Red Ice

by William Dietz

  “He knows we’re here,” Parker observed. “He has to … And the arrogant bastard thinks he can splash the bait and kick our asses too. Tell Rubber Ducky to run … Let’s get him!”

  Parker put the plane into a steep dive with Cricket off her starboard wing and slightly to the rear. Voronov began to climb as the bait plane took off. As he did so the Russian pilot was shedding air-to-ground ordinance. The mind games began. As Parker aimed the F-15 at the spot where Voronov was going to be, the Russian pilot began to talk over the guard (emergency) frequency. “Oh, my! A trap … I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Of course you will,” Parker responded, as she prepared to turn in behind him. “You’re a narcissist, so you take everything as a compliment. Like the time you had sex with Marci Owens, and she told you that it was ‘Okay.’ ”

  Voronov must have been stunned by the response, because he not only failed to respond, but wound up with two Strike Eagles on his tail. Parker fed him a pair of IR seeking Sidewinder missiles. Voronov fired flares that drew the heat seekers away—so Parker kept her other weapons on the rails rather than waste them. Then Voronov was back on the air. “A woman! They sent a woman to do a man’s job. Only the Americans would do such a thing. Russians love and protect their women.”

  “Right,” Parker said, as she followed Voronov into a turn. “Like the time you beat the shit out of Mandy Mason, and left her bleeding on a bathroom floor.”

  Baines yelled, “Shoot!” and Parker did. The Sidewinder missed, but not by much.

  Voronov was in deep shit and he knew it. The woman was on him like white on rice. But he knew a trick … A good trick. And one that could turn the table on the American bitch. The Cobra, also known as Pugachev’s Cobra, was an extremely demanding maneuver in which a pilot raises his airplane’s nose into a vertical position prior to dropping back into normal flight. The purpose of the evolution was to slow the plane down causing a pursuer to overshoot. And Voronov was flying the right plane for the job. His Su-35 was equipped with dimensional thrust vectoring which, combined with his skill, allowed Voronov to pull a flawless Cobra.

  The move took Parker by surprise. And, as Voronov appeared to stall, she shot past him. Then, as Voronov came out of the Cobra, Cricket flashed past him. Voronov saw the opening and took it. Two missiles surged out from under his wings and one hit Cricket’s right wing. His F-15 trailed smoke as it spiraled downwards. “You’re on your own now,” Voronov said, as he began to climb .

  Parker knew Cricket had been hit, but couldn’t allow herself to think about it, as Voronov pulled in on her six. In an effort to regain the upper hand Parker transitioned into a move called a Vector Roll.

  Voronov fired an Archer IR missile but it missed thanks to the countermeasures that Baines used. Voronov fell out of position for a second, but managed to pull back in, and continue the chase. Both fighters were in a Flat Scissors flight pattern. At that point Parker had little choice but to go for a Guns-D, or Guns Jinks, which involved a series of random changes intended to throw her pursuer off.

  Unfortunately the Guns-D still left Parker vulnerable to stray cannon shells and “lucky shot” hits, while doing little to improve her overall situation. She was scared and running out of ideas. “You’re wasting fuel,” Voronov said. “And delaying the inevitable. Bail out … It’s all the same to me.”

  “Forget that shit,” Baines put in. “Give him a high-g barrel roll.”

  Parker knew it was a good call. The first step was to turn hard and pull Voronov in close, which she did, and which he perceived as an extension of the Guns-D.

  Then Parker applied hard back-stick pressure and added some hard rudder to help the F-15’s ailerons roll the fighter. That created the high g-forces which gave the maneuver its name.

  A high-g barrel roll can be performed “over-the-top” or “underneath,” which is accomplished by rolling upside-down and beginning the maneuver from the inverted position. And that’s what Parker did.

  Because the high-g is an energy-depleting maneuver it rarely forces the attacker out front. But it frequently results in a flightpath overshoot, or a flat scissors, either of which would give Parker a momentary advantage. “Girl skiers have a nickname for you,” Parker lied. “They call you ‘pin dick’ because you’re so small. That has to hurt. ”

  It was hard to say if the insult caused Voronov to lose focus for a moment or the barrel roll would have worked anyway. But the result was everything Parker had been hoping for. She came out of it above and behind the other pilot. It was perfect for a guns solution. And when she pickled the plane’s cannon Parker knew she had him. “This is for Davis, Cricket and Mandy Mason,” Parker said as 20mm explosive rounds hit the Su-35. Then the fighter blew up.

  “That was righteous,” Baines said, as the plane banked. “No chute … Cricket and his Wizzo are okay … The combat search and rescue people are on the way.”

  “We need fuel, and we need it badly,” Parker told him. “Let’s find a Toad (KC-135 tanker) and gas up.”

  Once the fuel was on board they flew to Anchorage where, contrary to regs, Parker performed a victory roll over the strip. Baines laughed like a maniac as an air traffic controller swore at them. They were alive.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Little Diomede Island, USA, the Bering Strait

  “ H urry up and wait.” Never had the old military axiom been truer. After destroying the Russian barges, and the patrol boat, Falco returned to Little Diomede expecting the enemy to attack within hours. They didn’t.

  There were various theories regarding that. Some people figured that the Russians were overextended and would have to withdraw soon. Others believed that Russia’s newly named president was less enthusiastic about invading Alaska than his predecessor had been.

  But there was a third possibility, and that was the one Falco favored. After making what they considered to be good progress, the Russians were consolidating their gains, and preparing for the next push. Then , in Falco’s opinion, the shit would hit the fan.

  Whatever the truth of the matter, the respite was an opportunity. It could have been, should have been, a period during which the Americans could send reinforcements to Little D. But according to Colonel Waya, there weren’t any additional forces to bring in. So all his combat team could do was wait and hope. “Every day we hold Little D constitutes a victory,” Waya told them.

  For Falco and his team the pause was a chance to take tepid showers, eat one of the hot meals that were flown in once a day, and perform maintenance on their gear. And that’s what Falco was doing when a runner appeared. The private appeared to be in his late teens—and was probably just out of boot camp. “Major Falco?”

  “Yes?”

  “Colonel Waya wants you to attend a briefing at 1300.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I’m a private.”

  Falco laughed. “Roger that. I’ll be there.”

  Finally , Falco thought, as the runner left. We’re going to do something.

  The sky was gray when 12:45 rolled around, and it was raining as Falco made his way east. It wasn’t long before he fell into company with an army captain. “What have you heard?” Falco wanted to know. “What’s Waya going to say?”

  “Most people think we’re going to pull out,” the captain replied. “And why not? We can’t hold this place. Not with what we have.”

  That made sense. But, if Falco had learned anything during his years in the air force, it was that things are always more complicated than they seem to be.

  There was standing room only inside the tent. All sorts of uniforms were in evidence including those worn by Canadians. And that made sense. Canada was part of NATO. And, if Alaska fell, their country would be on the front line. The mood was somber and a sergeant major hollered, “Atten-hut!” as Waya entered.

  Waya stepped up onto a stage that consisted of two stacked cargo pallets. His eyes roamed the crowd. “As you were. I won’t waste your time w
ith rah-rah bullshit. We’re in a tough spot, and it’s about to get worse. What the Intel people estimate to be three Russian attack submarines entered the strait during the last 72 hours. They have two objectives. The first is to shield the first span from our subs. The second is to protect a naval task force consisting of the Russian cruiser Admiral Konev , and two Udaloy Class destroyers.

  “The Konev is a monster. Not only is she armed with anti-ship missiles, surface-to-air missiles, and an AK-130mm gun battery, she’s equipped with Kashtan close-defense weapons systems that can intercept and destroy anti-ship missiles, anti-radar missiles, guided bombs, aircraft and fast attack boats. That means she’s damned near unstoppable.

  “It’s safe to say that once the Konev and her escorts get here, they’re going to circle Little-D the way my ancestors circled wagon trains, and try to pound us into the ground. Then their tugs will tow dozens of additional pontoons in, and work on the second span will commence.”

  Waya paused at that point. Except for a single cough there was complete silence within the tent. His eyes jumped from face-to-face. “General Haberman wants us to hold out as long as we can before falling back on the village of Wales. But, given how difficult the situation is, she won’t order us to remain here. Any man or woman who wants to leave, and join our forces on the mainland, will be free to do so during the next twelve hours.

  “Take that message back to your troops. Tell them that if they wish to withdraw they can do so starting at 1500 hours this afternoon. They are to bring all of their gear, and assemble at the helicopter pads, where Chinooks will take them off.

  “Those who choose to stay will dig in even deeper and prevent troop landings until the last minute, when every effort will be made to pull them out. Do you have any questions?” There were none.

  “All right,” Waya told them. “Hold fast while Sergeant Major Benson reads a list of officers who I need to speak with. Thank you for your service to our country.”

  There was a “Hooah,” but it sounded lame, and Falco wondered how many people would choose to stay. Sergeant Major Benson read a list of seven names and Falco’s was last. That forced him to wait for more than an hour before being summoned into the corner of the tent that Waya was using as his office. He threw a salute and Waya returned it. “It’s good to see you, Major. Take a load off.”

  Waya’s guest chair consisted of an upturned crate. Falco sat down as Waya lowered himself onto a rickety lawn chair. “You heard my speech, including the stuff about the Konev. ”

  “Sir, yes sir.”

  “Good, because your job is to sink her.”

  Falco’s thoughts started to churn. Sink her? Hell, based on what Waya had said earlier, it would be damned near impossible to put a dent in the cruiser—assuming the ship’s antiaircraft capabilities were as good as advertised.

  Waya raised a hand. “I know what you’re thinking … There’s no way to do it with what’s available, and you’re correct. But we have something the Russkies don’t know about. It’s a low Earth orbit Nuclear Spectroscopic Telescope Array called Oz. The satellite’s ostensible purpose is to search deep space for black holes.

  “However that’s a cover for the real package which consists of a one-shot laser weapon code named ‘Derringer.’ And, according to the briefing I received six hours ago, Derringer packs a punch that could put the Konev out of action—or even sink her.

  “But in order to do that I need a crazy air force major to laze the bitch, and hold the target, while the Russians throw everything they have at him! And you’re the crazy major that I have in mind.”

  Falco felt something cold trickle into his bloodstream. The moment he locked his laser designator onto the Konev the Russians would get a fix on his location. And then a whole lot of bad things would start to happen. Could he refuse? Probably. But then Waya would turn to Oliver and Lee. Would one or both of them volunteer? Yes .

  Falco forced a smile. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, sir … I would like nothing better than to give the Russians some target practice. I have a question though … What’s going to happen after we reveal Derringer? Won’t the Russians attack every satellite we have?”

  Waya shrugged. “Maybe. But this mission was authorized by the Secretary of Defense. So I think we can assume that the brass are well aware of the strategic implications, and ready to deal with the blowback.”

  Falco hoped that was true. “Yes, sir.”

  “Here’s how it’s going to work,” Waya told him. “My engineers are prepping four hardened outposts (OPs). But only one will be used. That’s the one on the south shore.”

  Falco understood the necessity of that. The Russians were watching the Americans via satellites, spy planes, and drones. With any luck at all they would assume that the newly created OPs were part of the defensive measures to defend the entire island prior to the coming invasion. “We don’t have time to start from scratch,” Waya added. “That’s why the engineers are putting roofs over existing ravines. They will be six feet thick.”

  That made sense. By placing lids over the island’s many ravines the Americans could save a lot of time and effort. Plus, given the nature of the situation, the OP on the south shore didn’t need to be perfect. But would six feet worth of protection be enough? Falco hoped so. “I’ll need a platform to work from,” he said.

  “You’ll have it,” Waya promised. “And some help too. The brass sent an egghead to serve as a liaison with United States Strategic Command (USSTRATCOM). Doctor Moran was part of the Derringer design team, and will help you bring the weapon to bear.”

  That was good news since Falco hadn’t been trained to call in strikes from satellites. Nor had anyone else so far as he knew. “That sounds good, sir. ”

  “All right,” Waya said. “Get together with Moran and head for your OP. The sergeant major will contact your team and let them know where to meet up with you. Based on present estimates you have about four hours to get ready.”

  Both men stood. Waya extended his hand. “You’re the real deal, Major … I hereby retract the things I’ve said about the air force over the years.”

  Falco grinned. “I wish I could reciprocate sir, but I can’t.”

  Waya laughed. “Take care Wombat … I’ll be pulling for you.” And with that the briefing was over.

  Falco left the makeshift office, and was making his way to the tent’s entrance, when Sergeant Major Benson intercepted him. “Major Falco, this is Doctor Betsy Moran. She’s on loan from STRATCOM.”

  Moran was short, had a mop of graying hair, and was dressed in civilian hiking gear. Her eyes were bright. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Major … I’ll do everything I can to help.”

  Moran had a small hand, but a firm handshake, and Falco liked her straight forward manner. “Welcome to Little D, Doc. Where’s your gear? Let’s grab it. We can talk while we hike to the south side of the island.”

  Moran had a pack and metal case that held what she said was a global satellite terminal. Falco offered to carry the pack, but Moran declined. “Thanks, but it’s an old friend, and I’m used to the weight.”

  So Falco carried the case as they trudged cross country. The sound of exploding artillery rounds could be heard from the west as howitzers located on Big D prepped the landing zone. Moran was all business. “The tricky part is making sure that Derringer is in the right spot at the right time,” she explained. “In order to assure that, and to do so without attracting attention, we’ve been making incremental adjustments for the past eighteen hours.”

  “So how’s this going to work?” Falco wanted to know .

  “I brought the bits and pieces required to link your designator to my terminal,” Moran replied. “So when you acquire the target, all you have to do is tell me, and I’ll pull the trigger. Simple.”

  Falco hoped Moran was right, but had his doubts. No one had fired an orbital laser weapon at a moving target before, and when something can go wrong, it usually does.

  The yellow tracto
rs were quite visible against the white-gray backdrop of slush and sea. Engines growled and exhaust fumes jetted into the air as the machines backed and filled. An army lieutenant was there to meet them. “Major Falco? Doctor Moran? My name is Toby. I was told to expect you.”

  Rocks rattled as a Cat dumped a load of earth onto the OP’s roof. “What’s under the dirt?” Falco inquired. “Something sturdy I hope.”

  “We salvaged some wood beams from the village,” Toby replied, “and used a Chinook to lift them out. They were laid crosswise inside the ravine. Then, after nailing sheets of ¾ inch plywood onto the supports, we laid 10 mil plastic down to keep things tidy. Now they’re putting six feet of top fill over that. It won’t protect you from a direct hit. But, other than that, you should be all snuggly.”

  If Toby was trying to make them feel better, he failed where Falco was concerned. As for Moran, she was unperturbed. “Can we go below?” she inquired. “I have tests to run.”

  They could, and they did. By circling around the tractors, and following the boot prints running parallel to the cliff, they were able to access the narrow trail that led down to the open end of the ravine. Moran went first. There was a sheer drop off to the right, and Falco was careful to place his feet just so, lest he slip and fall onto the boulders below.

  After descending for ten yards or so Moran disappeared into the hillside. When Falco made the turn he found himself standing on a plywood platform under an eight foot ceiling. The floor was about fifteen feet wide out front, and narrowed to a third of that in the rear. Oliver was there to greet him, as was Lee, and Falco could see that the team’s gear was ready to use. That included the radios, a spotting scope, and the all-important laser designator. It was aimed out to sea. “This is Doctor Moran,” Falco told them. “She’s on loan to the team.”