Ralph Peters

by The war in 2020

  Once the intercepts had revealed the general orientation of the American unit, intelligence had been able to steer advanced radars and space-based collectors to the enemy's vicinity. The new American systems proved to be very, very good. Unexpectedly good. Even the most advanced radars could not detect them from the front or sides. But the rear hemisphere of the aircraft proved more vulnerable. The returns were weak—but readable, once you knew what you were looking for.

  Now the enemy's location was constantly updated by relay, and Noguchi was able to follow the Americans quietly as he led his flight of aircraft in pursuit. He would have liked to see one of the new enemy systems with his own eyes, out of professional curiosity. But he certainly was not going to get that close. Noguchi believed that he had conquered his innate fears of battle, that he had turned himself into a model warrior. But once the Scrambler drones were released from the standoff position, he had every intention of leaving the area as swiftly as his aircraft could fly.

  "This is Five-five Echo." A young voice. Earnest. Frightened. "I've got to put her down. The control system's breaking down."

  "Roger," Taylor answered calmly, struggling to conceal the depth of his concern from the pilot of the troubled escort ship. "Just go in easy. We'll fly cover until you're on the ground. Break. Five-five Mike, you cover from noon to six o'clock. We'll take six to midnight, over."

  "Roger."

  "This is Echo. I've got a ville coming up in front of me."

  "Stay away from the built-up area," Taylor ordered.

  "I can't control this thing."

  "Easy now. Easy."

  "We're going down." The escort pilot's voice was stripped down to a level of raw fear that Taylor had heard no more than a dozen times in his career. The first time had been on a clear morning in Africa, and the voice had been his own.

  "Easy," was all he could say. "Try to keep her under control."

  "—going down—"

  The station dropped from the net.

  "Merry. Hank. Get a clear image of the site. Get a good fix on him." Taylor switched hurriedly to the regimental command net. "Sierra one-three, this is Sierra five-five. Over."

  For a nervous moment, the answer failed to come. Then Heifetz's voice responded:

  "Sierra five-five, this is Sierra three-one. Over."

  "You've got the wheel again. I've got a bird down. Over."

  Even now, Taylor could not help feeling a twinge of injured vanity. The sole M-100 that had gone down, for any reason, had been one of his two escort ships. Although the escort ships were responsible for his safety, he was also, unmistakably, responsible for theirs as well. And the loss was clearly his fault. For going after the enemy fast movers. He had asked too much of the M-l00s.

  "The one that was having trouble?" Heifetz asked. "Roger. Not sure what happened. We're putting down to evacuate the crew."

  "Anything further?"

  "Just keep everybody moving toward the assembly areas," Taylor said. "Looks like I'm going to be coming in a little late. Over."

  "Roger. See you at Silver," Heifetz said.

  "See you at Silver. Out."

  Good old Lucky Dave, Taylor thought. Thank God for him.

  The assistant S-3 had locked the image of the downed craft on the central ops monitor. It looked like the bird had gone in hard. There was a noticeable crumpling in the fuselage, and shards of metal were strewn across the snow. But the main compartment of the M-100 had held together.

  "Five-five Echo, this is Sierra five-five. Over." Taylor gripped the edge of the console, anxious for a response, for a single word to let him know that the crew had survived.

  Nothing.

  "Oh, shit," Meredith said. "Company."

  The officers crowded around the monitor, edging out the nearest NCO. The standoff image showed the wreck about two kilometers outside of a ruined settlement. Small dark shapes had already begun moving toward the downed M-100 from the fringe of buildings.

  "What do you think, Merry?"

  "Personnel carriers. Old models. Soviet production."

  "Any chance they're friendlies?"

  "Nope," Meredith said immediately. "Not down here. Those are bad guys."

  As if they had overheard the conversation, the personnel carriers began to send streaks of light toward the crash site.

  "Chief," Taylor called forward through the intercom, "can you take them out?"

  "Too close for the big gun," Krebs answered. "We'll have to go in on them with the Gat. Going manual. Hold on, everybody."

  "Five-five Mike," Taylor called to the other escort M-100. "You've got the sky. We're going in—"

  A sudden swoop of the aircraft tossed him backward against the opposite control panel.

  The wrong voice answered Taylor's call. It was the downed pilot. Still alive after all.

  "This is Five-five Echo. Can anybody hear me? Can you hear me? We're taking fire. We're taking hostile fire. I've got some banged-up troopers in the back. We're taking fire."

  "Mike, wait," Taylor told the net. "We hear you, Echo. Hang on. We're on the way."

  In response, the M-100 turned hard, unbalancing both Taylor and Meredith this time.

  "Come on," Hank Parker said to the monitor, as if cheering on a football team in a game's desperate moment.

  "I'm going forward," Taylor said, and he pushed quickly through the hatchway that led toward the cockpit, bruising himself as the aircraft dropped and rolled.

  By the time Taylor dropped into his pilot's seat, Krebs had already opened up with the Gatling gun. It was the first time all day they had used the lighter, close-fighting weapon.

  "I've got the flight controls," Taylor told Krebs. "Just take care of the gunnery."

  "Roger." The old warrant officer unleashed another burst of fire. "Good old weapon, the Gat. Almost left them off these babies. Damned glad we didn't."

  Down in the snowy wastes, two enemy vehicles were burning. The others began to reverse their courses, heading back for the cover of the blasted village. Taylor manhandled the M-100 around so that Krebs could engage a third armored vehicle. Then he turned the aircraft hard toward the downed bird.

  "Echo, this is Sierra," Taylor called. "Still with me?"

  "Roger," a frantic voice cried in the headset. "I've got casualties. I've got casualties. "

  "Take it easy. We're coming."

  "My ship's all fucked," the voice complained, its tone slightly unreal. "We'll never get her off the ground." Taylor, having had the privilege of an overhead view of the wreckage, was startled that the pilot had given even a moment's thought to attempting to get airborne again. Battle reactions were never fully rational, never truly predictable.

  "No problem, Echo," Taylor said. He passed manual control of the aircraft back to Krebs so that he could concentrate on calming the downed pilot, steering him toward rational behavior. "No problem. You've done just fine. Just take it easy. We're coming down to get you out of there. Break. Five-five Mike, you watching the sky for us?"

  "Roger. All clear."

  "Okay. Have your copilot keep an eye on the ground, just in case our little friends try another rush from the village. Break. Echo, can you get your crew and the dragoons out of the aircraft? If so, rig your ship to blow."

  "I can't," the voice came back, nearly hysterical. "What's the problem?"

  "My legs, my legs."

  "What's the matter with your legs?"

  "I think they're broken."

  Taylor fought with all his might against flickering visions from an earlier time, of earlier wrecks, in a land that had never seen snow.

  "Can your copilot get things going?"

  Silence. Then:

  "He's dead."

  Taylor closed his eyes. Then he spoke in a beautifully controlled voice:

  "Echo, this is Sierra. Just take it easy. We'll have you out of there before you know it. Try to think as clearly as you can. Now tell me. Is anybody fully capable in the dismount compartment?"

  "I don't know
," the pilot answered. His voice had calmed a little, and the tone was almost rational. "The intercom's out, and I can't move. Oh, my God. We've got a fire. We've got a fire."

  "Flapper, get us the hell down there," Taylor barked. The injured pilot had lost all control of himself now. "Oh, God," he pleaded to the radio, "please don't let me burn. Please don't let me burn."

  "Just hold on," Taylor said, trying to remain controlled himself. "We're almost there."

  "Please . . . please ..."

  "What about your fire suppression system?" Taylor demanded. "Can you operate it manually?"

  "I can't move. Can’t. Please. Oh, God, I don t want to burn. Don't let me burn."

  As it descended the M-100 turned so that Taylor could see the wreck again. It was very close now. And there was, indeed, a fire. In the forward fuselage, where the pilot’s exit hatch was located.

  Then Taylor saw one hopeful sign. At the rear of the downed M-100, a soldier was on his feet. He had already lain two of his comrades in the snow, and he was headed back inside the burning aircraft.

  Taylor’s ship settled, and he lost sight of everything in the white-out of blown snow.

  "Echo," Taylor called. "We’re on the ground. We're coming to get you."

  "—burning—" The voice of an agonized child.

  The M-100 had not yet made its peace with the ground, but Taylor leapt from his seat, scrambling back toward the exterior hatch.

  "Stay with the bird," he ordered Krebs.

  Taylor’s shoulder holster snagged briefly on a metal projection He tore it loose and bent to wrestle with the dual levers that secured the hatch. The covering popped outward and slid to the side with a pneumatic hiss.

  A rush of cold air struck Taylor’s face. He dropped into the snow and it fluffed well above his ankles. The noise of the M-100 was overpowering on the outside, but he nonetheless began to shout at the dark form lugging bodies through the snow a football field away.

  "Move them further off. Get them further away."

  The distant soldier did not respond. Unhearing in the wind and the big cloud of engine noise. Meredith came up on Taylor’s left, followed by one of the NCOs from the ops center. Together, the three men ran stumbling through the snow, the NCO carrying an automatic rifle at the ready and glancing from side to side.

  A billow of fire rose from the central fuselage of the downed craft.

  "Jesus Christ," Taylor swore.

  The NCO slipped in the snow at his side, then recovered. Up ahead, the soldier involved in rescuing his comrades paid them no attention whatsoever. He drew another body from the burning machine.

  Taylor ran as hard as his lungs and the snow would allow. Even though he had left the comms net far behind, he still imagined that he could hear the pleas of the trapped pilot.

  From somewhere off to the right, behind the veil of the snowstorm, weapons began to sound—hard flat reports against the whine of the M-100 waiting behind Taylor's back. Small arms. The enemy were coming dismounted this time. There would be no obvious targets for the escort bird flying cover.

  Meredith was quick, with a quarterback's agility, and he reached the rear of the downed bird ahead of the others. He was shouting at the soldier, even as he tried to help the man with his human burden.

  More firing.

  Taylor and the NCO came up beside Meredith and the rescuer. On the verge of speech, Taylor was silenced by the sight of the boy's face. Bruised and swollen, the expression was nonetheless strikingly clear. The boy was in shock. He was dragging his comrades out of the wreck automatically, conditioned to the task. But he had no real consciousness of anything around him.

  "Sarge, you come with me," Taylor ordered. "Merry, this mess is yours."

  Taylor dodged a severed block of metal and ran up around the M-100's stubby wing and flank rotor, howling wind at his back. He leapt at the pilot's hatch, grabbing the recessed handle despite the nearby flames.

  "Fuck," he shouted, recoiling and shaking his scorched hand.

  The door was locked from the inside.

  The NCO passed him, heading straight for the cockpit. Standing on the tips of his toes, the man could just look inside.

  "Is he all right?" Taylor shouted.

  "Can't see. Goddamned smoke."

  "We'll have to smash in the windscreen."

  The NCO looked at the fragile assault rifle in his hands. "No way," he said matter-of-factly.

  A burst of fire reached the M-100 and danced along its armored side, ricocheting.

  "Fuck it," Taylor shouted. "Just see if you can pick out where the shooting's coming from. I'll try to get to the engineer kit."

  He doubled back to the rear of the wreck. Somehow, Merry had convinced the dazed soldier to drag his comrades to a spot more distant from the flames and smoke— and closer to Taylor's ship.

  Merry's coffee-colored cheeks had grimed with smoke. He came up to speak to Taylor, but with hardly a glance, Taylor pushed past him, darting up the ramp into the smoke-filled dismount compartment built into the rear of the M-100.

  His lungs began to fill up immediately, and he could not see. He knew the ammunition was all stowed in specially sealed subcompartments, but he had no idea how much longer the linings would resist the heat.

  He stumbled along an inner wall, tapping over the irregular surface with a blistered hand. He was searching for the compartment where the pioneer tools were stowed—shovels and pickaxes for digging in. It was hard to judge the distance and layout in the smoke.

  He almost collapsed in a faint. Instead, the near-swoon shocked him with adrenaline, and he hurriedly stumbled back out into the fresh, biting air.

  The cold scorched his lungs. He bent over, hands on his knees, choking. His breath would not come. He realized he had come within an instant of going down with smoke inhalation. Probably dying.

  The world swirled as if he had drunk too much. He fought to steady himself, to master his breathing. More shots rang out through the storm. Were they closer now?

  He straightened, gulping at the cold. He tried to remember the exact distance to the compartment where the manual specified the stowage of the squad's pioneer tools. He had helped write the damned thing, but now it was a struggle to remember. Left wall, wasn't it? Third panel, upper row.

  "You all right, sir?" Meredith called. His voice sounded flat and weak against the noise of flames, wind, distant engines, and pocking gunfire. The younger man came up and put a hand on Taylor's shoulder.

  "No time," Taylor said, knocking the hand away. "Just get the wounded on board. Go."

  Taylor plunged back into the smoke.

  The acridity drew tears from his eyes and he had to shut them. He held his breath. Feeling his way like a blind diver, all he could sense was heat.

  Suddenly the latch was under his hand, hot and firm. He yanked it, breaking open fresh blisters. The gear had shaken loose in the crash, and a falling shovel nearly struck his head. Just in time, he caught it by the handle.

  There was no more time. He felt the dizziness welling up. Coming over him the way a blanket came down over a child. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to surrender to it.

  Taylor stumbled back out into the snow, falling to his knees and dry-retching. His eyes burned and he could barely see through the forced tears. He dropped his head and shoulders into the snow, trying to cleanse himself of the smoke and heat. When he tried to rise, he stumbled.

  On the horizon he could just make out Merry carrying a body over his shoulder.

  Taylor forced himself to his feet. He rounded the side of the wreck at a dizzy trot, hugging the shovel to him. Mercifully, the fire seemed to be spreading very slowly; the resistant materials in the M-l00's composition were doing their job.

  The NCO had his back to Taylor, assault rifle held up in the position of a man who wished he had a target at which to fire. As Taylor came up beside him the NCO jumped backward, as if he had seen a great snake.

  The man crumpled, still holding fast to
his weapon as the snow all around him splashed scarlet.

  He was dead. Lying openeyed and openmouthed in the storm. More bullets nicked at the wreck, rustling the air above the crackle of the flames.

  Still dazed from all the smoke he had drunk, Taylor wrenched the rifle from the NCO's hands and raised it to send a warning burst out into the whiteness. But the weapon clicked empty.

  Taylor slapped the man's body, searching the pockets for additional magazines. The man had been working with his battle harness stowed for comfort, and he had come outside without it. Now there was no more ammunition to be found.

  Taylor discarded the rifle and drew the pistol from his shoulder holster. There were no targets, but he fired anyway, two shots, as a warning. Then he shoved the pistol back into its leather pocket and picked up the shovel again. Slipping in the snow and mud, he ran at the cockpit, swing the tool with all his might.

  It only bounced off the transparent armor of the windscreen.

  He smashed at the barrier again. And again. Then he drove the blade as hard as he could into the synthetic material.

  It was useless. The windscreen had been built to resist heavy machine gun fire. His efforts were ridiculous.

  But you had to try, you had to try.

  A single round punched the nose of the aircraft beside Taylor's head. He dropped to his knees, discarding the shovel and drawing his pistol again. What the hell, he thought furiously. If it's got to end here, so be it. But it's going to cost the sonsofbitches.

  A burst of fire erupted just behind him. But his old warrior's ear recognized the sound as coming from a friendly weapon. The sharp, whistling signature of his own kind. Then he glimpsed Meredith coming up low along the side of the wreck, automatic rifle in his hands.

  The younger man was short of breath when he got to Taylor's position. "Come on, sir," he begged. "We've got to get out of here."

  "The pilot," Taylor said adamantly.

  "For God's sake, sir. He's gone. The smoke would have got him by now. The goddamned windscreens are black."