Ralph Peters

by The war in 2020

  "Roger," Heifetz responded. "Combat systems check." He glanced down at the control panel. "Weapons suite?"

  "Green."

  "Target acquisition suite?"

  "Green."

  "Active countermeasures suite?"

  "Green."

  "Go to environments check."

  "Roger," the copilot said.

  Throughout the regiment, Heifetz knew, other combat crews were running through the same drill. Making sure. One last time.

  The environments check took them through the range of visual "environments" in which they could choose to fight. The forward windscreens also served as monitors. The first test simply allowed the crew to look out through the transparent composite material the way a man looked through a window. Outside, the night raced with snow, the big flakes hurrying toward the aircraft at a dizzying speed.

  "Better and better," the copilot remarked. The storm meant that even old-fashioned visually aimed systems on the ground would have added difficulty spotting their attackers

  "Go to radar digital," Heifetz said.

  The copilot touched his panel, and the night and the rushing snow disappeared. The big windscreens filled with a sharp image of the terrain over which they were flying, as though it were the middle of a perfectly clear day. "Ruby minus eight minutes," the copilot said.

  Heifetz briefly admired the perfection of the radar image before him. The view had the hyper-reality of an especially good photograph, except that this picture moved with the aircraft, following the barren plains gone white under the snow and the sudden gashes and hills of waste that marked the open pit mines scarring the landscape. Then he said: "Go to enhanced thermal."

  The copilot obliged. The windows refilled, this time with heat sources highlighted over a backdrop of radar imagery. "Target sort," Heifetz directed.

  Immediately, each of the heat sources that the on-board computer had identified as a military target showed red. Hundreds of targets, near and far, filled the screen, as though the display had developed a case of measles. Below each target, numbers showed in shifting colors selected by the computer to contrast with the landscape. These were the attack priorities assigned by the computer. As the M-100 moved across the landscape, the numbers shifted, as new potential targets were acquired and others fell behind. "Jesus," the copilot said. "Just look at that.

  Heifetz grunted. It was as close as he would allow himself to come to admitting that he was impressed.

  "Makes you just want to cut loose," the copilot said. "Blow the hell out of them."

  "At Ruby."

  "Ruby minus seven," the copilot reported.

  "Go to composite," Heifetz said.

  The next image to fill the screen resembled the daytime" digital image, with targets added as points of light. This was a computer-built image exploiting all on-board systems plus input from space systems and a programmed memory base. In an environment soaked with electronic interference, or where radar countermeasures buffeted a single system, the computer reasoned around the interference, filling in any gaps in real-time information from other sources. The result was a constantly clear pure-light image of the battlefield. Further, if a particular target held special interest for the crew, they had only to point at it with a flight glove and the magnified image and all pertinent information appeared on a monitor mounted just below the windscreen.

  "Ruby minus six," the copilot said. "Initial targets on radar horizon."

  "Roger," Heifetz said. Then he entered the command net, calling Lieutenant Colonel Tercus, the First Squadron's commander, with whom he was tagging along. "Whisky five-five, this is Sierra one-three. Over."

  "Whisky five-five, over," Tercus responded. Even over the comms net, the squadron commander managed to sound dashing, flamboyant. Tercus stretched the regulations when it came to the length of his hair, and he wore a cavalryman's heavy mustache that would have been permitted on no other officer. Tercus was simply one of those unusual men in the Army who managed to make their own rules with baffling ease. Tercus seemed to be the eternal cavalryman, and he was always ready for a fight. In the past his valor had always outdistanced his occasional foolishness, but Taylor was taking no chances today—and so he had sent Heifetz along to make sure Tercus did not gallop out of control. "Superb officer," Taylor had remarked to Heifetz, "as long as you keep him in his sandbox."

  "This is Sierra one-three. I've been off your internal. Status report. Over."

  "Roger," Tercus responded. "All green, all go. Ruby minus five. Going to active countermeasures at minus three. Jeez, Dave. You been watching the target array? Unbelievable."

  "Roger. Active countermeasures at minus three. Weapons free at minus one."

  "Lima Charlie. And another great day for killing Indians. Over."

  "One-three out," Heifetz said. He turned to his copilot.

  "Maintain composite."

  "Composite lock. Alpha Troop diverging from main body."

  "Roger. Stay with them." Alpha Troop had been assigned the mission of striking the Japanese-Iranian repair and yards at Karaganda, while the remainder of the squadron went after the headquarters and assembly areas of the III Iranian Corps. Heifetz had elected to maneuver along with Alpha Troop, since the squadron commander would remain with the main body of his unit. Heifetz could assist in controlling the action—and he could add additional firepower for Alpha Troop's big task.

  "Ruby minus three."

  Activate jammers. For all his selfdiscipline. Heifetz could not help raising his voice. He felt the old familiar excitement taking possession of him.

  "Jammers hot," the copilot said. "Full active countermeasures to auto-control."

  There was no change in the sharp image that filled the M-100's windscreen. But Heifetz imagined that he could feel the electronic flood coursing out over the landscape. The simple stealth capabilities and passive spoofers had hidden the systems on their approach to the objective area. Now the attack electronics would overwhelm any known radar or acquisition systems. Enemy operators might see nothing but fuzz on their monitors, or they might register thousands of mock images amid which the First Squadron's birds would be hidden. The jammers even had the capability to overload and physically destroy certain types of enemy collectors. The latest technology allowed powerful jamming signals to "embrace" enemy communications, piggybacking on them until they arrived at and burned out the receiving-end electronics. It was a war of invisible fires, waged in microseconds.

  "Ruby minus two," the copilot said, "That's Karaganda up ahead, on the far horizon."

  "Sierra five-five, this is Sierra one-three, over," Heifetz called Taylor.

  The old man had been off the radio set for a few minutes, but now his voice responded immediately.

  "This is Five-five. Go ahead. One-three. Over."

  "Objective area visual now. All systems green. Jammers active, No friendly losses en route."

  "Good job. One-three. Give 'em hell."

  Heifetz almost terminated the communication, Taylor's voice had seemed to carry a tone of finality and haste, of no more time to spend on words. Spread over a breadth of a thousand nautical miles, the regiment was moving to battle, shifting its support base, entering the unknown. Taylor had a thousand worries.

  But the colonel was not quite finished speaking to Heifetz. Just before the operations officer could acknowledge and sign off, Taylor's voice returned:

  "Good luck. Dave."

  The tone of the small mechanical voice in his headset somehow managed to convey a depth of unashamed, honest emotion of which Heifetz would not have been capable. The three syllables reached into him, making human contact, telling Heifetz that he mattered, that he should have a future, not merely a past. That at least one man in the world cared for him. That he, too, mattered on a personal level.

  Damn him. Heifetz said to himself, meaning just the opposite, as he fought down a wave of emotion.

  "And good luck to you," Heifetz said. His voice sounded stilted and insufficient to h
im. Suddenly, he wished that he had made the effort to sit down and speak honestly to Taylor at least once, to explain everything, about Mira, about his son, about the loss of beauty, the loss of the best part of himself along with his family and his country. Just once, they should have spoken of such things. Taylor would have understood. Why had he been so proud? Why couldn't men reach out to one another?

  "Ruby minus one minute," the copilot said.

  "Unlock weapons suite."

  "Shooters to full green."

  No sooner had the copilot touched the forward controls than Heifetz felt a slight pulsing in the M-100. The high-velocity gun had already found its priority targets. The feel under Heifetz's rump was of blood pulsing from an artery. The stabilization system on the M-100 was superb, but the force of the supergun was such that it could not all be absorbed. Slowly, after hundreds of shots, it would lose accuracy and need to be recalibrated.

  But that was in the future. Right now, the gun was automatically attacking distant targets that remained well beyond the reach of the human eye.

  The visual display blinked here and there where targets had already been stricken. Dozens of successful strikes registered simply from the fires of the company with which Heifetz was riding.

  "Ruby now, Ruby now" the copilot cried. Look at that. The sonofabitching thing works."

  Heifetz glanced down at the master kill tally that registered how many effective strikes the squadron had managed. Barely a minute into the action, the number— constantly increasing—was approaching two hundred kills. His own system had taken out fourteen, no, fifteen—sixteen enemy systems.

  Lieutenant Colonel Tercus's voice came ringing over the command net, rallying all the members of his squadron, yelling down the centuries:

  "Charge, you bastards, charge!"

  One of his subordinates answered with a Rebel yell. The elation was unmistakable. Almost uncontrollable. Even Heifetz wanted to leap from his seat.

  He recalled something an Israeli general officer had told him many years before. When he had been young. And invincible.

  "Only the soldier who has fought his way back from defeat," General Lan had confided, "really understands the joy of victory."

  The counter showed that the brilliant machine in which Heifetz was galloping through the sky had already destroyed thirty-seven high-priority enemy combat systems. Make that thirty-eight.

  For the first time in years, David Heifetz found himself grinning like a child.

  Senior Technical Sergeant Ali Toorani was very disappointed in the machine the Japanese had given him. They had fooled him, and the thought of his gullibility filled him with anger. The Japanese had been alternately falsely polite and unforgivably superior at the training school on the outskirts of Teheran, but he had been told that they would give the Faithful infallible weapons, weapons far more perfect than those of the devils in the north and to the west. He had believed, and he had struggled to learn, while the Japanese had been inhuman in their expectations of how much a man could study.

  He had been proud of his mastery of the radar system, and he had possessed great faith in his abilities and in the machine. He had learned how to read all of the data, to comprehend what the displays foretold. He had acquired great skill. And he had even attempted to perform the maintenance tasks the Japanese demanded, although such menial labors were far below the station of a senior technical sergeant. Usually, he performed the maintenance when no one was around to see him. And the methods seemed to work. Even when the other machines broke down, his continued to function. He had done great things with his radar machine in this war.

  But, in the end, the Japanese devils had lied like all of the other devils before them. Even when you humbled yourself to work like the lowest of laborers to care for the machine, it failed you.

  Ali looked at the screen in despair and rising anger. The night had been quiet. There were no Russian airplanes or helicopters in the sky. There had been fewer and fewer of them over the past weeks, and now the skies belonged entirely to his own kind.

  But, without warning, the screen set into his console had washed with light. According to the Japanese instructors, such an aberration was impossible. Now the treacherous screen registered thousands of elusive images, each one of which purported to be an enemy aircraft of some sort. Such a thing was impossible. No sky could ever be so crowded. Anyway, the Russians had few aircraft left. The machine was simply lying.

  Ali stood up in disgust and turned away from the useless piece of devilry. He stepped through the gangway into the next cell, where his friends Hassan and Nafik were also working the late shift.

  "God is great," Ali said, greeting his friends. "My machine doesn't work tonight."

  "Truly, God is great," Hassan responded. "You can see that our Japanese machines do not work properly, either. The headphones merely make a painful noise."

  "The Japanese are devils," Nafik muttered.

  Captain Murawa's day was long and bitter, and his sleep was deep and hard. Until now his life had given him no cause to question the wisdom of his superiors. To be Japanese was to feel oneself part of the dominant political and economic power on earth, and to be a Japanese officer was to be part of a military whose abilities—if not actual forces—whose technological might, had humbled the great powers of the previous century. First, the United States, a flabby, self-indulgent giant, had received its lesson in Africa, where Japanese technology had savaged the ignorant Americans. And now it was the turn of the Russians, who had vet to put up any resistance worthy of the name. Yes, to be a Japanese officer, especially one of the new elite of electronic engineering officers, was a very fine thing. The entire world respected you.

  It was a terrible feeling for Murawa to suddenly discover doubt in himself.

  He hated the Iranians. He hated their indolence and filth, their inability to deal with reality as he knew it and their assumption that all things were theirs by due. Their criminal neglect of expensive military equipment was bad enough, what with their passive resistance to the accomplishment of basic maintenance chores, the neglect of a desert people to perform a task as fundamental as changing sand and dust filters, and their reluctance even to check fluid levels. But their social behavior was far worse. Murawa's image of the Iranians was of spoiled, bloodthirsty children. When their expensive toys broke—invariably through their own fault—the children threw temper tantrums, blaming the toymaker's deceit and bad faith—or lack of skill, an accusation Murawa found especially cutting and unjustified. The Japanese equipment that had been provided to the Iranians was the best in the world the most effective and most reliable. Easy to operate and maintain, it required willful misuse to degrade its performance. It was, in fact, so simple to operate most of the combat systems that even the Iranians had been able to employ them effectively in combat.

  The colossal repair effort had long since overrun its estimated costs. For want of a bit of lubrication or simple cleaning, major automotive and electronic assemblies were destroyed. Outrageously expensive components required complete replacement rather than the anticipated repairs. And the Iranians merely jeered: You have sold us goods of poor quality. You have broken your promise. You have broken faith. Murawa was sick of hearing it, and he did not know how much longer he would be able to control his temper. His military and civilian-contract repair crews were exhausted. And the effect of seeing their hard work result only in less and less care on the part of the Iranians and ever greater numbers of fine Japanese systems showing up ruined in the Karaganda repair yard—some for the second or third time—well, it was very bad for morale. Instead of being rewarded, their labor only turned them into fools.

  Today, a barbarous crew of Iranians had turned in a kinetic-energy tank whose prime mechanisms had been hopelessly fouled by dirt. The vehicle would have been merely one out of hundreds—but the savages had played a trick. Struggling to contain their laughter, they had loitered in the reception and diagnostic motor pool. No one paid much attention, assumi
ng they were simply typical badly disciplined Iranian troops, loath to return to duty. But, when a Japanese technician began climbing into their tank, they stopped laughing and watched with rapt attention. Only when the technician clambered madly out of the vehicle, screaming at a volume that tore the throat, did the Iranians resume their gaiety. They laughed like delighted children.

  The Iranians had released a poisonous snake inside the crew compartment. Now a critical member of Murawa's team lay in the sickbay, delirious and possibly dying. And all the Iranians had offered in leaving was the comment that:

  "God is great."

  Murawa had wanted to shout at them, "If your god is so great, let him fix your damned tank." But it would have been unacceptable. Un-Japanese.

  The incident had released a torrent of doubts that he had long been suppressing. He doubted that the wise, high men who led Japan truly understood all of this. He doubted that the Iranians would ever be faithful allies to anyone. Hadn't the Americans learned the hard way, almost half a century before? The Iranians were all too convinced of their own bizarre superiority. The world owed them everything. They understood neither contractual relations nor civilized friendship. What elusive concept of honor they had was little more than vanity soaked in blood. They could not even tell the truth about simple matters, as though honest speech were biologically impossible for them. Why on earth had Tokyo backed them? What would happen when the Iranians and the rest of the Islamic world turned again? Murawa could not believe that he was the only person to see the truth.

  He wished he were home in Kyoto. At least for one night. Murawa felt lucky to have been born in that most precious, most Japanese of cities, so unlike Tokyo with its compromises with Western degeneracy. There was nothing more beautiful than the gardens of Kyoto in the autumn. Unless it was the Kyoto girls, with their peculiar, disarming combination of delicacy and young strength. Certainly, they were unlike the gruesome women of Central Asia in their dirty, eerie costumes, with their gibbering voices. Those with plague scars—obviously untreated in this primitive environment—were only grimmer than the rest by a matter of degree. There was no romance in Central Asia for Murawa. Only ugly deserts interrupted with excavation scars and cities erected madly in the middle of nowhere, choking with half-dead industries whose principal product seemed to be bad air. It was like taking an unpleasant journey back through a number of bygone centuries, collecting the worst features of each as you went along. Central Asia made Murawa feel sick in spirit, and he was grateful for each new day that his body did not sicken, as well.