Executive Intent (35 page)

“Our airspeed is almost gone,” Boxer said. “I can't do any more breaks or else we'll spin into the ocean. How's the ECM—”

“Coming online now!” Frodo shouted. The right side of his supercockpit display was on once again, and his fingers were flying across the touchscreen. “ADS active!” The Vampire's ADS, or Active Defensive System, was a pair of free-electron laser emitters, one atop and one underneath the fuselage. When the laser radar detected an incoming missile, the ADS lasers would slave themselves to the LADAR and attack the missiles with beams of white-hot laser energy powerful enough to destroy the thin dielectric nose cap of most surface-to-air missiles at long range. They had to fight off at least a half-dozen Russian missiles fired from the carrier's escorts.

“Airspeed's finally picking up,” Boxer said. “I'm going to see if number four is back with us.” She gently advanced the throttle of the number four engine, watching the exhaust temperatures to make sure the fire that was in the engine wasn't going to reignite—and sure enough, the exhaust-gas temperature in the engine began to spike, and she pulled the throttle to idle, then to “CUTOFF.” “Looks like number four is dead, Frodo—a fire starts in the burner can when I advance the throttle,” she said. “Let's get on the radio and see if our tanker can—”

“Bandits!”
Frodo yelled. “Su-33s, three o'clock, twenty-five—”

Just then the threat warning computer blared,
“Missile guidance, AA-12, three o'clock!”
Boxer punched out chaff and flares and did another hard left break…

…but it was too slow with the lost engine, and there wasn't enough airspeed to keep the break in to defeat the missile. They felt a hard
whummp
and the entire tail section of the Vampire skidded to the left. Boxer had to fight the control stick with both hands and stomp hard on the right rudder pedal to keep the plane straight and prevent a roll right into the ocean.

“Boxer
…
?”
Frodo shouted.

“I got it, I got it!” Boxer shouted. She knew that's probably exactly what most bomber pilots said right before they crashed after being hit by a missile, but she truly believed she could maintain control. She released the control stick with her left hand long enough to raise a red-colored switch guard on her side instrument panel, raised a switch inside to the “ARM” position, then climbed slightly. “Nail those fighters, Frodo!”

Frodo activated his “MASTER ARM” switch on his side instrument panel. As soon as he did, the supercockpit display changed from a view of the Russian fleet to a three-dimensional depiction of the airborne threats around them. The laser radar detected and began tracking all of the Russian Sukhoi-33 carrier-based fighters, and the fire control computer quickly prioritized each one in order of threat. As soon as the first fighter came within range, the computer opened the forward bomb-bay doors and ejected an AIM-120 AMRAAM missile into the slipstream.

The missile descended about fifty feet as it stabilized itself. Boxer hoped the Vampire was not side-slipping too much or the missile would likely fly right into it, but it separated cleanly, its digital gyros restoring stability in the badly disturbed air around the bomber. Its rocket motor fired, and it streaked after the first Sukhoi. The missile used laser guidance signals from the Vampire bomber, so the Su-33 had no threat indications that it was being
tracked or a missile was in the air until seconds before impact, when the AMRAAM activated its own terminal guidance radar. By the time the Russian pilot knew he was under attack, it was too late.

“Formation two is heading back to the carrier—they must be low on gas,” Frodo reported, his voice strained. “The last guy from formation three is orbiting over his leader. Looks like we're in the clear.”

Boxer looked over at her mission commander and saw his fingers shake as he tried to type in instructions on his supercockpit display. “It's okay, Alan,” she said softly. “You did good.”

Frodo raised his oxygen visor. He sat quietly for a few moments, staring at his lap; then: “You could have gotten us killed, Boxer,” he said in a low, trembling voice.

Gia didn't know what else to say except, “Sorry, Frodo.”

His head snapped over toward her, and his eyes were blazing. “Sorry? You're
sorry
? That's
it
?”

“I guess so.”

“You should've bugged out when they started to lock us up,” Frodo said. “We should've turned around when we found out they were serious.”

“Our job was not to turn around, Frodo—our job was to probe the fleet and report,” Boxer said. “I'm not the kind of person to turn tail and run at the first sign of danger.”

“But why the high-speed passes? We could've flown right into one of those close-in cannons. Hell, we were flying so low they could've hit us with a damned mop stuck out a porthole!”

“They pissed me off, and I wanted to show them they couldn't scare me off,” Boxer said.

“They almost shot us out of the sky! They almost killed us! I've got two sons at home, Colonel. You could've made them fatherless, and for
what
—because you got pissed? Thanks a lot, Colonel.”

“Don't worry, Major—I'll tell the review board you objected to
going in and recommended we turn around,” Boxer said. “You won't take any flak for my actions. Just find us a place to land.”

“Armstrong to Fracture Two-One.”

Boxer switched her comm panel to the primary control frequency. “Two-One, go.”

“Everyone all right?” Jessica Faulkner radioed from Armstrong Space Station.

“We've been better,” Boxer replied. “We lost number four, lost the rudder, probably lost most of the horizontal stabilizer, and I feel a bad vibration in the tail. We'll do a controllability test before we try air refueling or landing, but I think we're going to end up ditching or crash-landing.”

“We'll pass that along,” Gonzo said. “Your tanker is about three hundred miles east, heading toward you for the rendezvous. We have limited coverage on you right now, but as of three minutes ago, your tail was clear. If you can't tank, the closest air base is Salalah, Oman, about four hundred and fifty miles east-northeast. Got enough gas for that?”

“Barely.”

“That's your only hard-surface runway for a thousand miles, guys, unless you want to try Al Mukalla, Yemen,” Gonzo said, “but the Russians might spot you and try for some payback. We'll keep an eye out for you as much as possible and pass along your information. Good luck.”

It was not looking good as the Air Force KC-767 aerial refueling tanker rolled out in front of the Vampire bomber. “Rudder control is almost zero,” Boxer said as she slowly, carefully pulled the throttles back. “Elevator control is about fifty percent—it looks like the mission-adaptive system is having to work overtime to compensate for the loss of the tail stabilizers.” She started to bring the power back, but the vibrations increased below 400 knots, and below 350 knots indicated airspeed, the vibration almost made the plane uncontrollable. “Looks like our limit is three-fifty, Milkman,” Boxer radioed to the tanker. “What's your max?”

“Our published max is three hundred,” the pilot responded, “and the most I've ever done in an emergency is three-twenty. The plane gets real twitchy in pitch above that.”

“And we're not too responsive in pitch ourselves,” Boxer said.

“I'm willing to give it a try,” the tanker's boom operator said.

“Thanks, but I think we'll divert to—”

“Bandits!”
Frodo shouted. “Two Su-33s…no, two
formations
of Su-33s, six o'clock…damn, just fifteen miles, with the second formation three miles in trail! My rear LADAR array must be shot off—I picked them up on the threat receiver only!”

“Time to bug out, Milkman,” Boxer said. “We'll hold them off for you.”

Just then, the threat-warning computer blared:
“Caution, caution, radar tracking, Su-33.”

“He's right on top of us!” Frodo shouted.

At that moment they heard a heavily accented Russian voice radio, “American bomber, this is Russian Southern Fleet patrol aircraft on GUARD. We have you and your tanker aircraft on our radar and long-range optical sensors. We have more fighters in pursuit. You cannot escape. Your aircraft is badly damaged.”

“I can't see them except on the threat receiver,” Frodo said. “I can't launch an AMRAAM as long as they stay in the rear quarter.”

“Can we try an over-the-shoulder launch and have the missile track on its own?” Boxer asked.

“It needs an initial bearing and distance from the fire control computer to launch—it won't take info from the threat receiver,” Frodo said. “The AMRAAMs are deadweight unless they appear on the lateral arrays.”

“You are trying to think of a way to escape,” the Russian fighter pilot radioed. “We noted you shot down one of our brothers, so you have defensive weapons, but the fact that we have come well within missile range of you undetected means that your defensive weapons are unusable, at least right at the present moment. We are in firing position now on both yourselves and your aerial refueling
aircraft. We applaud your courage and exceptional fighting and flying skills on your high-speed pass through our task force. We have a proposal for you, warrior to warrior.”

“Armstrong, Fracture.”

“Go ahead.”

“We got intercepted by Russian fighters from that carrier,” Boxer said.

“Oh God,” Gonzo said. “We have limited sensor coverage of you for the next three minutes, Fracture, and you're out of range of Salalah radar. We're almost blind right now.”

“Pass our situation along to Central Command,” Boxer said.

“Ask if there are any Omani fighters at Salalah that can chase these Russians away.”

“Roger. Stand by.”

“Our proposal is this, American bomber: Eject out of your damaged bomber and let us have our fun with it,” the Russian pilot radioed. “If you do this, we will let your tanker aircraft stay in the area to assist in recovering you from the ocean. If you do not respond, or if we see you make any turns or see your bomb bays open, we will open fire on both of you. You have sixty seconds to reply.”

Boxer angrily flipped over to the GUARD channel: “Hey, bastard, you would be a cowardly chickenshit if you downed an unarmed tanker!” she shouted.

“Ah, the woman bomber pilot,” the Russian pilot said. “Greetings, madam. That unfortunately is the spoils of war, my dear. You have fifty seconds to eject.”

“Let us get closer to shore, closer to Yemen.”

“You are much closer to shore now than our comrade was when you shot him down,” the Russian said. “Forty seconds.”

“Frodo…”

“There's nothing I can do as long as they're directly behind us,” Frodo said. “I can jam their radar side lobes with the lateral emit
ters, but I can't touch the main beams. Besides, they're well within heater-missile range, and even if we could decoy them with flares, they can close into gun range in seconds.”

“We can turn into them, lock them up, and shoot.”

“The second we turn, they'll fire. We might be able to get one before they launch, but the other three will nail us and the tanker.”

“Thirty seconds, madam.”

“Can the jammers protect the tanker?” Boxer asked on intercom.

“Not against heat-seekers or guns,” Frodo said. He started to tighten his ejection-seat straps in preparation for bailout. “Dammit, Boxer, this is all your fault! If you hadn't gone down after that task force, we'd all be safe! Now we have no choice but to punch out to save the tanker!”

The Russian fighter pilot radioed, “Twenty…” But at that instant Boxer saw an incredibly bright streak of light shoot across the sky coming from directly above, and the transmission was cut off. Another streak of light erupted seconds later, this one seemingly aimed directly at them but passing behind them, missing by what seemed bare inches.

“
What just happened?
What were those things? It looked like they came in from
above
us!”

“The lead fighter in the first formation disappeared!” Frodo said. “The wingman isn't transmitting yet.”

“Nail those bastards, Frodo!”
Boxer shouted, and she threw the Vampire bomber into a tight left turn, flying between the fighters and the tanker. As soon as she did so, the lateral laser radar emitters locked onto all three Russian fighters, the forward bomb-bay doors opened, and in fifteen seconds three AIM-120 AMRAAM missiles were in the air. At the same time Boxer popped chaff and flares to decoy any missile launches that might be aimed at the tanker.

Two of the Vampire's AMRAAMs hit their targets…but the
third missed. The surviving Su-33 fighter accelerated and fired two missiles at the KC-767 tanker. Both radar-guided missiles were decoyed away from the tanker by the cloud of chaff billowing through the sky and by the Vampire's heavy jamming…

…but when they detected the jamming and the chaff, they automatically switched to infrared guidance and locked onto the biggest heat source in their line of sight: the EB-1C Vampire bomber. The two missiles exploded above the exhaust nozzles of the number one and two engines, blowing the left wing completely apart. The stricken bomber cartwheeled several times vertically through the sky, flipped upside down, then spiraled into the sea.

T
HE
W
HITE
H
OUSE
S
ITUATION
R
OOM
, W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

L
ATER THAT EVENING
,
EASTERN TIME

“This is just freakin' unbelievable,” President Joseph Gardner said. He had just received the initial report on the engagement in the Gulf of Aden. Now he was watching a computerized three-dimensional holographic replay of the incident as reported by the aircrew and verified by Armstrong Space Station. “We
told
them we were coming, and they said as long as we followed international law, they were fine with it.”

“That's the part we can't figure out, sir,” National Security Adviser Conrad Carlyle said. “There should have been no surprises. The aircrew did as the Russians told them: They changed to their
radio frequency and put in a transponder code that made it easier for the Russian radar controllers to track them. The Russians engaged anyway.”

“Our guys did it by the book, Mr. President,” Secretary of Defense Miller Turner said.

“Oh, no, not quite, Miller, not by a long shot,” Gardner said, shaking a finger at him. He entered commands into a keyboard to speed up the holographic animation floating above the conference table. “The Russians repeatedly warned the crew away; they kept on coming, which in my view wasn't a smart move.”

“Legal, perhaps,” Secretary of State Barbeau said from a secure videoconference link from Beijing, China, “but we don't know what was going on with the Russian fleet. They could have had some other sort of emergency, or were under some other kind of attack, and they warned our plane away thinking it was part of the other emergency.”

“That's speculation, Stacy,” Turner said. “We don't know that.”

“In any case, Miller, the smart thing would have been to reverse course and get out of there,” Barbeau said. “Why risk your life unnecessarily? It was a stupid move on that pilot's part.”

“Exactly right,” the president said, pointing at the hologram. “And then look at what she does—”

“‘She'?” Barbeau exclaimed. “A
woman
bomber pilot?”

“Colonel Gia Cazzotta, the squadron commander,” Carlyle said, glancing at his notes. “Veteran bomber pilot, engineer, unit commander, lots of flying hours, experience in Desert Storm, Iraq, and Afghanistan.”

“Sounds like a cocky type A jet jockey,” Barbeau commented. She thought about her last encounter with a type A but laid-back jet jockey, Hunter Noble—he was actually a spaceplane jockey—but then remembered how
that
encounter ended, and quickly dismissed the memory.

“Friend of Patrick McLanahan's, too, I heard,” White House Chief of Staff Walter Kordus said.

“What?” Barbeau asked, her eyes flashing in complete surprise. “Well,
that
explains a lot.”

“Here's where the fighter attacks, sir,” Secretary of Defense Turner said, pointing at the hologram. “Our guys didn't do a thing wrong, but they were shot at!”

“She should've bugged out and gotten out of there,” the president said. “Instead…” He stared at the holographic replay in amazement. “Look at this—she's diving out of the sky, fighters on her tail! Now she's skimming over the water…now she's supersonic, for God's sake, heading right for this destroyer. More warnings on the radio. The ships are trying to lock her up, but she's too low and fast and jamming them…Jesus, no wonder they thought they were under attack! Somebody tell me what in hell she had in mind here, please!”

“Sir, without having interviewed her myself yet, I believe Colonel Cazzotta was conveying to the Russians that she and all American forces weren't going to be intimidated by hostile actions in open and free airspace,” Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Taylor Bain said. “There's no reason for the Russian fighters and then their ships to engage the bomber—it was on a routine and legal patrol, one sanctioned by the Kremlin. There may or may not have been some other sort of emergency that the Russians were dealing with, but it doesn't matter—Colonel Cazzotta had every right to fly there—”

“But what gives her the right to buzz those ships like that, General?” the president asked incredulously. “She is going
supersonic
and heading right for those ships! If it was me, I'd definitely think I was under attack!”

“Sir, international law prohibits overflying any vessel below one thousand feet altitude,” Bain said. “The bomber didn't overfly any of those ships.”

“Don't give me that crap, General—she may not have overflown them, but crossing in front of them at supersonic speed close enough to spray them with water kicked up by her shock wave? I'll
bet the law says something about flying close to a ship in a careless, reckless, or dangerous manner. The Russians were obviously spooked and opened fire.” He pointed again. “The Russian cruiser fires missiles but are either jammed or…what? What happens to the Russian missiles here? They just stop flying. Why?”

“The bomber has an advanced self-protection system that fires lasers at incoming missiles,” National Security Adviser Carlyle explained, “that are hot enough to destroy the missile's guidance system.”

“But one gets through?”

“Yes, sir, one gets through,” Carlyle said. “An AA-12 radar-guided missile. A copy of our AIM-120 AMRAAM missile, fired from one of the Russian fighters. It explodes near the bomber's tail, severely damaging it.”

“But the bomber not only keeps going, but
shoots down
the Russian fighter? How does it do that? With the laser?”

“The bomber is an EB-1C Vampire, a highly modified version of the B-1B Lancer bomber,” Carlyle said. “It can carry a variety of weapons, including air-to-air missiles.”

“McLanahan's magic bombers,” President Gardner said, running a hand through his hair wearily. “I should have known. The guy could be thousands of miles away but still somehow involved.” He turned to Chief of Staff Kordus. “Didn't you say McLanahan is personally involved with that bomber's pilot?”

“Yes, sir,” Kordus said. “They've been seeing each other for a few years.”

“Maybe McLanahan
was
involved in this,” the president said. “Find out where McLanahan is; see if there's enough reason for the Pentagon or the FBI to question him.” Kordus made a note to himself on his PDA to follow up with Defense and Justice. “This whole incident could have been invented by McLanahan to goad the Russians into attacking one of our planes. Then he can go on the campaign trail and complain that I'm not being tough enough on the Russians.”

“The campaign trail?” Secretary of State Barbeau exclaimed, looking up from her notes in surprise. “McLanahan? What's he running for, Mr. President?”

Gardner realized he had way outspoken himself, so he waved a hand dismissively at the videoconference camera. “I meant lecture circuit, Stacy,” he said. “But I wouldn't put it past him to do something crazy like that.” Judging by the blank expressions on their faces, many of the president's advisers obviously didn't agree, but no one said anything. The president turned their attention back to the holographic replay. “The bomber meets up with the tanker; they get jumped by
four
fighters from that carrier, and then one is taken out…
how
?”

“By one of those Thor's Hammer interceptor projectiles from a Kingfisher weapon garage,” Carlyle said.

“Direct hit, too,” General Bain said, a boyish grin on his face. “Blew that plane into pixie dust—
literally
. Obliterated by a guided rod of tungsten steel traveling at fifteen thousand miles an hour!”

“And who gave the order to launch one of those things?” the president asked. “You, General?”

Bain quickly wiped the smile off his face. “No, sir.”

“I know
I
certainly didn't! Miller?”

“The interim commander aboard Armstrong Space Station, a Major Jessica Faulkner, gave the order, sir,” Turner said.

“We may set an all-time world record for the number of persons whom I am going to shit-can, kick in the ass, or both!” the president thundered. “A
major
ordered the destruction of a Russian fighter, and it wasn't in self-defense? What's next—an airman one-striper is going to sink their aircraft carrier? I thought I ordered that those Thor's Hammer things not be used and be removed from orbit? Include the space-station personnel, Ann Page, and the Secretary of the Air Force in the incident investigation.”

“Undersecretary Page resigned her post, sir.”

“I don't care. I want her included in the investigation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What about the crew from that Vampire bomber, Miller?” Vice President Phoenix asked.

“Still listed as missing, sir,” the secretary of defense said. “The
Reagan
carrier group is heading west and launching a rescue mission as we speak.”

A phone buzzed, and Kordus picked it up, listened, then put the call on hold. “What the hell is it, Walter?” the president asked.

“President Truznyev of Russia on the line for you, sir.”

He motioned for everyone at the conference table to pick up their dead-extensions, then punched the “HOLD” button again.

“Put him on.”

A moment later: “Mr. President, this is President Truznyev, via an interpreter.”

“Hello, Mr. President. This is about the incident in the Gulf of Aden, I presume?”

“‘Incident'? Three Russian airmen are dead and one is missing,” Truznyev said. “In addition, several sailors were injured due to your bomber's provocative high-speed pass near our vessels, which also sustained some damage. This is more than just an ‘incident,' sir—it is an act of war!”

“What it is, Mr. President, is a terrible misunderstanding, a complete lack of communication, and the case of a bomber pilot who far exceeded her authority and performed in an extremely careless and reckless manner,” Gardner said. “But that doesn't excuse you sending four more jets out there and attacking the bomber and its tanker.”

“I understand that you would choose to forget about the Russian pilots killed by missiles launched from that very same bomber,” Truznyev said. “But I have another grave concern to ask you about, Mr. Gardner, and I hope you will be truthful with me, because tensions are already high in that region, and lying would only make matters worse.”

“Lying? Mr. President, I'm not in the habit of lying. What is it that—”

“It is our finding that one Russian airman was killed at the very same time that one of your space-based attack weapons was detected deorbiting in the same area,” Truznyev interjected. “We have not been able to extensively interview the surviving pilot yet, but it appears to us that an American space-launched interceptor weapon destroyed one of our planes. Is this true, sir?”

“Stand by, please, Mr. President,” Gardner said, hitting the “HOLD” button again. “Shit, he knows about the Hammer thing taking out one of his planes! How could he know that?”

“Russia operates space surveillance and intelligence-gathering sites from an island off the coast of Somalia, from India, and from ships that can be deployed anywhere, sir—they might even have one in their task force out in the Gulf of Aden,” Director of National Intelligence Gerald Vista said. “I'm sure they carefully track any of our spacecraft in range, especially the weapon garages.”

“Well, what the hell am I supposed to say now?”

“Mr. President, if you tell Truznyev that Major Faulkner acted without authorization,” Vice President Ken Phoenix said, “it'll appear as if the entire U.S. military is out of control.”

“It
does
look like it's out of control, Ken!” Gardner snapped.

“Colonel Cazzotta and Major Faulkner were doing their jobs, sir—Cazzotta had been ordered to inspect and report on the Russian fleet, and Major Faulkner was ordered to protect American interests with their space-based weapons.”

“I didn't tell the bomber pilot to race around the ships as if he—I mean
she
—was getting ready to attack them, just fly nearby and show the damned flag!” Gardner exclaimed. “And I ordered those Thor's Hammer things not to be used, and I was in the process of doing away with them.”

“Sir, I recommend you use this opportunity to challenge Truznyev,” Phoenix said. “This whole thing started when the Russians gave us permission to inspect their task force, then engaged the bomber offensively with radar and verbal challenges, acting as if they were ready to attack. If the Russians had simply allowed the plane to
fly by, none of this would have happened. It's not our airmen's fault they reacted aggressively—they were only doing their jobs.”

The president thought for a moment. Finally the expression of confusion and doubt lifted, and the rest of the president's national security team thought they were going to watch the commander in chief get tough with the Russians. Gardner hit the line button: “Mr. President, I…apologize for what has happened today,” he said. Most of the national security team looked as if they tensed all at once—even Barbeau's surprised expression on the video teleconference screen was evident. Ken Phoenix's expression was utterly blank. “The actions of the bomber crew were uncalled for and provocative at the very least, and were possibly a violation of orders punishable by a court-martial. As for the downing of one of your fighters…yes, sir, a weapon was fired from space by our Space Defense Force.”

“So you admit it.” Truznyev crowed. They could hear the Russian president's angry, incredulous voice in the background, even though the translator delivered it in his usual even monotone.