Peter Savage Novels Boxed Set

by Dave Edlund

  Again, only static. Then the radio blared.

  “Hammer, this is Golden Eye, do you copy?”

  “Roger, Golden Eye. Hammer flight returning to station. That was tight.”

  A pause spoke volumes before the voice of the airman returned. “Hammer. Anvil was hit. Four beacons active, but the Bone was lost.”

  Major Doyle could only hope that all four crewmembers of Anvil flight were safe. The fact that their beacons activated indicated they had all ejected.

  “Understood, Golden Eye. Hammer is returning to station to complete secondary priorities.”

  “Hammer, this is Colonel Horn. I want your aircraft at 30. No more chances with short-range air defenses.”

  “Roger, sir. Hammer out.”

  Doyle turned to follow a direct course back to the Minsk National Airport, climbing to 30,000 feet. “Reduce throttles to half power.”

  Bill pulled back on the throttles as the Bone slowed his body pushing against the shoulder straps.

  “Jonesy, Nate. We lost Anvil. Four good ejects.”

  The intercom was silent in response.

  Sensing their concern, their fear, Doyle added, “Nothing to worry about. They’ll be picked up and having cocktails before we finish the debrief.”

  “We’re going back?” Jonesy asked, but he knew the answer already he felt the aircraft turning and climbing, and slowing.

  “We’ll complete the mission. Keep that HARM pod on line, just in case.”

  Major Doyle considered her plan and then a few seconds later she was issuing new orders. “Nate, you take over the HARM system. If you even think you detect a radar emission, you fire on it, understood?”

  “You got it Major,” Nate said. The DSO and OSO formally shared different functions, but their panels were interchangeable, one of the features designed into the B-1 to increase survivability in combat. And the DSO and OSO were extensively cross trained.

  “Jonesy, get on the Sniper Pod. Locate those heat signatures, confirm with visual if you can. Regardless, I want a prioritized target list. Tanks and AA guns first, then APCs, lastly any trucks or vehicles with an engine.

  “We’ll circle above the airfield and use some of Uncle Sam’s finest GBU-53s.”

  Jonesy and Nate both smiled at that. It was time for some payback, and a 250-pound, laser-guided bomb would bring a load of payback, more than enough to shatter even the heaviest battle tank.

  Chapter 28

  Minsk

  “WE’RE SPLITING INTO TWO squads and will descend the stairwells simultaneously.” Jim was pointing to Peter. “You, Gary, and the Professor will follow my team down.” If there were any trip wires, he knew his men would see them.

  “We’ve been up and down this staircase a couple times without any problems. If there were booby traps, wouldn’t we have been blown up by now?”

  “General Gorev knows we’re here. If it were me, I’d put some grenades or mines at all the access points. He knows we have to come down to rescue the hostages.”

  “No arguments from me,” Gary said.

  Jim entered the stairwell, followed by Peter and Professor Savage. Iceberg was already glued to Gary, and Ghost took up the rear. Bull led Magnum and Homer across the roof to the west access door, where they disappeared from sight.

  “Single file, hug the wall,” Jim instructed.

  They worked their way down, Jim shouldering his H&K 416 assault rifle, aiming wherever his eyes looked. They made it to the second floor without any delays. Peter, with his father right behind him, cracked open the door. The hallway was clear.

  Peter hesitated and turned to Gary. “Do me a favor and get my sprayer. I left it in the storeroom.”

  “You got it, buddy.”

  Peter looked at his father. “Ready?”

  Ian Savage nodded. Silently, they dashed to the chemical storeroom and ducked inside.

  s

  Colonel Horn popped another antacid. He was vaguely aware that the airmen and women under his command had running side bets as to whether the Colonel chewed the fruit-flavored, chalky tablets because he liked the taste or to quell an overactive digestive system that did not respond well to stress. He leaned closer, taking in the detail on the color monitor, paying special attention to the distance marker.

  “Notify Hammer and move Guardian flight into a blocking position in case those Russian fighters cross over the border.” Then he turned to the adjacent airman. “Where’s the nearest tanker?”

  Referring to her monitor, which looked a lot like a civilian aviation control screen, she pointed to a triangle resting over a number. “We have a KC-46 here, sir, over eastern Poland.”

  “Position it over Vilnius; we’re about to have a lot of aircraft in need of more gas.”

  Colonel Horn returned his attention to the area display. The airman was still conversing with Hammer flight.

  “Roger that, Major. Guardian is moving to a blocking position.”

  Colonel Horn stood back and allowed his crew to do their jobs, preferring to watch and think through all options.

  s

  Jonesy programmed a string of 41 tanks, AA guns, APCs, and other vehicles into the targeting computer system, prioritizing as ordered by Major Doyle. “Ready when you are, Major,” Jonesy announced through the intercom.

  “Nate, any hostile emissions?” Major Doyle wanted one last confirmation before committing her aircraft to a circling pattern above the airfield.

  “Uh, negative, Major. Clear and quiet. Must have got all the radar systems.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it. Bill, be ready with the engines. If we are targeted again, we’re gonna go to max power and get out of here.”

  “Roger that,” Bill replied, edging his left hand toward the throttles.

  “Okay Jonesy, this will be a text-book run. Since you have all the targets uploaded, this should go fast. Ready?”

  “You’re damn right I am, Major. Time for payback.”

  “Clear to release weapons. Let’s bust some armor.”

  As Jonesy worked through his target list, releasing bomb after bomb, Major Doyle maintained constant flight speed and altitude. In a matter of minutes, all 41 of the guided bombs had been released.

  Doyle continued circling above the airport, allowing time for Jonesy to complete a bomb damage assessment, or BDA, using both the infrared and visual spectra from the Sniper Pod. Even from 30,000 feet he could easily see direct hits as well as craters indicating a close hit. All of the tanks and mobile AA guns had received direct hits as they had no time to recover from the threat and attempt to move to a new location. The same was mostly true for the armored personnel carriers, although five were incapacitated by near hits. Whether the 250-pound bombs simply missed the mark or the APCs tried to escape, Jonesy would never know—and it didn’t matter.

  “BDA complete, Major,” Jonesy said. “All eight tanks destroyed. Three AA guns destroyed. Five APCs destroyed—direct hits—another five are stationary, probable damage from close proximity detonation. Can’t be certain of operational status. Twenty heavy and light trucks destroyed. Looks like three fueling tankers are on fire.”

  “Load up the coordinates for the five damaged APCs, we’ll hit ’em again.”

  “Roger,” replied Jonesy, already at work.

  “Are you picking up any stationary air defensives? AA guns?” Doyle asked curiously.

  “Negative. Four sandbag bunkers—if you can call them that—on both sides of the runway. But no guns visible.”

  “They could have technicals with mounted dual or quad AAs inside the hangars,” Bill Harrison commented.

  Pickups with heavy machineguns mounted to the beds, so-called technical vehicles, seemed to be ubiquitous throughout the world’s hot-spots. They were relatively cheap to make and anyone could drive them. Plus, they were fast and maneuverable.

  Doyle nodded, understanding Bill’s warning.

  “Major, I have the five APCs,” Jonesy said. “Coordinates uploaded…” He stopped
, not finishing his sentence.

  “Talk to me, Jonesy,” Doyle said.

  “I’m showing a tug pulling a large aircraft out of one of the hangars. Only the aircraft nose is visible, can’t offer positive ID yet.”

  At this point it didn’t matter to Major Doyle. “Take it out while it’s still attached to the tug and crawling. Push that aircraft to top priority. Designate two 53s.”

  “The ‘ol double tap. Yes, ma’am.”

  It only required a handful of seconds for Jonesy to upload the coordinates where the nose of the aircraft was clearing the hangar roof. He figured he had at least 60 seconds to release the two-guided bombs before the unidentified aircraft was safely clear of the hangar entrance. Against an unarmored aluminum-skinned plane, even close would be good enough.

  “Request permission to release ordinance.”

  “Granted. Let’s finish this mission.”

  Just like he had done hundreds of times before in training exercises, and a handful of times in actual combat, Jonesy released the guided GBU-53 250-pound, iron-clad bombs sequentially. As the Bone continued to circle, he completed the BDA and reported to Major Doyle.

  “Direct hit on all five APCs. The aircraft, whatever it was, is history. Looks like the pair of 53s hit the forward section of fuselage at the leading edge of the wing root. The fuel is on fire and will take out the hanger as well as everything inside.”

  “Good shooting, Jonesy. Nate, any activity on your scope?”

  “Negative, Major. If they have any functional radar down there, they’re not turning them on.”

  “Understood. Bill, give me a heading for Vilnius. We’ll top up the tanks on the way home.”

  s

  Immediately upon entering the west stairwell, Bull’s squad smelled the foul stench of corpses. The smell of guts—feces and urine—mixed with blood and warm meat assaulted their noses. It was unpleasant, but not yet sickening—that threshold would be passed within a few hours as the bacterial decay of the bodies accelerated.

  The air was heavy with death. At the second floor landing they saw the dead Delta operators in the dim light from the exit sign. In Bull’s mind, there was no reason to check for vital signs. There was no sound, no moaning, no call for help. And the bodies were all twisted and bent in unnatural positions, the result of the blast and hundreds of steel rods ripping through their limbs and torsos. There was also the blood and gore.

  He held up his fist and the men stopped in their tracks, eyes alert and searching.

  “There, in the corner,” Bull said as he pointed to the olive drab rectangle at the base of the stairs, ten feet below. “Magnum…”

  As their IED specialist moved forward to assess the danger, carefully stepping around the bodies, Bull activated his throat mic. “Boss Man. Be advised. We have a probable IED inside the stairwell at the ground floor. Also, this is where six Deltas bought it.”

  “We’ll recover the bodies later.”

  “Affirmative.”

  “What are you dealing with?”

  “Looks like a mine, AP. Magnum has the trip wire and is disarming it.” Bull imagined that another antipersonnel mine, probably similar to the one they were now neutralizing, had killed the Delta operators.

  “Roger. Advance on the lobby and hold until Ghost and I are in position.”

  s

  Jim assumed he would also find an antipersonnel mine or grenades connected to a trip wire on the ground floor, and he was not disappointed. Just as Bull described, there was a military-green rectangular slab on the concrete floor in the corner. Jim’s eyes moved from the AP mine across the stairs to a secure fastening point, in this case the railing post, and he saw the thin, high-strength-steel trip wire. It was only six inches or so above the steps, easily missed by someone not alert to the danger.

  While Ghost kept a vigilant watch for any threat from the upper floors, Jim gently released the trip wire from the handrail post. Then he removed the detonator from the rectangular plastic-covered mine. He recognized it as a MON-50 antipersonnel mine, essentially a copy of the American Claymore AP mine. Extremely lethal.

  Jim shoved the detonator and trip wire into a cargo pocket. He slipped off his rucksack and placed the mine inside, saving it for later use.

  Opening the ground floor door just a crack, Jim peered into the hallway. No soldiers were visible. He pulled the door closed. In barely a whisper, he said, “Coast is clear. Stay together and move sharp. Let’s go.”

  The four men dashed into the hallway. Gary was still cradling the machine gun, the short ammunition belt hanging to the side of the weapon.

  Jim and Ghost pushed ahead to the lobby. Iceberg motioned for Gary to lead the way to the storeroom. The pair split off and went in the opposite direction.

  The blood-stained floor marked the spot, a grim reminder in case Gary had forgotten.

  Gary opened the door and ducked inside. Iceberg took one quick look around to make certain no one was watching, then he, too, entered and closed the door without a sound.

  “Tell me what to do,” Iceberg said.

  “Just watch the door and make sure no one tries to enter. Here,” Gary offered the master key he was still carrying, “lock the door.”

  Gary took the rusty hacksaw from the tool chest and set to work cutting the copper drainpipe beneath the utility sink. Even though the blade was old and well-used, it was still reasonably sharp and made short work of the relatively soft copper pipe. With a ten-inch length of pipe in hand, Gary stood. “We’re done here.”

  s

  With Jim and Ghost at the junction of the east hallway and the lobby, and Bull, Magnum, and Homer at the west hallway adjoining the lobby, both squads saw the battle zone, imagining the struggle that had transpired hours earlier. The shattered kiosk was clearly the epicenter of combat.

  Ahead, to the right of the expansive lobby and still out of sight, was the conference room where the hostages were believed to be. As soon as the two squads cleared the corner to enter the lobby, any guards stationed outside the conference room—and certainly there would be guards—would see them.

  With weapons raised, each man aimed through the optical sight while keeping both eyes open to see everything transpiring in their field of vision. Jim ordered his squads forward. Hugging the wall, they advanced, steadily, silently.

  Bull’s squad saw them first. He fired one shot then quickly moved to the next guard, getting off a round before the guard knew what was happening. Homer was behind Bull, and he fired a second shot into each guard, ensuring they were out of the fight—permanently.

  Even through closed doors, Major Leonov and his men recognized the sound of suppressed weapons being fired. “Inform the General we are under attack. Call in reinforcements,” he ordered his radioman while a dozen NPA soldiers knelt behind sandbag barricades—hastily stacked following the first rescue attempt—weapons aimed at the two entry points, ready to let loose a wall of lead when the intruders burst through the doors.

  Leonov mentally counted down the seconds. In his mind he saw the two outside guards killed, and the assault team cautiously approaching the doors. They would swiftly search for trip wires and, finding none, would prepare breaching charges to blast the doors open and stun the defenders. Yes, right about now…

  He picked up the black box, pushed the toggle switch forward and then depressed the button. His efficient movements were rewarded with a deafening blast that rattled the walls and threated to breach the closed doors.

  Chapter 29

  Minsk

  THE MINSK AIRPORT, ONCE A GLEAMING, modern hub of civilian air transportation, stank of burning diesel and rubber. Black smoke wafted over the terminal building, freely entering through dozens of shattered windows.

  The NPA militiamen were stunned. Many were dead and even more were injured. Almost to a man, they conveyed defeat. But not so the professional Russian soldiers who were better trained and prepared. They recognized this attack for what it was and the greater danger that was
soon to follow.

  Vadim Zolnerowich, a career veteran with the rank of Colonel, was in charge of the Russian Spetsnaz unit. He had been in the control tower during the attack. Fortuitous, since the Americans had no intention of destroying the essential assets of the airport, including the control tower. They needed this port to be functional to swiftly bring in men and supplies.

  Zolnerowich was on the radio, addressing the NPA commander. “Prepare your men for an invasion. Get the technicals out of the hangers and position them along the tree line on either side of the runway.”

  “But Colonel, our armor is destroyed, along with our missile batteries. We cannot defend this position. We must withdraw!”

  “Listen to me, you coward. You will do as I have ordered, or I will personally hang you by your heels and cut your throat. This battle is not over! Soon the Americans will attempt to bring in troops, and we are going to defend this runway. Is that clear?”

  The radio was silent for a moment, as if the NPA commander was thinking over his options. “Yes, sir.”

  NPA militia and Spetsnaz poured out of concealment. The four technicals, each with a dual-barrel 23mm anti-aircraft gun mounted to the bed of the pickup, sped out of two hangers, racing down the runway and then veering off the tarmac at about the midpoint. They stopped just inside the trees, the vehicles pointed toward the gray runway, engines idling and ready to pull forward to fire upon the anticipated American aircraft.

  Unseen to the defenders, a dozen Marine Ospreys and two Air Force AC-130W Stinger II gunships were approaching from the northwest. The Ospreys, each loaded with eighteen combat Marine troops, were approaching low, just above the treetops, while the Stinger gunships were flying in at 25,000 feet, ready to provide a protective cap over the battlefield.

  In theory, it was a strong plan, just about guaranteed to succeed. That is, provided the air defenses had truly been eliminated as reported by the crew of Hammer flight.

  About a mile away and still out of sight, the massive propellers and engines of the Ospreys could be heard—a deep throbbing that intensified to a rumble and, finally, as the odd-looking aircraft with huge propellers appeared low on the horizon, an intense roar of engine and rushing air.