First Strike

EIGHTEEN

With his binoculars, Maskiro could see tiny streaks of black smoke in the air to the north, indiscernible to the naked eye and just barely visible under magnification. His missiles, launching, heading for the United States with their deadly payloads.

For perhaps the thousandth time since Korsov had approached him, Maskiro wondered just how reliable the genetically targeted warheads would be. Korsov had wanted to refit all the long-range weapons with them.

Maskiro had not been convinced. Yes, it was a wonderful idea if they worked as advertised. Yes, he too would be pleased to see the American continent resettled with Russian citizens. But, try as he might, he could not convince himself that the plan was as infallible as Korsov claimed. So the new warheads were mounted on only one-third of the missiles. The remainder contained tried-and-true chemical, biological, and nuclear warheads. One way or the other, America would suffer.

And how was Korsov’s part of the plan proceeding? He tried to correlate what he saw with the chatter over the tactical circuit, but there was no way to be certain whose aircraft had been hit. He knew his resupply squadron would be low on fuel, and this battle had to be finished quickly and decisively.

Reports on the radio were complicated by the fact that there were far more kills reported than there were aircraft in the sky. If the pilots were to be believed, every Russian aircraft that launched a missile scored a kill — and that he found hard to believe. He felt an increasingly uneasy conviction that if Korsov were left to his own devices, the entire reinforcement squadron would be lost. And that was not acceptable.

“All flights, disengage. I repeat, disengage,” Maskiro said. “Break off as soon as consistent with safety of flights, and proceed due east. Then turn hard south, increase speed to maximum, and descend to three thousand feet.”

“Three thousand feet? Sir, our fuel reserves—” a voice said.

“I know about your fuel consumption rates,” Maskiro cut in, scowling. “If you descend to three thousand feet, I can fire over you at the Americans and they will break off long enough for you to land. You’ll be refueled immediately, and relaunch. Do it now. You can stay airborne long enough to win this fight.”

“This is not your decision,” Korsov’s voice cut in. “We agreed that the air elements were under my sole command.”

Rage rushed through Maskiro. Everything depended on having enough MiGs to maintain air superiority, and Korsov was risking everything. “Stay airborne if you will,” Maskiro said coldly. “But in one minute I am launching a massive antiair attack. You know that the missiles are supposed to distinguish between friend and foe. Are you willing to bet your life on it?”

There was silence on the circuit for a moment, then a reluctant, “Roger, acknowledged. Breaking contact, turning east.”

Shaughnessy studied the MiG’s maneuvers. First they broke into two segments, and now they were reforming into a single flight. A change of plans? But, why?

“Bird Dog, what do you think they’re doing?” she asked.

“Don’t know, don’t care. Kill ’em all and let God sort them out,” her lead replied immediately, firing another AMRAAM.

“But don’t you think that we—?”

“You don’t think. You do what I tell you. I’m not going to be responsible for you buying it on this mission, you got it? Now get back up to altitude.”

They’re trying to get to the base to refuel, Shaughnessy suddenly realized. Refuel and rearm. But why do they feel like they can risk turning their backs on us right now? Why now?

She wasn’t certain, but she was determined to find out.