by Stuart Slade
"‘Reports of heavy missile opposition, Gammon-Bs and Ganefs. Three RB-58s are reporting damage and heading for divert bases in Russia. The Valkyries got in and out clean."
"The 35th done good." Power made the comment with an approval that would have made the crews in question sigh with relief.
"They had the easy job." The Seer was still speaking distantly for his mind was elsewhere, computing the strategic implications of the news coming in. "They had three relatively concentrated target areas. The ones in Iran Satrapy are dispersed all over the place."
"More reports Mister President, Sirs, one RB-58 was lost, hit by a Gammon and blew up in mid-air. No survivors. The 3O5th are reporting that the Caliphate are firing Galosh missile interceptors at the bombers. No luck with them of course."
"Boot's on the other foot now." Nixon tried to equal the graveyard humor that was running around the war-room and was rewarded by a chuckle at the pun. "I gather the missile interceptors are no good against bombers?"
"None at all, Mister President. They're designed to intercept targets that are coming in along a predictable ballistic course. They stress range and speed at the expense of agility, real easy for a manned bomber to duck."
"Dumb Caffs." Nixon's voice was scornful.
"With the greatest respect, Mister President, it's a tradition of the war-room not to use abusive nicknames for countries." Naamah spoke quietly, as always making sure her principal had the information he needed to work effectively. Power heard the remark and spoke equally quietly.
"That's so Mister President. When one is reducing their country to a smoking radioactive ruin, being rude about them also is, well, tacky."
Nixon nodded. He could see the point although personally he preferred the more vulgar epithets. "Heavy opposition, one RB-58 down, three damaged. Please tell me our defenses will do better."
"Against B-70 type bombers, probably not. The defense has been playing catch-up for thirty years and has never quite made it. They tend to have the answer to the previous generation of bombers about three or four years after they start to be replaced. Our fighters would do a lot better than the types used by the Caliphate but the latest Hercs won't do much better than the Gammons or Ganefs used today. Mind you, both would do well against B-52 type targets. If we'd been using BUFFs against these complexes, I'd guess we'd be looking at twenty, perhaps twenty five percent losses. The BUFF's a grand old Lady sir, but her day is passing quickly. We need the B-70s."
Nixon absorbed the information. "Shouldn't we speed up replacing the B-52s then?"
Again, it was The Seer that answered. "Sir, North American is turning out Valkyries at eight aircraft a month. That's a multi-year procurement that has another six years to run." He flipped over some pages on his clip-board. "We have about 300 B-70s of varying types on the roster at the moment. Technically four groups have formed and four more are forming, but none of them is anywhere near up to strength yet. The B-70 hasn't been an easy program Sir. If you like, we can arrange a visit to North American and they'll brief you on its development and take you up in one. It's way late and we need it fast. Stepping up production would be nice but it's not the right answer. Anyway, we can do what we are doing here, use the Valkyries and Hustlers to batter down the defenses and clear the path infortheB-52s."
Once again, Nixon realized how little he understood about the forces he now commanded. It all seemed so easy from the outside. Whenever he thought he understood a bit, it turned out that it was merely a gateway into a world that was even more complex and obscure. He'd thought SAC was the invincible guarantor of America's safety. Now he was learning that invincibility was an illusion; the product of skill, courage and very careful planning. The tools were shiny; the finest the most advanced technology in the world could provide. In the end they were still tools and what really mattered was the ability of the tool-user. Just the way it always had.
RB-58F Vicious Vixen, Heading Towards The Caspian Sea.
"Fuel leaks increasing, we're losing power on number three now. We're losing altitude as well now." Vicious Vixen had left dodging a Ganef a little late and had been raked by fragments from the warhead. They'd taken out one engine, damaged another, smashed up the underbelly pod and knocked a lot of the electronics out. They'd been luckier than Antoinette. She'd taken a direct hit from another Ganef and gone from an aircraft to a fireball and shattered metal in less than a blink of an eye.
"Fighters closing. No IFF." The trace was clearly visible on the radar display in The Bear's Den. The lack of IFF was ominous, but Vicious Vixen was so shot up that the system probably wasn't working. Still, if it was enemy fighters, they were an easy kill. The formations were closing at well over 70 miles per minute. They'd soon know one way or the other.
"American RB-58. This is Gray-972. First Guards Fighter Division. We will be with you soon. Please don't shoot the pianist, he is doing his best."
"Gray-972, this is Vicious Vixen, we have severe on-board damage and are losing fuel. We estimate radius no more than 500 miles."
"Understood Vixen. We can see you now. Follow us, we have an airfield ready to receive you."
The appearance was sudden, the aircraft seeming to materialize out of nowhere. Vicious Vixen's crew were painfully aware of just how blinded their aircraft had become. Two MiG-25s formed up on either side of the crippled Hustler. Four more were ranging around her to prevent enemy fighters from coming in close.
"It's good to see you, 972. Thank God you made it."
"Yes, to thank God would be a good idea I think." The Russian pilot's voice was serious. "After you have landed, I will show you where the base chapel is located."
Cockpit, B-70C Sigrun 100th Heavy Bomb Group, 82,500 feet over Iran Satrapy
This time, the target set was different. The 35th had hit three concentrated complexes. Big certainly, heavily defended undoubtedly; the loss of Antoinette and Dejah Thoris had shown that. But they were well defined and their size had made them unmissable. Over Persia, the bombers were trying to locate small targets, scattered across the maps, buried in the vast expanse of the Iranian back-country.
Quickly picking up the experience learned in the assault on the Iraqi biological warfare complexes, the RB-58s had changed tactics. Previously, they had gone for the target acquisition radars and the missile batteries themselves. The long range search radars had been left to a later date. Because the B-70's radar signature was so huge it had been assumed they'd been seen coming from so far away that taking down the long range radars was superfluous. That judgment had been wrong and two RB-58Fs had paid the cost of that mistake. Three more were heading north for Russia, leaving trails of smoke and fragments of structure behind them.
"Another data dump coming in." Henty spoke quickly, trying to get the word out before the new data started to modify the tactical displays. Xiomara was still crossing Iraq, well behind the Valkyries of the 100th Bomb Group but she was picking up more data all the time. The new electronic signals characteristics were downloading into Sigrun ‘s DAMS system. A number of the decoys vanished as they were isolated and filtered out.
"Any threats?" C.J. O'Seven wasn't too concerned. Information suggested that the Iranian heavy defenses were around the big cities, particularly those that had religious significance. In any case, they hadn't run into any really serious defensive firepower yet. The Guilds and Guidelines they'd run into to date weren't a factor this high up. Guideline would only be a problem if they flew directly over the launch battery and had held a straight enough course to allow that crossing to be predicted several minutes in advance. They didn't do that. All the bombers were making random changes of heading to render their flight paths as unpredictable as possible.
"None, nothing to worry us about anyway. Texan Lady II reports that the defenses up Tehran way are firing Guidelines off unguided, like giant Fourth of July fireworks. Straight up in barrages. Wonder what happens when they run out of oomph and head down again?"
"I guess there must be enough of a
horizontal vector to take them clear of the launch site of that's what you're thinking. Wouldn't surprise me though if a lot of the damage on the ground gets caused by missiles coming down. Remember the Staten Island Ferry?"
There was a sound of sucking teeth in the cockpit at the memory of one of the more embarrassing incidents of the Second World War. German Type XXID U-boats had got into the habit of firing Fi-103 buzz-bombs at American coastal cities, usually New York and Washington. Responding to public outrage at the attacks, the New York National Guard had tried mounting some 40mm guns at key points around the city.
One of the batteries had been sited on Governor's Island. One foggy day, just the sort of day the German submarines loved for their attacks, the radar had picked up an inbound. Things had gone wrong; procedures had been ignored. In their desire to show how effective the defense was, the gunners had engaged it. They'd shot it down all right; the only problem had been it was a B-25H returning from coastal patrol. The fact that it was moving at barely half the speed of a Fi-103 and was flying only a couple of hundred feet up hadn't registered. Nor had the fact that there had been no alert called. Even worse, the barrage of 40mm gunfire had raked the Staten Island Ferry, killing more than sixty people. That had made it the worst single air-raid casualty toll on the American mainland.
"Didn't some lawyer try to sue the Army over that?" Hook didn't like lawyers.
"Uh-huh, went all the way to the Supreme Court if I remember. Any airborne signatures? Or reports?"
"Brunnhilde reported a couple of Irenes trying to climb up. They topped out at 60,000 and squeezed off a couple of missiles. No threat and she sent them a return package. Got one and the other scuttled for home with its tailfeathers singed. They don't pack up close like they used to."
"Guys, doesn't this strike you as odd? The 35th and their 305th detachment stuck their heads into a hornet's nest, had to fight their way in and lost birds doing it. Up here, we've hit nothing of any consequence, yet this is supposed to be Caliphate heartland. Something's wrong here people."
"Suits me." James Fitzroy was scanning his offensive weapons suite, trying to match the radar images to the ground targets assigned to Sigrun. "I've got enough problems here."
"Radar pictures no good? Which one? Kushk e Nosrat or Qom?"
"Both. The pictures seem OK, they were obtained from one of the Lacrosse satellites. They're a bit out of date that's all. That means it's matching them up that's the problem. There's been changes down there since the pictures were taken."
"Can't be that much, surely. Guys, Hamadan's just gone off the air." The green dot and shadow of the huge Hamadan long range surveillance radar had suddenly vanished. A few seconds later, there was a slight thump as the residual Shockwave from the explosion rocked Sigrun.
"It's not just changes, they're using decoys down there to distort the ground radar image. Looks like reflectors and radar mats. Can't get an absolute match."
"Hey the lake down there looks familiar." Sigrun's voice sounded slightly conceited.
"Got it!" Fitzroy all but cheered, the lake had been the key. "We're about 30 miles north of where we should be. I suggest we swing south, loop around and hit Kushk e Nosrat from the east, then do an S-turn and do the laydown on Qom halfway through."
"Good move, we're getting too close to Tehran for comfort." O'Seven swung Sigrun south away from the target set around the capital of Iran Satrapy. At this speed, Sigrun's turning circle was a little over 38 miles across. That wasn't bad for an aircraft that big and that fast but still enough to require a certain level of forethought in plotting maneuvers.
"We've got company." "Hostile?"
"Not according to IFF. From course and speed, I think they're F-108s." There was a prolonged pause, then Henty made a small grunt. "I see it, there's four aircraft coming up from Mahadan. From the rate of climb I'd say Irenes or possibly Faiths. Our little friends are firing now." Henty saw his radar screen blossom with electronic noise and he thumbed the filters on, wiping it clear instantly.
"They've gone, the little friends are climbing away They can't have done the airfield that much good."
"Is it in AGM-76 range?"
"Not yet, another minute, minute and a half. Want to take it out?" Fitzroy sounded ghoulishly hopeful.
"Might as well, we've still got all our ground pounders on board. These airfields are big, better give it two. Did the little friends get all the fighters?"
"Think so, Seejay. They squeezed off four missiles to do it. You know, nobody clumps up any more; why do we still carry nuclear air-to-airs?"
"To make a point I guess. Mess with us and nukes are the first thing we throw back. AGM-76s locked in Fizzy?"
"Sure, approaching optimum now." Underneath Sigrun, the forward bomb bay door slid backwards, exposing the tactical missiles in the bay. AGM-76s on the sides, AIM-47s in the middle. "Weapons dialed at 81 kilotons, full yield. Launching......now."
There was hardly a jolt as the two AGM-76s dropped away and streaked off, down towards Mahadan airfield. O'Seven changed course slightly, curving away from the target. No need to get closer than one had to. A few seconds later the cockpit lit up with the familiar brilliant light followed by Sigrun rocking with the blast.
"Rest in pieces, Mahadan" Hook was checking airspeed and course. "OK to acquire Fizzy?"
"Target acquired. We've got the coordinates and radar bomb-nav locked in. We'll do this in two runs."
Once again, the bomb-navigation system switched on and a Valkyrie was heading in, matching the radar images from the ground against the pictures in the navigation system memory. The two bomb bay doors slid forward, closing the forward bay and opening the one aft. Then, there was a slight lurch as the first of the gravity bombs detached and headed down for its target.
"Almost takes the fun out of things, the bomb-nav system." Fitzroy sounded almost bored. In a strange, perverse way he found himself wishing they were back in the old days when a real, honest-to-goodness bombardier would aim the device and release it. Then the cockpit lit up with the brilliant white flash and Sigrun lurched heavily before her long nose dipped as the blast flipped her tail up. She lost almost 3,000 feet before O'Seven brought her back under control, then swung her around to start the attack run on Qom to the south.
"How was the laydown?"
"On target, I'd say around 250 feet north."
"You must have got my initial navigation point wrong then." Sigrun sounded aggrieved.
"I'll try and do better on the next run." Fitzroy promised soothingly. There was no reply but a slightly skeptical grunt could be heard on the intercom. "Speaking of such things, we locked in yet Seejay?"
"In theory, we're on course for Qom. Matched up the radar maps yet?"
"Got a lock, the distortions aren't so bad this side. Guess the Caffs must have thought we'd do a straight run in from the west. Setting up the run now."
Off to the left, the mushroom cloud from their first drop was still twisting skywards, darkening as it cooled. The crew felt Sigrun making tiny course changes as she lined up on her target, ready for her second and final laydown. She was lurching frequently as the blast from the other drops started to reach her. Then, the familiar shake as the second bomb dropped clear.
"Right, that's it guys. Let's go home. The surgery has been successful."
"But the patient died." Sigrun still sounded sad. "Why did they go and make us do it?"
War Room, Underneath the White House. Washington DC
"That's it. We're done." Power's voice was triumphant. "My boys are coming home."
"Did they hit the targets?" Nixon was half-afraid of the answer. He'd thought he would enjoy the sight of SAC at work, removing the threat of blackpox; that wasn't how he felt now. The fate of Bahrain was beginning to weigh upon him. The island had a population of over 600,000, once. Now it was wiped clean and that was only the start. The strike had the horrible fascination of a train wreck; impossible to watch, impossible to tear one's eyes from it.
"Yes Sir. Although the bombers had a job finding some of the targets. Several of them had to make repeated runs before they had a lock accurate enough for the laydowns. We're lucky there was no serious opposition, I guess the Caliphate must have thrown their best fighters against the Russians."
"You know, that's really odd." The Seer's voice was reflective.
"How so, Seer? They didn't stand a chance against the Valkyries so they sent them where they were better matched, against the forces where they might gain some success. Sounds a reasonable military decision to me."
"That's not what I mean. Look at the different styles that we can see here. The Mediterranean Satrapies, underdeveloped, pastoral even. Except for that complex we found in Syria, of course. We still don't really know what it was. Iraq, industrialized, all the stuff grouped into giant complexes around the big cities. Heavily defended by missile batteries, well-operated ones too, but missiles none the less. Fighters conspicuous by their absence. They'd set their facilities up, ringed them with defenses and tried their best. They took a pounding and a lot of collateral casualties, even areas that didn't have the target complexes around them had defense installations we took out to clear the way in for the bombers.
"Now look at Iran. Defenses grouped around the cities yes, but the industrial infrastructure we wanted was scattered all over the place. Defenses were fairly minimal, certainly nothing to cause our bombers much concern, and what there were concentrated on fighters, not bombers. It's a totally different way of fighting, it's as if they purposely sacrificed defensive power in an attempt to disperse and hide their infrastructure. Nations just don't do that. Tommy. It's as if every state in our Union had its own defense policy and its own way of doing things. Which, I suppose, if Thomas Jefferson had had his way is where we would be now. But nations just don't do that. Oh, our National Guard units reflect regional differences certainly, one needs only compare the Bayou Militia and the Massachusetts Minutemen to see that, they've got totally different characters but they're both F-106C groups and they both fight more or less the same way.
