The day’s flying would only make that worse. He could expect to be in the cockpit for eight to twelve hours today, if he lived that long. And survival was high on Tad’s priority list.
He was proving very good at that. His skills had been honed to a razor’s edge since that first night battle in the sky over Hungary. He had eight kills to his credit now. Most were attack aircraft of one kind or another, but there were German Fulcrums and French Mirages hanging from his belt as well. Still, the flying, always at the edge of his skill and endurance, drained him.
A cold shower helped clear his head, but it couldn’t touch the deep core of fatigue that left him aching and bone-weary.
When he came out, a TV in one corner of the deserted commons room was on, as it had been when he fell into bed. It was tuned to CNN. Tad heard the American anchorman speak of “anguished appeals from Warsaw and Prague for immediate military aid.”
The journalist’s words irritated him, although he wasn’t quite sure why. They were probably a fair statement of the desperate situation his adopted homeland found itself in. Maybe he just didn’t like hearing about it. Not in such dispassionate tones from a man thousands of miles away and well out of danger.
Buttoning his tunic, he stepped out of the barracks into the chilly, predawn blackness — headed for the airfield’s operations center.
The building was still under repair. Ground crewmen working under dim, shielded lights were busy shoveling dirt away from one bomb-damaged side, while heavy equipment stacked concrete slabs against other parts of the bunker. Some of the damage had been inflicted by the EurCon stealth cruise missile attack more than a week before. Some was more recent.
Two nights ago, enemy planes had raided the base — this time hitting the runways with Durandals while they targeted buildings and aircraft shelters with laser-guided bombs and missiles. Four aircraft had been destroyed on the ground. Another had been shot down trying to defend the field.
Luckily the Russians who had first constructed the base had built well. The thick layer of earth covering the ops bunker had been blown off, and its outer walls had been weakened, but the officers inside were still in business, planning missions and assigning pilots to fly them. Of course, stacked runway sections and sandbags couldn’t offer as much protection as reinforced concrete. One more direct hit would finish them.
The same repair crews working on the bunker had put the damaged runways back in service within hours. Even the lost shelters were not too terrible a hardship, either. There were fewer and fewer planes and pilots to fill them.
The raid had been expensive for the enemy as well. Wroclaw was well defended by American-made Hawk and Patriot missiles and Soviet-made antiaircraft guns. Tad glanced at a shadowed, angular mound of metal piled between the two runways. Only the shape of the outer wing panels and part of a Maltese cross identified the wreck as the remains of a German Fulcrum. The sight cheered him up in a grim sort of way.
The inside of the ops bunker was alive with activity. He headed for the briefing room first, which was now also doubling as a cafeteria. It was half-filled with pilots and other squadron personnel, listening as the intelligence officer briefed them on the night’s developments. Most were eating, and they all had lined, drawn faces.
The smell of food made his stomach growl, and Tad spotted a side table piled high with coffee, juice, sandwiches, and kolduny, meat turnovers. As he loaded up a paper plate, he listened to the brief.
“… SAM battery at Legnica is being reinforced to battalion level, so it’s dangerous to approach the place within thirty kilometers, except at low altitudes.”
“Kostomloty fell last night.” Reacting to the looks on the faces of his audience, the intelligence officer tried to reassure them. “It’s one step closer to us, but the army hadn’t really expected to hold the town for long, and they made EurCon pay for it.”
Maybe so. But that put the French and German spearheads only twenty-five kilometers from the edge of the city.
“Remember, our strategy is to delay them and inflict as many casualties as we can. With luck we can hold on until Tad’s old friends can make it over here.”
Wojcik, sitting down as he chewed on a kolduny, shrugged and tried to look hopeful. He had taken a lot of ribbing, some of it with a sharp edge, over the apparent slowness of the American and British response to the invasion. All the press statements and proclamations in the world from the White House and 10 Downing Street weren’t going to stop the French and German troops surging deeper and deeper into Poland.
“The general staff confirms that we are still a major objective of the EurCon advance. If they can take Wroclaw, they cut Polish-Czech communications, take a big step toward Warsaw, and interfere with the operations of Poland’s best fighter regiment.”
Scattered laughter and smiles showed there was still some spirit in the assembled pilots.
A sergeant nudged his elbow. “Lieutenant, Major Broz is ready for you.”
Carrying his food, Wojcik left the room, with the briefer’s words trailing after him into the crowded hallway. Nodding to those he knew, Tad edged through the press into a room marked “Mission Planning.”
Broz, the first squadron’s operations officer, sat at one of four desks crowded into a room meant for two. Another pilot was just standing up as Tad walked in, and the major tiredly waved him into a seat. The remains of breakfast were mixed with maps, printouts, an F-15 flight planning handbook, and rather ominously, a 9mm automatic pistol being used as a paperweight.
“It’s a solo mission for you first, Wojcik,” Broz announced. “Air-to-ground along the A4 Motorway, two-thirds of the way to Legnica.”
As he spoke, he handed Tad a packet containing the mission profile, radio code card, and the other information he would need.
Although the Eagle was designed as an air-to-air fighter, it still had a respectable ground attack capability — at least in daylight and clear weather. Thankfully the weather was clear, because the Polish Air Force was throwing every aircraft it had, even trainers and squadron hacks, against the advancing EurCon columns. There were plenty of air-to-air targets, too, but killing airplanes wouldn’t stop the tanks closing on Wroclaw.
Tad remembered the intelligence officer’s briefing. Wroclaw’s capture would shatter Polish-Czech communications. And that would put an end to any hope that Czech troops could move north to reinforce Poland’s outnumbered army.
He scanned the mission profile, noting that his Eagle would be carrying an interesting mix of ordnance. The F-15 was loaded with twelve Russian-designed KMGU cluster bombs on two MERs, multiple ejection racks, along with American-built Sidewinder and Sparrow missiles for air-to-air combat.
The old Soviet Air Force had designed all its ordnance with NATO-standard bomb lugs, just like their planes’ fuel and electrical fittings. Intended to let them swiftly take over NATO airfields in time of war, it now allowed western- and eastern-bloc weapons to be used together. It was another of this war’s many ironies.
Broz finished talking and nodded him toward the door. It was time to fly.
Back in the open air, Wojcik hurried toward the fragment-scarred rows of squat, concrete aircraft shelters. He passed by other pilots and other enlisted men on the way. The ground crews looked even worse than he felt.
At least standing regulations required flight personnel to get a certain amount of sleep. Maintenance techs and the other ground staff basically worked until they fell over, and they were then allowed a little rest before being wakened again.