by F X Holden
Anything flying through them, if it had a proximity fuse, might be fooled into thinking it had struck its target. If it was allowed the luxury of thought. Because the last trick the swarm had up its sleeve was that each drone had its own proximity fuse. And if anything that wasn’t another drone or flashing a recognized IFF code came within 25 feet of it, it detonated, setting off a chain reaction among the other drones in the cloud that instantly vaporized anything inside or even near the cloud.
Like Bunny’s last two Cuda missiles.
“What do you mean ‘no’?” Rodriguez asked. “Tell me what you’re seeing!”
“The bomber just spat out two clouds of decoys, the missiles flew into them, and they got toasted,” Bunny said.
“Drone swarm, proximity detonations,” Bondarev told them. “I heard it was being developed, I did not know it had been deployed.”
“How many of those clouds can it spit out?” Bunny yelled.
“I don’t know. A TU-162 bomber can carry 40 tons of ordnance,” Bondarev said. “You should assume it can launch multiple swarms.”
Bunny cursed, “I’m down to guns. If I try to fly through a cloud of killer drones, I’ll be dead before I can put lead on target and nothing will stop it.”
Rodriguez turned and yelled at Bondarev, “How do we defeat this?!”
He was sitting with his back against a wall, and lifted his legs, indicating they were still tied. “I need to see a tactical screen.”
Rodriguez pulled a knife from her boot, ran back and cut Bondarev’s leg-ropes. With the knife in her hand, she gestured at Bunny in the virtual-reality rig and the tactical screen sitting on the box beside her.
“Hurry it up!” Bunny yelled. “Radar cross section just spiked. It’s got its weapon bay doors open!”
Private Zubkhov wasn’t in a hurry, but he wasn’t a patient man either. He wasn’t bleeding to death, though pushing himself too hard was out of the question for now; blood was still leaking around the tourniquet on his leg. And the American couldn’t shoot him through the wood and steel platform at the base of the water tank that was his new roof.
He didn’t really have any options. If he wasn’t wounded, he could outwait the American, move on him when he fell asleep or passed out. But to do that he would have to get up that damn ladder. He had one last try at luring the American, with his radio, out of the stupid tank.
“Hey, American, wake up in there!” he yelled. “We both need help. You shot me, I shot you. No bad feelings OK? I can get help for you.” There was no answer.
With a shrug, Zubkhov pointed his Makarov at the platform above his head. The American wouldn’t necessarily know he couldn’t penetrate it. For a moment he hesitated, thinking how dumb it would be if he miscalculated and put a bullet through the radio he’d come all this way for. He aimed obliquely, fired two shots into the wood, listening with satisfaction to the crash from his gun and the thud of the bullets into the base of the water tank.
“Wake up American!” he called out again. He put two more slugs into the base of the water tank. “Or I’m going to start aiming to kill.”
He heard no movement above him. The guy was either dead, or playing dead. It was time to find out.
Bondarev stood with his hands tied behind his back and looked over Rodriguez’s shoulder. “The only option is to get above and ahead of it. Make a frontal diving attack. The decoy swarms can’t be fired forward, only backward.”
“You sure?” Rodriguez asked.
“No,” Bondarev admitted.
“Do it O’Hare,” Rodriguez ordered.
“Ma’am.”
“No Russian drone could execute such a maneuver under autonomous control,” Bondarev remarked quietly, watching intently as Bunny worked her keyboard.
“No ordinary US drone either,” Rodriguez replied. “But ours are prototypes, personally coded by O’Hare. If she says she can do it, she can.”
“Executing,” the pilot said. She finished hammering in the maneuver codes with her left hand, went to tap ‘execute’ with her right … and found her arm was frozen. It wasn’t just her hand, her forearm and bicep had locked into place. The hand just lay on top of her mouse, useless!
“O’Hare!” Rodriguez jumped.
The first phase of a Tsirkon hypersonic missile launch was a booster which took the missile from its 600-knot launch speed, to Mach 2.5, inside thirty seconds.
Once the first phase boost was finished, the solid fuel booster rocket would fall away and the second stage scram jet pulse engine would ignite, speeding the missile to an unstoppable Mach 4.5.
Like Elmendorf-Richardson and Eielson, Anchorage was defended by multiple HELLADS systems. In the first wave of the Russian air offensive, the HELLADS at Eielson had faced supersonic Brah-Mos II missiles, successfully bringing down a large number of the missiles before being overwhelmed.
The American strategists defending Anchorage had learned from that mistake. What they had learned was it was better to let a few missiles through and still have sufficient firepower to take on a second wave of missiles, than to commit all your energy to the first wave and leave yourself defenseless against a follow-up attack.
Faced with a single missile though, the HELLADS surrounding Anchorage, on paper at least, should have been more than capable of defending its 200,000 residents.
Except that the Tsirkon was not a supersonic missile like the Brah-Mos, and though the US had never admitted it, a HELLADS system had never actually successfully intercepted a hypersonic missile like the Tsirkon. Which was why the US had concentrated considerable diplomatic efforts on treaties to ban any use of hypersonic weapons and declared that the use of hypersonic weapons in any conflict would be regarded in the same vein as the use of nuclear weapons, and would trigger a proportionate response.
A threat which, right now, was completely moot.
Reaching across herself with her left hand O’Hare ignored her lunging CO and frantically slapped the ‘execute’ key on her right-hand keyboard, ordering the Fantom to light its afterburners and move into a spiraling climb over the Tupolev. Agonizing seconds passed as it eased ahead of the Russian bomber, before it inverted and dived down toward it. In her virtual-reality view, the big wing zoomed up toward her.
“Target locked, guns on auto. Guns guns guns!” Bunny called.
Captain Alekseyev waited with one hand on his stick, the other on his throttles, threat warnings screaming in his ears. The American had accelerated above him, rendering his defensive measures useless. Seconds, he just needed seconds…
He listened to his weapons officer tersely reading from his screen, “Bay doors open. Rotary launcher down, locked and cycling up. Target locked. First phase ignition counting down. Launching in…”
Alekseyev’s muscles tensed. As soon as the missile was away, he’d roll the Tupolev on its back and point it at the earth, leaving the enemy drone in his wake. He’d never tried to put a TU-162 into a screaming Mach 2 vertical dive and had no idea if he had any chance of pulling out of it at this altitude, but he would soon find out.
“Five…four…three…”
The shells from the Fantom’s 25mm GUA/8L cannon punched the Tupolev in its canted Concorde-like nose. Alekseyev actually had time to see the sparks of the detonations as the shells walked along the nose toward his cockpit. Had time to hear his weapons officer say in triumph, “… two…one…launch!”
Had time to take his hands off his stick, lean back in his seat and pray as he died, “Forgive me God.”
“Missile launch!” Rodriguez yelled. She couldn’t see it of course, but the tactical screen on the boxes next to her flashed the warning and a new bright blue icon appeared on the screen where the Tupolev had been and began tracking east.
“Got it,” Bunny said calmly. She had seen the slightly delayed vision of the Tupolev rolling on its side as her cannon shells struck vital control cables, saw the missile tumble free of its launcher and its rocket booster ignite, saw it begin to accelerate. She l
ocked the missile optically and ordered the Fantom to intercept.
Rolling level again, hauling its nose up toward the horizon at G-forces that would have blacked out a human pilot, the Fantom got its gun pipper centered on the blazing light of the fast disappearing Tsirkon missile and held its virtual thumb down on the trigger.
The Tsirkon was still inside the two-mile range of the 25mm shells and with the Fantom traveling at near Mach 2, the question was whether the added 3,000 feet per second velocity of the GUA/8L would be enough to catch the missile before it had reached its first stage boost peak and went hypersonic!
The line of cannon shells reached out for the flaming missile like grasping fingers.
It didn’t explode. It was simply slammed in the rear, folded in two, and tumbled out of the sky.
Bunny didn’t explode either. She just took her left hand off her keyboard as her right dangled uselessly beside it and held it in the air, fist clenched. Eyes fixed on the screens inside her helmet, watching as men in chutes tumbled free of the falling Tupolev Bunny O’Hare was smiling broadly as Bondarev spoke.
“That was truly impressive,” he said. “Now, shall we discuss your surrender?”
Private Zubkhov had taken nearly ten minutes to drag himself up the ladder on the side of the tank with his one good arm and one good leg, expecting to be shot at any moment. But he had made it, and now he trained his gun on the man lying in the bottom of the tank as he raised his head over the lip of the manhole cover and peered inside.
Zubkhov had waited a long time under the water tank, alternately haranguing the American, trying to goad him into speaking, and firing the occasional shot into the base of the tank to try to provoke him. He had even eased out from under the base of the tank and taken an angle which allowed him to put a round through the metal wall of the tank, near the top, just to remind the man that he was a fish in a barrel, in case he needed reminding.
But after nearly 30 minutes, with no reaction, not a sound, Zubkhov had decided to make his move. It was going to get dark soon, he was wounded, he couldn’t keep a watch on the tank all night.
The man at the bottom of the tank was lying on his side in a fetal curl with his back to the manhole cover. A rifle was leaning up against the wall of the tank beside him, but of course he could have a sidearm hidden away. Private Zubkhov held his fist against the metal of the tank to stabilize it, sighted on the man, and fired twice.
The bullets thudded into him without any effect. He didn’t jerk, didn’t move. It was like shooting a side of beef.
Still, Zubkhov took no chances. He lowered himself down into the tank legs first, pistol pointed at the man as he slowly negotiated the internal ladder. The grenade on his belt bumped against the ladder all the way down - clang, clang, clang. But when he reached the bottom he saw with satisfaction the thing he had come for. The radio.
Bigger than he’d imagined. He didn’t have to take the car battery the man had been lugging around but the radio set wouldn’t fit in his light backpack. He’d have trouble getting that up the ladder with just one working arm. But here it was, at last. His radio.
“Thank you friend,” he said sincerely to the dead man’s back. Then he realized that all this time, since their first meeting on the airfield, he had never really seen his face.
With a grunt, he took the man by the knees and rolled him over.
Not a man. A boy.
Zubkhov kneeled and looked at him closely. Somewhere between 16 and 20 was all he could guess. By the look of his face, he was Inuit too. No wonder he had been able to move around the country like he owned it. Zubkhov looked up at the Winchester standing against the wall, with its big digital hunting scope. Blunderbuss like that could take the head off a polar bear. Zubkhov figured he had been very lucky indeed. He thought he’d been hunting this boy and his radio, and the whole time, he was the one who had been hunted.
He reached down and closed the boy’s eyes. He had fought well. Zubkhov felt like he should say something, so he tried to imagine what the Captain would say. Suddenly it came to him - a Dostoyevsky quote of course. “God gives us moments of perfect peace,” he told the boy. “In such moments, we love, and we are loved.”
Rodriguez looked at the Russian general with a wry smile, “You forget I’ve still got a Fantom overhead,” she said, jerking her thumb at O’Hare who had just flipped up her virtual-reality visor. “And a pilot who is very keen to give it a new target, correct O’Hare?”
“Bloody oath ma’am,” the aviator said.
“And you forget,” Bondarev countered, “That I have six fighters inbound which will make very short work of your Fantom.”
“Before I destroy the chopper on top of this rock and any Spetsnaz dumb enough to be near it?” Bunny asked, pulling down her visor again and turning away. “I’ll lock up the target ma’am, you just say the word.”
“Your men are seconds away from death General,” Rodriguez said. “So let’s discuss your surrender, shall we?”
“I am Air Force, not Spetsnaz,” the Russian said, his voice cold and even. “They are not my men.”
Dave heard the shots behind him and skidded to a halt at the edge of the ruined cantonment. Seriously? That damn Russian was still alive? Or maybe there were more. He swapped his rifle from his left shoulder to his right. Ah hell.
It took him twenty minutes to get back to the water tower and as he approached, he crouched low, using the rubble of the blasted buildings for cover, and found a spot where he had a good view of the water tower on its shattered base. Sure enough, he saw a Russian soldier climbing up the ladder to the platform on which the water tank stood. Scanning the ground below, he couldn’t see any others. It appeared to be just the one.
Dave could see blood on the guy’s uniform and he was holding his right arm in against his chest, climbing with his left arm on the rungs, dragging one leg up the ladder behind him. It must be the same damn guy. He pulled his rifle from his shoulder and settled it on the wood and bent iron in front of him. He was maybe fifty yards away. But Dave just had iron sights on his rifle, no scope. And he was no marksman. He tried to hold the sight at the end of the barrel steady on the back of the Russian soldier, but he was panting, his heart was pounding, and it kept moving around. That Russian was damn near unkillable. Dave had a feeling if he missed, he’d have given himself away for nothing and the guy would come for him.
Damn damn damn!
He slumped back down behind cover feeling useless. The Russian was shouting something, but at least he wasn’t shooting into the tank. Dave kept an eye on him through a crack in the debris, thought about a hundred times about taking a shot at him, even just to try to lure him away, but did nothing.
Then the Russian got to the platform, adjusted the pistol in his belt and started climbing the ladder up the side of the tank itself.
He was going for Perri. Now! Now Dave had to do something! He sighted on the Russian’s back between his shoulder blades, took a deep breath. The Russian moved up the ladder … and Dave’s shot was blocked by an overhanging sheet of steel. Oh come on. He looked around. He’d have to move around the back of the building beside him, see if he could get a shot from the other side. Quickly he scuttled through the rubble, couldn’t get a line of sight on the tower, found his way blocked by a tumbled wall, backed out again and went around further, down the side of two collapsed huts, kicking up carbon and soot and ice. There! He could see the top of the tower now. See the Russian soldier climbing up to the manhole cover. He sighted down the barrel.
Two shots rang out as the Russian fired down into tank and Dave ducked back down.
He was shaking. He felt like crying. The guy wasn’t even shooting at him, he was shooting down into the tank, at Perri. Sticking his head up again, he saw the Russian lower himself into the tank.
OK, Perri is dead. You screwed up and now he’s dead.
No. Maybe he isn’t. Maybe you can still do something.
Do something you cowardly piece of shit!
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Dave crouched and ran over to the ladder. He was wearing a pair of basketball shoes he’d lifted from a sports store. Their soft rubber soles were silent on the metal rungs of the ladder as he climbed.
He reached the top of the ladder, under the manhole. It was cold. The wind was blowing hard. He reached the top of the ladder, pulled his rifle off his shoulder and as quietly as he could, worked the bolt. OK Dave, this is it. Foot on the next rung, lift yourself up, aim and fire. You can do it.
He counted to three then stood, bringing the rifle up and aiming straight down the barrel. The Russian soldier was crouched beside Perri and he looked up in surprise at the sound of Dave’s rifle barrel on the metal rim of the manhole. He started to lift his pistol, but Dave fired first and the bullet caught the guy in the middle of his chest and threw him back against the wall of the water tank, his pistol flying from his outstretched arm.
“I have the copter on the Rock locked ma’am, in range in two minutes,” O’Hare said. “Russian fighters are still five minutes out. Orders?”
Rodriguez had picked up her rifle again and pointed it menacingly at the Russian officer, “Decision time.”
He stared at her, ice blue eyes unwavering. A minute went past.
“Beginning strafing run,” O’Hare cautioned. “Guns hot and set for autofire.”