The BTR was in many ways the world’s ultimate SUV, with eight driving wheels, the lead four of which turned with the steering wheel. The reservist behind that wheel was a truck driver in civilian life, and knew how to drive only with his right foot pressed to the floor, Komanov decided. He and his men bounced inside like dice in a cup, saved from head injury only by their steel helmets. But they didn’t complain. Looking out of the rifle-firing ports, they could see the impact of Chinese artillery, and the quicker they got away from that, the better they’d all feel.
“How was it for you?” the lieutenant asked the sergeant commanding the vehicle.
“Mainly we were praying for you to be a coward. What with all those shells falling around us. Thank God for whoever built that garage we were hidden in. At least one shell fell directly on it. I nearly shit myself,” the reservist reported with refreshing candor. They were communicating in face-to-face shouts.
“How long to regimental headquarters?”
“About ten minutes. How many did you get?”
“Maybe two hundred,” Komanov thought, rather generously. “Never saw a tank.”
“They’re probably building their ribbon bridges right now. It takes a while. I saw a lot of that when I was in Eighth Guards Army in Germany. Practically all we practiced was crossing rivers. How good are they?”
“They’re not cowards. They advance under fire even when you kill some of them. What happened to our artillery?”
“Wiped out, artillery rockets, came down like a blanket of hail, Comrade Lieutenant, crump,” he replied with a two-handed gesture.
“Where is our support?”
“Who the fuck do you think we are?” the sergeant asked in reply. They were all surprised when the BRT skidded to an unwarned stop. “What’s happening?” he shouted at the driver.
“Look!” the man said in reply, pointing.
Then the rear hatches jerked open and ten men scrambled in, making the interior of the BTR as tight as a can of fish.
“Comrade Lieutenant!” It was Ivanov from Five Zero.
“What happened?”
“We took a shell on the hatch,” he replied, and the bandages on his face told the truth of the tale. He was in some pain, but happy to be moving again. “Our BTR took a direct hit on the nose, killed the driver and wrecked it.”
“I’ve never seen shelling like this, not even in exercises in Germany and the Ukraine,” the BTR sergeant said. “Like the war movies, but different when you’re really in it.”
“Da,” Komanov agreed. It was no fun at all, even in his bunker, but especially out here. The sergeant lit up a cigarette, a Japanese one, and held on to the overhead grip to keep from rattling around too much. Fortunately, the driver knew the way, and the Chinese artillery abated, evidently firing at random target sets beyond visual range of their spotters.
It’s started, Jack,” Secretary of Defense Bretano said. “I want to release our people to start shooting.”
“Who, exactly?”
“Air Force, fighter planes we have in theater, to start. We have AWACS up and working with the Russians already. There’s been one air battle, a little one, already. And we’re getting feed from reconnaissance assets. I can cross-link them to you if you want.”
“Okay, do that,” Ryan told the phone. “And on the other issue, okay, turn ’em loose,” Jack said. He looked over at Robby.
“Jack, it’s what we pay ’em for, and believe me, they don’t mind. Fighter pilots live for this sort of thing—until they see what happens, though they mainly never do. They just see the broke airplane, not the poor shot-up bleeding bastard inside, trying to eject while he’s still conscious,” Vice President Jackson explained. “Later on, a pilot may think about that a little. I did. But not everyone. Mainly you get to paint a kill on the side of your aircraft, and we all want to do that.”
Okay, people, we are now in this fight,” Colonel Bronco Winters told his assembled pilots. He’d gotten four kills over Saudi the previous year, downing those poor dumb rugheaded gomers who flew for the country that had brought biological warfare to his own nation. One more, and he’d be a no-shit fighter ace, something he dreamed about all the way back to his doolie year at Colorado Springs. He’d been flying the F-l5 EAGLE fighter for his entire career, though he hoped to upgrade to the new F-22A Raptor in two or three more years. He had 4,231 hours in the EAGLE, knew all its tricks, and couldn’t imagine a better aircraft to go up in. So, now he’d kill Chinese. He didn’t understand the politics of the moment, and didn’t especially care. He was on a Russian air base, something he’d never expected to see except through a gunsight, but that was okay, too. He thought for a moment that he rather liked Chinese food, especially the things they did to vegetables in a wok, but those were American Chinese, not the commie kind, and that, he figured, was that. He’d been in Russia for just over a day, long enough to turn down about twenty offers to snort down some vodka. Their fighter pilots seemed smart enough, maybe a little too eager for their own good, but friendly and respectful when they saw the four kills painted on the side panel of his F-15-Charlie, the lead fighter of the 390th Fighter Squadron. He hopped off the Russian jeep—they called it something else that he hadn’t caught—at the foot of his fighter. His chief mechanic was there.
“Got her all ready for me, Chief?” Winters asked, as he took the first step on the ladder.
“You bet,” replied Chief Master Sergeant Neil Nolan. “Everything is toplined. She’s as ready as I can make her. Go kill us some, Bronco.” It was a squadron rule that when a pilot had his hands on his aircraft, he went only by his call-sign.
“I’ll bring you the scalps, Nolan.” Colonel Winters continued his climb up the ladder, patting the decorated panel as he went. Chief Master Sergeant Nolan scurried up to help him strap in, then dropped off, detached the ladder, and got clear.
Winters began his start-up procedures, first of all entering his ground coordinates, something they still did on the EAGLE despite the new GPS locator systems, because the F-15C had inertial navigation in case it broke (it never did, but procedure was procedure). The instruments came on-line, telling Winters that his EAGLE’s conformal fuel tanks were topped off, and he had a full load of four AIM-120 AMRAAM radar-guided missiles, plus four more of the brand-new AIM-9X Sidewinders, the super-snake version of a missile whose design went back to before his mom and dad had married in a church up on Lenox Avenue in Harlem.
“Tower, this is Bronco with three, ready to taxi, over.”
“Tower, Bronco, you are cleared to taxi. Wind is three-zero-five at ten. Good luck, Colonel.”
“Thank you, Tower. Boars, this is lead, let’s get goin’.” With that, he tripped his brakes and the fighter started moving, driven by its powerful Pratt & Whitney engines. A bunch of Russians, mainly ground crewmen, but judging by the outfits, some drivers as well, were out on the ramp watching him and his flight. Okay, he thought, we’ll show ’em how we do things downtown. The four taxied in pairs to the end of the runway and then roared down the concrete slabs, and pulled back into the air, wingman tucked in tight. Seconds later, the other two pulled up and they turned south, already talking to the nearest AWACS, EAGLE Two.
“EAGLE Two, this is Boar Leader in the air with four.”
“Boar Leader, this is EAGLE Two. We have you. Come south, vector one-seven-zero, climb and maintain flight level three-three. Looks like there’s going to be some work for ya today, over.”
“Suits me. Out.” Colonel Winters—he’d just been deep-dip selected for his bird as a full bull colonel—wiggled a little in his seat to get things just right, and finished his climb to 33,000 feet. His radar system was off, and he wouldn’t speak unnecessarily because someone out there might be listening, and why spoil the surprise? In a few minutes, he’d be entering the coverage of Chinese border radar stations. Somebody would have to do something about that. Later today, he hoped, the Little Weasel F-16s would go and see about those. But his job was Chinese fighter aircraft, and any bombers that might offer themselves. His orders were to remain over Russian airspace for the entire mission, and so if Joe Chink didn’t want to come out and play, it would be a dull day. But Joe had Su-27s, and he thought those were pretty good. And Joe Chink Fighter Pilot probably thought he was pretty good, too.
So, they’d just have to see.
Otherwise, it was a good day for flying, two-tenths clouds and nice clean country air to fly in. His falcon’s eyes could see well over a hundred miles from up here, and he had EAGLE Two to tell him where the gomers were. Behind him, a second and third flight of four EAGLEs were each taking off. The Wild Boars would be fully represented today.