upward.

Grab the front of the handle, not the middle or inside.

There's no hurry, do it smooth and easy. This equipment is old and it
needs some care. The aim is like align. You shove your fannies deep
into the back of your seat, press your back into the seat and push your
head back into the headrest. After that lower your chin to your
chest.

Think about a nice straight spine the whole time. Put your feet flat
on the deck, knees together.

Put your elbows inside the armrests and brace your arms against the
back. The fire is easy-grab both triggers inside the ejection handle
and squeeze. Next thing you know, you'll be on the ground."

"What happens if it doesn't fire?"Angelina asked between shivers.

"Can you go over the emergency ejection sequence?"

"Don't worry about it. If necessary I'll pop your manual catapult
initiator pull-out pins for you."

"You?"Wendy said, looking up at McLanahan. "How?"

"The chances of navigators surviving a downward ejection at less than
two thousand feet is fifty percent. If we go below one thousand feet
.

. . never mind what the book says .. .

our chances are about zero."

"But-" "Dave doesn't have an ejection seat," McLanahan them. "After
the decision was made to get a second naviga requested that another
ejection seat be installed. But there so much pressure to complete the
testing that it somehow overlooked. "He tried a smile and flunked.

"I'll make sure crosshairs are on the runway so that the bombing
COMPuter will help the pilots land the Dog, get Dave strapped in, then
come back upstairs and strap in right here. I'll see to it that you
get out if it's necessary to eject-" "Patrick, you can't-" "Can and
will. End of discussion-" "Pat, we're fifty miles from Anadyr," Luger
reported.

waited a few moments. "Pat?"

Wendy was shaking her head. He figured he should say something else
but the words wouldn't come. He groped for the interphone wafer
switch.

"What?"

"Fifty miles," Luger asked. "You okay?"

"Great.

"Strap in," Elliott called back. "Everyone back on watch. "McLanahan
made his way slowly down the ladder, leaning over Luger's shoulder.

Luger was now in the left-hand navigator's ejection seat, studying the
ten-inch radar set. "See it yet, buddy?"McLanahan asked. Luger
switched the radar scope to fifty-mile terrain-mapping and was
adjusting the video and receiver gain controls near his left knee,
tuning the terrain returns on the scope in a search for the runway.

"Nope," he said, moving his uncovered left eye close to the scope.

"Nothing under the crosshairs. I get a blank screen when I tune out
terrain."

"Assume the computers are bad. You should be able to break out a
runway within thirty miles. Just keep tuning. "He stooped down,
checked Luger's straps and harnesses.

snug?"

"I still don't want to do this," Luger said.

"It's my fault you're even on this plane," McLanahan quickly "It's my
fault you got hurt. At least I want you to a chance to get out of it
if something goes wrong."

"Thanks, buddy, but I'd like to think my so-called profesionalism
helped get me a ticket on this ride. I wouldn't missed it for
anything.

Well, almost anything."

"Check. I'll buy you a beer back at my place," McLanateha'n asked. "Or
a vodka. I guess that would be more appropria McLanahan thumped his
long-time partner on the back, grabbed Luger's tactical chart and made
his way upstairs, where he strapped himself into a spare parachute and
fastened his seatbelt.

"Forty miles," Luger announced. "Clear of terrain for fifty miles.

"We'll have enough gas for one low approach," Ormack asked. "We've got
fuel low-pressure lights on all four mains.

One pass clean, then a left turn into a visual overhead for landing.

"Crew, listen up," Elliott asked. "If we pick up ground fire we'll
break out of the pattern and climb out as fast as we can.

We'll level off at fifteen thousand and go straight ahead until we
flame out. Jump ut on my command, but if you see the red light don't
wait for my command. After you land use your survival radios on the
discrete channel and we'll try to locate n up.

everyone and fort "Thirty miles," Luger reported. "High terrain at two
o'clock. Shouldn't be a factor. Looks reasonably clear for a
left-hand traffic pattern."

"We're setting up on a sort of extended base leg, Luger," Ormack
said.

"That airfield will be moving off to your left."

" Rog.""Descent and penetration checklist, crew," Ormack called out.

"We've got twenty thousand pounds of fuel, nav.

Approach speed and emergency landing data?"

Luger called up the landing data on a computer terminal in the
downstairs compartment. "Two engines out on one sideapproach speed is
less than minimum maneuvering speed, so minimum maneuvering speed takes
precedence," Luger read. "Minimum maneuvering speed is
one-twenty-eight with full flaps-, plus twenty-five with less than full
rudder authority. One hundred and sixty-eight knots. Go-around E.P.R
setting, three point zero, rnilita6 power on symmetric engines only.

Touchdown speed one-forty-eight. Brake energy limited one-fifty to the
bottom of the danger zone, one-thirty to the bottom of the caution
zone.

Max drag chute speed one-thirty-five.

"There may not be a go-around," Ormack said, checking the fuel
gauges.

He continued the lengthy series of checklists, letting the Old Dog's
on-board computer display each checklist on Ormack's display in the
cockpit. It seemed the Old Dog one huge emergency procedure. Ormack
reviewed check for fuel leaks on landing, double engine-out, engine
fire, parachute failure.hydraulic failure, overrunning the rum
landing on ice and snow, strange field procedures, ejection emergency
aircraft evacuation. When he finished, Li announced that they were
less than twenty miles from Anadyr Far East Fighter-Interceptor
Airbase.

Elliott and Ormack began a gradual descent to fifteen hundred feet
above the field's elevation.

"Clear of terrain for thirty miles," Luger said.

nothing on radar.

McLanahan had already double-checked that Angelina Wendy were secure in
their ejection seats. Now he made his way forward to the cockpit and
slipped into the steel instructor pilot's jumpseat. "Need an extra set
of eyes?"he asked Elliott. "What the hell are you doing up here?"

"Dave's got the left seat downstairs. I'll help you loo I k the
runway, then I'll go aft and help Wendy and Angelina their seats in
case "Patrick, that's suicide. Get your butt back to your semi "Dave
doesn't have an ejection seat, sir," McLanahan said quietly. "One of
the details we never got around to.

"I didn't know "Forget it. Dave's as good on the radar as I am. If
something goes wrong I'll try to make sure Wendy and Angelina get
clear.

Meanwhile I'll help find that runway."

"This whole deal is still crazy .. ."Ormack mutter "Maintain the
element of surprise," McLanahan said, "We've kept the whole Russian air
force off our backs confusing 'em. This is just the next step. "And
over interphone he asked, "Dave" Anything?"

"It all looks the same," Luger told him, sounding increasingly
frustrated.

"Keep tuning, you'll find it, Remember, we're setting Up a base-leg,
not a straight-in. Don't just rely on the computers-check shorter
ranges."

"Rog," Luger said.retuning the scope once more.

"We'll stay unconfigured at two hundred and fifty kr until we see the
runway," Elliott asked. "We'll turn final check the runway and base and
make a decision to land. T we'll turn onto the downwind, configure
and-" "I've got it," Luger suddenly announced. "Six miles, eleven
o'clock.:, "Six milesT Ormack said.

"The navigation computer must be way off," McLanahan told him. All
three heads in the cockpit swung to the left.

Elliott found it immediately. "Got it," he asked. "We're right on top
of it .. . we'll never get configured fast enough. Let's go on
straight ahead, check out the base from the end of the runway, then
make a turn into a right downwind for landing."

"Roger," Ormack asked. "I've got the airplane. You check out the
base. "He turned the cockpit lights down to bare AA minimum to make it
easier to see the runway.

Elliott muttered unhappily as the runway moved to his left window.

"That runway looks like the rest of the tundra. Some of those snow
drifts out there must be ten feet high.

"No signals," Wendy reported. "Still a clear threat-scope.

Not even any radio transmissions."

It was a small, almost obscure base in a mountain valley that reminded
McLanahan of Hill Air Force Base in Utah, with snowy mountain peaks
peering down from the sky. The most noticeable feature of the base was
the "Christmas tree"-alert parking area at the end of the runway-two
rows of six parking areas for Russian fighters, staggered on each side
so that all twelve fighters could move at once and line up on the
runway.

Fortunately the parking areas were empty-more than empty, they appeared
not to have been plowed out for quite a while.

Some of the Quonset hut fighter shelters were partially dismantled,
with snow piled in deep drifts everywhere.

A big problem was the tiny village nearby, which McLanahan could see
out Ormack's right cockpit window. It was about ten miles from the
base, but a B-52 made a lot of racket and would attract attention.

What the villagers would do about the noise was another question. Did
people in Russia complain about military planes waking them up at
night?McLanahan prayed they didn't.

"The base isn't completely deserted," Elliott said as the runway moved
out of view. "I saw some trucks parked out in front of a building near
the main taxiway. They looked military."

The crew was suddenly quiet. Ormack started a slow, wide turn to the
right to parallel the runway.

Wendy said, "If it's not deserted, they could have troc there "Fifteen
minutes of fuel left," Ormack asked. "I guess we can make it back above
ten thousand feet for ejection, but then-" "If they had a military
force there, there'd be more than a couple of trucks," McLanahan said,
liking his logic but not altogether believing it.

"Agreed," Elliott said quickly. "Besides, the runway looked closed and
the buildings looked deserted. And, we don't have any choice. "He
turned to Ormack. "Let's do it. I'll take the airplane. Run the
landing checklists."

McLanahan patted Elliott on the shoulder. "Good luck, you guys in
Russia."he said, and made his way back to defense instructor's seat
and strapped in. "Next stop, Jach beautiful downtown Anadyr.

"Can they land the plane on all that snow?"Angelina ask McLanahan
cross-cockpit.

"Not recommended, but this is a tough bird and those are two tough
pilots Big brave talk, he told himself.

"Airbrakes zero," Elliott said as Ormack read from the computerized
checklist on his screen. "Ready for the gear flaps, here they come."

He lowered the gear handle, and moved the flap switch to its
first-stage position, Elliott started a slow right turn to put them
perpendicular to the snow-covered runway.

"Left-tip gear shows unsafe," Ormack said, watching gauges. "All other
wheels down. Flaps twenty-five percen Elliott moved the throttles
forward to regain speed as the huge flaps, large as barn doors.

lowered into the slipstream, allowing the bomber to fly increasingly
slower on final approach.

"Fuel danger lights on for all mains," Ormack announced "Okay, crew,
this is it," Elliott said, forcing his voice to sound calmer than he
felt.

"The fuel's run out. We either land or eject. Dave, I'll make sure
you get a few hundred f altitude, but don't delay pulling the
trigger."

"Nav .. . copies Luger was not as successful controlling his voice.

His shoulder harness was already lock his back and neck stiff and
straight, his hands rested lightly on the trigger-ring between his
legs.

"Patrick he whispered, fighting off the pain in his leg. McLanahan
didn't have a chance. He would need several thousand feet to even
attempt manual bailout, much less survive it.

Elliott started a slow turn to the right again to align the Old Dog
onto the runway.

"Flaps fifty," Ormack asked. "Starters on. Fuel panel is set.

Running on fumes now "Lower the nose," Elliott said. Ormack flipped a
switch and the long, pointed SST-style nose slid down beneath the
windscreen.

"Landing lights," Elliott ordered, and the four-thousandwatt lights on
the landing gear struts snapped on and the Russian runway leapt into
view. A massive snowdrift at leas thirty feet high blocked the
approach end of the runway. Elliott shoved the power forward.

"Flaps full," he called out.

The howl of the engines obliterated all sound. Luger had his eyes on
the bailout warning light on his front console, waiting for the command
to eject, his fingers closing around the trigger ring. Wendy and
Angelina tensed.

The right-front landing-gear truck plowed into the small mountain of
ice, the Old Dog heeled sharply to the right and plummeted down.its
nose rushing toward the frozen runway Elliott stomped on the left
rudder before realizing that their rudder was useless, shot away long
ago. He jammed the yoke full-back and full-left to try to counteract
the headlong tumble, but the Old Dog was a freight train out of
control.

McLanahan folded his arms across his chest, waited. He felt the impact
on the ice, felt the plane lurch to the right at an angle so steep and
so sudden he thought the plane had flipped upside down. The right wing
stayed down, and he found himself wondering what the crash would look
like from outside, a hundred tons of B-52 cartwheeling around on the
frozen ground.

He closed his eyes and waited for everything to grow dark and the sound
to stop .. .

For the first time since he began his chase Yuri Papendreyov was
beginning to feel he had made a mistake.

Despite stealing his MiG-29 Fulcrum, he had been receiving assistance
from ground and air forces in trying to locate the B-52 intruder. But
so far he hadn't found it. The climb to twenty-six thousand meters,
almost eighty thousand feet, was necessary to receive reports from the
elements of the Far East Air Defense Force searching for the B-52 .

.

. at lower altitudes the mountains would block out reports from coastal
or partially terrain-obscured stations. All had reported negative
contact .. .

Yuri had taken his Fulcrum nine hundred kilometers along the Korakskoje
Mountains toward Trebleski and Beringovskiy, the main coastal
air-defense base and radar installation north of Ossora. He was sure
the B-52 would stay along the Korakskoje, hiding in the rugged mountain
peaks, then destroy or jam the Beringovskiy radar and head out across
the Gulf of Anadyr toward Alaska. With the powerful Beringovskiy radar
down, the inferior MiG-23s of the Trebleski Air Reserve Forces,
although very heavily armed, would not be able to spot the low-flying
B-52 or engage it.

Papendreyov checked his fuel. He would already be in emergency fuel
status if he had not taken along the largest external feel tank
available, but now he was again very low on fuel. Only his long idle
glide from high altitude left him with enough to make some decisions
.

. . Trebleski was the most obvious choice for a quick-turn refueling.

but Anadyr, a small limited-operations base, was available and within
gliding range. He had been briefed, though, not to use Anadyr or other
such warm-weather bases except in an emergency.

He had no choice-Trebleski it had to be. He switched his radios to
Trebleski Command Post.requested permission for landing and a "hot"
refueling, a battlefield-quick refueling technique where a
high-pressure tank truck pumped fuel while the aircraft engines were
still running.

"Ossora one-seven-one. Trebleski copies your request.

Stand by."

"Standing by," Papendreyov replied. Then: "Trebleski.

say latest reports on intruder aircraft."

"One-seven-one.intruder last reported by Ossora radar bearing
two-eight-two true, range twenty-one kilometers, heading three-four-one
true."

"That report is hours old, Control. Any other reports?Has
Beringovskiy reported contact?"

"No reports by Beringovskiy radar, one-seven-one. You are cleared for
approach to Trebleski Airfield, descend and maintain two thousand
meters. Your request for hot refueling has been delayed. Expect cold
refueling support in bunker seventeen on landing."

"Control, I am a priority air-defense aircraft. Request k priority hot
refueling."

"Copy your request, one-seven-one," the Trebleski controller replied.

"Priority request is being delayed by your headquarters. Stand by for
confirmation of your flight-tasking.

Reset transponder to one-one-one-seven for positive identification.

Stand by this frequency" Papendreyov swore into his face mask. So that
was the reason for the delay .. . by requesting priority refueling
he'd forced Trebleski to run a check on his flight-tasking order-which,
of course, Yuri didn't have. If he'd just accepted a normal bunker
refueling he would have gotten a fast turnaround because of the
air-defense emergency and Trebleski wouldn't have double-checked. Now
Ossora would know exactly where he'd taken his fighter on its
unauthorized chase.

No doubt they'd order him arrested after landing.

Yuri checked his chart, saw he was now actually closer to Anadyr than
Trebleski. Anadyr would have fuel, might even be set up for a hot
refueling. He could wait at Anadyr and monitor the interceptor
frequency for any sign of the B-52, then chase it down and destroy
it.

If the B-52 didn't show-but that was impossible-he could refuel, cruise
back to Ossora and try to talk his way out of a court-martial or a
firing squad.

He ignored the request to set a new identification code and pointed his
MiG-29 Fulcrum toward Anadyr, switching radio frequencies to Anadyr's
command post. He would be in radio range of the base in half an hour,
and he would still have almost an hour's worth of fuel once over Anadyr
. . .

ANADYR FAR EAST FiGHTER-INTERcEproR BASE, RUSSIA
Sergei Serbientlov was indulging in one of his few delightsChinese
food. It wasn't exactly a popular dish in this remote corner of the
Soviet Union but perhaps that was one of the reasons why he enjoyed
cooking and eating Chinese food-it set him apart. Unfortunately it was
that sort of anti -Sovie thinking-and eating-that got him stuck in
Anadyr in the fir place, but everyone had to be somewhere.

Besides, it wasn't so bad. It wasn't a state of exile being here in
the very northeastern tip of the Soviet Union; it was more like an
unscheduled, involuntary reassignment. He had free housing, free food,
vehicles at his disposal and a few hundred rubles extra every month
being sent back to his family i Irkutsk.

Plus, he had responsibility and a lot of autonomy. During the
preceding two months and for the next two, he had been an would be the
chief custodian of a Far East Defense Force. Fighter-Interceptor
Base.

It didn't matter that there were no fighters here-he was in charge of
the base. He was the chief policeman, firefighters banker, lawyer,
janitor and mayor of millions of rubles of equipment and buildings.

During the long dark winter months he was the richest and most powerful
man in this province of fishermen, trappers, and loggers.

Sergei now deftly manipulated a hand-whittled pair of chopsticks to
pick up a mass of noodles and fish. He had grow the seasonings and
herbs himself in a greenhouse on the base and he frequently traded with
the villagers and nearby fishermen for the fish and flour to make the
noodles. They seemed to have everything, and Sergei was sure that the
fishermen took their boats out into the wild Anadyrskij Zaliv across to
Saint Lawrence Island or even Nome to trade with the Americans.

He passed his nose over the noodles and spiced fish. It was a strange
concoction for breakfast, but his only other option was some
four-month-old ryepa-turnips-from some old witch in town. No thank
you.

He brought the savory, heavily spiced noodles to his lips and was about
to take a bite when the double -doors leading to the outer hallway
burst open and two figures rushed into the tiny office and
half-stumbled, half-ran up to the chest-high counter that extended the
length of the room.

The taller of the two was dragging his right leg, which was covered
with blackened blood from toe to hip. He had an arm over the shoulder
of his companion, who was wrapped in a coarse green blanket.

"Gdve poonkt skoray pomashchi!"the injured man screamed in thick
monotone Russian. "My leg!Where's the hospital?"

Sergei nearly dropped his noodles in his lap. "What?"

"Where is the hospital?My leg-" "There is no hospital. What happened
to your leg?"Sergei came quickly from behind the long counter to the
two men.

Except on closer inspection he found that the man in the blanket was a
woman. She had long, salt-and-pepper gray hair and deep, dark eyes-she
could have been Oriental herself, Sergei guessed, or Latin. Her lips
chattered in the cold as she looked quickly at Sergei, then averted her
eyes to her injured companion.

The man dragged himself over to a rough wooden bench in a far corner of
the office and dropped onto it. He was tall and ruggedly built,
perhaps an old military man. He looked frozen as well, and his skin
was gray and sunken-probably from loss of blood, Sergei thought.

"Gyde polizei?"the man said. His accent was strange, obviously not
from the local area, although very few locals were from this obscure
corner of the world.

"Why do you want the police?"Sergei bent to examine the man's leg.

He couldn't see the wound itself but the blood loss was obviously
great. "There are no police here. The village constables won't come
to the base. I will help you all I can, but only if you tell me-"
-A@yet, spasiba. "Suddenly Sergei was looking into the barrel of a
very big, very ugly blue-black automatic pistol. As the muzzle touched
his nose, Sergei slowly rose and backed away.

The woman threw off her blanket and helped the injured man to his
feet.

Her clothing made Sergei forget about the pistol.

She was wearing a short, rough blue jacket--denim. She was wearing
denim. And then Sergei noticed her blue jeans ant fancy leather
boots.

blue jeans?"Sergei said, one of the few foreign phrases he knew.

-Gdye mozhna koopit blue jeans?"

The woman turned to her companion. "What did he say, General?"

"I didn't catch it all, but the man likes your blue jeans," Elliott
said. He turned toward the double doors. "Patrick!"

Crouching low, McLanahan rushed through the doors, a .38 caliber
survival revolver clutched in his hand. He ran over to the Russian and
pointed his revolver at the man's temple.

Sergei closed -his eyes.

"Search him," Elliott ordered. McLanahan quickly patsearched Sergei,
keeping his revolver aimed at his head. Elliott then turned Sergei
around and backed him into the bench, forcing him to sit. With both
his own and McLanahan's guns still pointed, Elliott took Sergei's hands
and put each one on top of his head. Sergei sat on the wooden bench,
eyes tight shut.

"Vi gavariti pahanglivski?"Elliott was asking if he spoke English.

Sergei opened his eyes, forced himself to look at each of the
strangers.

"A@vet. Please don't kill me "Pazhaloostal gavariti myedlinna, Elliott
said, telling him to speak slowly. The man looked less terrified now,
though very confused. "Kagda polizei virnyotsa?"Elliott asked when
the police would be back.

"No police," Sergei replied. He kept his hands up, but his shoulders
visibly relaxed. Slowly he said in Russian, "Police .. . do not come
. . . to base."

"I understood the no," McLanahan said, taking a doublehanded grip on
the pistol.

"I think he's saying there are no police," Elliott asked. "This asking
if we have fish?I don't Then he did. He nodded at the Russian, who
nodded in return. Elliott pulled him up off the bench and allowed him
to lower his hands.

McLanahan didn't lower his revolver. "What's the story, General?"

"Black market," Elliott said, smiling. The Russian smiled back. "This
gentleman runs some kind of black market out here. If my guess is
right, he trades fish, meat, cheese, and stuff for gasoline."

Sergei let out a sigh of relief when the younger man finally lowered
his revolver-his eyes had looked scared, but his hand didn't waver and
Sergei had no doubt he would have pulled the trigger in an instant.

Followed by the younger man, Sergei went to a locker behind his desk
and pulled out his hat, mittens and coat. As he pulled them on he had
a chance to examine the young man's coat. It was thick, dark gray, and
it didn't look like cotton or leather.

Slowly, carefully, he reached over to the man's collar and touched
it.

It looked like cloth but felt like plastic. A plastic coat?It had
pockets on the front and arms that fastened with strange zipperless
fasteners. Who were these men?And why were they wearing plastic and
warm while their women wore rare expensive cotton denim but was
freezing to death?

"This is going to be rough-I can understand about every fifth word."

He leaned forward, still aiming his pistol at Sergei's forehead.

"Binzuh, binzuh. Gasoline. Binzuhkalonka?"

Sergei looked relieved. "Pazhaloosta!"Sergei asked. "Don't worry,
tovarisch. Put down your gun, I won't turn you in, I know the routine
"Whatever you said, General," Angelina said, "the man looks happy
now.

What'd he say?"

"Hell if I know. I just asked him for gasoline. I'm his comrade now,
that's all I understood."

They were speaking English, Sergei said to himself.

Obviously only the old man knew any Russian at all-the younger ones
still wore blank expressions.

Sergei winked and tried to stand. McLanahan pushed him back down.

Sergei looked at the strangers with a mixture of surprise and humor.

"Yest 1i oo vas riba?"Sergei asked. "Sir?Kooritsa?I will 9
trade. No problem."

"Fish?Cheese?Chicken?"Elliott said to himself. "He's Elliott saw
the fur-lined coat the Russian wore and glanced at the shivering
Angelina.

-Mnye noozhnuh advezhda, " El said. He pointed at the fur billowing
out from the Russ' collar. "Baranina.

Sergei nodded, reached into his locker and took out a severe-weather
coat, a long, heavy sealskin greatcoat wolf-fur lining the hood, then
went over to the woman and it out to her. Angelina, noticing the man's
obvious interest in her denim jacket, slipped it off and held it out to
him.

The Russian acted as if she had just given him the crown jewels.

Sergei examined every seam and stitch in the jacket, muttering the
strange English words he found on the buttons, then carefully folded it
and hid it far back on the shelf of his locker.

"I can make a fortune here," Angelina said as she pulled the coat over
her shivering shoulders. "I've got a whole closet of those old beat-up
jackets. "Her face brightened as, for the first time in hours, she
felt her body warming up.

"Come," Sergei said in Russian. "Back to business. "He led the group
outside. They climbed into a waiting Zadiv p truck and drove down the
flightline.

Over the clatter of the truck's ancient heater, which stubbornly
refused to emit any heat despite the racket, E said, "Keep an eye out
for a fuel truck or fuel pumps "What do they say on them?"McLanahan
asked, keeping his hand on the Smith and Wesson revolver in his
pocket.

"I don't know."

Elliott breathed on the side window of the truck, which instantly
froze.

Against the rumble and crunc motion of the truck he drew five Cyrillic
characters-an with a flag on top of it, an "E," a backward "N," a c
backward "E," and an "O."

"Binzuh," Elliott said.

means gasoline."

Sergei nodded and smiled .. . the old man was givin the youngsters a
lesson in Russian. "Da," Sergei said in Russian. "We are going to get
you gasoline."

"Look," Angelina said, pointing to the right.surrounded by a tall
barbed-wire fence, was a white cylinder twenty feet high and about
thirty feet in diameter A lone white tanker truck was parked beside
it.

"Binzuh?"Elliott asked the Russian, pointing to the tank. The
Russian glanced at the tank but continued driving, "Niyet," Sergei
said, pointing ahead. "Not gasoline. Kerosene. Elliott showed his
puzzlement, not understanding the words. Sergei kept on driving.

"Pahvirniti napravah," Elliott asked. "Turn right. "He pointed at the
tank once again. Sergei shook his head.

McLanahan pulled out his revolver and held it to the Russian's
temple.

"Do as the man says, tovarisch. "Sergei stiffened. Elliott nodded and
pointed to the tank.

Sergei turned toward Elliott, clearly puzzled. What did they want?

"Does your boat use kerosene?"Sergei said in Russian.

"That will do you no good."

"Boat?"Elliott said, trying to decipher the words. "I understood
boat but nothing else."

Sergei was pointing more emphatically toward a road nearb that headed
east. "Diesel," Sergei said in Russian, pointing.

This way. Don't worry. I won't cheat you.

McLanahan pressed the revolver's muzzle against Sergei's head.

"Pazhaloosta," Sergei said, holding up his hands. "All right. "With a
shrug of his shoulders he bullied the old truck into a right turn and
headed for the tank. A few minutes later, ith McLanahan holding his
revolver in sight but not aimed at him, Sergei had opened the gate to
the tank compound and led the group inside.

Now he opened a belly valve on the tank truck parked next to the large
above-ground tank and a few gallons of liquid spilled onto the snow.

Angelina bent down and sniffed.

"It smells like kerosene," she asked. "It's not jet fuel or gasoline.

What do we do?"

"We may have lucked out," Elliott said, reaching into an inner pocket
and taking out a yellow hand-held survival radio.

Depressing a black button in the center, he turned a channel select
switch to an unmarked frequency position and pushed the transmit
button.

"John, how do you read?"Elliott spoke into the radio.

Aboard the Old Dog, John Ormack pulled the boom microphone of his
headset closer to his lips and raised his voice over the noise of the
number four engine idling in the background.

"Loud and clear. General. Where are you?Any luck?"

"We're good. We may have what we need. Double-check section five of
the tech order. Check on the use of alternate fuels. We might have
enough kerosene here .. . " "Stand by. "Ormack reached behind his
seat and pulled out the Old Dog's technical order, the plane's
instruction manual, found the listing and keyed his microphone.

"Got it, General. Kerosene is an approved alternate fuel may have
trouble with it if it has no anti-icing additive, but we can fly with
it.

How much do you have?"

"We got a tank truck that looks like it holds ten thousand gallons.

That's sixty thousand pounds."

"Should do it," Ormack asked. "Dave figured a minimum of fifty thousand
to get us to Nome.

"We'll call you back when we're headed toward you.""A B-52 can use
kerosene for fuel?"Angelina asked doubtfully "The books says it can,"
Elliott told her. He turned to the Russian. He was no longer smiling
and jovial.

"Kak vasha imva?Atkooda vi?"the Russian said stiffly, "Who are
you?

Where are you from?You are not fisherme "Sputniks," Elliott said,
getting the bare gist of questions. "Travelers. "Sergei was still
looking suspicious. Suddenly he snatched at the yellow survival radio,
and before Elliott could grab it back Sergei had read U.S. AIR FORCE on
a back instruction plate. McLanahan quickly raised his revolver to
Sergei's head.

"I think we lost our buddy here, troops," Elliott said and pointed at
the truck. "Patrick, check out that tank truck.

how much kerosene it has."

McLanahan gave his revolver to Angelina, who pointed it with some
expertise at the Russian. McLanahan found a dipstick in the truck's
cab, climbed on top of the truck checked the amount of fuel inside
through a cap.

"Probably one-quarter full," he said.

"Not enough. Okay, tovarisch, " Elliott said in Russian want gasoline
in truck. Mnye noozhna binzuh he ta on the truck. Sergei did not
move, unsure.

"I'll convince him, General," Angelina said. She propelled the Russian
around to the side of the truck where McLan was busy lifting a
high-pressure hose. McLanahan fast one end of the hose onto the truck,
the other to one of the valves rising from the ground. Angelina
motioned to the truck with her revolver.

"Help him," she said. The Russian looked at McLan lugging the heavy
hose, then blankly back at Angelina. Angelina cocked the revolver and
held it to the Russian's forehead. "Now.

Sergei held up his hands and nodded, walked to McLanahan and gestured
for him to reattach the hose at another valve, then removed and
replaced the end of the hose at the truck. When the hose was fully
attached Sergei opened the valves and kerosene began rushing from the
tank to the truck. Minutes later the truck was full.

"Patrick, you drive the panel truck," Elliott asked. "Angelina, go with
him. I'll ride with our buddy here in the tanker."

McLanahan ran over to the Zadiv, started it up and waited for Elliott
and the Russian to get in the tanker.

"Pazhaloosta, " Elliott said when he and Sergei had climbed inside the
icebox-like cab of the tanker. He gestured at the truck outside the
fence, then pointed his pistol at the Russian.

"Vetam napravIvend. Please. This way."in= watched the muzzle of the
.45.When Elliott ntly swung it too high he reached out with his right
hand and tried to grab it away. He'd been a clown too long .. .

A shot rang out, and the windshield of the tanker truck exploded,
showering them with shards of glass. Sergei leapt out of the truck,
running back around the fence. No longer a hero.

McLanahan and Angelina caught a glimpse of him just as he disappeared
down a line of trees that paralleled the flightline road, and Angelina
took a shot at him but the bullet ricocheted harmlessly away.

McLanahan ran for the tanker and jumped into the cab.

"You all right, General?"

"Yes, dammit, but things are going to get tense here real quick. "He
turned to Angelina as she came to the right side of the tanker. "Take
the panel truck to the plane. Patrick and I will take the tanker.

Sure as hell he's going to call for help, we won't have much time.

It took a few moments for McLanahan to figure out how to get the fuel
truck moving, but soon the two trucks pulled up to where they had
half-hidden the Old Dog in a wide parking area between two hangars.

Ormack came running out, the second survival revolver in hand. He saw
the smashed windshield, looked to Elliott. "What .. . T' "We had a
comrade but he bugged out on us. We've got to work fast before he
calls in the Marines. John, you'll be u the cockpit on the fuel
panel.

I think I can figure out how to work the pump on the tank truck so I'll
be outside. "He went over to Angelina in the panel truck. "Pull the
truck over to the right wingtip. Patrick, climb up on the right wing,
open one of the fuel filler ports and we'll fill it from there.

Angelina help with the hose. Where's Wendy and Dave?"

"I've got Dave in the cockpit monitoring the engine Ormack said.

"Wendy is on the radios calling for help.

"Any luck?"

"Not yet. I'm not sure what anyone can do for us anyway unless we lift
off out of here."

Ormack then began unreeling the refueling hose from the truck while
McLanahan climbed on the Old Dog's right win screwdriver in his
teeth.

"The main-wing tanks have dozens of holes in them," Ormack told Elliott
as the general began to decipher and operate the truck's pump
controls.

"The forward body tank had a few leaks too. McLanahan will pump fuel
into the center tank. I'll plan on keeping the fuel in the center, aft
and body tanks, but once we get up to engine start and takeoff v have
to put fuel in the mains. We'll be losing fuel like crazy after that-"
"Nothing we can do about it," Elliott said, "unless you got enough
chewing gum to plug the holes. "Elliott started the truck's fuel pumps
and waved to McLanahan, who had the cap off the center-wing fuel tank
and was dragging the hose across the wing and over to the fuselage.

"Ready anytime you are, Patrick. "Huddled against the biting wind,
McLanahan inserted the fuel nozzle into the open fuel port on the
fuselage between the two huge wings and began pumping fuel. Below him,
Orrr ran inside the Old Dog and took Luger's place at the controls.

Luger, right leg heavily taped and bandaged, limped downstairs and out
to the fuel truck, carrying several quart cans taped together. "I
found the spare oil downstairs near survival rations. I'll fill up the
number two engine with oil-at least we should be able to use it for
takeoff before it disintegrates."

"Good, Dave .. . how you doing?"

"Great," Luger said, dropping the case of oil on the fender to spell
himself. "I have a blinding headache, freezing cold and my right leg
looks like Swiss cheese. How are you, sir?"

"Got you beat, Dave, but if I talk too much I'm afraid I'll pass
out."

"Let me handle the pump, General. You get inside."

"No, put the oil in, then see what you can do about ripping loose some
of the metal and that broken tip gear off the wings It's all drag-we
can do without it. Especially for a sevenengine takeoff.

"You got it, sir .. . you know, I still don't believe we're doing
this. I mean, actually stealing gas from a Russian fighter base "We
may be pumping water into our tanks, for all we know.

There just wasn't time to keep on looking And so saying, Elliott seemed
to be drifting off, falling asleep, the rush of adrenaline wearing off
. . .

j Chief Constable Vjarelskiv, the regional militia commander grimaced
as he took a sip of what he was told was koffee, a thick liquid of
grain and coffee. He took a bite of khl,lep to take the dusty taste
away, glaring all the time at Serbientlov, who was standing wringing
his hat in his hands in front of Vjarelskiv's desk.

"This is nonsense, Serbientlov," the constable asked. "You bring me
tales of armed attackers at the base-two men and a woman .. . What
did they steal?Your precious Chinese chopsticks?Are you sure you
didn't dream up the whole story ?

"This is no joke, tovarisch, " Sergei asked. "If we don't hurry they'll
get away."

"With what?A snow plow?Your noodles?"

"They commandeered a fuel truck, and .. . and they had explosives.

They threatened to blow up everything. The whole base. You have to do
something-" "Your story gets taller every moment, Serbientlov," the
constable said. He leaned back into his chair, fixing Sergei with an
icy stare. "Are you sure this is not a .. . shall we say, a
falling-out of thieves?"

Sergei fidgeted uncomfortably but managed to sound indignant.

"Thieves?You are not accusing me, tovarisch?The only thieves here
are the ones out-" "Stop it, Serbientlov. The little empire you've
built at the base is well-known, at least to the citizens in the
area.

You use more diesel in four months than the whole Soviet navy uses in a
year, supposedly for your fleet of plows but the streets and runways
are always clogged with snow and you feed your gut with Chinese noodles
and real coffee. "Vjarelskiv threw his grain beverage into a garbage
can.

"Now I'm busy, so you'll-" "Chief Constable, I demand that you send a
unit out to investigate. That's your job. You convinced the Far East
Defense Force that for a price you could handle any security vroblems
at the base during the winter. They wouldn't be to happy to learn that
fifty thousand liters of fuel that you supposed to be protecting have
vanished- The constable stood and grabbed Serbientlov by the colllar.

"You maggot. You dare to threaten me?I'll throw your body into one
of your snowdrifts where they won't find it till summer But as e
watched the caretaker wilt under his tirade the chief constable also
knew that the old man had already destroyed his own career and could
take his along with him. "All right, I'll send a patrol out-" "An
armed unit," Serbientlov asked. "I want-" "What you want is
irrelevant.

I won't have my men wind up in a fight with your pirates. Now get out
of my sight. "He pushed Serbientlov toward the door, watched him
scramble away, then turned to his intercom. "Sergeant, take a
Patrol-wait, take a squad with the halftrack out with Serbientlov to
the base. Have him show you where he saw his so-called robbers. If
you find anyone, bring him back to me. If you don't find evidence of
robbery, bring Serbientlov back to me-in a set of CUffs.

"God, it's freezing up there," McLanahan said as he ran into Elliott
near the cab of the tanker truck, trying to warm his hands. He'd been
obliged to switch places with Angelina on top of the Old Dog .. .

after almost an hour of pumping kerosene in the bitter Siberian cold he
had lost feeling in hands and feet. "Fifty thousand liters of
fuel-kerosene should be enough to make it.

I'll feel better when we're out of here. "Elliott's voice came in
weak, barely audible grunts. Instantly McLanahan forgot his own cold,
reached into Elliott's pockets and extracted the survival radio.

"Ormack, this is McLanahan.

General Elliott is almost unconscious out here."

"Copy," Ormack asked. "We got enough-all body tanks are full. I've
started putting fuel into the leaking mains. Get the general inside,
then start wrapping things up down there."

"Roger. "McLanahan shoved the radio into his own pocket, then took
hold of Elliott's jacket and started to pull him out of the tanker.

"Let's go, General. "McLanahan half-walked, half-carried him to the
belly hatch, then called up to Wendy, who ran down and helped Elliott
up the ladder to the upper deck, then over to his seat in the
cockpit.

"Wendy, push in all the vent-control knobs at the left side station
downstairs," McLanahan asked. "It'll pump all the heat to the upper
deck. I'll get Angelina and Dave."

McLanahan ran back outside. Angelina called to him, "I'

In not getting any more."

"We're packing up," he said over the whine of the idling number -four
engine. "I'll help you button up in a minute. "He 4 searched and
found Luger near the left wingtip. He had just wrestled a big piece of
hanging fibersteel skin off what remained of the left wingtip.

"Dave, we're done refueling. Let's go."

Two local militiamen in long, gray-green greatcoats, black fur caps and
carrying forty-year-old bolt-action rifles came into the caretaker's
office, made a quick check of the small flightfine building, hurried
outside.

The squad leader called out to the halftrack. Sergeant Gazetii waved
them back inside and turned on Serbientlov.

"There is no one here, caretaker. I would not like to be in your shoes
when Comrade Chief Constable Vjarelskiv gets his hands on you."

Sweat broke out on Serbientlov's face despite the bitter cold of the
early morning. "They were here .. . I swear-" "Show me this fuel
tank and the truck, caretaker," Gazetii said. The halftrack rumbled
down the road paralleling the deserted.snow-choked flightline and
taxiway. A few minutes later they had pulled to a stop outside the
fence surrounding the large white tank.

"This is the tank?"Gareth said emerging from the steel interior of
the armored haiftrack. "A tank of heating oil?What would your
terrorists want with a tank full of heating oil?"

"I don't know," Serbientlov said in exasperation. "But they forced me
at gunpoint to fill the tank truck. I narrowly escaped with my life.

They had three guards on me and .. . a couple machine guns, but I
escaped"Comrade Sergeant. "One of the militiamen pointed to tracks in
the deep snow.

Gazetii studied them carefully.

"Fairly fresh And then, he heard it .. . the fused roar of a jet
aircraft engine in the distance. He turned to Serbientlov. "Is that
an aircraft?I didn't know you had aircraft here this time of year?"

Serbientlov listened, then blanched. "But we don't have a aircraft
here.it .. . it must be the terrorists .. . English terrorists.

Gazetii waved his men back into the halftrack and directed them down
the flightline toward the noise.

Angelina had just slipped off the Old Dog's right wingtip to the roof
of the Zadiv panel truck. McLanahan was back on top of the Old Dog's
fuselage just behind the ejection-hatch cover scraping snow and dirt
off the center-wing-tank fuel cap a: replacing the cap. Luger,
half-dragging his right leg, was pulling the fuel hose back toward the
tanker truck.

Wendy had jumped out the belly hatch of the Old Dog to look for her
fellow-crewmembers when she saw a large, square vehicle roll to a stop
just around the end of one of the hangars surrounding their parking
spot.

Her heart stopped. It was a Russian armored vehicle, with a Russian
soldier sitting behind a shielded gun-mount.

"Patrick .. ."Wendy pointed her finger at the vehicle. "Over
there
"Yanimnogah simye," Gazetii swore as the halftrack driver stomped on
the brakes. "Shto etah?"What he and the other saw in the dim
three-month-long twilight was a huge, black unearthly winged creature
with a long pointed nose and large ungainly wings.

"Etaht samalyot?"one of the militiamen asked. "I've net seen a plane
like that before."

"It has no markings, no insignia," another asked. "It must be some kind
of experimental aircraft "That's it," Serbientlov insisted.

"That's their plane, that's the plane that that the terrorists almost
forced me into.

You've got to stop them. Destroy it-" "Control yourself,
Serbientlov.

" Gazetii jumped out of the half-track. "What if it's one of our
experimental aircraft?We have them, you know. Corporal, contact
Chief Constable Vjarelskiv. Tell him we have an unidentified aircraft
parked on the center parking ramp on the base. I am going to talk to
the crew. Everyone else stay here.

Luger tossed the hose as far as he could away from the Old Dog's
wheels. "Pat, Angelina. We've got us some company."

Angelina had already heard Wendy's warning and spotted the
half-track.

She quickly climbed down off the Zadiv and sprinted for the Old Dog's
belly-hatch. McLanahan screwed the tank cap closed, then slid down the
fuselage to the right wing. When he saw a Russian soldier emerging
from the half track he slid across the wing to the leading edge between
the two engine nacelles, shimmied over the edge and dropped to the
snow.

Hearing Wendy's warning, Ormack stopped strapping the nearly
unconscious Elliott into an upper-deck crash-seat, jumped into the left
seat, looked out the left cockpit window and saw the halftrack.

"Goddamn, " he shouted over his shoulder, hoping his voice would
carry.

"Wendy, get everyone on board. "He then slapped the wing flap switch
to full DOWN and double checked the fuel panel, opening the fuel supply
from the fuselage tanks to the engines. He moved the number-four
engine throttle to ninety percent power, leaned across the co pilot's
seat and put the engine number-five starter-switch to START, using
engine bleed-air from the running number-four engine to spin the
turbine on the number-five engine. When that engine's RPMs moved to
fifteen percent he jammed its throttle to eighty-five percent to begin
pumping fuel into the engine's ignition-chamber.

A thunderous bang reverberated through the Old Dog, and the right wing
shuddered. Ormack scrambled over to the right "Visa cockpit window.

The entire number-five engine was engulfed in smoke. He checked the
engine instruments. The RPMs of that engine were slowly increasing but
wondrously there was no indication of fire. Another loud bang and the
engine RPMs stopped at forty percent.

The HATCH NOT CLOSED AND LOCKED light on the front-instrument panel
snapped off, and a moment later Wendy reported everyone was aboard.

"Get Patrick up here," Ormack called out, and McLanahan came scrambling
up to the cockpit to see General Elliott in his emergency web seat,
forehead and face dripping fresh sweat, head lolling back with fever.

"He's out of it," Ormack asked. "Get up here. I'll fly the plane from
the left seat. You get in the co-pilot's seat monitor the
instruments."

McLanahan hesitated"McLanahan!"

Patrick shook himself.stepped carefully around Elliott. Just before
climbing into the co-pilot's seat he reached down , retrieved Elliott's
.45 caliber automatic from his holster. "Can we start the rest of the
engines?"he said, looking at the gauges.

"Not yet. When number five reaches forty-five percent switch off its
starter and switch on three, six.seven and eight. Move the throttles
up to IDLE when each engine RPM reaches fifty percent. Watch the fire
lights-that kerosene has been giving us some hard ignitions."

McLanahan nodded and watched number five RPM gauge, a finger on the
starter switch.

Ormack opened the left-cockpit window. The Russian soldier was now
advancing on the Old Dog, more cautiously than before the engines were
started. He did not hear Ormack open the sliding window.

"He's still coming," Ormack said. McLanahan pulled the automatic from
his jacket pocket and tapped Ormack's shoulder with it. Ormack turned,
saw the gun. "If we start a firefight here "We may not have any
choice."

Ormack nodded, took the gun, keeping it out of view. McLanahan pointed
at the number five RPM gauge. "RPMs are up to forty-five. Number five
starter off. Starting three, six, seven and eight. "The Russian
militiaman walked right up to within fifteen yards of the Old Dog,
toward the left cockpit window, pistol holster in clear view on his
waist but his weapon still in it. When he heard the number three
engine start to spool up he drew his right index finger across his
throat.

"He wants us to shut down," Ormack said. He shook head at the
soldier.

The militiaman drew his finger across his throat several more times.

"Patrick, we're running out of time There were several loud bangs on
both wings this time, and the Old Dog began to buck and rumble as if
its insides had been seized by a coughing fit. The Russian soldier
backed away several feet as a cloud of blue-black smoke from the number
three engine hit him.

Continue the start," Ormack yelled. Clouds of smoke began to enter the
cockpit through the open window. "Move the generator switch on number
five engine from RESET to RUN."When he next saw the Russian soldier
he was back beside his halftrack shouting orders inside. Suddenly
another soldier appeared at the machine-gun mount on top of the
halftrack. A moment later he was handed a large machine gun, which he
began bolting into its armor-plated mount.

Ormack saw it and called out a warning.

"Number three's not starting," McLanahan asked. "Number six started."

"We're set to taxi," Ormack answered. "Continue the start.

Hang on. "He tapped the toe brakes to release the parking brake,
scanned the engines, took hold of number four, five and six throttles
and jammed them to almost full military thrust.

The Old Dog rumbled mightily but refused to move.

"She's not taxiing, we need all available engines," Ormack told
McLanahan.

McLanahan kept a hand on the number seven throttle. As Ormack spoke he
advanced that throttle to IDLE power.

"Seven started, three's comin up. "Three engines now 9 running at
almost full power, along with three sputtering and exploding.

Ormack jammed the number-seven throttle to military, but the Old Dog
still would not move.

"C'mon, you sonofabitch."

Ormack looked at the Russian halftrack, He could see the first Russian
soldier pressing one hand to his ear, giving the "cut-engines" sign
with his other, then slapping it back over his uncovered ear.

"Three's started," McLanahan asked. "Eight coming up."

"Get the generators on-line for the running engines," Ormack told him,
keeping an eye on the Russian/ at the halftrack's gun-mount.

"Anti-icing switch on. Manifold switch closed. Hydraulic switches
on.

Stabilizer trim set-" Ormack looked up from his checklists in time to
see the gunner on top of the halftrack point his gun just over the Old
Dog's fuselage and fire.

Ormack instinctively ducked, pulling McLanahan down.

The roar of the engines drowned out the chatter of the heavy-caliber
gun and the bullets whizzing a few feet above them.

McLanahan went on with the engine start, advanced the throttle on
number eight to IDLE.Both men looked up over the instrument-panel
glare-shield. The lead Russian soldier was again giving them the
cut-engine sign, and this time the gunner had his weapon pointed
directly at the cockpit.

Ormack did not look at McLanahan as he pulled on his headset. Over
interphone he called, "Everyone on interphone'@ Report by
compartment."

He then brought all engine throttles to IDLE."Crew, we have a Russian
armored vehicle about a hundred yards off our left wing.

They've got a machine gun. They've ordered us to cut our engines-" The
HATCH NOT CLOSED AND LATCHED light on the forward instrument panel
snapped on then and before either Ormack or McLanahan could react it
popped out.

"What was that?"

I don't .. . Dave, did you open the hatch?"No reply "Luger.

Report. "McLanahan was about to unbuckle his safety belt and go
downstairs but stopped when Ormack calleL out, "Luger, no."

McLanahan turned and looked outside. Wearing only his flightsuit and
boots, Luger was hobbling toward the fuel truck parked near the Old
Dog's left wingtip. He was carrying one of the .38 caliber survival
revolvers.

Nobody could speak, only watch, horrified, as Luger stumbled, right leg
flopping in the air, then quickly rolled back up to his feet and
half-crawled to the fuel truck as the gunner swung his machine gun
directly at Luger.

Ormack came alive, stuck the .45 caliber automatic out his left cockpit
window and fired, the slug creating a bright blue spark as it
ricocheted off the gun mount's armored shield. The gunner whirled his
gun toward the cockpit, which provided an opening to his right side.

Luger had reached the truck, steadied his arm on the hood and emptied
the revolver at the gunner. One of the slugs found its target.

"Luger. Get back here .. . " Luger heard Ormack, started back for
the Old Dog. But another soldier appeared from behind the halftrack,
lifted a rifle with a long, curved cartridge clip, fired. Luger
clutched his left thigh and pitched forward.

Ormack could only fire his pistol again, forcing the Russian at the
back of the halftrack to retreat, but he did not notice another soldier
sliding into the machine gun mount on the halftrack.

He took aim on the Old Dog, fired.

The twenty-millimeter shells plowed through the Old Dog's left side,
showering the cockpit with glass. Ormack was thrown over to the center
console, where he tried to shield his face from flying glass. Pain
clutched his left shoulder.

"Get down," McLanahan yelled back to Wendy and Angelina.

7, Another fusillade of bullets erupted inside the Old Dog, sparks
flying as the left load central circuit breaker panel was hit. Lights
flickered, exploded. One of the engines faltered.

Wendy unfastened her parachute straps and flattened herself on the deck
as bullets hit her defensive-systems jammers and threat-receivers.

Abrupt dead silence. Aft, McLanahan saw the two women crawling on the
upper deck beside the unconscious General Elliott.

"You two all right?"

"Yes," Wendy said, "Oh. God .. . Colonel Ormack McLanahan turned,
saw Ormack slumped against the center console and throttle quadrant,
bleeding heavily, hands covered with blood. McLanahan pulled him back
into his seat, searched out the window for his partner' And then he
understood why they had stopped shooting at the Old Dog. Luger was no
longer lying in the snow. Somehow he had managed to crawl back to the
fuel truck, had started it up and was now barreling toward the armored
halftrack, whose gunner had turned the machine gun muzzle on the cab of
the tank truck.

"Dave, noo Damn!The halftrack's gunner had gotten off a half-second
burst at the truck, and McLanahan watched what was left of the truck's
windshield explode. A moment later the truck smashed into the
halftrack.

"Dave .. .

The tank truck's remaining fifty gallons of unusable fuel an three
thousand cubic feet of kerosene fumes ignited and ripped it apart like
an overinflated balloon. The halftrack did some lazy cartwheels and
landed upside-down eighty yards from the blast, scattering metal and
men across the parking ramp.

The noise of the six running engines seemed a purr next to the force of
the blast. When McLanahan looked outside where the truck used to be,
he saw a blackened crater, a smoking hunk of metal on the other side of
the ramp, smoldering mounds of human flesh in the snow.

No sign of Luger.

McLanahan couldn't, wouldn't accept it. "He can't be dead can't be
"We've got to get out of here," Ormack said, hauling himself straight
in the pilot's seat. "Patrick, you've got to make the takeoff, I can't
do it-" "But Dave .. . we can't leave-" "Patrick. Dave .. . gave
us our chance. We've got to take it .. . " McLanahan shook his
head.

"I .. . I can't take off, never done it before Ormack climbed out of
the left seat. "Climb in. You're our buddy. Do it."

"Anadyr Control, this is Ossora one-seven-one, Elemei Seven.

Requesting landing clearance. Over."

No answer. Yuri Papiendreyov scanned his navigation instruments.

There was no error; he was only thirty miles from Anadyr Far East
Fighter-Interceptor Base. Although the ba was not active someone
should still be there.

Papendreyov switched his radio to the Fleet Communications frequency,
the backup frequency for all Soviet air defense forces. "This is
Ossora one-seven-one on Fleet Comm Alpha. One-seven-one is making an
emergency approach and landing at Anadyr Airfield. Over.

No answer on Fleet Common. He set his transponder to special emergency
code, activated it. Any air-defense force!

he hoped, would see his beacon before they started shooting .. . with
an Air Defense Emergency declared for if region he'd be lucky to get
near the base without finding himself under attack from his own
people.

Yuri flipped his checklist cards over to the approach-andlanding
section, began to set up for landing. One more ridge line to cross and
Anadyr should be within visual range ' With only a half-hour of fuel
left he decided to wait until just a few kilometers from the base
before lowering his gear and configuring for landing. He would make
one pass over the runway to check it over-and hope to get someone's
attention-then pitch out, enter the visual pattern and land. He had to
save his fuel in case he had to orbit the field to wait for the runway
to be plowed off enough to make it safe to land. Damn the luck, he was
positive-still positive--that the American intruder was nearby, still a
threat. He checked his chronometer .. . it had only been an hour and
forty minutes since he last saw the B-52 near Ossora.

Flying in the Korakskoje Nagode mountain range at six hundred
kilometers an hour maximum, the B-52 could not have gone farther than
Uel-Kal or Egvekinot on the Anadyrskij Zaliv, only two hundred
kilometers from Anadyr. But none of those coastal bases had picked up
the B-52 on radar, so it must still be hiding 41 in the mountains
around Anadyr, trying to pick its way around the defenses.

If the intruder had tried to dodge north and west of the Kamchatka
peninsula instead of toward Alaska, it would have fallen right into the
waiting arms of two squadrons of MiG-29s from the regional defense
force headquarters at Magadan. But no one had reported spotting the
bomber there either. No. It was nearby. It had to be.

After refueling he was determined to find the B-52.Its tail radar was
going to give it away, and its hot engines would, literally, be its
downfall. With twilight Yuri figured he wouldn't need his
pulse-Doppler radar to find the American plane. Using the infrared
spotting scope and passive electronic scanners he could prowl about at
will, virtually undetectable, until the B-52 gave itself away or was
spotted by Beringovskiy radar.

He thought once, very briefly, about his wife and family, safe and warm
in his Kiev apartment while he chased over thousands of kilometers of
Siberia looking for an intruder that might have already crashed. He
also thought about consequences .. . His expertise, his zeal might
get him through the inquiry that followed his unauthorized chase for
the B-52 the old Squadron Commander might give him a year's worth of
runway snow removal duty or a demotion. An Air Defense Emergency could
forgive a lot of things, he told himself. Anyway, he didn't believe
he'd actually face a firing squad or exile.

But only one thing could guarantee him a satisfactory return to his
family-a promotion, a full pardon. As Anadyr Airfield popped into
view, still thirty-six kilometers away, he knew that the only thing
that would earn him that result was gun-camera film of the B-52 going
down in flames after being shot apart by his GSh-23 twin-barrel guns or
by one of his newer AA-8 heat seeking missiles.

Yes. The B-52 had to be destroyed.

The Old Dog seemed more like a hospital ship than a strategic bomber as
it taxied down the narrow, snow-covered taxiway of Anadyr Airbase.

in command as it limped down the taxiway was Patric McLanahan. As the
most experienced and now physically able crewman, he had taken the
pilot's left seat. Icy wind blasted his face from the dozens of holes
on the left side of the cockpit at from a completely blown-out glass
panel just behind his ejection seat. He was trying to do too much at
once -but most important was to keep the Old Dog roughly in the center
of the taxiway.

Ormack, blood all over his left shoulder, barely strong enough to move
a switch, had taken his co-pilot's seat again. He continued to read
the pre-takeoff checklists and give McLan han a running last-minute
lecture on how to accomplish takeoff.

Angelina remained at her gunner's position, checking and rechecking her
equipment. She had two Scorpion missiles on the right external pylon,
three Scorpions on the bomb-blauncher, two HARM anti-radar missiles on
the interior launcher and twenty Stinger air-mine rockets in the target
cannon-and no way in the world to guide any of them the
target-acquisition radar-scope had been damaged in the attack at the
airbase. The Old Dog might be still an adversary to be considered, its
Scorpions and HARMs could be self guided to their targets-but their
effectiveness was greatly reduced.

Wendy was back in her electronic warfare officer's seat beside
Angelina.

Using computer-displayed instructions she had restarted the ring-laser
gyro and satellite navigation syston in the freezing cold navigator's
station below. There was little else downstairs-McLanahan's ten-inch
radar scope had been destroyed by the Russian machine gun attack. The
attack had also destroyed or damaged most of Wendy's electronic-warfare
gear.

While she had been in the lower compartment she had looked over Dave
Luger's notes and doodles, even picked up his headphone .. . wanting
to offer it to him when he emerged from the aft bulkhead door, smiling
and laughing and gabbing with his impossible Texas accent .. . she
imagined she heard a knock on the belly hatch, and there he would be
.

. . except, of course, he would not. Face it .. .

He was gone.

She had given Luger's coat to General Elliott, who was strapped into an
emergency crash web chair on the upper deck between the cockpit and the
defense crew's station, caught between a severe fever and the onset of
deep shock.

Ormack continued with the checklists as they scrolled onto the computer
monitor. "Flight instruments checked, pilot and co-pilot.

"Mine are gone," McLanahan asked. "Adjust your A.D.I. I can hardly see
it but it's the only reliable one we have. "He watched as Ormack
adjusted the artificial horizon. "That's it.

Standby altimeters are good. Standby turn-and-slip indicators are
good.

"Electrical panel. "Ormack strained to read the tiny gauges.

"One and two are zero. All the rest are okay. "He advanced the
computerized checklist. "Crosswing crab."

"Zeroed. Next."

Pitot heat."

It took McLanahan a moment.interrupted with a few small turns to stay
on hard pavement, to find the switch. "On."

"Stability augmentation system."

"On."

"Stabilizer trim."

"That's this big wheel here, right?"McLanahan asked. "We don't have
time to compute the right setting so I'm setting it to one-half unit
nose up. Set. Next.

"Airbrake lever."

"OV, "Flaps."

"One hundred percent down, lever down."spiM.

"Fuel panel. I think I have it set up right," Ormack said wincing from
a stab of pain that shot through the area arour his neck. "Check it
for me. We've got minimum fuel in the main tanks because of the
damage, so those pumps right there should be on, and those .. . there
should be to OPEP Checked. Next.

"Starter switches."

"Okay, we're almost ready to go. Using the rudder pedal
McLanahan nudged the Old Dog around a tight corner and turned onto the
end of the Russian runway, then stepped on the tops of the pedals to
engage the brakes.

"Angelina, Wendy, ready to go back there?"

"Ready," Angelina said over the interphone.

"Ready," Wendy asked. "Good luck."

"Thanks. "McLanahan gripped the control yoke. I'm gonna need it."

"All right," Ormack said, "we're going to start the number two
engine.

Ready?"

Ready McLanahan moved the number-four engine-throttle to ninety
percent. "Go!"Ormack moved the starter to START Slowly the RPMs on
the number two engine began to increase McLanahan pointed to a yellow
light on the forward panel "What's that?"Ormack said over the
interphone. "I can see .. . " "A low oil-pressure light," McLanahan
told him over the roar of the engines. "We've got to hope it'll give
us enough thrust for takeoff before it seizes .. . " There was a
tremendous bang on the left wing as the Old Dog bucked and rumbled so
that no one could read the instruments.

"That's the bad gas," McLanahan said, "it should work okay, though
Anxious moments later the RPMs on the number-two engine went to idle
settings, and McLanaha pulled the power back on the number-four
engine.

"Okay, starter on number two is in FLIGHT position generator on number
two is on," Ormack asked. "Takeoff data. "McLanahan gave it over the
interphone. "We roll until just before we run out of runway, then I
pull back on the stick. If we fly, we fly. If we don't, we eject.

Next.

"Arming lever safety pins."

"All right, everyone," McLanahan told them, "get your seats ready for
ejection. And don't hesitate. If you see the red bailout warning
light, eject. Immediately."

"Couldn't have made a better takeoff briefing myself, McLanahan,"
Ormack said, trying to smile. "Takeoff checklist. Steering ratio
selector lever. "McLanahan took a deep breath and tried not to think
of Luger. Concentrate, he told himself. Get the job done.

Everybody was counting on him .. . including himself. He moved a
lever on the center console. "TAKE-OFF LAND.

Set.

"Air conditioning master switch."

"RAM.

"Throttles.

"Here we go. "McLanahan took hold of the seven active throttles and
moved them slowly forward to full military power. Because of the dead
number-one engine the Old Dog slid to the left on the snow-covered
runway. McLanahan stomped on the right stabilator pedal to correct,
then, realizing the dual rudders had been destroyed, slowly pulled back
the number-eight engine throttle until he was able to straighten out
the Old Dog along the runway, then slowly pushed it back almost to full
power.

"Good. "Ormack strained to be heard over the roar of the engine. "No
stabilators .. . do whatever you need to do to keep her on the
runway. "He put his hands on the yoke but could not help. "Keep an
eye on the distance-remaining markers if you can .. . they'll be
labeled in hundreds of meters. Lift off with about a thousand meters
remaining-" "I can't see them," McLanahan shouted. "They're going by
too damn fast-wait .. . sixteen, fifteen, fourteen .. ' " The wild
rumbling and vibrations made it tough to refocus his eyes on the
instruments.

When McLanahan swung the control yoke to the right to correct the
violent left skid, it seemed the Old Dog was sliding sideways down the
runway. He scanned the instruments. A caution light was lit but he
couldn't make out which one.

"Hold it steady, Patrick-" "I can't, it's skidding too hard-" Easy .

.

. you can do it. Easy McLanahan realized with a surge of fear that the
one-thousand-meter sign had just whizzed by. At the nine-hundred meter
he pulled back on the control yoke, wrestled it back, back, back until
it was touching his chest. Still the Old Dog's nose refused to leave
the ground.

"C'mon, baby, lift off, dammit."

"Add some nose-up trim," Ormack yelled. "The big wheel by your knee.

Gent@v- Keep the back pressure in but get re to release it when the
nose comes up."

"It's not lifting off .. . " The shaking, the turbule almost maae him
lose his grip on the wheel .. . Now could see the end of the runway,
a tall wall of drifting snow ice .. .

"Four .. . three .. . two .. . oh God, there's a snow drift out
there, we're not-" With its nose still pointing downward the Old Dog
left ground less than three feet above the peak of ice at the end of
the runway. Buoyed then by "ground effect," the swirl of snow
generated by the wings that bounced off the ground and back up at the
plane, the Old Dog skittered only twenty feet on the snowy surface, the
air pounding on the bomber's wings adding to the turbulence.

Like a blessing, the pounding began to decrease, and as airspeed slowly
increased, the Old Dog's nose lifted skywa McLanahan at times swinging
the control yoke all the way its limit to control the swaying as the
huge bomber lifted in the Siberian sky.

Carefully now, McLanahan reached down to the gear-control lever and
moved it up, also checking the main-gear indicate lights. "Gear up,
Colonel, keep an eye on the-" He was interrupted by a blur of motion
outside the cockpit window. Ormack spotted it first but was too
shocked to speak. All he could do was point as the light gray MiG-29

Fulcrt, fighter flew just ahead and above the Old Dog, then banked
erratically to the left and out of sight, its twin afterburners
lighting up the sky.

It was impossible.

Yuri Papendreyov had been busy with landing checklist configuring his
MiG-29 Fulcrum fighter for the penetration a, descent into Anadyr and
following the navigation beacon and instrument-land-system beam. He
had been taught not to rely on visual cues for landing until very close
to the runway especially during long winter twilight conditions.

The young fighter pilot was less than two miles from touchdown when he
finally had his Fulcrum configured and ready. It was then that he
studied the runway. Since the first pass was going to be a visual
inspection and flyover, he was moving almost twice as fast as usual.

The landing gear was up, but he had flaps and leading-edge slats
deployed to make the relatively slow, low-altitude pass safer. He was
flying his advanced fighter at a high angle-of-attack, which meant
keeping the fighter's nose higher than normal during the pass.

In the dusky conditions Papendreyov didn't see the massive billows of
smoke rising from the airfield and the sudden huge" black shape against
the white snow-covered runway. When he did look out the cockpit
windscreen, the huge ebony aircraft had left the runway, blending in
with the rugged terrain and dark horizon.

Yuri made his pass, looking right toward the tower, the base operation
building and aircraft-parking ramp. All empty. He was thinking he
might be forced to pump his own gas, when he shifted his attention
forward. His windscreen was filled with dark smoke. He jammed the
throttles forward, igniting the twin Turmansky afterburners as a wave
of turbulence shook his Fulcrum fighter.

And then, he saw it. He was close enough to touch it, close enough to
see the pilot straining to lift his aircraft skyward.

The American B-52-lifting off from Anadyr!Yuri reacted instinctively,
flicked the arming switch to his GSh-23 twin twenty-three-millimeter
nose cannon, and fired.

The shots went wide as another giant wave of turbulence from the B-52
swatted at his Fulcrum fighter, and Yuri was forced to roll hard left
to keep from plowing into the bomber's tail. As he passed to its left,
he noticed with satisfaction that the huge gun on its tail did not
follow him .. .

Marveling at his good fortune, he continued his left turn, retracting
flaps and slats and selecting two AA-8 heat-seeking missiles .. . The
initial shock of seeing the elusive American bomber here, of all the
possible places to find him, dissolved back into the hard concentration
of the hunt.

He had searched eleven thousand square kilometers, risked everything to
hunt it down.

Now he had found it, The radar altimeter showed only a few hundred feet
above ground, but he couldn't wait .. . McLanahan reached do and
began to raise the flaps.

"Flaps coming up, Colonel. SST nose retracting. I don't believe it,
but a Russian fighter just went past us .. . do you see him?"

Ormack looked out the right cockpit windows. "No."

"Keep watching for him. "McLanahan watched the fl indicator as the
huge wing high-lift panels rose out of slipstream. With the flaps
retracting, the Old Dog's lift be to erode and she began to sink.

McLanahan took the number eight throttle and jammed it to full military
thrust, then fought the control yoke like it was a bucking horse as the
differen thrust threatened to flip the bomber over and send it crashin
the mountain below. Using what was left of the lateral controls, he
struggled to keep the bomber level .. .

"Flaps up," he called out. Suddenly a blinking yellow light on the
upper -eyebrow instrument panel caught his attention-the number two
engine.

Its oil pressure had dropped below minimum. He pulled the number-two
throttle to CUTC shutting down the engine before the lack of oil
pressure caused it to seize and explode. Now, because of the two
missing engines on the left side, McLanahan again had no choice but to
decrease power on the number-eight engine-without rudder he couldn't
hold the nose straight with such a difference in thrust.

"Number two engine shut down," he said over the interphone. "Number
eight pulled back to compensate. Angelina, try to get your system
working-" "I've tried, the pylon, bomb bay and Stinger ainr missiles
are working but I've no radar guidance. I can release the missiles but
I can't guide them."

McLanahan leveled the Old Dog at about a thousand feet, pressed the
PAGE ADVANCE button on the computer checklist calling up the automatic
terrain-avoidance procedures. "We're going into
auto-terrain-avoidance, everybody Wendy, go downstairs and try to
reload terrain avoidance data into the computers."

Behind the cockpit in the defense section Wendy quickly unbuckled her
parachute harness straps, climbed out of the electronic-warfare
officer's ejection seat, grabbed onto the "firepole" above the ladder,
half-slid climbed downstairs, then plugged her headset into the radar
navigator's station below.

"Patrick, I'm downstairs," she radioed to the cockpit.

"Now what?"

"Okay, good .. . hit the checklist button and enter TA on the
keyboard. The terrain-avoidance checklist will come up.

Page ahead to the data-reload section. That has the steps."

The computerized checklist readout, and the unpopular Colonel
Anderson's insistence that everyone know about everyone else's duties
aboard the Old Dog, now paid off.

Wendy moved the terrain-data cartridge reader lever from LOCK to
READ.

"Reloading terrain data, Patrick."

McLanahan had quickly read the terrain-avoidance checklist as it
scrolled onto Ormack's computer screen. He activated the autopilot,
and the computer-drawn terrain-trace zipped across his video monitor.

He found the auto-terrain-avoidance switch and threw it, setting the
clearance altitude to two hundred feet.

And the crippled Old Dog began to respond.

As Yuri's Fulcrum fighter rolled out behind the B-52, the huge bomber
nosed over and Yuri was positive the American intruder was going to
crash. But at the last possible moment the plane somehow leveled off,
skimming so close to the earth the rocks and jagged peaks seemed to be
scraping the bomber's black belly as they rushed underneath in a blur
.

. .

McLanahan kept the engines screaming at full throttle. Using the
number eight engine's throttle, he made a hard left turn, searching out
his cockpit window.

Ormack, gripping the glare-shield for support in the tight turn, called
to McLanahan that "we need to head east, we're heading the wrong way-"
"We also need to get back in the mountains," McLanahan said. He rolled
the wings level on a southwesterly heading back down the Korakskoje
Mountains, aiming the Old Dog toward a low row of rugged, snow-covered
peaks."if we get over the water with that fighter on our tail he'll
nail us for sure.

"But our fuel- "We should have enough, but there's no alternative .

.

.

Angelina, can you steer your rocket turret at all?"

She activated the double handgrips on the Stinger airmine rocket
turret. "The radar's working. I can move my controls But I don't know
if the cannon is moving, I've lost all position indicators."

"Will the rockets still detonate?"

"Yes, I can set the detonation range manually, or the detonate
themselves just before their propellant runs out "Okay, if we spot the
fighter we'll call out its position.

the airmines for different ranges and-" "I see him, he's right behind
us-" An explosion rocked the bomber-like a wrecking ball crashed into
the Old Dog's midsection. McLanahan felt as if he were riding an
elevator that had just dropped twenty floors in an instant. The Old
Dog seemed to hover in midair, its working engines straining against
the impact of a Soviet A-80 missile slamming into its fuselage.

Yuri Papendreyov, flying slightly high and to the right of his quarry,
clenched a fist and allowed a smile. One of his heat seeking missiles
had missed, but the second had hit the American bomber in the mid-body,
just forward of the wing's leading edge. Clouds of smoke erupted from
the hole it created. The bomber's tail sank down, the nose shot up Yet
somehow it was still flying. Well, those Americans might lead charmed
lives, but their luck had run out. He had two AA-8 heat-seekers and
five hundred rounds of ammunition, and the bomber was badly crippled.

In his tight right-hand turn to set up for another attack, he checked
his navigation instruments and saw he was only a few kilometers from
Anadyr.

There was no greater prize than the B-52, he told himself, no greater
victory .. . He widened his right turn and smiled broadly, seeing his
destiny unfolding.

Choking and coughing from the thick clouds of black smoke, Wendy aimed
a fire extinguisher out the open aft bulkhead leading to the bomb bay
catwalk and squeezed the trigger.

She was bleeding from a gash in her forehead sustained when she was
thrown against the forward instrument panel after the missile hit. A
moment later Angelina was beside her, carrying the firefighting mask
and another extinguisher bottle. W Wendy put on the mask and plugged
it into the instructor's oxygen panel, Angelina moved as far as she
could toward the fire on the catwalk and fired her extinguisher.

The flames had intensified the instant Wendy had opened the bulkhead
door, but the blast of air racing from the breaks in the cockpit
through the open door sucked the smoke and flames aft and gave her a
clear and effective shot at the fire in the electronic countermeasures
transformers and control boxes.

Wendy dropped back into the radar nav's seat, her forehead dripping
blood, her arms and legs throbbing. She pulled off the firefighting
mask, gasped over the interphone: "Fire's out, Patrick. Big hole in
the fuselage and fire in the ECM boxes, but it looked like it missed
the landing gear."

"We're blind up here," Ormack asked. "We can't see him, we can't see
when he shoots at us McLanahan had already put the computer-controlled
clearance plane setting to COLA so the Old Dog would seek its own
lowest possible altitude. But because of the reduction in thrust and
the severe damage, the terrain-climbing capability of the jo Old Dog
was reduced. And as the terrain became more rugged, the altitude
slowly crept higher, exposing the bomber more and more to the Soviet
fighter.

"All right, everyone, check your areas for damage," McLanahan said, his
grip on the control wheel so tight his hands began to cramp.

"We've got a leak in the aft fuel tank," Ormack said, blowing on his
hands and scanning the fuel panel. "I'm opening valve twenty-eight,
closing twenty-nine. Also pumping all fuel out of the aft body tank
before it leaks out-" A sudden motion out of the left-cockpit
windscreen drew his attention outside. "Patrick, look .. ."

McLanahan spun around to a sight that made him go rigid .. . The gray
MiG-29 Fulcrum fighter was directly beside the Old Dog, just ahead of
the cockpit, slightly above them and no more than a hundred feet
away.

McLanahan could clearly see the pilot's right shoulder and head out his
bubble canopy, along with a sleek air-to-air missile on its wing
hardpoint.

The MiG was amazingly small and compact, resembling a twin-tailed
American F-16 fighter. The Russian pilot apparently had little trouble
flying beside the B-52, even at its low altitude, perfectly matching
each of the Old Dog's computer commanded altitude adjustments.

"Angelina.he's on our left side, ten o'clock, about hundred feet.

Can we get him with the Scorpions on our rig pylon?"

"He's too close. The missile wouldn't have time to lock on.

The MiG pilot glanced over at McLanahan, rocked 1

Fulcrum's wings up and down three times. He stopped, then made one
last rock to the right.

"Why is he doing that .. . ?"

Ormack's jaw tightened. "It's the interception signal. He wants us to
follow him."

"Follow him?"McLanahan said, stomach tightening."?

"No way, we can't-" "Patrick, we've got nowhere to run. He can knock
us out of the sky anytime-" The MiG rocked up its left wing once more,
very emphatically, as if underscoring Ormack's words. To back up the
message the MiG pilot fired a one-second burst from his guns, the
bright phosphorous-tipped tracer shells knifing into the twilight like
deadly shooting stars.

"If we don't follow he comes back around and tags us Ormack said.

"We've got no chance-" "We can still fight," McLanahan asked. "As long
as we got missiles we can't give up."

Ormack grabbed his arm. "If we try to run he'll just come around again
and shoot us down. "He lowered his voice. "You did a great job, Pat,
but it's over. It's-" McLanahan shrugged his arm free. The MiG had
dropp back a few feet, his bubble-canopy now directly beside the Old
Dog's narrow, slanted cockpit. The Russian pilot pointed down three
times.

McLanahan turned and looked directly at the MiG pilot flying in unison
with the fighter at a distance of fifty feet.

To Ormack's surprise, he nodded to the Russian, and the pilot pointed
to McLanahan's right, indicating a right turn. Ormack looked away, not
wanting to see what he insisted was necessary for their survival. The
pain he felt was from more than his blood-soaked shoulder.

McLanahan nodded one more time to the MiG pilot. "Stand by to turn,
crew," he said, gripping the wheel tight.

Yuri PapendreYov was flushed with pride. He had done it. The American
was surrendering. Of course, he could hardly do anything else.

group the B AA-8 misile blow.

its mangled left wingtip, the destroyed bomber was flying slower and
slower, without the bombs Yuri had seen before as it hugged the ground
the small-caliber bullet holes all over in the nose to the wings, and
figured the the final shot into their fuselage had been The B-52 began
its very slow right turn, and Yuri had just begun applying pressure on
his control stick to follow suddenly the right side of the canopy was
filled with the dark, menacing form of the American bomber .. .

Instead of turning right toward Anadyr the insane plane had turned into
Yuri's MiG-29.

He yanked is control stick hard to the left, rolling up into a hundred
degrees of bank.

A moment later his world crunch of metal as the two aircraft, traveling
kilometers a minute, collided. With both aircraft the top of the B-52
had plowed into the bottom of Yuri's fighter.

Somehow Yuri managed to continue his hard turn, standing his MiG on its
left wingtip and pulling back on the stick to increase the roll rate.

The B-52 seemed to be turning right with him-even pushing him on,
dragging him to the earth. The fighter was now at ninety-degrees bank,
and the terrifying crushing and grinding sounds underneath him
continued.

Yuri could see rocks and trees out of the top of his canopy. His
controls refused to respond .. .

He ignited his twin afterburners, and like a snapping rubber band his
MiG was flung away from the B-52.In the process Yuri found himself
inverted, then in a wild tumble.

The roar of the B-52 was everywhere, he expected another impact any
moment .. .

But the spin slowed and he managed to level his wings. He was barely
at twenty meters. Rocks and trees were all around him-he was staring
up at a huge ridgeline encrusted with jagged snow-covered boulders.

But his airspeed at last began to build and he felt the ground rushing
away beneath him.

to Quickly he checked around for the B-52 .. . nothing.

Gone. Shaking his head, Yuri started a slow right turn to check behind
him .. .

Numb from the midair collision he had contrived, McLanahan watched
transfixed as the gray MiG continued its spin down, heading for the
rocks, reaching the point where McLanahan thought the pilot could never
recover.

But he did. He must have been close enough to the rocks to get one in
his boot, but his spin stopped and the MiG sped away from the earth,
gaining breathtaking speed in seconds, and now McLanahan was fighting
for control of his own plane.

The stall-warning buzzer sounded, and the Old Dog seemed to be floating
straight down instead of flying forward.

"Get the nose down, we're in a stall," Ormack was yelling at him.

McLanahan shoved the yoke forward, fighting the initial-stall buffet
that shook the entire hundred-ton bomber.

The buzzer stopped. McLanahan found he had control, leveled the nose
until the airspeed came up, but he had to force himself to stop looking
at the rugged ground that whizzed so close to the Old Dog's groaning
wings.

"There he is, here he comes .. . Ormack shouted, pointing straight
ahead.

He was coming, all right. Directly in front of them.

"I McLanahan called over the interphone. "Pylon "Angie missile ..

.

fire.

The MiG was in a thirty-degree right bank directly off the Old Dog's
nose at a range of perhaps three to four miles when the missile left
the right pylon rail. It ignited in a bright plume of fire, sped away
toward the wide bubble canopy of the MiG.

But the Scorpion that left the Old Dog's rail was an unguided bullet,
not a sophisticated air-to-air missile. Without radar tracking and
uplink from the Old Dog to guide it, the Scorpion relied on either an
infrared signature or an anti-radar jamming signal to home in on. It
had neither. The MiG had kept its radar and jammers off, presenting no
heat signature at all so long as it was in its right turn.

The Scorpion streaked forward, passing a hundred feet in front of the
MiG.Ten seconds after it automatically armed its warhead after
launch, the Scorpion's computer asked itself if it was tracking a
target. The reply was no, and the Scorpion harmlessly detonate
MiG-29.And its warhead almost two miles past the .. .

Papendreyov saw the American bomber and the missile at the same time.

There was no time to turn, to dive, or accelerate not even time for him
to close his eyes and brace for the impact And then, just as quickly,
the missile was gone. Yuri watched for a second missile-a B-52 bomber
launching missiles?-but there was none.

He continued his wide right-climbing turn, keeping a close watch on the
B-52.which now was a serious adversary, not just a helpless whale
resigned to its fate.

He watched it far below him.making a left turn, heading east. With
his own speed regained, it looked to Papendreyov as if the B -52 was
almost hanging suspended in midair. Not dead, but an inviting
target.

He maneuvered behind it, stalking it, closing slowly for the kill.

Noting the tail cannon sweeping back and forth in a rectangular
pattern, he rolled out high and to the right of the bomber. The cannon
continued its erratic box-pattern sweep occasionally seeming to be
altogether out of control and useless .. . yes, it could launch
missiles, but it had no way of guiding them.

Yuri armed his GSh-23 cannon and maneuvered behind and slightly above
the B-52, slowly closing the distance. He no longer considered trying
to force the bomber to land-his gun's cameras would record his victory
over the intruder.

He edged closer to the bomber, then began his strafing run .. .

"We've lost him. "Ormack was searching his side cockpit windows.

"He's out there," McLanahan said, reengaging the terrain avoidance
autopilot. "He can find us easy. We've got to find him before he gets
a shot off Angelina watched her rocket-turret-position indicators as
they oscillated in random sputters and jerks. The radar was
Jammed, locking onto ghosts, starting and stopping, breaking lock.

Frustrated, she turned the radar to STANDBY, waited a few moments, then
turned it back to TRANSMIT .. .

A large bright blip appeared on the upper left corner of her
radarscope.

She waited for it to disappear, just like all the rest of the
electronic ghosts.but this one stayed.

She stomped her foot on the interphone button. "Bandit five o'clock
high, break right!"

McLanahan swung the control yoke hard right.

Ormack's head banged against the right cockpit window bi he pulled
himself upright and scanned as far behind the bomber as he could
"Pereira, five o'clock.one and a half miles, twenty degrees high and
comin' down. Nail him.

Yuri had the shot lined up perfectly.a textbook gun-pass. He had
just squeezed the trigger on his control stick, squeezed off a hundred
precious rounds.before realizing that the B-52 wasn't in his
sights.

It had moved. He tried to rudder-drag his sight around to the right
but it wasn't enough and he was force to yank off power and roll with
the B-52 to reacquire it.

He was almost aligned again when a sharp white flash popped off his
left side not a hundred meters away. He yanked his MiG into a hard
right turn and accelerated away, saw another white flash and a cloud of
sparkling shards of metal exploding above him. The B-52 was shooting
at him, and that was no machine-gun round-the intruder had tail-firing
rockets Yuri expertly rolled out of his turn, perpendicular to the
bomber's flight path and out of range of the strange fl.

missiles.

A blinking warning light caught his attention.e was no, on emergency
fuel-less than ten minutes time left and with no reserve. He didn't
even have the time to set up another gun pass. He rearmed his last two
remaining AA-8 missiles rechecked his infrared spotting scope and
checked the location of the bomber.

Time for one last pass.and it had to be perfect. At least lAA-8s had
to have greater range than those tiny missiles. He would roll back in
directly behind the B-52 and fire at maximum range when the AA-8s
locked onto the bomber's engine-exhaust.

He made a diving left-turn, staying about twelve kilometers behind the
bomber. His infrared target-spotting scope with large supercooled eye
locked onto the B-52 immediately and sent aiming information to the
AA-8 missiles. The B-52 was making no evasive maneuvers. Slowly.the
distance decreased to The American bomber, Yuri noted.had maneuvered
itse onto a flat plateau just above Anadyr Airbase, heading east toward
the Bering Strait. It had nowhere to hide, nowhere to evade. Yuri
hoped it wouldn't smash into Anadyr. On the other hand, what better
place to deposit the evidence of his victory?

His vindication?

The range continued to decrease. Yuri could see the B-52's tail now,
and the missile-firing cannon, still pointing up and to the right,
jammed in position. Yuri put his finger on the launch trigger,
ready.

A high-pitched beep sounded in his helmet-the AA-8's seeker heads had
locked onto the B-52.Yuri checked his target once more, waited a few
more seconds to close the distance fired. The green LOCK light stayed
on STEADY as the two Mach-two missiles streaked from their rails ..

.

Ormack searched the skies from the cockpit window. "I can't see him, I
lost him.

"Angie, can you see him?"

"No, my radar's jammed. I can't see anything."

4 The plateau dropped away into a wide frozen plain, Anadyr Airbase
centered within the snow-covered valley McLanahan did not wait for the
terrain-avoidance system to take the Old Dog down. He grabbed onto the
yoke and pushed the Old Dog's nose down, then shoved all six operating
engine throttles to full power.

The Old Dog had only dropped about a hundred feet down into the valley
when McLanahan suddenly realized the implications of what he was doing
and used every ounce of strength left to pull back on the control
column.

"Patrick, what the hell are you doing?"Ormack shouted.

"He's behind us," McLanahan told him. "He's gotta be behind us. If we
dive into that valley we're dead meat."

Shattered fibersteel from the Old Dog's damaged fuselage screamed in
protest but somehow stayed together. The stall warning horn blared,
but McLanahan still held the yoke back, forcing the Old Dog's nose
skyward at a drastic angle.

The AA-8 missiles, only a few hundred meters from impact, lost their
lock-on to the engine's hot exhaust when the Old Dog nosed upward. The
missiles then immediately reacquired a warm heat-source and readjusted
to a new target-the base operation building and the vehicles parked
near it at Anadyr Airbase, which was now manned by several squads of
the
Anadyr constabulary. Surrounded by a meter of unplowed snow in all
directions, the halftracks and jeeps were the only hot objects for
miles.

Chief Constable Vjarelskiv, who had run from the hangar area to the
flightline to watch the chase unfolding in the skies above Anadyr
Airbase, now watched in horror as the missiles screamed directly at
him.

Before he could shout a warning, the missiles hitplowing into the
wooden base operations building, the one finding an unoccupied truck
with its hood open because of an overheated radiator. The twin
explosions scattered troops in all directions.

Properly enraged, Vjarelskiv pulled his nine-millimeter pistol from his
holster and raised it toward the American B-52, then stopped, realizing
how absurd he must look.

Yuri had expected the American bomber to try to duck into the valley.

Well, it would do him no good -actually it would improve the intruder's
heat-signature.

What he never expected was a climb .. . the B-52 appeared out of
nowhere from behind the ridge, streaking skyward, its nose pointed
straight up in the air.

No missile, not even the new AA-8s, could follow that.

Yuri flicked on his cannon and managed a half-second burst, but his
overtake speed was too great and he was forced to climb on the B-52.

The huge black bomber had disappeared beneath him.

He could only keep his throttles at max afterburner, try to come around
and align himself once more for another cannon run before his fuel ran
out.

McLanahan was now fiercely pushing the control column, fighting the
lumbering Old Dog. Its airspeed had bled off below two hundred
knots.

Over the blare of the stall-warn horn Ormack shouted to him that they
had stalled and to get the nose down .. .

McLanahan somehow did it. He had just leveled the Dog's nose on the
horizon when a blur and a roar erupted outside his left window.

The fighter had rushed past, its twin afterburners glowin.

It was so close McLanahan felt the heat of its engines through broken
glass and bullet holes. Then it began a shallow climb, arcing
gracefully up and to the left.

Ignoring the blaring stall-warning horn, McLanahan pulled back on the
control column and pointed the Old Dog's nose skyward once again.

But with the number-eight throttle at full power, the Old Dog began to
slide to the left, its nose reaching a forty-degree angle, knifing
skyward.

"Patrick, release the controls, now McLanahan ignored Ormack's order,
waited, bone-tired, wrestling with a hundred tons of
near-uncontrollable machine.

Then seconds before the MiG disappeared from sight, he ordered: "Angie,
right pylon missile-FIRE."

It took a few seconds, but with a screech and a long plume of fire the
Scorpion missile sped free of its pylon rail and in the cold
semi-darkness of the long Siberian night, with two bright turbofans in
full afterburner dead-ahead, there was only one possible target.

The missile plunged into the fighter, detonating as the hot afterburner
exhaust hit the propellant. The entire aft section of the fighter +
the twin-tailed MiG broke apart, shredding the nearly empty fuel tanks
and adding thousands of cubic feet of fumes to the fury of the
explosion.

McLanahan watched the fireball fly on for several moments in a wide
bright arc, before plunging into the snowy peaks of the Koraksko e
Mountains below.

Silence. No cheers. No gloating. And then the Old Dog turned
eastward toward the Bering Strait-and home.

SEWARD AIR NATIONAL GUARD BASE, Nome, ALASKA
The hospital rooms were small and cold, the beds hard and narrow, and
the food was just edible-but for the past week the crew of the Old Dog
had felt like they had died and gone to heaven.

For the first time since their arrival, and by accident, they were all
together. When she was notified by a nurse General Elliott was
accepting visitors, Angelina Pereira, only one of the crew not
seriously injured, walked through frozen streets of the Nome Airport to
the Air National Guard infirmary and General Elliott's guarded room.

The entire crew was assembled.

"Well, hello," she said, surprised but pleased. They were all
there-John Ormack, sitting at a desk beside Elliott, head and shoulder
heavily bandaged; Patrick McLanahan frostbite on his ears, hands and
face; Wendy Tork, band ver parts of her face and forehead-, and General
ER Angelina went over to his bedside.

"How you doing Angie?"

"Fine, sir .. . I'm I'm sorry about your leg.

truly-" "Forget it, Angie," Elliott said, glancing at the folded
bedspread where his right leg would have been. "Some of those doctors
out at Bethesda already have me on the slate for a mechanical job, so
I'll be up and making trouble before you know it. I'm not trying to be
brave, I'm just damn glad to be alive actually I'm the one who should
be making apologies. "He was thinking especially of Dave Luger.

Angelina said: "I was proud to serve with you, sir, and proud of what
we accomplished. I think I speak for everybody " Elliott looked at his
assembled crew. "Thank you, I'm damn grateful to all of you. "He
cleared his throat. "I think you'll be glad to know that I spoke with
the President this morning. He congratulated every one of you. He
also said that a new agreement has been reached .. . the Soviets have
agreed not to rebuild the Kavaznya facility, and in return we've agreed
not to launch another Ice Fortress.

"He told me something else that will interest you. Our suspicions
about a breach of security were on target. It seems a certain aide in
CIA Director Kenneth Mitchell's office was passing information to the
Soviets. I don't know if it was a birds-of-a-feather sort of thing, or
money, or both. Whatever, if we hadn't faked that crash over Seattle,
my guess is that the Russians would have been waiting for us with every
fighter they could put in the air. As it was, we had our hands No one
argued with that.

Elliott motioned to Wendy, who had gotten a smuggled bottle of wine
from the general's closet. She and Angelina poured for everyone as
Elliott went on.

"Of course the destruction of the Kavaznya laser and our new agreement
doesn't nail down the lid on laser technology.

It's probably only a matter of time before we develop laser systems
equivalent to the Soviets'.What we've got to hope is that they'll
neutralize each other Elliott raised his glass. "Well, to right now,
and to the crew of the Old Dog. You guys broke the mold. "Angelina
raised her glass. "And to Lewis Campos."

McLanahan forced his voice to be steady. "To Dave Luger .. . " "To
Dave Luger," Wendy added. "The one who really brought us home."

They finished their wine in a strained silence. It was Angelina who
finally spoke.

"What will happen to the Old Dog, General?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, it may be back in action-although I still
think John here suffered a crack in the head he's not telling us
about."

Ormack shrugged. "With what it's been through, it doesn't seem right
to let it be cut up for scrap metal. I'll super, some repairs and fly
it back to Dreamland."

McLanahan said, "I'm probably out of my mind, but I volunteered to go
back with him.

"Patrick seems to like the idea of hanging around with old coot like
me," Elliott said, smiling. "He's accepted a working with me at
Dreamland."

Elliott nodded at Ormack, who reached into a duffel bag.

saved this one for you, McLanahan," Ormack said, , presented him with
the pilot's control wheel."it popped r' off the Old Dog's left
control column. I didn't have it cut ol anything. I guess the beast
wanted you to have it.

Wendy hung up the telephone at the nurse's station, turned to Patrick
McLanahan sitting beside her.

"Everything okay at home?"McLanahan asked.

Fine. They were relieved to hear from me. They hahen't been able to
get word-one out of the Air Force for the last two months.

"My mom was worried too," McLanahan asked. "I had a good excuse,
though.

Told her I was busy bombing Russia."

"You didn't-" "Sure, why not?She didn't believe a word I said."

Wendy smiled, then turned serious. "Pat .. . that Catherine, you
told me about. Did you call her too?"

"Yes. We had a long talk. Very long. I told her the truth, told her
I used to worry I wasn't making a difference being in the Air Force,
that what I was doing wasn't adding up to anything. I said I didn't
feel that way anymore, that I going to stay in. I think she
understood. She wished me luc "Oh, well, that's good .. . I guess
.

. . And i you're off to Dreamland next month. "She fidgeted with her
hands. "I'm sure you'll do .. . I'm glad things have worked out for
you He stood up and looked down at her, into her eyes that refused to
meet his. "Hey, it's just a thought, but .. . well, you know,
Elliott could use a good electronic warfare officer at Dreamland. And
I'd like it if .. . oh, to hell with it," an put his arms around her
and drew her to him.

"I want you to come with me. I want us to be together. How about
it'?"

Her arms tightened around him, and the kiss that followed gave him all
the answer he needed.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

DALE BROWN, a former United States Air Force Captain, served as a
navigator from 1978 to 1986, logging thousands of hours aboard both
B-52s and FB-111 bombers. During his service, he participated in
numerous strategic combat exercises designed to simulate an actual
strategic war. He is the recipient of the Air Force Commendation
Medal, the Air Force Achievement Medal and the Combat Crew Award, among
others.