Red Metal

by Mark Greaney

  The Nav said, “Is that what I think it is? A Tarantul-class corvette?”

  “No, it doesn’t have a slanted masthead,” countered the executive officer.

  DelVecchio said, “The newest modification is the Tarantul III. It has a straight masthead.”

  “But Iran doesn’t have the Tarantul III.”

  DelVecchio looked up at the XO now. “And that’s my point.”

  The XO blinked in surprise. “You’re right. Ma’am, that’s a Russian Tarantul-class—I’m sure of it! When I was in PACOM, we tracked a ton of Tarantuls. They’re also all over the Black Sea and we saw a bunch in the Pacific, escorting convoys.”

  DelVecchio asked, “But what’s she doing here in the Gulf of Aden? Russians don’t have any Tarantuls this far south of their Southern Military District.”

  DelVecchio pointed to a ship near the back of the convoy. Another gray hulk, this one with a more pointed bow, sailed along with the merchant ships, nearly blending into the gloomy, rainy weather.

  “That’s her—that’s their flagship. My guess is that’s the Sabalan. One of Iran’s newest Moudge-class frigates. But why is she hiding in the back and not leading from the front? Why is there a Russian escort craft in her midst? What’s their destination?”

  The navigation/operations officer said, “Ma’am, escorting oil maybe?”

  “Too big a convoy for that. Also, most of those are cargo ships, not tankers,” she said.

  “Maybe the Russians sold Iran some more nuclear material. The last few times they assembled fleets outside the Persian Gulf, they were trading with our pals in North Korea.”

  DelVecchio shook her head. “No, usually the nuclear material is going the other way. Into Iran, not out of, and the Russians just send it across the Caspian Sea. No reason to go under everyone’s noses through the Strait of Hormuz, the Suez Canal, and all the way past Europe. No, this is something else.”

  The navigator said, “Russians are fair targets after what happened in Europe, no?”

  “No,” she answered, perhaps too bluntly. “That conflict remains localized. We’re not at war with Russia per se. But having said that, we don’t know their intentions, so they are definitely a threat.”

  “Track them?” asked the XO.

  “Yes, let’s follow them. They’re up to something—that’s for sure . . .”

  * * *

  • • •

  NEAR GÖRLITZ, GERMANY

  U.S. AIR FORCE EXPEDITIONARY RUNWAY

  27 DECEMBER

  Captain Ray “Shank” Vance stepped down the small retractable steps on the left side of his aircraft and dropped the last three feet onto the S127 highway northwest of the town of Görlitz, Germany. The Fairchild Republic A-10 Thunderbolt II required more than a kilometer of runway when fully loaded, so this straight stretch of the S127 had been selected by the Air Force tech, radar, and munitions quartering party as the best location to serve as an expeditionary runway.

  The hills around the area were filled with several huge, spinning turbines that provided power to the town and were initially assessed to be a big risk to low-flying aircraft, and therefore the highway was deemed unsuitable. But no sane enemy looking to hit the expeditionary airfield would risk low passes in and among the windmills to drop bombs.

  The ground crew still hadn’t established any antiair missile batteries, but Shank could see those were being trucked in now.

  Both Zoomer and Nooner had landed before him while he provided air overwatch. Zoomer’s wingman, Furball, had bailed out in western Poland, but he’d already been picked up by locals and had called back to his squadron.

  Shank, Zoomer, and Nooner entered an Air Force general-purpose medium tent. The expeditionary team had rigged up electricity to power some heaters and radios, and the men, steaming cups of coffee in hand, tuned out the sounds of the pop star Pink blaring outside the tent. It wasn’t the only loud noise they could hear; it sounded like fifty men and women were pounding hammer-driven impact tools here at the expeditionary airfield.

  The noise of the construction work was more music to the pilots’ ears than Pink; but if the sounds of pop rock blaring got the ground guys to turn wrenches, then Shank had no problem with it at all.

  The men looked over the maps on the table, and their colonel pointed out the latest known locations of the Russians as they worked their way out of Wrocław and tried to push again to the east.

  The discussion was short and to the point. The squadron was bringing up more fuel, and two more A-10s would be here within the hour. They were to link up with the two operational aircraft, Shank would take the lead, and together they would hit the Russian armor with everything they had.

  The cease-fire was over. Russia and Poland were fighting, and the U.S. president knew he’d been played, so the U.S. was fighting, too.

  This was war.

  Senior Master Sergeant Hernandez walked over to the planning meeting, looking for an opportunity to break into the conversation. He waited till the men paused to refresh their coffee from the big steel pots.

  Hernandez addressed the colonel. “Hey, sir, I needed to talk to Major Vance.” He turned to Shank. “Sir, we’ve got pretty much everyone turning and burning, but a few guys were looking for some way to help. We’re a little overmanned until the rest of the squadron arrives. You want us to paint a kill on your bird? And we can put some tiger’s teeth on your planes. We have enough red, white, and blue to paint a whole unit.”

  The colonel squinted, clearly thinking about the fallout and weighing the risk of some general seeing an unauthorized paint job. Then he just shrugged and nodded assent to Shank.

  “Thanks, Senior. That’d be great.”

  “Heard you all ran into some enemy aircraft with a red eagle claw painted on the tail. I figured we could use something to let those guys know who they were up against.”

  “Everything else in order?” Shank asked.

  Hernandez said, “Just need you to try to bring them back the same way we gave them to you next time. No BS or hot-dogging out there. Just do your jobs so my men can do theirs. Deal?”

  In the maintenance team’s minds, planes were only on loan to the pilots; the maintenance crew were the ones who actually owned them.

  Sarcastically, Shank said, “We’ll keep trying to dodge those pesky missiles.”

  On the other side of the map table, the colonel said, “Every minute that Russian convoy slips closer to Belarus. I want to spank their asses all the way to the border.”

  “Copy that,” Shank said, and looked to the other pilots. “Back to work.”

  * * *

  • • •

  WEST OF WROCŁAW, POLAND

  27 DECEMBER

  Three hours after the shooting down of his regimental commander and the resumption of fighting in Europe, Lieutenant Colonel Tom Grant received official orders to close with and engage the Russian forces. The order made him smile a little, because at that moment the lead elements of his brigade were already doing just that, west of Wrocław proper. Leopard 2 tanks had just picked off a platoon of GAZ Tigr scout cars that had made it out of the Polish ambush in the city and back onto the main road.

  Ott was forward with his men, but he relayed back to Grant that five scout cars had been blown to bits in the past ten minutes, and three more were racing for their lives away from the long-range German Rheinmetall tanks’ cannons.

  The fight was back on, and Lieutenant Colonel Grant was damn sure he’d make Sabaneyev and his men pay for every single inch of Polish ground they crossed.

  Grant’s radio in his Humvee crackled to life. It was his lead reconnaissance team, a couple miles ahead of him on the highway that led around the big Polish city of Wrocław. “Hey, sir, we’re seeing a lot of combat in the city.”

  “Confirm in the city? Still?” asked Grant.

  “Yes, si
r. There’s one hell of a battle goin’ on, from the looks of it.”

  “Can you tell who’s fighting?”

  “Uh . . . I’m pretty sure it’s those Russians we’ve been chasing.”

  “No shit, it’s the Russians. I mean, who are they fighting against? Militia, PLF, some random NATO unit that got caught in the middle of this?”

  Grant thought for a moment. Who the hell did he have on the lead reconnaissance team? Someone particularly thick, obviously. Then he remembered it was Lieutenant Macarter, who was a brave and hardworking young man but not known for his intelligence.

  Macarter said, “Oh, roger that. Wait one.” Grant heard the young man call his lead scout. “Hey, Davis, they need to know who the Russkies are fighting. Do you have anyone close enough to assess?”

  “Yes, sir, I have an element that’s entered the city and is engaging and observing now.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Grant turned to Captain Spillane, his acting operations officer, who had heard the exchange and was reddening with fury.

  “Did you authorize anyone into the city?” Grant asked.

  “No, sir. Would be stupid, given the circumstances. Likelihood of getting blown up by either side, let alone figuring out who’s who, is pretty high. Macarter must’ve done it on his own initiative.”

  “Well, shit,” Grant said. “Get on the net and find out why Macarter thinks taking initiative for the first time in his life was a good idea today.” He thought for a moment. “On second thought, just tell him to get his ass out of there. I’m going up. Tell Bandits to send a company’s worth of tanks to reconnoiter with me and to send his own reconnaissance element forward. I’ll go with him to the edge of the city and see things for myself.”

  “Sir, you think that’s a good idea? Macarter has gotten himself into something now. It’ll be tricky.”

  “He’s not reporting enough for us to get a clearer picture. I’ll go forward and see if I can pull him back and make some kind of linkup with the Poles in contact with the Russians. Anyway, I’m not exactly sure Macarter has any clue who he’s engaging. Do you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I’ll be back. We’ll skirt the suburbs a bit and see if we can make contact with the Poles.”

  “Check, sir. I’ll be here on the net when you get your ass killed.”

  Grant gave a half smile. “Way to dish out the enthusiasm. Organize security for the HQ element and prepare all the command-and-control functions we’ll need. Have 2nd Battalion set up a hasty perimeter and push up whatever they need for resupply. Get the German battalion to pull into our perimeter and support HQ. They need to prepare to be a ready response force. Meanwhile, tell everyone I want them topped off with fuel and cross-leveling all ammo. Major Ott is in command in my absence. I want him to ensure we have a tight perimeter, and you all have to remain hidden from any possible enemy air attack.”

  “Wilco, sir. Good luck. Make sure you let 2nd Battalion commander run his own battalion. Try to remember that you, sir, are the regimental commander.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Grant mounted up on his tank, thinking about that last statement. Spillane was right. He would have to be more careful about stepping on his commander’s toes. They were all in this together, and there wasn’t a lot of time for egos, but he could still learn a thing or two from his subordinates on how to lead.

  Meanwhile, he was going to show them his style on where to lead: from the front.

  When Grant got his headset on, he heard his gunner Sergeant Anderson’s voice. “Where to, sir?”

  “Keep heading east, toward the fighting. Link up with 2nd Battalion.” He sat down in his seat and closed the hatch above him. “We’re gonna start killin’ Russians again.”

  “Hooah, sir!”

  CHAPTER 54

  OVER THE GULF OF ADEN

  27 DECEMBER

  The pilot turned to his copilot. “Tom, take the stick. I’m going to grab some coffee.”

  “I’ve got it. Might be a bit burned by now, but that just concentrates the caffeine, right, boss?”

  The pilot unbuckled his harness, grabbed the seat back, and pulled himself up, sliding between the cramped seats of the big bomber, carefully ducking to avoid the huge array of switches on the bulkhead above. He filled his cup, and smelled it. The scent alone put a smile on his tired, weathered face.

  Yup, definitely burned, crap coffee, but it’s still coffee.

  The Rockwell B-1B Lancer was one of America’s most advanced bombers. Stealthy, sleek, and modern, it could deliver a payload of Mark-84 “dumb” bombs or the current payload on this aircraft, the AGM-154 missile.

  They had gotten an update via radio on the enemy flotilla concentration in the Gulf of Aden, and the defensive combat systems officer, doubling at the moment as the radio operator, radioed the information to the three other bombers in the squadron to confirm and deconflict their target designations. The update had come via a ground radio retransmission site in Greece, and the new location data for the spot report of the enemy fleet came from a submarine somewhere in the Gulf of Aden. It was a small shuffle of the deck from the original flight-attack plan they’d been given, but nothing the four B-1B Lancers of this flight out of Dyess Air Force Base in Texas couldn’t handle.

  After all the fire and fury they had been briefed about happening in the European theater, they were sorry not to be hitting targets there, but hitting something the top brass had deemed a big deal here off the coast of Africa was a good enough second.

  The motto of the 7th Bomb Wing was “Mors ab alto,” which meant “Death from above” in Latin, and that was their intention tonight.

  The copilot checked the aircraft’s FOG, or fiber-optic gyroscope, part of its inertial navigation system. “Fix is certain, sir. Course correction is point-eight degrees. Negligible. No need for adjustment, just need confirmation.”

  Since passing the mid-Atlantic, they’d had no GPS. It was still spotty in places, as the U.S. had retasked several satellites over the European theater. The Lancers were navigating by map and the FOG system.

  The B-1B Lancer still had a digital map that could be updated by the crew as they took very careful instrument readings and tracked their course corrections and speed over land. It was difficult work, but it did allow them to input target-direction data and read terrain.

  Their last “tank,” or midair refueling, had been off the coast of Egypt via a KC-135 from Italy. Fortunately they had been able to coordinate the linkup via radio and gassing up had not been an issue.

  Their orders were to strike the target, then continue east to the island of Diego Garcia in the middle of the Indian Ocean. After a night’s stopover in Guam, they would return home. The trip back would be easier without any bombs on board.

  As they said in the Air Force: “Lighter aircraft, longer legs.”

  The copilot called off landmarks for the next few minutes as they followed their course, changing directions. Once they hit a predesignated imaginary point above a piece of water in the Red Sea, the 2nd Combat Systems officer hit a button indicating they were close enough to prepare for their bomb run. It sent a transmission to the other three aircraft, syncing their bombing computers.

  He called over the radio to the aircraft commander, a lieutenant colonel. “I’ve got IGS lock. I have co-response from the flight. We’re ready to launch, sir. About twenty-two more nautical miles and we’ll be at the release point.”

  “Copy. Fish in a barrel, Major. Update the targeting computers and keep feeding location data. I want my missiles to get deep inside their locking envelope with good coordinates.”

  The aircraft shifted to the left as the bomber took over navigation. The first combat systems officer flicked the switch labeled “Master Arm.” Almost forty feet behind him, three banks of eight AGM-154 Joint Standoff Weapon (JSOW) cruise missiles in rotating carousels armed themselves.


  The next procedures were simple, unchanged since aircraft had been purpose-built for delivering bombs: Close the distance, open the bomb bay doors, and hit the launch button. Then all three carousels would rotate, out of sequence with one another, and one by one they would launch twenty-four JSOW missiles at their targets.

  Overkill, the pilot thought, but orders were to “wallop the enemy,” and the B-1B pilots aimed to please.

  * * *

  • • •

  IRANIAN CRUISER SABALAN

  GULF OF ADEN

  27 DECEMBER

  The Iranian ship’s captain called to the admiral, standing at the rear of the bridge near the Russian colonel. “Admiral, we have a report from our westernmost picket ship. A flight of four large aircraft, possibly American bombers, just crossed the Egyptian coastline and are headed in our direction. They are two hundred eight kilometers from the task force and closing. They will be within our antiair radius in minutes. Permission to fire?”

  The admiral looked over at Colonel Borbikov, who stood next to an Iranian translator. After the translation was finished, Colonel Borbikov nodded.

  “Fire.” Seconds later, the deck-mounted, upgraded HQ-9B Chinese missile launchers pivoted to the northwest.

  There was enough moonlight to see all the ships in the fleet, and Colonel Borbikov looked out the side portholes as blasts of red rocket flame followed by plumes of smoke erupted from six ships. Each ship had been equipped with two missiles. Bolted on, their mountings were not as solid as if they were fully integrated into the ships’ hulls, but they served their purpose just fine, launching twelve of the expensive, state-of-the-art Chinese missiles.

  Borbikov watched as the missiles arced skyward, long, slender smoke trails heading to the northwest, disappearing in the distance.

  * * *