The War in 2020

by Ralph Peters

  He knew that a better officer would never have turned to take revenge on nine aircraft that had already disposed of their ordnance.

  But there were some things a man could not leave undone.

  Taylor worked his way into the cockpit, dropping himself into his seat. He motioned to his copilot to remove the three-quarter flight helmet the old warrant officer wore in his dual role as copilot and weapons officer.

  "Flapper, you've been working with these birds since they were scribbles on a blueprint. Tell me honestly — will we be wasting our time going after those fast movers?"

  Chief Krebs made the face of a careful old farmer at an auction.

  "Can't say for sure. Nobody ever figured on M-l00s getting in a dogfight with zoomies. That's blue-suiter work. I mean, helicopters, sure. Knock 'em out of the sky all the day and night."

  "But?"

  The old warrant officer smiled slightly, revealing teeth stained by a lifetime of coffee and God only knew what else. "Well, I don't see a damned reason why it can't be done. If we get a good angle of intercept. The guns are fast enough. And we've got plenty of range. The computer don't care what you tell it to kill. And these babies are pretty well built. They'll take a hell of a shaking. Superb aeroelastics. No, boss, I'd say, so long as we can get a good vector… I mean, no forward hemisphere stuff… those Mitsubishis have a very low radar cross-section head-on. And they're fast. No, if we can just sneak in on them between, say, nine and ten o'clock, we just might take them down."

  "I can mark you down as a believer?" Taylor asked.

  Krebs shrugged. "What the hell. Anyhow, I'm anxious to see what these babies can really do." The old warrant grinned, a savvy farmer who had just made the bargain he wanted. "If nothing else, it's going to give them Air Force hot dogs something to think about."

  Taylor settled his hand briefly on Krebs's shoulder. The old man was nothing but gristle, bone, and spite, as sparse as the hill country from which a spark of ambition had led him decades before. Then Taylor went back into the operations cell.

  "We'll have to go max speed," Captain Parker, the assistant S-3, warned him. "Our biggest problem's going to be fuel."

  "Can we make it?" Taylor asked.

  "Barely. We'll have to divert into the nearest assembly area."

  "First Squadron's site?"

  "Yes, sir. We'll be running on empty after the interception. We'll have to stop off at Lieutenant Colonel Tercus's gas station at AA Silver."

  "Silver. That's the one by Orsk, right?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Taylor nodded. All right. "Anyway, I like the sound of it. Omsk to Orsk. Sounds clean."

  "Actually," Merry Meredith interrupted, "the assembly area's offset from the city. It's near a little hamlet called Malenky-Bolshoy Rog."

  "Whatever," Taylor said. "Lucky Dave and I are going to need to talk, anyway, and he's riding with Tercus." Taylor straightened as fully as he could in the low-ceilinged compartment. "Now, let's get the bastards who got Manny."

  * * *

  Captain Jack Sturgis of Bravo Troop, First Squadron, Seventh United States Cavalry, felt a level of exhilaration he had not known since his high school basketball team won the game that took them to the state semifinals. He had been in combat. And not only had he done everything right — he had not even been afraid. Not really. Not once things got going. Basically, in Sturgis's newly acquired view, combat was a lot like sports. You got caught up in it, forgetting everything: the risk of personal injury, even the people watching you. Something inside of you took over. It was an incredible thing. He had read novels in which the heroes always felt sad and kind of empty after a battle. But he felt full of life, bursting with it. He had seen combat. And he had come through it just fine.

  His troop had its major engagement well behind it. Now they were simply flying picket duty over empty expanses, keeping an eye on the regiment's left flank and steadily making their way toward their follow-on assembly area. They had flown out from under the snow, and the sky was clear at the southernmost edge of the regiment's deployment. Everything was perfect.

  "Two-two, this is Two-seven," his wingman called. "So where's this place again? Over."

  "This is Two-two. Orsk. Orsk, for God's sake. And don't get lazy on me. We're going to be flying back into the snow when we turn northwest."

  "Think they'll cut us loose, if things quiet down? I'd really like to meet a couple of Russians before we go home."

  Sturgis knew exactly what the lieutenant meant. He wanted to meet a few Russian women. Just to check them out. Sturgis had nothing against the idea himself. But he felt he had to maintain a mature face before his subordinate.

  "Just keep your mind on the mission. Anyway, Orsk isn't exactly Las Vegas, near as I can tell. And you know the old man. He'll give you a medal before he'll give you a break. Over."

  "We kicked some ass, though. Didn't we?"

  "This is Two-two. Save the bullshitting for when we're on the ground. Maintain basic radio discipline."

  Captain Jack Sturgis, former member of an Ohio State semifinalist basketball team and presently a United States Army officer, meant well. He wanted to get it right, and he had no way of knowing that the encryption device on his troop internal net had already failed over an hour before. His set could still receive and decode incoming encrypted messages, but, whenever he broadcast, his words were clear for all the world to hear. The state of encryption devices had become so advanced that none of the design engineers working the "total system" concept for the M-100 had considered building in a simple warning mechanism to indicate such a failure.

  The engineers were not bad engineers, and the system's design was a remarkably good one, overall. The M-100 had proved itself in battle. But it was a very, very complex machine, of the sort that legitimately needed years of field trials before reaching maturity. The United States had not had the years to spare and, all in all, we were remarkably lucky with the performance of the M-100, although Captain Jack Sturgis might not have agreed, had he known what was waiting for him.

  * * *

  "Orsk," Noburu said.

  "Sir," Colonel Noguchi barked through the earpiece, "I can have my aircraft off the ground in a quarter of an hour. We can complete the mission planning while airborne."

  "That's fine," Noburu said. "The intelligence department will pass you the frequency tracks on which the Americans are broadcasting. You will have to pay close attention. We still cannot detect them with radar or with any other means. Their deception suites are far more advanced than any of us would have believed of the Americans. It may be hard to get a precise fix on them until they are actually on the ground."

  "It doesn't matter," Noguchi said. "The Scramblers are area weapons. If they are within a one hundred nautical mile radius of Orsk, the Americans will be stricken."

  Noburu wondered what the current population was of the city of Orsk. No. Better not to know, he decided.

  "Noguchi?" he asked in genuine curiosity, "how do you feel?"

  The colonel was taken aback by the question, which he frankly did not understand.

  "Sir," he responded, after a wondering pause, "my spirits are excellent. And my health is very good. You have no cause for worry."

  "Of course not," Noburu said.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Colonel Reno knew that everything was going to be all right. He had monitored Taylor's message on the command net as Taylor turned over control of the regiment to Heifetz so that Taylor himself could fly off on a personal glory hunt. No matter what he himself did, Reno knew, there could be no serious threat from Taylor now. The old bastard wasn't so sly after all. He had compromised himself. Any subordinate with half a brain would have no difficulty portraying Taylor's action in an unfavorable light. By stretching it a little bit, you could even make the case that Taylor had deserted his post.

  "Bronco, this is Saber six," Reno told the microphone.

  "Bronco, over."

  "Have you gotten that damned problem f
ixed, Bronco?" From his command M-100, Taylor had electronically imposed limits on the range of targets the regiment's systems were free to attack. Taylor claimed he wanted to preserve a combat-ready force, now that the last functional calibrator had been lost.

  But Reno was no fool. The regiment had been so successful — unimaginably successful — in destroying the enemy's ability to wage technologically competent warfare in the zone of attack that Reno suspected there might not be another battle. At the very least, things would settle down into a stalemate, with both sides materially exhausted and incapable. The likeliest scenario, from Reno's point of view, was that the politicians would get involved and there would be a negotiated settlement. Which meant that today might be the only chance a man got to prove his abilities.

  "This is Bronco. The problem's fixed. We're ready to resume contact. Over."

  "Good work. Now let's start running up those numbers again."

  It had required some effort to override the restriction Taylor's master computer had imposed on his M-l00s. But the weapons were free again now. In fact, they could attack a wider range of targets now than they had been permitted at the beginning of the day's hunt. Reno saw nothing wrong with spending a few extra rounds on the odd truck or range car. The important thing, at this point, was to run up Third Squadron's number of kills. And, given that the other two squadrons were under strict limits from here on out, Reno figured his score was likely to come out the highest, after all.

  A good officer had to take the initiative.

  * * *

  "Are we going to make it?" Taylor asked.

  The set of Flapper Krebs's face was unmistakably tense beneath the incomplete helmet.

  "It's going to be close," the warrant officer said. "Damn close. The sonsofbitches have picked up speed. They must be scared as hell about something."

  Taylor glanced at the man with concern. Then he got on the intercom.

  "Merry, do you have any indication whatsoever that those bandits have picked us up?"

  "No, sir."

  "It looks like they're running scared. They're heading south fast."

  "Might just be nerves," Meredith said. "Scary sky out there. They picked up speed, but there's been absolutely no deviation in their course. They're coming down the slot straight as an arrow."

  "Roger. Parker," he said, addressing the assistant S-3, "how do we look on angle of intercept?"

  "I know the chief wants to take them from behind," the captain said, "but the best we're going to do is about a nine-o'clock angle of attack. Maybe even a little more forward than that. If we try to get too fancy, we're going to lose them. They're just moving too fast."

  Taylor looked over at Krebs, whose hands remained perfectly steady on the controls, ready to override the computer if it became necessary.

  "What do you think, Flapper?"

  Krebs shrugged. "Give it a shot."

  "Merry?" Taylor asked, working the intercom again, "are the "target parameters locked in?"

  "Roger. Nine Mitsubishi 4000s. Alteration to program accepted."

  "Flapper?"

  "I got it. Weapons systems green."

  "Okay," Taylor said. "Let's do a temporary delete on everything else. Keep all sensors focused on those bastards."

  "Roger."

  "Range?"

  "Two hundred miles and closing."

  "Colonel?" Krebs said to Taylor, "I can't promise you this is going to work. But I can guarantee you it's going to be quick. We're only going to get one chance."

  "Roger. Parker, do a double check on our escort birds. Make sure their computers are on exactly the same sheet of music."

  "Roger."

  "One chance," the old warrant repeated.

  * * *

  Zeederberg was anxious to get back down on the ground. He had been out of contact with higher headquarters for hours, and the level of electronic interference in the atmosphere was utterly without precedent in his experience. Something was wrong. Even his on-board systems were starting to deteriorate, as though the electromagnetic siege was beginning to beat down the walls of his aircraft. He could no longer communicate even with the other birds flying in formation with his own, and the sophisticated navigational aids employed for evasive flying were behaving erratically. The formation had been reduced to flying higher off the ground than Zeederberg would have liked, and all they could do was to maintain visual contact with each other and head south at the top speed their fuel reserves would allow.

  They had destroyed the target. Mission accomplished. The standoff bombs had proven accurate, as always, and what the bombs had not flattened, the fuel-air explosives burned or suffocated. Zeederberg hoped it had been worth it. The only confirmed enemy target he had been able to register had been that single American-built wing-inground transport. Perhaps there had been other equipment hidden in the maze of old plants and warehouses. Undoubtedly, the Japanese knew what they were doing. But during the mission brief, no one had warned them to expect a density of electronic interference so thick it seemed to physically buffet the aircraft. Something was terribly wrong.

  Zeederberg felt unaccustomed streaks of sweat trailing down his back, chilling the inside of his flight suit. It was nerve-racking flying. This is what it must have been like in the old days, he thought. Before the computers took over.

  "Sky watch report?" Zeederberg begged through the intercom. He half expected the intercom to go out too.

  "All clear," a tiny voice responded. "Plenty of interference. But the sky looks as clean as can be."

  It was like a visit to the dentist, Zeederberg told himself.

  You just had to remember that it was all going to be over before you knew it.

  He promised himself that as soon as he got home to South Africa he was going to pack up Marieke and the kids, go off to the beach for a holiday, lie in the sun, and laugh about all this.

  * * *

  "Forty miles and closing," Meredith's voice rang through the headphones.

  "Roger."

  "They're coming too fast," Krebs said. "We're going to have to engage at max range and take our chances."

  "All right," Taylor said. "Weapons systems to full automatic."

  "Thirty-five miles."

  "Bad angle," the assistant S-3 cried.

  "Fuck it" Krebs said. "You pays your money and you takes your chance."

  Taylor's eyes were fixed to the monitor.

  "Here they come," he said.

  "Hold on," Krebs shouted.

  The M-100 jerked its snout up into the air like a crazy carnival ride designed to sicken even the heartiest child. The main gun began to pulse.

  "Jesus Christ."

  The M-100 seemed to slam against one wall of sky, then another, twisting to bring its gun to bear on the racing targets. Taylor had never experienced anything like it.

  "Hold on."

  Taylor tried to watch the monitor, but the M-100 was pulling too hard. The machine's crazy acrobatics tossed him about in his safety harness as though he were a weightless doll. He did not think the machine would hold together. The system had not been designed for the bizarre and sudden angles of aerial combat with fixed-wing aircraft.

  Going to crash, he thought. We're going to break up. He strained to reach the emergency panel. But the rearing craft threw him back hard against his seat.

  The main gun continued to pulse throughout the mechanical storm.

  Taylor tried again to reach the emergency toggles.

  "Flapper," he shouted. "Help me."

  There was no answer. Taylor could not even twist his head around to see if his copilot was all right.

  The M-100 went into a hard turn, slamming Taylor's head back.

  The main gun blasted the empty sky.

  Suddenly, the M-100 leveled out and began to fly as smoothly as if nothing had occurred.

  Taylor's neck hurt, and he felt dizzy to the point of nausea. But beside him the old chief warrant officer was already on the radio, checking in with the two escort
ships. Krebs's voice was as calm as could be. It took a damned old warrant, Taylor decided, to fake that kind of coolness.

  The entire action had taken only seconds. One bad curve on the roller coaster.

  Taylor looked at the target monitor. The screen was empty.

  "Merry," he called angrily. "Merry, goddamnit, we lost them. The sonsofbitches got away."

  "Calm down there, Colonel," Krebs told him. "Ain't nobody got away. Look at your kill counters."

  "Chief's right," Merry said through the intercom. "We got them. Every last one. Look."

  Meredith relayed a series of ground images to the monitors in the forward cabin. Taylor insisted on going through the images twice. Counting.

  Yes. They had gotten them all. Or, rather, the M-l00s had. Nine unmistakable wrecks lay strewn across the wasteland, with components burning here and there.

  The staffers back in the ops cell were hooting with glee. Taylor could hear them through the intercom, and he imagined them all doing a little war dance in the cramped cubicle. But his own feelings had not settled yet. It had all been over so quickly. It made him feel old, a little lost. For all his education and experience, this was not war as he imagined he knew it. It was all so quick, so utterly impersonal. Taylor felt as though he were being left behind.

  The battle staff continued their noisy celebration. Captain Parker, the assistant S-3, even overcame his fear of the old, severe veteran.

  "Colonel Taylor, sir," the captain called forward, his voice full of childlike exuberance, "you think the Air Force will give us combat wings for that one?"

  "Fat fucking chance," Krebs interrupted. His voice had the delectably exaggerated sourness that seemed to come naturally to warrant officers when they were very proud of something they and their comrades had done. "Those goddamned Air Force weenies are going to be in Congress tomorrow, lobbying to take these babies away from us." The M-100 program had taken the best years of Krebs's life and now his face glowed with the sort of pride a man might take in the spectacular success of his child. "No," he assured them all, "they'll be crying fit to flood the Potomac." He patted the side panel of the cockpit the way one of his gray-suited ancestors must have patted the flank of a horse. "They're going to tell you these babies are too good for dumb grunts like us."