That changed overnight in England, and by the time Sullivan and Dean strapped in early that morning, the old stealth bird was toting a load of eighty precision-guided bombs that weighed five hundred pounds apiece. Each could be used for a different target on the same mission and they’d fall before enemy radar even knew the B-2 was there. There had been jokes back in Missouri about this unique girl’s-night-out mission.
When she smoothly carved the B-2 toward Estonia, Sullivan recited the old singsong verse on the private intercom, as she did on every attack run: “Lizzie Borden took an axe…”
Dean picked it up as she ran the numbers, “… And gave the Russians forty whacks.”
“And when she saw what she had done…” Sullivan eased the throttle forward and the bat-winged aircraft rose easily upstairs to a higher altitude and flowed to a speed of over six hundred miles per hour.
Calamity Jane studied her full-color flight instrumentation system to adjust for the go-to-war mode, and finished, “… She gave the Russians forty-one.”
Gunfire. Levchenko was at the Russian edge of the bridge when sporadic shots cracked like whip-snaps on the other side. Excellent, he thought. Excellent! Ivan Strakov had predicted that federal troops of Estonia would come in and clash with the Narva cops whose real loyalty lay with Moscow. That would only legitimize the official position in the future propaganda blitz that the other side, the Estonians, had fired first. All the Russians did was to answer the plea of the city’s legitimately elected mayor to stop the attempted military takeover of Narva by the Estonian troops. Levchenko could explain at any future hearing that he moved in to declare martial law in the embattled zone so as to protect civilian lives while cooler heads settled the results of the city’s free and fair vote.
He turned and saw the first Armata tank was only twenty-five yards behind him, with the assault commandoes in position on both sides of the road, ready to dash across. Radar was showing nothing but the mothlike dots of helicopters in the sky, but the antiaircraft missiles became hot and ready. All he needed now was the invitation, the final spark.
Mayor Konstantin Pran was now in sight, scurrying behind a phalanx of Narva cops. The shooting was over by the Town Hall area, and the police had spirited him out through a rear corridor. He was breathing hard from the physical exertion, but could see Colonel General Levchenko standing at the other end of the bridge, watching through binoculars, waiting for him. Pran waved with a white envelope that contained a letter on official city stationery, in which he sought the protection of his Russian comrades, along with a copy of the Worker’s Party resolution for Narva to secede from Estonia and rejoin the beloved Motherland. He was sweating and wiped his brow and face with a handkerchief as he hurried along.
“Bounty Hunter to Shady Lady,” Kyle Swanson said in Tallinn, where he was watching the hologram. He had no microphone nor headset, but simply conversed with empty air that was alive with communications. Swanson recognized the tubby man approaching the Estonian edge of the bridge as the mayor. Russian men and armor were waiting, but still not moving from the other end. “Bounty Hunter to Shady Lady.”
“Shady Lady to Bounty Hunter.” The controlled voice of Captain Janie Dean came back crisp and sharp through the cyberwarfare network.
Swanson took his green laser and put the little circle right on the shiny head of Mayor Konstantin Pran, easily tracking him as he came to a stop and adjusted his suit, and then resumed his travel in a slow walk. “Bounty Hunter to Shady Lady. Execute! Execute!”
Calamity Jane locked her weapons to the computer data feed that was flooding up from Tallinn and looked over to Lizzie Borden, who nodded her approval with a bob of her black helmet. The B-2 released four GBU-30 bombs that dropped like anvils for a second, then flexed their fins as the internal navigation and the global-positioning guidance system took control. At that point, the weapons began a highly accurate and irreversible power dive that lasted almost a full minute.
Swanson had a fleeting thought that this was the ultimate sniper hit. He could see the target, but the target did not even know he was in the crosshairs. And while Kyle worshipped his .50-caliber Excalibur sniper rifle, a B-2 stealth was a no-brainer upgrade. Even if those four bombs missed, it had another seventy-six ready to go with the flip of a switch. At present, each of the extra bombs was being electronically locked onto individual Russian tanks and vehicles arranged so neatly at the eastern end. But that was not Swanson’s job nor his decision. His green circle remained right atop Mayor Pran, who was a quarter-way out on the span.
The mayor tugged again at his vest and straightened his tie. He was making history with each stride. The sporadic gunfire in Narva had become irrelevant to him. In about a minute, his dream would become a reality. Levchenko put aside his binoculars and stood at parade rest, waiting for the civilian to make the last bit of distance and formally ask for his help.
In Tallinn’s cyberwar center, Colonel Markey counted down from five… four…
The floating hologram shook in a storm of static as all four bombs hit with eyeblink simultaneous detonations. On the ground, the joint cities of Narva and Ivanogrod jumped with the dramatic force of the shock and concussions. Old stones flew in every direction as flames flashed, spooling clouds of smoke enveloped the area, and a giant spout of water erupted from the river. The computers more than a hundred miles away soon regained their satellite video feed, ironed it through the programs and solidified the real-time image again.
Through the debris and smoke, Kyle saw that the entire western half of the bridge had disappeared. A gaping hole was being filled by the river with a powerful whirlpool of water. There was no trace of Mayor Konstantin Pran. Swanson moved the laser across the bridge to the Russian side and saw that men were down and vehicles, even tanks, had been pushed around like toys. The officer who had been standing out in front had taken the full force of the sudden explosions and had disappeared. But the Russian half of the bridge remained intact, untouched by the precise tornado of bombs. The planned attack died in its cradle.
“Bounty Hunter to Shady Lady.”
“Shady Lady to Bounty Hunter,” responded Calamity Jane.
“You may depart your station. Many thanks.”
“Anytime,” replied Lizzy Borden, and headed her B-2 back to England.
34
It took a week for normality to return. There had been no war, although it had been a very close call. Kyle Swanson had experienced a new side of combat that seemed to have come straight out of a Hollywood special-effects studio. Drones and cameras and robots and gigantic computing power were the tools of future combat. Even the stealth B-2 was so obsolete that only twenty of them were left on active service. The best bomber in the sky was little more than a flying dinosaur. Eventually gadgets would replace pilots in the heavens and grunts down on the dirt. Creepy-crawlies would roam the battleground. Hadn’t he himself just blown up a bridge and killed the bad guy, or guys, while being nowhere near the actual combat? He looked out over the sharp bow of the Vagabond and took another gulp of cold beer. Lethal collections of wires and transistors would replace the guy on the ground with a gun. Nah. Not going to happen.