The copilot obliged. The windows refilled, this time with heat sources highlighted over a backdrop of radar imagery. "Target sort," Heifetz directed.
Immediately, each of the heat sources that the on-board computer had identified as a military target showed red. Hundreds of targets, near and far, filled the screen, as though the display had developed a case of measles. Below each target, numbers showed in shifting colors selected by the computer to contrast with the landscape. These were the attack priorities assigned by the computer. As the M-100 moved across the landscape, the numbers shifted, as new potential targets were acquired and others fell behind. "Jesus," the copilot said. "Just look at that.
Heifetz grunted. It was as close as he would allow himself to come to admitting that he was impressed.
"Makes you just want to cut loose," the copilot said. "Blow the hell out of them."
"At Ruby."
"Ruby minus seven," the copilot reported.
"Go to composite," Heifetz said.
The next image to fill the screen resembled the daytime" digital image, with targets added as points of light. This was a computer-built image exploiting all on-board systems plus input from space systems and a programmed memory base. In an environment soaked with electronic interference, or where radar countermeasures buffeted a single system, the computer reasoned around the interference, filling in any gaps in real-time information from other sources. The result was a constantly clear pure-light image of the battlefield. Further, if a particular target held special interest for the crew, they had only to point at it with a flight glove and the magnified image and all pertinent information appeared on a monitor mounted just below the windscreen.
"Ruby minus six," the copilot said. "Initial targets on radar horizon."
"Roger," Heifetz said. Then he entered the command net, calling Lieutenant Colonel Tercus, the First Squadron's commander, with whom he was tagging along. "Whisky five-five, this is Sierra one-three. Over."
"Whisky five-five, over," Tercus responded. Even over the comms net, the squadron commander managed to sound dashing, flamboyant. Tercus stretched the regulations when it came to the length of his hair, and he wore a cavalryman's heavy mustache that would have been permitted on no other officer. Tercus was simply one of those unusual men in the Army who managed to make their own rules with baffling ease. Tercus seemed to be the eternal cavalryman, and he was always ready for a fight. In the past his valor had always outdistanced his occasional foolishness, but Taylor was taking no chances today — and so he had sent Heifetz along to make sure Tercus did not gallop out of control. "Superb officer," Taylor had remarked to Heifetz, "as long as you keep him in his sandbox."
"This is Sierra one-three. I've been off your internal. Status report. Over."
"Roger," Tercus responded. "All green, all go. Ruby minus five. Going to active countermeasures at minus three. Jeez, Dave. You been watching the target array? Unbelievable."
"Roger. Active countermeasures at minus three. Weapons free at minus one."
"Lima Charlie. And another great day for killing Indians. Over."
"One-three out," Heifetz said. He turned to his copilot.
"Maintain composite."
"Composite lock. Alpha Troop diverging from main body."
"Roger. Stay with them." Alpha Troop had been assigned the mission of striking the Japanese-Iranian repair and yards at Karaganda, while the remainder of the squadron went after the headquarters and assembly areas of the III Iranian Corps. Heifetz had elected to maneuver along with Alpha Troop, since the squadron commander would remain with the main body of his unit. Heifetz could assist in controlling the action — and he could add additional firepower for Alpha Troop's big task.
"Ruby minus three."
Activate jammers. For all his selfdiscipline. Heifetz could not help raising his voice. He felt the old familiar excitement taking possession of him.
"Jammers hot," the copilot said. "Full active countermeasures to auto-control."
There was no change in the sharp image that filled the M-100's windscreen. But Heifetz imagined that he could feel the electronic flood coursing out over the landscape. The simple stealth capabilities and passive spoofers had hidden the systems on their approach to the objective area. Now the attack electronics would overwhelm any known radar or acquisition systems. Enemy operators might see nothing but fuzz on their monitors, or they might register thousands of mock images amid which the First Squadron's birds would be hidden. The jammers even had the capability to overload and physically destroy certain types of enemy collectors. The latest technology allowed powerful jamming signals to "embrace" enemy communications, piggybacking on them until they arrived at and burned out the receiving-end electronics. It was a war of invisible fires, waged in microseconds.
"Ruby minus two," the copilot said, "That's Karaganda up ahead, on the far horizon."
"Sierra five-five, this is Sierra one-three, over," Heifetz called Taylor.
The old man had been off the radio set for a few minutes, but now his voice responded immediately.
"This is Five-five. Go ahead. One-three. Over."
"Objective area visual now. All systems green. Jammers active, No friendly losses en route."
"Good job. One-three. Give 'em hell."
Heifetz almost terminated the communication, Taylor's voice had seemed to carry a tone of finality and haste, of no more time to spend on words. Spread over a breadth of a thousand nautical miles, the regiment was moving to battle, shifting its support base, entering the unknown. Taylor had a thousand worries.
But the colonel was not quite finished speaking to Heifetz. Just before the operations officer could acknowledge and sign off, Taylor's voice returned:
"Good luck. Dave."
The tone of the small mechanical voice in his headset somehow managed to convey a depth of unashamed, honest emotion of which Heifetz would not have been capable. The three syllables reached into him, making human contact, telling Heifetz that he mattered, that he should have a future, not merely a past. That at least one man in the world cared for him. That he, too, mattered on a personal level.
Damn him. Heifetz said to himself, meaning just the opposite, as he fought down a wave of emotion.
"And good luck to you," Heifetz said. His voice sounded stilted and insufficient to him. Suddenly, he wished that he had made the effort to sit down and speak honestly to Taylor at least once, to explain everything, about Mira, about his son, about the loss of beauty, the loss of the best part of himself along with his family and his country. Just once, they should have spoken of such things. Taylor would have understood. Why had he been so proud? Why couldn't men reach out to one another?
"Ruby minus one minute," the copilot said.
"Unlock weapons suite."
"Shooters to full green."
No sooner had the copilot touched the forward controls than Heifetz felt a slight pulsing in the M-100. The high-velocity gun had already found its priority targets. The feel under Heifetz's rump was of blood pulsing from an artery. The stabilization system on the M-100 was superb, but the force of the supergun was such that it could not all be absorbed. Slowly, after hundreds of shots, it would lose accuracy and need to be recalibrated.
But that was in the future. Right now, the gun was automatically attacking distant targets that remained well beyond the reach of the human eye.
The visual display blinked here and there where targets had already been stricken. Dozens of successful strikes registered simply from the fires of the company with which Heifetz was riding.
"Ruby now, Ruby now" the copilot cried. Look at that. The sonofabitching thing works."
Heifetz glanced down at the master kill tally that registered how many effective strikes the squadron had managed. Barely a minute into the action, the number— constantly increasing — was approaching two hundred kills. His own system had taken out fourteen, no, fifteen—sixteen enemy systems.