Tom Clancy - Command Authority

“Something like that.”

“So why the hell is everybody making a run for it? They should be glad the Russians are coming, right?”

“They might be glad they are coming to liberate them, or whatever, but that doesn’t mean they want to be standing right there when it goes down. There’s a shit ton of fighting to be done before this thing is settled.”

Conway was about to respond when the JOC came over their headsets and directed them to a grid coordinate just fifteen minutes east of their position. Conway acknowledged and picked up speed and altitude, leaving his flyover of the thick traffic behind and heading over rolling forestland.

As they flew, Midas gave them more information.

“Black Wolf Two Six, Warlock Zero One, stand by for sitrep.” There was a brief pause, then Midas said, “Team Frito has eyes on two BM-30 emplacements digging in southeast of Mezhova. They have not been able to raise UDF assets to engage, and the red forces will be in range of major population centers within the next hour.”

Conway and Page both knew the BM-30 was a massive Russian missile launcher that fired up to a dozen 300-millimeter rockets at a time at a distance of up to fifty miles. Along with each one there would be several smaller support vehicles. It was a powerful and potent weapon, and the fact four of them had been amassed within range of the city of Dnipropetrovs’k did not say much for the future prospects of Ukrainian forces in and around Dnipropetrovs’k. There was a Ukrainian forward helo base as well as the largest military base in the oblast just on the far side of the city, and both of these locations would be perfect targets for the multi-rocket launchers.

Page took over the radio now to get more intel on the targets. “Can you advise other red assets at emplacement location?” Dre wanted to know if they would be up against troops, tanks, helicopters, or other means to shoot down the Kiowa.

“Warlock Zero One. AWACS advises no enemy air in area. Frito advises troop transport vehicles and multiple dismounts, but no confirmation of anti-air.”

“Roger that,” said Page, and he looked to Conway. “Dude, what are the chances the Russkis are going to set up two big, dumb, slow missile batteries without protecting them from air attack somehow?”

“No chance at all,” confirmed Conway. “We will engage from max standoff distance and minimize exposure.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Dre said, and he began making preps on his multifunction display sighting system for the engagement to come.

Before arriving on station five miles to the west of the BM-30 emplacement, Black Wolf Two Six was put in direct radio contact with Frito Actual, the leader of the 10th Special Forces Group team in the area. Page’s targeting computer showed him the location of the friendly, or “blue,” forces, and Frito gave him up-to-date intel on the threats in the area.

Page and Conway both looked over the moving map display when they were still twenty miles out, and Page scanned forward with his mast-mounted sight, looking for anything out of the ordinary. There were a few small villages and factories away from the city, but mostly the area was rolling forest. Page said, “I know Frito says we’re golden on this, but I think you want to come in low. Sneak in for a peek with the optics. See them before they see us.”

Conway said, “Roger that.”

Black Wolf Two Six descended to just forty feet above the treetops, and Conway dipped even lower as they crossed clearings and streams. Page’s stomach had long since grown accustomed to the vomit-inducing roller-coaster ride of nap-of-the-earth flight, but in the back of his mind every now and then he still thought Conway made some of his maneuvers for the sole purpose of fucking with his internal organs.

They passed a small town built around a large but deserted redbrick factory building. From the look of its three smokestacks on the roof, Conway thought the factory might have been some sort of smelting operation. He lowered to only twenty-five feet above a gravel road just behind the factory, positioning the three-story brick building between his aircraft and the target area, separated by nearly five miles of forests and farms.

Page was on the radio with team Frito, and he flipped back and forth between multiple views of the target area. He said, “I’m not an expert on the BM-30, but those fuckers look like they are ready to launch.”

Conway had been spending his time with his eyes outside the helicopter. There were enough gadgets and gizmos in the Warrior to where pilots ran the risk of pulling into a hover and then spending too much time absorbing information other than the environment around them.

But Conway was too experienced for that. He let Page do the prep for the attack while he watched the fields, roads, buildings, and wood line around them, knowing that hovering still here above this gravel road in a relatively soft-skinned helicopter meant it would take only a couple of Russians in a jeep with a machine gun to ruin this otherwise decent morning.

He glanced down at Page’s monitor and saw the Russian missile trucks. He was no expert, either, but they looked like they could start raining missiles down on Ukraine at any time.

Page switched his view to his own camera, located in the mast-mounted sight, the large pod above the main rotor assembly. The MMS was a ball with two prominent glass “eyes” in front, and Dre called the instrument “E.T.” The new version of the Warrior was coming online stateside right now, and Conway looked forward to getting his hands on one because of all the new developments in the aircraft. That said, the new model had its laser rangefinder and designator in a pod below the pilot’s feet, so the aircraft would have a new look. Eric had flown E.T. around for nearly four years, and he would miss the distinctive look the MMS gave his bird.

Right now they were behind the building, and Dre couldn’t see the target through his own camera.

He said, “All right, Eric. Let’s have us a look-see.”

Conway pulled the collective on his left, and the helicopter rose slowly in its hover. At fifty feet above the ground, the mast-mounted sight was above the roof of the brick building just forty yards ahead, peeking at the distant target.

When Page saw what he needed to see on his monitor, he said, “Good. Right there.”

Conway held the helo stationary.

Page saw the two targets in a pair of fields separated by a small river; a bridge connected them. Along with the two massive trucks, each with missile tubes pointed high in the air, there were another dozen or more trucks and armored personnel carriers.

“Air defense assets?” Conway asked.

Page couldn’t see anything definitive at this distance, but he knew there had to be something out there that could kill him.

But Dre Page knew he had a job to do, and the U.S. taxpayer gave him $38,124 a year to put his life on the line in foreign lands, so he put as much worry out of his mind as possible and said, “Looks clear on the ground. Still no red air to worry about?”

“Negative. Closest threats are seventy miles away in Crimea. It’s clear, blue, and twenty-two here, bro.”

This was helicopter-pilot speak for good flying weather.

“Range to target?” Conway asked.

Page shot the laser rangefinder. “Lasing target. Seven thousand six hundred eighty-one.”

“You good with that range?” Conway asked. It was near max distance. He could move the aircraft closer if Dre felt the engagement necessitated it.

Page said, “Dude, the fighter in me wants to be right on top of them. But the survivor in me kinda likes hiding behind this big fucking brick factory.”

“I heard that, brother. Let’s rock it from here.”