Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (117 page)

“What is it, Nikolai?”

“Sir, a report came in early this morning that said an Ilyushin-78 tanker aircraft was damaged at Yakutsk.”

Gryzlov's blood turned ice cold, and his eyes bugged out in shock.
“This morning!?”
he shouted.

“Sir, the message came in saying an aircraft was ‘damaged'—that's all,” Stepashin said excitedly. “The lieutenant who took the report asked to speak with the commanding general at the base. He did not get to speak with him because the commander was at the crash scene, but then the lieutenant forgot to follow up, thinking it was just a minor accident. He finally followed up a short time ago and reported in his log that
yefreytor
radio operators at Yakutsk confirmed the accident but said that it was minor and that investigators and commanders were investigating, but gave no other details except to insist that it was not a result of hostile action. However, we also learned that the base has been closed off all day. Day-shift workers were turned away supposedly because of a hazardous chemical spill, believed to be weapons-related but unconfirmed. I ordered a security team from Magadan to fly out via the fastest way available to investigate and report back to me at once.”

“Did
anyone
speak with the commanding general?”

“The operator said he was at the crash site, sir. That is highly unusual and not standard procedure, but—”

“It is not just unusual, Stepashin—
it is not the truth!
” Gryzlov shouted. “I don't know how, but McLanahan is there.”

“McLanahan?”
Stepashin had to consciously keep from rolling his eyes and snorting in disgust in front of the president of the Russian Federation and the Commonwealth of Independent States. “Sir, Yakutsk is a support base in the middle of Siberia. They have aerial-refueling tankers and a long runway, and that is all. Why would McLanahan shoot down a tanker over Siberia?”

“The answer is obvious, Stepashin—McLanahan knows that our bombers cannot strike America without tanker support, and Yakutsk was central to the plan,” Gryzlov said. He shook his head, his mind frantically calculating and plotting. “I underestimated McLanahan again, Stepashin. I believed he would use his stealth bombers and high-tech weapons to destroy our bomber bases. Instead he attacked Yakutsk. He knows that without the tankers we cannot mount another attack on the American mainland.”

Stepashin appeared relieved. “If it is true, sir, it was a daring attack,” he said warily, “but he drove his planes a very long way for nothing. We can ascertain very quickly if Yakutsk has been destroyed or if he simply shot down a few tankers. But he bypassed several more viable targets just to attack a relatively unimportant support base. The air base at Petropavlovsk was attacked but is still operational; our sub bases at Rybachiy and Vladivostok, our naval base at Magadan, and our air bases at Kavaznya and Anadyr are still fully operational. It was a pinprick, an irritation, nothing more. Even if he managed to destroy a number of tankers, we can reconstitute those lost forces quickly.”

“They may be just pinpricks to you, General, but McLanahan's attacks are targeted for a very specific purpose,” Gryzlov said. “He attacks radar sites and fighter airfields because that allows him to fly larger, less stealthy aircraft such as tankers and transports through our airspace. Besides, this is not like the army, where the loss of a few tanks or artillery pieces means little, General. Aerial-refueling tankers are force multipliers. A long-range bomber needs several of them to be effective. McLanahan knows that if he can destroy even a few tankers at just one key base, he degrades dozens, perhaps hundreds of bombers, fighters, reconnaissance, intelligence, and transport planes.” He paused, a thought still nagging at his head. “Get in contact immediately with the commanding general at Yakutsk, Nikolai. Something else is happening there, I know it.”

“I have a call in already, sir.” At that moment a phone rang, and Stepashin snatched it up. He listened for a moment.

And then Gryzlov saw the look of complete fear in Stepashin's face, and he knew that McLanahan's real plan was now finally going to reveal itself. “What happened, General?” Gryzlov growled.

“The security team I dispatched from Magadan Air Base overflew the tanker-crash site in a MiG-27, then overflew the base after receiving very confused and improper radio transmissions from the control tower at Yakutsk,” Stepashin said. “He reports seeing several American B-52 and B-1 bombers
taxiing around
on the field!”

“Taxiing at Yakutsk Air Base?”
Gryzlov shouted. His stunned expression quickly turned into one of disbelief, then to amazement and grudging respect. “Of course—it makes sense now,” he said. “His last safe refueling for his bombers has to be at least two thousand kilometers away, back over the Aleutians. He would not risk taking a large, unstealthy tanker across Siberia with his stealthy bombers. And although his bombers can easily make it back out to Alaska with one refueling, having a landing base inside Russia greatly expands his…his…”

Gryzlov stopped in midsentence, his mouth agape, and then he walked over to the wall chart of Russia, studying the territory around Yakutsk, measuring off distances with his fingers used as a plotter. “My God…it's brilliant,” he gasped. He paused, nodded, then said, “I want Yakutsk Air Base attacked at once,” Gryzlov said.

“Sir?”

“Attacked—destroyed if necessary,” Gryzlov said. “Every hangar, every meter of runway, every aircraft that doesn't look like a Russian aircraft must be destroyed at once. Use nuclear weapons if you have to.”

“You cannot be serious, sir!” Stepashin exploded. “You are ordering the use of nuclear weapons
on Russian soil?
”

“Don't you see, Stepashin?” Gryzlov asked. “McLanahan knows exactly what we based our entire attack strategy on—building a tanker base in Siberia allowed us to fly our bombers halfway around the world with impunity. Now McLanahan occupies that base! From Yakutsk he has an almost unlimited supply of jet fuel, from our own Siberian oil fields, and he is within unrefueled heavy-bomber range of
every military base in Russia!
” He pointed to the chart. “He has to be stopped before he can launch his attacks. I want you to order a cruise-missile barrage
into that base immediately. Do whatever it takes, but you must stop him from launching his bombers from Yakutsk! Give the order—
now!
”

A short time later

P
atrick's chest couldn't help but swell with pride as he watched his little air armada taxi for takeoff. Five EB-1C Vampires and four EB-52 Megafortress flying battleships, plus one KC-10 Extender aerial-refueling tanker, all lined up and getting ready for launch.

This would be a very impressive display of American firepower anywhere in the United States—but to think that they were getting ready to launch
from a Russian air base,
getting ready to
attack Russian missile sites,
was even more incredible. This mission was possible only because he had professional, hard-charging troops willing to sacrifice to make his plan happen. These aviators were the hardest-working, most dedicated men and women he had ever served with. He couldn't believe how privileged he was to be leading them.

“Got some updates being transmitted to you, sir,” Dave Luger radioed. “A few more SS-25s moved out of garrisoned positions in a real big hurry. We're thinking that maybe the Russians are starting to disperse more units.”

“Think they're on to us?”

“That would be my guess, Muck,” Luger said. “It may complicate targeting a bit more, but I think that the more they try to run and hide, they'll make it easier for us to find what they're hiding, because we already have several days' worth of comparison imagery—we'll see pretty quickly where they moved. We don't see any missiles being erected. Wish we had a better fix on the SS-24s. We're trying our best to pinpoint them, but no luck so far.”

“Keep trying, Dave,” Patrick responded. “We'll just plan on hitting the known garrisons and presurveyed launch points and hope we get lucky. Send a message to the load crews and get an update on when they'll be loaded up and ready to get out.”

“Just did that, Muck,” Dave responded. “By the time your guys start launching their first missiles, the MC-17s should be in the air.”

“I want them off the ground right away,” Patrick said. “Have them abandon all but the classified equipment—they can leave all the bomb
jammers, test equipment, power carts, tools, and anything else that won't reveal important info on our bombers. I want them airborne right behind us.”

“I'll pass the word, sir,” Luger said.

Because they had the longest distance to fly, Bobcat Two-three and Two-four were the first in line to launch, followed by the first Dragon airborne-laser aircraft, Bobcat Three-one, which had to have repairs done on the ground; the other Dragon, Bobcat Three-two, was already airborne, flying cover over the base, along with one Megafortress and one Vampire. The KC-10 was next, to replace the other KC-10 already airborne to refuel the three planes guarding the base; once the second tanker was airborne, the first tanker would land, refuel, pick up the last of the crew chiefs and ground technicians, and fly out to a refueling track five hundred miles south of Yakutsk to await the returning bombers. Patrick was next, in Bobcat One-one, followed by the rest of the Megafortresses and finally the rest of the Vampires.

So far everything looked good. Every plane but one taxied out on schedule; the straggler, Bobcat One-four, began taxiing once all the others departed, after being swarmed by a dozen maintenance techs. If there were any more maintenance glitches, no one was reporting them. Everything was being done on a strict timetable, so there were no required radio calls unless—

“Bobcat, Bobcat, this is Three-two, missiles inbound, missiles inbound!”
the mission commander of the AL-52 Dragon shouted on the command channel. “We're picking up numerous high-speed missiles coming in from three different directions, very high altitude. We count at least six flights so far. First missile impacts in
three minutes!
”

“All Bobcat forces, all Bobcat forces, launch without delay!” Patrick ordered. “Take ten-second spacing, fan out after liftoff.
Move! Move!
”

The first two EB-1C Vampire bombers were off within seconds—they had already lined up on the runway and were about to begin their takeoff roll. The AL-52 Dragon took much longer than expected, but soon it was rolling down the runway, with the KC-10 right behind it, almost obscured in the Dragon's dark engine exhaust.

“Go, Summer,
go!
” Patrick shouted to his aircraft commander. “Get right behind the tanker! Go!” When Summer actually pulled the throttles back to make the turn onto the runway, Patrick shoved the throttles to full military power himself. The tight turn made the wheels slip and
skid on the ungrooved pavement, and it felt as if O'Dea might not be able to hold it, but she finally got it lined up on the runway by the time the engines spooled up to full power.

“Dave, Yakutsk is under attack!” Patrick said over his subcutaneous transceiver. “Get the MC-17s airborne
now!
”

“General…” Luger hesitated, then went on. “Sir, there's no way. They weren't even halfway from loading up all the personnel—they haven't even started engines. I directed them to get into shelters.”

“Damn it, Dave,
no!
”

“It's the only chance they have, Patrick,” Luger said, the anguish painfully evident in his voice. “I…I had to make a decision. There are plenty of underground shelters there—it's the only chance they have,” he repeated.

Patrick cursed into his oxygen visor, but there was nothing he could do except watch his supercockpit display as the battle began to unfold.

The incoming missiles were all visible, and now, as Patrick watched, the launch aircraft also became visible: The AL-52 Dragon already airborne over Yakutsk had locked on to one of them with the laser's adaptive optics, so he could see an image of a group of two flights, each with four Tupolev-160 Blackjack supersonic bombers, flying at very high altitude from the south, firing supersonic missiles; another group of three flights of four Blackjacks coming in from the southwest, launching more missiles; and a group of two flights of six Tupolev-22M Backfire bombers coming in supersonic from the west-southwest.

There were several hypersonic cruise missiles inbound as well; Patrick couldn't see on his display where they were launched from, but now it didn't matter—they were going to hit in just a few seconds, unless the anti-ballistic-missile weapons on board his Dragons and Vampires could stop them.

Gryzlov was launching everything he had at Yakutsk, in the final showdown between American and Russian bombers.

The Dragon engaged the oncoming missiles from maximum range. At first it engaged the hypersonic cruise missiles heading toward Yakutsk itself, shooting down several of them right away, but then it directed its firepower toward other supersonic missiles being fired by the Backfires—because their target was not Yakutsk, but the AL-52 Dragon itself. The Vampire crew guarding Yakutsk launched four long-range
AIM-154 Anaconda missiles, two at Russian cruise missiles and finally two at the Backfire bombers. The Megafortress bomber on guard launched a stream of AIM-120 Scorpion missiles.

But they weren't fast enough to catch the mass of AS-17 Krypton missiles fired by the Backfire bombers. Three missiles simultaneously hit the Dragon, sending it crashing in flames to the Siberian tundra.

The two Vampires that had launched from Yakutsk engaged the Backfire bombers with Scorpion missiles, downing the remainder of the bombers from the first flight and two from the second flight. But the Megafortress bomber that was already airborne had quickly expended its supply of defensive missiles, and when it turned to escape the area, it was hit by two AS-17 missiles and exploded in a tremendous cloud of fire. The Vampires avenged it by downing the remaining four Backfire bombers from long range with Scorpion missiles.