“How long before everything’s here?” Giusti asked.
“Ninety minutes, they told me,” Welch answered.
“We’ll see.”
“What’s this?” a captain asked the screen in front of him. The E-3B Sentry designated EAGLE Two was back on the ground at Zhigansk. Its crew was more than a little shaken. Being approached by real fighters with real blood in their eyes was qualitatively different from exercises and postmission analysis back stateside. The tapes of the engagement had been handed off to the wing intelligence staff, who viewed the battle with some detachment, but they could see that the PLAAF had thrown a full regiment of first-line fighters at the AWACS, and more than that, done it on a one-way mission. They’d come in on burner, and that would have denied them a trip back to their base. So, they’d been willing to trade over thirty fighters for a single E-3B. But there was more to the mission than that, the captain saw.
“Look here,” he told his colonel. “Three, no, four reconnaissance birds went northwest.” He ran the tape forward and backward. “We didn’t touch any of them. Hell, they didn’t even see them.”
“Well, I’m not going to fault the Sentry crew for that, Captain.”
“Not saying that, sir. But John Chinaman just got some pictures of Chita, and also of these Russian units moving north. The cat’s out of the bag, Colonel.”
“We’ve got to start thinking about some counter-air missions on these airfields.”
“We have bombs to do it?”
“Not sure, but I’m taking this to General Wallace. What’s the score on the air fight?”
“Colonel Winters got four for sure and two probables. Damn, that guy’s really cleaning up. But it was the -16 guys saved the AWACS. These two J-8s got pretty damned close before Rodeo splashed them.”
“We’ll put some more coverage on the E-3s from now on,” the colonel observed.
“Not a bad idea, sir.”
“Yes?” General Peng said, when his intelligence officer came up to him.
“Aerial reconnaissance reports large mechanized formations one hundred fifty kilometers west of us, moving north and northeast.”
“Strength?” the general asked.
“Not sure. Analysis of the photos is not complete, but certainly regimental strength, maybe more.”
“Where, exactly?”
“Here, Comrade General.” The intelligence officer unfolded a map and pointed. “They were spotted here, here, and from here to here. The pilot said large numbers of tanks and tracked vehicles.”
“Did they shoot at him?”
“No, he said there was no fire at all.”
“So, they are rushing to where they are going . . . racing to get to our flank, or to get ahead of us … ?” Peng considered this, looking down at the map. “Yes, that’s what I would expect. Any reports from our front?”
“Comrade General, our reconnaissance screen reports that they have seen the tracks of vehicles, but no visual sightings of the enemy at all. They have taken no fire, and seen nothing but civilians.”
“Quickly,” Aleksandrov urged. How the driver and his assistant had gotten the ZIL-157 to this place was a mystery whose solution didn’t interest the captain. That it had gotten here was enough. His lead BRM at that moment had been Sergeant Grechko’s, and he’d filled up his tanks, and then radioed to the rest of the company, which for the first time broke visual contact with the advancing Chinese and raced north to top off as well. It was dangerous and against doctrine to leave the Chinese unseen, but Aleksandrov couldn’t guarantee that they’d all have a chance to refuel otherwise. Then Sergeant Buikov had a question.
“When do they refuel, Comrade Captain? We haven’t seen them do it, have we?”
That made his captain stop and think. “Why, no, we haven’t. Their tanks must be as empty as ours.”
“They had extra fuel drums the first day, remember? They dropped them off sometime yesterday.”
“Yes, so maybe they have one more day of fuel, maybe only half a day, but then someone must refill them—but who will that be, and how . . . ?” the officer wondered. He turned to look. The fuel came out of the portable pump at about forty liters or ten gallons per minute. Grechko had taken his BRM south to reestablish contact with the Chinese. They were still sitting still, between frog-leap bounds, probably half an hour away if they stuck with their drill, from which they hadn’t once deviated. And people had once said that the Red Army was inflexible …
“There, that’s it,” Aleksandrov’s driver said. He handed the hose back and capped the tank.
“You,” the captain told the driver of the fuel truck. “Go east.”
“To where?” the man asked. “There’s nothing there.”
That stopped his thinking for a few seconds. There had been a sawmill here once, and you could see the wide swaths of saplings left over from when whoever had worked here had cut trees for lumber. It was the closest thing to open ground they’d seen in over a day.
“I came from the west. I can get back there now, with the truck lighter, and it’s only six kilometers to the old logging road.”
“Very well, but do it quickly, corporal. If they see you, they’ll blast you.”
“Farewell then, Comrade Captain.” The corporal got back into the truck, started up, and turned to the north to loop around.
“I hope someone gives him a drink tonight. He’s earned it,” Buikov said. There was much more to any army than the shooters.
“Grechko, where are you?” Aleksandrov called over his radio.
“Four kilometers south of you. They’re still dismounted, Captain. Their officer seems to be talking on the radio.”
“Very well. You know what to do when they remount.” The captain set the radio microphone down and leaned against his track. This business was getting very old. Buikov lit a smoke and stretched.
“Why can’t we just kill a few of them, Comrade Captain? Would it not be worth it to get some sleep?”
“How many times must I tell you what our fucking mission is, Sergeant!” Aleksandrov nearly screamed at his sergeant.
“Yes, Captain,” Buikov responded meekly.
C H A P T E R – 56
March to Danger
Lieutenant Colonel Giusti started off in his personal HMMWV, the new incarnation of the venerable Jeep. Using a Bradley would have been more comfortable, even more sensible, but overly dramatic, he thought, and there wouldn’t be any contact anytime soon. Besides, the right front seat in this vehicle was better for his back after the endless train ride. In any case, he was following a Russian UAZ-469, which looked like a Russian interpretation of an American SUV, and whose driver knew the way. The Kiowa Warrior helicopter he’d seen at the railyard was up and flying, scouting ahead and reporting back that there was nothing there but mostly empty road, except for some civilian traffic being kept out of the way by Russian MPs. Right behind Giusti’s command vehicle was a Bradley flying the red-and-white guidon of the First of the Fourth Cavalry. The regiment had, for American arms, a long and distinguished history—its combat action had begun on July 30, 1857, against the Cheyenne Indians at Solomon River—and this campaign would add yet another battle streamer to the regimental standard . . . and Giusti hoped he’d live long enough to attach it himself. The land here reminded him of Montana, rolling foothills with pine trees in abundance. The views were decently long, just what a mechanized trooper liked, because it meant you could engage an enemy at long range. American soldiers especially preferred that, because they had weapons that could reach farther than those of most other armies.
“DARKHORSE SIX to SABRE SIX, over,” the radio crackled.
“SABRE SIX,” LTC Giusti responded.
“SABRE, I’m now at checkpoint Denver. The way continues to be clear. Negative traffic, negative enemy indications, over. Proceeding east to checkpoint Wichita.”
“Roger that, thank you, out.” Giusti checked the map to be sure he knew exactly where the chopper was.
So, twenty miles ahead there was still nothing to be concerned about, at least according to the captain flying his lead helicopter. Where would it start? Giusti wondered. On the whole, he would have preferred to stand still and sit in on the divisional commander’s conference, just to find out what the hell was happening, but as cavalry-screen commander, it was his job to go out forward and find the enemy, then report back to iron SIX, the divisional commander. He really didn’t have much of a mission yet, aside from driving up to the Russian fuel depot, refueling his vehicles there, and setting up security, then pulling out and continuing his advance as the leading elements of the First Armored’s heavy forces got there. It was his job, in short, to be the ham in the sandwich, as one of his troop commanders liked to joke. But this ham could bite back. Under his command were three troops of armored cavalry, each with nine M1A2 Abrams main battle tanks and thirteen M3A2 Bradley cavalry scout vehicles, plus a FISTV track for forward observers to call in artillery support—somewhere behind him, the First Armored’s artillery would be off-loading soon from its train, he hoped. His most valuable assets were D and E troops, each with eight OH-58D Kiowa Warrior helicopters, able both to scout ahead and to shoot with Hellfire and Stinger missiles. In short, his squadron could look after itself, within reasonable limits.