PROLOGUE
Outside al-Amadiyah, Dahuk province, Republic of Iraq
Spring 2010
The dilok, or traditional wedding celebration, had been going on now for several hours, but no one appeared to be tired in the least. Men were dancing on large defs, or frame drums, and tap-dancing to folk music performed with amplified zurna and temburs, while the other guests cheered them on.
Outside, it was a warm, dry, clear evening. Knots of men stood in groups here and there, smoking and drinking small cups of thick coffee. Women and older girls in colorful dresses and scarves carried trays of food to them, helped by sons or younger brothers carrying flashlights.
After serving the men outside the wedding reception, a woman carried a tray down the road beyond the lights, her ten year-old son leading the way, to two Toyota pickup trucks semi-hidden in the trees, one on each side of the road leading to the farm. The boy shined the flashlight at the pickup truck to his left, right into the eyes of his older brother. "Alslam ylikm! Caught you sleeping again!" he shouted.
"I was not!" the brother retorted, much louder than he intended.
"Hani, don't do that-now your brother will not be able to see in the darkness for some time," the boy's mother scolded him. "Go give your brother some treats and tell him you're sorry. Come, Mazen, I have more coffee for you."
The husband set his AK-47 aside on the truck's front bumper and gratefully accepted the treats. He was dressed for the celebration, not for guard duty. "You're a good woman, Zilar," the man said. "But next time, send your lazy brother out here to do the work for you. It was his idea to place guards outside the reception." He could sense her pained expression. "I see. He is busy recruiting again, no? His own daughter's wedding and he can't stop?"
"He feels very strongly..."
"I know, I know," the husband interrupted, gently placing a hand on his wife's cheek to reassure her. "He is a patriotic and committed Kurdish nationalist. Good for him. But he knows the militias, police, and military monitor such events, take photographs from unmanned aircraft, use sensitive microphones, and tap telephones-why does he continue? He risks too much."
"Nevertheless, I thank you again for agreeing to take a shift out here for security," his wife said, taking his hand from her face and kissing it. "It makes him feel better."
"I haven't picked up a rifle in years since I left the Peshmerga militias in Kirkuk-I find myself checking the safety every three seconds."
"Oh, do you, my husband?" The woman stepped towards the AK-47 leaning against the bumper and examined it with her fingers.
"Ah, lą, tell me I didn't..."
"You did." She flicked the safety lever back up to "SAFE."
"I'm glad your brothers aren't around to see you do that," her husband said. "Perhaps I need more lessons from a former High Commune of Women commander."
"I have a family to raise and a house to take care of-I put in my time in the Kurdistan independence movement. Let the younger women do some fighting for a change."
"You can place any younger woman to shame-on the rifle range, and in bed."
"Oh, and how would you know about the skills of younger women?" she asked playfully. She placed the weapon back down and approached her husband, swaying her hips seductively. "I have many more lessons I'd prefer to give you, husband." He gave her a kiss. "Now, how much longer are you going to keep my oldest son out here?"
"Not long. Maybe another hour." He nodded towards his son, who was busy fending his younger brother away from the few remaining baklava on the tray. "It's nice to be out here with Neaz. He takes this task very seriously. He..." The man stopped because he thought he heard an approaching bicycle or small scooter, a sort of quiet hushing sound that indicated speed but not power. There were no lights on the road or highway beyond. He frowned, then placed his coffee cup in his wife's hand. "Take Hani back to the community center."
"What is it?"
"Probably nothing." He looked down the dirt road again and saw no sign of any movement-no birds, no rustling trees. "Tell your brother I'm going to roam around a bit. I'll tell the others." He kissed his wife on the cheek, then went to retrieve his AK-47. "I'll be ready to come in after I get..."
Out of the corner of an eye, high above to the west, he spotted it: a brief spurt of yellow light, not solid like a searchlight but flickering like a torch. Why he did it, he wasn't sure, but he pushed his wife aside, into the trees beside the gate. "Get down!" he shouted. "Stay down! Stay...!"
Suddenly the ground vibrated as if a thousand horses were stampeding right beside them. His face, eyes, and throat were choked by clouds of dust and dirt that appeared from nowhere, and rocks were thrown in every direction. The wife screamed as she saw her husband literally disintegrate into chunks of human flesh. The pickup truck was similarly chewed apart before the gas tank ruptured, sending a massive fireball into the sky.
Then, she heard it-a horrible sound, impossibly loud, lasting only a fraction of a second: it was like a giant growling animal standing over her, like a house-sized chain saw. The sound was followed moments later by the loud whoosh of a jet plane flying overhead, so low that she thought it could be landing on the dirt road.
In the space of just a few heartbeats, her husband and two sons were dead before her eyes. Somehow the woman got to her feet and ran back towards the wedding reception, thinking of nothing else but warning the other members of her family to flee for their lives.
*****
"Lead is clear," the lead pilot of the three-ship A-10 Thunderbolt II bomber radioed. He pulled up sharply to make sure he was well clear of the other aircraft and the terrain. "Two, cleared in hot."
"Good pass, lead," the pilot of the second A-10 Thunderbolt radioed. "Two's in hot." He checked the AGM-65G Maverick missile's forward-looking infrared video display, which clearly showed the two pickup trucks at the end of the road, one burning and the other still intact, and lined up on the second pickup with a gentle touch of his control stick. His A-10 was not modified with a dedicated infrared sensor pod, but the "poor man's FLIR" video from the Maverick missile did the job nicely.
Nighttime cannon runs were not normally advisable, especially in such hilly terrain, but what pilot would not take the risk for a chance to fire the incredible GAU-8A Avenger cannon, a 30-millimeter Gatling gun that fired huge depleted uranium shells at almost four thousand rounds per minute? Besides, with the first target burning nicely, it was easy to see the next target now.
When the Maverick aiming reticle showed thirty degrees depression, the pilot dropped his plane's nose, made a final adjustment, announced "Guns, guns, guns!" on the radio, and pulled the trigger. The roar of that big cannon firing between his legs was the most incredible feeling. In a single three-second spurt, almost two hundred huge shells flew to their target. The pilot centered the first second's worth on the pickup, covering it with fifty shells and causing yet another spectacular explosion, and then raised the A-10's nose to let the remaining one hundred and thirty shells stitch up along the road towards a fleeing terrorist target.
Careful not to get target fixated, and very aware of the surrounding terrain, he pulled up sharply and vectored right to climb to his assigned altitude. The maneuverability of the American-made A-10 was amazing-it did not deserve its unofficial nickname of "Warthog." "Two's clear. Three, cleared in hot."
"Three's in hot," the pilot of the third A-10 in the formation responded. He was the least experienced pilot in the four-ship formation, so he was not going to do a cannon pass...but it was going to be just as exciting.
He centered the target-a large garage beside a house-in his Maverick missile aiming screen, pressed the "LOCK" button on his throttle quadrant, said "Rifle one" on the radio, turned his head right to avoid the glare of the missile's motor, and pressed the "LAUNCH" button on his control stick. An AGM-65G Maverick missile flew off the launch rail on the left wing and quickly disappeared from view. He selected a second missile, moved the aiming reticle to the second target-the house itself-and fired a Maverick from the right wing. He was rewarded seconds later with two bright explosions.
"Lead has a visual, looks like two direct hits."
"Three's clear," he radioed as he climbed and turned towards his planned rendezvous anchor. "Four, cleared in hot."
"Four copies, going in hot," the fourth A-10 pilot acknowledged. His was possibly the least exciting attack profile and one that normally were not even performed by the A-10, but the A-10s were the new members of the fleet, and their full capabilities had yet to be explored.
The routine was far simpler than his wingmen: stores control switches set to stations four and eight; follow the GPS navigation cues to the release point; master arming switch to "ARM"; and press the release button on the control stick at the preplanned release point. Two one thousand pound GBU-32 GPS-guided bombs dropped into the night sky. The pilot didn't have to lock anything on or risk diving towards the terrain: the guidance kits on the weapons used GPS satellite navigation signals to guide the bombs to their target, a large building near the farm that was advertised as a "community center" but intelligence sources insisted it was a major gathering and recruiting spot for PKK terrorists.
Well, not any more. Two direct hits obliterated the building, creating one massive crater over fifty feet in diameter. Even flying at fifteen thousand feet above ground, the A-10 was rocked by the twin explosions. "Four's clear. Weapon panel safe and clear."
"Two good infilaks," the lead pilot radioed. He didn't see any secondary explosions, but the terrorists may have moved the large cache of weapons and explosions reportedly being stored in the building. "Muhtesem! Good job, Thunderbolts. Check arming switches safe, and don't forget to turn off ECM and turn on transponders at the border or we'll be sweeping you up in the wreckage like they'll be doing with those PKK scum back there. See you in the rendezvous anchor."
Minutes later, all four A-10 Thunderbolts, newly acquired warplanes of the Turkish Air Force, were safely back across the border. Another successful anti-terrorist mission against the rebels hiding out in Iraq.
*****
The woman, Zilar Azzawi, groaned in agony as she awoke a short time later. Her left hand was in terrible pain, as if she had broken a finger or thumb when she fell...and then she realized with shock that her left hand was gone, severed off at mid-forearm. Whatever had killed her husband and sons and destroyed the truck had almost succeeded in killing her. Her PKK commando training took over, and she managed to tie a strip of cloth from her dress around her arm as a tourniquet to stop the bleeding.
The entire area around her was in flames, and she had no choice but to stay where she was, on the side of the road, until she could get her bearings. All around her except this little patch of dirt road was burning, and she had lost so much blood that she didn't think she could go very far even if she did know which way to go.
Everything and everyone was gone, utterly blasted away-the buildings, wedding reception, all the guests, the children...my God, the children, her children...!
Azzawi was helpless now, hoping just to stay alive...
"But God, if you let me live," she said aloud over the sounds of death and destruction around her, "I will find the ones responsible for this attack, and I will use all of my powers to raise an army and destroy them. My previous life is over-they have taken my family from me with brutal indifference. With your blessing, God, my new life shall begin right now, and I will avenge all those who died here tonight."
Approaching Jandarma Public Order Commando Base, Diyarbakir, Republic of Turkey
Summer 2010
"Canak Two-Seven, Diyarbakir Tower, winds three-zero-zero at eight knots, ceiling one thousand overcast, visibility five in light rain, runway three-five, cleared for the ILS approach normal category, security status is green."
The pilot of the American-made KC-135R tanker/cargo plane acknowledged the call, then clicked on the passenger address system: "We will be landing shortly. Please return to your seats, be sure your seats belts are secure, stow your tray tables, and put away all carry-on items. Teshenkyur ehdem. Thank you." He then turned to the boom operator/flight engineer seated behind the copilot and shouted cross-cockpit, "Go see if he wants to come up for the landing, Master Sergeant." The engineer nodded, took off his headset, and headed aft to the cargo compartment.
Although the KC-135R was primarily an aerial refueling plane, it was frequently used for both hauling cargo and carrying passengers. The cargo was in the forward part of the cavernous interior--in this case, four pallets filled with crates, secured with nylon netting. Behind the pallets were two 12-person centerline economy-type passenger seat pallets bolted to the floor, with the occupants facing backwards. The ride was noisy, smelly, dark, and uncomfortable, but valuable force-multiplying planes such as this were rarely allowed to fly unless fully loaded.
The crew engineer squeezed around the cargo and approached a napping passenger seated at the end of the first row on the port side. The man had longish and rather tousled hair, several days' worth of whiskers, and wore rather common street clothes even though anyone traveling in military aircraft either had to wear a uniform or business attire. The engineer stood before the man and lightly touched his shoulder. When the man awoke, the master sergeant motioned to him, and he stood and followed the master sergeant to a space between the pallets. "Sorry to bother you, sir," the boom operator said after the passenger had removed the yellow soft foam earplugs that everyone wore to protect their hearing from the noise, "but the pilot asked to see if you wanted to sit in the cockpit for the approach and landing."
"Is that a normal procedure, Master Sergeant?" the passenger, General Besir Ozek, asked. Ozek was commander of the Jandarma Genel Komutanlığı, or Turkish national paramilitary forces, a combination of national police force, border patrol, and national guard. As a trained commando as well as commander of the paramilitary unit charged with internal security, Ozek was authorized to wear longer hair and whiskers to better slip in and out of undercover roles and more unobtrusively observe others around him.
"No, sir," the boom operator replied. "No one is allowed in the cockpit that is not on the flight crew. But..."
"I asked that I not be singled out on this flight, Master Sergeant--I thought that was plain to everyone on the crew," Ozek said. "I wish to remain as inconspicuous as possible on this trip--that is why I chose to sit in the back with the other passengers."
"Sorry, sir," the boom operator said.
Ozek looked around the cargo pallets and noticed several passengers turning around to look to see what was going on. "Well, I suppose it's too late now, isn't it?" he said. "Let's go." The boom operator nodded and escorted the general to the cockpit, thankful he didn't have to explain to the aircraft commander why the general didn't accept his invitation.
It had been many years since he had been inside a KC-135R Stratotanker refueling aircraft, and the cockpit seemed a lot more cramped, noisy, and smelly than he remembered. Ozek was a veteran infantryman, and didn't care to understand what attracted men to aviation. An airman's life was subject to forces and laws that no one saw or fully comprehended, and that's not the way he ever wanted to live. The re-engined KC-135R was a good plane, but the airframe had been around for over fifty years now-this one was relatively young at only 45 years-and it was starting to show its age.
Yet aviation seemed to be all the rage in the Republic of Turkey these days. His country had just taken possession of dozens of surplus tactical fighters and bombers from the United States: the much-loved F-16 Fighting Falcon fighter-bomber, which was also license-built in Turkey; the A-10 Thunderbolt close air support attack plane, nicknamed the "Warthog" because of its ungainly, utilitarian appearance; the AH-1 Cobra helicopter gunship; and the F-15 Eagle air superiority jet fighter. Turkey was well on its way in becoming a world-class regional military power, thanks to the United States' desire to relieve itself of battle-tested but aging hardware.
The boom operator handed the general a headset and motioned to the flight instructor's seat between the two pilots. "I know you didn't want to be disturbed, General," the pilot said over the intercom, "but the seat was open and I thought you'd enjoy the view."
"Of course," Ozek responded simply, making a note to himself to have the pilot removed from the service when he got back to headquarters--there were plenty of men and women who knew how to follow orders waiting to fly tankers in the Turkish Air Force. "What is the security status at the airport?"
"Green, sir," the pilot reported. "Unchanged for more than a month."
"The last PKK activity in the area was only twenty-four days ago, Captain," Ozek said irritably. The PKK, or Partiya Karkerên Kurdistan, or Kurdistan Workers Party, was an outlawed Marxist military organization that sought the formation of a separate state of Kurdistan, formed from parts of southeast Turkey, northern Iraq, northeast Syria, and northwest Iran, all of which had Kurdish ethnic majorities. The PKK used terrorism and violence, even against large military bases and well-defended places such as civilian airports, to try to keep itself in the public eye and pressure the individual states to work out a solution. "We must remain vigilant at all times."
"Yes, sir," the pilot acknowledged in a hushed voice.
"You are not performing a maximum-performance approach, Captain?"
"Uh...no, sir," the pilot responded. "The security condition is ‘green,' the ceiling and visibility are low, and the tower advised that we are cleared for a normal category approach." He swallowed, then added, "And I did not want to upset you or the other passengers with a max-performance descent."
Ozek was going to berate this young idiot pilot, but they had already commenced the instrument approach, and things would get very busy here shortly. Maximum-performance takeoffs and approaches were designed to minimize time in the lethal envelope of shoulder-fired anti-aircraft weapons. The PKK used Russian-made SA-7 and SA-14 missiles against Turkish government aircraft on occasion.
However, the probability of such an attack today was small. The ceiling and visibility were fairly low, which restricted the time available for a gunner to attack. Also, most attacks occurred against large helicopters or larger fixed-wing aircraft during takeoff phase of flight because the heat signature that the missiles locked onto was much brighter--during approach the engines were running at lower power settings and were relatively cooler, which meant the missiles had a harder time locking on and could be jammed or decoyed easier.
The pilot was playing the odds, which Ozek disliked--especially because he did it just to try to impress a senior officer--but they were in the soup now, and breaking the approach off now, close to mountains in bad weather, was not an ideal situation. Ozek sat back and crossed his arms on his chest, making his anger apparent. "Continue, Captain," he said simply.
"Yes, sir," the pilot responded, relieved. "Copilot, before glideslope intercept checklist, please." To his credit, Ozek thought, he was a good aircraft commander--he would be a good addition to some airline's crew complement, because he wasn't going to be in the Turkish Air Force for very long.
His lackadaisical attitude was unfortunately more and more prevalent in the military these days as the conflict between the Turkish government and the Kurds continued to morph. The Kurdistan Worker's Party, or PKK, had changed its name to PAG, or the Congress for Freedom and Democracy, and avoided using the term "Kurdistan" in its literature and speeches in an effort to try to appeal to a wider audience. These days, they held rallies and published papers advocating more human right laws to ease the suffering of all oppressed persons in the world, rather than advocating armed struggle solely for a separate Kurdish state.
But that was a ruse. The PKK was stronger, wealthier, and more aggressive than ever. Because of the U.S. invasion and destruction of Saddam Hussein's rule in Iraq, as well as the civil war in Iran, the Kurdish insurgents fearlessly staged cross-border raids into Turkey, Iraq, Iran, and Syria from numerous safe camps, hoping to capitalize on the Chaos and confusion and establish a strong base in each nation. Every time Turkish forces would respond, they would be accused of genocide, and the politicians in Ankara would order the military to stop pursuit.
This only emboldened the PKK. The latest travesty: the emergence of a female terrorist leader. No one knew her real name; she was known as Baz, or "The Hawk" in Arabic, because of her ability to strike quickly and unexpectedly but seemingly fly away and escape her pursuers so easily. Her emergence as a major rallying force for Kurdish independence, and the Turkish and Iraqi governments' lackadaisical response to her call for bloody war, was disturbing to the Jandarma general.
"Coming up on glideslope intercept," the copilot said.
"Gear down," the pilot said.
"Here it comes," the copilot responded, and he reached over to just above the pilot's right knee and moved the round landing gear actuator switch to the "DOWN" position. "Gear in transit...three green, no yellow, press-to-test pump light checks, gear is down and locked."
The pilot took his eyes off the horizontal situation indicator just long enough to visually check the gear lights and push to press-to-test "GEAR HYD" light. "Checks, gear is down and locked."
"On course, on glide slope," the copilot said. "Two thousand feet to decision height." The copilot reached across and discreetly tapped his airspeed indicator, a silent warning for the pilot that his airspeed had dropped a bit--with a general in the cockpit, he didn't want to purposely highlight even the tiniest mistake. Their speed had dropped only five knots, but tiny errors seemed to snowball on an instrument approach, and it was better to catch and correct them right away rather than let them create bigger problems later.
"Tesekkur ederim," the pilot responded, acknowledging the catch. A simple "Roger" meant the pilot found his own mistake, but a "thank you" meant the copilot made a good call. "One thousand to go."
Filtered sunlight began to stream into the cockpit windows, followed moments later by sunlight filtered through widely scattered clouds. Ozek looked out and saw they were dead centered on the runway, and the visual approach lights indicated they were on glide slope. "Runway in sight," the copilot announced. The ILS needles began to dance a bit, which meant the pilot was peeking out the window at the runway instead of watching his horizontal situation indicator. "Continue the approach."
"Thank you." Another good catch. "Five hundred to decision height. Stand by on the ‘BEFORE LANDING' checklist and..."
Ozek, focusing out the window and not on the gauges, saw it first: a white curling line of smoke coming from a street intersection ahead and off to the left, inside the airport perimeter fence, heading straight for them! "Strela!" Ozek shouted, using the Russian nickname, "Star," for the SA-7 shoulder-fired missile. "Break right, now!"
To his credit, the pilot did exactly as Ozek ordered: he immediately jammed the control wheel hard right and shoved all four throttles up to full military power. But he was far, far too late. Ozek knew they had just one chance now: that it was indeed an SA-7 missile and not the newer SA-14, because the older missile needed a bright hot "dot" to home in on, while the SA-14 could track any source of heat, even sunlight reflecting off a canopy.
In the blink of an eye, the missile was gone--it had missed the left wing by scant meters. But there was something else wrong. A horn blared in the cockpit; the pilot was trying desperately to turn the KC-135 to the left to straighten it out and perhaps even line up on the runway again, but the plane was not responding--the left wing was still high in the sky and there was not enough aileron authority to lower it. Even with the engines at full throttle, they were in a full stall, threatening to turn into a spin at any moment.
"What are you doing, Captain?" Ozek shouted. "Get the nose down and level the wings!"
"I can't get turned around!" he cried.
"We can't make the runway--level the wings and find a place to crash-land!" Ozek said. He looked out the copilot's window and saw the soccer field. "There! The football field! That's your landing spot!"
"I can fly it out! I can do it...!"
"No you can't--it's too late!" Ozek shouted. "Get the nose down and make for the football field or we're all going to die!"
The rest happened in less than five seconds, but Ozek watched it as if in slow-motion. Instead of trying to wrestle the stalled tanker back up into the sky, the pilot released back pressure on the controls. As soon as he did, and with the engines at full military power, the ailerons immediately responded, and the pilot was able to bring the plane wings-level. With the nose low, airspeed built up rapidly, and the pilot had enough smash to raise the nose almost into a landing attitude. He pulled the throttles to idle, then to "CUTOFF," moments before the big tanker hit the ground.
Ozek was thrown forward almost into the center console, but his shoulder and lap belts held, and he ruefully thought that he had felt harder landings before....and then the nose gear slammed down, and the Turkish general felt as if he had been snapped completely in half. The nose gear collapsed, and mud and turf smashed through the windscreen like a tidal wave. They plowed through a soccer goal, then crashed through a fence and a few garages and storage buildings before coming to a stop against the base gymnasium.
White Sands Missile Test Range, New Mexico
The next morning
"Masters Two-Two, this is White Sands," the portable radio squawked to life, splitting the still early morning air, "you are cleared for takeoff, runway one-zero, winds calm, altimeter two-niner-niner-seven. Threat condition Red, repeat, Red, read back."
"Roger, Masters Two-Two copies, cleared for takeoff, runway one-zero, threat condition Red."
A large, rather strange-looking aircraft spooled up its engines and prepared to take the active runway. It somewhat resembled a B-2 Spirit "flying wing" stealth bomber, but it was vastly more bulbous than the intercontinental bomber, suggesting a far larger payload capacity. Instead of the engines imbedded inside the fuselage, the aircraft had three engines mounted atop the rear of the fuselage on short pylons.
As the weird "winged guppy" aircraft taxied across the hold line onto the active runway, about a mile to the west a man wearing a cloth cap, balaclava, a thick protective green jacket, and heavy gloves lifted a MANPADS, or Man-Portable Air Defense System, launcher onto his right shoulder. He first inserted a vegetable can-sized device into the bottom of the launcher, which provided argon gas coolant for the infrared seeker and battery power for the device.
"Allah akbar, allah akbar," the man intoned in a quiet voice. He then got to his feet and aimed the weapon east towards the gradually increasing sound of the aircraft's engines spooling up for takeoff. It was not yet light enough to see the plane from that distance, so the missileer lowered a pair of night vision goggles over his eyes, carefully adjusting his head position so he could still aim the MANPADS through its mechanical sights. He activated the weapon by pressing and releasing the integrated safety and actuator lever. He could hear the gyros spinning up in the missile's guidance section even over the noise of the airliner rumbling across the desert.
As soon as he centered the sights on the green and white image of the retreating jetliner, he heard a low growling sound in his headphones, indicating that the MANPADS's infrared sensor had just locked onto the jetliner's engine exhausts. He then pressed and held the "UNCAGE" lever, and the acquisition tone got louder, telling him that the missile was tracking a good target.
He waited until the aircraft was airborne, since if he hit it while still on the ground the crew could probably stop the plane safely on the runway and put the fire out quickly, minimizing loss. The most vulnerable time was five seconds after liftoff, because the plane was accelerating slowly and its landing gear were in transit--if it lost an engine, the crew would have to react swiftly and precisely to avoid a catastrophe.
Now it was time. He whispered another "Allah akbar," super-elevated the launcher so that the target was on the lower left corner of the mechanical sights, held his breath to avoid inhaling any missile exhaust, then squeezed the trigger.
The small ejection motor fired the missile out of the barrel about thirty feet into the air. Just as the missile began to fall, its first-stage solid rocket motor fired, and the missile headed for its target, with the sensor solidly locked on. Then, just as the missileer lowered the MANPADS and watched the engagement with glee, an instant later through his night-vision goggles he saw the missile explode in a cloud of fire. "Allah friggin' akbar," he muttered. "That was cool."
But the counterattack wasn't over yet. As soon as the sound of the explosion reached him a second later, the missileer suddenly felt an intense burning sensation all throughout his body. He threw the spent launcher onto the ground, confused and disoriented. It felt as if his entire body had suddenly burst into flames. He dropped to the ground, hoping to extinguish the flames by rolling on the ground, but the heat got more intense by the second. He could do nothing but curl into a protective ball and cover his eyes, hoping to avoid being blinded or burnt alive. He screamed as the flames spread, engulfing him...
"Whoa, boss, what happened?" he heard a voice say in his headphones. "Are you okay? We're on the way. Hold on!"
The man found his chest heaving and his heart pounding with the sudden surge of adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream, and he found it hard to speak for several moments...but the severe burning sensation had suddenly stopped. Finally, he got up and dusted himself off. There was no evidence whatsoever that anything had happened to him except for the awful memory of that intense pain. "No...well, maybe...well, yes," the missileer, Dr. Jonathan Colin Masters, replied shakily. "Maybe a little."
Jon Masters had just turned fifty years of age, but he still and probably forever looked like a teenager with his thin features, big ears, gangly expression and body movements, crooked grin, and naturally tousled brown hair under his headset. He was the chief operations officer of a small defense research and development company he founded called Sky Masters Inc. that for the past twenty years had been developing the absolute cutting-edge aviation, satellite, weapons, sensors, and advanced materials technology for the United States.
Although he no longer owned the company that still bore his name-a board of directors, led by his ex-wife and business partner Helen Kaddiri, and the company's young president, Dr. Kelsey Duffield, ran company affairs now-and Jon was rich enough to travel the world for the rest of his life if he chose, he enjoyed spending time either in the lab designing new gadgets or out in the field testing them. No one really knew if the board of directors allowed him to do things like fire live MANPADS missiles or stay out on the missile range during a test just to humor him...or because they were hoping he'd get dusted by his own inventions, something that had nearly happened many times over the years.
Several Humvees and support vehicles-including an ambulance, just in case-rolled up to Jon, illuminating him with headlights and spotlights. A man jumped out of the first Humvee on the scene and ran over to Masters. "You okay, Jon?" asked Hunter "Boomer" Noble. Boomer was the twenty-five year-old vice president in charge of air weapon development for Sky Masters Inc. Formerly a U.S. Air Force test pilot, engineer, and astronaut, Boomer once had the enviable job of designing exotic aircraft spacecraft systems and then being able to fly the finished product himself. Flying the revolutionary XR-A9 Black Stallion single-stage-to-orbit spaceplane, Boomer had been in orbit more times in the past two years than the rest of the American astronaut corps combined had been in the past ten years. "Jeez, you gave us a scare back there!"
"I told you, I'm fine," Jon said, grateful that his voice didn't sound as shaky now as it did a few minutes earlier. "I guess we dialed the emitter power up a little too high, eh, Boomer?"
"I set it to the lowest power setting, boss, and I checked and double-checked it," Boomer said. "You were probably too close. The laser has a fifty-mile range-you were less than two when you got hit. Probably not a good idea to star in your own tests, boss."
"Thanks for the advice, Boomer," Jon replied weakly, hoping no one would notice his shaking hands. "Great going, Boomer. I'd say the Slingshot automatic counter-missile weapon test was a complete success."
"So would I, Boomer," another voice behind him said. Two men approached from another Humvee, wearing business suits, long dark coats, and gloves to ward off the early morning chill. They were followed by two more men, similarly dressed, but their coats were open...which made it easier for them to get at the automatic weapons slung on harnesses underneath. The man with the longish salt-and-pepper hair and goatee shook his finger at Jon and continued: "You almost succeeded in killing yourself, Jon...again."
"Nah...it went exactly as planned, Mr. President," Jon responded.
The man, former President of the United States Kevin Martindale, rolled his eyes in disbelief. A Washington establishment figure for decades, Kevin Martindale served six terms in Congress, two terms as vice president, and one term as president before being voted out of office; he then became only the second man in the history of the United States to be voted back into office after previously being voted out.
He also had the distinction of being the first vice president ever to be divorced while in office, and he was still a confirmed bachelor who was often seen in the company of young female actors and athletes. Although over sixty years old, Martindale was still ruggedly handsome, outwardly self-confident, and almost devilish with his goatee and long, wavy hair, featuring the famous "photographer's dream" twin curling silvery locks that automatically appeared across his forehead whenever he was angry or emotional, mirroring his mood.
"He still likes being involved in his own tests, Mr. President-the more outrageous, the better," the other man beside him, retired Lieutenant-General Patrick McLanahan, said. Shorter than Martindale but considerably more solidly built, Patrick McLanahan was as much a legend as Martindale, except only in the shadowy world of strategic aerial combat. He served five years as a B-52G Stratofortress navigator and bombardier in the U.S. Air Force before being chosen to join a top-secret research and development unit known as the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, or HAWC, based at an uncharted air base in the Nevada desert known as "Dreamland."
Led by its audacious and slightly uncontrollable first commander, Lieutenant-General Bradley James Elliott, HAWC was tasked by the White House to perform secret missions throughout the world in an attempt to stop an adversary from escalating a conflict into an all-out war, using cutting-edge experimental technology that wouldn't be used by any other military forces for many years-if ever.
HAWC's specialty was modifying older aircraft with new systems and technology to make them perform unlike anyone had ever seen, and then using weapons brought to HAWC for classified test programs in the real world to quickly and quietly suppress a potential foe. Most of HAWC's missions would never be known about by the public; the pilots chosen to test-fly a brand-new aircraft would never know that not only were they not the first to fly it but that the plane had already been used in combat; the families of the scores of dead aviators and engineers, both military and civilian, would never know what really happened to their loved ones.
Because of Elliott's single-minded determination to dominate, as well as HAWC's incredible capabilities which far exceeded any civilian or military commander's expectations, the unit often initiated responses to new threats without full knowledge or authorization from anyone. That eventually led to mistrust and finally to outright condemnation from the Washington and Pentagon establishment, which sought to isolate and even undermine HAWC's activities.
As its most experienced and tested aviator and systems operator, McLanahan had been alternately praised, punished, promoted, dismissed, decorated, and disgraced over the subsequent fourteen years as a member of HAWC. Although he was widely considered America's most heroic general since Norman Schwarzkopf, McLanahan retired from the Air Force as quietly as he had appeared on the scene, without fanfare, praise, or gratitude from anyone.
As both vice president and president, Kevin Martindale had been HAWC's most ardent supporter and advocate, and over the years he knew he could rely on Patrick McLanahan to get the job done, no matter how impossible the odds. With both of them now out of public life, it was no surprise to Jon Masters to see them standing side by side here in the deserts of New Mexico, on a secret weapon test range.
"Congratulations again, Dr. Masters," Martindale said. "I understand you can build that Slingshot laser self-protection system into any aircraft?"
"Yes, sir, we can," Boomer said. "All it needs is a power source and a twelve-inch open access panel through the aircraft's pressure vessel for the infrared detection sensor and beam director. We can install and calibrate a unit in a matter of days."
"Does it form a protective cocoon around the entire plane, or just shoots the beam towards the missile?"
"We focus the beam on the enemy missile to save power and maximize the destructive effect of the laser beam," Jon explained. "As soon as the infrared seeker detects a missile launch, it sends a beam of concentrated high-power laser energy along the same axis within milliseconds. Then, if the system can compute the approximate launch point, it'll automatically hit the enemy launch area to try to knock out the bad guy."
"What did getting hit by a laser beam feel like, Jon?" Patrick asked.
"Like being dunked in boiling cooking oil," Jon replied with a weak smile. "And that was at the lowest power setting."
"What else can that laser do, Jon?" Martindale asked. "I know HAWC has deployed offensive laser systems in the past. Is Slingshot like that?"
"Well, sir, the laser is only for self-defense, of course," Jon replied sarcastically.
"Just like the XC-57 is no longer a bomber, right, Jon?"
"Yes, sir. The U.S. government doesn't approve of its defense contractors building offensive weapons and using the technology in a manner that might harm relations with other countries or violate any laws. So the laser system is fairly limited in range and capabilities-mostly for use against tactical anti-aircraft systems and their operators."
"That leaves a lot left open for interpretation," Patrick noted. "But you could turn the knob and pump up the power a skosh, right?"
"As far as you know, Muck, the answer is ‘no,'" Jon said.
The former president motioned towards the sky in the direction of the departing aircraft, which was just now entering the downwind pattern to set up for a landing. "Pretty risky using one of your new big test-bed planes to test the system, wasn't it, Doc?" Martindale asked. "That was a real Stinger missile you fired at your own aircraft, I take it? Your shareholders can't be too happy about risking a multi-million dollar aircraft like that."
"I wanted to water your eyes, of course, Mr. President," Jon replied. "What the directors and shareholders don't know won't hurt them. Besides, this XC-57 ‘Loser' is unmanned."
" ‘Loser,' huh?" Patrick McLanahan commented. "Not the coolest name you've come up with, Jon."
"Why in the world do you call it that?" Martindale asked.
"Because it lost out on the Next Generation Bomber competition," Jon explained. "They didn't want an unmanned plane; they wanted it stealthier and faster. I was going for payload and range, and I knew I could arm it with hypersonic standoff weapons so we didn't need stealth.
"Besides, I've been designing and building unmanned aircraft for years-just because they weren't comfortable with it doesn't mean it couldn't be considered. Isn't the ‘Next Generation Bomber' supposed to be ‘next-generation?' The design wasn't even considered. Their loss. Then, to add insult to injury, I was prohibited from building the plane for ten years."
"But you built it anyway?"
"It's not a bomber, Mr. President-this is a multi-role transport," Jon said. "It's not designed to drop anything-it's designed to put stuff into it."
Martindale shook his head woefully. "Tap-dancing around the law...who else do I know likes to do that?" Patrick said nothing. "So you use an unmanned aircraft-that's not a bomber-for the test of a laser that's not an offensive weapon, but then put yourself in the line of fire to test its effects on a human? Makes perfect sense to me," Martindale said dryly. "But you certainly did water my eyes."
"Thank you, sir."
"You have how many of the ‘Losers' flying now, Jon?" Patrick asked.
"There are just two others-we built three for the NGB competition but stopped work on the second and third when our design was rejected," Jon replied. "It's still a research and development program so it was low priority...until you called, Mr. President. We're considering putting our system on commercial planes as well as high-tech airframes."
"Let's have a closer look at it, Jon," Martindale said.
"Yes, sir. I'll have it fly over slowly so we can take a look, then I'll bring it in for a landing. Watch this flyby-you won't believe it." He picked up his walkie-talkie and tried to call his control center, but the laser beam had fried it. "I forgot to take it out of my pocket before the test," he said sheepishly, smiling at the others' muffled chuckles. "I lose more phones that way. Boomer...?"
"I got it, boss," Boomer said. "Low and slow?" Jon nodded, and Boomer winked and radioed the mobile control van.
Moments later the XC-57 appeared on final approach. It leveled off just fifty feet above ground, flying amazingly slow for such a large bird, as if it was a huge balsa-wood model drifting gently on a soft breeze.
"Like a pregnant stealth bomber with the engines on the outside," Martindale commented. "It looks like it's going to fall out of the sky at any moment. How do you do that?"
"It doesn't use any normal flight controls or lifting devices-it flies using mission-adaptive technology," Masters said. "Almost every square inch of the fuselage and wings can be either a lift or drag device. It can be flown manned or unmanned. About sixty-five thousand pounds of payload, and it can take up to four standard cargo pallets.
"But the Loser's unique system is a completely integral cargo handing capability, including the ability to move containers around inside while inflight," Masters went on. "That was Boomer's first idea when he came on board, and we've been scrambling to refit all of the production aircraft to include it. Boomer?"
"Well, the problem I've always seen with cargo planes is that once the cargo's inside you can't do anything with the plane, the space, or the cargo," Boomer said. "They're all wasted as soon as it's loaded on board."
"It's cargo on a cargo plane, Boomer-what else are you going to do with it?" Martindale asked.
"Maybe it's a cargo plane in one configuration, sir," Boomer replied, "but move the cargo around and slip a modular container through an opening in the belly, and now the cargo plane becomes a tanker or a surveillance platform. It's based on the same concept as the Navy's Littoral Combat Ship that's all the rage now-one ship that can do different missions depending on which hardware modules you put on board."
"Plug and play? That simple?"
"It wasn't easy to get the weight and balance, fuel system, and electrical systems to integrate," Boomer admitted, "but we think we have the bugs worked out. We pump fuel around between the various tanks to maintain balance. Without the mission-adaptive system, I don't think it would've been possible at all. The Loser can lift cargo or the mission modules inside through the cargo hatch or belly hatch..."
"Belly hatch?" Martindale interrupted him with a wink. "You mean, the bomb bay?"
"It's not a bomb bay, sir, it's a cargo access hatch," Jon retorted. "It used to have a bomb bay, and I didn't think it was right to just seal it up..."
"So it became a ‘cargo access hatch,'" the former president said. "Got it, Doc."
"Yes, sir," Jon said, feigning exasperation of having to continually remind people of his point. "Boomer's system automatically arranges the modules as necessary for the mission, plug them in, and turn it on, all by remote control. It can do the same while inflight: when another module is needed or one is expended, the cargo handling system can replace it with another one."
"What modules do you have available, Jon?" Martindale asked.
"We're making up new ones every month, sir," Jon said proudly. "Right now we have boom aerial refueling modules along with hose-and-drogue wingtip pods as well, which are installed on the ground and can refuel probe-equipped planes. We also have laser radar modules for air and ground surveillance with satellite datalink; infrared and electro-optical surveillance modules; and the active self-defense module. We're pretty close on a netrusion module and a Flighthawk control system-launching, directing, and perhaps even refueling and rearming FlightHawks from the Loser."
"Of course, we would want to do attack modules too, if we could get permission from the White House," Boomer interjected. "We're doing pretty well with the high-powered microwave and laser directed-energy technology, so that might happen sooner rather than later--if we can convince the White House to let us proceed."
"Boomer is highly motivated to say the least," Jon added. "He won't be happy until he gets a Loser into space."
Martindale and McLanahan looked at each other, instantly reading each other's thoughts; they then looked at the other-worldly sight of the massive Loser aircraft gliding down the runway in that flying-saucer slow-motion pace.
"Dr. Masters, Mr. Noble..." President Martindale began. Just then, the XC-57 Loser suddenly accelerated with a powerful roar of its engines, climbing out at an impossibly steep angle and disappearing from sight within moments. He shook his head, amazed all over again. "Where can we go to talk, boys?"
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