Ralph Peters (50 page)

"
Orsk,
"
Noburu said.

"
Sir,
"
Colonel Noguchi barked through the earpiece,
"
I can have my aircraft off the ground in a quarter of an hour. We can complete the mission planning while airborne.
"

"
That's fine,
"
Noburu said.
"
The intelligence department will pass you the frequency tracks on which the Americans are broadcasting. You will have to pay close attention. We still cannot detect them with radar or with any other means. Their deception suites are far more advanced than any of us would have believed of the Americans. It may be hard to get a precise fix on them until they are actually on the ground.
"

"
It doesn't matter,
"
Noguchi said.
"
The Scramblers are area weapons. If they are within a one hundred nautical mile radius of Orsk, the Americans will be stricken.
"

Noburu wondered what the current population was of the city of Orsk. No. Better not to know, he decided.

"
Noguchi?
"
he asked in genuine curiosity,
"
how do you
feel?
"

The colonel was taken aback by the question, which he frankly did not understand.

"
Sir,
"
he responded, after a wondering pause,
"
my spirits are excellent. And my health is very good. You have no cause for worry.
"

"
Of course not,
"
Noburu said.

Lieutenant Colonel Reno knew that everything was going to be all right. He had monitored Taylor's message on the command net as Taylor turned over control of the regiment to Heifetz so that Taylor himself could fly off on a personal glory hunt. No matter what he himself did, Reno knew, there could be no serious threat from Taylor now. The old bastard wasn't so sly after all. He had compromised himself. Any subordinate with half a brain would have no difficulty portraying Taylor's action in an unfavorable light. By stretching it a little bit, you could even make the case that Taylor had deserted his post.

"
Bronco, this is Saber six,
"
Reno told the microphone.

"
Bronco, over.
"

"
Have you gotten that damned problem fixed, Bronco?
"
From his command M-100, Taylor had electronically imposed limits on the range of targets the regiment's systems were free to attack. Taylor claimed he wanted to preserve a combat-ready force, now that the last functional calibrator had been lost.

But Reno was no fool. The regiment had been so successful—unimaginably successful—in destroying the enemy's ability to wage technologically competent warfare in the zone of attack that Reno suspected there might not be another battle. At the very least, things would settle down into a stalemate, with both sides materially exhausted and incapable. The likeliest scenario, from Reno's point of view, was that the politicians would get involved and there would be a negotiated settlement. Which meant that today might be the only chance a man got to prove his abilities.

"
This is Bronco. The problem's fixed. We're ready to resume contact. Over.
"

"
Good work. Now let's start running up those numbers again.
"

It had required some effort to override the restriction Taylor's master computer had imposed on his M-l00s. But the weapons were free again now. In fact, they could attack a wider range of targets now than they had been permitted at the beginning of the day's hunt. Reno saw nothing wrong with spending a few extra rounds on the odd truck or range car. The important thing, at this point, was to run up Third Squadron's number of kills. And, given that the other two squadrons were under strict limits from here on out, Reno figured his score was likely to come out the highest, after all.

A good officer had to take the initiative.

"
Are we going to make it?
"
Taylor asked.

The set of Flapper Krebs's face was unmistakably tense beneath the incomplete helmet.

"
It's going to be close,
"
the warrant officer said.
"
Damn close. The sonsofbitches have picked up speed. They must be scared as hell about something.
"

Taylor glanced at the man with concern. Then he got on the intercom.

"
Merry, do you have any indication whatsoever that those bandits have picked us up?
"

"
No, sir.
"

"
It looks like they're running scared. They're heading south fast.
"

"
Might just be nerves,
"
Meredith said.
"
Scary sky out there. They picked up speed, but there's been absolutely no deviation in their course. They're coming down the slot straight as an arrow.
"

"
Roger. Parker,
"
he said, addressing the assistant S-3,
"
how do we look on angle of intercept?
"

"
I know the chief wants to take them from behind,
"
the captain said,
"
but the best we're going to do is about a nine-o'clock angle of attack. Maybe even a little more forward than that. If we try to get too fancy, we're going to lose them. They're just moving too fast.
"

Taylor looked over at Krebs, whose hands remained perfectly steady on the controls, ready to override the computer if it became necessary.

"
What do you think, Flapper?
"

Krebs shrugged.
"
Give it a shot.
"

"
Merry?
"
Taylor asked, working the intercom again,
"
are the
"
target parameters locked in?
"

"
Roger. Nine Mitsubishi 4000s. Alteration to program accepted.
"

"
Flapper?
"

"
I got it. Weapons systems green.
"

"
Okay,
"
Taylor said.
"
Let's do a temporary delete on everything else. Keep all sensors focused on those bastards.
"

"
Roger.
"

"
Range?
"

"
Two hundred miles and closing.
"

"
Colonel?
"
Krebs said to Taylor,
"
I can't promise you this is going to work. But I can guarantee you it's going to be quick. We're only going to get one chance.
"

"
Roger. Parker, do a double check on our escort birds. Make sure their computers are on exactly the same sheet of music.
"

"
Roger.
"

"
One chance,
"
the old warrant repeated.

Zeederberg was anxious to get back down on the ground. He had been out of contact with higher headquarters for hours, and the level of electronic interference in the atmosphere was utterly without precedent in his experience. Something was wrong. Even his on-board systems were starting to deteriorate, as though the electromagnetic siege was beginning to beat down the walls of his aircraft. He could no longer communicate even with the other birds flying in formation with his own, and the sophisticated navigational aids employed for evasive flying were behaving erratically. The formation had been reduced to flying higher off the ground than Zeederberg would have liked, and all they could do was to maintain visual contact with each other and head south at the top speed their fuel reserves would allow.

They had destroyed the target. Mission accomplished. The standoff bombs had proven accurate, as always, and what the bombs had not flattened, the fuel-air explosives burned or suffocated. Zeederberg hoped it had been worth it. The only confirmed enemy target he had been able to register had been that single American-built wing-inground transport. Perhaps there had been other equipment hidden in the maze of old plants and warehouses. Undoubtedly, the Japanese knew what they were doing. But during the mission brief, no one had warned them to expect a density of electronic interference so thick it seemed to physically buffet the aircraft. Something was terribly wrong.

Zeederberg felt unaccustomed streaks of sweat trailing down his back, chilling the inside of his flight suit. It was nerve-racking flying. This is what it must have been like in the old days, he thought. Before the computers took over.

"
Sky watch report?
"
Zeederberg begged through the intercom. He half expected the intercom to go out too.

"
All clear,
"
a tiny voice responded.
"
Plenty of interference. But the sky looks as clean as can be.
"

It was like a visit to the dentist, Zeederberg told himself.

You just had to remember that it was all going to be over
before you knew it.

He promised himself that as soon as he got home to South Africa he was going to pack up Marieke and the kids, go off to the beach for a holiday, lie in the sun, and laugh about all this.

"
Forty miles and closing,
"
Meredith's voice rang through the headphones.

"
Roger.
"

"
They're coming too fast,
"
Krebs said.
"
We're
going to have to engage at max range and take our chances.
"

"
All right,
"
Taylor said.
"
Weapons systems to full automatic.
"

"
Thirty-five miles
.
"

"
Bad angle,
"
the assistant S-3 cried.

"
Fuck it
"
Krebs said.
"
You pays your money and you takes your chance.
"

Taylor's eyes were fixed to the monitor.

"
Here they come,
"
he said.

"
Hold on,
"
Krebs shouted.

The M-100 jerked its snout up into the air like a crazy carnival ride designed to sicken even the heartiest child. The main gun began to pulse.

"
Jesus Christ.
"

The M-100 seemed to slam against one wall of sky, then another, twisting to bring its gun to bear on the racing targets. Taylor had never experienced anything like it.

"
Hold on.
"

Taylor tried to watch the monitor, but the M-100 was pulling too hard. The machine's crazy acrobatics tossed him about in his safety harness as though he were a weightless doll. He did not think the machine would hold together. The system had not been designed for the bizarre and sudden angles of aerial combat with fixed-wing aircraft.

Going to crash
, he thought.
We're going to break up.
He strained to reach the emergency panel. But the rearing craft threw him back hard against his seat.

The main gun continued to pulse throughout the mechanical storm.

Taylor tried again to reach the emergency toggles.

"
Flapper
,
"
he shouted.
"
Help me.
"

There was no answer. Taylor could not even twist his head around to see if his copilot was all right.

The M-100 went into a hard turn, slamming Taylor's head back.

The main gun blasted the empty sky.

Suddenly, the M-100 leveled out and began to fly as smoothly as if nothing had occurred.

Taylor's neck hurt, and he felt dizzy to the point of nausea. But beside him the old chief warrant officer was already on the radio, checking in with the two escort ships. Krebs's voice was as calm as could be. It took a damned old warrant, Taylor decided, to fake that kind of coolness.

The entire action had taken only seconds. One bad curve on the roller coaster.

Taylor looked at the target monitor. The screen was empty.

"
Merry,
"
he called angrily.
"
Merry, goddamnit, we lost them. The sonsofbitches got away.
"

"
Calm down there, Colonel,
"
Krebs told him.
"
Ain't nobody got away. Look at your kill counters.
"

"
Chief's right,
"
Merry said through the intercom.
"
We got them. Every last one. Look.
"

Meredith relayed a series of ground images to the monitors in the forward cabin. Taylor insisted on going through the images twice. Counting.

Yes. They had gotten them all. Or, rather, the M-l00s had. Nine unmistakable wrecks lay strewn across the wasteland, with components burning here and there.

The staffers back in the ops cell were hooting with glee. Taylor could hear them through the intercom, and he imagined them all doing a little war dance in the cramped cubicle. But his own feelings had not settled yet. It had all been over so quickly. It made him feel old, a little lost. For all his education and experience, this was not war as he imagined he knew it. It was all so quick, so utterly impersonal. Taylor felt as though he were being left behind.

The battle staff continued their noisy celebration. Cap
tain Parker, the assistant S-3, even overcame his fear of the old, severe veteran.

"
Colonel Taylor, sir,
"
the captain called forward, his voice full of childlike exuberance,
"
you think the Air Force will give us combat wings for that one?
"

"
Fat fucking chance,
"
Krebs interrupted. His voice had the delectably exaggerated sourness that seemed to come naturally to warrant officers when they were very proud of something they and their comrades had done.
"
Those goddamned Air Force weenies are going to be in Congress tomorrow, lobbying to take these babies away from us.
"
The M-100 program had taken the best years of Krebs's life and now his face glowed with the sort of pride a man might take in the spectacular success of his child.
"
No,
"
he assured them all,
"
they'll be crying fit to flood the Potomac.
"
He patted the side panel of the cockpit the way one of his gray-suited ancestors must have patted the flank of a horse.
"
They're going to tell you these babies are too good for dumb grunts like us.
"