Annenkov made sure he wasn’t broadcasting over the radio and glanced at Uspensky. “Give me a position check.”
His copilot toggled one of the multifunction cockpit displays added when this old Boeing air freighter was secretly converted into a cruise-missile carrier. A map appeared, showing their current position and projected course. A red dot pulsed rhythmically about twenty nautical miles ahead. “We’re coming up on our preplanned launch coordinates, Colonel,” he confirmed. “Three minutes out.”
“Then let’s run through the attack checklist,” Annenkov said, summoning up his own digital copy with a quick tap. He read off the first item. “Confirm power to rotary launcher handling system.”
“The handling system is live,” Uspensky said, checking to make sure electrical power was flowing to the array of high-speed pulleys and hoists that would haul their rotary launchers along the rails built into the cargo deck floor.
“Bring the launchers online.”
The copilot tapped controls on his MFD. Four lights on a schematic of the cargo compartment turned green. “Our rotary launchers are online and linked to the attack computer.”
“Transfer our GPS coordinates to the computer and initialize the missile inertial guidance systems.”
Uspensky obeyed, efficiently keying in the commands that fed their precisely calculated current position to the inertial navigation systems that would control the Kh-35s in flight. More green lights blossomed on his displays. This was a work-around to help reduce the small position errors inevitably accumulated by inertial systems during flight. More modern Kh-35 missiles included GLONASS receivers, which enabled them to obtain highly accurate satellite navigation data from Russia’s equivalent of the U.S. global positioning system. But using those advanced missile variants would have made it easier to pin this attack on Moscow itself, rather than on someone else using Kh-35s covertly purchased on the international arms black market. “Guidance systems initialized.”
“Confirm preselected target sets are downloaded to the missiles,” Annenkov ordered.
“All target sets are downloaded.”
“Bring the missiles to full readiness.”
Uspensky tapped more virtual controls on his display. He watched closely as data scrolled across the screen in response. “Radar altimeters are good. Turbofans are good. Self-destruct systems are good.” He looked up. “All missiles are flight-ready, Colonel.”
“Checklist complete,” Annenkov said in satisfaction. “Time to launch position?”
“Thirty seconds.”
Annenkov tightened his shoulder straps and donned an oxygen mask. Beside him, Uspensky did the same. He reached up to the overhead instrument panel and set the 737’s pressurization control system to manual. He flipped two switches on the same panel. “Depressurizing the cargo deck.”
The engine bleed valves feeding pressurized air to the jet’s cargo deck closed tight. At the same time, outflow valves opened on the fuselage. Pressure on the cargo deck dropped fast, rapidly equalizing with that of the much thinner atmosphere at twenty-five thousand feet.
“Fifteen seconds,” Uspensky reported, watching their current position indicator close on the launch coordinates RKU’s planners had selected for this mission.
Carefully but quickly, Annenkov entered another command on his MFD, temporarily transferring control of the aircraft to their attack computer. He put his hands back on the yoke, but kept them relaxed.
“Five seconds.”
At a precisely computed moment, the 737’s enlarged forward cargo door unlatched and slid back along its fuselage. The twin-engine jet shuddered, rocked by increased turbulence.
“Commencing attack,” Uspensky said tersely.
Smoothly, their first rotary launcher whirred into position at the open cargo door and started spinning, ejecting sky-gray cruise missiles out into the slipstream. As soon as all four of its missiles were away, the now-empty launcher swung toward the rear of the aircraft — replaced almost immediately with the next in line.
One by one, the sixteen Kh-35s dropped toward the distant earth. Their turbofan motors would not ignite until they reached their operational attack altitude, just ten to fifteen meters above the ground. No one saw them falling away from the 737. Between their camouflage paint and relatively small size, the missiles were effectively invisible to other aircraft in the area — all of which were separated laterally by at least five nautical miles and vertically by two thousand feet. The Kh-35s were also too small to show up on the civilian air-traffic-control radars monitoring this sector.
“Launch complete,” Uspensky reported from his side of the cockpit. “No ordnance remaining.”
The 737’s forward cargo door slid shut and sealed. With Annenkov back at the controls, Regan Air Freight Flight 175 continued on its submitted flight plan toward Dallas/Fort Worth. To all outward appearances, it was again just one of the thousands of commercial jets operating in U.S. airspace.
Louisiana state police sergeant Damon Benoit swung down out of his official Chevrolet Tahoe and started walking up the shoulder of Interstate 20 toward the blue Honda Odyssey minivan he’d just pulled over for speeding. The Honda had Texas plates.
Ah, how wonderful, he thought sarcastically. Yet another family from the Dallas or Fort Worth suburbs heading off on vacation and too rushed to obey the traffic laws of their neighboring state. He sighed, already imagining the harassed-looking driver’s embarrassed apologies and pleas for mercy.
Suddenly a finned gray cylinder blurred overhead with an earsplitting howl. It was flying so low that it barely cleared the tops of the trees lining both sides of the divided highway. Startled, Benoit dove for the ground, instinctively clawing for the Glock 22 pistol at his side. His campaign hat flew off, blew into the road, and disappeared under the wheels of an eastbound Toyota Camry.
More missiles slashed through the sky in rapid succession, all heading southwest. Along the highway, shocked drivers gawked up through their windshields at the shapes streaking through the air just above them… and then just as abruptly slammed on their brakes, frantically swerving to avoid colliding with other cars and trucks. Tires squealed and horns blared in all directions.
Swearing out loud, Benoit scrambled to his feet, turned, and sprinted back toward his patrol SUV and its radio.
Sixteen
“And so, my fellow Americans, this nation will stay the course of peace through strength and common sense! While I am president, we will never entangle ourselves in petty overseas squabbles that are none of our business. But at the same time, America will be powerful enough to deter any aggression against our vital national interests. That is why I am committed to rebuilding our neglected military, especially the Air Force I’ve loved and admired all my life. And as new and ever-more-advanced aircraft, like our spectacular F-35 Lightning II stealth fighters and the incredible B-21 Raider parked behind me, roll off our production lines in growing numbers, the whole world will see that I mean business!” President Stacy Anne Barbeau promised in a clear, determined voice. She paused, allowing the huge crowd of U.S. Air Force personnel ranked below her dais to clap for a few seconds.
Behind the broad smile she displayed for the TV cameras focused on her, she kept a firm hold on a growing feeling of irritation. Despite the guaranteed applause lines her White House speechwriters had sprinkled throughout this address, rousing genuine fervor from this bunch was proving almost impossible. She wasn’t drawing the wild whoops and cheers she’d expected. They were polite, but not enthusiastic. Her only consolation was that most of the media would focus its reporting on the good stuff. Today is all about the visuals, Stacy, she reminded herself — all about the images of shiny new warplanes, flags fluttering, gorgeously uniformed bands playing, with her front and center as the nation’s tough, plainspoken commander in chief.