northbound — I think they’re done for now. We’re picking up multiple waves of aircraft still inbound. Could be more bombers launching cruise missiles.”
“The fuel-air things won’t hurt us unless they drop one right on our heads,” Briggs said. “We’re far enough away from the airport now.”
“Can you find some shelter, Taurus?”
“We’re probably safer out here in the open, rather than heading back toward the airfield,” Briggs replied.
“Copy that. Any suggestions?”
“I think the Russians are going to turn this entire area into a moonscape, and then they’re going to start dropping invasion troops in,” Briggs said. “We can spread out to likely drop zones and see if we can tag a few of their drop planes. But if they get a sizable force on the ground, we’re done for the day. We can’t hold off a massive infantry assault for very long with the weapons we have.”
“What about Turabi and his army?”
“They’ve scattered,” Briggs said. “Assuming they survived the Russians’ air assault, I think they’ll be hightailing it back home.”
“All right. Take a look at the topo maps and come up with some guesses as to where they’ll insert troops, then deploy to those areas and wait,” Patrick said. “We’ll watch the satellite and radar imagery and let you know what happens. We have an Air Force special-ops group standing by in Samarkand to evacuate you if necessary. Keep an eye on escape routes into Uzbekistan. If things go to shit any more, you may have to get out of there.”
“Believe me, we’re watchin’ north all the time,” Briggs said. The Uzbek border was just fifteen miles from their position, across the Amu Darya River. “Okay, we’ll redeploy and stand by for instructions.” Then, to Sergeant Major Wohl, “Top!”
“Sir?”
“Do you have that plan ready to move to likely drop zones?” Briggs asked. “I want to bag us some Russian drop planes.”
“Already got it laid out for you, sir.” Briggs saw the flashing information icon in his electronic visor and selected it. He saw a chart of the Charjew area, with lines drawn to the northern quadrants, showing the movement and positioning of Briggs and his seven-man Tin Man commando team. Briggs was surprised to see that Wohl had suggested that Briggs himself be deployed to the southeast, to the spot farthest away — three miles away, on the other side of the airfield. “Uh, Sergeant Major — you put
“Pardon me, sir,” Wohl growled. There was no question, even through the satellite datalink, that Wohl was pissed off. “Are you questioning my deployment strategy?” He sounded as if the very thought of Briggs’s doing that was too unbelievable to even imagine.
“I’m not questioning your strategy, Top, just the choice of men in each position.”
“You are referring to where I positioned you in particular, sir?”
“Damn straight I am. I’m the farthest away from the action! Why?”
“As I understand it, sir, you have just two options: You can accept the results of my years of expertise in planning such assaults, or you can reject my recommendations and plan your own.”
“Answer the question, Sergeant Major.”
“Yes, sir. First, you are the team leader, and you should not be stuck in the middle of the most likely focus point of the assault. Second, you are the oldest member of the team with the exception of myself — but your relative inexperience cancels out your age advantage.”
“That’s bullshit, Top—”
“Let me finish, sir. Third, I’m not convinced that the Russians’ main axis of attack will be from the north. I think they’d anticipate we’d set up the bulk of our forces to the north. I think there’s a very good possibility that they’ll try to set up a major flanking force to the southeast, then try a pincer move to either pin us down or push us across the border — or both. If they try that, I want you set up down there to alert us. Now, are there any
“No, Sergeant Major, there aren’t,” Briggs replied. He still didn’t like being stuck the farthest away, but at least Wohl had some pretty good reasons for doing it. Besides, Briggs thought, Wohl was right: The Russians might just pull a sneaky end-around and try to pin the Tin Men in between two forces. “Good job. Deploy the team per your recommendations.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” He said “thank you” as if he really meant to say “fuck you,” but he did it in a nice way. Briggs knew that Wohl liked to be questioned about his plans and tactics, just to show that he knew much more than the officers he worked for knew. “Red Team, check your weapons and gear, lock and load, clear your jump paths, then move out.”
One by one the Tin Men started jet-jumping toward their planned positions. Hal Briggs couldn’t help it — he stood and watched as his men flew out of their places of concealment, their weapons at port arms and their equipment bags slung across their backs, with a not-quite-upright stance. They flew about thirty feet in the air, trading altitude for distance. At the apogee of their flight, they transitioned to a feetfirst fall, still at port arms. A second hiss of compressed air signaled when they were about to hit the ground as they used a shorter, less powerful burst of air to arrest their fall. They really didn’t need to stop their fall with their powered exoskeletons, which could dampen out the shock of the fall very well, but unless there were enemy soldiers nearby, they were instructed to use compressed air to slow their descent rate to avoid overstressing the exoskeletons. Each man flew about one hundred feet. Chris Wohl, the biggest man on the team, flew a bit less; Hal Briggs, the smallest man, usually flew the farthest.
If it weren’t so serious, Hal thought as he watched them jet-jump away, it would be comical. They almost looked like big gray fleas jumping across the desert. But they were going off to fight a vastly superior force that was undoubtedly coming to smash them. If they were successful, lots of Russians would die; if they were not, they would be captured and certainly taken to Russia for interrogation.
If they were smart, they’d be running north, to the relative safety of Uzbekistan.
“Are you having a senior moment, sir?” Chris Wohl radioed half angrily, half sarcastically. “Or do you feel like questioning my deployment plan again before you get your ass in gear?”
“Bite me, Sergeant Major,” Briggs said, the pride evident in his electronic voice. “I’m good to go.”
“Sir, I think you should reconsider.”
Secretary of Defense Robert Goff shook his head. He was on the secure videoconference link with Patrick in the Battle Management Center, his image on one of the monitors at Patrick’s station. “It’s not going to happen, Patrick,” Goff said. “The president is pretty firm on this: He wants Maureen Hershel and President Martindale out of there and protected, your forces packed up and headed back to Battle Mountain, and that’s it. I’m sorry about your men aboard that tilt-jet aircraft, but the president doesn’t want any other action in Turkmenistan. If your men have the capability to get out of the area safely and make it into Uzbekistan, we have men and aircraft standing by to get you to Samarkand, and then we can airlift you home. It’s only — what, fifteen, twenty miles to get across the border? You guys should be able to do that in a few minutes, the way you move.”
“Sir, the Russians just bombed our position with fuel-air explosives,” Patrick argued. “We’re watching several more formations of jets, probably more heavy bombers followed by medium bombers, already inbound—”
“You told me that already, General,” Goff interrupted irritably.
“It’s only a matter of time before the Russians send in a ground-invasion force,” Patrick said. “They can take Charjew with ease once they’ve flattened everything else.”
“That’s not our problem.”
“The Turkmen have voted to accept Jalaluddin Turabi as their armed-forces commander,” Patrick said. “He can organize the Turkmen army to hold off the Russian invasion—
“General…”
“If we don’t help them, sir, they’ll destroy Charjew just like they wiped out Vedeno in Chechnya and Mary in Turkmenistan,” Patrick went on angrily. “Gryzlov will just keep launching bombers and sending in troops until he’s taken the entire country.”
