The War in 2020

by Ralph Peters

  Every one of his crews would be flying for themselves now. The American formation hardly existed as such. Instead, five M-l00s speckled the sky, each seeking the best possible angle of attack.

  Taylor applied full throttle, trying to get into his enemy's flank before the Japanese gunships could bring their weapons to bear.

  "I don't know," Krebs said, hanging on the weapons control stick.

  "Fuck you don't know," Taylor said. "I know. Take those fuckers out."

  Krebs fired.

  Nothing.

  "Just getting a feel for the deflection," he excused himself. He sounded calmer now that he was committed to action.

  Taylor flew straight for the center of the enemy formation. He watched the increasingly clear gunships coming into the last segment of their turns.

  "Come on, baby," Krebs said. He fired again.

  Instantaneously, a black gunship erupted in flames and left the enemy formation, its component parts hurtling through the sky in multiple directions.

  Taylor howled with delight, eternally the wild young captain who had sailed dreamily into Africa.

  "Well, fuck me," Krebs said in wonder. He fired again, pulsing out rounds.

  Another Japanese gunship broke apart in the sky.

  Remember me, Taylor told his enemy. Remember me.

  In quick succession, two more Japanese gunships blazed and broke up. The other American ships were hitting.

  There was very little time. The enemy systems defined themselves with greater clarity with each passing second. Taylor was afraid they would be able to come around at their own angle and sweep the sky with lasers in a crossfire effect.

  Taylor stared hard at the enemy formation, trying to read the pattern.

  "Flapper," he yelled suddenly. "Get the number three ship. That's the flight leader."

  "Roger." Krebs had put his gruff old soldier voice back on. But, bubbling under the gray tones was the same unmistakable exhilaration that Taylor felt. The indescribable joy of destruction.

  The old warrant officer followed the turn of the aircraft with his optics. He let go one round, then another.

  The enemy's flight leader disappeared in a hot white flash. When the dazzle faded there were only black chunks of waste dropping into the sea.

  Another of the enemy's aircraft exploded.

  The remaining gunships began to abort their turns. Instead of trying to close with their tormentors, they were trying to escape.

  Wrong decision, Taylor thought coldly. "All stations, right wheel," he called, slipping unconsciously into an old cavalry command.

  Two of the enemy's surviving gunships exploded in tandem, as though they had been taken out by a doublebarreled shotgun.

  Only two enemy ships remained. Taylor knew what they were feeling. The terror. The recognition that it was all over battling with the human tendency to hope against hope. And the frantic uncertainty that interfered with those functions it did not completely paralyze. But the knowledge did not move him.

  They were on the enemy's rear hemisphere now. The attempt to flee was hopeless, since the American aircraft were faster. But the enemy pilots would not know that. At this point, the only thing they would know with any certainty was that they were still alive.

  Taylor felt Krebs tense mercilessly beside him. The warrant sent off another succession of rounds.

  A gunship spun around like a weathervane in a storm, breaking up even before the fire from its fuel tanks could engulf it. Then the familiar cloud of flames swelled outward, spitting odd aircraft parts.

  A lone enemy survivor strained off to the southeast. Taylor could feel the pilot pushing for each last ounce of thrust, aching to go faster than physical laws allowed.

  The lone black ship flared and fell away in a sputtering rain of components.

  For a long moment no one spoke. The M-l00s automatically slipped back into formation, conditioned by drill. But no drill had given them the language to express what they felt.

  The sky was eerily clean.

  "All stations," Taylor said finally. "Return to automatic flight controls. Next stop: Objective Blackjack."

  Baku.

  He took a deep breath.

  "Flapper," he said, "I'm going back to have a little talk with our Russian friend."

  * * *

  "I swear," Kozlov said. His mouth was bleeding from Taylor's blow. "I swear I didn't know."

  Taylor looked at him grimly. He wanted to open a hatch and push the Russian out into the sky. He did not know whether or not there were sharks in the Caspian Sea, but he hoped nature had not missed the opportunity to put some there.

  Taylor felt another rush of fury, and he raised his fist.

  "Don't," Meredith said suddenly. "I believe him."

  Taylor looked at the S-2 in surprise, fist suspended in midair.

  "Look at him," Meredith went on, with as little regard as if Kozlov could not hear a word that passed between them. "He's scared shitless. He's been that way since the refueling site. He didn't have a clue." Meredith made a spitting gesture with his lips. "The poor bastard's just a staff officer with a toothache, not some kind of suicide volunteer. Ivanov set him up too."

  Taylor lowered his fist. But he did not unclench it. He glowered. "Goddamnit," he said to Kozlov, "I just want to know one thing. Give me one straight goddamned answer, if you fucking Russians are biologically capable of it. All that shit about the layout of the headquarters in Baku — were you telling the truth? Was that sketch accurate? Or were you just making it all up?"

  Kozlov opened his mouth to speak. Two of the bad front teeth had disappeared. The mouth wavered and shut, blood streaming out onto the Russian's chin, streaking down into his uniform. He spit into his sleeve, then tried a second time to squeeze out the words. "Everything… everything is true. You see? I am here with you. I, too, believed."

  Taylor shook his head, turning away in disgust.

  "I trust him too," Ryder said. It was the first time Ryder had spoken in Taylor's presence since the flight began. Taylor almost snapped at him. But Hank Parker spoke first:

  "He's straight, sir. I'd bet my bars."

  Taylor suddenly felt like a big cat in a small cage. "Goddamnit," he said, turning back to Kozlov, "your country gets at least as much out of this operation as mine does."

  "I understand," Kozlov said cautiously, sick gums still bleeding.

  "Then why? Why did Ivanov do it?"

  "I don't know."

  "Why sell out your only friends? Christ, nobody in the world has any sympathy for you except us. Who else tried to save your asses?"

  Kozlov looked down at the deck in shame. "I do not understand." He wiped his chin on his sleeve again. "Perhaps there was a mistake. I don't know."

  Taylor punched his blistered hand against a side panel. It hurt. In anger, he tore off the fresh bandage that had been applied before the mission lifted off.

  The pain felt right. Good. None of it made sense anymore.

  "I don't know, either," Taylor said wearily.

  "We need him," Meredith said. "We're going to need him on the ground."

  Taylor nodded. "All right." He turned to Kozlov. "But one false step, and I'll shoot you myself."

  Kozlov nodded solemnly. He was very pale and the blood smeared over the bottom of his face was very red. He seemed physically smaller now, as if shame had crumpled him, and Taylor felt almost as though he had struck a child.

  "And no gun," Taylor added. "You do the guiding. We'll handle the fireworks."

  Kozlov nodded again, accepting this further humiliation. Taylor turned to Hank Parker, dismissing the Russian from his immediate concern. He leaned in over the battle control console. Then he straightened abruptly.

  "Viktor," he said, facing Kozlov across the small cell. The Russian was feeling in his mouth with his fingers. "I want you to tell me one more thing honestly. Did you…did your people know anything about the Scramblers? Did you choose not to warn us?"

  Kozlov wiped his blo
ody fingers on the side of his trousers. He coughed and his throat sounded crowded with waste. "I didn't know. I knew nothing personally…" He hesitated. Then he continued with a new resolution: "General Ivanov knew something. Honestly, I do not know how much he knew. He said nothing to me until… afterward."

  "You people," Taylor said, shaking his head in disgust. The tone of his voice reached an odd pitch between fury and resignation. "Does anybody in your country remember how to tell the truth?"

  Kozlov shrugged slightly, drawing his shoulders together as if trying to disappear into himself. He could not meet Taylor's eyes.

  Unexpectedly, the strategic communications set sparked to life: a totally unwelcome interruption. A tired voice fumbled through the call signs at the distant end. Even Washington was growing weary.

  Meredith acknowledged.

  "Is Colonel Taylor at your location?" the communications officer asked from the other side of the world.

  "Roger. Standing by."

  "Going to visual relay."

  "Check."

  "Hold for the President of the United States."

  Oh, shit, Taylor thought, longing for the days when monarchs were weeks or months away from the soldier's camp.

  To everyone's surprise, the familiar face of President Waters did not fill the monitor. Instead, the Vice President appeared, looking handsomely tanned and healthy, except for some tiredness around the eyes. When Taylor stepped in front of the monitor, the Vice President winced. The two men had never met.

  Vice President Maddox recovered smoothly and leaned forward again, body language suggesting a generous intimacy.

  "Colonel Taylor?" he asked.

  "Yes, Mr. Vice President."

  An odd expression passed across the distant man's face. Then he said: "Colonel Taylor, I'm the President now. As of about an hour ago, as a matter of fact. President Waters suffered a fatal heart attack in his sleep this morning."

  "Yes, sir," Taylor said flatly, calculating as swiftly as he could the implications for his mission. Nothing else mattered now.

  "Colonel Taylor, it sounds as though you're not alone."

  "That's correct, sir. Several members of my staff are present."

  The new President glanced off to the side. It seemed as though he was about to speak to another party off-camera. Then he faced the screen again and said:

  "Could you clear the room or whatever it is you're in? I'd like to talk to you privately."

  Bad sign. The only question was: how bad? Another time Taylor might have stated that his staff needed to continue at their posts. But he sensed it would be a fatal move at this junction.

  "Merry," he said, turning from the monitor for a moment.

  "Yes, sir," Meredith said. He quickly began shepherding the others into the narrow passageway that led to the cockpit. Hank Parker went first, heading for the cockpit itself, since he was flight-qualified and could reasonably lay a claim to the comfort of Taylor's forward seat.

  After a few awkward seconds, the compartment was clear and the internal hatch had been shut.

  "I'm alone now, Mr. President."

  Maddox nodded, chewing slightly at his lower lip. It was evident that he was trying to get past the shock of Taylor's scars, to size up the total package.

  "Colonel Taylor," he began in a voice that belonged on a veranda in the Deep South, "I did not want to embarrass you in front of your subordinates… however, it appears to me that the mission upon which you are presently embarked… may be ill-advised."

  Taylor didn't blink. He had been preparing himself for this.

  "Why, Mr. President?"

  Maddox looked surprised. Taylor heard an off-camera voice say:

  "You don't need to explain anything to him, Mr. President. All you have to do is tell him to turn his ass around and he'll by God do it."

  "Colonel Taylor," Maddox picked up, "I'm afraid there may be insufficient time to explain all of our… considerations. I am directing you to terminate your mission immediately."

  "Mr. President," Taylor said desperately, struggling not to sound as desperate as he felt, "we're almost at the objective area. In one hour—"

  "Colonel, I don't intend to argue with you. The best minds in Washington have advised me to put a halt to whatever it is you're up to over there. So just turn yourself around and head on back to wherever it is you started from. You've done a fine job up until now, and, I can assure you, your country's grateful to you."

  "No," Taylor said.

  Maddox looked at him in disbelief. "What did you say?"

  "No, Mr. President. I will not abort this mission. I believe you are receiving bad advice from men who do not understand the situation here in-theater. I have never before disobeyed an order, least of all from my president. But I believe my duty is clear. I intend to execute this mission, as directed by President Waters."

  "By God, Colonel, you're going to do what—"

  Taylor switched off the strategic link. Then he unlatched the encryption insert, withdrew it, swung it with all his strength against the deck, and inserted it again, doing up the latch as if nothing had happened. Farewell to Washington.

  He went forward and opened the internal hatch that led to the cockpit passageway.

  In the faint light, the crammed officers looked ridiculous, huddled against each other like college students playing some prank. Taylor could smell Kozlov's decayed, bloody breath bathing them all.

  "Gentlemen," Taylor said, "the President of the United States died this morning, of natural causes. The Vice President has been sworn in and has assumed the presidency. There have been no difficulties with the transition process. Now," he bent to help Ryder up out of the tangle of limbs and torsos, "we've got a mission to run."

  * * *

  Maddox sat bolt upright. He was angry. He could not recall the last time he had been so angry, but he knew it had been a matter of years, if not decades.

  "Well." He looked around the room, disgusted by the extent of the mess he had inherited. "You heard him. Now what in the hell are you all going to do about it?" He looked at the secretary of state, then at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The old general just shook his head in amazement. He'll definitely have to go, Maddox thought. In good time. Couldn't stage an immediate massacre of all Waters's appointees.

  "Mr. President," the secretary of state began, "perhaps we could alert the Japanese. Make it clear to them that this is a maverick action."

  Absolutely worthless, Maddox thought. How did Waters ever manage with such a hopeless bunch?

  "Mr. Secretary," Maddox began, stretching out the syllables as though he were speaking on the hottest of summer afternoons, "you might talk me into a lot of things. But you are not about to talk me into selling out American soldiers to our enemies. And I don't care how crazy this ugly sonofabitch of a colonel is. Hasn't anybody got any sensible ideas?"

  "Court-martial?" the chairman of the Joint Chiefs said meekly.

  Maddox glared at him. "General" — he pronounced the title with only two syllables—"I had something a bit more immediate in mind."

  The chairman shook his head. "Too late, sir. We couldn't even begin to intercept them. And I know Colonel Taylor. He'll have everybody restricted to one net, and he'll hide that with skip frequencies. From a military standpoint… I'm afraid there's nothing we can do but watch. And hope for the best."

  Maddox was appalled. "Hellfire," he said. "You-all just tell me one thing, and I want a straight answer. Has this sonofabitch got a chance in hell of pulling this caper off?"

  "Oh, he's got a chance," the chairman said. "About one chance in hell, exactly. Maybe two chances in hell, considering that it's George Taylor."

  President Maddox was unhappy. This did not strike him as an auspicious start to his presidency, and even if that presidency was only going to last until the swearing in of the other party's candidate in January, he did not intend to smear himself with any avoidable shame.

  "You boys," he said disgustedly. "I sw
ear to God, I just don't know." He faced the secretary of state, but he spoke to the room at large. "I'll tell you what we're going to do. If this fellow screws it all up and lives to tell about it, we're going to court-martial him and everybody in uniform who can so much as spell his name." Maddox sat back. For the first time all day, he felt as though he were actually in charge. "On the other hand, if the sonofabitch pulls it off and kicks him some ass, everyone in this room is going to forget that this conversation took place." He looked methodically from face to face. "You-all understand me?"

  * * *

  Valya entered the hotel bar alone. Clutching her purse to steady her hands, she scanned the musty interior as she made her way through the clutter of early drinkers and women for sale. The Americans were in uniform now, and they stood a bit straighter. Sudden laughter splashed out of the gloom, but it sounded formal and forced to her ears. She saw no one whom she recognized.

  It was impossible. She could not do it.

  She settled herself on a barstool, trying to project a graceful sexuality. But it was terribly difficult. Her buttocks ached where she had been kicked by her interrogator, and there was no comfort left in the small saddle of flesh beneath her dress.

  She tried to adjust her eyes to the brown air, still searching the profiles grouped around back tables. The Russian women smoked heavily, and the dreary lighting barely penetrated the depths of the room. But that was all right. Valya touched her face anxiously. She had layered herself with far more makeup than was her custom in an attempt to disguise her bruises. Thankfully, most of the swelling had gone down. Only the discoloration remained.

  She had kept herself on course with the faint hope that her American boy would be here after all, her lover of a single night, and that he would smile and wave, coming anxiously toward her, wondering only why she had been unable to meet him as promised the night before, offering salvation.

  But her boy was not there. No one was going to magically rescue her. Ignored by the bartender, she leaned onto the counter, struggling to see. Her boy was not there. And neither was the man to whom her tormentors had consigned her.