The wind's howling like a chorus of demons. The heat is oppressive, the rays scorch the sand and the living things on it.

Tech2 was warming up the modified RAH Comanche. It is a svelte, sexy helicopter and has been painted flat silver-white to reflect the intense desert heat. During the day it's nearly invisible in the bright skies.

I see the craft as if a mirage, through the rippling waves of heat rising from the tarmac. We got this baby from Boeing as part of the early operational test fleet. We've had it for four days. Most outfits wont see them for another four years. SDAI in conjunction with Advanced Battle Labs has performed some liberal modifications to the already high performance specifications.

All curves and angles, this bird. Lean and very mean. I am riding shotgun, except shotgun, in this case, is behind the front seat just like a fighter.

I fasten my helmet - a kickrear display system with integrated input from the exterior of the craft which makes one feel like one is flying without the helicopter. True 360 degree realtime input with only a moving color band to indicate which direction the craft is heading. The helmet is sort of like an advanced pair of bifocals - with your real view augmented above with the panoramic view - just above and a glance away.

The technology combines nightvision and heat seeking properties so as to pick out a "hot" target anytime 24/7.

"Hi Ho Silver and away!"

Tech2 has named this bird "Silver" - though "Sliver" may be more appropraite considering its very slender frame.

We are aloft and kicking up some of the desert sand which blows onto the black tarmac - in spite of the regular hose-down with a fire truck the pad gets on windy days.

It is simply majestic.

"Apollo never had it this good," I say with unabashed enthusiasm, "never."

"I thought you didn't believe in deities of any denomination?" says Tech2 with a large heaping of sarcasm.

"That's true...lets see....would you believe I was referring to the "Apollo" program. which had to deal with comparatively low-tech gear?"

"Glad to see you're in top form today. You'll have to be. We're going to 'Hell's Hallway'."

"Hell's Hallway" is a torturous strip of desert and canyons boxed between two sheer cliffs, where the temperatures rise to 130 degrees or hotter. A more inhospitable place for man could hardly exist, but a great testing ground for combat and surveillance craft.

The helmets feed outside temperature, direction, speed, elevation and a host of mechanical and weapons conditions. It is 118 now. We are already doing 300 kilometres an hour - we will be in "Hell's Hallway" in less than seven minutes.

"Angelfire this is Shamballa - come in please. Over."

"Shamballa this is Angelfire. Over."

"Were patching you in to the S.O.D. - (a little turqoise "scrambled" light starts flashing.) Angelfire your mission has been cancelled and a new critical target has been allocated. New target is threat level N, repeat - threat level N - dispose of using maximum force. Damn it man, this is important - you can't fail - we can't afford a bungle-up."

The "bungle up" Rumsfeld loves to keep referring to is the attempted and aborted acquisition of Pakistan's nuclear stockpile.

"Transmitting coordinates and data now. Over and out."

All of the most classified material are not broadcast verbally - even over scrambled airwaves - but are transmitted via an encrypted display terminal.

"Oh my God."

I look at the display and can't believe it.

"That's two references to deities in ten minutes. For you that's got to be some sort of record."

"Not now Tech2, we have to reach and take out a moving target - and fast."

A terrorist vehicle in possession of a nuclear weapon is headed west - enroute now - presumably to Los Angeles. Their vehicle was tagged by one of the numerous radiation sentries we have posted around our freeway and highways - sentries which do what they are supposed to do and detect certain high level isotopes and their emitted quanta associated with weapons grade nuclear material.

"Silver, we got us some bad guys to rustle."

Tech2's response is followed by the sound of the 5 rotor of the Comanche is pushed to the limit, howling in a unique way which makes it hard for me to tell if it is normal or not, and we are doing an incredible 400 kph. Probably a record of some kind is being broken and I can feel the turbulence buffeting the 10,000 pound craft like a small boat being hit by heavy surf. In stressful times, our team often uses Star Trek lines for release...and one has popped into my head.

"Sir the ship can't handle it - she'll shake apart soon!"

Tech2 catches the game and plays it well,

"Well shake her apart then!"

He even does a fair imitation of George Takei's intonation.

I arm our Hellfire missiles and activate the laser targeting sensor array. The reddish-hued desert is passing below at incredible pace and the thought occurs to me she may very well shake apart at this speed if we don't reach our target soon.

We are crossing over Lake Mead, winding through Black Canyon and giving a rare thrill surely to the handful of pleasure boaters below, As quickly as it came, it is gone - the vanishing shoreline, visible on our helmets passes behind us and again jagged canyons surround us and seem cry out "hurry."

It takes precious minutes to reach our target - precious minutes in which we could lose our quarry in a hundred and one different ways if they become alerted to the fact their cargo has been detected.

Our only data lay in a hazy digital photograph taken by the sentry and accompanying satellite imagery pulled up shortly afterwards by the NSA boys.

We have to identify and confirm our target.

As yet undisclosed recognition systems for nuclear weapons exist onboard this bird - which work well in tests but in the field one always worries until they have proven themselves.

I operate the sensor equipment and manually direct the scanner at the vehicle in question.

"Make it fast."

What looks like an old UPS truck is doing 75 in the desolate and forlorn wastes.

The sensor array looks like gibberish until one learns to read the colors and the wavelengths of radiation they represent.

The thermal sensors detect a dozen men on board in the back and in the center of them a torpedo shaped object emitting lots of nasty gamma rays, so much so that the health of the occupants is already been jeopardized to the point they are walking corpses. Probably a very crude radiological weapon of some kind, with improper shielding.

"It's very hot. And it's big."

I get on the horn with the locals and get this area quarantined to all traffic back a hundred miles from this location and a hundred miles in front.

No matter how this is taken out - this area will be sheathed in a certain amount of radioactive dust and fallout. Yet with each mile it gets closer to civilization and a decision must be made.

"Let's roll."

The Comanche screams like it's on the war path and we descend and close from over a half mile to within a quarter mile of our target in a matter of seconds.

"Extracting weapons pods....all systems showing Ok....target acquired and locked...firing weapons!"

"Hellfires one and two away."

The van screeches to a crawl - a sign our quarry is aware of their imminent demise.

A half dozen men manage to literally fall from the rear of the vehicle before the Hellfires hit with a tremendous explosion - blowing it apart like a tinker toy.

A fireball is formed, reaching far into the sky, around 100 meters, twisting and smoking like a serpent's tongue. Obviously, very potent explosive charges were at the core of the device.

We pass the wreckage underneath us in less than a moment. I can see the middle-eastern looking men are still armed and are preparing some sort of rocket proprelled grenade or other anti-air weapon.

"Position us for a volley Tech2"

We come about quickly, almost intuitively, and the 20mm turret screams fury against the terrorists position sending them scurrying for cover. A round of Hydra rockets finishes the job and leaves a group of small craters in and around their former position.

"It looks like we got em. But let's circle around back."

Tech2 uses the sun as our backdrop out of habit, approaching using a vector between the sun and the smoking and flaming wreckage.

"Kemosabe, bad men in happy hunting grounds."

"Angelfire to Shamballa. come in please. over."

"Shamballa here, Angelfire. Over."

"Patch me throught to the S.O.D. please priority N."

"What's the news?"

The voice is not Rumsfeld's but that of the President.

"We got them, sir. A dozen men armed with a dirty bomb - very dirty. The area here is going to be contaminated for awhile. We're safe in here for awhile but only for another five minutes or until our CBN Filtration system packs it in. We've contacted the FAA and they are in the process of rerouting air traffic. You might want to tell Christine to get some of her teams this way in a hustle. We also have a crime-scene and a DOJ forensic unit should be prepared to collect data. If Rumsfeld is nearby have him open his laptop and I will transmit the footage and data we have acquired."

"Will do. Damn fine work! Looks like our sentries are paying off in spades. I'm going to have them deploy another thousand in the next two weeks. Oh...the USA Thanks you...and for what it's worth...that manned Mars mission is a lot closer to reality. Cheney has on his desk some more science papers to be declassified and to be released to the public very soon."

Thank you Mr. President. Oh and if you will tell Donald to look at his e-mail - I've sent him a link he might like to look at.

"Anything I should be aware of?"

"Not really...just keep an eye on his head and have ice ready to keep the swelling down."

"Oh, have your Bermuda's pressed - Laura and I wanted to see you on our upcoming vacation..."

[two minutes edited]

"Really... Daschle did that? Yes, I know...Oh yeah...BIGtime."

"The lovefest over?" says Tech2 with perhaps a hint of jealousy.

"That's mutiny mister!"

"Yes sir it is."

Laughter rolls over our headsets and we fly wide reconaissance, grateful this was the proverbial middle of nowhere and that most drivers travel this highway at night - not in daytime.

Finally, we make it back and the Comanche is hosed down with radiation consuming foam and decontaminants.

"I would hate to lose Silver to rad-poisoning." Tech2 says with dismay.

"She's reading really low now - don't worry. It's reading like she flew through some hospital dumpsters." I assure him they will do what it takes to remove any radiation.

The winds still are howling as we are escorted by the base medical personnel into the underground de-con chambers. I know somehow the winds are friendly now - and are blowing hard to disperse the radiation quickly over the vast emptiness.

Tech2, hears the howling, turns to me and says something eerily appropriate:

"We ride the winds."

SDAI-Tech1