to blunt any advances by any hostile forces, whether they be Turkmenis, Taliban — or American B-1 bombers. Mary was the “line of death” here in the wastelands of Turkmenistan. If he held fast, Vorobev would get his long-awaited promotion, perhaps back to a staff job as
If he survived.
It was nearing 9:00 P.M., which was patrol shift-change time for most of the regiment. Because so many of his men would be out and about at this hour, Vorobev made it a habit to stop by at least one security-sector company to watch the changeover before heading to his tent to start reviewing reports, making notes, and issuing orders to his battalion commanders. His driver was waiting for him as he put on his helmet and pulled the chin strap tight. One of his young lieutenants, a mortar-company commander named Novikov, and a battalion commander named Kuzmin were accompanying him on this evening inspection. These ninety-minute-long tours gave his junior officers a chance to have a look at the rest of the regiment, ask questions, and get some face time with the boss.
It was a rather pleasant night so far, but Vorobev knew that the weather in southern Turkmenistan in late spring was unpredictable and sometimes harsh. “Let’s go,
Looks like we came a long way for nothing,” Hal Briggs said. The inside of the little Condor was eerily quiet, with just the faintest whisper of airflow audible through their helmets. But it wasn’t the ride that was bothering everyone.
It was the landing area. It appeared as if several Russian patrols were moving directly toward the landing site itself.
“We’ve been working with Turabi and these Turkmen guerrillas ever since the peacekeeping force was established,” Griffin went on. “They risked their lives to pass on valuable intelligence information to us.”
“Well, it appears the Russians are about to nab them,” Briggs said, studying the latest satellite-imagery download. “One Russian patrol looks like they’ve got them right now, and two others seem to be on their way.”
“The landing site is compromised,” the intel officer back at Battle Mountain radioed. “I recommend you abort. From your altitude you can make it back to Bukhara with plenty of fuel left.”
“Colonel Griffin? Speak to me. I’m considering getting the heck out of here.”
“We can’t let those Turkmen forces get captured if we want any chance of keeping Turkmenistan out of Russian hands, Hal.”
Hal paused. Then, “Top? Comments?”
Chris Wohl had encountered Jalaluddin Turabi before on two occasions — the last time, Turabi’s former Taliban fighters helped the Battle Force commandos escape a Russian attack in Turkmenistan. “It’s hard to tell, sir,” Wohl responded, “but I don’t see much more than a squad out there near the landing zone, and maybe a platoon within ten miles. You can take those guys easily. All you have to do is make sure you’re in the air before more troops show up.”
Briggs thought about it for a few moments. “Roger that. Control, Condor is proceeding as planned.”
“Are you sure, Hal?” Dave Luger asked. “It’s looking pretty hairy.”
“Not as hairy as it is for Turabi,” Hal said. “Put us down, sir.”
There was a pause, this time from Battle Mountain — Carter was obviously inquiring as to the wisdom of this decision. But soon he said, “Here we go, Condor. Everyone, prelanding checklists. Hold on tight.”
They were just a few miles from the planned landing zone, still gliding to the southwest at seventeen thousand feet. Just as Griffin thought there was no way they could make that landing zone from this altitude, the nose came up and his body was shoved forward on his shoulder straps as the Condor decelerated. His stomach again churned up into his throat as they careened earthward. Then, through the sudden wind-blast noise and intense buffeting, he thought he heard and felt the landing gear pop out, and moments later they hit the ground.
The noise level suddenly increased a hundredfold as the mission-adaptive fuselage went into maximum-drag configuration, and Griffin’s body dug into the shoulder harnesses again for what seemed like five minutes but was only a few seconds. The moment the pressure released, Hal Briggs had his restraints off and his door unlatched, and Griffin had to hurry to keep up with him. As they briefed, Griffin kept watch using the battle armor’s sensors while Hal pushed the Condor off the highway and spread a camouflaged antiradiation net over it — it would be easily discovered in daytime, but at night it looked like a pile of sand, and the net would keep it from being spotted by infrared sensors.
Griffin had his weapon ready — a big, heavy rifle that no commando would ever carry but was the perfect weapon for the Tin Men and their powered exoskeletons. The rifle was an electromagnetic rail gun that propelled a large titanium sabot projectile several thousand feet per second with amazing accuracy. Coupled with the battle armor’s sensors and steered with the exoskeleton, the weapon was devastating to any war machine, from a tank to a bomber, out to a range of over three miles.
“You okay, sir?” Hal asked.
“Yes. All clear,” Griffin said.
“Then let’s go find your boy, Colonel,” Briggs said. He checked his electronic charts, stepped in the proper direction, then fired the thrusters in his boots — and, in a
Here we go, Griffin said silently. He pointed himself in the right direction, braced himself, and gave the electronic command — what he called during training “clicking the ruby slippers together.” He felt the push of the thrusters, but for all he knew he was still standing upright — there was no sense of flying or falling at all. The battle armor’s stabilization system made the jump so smooth that he had to check his sensors to be sure that he was moving at all. But moments later he felt the thrusters fire again to slow his fall, and he knew enough to bend his knees slightly in order to help take the landing impact.
Hal was about five yards away. “Good jump, sir. Follow me.” And he was gone again.
Very cool, Griffin thought as he waited for the thrusters to recharge before he made his next jump. Very, very cool…
The security patrol had a group of three men on their knees in the sand, hands atop their heads, when the second patrol team, driving a wheeled BTR armored personnel carrier, arrived. An officer got out of the BTR and approached the group. “What do you have here tonight, Sergeant?” he asked.
“They were out here in shallow spider holes, sir,” the sergeant replied. “They seemed to be taking a lot of notes. And look at this.” The officer looked at the object in his flashlight. “It’s a pair of high-powered binoculars, sir. But there’s something else….”
“A camera — it’s a digital camera, designed to take digital pictures through the binoculars,” the officer said, examining the binoculars carefully. “And this port on the side…looks like it hooks into a transmitter, perhaps a satellite transmitter,
“They don’t appear to understand Russian, sir,” the sergeant said. “But I think that one is the leader.” He pointed to a very tall Turkmeni soldier with an empty shoulder holster. “He was the only one with a sidearm. It was Russian, in very good condition, and it looks like he knew how to wear it.”
The officer approached the man and shone his flashlight on him. Moments later, after grasping the man’s face, he broke out into a wide grin. “Well, well. Sergeant, don’t you see who we have here? This is General Jalaluddin Turabi himself, the new commander of the so-called Turkmen armed forces.” He bent down. “Am I not correct, General? And this is your aide, Abdul Dendara, no? Speak up so all your men can hear you.” The man remained silent, shaking his head that he did not understand. “Still playing dumb, General?” The officer withdrew a pistol, aimed it at the head of the younger man beside him, and fired. The headless body of the young recruit toppled over almost into Turabi’s lap. “How is your Russian now, General? Coming back to you?”
