“It’s not meant for anyone much over the age of thirty to hear,” General Moore said, coming back into the room.
“What’s the story on the bombs?” Jackson asked at once.
“He’s only got two of them,” Moore replied. “The nearest others are at the factory, Lockheed-Martin, Sunnyvale. They’re just doing a production run right now.”
“Uh-oh,” Robby observed. “Back to Plan B.”
“It might have to be a special operation, then, unless, Mr. President, that is, you are willing to authorize a strike with cruise missiles.”
“What kind of cruise missiles?” Ryan asked, knowing the answer even s6.
“Well, we have twenty-eight of them on Guam with W-80 warheads. They’re little ones, only about three hundred pounds. It has two settings, one-fifty or one-seventy kilotons.”
“Thermonuclear weapons, you mean?”
General Moore let out a breath before replying. “Yes, Mr. President.”
“That’s the only option we have for taking those missiles out?” He didn’t have to say that he would not voluntarily launch a nuclear strike.
“We could go in with conventional smart bombs—GBU-l0s and -15s. Gus has enough of those, but not deep penetrators, and the protection on the silos would have a fair chance at deflecting the weapon away from the target. Now, that might not matter. The CSS-4 missiles are delicate bastards, and the impact even of a miss could scramble their guidance systems . . . but we couldn’t be sure.”
“I’d prefer that those things not fly.”
“Jack, nobody wants them to fly,” the Vice President said. “Mickey, put together a plan. We need something to take them out, and we need it in one big fuckin’ hurry.”
“I’ll call SOCOM about it, but, hell, they’re down in Tampa.” “Do the Russians have special-operations people?” Ryan asked. “Sure, it’s called Spetsnaz.”
“And some of these missiles are targeted on Russia?” “It certainly appears so, yes, sir,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs confirmed.
“Then they owe us one, and they damned well owe it to themselves,” Jack said, reaching for a phone. “I need to talk to Sergey Golovko in Moscow,” he told the operator.
“The American President,” his secretary said. “Ivan Emmetovich!” Golovko said in hearty greeting. “The reports from Siberia are good.”
“I know, Sergey, I’m watching it live now myself. Want to do it yourself?”
“It is possible?”
“You have a computer with a modem?”
“One cannot exist without the damned things,” the Russian replied.
Ryan read off the URL identifier. “Just log onto that. We’re putting the feed from our Dark Star drones onto the Internet.”
“Why is that, Jack?” Golovko asked at once.
“Because as of two minutes ago, one thousand six hundred and fifty Chinese citizens are watching it, and the number is going up fast.”
“A political operation against them, yes? You wish to destabilize their government?”
“Well, it won’t hurt our purposes if their citizens find out what’s happening, will it?”
“The virtues of a free press. I must study this. Very clever, Ivan Emmetovich.”
“That’s not why I called.”
“Why is that, Tovarisch Prezidyent?” the SVR chairman asked, with sudden concern at the change in his tone. Ryan was not one to conceal his feelings well.
“Sergey, we have a very adverse indication from their Politburo. I’m faxing it to you now,” he heard. “I’ll stay on the line while you read it.”
Golovko wasn’t surprised to see the pages arrive on his personal fax machine. He had Ryan’s personal numbers, and the Americans had his. It was just one way for an intelligence service to demonstrate its prowess in a harmless way. The first sheets to come across were the English translation of the Chinese ideographs that came through immediately thereafter.
Sergey, I sent you our original feed in case your linguists or psychologists are better than ours,” the President said, with an apologetic glance at Dr. Sears. The CIA analyst waved it off. “They have twelve CSS-4 missiles, half aimed at you, half at us. I think we need to do something about those things. They may not be entirely rational, the way things are going now.”
“And your shore bombardment might have pushed them to the edge, Mr. President,” the Russian said over the speakerphone. “I agree, this is a matter of some concern. Why don’t you bomb the things with your brilliant bombs from your MAGICal invisible bombers.”
“Because we’re out of bombs, Sergey. They ran out of the sort they need.”
“Nichevo” was the reaction.
“You should see it from my side. My people are thinking about a commando-type operation.”
“I see. Let me consult with some of my people. Give me twenty minutes, Mr. President.”
“Okay, you know where to reach me.” Ryan punched the kill button on the phone and looked sourly at the tray of coffee things. “One more cup of this shit and I’m going to turn into an urn myself.”
The only reason he was alive now, he was sure, was that he’d withdrawn to the command section for 34th Army. His tank division was being roughly handled. One of his battalions had been immolated in the first minute of the battle. Another was now trying to maneuver east, trying to draw the Russians out into a running battle for which his men were trained. The division’s artillery had been halved at best by Russian massed fire, and 34th Army’s advance was now a thing of the past. His current task was to try and use his two mechanized divisions to establish a base of fire from which he could try to wrest back control of the battle. But every time he tried to move a unit, something happened to it, as though the Russians were reading his mind.
“Wa, pull what’s left of Three-Oh-Second back to the ten o’clock start-line, and do it now!” he ordered.
“But Marshal Luo won’t—”
“And if he wishes to relieve me, he can, but he isn’t here now, is he?” Ge snarled back. “Give the order!”
“Yes, Comrade General.”
“With this toy in our hands, the Germans would not have made it as far as Minsk,” Bondarenko said.
“Yeah, it helps to know what the other guy’s doing, doesn’t it?”
“It’s like being a god on Mount Olympus. Who thought this thing up?”
“Oh, a couple of people at Northrop started the idea, with an airplane called Tacit RAINBOW, looked like a cross between a snow shovel and a French baguette, but it was manned, and the endurance wasn’t so good.”
“Whoever it is, I would like to buy him a bottle of good vodka,” the Russian general said. “This is saving the lives of my soldiers.”
And beating the living shit out of the Chinese, Tucker didn’t add. But combat was that sort of game, wasn’t it?
“Do you have any other aircraft up?”
“Yes, sir. Grace Kelly’s back up to cover First Armored.”
“Show me.”
Tucker used his mouse to shrink one video window and then opened another. General Diggs had a second terminal up and running, and Tucker just stole its take. There were what looked like two brigades operating, moving north at a measured pace and wrecking every Chinese truck and track they could find. The battlefield, if you could call it that, was a mass of smoke columns from shot-up trucks, reminding Tucker of the vandalized Kuwaiti oil fields of 1991. He zoomed in to see that most of the work was being done by the Bradleys. What targets there were simply were not worthy of a main-gun round from the tanks. The Abrams just rode herd on the lighter infantry carriers, doing protective overwatch as they ground mercilessly forward. The major slaved one camera to his terminal and went scouting around for more action . . .
“Who’s this?” Tucker asked.
“That must be BOYAR,” Bondarenko said.
It was what looked like twenty-five T-55 tanks advancing on line, and these tanks were using their main guns . . . against trucks and some infantry carriers . . .
“Load HEAT,” Lieutenant Komanov ordered. “Target track, one o’clock! Range two thousand.”
“I have him,” the gunner said a second later.
“Fire!”
“Firing,” the gunner said, squeezing the trigger. The old tank rocked backwards from the shot. Gunner and commander watched the tracer arcing out. . .
“Over, damn it, too high. Load another HEAT.”
The loader slammed another round into the breech in a second: “Loaded!”
“I’ll get the bastard this time,” the gunner promised, adjusting his sights down a hair. The poor bastard out there didn’t even know he’d been shot at the first time …
“Fire!”
“Firing…”
Yet another recoil, and …
“Hit! Good shooting Vanya!”
Three Company was doing well. The time spent in gunnery practice was paying off handsomely, Komanov thought. This was much better than sitting in a damned bunker and waiting for them to come to you . . .
“What is that?” Marshal Luo asked. “Comrade Marshal, come here and see,” the young lieutenant colonel urged.
“What is this?” the Defense Minister asked with a trailing-off voice . . . “Cao ni ma” he breathed. Then he THUNDERED: “What the hell is this?”