“We outnumber all Western and GCC aircraft by a factor of three to one,” Sattari responded. “As you ordered, we shall launch six fighters for every one of theirs. The American and Saudi F-15s are respectable, but they are not a match for a locust swarm of MiG-29s and their own F-14 Tomcats.”
“Very good,” Buzhazi said. “And the preparations for an attack by their stealth bombers?”
“Radar sites from Shiraz to Char Babar are now all synchronized.
We cover the entire Persian Gulf and Gulf of Oman region with radar capable of detecting the B-2A stealth bomber,” Sattari replied proudly. “The network is controlled by the master combat information center aboard the Khomeini, but any radar facility can become the master combat center if the others should go off the line. The long-range air defense radars around Tehran have also been synchronized, and soon all of Iran’s long-range radar systems will be synchronized to be able to detect stealth aircraft.”
“And what of our preparations for the follow-on attacks?”
“We are ready, sir,” Sattari reported. “We have two fighter bomber and one additional fighter-interceptor teams ready to fly in follow-up sorties should the first round of attacks prove successful. The slowest element in the follow-on sorties will be the carrier-based aircraft, so we have split their force into two bomber and two fighter elements, to provide continuous air defense patrols while the bombers land and depart. The other elements from Chah Bahar and Bandar Abbas will be ready to attack the follow-on targets in Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, and Qatar immediately.
In addition, other forces from Tabriz and Mahabad will be standing by to strike targets in Turkey if you so order.”
“Excellent, General, excellent,” Buzhazi said. “The attack will commence tonight. May Allah be with our pilots!”
ANDERSEN AIR FORCE BASE, GUAM 28 APRIL 1997, 1551 HOURS LOCAL Patrick McLanahan was on the third-floor catwalk of the hangar in which his B-2A Spirit stealth bomber was going through its final maintenance checks. He wore a black flight suit with no patches or insignia—it looked like mechanic’s overalls—with Chinese-made flight boots, thick and woolly.
“The thousand-yard stare again,” Wendy McLanahan said as she approached him. She linked her arm in his and rested her head on his right shoulder. “They did a pretty good job on it in such a short time,” she said, looking at the left engine nacelles.
“Can’t even tell you were hit by an Iranian missile and almost blown into a thousand pieces.”
“Wendy..
“This is really a crazy idea,” Wendy said irritably, “and I can’t believe you thought of it, and I can’t believe Freeman accepted it.
“It’s the only way we can do it, Wendy,” Patrick said absently, still staring at nothing, as if trying to look into the future and see if this was going to work. “If there was another way, I’m open to suggestions…”
“I’ve got one—let it be. Let the Iranian carrier be,” Wendy said angrily. “No one has declared war here, Patrick. Paul White and the survivors of the Valley Mistress are safe, Hal got back at the Iranians for what they did—aren’t we even now?”
“We were—until Buzhazi had President Nateq-Nouri killed,” Patrick said. “It’s obvious that he doesn’t want peace. He wants to take that carrier battle group and wreak havoc in the entire region, all for the sake of glory and power for himself.”
“Why risk your life for a man you didn’t know—for an Iranian,” Wendy asked incredulously. “He was just another fundamentalist Muslim looking to infect the rest of the world with his brand of Islam by whatever means he could..
“Nateq-Nouri was a man who wanted peace,” Patrick said. “He wasn’t a Muslim fundamentalist—he was a realist. He may not have liked the United States, but he was wise enough to think of innovative ways to avoid a conflict. Buzhazi’s not a fundamentalist, either—he’s a homicidal psychopath. He’s out there taking shots at our aircraft carriers with Backfire bombers and supersonic cruise missiles just for fun. What if he gets lucky and lands a one-ton warhead on the decks of the Abraham Lincoln, or decides to put a torpedo into one of our ships? How many Americans does he have to kill before we should go after him?” Wendy had no answer for him.
They stood together for a few minutes longer, until Patrick looked at his watch and sighed. “I’ve got to go,” he said.
“I know,” Wendy responded. He hugged Wendy closely, and she started to cry. “You know … you know we talked about trying to have another child,” Wendy said in a tiny voice through her tears.
“We should stop trying …
“What?” Patrick asked. “Why, Wendy? We both want one so much.
Why …?” He read the sorrow in her eyes, then shook his head in exasperation. “Is it because I’m with Future Flight? Dammit, Wendy, I was afraid this would happen. I never should have accepted this Future flight assignment. I was happy working the pub in Old Sacrament’, “No you weren’t,” Wendy interjected. “You wanted to come back, wanted to start flying again. When Freeman came along, it was a dream come true for you. You made a decision.”
“But I love you, Wendy. I want us to be happy. I know how much you want a child, how upset you were when you lost the first one.
If it means that much to you, Wendy, I’ll quit.
“You will? Right now? Three hours before takeoff?”
“Yes,” Patrick said resolutely. “You mean more to me than this mission or Future Flight or even the damned country!
Wendy was so surprised that she had to remember to close her mouth. “I … I can’t believe this …
you’d do that for me? For us?”
“Yes.”
“That’s so sweet … I love you so much, Patrick,” Wendy said.
“But that’s not what I meant.”
“What? You don’t … I’m confused, Wendy. What are you saying?
Don’t you want me to quit flying?”
“Of course not,” Wendy said. “What, and watch you stare off into space and mope around the House all day and yell and scream at the employees all night? No, you’re doing what you love to do, and you’re the best at it, so keep doing it. I’ll consult for Jon Masters, and telecommute with Sky Masters from home while I take care of our baby.”
“Our … our what?”
“Our baby, bomber-brain—our offspring, our rug-rat, our cookie-cruncher,” Wendy said. “We can stop trying to have a baby because we did it—I’m pregnant.”
“But … but how …?”
“How? Your mom never told you the facts of life?”
“No, dammit … I thought you couldn’t have a baby after the accident because of trauma to your follicles or something … I thought we had to do all that in vitro fertilization stuff, do the test tubes and the echography and follicle punctures …”
“Well, either it was an immaculate conception or the doctors were wrong about the old lady’s plumbing, because we got pregnant the old-fashioned way—without Synarel sprays or Pergonal shots or micromanipulation,” Wendy said proudly. “You’re going to be a daddy after all—that is, as long as you come back to me.”
“Of course I’ll be back, Wendy,” Patrick said. “Even if I have to walk. If I’ve got any skill, if I’ve got any luck, if I’ve got any brains at all, I’ll use them all to come back to YOU.”
They embraced again, tighter than ever before; and even amid the sounds of external power carts and shouting soldiers and missiles and weapons being uploaded and all the other sounds of war in that hangar, for a brief instant in time, there were only the two of them, together forever Takeoff was shortly after darkness set in on Guam. After the area was cleared for any unidentified aircraft or vessels, Air Vehicle 011 launched from Andersen’s north-south runway, instantly 500 feet above the ocean as it left the runway because the end of the runway was on a tall cliff on Guam’s northernmost tip. McLanahan couldn’t help but think of the last time he had taken a B-2 bomber into combat from Guam—they almost hadn’t made it. But that was a lifetime ago, it seemed.