“Thank you for saving my life and helping my fighters, Taurus,” Turabi said, using Briggs’s call sign while in his Tin Man battle armor. “I will be forever grateful.”
“I’ll be grateful to you if you’d lead this country out of the dark ages of fundamentalism and help them rebuild themselves,” Briggs said. Turabi looked quizzically at him. “I wouldn’t want this country to turn out like Afghanistan did under the Taliban.”
“I don’t know how it will turn out,” Turabi said. “If the leaders of this country turn to the Taliban for help in rebuilding this country, I would be happy for that.”
“If that happens, I hope we’ll never meet again, Turabi, especially if you intend to keep on raiding United Nations convoys,” Briggs warned him. “We might find ourselves on opposing sides — again.”
“I will remember that, Taurus. But I am Taliban. I will follow my God and the leaders of my clan and try to be a loyal servant — to them, to my family, and my conscience.”
“My advice to you: Serve yourself and your family first, and then listen to your chiefs. Their goals may not be the same as yours,” Briggs said. “I wish you luck, Turabi — because if you’re ever in my sights, I won’t hesitate to blow your shit away. Count on that.” He turned and walked toward the waiting MV-32 Pave Dasher, loaded and with its engines spooling up, getting ready for takeoff.
Just then he heard, “Bandits, bandits, bandits. All Battle Force units, this is Bobcat One-three. Numerous bandits inbound, bearing two-niner-zero, one hundred ten miles bull’s-eye, very low altitude, speed six hundred knots.”
Briggs didn’t hesitate. “Tin Men, dismount,” he ordered. “Take defensive positions now! Everyone else, stay on board.” He turned to Turabi and said, “You’d better get your men into shelters, Turabi. The Russians could strike at any moment.”
Turabi ran off, waving for the others — Turkmen and Afghans alike — to head for underground shelters.
“We’ve been ordered to depart!” the pilot of the MV-32 radioed back. “They’re still at least ten minutes away — we’ve got time to make it out.”
“I said Tin Men, dismount!” Briggs repeated. “Bring your gear! Spread out to the northwest. Dasher, as soon as my men are out, you split. Get across the Uzbek border to Samarkand.”
“Damn it, Briggs, we can all make it out!” the pilot argued. “Why in hell are you staying?”
“I said get going!” Briggs shouted. As soon as the eighth and last Tin Man was out of the tilt-jet aircraft, he jet-jumped to the northwest. The other Tin Men spread out with him, deploying about two miles apart so they could concentrate their firepower, cover as much territory as possible, and avoid being caught in one single-weapon attack. Each Tin Man commando carried an electromagnetic rail gun with plenty of tungsten-steel projectiles, plus a support bag with spare battery packs and spare parts for their battle armor and powered exoskeleton.
The MV-32 Pave Dasher lifted off in a blinding cloud of dust and sand and had just started rotating its engine nacelles from vertical lift to airplane mode… when the first Russian cruise missile hit. Several fuel-air explosions bracketed the MV-32 perfectly, creating a gigantic viselike crushing machine that shattered the tilt-jet aircraft and its passengers and crew into several thousand pieces and slammed it all into the sand.
Eight
Tin Man, Tin Man, report,” Briggs shouted into his commlink. One by one his men reported in. Their datalinked vital-sign information already showed them all alive, but he really needed to hear their voices, too — and he thought it was important for them to hear his.
Last to report in was Chris Wohl himself. “You okay, Taurus?” he asked.
“Affirmative. But the folks at the airfield got creamed.” Actually, he thought “cremated” might be a better word. “Everyone, check your gear, check your weapons, set up a defensive perimeter, and get ready to move out. Top, I expect the Russians are going to move in with paratroopers next. Figure out likely drop zones nearby and draw us up a plan to move there.”
“Roger.”
“Base, this is Taurus. The airfield has been hit by multiple fuel-air explosions,” Briggs radioed back to Battle Mountain. “They came out of nowhere — probably cruise-missile attacks. Dasher One is out — shit, Base, I can’t even see the pieces.”
“We copy, Taurus,” Patrick McLanahan responded from his Battle Management Center in Battle Mountain. Damn it, he swore to himself, he should’ve known they’d lead off with a fuel-air cruise-missile attack — it’s exactly what Gryzlov did in Chechnya and Mary. He should’ve had all the ground forces move away from Chärjew across the border and then exfiltrate them. “The first wave of Russian bombers is turning northbound — I think they’re done for now. We’re picking up multiple waves of aircraft still inbound. Could be more bombers launching cruise missiles.”
“The fuel-air things won’t hurt us unless they drop one right on our heads,” Briggs said. “We’re far enough away from the airport now.”
“Can you find some shelter, Taurus?”
“We’re probably safer out here in the open, rather than heading back toward the airfield,” Briggs replied.
“Copy that. Any suggestions?”
“I think the Russians are going to turn this entire area into a moonscape, and then they’re going to start dropping invasion troops in,” Briggs said. “We can spread out to likely drop zones and see if we can tag a few of their drop planes. But if they get a sizable force on the ground, we’re done for the day. We can’t hold off a massive infantry assault for very long with the weapons we have.”
“What about Turabi and his army?”
“They’ve scattered,” Briggs said. “Assuming they survived the Russians’ air assault, I think they’ll be hightailing it back home.”
“All right. Take a look at the topo maps and come up with some guesses as to where they’ll insert troops, then deploy to those areas and wait,” Patrick said. “We’ll watch the satellite and radar imagery and let you know what happens. We have an Air Force special-ops group standing by in Samarkand to evacuate you if necessary. Keep an eye on escape routes into Uzbekistan. If things go to shit any more, you may have to get out of there.”
“Believe me, we’re watchin’ north all the time,” Briggs said. The Uzbek border was just fifteen miles from their position, across the Amu Darya River. “Okay, we’ll redeploy and stand by for instructions.” Then, to Sergeant Major Wohl, “Top!”
“Sir?”
“Do you have that plan ready to move to likely drop zones?” Briggs asked. “I want to bag us some Russian drop planes.”
“Already got it laid out for you, sir.” Briggs saw the flashing information icon in his electronic visor and selected it. He saw a chart of the Chärjew area, with lines drawn to the northern quadrants, showing the movement and positioning of Briggs and his seven-man Tin Man commando team. Briggs was surprised to see that Wohl had suggested that Briggs himself be deployed to the southeast, to the spot farthest away — three miles away, on the other side of the airfield. “Uh, Sergeant Major — you put me on the southeast side? Why don’t you just suggest I deploy to Los Angeles or something?”
“Pardon me, sir,” Wohl growled. There was no question, even through the satellite datalink, that Wohl was pissed off. “Are you questioning my deployment strategy?” He sounded as if the very thought of Briggs’s doing that was too unbelievable to even imagine.