ladder, and got clear.
Winters began his start-up procedures, first of all entering his ground coordinates, something they still did on the Eagle despite the new GPS locator systems, because the F-15C had inertial navigation in case it broke (it never did, but procedure was procedure). The instruments came on-line, telling Winters that his Eagle’s conformal fuel tanks were topped off, and he had a full load of four AIM-120 AM-RAAM radar-guided missiles, plus four more of the brand-new AIM-9X Sidewinders, the super-snake version of a missile whose design went back to before his mom and dad had married in a church up on Lenox Avenue in Harlem.
“Tower, this is Bronco with three, ready to taxi, over.”
“Tower, Bronco, you are cleared to taxi. Wind is three-zero-five at ten. Good luck, Colonel.”
“Thank you, Tower. Boars, this is lead, let’s get goin’” With that, he tripped his brakes and the fighter started moving, driven by its powerful Pratt amp; Whitney engines. A bunch of Russians, mainly groundcrewmen, but judging by the outfits, some drivers as well, were out on the ramp watching him and his flight.
“Eagle Two, this is Boar Leader in the air with four.”
“Boar Leader, this is Eagle Two. We have you. Come south, vector one-seven-zero, climb and maintain flight level three-three. Looks like there’s going to be some work for ya today, over.”
“Suits me. Out.” Colonel Winters-he’d just been deep-dip selected for his bird as a full bull colonel-wiggled a little in his seat to get things just right, and finished his climb to 33,000 feet. His radar system was off, and he wouldn’t speak unnecessarily because someone out there might be listening, and why spoil the surprise? In a few minutes, he’d be entering the coverage of Chinese border radar stations. Somebody would have to do something about that. Later today, he hoped, the Little Weasel F-16s would go and see about those. But his job was Chinese fighter aircraft, and any bombers that might offer themselves. His orders were to remain over Russian airspace for the entire mission, and so if Joe Chink didn’t want to come out and play, it would be a dull day. But Joe had Su-27s, and he thought those were pretty good. And Joe Chink Fighter Pilot probably thought he was pretty good, too.
So, they’d just have to see.
Otherwise, it was a good day for flying, two-tenths clouds and nice clean country air to fly in. His falcon’s eyes could see well over a hundred miles from up here, and he had Eagle Two to tell him where the gomers were. Behind him, a second and third flight of four Eagles were each taking off. The Wild Boars would be fully represented today.
The train ride was fairly jerky. Lieutenant Colonel Giusti squirmed in his upright coach seat, trying to get a little bit comfortable, but the Russian-made coach in which he and his staff were riding hadn’t been designed with creature comforts in mind, and there was no sense grumbling about it. It was dark outside, the early morning that children sensibly take to be nighttime, and there wasn’t much in the way of lights out there. They were in Eastern Poland now, farm country, probably, as Poland was evolving into the Iowa of Europe, lots of pig farms to make the ham for which this part of the world was famous. Vodka, too, probably, and Colonel Giusti wouldn’t have minded a snort of that at the moment. He stood and walked down the aisle of the car. Nearly everyone aboard was asleep or trying to be. Two sensible NCOs were stretched out on the floor instead of curled up on the seats. The dirty floor wouldn’t do their uniforms much good, but they were heading to combat operations, where neatness didn’t really count all that much. Personal weapons were invariably stowed in the overhead racks, in the open for easy access, because they were all soldiers, and they didn’t feel very comfortable without a usable weapon close by. He continued aft. The next coach had more troopers from Headquarters Company. His squadron sergeant major was in the back of that one, reading a paperback.
“Hey, Colonel,” the sergeant major said in greeting. “Long ride, ain’t it?”
“At least three more days to go, maybe four.”
“Super,” the senior non-com observed. “This is worse’n flying.”
“Yeah, well, at least we got our tracks with us.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How’s the food situation?”
“Well, sir, we all got our MREs, and I got me a big box of Snickers bars stashed. Any word what’s happening in the world?”
“Just that it’s started in Siberia. The Chinese are across the border and Ivan’s trying to stop ’em. No details. We ought to get an update when we go through Moscow, after lunchtime, I expect.”
“Fair ’nuff.”
“How are the troopers taking things?”
“No problems, bored with the train ride, want to get back in their tracks, the usual.”
“How’s their attitude?”
“They’re ready, Colonel,” the sergeant-major assured him.
“Good.” With that, Giusti turned and headed back to his seat, hoping he’d get a few hours anyway, and there wasn’t much of Poland to see anyway. The annoying part was being so cut off. He had satellite radios in his vehicles, somewhere on the flatcars aft of this coach, but he couldn’t get to them, and without them he didn’t know what was happening up forward. A war was on. He knew that. But it wasn’t the same as knowing the details, knowing where the train would stop, where and when he’d get to offload his equipment, get the Quarter Horse organized, and get back on the road, where they belonged.
The train part was working well. The Russian train service seemingly had a million flatcars designed expressly to transport tracked vehicles, undoubtedly intended to take their battle tanks west, into Germany for a war against NATO. Little had the builders ever suspected that the cars would be used to bring American tanks east to help defend Russia against an invader. Well, nobody could predict the future more than a few weeks. At the moment, he would have settled for five days or so.
The rest of First Armored was stretched back hundreds of miles on the east-west rail line. Colonel Don Lisle’s Second Brigade was just finishing up boarding in Berlin, and would be tail-end Charlie for the division. They’d cross Poland in daylight, for what that was worth.
The Quarter Horse was in the lead, where it belonged. Wherever the drop-off point was, they’d set up perimeter security, and then lead the march farther east, in a maneuver called Advance to Contact, which was where the “fun” started. And he needed to be well-rested for that, Colonel Giusti reminded himself. So he settled back in his seat and closed his eyes, surrendering his body to the jerks and sways of the train car.
Dawn patrol was what fighter pilots all thought about. The title for the duty went back to a 1930s Errol Flynn movie, and the term had probably originated with a real mission name, meaning to be the first up on a new day, to see the sun rise, and to seek out the enemy right after breakfast.
Bronco Winters didn’t look much like Errol Flynn, but that was okay. You couldn’t tell a warrior by the look of his face, though you could by the look on his face. He was a fighter pilot. As a youngster in New York, he’d ride the subway to La Guardia Airport, just to stand at the fence and watch the airplanes take off and land, knowing even then that he wanted to fly. He’d also known that fighters would be more fun than airliners, and known finally that to fly fighters he had to enter a service academy, and to do that he’d have to study. And so he’d worked hard all through school, especially in math and science, because airplanes were mechanical things, and that meant that science determined how they worked. So, he was something of a math whiz-that had been his college major at Colorado Springs-but his interest in it had ended the day he’d walked into Columbus Air Force Base in Mississippi, because once he got his hands on the controls of an aircraft, the “study” part of his mission was accomplished, and the “learning” part really began. He’d been the number one student in his class at Columbus, quickly and easily mastering the Cessna Tweety Bird trainer, and then moving on to fighters, and since he’d been number one in his class, he’d gotten his choice-and that choice, of course, had been the F-15 Eagle fighter, the strong and handsome grandson of the F-4 Phantom. An easy plane to fly, it was a harder one to fight, since the controls for the combat systems are located on the stick and the throttles, all in buttons of different shapes so that you could manage all the systems by feel, and keep your eyes up and out of the aircraft instead of having to look down at instruments. It was something like playing two pianos at the same time, and it had taken Winters a disappointing six months to
