scattered and confused. Until we know more, trying to put a spin on it is dangerous.”
Fowler's face bore down on the speaker phone. “Your job is to tell me what's going on, not to give me lessons in crisis-management. When you have something I can use, get back to me!”
“What in the hell are they thinking?” Ryan asked.
“Is there something I don't know here?” Goodley asked. The young academic looked as alarmed as Ryan felt.
“Why should you be any different from the rest of us?” Jack snapped back, and regretted it. “Welcome to crisis-management. Nobody knows crap, and you're expected to make good decisions anyway. Except it's not possible, it just isn't.”
“The thing with the carrier scares me,” the S&.T man observed.
“Wrong. If we only splashed four aircraft, it's only a handful of people,” Ryan pointed out. “Land combat is something else. If we really have a battle going on in Berlin, that's the scary one, almost as bad as an attack on some of our strategic assets. Let's see if we can get hold of SACEUR.”
The nine surviving M1A1 tanks were racing north along a Berlin avenue, along with a platoon of Bradley fighting vehicles. Street lights were on, heads sticking out windows and it was instantly apparent to the few onlookers that whatever was happening wasn't a drill. All the tanks had the speed governors removed from their engines, and they could all have been arrested in America for violating the national interstate highway limit. One mile north of their camp, they turned east. Leading the formation was a senior NCO who knew Berlin well — this was his third tour in the once-divided city — well enough that he had a perfect spot in mind, if the Russians hadn't got there first. There was a construction site. A memorial to the Wall and its victims was going up after a long competition. It overlooked the Russian and American compounds which were soon to be vacated, and bulldozers had pushed up a high berm of dirt for the sculpture that would sit, atop it. But it wasn't there yet, just a thick dirt ramp. The Soviet tanks were milling about on their objective, probably waiting for their infantry to show up or something. They were taking TOW hits from the Bradleya, and returning fire into the woods.
“Christ, they're going to kill those Bradley guys,” the unit commander — a captain whose tank was the last survivor of his company — said. “Okay, find your spots.” That took another minute. Then the tanks were hull-down, just their guns and the tops of turrets showing. “Straight down the line! Commence firing, fire at will.”
All nine tanks fired at once. The range was just over two thousand meters, and now the element of surprise was with someone else. Five Russian tanks died with the first volley, and six more in the second, as the Abrams tanks went into rapid fire.
In the trees with the Bradleys, the brigade XO watched the north end of the Russian line crumple. That was the only word for it, he thought. The tank crews were all combat vets, and now they had the edge. The northernmost Russian battalion tried to reorient itself, but one of his Bradleys had evidently scored on its commander, and there was confusion there. Why the Russians hadn't pressed home the attack was one question that floated about the rear of his brain, but that was something to save for the after-action report. Right now he saw that they had screwed up, and that was a good thing for him and his men.
“Sir, I've got Seventh Army.” A sergeant handed him a microphone.
“What's happening over there?”
“General, this is Lieutenant Colonel Ed Long, we just got our ass attacked by the regiment across town from us. No warning at all, they just came into our kazerne like Jeb Stuart. We've got 'em stopped, but I've lost most of my tanks. We need some help here.”
“Losses?”
“Sir, I've lost over forty tanks, eight Bradleys, and at least two hundred men.”
“Opposition?”
“One regiment of tanks. Nothing else yet, but they have lots of friends, sir. I could sure use some myself.”
“I'll see what I can do.”
General Kuropatkin checked his status board. Every radar system that was not down for repair was now operating. Satellite information told him that two SAC bases were empty. That meant their aircraft were now airborne and flying towards the Soviet Union along with KC-135 tankers. Their missile fields would also be at full alert. His Eagle satellites would give launch-warning, announcing that his country had thirty minutes left to live. Thirty minutes, the General thought. Thirty minutes and the reason of the American president were all that stood between life and death for his country.
“Air activity picking up over Germany,” a colonel said. “We show some American fighters coming out from Ramstein and Bitberg, heading east. Total of eight aircraft.”
“What do we have on the American Stealth fighters?”
“There is a squadron — eighteen of them — at Ramstein. Supposedly, the Americans are demonstrating them for possible sale to their NATO allies.”
“They could be all in the air right now,” Kuropatkin noted, “carrying nuclear weapons, for that matter.”
“Correct, they can easily carry two B-61-type weapons each. With high-altitude cruise, they could be over Moscow before we knew it… ”
“And with their bombsights… they could lay their weapons exactly on any target they wish… two and a half hours from the time they lift off… my God.” In the weapon's earth-penetration mode, it could be placed close enough to eliminate the president's shelter. Kuropatkin lifted his phone. “I need to talk to the President.”
“Yes, General, what is it?” Narmonov asked.
“We have indications of American air activity over Germany.”
“There's more than that. A Guards regiment in Berlin reports being under attack by American troops.”
“That's mad.”
And the report came in not five minutes after my friend Fowler promised not to do anything provocative. “Speak quickly, I have enough business here already.”
“President Narmonov. Two weeks ago, a squadron of American F-117A Stealth fighters arrived at their Ramstein air base, ostensibly for demonstration to their NATO allies. The Americans said they want to sell them. Each of those aircraft can carry two half-megaton weapons.”
“Yes?”
“I cannot detect them. They are virtually invisible to everything we have.”
“What are you telling me?”
“From the time they leave their bases, then refuel, they can be over Moscow in less than three hours. We would have no more warning than Iraq had.”
“Are they truly that effective?”
“One reason we left so many people in Iraq was to observe closely what the Americans are capable of. Our people never saw that American plane on a radar scope, neither ours nor the French scopes Saddam had. Yes, they are that good.”
“But why should they wish to do such a thing?” Narmonov demanded.
“Why would they attack our regiment in Berlin?” the Defense Minister asked in reply.
“I thought this place was proof against anything in their arsenal.”
“Not against a nuclear gravity bomb delivered with high accuracy. We are only one hundred meters down here,” Defense said. In the old battle between warhead and armor, warhead always wins…
“Back to Berlin,” Narmonov said. “Do we know what's happening there?”
“No, what we have has come from junior officers only.”
“Get someone in there to find out. Tell our people to fall back if they can do so safely — and take defensive action only. Do you object to that?”
“No, that is prudent.”
The National Photographic Intelligence Center, NPIC, is located at the Washington Navy Yard, in one of several windowless buildings housing highly sensitive government activities. At the moment, they had a total of
