Dark Passage

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"Two nine alpha, suggest you turn left to one-three-zero degrees, climb to angels eight five."

"Two nine alpha, roger one three zero and eighty five." Hayward dialed the heading bug on his flight director to 130 degrees and entered the new altitude setting on the alphanumeric display by his right knee. He looked at his number two engine once again, but it appeared to be holding good pressure and temp right now.

"Colonel? Ready for weapons release check-list."

"Right." Hayward felt a lurch in his chest when he heard the co-pilot say those words, but they both responded with robotic precision as the captain read through each item on the check-list and the various release protocols were checked-off.

The B-2 carried two five hundred gigaton weapons mounted on the latest Phoenix III scram jet missiles. These missiles would deliver the weapons to their designated targets at speeds approaching mach eleven; they were for all intents and purposes unstoppable once launched, as their flight time was typically well under thirty seconds. Hayward glanced at the tactical display, and observed that US Navy jets were now northbound over the Red Sea, one group coming up on the Saudi AWACs, and another larger group shadowing the Saudi Typhoons. Egyptian Mig 29s were angling toward the Navy jets closing on the Typhoons, and Hayward blanched when he saw a cluster of Israeli F-16s and F-15s climbing out over the Sinai toward the Egyptian aircraft.

This was beginning to look like World War III, Hayward said to himself.

"Two nine alpha, you are now weapons free," the AWACs controller said.

"Two nine alpha, understood," Hayward said. "We're starting our run now."

"Zulu Bravo actual here, Colonel. Good luck and God be with you."

"Yessir," Colonel Deke Hayward said. "And to you and your crew, sir." He looked at his tactical display one more time: the Egyptian and Israeli fighters were engaged now, and the Navy F/A 18s were taking on the Saudi Typhoons. His Raptors remained on station at their pre-assigned guard-points as the four aircraft in his command hurtled through the night toward Mecca.

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Angela Stuart walked down the First Class Jetway toward the Boeing 747-800 that would carry her to Washington, D.C. tonight. She was blissfully unaware of events unfolding in the skies over the Sinai, just as she and everyone else in London was unaware of the fifty one foot Beneteau sailboat that was even at that moment passing by the Greenwich Observatory on it's way to the quay across from the Tower of London. She took her seat, number 3 A on this flight, and the First Class Steward came by a moment later and offered her Champagne and a small salmon souffle. She plugged her laptop in and signed into her BBC account while she nibbled at the souffle. It was delicious.

There was still no mention of events taking place in the skies over Iran or the Sinai, none even as the Jetway retracted and the huge Boeing was pushed back from the gate at Terminal Three. The pilot came on and advised all passengers to stow their laptops and cell phones as there was a gap in traffic and they had clearance for an immediate take-off. The new composite Boeing raced down the taxiways and turned smartly on to the active runway and began to accelerate powerfully as the jet began it's run for the sky.

Oddly enough, departures were taking off to the east that night, and Stuart watched the familiar landscape of her home city slide by below . . . The River Thames, Big Ben and the London Eye . . . all the landmarks of her home . . . all of the landmarks that had stood up to time and wars . . . Normans, the Spanish Armadas, Napoleon, Hitler . . . all had tried, few were successful at breaching the Channel that had protected Britain for all of human history . . .

And a minute after take off the Boeing began to turn gently to the right, to the south, and begin its climbing arc out and over the Atlantic. The seat belt light remained on, but the pilot came on and advised that it was alright to hook up laptops again. Stuart reached under her seat, turned away from the window as she did, and so was spared the blinding flash that rendered twelve hundred years of history to ash in the blink of an eye.

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Cleofus Muldoon walked with his sack of hamburgers past the 47th Street Marina, and he looked down on the rich woman in the huge motor yacht again as she continued to order her hapless maid about. He stopped and looked at her again, but his eye slipped from this scene to another equally as perplexing.

A brother Muslim was setting out his prayer rug in the cockpit of a large sailboat; the boat had pulled into the slip next to the foul-mouthed woman just minutes before, and even the woman stopped berating her servant when she saw the Arab gentlemen praying on mats that faced the eastern horizon.

Something grabbed Muldoon in his gut, some distant, unknown voice called out to him, and he began hurrying along as fast as he could toward his home, toward his abandoned subway tunnel and his daughter. He felt the hand of God on his back, pushing him along, and soon he scrambled down an abandoned strip of scaffolding and still further down onto an old subway line that disappeared into the inky darkness of decay, and he ran as hard as his legs would allow toward the cubby-hole in a brick wall that he called home.

He could just make out a candle in an old soup can just ahead, and he heard his daughter's cough and was filled with love for the girl. She was truly the light that lit his home each night. He ran toward her as fast as he could in the darkness, ran as hard as he could until the concussion of the first blast knocked his feet out from under him. A hurricane developed and sucked the air from the shaft, and the candle went out.

The roaring noise seemed to go on forever.

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Hayward moved the targeting marker on his screen to the GPS coordinates stored in his computer, and hit the 'enable lock' button. A soft, low-pitched warning alarm sounded, and Hayward moved his finger to the launch button. He hesitated a moment, then pressed it.

The missile bay door opened within the span of a human heartbeat and the Phoenix III missile was ejected forward on it's launch arm even faster, followed by a thudding sound and the door slamming shut a millisecond later. The scram jet missile dropped away for a few seconds, then arced up and away as three pencil thin lines of super-heated blue plasma flared out the exhaust ports in an elaborate helix shape that seemed to stretch back toward infinity. When the missile reached 150,000 feet the scram jet kicked in and the missile nosed over and simply disappeared inside a glaring blue flash over the southern horizon. Seconds later the southern horizon turned into a glowing storm of sunlight and writhing clouds that climbed into the night sky.

Hayward toggled the autopilot and changed course for Kuwait City as he watched the spreading cloud wipe away the watchful eye that had once been Antares.

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Secret Service agents hustled the president out of the Oval Office toward the waiting Marine helicopter; they literally tossed him up the ramp into the arms of another agent. As soon as the door slammed shut the pilot lifted the collective and the helicopter rose into the clinging evening air and dipped toward the northeast, toward Andrews Air Force Base. The helicopter arced across the Mall, over the Smithsonian and towards the Potomac. The Republican Guardsman turned when he heard the noise of the helicopter, and he smiled when he recognized the it as the Presidents. He waited until he was sure it was headed right for him, then, just as the helicopter was passing over the Gangplank Marina and the sailboat on which he stood, he detonated the warhead below as he smiled at God's foresight.

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"Two nine alpha. Looking Glass Zulu Bravo to two nine alpha, how do you read?"

"Ah, two nine alpha here, we'll need to get back to you in a second. It's getting kinda busy up here."

"Affirmative, two nine alpha, that second group at your four o'clock appears to be another group of Russian Sukhois. Probably three-fives. Backfires have hit five airfields in Iraq, and intel indicates that heavy troop transports are headed south for Iraq and Saudi Arabia out of both Russia and China. Indications are that we have nuclear detonations in several major US cities on the eastern seaboard. Some reports of detonations in California. Command authority wants to re-task you to a more strategic target. Report when ready to download."

"Two nine, roger. We're climbing out to the northwest, will advise when we get clear of these bandits."

"Roger, two nine alpha, Recommend you come to heading three-five-zero, maintain angels niner zero. Your ten o'clock Raptor is down, repeat, escort two niner bravo one is down. Ah, wait one . . . ah, two nine alpha, now recommend you come to two niner five and go active ECM. Three, repeat three Sukhoi three-fives turning in on your six o'clock at range one seven five, angels fifty five."

"Two niner alpha turning to two niner five, roger. Where are those F-22s that went to Iran?"

"Two niner alpha, they're refueling out over the Med. If they can break free, uh, will vector in; ah, recommend change course back to three-five-zero. Are you jamming?"

"Three-five-zero. Affirmative, active ECM."

Hayward watched as the Russian Sukhoi 35s continued to chase a phantom radar return that led them due west, away from his B-2, and he gave a silent sigh of relief as he shifted his butt in his seat. His lower back and thighs ached, and he could feel sweat building up in his helmet. The oxygen mask was digging into the skin around his nose, and the dry air was causing his nostrils to burn. Other than the world going crazy, Hayward thought, everything was just fine and dandy! SNAFU, wasn't that what they used to call it. Situation normal - all fucked up!

"Two nine alpha, National Command Authority advises Russian ICBM launch in progress. No target data at this time."

"Received." With that news, Hayward felt dead inside. He shook his head, tried to clear the haze that enveloped him . . .

"Colonel?" his co-pilot asked. "You doin' alright?"

"Yeah, Bill, fine." Hayward clinched his jaw and ground his teeth for a moment, then focused on his heads-up-display and the vectors being fed by the AWACs. This was no time to wax philosophical he said to himself. This was what he had trained for all his life . . . this was his destiny . . .

"Two nine alpha. NCA advises Trident launch on targets in Russia and China, and US ICBM launch is in progress. Russian launch confirmed, targeting indicated in continental United States and Western Europe. Stand-by one . . . ah, NCA has new targeting now, two nine alpha. New target is Tehran."

"Two nine alpha, received. Entering target data to set on receive."

"Two nine alpha, sending - NOW."

"Two nine alpha, data set received and entered. Get me a rough heading if you can as soon as possible."

"Two nine alpha; say fuel state."

"Two niner, about 85 and five hours."

"Roger, two niner. Come right to zero-zero-five, rendevous with tanker Zebra Two-three in seven five miles."

"Two niner alpha to double-O five. Gotta transponder for me?" Hayward didn't like this at all; it was too busy up here . . . too busy to be tanking up now. The route just fed into computer would take them right over Baghdad and straight into Iranian airspace - directly across the route Russian transports would be flying south toward Saudi Arabia. It was a recipe for disaster, but all of a sudden it hit him . . . there probably wasn't going to be much left to go home to anyway. He scanned the instruments automatically now, it was almost as if he was dead already. One more job to do. One more job . . . before I sleep . . .

"Two niner, tanker ident Zebra twenty-three on1400, IFF ident triple 3."

"Roger."

The cockpit filled with a howling engine alarm; Hayward looked hurriedly at the readouts for engine two. "Shut it down! Now!" he called out to the co-pilot, but the engine fire alarm went off, followed by a hydraulic pressure alarm.

"Two nine alpha, read a heat bloom in your area, and some debris?!"

Hayward ignored the controller as he and the co-pilot worked to get the fire out and stabilize power in the remaining three engines.

"Two niner alpha, how do you read?"

The B-2 was dumping heat into the atmosphere, and he could only guess what kind of radar signature the exploding fan blades were leaving as they trailed away from B-2. "Two niner, yeah, we've just lost our number two engine . . . think we threw some blades . . ." Hayward looked at the tactical display. Yes, the Sukhois had been alerted by their own AWACs and were vectoring on a new intercept course. ". . . You got any word on friendly a/c in the neighborhood. We're not going to be able to hold this altitude, and we'll be better off down in the weeds after we tank up."

"Roger two niner. Recommend you decrease altitude rapidly to flight level 15. There are a couple of Marine EA-6Bs running hot this way from Aviano, and some Greek Block 52 F-16s are vectoring in. Four Raptors are on an intercept course for the tanker, so you should have plenty of company to keep the Indians off you while you tank. Can you say status yet?"

"Uh, yeah, Zulu, uh . . ." Hayward paused while he reached for a hydraulic transfer switch on the overhead panel, then flipped on the axillary yaw damper . . . "yeah, I think we can hold this crate together for a little while longer."

"Roger two niner, come left to three-five-zero, descend at your discretion of angels one seven, distance to intercept Zebra two three is now four four miles, eight minutes at current rate of descent. They advise broken cloud, moderate chop at that altitude. Also, they'll have a full load for you, and two F-15s to send with you."

"Roger, Zulu, thanks for the good news." Hayward stretched his neck and twisted his head from side to side, and as he did he suddenly wondered what had happened to Angela's flight to D.C. Had London been hit, had her flight taken off yet? There were so many imponderables when he thought of all the death that had taken place so far in this night. Why had he thought of her right now? He hadn't thought about her for hours, but suddenly he felt bereft without her, not knowing where she was, or how she was . . .

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Stuart's flight was almost knocked out of the sky from the initial shock wave of the detonation in the Thames, but the warhead was fairly small, only 5 kilotons, and though the blast had devastated central London, the shock wave had dissipated rapidly as most of the force was absorbed by the Thames. The aircraft had been hit by the equivalent of a huge tailwind and had almost lost the lift necessary to keep the plane aloft, but the pilots had pulled the jet through by applying full power and pushing the nose down hard. Residents in Tooting Broadway must have reeled at the sound of the bomb followed by the 747 clipping television antennae as it roared literally just over their rooftops. It turned out that almost all modern commercial jets were being hardened against electro-magnetic pulse, so their electronic flight control systems didn't fail. Older airliners in the pattern over London didn't fare as well, however, and dozens literally fell out of the sky just moments after the blast.

Airline dispatchers were able to get word to all flights en-route to and from the United States that they would have to divert to other airfields in the midlands or Ireland as there had been a nuclear attack on London. Soon reports filtered in of other detonations in Europe, and minutes later all air traffic world-wide was grounded. Any aircraft remaining airborne would be assume to be military, and absent correct transponder data, would be assumed hostile and destroyed.

Stuart's 747 sustained structural damage to the wing, and after repeated attempts it was found that the flaps simply would not retract; the aircraft had, therefore, to continue on at reduced speed and altitude and hope for the best. After talking it over, the pilots decided to divert to Shannon, Ireland, and informed British Airways dispatch first, then the passengers. Stuart, like many of the passengers, was slowing beginning to piece together what was happening in the world outside of their little airborne cocoon, and shook inside when the enormity of the catastrophe became apparent.

Many of the passengers on the flight were American, and most were understandably distraught; some needed to be sedated. Flight attendants passed out liquor and calmed the hysterical few, then prepared the passengers for what would surely be an emergency landing. The pilots, after informing the passengers that they were diverting to Shannon, came on a few minutes later to tell them that the landing gears had malfunctioned and would not come down. They passed on what news they had about attacks on the United States and Europe, and told them to follow instructions when they landed and they might all still come through this alive.

Stuart processed that little bit of information, but found she was suddenly very worried that Deke Hayward was somewhere up there in these opening hours of World War III, and she felt sick to her stomach again. She hoped their baby wouldn't be hurt; this was sure to be a rough landing. There were probably a lot of rough landings tonight, she said to herself as she thought again about Hayward and his B-2 hurtling through the night sky over what was surely about to be turned into the raging fires of Hell.

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Cleofus Muldoon rubbed his eyes as he climbed out of the rubble of the collapsed subway tunnel and crawled over huge slabs of collapsed buildings up to street level. Or what should have been street level. Midtown Manhattan looked like a vast tableau of the rubble the world had seen after the World Trade Center attacks. Hundreds of buildings were down, and fire raged in every direction. Muldoon couldn't see any people walking about - no emergency services vehicles could be seen or heard, though he could hear a helicopter hovering nearby. Hot winds swirled around him as he tried to stand on a shifting pile of rubble, and he looked up to see a US Coast Guard helicopter moving slowly over the collapsed buildings on the west side of Central Park. The helicopter trailed a probe of some kind over the debris, then roared off toward Connecticut.

Muldoon looked all around. There was a small market across the street from him; the windows were blown out and he couldn't see a soul anywhere. He walked across this fractured landscape, his footsteps crunching on broken glass as he felt his way across in the twilight until he came to the remnants of the store's doorway.

"Hello?!" he called out. "Anybody home?"

Silence.

Muldoon walked in and bagged some groceries and candles and first aid supplies, then looked around until he found a pencil and paper. He wrote out an IOU and placed it on the cash register and walked back through the rubble to his subway tunnel, and crawled back down into the dark. He crawled toward the cries his daughter made in the dark.

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Hayward's B-2 approached the KC-10 once again, and the boom operator called out the distances and pressurized the drogue on contact once again. He watched the tactical display evolve around him; Russian jets closed on the AWACs and were jumped by American Raptors and Israeli Eagles. The Marine jamming aircraft arrived and the Greek Falcons screamed in and took out the Russian AWACs aircraft. Hayward's B-2 was at it's most vulnerable down here in the clouds, it's location was certainly known to every fighter in the area as it refueled just aft of the huge converted airliner. The sooner they could get this over with, Hayward knew, the better things would get.