Ralph Peters

by The war in 2020

  Taylor looked at his watch, then looked at the sky.

  Nothing.

  The afternoon continued to wither.

  He could not bear the thought that it might end like this. After all the years of longing for a chance to strike back at the enemy who always lurked behind his country's enemies. After the fighting and the losses, the frantic planning and the experience of seeing a president backed against the wall, it was unbearable to think that it would all simply sputter out in a wasteland, for want of fuel.

  He knew this would be the end, and he could not understand why none of the others seemed to grasp it. A failure now, on this day, in this place, would settle the order of the world for a generation. Or longer. His country would withdraw into its tattered hemisphere, and the Japanese would get what they had wanted for so long.

  He tried to keep his personal prejudices out of the equation. But it was very hard. He blamed the Japanese. He could not help it. He wanted more than anything else in the world to face them one last time with a weapon in his hand.

  He took off his helmet, and the wind pried at his matted hair. He thought of Daisy and smiled bitterly. He could not believe he had been so foolish as to imagine that there was anything real there. No woman, no matter her tarnish, was about to bind her life to his. No, he was good for one thing and one thing only: soldiering. The rest of it was an idle dream.

  Surely, it could not end here. When they had come so close. He scanned the empty sky.

  A voice feinted at his ear before the wind carried it off. He turned. Merry Meredith was coming toward him. Behind the intelligence officer, the M-100 merely looked like a natural blemish on the landscape. The automatic camouflage system had unfolded its fans, and the sensors read the tones of the earth, coloring the upper plates to match. The system was effective in every environment except snow. The plates could not go white and had to compromise on a mottled gray. But here, where the withered steppe remained naked to the wind, the camouflage worked magically. An enemy would have needed to know exactly where to look to find him and his men.

  All this. The technology and the trying. The magic. And the sacrifice. Surely, it could not just end like this.

  Meredith closed the distance. His skin was taut with cold, but his eyes had the old fire.

  "Sir?" Meredith asked.

  "What's up, Merry?"

  "I've got an idea. Maybe you won't like it. But it's all I can come up with."

  "About what?"

  "The mission. There's a way we can still do it. Without the extra fuel."

  "How?"

  "Well, given that we don't have enough fuel to hit Baku and make it back to secure Soviet territory..."

  "Given," Taylor agreed.

  "Okay. Then where else could we go? After we hit Baku?"

  Taylor looked questioningly at the younger man. Meredith's expression was that of an excited boy.

  "What about Turkey?" the S-2 asked. "Okay, we don't have the legs to get back. So we just keep going. I've calculated the distance. We can just barely make it. Head west out of Baku, right across Armenia, and put down inside the Turkish border. Turkey's remained neutral— the fundamentalist movement's an old nightmare there— and the Turks will obey international law. We'll have to scuttle the ships as soon as we set down. But at least we can accomplish the mission. They'll intern us until the end of hostilities—but so what? We'll at least get to strike a blow instead of going home with our tails between our legs..."

  It was beautiful. And so simple. Taylor realized he would never have thought of it himself. He was too old, too well-conditioned. You had to bring your unit back to friendly lines. No matter what. Yet, history was full of examples of forces that had been thrust by circumstances onto neutral territory. The procedures were regulated by international codes.

  And if he and his men missed the rest of the war? Well, if they didn't do it, there wouldn't be any war left to fight.

  Taylor stared off to the south, imagining the sea rolling just beyond the horizon and the rest of the world beyond the sea.

  "The State Department's going to hate it," Taylor said softly, as if a credentialed ambassador might be within earshot. But he was smiling. "What the hell. I've always wanted to see Turkey."

  He held out his hand to the younger man.

  Suddenly, a massive explosion colored the near horizon. The blast wave did not take long to reach them. Hot, rushing air pushed the southern wind aside. The noise, despite the distance of several kilometers, was deafening. The impact had been to the north, exactly where the Soviet fuelers had been designated to link up with the M-l00s.

  A second blast quickly followed the first.

  "Ambush," Taylor shouted. "It's a fucking ambush. The Russians sold us out."

  The two men ran for the M-100.

  Ryder had been standing just outside the rear ramp of the aircraft, relieving himself. As Taylor and Meredith ran toward him, the young man stood dumbfounded, watching the inferno spread across the rear horizon, penis in hand as though he intended to use it to put the fire out.

  "Mount up, mount up," Taylor shouted, waving the helmet he still held in his hand.

  Flapper Krebs had been quicker to grasp the situation than any of them. The M-l00's engines were already whining to life.

  "Merry," Taylor yelled, "get on the horn. Get everybody up in the air."

  The large camouflage fans began to withdraw into the M-l00's fuselage.

  Taylor shoved Ryder up into the control compartment behind Meredith. He threw his helmet down on the floor, counting heads as he hustled toward the front of the aircraft. Behind him, Parker was already drawing up the ramp.

  Taylor glanced furiously at Kozlov, whose face was utterly blank. He almost drew his pistol and shot the Russian on the spot. But he did not have the time to waste.

  Taylor shoved the Soviet out of the way and ducked through the hatch that led toward the cockpit.

  He jumped into his seat, grabbing his headset as he moved. He gave Krebs a thumb's up.

  "Let's go."

  The M-100 began to lift into the sky.

  Across the horizon two big bursts colored the steppe bright orange, yellow, red. A border of black smoke began to expand above the fires. In quick succession, half a dozen more blasts erupted. Each one came closer to the ship as it struggled to gain altitude.

  "Fucking Russians," Taylor growled into his headset. "Fucking goddamned Russians. They fucking set us up."

  "Foxtrot one-four. Airborne. Over," the first of the other M-l00s reported in. Then another ship called in, the voice of its pilot reflecting how badly shaken everyone had been by the surprise attack.

  A ripple of explosions chased the M-100 into the sky.

  "Rockets," the copilot reported drily. "Standoff, air-launched, looks like. Compact conventional explosives and fuel-airs. Couldn't have had too good a fix on us. We'd never have got off the ground."

  The goddamned Russians, Taylor thought. They had never had the least intention of sending out refuelers. Instead, they had tipped off the Japanese or the Iranians as to the designated site. But for what? A better deal at the peace talks? For what?

  Taylor thought of Kozlov and his mind whitened with anger.

  "We've got a bird down." Parker's voice. Through the intercom.

  "All stations, report in sequence," Taylor ordered.

  "Bird down."

  "It's One-five," another crew reported. "He's gone. Fireball."

  Underneath the ship, a cushion of explosions buoyed them upward, rocking the cabin. Taylor had to clutch the sides of his seat.

  "Altitude," he shouted, jamming his safety harness buckles together.

  "I'm giving it all she's got," Krebs shouted back.

  Merry's voice came through the intercom, struggling to remain calm. "Verify the loss of One-five. Too slow getting off the ground. She disappeared in the flames."

  "All stations," Taylor barked into the mike, "report, goddamnit."

  The other M-l00s reported in
sequence. Only One-five was missing. Everyone else was above the carpet of fire now.

  "Merry," Taylor ordered, "start working on the new exfiltration route. Forget everything else. Hank," he called to the assistant S-3, "let's get back on the flight path. We're heading for Baku."

  Krebs looked over at Taylor in doubt.

  "Don't worry, Rapper. We've got a new plan."

  The warrant officer shook his head.

  Behind them, powerful explosions chased their tails with shock waves, bucking the speeding aircraft.

  "Hank," Taylor called. "Try to call up some imagery of the spot where One-five went down. See if there's anything left."

  "Roger."

  Suddenly, the gray sky parted. Ahead of them a scudding green-gray sea stretched toward distant shores. The sight seemed to promise safety.

  "You know," Taylor mused bitterly to Krebs, "their system must be in godawful shape. We must've really hurt them yesterday. By all rights, they should've gotten us back there." He could feel the sweat beginning to chill on his forehead. He stared out over the sea. It looked like steel mesh come to life. "The strike was too ragged. They should have hit us with everything at once."

  "Imagery up," Parker's voice interrupted.

  Taylor looked down at his central monitor. An X-ray radar image erased the flames and smoke to show the wreckage of an M-100 spread across several acres.

  "Jesus," a voice whispered through the intercom.

  Taylor touched the button that canceled the image.

  "Forget it," he said in his coldest voice. "We got off lucky."

  Nothing was going to stop him now. Not friendly losses. Not the Iranians or the rebels. Not the Japanese. Not even the Russians.

  He slipped off his headset to rise from his seat. He wanted to talk to Kozlov. The sonofabitch had questions to answer.

  The sound of Krebs's voice stopped him.

  "Oh, fuck me," the old warrant said in disgust. He glanced over at Taylor. But Taylor did not need any further explanation. The flashing monitor made the situation very clear.

  "I guess they wanted to make sure," Krebs said.

  "Bandits," Taylor called into the command net. "Nine o'clock high."

  Krebs began to bank the ship upward to the left.

  "I'll fly," Taylor said, grasping the manual controls. "You do the shooting."

  Taylor's ops indicator showed the remaining four ships of his raiding force following his lead. But the formation was too neat, too predictable.

  "One-one, One-two, this is Foxtrot one-zero. Go high. Work a sandwich on them. One-three, One-four, stay with me. Out."

  Meredith's voice came over the intercom. "Good fix.

  I've even got voice on them." Then he hesitated for a moment.

  "What is it?" Taylor demanded.

  "Japanese gunships. The latest Toshiba variant."

  "Roger. Execute countermeasures program." The opposing formations were closing rapidly. Forty miles. Thirty-nine. "What else, Merry?"

  Again, there was a slight hesitation.

  "The voices," Meredith said, "sound like South Africans."

  Taylor gripped the controls. Time playing tricks. Above the Caspian Sea.

  So be it, he thought.

  "Confirm activation of full countermeasures suite," Taylor said. He was determined not to let it shake him. There was nothing special about the South Africans. But he could not entirely resist the flashing images. A cocky young captain winging over the African scrub. Transformed into a terrified young captain. A pistol lifted to the head of a broken-necked boy. Ants at a man's eyes and a river journey through the heart of a dying continent.

  Yes. Taylor remembered the South Africans. Suddenly, his battle monitor fuzzed.

  "The sonsofbitches," Krebs said. "They've got some new kind of shit on board."

  "Merry," Taylor half-shouted, struggling to maintain control. "Hank. Hit them with full power. Jam the fuck out of them."

  "Twenty-eight miles," Krebs said. "And closing."

  The target-acquisition monitor distorted, multiplying and misreading images.

  "Going full automatic on the weapons suite," Krebs said. "Let's hope this works."

  Taylor felt sweat prickling all over his body. Frantically, he punched override buttons, trying to clear the monitors. "Twenty-five ..."

  Taylor strained to see through the windscreen. The battle overlays were little help now. He struggled to pick out the enemy aircraft with his eyes.

  "I've got them," Merry called forward. "Clear image."

  "Transfer data to the weapons suite," Taylor ordered.

  Other ships called in their sudden difficulties with their own electronics.

  Remember, Taylor told himself, you're doing the same thing to the other guy. He's as frightened as you are. Stay cool, stay cool.

  "Negative," Merry reported. "The weapons program won't accept the transfer."

  "Range: twenty miles," Krebs told them all.

  Abruptly, the M-100 bucked and began to pulse under Taylor's seat. The main gun was firing.

  What does my enemy see? Taylor wondered. If the systems were functioning correctly, his opposite number was reading hundreds of blurred, identical targets, a swarm of ghost images in the midst of which the real M-l00s were hiding. Or, depending on the parameters of his system, he might only be receiving static and fuzz.

  Taylor slapped the eyeshield down from atop the headset.

  "Laser alert," he said over the command net. Beside him, Krebs slid down his own shield.

  The protective lenses darkened the sky, and the bucking of the M-100 as it maneuvered forward made it even harder to focus. Nonetheless, Taylor believed he could pick out the tiny black spots that marked the enemy.

  He took full manual control of the aircraft and pointed it straight at the enemy.

  "Full combat speed," he ordered. "Let's get them."

  " 'Garry Owen,' " a voice replied from a sister ship.

  "Thirteen miles," Krebs said. "We're not hitting a damned thing."

  "Neither are they," Taylor said. Below the insulated cockpit, the main gun continued to pump out precious rounds, its accuracy deteriorating with every shot.

  "I've still got good voice on them," Merry called. "They're going crazy. They've lost us. They're firing everything they've got."

  "Ten miles."

  Taylor looked out at the black dots. He counted ten. But he could not see the slightest trace of hostile action. The sky was full of high-velocity projectiles and lasers, but the M-l00's rounds were far quicker than the human eye, while the enemy's current lasers were not tuned to the spectrum of visible light. Around the lethal balls and beams, the heavens pulsed with electronic violence. Yet all that was visible was the gray sky, and a line of swelling black dots on a collision course with his outnumbered element.

  "Seven miles. Jesus Christ."

  "Steady," Taylor said, his fear forgotten now.

  Dark tubular fuselages, the blur of rotors and propellers.

  It was, Taylor thought, like a battle between knights so heavily armored they did not possess the offensive technology to hurt each other. New magic shields deflected the other man's blows.

  "Four miles" Krebs said. "Jesus, sir, we got to climb. We're on a collision course."

  No, Taylor thought. If they haven't hit us yet at this angle, they won't. But the first man to flinch, to reveal a vulnerable angle, was going to lose.

  The M-100 threw another series of rounds toward the closing enemy.

  "All stations," Taylor said. "Steady on course."

  "Two miles ..."

  The Toshiba gunships were unmistakable now. Their contours had not changed much over the years. A mongrelized forward aspect, a helicopter with turboprops on the sides. Or a plane with rotors. Take your pick.

  "Hold course," Taylor shouted.

  The M-l00's cannon pummeled the sky. To no effect.

  "One mile and closing ..."

  Where once horsemen rode at each other with sabers dra
wn, their descendants rode the sky in a long metal line, jousting with lightning.

  Hit, goddamn it, hit, Taylor told the main gun.

  He could see every detail on the enemy gunships now. The mock Iranian markings, the mottled camouflage. The low-slung laser pod.

  "We're going to collide."

  Taylor froze his hand on the joystick. Straight ahead.

  In a buffeting wash of air and noise, the M-100 shot past the enemy's line.

  "All stations," Taylor said. "Follow my lead. We've got a tighter turning radius than they do."

  He felt far more confident now. The M-l00's airframe was of a design over a decade fresher than the Toshiba gunships. The M-100 had all of the maneuvering advantages.

  "Everybody with me?" Taylor demanded.

  The other four ships reported in quick succession.

  "Complete the turn. We're only vulnerable from the back."

  He looked at his monitor. The fuzz cloud that marked the enemy had begun to turn too. But they were slower. He could feel it.

  "Flapper," Taylor said. "Turn off the auto-systems. They're just canceling each other out. Take manual control of the main gun. And use a little Kentucky windage."

  "The accuracy's breaking down," Krebs said. "We're just about shot out."

  "You can do it, Flapper. Come on. We didn't have all this fancy shit when you and I started out."

  Krebs nodded, doubt on the lower portion of his face left visible by the laser shield.

  "All stations," Taylor said. "Open order. Go to manual target acquisition and manual fire control."

  The tight steepness of the turn tugged his harness. But they were almost out of it. And the enemy were still in midturn. There wouldn't be much time. But there would be a window of opportunity.

  As nearly as he could remember, the Japanese gunships did not have a manual weapons override.

  The sin of pride.

  "Fire at will," Taylor said.

  He guided the ship around as though he were reining a spirited horse. Soon he could visually track the black specks of the enemy formation describing a long arc across the sky. They looked clean. Very disciplined fliers.