Red Ice

by William Dietz

  Baranov liked what he heard, and made a mental note to hang a medal on the boy, assuming he survived the landing. Runway lights flashed by. The Yak hit hard—but Baranov’s seatbelt held him in place.

  The copilot said the plane would slide and it did. But what the youngster hadn’t predicted was the horrible screeching sound, the avalanche of belongings that fell out of the overhead bins, and the fact that the right wingtip would scrape the surface of the tarmac.

  The brief moment of contact was enough to spin the Yak around, even as it continued to surf the runway and throw showers of sparks into the air. The flight ended with a groan of tortured metal. “Everyone out,” Gotov ordered. “Go! Go! Go!”

  “Shall we?” Baranov inquired, as he released his seatbelt.

  Dudin did his best to imitate Baranov’s nonchalant manner, being careful to bring his carryon, and the laptop stored inside. Gotov was there to help both men onto the emergency slide which carried them to the ground.

  The airport’s fire department arrived three minutes later and began to foam the wings. But despite their efforts witnesses saw a flash of light inside the cockpit which erupted into flames. No one would bother to examine the pilot’s badly burned body. Why should they? The man was a hero … And that was that.

  But what about the copilot? Would he file a report with authorities? Gotov would find out. And when Baranov saw them leave the plane together he knew the answer. The boy was no fool—and likely to go far.

  A three vehicle motorcade was waiting in front of the terminal. It consisted of a well-armed GAZ Tigr (Tiger) 4X4, a ZIL limousine, and a second Tigr. Baranov entered the limo with Dudin and Gotov. As the vehicles made their way through Petropavlovsk’s twisting-turning streets Baranov felt the steadily growing pressure. He regretted the damage done to the city, but his responsibility lay elsewhere. The bridge was everything. Without it there would be no invasion, and Alaska would remain in enemy hands.

  Had the tug boats departed on time? Towing the pontoons behind them? If so, there was an excellent chance that Baranov’s plan would succeed. But, if the vessels had been in port when the bombing began, some might be resting on the bottom of the bay.

  Such matters were best kept to himself however … Especially with a TASS reporter sitting beside him. So Baranov made no mention of his concerns as the convoy neared the sub base. It was dark by that time, but fires lit up the night, and the motorcade was forced to circle around them as refugees streamed past. That served to remind him of Katya. But, when he tried to call her, Baranov got a frustrating “All circuits are busy” message.

  A great deal of defensive weaponry had been added to the area surrounding the inner harbor since the beginning of the war. Not due to the Red Ice initiative—but to defend the sub base. So they passed a number of SAM sites, some of which had seen action only hours earlier. After reaching the base, and passing through security, Baranov and his companions were taken to a nondescript two-story brick building. Gotov and Dudin accompanied Baranov into a sparsely furnished lobby, where it was necessary to show ID before boarding an elevator.

  It took them down four stories into the Pacific Fleet’s hardened command center. Vice Admiral Maxim Zharkov was waiting to greet them. He was a short, balding man, who was more scholar than sailor. And no wonder. When it came to operating nuclear submarines brains were worth more than brawn. The two men embraced each other like long lost brothers. “Anatoly!”

  “Maxim!”

  “You grow uglier every day.”

  “And you smell like a goat!”

  Dudin watched in amazement as both men laughed. Gotov was expressionless as usual.

  “So, tell me,” Baranov said. “How are we doing?”

  “Follow me,” Zharkov replied. “I will show you.”

  The war room occupied a huge U-shaped space that was equipped with two dozen flat screen monitors, and an equal number of computer terminals, all manned by headset wearing techs. The combined murmur of their interactions reminded Baranov of prayers in a Russian Orthodox Church.

  There were seats for visiting VIPs but the men chose to stand. “I will give you the good news first,” Zharkov said. “Anadyr, Magadan, and Petropavlovsk were hit—but we managed to send some of our subs out to sea, and move others into hardened pens. The rest are hiding in the bay. Meanwhile the tug Hercules towed ten pontoons out to sea, followed by the Titan with an equal number, and the fishing trawler Zest with five more. Plus twenty-five pontoons left the harbors at Anadyr and Magadan for Lavrentiya.”

  Baranov did the math. Based on Zharkov’s report a total of 50 pontoons were on their way to the Bering Strait! That was enough to begin construction. The rest would arrive in carefully timed waves during the days ahead. “Good. Very good. And the bad news?”

  “The Americans knew what your Q ships were intended for … Both were destroyed. I will do my best to provide naval support—but most of my assets are in the South Pacific.”

  The news came as a blow. The Americans didn’t have a navy base in Alaska … Or any surface ships in the area. But Baranov had been counting on the anti-aircraft Q ships to defend his construction crews from American fighter planes. What to do?

  An idea came to him. “Barges,” Baranov said. “Find me some barges. I will equip them with army Buk missile carriers—and they will keep the enemy at bay.”

  “I can find some barges,” Zharkov assured him. “But the ships to tow them? That will be more difficult. There is an acute shortage of seagoing tugs. That’s why we’re using fishing boats to drag some of the pontoons north.”

  Baranov’s voice was like steel. “I need them Maxim … Don’t disappoint me.”

  Zharkov frowned. “I will do what I can for mother Russia, Anatoly.”

  Baranov knew that the rebuke was justified, and wished Dudin had been elsewhere. Baranov knew that while his passion was a virtue, it was a flaw as well, and could cause him to be impetuous. There had been no need to kill the pilot, yet he’d done so. And the loss of control troubled him. “Of course Maxim,” Baranov said. “Forgive me, I’m tired.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” Zharkov said. “Come … A shot of Vodka will set you right.”

  “I’d like to,” Baranov said sincerely. “But I need to check on Katya … I need to make sure that she’s safe.”

  “Of course,” Zharkov replied. “We will talk in the morning. I will have more information by then.”

  Baranov released Gotov and Dudin and assigned a vehicle to each. Then, in the remaining Tigr, he set off for home. It was a frustrating journey. A blackout was in place, there were lots of roadblocks, and traffic was backed up in front of each.

  According to Baranov’s driver, a battalion of American paratroopers had landed in the city, and were committing atrocities. That was ridiculous. But the driver believed it, and it appeared that the local officials did as well, because Baranov had to prove his identity again and again.

  Finally, after forty-five minutes of torture, the 4X4 followed a winding road up to the top of the hill where Baranov’s rental house was located. Much to Baranov’s horror he saw that two fire trucks were parked at the summit—and an aid unit as well. A generator had been brought in to power a cluster of work lights. And there, in the harsh glare, was the wreckage of what had been his house. Baranov’s heart sank as the Tigr came to a halt. He had to find Katya.

  Baranov threw the door open and got out. He saw a neighbor and went over to speak with him. “Dimitri! What happened?”

  Dimitri was an executive for a mining company. He was dressed in a robe and slippers. “We aren’t sure, General … But it looks like one of the American planes dropped a couple of bombs in the wrong place. Unless they were after you that is.”

  Baranov felt his blood run cold. The possibility that the Americans would target him , the same way they targeted terrorist leaders, had never occurred to him. Such a thing was possible though … He knew that. And if that was true, Katya would qualify as collateral damage
. “My wife,” Baranov said. “Have you seen her?”

  “No,” Dmitri said. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry too,” Baranov said. “For you, and your family. Is everyone okay?”

  “Yes, thank god,” Dimitri replied.

  “Good,” Baranov said, and turned away. The work lights threw his shadow over the remains of his house. Firemen were searching the wreckage. A dog sniffed around. Baranov stepped forward, and was about to clear debris with his bare hands, when he heard her voice. “Anatoly? I knew you would be here. I came as quickly as I could.”

  Baranov whirled. “Katya! Where were you?”

  Katya had a high forehead, big eyes, and an oval shaped face. And, after more than thirty years of marriage, Baranov was still hopelessly in love with her. “I was at Marta’s house,” she said. “I left as soon as I could. But there are so many roadblocks … And I had to leave the car at the foot of the hill. Look what they did to our house.”

  As Baranov took Katya into his arms he reveled in the smell of her. “I don’t care what they did to the house. You’re safe … That’s the only thing that matters.”

  That was a lie of course … The Americans had attempted to kill him. And Katya. They would pay.

  Chapter Seven

  Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson, Alaska, USA

  E verything had changed. What had been a backwater in the war was being referred to as “the northern front” by the news media, the Red Flag exercise had been cancelled, and Falco was working with the 4th Brigade Combat Team located at Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson near Anchorage.

  The brigade had been systematically stripped of personnel during the early months of the war to reinforce other units worldwide. So rather than the nearly five-thousand soldiers the 4th was supposed to have, the combat team was down to less than three thousand. That’s why “available” air force personnel were being sent to fill in. And, due to Colonel Austin’s low opinion of Falco, he was available.

  Fortunately the Randolph Pointe apartment complex was both understanding, and willing to return Falco’s deposit. Now, only two days after the devastating attacks on Eielson and Elmendorf, Falco was going to attend the mission briefing for “Operation Shortstop.”

  The gathering was about to take place in a large auditorium on Elmendorf AFB with about one-hundred officers and senior enlisted people seated in front of the stage. Their newly announced commanding officer was a tall, lanky man named Colonel George Waya. And, according to what Falco had heard, “Waya” was the Cherokee word for “wolf.”

  If so, Waya certainly looked the part. There was something wolfish about his broad forehead, prominent brow, and aquiline nose. “Okay,” Waya told them. “By now all of you know about the Russians plan to put a bridge across the Bering Strait. We believe the purpose of the span is to move an entire division of troops into Alaska before winter comes.

  “If the Russkies manage to complete the bridge, and invade Alaska, they could try to defend it with icebreakers. But our experts don’t expect them to do so. They believe the enemy will allow the ice pack to destroy the span rather than commit the resources required to maintain it. If that’s true they will resupply their forces by air. Something they could theoretically do using our airstrips. But that shit ain’t gonna happen.”

  That announcement brought cheers and cries of “Hooah!” The latter being an army expression used to celebrate just about anything. Waya grinned. He had a lot of white teeth. “Listen up ladies and gentlemen … Because here’s how we’re gonna stop ’em.”

  Video blossomed on the screens located above and behind Waya. An outline was visible on the left, a map could be seen in the middle, and a photo of an icy headline occupied the far right screen. “After manufacturing hundreds of concrete pontoons,” Waya told them, “the Russians towed some of them out into the strait, where they are can be connected to prepositioned sea anchors. More are on the way. We will try to stop them, but they own the air for the moment, so that’s a bit iffy. Assuming they manage to get a sufficient number of pontoons into place, the Russians will build a twenty-five mile long span running from the mainland to Big Diomede Island.”

  The map over Waya’s head morphed to show a computer generated bridge that ran from the Russian mainland to a blob-shaped chunk of land. “The Russians own Big Diomede,” Waya said. “And a battalion of Russian Border Guards were stationed there until recently.

  “But according to recently gathered intelligence, members of Russian’s Spetsnaz, or Special Purpose Forces, were infiltrated onto Big Diomede dressed as border guards. That means we’ll be going toe-to-toe with a force made up of soldiers like our Rangers or Green Berets. But, we’re airborne, so fuck them.”

  That produced more Hooahs, and shouts of “Geronimo!” which had been the rallying cry for the World War II paratroopers who preceded them.

  Who dropped the ball on the Spetsnaz thing? Falco wondered. The CIA? Yes, and military intelligence as well. But he knew that kind of deception would be relatively easy to pull off, especially in a shithole place that no one was paying attention to.

  “So,” Waya continued, “our job is to land and seize control of Big Diomede. Once we do the Russians can’t complete their bridge. Game over.

  “And,” Waya added, “we’re going to do it soon. Not next month, not next week, but the day after tomorrow … So pay attention. And remember that this presentation is classified.”

  The session lasted for an hour and a half. Falco was suffering from information overload by the time it came to a close. He had notes, but they looked like Egyptian hieroglyphics, and it would be necessary to rewrite them prior to briefing Master Sergeant Greg Oliver and Staff Sergeant Jason Lee.

  But Falco’s team wasn’t going in with Waya’s troops … No, the motto of the USAF Combat Control Team was “First There .” So Falco and his people were slated to parachute in twelve hours before the main attack, find a place to hide, and be ready to call in airstrikes by the time the army arrived. Would the Spetsnaz object to that? Most certainly they would. But only if they knew. There were lots of things to do. Falco followed the flow to the double doors. That was where he ran into Kathy Parker .

  She was as pretty as he remembered her to be, and dressed in what looked like the same olive drab flight suit. A government ID card dangled from her neck. Falco saw what looked like amusement in the pilot’s green eyes. “Major Falco.”

  “Ms. Parker … Or are you back on the air force payroll?”

  “Soon, once the paperwork comes through. Have you crippled anyone today?” It was said with a smile.

  “No, never before noon. How is Mr. Lynch?”

  “Do you care?”

  “No,” Falco answered. “But there’s the possibility that you do.”

  “I don’t ,” Parker replied emphatically. “Lynch is a moron.”

  “So we agree on something.”

  Parker nodded. Her expression was grave. “I read the plan. You’re going in first.”

  “Yup, that’s the job.”

  “We’ll be there. Call on me if I can help.”

  Falco frowned. “Civilians? Flying combat missions? It’s that bad?”

  “Yes,” Parker answered soberly. “It’s that bad.”

  Falco winced. “Roger that. What’s your call sign?”

  “Stripper.”

  Falco’s eyebrows rose. “Seriously?”

  Parker nodded. “Yes.”

  “You were one?”

  “Briefly, while in college. I was broke.”

  “And word of that got out in flight school?”

  “Exactly,” Parker replied. “And Wombat? Where did that come from?”

  “Wombats are slow,” Falco replied. “And so, according to my instructors, was I. That’s one of the reasons I washed out of flight school.”

  Parker smiled. “Of course wombats are kind of cute too … Watch your six Wombat.” And with that she was gone .

  The plan looked simple on paper. At 0100 on the
day of the attack a submarine would launch cruise missiles at key targets on the Big Diomede. That would serve to distract the Russians as Falco and his team jumped out of a plane at 25,000 feet, plunged toward the ground at 126 mph, and opened their chutes at 3,500 feet. If everything went perfectly the high altitude-low opening (HALO) freefall would last less than two minutes and allow the JTACs to land undetected.

  There were dangers however … Lots of them. Starting with the possibility that the high-flying C-130 would be spotted and shot down. Then there were the risks associated with HALO jumps including hypoxia and freezing temperatures. All of the team members had made HALO jumps—but never under combat conditions. And, because special operators were in short supply, the JTACs were going in by themselves.

  So the rest of that day and most of the next were spent checking gear, rechecking gear and, as Oliver put it, “shit proofing my pants.”

  Falco knew he should sleep prior to the insertion but couldn’t. A hundred possibilities crowded into his mind, all of them bad. So he tossed and turned for a while. Then he gave up and listened to the Moonlight Sonata until sleep carried him away.

  Once the alarm sounded Falco felt better than he thought he would. His camos and HALO jump suit were waiting. He left the BOQ forty-five minutes later. A blackout was in effect, so it was dark outside. A vehicle was waiting. The short ride took him to a hangar where coffee, sandwiches, and the rest of his team were waiting. “And a good morn’in to ya,” Oliver said, in what he fancied to be an Irish brogue.

  Thanks to the black drop suit, Sergeant Jason Lee looked bigger than he actually was. He shook his head. “Make him stop, Major … He’s driving me crazy.”

  “Ignore ‘imself,” Oliver said. “Yer man ‘ates de Oirish. ”

  “Put a cork in it,” Falco said. “It’s too early for impressions. Let’s eat.”

  After the meal was over the men ran a final check on their gear. Once the free fall was over the controllers would use special parachutes to glide in. And it was important to land in the same area for the purpose of mutual defense and to get the job done.