“Then get me your mission requirements,” General Diggs said. It wasn’t quite an order. If he said it was impossible, then Diggs couldn’t make him do it. But Boyle couldn’t let his people go out and do something like this without being there to command them.
The MI-24s finished things off. The Russian doctrine for their attack helicopters wasn’t too different from how they used their tanks. Indeed, the MI-24-called the Hind by NATO, but strangely unnamed by the Russians themselves-was referred to as a flying tank. Using AT-6 Spiral missiles, they finished off a Chinese tank battalion in twenty minutes of jump and shoot, sustaining only two losses in the process. The sun was setting now, and what had been Thirty-fourth Shock Army was wreckage. What few vehicles had survived the day were pulling back, usually with wounded men clinging to their decks.
In his command post, General Sinyavskiy was all smiles. Vodka was snorted by all. His 265th Motor Rifle Division had halted and thrown back a force more than double its size, suffering fewer than three hundred dead in the process. The TV news crews were finally allowed out to where the soldiers were, and he delivered the briefing, paying frequent compliments to his theater commander, Gennady Iosefovich Bondarenko, for his cool head and faith in his subordinates. “He never lost his nerve,” Sinyavskiy said soberly. “And he allowed us to keep ours for when the time came. He is a Hero of Russia,” the division commander concluded. “And so are many of my men!”
Thank you for that, Yuriy Andreyevich, and, yes, for that you will get your next star,” the theater commander told the television screen. Then he turned to his staff. ”Andrey Petrovich, what do we do tomorrow?”
“I think we will let Two-Six-Five start moving south. We will be the hammer, and Diggs will be the anvil. They still have a Type-A Group army largely intact to the south, the Forty-third. We will smash it starting day after tomorrow, but first we will maneuver it into a place of our choosing.”
Bondarenko nodded. “Show me a plan, but first, I am going to sleep for a few hours.”
“Yes, Comrade General.”
CHAPTER 60 Skyrockets in Flight
It was the same Spetsnaz people they’d trained for the past month or so. Nearly everyone on the transport aircraft was a commissioned officer, doing sergeants’ work, which had its good points and its bad ones. The really good thing was that they all spoke passable English. Of the RAINBOW troopers, only Ding Chavez and John Clark spoke conversational Russian.
The maps and photos came from SRV and CIA, the latter transmitted to the American Embassy in Moscow and messengered to the military airfield out of which they’d flown. They were in an Aeroflot airliner, fairly full with over a hundred passengers, all of them soldiers.
“I propose that we divide by nationalities,” Kirillin said. “Vanya, you and your RAINBOW men take this one here. My men and I will divide the rest among us, using our existing squad structures.”
“Looks okay, Yuriy. One target’s pretty much as good as another. When will we be going in?”
“Just before dawn. Your helicopters must have good range to take us all the way down, then back with only one refueling.”
“Well, that’ll be the safe part of the mission.”
“Except this fighter base at Anshan,” Kirillin said. “We pass within twenty kilometers of it.”
“Air Force is going to hit that, they tell me, Stealth fighters with smart bombs, they’re gonna post-hole the runways before we drive past.”
“Ah, that is a fine idea,” Kirillin said.
“Kinda like that myself,” Chavez said. “Well, Mr. C, looks like I get to be a soldier again. It’s been a while.”
“What fun,” Clark observed. Oh, yeah, sitting in the back of a helicopter, going deep into Indian Country, where there were sure to be people with guns. Well, could be worse. Going in at dawn, at least the gomers on duty would be partly asleep, unless their boss was a real prick.
“How, exactly, are we supposed to disable the missiles?” Ding asked.
“They’re fueled by a ten-centimeter pipe-two of them, actually-from underground fueling tanks adjacent to the launch silo. First, we destroy the pipes,” Kirillin said. “Then we look for some way to access the missile silo itself. A simple hand grenade will suffice. These are delicate objects. They will not sustain much damage,” the general said confidently.
“What if the warhead goes off?” Ding asked.
Kirillin actually laughed at that. “They will not, Domingo Stepanovich. These items are very secure in their arming procedures, for all the obvious reasons. And the sites themselves will not be designed to protect against a direct assault. They are designed to protect against nuclear blast, not a squad of engineer-soldiers. You can be sure of that.”
“You seem knowledgeable on this subject, Yuriy.” “Vanya, this mission is one Spetsnaz has practiced more than once. We Russians have thought from time to time about taking these missiles-how you say? Take them out of play, yes?”
“Not a bad idea at all, Yuriy. Not my kind of weapons,” Clark said. He really did prefer to do his killing close enough to see the bastard’s face. Old habits died hard, and a telescopic sight was just as good as a knife in that respect. Much better. A rifle bullet didn’t make people flop around and make noise the way a knife across the throat did. But death was supposed to be administered one at a time, not whole cities at once. It just wasn’t tidy or selective enough.
Chavez looked at his Team-2 troopers. They didn’t look overtly tense, but good soldiers did their best to hide such feelings. Of their number, only Ettore Falcone wasn’t a career soldier, but instead a cop from the Italian Carabinieri, which was about halfway between military and police. Chavez went over to see him.
“How you doing, BIG BiRD?” Ding asked.
“It is tense, this mission, no?” Falcone replied.
“It might be. You never really know until you get there.”
The Italian shrugged. “As with raids on mafiosi, sometimes you kick the door and there is nothing but men drinking wine and playing cards. Sometimes they have
“You do a lot of those?”
“Eight,” Falcone replied. “I am usually the first one through the door because I am usually the best shot. But we have good men on the team there, and we have good men on the team here. It should go well, Domingo. I am tense, yes, but I will be all right. You will see,” BIG BiRD ended. Chavez clapped him on the shoulder and went off to see Sergeant-Major Price.
“Hey, Eddie.”
“Do we have a better idea for the mission yet?”
“Getting there. Looks like mainly a job for Paddy, blowing things up.”
“Connolly’s the best explosives man I’ve ever seen,” Price observed. “But don’t tell him that. His head’s swollen enough already.”
“What about Falcone?”
“Ettore?” Price shook his head. “I will be very surprised if he puts a foot wrong. He’s a very good man, Ding, bloody machine-a robot with a pistol. That sort of confidence rarely goes bad. Things are too automatic for him.”
“Okay, well, we’ve picked our target. It the north-and east-most silo. Looks like it’s on fairly flat ground, two four-inch pipes running to it. Paddy’ll blow those, and then try to find a way to pop the cover off the silo or otherwise find an access door-there’s one on the overhead. Then get inside, toss a grenade to break the missile,
