Despite all the secrecy, the one unchanging requirement that the American doctors forced upon the SR-73 pilots was a high-protein, low-fat meal immediately before a flight. Quite often the arduous missions dictated that the crew overfly “targets” thousands of miles away; the steak-and-egg meals so popular with the astronauts were ideal for the SR-73 pilots, and the Kadena Officers’ Club was the perfect place to prepare the meal. Thus, anyone trying to watch the official in-flight kitchen would immediately be suspicious if they saw an order for steak and eggs come in.
Meanwhile, Oniksuki patiently sold his papers all day long, no one questioning his presence. He knew the SR-73 pilots by sight. For when the pilots turned left instead of right upon entering the Officers’ Club, and headed for the private dining room, then it was time for Oniksuki to put his papers down and pedal to his great-grandfather’s—the Habu was about to take off.
Exactly an hour and a half later, a diesel tractor pulled a long black plane out of the hangar. Airmen scrambled out of the way, splashing in puddles of warm water that dotted the runway. Fuel leaked out of the SR-73 Blackbird III’s fuselage, but no one paid the phenomenon much attention; the high-flying airplane expanded by as much as ten inches in flight because of airframe heating. The SR-73 became fuel tight once it was up to speed.
Once out of the hangar, an auxiliary power unit started the Blackbird’s engines. The APU coughed on, filling the air with heavy black smoke and high-pitched whining. Soon after, the white noise of the Blackbird’s engines overshadowed the whining. One airman disconnected the APU from the Blackbird while another waved two orange-covered flashlights over her head, pointing the way for the plane to follow. Once the plane started to leave, the airman snapped to attention and threw the pilots a salute.
Inside the SR-73, Major Kathy Yulok raised a silver-gloved hand and returned the honorific. She clicked her mike. “Ground control, Stella two-niner up and ready. Request permission to taxi.”
“Roger, Stella two-niner. You are cleared to taxi and take off. Skies are clear, you have a window of five minutes.”
“Thank you, ground control.”
Kathy barely increased the throttles, making the engines climb in response. The SR-73 seemed to jump forward with even the small amount of pressure she applied. The flight had been cleared an hour ago, coordinated through the highest channels. As a result, the SR-73 flight was given a priority billing as far as taxi pads, runway, and even air space. Timing was of the essence, and every routine that Kathy had accomplished, up to starting her preflight meal an hour and a half ago, was orchestrated down to the smallest detail.
There was something sexual about it. Kathy felt the anticipation, the rush that accompanied flying the fastest plane in the world. Growing up an Air Force brat, Kathy had been raised in a fighter pilot home, her father a “Smokin’ Rhino” driver—the nickname for the F-4.
She clicked her mike, toggling the switch to broadcast on the intercom. “Ready, Eddie?”
Her navigator, Major Ed Prsybalwyki, came over the intercom. “That’s a rog. Let’s get up and get tanked.”
She clicked her mike twice, affirming Ed’s comment, then switched over to the tower frequency.
“Tower, this is Stella two-niner. Request permission to take off.”
“Permission granted, Stella two-niner. You are cleared, your heading.”
Kathy eased the throttles forward. The SR-73 started shaking. Based on the airframe of the original SR-71 built a good thirty years before, the hypersonic legacy was state-of-the-art. Some of the SR-73s had recently survived an attempt by the Department of Defense to scuttle the aircraft. Congressionally mandated budget cuts had dictated that the manned spy planes be replaced by other, “national technical means” of verification: spy satellites. But after the great sequestration budget fights, the Air Force had clandestinely squirreled away five of the craft.
Kathy glanced over the instruments one last time. The bubble of the high-altitude helmet cut back on her vision, but she forced her eyes to jump from dial to dial.
“Engines, a hundred and four; fuel, ten thousand pounds; oil, pressure looks good.” She clicked her mike. “Let’s do it.”
Without waiting for a reply, Kathy released the brakes and simultaneously punched the afterburners. Two Pratt & Whitney turbojets, each producing thirty-four thousand pounds of thrust, kicked in. The SR-73 takeoff roll was short, and as soon as they rotated Kathy started searching for the KC-10A Extender—the tanker aircraft that would fill them with enough fuel to reach their first checkpoint.
Kathy pulled a map from the clipboard. The Indian border was going to make this trip a long one.
Seoul, South Korea
“Hey, Roger—you got a minute?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
Sabine Aquinette motioned with her eyes to the ceiling. “The cage?”
“Yeah.” Roger Epstein rocked forward in his chair. He placed the message he had been reading in a small safe behind him and closed the inner drawer. Shutting the safe’s door, he twirled the knob and yanked the handle. The safe was the standard Government Services Agency issue, with one additional feature: if a combination was not dialed into the safe before opening the inner drawer, a pool of hydrochloric acid was released onto the papers left inside.
It was a feature Roger Epstein had had nightmares about when he first entered the Agency, but now, as Agency Station Chief, the dual-protection mechanism was second nature to him.
Roger followed Sabine Aquinette up the stairs to the third floor. Decorated in Far East decor, the hallway did not reveal the embedded fine copper mesh just under the drywall. The mesh acted as the first line of defense against electromagnetic emanations that might leak from the building.
A Marine sat behind a desk at the top of the stairs. The young man checked the identification badges of both Roger and Sabine—even though they were only two of ten operatives who had access to the floor. Ever since the Moscow debacle, when the United States Marine Corps had compromised its integrity and security with an alleged “sex scandal,” the Marines had played their detail by the book. Roger thought that there probably wasn’t a cockroach here that hadn’t passed Marine scrutiny.
The “Penthouse”—smaller than the lower two floors and basement by a factor of three—housed Agency operations. Communications equipment, crypto gear, computerized files, and a weapons cache dominated most of the Penthouse. The Penthouse was windowless; steel walls as thick as a battleship hull ensured that information would not be compromised. Not even a terrorist bazooka would disrupt activities.
Sitting in one corner of the room, the main feature in the Penthouse was known simply as “the Cage.” Designed by the renowned antiterrorist specialist Jack Ryan, the Cage had been constructed of a hemispherical weave of copper mesh and sonic absorbers. The copper acted as a Faraday cage, isolating the inside against any electromagnetic probes.
The sonic absorbers prevented the Cage from vibrating with the small but detectable sonic vibrations set up by even a whisper. It was the only absolutely secure place in the entire complex. There had been rumors of sexual tête-à-têtes inside the Cage before Roger arrived as Station Chief—the rumors had stopped, but Roger didn’t know whether it was because of his presence or because they had only been rumors.
Once inside, Sabine handed Roger a folder marked eyes only. Roger tore open the envelope. It was a digitized image of two people. The image looked hazy, as if taken from some distance.
Roger looked up abruptly. “Yan Kawnlo.”
“Surprised?”
“Very.” Roger plopped down on a chair. The man in the picture looked like any elderly man, like the person on a crowded bus going downtown. It was in fact the same man who had successfully eluded the most sophisticated surveillance devices in the world. “He hasn’t surfaced since the assassination attempt. How recently was this taken?”
“Last week.” She paused. “Bangkok airport.”
“Bangkok?
Oh, oh, oh.” Roger rocked back.
Sabine looked puzzled. “What’s up?”
Roger studied the picture as he spoke. “Before you got here … Kawnlo was involved in an assassination attempt on the Thai President.” It was Sabine’s turn to look surprised. “We kept it quiet, trying to draw Kawnlo out, but he didn’t take the bait. Turned tail and ran back up to the north.” He tossed Sabine the picture. “As far as we can tell he’s been running a terrorist camp, just inside the North Korean border. Brings in men and women and brainwashes them, turns them into fanatics.”
Roger walked around to where Sabine studied the picture. Even after computer reconstruction, the man’s identity defied doubt. The technique was simple enough: most “friendly” air terminals had an array of clandestine video cameras positioned at the international departure points—London, Hong Kong, Tokyo, Bangkok, Rome—the camera images were digitized, then transmitted via satellite to a huge stable of NSA supercomputers. The computers laboriously compared the digitized images with the images of known terrorists and “politically sensitive” individuals, enabling the Agency to track them.
Roger took the picture back. “So Kawnlo was in Bangkok.”
“We assume he took a flight to North Korea.”
“Any idea who the other guy is?’
She shook her head. “Langley is still working on a positive ID. The Kawnlo ID just came in.”
Roger thought for a moment, then headed for the door. “Keep me informed. Let’s hope whoever that guy is, he’s not Kawnlo’s student.”
“You got it.”
***
Chapter 5
Monday, 4 June
Headquarters, Thirteenth Air Force
A moat dragon guarded the anteroom outside of Major General Simone’s office.
Juanita Sanchez, General Simone’s secretary, efficiently ensured that the general was never disturbed.
Major Stephanie Hendhold emerged from Simone’s office.
“Colonel Bolte, General Simone is ready to see you.”
“Thanks, Steph.”
Colonel William F. Bolte pushed past Major Hendhold as he strode into the inner sanctum. He’d never really been chewed out by Simone before. Entering the general’s office normally didn’t bother him—he was here at least twice a week for stand-up, or status briefings. But then again, he’d never had one of his pilots pull an inverted roll on a final approach.
Thank God the general had had the weekend to mull it over. He knew that if Simone had really been upset, he’d have dragged him here Friday night after receiving the note. Still, Bolte steeled himself for the worst. He was here a good half hour before the weekly Monday morning briefings.
Bolte rapped lightly on the door. “General?”
“Come on in, Lightning.”
Bolte kept his face expressionless. When Simone used call signs to address people, it usually meant he was in a good mood. Bolte didn’t salute when he approached. He demanded it of his own people when they entered his office, but Simone had growled at him more than once for being so formal.
“What’s up, General?”
“Sit down, Lightning.” The general waved him to a chair. Simone picked up a sheet of paper. The office was decorated with plaques, pictures of fighter aircraft, and a picture of the Air Force Academy chapel; the chapel picture was covered with signatures. Wood paneling and thick, royal-blue carpet gave the room a cozy feel.
Simone rocked back in his chair. “How’s Michele?”
“Fine, sir. She took Nanette down to Thousand Islands with the Officers’ Wives’ Club over the weekend. Bought more stuff than she had money for.”
“How much longer will Nanette be here?”
“Stanford starts up next month—we’ll get her off in three weeks.”
This was one of the last summers that Bolte would have the family back together—when Nanette graduated next summer, there was no telling where she would wind up.
Simone rocked forward. “Great. Glad to hear everything is going well. So you had to batch it over the weekend?”
“I survived, sir. Only one incident downtown, and that wasn’t even a late one.”
Simone pushed a sheet of paper across the desk to Bolte. “How’s your new flight working out?”
Bolte glanced down at the paper—a copy of the memo he had sent Simone on Friday.
“As I noted, the last F-15Es were delivered; we’re back up to full strength,” Bolte said. Ever since the fighters had been pulled out of Clark because of the treaty modifications, a “temporary” crew would fly in-country for only a six-month stay.
“That’s not what I asked. Are they in McConnell’s squadron?”
“Yes, sir. Lieutenant Colonel McConnell has his hands full; he’s the last squadron to get up to full strength, so it will take a while to shake the bugs out. But Maddog Flight is coming along fine. In fact,” he glanced at his watch, “they should be over Crow Valley just about now for their familiarization flight.”
Simone drummed his fingers on the desk. “This Steele character. Is he as good as his record shows?”
“We’ll find out real soon, sir. They start Jungle Survival School on Wednesday. As soon as they’re finished, we’ll put them through the wringer—run them up against the Aggressors.” He made a mental note to give a heads-up to the Aggressor Squadron. Assigned to the 3rd Fighter Wing to keep the Wing on their toes, the pilots comprising the 26th Aggressor Squadron flew F-16s and acted as the “enemy” against the F-15E Strike Eagles.
“Keep a rein on these boys, Lightning. I don’t want them killing themselves. But don’t get too tight—I don’t want to stifle them, either.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else, General?”
“That’s it. You’ve got fifteen minutes before the stand-up briefing.”
Crow Valley
Maddog Flight leveled off at ten thousand feet as they flew out west, over the ocean. Bruce followed two thousand feet behind Catman and Robin, who were flying in the third ship. Flying lead, Skipper brought the formation around in a loose bank, heading back east. Revlon and Digger—Captain Heather Rheinquist and First Lieutenant Lucius Brown—had the number-two spot.
Socially, Skipper, Panther, Revlon, and Digger were as close as Catman, Robin, Bruce, and Charlie. Although the eight made up a tight flight, they tended to run together in the two different groups. Which was a good thing, because although the four married officers could join the bachelors and have a good time, unlike the single guys they always had to return to reality. Their families were due to arrive at Clark after Jungle Survival School, and then the social chasm would only deepen.
Bruce kept a loose hand on the stick. Skipper came over the radio.
“Tuck it in to echelon right. We’ll fly over Crow Valley for a look-see and a spacer pass. Two miles to feet dry.”
Bruce brought the throttles up minutely, accelerating the fighter. At first, it didn’t seem that he was getting any closer to Maddog Two and Three because they were accelerating as well. When Catman’s craft was closer, Bruce eased off on his throttles. They were well over land now. Bruce thought that he could spot Clark in the distance.
Skipper broke in. “Maddog, button five.”
Bruce punched to the preassigned frequency for the bombing range.
“Crow Valley, Maddog. Ten miles for a spacer pass, then dry work on target two.”
Charlie clicked the mike. “Down and to the right, Assassin. That’s the path we’ll be coming in on during our low-level sorties. What used to be rice paddies all slope down into the valley. We’re coming up on the gunnery range now.”
Bruce clicked his mike twice.
“Maddog, bring it down to five hundred.”
They flew across the valley, taking in placements and locations of various targets. Old beat-up tanks, shot-up trucks, and burned cars littered the area. Over a thousand tons of bullets, bombs, and external tanks had been dropped in the valley. In contrast to the lush greenery of the rest of the Island, the place looked like a hellhole.
Bruce knew it was his imagination kicking in, filling in devastation where there was relatively little growth, and yet the place did seem unusually sparse. Tiny patches of bare earth dotted the landscape. He was low enough to see trees fallen over on the ground, chewed up and disheveled by millions of rounds of bullets.
Once past the valley, Skipper clicked back over the radio. “Bring it back up to five thousand. We’ll go in for a strafing run—keep above two-fifty feet when you bottom out.”
Charlie clicked back over the radio as Bruce pulled back on the stick. “I thought this was only going to be a look-see.”
Bruce switched over to intercom. “Skipper’s getting nervous. He knows we aren’t going to get any flying in the next two weeks, and wants us to practice.”
They reached five thousand feet and circled Crow Valley in a broad, loitering pattern. There was a hint of clouds forming over the mountains, and off to the west Bruce could barely make out a line of wispy features, delineating a weather front. Skipper confirmed that they were still cleared for the airspace.
Skipper’s voice came over the radio. “One’s in dry.”
The range officer came back, “Clear dry, One.”
Bruce craned his neck to the left and made out Skipper’s bomb run. The F-15 tore down toward the ground, breaking from the loose formation. Dropping from nearly a mile above the ground, Skipper’s jet grew smaller and smaller, making it difficult to pick out in the surrounding jungle. Even the F-15’s paint scheme didn’t give that much contrast against the mottled greenery.
Seconds later Skipper’s voice came again. “One’s off, to the right.”
“Two’s in, dry.”
“Clear dry, Two.”
Revlon’s fighter broke from formation and followed suit. Bruce continued to follow Catman in a sweeping turn.
“Maddog, rejoin straight ahead, altitude five thousand.”
“Two’s off, to the right.”
“Three’s in, dry,” said Catman.
“Clear dry, Three.”
“You got that, Assassin?” Charlie was looking after them again.
“Roger that. Just point me in the right direction after we pull out, Foggy.” He grew excited with anticipation. Even though the strafing run was “dry”—without ammunition—screaming down nearly a mile toward the ground kicked Bruce’s metabolism into high gear. It was like preparing for a game, right before he ran out of the locker room and onto the field. The crowd cheering, slapping a teammate’s shoulder pads, butting heads against another defensive back—the excitement fed on itself.
This
is why he had joined the Air Force … to fly and get that rollercoaster-like thrill that came with an adrenaline rush: It was as if he were part of the aircraft, strapped onto a thirty-one-thousand-pound bronco that outperformed any other air-to-ground platform in the world.
“Three’s off, to the right.”
Bruce clicked his mike. “Four’s in, dry.”
The range officer came on in a clipped tone, “Clear dry, Four.”
Bruce slammed the stick forward, as far as it would go to the right. The F-15E rolled instantly to the right and pitched its nose down. The horizon circled crazily around the cockpit. They accelerated down, still spinning. Bruce pulled the stick back to the middle after three rolls and concentrated on a blasted tank that sat in a clearing. His vision seemed to tunnel in onto the vehicle, wiping out any other sight as they descended.
“Passing three thousand.” Charlie’s voice came coolly over the intercom.
Numbers rolled past his vision, projected on the heads-up display. Flipping the protective cover off the button for the machine gun, Bruce’s thumb lightly tapped the red button. A crosshair appeared on the heads-up display, indicating that the machine gun, although devoid of bullets, was armed.
The triangle jumped around the screen, following the projected path of the bullets.
“Two thousand.”
They were traveling at a fifteen-degree angle. The seconds seemed to stretch into minutes. His mind raced ahead, thinking at unbelievable speeds. He flicked his eyes down to his instruments, rapidly checking for red lights. Back up to the heads-up display.…
“One thousand.”
His finger caressed the trigger.
To lay down hot killing metal.
Bruce pulled the trigger. A red blinking light on the heads-up display showed that he was out of bullets, but he kept the crosshair fixed on the tank.
“Five hundred, approaching altitude. Pull up!”
Bruce pulled back on the stick. The fighter responded instantly, pulling its nose up. He immediately felt the g-forces grow.
“Two-fifty feet. Bottom out.”
“Four’s off, to the right,” said Bruce. As they clawed back up, the g-forces mounted. The g-indicator quickly rose past five, then slowed as it hit six.
Six times the force of gravity squashed him deep into his seat. It felt as if he were being covered by a load of cement. His vision grew hazy, like he was looking down a long tunnel. He grunted loudly as the g-suit constricted, preventing blood from pooling in the lower parts of his body.
Bruce forced his head to the side and looked out the cockpit window. The tank was far below; he imagined it smoking from the hit and decided not to climb up to altitude yet.
He pushed forward on the stick, bringing the fighter’s nose down and cutting back on the g-forces. At two thousand feet he leveled off. He clicked the mike, keeping it on intercom. He couldn’t find the flight.
“Four’s off wind.”
“Heading two-seven. I’ve got them on screen,” said Charlie, referring to his color radar. “At this rate, we’ll have an hour to kill before that appointment at the housing office.”
Lead came over the radio. “We’re at your right, three o’clock, Four, five miles.” He sounded pissed that Assassin had lost Maddog Flight.
“Four.”
The rest of the flight was still too far off for him to see. Below them, the valley fanned out to a patchwork of level rice paddies, broken up by dense clumps of jungle. He really needed another strafing run—the adrenaline still pounded through his veins, making him feel as if he had to burn off energy. He went to intercom only.
“Foggy, any traffic around?”
Charlie sounded skeptical. “You’re clear, Assassin. What you up to?”
“Let’s get in a little sightseeing, then hit the blower to catch up.” Bruce nosed the F-15 back down. They descended, moving down in altitude until they approached two hundred feet. The ground below them whizzed past as Bruce kept the throttles steady at five hundred knots.
He nosed the craft down until they were just at one hundred fifty feet. The tree tops looked like solid ground at this speed. Bruce hit the speed brakes and pulled back on the throttles, slowing the craft. They broke over the clearing; the next patch was at least three miles away. Bruce forced the fighter even lower, until they were a mere twenty-five feet above the ground.
“Yeowww!” An old song roared through his mind: “I Go to Extremes.”
“Fantail, Assassin. You’ve got a nice one.”
Bruce looked over his shoulder. Dirt swirled in two “fantails” as the F-15’s exhaust hit the ground. He turned back to the front. Flying so close to the ground was as exhilarating as diving toward it. They had about another mile until the jungle—time to pull up.
That’s when he spotted the people on the ground.
Two hundred yards in front of him three people, all wearing coolie hats, looked up at the oncoming jet. They must have been working in the field; one of them carrying a bucket pointed at the fighter.
“Oh crap!”
Bruce slammed the stick back; as the nose lifted, the aircraft was moving slowly enough that it felt like they were going to stall. An alarm shrieked throughout the craft, warning of an excessively high angle of attack.
“Stall, stall!” screamed Charlie.
Bruce shoved the throttles forward, hitting his afterburners. The fighter seemed to vault forward as they accelerated straight up. He swiveled his head around. Through the dust, he saw hats and buckets flying everywhere; there was no sign of the people. He must have pulled the fighter up right over the poor farmers.