The War in 2020

Direction-finding based upon intercepts was, of course, far more difficult than it had been in decades past, thanks to ultra-agile communications means and spoofer technology. But, for every technological development in the science of warfare, there was ultimately a counterdevelopment. The Japanese arsenal had been just adequate to crack down the Americans.

Once the intercepts had revealed the general orientation of the American unit, intelligence had been able to steer advanced radars and space-based collectors to the enemy's vicinity. The new American systems proved to be very, very good. Unexpectedly good. Even the most advanced radars could not detect them from the front or sides. But the rear hemisphere of the aircraft proved more vulnerable. The returns were weak — but readable, once you knew what you were looking for.

Now the enemy's location was constantly updated by relay, and Noguchi was able to follow the Americans quietly as he led his flight of aircraft in pursuit. He would have liked to see one of the new enemy systems with his own eyes, out of professional curiosity. But he certainly was not going to get that close. Noguchi believed that he had conquered his innate fears of battle, that he had turned himself into a model warrior. But once the Scrambler drones were released from the standoff position, he had every intention of leaving the area as swiftly as his aircraft could fly.

* * *

'This is Five-five Echo.' A young voice. Earnest. Frightened. 'I've got to put her down. The control system's breaking down.'

'Roger,' Taylor answered calmly, struggling to conceal the depth of his concern from the pilot of the troubled escort ship. 'Just go in easy. We'll fly cover until you're on the ground. Break. Five-five Mike, you cover from noon to six o'clock. We'll take six to midnight, over.'

'Roger.'

'This is Echo. I've got a ville coming up in front of me.'

'Stay away from the built-up area,' Taylor ordered.

'I can't control this thing.'

'Easy now. Easy.'

'We're going down.' The escort pilot's voice was stripped down to a level of raw fear that Taylor had heard no more than a dozen times in his career. The first time had been on a clear morning in Africa, and the voice had been his own.

'Easy,' was all he could say. 'Try to keep her under control.'

'— going down—'

The station dropped from the net.

'Merry. Hank. Get a clear image of the site. Get a good fix on him.' Taylor switched hurriedly to the regimental command net. 'Sierra one-three, this is Sierra five-five. Over.'

For a nervous moment, the answer failed to come. Then Heifetz's voice responded:

'Sierra five-five, this is Sierra three-one. Over.'

'You've got the wheel again. I've got a bird down. Over.'

Even now, Taylor could not help feeling a twinge of injured vanity. The sole M-100 that had gone down, for any reason, had been one of his two escort ships. Although the escort ships were responsible for his safety, he was also, unmistakably, responsible for theirs as well. And the loss was clearly his fault. For going after the enemy fast movers. He had asked too much of the M-l00s.

'The one that was having trouble?' Heifetz asked. 'Roger. Not sure what happened. We're putting down to evacuate the crew.'

'Anything further?'

'Just keep everybody moving toward the assembly areas,' Taylor said. 'Looks like I'm going to be coming in a little late. Over.'

'Roger. See you at Silver,' Heifetz said.

'See you at Silver. Out.'

Good old Lucky Dave, Taylor thought. Thank God for him.

The assistant S-3 had locked the image of the downed craft on the central ops monitor. It looked like the bird had gone in hard. There was a noticeable crumpling in the fuselage, and shards of metal were strewn across the snow. But the main compartment of the M-100 had held together.

'Five-five Echo, this is Sierra five-five. Over.' Taylor gripped the edge of the console, anxious for a response, for a single word to let him know that the crew had survived.

Nothing.

'Oh, shit,' Meredith said. 'Company.'

The officers crowded around the monitor, edging out the nearest NCO. The standoff image showed the wreck about two kilometers outside of a ruined settlement. Small dark shapes had already begun moving toward the downed M-100 from the fringe of buildings.

'What do you think, Merry?'

'Personnel carriers. Old models. Soviet production.'

'Any chance they're friendlies?'

'Nope,' Meredith said immediately. 'Not down here. Those are bad guys.'

As if they had overheard the conversation, the personnel carriers began to send streaks of light toward the crash site.

'Chief,' Taylor called forward through the intercom, 'can you take them out?'

'Too close for the big gun,' Krebs answered. 'We'll have to go in on them with the Gat. Going manual. Hold on, everybody.'

'Five-five Mike,' Taylor called to the other escort M-100. 'You've got the sky. We're going in—'

A sudden swoop of the aircraft tossed him backward against the opposite control panel.

The wrong voice answered Taylor's call. It was the downed pilot. Still alive after all.

'This is Five-five Echo. Can anybody hear me? Can you hear me? We're taking fire. We're taking hostile fire. I've got some banged-up troopers in the back. We're taking fire.'

'Mike, wait,' Taylor told the net. 'We hear you, Echo. Hang on. We're on the way.'

In response, the M-100 turned hard, unbalancing both Taylor and Meredith this time.

'Come on,' Hank Parker said to the monitor, as if cheering on a football team in a game's desperate moment.

'I'm going forward,' Taylor said, and he pushed quickly through the hatchway that led toward the cockpit, bruising himself as the aircraft dropped and rolled.

By the time Taylor dropped into his pilot's seat, Krebs had already opened up with the Gatling gun. It was the first time all day they had used the lighter, close-fighting weapon.

'I've got the flight controls,' Taylor told Krebs. 'Just take care of the gunnery.'

'Roger.' The old warrant officer unleashed another burst of fire. 'Good old weapon, the Gat. Almost left them off these babies. Damned glad we didn't.'

Down in the snowy wastes, two enemy vehicles were burning. The others began to reverse their courses, heading back for the cover of the blasted village. Taylor manhandled the M-100 around so that Krebs could engage a third armored vehicle. Then he turned the aircraft hard toward the downed bird.

'Echo, this is Sierra,' Taylor called. 'Still with me?'

'Roger,' a frantic voice cried in the headset. 'I've got casualties. I've got casualties. '

'Take it easy. We're coming.'

'My ship's all fucked,' the voice complained, its tone slightly unreal. 'We'll never get her off the ground.' Taylor, having had the privilege of an overhead view of the wreckage, was startled that the pilot had given even a moment's thought to attempting to get airborne again. Battle reactions were never fully rational, never truly predictable.

'No problem, Echo,' Taylor said. He passed manual control of the aircraft back to Krebs so that he could concentrate on calming the downed pilot, steering him toward rational behavior. 'No problem. You've done just fine.