Red Ice

by William Dietz

  Both men welcomed her, and the group went to work. The next hour was spent connecting Moran’s terminal to the laser designator, and running a series of tests. Some minor software glitches surfaced but were quickly resolved.

  The Konev was only thirty miles away by then … And there was an empty feeling in Falco’s gut. What if he screwed up? What if the Konev’s gunners fired on the OP before he could laze the ship? Or, what if Derringer failed to work? The minutes seemed to crawl by, and Falco’s nerves were frayed by the time Lee spoke. He was sprawled on the floor, and looking through a scope. “I see a ship … One of the destroyers most likely.”

  Falco rolled in to take a look. A rain squall was moving across the water two miles south of their position, which meant visibility was limited. But there, nosing through the mist, was the angular bow of a warship! “We have a confirmation from Overlook,” Oliver announced. “That’s the destroyer Admiral Anatoly Grishin.”

  Falco saw a flash, followed by a second flash, and knew that a pair of 3.9 inch shells were coming their way. Toward him? Maybe. But that seemed unlikely. The Russian warships had been sent to prep the island for the invasion. So it seemed reasonable to assume that they’d be gunning for the American helipad, supply dump, and air defenses.

  Falco heard a series of distant thumps and knew that the shells were landing somewhere behind him. That was bad, but nothing compared to the damage that the Konev’s 16 cruise missiles could cause. Each weapon would strike with explosive power equivalent to that of a two-thousand pound bomb.

  So, tempting though the destroyer was, Falco had to save Derringer for the cruiser. The Grishin fired another salvo, and two additional rounds rumbled over the OP.

  As the destroyer ran parallel to the coast, a dark gray shadow appeared in the distance. Falco felt a rising sense of excitement. Was that the cruiser? Yes! As the Konev cleared the rain squall, there was no mistaking the ship’s towering superstructure, and the ranks of missile launchers positioned along the port side. “The target is in sight,” Falco said, as he rolled in behind the laser designator.

  “I’m on it,” Moran said from a few feet away. Keys clicked as the civilian entered an access code into her terminal. “I have control … Derringer is coming online.”

  Falco eyed the Konev through the designator. “Give me a signal check.”

  There was a pause followed by, “Signal lock.”

  Falco swore as missiles flashed up and away. Smoke enveloped the Konev’s superstructure for a moment and blew away. “The Russians are firing,” he said tightly, as a massive explosion was heard. The ground shook. Had the supply dump gone up? Falco assumed it had. A series of secondary explosions seemed to confirm his assumption as did the persistent rattle of small arms ammo cooking off. “Derringer is ready,” Moran said flatly. “Remember the lag. You’ll have to stay with the ship as it continues to move.”

  Falco knew that. And he knew that while he was painting the target, the Russians would detect the signal generated by his designator, and backtrack it to his location. Who would strike first? “Roger,” Falco replied. “Standby … Fire!”

  Nothing happened. Nothing visible anyway. Falco continued to track the enemy ship. Then the Konev fired again. Two missiles flashed into the sky, and Falco felt a stab of fear. No , he thought to himself, it’s too soon. There’s no way they could …

  The cruise missile struck. There was a loud BOOM, followed by the crack of splintering wood, as the ceiling gave way and tons of dirt fell into the OP. Most of it was towards the back. Falco heard someone cry out, and felt a heavy weight land on his legs. He forced himself to focus on the enemy ship. He was staring at the Konev when the laser beam struck.

  There was a bright explosion as the laser hit one of the launchers and detonated a cruise missile. The blast opened a hole in the Konev’s superstructure. Flames appeared and thick black smoke trailed along the cruiser’s port side. She was damaged, but still largely intact.

  Falco could imagine the panic on the bridge. What had hit them? A submarine launched missile? And was another weapon about to strike the ship?

  There was no way to know, so it made sense to run. And while Falco would have preferred a kill, he knew that Derringer’s mission had been successful, as the Grishin turned back to provide the larger ship with assistance. Meanwhile a second destroyer had appeared in the hazy distance. Like the Grishin it was there to protect the badly damaged cruiser from American planes and submarines. “The Konev is pulling out,” Falco announced. “Call it in … Tell Overlook that we need an air strike.”

  There was no reply. Falco turned to see that a pile of dirt sloped up and away from him. And, rather than work the radios, Oliver was busy digging. Moran was working next to him. That was when Falco remembered hearing someone cry out. Lee … Lee was buried!

  Falco took the AN/PRC-117G radio, and carried it over to the opening. “Any available aircraft, this is Wombat.”

  There was a pause, followed by the crackle of static. “Wombat this is Stripper. I have you loud and clear. What kind of trouble are you in now? ”

  Falco felt a sudden surge of joy at the sound of Parker’s voice. She was alive! “Stripper, I’m in an OP on the south side of Little D, looking south. The target is a Russian cruiser. It’s damaged and trailing smoke. The target’s surface-to-air system is still active in so far as I know. Can you support?”

  “Copy threats active,” Parker replied. “Staying five miles north. We can support. I see three ships—one is trailing smoke.”

  “That’s your target,” Falco confirmed. “Suggest missiles to maintain standoff distance.”

  “Stripper and Cricket will each fire one AGM-65. ETA two minutes.”

  “Copy, you are approved for attack, no friendlies near target, all attack headings approved.”

  “Stripper is in from the north.”

  Most of the roof was gone. Falco looked up as the first jet screamed overhead. “Visual … Stripper, you are cleared hot.”

  “Cricket in from the north.”

  “Cricket cleared hot.”

  After a two second pause Falco heard Parker say, “Rifle,” which was shorthand for “weapon away.”

  Cricket spoke next. “Rifle.”

  Falco watched through binoculars as the Konev’s superstructure took a direct hit. There was a flash, followed by a slightly delayed BOOM, as the sound arrived.

  Falco thought Cricket had missed at first. Then came a towering explosion that broke the Konev in half, and sent a column of fire soaring upwards, along with pieces of what looked like confetti. Chunks of debris fell into a pool of fire. Fuel oil was burning. Thick, black smoke blew west, as the aft section of the ship sank.

  Had anyone survived? It seemed unlikely. As for the destroyers, they had vanished into the haze, and were presumably running for safety. “Shack,” Falco said, meaning a direct hit. “Two impacts observed, mission successful, the ship was destroyed.”

  “Copy the BDA (battle damage assessment),” Parker said. “I’m still waiting for that dinner.”

  “Never fear,” Falco said. “A Wombat keeps his word. Out.”

  The JTAC turned and went back to where Oliver and Moran were kneeling in the dirt.

  Moran had been able to expose Lee’s face by then but it was too late. It looked as though he’d been struck by a falling beam prior to being buried under tons of fill. The civilian looked up at him. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Me too,” Falco replied. “Come on … Let’s dig him out before the floor gives way.”

  It took fifteen minutes to free Lee’s body from the dirt, and carry it up to the plateau. Repeated trips were required to fetch all of the gear.

  It was late afternoon by then, and a cold rain was falling, as the team prepared to leave. Falco was putting the laser designator away when Oliver came to join him. “Overlook called, Major. We have orders to pull out.”

  Falco looked at him. “Out of here? Or off the island?”

  “Off
the island,” Oliver replied. “I spoke to an MP. She says our supply dump took a direct hit from a cruise missile. That forced the brass to decide between putting more resources into a losing battle, or fighting the bastards on the beach in Wales. They chose the latter.”

  Falco felt a sense of disappointment. After fighting hard, and holding the islands for two weeks, the brigade had been ordered to withdraw. “Okay,” Falco said. “Let’s make some sort of stretcher. We’ll take Lee with us.”

  Darkness was falling by the time the team joined a column of soldiers trudging toward the ring of makeshift landing pads. The plan was to take the troops out by air, and the persistent roar of helicopter engines could be heard, as two Chinooks lifted off. One had a howitzer slung under its belly. “Where are the Russian planes?” Moran wanted to know. “Why aren’t they attacking us?”

  Falco was carrying one end of the improvised stretcher and Oliver had the other. Both were wearing packs which made walking difficult. “I don’t know for sure,” Falco replied. “But chances are that the Russians know we’re leaving—and have no desire to slow us down. They want to complete the link from Big D to Little D as quickly as possible.”

  The scene surrounding the landing pads could best be described as organized chaos. MPs worked to divide people into loads. A graves registration team appeared to take charge of Lee’s body—and Falco felt a lump form in his throat as they carried the JTAC away. He was going to miss Lee’s cheerful good humor and steady determination. “Are you Major Falco?”

  Falco turned to find a sergeant waiting to speak with him. “Yes?”

  “The colonel wants to know if you could help with air traffic control.”

  Falco was reminded of the desperate scramble to evacuate troops from Big D. There was only one thing he could say. “Tell him I said, ‘yes.’ We’ll jump in.”

  The noncom tossed a salute and Falco returned it. Moran was with Oliver. “The sergeant and I have a new assignment, Doctor,” Falco told her. “I suggest that you buttonhole an MP and identify yourself. They’ll get you out of here. You did a terrific job by the way … I’ll see if we can get you some sort of civilian commendation.”

  Moran looked up at him. “Take care, Major … Look me up if you get to Omaha. I’ll buy you a beer.” Then she was gone.

  It wasn’t difficult to locate the army’s harried air traffic controller (ATC) and join the fray. Time seemed to fly by as helicopters of every possible description came and went. All of them had the same goal, which was to get American personnel off the island before Russian troops overran it. Fighting could be heard to the west as the Spetnaz probed American positions, and Waya’s paratroopers fought them off.

  Then, shortly after 2100 hours the word went out for the remaining members of the brigade to pull back, and Falco was there to see dozens of exhausted soldiers materialize out of the gloom, and in some cases limp toward the waiting helicopters.

  Waya was there, strolling among them, and slapping backs as his troopers appeared. “Good job, Corporal … Medic! This soldier is wounded. Sergeant Nelson … Well done, son. I won’t forget.”

  Then, as if he had all the time in the world, Waya ambled over to where the controllers were working. “Major Falco, Sergeant Oliver, what you did to the Konev made my day! And made history too … That was the first tactical use of a satellite based laser weapon. And, as a reward, I’m going to let you fight the Russians when they land in Wales.”

  Both men laughed. “Thanks, Colonel,” Falco replied. “You’re all heart.”

  “That’s what they tell me,” Waya agreed. “Now get on the helo.”

  Once the JTACS and the ATC were aboard the Blackhawk took off. And, as Falco stood in the open doorway, he could see that a single person had been left standing on the ground below. Waya took a long look around, as if to memorize the scene, before turning to the civilian helo that was waiting for him. The battle for Little D had been lost.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Little Diomede Island, Russian occupied territory

  R ussian General Anatoly Baranov felt a sense of elation as the huge whale-shaped Mi-26 helicopter began its descent. And why not? The bridge between Big Diomede and Little Diomede had been completed during the night and, if everything went well, would be in service by 2000 hours. That, in spite of the Americans’ best efforts to prevent it.

  But the joy Baranov felt as the helicopter touched down stemmed not from a series of tactical victories, but from a profound sense of righteousness. Now, after more than 150 years of foreign rule—Alaska was going to be part of Russia again!

  A great deal of work remained to be done. But notice had been given, and the heretofore impregnable fortress called America was about to be ravaged the way his country had been ravaged by the Mongols, the French, and the Germans. “RUSSIANS LAND ON AMERICAN SOIL!” That headline, or something like it, would be seen on the front page of the New York Times and TV screens in every home.

  Stairs had been lowered. Major Gotov was on his feet, standing next to TASS reporter Boris Dudin, who was armed with a camera. “I’ll go first Comrade General, and get a shot of you stepping down. The photo will appear on the front page of more than four thousand newspapers by tomorrow morning. ”

  Baranov liked that idea. Not because of the manner in which it would glorify him, or the positive impact that such an image would have on civilian morale, but because Baranov knew that President Toplin would read the story—and feel encouraged. And that was important to the mission. “Yes, Boris … Please proceed.”

  “Try to smile,” Dudin suggested.

  “I’ll do my best,” Baranov promised, even though he knew that his best effort would produce something more akin to a grimace than a smile. Once Dudin was in position Baranov jumped down onto the slush covered ground and felt the solidity of it through his boots. It was a moment he would never forget.

  But there was work to do … And it began with a tour. The boxy 4 X 4 had been brought in by helicopter and was barely large enough to accommodate the driver, Baranov, Gotov, and Dudin. The purpose of the visit was to give Baranov a firsthand look at Little Diomede, and to make his presence known. Once some of the troops saw him word would spread. “The general is on the ground.” And the implication would be clear. Baranov was not only with them, but willing to take the same risks they did. Baranov’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a distant thud. “There are mines,” the driver announced. “The Americans left them along the footpaths.”

  Baranov turned to Gotov. “Check. Make sure that the proper orders have gone out. Don’t use established trails.”

  Gotov nodded and spoke into a handheld radio as the UAZ bounced over some rocks. A black flower surrounded the large crater where the American supply dump had been.

  And there, scattered around the adjoining helicopter pads, lay the litter of war. Baranov had seen it before. The bloody battle dressings, stray pieces of clothing, and brightly colored candy wrappers were left behind by all modern armies and could signal either victory or defeat .

  Then they were off to circle the plateau, pausing every now and then to chat with some of the troops, or to let Dudin snap a photo. And that’s what the reporter was doing when a hand cranked siren sounded and two Apache gunships roared in from the east.

  Gotov threw himself onto Baranov and both officers went down. Dudin continued to stand, and was capturing the scene on video, when a rocket struck the 4 X 4. The driver was killed but the TASS reporter was untouched. He continued to record video as the helicopters flew west. “Get off of me,” Baranov ordered, as he pushed Gotov away. Baranov stood. “Where are our planes? Our missiles? Someone’s going to pay.”

  “The village is a mile or two west of here,” Gotov said. “That’s where we’ll find the officer in charge.”

  That made sense. So the men trudged west. Gotov took the lead and was careful to avoid the well-trodden paths. Groups of soldiers passed them going in the opposite direction. Baranov took the opportunity to gr
eet them. The fact that he was on foot would leave a positive impression. “And there the general was,” a soldier might say. “Walking along like a man on his way to church! Why can’t all of our officers be like him?”

  An ominous column of smoke was visible in the distance. Were the American helicopters responsible for that? That’s the way it appeared.

  The men heard the sound of diesel engines before they saw the landing party. Then, as the threesome arrived at the top of the bluff, they were treated to quite a sight. The second span was more than half complete. As a tug worked to nudge a pontoon into place a sister ship continued to burn. Where were the antiaircraft barges? The ones carrying the Buk missile systems? Four such platforms were supposed to be anchored off shore. Had that been the case the American helicopters would’ve been shot down .

  Engines roared as two B-10 bulldozers worked to create the road that would switchback up through the ruins of what had been Ignaluk, to the plateau on which they were standing. “Come,” Baranov said. “Let’s go down and find the officer in charge.”

  The foot path had been cleared of mines. But it was steep, and extremely muddy, so Baranov had to watch his step. Every now and then he risked a glance at the scene below. Zubr -class air-cushioned landing craft were busy delivering more bulldozers, tons of supplies, and hundreds of troops. Piles of cargo containers were stacked up on the pier. Why had they been spared? Perhaps the helos had been on their way somewhere else, and fired on the tug because it was sitting in their path. Such were the imponderables of war.

  Once the men reached sea level, Gotov wasted no time corralling an army captain. “Who’s in charge?” the major demanded. “And where are they?”

  The young officer was clearly frightened, and for good reason. Gotov was a very imposing figure—and a general was standing five feet away! “C-C-Captain Kharamov is in c-c-command, sir. He’s on the Bortov. ”

  The captain was pointing to a nondescript navy vessel which was anchored offshore. A navy captain, Baranov thought, a rank equivalent to a colonel. Baranov frowned. “Get him on the radio.”