The thought flashed through Falco’s mind as he allowed the M4 to fall and rolled to the right. Bullets kicked up geysers of slush where he’d been standing. Falco’s fingers clawed at the 9mm holstered on his vest and jerked it free.
The Russian had adjusted his aim by then. He yelled something in Russian. “Eat shit and die?” Something similar perhaps. And that was a mistake. Falco fired two shots. The first bullet hit the soldier in the crotch. The second slug struck higher—but didn’t have enough punch to penetrate the Russian’s chest plate. It didn’t matter. When the soldier released his AK to grab hold of his privates Falco shot him again. The third bullet was fatal. The body slumped to the ground.
Falco lay panting on the ground, pistol up, half expecting another attack. A large bump was forming on his head—and it hurt like hell. The sound of an explosion served to focus his thoughts. Parker … The Wizzo … One of them was in trouble.
Falco stood, went to retrieve the M4, and removed the PRC-152 from a slot on his vest. He keyed the mike. “Stripper? Do you read me? Over. ”
There was a moment of silence. The response was little more than a whisper. The rattle of gunfire was audible in the background. The same rattle he could hear. “Wombat? Is that you? Over.”
Parker! She was alive! “Yes,” Falco replied. “It’s me. Where are you? Over.”
“South of Wales,” the pilot whispered. “The Russians are closing in from the west.”
Falco turned to look. The pinnacle was at least a mile from the nearest fighting. It looked as though the Russians had gained some more ground, and were spread out in a line just west of the smoldering helicopter. “Where are you relative to the Chinook? Over.”
“You can see it?”
“Yes. Over.”
“I’m inside it,” Parker replied. “I’m hiding just aft of the cockpit. Over.”
That was a surprise. It made sense though … Because of the smoke that continued to trickle out of the fuselage both sides had stayed clear of it. “Get ready,” Falco told her. “I’m coming to get you. I’ll be on an ATV. Over.”
“Don’t do it,” Parker said. “You won’t stand a chance.”
“Get ready,” Falco said. “If we don’t pull you out now it will be too late.”
Was there enough time to contact the Stryker commander? And what would happen if he did? Would some colonel order him to stay put?
Falco put the radio away, made a run for the ATV, and cranked it up. Then with the M4 slung over his shoulder he took off. The opposing sides were focused on each other, so Falco went unnoticed at first. Then the Russians spotted the off-road vehicle and opened fire. Falco zigzagged back and forth in an attempt to ruin their aim .
Then, as he rounded a boulder, shells rumbled overhead. The gunfire was supposed to explode in among the Strykers. But the high explosive rounds landed perilously close to Russian marines instead. And that meant the shells were striking around the Chinook! Was a company commander calling the shots? Probably.
Falco swerved to avoid a chunk of helicopter and straightened the handlebars. A shell landed to Falco’s left, made a loud BOOM, and showered the JTAC with mud as he neared the wreck. Another round struck as the ATV’s right front wheel dipped into a shell crater. The vehicle took a nose dive and Falco was thrown off. He landed hard. He couldn’t breathe at first … And it took a moment to recover.
Parker appeared out of the swirling smoke. Her face was dirty, her flight suit was ripped, and there was a pistol in her hand. “Were you hit?”
“No,” Falco replied. “I don’t think so.”
“Good. Get up. We’ll hide in the Chinook.”
Falco rolled to his feet and followed Parker in through an open hatch. Once they were inside Parker pointed a finger to the west. “They’re over there,” she said, as shells continued to fall. The wreckage trembled as one of them exploded nearby.
Falco felt for his radio. The first thing to do was call for close air support. The PRC-152 was gone. Lost during the wild ride. He looked at Parker. “Lend me your radio … I’ll call for support.”
“I already have,” Parker whispered. “They’ll come as quickly as they can. But they need to kick some ass first. And that could take a while.”
Falco checked to make sure the M4 was ready. If the Russians attempted to enter he would take at least some of them down. “What are you doing here?” Parker wanted to know.
“I was in Wales,” Falco whispered. “I heard your Mayday. So I came looking for you. ”
Parker had green eyes. They studied him. “That was stupid, but brave. Thank you. Did you see any sign of Baines?”
“Your Wizzo?”
“Yes.”
“No. I saw one chute. But, there could have been a second one. Maybe I missed it.”
Parker looked away. Tears were trickling down her cheeks. It seemed natural to put an arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry.”
Falco heard a shout. It was in Russian. He removed the arm and brought the carbine up. A man stepped into the cargo bay, did a double take, and raised his AK-47. Falco shot him in the face and he collapsed. More men appeared. Falco fired on them as did Parker. Two soldiers fell. “Into the cockpit!” Falco ordered, and gave her a shove.
They were barely clear when two grenades flew in through the hatch, bounced, and rattled across the deck. There were overlapping explosions. Shrapnel flew and Falco felt something sting his cheek. That was when a man appeared outside the transparent canopy. Parker fired three shots at him and he fell. We’re screwed , Falco thought. The Russians will …
Parker’s radio produced a burp of static. “Hey Stripper …. Keep your head down. Cowboy and Wizard in from the north with guns.”
Falco and Parker hit the deck. Not that doing so would do much good if one of the fighter pilots missed the Russians and hit the wreck. The sound of jet engines was followed by the roar of a Gatling gun. Then the first plane was gone and the second screamed over. More 25mm rounds tore up the ground west of the Chinook.
Falco performed a pushup, and made his way over to the hatch, where he ventured outside. The M4 was up and ready to fire. But there was no need. Dead and wounded Russians lay everywhere. Engines growled as the Stryker battalion moved west to secure the area. A first lieutenant came forward to toss a salute. “Are you Wombat?”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad you’re okay, sir. The ATV thing was crazy. No offense intended. Is this yours?” The lieutenant was holding the PRC-152. It was muddy but intact.
“Yes, thank you,” Falco said as he accepted the radio.
Parker appeared at his side. “I just got off the horn … Cowboy and Wizard took care of the gunboats.”
Falco realized that the shelling had stopped. “That’s wonderful! Did you thank them?”
“Yes. And we owe them a case of beer.”
Falco nodded. “Come on … Let’s see if the ATV will run.” It did. Parker climbed on behind him. And, when she leaned forward to wrap her arms around Falco’s waist, it felt good.
Chapter Nineteen
Lavrentiya, Russia
G eneral Anatoly Baranov didn’t want to be in Lavrentiya, especially then, as his soldiers struggled to secure a beachhead in Wales, Alaska. But he had no choice. Admiral Maxim Zharkov, commander of the pacific fleet might be a friend. But he was a superior officer as well. And a man Baranov couldn’t afford to ignore because Operation Red Ice couldn’t go forward without the navy’s support. So, if Zharkov wanted to speak with him in person, then speak he would.
That’s what Baranov was thinking as he got off the helicopter, and made his way across the tarmac to the point where Colonel Yakimov was waiting. The one-eyed Spetnaz officer reminded Baranov of the grim faced portraits which lined the halls of the Moscow war museum. Russian war heroes were a universally glum lot, and understandably so, since many of them had fought and lost battles in the Great Patriotic War. But they were tenacious bastards … And eventually emerged victorious. Did that desc
ribe his situation? After failing to establish a beachhead in Wales? Baranov wanted to think so. Yakimov rendered a salute. “Good morning, Comrade General.”
Baranov returned the courtesy. “What’s so good about it?”
It was a churlish thing to say, but Yakimov remained unfazed. “We are alive, General … And only 2.3 miles from victory. ”
Baranov couldn’t help but smile. “You are an optimist Colonel, and I love you for it. Has the admiral arrived?”
“Yes, sir. He’s waiting.”
“And how would you describe his mood?”
“He’s worried, sir. About everything. Including his ass.”
Dudin and Gotov were standing a few feet away. Could the TASS reporter hear what had been said? Baranov hoped not. Yakimov was an outstanding solider and a member of the GRU. Still, the last comment was well over the line. Baranov decided to ignore it. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”
A beat up GAZ Tigr was waiting to take the officers to Fort Lavrentiya’s command bunker. The once sleepy town was heavily fortified with AA missile batteries, fighters prowled the skies above, and sonobuoys had been placed at strategic locations around the bay. A precaution Admiral Zharkov should have taken earlier. Did the loss of two destroyers and a cruiser account for the naval officer’s nervousness? Definitely. Never mind the damage done in Anadyr.
But all was not lost. Troops were everywhere marching, running, and training. And once the last section of bridge was in place they would stream across the strait and take Alaska back.
The entrance to the command bunker was protected by a platoon of Spetsnaz troopers, a barbwire fence, and concrete blast walls. Guards snapped to attention as Baranov and his companions strode past—and followed a ramp down into the dimly lit room below. Orderly rows of technicians sat in front of flat screen monitors tracking ships, planes, and drones. The combined murmur of their voices had a soft, soothing quality.
A junior officer was waiting to lead the men back to the conference room where Admiral Zharkov sat waiting. He rose and came forward to wrap Baranov in a bear hug. But the navy officer looked tired, and his smile was forced. “It’s good to see you, Anatoly … Even if you resemble a horse’s rear end. ”
“And you Maxim,” Baranov replied. “In spite of the fact that you look like a dog’s breakfast.”
Both men laughed. But the moment lacked the unforced comradery of days gone by. “Good morning, Major Gotov,” Zharkov said. “And it’s good to see you again Comrade Dudin. Could you excuse us for a moment?” Then, without waiting for a reply, Zharkov said, “Thank you.”
As the two men departed Zharkov turned to Baranov. “Give me a status report, Anatoly. And no bullshit. I want the truth! First I lost the Konev to some kind of orbital weapon. Then the Americans sank both of her escorts. Since then the pindos have destroyed two Pomornik class hovercraft, two gunboats, and dozens of small craft. This has to end, Anatoly … The Americans and their allies sank a Chinese carrier two days ago. The Konev and her escorts might have made the difference.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Baranov replied. “But this is war Maxim … What did you expect? Some assets will be lost.”
“Some,” Zharkov agreed, “but there are limits. I can’t give you any more ships Anatoly.”
“What about tugs? We’re close, very close, and I need tugs to push section three into place.”
“I will give you tugs,” Zharkov agreed. “But nothing more. Not so much as a rowboat. You must finish it, Anatoly. I spoke with Marshal Orlov yesterday. He grows impatient.”
Baranov wanted to say, “Fuck him,” but managed to control himself. It felt as though the walls were closing in on him. To fail while so close to victory would drive him mad. “I understand, Maxim. I will finish it.”
“How soon?”
“Within forty-eight hours.”
“Do that Anatoly, and every Russian will know your name. I have to go now, but keep me in the loop.”
“I will,” Baranov promised. “I will. ”
Once Zharkov was gone Dudin and Gotov entered the room. “So, Comrade General,” Dudin said. “How did it go?”
“It went well,” Baranov lied. “The admiral is looking forward to landing on newly conquered soil.”
“As well he should,” Gotov said.
Baranov was barely aware of the comment. His mind was racing. The frontal assault on Wales had been nothing less than a total disaster. And his attempts to flank the American defenses had failed. What remained?
Baranov stood and made his way over to a large wall map. His eyes roamed the area around Wales, happened on two words, and paused. “Find an intelligence officer. Bring him here.”
Gotov knew the order was directed to him and left. Dudin came over to stand next to Baranov. “You are staring at the map, General … What do you see?”
“This,” Baranov said, as his right index finger stabbed a spot immediately south of Wales.
Dudin moved in for a closer look. The letters were so small that Dudin could barely read them. “Tin City.”
Dudin looked at Baranov. What was the general thinking?
Tin City Air Force Station, Alaska, USA
Tom Riley preferred to sleep in the station’s equipment bay because racks of components kept it warm, and he could hear the audible alarms should any go off. The larger facility had been closed for more than 35 years, but the air force continued to operate Tin City’s radar remotely from Elmendorf AFB. The “minimally attended” AN/FPS-117 radar system required regular maintenance however—and that’s where Riley came in.
It was 0600 when the alarm clock beside Riley’s cot went off. Russian fighters had destroyed the antenna on Cope Mountain two days earlier, but Riley was under orders to keep the rest of the system running, so he had to get up. A new antenna was to be flown in soon.
Tin City was located at the foot of the mountain. After destroying the antenna the Russians strafed the buildings that comprised the original base. But most of the structures were empty, and had been since 1983. And, as luck would have it, the low flying jets missed the nondescript concrete structure that was home to the AN/FPS-117’s equipment racks as well as Tin City’s sole resident.
Riley squirmed his way out of the sleeping bag, slipped his feet into a pair of fleece lined mocs, and shuffled out into the maintenance area that also served as his living room. It was furnished contractor style, which was to say poorly, with an old sofa and a stained recliner. A much abused footlocker stood in as a coffee table. It had, according to the moniker stenciled on the front of it, been the property of someone named “Denton.”
Riley paused to mark the wall calendar. There were sixteen days left on his thirty day tour. Then he would go home to Cindy, and another contractor would arrive. Assuming Tin City still belonged to the US of A.
Riley entered the bathroom where he brushed his teeth and shaved. It wasn’t required. Most contractors didn’t. But after shaving every day of his twenty-two years in the air force, Riley couldn’t imagine wearing a beard, even though he was retired and “double-dipping.”
After a hot shower Riley toweled off, got dressed, and made breakfast. His fresh food was gone by then. But he liked Spam, and he liked hotcakes, so he ate some of both every morning.
By 0800 Riley was ready to run the morning check on what he thought of as his life-support systems. Those included the leaky plumbing, the electric heating, and the station’s diesel generator. Riley was halfway through the routine when the handheld radio on his belt beeped. It was connected to a relay station and an antenna near the four-thousand five-hundred foot airstrip. This enabled the duty techs in Elmendorf to reach him whenever they needed to. “This is Tin City One … Over.”
“This is Mark,” a voice said. “Grab some gear and run like hell! Head for Wales … Russian planes are headed your way!”
Riley’s mind started to race. A knot formed in his belly. Mark Hanson was one of the techs at Elmendorf. “What about the system?”
“Pull enough modules to disable it, and take one of them with you. Now get … Or would you like to spend next winter in a Siberian gulag?”
“I’m on it,” Riley replied. “Thanks. Out.” Riley circled the building and dashed inside. The next couple of minutes were spent jerking modules out of racks. He hid some and dumped two of them into a day pack. A handful of trail bars went on top. Then, with his bear rifle in hand, Riley took off. And just in time too, as a Sukhoi Su-25 screamed over the station, and circled the base.
There was no cover other than scattered rock piles, so all Riley could do was run north, and hope for the best. The pilot wouldn’t fire on a single individual would he?
The answer was, “Yes.” As Riley learned when a rocket turned the old pump shack into splinters—and a second missile struck the gymnasium. The explosion sent debris whirling into the air and started a fire.
The airstrip ran west to east. Riley dashed across the runway onto the barren ground that lay beyond. Because it was summer the contractor had to thread his way between a scattering of fresh water ponds in order to travel north. He looked back over his shoulder, saw the jet lining up for a second run, and made a mad dash for a cluster of rocks .
The Russian fired his guns, and all Riley could do was lay flat and pray. Cannon shells threw up geysers of dirt to the left and right as the Su-25 flashed over. Then it was time to get up and run some more. As Riley did so he was conscious of the fact that more planes were arriving on the scene. But why?
The answer became obvious when an Illyoshin 11-76 transport plane bored in from the west, and paratroopers tumbled out of it. The airborne troops were supposed to land, secure the airstrip, and hold it so that more transports could land. Most of the soldiers fell around the runway.
But, due to a capricious sea breeze, some troopers were going to land north of Riley. Three to be exact. And once on the ground the Russians could prevent him from reaching Wales which lay nine miles away.
Red Ice Page 24
