Steve Abbott - Devil's Gambit

Sergie scratched his head, “You and the size of the payment make a strong argument. It will be hard, but give me a month.”

“A month is too long. Verkatt needs delivery within two weeks.”

Sergie’s eyebrows shot up. “Two weeks?” He sputtered.

“His clients are most desperate for these devices.”

“They must be. For three million, I’m thinking Verkatt’s slice of this pie is very large.”

“I don’t get paid enough to speculate.”

Sergie took a thoughtful tug at his beard. “It can be done, but it will be quick and dirty. I cannot ensure deniability. If I had a month, yes, but not two weeks. It is not enough time to do the job thoroughly.”

Benjamin nodded, “I understand. He was not specific on that point when he contacted me in Burma. I doubt it will be a problem.”

“Then it is settled. You have a way I can get confirmation to you?”

“The Paris address is still there.”

“That will do well. The old code?”

“Sure, why not.” The two men shook hands and the deal was sealed.

Sergie stood Benjamin’s briefcase in one hand and watched as the dim shape of the DC-3, both engines at full throttle, roar into the predawn sky.

The tank Colonel knew he was in deep shit. He had been fighting a running battle across the desert for the last ten days. He was low on sleep and low on ammunition. Field replenishment had not gone as planned. Every time he made a move to get supplies in, they were harassed by Hind attack helicopters. Most of his fuel and food supplies had been destroyed en-route. What he needed now was air support and lots of it.

His command group had been jumped a couple of hours ago by two Hinds. The two choppers had come in so low, the pilots must have driven the damn things across the desert.

The attack had cost him a crucial communications vehicle and a surface-to-air missile battery. The raid had been hit-and-run. So viscous and fast that the helicopters vanished without any shots being fired in return. It was bad enough to lose vehicles, but to lose face was even worse. If the rounds from the Hinds and the group losses had been real and not a training exercise, the outlook would have been bleak indeed.

Captain Terry “Black” Donovan loved the feel of ground effect. The surge of pressure as the terrain rose and dipped underneath him was the world’s best roller coaster. The ride in back though could be hard on men when the doors were closed. The inner ear hated a lack of visual reference. The stomach was almost always the loser in the battle of bodily wills. Donovan once again gave grudging respect to the Soviet-built Hind helicopter he flew.

The Soviet aircraft industry had taken a lot of flak over the years for producing inferior product. At air show after air show, airplanes had been torn apart by dramatic engine failures. This dampened western attraction in Soviet fighter platforms, but it had generated increased interest in Soviet ejection systems. Consensus between the Russian factories was there were better ways to demonstrate such products.

The Hind had proved it could be a bear to work on. It was a metric bird, something the American flight mechanics and flight crews had taken some time to get used to. Bolts were in millimeters, altitude was in meters. They could have ripped the dials out of the cockpit and replaced them with more familiar empirical ones. But these were lean times for defense dollars and that would have meant the added expense of changing the entire on-board power supply system. So the pilots learned to use Metric to gauge altitude and the mechanics got new wrenches.

The Hind Donovan flew was one of the newest versions to roll out of the Mil Helicopter factory in Rostov. The sheer simplicity and ruggedness of the design made it a joy to fly. Its official NATO designation was Hind-VP. Donovan did miss the thirty-millimeter chain gun of his Apache attack chopper and the missiles on the Hind were weak and clunky compared to his Apache’s Hellfire missiles. But this version made up for the chain gun by having two 23 millimeter cannon mounted in a side-by-side configuration in the chin turret. A vast improvement on the small 12.7 millimeter Gatling gun that used to be housed there. The Hind could carry troops and take a real shit-kicking and keep on flying. Troop transport was something the Apache could not do.

Flying on his starboard wing was Captain Henry “Mac” Macintyre. Both had transferred to the “Gray Threat” program at the same time. Six months of intense training later, they were now well-versed in Soviet helicopter attack and support tactics. When all that knowledge was coupled with American tactics, you had the results felt by the Tank Forces Commander hours before.

Donovan and his wingman were re-tasked the second they landed. There was just enough time to relieve themselves, grab a bite to eat and refuel the choppers.

The Red Force mission was straight forward. In the rear of each helicopter were eight heavily armed men. Intelligence had reported, Blue Forces were advancing on their flank. The Blue Commander had decided to forfeit strategy for speed in the dash for his next objective, the force command compound. The quickest path was through a rock-strewn valley to the main body of Red Force’s left flank. The Blue Force commander was expected to win. American doctrine had, for years, stated that while the Soviet threat was numerically greater, their equipment and troop structures were technologically inferior. So Red Force was always at a slight disadvantage. Most Red commanders felt intense resentment about this and would grumble about the uneven playing field they had been dealt.

The current Red commander had a history of being unorthodox. Colonel Geoff Channick had struggled through the adversity of poor beginnings and intolerance to get to where he was. While some would take the Red command assignment as a possible career slight, he reveled in the challenge, something that did not go unnoticed at staff levels. The Opposing Force or OPFOR assignment lasted for about three years. Exercises were run in all four seasons. This gave visiting commanders a chance to experience everything from snow to torrential downpours and blistering heat. Of the last three Blue commanders to take on Channick, all had achieved their objectives, but at force loss levels far above acceptable estimates. Like he had three times before, Channick would make his Ivy League opponent pay for an arrogant gamble.

The Hinds would deploy the two eight-man teams, in this case, Navy SEALs from SEAL Team Three. SEAL Team Three was normally tagged for operations in South East Asia, but were cross-training in advanced desert warfare. Umpires for each team were squeezed into the cramped confines of the Hinds as well. The two teams would set up mortar positions on either side of the far end of the valley. A perfect ambush spot for 120 millimeter mortars with almost four kilometers of range. Once the men were secured on the ground, Donovan and Macintyre would deal with any forward air support elements of the advancing force. The SEALs would stay camouflaged and hidden until the tanks and infantry were well into the valley. If it were a real war, it would be an almost suicidal mission, but here in training, the lessons would be invaluable practice to both commanders.

Lt. Commander Bob Hunter watched the outside terrain slide by in the gray early light of morning. The intercom headset draped around his neck wouldn’t fit over his Kevlar helmet, so he was forced to wear it like a bulky necklace. He and the seven other members from Seal Team Three were anxious to get to the hide site and set up shop. This was a refresher course for him; his last stint in the desert had been in Iraq with SEAL Team Five, looking for Taliban leadership. Local assets had stumbled onto his team’s hide. Hunter had received a purple heart for being just a bit slower than a ricochet, and early promotion for getting all of his team out at great cost to the enemy. The headset around his neck grumbled. Hunter held it to his left ear and keyed the mike.