Dark Passage

"Two nine alpha, this is Zulu Bravo."

"Go ahead, Zulu."

"Two nine alpha, we've got another flight of Sukhoi 35s showing up at extreme range, vectoring in on the KC 10. You've got about three minutes to tank up and clear out of there before you're in range. Nothing in the area to intercept, but the Marine EA-6Bs will try to vector in and decoy."

'Fuckshitdamn!' Hayward said under his breath. 'Just need a couple of lucky breaks and I can pull this off!'

"Zebra two three to two niner alpha, one five seconds to release . . . ten . . . five . . . four, three, two, one and break - break - BREAK!"

Again Hayward pushed down and right - away from the tanker, and he watched as it climbed for a moment, then pushed over hard and dove for the wavetops and cloud cover far below. Shit! He couldn't blame the poor guy. They were caught in a war zone in a flying gas tank the size of a football field, and about as stealthy as a whore in a convent. He watched as the tanker disappeared into the cloud of night, then looked at his display for the Marine EA-6Bs, known as Queers for their decidedly odd tadpole shape, and he took the vector from Zulu Bravo to form up on them down in the waves.

This was Haywards favorite type of flying: high speed in the dark, surrounded by thunderstorms and flying about a hundred feet above the surface of the sea. When they crossed over to flying above ground, he would slip a little lower still. He adjusted the dose of stimulants being fed by abdominal pump into his bloodstream to increase his concentration, and blinked his eyes rapidly as the meds took effect. He concentrated on falling in between the two EA-6Bs while running in toward the coast of northern Lebanon. The Russian fighters were still searching above them, but without their AWACs they were effectively flying blind, looking for a black needle in a haystack at night.

Hayward looked at the terrain ahead through infrared cameras overlaid on radar imagery, with known hazards located by GPS and symbols flashing as they approached each one. The B-2 was thus able to fly at treetop level at insanely fast speeds, and it remained almost completely invisible to radar while doing so. Only a lucky shot from a Gomer on the ground might make a difference now, but the route they were headed for - over Lebanon and Jordan, then across Iraq and the northern Gulf - was relatively clear of sophisticated anti-aircraft systems, and the B-2 remained the world's premier stealth aircraft. The aircraft had continued to evolve through the incorporation of ongoing R&D in electronic countermeasure systems. In short, the stealth technology had kept ahead of improvements in radar technology, and as a result Hayward felt good about his chances of living to see another day. Whether or not he wanted to live in that emerging world was another matter, one he hoped he would live to deal with another day.

"Zulu Bravo to two nine alpha."

"Two nine, go ahead."

"We're going to hand you off to Zulu Echo Bravo in five. We're going to try for Italy. Good luck and Godspeed."

"Roger that, Zulu Bravo. Good luck out there, and thanks. Couldn't have done it without you guys."

"Yankee Bravo to two nine alpha."

"Two nine, go ahead."

"Two nine, set your net to receive a National Security update. Also, transponder should be set to three rigid echo nine."

"Three rigid echo nine. Go ahead." Hayward watched the screen as an update of cities hit by an unknown country or countries was tallied. After the Russian missile strikes were taken into account, hardy any major city in America had escaped at least one nuclear strike; many, such as New York City and Washington, D.C. appeared to have simply been wiped from the earth. The tally of US strikes on both Russia and China was equally depressing; every major population center in both countries had been decimated. Initial estimates put the population loss in China at 800 million people, Russian losses were harder to pin down, but 'reliable' estimates looked to be in the 150 million range, about equal to US losses. The entire executive branch was unaccounted for save for the Secretary of State and the Director of CIA, and Sec State was being sworn in as President aboard a 'Looking Glass' E4 at this hour.

Hayward took this in quickly and focused again on the terrain ahead. The terrain following radar - linked to the autopilot now - was flying the airplane, and Hayward looked at the data downlink that showed the EA-6 aircraft ahead and astern. He blinked and looked again. Ten, twelve, fifteen aircraft were headed almost directly toward them on an intercept course; they would intercept within two minutes at the present rate of closure.

"Yankee Zulu! Unknown aircraft dead ahead!" Hayward called out. "Give me a heading!"

"Two nine alpha, these are friendly a/c returning from Iran."

"Two nine, understood. Are we running the same route?"

"Uh, two nine alpha, that's affirmative through Iraq, then we'll recompute probabilities."

Hayward looked at the tactical display and saw that Zulu Bravo was being engaged by Russian Sukhois, and he cursed as he watched the display flare when the other AWACs was taken out by a nuclear tipped air-to-air missile Another group of Mig 29s turned to chase the KC-10, and moments later the tanker flared and died.

It was an effective strategy, he thought. Take out the B-2's support structure and it was effectively crippled or limited to one way trips.

"Bill, work out our effective combat radius, would you?"

"Already have, Colonel. If we take a southerly departure we can make Diego Garcia no sweat. Same for Iraq, too, but from what I can gather I'd hate to try that. The long shot is we could climb out and make for Mendenhall. We can probably get there with about fifty minutes reserve if we can get to a high cruise. That's without tanking, and assuming we don't have to turn and burn too much over the target."

"Let's make that our working assumption for now. Once we get over the EU things will probably become more fluid. Shit. Maybe we'll find a 7-11 open. You know, stop in and pick up a cherry Slur-pee."

"Roger that." The co-pilot chuckled and hunched over his nav screen, then began marking waypoints while he looked at overlaid weather imagery and tactical information from the new AWACs.

Hayward remained fixed on the terrain ahead, the stimulants pumping into his system turning him slowly into a machine like automaton. This was no night to be human, he said as he watched the terrain rip by in a blur not seventy feet below.

_____________________________________

Mohammed al-Zaq walked into the Operations Directorate with his shoulders square and pride in his step. He felt an odd mixture of triumph at having orchestrated such a vast strike against the American infidel, yet he felt a sadness deep in his soul at having been the principal architect of such genocide.

The sun was still a few hours from rising, but he wanted to watch events unfold on the Directorates own monitoring channels. CNN had ceased operating nearly an hour ago, about the time Russian ICBMs arced down on Atlanta, and European channels were becoming spotty as Russian airborne troops and tanks raced unopposed across Germany toward the Rhine. Japanese news outlets remained neutral at best, describing events that were now old news, until the Russians decided to avenge their humiliating defeat by the Japanese in 1905. Japanese news outlets winked out one by one; one intrepid broadcaster continued to air the news even as missiles arced down on his home city. The video of that one made it onto a Chinese broadcast, and that had been beamed to Tehran.

al-Zaq made tea and sat in one of the ready rooms on the ground floor, and he watched operators sifting through data from sources all over the surface of the earth, and beyond. So far, Chinese and Russian aircraft were keeping American air strikes from penetrating Iranian airspace, though the Israeli strike against the nuclear facilities had come as a shock to some.

The overall operation was growing obvious to al-Zaq as information streamed in from around the world. The Israeli raid had been the lynch-pin of the entire operation. Using that as the operational pretext, Iran called on Russia and China, both signature nations in a non-aggression and mutual defense pact with Iran, and both answered the Iranian call for help with a premeditated strategy that seemed out of all proportion to the proximate causal event. But now al-Zaq saw the strategy for what it really was; a Sino-Russian move to eliminate American influence from the world stage once and for all time. From the initial reports coming in, it seemed both the Russians and the Chinese had underestimated the American's post-Cold War capability or willingness to retaliate. This, al-Zaq knew, could only mean that Iranian domination of the petro-resources of the Gulf region would be more complete, and that global reconstruction would be governed by Iranian interests. The prospects of spreading Islam had not looked this good in over six hundred years.

It was time, al-Zaq understood most clearly now, for Muslim Crusaders to storm Europe once again. He turned to look out the window, and could see the first hints of the sun growing behind the mountains that defined the horizon east of Tehran. He fixed yet another cup of tea, then walked out on the terrace that overlooked the distant city of Tehran, but his mind was focused on the emerging realities of a world governed by Iranian will, by Islamic will.

At first he couldn't grasp what he saw in the faint gray light of dawn. A flash at first, in the distance, then in an instant an American jet flew over. A small one, dark gray, and very strange looking. He knew what it was, but his mind had to search for the information. An Intruder, a Navy bomber! No! That aircraft had been retired, he remembered reading about that years ago. The Queer! The EA-6B, the electronic countermeasures variant of the old A6-E. A radar jammer!

What! That could only mean an air-raid! The Queer turned and headed for Tehran, clouds of aluminum chaff trailing in it's wake, and he heard air raid sirens start to wail all over the city. His fingers grasped the railing on the terrace, and he held on so tightly his fingers began to ache from the effort. His stomach began to burn, then he saw it - the bat shaped flying wing! A B-2 bomber! A bomber capable of carrying the very biggest nuclear weapons in the American arsenal. His stomach flipped as the bomber slipped quietly through the dawn sky.

The lead EA-6 disappeared behind a mountain on the far side of the city, and al-Zaq watched as a missile arced out from under the B-2 and screamed toward his beloved Tehran, trailing fierce blue fire and a sound that seemed to tear the very world apart. The B-2 disappeared behind a closer mountain range, and al-Zaq watched as the missile cut like a razor blade directly into the heart of the city.

He did not close his eyes. He wanted to meet God with his eyes open.

He watched as a new sun burned brightly on the ground that had once been home to all he had ever loved. He watched as an immense wall of fire moved out from the city, watched as it ate everything in it's path like an insatiable beast, watched as the tsunami of fire grew ever more powerful as it raced across the desert toward him.

He felt violently sick to his stomach again. Then he passed from this life, and surely on to the next, as all who truly believe must.

________________________________________

Hayward felt the detonation even though there was a mountain range between the B-2 and Tehran now. He kept the jet just over the treetops now as he poured on throttle to get as far from the blast as he could. After a few moments he eased off the throttles and dialed in some up pitch and the jet slowly gained altitude. He could see the sunrise spreading along the eastern horizon, but it looked like there was a sun flaring behind as well.

The he looked at the sky, at the Pleiades, and he saw a comet hanging there in the sky, like an arrow shot from the Seven Sisters at Earth. He stared at the sight for a long time, then pushed the stick to the left and turned toward the northwest.

Hayward set the autopilot's heading bug for 345 degrees and activated the autopilot after he nursed the B-2 back up to high altitude; then he started scanning the HF bands for radio traffic. It was eerily quiet on almost every NCA frequency; every now and then he'd pick up snippets of conversations between an airborne command post over the Bay of Biscay and air units apparently involved in close air support sorties in western Germany. He picked up a fast attack submarine somewhere in the Med calling out an SOS at one point, and he tried to establish contact with the stricken vessel but it mysteriously went off the air. His tactical display was dark; there were now obviously no AWACs aircraft up to feed him that information, and Hayward dared not activate any of the B-2's onboard radar systems for fear of attracting Russian fighters. A little while later the AWACs out over the Atlantic fell silent.

The electronic warfare operator down in the hole behind his seat could, however, pick up active search radars all over the place. Most appeared concentrated in the area around Israel, which was not a real surprise to Hayward except that he was amazed the entire region wasn't glassed over in radioactive ash. How could anyone have lived through that night of nights.

With only three engines now, the B-2 had trouble getting back up to the extreme altitudes that would keep tactical fighters off it's back, but as fuel burned off Hayward nursed the stricken jet slowly, gently higher. By noon they were over the Alps once again, and still they flew northwest - soon flying between Zurich and Stuttgart. Both cities appeared to be awash in flames, and Hayward watched as the remnants of huge mushroom clouds vaulted up through the jetstream before dissipating slowly to the east. Geneva, way off to the left on this return leg of the flight, was the same. A huge boiling cloud rose to well over a hundred thousand feet before it began to spread out like a plague-born shroud in the upper atmosphere.

The radio grew ever more silent as morning gave way to afternoon; soon even tactical chatter between ground forces grew silent. They approached the English Channel, and Hayward could make out the white chalk cliffs of Dover ahead. Paris, Calais, both gone, there remains burning like funeral pyres, and far to the right huge boiling clouds could be seen rising where Brussels and Amsterdam once had been.

"Bill, what's the fuel work out to now?" Hayward looked at his co-pilot out of the corner of his eye. The man had grown silent a few hours back, had simply looked down at his hands - as if he expected to find blood there, it seemed to Hayward - and he hadn't moved at all for several minutes.

"Bill! Captain Andrews!"

"Uh, yeah skipper. Fuel state? Wait one . . ."

Hayward wrinkled his nose in disgust. He hated that kind of personal weakness, especially in men who claimed to be professional warriors.

"Uh, Colonel, I make it 2350, not including 15 minutes reserve, so maybe an hour and thirty minutes total flight time left."

"Start looking for any ILS or MLS signals. Let's see if there are any airfields down there we can dump this airplane down on."

"OK Colonel."

Hayward shook his head again, but he supposed the Captain was correct in a way. The reality was that the United States Air Force even existed anymore had probably become irrelevant hours ago. Hayward's B-2 was probably one of the last vestiges of that organization still in functional existence. Even satellite links to Omaha and other NORAD ground installations had grown silent during their flight.

"Spirit Two niner alpha to any unit, any unit come in," Hayward called out on the military distress frequency.

Nothing. He switched over to the civilian band and dialed in the civil aeronautic distress frequency, and transmitted again: "Spirit Two niner alpha to any unit, any unit come in."

"Spirit two niner alpha to any unit, any unit come in."

"Spirit two nine alpha, this is the Royal Lifeboat Squadron Dartmouth. Who are you, where are you transmitting from? Over."

"Ah, Dartmouth, we're an air force unit trying to return to RAF Mendenhall. Any news you can relay would be appreciated." Hayward was elated to hear another human beings voice.

"Two nine alpha, you're the first aircraft we've heard from in over five hours. We did hear that there were no military or civil airfields open in Britain or Scotland as of 12 hundred hours, though we do have reports that almost every field in Ireland is still in operation; also the carrier Ark Royal is operational and taking aircraft somewhere off Gibraltar. Over."

"Understood Dartmouth. What's the situation down there?"

"Oh, remarkably good, considering, I should say. No nukes came down anywhere near our area, and the winds seem to be carrying most of the nasty stuff away from us, too. What news have you? Over."

"Ah, Dartmouth, we're inbound from the Middle East. I'm afraid we've been out of the loop all night. What we've seen from up here doesn't look too good."

"Well, two nine alpha, what are your intentions? Over."

"Guess we'll make for Ireland. Any news you have on specific airports would be appreciated."

"Understood, two nine alpha. Dublin and Shannon both report operational. Contact Dublin approach on 127.3 or Shannon on 118.3. Shannon had a 747 crash on landing there last night, but they've since cleared the runway and are taking flights now, er, well, the last we heard about three hours ago they were."

"Two nine alpha," Hayward said with his chest tight and his vision constricted, "any word on that crash at Shannon. What flight, any survivors?"

"Uh, two nine alpha, all we heard was that it was a British Airways flight headed to America, and there were survivors. Over."

"Two nine alpha, understood. Thanks for the information, and we're going to try for Ireland. Good luck down there."

"Two nine alpha. God luck to you. Over and out."

Hayward wiped a tear from his eye. It was too much to hope . . . too much . . .

____________________________________

"Bill, work out a heading for Shannon, would you?" He watched as his co-pilot pulled up a Nav screen and began working out waypoints, and he tried to keep the anxiety from flooding his head as he thought, as he hoped, that Angela Stuart might be down there, that she might still be alive.

The B-2 sliced across the British midlands - Manchester and Birmingham were smoldering ruins now - and they crossed the coast just north of Liverpool, which, too, was gone. There were fishing boats in the water around the Isle of Man, and Hayward set the frequency for Shannon approach control and hit the transmit button:

"Shannon approach, this is Sierra two niner requesting information x-ray." This was the latest standard request for local weather conditions made by all aircraft approaching a civilian airport for landing.

The radio was silent.

"Shannon approach, this is Sierra two niner requesting information x-ray."

Silence.

"Shannon approach, this is Sierra two niner requesting information x-ray. Shannon, do you read Sierra two niner, come in, Shannon."

"Sierra two nine, say aircraft type and souls on board please," came the guarded reply through a gauzy haze of static. Hayward thought the man's voice sounded suspicious, and he grew cautious as well as he thought about the implications of a nuclear bomber landing near civilians in the hours after what had been - for intents and purposes - Armageddon.

"Shannon approach, two niner alpha is U S Air Force aircraft with four souls aboard."

"Ah, two nine alpha, we have negative radar contact with any aircraft at this time. Can you squawk ident on 1400."