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  RPGs, thought Grant.

  Then another salvo, this one better timed and better aimed than the first. Six rockets in total, and one found its mark, slamming into the rear of a BTR. The impact and destruction were nearly instantaneous: fuel ignited and panicked Russians dove out of the hatches of the burning vehicle. The second BTR halted and hastily returned to pick up a soldier, using the conflagration as cover from the continuous incoming small arms directed at it from the woods. With the Russian soldiers mounted on top of the second BTR, it took off, back to the road, to get away from additional salvos of RPGs.

  As it bolted in haste, the BTR drove right toward Grant and Ott, still prone on the ground. The Russians must have assumed the Americans were working with the Polish fighters who had killed their partner vehicle. They opened up on the American and German forces, 30mm explosions rocking the earth, sending giant clods of frozen dirt flying around the two trapped men.

  Three well-placed 30mm rounds caught a nearby Humvee, blasting dinner-plate-sized holes in and through the vehicle.

  And then: Boom!

  A single tank main gun round whizzed over Grant’s and Ott’s heads and smacked into the advancing BTR.

  In milliseconds, the M830A1 high-explosive anti-tank HEAT round’s shaped charge melted through the vehicle’s hull, then burst into a white-hot jet of flame inside the crew compartment, setting everything on fire. Men, equipment, and ammo all went up, vaporized in a mere fraction of a second.

  Grant pushed himself to his feet and watched the BTR burn a moment; then he ordered his men back aboard the Humvees and tanks so they could move to some cover.

  Grabbing the radio out of the damaged Humvee, he called up to the helicopter on the tactical air net.

  “Hot LZ, hot LZ!” He watched the helos turn away quickly.

  Still listening to the tactical air net, he heard his commander’s voice.

  “Grant? What’s the situation?”

  “There’s new fighting in Wrocław, fifteen klicks east of my poz. The trailing forces of the Russian column just got into a firefight with an unknown group on the other side of a wood line from us, then came our way shooting. Two of the Russian scout BTRs just got killed. The Poles got one. We got the other.”

  “Understood. We’re going to find us a better LZ and link up with you on the ground. We are heading—”

  Grant heard a sound through the radio that made his heart sink. It was the unmistakable Klaxon warning of an inbound missile.

  The colonel said, “Shit! We’ve got missiles inbound. Looks like air-to-air, long-range, radar-guided.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Grant watched with horror as the two big Chinooks weaved in the gray sky, chaff and flares firing frantically from their sides.

  Seconds later one Chinook exploded into a ball of flame and spun toward the ground. A second missile hit the other helo and it, too, nosed toward the ground, leaving a trace of fire in its path.

  Both helos exploded over the low rise of a hill not more than two kilometers to the west.

  The commander of the 37th Armored Regiment and his second-in-command had been killed right over Tom Grant’s head.

  Grant got on the radio. “Air defenses! Eyes open for any MiGs or Sukhois!”

  “Sir?” came a shaky voice from atop the nearby M1A2 tank. It was Sergeant Anderson. “I fired the shot that took out the BTR. I had to. Is it my fault?”

  “Enough of that shit!” shouted Lieutenant Colonel Grant, his blood boiling. The fear, the loss of his commander—all of it slipped away, replaced by the thoughts he next gave voice to. “You did what you were supposed to, trooper! Those fucks were going to kill us. Now mount up. We’ll check the crash sites for survivors; then we’re going to pursue these Russians all the way to fucking Moscow if we have to.”

  * * *

  • • •

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  27 DECEMBER

  The Poles had broken the cease-fire, but the Russians had attacked American forces, and this was the news that made it back to the Pentagon. Within minutes the president of the United States was notified at the White House, where he’d just gone to sleep after working in the Oval Office until well past midnight.

  President Henry had had it with the Russians, and he did not hesitate in his response.

  By now he knew Russia’s attack on Europe had been one part feint and one part the disabling of AFRICOM so that Russia could take and hold the rare-earth-mineral mine in Kenya. The entire cease-fire had been a trick, and he, President Jonathan Henry, had fallen for it.

  His anger was reflected in his orders.

  Speaking to his secretary of defense over the phone, he said simply, “Under my authorization, all military forces of the United States of America are ordered to engage hostile Russian forces inside Poland until they quit Poland entirely. If they fire on U.S. forces from Belarus, U.S. forces are authorized—no, ordered—to return fire.”

  The secretary of defense understood the clear message, and he passed it to the Pentagon.

  The Pentagon, in turn, transmitted it to Europe via the newly working communications links.

  CHAPTER 52

  SOUTHERN POLAND

  27 DECEMBER

  A flight of four A-10 Thunderbolt II aircraft flew east in formation, the pilots focusing on the sporadic radio traffic in an attempt to get a clearer picture of what lay ahead of them.

  From the reports they’d picked up from both the ground unit and English-speaking Polish Land Forces analysts doing their best to understand the action, it appeared the Russian column had been hit hard in the center of Wrocław, and it was now fighting its way out in company- and platoon-sized elements. They had placed plenty of rearguard forces to block any American attempts to advance on their main line of withdrawal, which was back to the west and hampered by narrow streets, debris, destroyed vehicles, and, amazingly enough, some civilian traffic. The Russians also seemed to be offering up enough counterfire to keep the American tank regiment pursuing them at a healthy distance. Clearly the peaceful withdrawal mandated by the cease-fire agreement was dead and buried now.

  And somewhere down there in the middle of all this, there were rumors about a big train with enough ground-to-air missiles to knock anything out of the sky that threatened it.

  Captain Ray “Shank” Vance was the leader of the flight of four, and he spoke into his microphone while scanning the blue-gray skies ahead. “Okay . . . we should see U.S. positions soon.” Shank squinted, looking through his visor and his canopy. “There, on the edge of the woods . . . just to our east.”

  Zoomer, the lead pilot in Shank’s second section, called out: “Antiair missiles fired! Right front side. Radar lock. We’re taking evasive maneuvers.”

  “Copy. Looks like MANPADS. Shake them and get back into formation. I want to hit that Russian armor.” The Man Portable Air Defense Systems were shoulder-fired antiair missiles, deadly to any aircraft in the area.

  “Copy. I’m seeing a lot of SAF-fire.” The pilots pronounced the abbreviation like “sapphire” but it was short for “surface-to-air fire” and was not specific with regard to the types of munitions used. They could have been guns, rockets, or missiles, but SAF-fire was the catchall word to put everyone on the alert.

  But this alert came too late for Zoomer’s flight, and their altitude was too low to maneuver. Four missiles rocketed up, fired in unison from under a canopy of trees. One missile detonated close to Zoomer’s wingman. A small red pop and a brown burst of shrapnel erupted just in front of his left tail section near the engine. Smoke flared out of the engine and the aircraft immediately lost half its power and went into a shallow dive.

  “Shit!” the wingman shouted into his mic. “I’m hit. I gotta turn out.” The pilot was focused on shutting down the stricken engine and powering up his remai
ning engine to counter his immediate loss of speed and altitude. His instincts were to turn away from the formation so he didn’t crash into one of his buddies, but he was so low that he was in real danger of losing control and impacting terrain.

  Shank said, “Focus on recovery. Radio if you have to punch.”

  The wounded aircraft drifted out and away from the pack as the others carried on the hunt.

  “Leave him, Zoomer,” Shank instructed. “He’ll be okay. Focus on . . .” He stopped speaking as he squinted into his windscreen. “Bogeys! Two of them! Two o’clock high and coming in fast! Circle the Hogs on me. Do it now!”

  “Circling the Hogs” was a well-practiced defensive maneuver Shank had taught at the weapons school at Nellis Air Force base in Vegas, back when he was an instructor at the 66th Squadron.

  The three A-10s entered a tight circle, flying parallel to the ground. The tactic allowed one of the aircraft’s deadly 30mm cannons and its antiair missiles to be pointing outward at all times. Turning practically on their wing, pivoting so tightly that the Russian aircraft, which had now closed to less than three kilometers, couldn’t get behind any of them without having to worry about another A-10 right on his tail and getting him in his sights.

  Shank said, “Drop ground munitions; get ready for some dogfighting.” The A-10s needed to remove their outboard stores, because the heavy missiles and bombs slowed their acceleration and inhibited the tight turns needed for air-to-air fighting.

  Each pilot mentally noted his position, then pulled a release on his Maverick missiles, dropping the unarmed munitions harmlessly into the snow-covered woods below.

  It took Shank some time with his tight turn, but he soon came back around and saw the enemy aircraft’s profiles clearly against the pale blue sky. To his astonishment, they were Su-57s, Russia’s newest fifth-generation fighter, purpose-built for dogfighting.

  The A-10, in contrast, was primarily a ground-attack weapon; it was no one’s first choice for an air-to-air combat platform.

  Well, that sucks, Shank said to himself.

  The three A-10s might outnumber their opponents, but they were outclassed in a fight with them and needed every edge they could take.

  The Russian fighters seemed to quickly recognize the threat of the circle maneuver, and the two fast Su-57s jetted up to a slightly higher altitude and adopted a wider circle, trying to get a good angle at the tail of one of the A-10s. A dance of death between the fast and sleek Sukhois and the old and slow Warthogs began.

  Shank said, “Call out any gaps in the enemy approach.”

  One of the Su-57 pilots decided to test the Americans’ tactics. He pulled a hard left stick, breaking away from the Russians’ loose concentric formation around the Hogs and firing a precision Izdeliye-170 missile.

  Called the R-77 by the West, the Russian missile was one of the most formidable active radar-homing munitions in the world.

  “Fox Three! Fox Three! Hit chaff now!” said Zoomer, flying the point aircraft at that moment in the circle. From his position he’d seen the launch before the others and was also the first to detect the missile on his active radar.

  All three A-10s began dumping chaff and flares. Ten pops from each of their RR-129 tinfoil chaff dispensers and half a dozen flares apiece in case the missile carried a heat-sensor backup.

  The Russian fighter’s aspect angle on his target and the three A-10s releasing their haze of chaff into the circle did the job and the missile was unable to maintain a lock on its target. It flew harmlessly right through the middle of the circling American aircraft, detonating in the snow-covered trees below.

  But the Su-57 pilot kept his nose on his target and followed his missile with a hail of accurate gunfire. Several rounds did the job the missile failed to do, tearing three fist-sized holes in Zoomer’s left wing. His position in the circle broke slightly as he fought to regain control of the damaged aircraft.

  His alarms wailed. He looked out his canopy to check the damage and saw fuel spraying out behind his portside wing.

  Checking the gauges, he realized he was losing hydraulic fluid as well.

  “Shank, I’m venting fuel and fluid. I can stay in the circle, but not for long.”

  “Copy that,” said Shank. “Gonna have to make something happen. If we sit here, they are going to pick us off one by one.” Shank kept trying to discern the enemy pattern of attack, weighing a multitude of variables. He struggled to come up with relevant tactics against the superior Russian fighter aircraft. If they ran, he and his cohorts would immediately become more vulnerable; the Su-57 could outrun and outfly the A-10. If they stayed, Zoomer was already proof that eventually they’d all get hammered.

  The second Su-57 dove on the Americans and fired a missile.

  Again the A-10s simultaneously dropped a cloud of chaff and flares, which spread outward from their circle, obscuring them from missile lock.

  The Su-57 followed up with guns, and this time two rounds impacted Nooner’s tail. Then the Russian pulled up and outward while his wingman lined up for his next attack.

  Shank could see that they were now going to coordinate individual standoff attacks, each aircraft closing in, firing, then pulling away.

  But this opened up an opportunity for the Americans as well.

  Shank broke out of the circle, pulling his stick hard back and left. His aircraft’s nose slewed onto the tail of the climbing Sukhoi.

  “Shot!” said Shank over the radio as he launched a missile, then held his angle a second longer to fire two bursts of 30mm cannon.

  The Russian pilot juked left, then right, releasing his own battery of flares. The American missile failed to lock, but the blast of cannon fire, eight rounds total out of the two long bursts of twenty rounds apiece, punched into the broad open wing and canopy of the Russian fighter.

  Unlike the heavily armored A-10, which could take a beating, the more sophisticated Russian jet came apart in midair. Flames and sections of the aircraft peeled off. The left wing broke and fell from the stricken modern jet as it pitched violently up and then began to flutter toward the earth, spinning out of control like a leaf falling from a tree.

  The remaining Su-57, likely the flight leader, saw his chance as Shank fell outside the circle. The Russian lined up behind the A-10, and two missiles left the Russian’s aircraft, tracing across the sky for Shank’s tail.

  He looked back and saw what was happening. “Chaff and flares! Breaking hard left! Let him come for me. Then you two nail him!”

  Both Zoomer and Nooner broke out of the Hog circle to attack with missiles and cannons in an attempt to protect Shank.

  The quick thinking in rolling out of the circle had meant two aircraft could threaten the Su-57 from two different angles, and the Russian could threaten only Shank.

  Shank worked his finger switches rapidly to fire chaff, and then his hands and feet deftly controlled the stick and rudder in perfect harmony. It took three full banks of chaff and flares, but as he prepared to launch his fourth and final bank, the missiles chased the flares and Shank pushed the stick down, then rolled left to ensure he lost the Su-57’s lock. Pulling the stick back hard and advancing the throttle all the way, he pulled an Immelmann, an ascending half loop and flip of the aircraft to turn 180 degrees.

  Now at higher altitude and pointing back toward the enemy, he could assist the other two pilots.

  The Su-57 pilot realized he had drastically underestimated the capabilities of both the American ground-attack aircraft and its three pilots. He kicked on his afterburners and climbed rapidly. Zoomer fired an antiair missile at the fleeing Su-57, but the weapon failed to lock onto the stealthy state-of-the-art fighter.

  Seconds later the Russian pilot had disengaged completely, and the A-10s let him go.

  “Zoomer, you are cleared to go look for your wingman,” Shank said. “Keep us on the net while you search. No
oner, you’ve got to get your crippled bird back to base.”

  “Shank, I’m stable, and we’re almost to the Russian armor. I can take a couple passes before returning, and I can loiter at distance while you make some runs. Then we’ll go back.”

  Shank thought it over. The transmissions from the Army guys on the ground sounded desperate enough for him to decide to risk it.

  “Okay, we’ll do that. We can pound armor with our cannons and then RTB. Come to heading oh-seven-five.”

  Nooner asked, “Did you get close enough to catch the tail art on those guys?”

  “Yep, looked like an eagle talon painted in red,” replied Shank. “That pilot who made it out of there knows his shit. We got lucky today.”

  CHAPTER 53

  USS JOHN WARNER

  GULF OF ADEN

  27 DECEMBER

  Captain Diana DelVecchio paced the control room, hands on her hips.

  “Captain,” her communications officer said, “we’re not getting any real uplink to SATCOM. Radio Division says it’s not us: our equipment tests fine. There are one or two birds that seem to be responding, but they are too far on or over the horizon to get a decent handshake.”

  “Do we think we got any data out about the flotilla?” DelVecchio asked.

  “Possible, Captain, but no guarantees.”

  DelVecchio nodded. She pointed to the LCD screens on the navigation officer’s briefing table, where newer, better images of the flotilla were on display. “XO, Nav, what do you think of that?”

  “Ma’am . . . looks like three fuel ships.”

  “Yes, but look in between these two.”

  “That’s an Iranian frigate and an Iranian corvette. Sabalan-class, and the other . . . tough to make out.”

  She scrolled with the mouse and zoomed in on the image captured by the UMM. “Look at the bow profile. The side-strapped torpedo rockets. The forward gun.”