Air Battle Force (51 page)

“It might be safer to land in some neighboring country—the United Nations base at Samarkand in Uzbekistan would be my first choice—and proceed by land or helicopter, or conclude your business by phone, or have the principals come to you,” Wohl added.

“All good suggestions—except I don't feel we have the time,” Hershel said. “I know there's a risk involved, but I want to proceed.”

There was a knock at the door. Meiling checked the peephole. “It's President Martindale.” The phone rang at that moment, and Hershel picked it up immediately as she waved for Meiling to let Martindale in. “Hershel . . . okay, operator, going secure.” She pushed a button on her phone and waited for the beeping and hissing to stop. “Yes, I'm secure, thank you, operator. . . . I'll stand by.”

A few moments later: “Maureen?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“I don't suppose I can assume that because your plane hasn't diverted, you didn't get the word.”

“I got the information on the attacks on the city of Mary and the Taliban ambushing those Russian commandos, Mr. President,” Hershel replied. “But unless they revoke our landing permission, I intend to complete this mission.”

“Miss Hershel, you know I try not to involve myself in my staff's decision making, but this is one instance when I think the smart thing would be to postpone your trip to Turkmenistan until things have calmed down.”

“I'll talk it over with my staff, sir.”

“But your inclination is to go ahead with the trip.”

“It is, Mr. President.”

Maureen heard the president sigh, but he did not contradict her. Instead he said, “I heard you brought along some . . . help.”

Not one word of advice, second-guessing, or questioning—Maureen liked that. This was a president who trusted his staff, all right. “I hope that's okay, sir.”

“It was a good call. What's your plan?”

“If we're allowed to land, I'm going to meet with Gurizev,” Hershel replied. “If they refuse, I'll make a courtesy call to Niyazov—maybe he'll have some information. Then I'll meet with the Russian ambassador, if he's still in the capital. And then I'll try to meet with the Taliban general.”

“And what about your new ‘security personnel'? What are their plans, once they get to Turkmenistan?”

“
Their
plans, sir?”

“In light of what's happened in Turkmenistan these past few days, Miss Hershel, I think they'll be more effective on their own, not tied to your embassy staff or your travel contingent,” the president said.

Hershel looked at Briggs and Wohl—and only then realized that they were probably not going to want to stick around just to baby-sit her. “I think I see what you mean, sir. I'll find out and let you know.”

“Sounds fine, Maureen,” the president said. “Keep me advised. Good luck.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.” And like that the call was over. Maureen looked at the receiver as if wondering if that was really all he had to say, then put the receiver back on its cradle. “The president wished us luck.”

“What's happened, Maureen?” Kevin Martindale asked. He saw Briggs and Wohl and extended a hand. “How are you boys doing?”

“Very well, sir,” Hal Briggs replied.

“Mr. President,” Chris Wohl chimed in, as warm as he ever was—which was never very warm at all.

“I heard that Thorn reinstated you and gave you promotions. I'm glad to hear it.”

“Thanks to you, I hear, sir,” Briggs said.

“Just trying to undo the mess I caused by signing us on to that deal in Africa,” Martindale said. “I know I'll never undo the pain I've caused Patrick. How is he?”

“Just fine, sir.”

Maureen Hershel's face brightened when she heard Patrick's name. “I didn't realize you knew each other,” she said.

“We go back a long way,” Martindale said. “I didn't know they were part of this trip, but, by God, I'm glad they're here.” He clasped Wohl on the shoulder. “I hope you brought all the gear with you.”

“We did, sir.”

“And Patrick . . . ?”

“Standing by, sir.”

“Excellent.” He turned to Hershel. “What's happened, Maureen?”

“Things are getting pretty tense over in Turkmenistan, Mr. President,” Hershel said. “There's been a skirmish—” She stopped, then said, “No, I won't try to soft-pedal this. Sir, there's been a serious development. The Taliban insurgents decimated a Turkmen army force outside the city of Mary.”

“My God,” Martindale breathed. “Thorn should expect the Russians to counterattack, maybe try to land some commandos behind the Taliban forces in the city, maybe send some long-range bombers to pound the crap out of them like they did in Chechnya—”

“The Russians apparently tried to airlift about three hundred commandos into the outskirts of Mary,” Maureen said. “Some Taliban forces ambushed them with shoulder-fired antiaircraft missiles. All of the Russians were either killed or captured.”

“So it's war,” Martindale muttered. “Have we been ordered to turn around? Have our landing or overflight rights been canceled?”

“No, sir.”

“Did Thorn
order
you to turn around?”

“The president advised me to postpone the trip,” Hershel replied, “but he said it was my call.”

“And?”

“The conflict happened almost two hundred miles from the capital—I think we'll be all right,” Hershel said. “But I'm more concerned about your safety, Mr. President. I'm concerned about not making it to Turkmenistan.”

“I only need to know one thing: Is Patrick McLanahan on the case?” Martindale asked.

Maureen Hershel blinked in surprise. “He happened to be the first person I called when I planned this trip.”

“You did exactly the right thing, Maureen,” Martindale said, barely disguising a sigh of relief. “I can guarantee that the general has been doing little else but watching over things in Turkmenistan since you first called.”

That made Maureen Hershel feel very good, and she wasn't ashamed to let everyone see it. “Then I recommend we continue the mission,” she said. “If overflight or landing privileges are revoked, we'll need to reassess.” She turned to Briggs and Wohl. “What do you gents need from me? Satellite phones? Computers?”

“Access to our equipment,” Briggs said. “We may have you take a few folks off the manifest in Bahrain and make the necessary calls to Ashkhabad.”

“Some of you aren't going to Turkmenistan with us?”

“Oh, we'll be there, ma'am—just not as part of your contingent,” Briggs said with a smile. “We might have the need to move rapidly, and it would be easier if we weren't forced to stay with the group.”

Maureen held up a hand. “I didn't hear that,” she said. “You're sick, you need a wisdom tooth pulled, you're going to have a baby—just tell me what I'm supposed to tell the Turkmen government and I'll do it.”

“Don't worry, ma'am, we'll be nearby,” Briggs said. “You just make all your visits and keep to your schedule—we'll do the rest.”

“We especially want you to insist that the Turkmen government allow you to travel outside the capital to meet with the Taliban fighters,” Wohl added.

“I wouldn't count on that.”

“Then we'll take a meeting anyway—
our
way,” Wohl said.

His voice made Maureen Hershel's skin turn cold and break into goose bumps. She was amused to see it had the same effect on Isadora Meiling—except hers didn't appear to be goose bumps of fear, but goose bumps of pleasure. Izzy Meiling, who had her pick of any man in Washington, D.C.—falling for a broken-faced, gravel-voiced, jarhead Marine? Well, why the hell not?

That same time

The twelve Russian Tupolev-160 “Blackjack” bombers had flown all the way from Engels Air Base for this mission. The Blackjacks carried a maximum load of twenty-four Kh-15P long-range attack missiles on rotary launchers. Each of the missiles had three-hundred-kilogram fuel-air explosive warheads, designed to knock down and kill any Taliban forces not in the safety of shelters. The Russians wanted to preserve as much as possible of the infrastructure at the two major airports at Mary for the eventual invasion forces that would soon follow.

The Blackjacks attacked from long range and low altitude. The Taliban and Turkmen defenders, manning early-warning radars and air-defense missile and artillery units, had virtually no warning. Coming in at supersonic speeds in an almost vertical dive onto their preprogrammed targets, the Kh-15 missiles were almost undetectable. All the missiles were programmed to explode about three hundred meters aboveground so the blast and fire effects of the fuel-air warheads would not create large craters in the runways or aircraft parking areas but would be sure to kill anyone unlucky enough to be out in the open.

The Blackjacks, however, were only the first wave. Twelve Tupolev-22M bombers, also from Engels Air Base, swept in behind the Blackjack bombers. The “Backfires” carried twelve Kh-25MP medium-range antiradar missiles on external pylons under the engine intakes and on the fixed-wing pivot points, plus an APK-8 radar-emitter pod on the centerline hardpoint that would feed precise range and bearing information to the missiles. Cruising in a low-altitude orbit north of Mary, the Backfires acted as “red rovers” for each other: When one bomber was targeted by an air-defense missile or antiaircraft artillery radar, another Backfire would swoop in from a different direction and fire a missile. Operating in four three-ship hunter-killer packs, the Backfire bombers made short work of dozens of air-defense units operated by the relatively inexperienced Taliban fighters.

With the radar-guided air defenses down around Mary, the third wave of bombers cruised in—twelve more Backfire bombers, each carrying twelve RBK-500 dispensers bearing area-denial mines and antitank and antipersonnel cluster bombs. They flew virtually unopposed over Mary Airport. Each cluster bomb was designed to explode either on contact, if it was disturbed, or automatically within seven days. If any Taliban should escape the first two attacks and were rushed enough not to sweep carefully for mines, the cluster bombs and mines would get them—but each one would destroy itself before the Russian invasion forces moved in.

“I have heard the blessed news!” Wakil Mohammad Zarazi exclaimed as he strode into his alternate headquarters, which was far from the airfield and had survived the assault.

Major Aman Orazov did not try to rise from his seat as his commanding officer entered the room. His head and neck were wrapped tightly in bandages, and he winced from the pain of shrapnel wounds to his neck and shoulders as he took deep drags on a thick hand-rolled cigarette, which had a little opium sprinkled in with the tobacco to help dull the pain.

“An entire company of Russian commandos, sent to hell by Turabi and his soldiers.” Zarazi looked at Orazov as if it was the first time he had seen him. “What happened to you, Major?”

“I was caught in the initial firebomb attack,” Orazov replied. “I watched an entire truckload of our soldiers incinerated before my eyes.” He did not bother looking up at Zarazi. “Where were you, General?” he asked.

“In the shelters, of course,” Zarazi replied. “You saw to the deployment of the mobile antiaircraft units, as I directed?”

“Most of them made it out,” Orazov said. “I ordered the operators not to turn on their radars until someone spotted aircraft near the airfields.”

“You told them not to engage the Russians?
Why?
”

“Because if it was just a standoff antiradar-missile attack, General, the Russian missiles can kill each radar-equipped unit from over thirty kilometers away,” Orazov said angrily. “The launch aircraft would be well out of range of our air-defense weapons, but our radars would be easy targets for their antiradar weapons.”

“Then you countermanded
my
order, Major,” Zarazi said, “because
I
ordered the men to attack and keep on attacking until every one of those godless Russian scum were dead.”

“Then you sealed their fates, Zarazi,” Orazov said, “because I would guess that every unit that turned on its radar was hit by a missile and destroyed.”

If Zarazi noticed that Orazov had not addressed him as “sir,” “General,” or “master,” as he usually did, he did not indicate it. “Deploy the rest of the air-defense units around the airfields,” he ordered, “and this time make sure they get hits—radar or no radar.”

Orazov winced, not just from the pain now, but from Zarazi's completely ridiculous order. “Where is Colonel Turabi?” he asked, ignoring the order.

“Colonel Turabi informed me that he wished to stay on patrol in the northeast in case the Russians try another assault,” Zarazi replied. “He asked for more supplies, enough for perhaps another week, and then he asked for his task force to be relieved.”

“You should recall Turabi immediately to help with defending this base,” Orazov said tersely. “He is out in the desert safe and plinking off simple Russian probes, while we sit on this airfield and have our heads handed to us by the Russians!”

“I agreed with the colonel's reasoning that the Russians will very likely try another heliborne assault,” Zarazi said. “Their air bombardment was not nearly as effective as I'm sure they anticipated. Turabi thinks they desperately need to open up another front.”

Orazov wiped sweat from his forehead caused by the excruciating pain and suppressed a disgusted laugh. Easy for this Afghan desert rat to think the Russians' air assault was “not nearly as effective”—
he
was safe in a deep underground shelter while Orazov and his men were on the surface trying to defend their base and getting the hell blasted out of them. The only way the Russians had been ineffective was in not wiping them out of existence completely. “Is Turabi still deployed around Nishan?”