Dale Brown - Executive Intent

“Legal, perhaps,” Secretary of State Barbeau said from a secure videoconference link from Beijing, China, “but we don’t know what was going on with the Russian fleet. They could have had some other sort of emergency, or were under some other kind of attack, and they warned our plane away thinking it was part of the other emergency.”

“That’s speculation, Stacy,” Turner said. “We don’t know that.”

“In any case, Miller, the smart thing would have been to reverse course and get out of there,” Barbeau said. “Why risk your life unnecessarily? It was a stupid move on that pilot’s part.”

“Exactly right,” the president said, pointing at the hologram. “And then look at what she does-”

“‘She’?” Barbeau exclaimed. “A woman bomber pilot?”

“Colonel Gia Cazzotta, the squadron commander,” Carlyle said, glancing at his notes. “Veteran bomber pilot, engineer, unit commander, lots of flying hours, experience in Desert Storm, Iraq, and Afghanistan.”

“Sounds like a cocky type A jet jockey,” Barbeau commented. She thought about her last encounter with a type A but laid-back jet jockey, Hunter Noble-he was actually a spaceplane jockey-but then remembered how that encounter ended, and quickly dismissed the memory.

“Friend of Patrick McLanahan’s, too, I heard,” White House Chief of Staff Walter Kordus said.

“What?” Barbeau asked, her eyes flashing in complete surprise. “Well, that explains a lot.”

“Here’s where the fighter attacks, sir,” Secretary of Defense Turner said, pointing at the hologram. “Our guys didn’t do a thing wrong, but they were shot at!”

“She should’ve bugged out and gotten out of there,” the president said. “Instead…” He stared at the holographic replay in amazement. “Look at this-she’s diving out of the sky, fighters on her tail! Now she’s skimming over the water…now she’s supersonic, for God’s sake, heading right for this destroyer. More warnings on the radio. The ships are trying to lock her up, but she’s too low and fast and jamming them…Jesus, no wonder they thought they were under attack! Somebody tell me what in hell she had in mind here, please!”

“Sir, without having interviewed her myself yet, I believe Colonel Cazzotta was conveying to the Russians that she and all American forces weren’t going to be intimidated by hostile actions in open and free airspace,” Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Taylor Bain said. “There’s no reason for the Russian fighters and then their ships to engage the bomber-it was on a routine and legal patrol, one sanctioned by the Kremlin. There may or may not have been some other sort of emergency that the Russians were dealing with, but it doesn’t matter-Colonel Cazzotta had every right to fly there-”

“But what gives her the right to buzz those ships like that, General?” the president asked incredulously. “She is going supersonic and heading right for those ships! If it was me, I’d definitely think I was under attack!”

“Sir, international law prohibits overflying any vessel below one thousand feet altitude,” Bain said. “The bomber didn’t overfly any of those ships.”

“Don’t give me that crap, General-she may not have overflown them, but crossing in front of them at supersonic speed close enough to spray them with water kicked up by her shock wave? I’ll bet the law says something about flying close to a ship in a careless, reckless, or dangerous manner. The Russians were obviously spooked and opened fire.” He pointed again. “The Russian cruiser fires missiles but are either jammed or…what? What happens to the Russian missiles here? They just stop flying. Why?”

“The bomber has an advanced self-protection system that fires lasers at incoming missiles,” National Security Adviser Carlyle explained, “that are hot enough to destroy the missile’s guidance system.”

“But one gets through?”

“Yes, sir, one gets through,” Carlyle said. “An AA-12 radar-guided missile. A copy of our AIM-120 AMRAAM missile, fired from one of the Russian fighters. It explodes near the bomber’s tail, severely damaging it.”

“But the bomber not only keeps going, but shoots down the Russian fighter? How does it do that? With the laser?”

“The bomber is an EB-1C Vampire, a highly modified version of the B-1B Lancer bomber,” Carlyle said. “It can carry a variety of weapons, including air-to-air missiles.”

“McLanahan’s magic bombers,” President Gardner said, running a hand through his hair wearily. “I should have known. The guy could be thousands of miles away but still somehow involved.” He turned to Chief of Staff Kordus. “Didn’t you say McLanahan is personally involved with that bomber’s pilot?”

“Yes, sir,” Kordus said. “They’ve been seeing each other for a few years.”

“Maybe McLanahan was involved in this,” the president said. “Find out where McLanahan is; see if there’s enough reason for the Pentagon or the FBI to question him.” Kordus made a note to himself on his PDA to follow up with Defense and Justice. “This whole incident could have been invented by McLanahan to goad the Russians into attacking one of our planes. Then he can go on the campaign trail and complain that I’m not being tough enough on the Russians.”

“The campaign trail?” Secretary of State Barbeau exclaimed, looking up from her notes in surprise. “McLanahan? What’s he running for, Mr. President?”

Gardner realized he had way outspoken himself, so he waved a hand dismissively at the videoconference camera. “I meant lecture circuit, Stacy,” he said. “But I wouldn’t put it past him to do something crazy like that.” Judging by the blank expressions on their faces, many of the president’s advisers obviously didn’t agree, but no one said anything. The president turned their attention back to the holographic replay. “The bomber meets up with the tanker; they get jumped by four fighters from that carrier, and then one is taken out…how?”

“By one of those Thor’s Hammer interceptor projectiles from a Kingfisher weapon garage,” Carlyle said.

“Direct hit, too,” General Bain said, a boyish grin on his face. “Blew that plane into pixie dust-literally. Obliterated by a guided rod of tungsten steel traveling at fifteen thousand miles an hour!”

“And who gave the order to launch one of those things?” the president asked. “You, General?”

Bain quickly wiped the smile off his face. “No, sir.”

“I know I certainly didn’t! Miller?”

“The interim commander aboard Armstrong Space Station, a Major Jessica Faulkner, gave the order, sir,” Turner said.

“We may set an all-time world record for the number of persons whom I am going to shit-can, kick in the ass, or both!” the president thundered. “A major ordered the destruction of a Russian fighter, and it wasn’t in self-defense? What’s next-an airman one-striper is going to sink their aircraft carrier? I thought I ordered that those Thor’s Hammer things not be used and be removed from orbit? Include the space-station personnel, Ann Page, and the Secretary of the Air Force in the incident investigation.”

“Undersecretary Page resigned her post, sir.”

“I don’t care. I want her included in the investigation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What about the crew from that Vampire bomber, Miller?” Vice President Phoenix asked.

“Still listed as missing, sir,” the secretary of defense said. “The Reagan carrier group is heading west and launching a rescue mission as we speak.”

A phone buzzed, and Kordus picked it up, listened, then put the call on hold. “What the hell is it, Walter?” the president asked.

“President Truznyev of Russia on the line for you, sir.”