by Walt Gragg
“Disengage from targeting the helicopters,” Morgan said. “Direct the system to attack the fighters.”
“Roger,” Fowler said. “Reprogramming the computer to engage the second formation.”
The MiGs were already in range.
“Paul,” Morgan said, “tell the Stinger teams there’s been a change of plans. They’re to engage all the helicopters.”
“But, Lieutenant, they’ve only got five Stingers, and there are twelve helicopters.”
“Never mind that, just do it. Then tell the communication van to get in touch with the 24th Infantry. See if any of their Stinger teams are in the neighborhood. Tell them we’ve got to have help, and we’ve got to have it now. The helicopters will be here in three minutes.”
Both enemy formations continued on their unwavering path toward them. There was no longer any question in either of the American air defenders’ minds. They knew the hostile triangles were coming to claim the Patriot battery.
Fowler directed the computer to target the enemy fighters and fire when they were thirty miles away. The flight of eighteen MiGs roared past the fifty-mile point. The helicopters were within eight miles.
“Lieutenant!” Paul said. “Regiment says F-16s are on the way. But there’s no way they’ll get here in time. “
“What about the 24th?”
Paul spoke into his headset.
“There aren’t any Stinger teams close enough to help us,” Paul said.
“Order the communication van to wake everybody up as fast as they can. Tell them they’ve only got a couple of minutes to get into the woods before this place is blown to kingdom come.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Fowler and Morgan looked into each other’s eyes, hoping to find some reassurance. Both suspected there wasn’t going to be any last-minute reprieve this time.
• • •
It took only sixty seconds for the first of the MiG-29s to reach the thirty-mile point. A Patriot missile roared from its launch canister. Silhouetted by the darkness, its fiery form ripped into the black heavens. Right behind it, one after another, four more Patriots leaped into the sky.
Fowler glanced at his watch. “We have five confirmed launches at zero-six-forty-two.”
“Roger. Confirm five launches at zero-six-forty-two,” Morgan said.
“Notifying regiment of five launches,” Paul said.
They’d continue playing the game until the bitter end. And Fowler and Morgan were determined to keep fighting until the last possible moment. They’d every intention of taking out as many Russian pilots as they possibly could. For now, with five missiles in the air, all they could do was wait and watch their screens as the Patriots undertook their life-and-death duels in the star-choked German skies. Five Russian pilots were involved in a final hopeless struggle to see the coming sunrise. With the nineteen-foot killers hot on their tails, the MiGs broke from the formation. Using every trick imaginable, they fought to survive.
But the pilots’ frantic actions were wasted on the Patriots. With the computer countering the Russians’ every move, the missiles rapidly advanced toward their victims. The first flashing tic-tac-toe soon appeared. More were on the way. In rapid succession, the five missiles plucked their soaring prey from the heavens.
The remaining fighters continued on their unrelenting quest to destroy the final Patriot battery in southern Germany. Twenty miles out, the Russians began targeting the air-defense system. The MiGs were sixty seconds away from firing their missiles and ending the Patriot soldiers’ lives.
The attack helicopters were six miles from the battery. They skimmed over the treetops, intent on defeating the Americans.
The Stinger gunners stood in the darkness, waiting for the helicopters to come within the five-mile range of their deadly missiles. In another few seconds, a trio of Hinds was going to find out just how lethal the little killers could be.
The target-acquisition officers in the attack helicopters armed their missiles and rockets.
The Americans had seven Patriots left.
At one thousand miles per hour, the MiGs moved in for the kill.
Another Patriot fired, shattering the morning stillness. Seconds later, four more missiles roared skyward to meet the enemy.
Their radars beseeching them to take evasive action, five Russians begged their aircrafts’ powerful engines to save their lives. Once more, the mortal chase was under way in the blood-tinged darkness over Germany. It was another heart-searing drama the Patriots would soon win.
Straight and steady, the eight remaining fighters continued with their determined task. The helicopters neared.
“We’ve got two missiles remaining on the launch platforms,” Fowler said.
“Paul, notify regiment that we have two missiles left, and eight MiGs are nearing our position.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Paul spoke into his headset.
The helicopters were four miles away. The first of the Stinger gunners locked onto a Hind. The little missile leaped from the gunner’s shoulder. The Russian crew turned and ran. The Stinger was right on its tail. It wouldn’t be much longer before the helicopter would burst into flames. The remaining Stinger teams located the whirling enemy. Death spit forth from American shoulders once again. Two more Hinds were near their end. The Stinger gunners looked up. The surviving Russian helicopters were coming on much too fast. In seconds, they’d be right on top of them. There wasn’t enough time for the Americans to ready replacement missiles. They threw down their empty firing tubes and raced for the woods. Most of the men and women of the Patriot battery had already run deep inside its protective cover.
The leading missile in the second group of Patriots eliminated its target. On the screens, another tic-tac-toe flashed. The eight untargeted fighters were six miles out and coming on. Each was ready to fire. In another three miles, they’d unleash a fierce barrage of air-to-ground missiles. Fifteen seconds was all that remained before the attack would begin.
A Patriot soared from its launcher in search of prey. In seconds, one of the oncoming eight would reach its fiery end. There was a single missile waiting on launcher number four to bring death to a final pilot. In moments, the computer would order the missile to fire.
Another blinking symbol appeared on the screen. Another MiG had perished. The time had come for the computer to send the last Patriot skyward. That would be it for the air-defense battery.
In a mighty blast, the lone missile hurtled from its launcher. It rushed into the skies to seek and destroy.
As it did, air-to-ground missiles leaped from the now-leading fighter’s wingtips. The Russian pilot, targeted for destruction by the final Patriot, wouldn’t live long enough to see his missiles reach the ground.
On their screens, Fowler and Morgan saw the incoming Russian missiles the moment they were fired.
“Get out! Get out, now!” Fowler screamed.
Paul ripped off his headset. He tore at the small door behind him. Only five seconds remained before the air-to-ground missiles would reach them. The door flew open. In the darkness, Jeffrey Paul tumbled onto the frozen asphalt. He scrambled to his feet. On a severely twisted ankle, he hobbled toward the safety of the beckoning woods.
The passageway through the Engagement Control Station’s massive array of electronic equipment was so narrow that only one person at a time, turned partially sideways, could successfully navigate their way through it. Rapidly covering the eight feet to the rear opening was nearly impossible.
With death rushing to steal them away, Morgan froze in her chair. Fowler grabbed the front of her uniform and attempted to push her toward the door. She stumbled and fell faceup into the middle of the constricted aisle. On her back, she struggled to reach the opening. But it was no use.
Fowler leaped from his chair. His escape was blocked by the fallen lieutenant. He glanced at the rad
ar screen. The missiles were right on top of them.
He knew they had no chance.
In a futile attempt to shield the pretty lieutenant, Fowler dropped to the floor. With his body, he covered hers the best he could.
The effort was entirely symbolic. He realized he wasn’t going to be able to save her from dying. Her vivid green eyes stared into his in disbelief. He could see the terror in her beautiful features. It reflected the emotions present in his.
Both knew that in a fraction of a second, their lives would end. There was nothing either of them could do. At the last possible instant, Morgan accepted her fate. The terror suddenly left her.
Her eyes shimmered. A hint of a smile found the corners of her mouth. She reached up and wrapped her arms around him. Fowler looked into her eyes. His smile matched hers.
The Russian missiles, their noses filled with death, headed for the helpless pair. The missiles rammed into the Engagement Control Station. The strength of the impacting ordnance sent shattered pieces of jagged metal and electronics equipment flying in every direction. Locked in a final embrace, Fowler and Morgan disappeared in a blinding flash of light. The minute fragments of their bodies, and of their souls, were tossed to the four winds.
• • •
Paul was ten yards from the safety of the shadowy trees. A razor-sharp metal slab raced from the decimated van toward the hobbling figure. The white-hot metal cut him down in midstride. His severed body lay on the asphalt. His freely flowing blood ran down the black surface toward the woods. He’d died so quickly that only the edges of his face showed any signs of recognition.
Missile after missile streamed from the heavens upon the crippled battery.
The MiGs and helicopters feasted for a very long time on the dead carcass of the defeated American air defenses.
• • •
The last Patriot battery in southern Germany was no more.
CHAPTER 59
February 1—1:32 p.m.
On the Eastern Fence
Ramstein Air Base
Nearly seven hours after Fowler’s and Morgan’s deaths, Arturo Rios sat behind the powerful machine gun in his deeply bunkered world. He stared at the ruinous remains of the evergreen forest on the eastern edge of Ramstein. He was back in the same anguished bunker he’d been carried from two days earlier. His terrifying memories of those earlier days had returned, too.
The remnants of the monumental blizzard were all around him. Although they probably wouldn’t be for much longer. The afternoon thermometer was reaching into the upper forties. The unmistakable signs of the drab snow’s disappearance were everywhere.
The crimson remains of Wilson and Goodman were still visible on the ground at the rear of the bunker. The dead airmen’s faces were also there, forever alive in Rios’s vivid dreams.
After two full days of good food, clean sheets, and profound sleep, Rios’s broken spirit had been partially restored. As he spent his second hour back on the line, his injured shoulder throbbed in the damp winter weather. But more difficult than the pain in his shoulder was the pain from his bitter remembrances of the tired bunker. Those memories were intensely present. The tortured airman knew that no matter how long he lived, they always would be.
They’d promised him he’d only be out there for a twelve-hour shift. Just long enough for the exhausted men on the line to sleep for a little while and enjoy a couple of robust meals. They didn’t want to release Rios for such duty. He certainly wasn’t in shape for it. Nevertheless, there weren’t enough defenders left to guard the distant miles of chain link alone. They needed the hero of the eastern fence to return once more. All they wanted was for him to protect the wire long enough to provide a little relief to his worn countrymen.
It had been a relatively quiet two days for the air base. Fewer and fewer fighter aircraft returned each hour, and the number of planes had grown critically low. The spirits of the base’s men were nearly as crushed as Ramstein’s air forces. Yet there’d been no further assaults upon them. And for that, everyone was thankful. They’d all seen far too much killing. And, like Rios, each had been permanently scarred by his experiences.
Until midnight, the twenty-year-old airman would be alone with his thoughts and two hundred yards of fence line. His thoughts scared him more than the battered fence ever would.
Just until midnight, they’d promised. No more.
Rios turned to watch two C-17 medevacs taxi to the edge of the runway behind him. One right after the other, the medical aircraft rushed down the runway and headed west. He sat watching them for the longest time as they grew smaller and smaller in the distant sky.
Five minutes behind the C-17s, a commercial airliner rolled to a stop. The Boeing 767 revved its deafening engines, quashing the airman’s solitude once more. Rios stared at the huge plane sitting a few feet away as it waited for clearance to depart. A small face in a window seat a third of the way back stared down at him. The smiling child raised a tiny hand and waved. Rios slowly lifted his good arm to return the gesture. But the plane was already heading down the concrete ribbon. The child never saw the lonely airman’s response.
Rios’s tenuous afternoon droned on.
Two miles away from his sandbagged world, ten thousand women and children were crammed together in a pockmarked building. Each was waiting for their turn to head for home. The Americans were halfway through the fourth complete day of the war. One hundred and thirty thousand dependents remained at Rhein-Main, Ramstein, and a dozen smaller airfields. With the Russians relentlessly closing in, everyone understood there was little time left with which to finish moving the women and children out of harm’s way. Rhein-Main, in particular, had grown perilously near the front lines. The base would soon have to be abandoned.
• • •
Colonel Zulin approached the Director of Operations.
“Comrade General, our agents in Germany report that within the past hour, a Patriot air-defense battery has begun setting up in front of Ramstein.”
“That finalizes our decision, then,” Yovanovich said. “I’ve promised Comrade Cheninko that I’ll end this thing as quickly as possible. We cannot allow the enemy to set up their air defenses in front of Ramstein and foil this afternoon’s air attack to destroy it. After last night’s nuclear assault by the Americans, Premier Cheninko has ordered me to use our intermediate range SS-20 nuclear weapons upon the air base and any other target in Germany if we deem it necessary.”
“Comrade General, should I give such an order?”
Yovanovich hesitated. He knew the use of the significantly larger weapon would be escalating the nuclear component of the conflict even further. They were already standing much too close to the edge of a world-devouring whirlwind, and he needed to be exceptionally careful. The planet was staring into an unspeakable abyss from which it would never recover. The launch on Ramstein was something he didn’t want to risk. As he stood weighing his options, it was far too clear, however, that for the moment, he had little choice. His plan for dealing with Cheninko wasn’t nearly ready. And confronting him at this point would foil his plot.
“Looks like we’ve no other choice. Order a fire mission for a nuclear attack on Ramstein.”
“Yes, Comrade General, it will be done at once. Ramstein will be destroyed before the day fully sets over Germany.”
• • •
Behind Rios, the sun dropped into the western horizon. He’d miss the fragile warmth it had provided during his first hours back on the line. The young airman sat on the edge of the runway, alone with his terrifying thoughts. He stared into the splintered trees. The broken pieces of the fearful forest were still red with blood from the grisly battles just days earlier. But after the horror he’d lived through, the trees no longer caused the slightest apprehension for the isolated airman. As the first hints of darkness appeared in the corners of the ravaged forest, Rios laughed out l
oud. How many years had it been since he sat out here in the darkness afraid of every shadow?
Four days. He couldn’t believe it. It had only been four days. Four days, and a thousand lifetimes.
• • •
In the western Ukraine, the three-man crew prepared to fire the nuclear missile across the late-afternoon sky. Perched on the long rocket’s nose sat a trio of 150-kiloton warheads. All three warheads had been programmed to destroy Ramstein. One would land in the middle of the base, exploding above the control tower. Another would strike the aircraft bunkers on Ramstein’s northern tip. The final was targeted to crush the ammunition storage area a half mile from the eastern fence.
The firing sequence began.
“Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . .” The rocket’s engine ignited. It lifted the huge missile into the heavens.
• • •
The shadows were growing quite long. Darkness would soon be upon them. Alone on the fence, Rios could hear the eerie echoes in the trees on the other side of the wire. Echoes of the fearsome combat in the gray fog a few days past. The sounds and voices were clearly there.
“Michael, have you got him?” a soldier dead for two days whispered to his ghostly companion deep within the evergreens.
“Watch it, Smitty!” another mortal voice warned his long-departed friend.
A burst of gunfire from the prior battle chattered in the broken forest.
A voice in Russian screamed an urgent directive Rios couldn’t understand.
In the mists of a small glade, a soldier’s dying cry was whispered on the winds to the solitary airman sitting in the brown bunker.
In complete fascination, Rios listened to the warfare between the recently dead as they clashed once more for control of their souls. The unearthly sounds didn’t concern him in the slightest. In some strange way, the sounds of the struggle, which would be carried on for the rest of time, were reassuring to him.
He’d stared death in the face more than once in the past four days. And death no longer scared him. Rios had looked into Satan’s fiery eyes, and the young airman hadn’t flinched.