William Tyree - Line of Succession

Bearcat was forbidden from making radio contact with any entity — airborne or terrestrial — except CENTAF, which was operating from Rapture Run. He was only to intercept the target, take it down, and return to the unnamed private airfield in rural West Virginia where he had taken off.

“Bearcat this is Escort Six,” the CENTAF controller said to him over the radio. “You should register the target on your screen in four…three…two…”

Right on cue, a blip appeared on Rodriquez’ radar some 20-odd miles in the distance. It was flying at 12,000 feet.

“Please confirm that the target is in range,” CENTAF said. “Bearcat, do you copy?”

“Copy that, Escort Six,” Rodriquez said. “Closing in for visual confirmation.”

“Negative, Bearcat. The FAA has grounded all commercial aircraft. This is a CENTAF-authorized target.”

Rodriquez’ voice grew edgy. “Protocol for a hijacked friendly requires a visual.”

“Negative, Bearcat. General Wainewright has authorized a long-range kill…Do you copy?”

*

The Gulfstream co-pilot looked nervous. He was on the radio trying to hail CENTAF. They had not received the scheduled coordinates update. It had been more than twenty minutes since their last communication. Something was wrong.

Eva and Agent Carver approached the Gulfstream’s cockpit and sat in the two crew seats behind the pilots. “Where are we?” Eva demanded.

The co-pilot turned. “We just crossed into West Virginia.”

The radar bleeped to announce an approaching aircraft. “Single F-35,” the pilot called out. “Twenty miles out and closing fast.”

Relief shot across the co-pilot’s face. “Must be an escort.”

“Why would they send just one?”

“That’s no escort,” Carver broke in as he buckled himself into the crew seat. “Does this thing have any anti-radar or anti-missile capability?”

“Sure. All the new DOD-owned Gulfstreams do.”

“Crank ‘em up. And take us down to a thousand feet.”

The co-pilot reached for the radio. “Let me check with CENTAF once more.”

There was no time to convince the pilots that their own government was trying to kill them. That would have to come later. Carver unfastened his holster, pulled out his SIG and pressed the gun metal against the back of the co-pilot’s head. “Don’t touch that radio.”

Nothing commanded obedience quite like a drawn weapon. The co-pilot crossed his heart as the plane began a rapid descent. “Kill the running lights,” Carver said. While Carver had never taken flying lessons, he had sat through enough closed security briefings to know what happened in battle once a pilot’s radar failed him. He would try to establish a visual. “Kill the running lights,” he demanded.

An eerie howl arose from the fuselage as the plane began its plunge and disappeared into the night sky.

Marine One

2:08 a.m.

They were less than fifteen minutes from Washington, where they planned to survey inauguration preparations on the National Mall. General Wainewright sat quietly annotating a touch-screen map of the D.C. area. Several major security enhancements would be needed after the inauguration. In particular, he was worried about the growing number of privately-owned submarines on the market. It would be so easy for the Allied Jihad to park one 50 miles offshore and launch a dirty bomb into the Capitol. He planned to grant Ulysses a massive contract to install a state-of-the-art undersea detection network around New York and Washington. It was just one of many similar projects. There was so much that had been neglected during the last administration. It might take a decade or more of military control to truly make the country safe again.

He sensed he was being watched. He turned and saw General Farrell’s eyes on him. Farrell was holding a small computer, and his eyes looked suddenly hollow. Something was wrong. “What is it?” Wainewright snapped.

“Eva’s plane,” Farrell began. His droopy eyes drifted downward as he completed his thought: “They disappeared from radar. We don’t have a visual confirmation, but we expect to find wreckage.”

Wainewright knew he had just been lied to. Or at least there was more to the story than Farrell was letting on. Wainewright had realized from the start that his Number Two was far from the most courageous man in the military, but he could not tolerate lies. He resolved to contact Rapture Run to get more details. As for Farrell, he would deal with him later. Today was not a time to make rash decisions about senior personnel.

Marine One’s videoconference system hummed. The words CAPTAIN JAMES WHITE: DO YOU ACCEPT? appeared on the wall-mounted monitor. Wainewright sighed and accepted the session. Captain White’s tan face appeared onscreen. White was Captain of the Carrier Strike Group U.S.S. Ronald Reagan, the youngest CSG Captain in recent history.

“Captain White,” the Chairman growled, “this is highly irregular. You report directly to Admiral Bennington. You’ve got no business hailing this aircraft. I’d like to know who at the Pentagon put you through.”

White proceeded reluctantly. “Sir, I apologize. No disrespect to the Admiral is meant. But I have an emergency situation and I have been unable to reach him.”

“Go on.”

“We’re tracking five divisions of Iranian armor on the Israeli-Syrian border. All hell’s raining down from Southern Lebanon. The U.S.S. Reagan is standing by to begin Operation Wailing Wall, and — ”

“Operation Wailing Wall is cancelled,” Wainewright said. “Direct the entire strike group to move out to international waters.”

White couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “General, as the POTUS must be fully aware, our NATO pact dictates that an attack on one member is an attack on all.”

“Move away from the war zone, Captain.”

“With all due respect,” White said, “If we’re defying NATO, shouldn’t the POTUS announce it publicly?”

Wainewright’s face flushed red. Had the Captain not been two oceans and thousands of miles away, he might have used his fists to get his point across. “Fact: I am the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Fact: I am temporary Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces during this crisis. Fact: We are at war, and as such, I am ordering you to take orders as directed, upon penalty of death.”

Captain White’s disconcerted stare froze onscreen for a full second before the monitor cut to black.

The Mediterranean

The U.S.S. Ronald Reagan floated in the middle of a vast Carrier Strike Group 14 miles off the coast of Israel. The stench of burning oil mingled with the salty Mediterranean air, and the seamen of the U.S.S. Ronald Reagan had been suited up and waiting for the order to engage since last night. At 0900 hours local time, two fighter pilots had gone to the bridge demanding to know why Captain White would not give the order to attack. The Captain refused to see them.

Three dozen carrier pilots sat on the flight deck, most squatting on their helmets, watching the pyrotechnics display along the Israeli coast as Syrian and Iranian jets dropped ordnance directly into civilian areas. Rows of F-18 Hornets queued for takeoff, each fitted with AGM-84 Harpoon air-to-surface missiles for enemy tanks, as well as AIM-120s for air-to-air combat.

It was the ease with which the enemy planes hit Israeli targets that surprised and disturbed the sidelined American pilots. While the Israeli Air Force was equipped with aging F-16 Fighting Falcons, the Iranians were thought to have only a handful of Russian-made MIGs scattered amongst the hundreds of ancient American-made F-5s and F-14 Tomcats given to them in the 1970s when the U.S. armed them to fight Saddam Hussein’s Iraq. The intelligence was dead wrong. The IAF had its hands full fending off the Iranian armored battalions pushing through the Holy Land to the east, and recent acquisitions from China and Russia had brought Syria and Iran into the modern age. Of particular usefulness to the Iranians were dozens of new lightweight, radar-evading MIGs that were designed to emulate a crashed F-117 that the Russians had fished out of a Venezuelan jungle.