“That’s because you don’t understand how Martindale thinks,” Barbeau retorted. “He’s always been a game player… and he sees people and countries as pieces he can move around on his chessboard. Well, by wrecking those B-52s, our B-21 prototype, and our first operational F-35 fighter squadron, he’s just wiped out a sizable fraction of our frontline strategic and tactical airpower, right? So, with them gone, now what are we going to do?”
“I’m not sure,” her national security adviser admitted. He shook his head. “We can replace the fighter aircraft we lost in a few weeks, but working up another group of F-35 pilots and ground crews will take months. And rebuilding our bomber force will take years… especially now that we’ve lost the B-21 Raider prototype.”
“Exactly.” Barbeau nodded. “Which is why I can tell you what Martindale’s plan is, Dr. Rauch. He wants us so desperate that we’re forced to fall back on the super-high-tech, gee-whiz weapons produced by his pals at Sky Masters.”
“But you’ll never buy into that idea,” Rauch pointed out.
“No kidding,” she snapped. “Which is why Martindale wants me dead or run out of office by that prick J. D. Farrell. Either way he wins.”
For the first time since boarding the E-4B, Luke Cohen ventured an opinion. He cleared his throat. “I can see where he might have been hoping to kill you, but…” His voice trailed off uncertainly.
“Go on, Luke,” Barbeau said, irritably waving him on. “What’s eating at you?”
“It’s just that whether or not Martindale had a hand in what happened today, this attack is going to backfire on him big-time… and on Farrell, too,” her chief of staff said. “You’re bound to get a huge boost in the polls from this. People always rally around the flag in times of national crisis.”
“Sure they do,” she agreed bluntly. “And if the election were going to be held in the next couple of weeks, I’d be sitting pretty.” Then her eyes hardened. “But November’s too far off. Any polling bounce I get will fade over time. And it will fade even faster once Farrell and his surrogates start pounding away on us for screwing up so badly.”
Cohen looked blank.
“Oh, for God’s sake, figure it out, Luke,” Barbeau said in exasperation. “Everybody in the fucking world just saw my strategic rearmament program go up in highly publicized flames. And whose bright idea was it to mass so many of our remaining bombers and our best stealth fighters in one vulnerable spot… as part of a political show?” She felt her mouth twist into an ugly smile. “Tell me, how popular was General Short on Oahu once the bombs stopped falling?”
“Pearl Harbor,” Rauch murmured, suddenly catching her historical reference.
She nodded. The stories her father, a career Air Force officer, had told her when she was young had sunk deep. Before the Japanese sneak attack on Pearl Harbor, Lieutenant General Walter C. Short, who commanded the U.S. Army’s defenses in the Hawaiian Islands, had ordered all of his fighter planes and bombers parked wingtip to wingtip — so that they could be more easily defended against saboteurs. That made them sitting ducks when Japanese Zeros came slashing in on strafing runs.
The parallels were unpleasantly close.
Nineteen
Brad McLanahan finished entering his flight plan into the XCV-62 Ranger’s main navigation computer. Then, methodically, he started clicking through a series of digital maps, checking and rechecking his work. Sometimes prepping for a mission took more time and effort than the flight itself. In this case, that wasn’t true. He was facing a grueling, eleven-thousand-nautical-mile, one-way trip. Even with all the automation built into the Ranger’s flight controls and several planned refueling and crew rest stops, he knew he was going to be pushing his endurance to its limits. When you threw in their need to avoid detection by radars and air patrols over several different countries — Algeria, Morocco, Colombia, Mexico, and, finally, the United States itself — the full magnitude of the challenge came into focus.
At last, satisfied that he’d caught and corrected all the obvious and not-so-obvious flaws, he pushed a virtual “key” on his MFD. “Mission plan accepted,” the computer acknowledged. “Minimum flight safety and fuel parameters met.”
Brad glanced across the cockpit at Nadia Rozek. The beautiful, dark-haired Polish special forces officer had her head down, studying her own displays. One of them showed a map of the North Atlantic. Colored icons indicated their best estimates of the positions of a number of Western and Russian naval task forces, including a U.S. Navy carrier group operating off America’s Eastern Seaboard. Circles of varying diameters showed radar ranges and the airspace within reach of routine combat air patrols for each group of warships. The circles moved and changed size and shape often, reflecting the flight path of E-2C Hawkeye radar planes on patrol.
As Brad’s copilot and systems operator, she was steadily working her way through Scion’s most recent intelligence on any air surveillance radars or other threats they might encounter along their planned route. At first he thought she was completely focused, so intent on her task that she was entirely unaware of his admiring gaze. Then he noticed the faint smile hovering at the corner of her lips.
Nope, he thought with inward amusement. The day he caught her off guard would be a first. She had more natural situational awareness than anyone he’d ever met, including Whack Macomber and his dad.
“I’m going to check on the rest of our gear,” Brad said. “Need anything?”
Nadia shook her head. “Not just yet, thank you.” Her faint smile deepened. “But I may want a foot rub or a massage later.”
“I’ll pass the word to our flight attendant,” he promised.
“My God, that’s not Colonel Macomber, is it?” she said, pretending to sound worried.
Brad chuckled. “Nah, he’s just a passenger.” He jerked a thumb at himself. “I guess I’m it, ma’am. Since I’m already the designated pilot, cook, bottle washer, and all-around, general-purpose gofer on this aircraft, what’s one more tough job?”
With a theatrical sigh of relief, Nadia got back to work.
Still smiling, Brad opened the hatch and slid down the Ranger’s crew ladder. He dropped lightly onto the hangar floor. Crews were working in every corner of the large bomb-resistant shelter the Iron Wolf Squadron used to prep its aircraft and CIDs for missions.
Technicians and mechanics swarmed over the XCV-62, making sure its avionics, engines, and other systems were in tip-top condition. They were devoting special care to the four Rolls-Royce Tay 620-15 turbofan engines buried in the wing’s upper surface. This was likely to be a long-duration mission and Brad and his team would be operating out of rough, improvised landing strips the whole time. Losing an engine to avoidable mechanical failure was not an acceptable risk.
He walked around the Ranger, making his own visual inspection. The STOL transport was around the size of a Gulfstream 450 business jet. It was big enough to carry two-plus tons of cargo or around twelve to sixteen passengers. Between its batwing configuration and the special radar-absorbent material coating its surfaces, the aircraft had a remarkably low radar cross section. While the Ranger wasn’t in the same stealth league as an F-22 Raptor, which had the radar signature of a marble when viewed head-on, it was close to that of the B-2A Spirit bomber.
The aircraft’s rear ramp was down. Brad squatted down beside the ramp, taking a good look inside the troop compartment. It was overcrowded, packed from floor to ceiling with equipment, weapons, ammunition, CID batteries and fuel cells, and other spare parts. The three combat robots he, Nadia, and Macomber would pilot were secured to bulkheads. They were powered down, seemingly lifeless. Six uncomfortable-looking web seats in two rows of three each filled the remaining space — providing cramped accommodations for Macomber and a five-man Iron Wolf recon team commanded by Captain Ian Schofield.