Only the sound of the tormented sky.
'Sierra seven-three,' Taylor began again, 'if you are monitoring my transmission, you
'Come
The enemy aircraft inexorably approached the red line that defined their estimated standoff bombing range.
Taylor slammed his fist down on the console. But the image of the transport craft at Omsk would not move.
Taylor took up the mike again.
'Manny,' he said, dispensing with call signs for the first time in anyone's memory. 'Manny, please listen to me. Get out of there
The console began to beep, signaling that the enemy aircraft were within standoff range of Omsk.
Zeederberg took a deep breath. Every attempt to reach higher headquarters had failed. And the rule was clear. When you lost contact, you continued your mission. No matter what.
In the target monitor he could actually make out magnified human figures in the first light of dawn.
'We're in the box,' the navigator told him through the headset.
Zeederberg shrugged. 'Releasing ordnance,' he said.
'Releasing ordnance,' a disembodied voice echoed.
Manny Martinez was in the best of spirits. From the last reports he had received over the log net a few hours earlier, the fight was going beautifully. Wouldn't even be much repair work. It sounded like a battle men would bullshit about for years to come. Over many a beer.
'Hurry up,' he called. 'It's time we unassed this place.' But he said it in an indulgent voice. His men were weary. They had finally gotten the last M-100 repaired. It could be flown to the follow-on assembly area under its own power. A present for the old man.
And he would not even be late. They could make up the lost time en route.
The new day was dawning with unexpected clarity. The storm had passed to the southwest, and the night's snowfall had given the tormented landscape an almost bearable appearance. Good day for flying, after all, he thought.
He breathed deeply, enjoying the cold, clean air, using it to rouse himself from the stupor to which the lack of sleep had brought him.
Behind him, the mechanics were rolling the repaired M-100 out of its shelter.
The old man's going to be proud, he thought. Then he strolled toward the transport to treat himself to one last cup of coffee.
17
'Americans,' Takahara repeated.
Noburu sat down. His eyelids fluttered several times in a broken rhythm. It was a small nervous tic he had developed over the years. The uncontrollable blinking only manifested itself for a few moments at a time, and only when Noburu was under extraordinary stress.
'That's impossible,' he said.
'Sir,' Takahara began, 'you can listen to them yourself. The station is broadcasting in the clear. Apparently there is a defect in the encryption system of which the sender is unaware. Everything is in English.
'It could be a deception,' Noburu said.
Takahara pondered the idea for a moment. 'It would seem that anything is possible today. But the intelligence specialists are convinced that the transmissions are genuine.'
'Intelligence…' Noburu said, 'does not have a very high standing at the moment. Does Tokyo know?'
'Sir. I personally delayed the transmission of the news until you could hear it first yourself.'
'We must be certain.'
'Intelligence believes—'
'We must be absolutely certain. We cannot afford another error. We have already paid far too high a price.
Everything is a cycle, Noburu mused. We never learn. Misunderstanding the Americans seemed to be a Japanese national sport.
But how could it be? With the Americans still struggling to hold on to their own hemisphere, where Japanese-sponsored irregular and low-intensity operations had kept them tied down for over a decade. Japanese analysts preached that the United States had accepted its failure in the military-technological competition with Japan, that the Americans had neither the skills nor the funds to continue the contest on a global scale.
Noburu saw his personal aide, Akiro, making his way purposefully through the unaccustomed confusion of the operations center. What was it that Akiro had said just the day before? That the Americans were finished?
Now it would fall to him to finish them.
'Track them,' Noburu told Takahara. 'Identify who they are, what weapons they're using. We need targetable data.'
'Yes, sir.'
Only yesterday, he had been flying triumphantly above the African bush. Surprising the Americans. Vanquishing them. Today they had surprised him. But it wasn't finished yet. Noburu knew only too well what was going to happen. It had been written by more powerful hands than his.
The dream warrior had known this too. In his contest with the dream Americans, with their dead and terrible faces.
'Yes?'
Noburu had known that the call would come. It was inevitable. And he knew what the caller would command him to do.
'I will take the call in my private office,' Noburu said.
'Oh, and Takahara. Contact Noguchi. His readiness test is canceled. Instead, he is to hold his unit at the highest state of combat alert.' Noburu hated to speak the words. But it was no less than his duty. And he would always do his duty. 'But he is to take no further action until he hears from me personally.'
Takahara acknowledged the instruction and turned to its execution. But Akiro seemed to shrink ever so slightly. As Noburu's aide, the younger man was privileged to know the highly classified capabilities of Noguchi's aircraft awaiting a mission at the airfield in Bukhara on the far side of Central Asia. The uncertainty around Akiro's mouth made it clear that he was not nearly as hardened as the uncompromising words that passed so easily
