Air Battle Force

commandos strewn across the desert floor. “Three officers and twenty-one enlisted recovered alive, four armored personnel carriers still operational,” reported one of Turabi’s senior platoon chiefs. “One helicopter gunship may be flyable. Want to try to fly it out of here, sir?”

“Burn it,” Turabi said. “Get the prisoners to Mary, and get replacement missiles and ammo sent out here on the double. This might be only the first wave of Russian troops moving into this area — we need to be ready in case the second assault is inbound.” Turabi had fought the Russians before, as a youngster recruited into the Afghan resistance in the 1980s, and he knew that they rarely moved in small numbers. When they moved into an area, they usually did it with large, overwhelming force, giving themselves at least a ten-to-one numerical advantage.

“Yes, sir,” the platoon chief said. “Outstanding job, sir. It was a perfectly executed ambush. Brilliant idea using the camels to disguise our positions. The Russians must’ve actually thought we were a bunch of desert rats. They flew right up to us as if they didn’t even know we were here.”

Turabi surveyed the area. The massive burned hulks of the Mi-6 helicopters looked like the carcasses of some sort of prehistoric dinosaurs littering the desert. The smell of burning flesh and jet fuel was almost overpowering, but Turabi had seen too much death on this campaign to be sickened by it now. He scowled at his senior chief. “Two months ago, Anwar, we were nothing but a bunch of desert rats,” Turabi said. “But at least we had a purpose and a mission. What are we now? Nothing but a bunch of invaders and murderers.”

“We are soldiers.”

“Soldiers fight to defend their homes and repel aggressors,” Turabi said. “We do neither. We attack and pillage and kill, for no apparent reason. That makes us marauders, not heroes.”

“Tomorrow we might be as dead and crispy as those Russians,” the chief said. “Tonight we are victorious. That is good enough for me right now.” He bowed his head briefly in respect and left to carry out Turabi’s orders, obviously uncomfortable with the direction this discussion was taking.

Jalaluddin Turabi had to remind himself—again—to be careful about verbalizing his doubts and inner conflicts with his men. It was a very successful operation, well planned and executed. Their losses had been minimal; the Russians’ overconfidence cost them dearly. It was necessary for the men to know he was proud of their courage and discipline. Instead he had moaned to the senior chief about how all of this was a waste. How were the men supposed to react after hearing something like that?

This war was far from over, Turabi reminded himself, and he was farther than ever from home. He had to rely on these men, and they had to rely on him, if they had any chance whatsoever of making it home again.

MINISTRY OF DEFENSE, FRUNZE EMBANKMENT, MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

A short time later

“Oh… my… God,” faltered General Anatoliy Gryzlov, chief of staff of the Russian military forces. He immediately slammed the phone down, jumped from his seat, and dashed to his private elevator, which took him down to the underground Central Military Command Center at Frunze Embankment. “What in hell happened out there in Turkmenistan?” he thundered as soon as he entered the chamber.

“An ambush. They were waiting for us, sir,” the senior controller replied. “We’re repositioning satellites to get a better look at the northeast quadrant of Mary, but we feel it was a freak occurrence — our forces were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. The opposing force could not have been more than company size, well hidden, and armed with shoulder-fired antiaircraft missiles.”

“Ni pizdf!” Gryzlov swore, banging a fist on the desk. He thought for a moment, but he had already made up his mind long before he reached the command center. “Get the entire staff in here immediately. I was briefed on an air-invasion plan as a contingency operation — I want that plan set in motion immediately. I want all the airspace around Turkmenistan closed off and ten tactical-attack air regiments on the ground in Mary and Ashkhabad within forty-eight hours.” He picked up the direct line to the president’s office in the Kremlin. “I want to speak with him immediately—I don’t care who he’s meeting with.”

“What in hell is so important, General?” Sen’kov said a few minutes later when he came on the line. “I’m in a very important meeting with—”

“Mr. President, I lost three hundred soldiers last night in Turkmenistan.”

“Sraka,” Sen’kov muttered. The line was silent for a moment, and then Gryzlov could hear Sen’kov ordering the room cleared. “All right, damn it, get over here as fast as you can.”

“I will tell you what happened and what I will do about it now, Mr. President. I’m not going to waste more time taking crap from you!”

“Watch your tongue, General!”

“Yimu adin huy kto ty yest!” Gryzlov said. “I don’t care who the hell you are now, sir. All I care about is teaching those Taliban bastards the dangers of raising a weapon at a Russian soldier!”

“Relax, General. Get over here and—”

“Sir, I’m sending in an air strike against the known Taliban positions in Mary,” Gryzlov interrupted. “First I’m going to order a complete air blockade of Turkmenistan. No one enters or leaves the country without my express permission.”

“The American secretary of state’s delegation is due to arrive in twenty-four hours.”

“The Turkmen foreign ministry should warn that delegation not to attempt to enter the country, especially around Mary,” Gryzlov said. “I will not allow even one beat-up old crop duster to interfere with my operation. It will be in the Americans’ best interest to stay well away from Turkmenistan. President Thorn is famous for staying away from trouble — make him understand that it would be wise to stay out of this conflict.”

“What are you planning on doing next?”

“I’m going to commence round-the-clock heavy aerial bombardment until satellite imagery detects no movement of Taliban armored or mechanized forces,” Gryzlov replied. “Then I’m going to drop an entire battalion of paratroopers with artillery on that city, retake the airfield, and set up a secure forward command center in Mary. I’m going to insert a brigade of mechanized infantry into Mary and retake the city. I’m going to repeat the entire process with Charjew, then Kizyl-arvat, and finally Gaurdak.”

“What in God’s name is your objective here, Gryzlov? Do you want to destroy all those cities? Do you intend to take the entire country?”

“My objective will be to eliminate all Taliban and any other subversive elements in Turkmenistan and retake the oil fields and pipelines,” Gryzlov said. “Russia will be criticized for attacking Turkmenistan with such overwhelming force — but I don’t care. I will retake control of the country quickly and effectively.” Gryzlov paused, waiting to see if Sen’kov was going to object. When he did not, Gryzlov continued, “Sir, the warning order will be transmitted to the district headquarters immediately, and the execution order will be on your desk in fifteen minutes. I expect you to sign the order. I plan on launching the first air strike in less than eight hours from now.”

There was a very long pause, almost a full minute. Gryzlov was growing angrier by the second, until: “Very well, General. Issue the warning order, then get the execution order on my desk immediately. I am prepared to sign it. But, General?”

“Sir?”

“You will be very careful in the future to consult with the Defense Ministry and myself before making any more such plans,” Sen’kov warned. “I don’t like your tone, and I don’t like being told what to do.”

“Sir, at this moment I don’t much care what you like,” Gryzlov said. “You told me you were so afraid of Turkmenistan’s turning into another Kosovo or Chechnya, and then you tied my hands behind my back—”

“Watch your tone of voice, General!”

“I will not, sir!” Gryzlov shot back. “I am putting you on notice from now on, sir, that the Russian military will not tolerate any more political equivocating or half commitments where vital Russian interests or Russian military forces are involved! If my men are attacked again, I will act — and if I do not receive one hundred percent backing from the Kremlin, I will see to it that there are leaders in place who will back the military!”

“You are out of line, Gryzlov!” Sen’kov cried. “One more word out of you and you’ll find yourself in a Siberian prison beside Zhurbenko!”

“Don’t threaten me, Mr. President,” Gryzlov said. “As long as my men and women guard your offices, support influential members of the Duma, and monitor your phones and computers, you will not threaten me! My soldiers