Test Pilot's Daughter II: Dead Reckoning (30 page)

“Roger that.” Christina didn’t waste a second. She grabbed the stick and hauled the shuttle back. In a couple of minutes she was there, and the target image looked like a tiny dot against the black cosmos.

“Okay, free and clear, range ten clicks.”

Udahl relayed orders. “A-okay. You have permission to blow the sty. I repeat, you are authorized to detonate at will.”

“Roger,” McCormic answered. “Goin’ in for the kill.” He armed the warhead and rotated the DROID 180 degrees so the explosive pack would face the target. “Watch the monitors; here we go.” He pressed the button firing the reverse thrusters. The rear video image expanded, and within a few inches of its target, the proximity fuse activated. There was a brilliant flash. In just an instant Soyuz 23 and its payload Jihad 1 were reduced to a cloud of glowing, stellar dust.

“Yeah baby!”
she cheered.
“Look at that. The damn thing is toast.” A roar went up inside the cabin, and she held her breath for impact. When there was no debris strike, she exhaled, thrilled with the success and relieved it was over. “That should make the planet a little safer,” she said swelling with pride.

“Mission accomplished,” McCormic reported on the downlink, cool as a cucumber. Christina’s elation was contagious. McCormic was as happy as a kid at the circus. He broke out in song, “Ain’t gonna fly no more, no more. . .she ain’t gonna fly no more.”

After a bit of celebration, she ordered everyone to get back to work. They had to reposition the shuttle to a lower orbit. Only a few hours before D-day there was a lot of DROID preparation yet to do.

For the next six hours, New Hope was maneuvered into its lowest possible orbit of 75 miles. Below that, re-entry would begin on its own. The two military specialists worked outside the shuttle, and Michael operated the robotic arm extracting rest of the DROIDs like a dentist pulling teeth. When he was done, there were two DROIDs on each side of the shuttle. Christina and McCormic practiced maneuvering in formation as it was most likely they would have to reposition when the time came.

The big day had come, December 25, and Santa Claus was on his way. The very thought of ICBMs for reindeer and a big bag of nukes for presents made Christina shiver with dread. Tension built among the crew as the expected time of enemy attack was only three hours away. It was a small step, but she felt fulfilled with the destruction of Jihad 1, and she was ready to fight. She called Udahl and checked in as code name, Defense Command-4.

“Ground control, this is DefCom4 fully armed and ready at your will. All assets locked and loaded.” She got on the intercom and talked to her crew, “Okay boys, you know the drill: hurry up and wait. Let’s try to relax. Looks like we got a couple of hours to think about what we need to do. Anybody know anything about nuclear war in space?”

A confluence of terrorists, technicians and Iranian officials gathered in the attack control complex located on the outskirts of Sari, the provincial capital of Mazandaran, in the north of
Iran
. Set between the northern slopes of the Alborz Mountains and the southern coast of the Caspian Sea, Sari was known as the entertainment and sports center of the Middle East. With a rich history, local caves showed evidence of ancient populations dating back some 78,000 years.

Ten Iranian missiles armed with nuclear warheads were deep underground in an area which had been disguised as a soccer field surrounded by a vast stadium seating 150,000. Packed with computers and consoles, the indoor sports complex hid the Iranian Republic Defense--IRD--control center. Some two-hundred specialists were busy preparing for Iran’s historic moment, nuclear Jihad on the West. It was the culmination of ten years of development and planning, and there was a buzz of excitement. Although each man knew he could be wiped out in a counterstrike, not one hand raised in objection. There was a great feeling of pride in serving Allah as a martyr. To die in a counterstrike was a good thing, the wish of every Jihadist to die in battle and take the Quranic shortcut to paradise.

Far from Iran in Somalia, in a special control room loaded with huge displays, Muzata al-Bolani addressed the Jihad leaders, the heads of Hesbolah, Hamas, Taliban and the new head of al-Qaida, all guests of the Somali government. Well known for its den of pirates, Somalia had become the center of terrorism in eastern Africa. Roni Simbabu, dictator of the region, was funded by hundreds of millions of dollars in ransom money collected from ships off the coast of Africa.

The Russian, Vatamir Golastiv, was also there with a direct link to strategic operation centers in Moscow. Two Russian ICBMs were committed to the attack, fueled and ready to launch, one destined for Hong Kong and one for Beijing. The Russian silos were hidden deep in Siberia and had never been disclosed to the Americans. The executive control center in Somalia had direct communications with all launch operations with some fifty flat-screens to show the action. ICR (Chinese), CBN (American), IRIB (Iranian) and TASS (Russian) satellite news agencies were on display so the Jihadists could weigh world reaction to the strike live on the air.

It was 2:30 a.m. in Somalia on December 26, 2:30 p.m. December 25 in Washington DC.
Merry Christmas!
Al-Bolani swelled with pride as he walked to the lectern. It was a big day for him, an even bigger day for Islam. If he was successful, he would make Osama bin Laden look like a schoolyard bully. After so many years of work, the time had come to rain down on the West and the East and smite the Infidels with a cataclysm of biblical proportion.

“Praise be to Allah, for all his blessings.”

“Praise Allah.”

“My friends, I know the hour is quite early, but we are only minutes from our epic moment in time. Finally, the prophesies of the Quran will be fulfilled,” he proclaimed. “The final Jihad will destroy American values and begin the spread of Islam across the world. Today we will make Christians and Jews, those who have been afraid to fight, bow to the sword and courage of our faith. No longer will they say the Muslim world is behind the times. We will show that we are part of the nuclear community, and that we know what to do with such power. Allah shall strike a terrible blow on the unbelievers this day.”

“But great one, the Infidels will surely return the blow,” a Tehranian official expressed concern for his family back home.

“Don’t be so sure. As soon as our missiles are launched, we will announce our alliance with our Soviet brothers. The Russian empire is a formidable weapon, three-thousand advanced, nuclear missiles ready to respond to any counterattack. The U.S. President, Gleason, is a coward. I have met him myself, and I can assure you he will back down. We will make it abundantly clear that there is only one way to save the rest of his country. In just one hour from now, we are launching five missiles toward the United States. Our friend, Vatamir, will trigger the launch of two more on China. Without the continuing support of the U.S., both Israel and Iraq will quickly submit to our conventional forces, preserving our mosques in the Holy Land.”

Without warning, a side door flew open, and a young currier ran to the podium holding out a printed message. There was an astonished hush in the room, all eyes on the young man. He whispered in the ear of the great leader, “Sir, evacuations are beginning in America, and we have radar reports of enemy aircraft entering Iranian airspace. Here. . .there is another message that Jihad-1 has been destroyed.”

Al Bolani froze in an ashen pale and turned his back to his audience. After a long uncomfortable pause, he turned around with a grim face and stared at each man wondering who had betrayed him. To a man they seemed to sense trouble shuffling in their seats. After a long pause, he finally spoke, “Our secrecy has been compromised. Our missiles will not have the precision guidance from Jihad-1. I’m afraid it has been destroyed.”

All those in attendance gasped in shock. The terrorist leaders were abuzz. Al Bolani held up his hand to quiet them.

“What will we do?” asked Raluf al-Sadr, supreme chief of Hezbollah.

“We will attack, of course. We will launch our missiles on schedule. They will make it to the United States on their own. We just cannot be sure exactly where they will fall.” He raised his voice, “We will still strike the West with this decisive blow! Nuclear hellfire will rain down all over our enemies!”

All the men in the room cheered. No one really cared about precision guidance. Nuclear mushrooms anywhere on U.S. soil would surely do the trick. Radiation alone would kill millions.

Golastiv pulled out his cell phone and called his contacts with the bad news. Al Bolani worried the finicky Russians might renege. After a few moments the man reported, “Our missiles will, none the less, be launched on schedule. And they will be accurately guided to Hong Kong and Beijing. Multiple-reentry vehicles will strike every target as programmed.”

Another cheer followed his remarks. Al Bolani tried to keep a stern and confident expression, but he felt a sudden cramp in his bowels. Folder in hand he clutched his stomach and ran out of the room.

* * *

President Gleason and Major General Conrad Pace were on Air Force One at 40,000 feet, flying large circles in a secret location. From that lofty perch, they would coordinate each level of defense. For the coming battle with Iran and Russia, Air Force One would play the key role of Central Command and Control.

A new type of warfare,
Gleason thought,
no ground soldiers, no artillery, no tanks, and no invasion.
It was an intercontinental space-war involving ballistic missiles, imaging satellites, Predator drones, orbital robots and nuclear warheads. Such a war might last only a few hours but had the potential to kill millions on both sides. The United States had spent hundreds of billions trying to perfect satellite imaging, anti-missile-missile shields, robotic aircraft and now, orbital DROIDs. But there was no guarantee. Each level of defense had its limitations, and in a large assault, some nukes might get through.

Proud of his left-leaning politics, Gleason was a war hater, a moralist, a true pacifist. People were fed up with war in the Middle East, and Andrew Gleason was voted in for
change.
He believed in diplomacy not war, and so far he had managed to avoid any serious conflicts or terrorist attacks. It was a dangerous time as nuclear weapons were falling into the hands of those more apt to use them. Opponents on the right complained he was playing a risky game, relying solely on defense to protect the country. On the other hand, he had a valid point: an aggressive, preemptive attack might unleash hundreds of ICBMs in both directions and trigger the unthinkable, a worldwide nuclear holocaust.

In the new millennium, it was an age of space warfare with no absolutes, no rules of engagement, no proven doctrines, and it would take brilliance, guts and superior technology to come out on top. But there was one thing that hadn’t changed. Good intelligence was the key to success, and for once the CIA came through with both the time of attack and the general locations of Russian and Iranian silos. Twenty-two spy satellites were trained on the areas of interest, and thirty-five drones hovered over northern Iran and western Siberia looking for aggressive, target signatures.

The unmanned drones, called Predators, had been perfected for modern warfare at a test range in China Lake, California. Over a decade of refinement had advanced the robotic aircraft from providing only imagery, to sophisticated and deadly weapons platforms. Operators could fly them from thousands of miles away, monitor the video, identify targets and launch any one of many types of missiles. While small radar signatures limited vulnerability to ground fire, they carried hundred-pound Hellfire missiles and the new, more versatile, five-pound, heat seeking Spikes.

Predator had been the weapon of choice to fight al-Qaida in Pakistan and Afghanistan, and a new generation had proven effective against pinpoint targets of opportunity. For the looming mission, each Predator was armed with two Hellfire missiles and ten Spikes, “shock and awe” against the ICBMs at launch. At close range they could take out just about anything. DROIDs in orbit and Predators at low altitudes represented the new face of robotic warfare. Because of the more warlike Presidents before him, Gleason was the only world leader armed with a stacked deck.

* * *

As they lay in wait for suborbital ICBMs, Christina was charged with the thrill of battle. The moment was drawing near, and the first objective was to establish strategic communications. New Hope, DefCom4, had a direct link to Major General Conrad Pace, Strategic Commander, and Vice President, Tom Bolten, the new Director of NASA. Udhal continued to act as liaison to keep communications with New Hope to a minimum. It was imperative that General Pace be able to talk directly with his DROID commander, as with all his other DefComs, and a hot link was established just one hour before Alpha-Bravo, the expected time of attack.

Chapter Nineteen