Red Ice

by William Dietz

  After Falco finished his meal he went over to plop down next to Oliver. “I’m going to hire a boat, or try to, and see if I can get close enough to spot some targets.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Oliver responded. “I’m coming with you.”

  “No,” Falco replied. “You aren’t. I’m leaving you in charge of the shop. Check to see how much ammo the howitzers have left. If they’re running low, tell the crews to take a break. Then I want you to send Cooper and Jenkins out to beg, borrow, or steal some Ravens.”

  Oliver was none too happy, judging from the expression on his face. “Have fun on the boat, sir. Glory hog.”

  Falco gave Oliver the finger, and the NCO laughed.

  Falco put a PRC-117G and a PRC-152 in a knapsack along with a bottle of water, and some snacks. He was ready to go. The clouds were low, and the air was cold. The slush had set up during the night and crackled underfoot.

  The ruins of the old lighthouse marked the trail that led down to the village of Ignaluk. And as Falco started down it was clear that the locals were fleeing. They trudged uphill in twos and threes, all carrying packs, with children and dogs trailing along behind.

  MPs were stationed along the trail and Falco stopped to speak with one of them. The soldier was filthy except for his weapon which was scrupulously clean. “What’s going on?” Falco inquired.

  “We offered to take the villagers out two days ago, sir, and most refused. But a bomb fell short of the mesa and destroyed three homes. Twelve people were killed. That changed some minds. There’s a small helipad on the waterfront, but it doesn’t make sense to lift able bodied people out two or three at a time. Once they arrive inland Chinooks will pick them up.”

  “Roger that,” Falco responded. “Where are the men? All I see are women and children.”

  “Yes, sir … The menfolk are loading what they can into boats. The town of Wales is only 25 miles east of here—and they make the crossing all the time.”

  Falco felt a renewed sense of urgency as he hurried down the trail. What if all the boats were gone? Or about to depart? That would put an end to his plan .

  When Falco reached the village he saw that both of the boat launches were backed up. A civilian helicopter sat on a pad as people helped two elders climb aboard. Another chopper was circling above and waiting to land. Both aircraft would be easy meat for a Russian fighter, and Falco had to give the helo pilots credit. What they were doing required a lot of courage. Falco stopped a villager. “I’m looking for Sonny Toklo … Where would I find him?”

  The woman pointed toward the beach. Falco thanked her and made his way down. Toklo was helping another man load boxes into a boat. Water smoothed rocks rattled under Falco’s boots and threatened to dump him. “Hey Sonny … It’s me. Major Falco.”

  Sonny turned. There was a smile on his face. “Hey, Major … It’s good to see you. What’s up?”

  Falco told Toklo about the drones and his desire to hit targets on Big D. Toklo nodded. “I’d love to put the hurts to those bastards! Count me in. Look up there.”

  Falco followed the pointing finger up the steep hillside to a pile of smoking rubble. “Twelve people died,” Toklo said. “I was related to eight of them.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Falco replied. “But I’m afraid that things are about to get even worse. If the Russians land they will level Ignaluk in order to make way for a road.”

  Toklo winced. “Follow me, Major … We’ll make ’em pay.”

  Toklo’s boat was anchored just offshore. To reach it the fisherman summoned a boy in a Zodiac who came to get them. Transferring from one boat to the other proved to be tricky—and Falco felt lucky to make the crossing without falling in.

  Toklo thanked the boy, started the engine, and ordered Falco to raise the anchor. Once it was in the boat Toklo took off. The men had no defenses other than the boat’s speed and agility. Falco hoped that would be enough .

  After a radio check, all Falco had to do was hang on, as the boat banged through low lying waves and Big D grew steadily larger. The top half of the island appeared to be floating on a layer of mist. As they drew closer Falco saw something that alarmed him. Two steel barges, both equipped with cranes, had been brought in during the night. In spite of the pounding the Russians had endured they were still grinding ahead! The next steps would be to renew the assault on Little D, seize control if they could, and bring more pontoons in.

  But that wasn’t going to happen. Not if Falco had anything to say about it. After establishing contact with the howitzer teams Falco fed them information about his intended targets. The wave action made it difficult to hold his binoculars steady, and the engine was so loud that he was forced to shout for Toklo to hear him. “Slow down! I need a steady platform.”

  Toklo cut the power by half, and the slower speed made a significant difference. The boat was still bucking, but not as violently. That enabled Falco to direct fire the old fashioned way with instructions like “Up, fifty, right fifty, and hold.”

  Columns of water shot up into the air and collapsed in on themselves. But with each shot the shells landed a little bit closer until shell after shell fell on what Falco thought of as barge one. The hits came only seconds apart. The barge seemed to swell in size before exploding.

  There was fuel on board. And it fed an orange-red fireball that rose like a balloon before popping. Steel deck plates sailed through the air as if they were weightless, and the crane fell like a mighty tree. A cloud of steam erupted from below as the remains of the barge dived under the surface. The response was both quick and terrifying. What seemed like a hundred guns opened fire from shore. Geysers of water jumped up all around as Toklo began to jig and jag. “Stop that!” Falco ordered. “I need to hold my glasses steady. ”

  To his credit, and contrary to all common sense, Toklo obeyed. So as Falco sent targeting information to the howitzer teams the only thing that kept them alive was good luck. Then it was over, the shells were on the way, and it was time to run. “Now!” Falco shouted, as a bullet tugged his sleeve. “Let’s get out of here!”

  Toklo opened the throttle, the bow came up, and the boat raced toward Little D. The small arms fire soon began to dwindle. But the larger weapons continued to fire. Columns of white water shot up all around them. Suddenly Falco had time to be scared and he was. His heart was beating faster—and he felt giddy.

  Then Falco saw the Russian patrol boat. White water foamed around the vessel’s bow as it surged out of the low lying mist and turned toward them. It had the streamlined appearance of something manufactured in the 50’s, and Falco saw that a gun was mounted in the bow. It produced a puff of smoke—and a shell rumbled through the air.

  The Russian swabbies clearly knew what they were doing, because when the shot exploded, it was close enough to drench both men with cold water. “Slow down!” Falco ordered, as he brought the binoculars up to his eyes.

  Toklo obeyed and Falco began to call fire in. Thanks to the fact that the boat was no longer speeding away, the next shell landed twenty yards in front of it. Falco gave an order and both of the howitzers fired. One round fell short, but the other struck the vessel’s bridge. More followed. And, when one of the shells hit a side-mounted missile launcher, there was a secondary explosion that cut the vessel in half.

  The bow tilted up before sliding under the waves, even as the stern remained level and started to settle. The patrol boat’s horn bleated in a futile attempt to summon help and then the vessel was gone. “Holy shit!” Toklo said, as he stood in the stern. “That was amazing! The sky god Torngasoak was with you. ”

  “The boat is leaking,” Falco observed, as water squirted through a half dozen tiny holes. Caused by flying shrapnel? Yes, it had been a close thing.

  “Time to bail,” Toklo said, as he tossed a scoop to Falco. “But don’t count on Torngasoak to help with that.”

  Falco bailed while Toklo opened the throttle and the boat began to plane. As the bow rose some of the holes cleare
d the water. That, plus Falco’s efforts, were sufficient to keep the bilge water from rising.

  By the time the boat arrived most of the other villagers had left and a ramp was open. Toklo ran the bow up onto the gravelly beach. “I’ll use some spray stuff to patch the holes,” Toklo said, as they got out. “Then I’ll head for Wales.”

  “Thank you,” Falco said. “Give me an invoice, and I’ll make sure you get paid.”

  Toklo looked hurt. “I’m an American, Major … I don’t want any money.”

  They shook hands. “My apologies,” Falco said. “You’re not just an American, you’re a badass American! Take care during the crossing.”

  “I will,” Toklo promised. “You’re okay for a Qallunaat.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” Falco replied, “and I’m not going to ask.”

  Falco heard Toklo laugh as he walked away. The trail lay ahead … And it was going to be a steep climb.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Elmendorf Air Force Base, Alaska, USA

  T he sun was rising in the east, and the ground came up fast, as Parker put the F-15E Strike Eagle down with a gentle thump. “Sweet … It’s almost like you’ve done it before,” Captain Jimmy Baines commented from the back seat. Baines was a Weapons Systems Officer, or WSO, usually pronounced “Wizzo.” As such he had responsibility for the plane’s navigation, electronic, and weapons systems. His call sign was “Dodger.” And if Parker was incapacitated Baines could fly the plane himself.

  “Thanks,” Parker said, as she turned onto a taxiway. The concrete path led to one of the hastily constructed revetments that lined both sides of the main runway. Now, after dozens of air raids, a single hangar remained. A bullseye was painted on the roof.

  Baines wasn’t one to hand out compliments for routine landings. So Parker knew the Wizzo was trying to raise her spirits. Because in spite of their best efforts, Parker’s flight of four aircraft hadn’t been able to penetrate the Russian air defenses.

  After bringing the F-15 to a stop Parker and Baines ran through the standard shutdown sequence prior to opening the canopy and climbing out. Their crew chief was waiting on the tarmac. Her name was Evers, and as far as she was concerned, the plane was hers. “How’s my baby? ”

  “Not a scratch on her,” Baines replied.

  “It looks like you brought the entire loadout back.”

  Parker knew that Evers was referring to the missiles and bombs racked under the F-15’s delta shaped wings. “Yeah,” she said. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  Evers looked from Parker to Baines and back again. “No, ma’am.”

  “Good,” Parker said. Then she walked away.

  “Don’t take it personally,” Baines said. “She’s pissed that’s all … We didn’t get through.”

  Evers nodded. “Sorry, sir. I put my foot in it.”

  “No prob. The major needs a break that’s all. Gas her up … We’ll do better next time.”

  The Russians liked to bomb Elmendorf at least two times a week, so much of the base’s infrastructure lay in ruins. Parker was halfway to the makeshift Ops Shack when an army captain hurried to intercept her. “Major Parker?”

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Deveraux. I report to Lieutenant General Haberman. She would like to speak with you.”

  Parker was bone tired. “Now?”

  Deveraux smiled. “I’m afraid so. The general rarely puts anything off.”

  Parker had heard of Haberman. Everyone had. And for good reason. The hard charging army officer had been plucked out of the European theatre to lead Operation Pushback and, as she told a reporter, “… to fuck the Russians up.” A statement which produced smiles at the Pentagon. As Baines joined them Parker made the introductions. “Captain Deveraux is taking us to see General Haberman,” she informed him. “Now. ”

  “Uh, oh,” Baines said. “What was it? The victory roll two days ago? We’ll be good, I promise.”

  “No,” Deveraux assured him. “The general will explain. Please follow me.”

  Parker and Baines had no choice but to accompany Deveraux to a waiting Humvee and climb in. Flight gear and all. The driver knew his way around, and felt free to take shortcuts. Like the one that cut across a badly cratered athletic field.

  The headquarters building had been targeted early on, and that explained why Haberman and her staff were camped in the Officer’s Club. It was surrounded by Avenger Air Defense systems. They swiveled as if sniffing the air. The officers had to pass through two layers of security before entering the building.

  Once inside the aviators found themselves in what had once been the “Flight Line” dining room, but had since been converted into open office space. It was home to dozens of desks and buzzing with activity. Deveraux led them through the maze to a door with a plaque that read “Manager’s Office.” After following the staff officer into a spacious room, Parker saw that an entire wall was devoted to flat screens, while a second was home to a messy whiteboard, and a third could barely be seen behind a gigantic map. Colored pins had been pushed into the sheetrock beyond—and satellite photos were posted here, there and everywhere. A yellow post-it was attached to each.

  Haberman was seated behind a steel desk talking on a landline. She waved her guests towards some mismatched chairs. “Yes, sir … I’ll look into it. Of course, sir. You too. Goodbye.”

  Then, like an explosive ordinance disposal tech handling a live bomb, Haberman placed the handset on its receiver. She made a face. “That was Under Secretary of Defense Rollins. He thinks it would be a great idea to have some professional basketball players play some B-ball with our soldiers. What a pinhead. ”

  Haberman had short hair that was, in military parlance, worn “high and tight.” Her large eyes were filled with intelligence. They jumped from face-to-face. “Parker and Baines. You could open a law firm after the war. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Three kills … That would have been a significant accomplishment during WWII, but it’s truly remarkable these days. Congratulations.”

  Is that what we’re here for? Parker wondered. A pat on the fanny? I’d rather get some sleep. But she couldn’t say that, and didn’t. “Thank you, ma’am … We were lucky.”

  Haberman grinned. “Modesty? From a fighter pilot? Now I’ve seen everything! How ‘bout it, Captain? Were you lucky?”

  “No, ma’am,” Baines answered. “The major’s the best we have. She shot the first plane down with an old MiG 21.”

  Haberman nodded. “That’s what I heard. And that’s why you’re here. I have a job for you. A very special job.”

  Parker frowned. “Uh, oh.”

  Haberman laughed. “I like your style, Major … You understand how the system works. We have a problem, and his name is Adrian Voronov. I suspect you’ve heard of him.”

  Parker knew who Voronov was. Every fighter pilot did. Voronov had shot down what? Six American planes? Something like that. And killed a Wizzo in the water. All of Parker’s friends wanted to kill him. “Yes, ma’am. I’ve heard of him.”

  “Well, here’s what he looks like.” Haberman aimed a remote at the media wall and pressed a button. A face filled a screen. Voronov had dark hair and small eyes. They stared into the camera as if determined to see through the lens. His nose was bent, as if broken in a fist fight, and the disfigurement made Voronov look tough. His lips were set in a sardonic smile.

  “This is his official photograph for the 2014 Sochi Winter Olympics,” Haberman said. “A lot of people expected him to win the Slalom. But he got into a fight with a British skier, and was expelled. ”

  Parker couldn’t think of anything meaningful to say. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well,” Haberman said, as she leaned back in her chair. “Somebody needs to kill the bastard. And we chose you two for the job.”

  Parker frowned. “Permission to speak freely?”

  Haberman nodded. “Granted.”

  “That’s it? ” Parker demanded. “We go up and shoot him dow
n? Voronov would be dead if it was that easy. Everybody’s gunning for him.”

  “We know it won’t be easy,” Haberman replied. “But you’re the best team in this theatre. And you understand Russian planes and pilots better than your peers do. That, plus the information we’ve assembled could make the critical difference.

  “So, if you agree, we’re going to pull you out of the normal rotation so you can bone up. Then we’ll put you back on the schedule. That’s when the hunt will start. Are you in?”

  Parker looked at Baines. He nodded and Parker felt the first stirrings of fear. Was she truly good enough? She hoped so. “We’re in,” Parker said.

  “Good,” Haberman replied, as she pushed a file folder toward the front of her desk. “Don’t take this outside the building. Park it with my adjutant when you’re ready to leave. And one more thing …”

  “Yes?”

  “I suggest that you have a chat with Lieutenant Milo Davis. Voronov shot him down over the Bering Sea—and killed his Wizzo in the water. Maybe Davis can provide some useful information. Be gentle though … He’s pretty messed up.”

  Parker had heard about it. Everybody had. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Okay,” Haberman said as she stood. “You have two days to get ready. Use the time wisely. ”

  Parker and Baines were too tired to tackle the project then and there. So they asked Deveraux to drop them at the chow hall. After a quick meal they hitched a ride to the apartment house where they were staying. After agreeing to meet at 1600 they went their separate ways.

  Parker expected to sleep well, but didn’t. There were dreams. Bad dreams. Including one in which she and her husband Greg were riding a roller coaster when their car flew off the tracks and sailed through the air. Parker screamed, and tried to grab Greg. But he fell. And the ride continued without him.

  Then the car, with Parker in it, was magically transformed into an F-15 which swooped up into the sky. An enemy pilot was on her six. He laughed manically, and Baines yelled, “Break right!” Parker woke to find that her tee was soaked with sweat, and her heart was beating like a trip hammer.