to work refueling the Megafortress bomber.
“
“Camp Vengeance? Excellent name.”
“One of the Marines named it — I think it’s damned appropriate.”
“I agree,” Patrick said. “Run down the situation here for me, Hal. We’ll blast off again as soon as we’re refueled, and we’ll set up air-base defense from the air and help escort in the other planes.”
“Roger that, sir,” Hal said. He led Patrick over to a large map of Yakutsk hanging on the wall behind the flight-planning desk. “We’re here in the base-ops buildings, which includes radar, communications, weather, and security forces. This west complex here is the main aircraft-parking area — eighteen hangars and a mass parking apron for about thirty heavies. We’ve moved all the Russian planes out of the hangars to make way for our guys, and we’ve got the captives housed in these two hangars, about two hundred or so.”
“Two hundred? We expected a lot more than that, didn’t we?”
“We made a decision and put all the troops we feel are noncombatant types in a separate hangar, under minimal guard,” Briggs said. “It’s a risk, but putting four or five hundred together is riskier. The hard-core security troops, fliers, senior officers, and noncoms are under close guard. Eventually the others will screw up enough courage to sneak out and try to free the others, and that’s when we might have to waste a few. Until we get more guys in here, that’s the best I can do.”
“How long can you hold out?”
“Twelve Marines to guard two hundred captives — I’d say so far it’s a fair fight, until the jarheads start getting real tired or the noncombatants start getting real stupid. So far it’s quiet. Mark Bastian is supervising. The sight of us in Tin Man getups really freaks ’em out, but it won’t take them long to get over their fear and start planning a breakout. Now that you brought some more aircraft techs, that’ll leave more of the Marines available for perimeter security and guard duty.
“We parked a few planes here and there outside base ops to make it look busy. There were a few bombers getting some work done in the east hangar complex — shut that down, captured a Russian colonel.
“Across the runway is the industrial area — storage, fuel tanks, physical plant, et cetera. Back here is the housing area, squadron ready rooms, and other support buildings. We believe that most of the place was pretty much closed down for the night, but in about an hour or so, the regular folks will start showing up, and then the shit will hit the fan. We’ve got ‘detour’ and ‘road closed’ signs up to try to get folks turned around, but that won’t fool ’em for long. Chris has set up mines and sensors around the perimeter, and the Marines are ready for a fight. They even brought a few unmanned recon planes to help themselves scan the perimeter. Those guys are damned good.”
Patrick nodded. It wasn’t much of a defense — their forces were stretched hair thin. But the Marines were accustomed to dropping into hot landing zones surrounded by bad guys and being asked to do the impossible with almost nothing. These twenty-first-century Marines had a lot more high-tech gadgets to help them, but it still came down to the basic task of sending a few brave fighters into the breach and hoping they utilized their skills, courage, and tenacity to the max. “Pass along my thanks to Lieutenant Merritt and the Tin Men for a job well done,” Patrick said. “Again, I have no intention of staying here a second longer than I have to.”
“Everyone else on time, sir?”
“So far,” Patrick said. “The MC-17 transports should be penetrating Petropavlovsk’s airspace any minute now, with Rebecca and Daren leading a three-ship Vampire escort team. By tonight, with some luck, we’ll be ready to start attack operations.”
Time to go night-night, tovarich,” Daren Mace said. He touched his supercockpit display on the icon for Petropavlovsk’s surveillance radar and spoke, “Attack target.”
“The radar is down,” Daren reported. “The fighters will have to start finding targets on their own.” He entered a few more voice commands. “Jammers and countermeasures are active, and the MC-17 is going active as well.” Daren briefly activated his laser radar, which instantly “painted” a picture of the airspace around him. “Two fighters in the vicinity, eleven o’clock, thirty-five miles. They’re
Rebecca Furness glanced over at Daren’s supercockpit display on the right side of the Vampire’s instrument panel, which clearly depicted the tactical situation: They were flying twenty miles ahead of their charges, two MC- 17 special-operations transport planes. Modified by the aircraft and weapons experts at the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, the same unit that had designed and fielded the modified B-52s and B-1s, the MC-17s had sophisticated navigation and self-defense systems that allowed them to fly deep into enemy territory. Each was carrying seventy to eighty crew members, technicians, and security forces, plus a hundred fifty thousand pounds of ordnance, equipment, and supplies to support this mission.
Another EB-1C Vampire had launched two StealthHawks to attack Petropavlovsk; it was now standing by a couple hundred miles to the northeast, ready to recover and rearm them for follow-on attacks. Both StealthHawks were armed with a mix of antiradar and mine-dispensing standoff munitions that would destroy all of Petropavlovsk’s air-defense missile sites and, with luck, shut down the airstrip as well. A third Vampire was standing by with Longhorn missiles, heavier mine-laying munitions, and defensive air-to-air missiles, ready to rush in to completely shut down the base and help escort the MC-17s through to the Siberian coastline once the StealthHawks finished their attack runs on Petropavlovsk.
“Attack fighters,” Daren ordered.
Suddenly the datalink from Petropavlovsk that was providing steering cues to the air-defense fighters was cut off. That happened frequently, especially if the enemy was jamming the radar. The antijam circuits would take over and change frequencies, and soon the datalink would be active again. The MiG-29’s fire-control system kept the target’s heading and speed in memory, providing an estimated position on the heads-up display, so if necessary the MiG pilot could simply—
“Zima flight, Zima flight!” the radio suddenly blared, startling the pilot. “The base is under attack! The airfield has been bombed, and the surveillance radar has been destroyed! Take over the—” And just then the transmission was cut off by loud squealing and popping on the UHF radio frequency.
The MiG pilot couldn’t help but think of his alternate landing bases: Magadan, their primary alternate, was over a thousand kilometers away, and Kavaznya, their emergency landing base, was not that much closer. They were already close to bingo fuel, and they hadn’t even launched any missiles yet! Almost time to activate his own radar and attack. He hoped his wingman was watching his fuel gauges. What in hell hit them? Was it a cruise missile?
The pilot’s attention was focused on his abort base and not on his threat-warning receiver, so he hesitated just a second or two too long when the MISSILE LAUNCH warning flashed on his instrument panel and on his heads-up display. By the time he thought to react, it was too late — the AIM-120 Scorpion missile hit him squarely in the center of his jet, turning it instantly into a fireball and sending it crashing into the Bering Sea.
Splash one,” Daren Mace announced. “Stand by…second missile away.”
But the wingman wasn’t as distracted. He had just activated his radar and locked up the target at seventy kilometers when his warning receiver blared. He punched off two R-77s — seconds before another Scorpion missile slammed into him from the left rear quarter. He was able to put his hands on his ejection-seat handles but didn’t have time to pull them before the fireball engulfed his plane as well.
