Strike Force

“But he also has a reputation of getting the job done and looking out for the men and women under him. I know everybody blames him for inciting the Russians to attack us and kill thousands of people, but I believe it was because Gryzlov was a nutcase, not because of what McLanahan did, which was protecting his forces from another attack.”

“I don’t know much about what McLanahan did to piss off Gryzlov,” Boomer admitted, “but I do know that McLanahan kicked the Russians’ butt pretty good afterward. He knows what he’s doing. And he’s definitely not a glory-hound. I’ve seen the man’s office in the White House — the janitor has a nicer work environment.”

“So you trust him.”

“I trust him.”

“Same here.”

“Maybe they’ll write that on our headstones, huh?” Ann did not respond. “General Briggs? What do you say, sir?”

“We’re just passengers back here, Captain,” Hal Briggs replied. “Whatever you do is fine with us.”

“Not on my ship it’s not,” Boomer said. “Everyone gets a say.”

“I’m all for getting home earlier,” Briggs said. “I’ve put my life in General McLanahan’s hands for most of my military career, and he’s never let me down yet. I don’t think he will this time either.”

“The rest of you guys agree?”

“Affirmative, sir,” Master Sergeant Chris Wohl replied immediately. The other Tin Men responded likewise.

“We who are about to fry salute you, General McLanahan,” Boomer deadpanned. He clicked open the radio channel: “We’re ready to activate the new flight plan, sir.”

“Very good. See you back at the barn. Good luck.”

“I wish he hadn’t said that last thing,” Boomer muttered. He recalled the flight plan and pressed the “ACTIVATE” soft button on his multi-function display. The flight control computer immediately entered the countdown for igniting the Laser Pulse Detonation Rocket System, and he and Ann had to scramble to complete the pre-programmed countdown holds on time before their flight path window closed on them. Within seconds the engines rumbled to life, and they accelerated quickly and blasted skyward at a very steep climb angle. At Mach three and sixty thousand feet, the computer altered course, and they headed almost directly north toward the Russian border.

“Unidentified aircraft, unidentified aircraft, one hundred and fifty kilometers south of Omsk, this is Russian air defense sector headquarters,” they heard moments later. “Warning, you are entering the Russian air defense identification zone. Respond immediately on any emergency frequency.”

“Not too late to turn around,” Ann said.

“In four seconds it will be,” Boomer said. “Suborbital burn commencing in three…two…one…” Seconds later the airspeed indicator clicked past Mach four, and the three remaining LPDRS engines kicked on.

“Warning, warning, warning, unidentified aircraft approaching Omsk, you are in violation of Russian sovereign airspace,” the warning messages on all of the emergency channels declared. “Turn right and reverse course immediately or you will be fired upon without further warning. Acknowledge on any emergency frequency. Over.” The messages continued in Russian and Chinese, then repeated.

Moments later the threat warning receiver announced, “Warning, warning, air defense search radar locked on, three o’clock, one hundred miles, SA-12…warning, warning, missile tracking detected, SA-12, four o’clock, eighty miles…warning, warning, missile launch, SA-12, five o’clock, seventy-five miles…”

“Pedal to the metal, Boomer,” Ann Page said.

“Eat my exhaust, Russkies,” Boomer said confidently — but he did keep a close watch on both the airspeed readouts and the threat display.

“We’re right on the edge of its envelope,” Ann Page said. “We should be able to fly away from it here in a second.”

Sure enough, a few moments later: “Warning, warning, missile tracking, SA-12, six o’clock, eighty miles…warning, missile tracking, SA-12, one hundred miles…” Finally, as the Black Stallion continued its climb and gradual acceleration, the warning indications went away.

“Never outran a Russian SAM before!” Boomer exclaimed. “Incredible!”

“The hotline is already heating up,” Patrick McLanahan radioed a few minutes later. “Russia is already complaining about your overflight.”

“Do we care today, sir?” Boomer asked.

“Not particularly.”

Boomer took the spaceplane right up to three hundred and sixty thousand feet, above most of the atmosphere, then throttled back and stabilized the airspeed at Mach nine. “We’ll start the descent in eighty-three minutes, everyone,” he said. “Check your oxygen, check your buddy, and report in when the station check’s done.”

“Everyone’s good back here,” Hal Briggs said from inside the passenger module. “We had to wake ‘the Kid’ up to do his safety check — the guy can sleep in the middle of a typhoon. The Kid,” U.S. Army First Lieutenant Russ Marz, was the Battle Force ground ops team’s newest and youngest member, and Hal had taken “The Kid” under his wing — probably, Patrick had surmised, because he was very much like Hal himself when he was twenty years younger.