“Berg, you devious son-of-a-bitch.”
“Did you get through to your operations center?” the president demanded.
“I did, Mr. President. They experienced a problem with the satellite link. Should be back on-line in a minute. They don’t know what happened.”
Without hesitating, the National Security Advisor suggested the possibility that the Russians had disabled U.S. satellites with a directed EMP blast. His declaration plunged the already agitated room into further chaos and temporarily yanked him out of the spotlight. Manning looked up at the director, struggling not to grin. The director wore an emotionless face, but he could see it in the director’s eyes. Like Manning, the director was engaged in an all-out battle to internalize his suspicions that the timing of the satellite link failure was far from random.
Chapter 64
The wind punched through the missing windshield, mercilessly ripping through the Tiger’s cabin as Misha increased their speed to eighty-five miles per hour. The frost-heave-damaged asphalt road connecting Znamenka to Slavgorod had left his spine rattled and his stomach in knots. Despite the shattering discomfort, successfully navigating the entire road at highway speed had far exceeded his expectations for the Russian equivalent to backwater USA. Based on what he had witnessed during their trek westward to the border, backwater was a generous description of the isolated network of villages and trails defining their southwestern Siberian experience. He couldn’t imagine a commerce-related reason for the government to pave the road between these two towns, but was grateful that some nameless Communist Party bureaucrat had at one time persisted in his or her pursuit of the precious bitumen surface his vehicle travelled.
He stared at the monochromatic green image of two Tiger vehicles less than a kilometer ahead, partially obscured by a thin stand of tall trees extending north. The line of trees, planted long ago by Slavgorod city planners to cut the frozen winds sweeping across the Siberian steppes, rapidly grew in his viewfinder. At this speed, it took less than thirty seconds to travel a kilometer. Sanderson was cutting it a little close.
“Stand by to engage targets!” Farrington said.
“We can’t keep slugging it out like this,” Gosha replied.
“Have some faith, boys,” Sanderson said over the communications net.
For the final phase of their exfiltration, Farrington had patched the satellite phone directly into his comms rig, adding Sanderson to the intrasquad feed. With elements of the 21st Motor Rifle Division pouring into the city from the south, the ride through Slavgorod would require quick communications and multi-sensory input from all members of his team.
Of course, if Black Rain didn’t immediately produce some bad weather for the approaching Tigers, they might not reach Slavgorod. He scanned the northwest horizon, looking for any sign that they would not have to engage in another close-range gun battle. He couldn’t imagine the Russian gunners making the same mistake twice. A single flash erupted on the horizon, followed by multiple flashes.
“Missiles away,” Sanderson said over the net.
“Gosha, distance to targets?” Farrington said.
“Less than five hundred meters!”
He did a quick mental calculation involving estimated missile time of flight and flipped up his night vision goggles.
“Get inside the Tiger!” he said.
Less than a second after he heard Gosha drop into the cabin, a brilliant flash illuminated the landscape ahead of them, immediately followed by a shockwave that rattled their 12,000 pound armored vehicle like a toy. Misha kept the Tiger steady on the road as they sped toward the inferno.
A few seconds later, the heat radiated by the burning wreckage on the side of the road became too intense, forcing him to shield his face with his hands. Through his fingers, he caught a brief, ninety mile per hour glimpse of the carnage wreaked by the Hellfire’s 100-pound high-explosive warhead.
One of the vehicles lay upside down but mostly intact against the burning trees, smoke and flame pouring from its windows. The other Tiger hadn’t moved from its original position, but there was little left to indicate what it had been before the Hellfire missile had plunged through the thin armor. Through the flames dancing in the grass, all he could discern was a twisted, smoking chassis. The drone operator had assigned one missile to the pair of Tigers, correctly assuming that the force of the warhead would effectively destroy both of the tightly parked vehicles.
Two fireballs ascended skyward on the horizon, in the vicinity of Slavgorod’s city limits, drawing his attention away from the grisly destruction. Additional flashes closely followed, momentarily exposing several small buildings previously shrouded in darkness.
“Black Rain reports good hits on all targets. Four BTRs and two Tigers destroyed on the road. Three Hellfire missiles remaining. Black Rain will remain on station until all ordnance expended,” Sanderson said.
“Copy. Just make sure Black Rain keeps us positively identified throughout the city. We’re driving a Tiger and I just saw what a Hellfire missile can do to a Tiger,” Farrington said.
“Roger. Recommend that you activate your IR strobe once inside the city. That’ll keep Black Rain off your ass. Use the lowest intensity setting. Remember, the Russians can see that strobe with their night vision. Black Rain is repositioning to cover you from the top down.”
“We’re less than a minute from entering the town. Any chance of a straight shot across?”
“Not likely. I’m looking at eight Tigers and five BTRs less than two kilometers from the northern access road. Even if you did slip by, they’d be all over your ass on the way to the border. You could have avoided all of this drama by staying on the trails,” Sanderson said.
“And we’d be forty kilometers from the border instead of fifteen, with little chance of reaching our pickup. We weren’t making enough progress,” Farrington said.
A few seconds of icy silence hung over the net before Sanderson spoke.
“Let’s get you through the city undetected. You’ll have to slow down as soon as you reach the first houses on the left. You’ll need to take a left on a dirt road just past the seventh house. This road will curve to the right and put you at a dirt intersection with homes on all four sides. Take another left at the intersection. We’ll assess enemy vehicle movement from there,” Sanderson said.
“Solid copy. We’re passing the destroyed BTRs right now,” Farrington said, tracking the wrecked convoy through his windows.
The first armored vehicle remained upright on eight surprisingly intact wheels, burning brightly through the blown side and top hatches. A massive hole above the troop compartment poured thick smoke and sparks into the darkened sky. The second and third BTR on the road had fared no better, belching flame through every opening into the Siberian air, evidence of torn metal and burning material scattered on the road between them. The last BTR had been knocked onto its side by the force of the explosion that inflicted a three-foot wide hole in its left side and blew the turret at least fifty into the field. Misha swerved to avoid the smoking chunk of metal as they passed down the left side of the road, giving Farrington a view of the twisted gun barrel sticking up from the grass. Looking back as the Tiger rejoined the road, he could see an area the size of two football fields softly illuminated by dozens of small fires and burning fragments thrown from the obliterated vehicles. The glow receded as their Tiger reached the first house and Misha started counting the houses out loud. Misha found the dirt road and slowed to make the turn.