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  He flipped the toggle so he could speak to his squadron. “This is Blue flight leader.…we’ve pulled another negative check on area forty-two Delta. What are your orders?”

  The reply crackled back almost instantly. “Move to forty-three, Blue flight. And are you recording the sweeps?”

  “Roger that. We’ve got all our film rolling.”

  “Keep it up, Blue flight.”

  The mike clicked off. Roger-dodger, over and out. Great, they didn’t even trust them with their own visuals. They wanted some non-rated intel officer with Coke-bottle glasses to go over the recon photos to try to catch anything his flight might have missed. As if his flight wasn’t the best.

  Jimmy pulled his ’15 into another bank to get over area forty-three. “Blue flight, this is Blue one. Copy my vector to area forty-three, Delta region, and use the same pattern for IR and visual checkout. Confirm by the numbers.”

  “Roger that, one—two here.”

  “Three copies.”

  “Say no more, I’m four.”

  “Five’s got it. And by the way, one, who the hell’s plane are we looking for?”

  “You’ve got me, five. ‘Ours is not to reason why’.…”

  “‘Ours is just to do and fly’ Gotcha.”

  “All right, you clowns, cut the chatter and get to it.”

  “Roger, one. And have fun up there.”

  Forget you! I just hope you’re a flight commander when I come back to take over the wing, thought Jimmy. Then you’ll see how much I like it up here, instead of being down there with you. He approached area forty-three and eased himself out of the bank.

  U.S.S.S. Bifrost

  Frier’s eyes were glued to the 3-D monitors. One screen showed a view of the Taurus Mountains. At the edge of the screen lay the Med. A separate window on the computer screen showed the same view in infrared. A ghostly wavering filled the void where land and water stood out, demarcated by their differing temperatures. On the other screen a direct link to the CRAY-Omega flashed bits of seemingly unrelated information.

  Major Stephen Wordel floated into the observation chamber, scratching an itch and yawning. The second, and temporary, member of the BIGEYE crew swapped shifts with Frier every twelve hours. It kept Wordel sane and allowed Frier to run things the way he wanted.

  Wordel squinted at the monitors Frier observed and looked puzzled. “What’s up?”

  “There’s a search going on for a plane missing in the southern Turkish mountains.”

  “So?”

  “So the plane is Air Force One.”

  Wordel’s eyes widened. “Holy … the President’s plane crashed?”

  “Not sure. I’ve had the CRAY project alternative flight paths.” He pointed to the visual tank. “The national guys are pointing all our satellite sensors to the crash area and haven’t located anything yet. So on a lark, I requested they scan along some of the routes the CRAY projected. And I’ve just detected an object about the size of Air Force One.”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “You tell me. About an hour ago Air Force One dropped out of sight. Since then I got a request to find it—and instead I’ve picked up something large that hasn’t filed a flight plan over Iran.”

  “Probably one of theirs.”

  “With an IR signature of a 777? Unlikely. Especially when a 777 is missing a couple hundred miles to the west. Anyway, there are no electromagnetic emissions coming from the plane. The satellites were barely able to pick out its outlines on IR, but we’ve got a lock on it now; the thing just keeps heading southeast.”

  Wordel blinked at the screens. “So what does CSOC say?”

  “We’re bypassing CSOC and are scrambled directly into the White House National Emergency Command Center.” Wordel let out a long, low whistle as the fact set in. Frier nodded. “You’ve got it. And to top it off, we’ve got everybody’s favorite Vice President calling the shots down there.”

  “You don’t really think they’d actually let him be in charge?”

  Frier shrugged. “Look. We’ve survived this long with Montoya, and he hasn’t screwed things up too much. And we are sworn to uphold the commander-in-chief, no matter how much of a fruitcake the guy is. We do what they say.”

  “Yeah, I hear ya, but I still think it stinks, no matter what oath I took.” He followed the trace on the screen. “Suppose that really is Air Force One. Where do you think it’s headed? It’s sure as hell not making a beeline for Israel.”

  Frier was quiet for a moment as he studied new data coming in. “I’m not sure, but look at this. It will blow your socks off.” Frier enlarged a classified window on the monitor. “The NSA just picked up a message from the ALH. It’s a call for all the ALH bigwigs to congregate at Do’brai for some kind of powwow. Their last plane just got in the air, heading for Do’brai, and should arrive within six hours.” He pointed at the message. “The bottom list is all the possible airfields that Air Force One could reach without refueling.…and look which one is at the very limits of its range.”

  Wordel scanned the message. “Do’brai?” He frowned. “What the hell is going on?”

  Frier shrugged. “I’m not sure, but maybe the White House knows. Anyway, I’m tracking that last ALH plane and will wring any transmissions from it that I can.” He turned back to the screen and opened a video conferencing app. Although they were out of direct contact with the White House, the signal bounced off two geosynchronous satellites to connect them with the NECC half a world away. Once the secure video link was established, Frier spoke.

  “Colonel Frier here. We’ve got a negative report on that plane crash in the Taurus Mountains, but we’ve picked up a bogey that could be Air Force One a few hundred miles southeast of where you’re looking.”

  Silence. Then, “This is Colonel Welch. Air Force One’s flight plan did not entail going that far east, BIGEYE. If that’s our plane, it would be heading for Israel. Continue your sweep for the crash.”

  “We realize that, Washington—but I think you ought to take a look at the data we’ve got. And a projection we’ve made with our computers on possible landing sites. We’ve come up with something interesting.”

  “Can you send it down?”

  “We’re transmitting now, Washington.” Frier barely touched the screen. The data on the bogey and Do’brai transferred at a blinding rate.

  Wordel spoke half to himself. “I hope the politicians are ready for it.”

  “They will be. They have to be.”

  White House, Washington, D.C.

  “Mr. Vice President, if we can rely on BIGEYE’s intelligence, Air Force One is heading for Do’brai. We have to assume the President has been taken hostage, and if our analysis is right, something big is going to happen very soon.”

  Woodstone tapped a pencil nervously on the desk. “So what do we do?”

  Baca lifted an eyebrow. “That’s your decision, Mr. Woodstone. All we can do is give you advice. The Secretary of Defense is on his way here, but in his absence General Peters can give you some options.”

  “Right.” Woodstone tapped furiously. Crap—this wasn’t any fun at all. Where did the excitement go that he had first felt … hours? … no, only minutes ago, when this thing first popped open. Here he was, sweating like a convict in a lineup. “So what are the options? What can we do?”

  Woodstone loosened his collar and eyed the people gathered around him. He’d decided against having the full contingent of NECC staff present, instead surrounding himself with about half the personnel; he hoped they’d come to a decision more quickly that way. But it still didn’t help. What the hell should I do? he wondered.

  Woodstone looked quickly around the room. “How about negotiations? There must be someone we can call. Someone who has influence.…the Russians? Someone get a hold of President Akulov. He’ll have an idea.…”

  A cough came from his left. General Peters’ four stars gleamed on each shoulder as he spoke. “Mr. Vice President?”

&nb
sp; Woodstone looked wild-eyed at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “General?”

  “Sir, if I may make a suggestion—”

  “What about the Russians?”

  “Mr. Vice President, the Russians have just about as much influence in Do’brai as we do. Remember when they tried to move into Do’brai with their advisors and economic aid, and how they were told to go to hell by President Ash’ath only two years ago? Also, President Akulov is the last person we should tell that our President is missing.”

  Woodstone seemed to catch breath. He hesitated and sank back in his chair. “You’re right. Please continue, General.”

  “Thank you.” Peters looked around the room and placed his hands on the table. “If indeed the President’s plane is heading to Do’brai, BIGEYE projects it as landing in two hours. They’ve had a five-hour head start on us, meaning it would take seven hours for our closest jets to reach him.”

  Baca lounged in his chair and spoke over the murmuring. “Where would our jets come from, General?”

  “The Kennedy is off of Cyprus right now. Its F-14 Tomcats could make it to Do’brai in about five to seven hours. But they’d have to be refueled. To get tankers into the area would take another six hours as they’d be coming out of Torrejon. And with our fighters low on fuel, it would take hours to turn them around as well.”

  The silence prompted Peters to continue. “If we launched a rescue”—he waved a hand, silencing the protests that began to sprout—“if we launched a rescue, the C-17, our fastest transport plane, would take over nine hours to get there from Ramstein. So we’re stuck. If we want to get to the President within the next twelve hours, we have to launch right now. We have to make a decision and move, gentlemen.”

  Baca rapped on the table for attention. “General, this administration has prided itself on taking the moral high ground on human issues. I sincerely believe if we were to commit our military to a rescue attempt that is hastily thrown together, the consequences would greatly outweigh any perceived gains.”

  “I realize that, Mr. Baca. But we can always call these planes back. All we have to do is load our troops on board and at least get into the air—”

  “No, you don’t understand, General. We haven’t had any contact with Air Force One for over three hours now. All we have is the intelligence gathered from our space station, and they’re not even sure that the plane they’ve spotted is Air Force One. Can you begin to imagine the repercussions if we were to launch a planeload of Green Berets to storm Do’brai and discovered that what we thought was Air Force One was actually President Ash’ath’s private jet? Maybe he’s flying in a planeload of cheese from France.”

  Peters snorted. “With his transponders off?”

  “And I say how do we know for sure, General? How the hell are we supposed to read President Ash’ath’s mind?”

  “Gentlemen!” Woodstone sounded tired, but he had finally calmed down. He looked beat and wasn’t in the mood for arguments. “Gentlemen, I have to agree with Mr. Baca—we’re not even sure it is the President’s plane that BIGEYE spotted. I think we should relax and calmly discuss all the possibilities. After all, we may be worrying about nothing.”

  General Peters raised his voice. “Mr. Vice President, I must advise you that the prudent step would be to launch some aircraft—tankers, fighters, and maybe a couple of transports—just in case.”

  “Your advice has been noted, General.” Woodstone’s face seemed to regain some of the color it had lost. “Gentlemen, I suggest we break for something to eat and assemble here on the hour. Any other ideas?” Woodstone pushed himself up. “Very well, I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”

  “Mr. Vice President?” Colonel Welch slammed the door behind him as he entered the room.

  “Colonel, we’re just taking—”

  “Mr. Vice President, we’ve intercepted an urgent message—”

  “In a moment, Colonel.”

  “Now, sir. It’s from BIGEYE. They’ve intercepted another message sent from Do’brai to Kapuir. Because of the increased coded radio traffic, the NSA thought that Do’brai was running the show—setting something up in Kapuir—and this confirms it. It concerns the President.”

  “Let me see that.” Woodstone grabbed the sheet. As he read he sank into his chair. The room was silent as he scanned the paper. He read it twice before letting it drop to the table. “Good Lord … oh, my …”

  Baca frowned. “Mr. Vice President?”

  Woodstone’s voice broke. “It’s an NSA intercept from the ALH at Do’brai. It says Air Force One will arrive within the next two hours. And as soon as the ALH plane arrives and is refueled the President will be flown to Kapuir, where he will be publicly executed for his ‘crimes against humanity.’” Woodstone closed his eyes. “They’re going to kill him and broadcast the execution.”

  “When? Does it say when the execution is?”

  “As soon as they reach Kapuir.”

  Colonel Welch spoke up. “If the ALH plane arrives in Do’brai on time, in six hours the President will be back in the air.…and allowing three hours for the flight to Kapuir, in nine hours the President will die.”

  Woodstone closed his eyes. Baca leaned over the table and spoke to General Peters in a low, firm voice. “How long would a fighter squadron from the Kennedy take to reach Do’brai?”

  “Seven hours.”

  Baca blew up. “We’ve spent five hundred billion dollars over the last six years modernizing the armed forces, and you’re saying it takes our front-line fighters seven friggin’ hours to fly a route an airliner takes six hours to fly?”

  General Peters kept his cool. “Mr. Baca, seven hours allows for our tankers to rendezvous with the fighters. We have to allow time for the planes to scramble, fuel, and calculate their flight plans. These planes are not on alert. At top speed, the ’14s have a range of far less than two thousand miles, and if we want to have them armed, we’ll need the tankers. What good would a fighter squadron do if they didn’t have enough fuel to accomplish their mission?”

  “But surely the Kennedy has tankers that can accompany the fighters—”

  “Your administration turned that responsibility over to the air force last year.…to save money,” Peters finished softly. “But there is another way—”

  Woodstone spoke, his face flushed. “We’ll shoot the bastards down. That’s what we’ll do. We’ll intercept the sons of bitches before they get to Kapuir and we’ll fry their asses. They can’t get away with this—”

  “Mr. Woodstone.” Baca stood and walked around the table. He was pale. “Mr. Woodstone, as Vice President you have the ultimate authority to make a decision. Right now, please listen to what the general has to say. I don’t like this any more than you do. It was on my suggestion, in fact, that the in-flight refueling capabilities of the Kennedy be cut back, but pointing fingers won’t solve anything now. This is no time for ideological arguments.

  “If Colonel Welch is correct in his estimates, for all practical purposes we can consider the President dead in six hours. Once the President boards that plane to Kapuir, there is nothing we can do to save him.

  “So if there is anything General Peters can come up with, no matter how scatterbrained it sounds, we’ve got to go with it. Now. No bickering, no arguing.” He shut his mouth and looked around. Perspiration rolled down his forehead; he wiped it away with a swipe from his sleeve, then sat down abruptly.

  Peters waited a moment, then nodded slightly at Baca before turning to Woodstone. “Mr. Vice President, there is a marine unit training at Camp Pendleton, the Rapid Deployment Force, which uses the air force’s Trans-Atmospheric Vehicles to lift them into the combat zone. The unit has been training to capture enemy command posts and other high-level enemy targets during a full-scale war. They aren’t rescue troops, but—”

  Baca interrupted. “How fast can they get there?”

  “If I give the order now, the troops could load up the TAVs in one and a half hours. The TAVs
take forty-five minutes to get anywhere in the world, so we could get to the President in less than three hours—”

  “Which leaves us three additional hours of cushion.” Baca turned to Woodstone. “Mr. Vice President, I respectfully request that you allow General Peters to give the order to send that marine unit out. We don’t have much time; we must act now.”

  Peters waved at Colonel Welch to bring him a secure phone. As the colonel carried the phone the line trailed behind him.

  Woodstone hesitated. He shook his head. “But sending in troops … my God, I’m not sure that Congress would allow it.”

  “Now, Mr. Woodstone. We’re running short of time. If you let Congress in on this, they’ll debate it for days.”

  Peters interjected, “The least you could do is have the troops load up. The TAVs can orbit on the mother ship and not actually launch until you’ve given it a little more thought. The important thing is to get the men airborne. It will only take forty-five minutes to get to Do’brai once you give the final go-ahead.”

  “Forty-five minutes?” Woodstone closed his eyes. “How many TAVs would this take?”

  “There are seven TAVs; four are on alert to go at any one time.”

  “Send two of them.” Woodstone opened his eyes. “Only have two of them go, and wait for my order to commit. I want some time to think this over.”

  Peters was speaking on the phone as the Vice President finished. Baca protested. “Mr. Woodstone, sending only two TAVs cuts the rescue chances in half—”

  “Two, Mr. Baca. I’ve made my decision. I want to keep this to a minimum in case we have a debacle.…like those for which the military is famous.”

  Chapter 7

  0030 ZULU: SATURDAY, 8 SEPTEMBER

  The act of war is simple enough. Find out where your enemy is. Get at him as soon as you can. Strike him as hard as you can, and keep moving.

  Ulysses S. Grant

  When you appeal to force, there’s one thing you can never do—lose.