A/N A heartfelt thank-you to Eristarisis for his insight and help in editing chapters 1 and 2. It's much better now. Where did you go bro?
The recruit sat beneath an improvised awning-A three meter square of canvas draped over two rocks that had tumbled down from the peak of the ridge that towered twenty meters further into the clear pre-dawn sky. This was his first assignment. After enlisting in the Global Liberation Army, he'd been sent to a camp for scouts, where his knowledge of the desert had been sharpened and he'd learned the rudiments of his craft-Spying on the invader.
His post was on a ridge in the desert in south-west Afghanistan. Running roughly from east to west, the rocky barrier overlooked a flattened flood-plain occupied by U.S. Forces: The 1st Battalion's Company 3, the 3rd of the 1st, a few kilometers to the south and east, and the 3033rd, a follow-on company, charged with securing the 1st's flank.
Below him, just out of rocket and mortar range, sat three tanks. He recognized these as Crusaders, the U.S. equivalent of the GLA's Scorpion. There were four groups of three tanks each in the compound. Each group also had two transports that were known as Humvees, bringing the total to five. His careful observation revealed that each transport carried five soldiers as well as the driver: Two soldiers carried rockets, two carried assault rifles and one carried a rifle with a long barrel-a sniper. The sniper was unexpected-They were thought to be solitary hunters. More than one sniper in the area was a concern, yet here were eight of them. His leaders back in camp should know of this.
His study of U.S. installations during training now paid off. His hand drawn map was almost complete. He had carefully drawn in the Strategy Center, a flat rectangular building with a field piece, facing west. On the west side of this building were two missile launchers with four missiles in each one. Parked on each side of the Strategy Center was one of the tank-Humvee groups. These always had someone near-Someone watching.
To his far left, to the east was a maintenance area dominated by a War Factory and Barracks. In the week he'd been here there'd been activity at the Barracks, but nothing was going on at the factory. A rubber-tired loader had a tire changed there yesterday, that was all he'd seen.
On the far side of the compound were buildings that were of special interest. The round bowl-shaped well and glassed in tower next to it told him that he was looking at the enemy's latest technology-A Particle Cannon. There were two of them built side-by-side, with a row of power stations between. The one on the east side had its bowl open, with what looked to him like an antenna extended. The western one was closed up and its tower was blackened with soot and several windows were broken. There was enough activity around it to tell him repairs were being made.
Just a little farther to the east was an Airfield, but it seemed as unused as the War Factory. Two jets were parked on the apron in front of the hangars. He hadn't seen either one fly since manning his post seven days ago. Two twin-rotor helicopters sat there as well. One had flown away to the south yesterday at noon and returned just before sunset. He dutifully noted this on his map.
Between the Particle Cannons and his lofty perch was a building he knew all too well. Its size and the nest of antennas on the roof, most prominent of all was a large radar dish, marked it as a Command Center-His enemy's heart. He'd finished his map, his day was over. Curling up under his awning, the scout slept.
The duty operator was beginning another day. He'd just settled into a comfortable seat at his station in the Command Center to begin another six-in-the-morning-to-noon watch. Radar 1 was running fine-No defects. The GLA was quiet in this sector, a strip of desert in south-western Afghanistan that extended from the Western Pass of the Great Ridge east to the boundary of the 3rd of the 1st, about fifty kilometers all told. It had been quiet all week. No news is good news, the operator was in a good mood. And the coffee was at least passable, for once...
"Warning… Scud Storm detected… north quadrant array-signal strength is TWO,"the voice of the Electronic Intelligence Processor, intoned. Though it was pitched like a woman's voice, it carried very little warmth. The processor was designed to analyze the numerous chirps and beeps transmitted on various frequencies and identify who or what transmitted them. It was tuned to the latest known weapons systems, friend or foe.
It was especially sensitive to those used by the GLA, whose robotically controlled Scud missile used very little electronics and none that radiated a signal. When the installation, called a Scud Storm by its users, was assembled and first tested, it radiated a series of test tones that were the only warning of its existence. The ELINT processor had one disadvantage; Though it sampled signals from four directional antennas on the Command Center's roof, it could only give the operators a general direction of the missiles.
He knew the GLA missile installation was to their north. Oh well, we're not in the rear with the gear, the operator sighed, keying his comm-link. "FAC NET, FAC 3 0h 33rd has a weather alert at 06:19 hours, desert time. Any squawks? OVER."
"FAC Ten Oh One Six-Negative. OVER."
"FAC 3rd of the First-We got a tickle at your time on our west array-Nothing solid, though. Good luck. OVER."
"Break, this is Recon Five, One, One. OVER." The voice was barely readable, but still, it was there.
The operator looked up. An unsolicited reply from a recon unit on a Forward Area Controller's net? he wondered. That doesn't pass the smell test. A quick check with his company database told him that 511 was a marine outfit deployed to their north. The data signature on the radio transmission checked as well. "FAC 3 Oh 33rd to Recon Five Eleven. GO, OVER."
"Five Eleven at MAP numbers Four Two by One Zero... Solid data squawk to our south. Signal strength is a number Three. Copy? OVER."
"Now we're getting somewhere," the operator said to the sergeant looking over his shoulder. He pulled up a topographical map on his display and marked the location of the Marine patrol. They were about thirty kilometers to the north, on the far side of the Great Ridge that ran roughly from the west to the east. Once again, he keyed his mike, "Five Eleven, this is 3 Oh 33rd-Roger copy. MAP numbers Four Two by One Zero. Signal is number Three. OVER."
"That's all we have for you-Gotta run, duty calls. Recon Five, One, One-Clear the net. OVER."
The operator managed a smile. Sometimes lady luck makes an appearance. "FAC 3 Oh 33rd-Thanks Five Eleven, good hunting. The net is clear. 3 Oh 33rd OUT."
He finished typing in his action report and entered the code to send a flash report to command. He pushed a button on the clock in his console. Here we go... again. The numbers 24:00 changed to 23:59 and started to count down.
The general looked up from his flash report as an aide led three officers, a colonel and two captains into the room and seated them. They represented his short chain-of-command.
The 3033rd was tasked with securing the 1st battalion's left flank. The GLA was burrowed into the mountains to the north. In the GLA command's belief that the left side of the 1st was the weaker side, they concentrated their attacks on the left-On the Orphan 33rd.
"Thank you, gentlemen, for taking time out of your busy schedules," their Commanding Officer smiled-He always started the briefings this way. "You've had a chance to read the flash, so you know why you're here. To put it bluntly: In view of the latest GLA threat-What's done? What needs to be done? Rob?"
Colonel Rob Parker looked like the university instructor and electrical engineer that he was. His constantly thoughtful expression and spare frame earned him the nick-name Professor. His very un-military haircut, complete with cow-lick, made him look much younger than his 55 years. Along with his duties as executive officer, XO, anything connected to the electrical grid was Col. Parker's responsibility.
"Good morning, sir, gentlemen," he stated, pausing for their replies. "The entire problem facing us, from my point of view, is time." He looked at each man present and continued, "Particle Uplink Cannon #1 is up and running. We can fire it any time. It's charged to…" He took a quick glance at his PDA, "96%. That's better than any other installations that I'm aware of." He smiled with pride.
"On the other hand... PC #2..." his face fell as he looked up at the ceiling. "Ever since the Rebels exploded that bomb..." He shook his head and seemed to be trying to find the words. "How a… dump truck loaded with dynamite got past…" he glared at his two captains, who avoided his gaze. He sorted through his print-outs and continued, "In the two weeks since, we've replaced the damaged half of the capacitor bank and re-aligned the mounts, but overheated connectors and blown line fuses still plague us." The table-top seemed to have captured his attention at this point.
His head came up. "Enough excuses-Thanks to Capt. Hewes's idea of alternating black-outs between missile sites and other electrical loads, we could be at 90%, give or take a point, by 05:00 tomorrow morning."
The general considered the situation his command was in. A Scud Storm was aptly named. It could launch nine high explosive or bio-toxin armed missiles that would devastate his installation. Usually they were targeted at supply dumps or defenses, but he had no idea where they were aimed. His only option was to destroy the missiles before they were launched.
To complicate matters, one Particle Cannon wasn't enough-It would take the firepower of two to finish the job. At six tomorrow morning, those nine missiles would be elevated and sent on their way. "That's cutting things a bit too close. Let's draw up a Plan B." They were all looking down at their Data-Links. He could almost hear their thoughts. "Capt. Hewes," he addressed his Defense Coordinator,"the sand fleas have been quiet for awhile now. If they follow their current pattern, they'll be coming sometime later today. How are we set defensively?"
"In three short words, sir, we are ready," he rumbled in his room filling baritone. Captain Raymond Hewes was a huge man, though no one could call him fat, at least not to his face. His demeanor belied his presence-There wasn't a mean bone in the man's body. Everyone seated at the table knew that. Ray's drinking buddy, Captain 'Colonel' Burton, seated directly across the table, often told anyone that would listen that 'Ray doesn't say much, but looking like that, he doesn't have to.' Combat had forged a strong friendship between the two of them.
Capt. Hewes put on a pair of half-glasses for reading and continued, "We've had to tighten our belts-I don't need to tell you that. We've pared down our tank platoons from five to four and now, to three tanks each. That works well with Paladins, but Crusaders are more vulnerable to missiles, and Crusaders are what we have." It looked like he wanted to throw up his hands in disgust, but he refrained. "Out of four platoons of three units, the third unit in each platoon is just a tank in name only, a cannon carriage. We can't get engines for them-They're running on their Little Joes now. That's just enough power for traversing the turret and firing the gun, with maybe a comm-radio thrown in… sorry they have rifles-It's the Paladins that have smooth-bore guns," he said, winking at Burton across the table.
"God bless the hind-teat '33rd," Burton jested, shaking his head sadly. "You still can't get anyone to trade that 120mm Paladin ammo they sent us by mistake, huh?" he asked his friend. He got a chuckle from all save the stoic Col. Parker.
"Nobody has any 105mm Crusader rounds just laying around-That's the problem," he mused. "It's now mostly the National Guard that uses it for training," he sighed. Hewes looked up from his notes, removed his spectacles, and said, "Sir, we can move the weak sisters around if we have to and there's enough good men who can shoot straight to crew them. I don't like repeating myself, but we are ready, Sir."
Their Commanding Officer sat still for a moment, letting the silence draw out. "Well, Colonel Burton, don't keep us in suspense. What's going on in what you call a mind? Hmm?" He'd heard that Burton was from Kentucky, hence the Colonel moniker.
"Heh, Hiram's Dog-and-Pony Show… step right up," Hewes quipped, rolling his eyes. He was only one of a few allowed to use Burton's given name.
Burton's glare would melt hardened steel. "In spite of her whining and crying, mother Hewes assures me that we're ready. I feel sooo much better now." Capt. Burton said as he stood and plugged a memory module into the display mounted on the wall. A two-dimensional map of the area and its installations appeared on the screen.
The General smiled at the good-natured banter. In spite of their childish behavior, these two were the best at their chosen profession-Making war. Col. Parker wore a frown; The lack of discipline in these two appalled him. His CO was no better.
Capt. Burton said stiffly, "Captain Hewes, pay attention, please. The GLA will need to be briefed as well. No sense leaving them out." It was as if he couldn't resist antagonizing Parker by needling his friend.
Satisfied with Parker's dour expression, Burton continued, "First things first-We need to locate the missile installation." He switched his pointer on, focused the dot, and pointed at the bottom-right corner of the map. "3rd of the 1st may have heard a squawk to their west." He swept the dot up to the left. "It was to our north... here." The red dot crossed the ridge to their north.
He pointed to the mountainous ridge running roughly west-to-east, cutting the map's area into two equal parts to the north and south. "That Marine Recon report, if we can trust it, placed a solid squawk... from here," he pointed to the spot on the northern half of the map and drew it south to where the ridge was, "to here. Using the signal strength estimations… 2/5ths from here and 3/5ths from here… places it in this area." He drew an imaginary circle with the pointer and stopped at the center. "My money's on it being…" He leaned over and read off the co-ordinates, "45 by 15 should be the place. Any takers?" he asked the room.
"I'll take it easy on ya," Hewes drawled. "If it's not right there, you pay for dinner with all the trimmings... including the bar tab for both of us and our dates. The O-club, next R&R?" he asked with raised eyebrow.
"You're on. I'll spend your money," Burton assured him.
Col. Parker stood up to leave. "Sir, if you don't need me..." he'd apparently had enough.
"Have a seat, Rob," the general invited him, "We're just finishing up." After his flustered XO sat back down, he said with a stern look for his captains, "let's wrap it up, Capt. Burton. I'll be willing to bet you have a plan already taking form, right?"
"Yes sir," he fired right back. "With forces I already have, we can leave at noon for a little sneak-and-peek. Two platoons-Five Rangers and five Pathfinders will go with me. With luck and maybe some air support?" he paused to let his request hang.
The general was paying attention or maybe he knew Burton too well; "Done captain, our last two Raptors, designated Griffons 1 and 2, are at your disposal. Check with FAC-Fly for comm-link details. They can give you and your troops transport as well."
Burton turned back from the door. "Sir, when we find it, we'll attack it. If you can have the wonks at PC #1 ready, they can fire on the armored dome in the center and that will be the end of that." He dusted his hands, winked at Parker, and continued, "We'll be in touch on sneak-and-peek net. With your leave sir, we'll be shoving off." He was eager to be on his way.
"That's all, gentlemen... dismissed." It was just a formality. "Good hunting, men."
Hewes caught up with him at the door and grabbed an arm. "Don't get yourself killed, hero, I intend to collect."
"Uh-huh," Burton grunted, pulling roughly from his grasp. "In your dreams," he spat.
The Raptor, a multi-purpose fighter jet with hard points set up for air-to-surface or air-to-air missiles loafed along at just over its stall speed. Its long service life was told in the faded, sand blasted appearance of its tan top-coat and pale blue underpinning. Its twin Rolls Royce Merlin demonstrator turbofan engines showed their hours by the smoke trail they left behind. Still, this bird could stand on her tail if she had to. It circled the ridge for what seemed like the tenth time with nothing sighted. Its pilot, Lieutenant Claude 'Hopper' Martin, was about to write this little jaunt off as just another bug hunt when his ELINT receiver warbled. Continuing his long banking turn, he switched on the audio to listen in. It was an obvious data stream and could be what they were looking for.
He flattened his turn with a touch of stick and rudder and headed to the north-west, watching as the signal strength meter slowly climbed, peaked, and then started to decrease as he turned the fighter's nose past the signal's datum point. Centering up on the signal showed him nothing down below but the most prominent feature in this south-western desert wasteland-A sharp ridge of eroded bedrock. His fuel was getting low-He'd have to turn for home before too long.
He'd just started his turn for home when the sharp, rapid beeping of his launch detector slowed time down to a crawl. He instinctively reefed the heavy fighter around to his right, dropping the nose in the process. A missile streaked by his canopy on the right in a lucky near-miss. The other two missiles did not miss. One impacted at the inlet to the portside engine, totaling his generator and hydraulic controls. The other got his rudder and what was left of his starboard engine. The turbines oversped, howling as if in agony, until their governors cut the fuel. He didn't need to activate his fire-supression system, that was triggered at the first hit. The insistent beeps turned into a shrill scream of alarms as his plane died around him. Part of Lt. Martin died with it.
Before giving up, he keyed his microphone. "Mayday, Mayday, Mayday-Griffon 2 is HIT. I'm going DOWN." His last radio call was punctuated with a sharp blast as he fired his ejector seat.
He was rocking gently under his parachute canopy, watching his plane's final landing. Flames trailed from behind as it arrowed directly at the stinger sight that had killed it. It wiped out the site in a cloud of flaming debris before continuing on to impact on the floor of the valley beyond.
"Bulls-eye, that's my girl," Hopper shouted with an evil childish glee. His plane had died, sure, but she took out her revenge on their enemy too. One less sand flea stinger site to worry about.
He took one last look at his lost plane-Then he looked again. The floor of the valley looked like it had been peeled back by the crashing wreckage. The concrete of the partially exposed enclosure was lighter in color than the desert around it, though local sand and rock had been mixed in when it was poured. Three long slots radiated out from a central hub. Inside each slot was a curved cradle. Two of the three cradles that he could see held a missile capped with a green and white striped nose-cone. He knew that the complete installation could hold nine missiles.
Nine Scud missiles, his mind recoiled. Lt. Martin had a consolation-Just a small one; He'd lost his ride, but he wasn't going home empty-handed. He knew where the Scuds were. Now, all he had to do was get home-The GLA would be scouring the desert for a downed pilot. The radio data-burst his ejection had triggered should bring a Combat-Search and Rescue Chinook along shortly. He had a good chance though, he was working with Captain Burton and his commandos, who were looking for the Scuds as well. Crossing his fingers, he braced for a hard landing…
