by Harold Coyle
So it was not surprising that young Kevin Pape, raised in the shadows of John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, and Rambo, drilled in the skills of war until he could perform without thinking, and fired up by bold, aggressive, and confident officers, should feel invulnerable to the point of being cocky. There was no room in his mind that night for the image of shattered bodies brutalized by grenades and automatic weapons. Pape's young nostrils had yet to inhale the stench of burned flesh or the contents of human bowels and intestines, mixed with warm blood, spilled at his feet. There was, in training, no way to simulate the screams of wounded and dying men that sounded more like wild animals than the cries of sons and fathers. Combat, only combat, brutal and bloody, can cure a young soldier's naiveté. Pape in less than fifteen minutes was about to receive his first treatment.
If Pape lacked the ability to visualize what was about to happen, Colonel Ed Martin, commander of the 404th Tactical Fighter Squadron, more than made up for him. Easing his F-l17 fighter down to an altitude of 20,000 feet, Martin prepared to commence his final run-in. There wasn't actually much for him to do. Since takeoff, his fighter had for all practical purposes been on automatic pilot. All he needed to do to keep his aircraft on course was to keep the little green indicator on the display to his front that represented his aircraft's actual heading aligned with the command-heading indicator that the computer in the aircraft's navigational system told him he should be on. Even if Martin altered the airspeed or altitude, the navigational system's computer took this into account, made new computations, and transmitted a new command heading, if necessary, for Martin to follow.
As easy as that was, the actual bomb run would be, technically, easier. Once he had reached the point where he would initiate his attack, all the pilot of an F-l17 had to do was activate the weapons controls, ensure the laser designator was on its mark, and then let his aircraft take over the bomb run. He would make what the designers called "a hands-off attack," meaning the firepower control computer, working with the navigational system computer, would do everything. Martin was just there to keep an eye on everything and make sure nothing went wrong. In theory a piece of cake.
For Martin, however, this mission was anything but a joy ride. Although he was the commander of the 404th, at that moment the only thing he commanded was the aircraft that he was in. And even that point, given all the computers and such, was questionable. In the past, the necessity of flying the aircraft, staying on top of the tactical situation, and keeping track of a wing man occupied the pilot's mind, leaving little time to dwell on fears, real and imagined. Glancing to his left and then his right, Martin looked at the night sky. He could not escape the thought that somewhere out there eleven other aircraft of his squadron, swallowed up by a bitter cold night sky, were boring down on their designated targets, alone, like his. It was times like this that made Martin regret not having a backseater that he could talk to. Now, Martin thought, if they could only come up with a computer that alleviated the apprehensions and concerns of a commander, he'd be out of a job, which at the moment didn't seem to be such a bad idea.
Below him, buried under tons of dirt, rock, and concrete in command and control bunkers and remote missile sites, soldiers of the Ukrainian air defense command sat monitoring their radar screens and sensors, searching for them. It was, Martin thought, a high-tech contest. After all, he and the rest of his pilots were betting that American technology would allow them to win the game of hide-and-seek against the best air defense system in the world. Given that, they had to win the intelligence war. They were betting that American intelligence was good enough to win the information battle, the results of which had been used to program his navigational and weapons-control panel for this attack. In that struggle, American intelligence agencies had to overcome Ukrainian counter-intelligence and operational security measures designed to throw their efforts off far enough so that the real targets were missed. And even if Martin and his men made it to the correct target, there was always the question of whether or not the weapons they carried would do the job. What a waste, he thought, to come all this way just to put a hole in the ground.
Such thoughts cluttered Martin's mind as he approached the IP, or initial point, over Mukacevo. The price of failure was not an intangible that he had to leave to his imagination. During the Gulf War, Martin had had more than enough of an opportunity to see, up close and personal, what failure meant. His most vivid memory of the war was the loss of a close friend who misjudged his ability to bring his crippled aircraft home. In the midst of the air war, just when everything was settling down to almost a dull routine, Martin watched as one of the aircraft in the squadron he was assigned to came limping in after a raid over Iraq. Damaged by anti-aircraft fire, the pilot had lost some of his avionics as well as fuel. Still the pilot felt confident that he could make it. And he almost did. The pilot of the damaged aircraft actually made it to within two hundred meters of the runway before his lift and luck gave out. Martin, with two other pilots from the squadron, watched as the F-15E's landing gear bit into the desert sand just short of the runway and collapsed, sending the aircraft, still traveling at over one hundred miles an hour, tumbling forward, tearing itself apart. Despite his better judgment, Martin had run out to the aircraft, thinking that perhaps, somehow, his friend had miraculously survived. Miracles, however, were not in order that day. Like the F-15E, there was little left of Martin's friend.
A small chirp over Martin's headset wrenched his mind from the bright barren vistas of a past war captured forever by his mind's eye back to the bitter darkness of the present one. Looking at his console, Martin saw that a Ukrainian air defense search radar was sweeping the area. The electronic warfare system identified the radar as belonging to an SA-10 surface-to-air missile battery. It also told Martin that the radar had not yet detected him, that it was still in the search mode. Another tone, with a slightly different pitch, warned Martin that he had reached the IP.
For a moment Martin considered his situation. Although he was still undetected, as soon as he began his bomb run he would have to open the bomb bay door and allow the 750-pound laser-guided bomb he carried to swing down into the release position. Unfortunately, for the briefest of moments, the bomb, built without the benefits of stealth technology, would be visible to the SA-10 battery's search radar. That meant in turn that so long as the bomb was attached to his aircraft while Martin was getting his laser dot on target, the SA-10 battery could engage him.
The question of whether he should initiate his attack now or try a different approach, one that perhaps would not expose him to the surface-to-air battery, momentarily crossed Martin's mind. As quickly as that thought came, however, he pushed it aside. Martin, a full colonel in the United States Air Force and a squadron commander, had a critical job to do. To his front, just east of Mukacevo, at a range of ten miles and 20,000 feet below, lay the command and control bunker from which the district military commander would coordinate the defense of the Ukrainian province of Ruthenia. Destruction, or even the temporary crippling of that bunker, would hamstring the efforts of the Ukrainian commander to respond to the Army's ground attack. To break off his attack might be the best option. But there was no assurance that a different approach would be any safer. After all, if the Ukrainians took the time to set up a battery to cover one approach, it was logical that they would ensure all approaches were covered. Besides, only an attack from the southwest would ensure penetration of the main chamber. Another approach simply would not do the job.
With some effort, Martin began to compose himself as he turned his fighter into the attack. Scanning his instruments, Martin could feel his heart begin to beat faster while his breathing became more rapid. Slowly he began to block out all thoughts and feelings that did not concern his attack. Instead, Martin focused his full attention on the heads-up display to his front, checking the aircraft's heading, fire control reticle, airspeed, altitude, weapons status, and a myriad of other information. He was committed. He was in the attack mo
de. In another minute it would all be over, success or failure.
Without further thought, Martin opened the bomb bay door and allowed the bomb to swing out on a trapezelike frame that locked the bomb into the drop position. Almost at the same instant, the tone in his ear changed as the electronic warfare system told Martin that the SA-10 battery had radar lock. The target acquisition radar had been activated. Martin, however, ignored the tone. His mind and body were absorbed by the act of superimposing the laser designation reticle onto the ventilator shaft of the bunker below. That was at that moment all he needed to see, all he needed to worry about.
* * *
The blast of air let into the helicopter when First Lieutenant Frank Zack, the American ranger company executive officer, slid the door open hit Major Nikolai Ilvanich like a sledgehammer. Ilvanich, lulled into a deep sleep by the Blackhawk helicopter's vibrations, hadn't realized that they had reached their target. With the ease of a practiced veteran, Ilvanich, however, was fully awake and taking in everything. Nothing escaped him. He heard every word and saw every action around him. The executive officer across from him was in the door and ready to leap out as soon as the helicopter touched down. Behind him a nervous sergeant was fumbling with his gear while an excited soldier with fire in his eyes, named Pape, kept nudging him in an effort to get closer to the door. Ilvanich watched the young soldier as his fingers worked the action of his squad automatic weapon while he urged his sergeant to get moving. That young man's lust for battle, Ilvanich knew, would be tempered as soon as he saw his first wounded man at his feet writhing and screaming.
When the helicopter came around the side of the mountain and began its descent, Ilvanich turned his attention away from Pape and leaned forward to study their target. Outside, framed by the helicopter's door, lay the landing zone. From where he sat, it looked small, mainly because it was small. To one side was the mountain that contained the nuclear weapons storage site. The landing zone was nothing more than a ledge measuring one hundred by two hundred meters that jutted out from the side of that mountain. In the glow of the security lights, Ilvanich could see the tunnel entrance, wide open at the moment. The entrance was protected by a small concrete bunker jutting out from the right side of the tunnel entrance overlooking a small maze of movable concrete road barriers set up in such a manner that anyone entering the tunnel had to zigzag through them single file. Across from it stood a cinder block building that provided protection for half a dozen or so guards responsible for patrolling the chainlink fence topped with barbed wire that ran along the entire outer perimeter of the ledge.
There was, as far as he could see, no movement on the ground, no guards visible. The security lights were still on, providing the helicopter pilots ample light with which to land.
More importantly, there was no anti-aircraft fire. The surprise was complete. Barring a serious miscalculation, success was all but guaranteed.
Unsnapping his seat belt, Ilvanich readjusted his gear, pulled the zipper up on his camouflage parka, and pulled the folding stock assault rifle that he had slung over his shoulder around from his side onto his lap, resting his right hand on it. By the time the helicopter's wheels hit the ground with a thump, Ilvanich was ready.
In a second Blackhawk across from Ilvanich's, the scene was repeated. Before the Blackhawk's door gunners could open up with their M-60 machine guns, Captain Vernon Smithy's command of "LET'S GO, RANGERS" cleared the helicopter. In their haste to get out onto the ground and deploy, the rangers with Smithy masked the right door gunner's field of fire, preventing him from dropping the two Ukrainian guards standing behind the concrete barriers at the mouth of the tunnel that ran into the side of the mountain.
For a moment, the two guards hesitated, each one thinking the same thought: Stand and fight or flee? The shock of seeing four whitewashed helicopters in a perfect formation drop out of nowhere and disgorge dozens of armed troops less than twenty meters away was overpowering. That they would never be able to stop them was obvious. That there was no escape from this flood of invaders was equally clear. All that remained for the guards to do, in the few seconds that it took their attackers to disembark and form an assault line, was to shut the huge steel blast door and warn the guards inside the mountain. After glancing at their attackers one more time, both fled for the bunker.
The faster of the two made it into the bunker and grabbed the phone to notify the guards inside the tunnel. The second Ukrainian guard followed after dropping down behind the concrete barrier and crawling to the bunker on his hands and knees. Once he reached the open doorway of the bunker, the second Ukrainian guard pulled himself up and faced the panel just inside the bunker door that controlled the lights and the blast door of the tunnel entrance. He only managed to hit the switch that started the thick steel door closing before a ranger tossed a grenade around the corner of the concrete barrier into the open door of the bunker.
The door gunner on the helicopter that carried Ilvanich and First Lieutenant Zack had no problems with the exiting rangers. Without any orders being needed, the twenty-one-year-old native of Tennessee opened fire, raking the cinder block building that served as a guard shack with a quick burst. The six Ukrainian guards stationed there, who were responsible for securing the outer perimeter fence, instinctively chose to fight, ignoring in their haste the door gunner's first burst. Pouring through the narrow door, parkas half on but weapons at the ready, they rushed out into the night to deploy and to repel the attackers. The lean country boy behind the helicopter's M-60 machine gun held his fire as he watched, waited, and shifted his gun to the right a little. When he fired again, he dropped the first three guards. The remaining three, seeing their comrades chewed up by machine-gun fire so quickly, were thrown into a panic. Caught in the open, between the onslaught of attackers and the chainlink fence they were supposed to guard, the remaining three guards turned to run back into their guard shack.
Kevin Pape stopped that. Holding the butt plate of his squad automatic weapon against his right hip, Pape trained his weapon on the first Ukrainian, who already had his foot in the door of the guard shack. Using his body to aim and direct the fire of his weapon, Pape opened up, holding the trigger down while he moved his entire body to the right, raking the file of Ukrainians. Like tin cans set on a wall for target practice, each of the Ukrainian guards was knocked back as Pape's hail of bullets swept down their file.
Following close behind Zack, Ilvanich watched the brief firefight with the six Ukrainians in the guard shack and the two guards at the tunnel entrance. All were dead or wounded in a matter of seconds. They were no longer a factor. But the two guards at the tunnel entrance, though they chose not to fight, had been far more effective than the six in the guard shack. In their haste, not one of them had even considered killing the floodlights that bathed the area around the mouth of the tunnel in a glaring green fluorescent light. That light, Ilvanich thought, was a gift to the Americans. It was a great aid to the demolition team, allowing them to prepare the charges that they needed to blow their way into the tunnel in record time. The light also made it easier for the rangers already on the ground to finish their deployment around the perimeter and assist in the landing of the next wave. Not killing the lights, Ilvanich thought, negated the sacrifice that the two guards at the tunnel had made.
Standing upright for the first time since landing, Ilvanich looked around and watched the American rangers. A little sloppy, he thought, but so far there were no problems that the Americans were not prepared to deal with. With nothing to do and no need to advise anyone, Ilvanich began to follow the ranger company XO. The ranger company commander, Captain Smithy, had more than made clear during the planning and preparation for the raid, that he had no use for Ilvanich. Ilvanich, though offended, had said nothing. He had no desire to add to Smithy's concerns. Smithy already was burdened with one Russian advisor, a slightly overweight major who had once been the deputy commander in charge of security of this storage site. Smithy didn't need a second advis
or hovering over his shoulder.
Noting that Zack, the XO, had already moved into the guard shack in the company of two radiomen and a sergeant, Ilvanich followed to see what he was doing. Carefully stepping over a body that partially blocked the doorway, Ilvanich entered the guard shack. As he did so, he was overwhelmed by the warmth of the room and the bright lights that were still on. Dressed for combat in the cold, Ilvanich was made uncomfortable by the heat from the stove. He considered going back outside but decided to wait until he found out what Lieutenant Zack intended to do in there.
Zack, ignoring Ilvanich as his company commander did, went about the task of setting up the company command post. As soon as the radiomen set their radios on the table, Zack stripped off his heavy mittens, cocked his helmet back on his head, and grabbed the hand mike of the radio set on the battalion command net. "Swift Hawk Six. Swift Hawk Six, this is Alpha Five. Alpha is down and preparing to enter the briar patch. Over."
For a moment Ilvanich refused to believe that Zack intended to make this building the company command post. Not only was it the only landmark of importance with its lights still on, but it sat right in the middle of the primary approach leading onto the ledge that any Ukrainian reaction force would use to get to the tunnel fifty meters away. The comfortable and warm guard shack would in a matter of minutes become a death trap.
Deciding that he wanted no part of that, Ilvanich called out to Zack, telling him that he was going to go outside.
Zack, with the radio's hand mike to his ear, waved to Ilvanich. "You go ahead and do that, Major," mumbling to himself after Ilvanich had turned to leave, "Shithead." Once outside, Ilvanich paused, shaking his head as he thought about Zack, repeating to himself, "Idiot, idiot."
