Tom Clancy - The Bear and the Dragon

“The PLA has four complete Group-A armies in Siberia and heading north. There hasn’t been any heavy contact yet because Ivan’s refusing combat at the moment, until they can get something big enough to meet them with. They have one motor-rifle division in theater and four more heading up there. The last of ’em just cleared this railyard an hour and a half ago.”

“That’s, what? Sixteen heavy divisions in the invasion force?”

Welch nodded. “Thereabouts.”

“What’s my mission?”

“Assemble your squadron and head southeast. The idea is First Armored will cut off the bottom of the break-in and interrupt their supply line. Russian blocking force will then try to stop them about two hundred miles northeast of here.”

“Can they do it?” Four Russian divisions against sixteen Chinese didn’t seem especially favorable odds.

“Not sure,” Welch admitted. “Your job is to get out and establish lead security for the division. Advance to and secure the first big fuel depot. We’ll play it from there.”

“Support?”

“At the moment, the Air Force is mainly doing fighter work. No deep strikes yet because they don’t have enough bombs to sustain any kind of campaign.”

“What about resupply?”

“We have two basic loads for all the tracks. That’ll have to do for a while. At least we have four units of fire for the artillery.” That meant four days’ worth of shells-based on what the Army computed that a day of combat required. The supply weenies who did those calculations weren’t stingy on shells to shoot at the other guy. And in the entire Persian Gulf war, not a single tank had completely shot out its first basic load of shells, they both knew. But that was a different war. No two were ever the same, and they only got worse.

Giusti turned when he heard the first engine start up. It was an M3A2 Bradley Scout track, and the sergeant in the commander’s hatch looked happy to be moving. A Russian officer took over as traffic cop, waving the Brad forward, then right toward the assembly area. The next train backed up to the next ramp over. That would be “A” or Avenger Troop, with the first of Quarter Horse’s really heavy equipment, nine of the M1A2 main battle tanks.

“How long before everything’s here?” Giusti asked.

“Ninety minutes, they told me,” Welch answered.

“We’ll see.”

What’s this?” a captain asked the screen in front of him. The E-3B Sentry designated Eagle Two was back on the ground at Zhigansk. Its crew was more than a little shaken. Being approached by real fighters with real blood in their eyes was qualitatively different from exercises and postmission analysis back stateside. The tapes of the engagement had been handed off to the wing intelligence staff, who viewed the battle with some detachment, but they could see that the PLAAF had thrown a full regiment of first-line fighters at the AWACS, and more than that, done it on a one-way mission. They’d come in on burner, and that would have denied them a trip back to their base. So, they’d been willing to trade over thirty fighters for a single E-3B. But there was more to the mission than that, the captain saw.

“Look here,” he told his colonel. “Three, no, four reconnaissance birds went northwest.” He ran the tape forward and backward. “We didn’t touch any of them. Hell, they didn’t even see them.”

“Well, I’m not going to fault the Sentry crew for that, Captain.”

“Not saying that, sir. But John Chinaman just got some pictures of Chita, and also of these Russian units moving north. The cat’s out of the bag, Colonel.”

“We’ve got to start thinking about some counter-air missions on these airfields.”

“We have bombs to do it?”

“Not sure, but I’m taking this to General Wallace. What’s the score on the air fight?”

“Colonel Winters got four for sure and two probables. Damn, that guy’s really cleaning up. But it was the -16 guys saved the AWACS. These two J-8s got pretty damned close before Rodeo splashed them.”

“We’ll put some more coverage on the E-3s from now on,” the colonel observed.

“Not a bad idea, sir.”

Yes?” General Peng said, when his intelligence officer came up to him.

“Aerial reconnaissance reports large mechanized formations one hundred fifty kilometers west of us, moving north and northeast.”

“Strength?” the general asked.

“Not sure. Analysis of the photos is not complete, but certainly regimental strength, maybe more.”

“Where, exactly?”

“Here, Comrade General.” The intelligence officer unfolded a map and pointed. “They were spotted here, here, and from here to here. The pilot said large numbers of tanks and tracked vehicles.”

“Did they shoot at him?”

“No, he said there was no fire at all.”

“So, they are rushing to where they are going … racing to get to our flank, or to get ahead of us …?” Peng considered this, looking down at the map. “Yes, that’s what I would expect. Any reports from our front?”

“Comrade General, our reconnaissance screen reports that they have seen the tracks of vehicles, but no visual sightings of the enemy at all. They have taken no fire, and seen nothing but civilians.”

Quickly,” Aleksandrov urged.

How the driver and his assistant had gotten the ZIL-157 to this place was a mystery whose solution didn’t interest the captain. That it had gotten here was enough. His lead BRM at that moment had been Sergeant Grechko’s, and he’d filled up his tanks, and then radioed to the rest of the company, which for the first time broke visual contact with the advancing Chinese and raced north to top off as well. It was dangerous and against doctrine to leave the Chinese unseen, but Aleksandrov couldn’t guarantee that they’d all have a chance to refuel otherwise. Then Sergeant Buikov had a question.

“When do they refuel, Comrade Captain? We haven’t seen them do it, have we?”

That made his captain stop and think. “Why, no, we haven’t. Their tanks must be as empty as ours.”

“They had extra fuel drums the first day, remember? They dropped them off sometime yesterday.”

“Yes, so maybe they have one more day of fuel, maybe only half a day, but then someone must refill them-but who will that be, and how …?” the officer wondered. He turned to look. The fuel came out of the portable pump at about forty liters or ten gallons per minute. Grechko had taken his BRM south to reestablish contact with the Chinese. They were still sitting still, between frog-leap bounds, probably half an hour away if they stuck with their drill, from which they hadn’t once deviated. And people had once said that the Red Army was inflexible …

“There, that’s it,” Aleksandrov’s driver said. He handed the hose back and capped the tank.

“You,” the captain told the driver of the fuel truck. “Go east.”

“To where?” the man asked. “There’s nothing there.”

That stopped his thinking for a few seconds. There had been a sawmill here once, and you could see the wide swaths of saplings left over from when whoever had worked here had cut trees for lumber. It was the closest thing to open ground they’d seen in over a day.

“I came from the west. I can get back there now, with the truck lighter, and it’s only six kilometers to the old logging road.”

“Very well, but do it quickly, Corporal. If they see you, they’ll blast you.”

“Farewell then, Comrade Captain.” The corporal got back into the truck, started up, and turned to the north to loop around.

“I hope someone gives him a drink tonight. He’s earned it,” Buikov said. There was much more to any army than the shooters.