Cauldron

by Larry Bond

  The need for that was clear. France could not prosper in a Europe torn between rival trading blocs. Nor could it tolerate the so-called free trade babbled about by so many bubble-headed economists. A nation that allowed its fate to be determined by unrestrained competition between private companies was a nation of fools. France had always had a strong partnership between its industry and government and had used its industry as a tool of statecraft on many occasions.

  Failure to protect and manage its vital industries would inevitably mean surrendering French prosperity and sovereignty to larger, stronger, richer countries — the United States, Japan, and Germany. And that was intolerable.

  Absolutely intolerable. Desaix scowled. Even the thought that his country might find itself in such a state of affairs was repulsive.

  There was only one real way to avoid such ignominious crawling. France must build a European alliance strong enough to fend off outside economic competition and political pressure. A league of nations where France could use its status as a nuclear power and U.N. Security Council member to manage its weaker neighbors and keep German interests closely tied to French interests.

  But his colleagues were almost entirely uninterested in the larger issues confronting their nation. Instead, they were wrapped up in purely parochial concerns — each seemingly more interested in securing his own power than in the longer-term safety of the state. Desaix found their sluggish indifference infuriating.

  A clock chimed the hour. Time and opportunity were both slipping through his fingers.

  He shook his head angrily. If the Emergency Committee could not or would not act, he would have to take the necessary first steps toward a new continental alliance on his own. And if that meant presenting his laggard confederates with a virtual fait accompli, so be it.

  Desaix spun on his heel and left the chamber. His aides clustered anxiously in the hallway outside, waiting for new instructions and demands. He would not disappoint them.

  “Girault! Initiate a thorough economic and military analysis of Poland and the Czech and Slovak republics! I want to know their weaknesses. The points where we can exert pressure if necessary!” The three countries were resisting French and German influence — breeding bad examples in the other Eastern European nations. That would have to stop. He turned to another assistant without waiting for a reply. “Radet! Arrange a private meeting with the German Chancellor. For next week. In Berlin.”

  Desaix stalked down the hallway, still trailed by his aides. Their feet rang on marble tiles as he rattled out more orders. “Bisson! Invite the Russian ambassador to my apartment for dinner, tomorrow evening. And bring me the secret file on him this afternoon! Lassere! I need to know how much money we have available in the discretionary accounts. Prepare a report…”

  Nicolas Desaix controlled the Foreign Ministry and the intelligence services. That was enough for now. He would use his power and influence to begin bending Europe’s quarreling nation-states to his will — to the will of France.

  CHAPTER 8

  Assignments

  NOVEMBER 3 — OVER LUKE AIR FORCE BASE, ARIZONA

  Four F-15 Eagles flew straight and level ten thousand feet over the rugged Arizona desert. Camouflaged in shades of light gray, they seemed to loaf through the air effortlessly, all the time hurtling along at 500 knots — more than 570 miles an hour.

  The letters “LA” on each plane’s twin tails revealed they were from the 405th Tactical Training Wing, at Luke Air Force Base, near Phoenix, Arizona. Standard air force markings included the Star and Bars on the wings and tails in a muted gray color, serial numbers, the words “U.S. Air Force,” and so on. These appeared to be standard F-15 Eagles except for two things. The first was a painted crest — a white eagle on a red shield that adorned the air intakes on each jet’s side. The second was that anyone listening to the radio circuit would hear fluent Polish, not English.

  The four pilots were Polish Air Force officers, full of anticipation. Soon three months of hard training would be behind them. For three of them, they would be leaving the USA and its abundance, but they would be going home. The fourth would be leaving the land of his birth.

  It had been a successful training sortie, an air-to-ground mission. Nobody had been hit by the phony air defenses, and they had all scored well on the bombing runs. Pawel Blazynski, the number two pilot in the flight, had done particularly well. Everyone could hear the thin, blond, outgoing young man’s excitement and pride. “Did you see that? Did you? With each bomb I took out a Russian armored company.”

  Nobody commented on the irony of his simulated enemy’s nationality. All of the older pilots had received their first training from the Russians.

  Stefan Michalak, not as good a pilot, but a bigger braggart, was quick to top him. “You get much better results with cluster weapons, Pawel. Give me a load of Rockeyes and I will take out a Russian tank division — one bomblet per tank.” He was flying in the number four position. “What about you, Tad?”

  First Lieutenant Tadeusz Wojcik flew in the number three spot. As second element leader, he was the second-most capable pilot in the flight, after Major Sokolowicz.

  Wojcik didn’t reply immediately, and Pawel answered for him. “Tad only bombs Germans,” he joked. “He combines business with pleasure.” Laughter filled the circuit.

  Silently Tad agreed.

  Though he had been born in America, his Polish heritage showed in his looks. Sandy brown hair framed a round, pale face and light blue eyes. Of only average height, he was solidly built, almost stocky, but he was also in superb physical condition. Flying a supersonic fighter required that.

  Where his attitude toward the Germans was concerned, he was all Polish. His father had good reason to hate the Germans, and Tad, with all the fervor of a convert, had taken the older man’s attitudes for his own.

  Over fifty years later, cities in his adopted country still bore scars of their coming. During the 1939 invasion, the Nazis had killed both his mother’s and his father’s parents, leaving them each orphaned at an early age. They’d survived somehow, only to find themselves trapped by a new form of tyranny when the Russians imposed communism on Poland after the war ended. Neither found life easy in the decades that followed. Finally, after years of trying, they’d won permission to emigrate to the United States. There they had settled into a new, more prosperous life. Tad had been born in 1976, crowning the joy his parents found in their new freedom.

  Neither his mother nor his father had ever forgotten their beloved Poland. And neither had ever forgotten the first source of their homeland’s misery: the Germans who’d crushed Poland, stripped her bare, and left her defenseless before the resurgent Soviets.

  After much soul-searching, they’d decided to return home in 1992, bringing with them skills and financial resources desperately needed by their now free but impoverished homeland. Tad had gone with them, still more American than Polish. But now, five years later, here he was, flying jet fighters for an adoptive homeland he’d come to cherish deeply.

  Poland, though free of Soviet control, was in a precarious position. Since the first months after the Warsaw Pact collapsed, Polish officers had worked to modernize their country’s armed forces, but that was next to impossible while her economy made the difficult transition to a free market. Unfortunately her strategic position made that modernization necessary — no matter how much it cost. To the east, Russia, Belarus, Ukraine, and the other former Soviet Republics seemed busy with their own internal wrangles. But no Pole could doubt that there were Russians who still longed for renewed economic and military control over Eastern Europe. The Warsaw Pact might be dead, but the idea behind it could still come alive at any moment. That was especially true now that Russia was under de facto military rule.

  Poland’s western border was menaced by a reunified Germany. Although the Germans also seemed more interested in their own economic problems than military expansion, there were still right-wing groups in Germany trumpeting historic c
laims to portions of Polish territory. And most of the former Soviet Bloc states had signed so many economic agreements with Germany and France that their industries and governments were all but run directly by Berlin and Paris. Only Poland and her southern neighbors had steadfastly refused any such relationship.

  Instead they’d turned to the United States and the United Kingdom for help. And both countries had responded — moved by historic ties and a growing desire to counterbalance French and German influence in the rest of Eastern Europe. They’d provided weapons, mostly out of now-useless NATO stockpiles, and training in Western tactics. German and Russian complaints were answered by pointing to the limited, strictly defensive nature of the American and British military aid program.

  The Eagle fighters Wojcik and his comrades were flying were part of that plan. Although there were newer fighters flying, the F-15 was still a formidable opponent. Tad was openly in love with his aircraft. His American birth and upbringing might have biased him, but the other Poles in the program, some with thousands of hours in Russian aircraft types, seemed equally pleased.

  Before the Eagle arrived last year, the best fighter in the Polish inventory had been the MiG-29 Fulcrum. Tad had done well in primary and advanced training, quickly graduating to the MiG-29s, a choice assignment.

  The Russian-built fighters were similar to the F-15 in basic layout — twin vertical tails, two engines, and armed with radar-guided missiles. The Fulcrum was smaller, though, and couldn’t carry as many weapons. Its radar was also primitive in comparison to the set in its American counterpart. The MiG did have some advantages in a dogfight, though, like the helmet-mounted sight and an infrared sensor that wouldn’t warn an enemy aircraft that it had been detected and was under attack. Still, Tad preferred the Eagle.

  It was the dream of every Polish aviator to fly “the starship” — a nickname earned for the Eagle by its advanced electronics. Wojcik’s perfect American English and excellent flying skills had been his ticket into the Polish Air Force’s newest regiment.

  “Five miles out.” Major Sokolowicz’s mark was all the well-trained flight needed to hear. The four fighters neatly peeled off, changing from finger-four formation into line as they began their approach to the runway.

  This landing was routine, and precise. Tad congratulated himself on another successful mission. As much as he loved to fly, he never fully relaxed until he was back on the ground again.

  The major’s voice filled his earphones again. “A good flight. Debrief in ten minutes.”

  Tad heard the ground controller give them clearance to taxi, then followed the first two planes. Turning onto a taxiway paralleling the runway, the four planes wound their way past rows of parked aircraft bustling with mechanics, hangars, and other buildings. Luke Air Force Base was the largest fighter training center in the world. All U.S. Air Force pilots and many from America’s allies got their basic flight and air combat training high above the Arizona desert. All of the foreign pilots training in the F-15 were grouped under the 405th Tactical Training Wing. The Poles rubbed shoulders with Japanese and Saudi fighter jocks. It made for interesting conversations at the Officer’s Club.

  As Tad cut his throttle and cracked the canopy, he could hear the descending whine of other jet engines spooling down. The biting, familiar smell of kerosene and hot metal filled the air.

  He waited quietly while a puffing ground crewman hung an access ladder on the F-15’s cockpit edge, then gratefully unstrapped and climbed out of the cockpit and down the ladder. It felt good to stretch.

  The debriefing was held under the eye of an American air force instructor, Major Kendall. His Polish was almost as bad as some of the trainees’ English, so Tad was often called in as an interpreter. Each cockpit videotape was reviewed, critiqued, and compared with scores provided by the range operators.

  As the debrief ended, Tad’s mind was already far away. He had a few errands to run, then he was going to get together with Michalak, his wingman, for tomorrow’s “graduation” exercise. They had some plans to make.

  NOVEMBER 8

  The squadron’s mass briefing was held at 0700 hours, in both Polish and English, led by Major Sokolowicz. Every man sat or stood in the packed amphitheater, even the ground crews, since this was the last mission and, according to dependable rumor, a “ball-buster.” Chatter filled the air, mixed with laughter. Every pilot enjoyed ACM, or air combat maneuvering missions, and the fact that this one would be tough only whetted their appetite. Add that they were going home soon, the atmosphere was almost partylike.

  The major’s run-through was quick, almost terse. The only information they’d been given was that today’s mission was to be a “maximum effort.” Simulating a fighter sweep in hostile airspace, all eight Polish pilots completing the course were to launch in two flights of four each, Blue and Green. They were to clear the way for an imaginary strike coming in behind their Eagles.

  Tad sat off to one side near the front with Stefan Michalak. He wanted to hear the brief, of course, but already knew the mission plan by heart. The two lieutenants had spent half the night studying details of the range topography and going over possible tactics. They were slated to fly with Sokolowicz again, as Blue Three and Four.

  Michalak, a tall, thin, black-haired pilot, waited quietly, masking nervousness with inactivity. Because of Tad’s obvious skill and his own inexperience, he was more than willing to follow the lieutenant’s lead. They were going to be taking a definite risk.

  The major quickly ran through the particulars. All eight aircraft carried simulators that mimicked an AIM-9M Sidewinder and an AMRAAM, as well as telemetry pods that transmitted its position and course. The equipment would allow the ground observers to follow the fight and score kills. Backed up by HUD videotapes from both sides, a few minutes of whirling air combat could be dissected and examined in embarrassing detail.

  Sokolowicz’s English was accented but understandable. “This will be a tough one,” he said. “As long as we play by the book, and remember our lessons, we will win.”

  Tad nodded to himself. The major gave almost the same speech at the start of every brief. He was right, of course, but there wasn’t a lot of fire in it.

  Sokolowicz glanced over at Kendall, sitting quietly in a corner of the stage. Nodding toward the American officer, he said, “Our hosts have promised to present us with a real challenge, a test to see just how much we really have learned.”

  An American-accented voice in the audience muttered, “Kobiyashi Maru,” and scattered laughter filled the air. Most of the Poles, except the major, looked a little puzzled, and only Tad laughed. He suspected that Sokolowicz didn’t know anything about Star Trek, either, but was too cool a customer to let his ignorance show.

  Sokolowicz brushed past the remark and finished up. “Engine start in fifteen minutes.” The major finished what he was doing and strolled casually over to the end of the stage. Bending down on one knee, he spoke quietly, in Polish, with Wojcik.

  “Are your aircraft ready?”

  “Yes, sir. We inspected them both just before the brief.”

  “Good. After we are cleared to taxi, fall into line in the first flight’s number three and four slots.”

  “As you wish, sir.” Tad already knew all that, but if the major wanted to review it, that was fine with him. Sokolowicz was being pretty ballsy to even let them try this. If his scheme worked, though…

  Ten minutes later, the Polish pilots and their ground crews streamed out to the ramp. Almost immediately the whine of turbines rose into the air.

  Tad sprinted for his hangar, feeling his excitement grow. Michalak pounded after him, and the two entered through a side door guarded by a Polish staff sergeant. He saw the pilots coming, saluted, and wished them good luck.

  The dimly lit hangar interior seemed even darker after the bright desert sun outside, already starting to climb high above the horizon. The sun heated the building, and in the warm, stuffy darkness two F-15s sat silent, all shadows
and angles as they waited to fly.

  Their appearance had been altered. Both planes had been painted from top to bottom in water-washable shades of tan and brown. Only the red and white eagle crest had been left uncovered.

  Tad and his wingman split up, each to preflight his own aircraft. With a good ground crew, the walk-around was a formality, but a good aviator always double-checked. Even though this was a training flight, Tad was betting his life on his plane.

  He carefully examined the ordnance under the wings. In addition to the two missile simulators and telemetry pod, a white shape hung from the port underwing pylon. It also looked like a missile, but one without fins or a rocket motor. Its nose was fitted with a clear glass circle, and Tad knelt down to inspect the infrared sensor underneath.

  His plan, approved by Sokolowicz, was simple: hug the earth, keeping his radar off while he and his wingman searched the sky with the infrared sensors. With the rest of the squadron yanking and banking at high altitude, two Eagles wouldn’t be noticed until it was too late, until they’d popped up behind an oncoming adversary. It wasn’t standard doctrine, but in air combat it was wise to deviate from doctrine once in a while.

  With everything in order, he climbed in and started his preflight checks. A few moments after hooking up his radio leads, he heard “Engines” in his earphones and pressed his starter button, simultaneously waving to the ground crew in the hangar. Even with ear protection, they deserved a little warning.

  Four massive jet engines howled to life, raw sound and power reverberating off the hangar walls, and a vertical sliver of bright light widened as the front doors slid open.

  “Blue and Green flights, you’re clear to taxi.” The ground controller’s voice sounded bored. Of course, he’d probably seen a thousand similar jets off on a hundred similar missions.