Red Metal

CHAPTER 58

Three immense spouts of flame burned skyward in great chimneys of fire from the stricken Iranian ships. The flames topped more than one hundred feet high, casting flickering light across Djibouti City.

The two split oil tankers had disgorged their liquid cargo and coated the bay in a sea of fire. The burning oil drifted against the pier, waves of flame washing over the concrete and utterly destroying what had been a calm and orderly port only hours before.

Occasionally ammunition would blast from the ongoing conflagration aboard the ammo ship, flipping and spinning like fireworks, detonating in the air or crashing inland or out to sea as the bunkers of rockets or missiles cooked off.

The ammunition ship, tied next to one of Lazar’s cargo vessels, had sunk halfway, settling onto the sand in the shallow draft of the inner harbor. The burning pieces stuck out like flaming broken bones reaching up from a flooded graveyard.

The destruction was otherworldly, and local citizens and foreigners alike made signs of the cross or said prayers in either Arabic or French.

On the horizon beyond the mouth of the bay, Iranian and Russian Tarantul-class warships crisscrossed rapidly, frantically searching for the culprit in the attack.

Colonel General Boris Lazar sat atop his command-and-control BTR on the road just in front of the pier and watched the continuing debacle impassively. He had seen destruction on a large scale before. He’d seen bodies stacked like firewood outside a Dagestani mosque, artillery work over a Ukrainian hamlet until it was nothing but a smoking hole, and airpower decimate a hillside full of brave but hopelessly overmatched Afghan mujahideen. As then, he was detached now, but as he watched the colors dance across the horizon, he remembered the pain of battles from before.

He rubbed his chin and watched the fire splitting the ships apart. Another explosion; this time it might have been an anti-tank round aboard the munitions ship. Streams of smoke corkscrewed up and outward as missiles lit off and fired erratically.

He had taken his vehicle helmet off so he could avoid the frantic radio transmissions for a while. All the chatter between his commanders and his chief of staff, Colonel Kir, had been too much for him. The damage reports kept flooding in.

He’d heard radio traffic like that before, in other lands, other times, other battles. He’d listened to the calls of desperate men at the edge of their wits more than he cared to remember.

War did seem to have familiar echoes.

His big chest heaved in a large sigh as his brain worked over the meaning of this mess.

A suboptimal way to begin the attack phase of this mission, he thought with understatement.

Colonel Borbikov stormed up alongside Lazar’s vehicle. The general spotted him instantly out of the corner of his eye but ignored him until the younger man climbed up the side of the BTR and knelt next to the open top hatches. Even then Lazar fixed his gaze on Colonel Kir, sitting just in front of him in the BTR. Kir had a notepad in his hand and was jotting down numbers while listening to the radio, trying to consolidate the damage reports and create a comprehensive picture of what they had lost and its impact on the mission.

Colonel Borbikov cleared his throat. “Colonel General?”

“Wait a moment,” said Lazar as he continued to look over Colonel Kir’s shoulder.

“Sir,” Borbikov persisted. “We need to move out of the harbor area. We are a target for American bombers here.”

Now Lazar turned to him slowly. “Colonel, do you wish to tell me how to run my command? You will wait a moment as we process the reports and determine what is recoverable and what is lost.”

“Colonel General, I am certain you have an appreciation for the situation, but we have a timeline, and I need you to adhere to it. The European actions have succeeded, so in spite of your setbacks here, you must rally your troops and get going.”

Borbikov’s language was carefully chosen. He’d intended to prod the general into action, instead of leaving him just sitting there, licking his wounds. He was cautious not to cross too many lines of military protocol, but wanted to be clear about distancing himself from the losses Lazar had taken.

Lazar replied, “Colonel Borbikov, once the damage assessments are in, we will know how to proceed. Moving out sooner would be foolish.” Then he added, “I trust your ‘special cargo’ is undamaged.”

No one but Lazar was supposed to know about the backup plan to use the threat of nuclear artillery to hold the mine, so Borbikov did not like the general stating this in front of Kir and the other men around them. With a steely gaze that could have earned a less well-connected colonel a trip to the stockade, he said, “All my equipment is intact, sir.”

“Excellent. And now perhaps you should go back to your Spetsnaz men and leave me to my infantry, because I have work to do.” Colonel General Lazar dismissed Borbikov with a wave of his hand and turned back to Kir and his notepad.

Borbikov seethed at his mistreatment by Lazar but knew this was a catastrophe that the regular army needed to sort out. He’d said his piece and the general would be well aware that Borbikov, although just a colonel, had back channels open to the Kremlin and President Anatoly Rivkin himself.

The special forces colonel dismounted the command BTR and walked down the narrow pier to his own GAZ Tigr, where his small contingent of men awaited his return.

Kir turned to Lazar while he continued speaking on the radio and underlined the word “tanks” on his notepad, then crossed the word out with a big red X. Next to it he wrote “ZSUs?” He glanced over at the general, who nodded in understanding and agreement. Kir’s meaning was clear — the task force’s ZSUs would go, but the forty-one T-90 tanks they’d brought along for the operation would have to remain here at the Djiboutian harbor until more fuel could be arranged. The tanks drained more fuel than any of his other vehicles or equipment, and Colonel Kir had run the numbers: there was now simply not enough remaining for the hulking metal beasts of battle to cross Ethiopia and Kenya to make it to the mines.

Lazar said, “Contact Moscow. I want more fuel brought down from Iran. I don’t care how they do it, but we need our tanks at the mine. We can take Mrima Hill without the T-90s, but we won’t be able to hold it without them.”

“I’ll contact them as soon as I finish with damage reports, Comrade General.” Colonel Kir then immediately got back on the radio, responding to one of the regiment’s logistics officers who was in the process of detailing his list of vehicles now at the bottom of the Djiboutian harbor.

Handpicked by Borbikov, the Spetsnaz men kept a keen eye around them, sometimes sighting their rifles in on the few Djiboutians looking out the windows and doors of nearby warehouses, surveying the destruction. The Russians had taken on a new attitude, a grim, no-nonsense demeanor. The war, for these men, was now on, and any who crossed their path would likely die before many questions were asked.

A wry smile returned to Borbikov’s face as he approached the men and sensed their renewed sense of the stakes of this endeavor.

He realized that there was a benefit to all this destruction. He felt it would now be easier to get the men moving. He told himself he could harness this anger with his bold leadership and drive them more easily toward the purpose of the mission.

The men were ready to lay down their lives for the task if necessary. That was the kind of loyalty he expected, from both subordinates and superiors alike. No doubt his actions to promote calm on the pier showed them what he was made of.

Good, he thought. I will need steel nerves to complete this operation. No more sitting here and licking our wounds.

Crates were broken open and Lazar’s men began removing the weapons, but Borbikov’s men pushed into the melee and took what they wanted.

The colonel watched the action for a while. Most of the soldiers eyed him and his Spetsnaz troops with some fear in their eyes.

Borbikov stepped forward into the group and hefted a 9K333 Verba antiair missile, checking its weight in his hands and carefully inspecting the sight system. The Verba, or “Willow” in Russian, used a multispectral optical seeker combining three sensors: ultraviolet, near-infrared, and mid-infrared. This allowed the missile’s computer brain to look across three means and discriminate targets, making them much less susceptible to flares and chaff.

Borbikov grabbed the nearest infantryman being issued the modern missile.

“You there: Do you know how to fire the Verba?”

“Yes, sir, Colonel Borbikov,” the soldier answered quickly. Good, thought Borbikov, the rank and file here know who I am by sight.

“What are the six components of the weapon?” he asked.

The soldier looked down at the ground in concentration. “There are six components, sir. The thermal battery, the self-contained day-and-night sight system, the grip stock, the launch tube and missile housing, the launcher system, and the… the…”

“You have not been properly trained.” Borbikov turned to another man, a sergeant who met his gaze confidently. “You there: What is the sixth component?”

“The friend-or-foe radar antenna,” replied the man.

Borbikov handed him the missile. “Good. Ensure only men with the proper training receive this weapon. We will need them in the upcoming fight with the American aircraft. You men will be the guardians of the ground forces. Do not forget that.”

Colonel Kir appeared beside him. “Yuri, we are ready to send the scouting and reconnaissance parties. Still not enough fuel for the tanks. Shame. We could have used them, and you know the boss is a solid armor officer.”

Borbikov said, “We have more than enough light and medium armor to take the mines, and Moscow will get more fuel across somehow. Our subs will find whoever is responsible for today’s debacle and blow them out of the water before the next tanker sets sail.”

Senior Airman Jones gave the briefing of the maintenance-readiness status of each of the remaining aircraft in the squadron. Out of eighteen original, workable, and flyable Warthogs, they were now left with only eight.

Fallen Air Force men were laid out in front of the plans tent. It was cold enough outside that they could remain there, sealed in black body bags, awaiting the Graves Registration personnel who would come to Görlitz and collect their remains.

Higher headquarters remained in chaos, so there was no telling how long it would take GR to unscrew things and make their way here.

Bullet holes and tears from shrapnel let the light into the field tent.

The Russian special forces surprise ground attack early in the day had cost the Air Force the lives of nearly a dozen airmen plus several ground crew, including one of the most experienced senior enlisted leaders in the unit.

The attack had been repelled, but it had also reinforced the fact that Russian special operators were still here at the German border, far behind the now-disorganized Russian armor force, and the Spetsnaz troop had orders to ruthlessly eliminate any NATO advantage they could find.

Two aircraft had been destroyed in the fighting, and one of these was still smoldering on the edge of the highway the Americans had been using as a runway.

The ground crew had spent the last hours since the attack working on both their aircraft and their expeditionary airfield. Stripping parts off the planes damaged beyond repair, through the freezing rain and the wind that bit right through them, they had worked nonstop to get these eight A-10s back to flight status.

When Jones finished, the colonel closed the brief by giving some encouragement in the face of the bleak circumstances. “Men, you know your purpose. You understand the equation on the ground. That mixed U.S. and German regiment in pursuit of the enemy is counting on you to support them in kicking the shit out of the Russians before they escape into Belarus. The Poles are — wisely, I suspect — holding their own armor close to Warsaw to fight off anything else that might come over the border, so they’re counting on you to help minimize the loss of lives they’ve already endured.

“Your country expects you to do your job to the hilt until we get that call to pull off the dogs of war, and that’s just exactly what we’re going to do.

“Keep your heart, keep your strength, and for God’s sake keep your shit together. No individual heroics. Now… join me outside and we’ll say a few words for the men we’ve lost and ask them to watch over us and provide their blessing as we continue our mission.”

Once the memorial was over, Shank and seven other pilots now under his command jogged out to the flight line and boarded their aircraft. The long, flat stretch of autobahn that ran off to the east in front of them and served as their runway was plainly pockmarked, but it had been hastily repaired and deemed safe enough for the stalwart A-10s to take off from.

The aircraft themselves didn’t look much better than the banged-up stretch of concrete the Warthogs had available for a runway. Patched bullet holes in the fuselages, newly riveted panels made from hand-cut metal, replaced ailerons. Every one of the eight ships looked like it had taken hits, but none of the pilots cared. They trusted their flight crews with their lives, and as long the wrench turners said the planes were safe to fly, that was good enough for them.

Shank climbed the retractable ladder and swung his legs into the cockpit, then patted the side of his aircraft and buckled himself in. He lowered the bullet-resistant canopy and sealed it tight with a snap. He hit the power cycles and increased the throttle a touch.

He looked out his left window and returned the salute from Airman Jones, who used his left hand to do so, because his right arm was in a sling. Then Shank opened the throttle, keyed the radio signaling his takeoff to the expeditionary air controllers, and began rolling down the S217 highway. In moments he climbed into the low gray sky, his small wing of seven more aircraft following him aloft one by one.

Pascal Arc-Blanchette climbed the narrow concrete stairs to the roof of La Mer Rouge. The pool deck was quiet. He didn’t expect to see anyone around, but Tristan, the French proprietor, was at the top of the stairs behind the steel gate, staring down at him as he climbed up.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked as Pascal puffed from the climb.

“Ah, Tristan, my old friend,” Pascal said, then stopped at the metal gate and grabbed onto it for balance. “Do you really keep the gate locked on me today?”

“Well, when you call me ‘old friend,’ I know I should think twice before unlocking it.”

“No time to play. I need you to let me in.”

Tristan looked into the eyes of his friend and compatriot. “What are you getting me into?” he asked as he unlocked the creaky old gate.

“Izzîla and the girls are not here?” Pascal asked.

“No. I have eyes, don’t I? We watched the Russians come in and I heard about their rough treatment at the dock after the American torpedoes. I sent my girls away a half hour ago.”

“You always get information at the speed of sound.”

“Many still whisper in my ears. But my guess is I have sent them away for good reason, because you and I are about to engage in something truly rotten… on behalf of our country.”

“Yes… truly rotten,” said Pascal, “but on behalf of our country, as you say.”

Tristan had deployed to Djibouti with the Foreign Legion long ago and he never went home to France after having his heart stolen by a gorgeous Djiboutian woman. A supermodel hidden as a shepherd’s daughter. He had fallen deeply in love, wooed her, then made promises to return when his unit was moved away. She had doubted him, believing his honor was a fool to his passion. Years passed and then he retired from the legion and returned to Africa to resume the courtship. A conversion to Islam appeased her father. A healthy dowry appeased the tribe. A wedding, then four beautiful children. Now the owner of La Mer Rouge and a French expat, Tristan was one of the happiest men Pascal knew. A loving father to two sons and two daughters. The sons were now old enough to run the business, and the daughters, in the mold of their mother, were old enough to tear at the hearts of every weary and dusty traveler who frequented the restaurant. Many returned often just to get a glimpse of them.

Ten minutes later, Pascal Arc-Blanchette embraced his son as tightly as he could through the bigger, younger man’s body armor and other equipment strapped to him. Apollo returned the embrace, holding his father for a long time. The two men hadn’t seen each other in person since Christmas just over a year ago now, although they made it a habit to speak on the phone each week.

They sat down at a bistro table on the balcony of the restaurant. In the distance a haze of smoke hung over the port.

Pascal already had a coffee tray set up, brought upstairs by one of Tristan’s sons, and Apollo took no time pouring himself a cup and drinking it in gulps.

There was a ridiculous incongruity to the two men as they sat at the little table and sipped coffee. The silver-maned older gentleman in a tweed coat across from a powerfully built young soldier wearing a helmet, body armor, and desert camouflage, with a rifle across his chest and a radio headset and microphone on his head.

Apollo put his cup down and said, “Papa, I cannot remain with you. The Russian advance will be leaving the city soon. They have their reconnaissance scouting the way.”

“I understand, son. You have men counting on you.”

“I really wish you’d gotten on that flight to Paris.”

Pascal shrugged. “This is home now. I’m not leaving.”

“It’s not safe.”

“I still have a satellite phone. If it gains reception soon, I can keep NATO abreast of the Russians’ departure, the damage caused, and what force they leave with.”

“You don’t think you are in danger here?”

“Non, pas du tout. (“No, not at all.”) I am worried about you, though.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

Pascal put his hand on his son’s muscular shoulder. “Mult ad apris ki bien conuist ahan.”

Apollo fought an urge to roll his eyes. “You do know that I don’t know ancient French, Dad.”

“Yes, but you know the sentiment. ‘He has learned much who knows the pain of struggle.’”

Apollo finished his coffee. “Sorry, but I have to go.”

But Pascal was not finished quoting ancient writing. “‘He has conquered his way across so many lands / He has taken so many blows from good sharp spears / He has slain and vanquished in battle so many powerful kings: When will he ever forsake waging war?’”

Apollo stood. “Not until I beat those Russian asses all the way back to Siberia.” Apollo smiled behind his boom mic. “Papa, you do love your Charlemagne.”

“You know, your sister may be the one with the better education, but I am so proud of my warrior son.”

“They’re calling me in my earpiece, Papa. Please be careful.” He kissed his father on both cheeks in the customary French fashion and turned for the stairs.

“You, too, my boy.”

The father watched his son leave, then gathered his binoculars, the satellite phone, and the cell phone. Neither phone was working, thanks to the Russian Spetsnaz teams’ efficiency in taking down towers and jamming sat signals, but Pascal knew he had to first record the size and equipment of the Russians leaving the city and then, somehow, find a way to transmit the data back to Paris.

When Apollo appeared downstairs he re-formed with his men by their vehicles, a pair of rugged Toyota Hilux pickups left for them by French embassy security. The rest of the Dragoons went to load into three helicopters, flown up from Addis Ababa by contractor pilots.

Apollo’s small force here at the restaurant was armed to the teeth and alert to every corner of the adjacent market as they loaded back up into the two Hiluxes. The captain climbed into the backseat of the rear vehicle, where Caporal Konstantine was waiting for him with a radio receiver in hand.

“Boss, Sergent-Chef Dariel says one of the SA330 Puma helicopters isn’t operational: maintenance problems. He wants to know if you want to commandeer the two that remain.”

“Two Pumas are not enough to lift all the men, and I don’t want to split up. Tell him to grab any pickups or Bongo trucks they can find. We can even buy them from the Djiboutians that work at the airport if we need to. But they need to get extra cans of fuel, and they need to hurry. We’ll be there in thirty minutes, and I want the men ready to leave immediately.”

“Copy, sir. Transmitting now.”

Apollo looked back once more at the four-story building his father had commandeered to use as a lookout post. La Mer Rouge. Clearly his father knew the lay of the land. The Russians could move south only on one of three roads, and crafty Pascal would be able to see all three from his perch.

Hopefully, the Russians wouldn’t realize the advantage this building gave to a spotter and send a team to check it out. Apollo had no doubt there were Spetsnaz teams working around the city; he couldn’t even be sure he himself wasn’t under observation right now.

The two trucks rumbled off toward the airport, their occupants knowing they were racing against the clock to get out of town before they found themselves face-to-face with Russian armor.