Tom Clancy Shadow State

PROLOGUE

Andersen Air Force Base, Guam

Monday, September 30

Lieutenant Colonel "Magic" Mike Holbrook gripped the throttles of his specially modified F-15 Strike Eagle.

"Raider One, doors open," crackled a voice through his headset.

"Roger doors," he replied into his oxygen mask.

Other than a red-lensed flashlight here and there, the cavernous hangar at Guam's Andersen Air Force Base was dark. So dark, in fact, that Magic couldn't see the hulking doors to either side. But as a test pilot, he'd learned to trust in the highly trained ground crew who'd flown out here with him from California. If they said the hangar doors were open, then, by God, they were.

The pilot lifted his boot soles from the rudder brakes. He felt the familiar dip in the hydraulic nosewheel strut as the plane moved. Bulked up with extra fuel and experimental electronics, the powerful old fighter surged forward.

Behind an enhanced-reality visor, Magic's eyes swept the dim instrument panel. "Exhaust gas temp good. Visual systems green," he reported. He pushed the button that activated the nosewheel steering and twisted the stick into a rolling turn. "Proceeding to three alpha."

Piece of cake, he thought as the jet thundered along the taxiway. Though this was no ordinary Eagle, maneuvering it around the airfield was as familiar to Magic as driving his F-150 around his neighborhood-even without headlights.

Before serving as an Edwards test pilot, Magic had commanded an Eagle squadron up in Kadena AFB, Okinawa, Japan. Later, installed at the storied test-pilot proving grounds on the high Mojave, he'd flown the exotic birds designed for the Air Force by Quantum Atomics, the Defense Department's largest, most sophisticated weapons supplier.

The F-15 he maneuvered tonight across Guam's airfield was a modified Quantum Atomics variant-one that few, outside of a handful of engineers and Magic himself, knew a damn thing about. Though Magic had strapped himself into dozens of experimental aircraft, he found it grimly amusing that his most dangerous mission to date should be in this familiar, old F-15 Strike Eagle.

"Raider One, this is Shotgun. Follow-me truck's to your right. Got it?"

Magic cranked his head around. Though the Humvee had its lights extinguished, the enhanced reality visor on his flight helmet made it visible. "Tally truck. Got him on infrared."

He twisted the stick into a sharp, following turn and bumped along at about thirty miles per hour to the end of the runway.

"Raider, Shotgun. Viper Flight's at your nine. See 'em?"

Magic twisted his head hard to the left.

Though the enhanced reality goggles were an amazing piece of DARPA tech, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency still required the pilot to turn his head into unnatural positions to aim the sensors.

"Roger, Shotgun. Tally Viper Flight."

Viper Flight consisted of two F-22 Raptors. They were running parallel to Magic's F-15 on a second taxiway, their anti-collision lights blinking as normal. Beyond them, Magic could make out a dozen B-52 and B-1 bomber tails rising in the dark like shark fins.

He waited for the planes of Viper to move ahead, then goosed his throttles to fall in behind them. "Shotgun, Raider One. In trail with Viper, headed to runway one-six. Will do run-ups and system checks at the hold-short."

"Good copy, Raider."

Shotgun's head engineer was monitoring Magic's every move back at the top secret Quantum airfield in Palmdale, California, better known as "Skunk Works."

Magic checked his watch. It was one o'clock on Thursday morning in Guam. Back at Skunk Works, it was a lazy eight a.m. on Wednesday. He stifled a yawn and quietly envied the engineers' full night's sleep. No matter how fancy the plane or exotic the mission, jet lag was always a bitch.

"Raider One, looking good. On standby until the hold-short."

Magic's F-15 gained the edge of the runway behind the two regular Air Force fighters. He moved the throttles to idle and pumped the brakes, jerking to a stop. "Shotgun, I'm at the hold-short."

"Roger that, Raider. Initiate sequence alpha."

Magic double-keyed his mic in acknowledgment. With the fine movements of a pianist, he toggled each of the customized switches on the right side of his instrument panel. Normally, the F-15 Strike Eagle would have a weapons systems officer in the back seat doing this kind of thing. But Magic's back seat was a solid mass of electronics.

"Shotgun, we're good here," he radioed, noting the various green lights on the panel and the digital metrics spewing down the right side of his visor. "Am I a go to power up the special mission pod?"

That, Magic knew, was the big question-the one that would require permission from the geniuses on the Potomac.

The special mission pod, code-named UMBRA, was a long tube of electronics in the Eagle's weapons bay. Everything in this F-15 had been modified to optimize UMBRA's performance. The Skunk Works engineers had coated the Eagle in black, radar-absorbent paint. They'd machined small changes in the wing strakes and control surfaces. They'd dusted the canopy with a transparent, reflective epoxy. And, of course, they'd replaced Magic's copilot with a stack of UMBRA system electronics.

Receiving no response, Magic wondered if Washington had gotten cold feet for this flight. He keyed the sat link again. "Shotgun, am I good to cycle the special mission pod to standby?"

He could picture the civilians in short-sleeve button-downs in California and the anxious Air Force generals leaning over their shoulders. He'd heard this mission had interest all the way up to the White House. He'd dismissed that as the typical military rumor-but part of him thought it plausible.

Now he was getting annoyed. "Shotgun, Raider. Looking for an update out here. We still a go?"

"Yeah, Shotgun, we hear you. Wait one. We're working the problem."

Problem.

Magic sighed and looked directly up at the night sky, through the clear canopy. Though he could see the white pinpricks of stars in his otherworldly digital goggles, he had the urge to pull the damned things off and look at the stars the old-fashioned way, like he used to do on his parents' cattle ranch in eastern Oregon.

Just like on those nights, Magic was looking at a pleasant, clear sky out here in the middle of the Pacific. He listened to his breath through the oxygen mask, and, still staring straight up, thought about his wife, then his boys.

The twin twelve-year-olds had just started peewee football at the Edwards middle school. A second-string tight end for the Air Force Academy a million years ago, Magic had stepped up to be the assistant coach of the boys' team, grateful to show them a few things. Their first game was this weekend. With any luck at all, he'd make it back in time.

"Still waiting for final clearance back here," said Shotgun. "Apologies for the delay, Magic."

He sighed into his mask and double-keyed his mic.

Classic hurry up and-

The speakers in his helmet startled him. "Just got an update, Raider. Good news. We have clearance up and down the chain . . . Like way up. Mission's a go-so long as we get through the full flight-test telemetry package."

"Roger that. On to flight telemetry," responded Magic, dropping back into complete mission focus.

Like a sprinter limbering up before a race, Magic waggled his stick around and shoved his rudder pedals in and out. Back at Palmdale, the Quantum engineers followed along, narrating his every move. "Raider, we see full aft stick now . . . Full forward stick now . . . Left rudder . . . Right rudder. Flight control checks look good. Put special mission payload on standby."

Magic lowered his thumb to power up the secret pod in the weapons bay, UMBRA. He scanned the cascade of numbers that was now running down the edge of his visor. "Shotgun . . . special mission payload is on standby. Lights are green, metrics in range. Decibels neg-fifteen."

"Roger that, Raider. We copy all. You are cleared for takeoff. Follow Viper Flight to Marshal Point Alpha."

Magic heard Andersen Tower give Viper Flight the go-ahead call. For secrecy, the tower had been ordered not to even acknowledge his F-15. The Viper fighters raced down the runway, then shot skyward, anti-collision lights blinking. Magic waited for the jet wash to dissipate, then told the Palmdale engineers he was ready to go.

"Shotgun, leaving hot mic on via telemetry. Contact me on button seven if needed. Otherwise, I'll get back on the net after departure."

He shoved the levers to the stops-balls to the wall, as the old saying went. Forty-three seconds later, he was aloft, racing through the clear dark sky at six hundred fifty knots, hurrying to catch up with Viper, following the digital positional data in his visor glass.

At ten thousand feet, he leveled and slowed. He fell into formation behind the two F-22s, shadowing them in secret, his lights off. They knew he was there, of course, but the mission's operational security protocol dictated they say nothing to him. Magic's eyes swept his gauges, preparing for the command from Shotgun he knew would be coming his way.

And then it came.

"Okay, Magic, we want you to activate special mission payload. Take it out of standby."

"Activating." Magic toggled the switch. The multiple lights of UMBRA glowed green in his visor.

"How we looking?" he asked Palmdale.

"Couldn't be better, Raider One. You just fell off the AWACS scopes," came the answer.

Magic chuckled into his mask. Even the Pacific Air Forces's own airborne warning aircraft, AWACS, had lost him.

This is one special F-15, he thought. Just for the hell of it, he did a snap roll in the dark.

Two hours later, somewhere between Guam and the Philippines, the three aircraft rendezvoused with a KC-10 tanker at twenty thousand feet. As instructed in the highly classified air tasking order, none of the fuel-boom operators in the back of the tanker acknowledged the existence of the black Strike Eagle that sucked down thousands of pounds of aviation gas.

Twenty minutes after the air-to-air refueling chore, while flying five hundred feet below and a quarter mile behind the F-22s, Magic's UMBRA lights went yellow, then red. For good measure, his seat vibrated, making sure he was paying attention.

Per procedure, he killed the alarms and focused on the UMBRA readings in his visor. "Shotgun," he broadcast over the link. "Be advised I've got targeting radars lighting me up. Special mission pod activated and functioning."

"Roger, Raider. We see that. Stay steady on course and speed. Put another mile between yourself and Viper."

Magic acknowledged the order and dropped back. The UMBRA sensors were blinking, the telemetry data spewing. Shotgun contacted him again. "Raider, can you give us a detailed read on those radars painting you?"

"Roger, Shotgun. Special payload identifies the radar as USS Benfold, Block IV standard surface-to-air missile bearing three-zero-zero, sixty-one nautical miles."

"Strong copy, Raider. Stand by." Magic knew they would check in with the Pentagon again. It took them forty-five seconds. "Raider, you are still Charlie Mike."

Continue mission, thought Magic. UMBRA lives.

The special payload had successfully detected Benfold's fire-control radar and created cloaking return waves as an echo. Coupled with the radar-absorbent coating on the Strike Eagle, UMBRA had nullified Benfold's radar energy the same way noise-canceling headphones negate sound waves. Evidently, well enough that the brass was confident in moving forward to the next phase.

Magic turned northwest, straight over the friendly, ship-borne SAMs that were targeting him. He could hear Viper responding to Benfold's fire-control radars now, communicating with the naval officers down in the ship's combat information center. While the Air Force and Navy officers chattered through the "blue-on-blue" exercise, Magic's F-15 flew on, undetected, cloaked by UMBRA, completely unacknowledged by Benfold.

Now for the hard part.

"We still a go for the neutral?" Magic asked Shotgun.

It took them about a minute to respond. "Roger. Stay with Viper. Mission is cleared to Point Bravo, test neutral."

Point Bravo, thought Magic, settling in behind the stick, his bladder pinching him. From Alpha to Bravo would be the longest leg of the flight. After refueling from the KC-10, his Eagle certainly had the gas for it-his body was another matter. He put the Strike Eagle on autopilot, loosened his straps, rotated onto a butt cheek, and unzipped the crotch of his flight suit.

How many times, he asked himself, have I pissed into one of these little plastic relief tubes?

That unpleasant business done, he sat back, scanned gauges, and waited. During the remaining transit, he thought of several ways to improve his boys' receiver routes. Though it was just peewee football, Magic still hated to lose.

A tone in his helmet warbled. He'd made it to Point Bravo-over the Leyte Gulf, the notch of water between the big Philippine islands of Luzon and Mindanao. The UMBRA lights were flashing, his seat vibrating.

"Hey, Shotgun, I've got the PAF lighting me up with an early-warning radar. We still good?"

"Roger that, Raider, still good. Philippine Air Force is seeing the F-22s, communicating on Guard freq. They're not seeing you. Commence separation exercise."

Magic pulled the stick back and ascended, putting more distance between himself and the F-22s. He went to thirty-five thousand feet, becoming a big, fat, juicy target for the PAF's air defense operators up and down the archipelago. This would be the very first test of a truly foreign air defense system, the real thing-but at least it was a neutral country.

He put his radios in scan mode and listened for the reaction from the Filipinos.

There wasn't one.

"Raider, we are still Charlie Mike." The pocket protectors were clearly jubilant. Magic could hear some celebrating in the background of the transmission. "Proceed to Point Charlie, Raider, hostile test approved. You've made us propeller-heads very happy back here."

Magic acknowledged the call, tilted his stick to steady up on course two-seven-zero, and left Viper Flight behind.

He was alone now, headed over Palawan, a long candy bar-shaped Philippine island. It lay just east of Mischief Reef, a heavily fortified man-made outpost built by the Chinese to illegally take control of the South China Sea.

Magic's F-15 would soon fly right over it.

That's when he would know whether UMBRA really worked.


His hair buzzed short, his skin tawny, his fatigues unmarked by insignia, Colonel Cai Qi stood next to a missile defense sergeant in a buried bunker on China’s Mischief Reef.

Braced by the muscled shoulders and sinewy arms of the Muay Thai fighter he was, Cai leaned on the metal tabletop and studied the flow of real-time information coming in from the air defense radars. Heterochromia, a quirk in the genetic roll of the dice, had given him one brown and one blue eye, both of which squinted at the small digital symbols that represented aircraft over the South China Sea.