The two young warrant officers flew back to Jalalabad celebrating with high fives, but Page had been nearly despondent upon returning to the ready room after the fact when it became clear the Kiowa’s gun camera hadn’t recorded the shooting for posterity because it had been positioned forward, not facing out the side of the helicopter.
Both men knew that the campaign here in Ukraine would bear little resemblance to what they had experienced around J-bad. The Russian military, with its Air Force and long-range missiles, along with its sophisticated attack helos and T-90 tanks, made the Taliban look like amateurs.
While they prepped for takeoff this foggy morning, each of the men worked from a checklist, going through the various systems on the helicopter; Conway focused on testing his Sperry Flight Control System and his avionics, while Page spooled through his cameras, targeting computer, and mast-mounted sight laser designation and backup systems.
Both men tested their comms, and both men felt over their bodies for all SERE equipment.
Shortly before six a.m. their crew chief gave them a thumbs-up on the pad and Conway started the Rolls-Royce engine. There was a ten-second-long high-pitched whine before the main rotor even began to spin, and it took more than a minute for the Allison engine to transfer enough power to the main and tail rotors for takeoff. Another round of checklists was tackled; by now Page was talking on a channel to the crew chief, discussing the possibility of a quick return to the pad to get more Hellfires in the case of heavy action.
The crew chief insisted he’d be ready for them when they came back, whether it was in four hours or four minutes.
At six a.m. Eric Conway keyed his microphone. “Black Wolf Two Six, Cherkasy Ground, over?”
“Cherkasy Ground, Black Wolf Two Six.”
“Black Wolf Two Six, ready for takeoff.”
The flight control officer cleared the OH-58 for takeoff and a southerly departure out of the base, and the black bird rose slowly into the foggy morning.
They were just a few hundred feet in the air when a transmission came through their headsets from the JOC, which was different from Bravo Company Flight Ops.
“Black Wolf Two Six, Warlock Zero One. How copy?”
Both Conway and Page knew this was Midas transmitting on the net. He ran the JOC, but in typical Army obfuscation his radio call sign was different from his Delta call sign.
“Warlock Zero One, copy. We are outbound to waypoint Alpha. ETA is one-nine mikes, over.”
“Roger, Two Six. Proceed to waypoint Golf and advise. At this point I do not have any targets for you, so I’ll need you to loiter on station, how copy?”
“Black Wolf Two Six copies all.”
Conway pushed the cyclic forward and pulled up the collective; the aircraft climbed up through the fog as it raced toward the Crimea.
“You don’t feel like skimming the trees in this soup?” Page asked jokingly.
“You know what they say. ‘Speed is life, but altitude is life insurance.’”
Their mission today was flexible. Their primary task was to collect battlefield intelligence for the force commander, but Conway knew at any moment Midas, or Warlock Zero One, or whatever the hell his name was, might order them to support one of the dozen or so U.S. and British special operations teams active in Operation Red Coal Carpet.
As they climbed out of the fog, seeing nothing but blue sky and green pastureland in the distance, a series of crackling transmissions came over their radios. Two of the Kiowas near the Chuhuiv Air Base had located targets moving through a paved road linking two small towns. The Warriors were in the process of lasing targets for a squadron of Mi-24 Hinds, and their transmissions made the two men in Black Wolf Two Six wish they were part of the action.
The bulk of the fighting so far had been in the provinces—called oblasts in Ukraine—of Donetsk and Luhansk, and the American helicopters were ordered to stay outside of this area, although some of the Delta Force teams were operating in Donetsk just to blunt the speed at which the Russians advanced.
—
More than an hour into its flight, Black Wolf Two Six was flying low along the E50 highway east of the large industrial town of Dnipropetrovs’k. The highway was filled with civilian vehicles leaving Donetsk to the east; many, if not most, looked like they were full of personal belongings and valuables.
Conway spoke through his intercom: “Hey, Dre, I read that over eighty percent of the citizens around here are, to one degree or another, allied with Russia.”
“Something like that.”
“So why the hell is everybody making a run for it? They should be glad the Russians are coming, right?”
“They might be glad they are coming to liberate them, or whatever, but that doesn’t mean they want to be standing right there when it goes down. There’s a shit ton of fighting to be done before this thing is settled.”
Conway was about to respond when the JOC came over their headsets and directed them to a grid coordinate just fifteen minutes east of their position. Conway acknowledged and picked up speed and altitude, leaving his flyover of the thick traffic behind and heading over rolling forestland.
As they flew, Midas gave them more information.
“Black Wolf Two Six, Warlock Zero One, stand by for sitrep.” There was a brief pause, then Midas said, “Team Frito has eyes on two BM-30 emplacements digging in southeast of Mezhova. They have not been able to raise UDF assets to engage, and the red forces will be in range of major population centers within the next hour.”
Conway and Page both knew the BM-30 was a massive Russian missile launcher that fired up to a dozen 300-millimeter rockets at a time at a distance of up to fifty miles. Along with each one there would be several smaller support vehicles. It was a powerful and potent weapon, and the fact four of them had been amassed within range of the city of Dnipropetrovs’k did not say much for the future prospects of Ukrainian forces in and around Dnipropetrovs’k. There was a Ukrainian forward helo base as well as the largest military base in the oblast just on the far side of the city, and both of these locations would be perfect targets for the multi-rocket launchers.
Page took over the radio now to get more intel on the targets. “Can you advise other red assets at emplacement location?” Dre wanted to know if they would be up against troops, tanks, helicopters, or other means to shoot down the Kiowa.
“Warlock Zero One. AWACS advises no enemy air in area. Frito advises troop transport vehicles and multiple dismounts, but no confirmation of anti-air.”
“Roger that,” said Page, and he looked to Conway. “Dude, what are the chances the Russkis are going to set up two big, dumb, slow missile batteries without protecting them from air attack somehow?”
“No chance at all,” confirmed Conway. “We will engage from max standoff distance and minimize exposure.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Dre said, and he began making preps on his multifunction display sighting system for the engagement to come.
—
Before arriving on station five miles to the west of the BM-30 emplacement, Black Wolf Two Six was put in direct radio contact with Frito Actual, the leader of the 10th Special Forces Group team in the area. Page’s targeting computer showed him the location of the friendly, or “blue,” forces, and Frito gave him up-to-date intel on the threats in the area.
Page and Conway both looked over the moving map display when they were still twenty miles out, and Page scanned forward with his mast-mounted sight, looking for anything out of the ordinary. There were a few small villages and factories away from the city, but mostly the area was rolling forest. Page said, “I know Frito says we’re golden on this, but I think you want to come in low. Sneak in for a peek with the optics. See them before they see us.”
Conway said, “Roger that.”
Black Wolf Two Six descended to just forty feet above the treetops, and Conway dipped even lower as they crossed clearings and streams. Page’s stomach had long since grown accustomed to the vomit-induci
ng roller-coaster ride of nap-of-the-earth flight, but in the back of his mind every now and then he still thought Conway made some of his maneuvers for the sole purpose of fucking with his internal organs.
They passed a small town built around a large but deserted redbrick factory building. From the look of its three smokestacks on the roof, Conway thought the factory might have been some sort of smelting operation. He lowered to only twenty-five feet above a gravel road just behind the factory, positioning the three-story brick building between his aircraft and the target area, separated by nearly five miles of forests and farms.
Page was on the radio with team Frito, and he flipped back and forth between multiple views of the target area. He said, “I’m not an expert on the BM-30, but those fuckers look like they are ready to launch.”
Conway had been spending his time with his eyes outside the helicopter. There were enough gadgets and gizmos in the Warrior to where pilots ran the risk of pulling into a hover and then spending too much time absorbing information other than the environment around them.
But Conway was too experienced for that. He let Page do the prep for the attack while he watched the fields, roads, buildings, and wood line around them, knowing that hovering still here above this gravel road in a relatively soft-skinned helicopter meant it would take only a couple of Russians in a jeep with a machine gun to ruin this otherwise decent morning.
He glanced down at Page’s monitor and saw the Russian missile trucks. He was no expert, either, but they looked like they could start raining missiles down on Ukraine at any time.
Page switched his view to his own camera, located in the mast-mounted sight, the large pod above the main rotor assembly. The MMS was a ball with two prominent glass “eyes” in front, and Dre called the instrument “E.T.” The new version of the Warrior was coming online stateside right now, and Conway looked forward to getting his hands on one because of all the new developments in the aircraft. That said, the new model had its laser rangefinder and designator in a pod below the pilot’s feet, so the aircraft would have a new look. Eric had flown E.T. around for nearly four years, and he would miss the distinctive look the MMS gave his bird.
Right now they were behind the building, and Dre couldn’t see the target through his own camera.
He said, “All right, Eric. Let’s have us a look-see.”
Conway pulled the collective on his left, and the helicopter rose slowly in its hover. At fifty feet above the ground, the mast-mounted sight was above the roof of the brick building just forty yards ahead, peeking at the distant target.
When Page saw what he needed to see on his monitor, he said, “Good. Right there.”
Conway held the helo stationary.
Page saw the two targets in a pair of fields separated by a small river; a bridge connected them. Along with the two massive trucks, each with missile tubes pointed high in the air, there were another dozen or more trucks and armored personnel carriers.
“Air defense assets?” Conway asked.
Page couldn’t see anything definitive at this distance, but he knew there had to be something out there that could kill him.
But Dre Page knew he had a job to do, and the U.S. taxpayer gave him $38,124 a year to put his life on the line in foreign lands, so he put as much worry out of his mind as possible and said, “Looks clear on the ground. Still no red air to worry about?”
“Negative. Closest threats are seventy miles away in Crimea. It’s clear, blue, and twenty-two here, bro.”
This was helicopter-pilot speak for good flying weather.
“Range to target?” Conway asked.
Page shot the laser rangefinder. “Lasing target. Seven thousand six hundred eighty-one.”
“You good with that range?” Conway asked. It was near max distance. He could move the aircraft closer if Dre felt the engagement necessitated it.
Page said, “Dude, the fighter in me wants to be right on top of them. But the survivor in me kinda likes hiding behind this big fucking brick factory.”
“I heard that, brother. Let’s rock it from here.”
Page transmitted in his headset. “Warlock Zero One, this is Two Six. We are requesting clearance for fires for Hellfire.”
Midas came over the radio instantly: “Black Wolf Two Six, this is Warlock Zero One. I’ve got no Ukrainian air assets in the area. You are cleared hot with Hellfires, over.”
“Roger, cleared hot.”
Conway said, “Let’s do it.”
Page ignored Conway; he knew that Conway’s adrenaline fired him up like this, but Page prided himself on staying cool. “Frito Actual. Black Wolf Two Six. Be advised, we will be weapons release.”
“Roger that, Black Wolf. We are well clear. Negative friendlies at target pos. Get those missile trucks and get the fuck out of here before enemy helos come hunting for you.”
“Roger that.”
Conway slipped his thumb under the guard on the Weapons Fire switch on his cyclic.
He said, “Firing in three, two, one.” He pressed the fire button and sent an air-to-ground missile toward the first of the two huge mobile missile launchers.
“Hellfire blazing,” Conway said, confirming he could see good propulsion on the missile as it raced to the east.
“That’s sixty-five grand, off the rails,” Page said calmly. It was his joke, not Conway’s, because Page was the more relaxed of the two men in combat.
Conway did not wait to watch the impact on the MFD. Instead, he selected a second missile, and fired at the same target as the first. He could have switched between the two targets, but stacking up two back-to-back shots at the same target increased the chances the antimissile features of the battery would be defeated.
The first Hellfire was detected by laser warning receivers set up at the emplacement, and countermeasures were fired into the air. The American warhead was knocked down seventy-five yards away from impact by an automatic missile defense battery that neither Page nor Frito had detected.
But the second Hellfire got through, and detonated above the missile launcher, and even though Conway had been in the process of counting down his third Hellfire launch, he stopped when his MFD whited out.
He thought something was wrong with the system at first, and he began adjusting the monitor.
In his headset he heard, “Two Six, Frito Actual. Good hit, good hit. Multiple secondary detonations. Damn, dude, you really nailed it.”
Just then Page called out next to him: “Holy smokes.”
Conway looked up. Five miles in the distance, a black form was slowly morphing into a mushroom cloud. Several seconds later, a low boom was audible through his headset and the sound of the rotors above him.
It took a moment to get reset, but he fired his third missile to the east.
Just as he did so, a digitized male voice boomed in his and Page’s headsets. “Laser! Laser! Eleven o’clock.”
Page said, “Inbound fire!”
“Rapid release!” Conway said, and he fired another missile, this one at the second BM-30.
Just then Conway pulled right on the cyclic and punched down on the left pedal, turning the craft ninety degrees. He put the aircraft in a nose-down attitude, and the helicopter dove at the gravel road behind the brick factory building.
“Countermeasures,” Page said, and the Kiowa automatically fired flares as it plummeted.
Just a few feet above the ground Black Wolf Two Six leveled out, and raced over a field.
Less than one hundred fifty yards behind, a missile from a shoulder-fired launcher slammed into one of the factory’s three smokestacks, blowing it to bits and sending redbrick shrapnel in all directions.
Conway kept his speed up as a second missile hit the factory behind them. As he looked back over his left shoulder, his ears filled with an excited transmission from Frito team.
“Hell, yeah! Second target destroyed! Another fuckin’ neutron bomb!”
“Roger that,” Page said calmly. Now he looked out th
e open door on his side. The warning alarms had ceased, but he and Conway were still on the lookout for threats.
Warlock Zero One came over the net now. “Black Wolf, hell of a job, but they know you’re out there. Return to base.”
Conway said, “Roger that. RTB.”
Both young men’s hearts pounded against their body armor as they raced over a larch forest to the northwest. Normally, they did a lot of fist pumping after a successful target engagement, but right now both men were lost in their own thoughts, because they knew they’d just come a hair’s breadth away from death.
70
John Clark and his group of operations officers from The Campus had spent every day since their return from Sevastopol photographing people who visited the ninth floor of the Fairmont Grand Hotel.
They had quite an impressive array of characters in their rogues’ gallery, and to put names with the faces, Gavin Biery ran the pictures through facial-recognition software, using databases from the CIA SIPRNet, the Ukrainian Security Service files, and other open-source locations.
Still, none of the team had gotten eyes on Gleb the Scar himself. It was clear that this was by design. The team had staked out all the exits of the hotel in the worry that he had some sort of clandestine access to his penthouse, but after spending a day spread around the neighborhood, watching employee entrances, loading docks, and the rooftop heliport, they came to the conclusion that Gleb wasn’t coming and going. No, he was apparently just sitting.
Clark had moved his operation to yet another safe house. This was a smaller flat, just two blocks away from the Fairmont, and it was owned by a friend of Igor’s. The flat owner had fled the city with his wife and kids when the war started in the east, fearing the Russians would drive all the way to Kiev, and this gave Clark and company a secure safe house with a living room window that afforded them a good view of the Fairmont, and with their photographic equipment they could get decent imagery of those who came and went in the building.
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