by Ralph Peters
Armageddon.
In his wallet, Lieutenant Colonel David Heifetz, of the United States Army, had buried a trimmed-down snapshot of his wife and child. He was constantly aware of its presence and he knew each shadow and tone, he knew the exact thoughts behind the four eyes considering the camera, the faint weariness of the boy at the end of a long afternoon, Mira's needless anxiety about dinner, the history behind her necklace, and the slight blemish that had temporarily made her beauty human.
He had not looked at the photograph for seven years.
* * *
"Lucky Dave looks tired," Merry Meredith whispered. He had just plopped back down in the field chair beside Manny Martinez, his closest friend. He felt drained by the intelligence briefing he had just delivered, troubled by its inadequacies, yet relieved, as always, that it was over. He did not fear Taylor. He only feared failing the old man. Now he sat, loose, and grateful that the honor of briefing had passed on to Heifetz. Meredith watched the S-3 as the man punched in the codes that filled the briefing screen with the exact map coverage he wanted. It seemed to Meredith that Heifetz was a bit off his usual crisp precision. Nothing the average observer would necessarily notice. But just the sort of thing an intelligence officer who had earned his spurs in the Los Angeles operation would pick up A minor human failing, perhaps the beginning of a vulnerability. "He really looks tired," Meredith repeated.
"Oh man," Martinez said in a low tone of dismissal, "Lucky Dave always looks tired. The guy was born tired.
He eats that shit up."
"Yeah," Meredith said. "I know. But there's something off. He almost looks sick."
"Lucky Dave?" Martinez said. "Lucky Dave never gets sick."
"Look at him. He's as white as if he'd just seen a ghost."
The two men looked at the operations officer. A compactly built man, with graying hair and shoulders a bit too big for the rest of his bodily proportions. Heifetz was about to begin his briefing.
"I just wonder if he feels okay," Meredith whispered to his friend.
"Come on," Martinez answered. "Old Lucky Dave doesn't feel anything. The guy's made of stone."
* * *
Heifetz surveyed the collection of officers before him, giving himself a last moment to catch his mental breath before he began sentencing them with his words. His instructions would send them to their particular fates, and he sensed that few of them really grasped the seriousness of the actions they would take in the coming hours. There was so much lightheartedness and swagger left in the Americans. No sense of how very dark a thing fate was. For many of the junior officers, this was a great adventure. And even those who were afraid feared the wrong things. These were men… who did not understand how much a man could ultimately lose.
But it was better so. Best to go into battle with a lightness of spirit, so long as it did not manifest itself in sloppiness. Best to go with a good heart into the darkness. With confidence that shone like polished armor. He remembered that feeling.
Perhaps a better god hovered over these bright-faced Americans sitting so uncomfortably in their Soviet greatcoats in the cold. After all their nation had suffered in recent years, the Americans still struck Heifetz as innocents. And perhaps they would be spared the sight of the black-winged god, whose jaws had slimed with the gore of Israel.
All of them except Taylor. Taylor had seen the burning eyes, smelled the poisoned breath. Taylor knew.
Taylor had insisted on this last face-to-face meeting with his subordinates. The purpose of the orders brief was to ensure that each man clearly understood his role, that there would be no avoidable confusion added to that which would be unavoidable. Technically, the briefing could have been conducted electronically, with all of the officers comfortably seated in their environmentally controlled fighting systems and mobile-support shelters. But Taylor had insisted on gathering his officers together in this sour, freezing cavern, unable to risk the comfort of an unmasked heat source that might be detected by enemy reconnaissance systems, but unwilling to forgo a last opportunity for each man to see his commander and his comrades in the flesh. Taylor knew. Even more important than the clarity of each last coordination measure was the basic need felt by men in danger to know that their brothers were truly beside them.
Heifetz knew about his nickname. He understood the soldierly black humor behind it and felt no resentment. And he knew that, in at least one sense, he truly was a lucky man. There were few men under whom he could have served without reservation, without resentment. Serving under Taylor was… like serving under a better, wiser, far more decent version of himself. There was only one fundamental difference between them. Taylor's sufferings had made him a better man. Heifetz would never have claimed the same for himself.
"Good afternoon, Colonel Taylor, gentlemen," Heifetz began. "I should almost say 'Good evening.' But we will go quickly now." Heifetz scanned the earnest faces. "Everyone has a hard copy of the order? Yes? Good. The flow copies and all of the supporting data are being loaded into your on-board control systems at this time. Each of you will run a standard up-load check immediately upon the termination of this meeting."
Heifetz touched a button on his remote control, and a bright map filled the briefing screen, covering the area of the Soviet Union from Novosibirsk in the northeast to Dushanbe in the southeast, then west as far as Yerevan and back north to Perm. A second button filled the map with colored symbols and lines, green denoting the positions of the enemy, red for the Soviets, and a tiny spot of blue marking the assembly area of the Seventh Cavalry. The little blue island was separated from the green enemy sea by only a thin, broken reef of red symbols.
"As the S-2 briefed you," Heifetz continued, "the Soviet front east of the Urals is in a state of virtual collapse. Our mission… is to attack the enemy in depth, with the immediate intent of destroying or dramatically disrupting key elements of his forces so that the Soviets are allowed time to reestablish an integrated defense. Beyond that, it is the overarching intent of the President of the United States to send a message to the enemy that we will not permit the dismemberment of the USSR by external powers."
Heifetz waved the remote at the screen. The image dissolved, then the map reappeared with a more detailed representation of the actual operational area of the Seventh Cavalry, still covering almost half the territory of the initial situation map. The friendly and enemy positions still showed, but now blue arrows and control measures began to trace over the battlefield.
"Execution," Heifetz said. "The Seventh United States Regiment of Cavalry crosses its line of departure beginning at 2400 hours, local. First Squadron, with fourteen operational M-l00s of sixteen authorized, leads on the left flank. First Squadron has the greatest distance to cover. You will deploy along axis Red-one, as shown here, in route south to Objective Ruby in the vicinity of Karaganda. During the passage of lines, all Soviet air defense systems will be under orders not to engage unless specifically attacked. Of course, we know that some of them may not get the word, so, on a practical level it means we will risk going with only our passive defense up until we cross the line of departure. There is no point in giving our enemies advance warning that something is coming their wav. In any case, your scout drones will be immediately preceded by unmanned light cavalry jammers from the Tenth Cav forward detachment. In-depth electronic warfare support — we're talking very deep — has been laid on by the Air Force."
"Don't hold your breath," someone mumbled from the audience. There was a splash of gloomy laughter.
"Knock off the bullshit," Taylor said in annoyance. "This is war. We're all on the same side now, and I don t want to hear any more of that crap." The colonel looked back over the rows of officers, a fierce parent. Then he settled back down into his chair. "Go ahead, Dave."
"First Squadron does not engage unless fired upon prior to reaching Objective Ruby. I know you're going to be looking for a fight." Heifetz said, "and there will be plenty of stray targets out there. But your target-acquisition sy
stems are initially going to pick up mostly junk that belongs to the rebel forces. And there may even be roving pockets of Soviets out there who have been cut off. We can't sort them out, since their equipment is essentially identical— and, anyway, we're after the Japanese-built gear. Which brings us back to Ruby and Karaganda. As Merry briefed you, there are two principal targets in the objective area." The screen narrowed its focus all the way down to the area under discussion. "First, the most critical target — the Japanese maintenance facilities and the forward marshaling yards. I think that is what the old American Army called a 'target-rich environment.' There are over a thousand of the latest Japanese fighting systems on the ground at Karaganda, awaiting greater or lesser repairs. The volume… is irreplaceable. Further, the maintenance facility itself is a critical node. The Iranians — and the Arabs — are breaking their gear like toys. And if the Japanese can't repair the stuff, it's useless. I know what you are thinking: you want to kill shooters. But the maintenance facility is your primary target.
"Your secondary target at Ruby is the assembly and reconstitution area for the III Iranian Corps. They've pulled off-line to reorganize while the rebels carry the fighting northward. And they've grown overconfident. The sin of pride. The Iranians are just sitting there. You've seen the imagery. Barely an attempt at camouflage, no meaningful dispersion. They are so sure that the Soviets cannot touch them any longer."
Heifetz switched back to the midsize operations map. "Anticipated time on station vicinity Ruby is twenty minutes for either target area. Dismounted operations are not planned, except for the local protection of disabled systems. All right. Following action at Ruby, First Squadron continues along axis Red-two, with the mission of screening the left flank of the regiment. You have a long flight ahead of you, so you must not become distracted by insignificant targets of opportunity. You're on picket duty in case the Japanese have a surprise up their sleeves and get some sort of interceptors up into the air fast. You will be the first element across the line of departure, and the last to close. You will come in to Assembly Area Silver here, near Orsk. The S-4 will have fuelers waiting for you, and you'll need them. Axis Red stretches the capabilities of the M-100 to the maximum. Finally, some very good news," Heifetz began, telling the closest thing he could manage to a joke, but without the slightest trace of a smile. "I will be flying just off-echelon from First Squadron to help the regimental commander control the flank defense effort. I will not, of course, be interfering with the command of the squadron, but I will be there to keep you all company."
The officers of First Squadron, gathered behind their commander, groaned theatrically. It was all right. Heifetz was glad they could still make a joke of things.
"Any questions, First Squadron?"
Lieutenant Colonel Tercus, the squadron commander, shook his head.
"It's just a long goddamned way," Tercus said. "But we've got good horses."
"Any chance of getting those two down systems back up before you lift off?" Taylor asked the squadron commander.
"Doesn't look good. The motor officer's working on one of them right now. That's a straightforward hydraulics problem, but we're missing a part."
Taylor looked at Martinez.
"Shortage item, sir," the supply officer said. "We're authorized three on PLL, but we've already used them. It's turning out to be another bug they haven't gotten out of the system. We're trying to get an emergency issue from the States, but I can't even promise you the manufacturer's got spares. They may have to strip them from the new birds coming off the line."
"How about the birds that are down in the other squadrons, Manny?" Taylor asked. "It's your call. If the regimental motor officer has one he doesn't think he can fix by mission time, let's cannibalize it. We need every possible system up in the air."
"What we might as well do, then," Martinez said, "is cannibalize Bravo one-four right in First Squadron. She's never going to be back up in time for the mission. Software problem. That way we can keep the can-job under control within one squadron."
"How bad is Bravo one-four," Taylor asked, "really?"
Martinez looked at him earnestly. "Sir, she's not going to be back up in time for this war. The software problem's bad. It's depot-level maintenance."
Taylor turned to Tercus, the First Squadron commander. "Bud," he said, "I'm going to do a job on you. Sorry." Then he turned back to Martinez. "Manny, I want you to write off Bravo one-four. Combat loss. Then strip it for every damned part you're short. Get every bird up that you can in all three squadrons."
"Yes, sir."
"Dave?" Taylor shifted his attention back to the operations officer. "Go ahead. Give us what you got." Heifetz cleared his throat. "Second Squadron," he began, "you will deploy along axis White-one to an initial target concentration vicinity of Objective Diamond, near Tselinograd. The Iranians and the rebels have clusterfucked themselves around in there. They're probably massing for the big push into western Siberia, to the northwest of the Kokchetav sector. A successful attack on Diamond takes the pressure off the seam between the two Soviet armies just to the north and turns the tables by splitting the enemy's front in two. Gut the forces near Tselinograd, and the breakthrough area to the northwest starts to look extremely vulnerable."
Heifetz traced along the continuation of Second Squadron's route. "Following a thirty-minute action on a broad front at Diamond, Second Squadron continues the attack along axis White-two to Objective Sapphire, engaging significant targets of opportunity en route. Sapphire wraps around Arkalyk — here — where the Japanese have another forward maintenance site with extensive yards. Your mission here is identical to First Squadron's primary at Ruby. Take out the maintenance site itself, then the yards. Clear? Good. Second Squadron then continues along axis White-three, prepared to turn to the assistance of First Squadron to the south, on the regiment's left flank — should an emergency situation arise. Second Squadron will not, however, seek dogfights. No white-scarf nonsense, gentlemen. Remember, First Squadron cannot come in until you close, and they'll be flying on fumes. Your assembly area is here, at Platinum, in the Orenburg region, where you will be positioned to spearhead a follow-on attack to the southwest. if one is ordered. Colonel Taylor will fly off-echelon from Second Squadron, in control of the main battle. Any questions, Second Squadron?"
There were no questions. Those officers who had not been directly involved in planning the operations had nonetheless had the opportunity to read over the op order.
"All right," Heifetz said. "That brings us to Third Squadron. Thirteen operational M-l00s out of a complement of sixteen."
"I'll have two more birds up by H-hour, Lieutenant Colonel Reno, the Third Squadron's commander, announced. The swagger and peevishness in his voice sought to telegraph that he was a commander, while Heifetz was merely a higher form of staff flunky. "Don't worry about Third Squadron."
Heifetz did not believe the man. Of all the squadron commanders, Heifetz had the least faith in Reno's being where he was supposed to be, doing what he was supposed to do, when he was supposed to be doing it. But Reno was the son of a retired four-star general, and even Taylor had had no say in the man's assignment to the Seventh Cavalry. Taylor and Heifetz had been careful to assign Third Squadron the least demanding mission.
"Third Squadron," Heifetz continued, ignoring Reno's tone, "deploys along axis Green-one only upon receiving confirmation that First and Second squadrons have both crossed their LDs. Third Squadron's mission is simply the destruction of enemy forces along the corridor formed by Engagement Area Emerald. Now the Soviets have friendly forces cut off and scattered all along Green-one, so you re on weapons-hold until Emerald. Then you're on your own. Emerald stretches roughly from Kokchetav to Atbasar. Your navigational aids will automatically key when you hit the initial boundary. Within the engagement area, any military system is fair game. Your mission is extensive destruction of enemy follow-on and supporting forces in the rear of the breakthrough sector. The single specified target
is here, at Atbasar. The headquarters of the I Iranian Corps is set into an excavation site just outside of town. The coordinates have been programmed in for Charlie Troop, and for Bravo, as a backup. The S-2 suspects this site doubles as a Japanese forward command-and-control site, so make sure you clean it out thoroughly. Upon exiting Emerald, you follow Green-two directly to Assembly Area Gold in the industrial park outside of Magnitogorsk, where you will prepare to accept a follow-on mission. Any questions?"
None.
"Fire support," Heifetz continued. "The regiment's dual-purpose artillery battalion will be employed in its air defense mode. The mobile operations envisioned by the plan will be too swiftly paced for heavy-artillery accompaniment. Thus, we have decided to move the regimental artillery directly to the follow-on assembly areas, by routes to the rear of the areas of contact. One battery will deploy to each site — Platinum, Silver, and Gold. You will be prepared to intercept any hostiles on the tail of our squadrons as they close."
Heifetz did a quick mental review. Had he forgotten anything?
No. He went into his closing. "Nonspecified coordination measures per SOP. Quartering parties are authorized to depart for the follow-on assembly areas at end-evening-nautical-twilight. Keep to the approved routes so you don't have some trigger-happy Soviets shooting at you. Artillery follows at EENT plus one. Scouts up at LD minus ninety minutes. Sir," he addressed Taylor, "are there any questions?"
"No. Good job, Dave."
"Then I will be followed by the electronic-warfare liaison officer from the Tenth Cav."
Heifetz rested the remote device on the field podium and moved for his seat, passing a tall, very lean young man on his way. The younger man took up a position just to the side of the briefing screen and began to discuss the intricacies of maneuvering jammers and conducting electronic deception assaults, of electronic tides, digital leeching and ruse dialogues with enemy radars, of ambient energy and frequency deconfliction.
