Red Ice

by William Dietz

  Parker turned as Randal called her name. And that was when Falco saw a pair of green eyes pivot his way. It sounded as though Randal’s introduction was coming from a long ways off, and Falco felt like a schoolboy as he shook Parker’s hand. “This is Major Dan Falco,” Randal said. “Otherwise known as Wombat.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Parker said. “What do you fly?”

  “Falco isn’t pretty enough to be a pilot,” Randal interjected. “He’s a JTAC.”

  The civilian pilots laughed, and Falco forced a smile. “I washed out of flight school. So I spend my time telling dot chasers like Major Randal when to pickle the bombs.”

  Parker smiled. “While getting shot at … It’s a tough job. Can you join us for a beer?”

  Randal said, “Yes,” and Falco was struck by the skillful way in which Parker had covered for him. But rather than stand there, and gape at her, Falco was careful to pull back to the edge of the crowd where three pilots were seated at a table.

  The group included a civilian named Dennis Lynch. He was three sheets to the wind, and bragging about his sexual conquests. The latest being an E-4 at Eielson. “That’s one of the things I like about being a civilian,” Lynch exclaimed. “Military regs don’t apply! I can screw as many enlisted women as I want.”

  Most of the people in the group laughed. Falco was the exception. And Lynch took notice of that. “What’s the problem, Major? Do you fuck women? Or do you prefer to blow them up?”

  All the conversation came to a stop. It seemed that everyone knew about Falco’s error, civilian pilots included. Falco rose, turned away, and was walking towards the men’s room, when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. “Don’t turn your back on me, coward,” Lynch grated.

  Falco turned. His voice was icy. “You’re drunk. I suggest that you stand down.”

  “Oh, really?” Lynch demanded sarcastically. “Well, I suggest that you kiss my ass.”

  “Lynch!” Parker’s voice cut through the country western music that was playing in the background. She shouldered her way through the crowd. “Back off … That’s an order.”

  “We’re off duty,” Lynch replied thickly. “So you can take your order and shove it up your awesome ass.”

  And with that Lynch launched a roundhouse right. Falco saw it coming, turned his head, and felt it whizz past. Falco’s move morphed into a spin, followed by a kick. He felt the impact, and heard something crack, as his boot struck Lynch’s knee. The pilot screamed as he collapsed. “Uh, oh,” Randal said unsympathetically. “Asshole down.”

  Medics came to cart Lynch away. The police arrived shortly thereafter. They interviewed a number of witnesses including Parker and Randal. Once they collected the facts Falco was permitted to leave. And, after returning to base, he wound up having dinner at Burger King again.

  Falco didn’t have any bedding, so he slept in his air force issue sleeping bag, and woke feeling reasonably good. A shower followed by a shave made him feel even better. He hadn’t had time to buy groceries. So rather than have another BK breakfast Falco stopped at the commissary, where he bought a breakfast sandwich, and a large cup of coffee. The food was still slightly warm when he arrived at his desk.

  A priority voicemail and matching email were waiting for him. Both said the same thing. He was to report to Colonel Austin at 0900. Falco sighed. Austin knew about the fight. Falco ate the sandwich, chased it with coffee, and began work on the inbox. The pile of paper was an inch lower by the time he departed.

  The streets were busier than they had been, and Falco knew why. More and more people were arriving each day. He didn’t know what to make of the foreign uniforms he saw. One of the people who saluted Falco was wearing enough gold braid to put a general to shame—but could have been a lieutenant for all he knew.

  Falco entered the building, took a left, and made his way down the hall to the waiting room. It was 0858 and a staff sergeant was present to show Falco into the colonel’s office. He took three steps forward and came to attention. “Major Dan Falco, reporting as ordered, sir.”

  Austin was seated on the other side of a scrupulously clean desk. He allowed the salute to hang, which forced Falco to hold it, and remain at attention. After ten seconds or so Austin returned it. “At ease.” Falco spread his feet and clasped his hands behind him.

  “You’re starting to piss me off,” Austin said. The remark wasn’t framed as a question, which meant there was no need to reply. Falco didn’t.

  “Let me tell you something,” Austin said. “Lynch won’t be able to fly for six months. And there’s a shortage of pilots who can fly Russian MiG-21s, Czech L-159Es, and Italian MB-339 CB trainers. So when you kicked Lynch in the knee—you kicked the war effort in the balls.”

  Falco opened his mouth to object but had to close it when Austin raised a hand. “Shut up. Here’s the deal. I know Lynch took a swing at you, and I don’t care. Each aggressor pilot is worth ten JTACs. So if one of them wants to kick your ass, then bend over. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Sir, yes sir.”

  “Good. Get the hell out of my office.” Falco came to attention, did an about face, and marched out. The day was off to a great start .

  Falco made his way outside, zipped his jacket against the cold, and walked toward the commissary. The plan was to buy a cup of coffee and return to the office. Then he would meet with Johnson and review the personnel assignments for Red Flag.

  That’s what Falco was thinking when a siren began to bleat, and the trailer mounted C-RAM installation at the end of the block swiveled toward the west. The acronym stood for Counter Rocket, Artillery, and Mortar. The system consisted of radars linked to a 20mm Phalanx weapon system. The gun produced a sustained roar as it threw 4,500 rounds per minute into the air.

  There was a loud BOOM as something ran into the curtain of shells and exploded. Unfortunately the incoming weapon was only 200 feet away by then … And the explosion combined with the damage done by flying shrapnel destroyed the C-RAM. Falco was stunned. What the hell?

  More explosions were heard. They came in quick succession. Eielson was under attack! But by what? Falco looked up half expecting to see Russian bombers passing overhead. But no, the sky was empty. Missiles then, fired from who knew where.

  Columns of smoke were rising beyond the buildings to Falco’s left. It seemed that most of the missiles were targeted at the runways … And that’s where dozens of Red Flag planes were parked! What remained of the C-RAM was on fire. It blew up as the flames found the reserve ammo supply.

  Falco turned and ran toward the airstrip. It was only a block away. And Falco’s worst fears were realized. At least a dozen fighters had been demolished. Firefighters were spraying foam on them. A nearby building was on fire too, and as three airmen arrived on the scene, Falco waved them forward. “Come on! There could be people in that building!” Sirens continued to bleat as the men ran. North America was under attack.

  Chapter Six

  Pevek, Chukotka Autonomous Okrug, Russia

  T he city of Pevek was many things—including Russia’s northernmost town, an administrative center, and a fading seaport. But Pevek was something else too. It served as the temporary headquarters for General Anatoly Baranov’s New Dawn Brigade. The unit that was going to step off the Bering Strait bridge, and plant the Russian flag on U.S. territory.

  Baranov and his staff were seated in the army’s regional command center. It was located underneath Pevek’s government building. The original construction effort had been carried out by prisoners drafted from gulags back in the late 1950s. A time when the USSR faced the threat of nuclear war. According to local legends some of those political prisoners were buried under the floor. But so what? They had to be somewhere. “Play the recording again,” Baranov ordered, and the technician obeyed.

  The attack had been carried out by two of Russia’s Akula -class multi-role nuclear attack submarines. Each was armed with twenty 3M-54 Kalibr missiles. And from their positions in the Beri
ng Sea the boats had been able to strike at both Eielson AFB outside of Fairbanks, and Elmendorf AFB in Anchorage.

  The purpose of the attacks was to destroy as many planes as possible prior to the invasion. And, thanks to the wonders of technology, each cruise missile was equipped with a video camera. That allowed Baranov and his aides to see what each weapon “saw” as it fell from the sky. The officers had seen the montage before. But they still cheered every time an American plane exploded. “That’ll teach the bastards,” a crusty major growled, as an F-16 was vaporized. “We’re going to beat them like a drum.”

  Baranov agreed but knew it wouldn’t be easy. How would the Americans respond? With violence of course. But where would it fall? On Anadyr? Petropavlovsk? Magadan? Or on all three locations? There was no way to know. Meanwhile American attack submarines would be searching for the boats that launched the missiles. And the Russian subs would be waiting. Baranov wished them luck.

  Baranov stood as the montage ended. He turned to the slightly built civilian who had been shadowing him for days. “Well, Boris … What will you scribble?”

  Boris Dudin was a correspondent for the Russian News Agency, TASS. He’d been sent along to cover the eastern front for the citizens of the newly reconstituted USSR, and for the sake of history, which was very much on Baranov’s mind. “I will tell them about our victory, Comrade General.”

  “But not too much,” Baranov replied. “The missile attack, yes, but nothing more.”

  “Of course,” Dudin said. “We must maintain the element of surprise.”

  “Good. Grab your bag … We’re going to Petropavlovsk.”

  After leaving the government building Baranov and his party were taken to the airport where they boarded a military version of the Yak-42 three-engined passenger jet. There was a communications section up front, backed by a tiny galley, and rows of leather upholstered seats. The flight to Petropavlovsk would take five hours. Time Baranov would use to cope with the never ending river of effluent that flowed from the Ministry of Defense .

  Russia’s greatest general had been Alexander Suvorov back in the 1700s. Had Suvorov been forced to write endless reports? Of course not. His job was to win battles. More than sixty of them. But no sooner had Baranov opened his laptop than Major Gotov came back to speak with him. Gotov was a big man with bushy eyebrows, a shaved head, and an eternally sorrowful expression. “Excuse me Comrade General … We have a report from the naval command in Petropavlovsk. The Americans are bombing the city.”

  “That isn’t surprising Valery. They’re after the Rybachiy Nuclear Submarine Base.”

  Gotov nodded. “Yes. But, it’s likely that the American B-2 bombers are based at Whiteman Air Force Base, in the United States.”

  With the exception of American ships, Baranov was familiar with every weapons system the enemy had. So he knew that the stealth bombers could carry an enormous payload of missiles and bombs. Baranov also knew that the planes had a top speed of 628 mph. Call it 550 mph since the planes were unlikely to fly long distances at their top speed. And that raised an interesting question.

  Baranov did the math in his head. Whiteman was something like 4,500 miles from Petropavlovsk. So that, divided by 550 mph, equaled a little over eight hours. Yet only three hours had passed since the submarines launched their missiles. The realization came as a shock. The American bombers had taken off prior to his missile attack! They knew … Somehow the bastards knew. But they hadn’t known for long. The strike would’ve been launched earlier if they had. That meant Baranov no longer had the advantage of surprise. He needed to get on the ground where he could push, and push hard.

  A communications officer appeared. He had blond hair and a slight build. “The American B-2s unloaded two Massive Ordinance Penetrator (MOP) bombs on the sub base, sir. And the airport in Petropavlovsk is under attack. Our people believe the Americans are dropping Matra Durandal runway penetration bombs on it. The pilot requests permission to divert.”

  “Tell him to continue on,” Baranov replied. “Tell him that I have faith in his skills.”

  The lieutenant looked doubtful. “Yes, sir.” He disappeared.

  Dudin was seated opposite Baranov and had witnessed the whole thing. “Your dedication to duty is most impressive, Comrade General.”

  Baranov shrugged. “A great deal is at stake, Boris. It’s clear that the Americans know what we’re up to. And I need to be in Petropavlovsk in order to ensure that our plan is successful. Write this down. We have three reasons for invading Alaska. The first is to seize control of the American oil and gas wells. Armies feed on oil, Boris. It’s like mother’s milk.”

  Dudin had a laptop and his fingers flew. “And the second reason?”

  “American forces are fighting in Asia, in the Middle East, and in Europe. Every soldier, every tank, and every plane that they send to Alaska will weaken their forces elsewhere.”

  Dudin looked up. “And the final reason?”

  Baranov glanced out the window and back again. His eyes were bright. “The third reason is the most important of all,” he replied. “And that is to reclaim the vast piece of land that Alexander II foolishly sold to the Americans in 1867, god damn his soul to hell. Like Ukraine, it is part of mother Russia, and it must be restored.”

  Keys clicked as Dudin typed. Baranov’s views regarding the reunification of the socialist republics were very much in line with those expressed by the president of the reconstituted USSR. Thus both he and the general would be standing on firm ideological ground when the story was published. And that was a requirement that every TASS reporter had to keep in mind.

  Reports continued to trickle in and they ran the gamut from good to bad. One of the submarines involved in the missile attack had returned to Petropavlovsk unharmed. But the other was missing. Maybe it too would return to the badly ravaged base, but Baranov had his doubts.

  As for the air war the B-2s had escaped unscathed. But now enemy B-52s were sweeping in over Petropavlovsk. All but two of them had been intercepted by surface to air missiles (SAMs) and shot down.

  On the other hand the four outdated F-22 Raptors that the Americans had sent to escort the B-52s had been able to eliminate three Russian fighters before running for home. One American fighter had been destroyed by a SAM, but the rest had escaped. And so it went.

  The sun was low in the western sky by the time the Yak-42 neared Petropavlovsk. And as Baranov peered out through the window he could see that hundreds of fires were burning. His first thought was for his wife, Katya. For more than thirty years she’d followed him from station-to-station and Petropavlovsk was no different. Their rental house was in a nice neighborhood, and well away from the submarine base. Would that be enough to protect her? Baranov hoped so. His thoughts were interrupted when Major Gotov appeared. “The pilot refuses to land, General. He says that it’s his patriotic duty to protect your life.”

  Baranov felt a surge of anger and stood. “It’s his life that the weak kneed sonofabitch is worried about,” Baranov said. “The man isn’t fit to wear a uniform. Give me your pistol. ”

  Gotov doubled as one of Baranov’s bodyguards, and was carrying an army issue MP-443 Grach pistol under his left arm. He drew the weapon and offered it butt first. “There is a round in the chamber, Comrade General.”

  “Thank you,” Baranov said, as he accepted the weapon and made his way to the front of the plane. Technicians turned to look as Baranov went forward to open the cockpit door. Two steps carried him to the spot that was centered between and slightly behind the pilots.

  Baranov chose to ignore the pilot, who was seated on the left, so as to focus his attention on the copilot. He was young and had high Slavic cheekbones. “How many hours have you flown?” Baranov wanted to know.

  The lieutenant looked nervous. “About fifteen hundred, sir.”

  “Excellent!” Baranov exclaimed. “So, you can land a plane like this one?”

  “Yes, of course,” the copilot replied.

  �
��And that includes a wheels-up emergency landing?”

  “Y-y-yes, sir.”

  “Then prepare to do so,” Baranov said, before turning to his left.

  The pilot saw the nine millimeter pistol swivel in his direction, and like everyone else on board, he was aware of Baranov’s reputation. His voice quavered. “Please, sir … I’ll do whatever you say.”

  “It’s too late for that,” Baranov said. “The chain is only as strong as the weakest link … And you Captain, are a very weak link. Never fear, I understand the need to maintain the plane’s cabin pressure, and I will take that into account as I shoot you.”

  The pilot was struggling to release his harness when Baranov fired. There was a loud bang, followed by an eruption of bloody brain tissue, as the bullet traveled down through the pilot’s skull to lodge somewhere below. The dead man slumped forward as the copilot flew the plane. He was looking straight ahead.

  Gotov was waiting outside. Baranov returned the gun. There was blood on the barrel. “Pass the word … Tell everyone to strap in. It’s going to be a rough landing.” Then Baranov entered a lavatory to wash his hands.

  “What happened?” Dudin inquired, when Baranov returned to his seat.

  “The pilot fell ill,” Baranov said. “But never fear … The copilot can land the plane.”

  Dudin didn’t believe it. He’d heard what? A dull bang. Could that have been a gunshot? He didn’t want to know. “I see,” he said. “How unfortunate.”

  “Yes,” Baranov agreed. “Most unfortunate indeed.”

  “This is the copilot,” a voice said over the intercom. “Check your seatbelts and brace yourselves. We are going to land wheels up in order to skim across the craters in the runway. You may feel some bumps. Then we will come to a stop. All personnel will leave the plane via the emergency exits. We consumed most of our fuel during the flight—but the possibility of a fire remains. So move away from the plane quickly. Thank you.”