The question followed her into the lavatory where she took a pee, splashed cold water onto her face, and washed her hands. Quinn examined herself in the mirror. No matter what happens don’t let your soldiers down.
CHAPTER SIX
In a B-2 Bomber over Kazakhstan.
U.S. Air Force Captain Tom Brody, and copilot Captain Kathy Albright, were at 27,000 feet and waiting to refuel. “We’re four minutes out,” Albright said.
“Roger that,” Brody replied. Two minutes later the KC-135 Stratotanker appeared up ahead. It was about ten miles away and, seen tail-on, was little more than a speck. The image grew larger as the distance closed. That was when the radio chatter began. Did Brody realize how fortunate he was to be in the presence of such a fine tanker? And how much fuel did Brody want?
“I am awestruck,” Brody told the other pilots. “You are the best Stratobladder in the sky. Fill her up. And don’t forget to clean the windshield. Over.”
The distance between the planes continued to dwindle until no more than ten feet separated them. In fact, they were so close that Brody could see the boom operator’s face peering through a tiny window located at the KC-135’s tail.
The bomber was flying inside the bubble of displaced air created by the tanker at that point. There was some turbulence though … It took a great deal of concentration to hold the B-2 steady. And that was going to be necessary in order to mate the Stratotanker’s fuel boom with the small aperture on the top surface of the B-2’s fuselage. As soon as the connection was secure fuel would flow from one aircraft to the other.
But Brody couldn’t see the end of the boom or the receptacle on his plane. To make the connection, he had to monitor the PDLs (Pilot Director Lights) located under the tanker’s fuselage. They told Brody if he needed to move forward, back, or side-to-side.
The frame around the cockpit window provided another point of reference, because Brody knew how the picture was supposed to look. He made a series of tiny adjustments and, as the critical connection was made, the word “LATCH” appeared in front of him.
That was the moment when fuel began to flow, along with a certain amount of bullshit related to the upcoming Air Force vs. Army game which, everyone agreed, the doggies would lose. Meanwhile, the B-2’s flight control computer was allocating fuel to the B-2’s tanks to preserve the bomber’s center of gravity.
Off to the right, about five miles away, the bomber Spirit of Texas was taking on fuel from a second KC-135. Both B-2s broke contact at roughly the same moment. “Drop a JDAM for me,” the boom operator said, as Brody’s plane dropped away. “And watch your six.”
A B-2 can fly 6,900 miles on a full tank of fuel. So, Brody knew he would have to refuel on the way back to Whiteman AFB in the good old US of A.
First however he and his wingman had orders to put the hurts on a Russian air base and two small cities. Why? Because he’d been told to, that’s why. Chances were that he would never know the reason.
The first and most important task was to neutralize Shagol Military Airbase to make sure that the Allies owned the sky. Then, they would attack key targets in Chelyabinsk, and a town named Kyshtym.
“Don’t hit the fucking copper plant in Kyshtym,” the briefer told them. “Or the airstrip north of town. Because if you do, you’ll be flying a weather balloon in Greenland.”
Brody didn’t like cold weather so he was going to be careful.
Up to that point in the war Russia hadn’t been attacked from the south. Not on the ground, and not from the air. That meant Russian radars were few and far between along the long border with Kazakhstan. A fact that would help the B-2s penetrate enemy airspace without being detected.
But of equal importance was the fact that the B-2s were difficult to “see,” thanks to their canted stabilizers, radar absorbing paint, and the composite materials used to make them.
All of which meant that the Ruskies weren’t likely to have any warning before the bombs began to fall. And, at a closing speed of 450 mph, the attack was only minutes away. Albright eyed the readouts arrayed in front of her. “We’re good to go.”
“Good to go,” Brody echoed, as he brought his right index finger down on a key labeled “PEN,” which stood for “Penetration.” That readied the bomber to enter enemy airspace by retracting antenna, restricting electronic emissions, and reducing other signs of the plane’s presence.
GPS coordinates for each target had been programmed into the flight control computer prior to takeoff, and even though Brody could change them, he had no reason to. The goal was to hit military targets, police stations, power plants, bridges, and rail terminals while minimizing collateral damage. Their 2,000-pound JDAMs (Joint Direct Attack Munitions) were perfect for that job. The all-weather precision guided weapons were so accurate that the computer could send them through a window if necessary.
And since each JDAM had a range of 17 miles, they would be able to seek and destroy all of Shagol’s radars, radio transmitters, and power sources while attacking Chelyabinsk at the same time.
It was the flight computer’s task to open the plane’s bomb bay doors and release the JDAMs. The pilots could feel the weapons depart via the slight change of trim that resulted from the sudden loss of weight. “To Russia with love,” Albright said, as the bombs sped away.
Then the Spirit of Texas arrived. It followed a slightly offset path that overlapped some of the pattern that the Spirit of Washington laid down, but broadened it as well.
The town of Kyshtym was only 60 miles away, and the crews had orders to destroy carefully selected targets while minimizing collateral damage, and sparing both the copper plant and adjacent airstrip. “Somebody doesn’t like this town,” Brody commented, as another flight of JDAMs sped away.
“Remember the Heath,” Albright replied darkly. The last bomb dropped shortly thereafter and sped away. The B-2s turned south and onto the first leg of a journey that would take them back across the Atlantic to the United States. They would, after many hours of flying, sleep in their own beds.
***
Municipal Jail, Kyshtym, Russia
Hakeem Haddad was on his knees praying when the bombs fell. The first prayer, or Salat al-fajr, was to be said at dawn, or what Haddad guessed to be dawn, since he didn’t know what time it was. And it was that position, head down and kneeling, which saved his life.
It seemed that the adjoining six-story-high municipal building had been targeted, because after a weapon hit the south side of the structure, a large part of the north wall fell on the jail. That was when a chunk of concrete the size of a small car crashed through the roof and came to rest no more than 12 inches over Haddad’s head.
The air was filled with dust and made it difficult to see. But daylight was visible through a hole in the back of his cell. Haddad coughed as he crawled toward it. The opening proved to be a tight fit. But Haddad managed to wiggle through and found himself out on a sidewalk. He stood. Most of the bombs had gone off by then, but a few were still falling, and could be heard in the distance. As Haddad looked around, he saw what remained of the municipal building, and the glow of flames within. His first instinct was to give thanks to Allah and run.
But what about the policeman who had whipped Kamila? And the animal that ordered the officer to do it? Were they dead? Or had they, like cockroaches, managed to survive? The possibility filled him with rage.
Haddad circled around the north side of the building searching for a way in. He saw a window. It was broken and shards of glass threatened to cut him if he tried to enter. But a chunk of concrete proved to be an effective tool when it came to breaking the rest of the glass.
Then, with an upended garbage can as a stepping stool, Haddad entered the police station. The window opened into a storeroom which provided access to a hallway. A policeman lay dead under the weight of a steel beam. Haddad went over to take the man’s service pistol and two extra magazines.
Haddad knew how to use a variety of firearms thanks to Sin Jol’s
instructors. He checked to see if there was a bullet in the chamber, discovered that there wasn’t, and worked the slide.
Then with the safety on, and the gun stashed at the small of his back, Haddad began to work his way deeper into the complex. It was necessary to crawl at times, elbowing his way under fallen wreckage. And at one point he had to climb over the remains of a broken wall.
But eventually Haddad forced a door open and entered what appeared to be a lounge. And there, surrounded by a pool of blood, was the policeman he’d been looking for. The man was on his back, both hands clutching a long splinter of wood, and sobbing.
On seeing Haddad, he said, “Please! Call the medics! I’m dying.”
Haddad crouched next to him. “Yes, you are,” Haddad confirmed. “Do you remember me?”
“Yes,” the policeman croaked.
“And you whipped my sister,” Haddad replied. “Over and over again.”
“I had to,” the man replied. “The mayor ordered me to.”
“That’s a good point,” Haddad replied reasonably. “So, I will help you. The first thing I need to do is to pull that splinter out.”
“No! Don’t do that,” the policeman objected. “I’ll bleed to death.”
“Don’t be silly,” Haddad said, as he stood astride the man. “Now, all I have to do is get a grip on the splinter like so, and pull.”
The policeman’s eyes opened wide, and he uttered a scream, as Haddad jerked the dagger-like piece of wood free. A fountain of blood blossomed for a moment and subsided. The body went limp. Haddad spit on it. “Al’ahmaq.” (Asshole.)
The dead man’s pistol was covered in blood but Haddad took it anyway, along with two additional magazines, and two sack lunches that were stored in the ancient refrigerator.
It would have been nice to find Brusilov, but Haddad figured it was too early in the day for the mayor to be at work, and his office was likely to be next door anyway.
No, the smart thing to do was grab a heavy coat and find a place to hide. Then, when the time was right, he would go south. It took a good five minutes to exit the station and start walking. Kyshtym was burning, and Haddad was glad.
***
Kyshtym Airstrip
Annika giggled, as Yeltsin hoisted her high into the air, and threw her into the Black Sea. She landed with a splash, and dog paddled back. “Bol’she papa, bol’she!” (More daddy, more!) Then he awoke to the sound of explosions in the distance.
The transient barracks included a small room for officers. It was furnished with a cot and a rickety chair. Yeltsin sat up, pushed the sleeping bag down off his feet, and swung his legs over onto the floor. A sharp pain shot up his leg and caused him to swear.
Someone rapped on the door. “It’s Sergeant Ivkin, sir … Kyshtym is being bombed.”
“I’ll be there shortly,” Yeltsin replied. “Odds are they will bomb the airstrip too. Tell the men to load up. We’re pulling out.”
Yeltsin could hardly believe it. Why in the hell would the Allies bomb Kyshtym? Except for the Gorsky Copper Works plant, the town was a radioactive piece of shit. Not as contaminated as City 40, but hot nevertheless, and at least 1,000 miles from the fighting.
Unless the bastards were getting ready to invade from the south … But that would require the enemy to fight their way from India up through Pakistan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan—all of which would fight back. No, Yeltsin decided as he finished dressing. They’re stupid, but not that stupid. There has to be another reason.
Yeltsin emerged with his pack dangling from one hand and his Bullpup Ash-12.7 automatic assault rifle clutched in the other. Sergeants Ivkin and Galkin had the trucks loaded and ready to pull out. “Shit!” Ivkin said, as he pointed south. “There they are!”
Yeltsin looked, frowned, and put his gear down. The binoculars were dangling from his neck. It was difficult to acquire the first plane, and hold the glasses steady at the same time, but he managed to get a look as it turned his way. “That’s one of our planes,” he said. “A cargo plane not a bomber. What the fuck is going on?”
That was when the airport manager came waddling out of the terminal building. His name was Zotov, and he was very excited. “The Spetsnaz are arriving Major! One day early.”
One day early? In Russia? Yeltsin found that hard to believe. Like some Mediterranean and Latin cultures, Russian society was famously flexible where time frames were concerned. Tardiness was common, and people rarely if ever arrived early. “Who told you that the Spetsnaz are early?” Yeltsin inquired.
“A pilot,” Zotov said. “And he would know.”
Zotov had a point. A pilot would know. But the fact that Kyshtym was being bombed, even as the Spetsnaz arrived, seemed like a strange coincidence.
“Get the Special Operations Command on the radio,” Yeltsin ordered. “Tell them about the bombing. And ask them if the Spetsnaz mission was moved up. Sergeant Ivkin will accompany you. Speed is of the essence.”
Ivkin was no fool and could read between the lines. Yeltsin didn’t trust the airport manager and his job was to prod the man. “Let’s go,” Ivkin said. “Run.”
Zotov couldn’t run. But he could put his waddle into high gear, which he did.
Yeltsin turned his attention back to the city. The bombing had stopped, the sun was up, and threads of black smoke were rising to stain the sky. Engines screamed as the first plane touched down and flashed past. Gravel flew, engines went into reverse, and the plane slowed.
After coming to a stop, the gigantic airplane executed a ponderous turn before taxiing off the runway, and into a turn-around. The second plane landed moments later. That was when Ivkin returned. He was slightly out of breath. “The pilot lied! The Spetsnaz will arrive tomorrow. We are to destroy the planes.”
Yeltsin swore. “Sergeant Galkin! Take your squad down and attack plane two. How many RPG-28s do you have?”
“Two,” Galkin replied.
RPG-28s were single shot, man portable, rocket launchers which had proven to be very effective against pindo tanks. And a weapon that could stop a tank could surely destroy a cargo airplane. “Use both of them,” Yeltsin instructed. “And do so quickly. Assuming those planes are loaded with troops, which I think they are, we’ll be outnumbered the moment they hit the ground. Go!” Galkin went.
Yeltsin turned to Ivkin. “My squad has three 28s,” the noncom volunteered.
“We’ll use all of them,” Yeltsin said, “plus the heavy machinegun on the Typhoon. “Let’s go.” Yeltsin barely noticed the pain in his leg as he climbed up into the chunky machine and felt it jerk into motion. Were the planes loaded with Americans? Yeltsin hoped so. He had a grudge to settle.
***
Quinn was crammed into the K-17 Bumerang along with seven soldiers as the first plane thumped down, stopped, and taxied. In the meantime, specially trained members of the 152nd were busy releasing tie-downs, so the vehicles would be ready to roll off the An-124 once it cleared the runway. That was her doing. Not because she expected trouble—but because trouble was a possibility.
Even so the pilot’s announcement came as a surprise. It came over the company’s tactical frequency. “A Russian army vehicle is firing a heavy machinegun at the plane,” he said calmly. “We’re dropping the ramps. Our fuel tanks are about half full, so haul ass.”
Flynn was on top of it. “This is Thunder-Six. All vehicles will deploy. Maneuver to take the enemy under fire, and eliminate all resistance. Be careful who you shoot at. Over.”
“I see daylight,” the vic’s commander said, as she started the engine. “Here we go.”
Quinn couldn’t see what was happening outside the armored hull. But she could think. And the situation didn’t look good. Somehow, someway, the Russians had been able to see through the deception. And now they were determined to destroy the cargo planes. What if they managed to succeed? What would the 152nd do then?”
Quinn’s thoughts were interrupted as the Bumerang rolled down a ramp and bounced ont
o the ground. She could hear gunfire at that point, plus the steady chug, chug, chug of the heavy machinegun above her head.
That was followed by the thump, thump, thump of outgoing 30mm cannon shells and a stream of consciousness narration from the vic’s driver. “I see one, no two, hits on the first plane. They’re using RPGs. Kill those tubes Qwan! Shit, too late … They hit a fuel tank.”
Quinn heard the dull boom, and felt the hull shudder, as a shock wave rolled over the vehicle. Okay, she thought. We have 1 plane left. But, if we leave the vehicles behind, we can get the rhenium plus the soldiers aboard and …
A second explosion followed the first. No announcement was necessary. The second plane had been destroyed. “Shit, shit, shit,” the driver said. “Get ready Qwan … It’s payback time. Hit the Typhoon.”
The vic swayed as it entered a tight turn. The 30mm cannon sent a steady stream of armor piercing cannon shells at a target Quinn couldn’t see. Qwan uttered a loud whoop. “I nailed the bastard!”
The soldiers cheered as the vehicle slowed. “I’m going to drop the ramp, Major,” the driver said. “There are ten to twelve tangos on the loose and they’re going to ground.”
Quinn and the other soldiers had little choice but to accept the driver’s judgement. Quinn was the first person out. Firefights were underway and the midsection of plane one was engulfed in flames. Black smoke poured up into the sky to merge with the haze that hung over Kyshtym.
A fire marked the location of the Russian Typhoon. A handful of Russian soldiers were on their bellies trading fire with a larger force from the 152nd.
One wing of the second An-124 was on fire off to the right where the 152nd’s brutish VPK Infantry Mobility Vehicle was circling a group of Russians, while the top gunner fired down at them. It was an unequal contest that could only end one way. “Come on,” Quinn said. “Let’s head for the Typhoon and pitch in.”
Red Thunder (Winds of War Book 4) Page 9
