Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (115 page)

“Roger, sir,” Sergeant Major Chris Wohl responded. He, along with a four-man Marine fire team reinforced by a security team armed with M249 squad automatic weapons, had already set out sensors and mines around the base and were now guarding the main entrance, which was just a few kilometers from a major highway that led to the city of
Yakutsk itself, just twenty klicks away. Two more fire teams were spread out around the perimeter of the base, accompanied by Bastian and Angel, while the last team was sent out to help secure the fuel depot and drive vehicles. “Angel, take it.”

“Copy,” Staff Sergeant Emily Angel responded simply. Like Wohl, she was wearing her Tin Man electronic battle armor, standing guard at the north side of the base. She already had her electromagnetic rail gun raised and, using her powered exoskeleton, effortlessly and precisely tracked the Russian aircraft. Moments after she responded, she squeezed the trigger. An eighteen-ounce titanium projectile sped out of the weapon with a muzzle velocity of over eighteen thousand feet per second, leaving a blue-orange trail of vaporized air behind it.

As usual, it appeared as if the projectile missed, and Angel took another shot a few seconds later. But the first shot did not miss. Instead of hitting the outboard engine on the left wing, the projectile pierced the engine's pylon, severing several fuel, pneumatic, hydraulic, and bleed air lines. The Il-78's pilot had no choice but to shut the engine down before it tore itself apart.

The second shot also did not miss. It traveled directly up the tailpipe of the inboard engine on the left wing, exactly where Angel had aimed. The projectile had already softened from friction as it traveled through the air, and flying through the nearly two-thousand-degree jet exhaust made it softer still—so when the practically molten titanium hit the engine's combustion chamber, it completely disintegrated into a fist-size slug of metal that sped through the compressor section of the engine and spattered, shredding the compressor blades and instantly tearing apart the Soloviev D-30KP engine.

The Ilyushin-78 could fly very well on just two engines, especially at its light gross weight, but the pilot had to lower the nose to regain his lost airspeed, and he was hit at just over four hundred meters aboveground—there was no time to try to coax it back to flying speed. The pilot made the decision to pull the right throttles to idle and do a controlled crash landing. The Il-78 flew much better with the right engines pulled back to more closely match the destroyed left engines, so the pilot was able to pancake his tanker into the boggy tundra in an almost perfectly wings-level attitude.

“Splash one big-ass plane,” Angel reported.

“Good shooting, Angel,” Wohl said. “Take your fire team and check
for survivors. Bring back the injured and nonresisters—deal with the others. We have enough captives here already.”

“Copy,” Angel said simply—she rarely said much more than that while wearing the Tin Man battle armor. She radioed her Marine fire team to pick her up in a Russian wheeled armored personnel carrier, and they drove quickly out to the crash site.

In thirty minutes she returned with all seven crew members, including one fatality and two injured in the crash. The conscious Russians were shocked to see the U.S. Marines at their air base in the middle of nowhere in Siberia, and even more amazed to see Angel in her Tin Man electronic battle armor.

But not as amazed as they were when they saw a weird-looking B-52 bomber on final approach to their runway. It
was
a B-52, but with a long pointed nose, angled downward like a supersonic transport's so the pilot could see the runway better, and with a strange, angled V-shaped tail that looked almost invisible.

The B-52 stopped in less than half the length of the runway and quickly taxied to a designated parking spot, where fuel trucks were waiting. With the engines still running, the belly hatch popped open, and Patrick McLanahan and twelve more men and women stepped out. This EB-52's crew compartment, which normally carried just two crew members, had been modified with bolt-in seats to accommodate six additional crew members on both the upper and lower decks. After stretching their cramped and aching muscles, the twelve maintenance technicians got to work refueling the Megafortress bomber.

“
Dobro pozhalovat
Yakutsk, General,” Hal Briggs said to Patrick when they met up at the base-operations complex at the foot of the control tower. Even in his own Tin Man battle armor, he was able to salute the general as he entered the building, then shook hands with him. He had a broad smile on his face after he removed his helmet and ran a hand across his shaved head. “I've been learning a little Russian just in case. Welcome to Camp Vengeance, sir.”

“Camp Vengeance? Excellent name.”

“One of the Marines named it—I think it's damned appropriate.”

“I agree,” Patrick said. “Run down the situation here for me, Hal. We'll blast off again as soon as we're refueled, and we'll set up air-base defense from the air and help escort in the other planes.”

“Roger that, sir,” Hal said. He led Patrick over to a large map of
Yakutsk hanging on the wall behind the flight-planning desk. “We're here in the base-ops buildings, which includes radar, communications, weather, and security forces. This west complex here is the main aircraft-parking area—eighteen hangars and a mass parking apron for about thirty heavies. We've moved all the Russian planes out of the hangars to make way for our guys, and we've got the captives housed in these two hangars, about two hundred or so.”

“Two hundred? We expected a lot more than that, didn't we?”

“We made a decision and put all the troops we feel are noncombatant types in a separate hangar, under minimal guard,” Briggs said. “It's a risk, but putting four or five hundred together is riskier. The hard-core security troops, fliers, senior officers, and noncoms are under close guard. Eventually the others will screw up enough courage to sneak out and try to free the others, and that's when we might have to waste a few. Until we get more guys in here, that's the best I can do.”

“How long can you hold out?”

“Twelve Marines to guard two hundred captives—I'd say so far it's a fair fight, until the jarheads start getting real tired or the noncombatants start getting real stupid. So far it's quiet. Mark Bastian is supervising. The sight of us in Tin Man getups really freaks 'em out, but it won't take them long to get over their fear and start planning a breakout. Now that you brought some more aircraft techs, that'll leave more of the Marines available for perimeter security and guard duty.

“We parked a few planes here and there outside base ops to make it look busy. There were a few bombers getting some work done in the east hangar complex—shut that down, captured a Russian colonel.

“Across the runway is the industrial area—storage, fuel tanks, physical plant, et cetera. Back here is the housing area, squadron ready rooms, and other support buildings. We believe that most of the place was pretty much closed down for the night, but in about an hour or so, the regular folks will start showing up, and then the shit will hit the fan. We've got ‘detour' and ‘road closed' signs up to try to get folks turned around, but that won't fool 'em for long. Chris has set up mines and sensors around the perimeter, and the Marines are ready for a fight. They even brought a few unmanned recon planes to help themselves scan the perimeter. Those guys are damned good.”

Patrick nodded. It wasn't much of a defense—their forces were stretched hair thin. But the Marines were accustomed to dropping into hot landing zones surrounded by bad guys and being asked to do the
impossible with almost nothing. These twenty-first-century Marines had a lot more high-tech gadgets to help them, but it still came down to the basic task of sending a few brave fighters into the breach and hoping they utilized their skills, courage, and tenacity to the max. “Pass along my thanks to Lieutenant Merritt and the Tin Men for a job well done,” Patrick said. “Again, I have no intention of staying here a second longer than I have to.”

“Everyone else on time, sir?”

“So far,” Patrick said. “The MC-17 transports should be penetrating Petropavlovsk's airspace any minute now, with Rebecca and Daren leading a three-ship Vampire escort team. By tonight, with some luck, we'll be ready to start attack operations.”

That same time

T
ime to go night-night, tovarich,” Daren Mace said. He touched his supercockpit display on the icon for Petropavlovsk's surveillance radar and spoke, “Attack target.”

“Attack order received, stop attack,”
the computer responded, and moments later Mace's EB-1C Vampire bomber had fired two AGM-88 high-speed antiradar missiles at the ground radar. Soon the Russian long-range radar was off the air.

“The radar is down,” Daren reported. “The fighters will have to start finding targets on their own.” He entered a few more voice commands. “Jammers and countermeasures are active, and the MC-17 is going active as well.” Daren briefly activated his laser radar, which instantly “painted” a picture of the airspace around him. “Two fighters in the vicinity, eleven o'clock, thirty-five miles. They're
mine.
”

Rebecca Furness glanced over at Daren's supercockpit display on the right side of the Vampire's instrument panel, which clearly depicted the tactical situation: They were flying twenty miles ahead of their charges, two MC-17 special-operations transport planes. Modified by the aircraft and weapons experts at the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, the same unit that had designed and fielded the modified B-52s and B-1s, the MC-17s had sophisticated navigation and self-defense systems that allowed them to fly deep into enemy territory. Each was carrying seventy to eighty crew members, technicians, and security
forces, plus a hundred fifty thousand pounds of ordnance, equipment, and supplies to support this mission.

Another EB-1C Vampire had launched two StealthHawks to attack Petropavlovsk; it was now standing by a couple hundred miles to the northeast, ready to recover and rearm them for follow-on attacks. Both StealthHawks were armed with a mix of antiradar and mine-dispensing standoff munitions that would destroy all of Petropavlovsk's air-defense missile sites and, with luck, shut down the airstrip as well. A third Vampire was standing by with Longhorn missiles, heavier mine-laying munitions, and defensive air-to-air missiles, ready to rush in to completely shut down the base and help escort the MC-17s through to the Siberian coastline once the StealthHawks finished their attack runs on Petropavlovsk.

“Attack fighters,” Daren ordered.

“Attack order received, stop attack,”
the computer responded. Moments later:
“Forward bomb doors opening…Launcher rotating…Scorpion away.”

 

S
uddenly the datalink from Petropavlovsk that was providing steering cues to the air-defense fighters was cut off. That happened frequently, especially if the enemy was jamming the radar. The antijam circuits would take over and change frequencies, and soon the datalink would be active again. The MiG-29's fire-control system kept the target's heading and speed in memory, providing an estimated position on the heads-up display, so if necessary the MiG pilot could simply—

“Zima flight, Zima flight!” the radio suddenly blared, startling the pilot. “The base is under attack! The airfield has been bombed, and the surveillance radar has been destroyed! Take over the—” And just then the transmission was cut off by loud squealing and popping on the UHF radio frequency.

The MiG pilot couldn't help but think of his alternate landing bases: Magadan, their primary alternate, was over a thousand kilometers away, and Kavaznya, their emergency landing base, was not that much closer. They were already close to bingo fuel, and they hadn't even launched any missiles yet! Almost time to activate his own radar and attack. He hoped his wingman was watching his fuel gauges. What in hell hit them? Was it a cruise missile?

The pilot's attention was focused on his abort base and not on his
threat-warning receiver, so he hesitated just a second or two too long when the
MISSILE LAUNCH
warning flashed on his instrument panel and on his heads-up display. By the time he thought to react, it was too late—the AIM-120 Scorpion missile hit him squarely in the center of his jet, turning it instantly into a fireball and sending it crashing into the Bering Sea.

 

S
plash one,” Daren Mace announced. “Stand by…second missile away.”

But the wingman wasn't as distracted. He had just activated his radar and locked up the target at seventy kilometers when his warning receiver blared. He punched off two R-77s—seconds before another Scorpion missile slammed into him from the left rear quarter. He was able to put his hands on his ejection-seat handles but didn't have time to pull them before the fireball engulfed his plane as well.

 

M
issiles away! Missiles away!
Shit, he launched!” Colonel Daren Mace shouted. He could hardly believe that the wingman could fire his own missiles so fast—usually wingmen were just set up to guard the leader, and rarely did they have the situational awareness to prosecute an attack so quickly after losing their leader. The Russians must have changed tactics, Daren decided—all fighters must be ordered to blaze away with every missile they had from maximum range as soon as they got a target locked up. “Two AA-12s. Time to impact…crap,
thirty-five seconds.”

The Vampire's laser-radar arrays were tracking the AA-12s perfectly. They had just a few seconds to try to knock those missiles out of the sky—the MC-17 was sending jamming signals, but the AA-12s were still speeding dead on course, perhaps homing on the jamming. “Daren, get them!” Rebecca shouted.