Executive Intent

“You bastards want to play-let’s play,” Boxer shouted. “Get ready to go low, Frodo. Kill the freq and the transponder, get us into ‘COMBAT’ mode.” She hit a button on her control stick and spoke: “Terrain-follow, clearance plane two hundred, hard ride.”

“Terrain-follow, clearance plane two hundred, hard ride,” the flight control computer responded. Boxer watched the computer’s automatic control inputs on her supercockpit display as it readjusted settings for an overwater letdown, then spoke: “Stand by for descent, now.” The EB-1C Vampire pitched over and started a twenty-thousand-foot-per-minute descent, rapid enough for bits of loose dirt to float to the top of the cockpit. Normally the bomber would automatically sweep the wings back to their maximum sixty-seven degree setting in the high-speed descent, but the Vampire’s wings were permanently set to the full swept-wing position-lift and drag were controlled by mission-adaptive technology, where thousands of tiny actuators on the bomber’s fuselage controlled the shape of the plane, so every square inch of the surface could be a lift or drag device.

“Fighters are staying high, twelve o’clock, twenty miles…no, here they come, one is heading down,” Frodo reported. “Still locked on. ‘COMBAT’ mode engaged, full countermeasures active.”

“C’mon down here, boys,” Boxer said. In less than two minutes, the Vampire bomber leveled off at two hundred feet above the Gulf of Aden. Boxer watched the computer perform a self-test of the flight control system, then checked the electrical, hydraulic, and pneumatic subsystems herself.

“American B-1 bomber, this is the carrier Putin on GUARD channel, you are flying at an extreme low altitude and are heading directly for the Russian task-force ships,” the Russian controller radioed. “This is considered a hostile action. You appear to be on an antiship cruise-missile attack. Alter or reverse course immediately. This is your final warning.”

“You ain’t seen nuthin’ yet, Comrade,” Boxer said, pushing the throttles up until they were flying at six hundred nautical miles an hour.

“One hundred miles to the first escort,” Frodo said. “Search and height-finders from the ships, and fast-PRF search from the fighters, not locked on. The third formation is supersonic, heading this way fast.”

“Armstrong has you again, Fracture,” Gonzo reported. “Now I know what a game of ‘chicken’ looks like.”

“They screwed with the wrong broad, Armstrong,” Boxer said.

“We’ve got the bandit on your six, ten thousand above you, closing to twenty miles,” Gonzo said. “His wingman is descending slower. The third formation is maneuvering, looks like they’re staying high for now. We’ve reported to Central Command.”

“Thanks, Armstrong,” Boxer radioed back.

“First escort is fifty miles,” Frodo said. “Udaloy-1-class destroyer. He’s got search radar…now searching with a height-finder, not locked on.

“Coming up on thirty…hey, the fighters are peeling off!” Frodo said. “They’re all climbing.”

“Can’t stand the heat, eh, boys?” Boxer said. “Too bad. It’s fun down here.” She peeked at Frodo and saw his eyes as big as saucers behind his clear visor. “How’s it going, Frodo?”

“I’m worried about those fighters,” he said. “Why are they…?” He paused, then shouted, “Golf-band target acquisition radar from the Udaloy, SA-N-9 system! Not locked on.”

“Well, well, they’re turning on everything today,” Boxer said. “If they want to play hardball, I’m ready to go to bat. Pushing ’ em up.” She nudged the throttles up until they were supersonic-the highly modified EB-1C Vampire was the only model of the nearly 500,000-pound B-1 bomber that was able to go supersonic at low altitude. “Come and get us now, suckers.”

The captain of the Putin snatched up the Red Phone. “Admiral, the American bomber has descended to less than one hundred meters’ altitude and is approaching the task force at supersonic speed!”

The admiral swore into the phone, then ordered, “Continue full tactical engagement, weapons tight.”

“Acknowledged, full tactical engagement, weapons tight.”

“Is he radiating at all?”

“No radars, but strong electronic countermeasures.”

“Use the signal generators on him and see if he reacts,” the admiral ordered, “and advise me when he reaches the task force.” And he hung up before the captain could acknowledge.

“What in hell is going on here?” the captain muttered. “What in hell is going on?” He turned to the TAO. “Full-spectrum signal generators, weapons tight, full tactical engagement.”

“Echo-Fox band target-acquisition radar, twelve o’clock, forty miles, not locked on,” Frodo said. “S-300 missile, probably on the cruiser escort…now Golf-band target-tracking radar from the destroyer, eleven o’clock, fifteen miles, not locked on.”

“American attack bomber, this is your final warning!” the Russian controller radioed. “Alter course immediately or you will be fired upon! Respond immediately!”