Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (577 page)

“Ducky is hit, Ducky is hit!” a voice called. “Aw, shit!”

“Ghost Man here, got the fucker for you, Ducky. Come right, let me give you a damage check.”

“One engine gone, other one’s running hot,” the second element leader reported, in a voice more angry than afraid. He didn’t have time for fear yet. Another thirty seconds or so and that would start to take hold, Winters was sure.

“Ducky, you’re trailing vapor of some sort, recommend you find a place to set it down.”

“Eagle Two, Bronco, what’s happening?”

“Bronco, we have six still inbound, putting Rodeo on it now. You have a bandit at your one o’clock at twenty miles, angels three-one, speed seven-five-zero.”

“Roger that, Eagle. I’m on him.” Winters came a little right and got another acquisition tone. “Fox-Two!” he called. The smoke trail ran straight for several miles, then corkscrewed to the left as it approached the little dot of gray-blue and ... yes!

“Rodeo Lead,” a new voice called. “Fox-One, Fox-One with two!”

“Conan, Fox-One!”

Now things were really getting nervous. Winters knew that he might be in the line of fire for those Slammers. He looked down to see that the light on his IFF was a friendly, constant green. The Identification Friend or Foe was supposed to tell American radars and missiles that he was on their side, but Winters didn’t entirely trust computer chips with his life, and so he squinted his eyes to look for smoke trails that weren’t going sideways. His radar could see the AWACS now, and it was moving west, taking the first part of evasive action, but its radar was still transmitting, even with Chinese fighters within ... twenty miles? Shit! But then two more blips disappeared, and the remaining ones all had friendly IFF markers.

Winters checked his weapons display. No missiles left. How had all that happened? He was the United States Air Force champ for situational awareness, but he’d just lost track of a combat action. He couldn’t remember firing all his missiles.

“Eagle Two, this is Boar Lead. I’m Winchester. Do you need any help?” “Winchester” meant out of weapons. That wasn’t entirely true. He still had a full magazine of 20-mm cannon shells, but suddenly all the gees and all the excitement were pulling on him. His arms felt leaden as he eased his Eagle back to level flight.

“Boar Lead, Eagle. Looks like we’re okay now, but that was kinda exciting, fella.”

“Roger that, Eagle. Same here. Anything left?”

“Negative, Boar. Rodeo Lead got the last two. I think we owe that major a couple of beers.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Eagle,” Rodeo Lead observed.

“Ducky, where are you?” Winters called next.

“Kinda busy, Bronco,” a strained voice replied. “I got a hole in my arm, too.”

“Bronco, Ghost Man. Ducky’s got some holes in the airframe. I’m going to shepherd him back to Suntar. Thirty minutes, about.”

“Skippy, where you be?”

“Right behind you, Leader. I think I got four, maybe five, in that furball.”

“Any weapons left?”

“Slammer and ’winder, one each. I’ll look after you, Colonel,” Lieutenant Acosta promised. “How’d you make out?”

“Two, maybe more, not sure,” the squadron commander answered. The final tally would come from the AWACS, plus a check of his own videotape. Mainly he wanted to get out of the aircraft and take a good stretch, and he now had time to worry about Major Don Boyd—Ducky—and his aircraft.

S
o, we want to mess with their heads, Mickey?” Admiral Dave Seaton asked.

“That’s the idea,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs told the chief of naval operations.

“Makes sense. Where are their heads at?”

“According to what CIA says, they think we’re limiting the scope of operations for political reasons—to protect their sensibilities, like.”

“No foolin’?” Seaton asked with no small degree of incredulity.

Moore nodded. “Yep.”

“Well, then it’s like a guy holding aces and eights, isn’t it?” the CNO thought aloud, referring to the last poker hand held by James Butler—“Wild Bill”—Hickok in Deadwood, South Dakota. “We just pick the mission that’s sure to flip them out.”

“What are you thinking?” Moore asked.

“We can slam their navy pretty hard. Bart Mancuso’s a pretty good operator. What are they most afraid of ... ?” Seaton leaned back in his swivel chair. “First thing Bart wants to do is take out their missile submarine. It’s at sea now with
Tucson
in trail, about twenty thousand yards back.”

“That far?”

“It’s plenty close enough. It’s got an SSN in close proximity to protect it. So,
Tucson
takes ‘em both out—zap.” Moore didn’t get the terminology, but Seaton was referring to the Chinese ships as “it,” meaning an enemy, a target worthy only of destruction. “Beijing might not know it’s happened right away, unless they’ve got an ‘I’m Dead’ buoy on the sail. Their surface navy’s a lot easier. That’ll be mainly aircraft targets, some missiles to keep the surface community happy.”

“Submarine-launched missiles?”

“Mickey, you don’t sink ships by making holes that let air in. You sink ships by making holes that let water in,” Seaton explained. “Okay, if this is supposed to be for psychological effect, we hit everything simultaneously. That’ll mean staging a lot of assets, and it runs the risk of being overly complicated, having the other guy catch a sniff of what’s happening before we do anything. It’s a risk. Do we really want to run it?”

“Ryan’s thinking ‘big picture.’ Robby’s helping him.”

“Robby’s a fighter pilot,” Seaton agreed. “He likes to think in terms of movie stuff. Hell, Tom Cruise is taller than he is,” Seaton joked.

“Good operational thinker. He was a pretty good J-3,” Moore reminded the senior sailor.

“Yeah, I know, it’s just that he likes to make dramatic plays. Okay, we can do it, only it complicates things.” Seaton looked out the window for a second. “You know what might really flip them out?”

“What’s that?” Moore asked. Seaton told him. “But it’s not possible for us to do, is it?”

“Maybe not, but we’re not dealing with professional military people, are we? They’re politicians, Mickey. They’re used to dealing with images instead of reality. So, we give them an image.”

“Do you have the pieces in place to do that?”

“Let me find out.”

“This is crazy, Dave.”

“And deploying First Armored to Russia isn’t?” the CNO demanded.

L
ieutenant Colonel Angelo Giusti was now certain that he’d be fully content never to ride on another train as long as he lived. He didn’t know that all of the Russian State Railroad’s sleeper cars were being used to transport Russian army forces—they’d never sent any of the cars as far west as Berlin, not to slight the Americans, but because it had simply never occurred to anyone to do so. He took note of the fact that the train veered off to the north, off the main track, thumping over various switches and interlockings as it did so, and then the train came to a halt and started going backwards slowly. They seemed to be in the yard alone. They’d passed numerous westbound trains in the past two hours, all with engines dragging empty flatcars, and the conductor who appeared and disappeared regularly had told them that this was the approximate arrival time scheduled, but he hadn’t really believed it, on the premise that a railroad with such uncomfortable seats probably didn’t adhere to decent schedules either. But here they were, and the off-loading ramps were obvious for what they were.

“People, I think we’re here,” the commander of the Quarter Horse told his staff.

“Praise Jesus,” one of them observed. A few seconds later, the train jolted to a stop, and they were able to walk out onto the concrete platform, which, they saw, stretched a good thousand meters to the east. Inside of five minutes, the soldiers of Headquarters Troop were out and walking to their vehicles, stretching and grousing along the way.

“Hey, Angie,” called a familiar voice.

Giusti looked to see Colonel Welch and walked up to him with a salute.

“What’s happening?” Giusti asked.

“It’s a mess out east of here, but there is good news.”

“What might that be?”

“There’s plenty of fuel stashed for us. I’ve been flying security detachments out, and Ivan says he’s got fuel depots that’re the size of fuckin’ supertankers. So, we’re not going to run out of gas.”

“That’s good to know. What about my choppers?” Welch just pointed. There was an OH-58D Kiowa Warrior sitting not three hundred yards away. “Thank God for that. What’s the bad news?”

“The PLA has four complete Group-A armies in Siberia and heading north. There hasn’t been any heavy contact yet because Ivan’s refusing combat at the moment, until they can get something big enough to meet them with. They have one motor-rifle division in theater and four more heading up there. The last of ’em just cleared this railyard an hour and a half ago.”

“That’s, what? Sixteen heavy divisions in the invasion force?”

Welch nodded. “Thereabouts.”

“What’s my mission?”

“Assemble your squadron and head southeast. The idea is First Armored will cut off the bottom of the break-in and interrupt their supply line. Russian blocking force will then try to stop them about two hundred miles northeast of here.”

“Can they do it?” Four Russian divisions against sixteen Chinese didn’t seem especially favorable odds.

“Not sure,” Welch admitted. “Your job is to get out and establish lead security for the division. Advance to and secure the first big fuel depot. We’ll play it from there.”

“Support?”

“At the moment, the Air Force is mainly doing fighter work. No deep strikes yet because they don’t have enough bombs to sustain any kind of campaign.”

“What about resupply?”

“We have two basic loads for all the tracks. That’ll have to do for a while. At least we have four units of fire for the artillery.” That meant four days’ worth of shells—based on what the Army computed that a day of combat required. The supply weenies who did those calculations weren’t stingy on shells to shoot at the other guy. And in the entire Persian Gulf war, not a single tank had completely shot out its first basic load of shells, they both knew. But that was a different war. No two were ever the same, and they only got worse.

Giusti turned when he heard the first engine start up. It was an M3A2 Bradley Scout track, and the sergeant in the commander’s hatch looked happy to be moving. A Russian officer took over as traffic cop, waving the Brad forward, then right toward the assembly area. The next train backed up to the next ramp over. That would be “A” or Avenger Troop, with the first of Quarter Horse’s really heavy equipment, nine of the M1A2 main battle tanks.

“How long before everything’s here?” Giusti asked.

“Ninety minutes, they told me,” Welch answered.

“We’ll see.”

W
hat’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.”

Y
es?” 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.”

Q
uickly,” 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.