Enemies c-15

by Keith Douglass

  Five SAR helos, all with fighter protection. The Americans had drawn four of those assignments in addition to their attack tasking. Special forces on standby for any hostile extractions. Even the Marines hadn’t been able to find much fault with that part of the plan.

  The only real problem was the attack itself. The whole thing was starting to remind Thor entirely too much of Vietnam. Telling who was a civilian and who was a combatant was the first problem. The second was that rebel forces such as the Macedonians rarely operated out of fixed positions. Sure, there’d be some structures that could be identified as command centers. But if the Macedonians had any sense, their actual commanders would be somewhere else.

  Thor started his walk-around of the aircraft, running through the checklist. Some people might skimp on the routine items, counting on the ground crew to catch any major problems, but not a Marine. And most particularly, not this Marine.

  Finally, he was ready. He popped down the first rung of the boarding ladder and started crawling up the side of the Hornet. Her skin felt smooth and thin under his fingers. He pulled himself up and over the edge of the cockpit, easing down into his seat. A plane captain followed him up and helped him buckle in. At the last moment, the young corporal pulled the safety pins from the ejection mechanism.

  “Semper Fi, sir,” he said.

  “Semper Fi, Marine.” Thor flipped open the pre-start checklist, worked his way through it, then followed the corporal’s hand signal to start engines. When they were both, major and corporal, completely satisfied that the Hornet was good to go, the corporal snapped into a picture perfect salute. Thor returned it from the cockpit and released the brakes.

  “This one’s for you, Murph,” he said aloud as he taxied toward the runway. “And for me.”

  USS John Paul Jones

  1015 local (GMT –2)

  The ship rocked slightly in the gentle current. She was making bare steerageway, just enough forward speed to enable her to retain rudder control in case she needed to maneuver. At two knots, she seemed to rest gently upon the surface of the ocean rather than steam through it.

  “All stations report ready, Captain,” the TAO said.

  Captain Daniel Heather nodded. “Any last words from UNFOR?”

  “No, sir.” The TAO held up a sheet of paper. “The last message we got was that the strike was airborne and would remain in orbit over the airfield until we’d launched.”

  “Very well.” Captain Heather glanced at the chronometer on the wall, then double-checked the time displayed on the edge of the computer screen. “Thirty seconds, I make it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He waited, watching the digital figures click over on the screen. A routine launch — if any weapon launched in anger could be called routine. But if anything, there was less tension in Combat than there’d been during their last exercise firing. Then the spacious compartment had been stuffed with civilians, contractors, and CRUDES staff all wanting to offer their opinions and assistance.

  Assistance. More like a pain in the ass than anything. In Navy tradition, it was one of the three great lies in the world: “I’m from the staff, I’m here to help.” What they were really there to do was grade the entire ship on how the evolution was conducted, looking at everything from how well the watchstanders in Combat did their jobs to whether the galley managed to get meals on the table on time.

  Well, this time there was just one grading criteria. And that was how well JPJ put a huge, smoking hole in one particular spot in the ground.

  In actual fact, the Tomahawks were relatively easy to fire. A separate weapons console housed the software, but the actual targeting package for the terrain-following missing was loaded into the missile from a CD. The shape of the terrain, the points it could check its flight path against, the speed of the missile, all were out of the control of the ship. As long as they were in the basket, in the piece of area designated as the launch area, and as long as they got the weapon off on time, everything should go just according to plan.

  “Ten seconds,” the TAO announced. “Weapons free. Tomahawk, you have permission to fire.”

  “Permission to fire, aye, sir.” The petty officer first class perched on a stool in front of the Tomahawk Engagement Console, or TEC, had his finger poised over the keyboard. “Five seconds, sir.”

  The final moments clicked by without incident. A low shudder ran through the ship and a faint ringing as the launch warning buzzer on the forecastle sounded. It was almost anticlimactic when the petty officer announced, “Missile away, sir.”

  Almost immediately, the Tomahawk sprang into existence on the tactical console, a missile symbol with a long speed leader attached. It headed off at an angle from the ship for the first waypoint.

  The waypoints were intermediate stations that the missile would pass through on its way to landfall. Constructing them was one of the few tasks a ship had, and the final waypoint and course change were designed to put the missile exactly over a point its electronic memory would recognize. From that point on, it would be guided solely by the terrain map, with an ever-decreasing tolerance for errors.

  USS Jouett, a cruiser, would be launching her missiles as well in thirty seconds. Two missiles, each with its own target, and then the air bombardment. With any luck, there’d be nothing left of the rebel forces.

  “Good work. Now comes the hard part,” Captain Heather announced. He settled back into his chair to wait.

  Tavista Air Base

  1020 local (GMT –2)

  “Devil Dog 202, you are cleared for takeoff.” The tower’s voice sounded almost bored.

  “Roger, Devil Dog 202 cleared for takeoff,” Thor acknowledged. He shoved the throttles forward, feeling the Hornet surge forward around him. God, but this was an aircraft that loved to fly!

  He rolled out and rotated with plenty of runway left, old habits learned the hard way in carrier aviation dying hard. He was the third aircraft in the launch sequence, behind two Tomcats. Queued up on the runway behind him were an assortment of other fighter aircraft, some quite capable and some barely airworthy. It had been clear to him that the Americans had better make damned sure they hit their targets, because he wasn’t sure how many of the others would be able to find their IP, much less their targets.

  The Hornet burbled for a moment close to ground, then the full effect of the engines kicked in and she soared like a bird. Thor hauled back, climbing at a hard angle, wondering whether he’d catch any flak from the air traffic controller. From the two-dimensional radar now tracking him, it would appear that he was virtually standing still in the sky, showing a remarkably low speed over ground with all of his power poured into gaining altitude.

  “Three, you got a problem?” the lead Tomcat asked. “Maybe with your horizon?”

  “Negative, Lead, all green back here,” Thor said. “Just heading for altitude.”

  “Right.” Lead appeared to be about to let it pass without further comment, then said, “Tanker’s not for another fifteen mikes, Three. You think you can wait that long?” A double click of the mike from Two substituted for a laugh.

  “I’m fine, Lead. Thanks for asking.” Thor cut back his rate of ascent to that of the more heavily laden Tomcats.

  That was the one drawback to the Hornet — at least from the Tomcat’s point of view. The lighter, more maneuverable Hornet could carry less weapon weight, and had correspondingly smaller fuel tanks. They needed a quick plug and suck at the tanker just about any time they could get it.

  But there were advantages to being the smaller fighter, too. They could meet the MiG on a MiG’s terms, not expending fuel in the vertical game a Tomcat had to play. And, even more importantly, the Hornet was the platform of choice for close air support, providing firepower to troops on the ground. For a mission like this, one that required precision bombing to hit small, easily concealed targets, the Hornet was the airframe of choice. Finally, the Hornet had one last feature that none of the Tomcats could claim — each airframe
was younger and required far less maintenance hours per hour of flight than the massive, aging F-14s.

  The first landmark slid by on Thor’s right. He checked his chronometer — right on schedule. The Tomcats were formed up in a tight pair ahead of him, and Thor’s own wingman was tucked in tight. He craned his neck around for a visual check and got a thumbs-up from the young captain in the cockpit.

  Four more minutes. That was the one good thing about fighting a war in Europe — everything was closer together.

  Command Center, Tavista Air Base

  1021 local (GMT –2)

  Arkady stared at the radar picture of the surrounding area, then transferred his gaze to the small-scale topographical map mounted on the forward wall. The suspected locations of the enemy camps were laid out in red, a square enclosing an X marking what his staff believed were the headquarters. More symbols denoted the light mechanized infantry, the two lone tanks that the Macedonians had acquired from defectors from the Greek forces, and the anti-air sites now annihilated. The ingress and egress routes were laid out in white.

  “Sir. The Tomahawks.” His radar technician pointed at the screen. “Right on time, General.” The missiles symbology coupled with the impressive speed leaders left no doubt as to the identity of the airborne contacts.

  “No,” Arkady said immediately. “Those can’t be the Tomahawks. They’re off course — they’re antiair missiles.”

  “General, the speed doesn’t fit,” the technician said, a puzzled expression on his face. “Antiair missiles go much faster.” He tapped the symbols on his screen. “These have to be the land attack missiles, sir.”

  “You’re contradicting me?” Arkady snapped.

  The technician turned pale. Every soldier in the camp knew what had happened to Spiros, and there was a silent pact among them all to never suffer the same fate. “General, my apologies. Clearly, I’m mistaken. Antiair rounds inbound on… uh…” The technician paused, at a loss.

  “On the lead wave of the strike,” Arkady supplied. “They know that the first wave is composed entirely of Greek aircraft. This is clearly an attack by the American forces on our units.”

  “On our aircraft,” the technician said eagerly.

  “Warn them,” Arkady said. “In Greek, not English.”

  The technician picked up his microphone, his thoughts whirling, and tried to compose a standard phraseology warning to his forces, but he couldn’t get his mind focused on the problem. Finally, he settled for, “Attention, all Greek aircraft. The Americans are firing antiair missiles at you from their ships. You are ordered to… General?” He looked up for guidance.

  “Continue the mission as briefed, regroup at Point Delta, then destroy the American aircraft. They have committed a hostile act,” Arkady said. He listened while the technician repeated his words verbatim, then turned to his chief of staff. “Have the guards take all American military personnel into custody. And bring Admiral Magruder to me here.”

  Macedonian Camp

  1030 local (GMT –2)

  Xerxes had roused them an hour before first light. Three hours later, they made it to the camp. Pamela was exhausted. She was used to roughing it while reporting from the field, but at least she usually had a decent sleeping bag, sometimes a tent. A cold night curled up against a rock with a thin blanket for protection from the wind had left her exhausted. What little sleep the cold hadn’t stolen fell prey to her own speculations about whether or not the Macedonians intended to torture Murphy.

  She’d tried talking about it with the Marine, but he’d refused to answer her questions. Whether it was exhaustion or his own dread of what the next day might bring, she couldn’t tell. When she persisted, Xerxes threatened to gag her.

  When they’d finally made it to the secondary camp, untouched by any bombing run, Xerxes had had them separated immediately. An old, taciturn sergeant had silently showed her to a tent and taken up a guard position outside the front flap. When she’d tried prying up a back corner, exploring the possibilities for regaining her freedom of movement, he’d been there waiting for her. Finally, she gave in to the exhaustion and collapsed on the cot. For the first time in thirty-six hours, she was warm.

  The noise outside had awoken her two hours later. She groaned as she crawled out of the sleeping bag, every injury aching anew. She pushed aside the tent flap to discover her guard was gone.

  In the small clearing in the center of the camp, Murphy lay sprawled on the ground. She darted out and knelt down next to him, staring in horror at his bloody face. When Xerxes had said that Murphy would talk, she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge the menace underlying the words. Now, confronted by the bloody evidence of the Macedonian’s handiwork, she could no longer avoid it.

  She turned to face Xerxes. “Torture.”

  Xerxes shook his head. “He fell.”

  “Right.”

  He took two steps toward her and reached out one hand for her shoulder. She flinched back. An expression of disappointment and regret flashed across his face, to be immediately replaced by something colder. “I had thought more of you. Think this through. If we had truly resorted to torture, would I bring you here? Give you the opportunity to talk to him, to see what we’d done.” He shook his head.

  “I can talk to him?” she asked cautiously.

  “Go ahead.” Xerxes looked sullen now. “Ask him what happened.”

  She knelt down beside the battered figure stretched out on the cot and touched his shoulder gently. Murphy groaned, then his eyes opened, staring out in the distance unfocused.

  “Murphy? Can you hear me?” she asked.

  He groaned again then tried to speak.

  “Water,” Pamela snapped. Xerxes filled a plastic cup with water and handed it to her. She leaned over the cot and tried to prop him up while she held the cup to his mouth. He was just barely conscious enough to try to help her guide the cup. He sucked down two noisy gulps then paused to take a breath.

  “More?” she asked. He nodded, his expression already clearly more focused. He levered himself up into a sitting position and took the cup with shaky hands. As he drank the second cup of water by himself, his eyes refocused and found Xerxes standing quietly in the corner. Murphy stared at her impassively as he slowly drained the cup.

  “What happened to you?” Pamela asked after he declined more water.

  “They caught me trying to depart their hospitality,” he said, his face still expressionless. “A couple of guards were trying to drag me back to camp. I wasn’t too wild about the idea.”

  “They beat you?” she said, still not looking at Xerxes.

  He shook his head reluctantly. “No. I tripped. Once I was down, one got handcuffs on me. Then the rest of them showed up and hog-tied me for the trip back. I got in a couple of licks though — kicked one guy in the face pretty hard.”

  “And broke his jaw,” Xerxes said, speaking for the first time.

  “Too bad,” Murphy said, no trace of remorse in his voice.

  “And you,” Xerxes continued, crossing the room to tower over the Marine pilot. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m just peachy, thanks.”

  “Good. Fit enough for a little hike?”

  “Probably.” Murphy’s eyes were guarded now, as though he were trying to decide whether to admit it. “If the ribs hold up.”

  “What’s wrong with your ribs?” Pamela asked. She reached out as though to examine him, and he flinched back.

  “Cracked a couple in the ejection, maybe. Might be just a strain. It’s no big deal,” he said reluctantly. She got the impression that little would be more distasteful to him than admitting physical weakness.

  “Good. You’ll let me know if they get too uncomfortable, then,” Xerxes said. “I’m sure we can arrange other transportation for you.”

  She stood, feeling the pain in her knees as she did so. “Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere else. I thought you would have learned by now not to bother asking that sort of qu
estion.”

  “I always ask questions.”

  “I don’t always answer them.”

  For a moment, it was as though they were the only two people in the room. Murphy was forgotten as their eyes locked and something more passed between them than just a simple question for information and a refusal to give it. Finally, Pamela looked away.

  “There’s likely to be another strike,” Xerxes said finally. “We’re moving camp.”

  “You’ve got pretty good intell,” Murphy said. Xerxes didn’t answer.

  Moving camp. Pamela glanced at Murphy and knew immediately why he’d minimized his injuries. Movement meant a degree of disorder, and maybe another chance to escape. He’d take that opportunity any time it presented itself, no matter how small the odds for success, no matter how many beatings they administered.

  Just like the Marines would be back to get him. That was one of the primary tenets of their brotherhood, that no Marine left another.

  So Xerxes was right. They’d be back, both to finish what the earlier strike had started and to look for Murphy.

  And to kill as many of the rebel Macedonians as they could in the process.

  So where does that leave me? Rooting for Murphy or for the Macedonians? Every time she thought she finally had the answer, some new angle or perspective upset her carefully reasoned approach to the question. Now, staring at the two faces so much alike, both grim, haggard and determined, she knew what her only choice could be.

  A sense of peace descended on her, coupled with not a little sadness. The comfort of righteousness, the strength one found fighting for a cause would forever be denied to her. She thought of Xerxes’s charge that she would never know what it was to lose friends in battle because she chose no sides.

  But he’d gotten it wrong. It wasn’t that she had no side — it was that they were all hers. The Macedonians, the Greeks, the Americans…despite her nationality, each death was one that mattered to her as a person, as the story of how the war affected that individual. She was denied the luxury of seeing the other side as inhuman, faceless creatures. To her, and to the other men and women who brought the rest of the world to each conflict, each warring faction was composed of human beings. They mattered. They had to. Because only when she could show that side of war to the rest of the world would the civilized nations bring enough pressure to bear on the combatants to stop the bloodshed.