Eye of the Hawk
Arrabida had fallen a lot quicker than Colonel Jerome Taylor had expected. Despite initial resistance, the Euro defenders had quickly given up in the face of superior American firepower. It was a historical European weakness: they relied too much on their infantry and not enough on their armor. Even the AMZ-26 Badger Infantry Fighting Vehicle, the most advanced of its type, was designed primarily to get infantry in and out of trouble spots quickly, and to defend positions against air attack.
American units, on the other hand, relied equally on infantry and armor, but tended to field more of the latter. US military doctrine was designed by men who didn't want to put their soldiers into unnecessary danger. Ranged vehicles, therefore, were always wanted. The M118 Fastback IFV, the American counterpart to the Badger, was designed with such a purpose in mind, providing gunfire that was equally lethal to helicopters as well as infantry and light armored vehicles at a greater range.
Taylor examined the reports coming in from his commanders. Aside from a few pockets of resistance, Arrabida was in US hands. Fully half of Iberia was dark to the enemy, whose aircraft couldn't coordinate well enough without the uplinks at Arrabida. There had been a scare earlier from a few Mirage fighters, but those had been splashed by Navy F-35s. He decided that regs allowed him to go ashore now. He couldn't wait to get in his command vehicle, the brand new C1A5 Archon that gave him drastically enhanced awareness of the battlefield. Equipped with a MQ-3 Scryer UAV and protected by both a 20mm chaingun and PD-6 Rottweiler sentry drones, the Archon was the command vehicle that every US commander had on their letters to Santa. For Taylor, this meant that, besides having better control over the 35th, he was now closer to his fellow warriors. Which was where he wanted to go now.
"OK," he said to the Navy crewmen who'd loaded the Archon onto a V-120. "That looks good enough. Tell me when the bird is fueled and I'll leave."
"Not yet," said Captain George Fitzpatrick, the CO of the USS Kunar. "The admiral wants air escort when you go in, so you'll have to wait while those 35s get refueled. You're lucky; the Air Force's best have drawn the duty."
"HAWX?" Taylor asked.
"Yep. Major Crenshaw is one hell of an aviator…at least for an Air Force puke." It was an understatement. Crenshaw and his two wingmen, Charlie "Casper" Polaski and Robert "Talon" Hendricks, had spearheaded the counterattack against Artemis Corporation the previous year. The war had ended when Crenshaw, flying solo in an F-22A, launched two J-STRIKE missiles into the house of Artemis's CEO Adrian DeWinter. Thanks to that action and the current circumstances, HAWX was now a major part of US operations and was fully reactivated by the Air Force.
Quick footsteps alerted Taylor to the approach of Major Dennison. A true officer, she'd shown nothing but slight disappointment when her plan had been rejected at the last second, even though Taylor knew she'd been very upset. The problem was that she hadn't realized yet the truth of the saying "No plan survives contact with the enemy". She'd been in administration for too long. Taylor decided to change that.
"The units all report sporadic contact with a few resisting units," she reported. "But they're optimistic about dealing with them." She frowned. "We're behind schedule. Arrabida should've been pacified by now."
"Actually, Major," Taylor replied, "we're ahead of schedule. The few resisters aren't going to pose much of a problem, not if the company commanders are competent…which they are. In fact, I've decided to go to Arrabida myself."
"Go into an active battlefield by yourself, sir?" Dennison had known something like this might happen, but she'd hoped that reason would prevail. Apparently, Taylor was exactly like General Mitchell: an officer who wanted to be a Ghost again. He was even in standard JSF combat gear, with a SCAR-A1 slung across his back.
"Not by myself, no," said Taylor. "You're coming with me."
"M-me?" This was totally unexpected. "Sir, I—I don't think I'm…"
"What? Have you forgotten you're an officer in the Joint Strike Force?"
"No sir, but I haven't fired a weapon since the refresher course two months ago." Which was true. Dennison had qualified with the lighter SCAR-L, a 5.56mm variant of the SCAR-A1, and rated as above average with the Px4 pistol. But that had just been to show the predominantly male officer batch that had taken the course with her that she could shoot just like the rest of them. After that, she hadn't even touched a weapon.
"As I recall, you didn't do all that bad," said Taylor, suppressing a smile. This was the first time he'd seen his XO rattled. "You still know how to strip, clean, and assemble your weapons, don't you?"
"Yes sir, but—"
"Then get your gear, Major. And change into fatigues; this is going to be a whole lot different than administration."
000
President of the Russian Federation Vsevolod Vsevolodovich Kapalkin basked in the glory of his great nation. Russian forces had ended a stalemate in Eastern Europe and were slowly but steadily pushing back the Europeans. Word had just reached him that the Americans had begun combat operations in the west, and that was just more good news. Caught between the American eagle and the Russian bear, the Europeans would fall quickly. That was the good news.
The only bad news was the failed attempt at invading the US through Canada. It had failed utterly, and now the Canadians and the British were engaged in operations against him. Casualties would be high, his advisors had told him, but soldiers die in war, and what better purpose for a Russian soldier than to die for the glory of the Rodina?
General Sergei Izotov, the commander of the Russian Spetsnaz Guard Brigade, shared the same sentiment. Nothing was more sacred than the motherland. It was the only reason for this war. Had they been left to do as they wished, the west would have eventually united against Russia to grab her oil reserves. Now the European Federation and the United States were at each other's throats, and this was a unique opportunity to get rid of two threats with one stroke.
"Our heroic forces are pushing the Europeans further west, Comrade President," Izotov said. He like the Communist title of 'Comrade' better than the West's 'Mister', despite the fact that Russia was no longer Communist. "Soon, we will reach Berlin, and our American comrades will reach Paris. Then we shall do a great battle on the corpse of Europe, which we will win. And so, Russia will take her seat at the table of power."
"And that table had only one chair," said Kapalkin. "But why wait for the Americans to attack us? Why not invade them?"
Izotov was idealistic but not a fool. "It failed last time, Comrade President."
"Because we invaded by violating a neutral country's airspace. If we capture that country, such concerns would be eliminated, yes?"
"Yes," Izotov admitted, "but now that we've tried it once, the likelihood is that it will fail again."
"Unless…" mused Kapalkin. "Unless we can trick the Canadians into thinking that we are indeed trying the same thing. But instead, we invade Canada."
"Your wisdom continues to impress," said Izotov. He didn't like kissing this gangster's ass, but sometimes sacrifices had to be made. After all, the Guard Brigade could suddenly seize power after the war, riding on its success. And Kapalkin could then die mysteriously from a hemorrhage. A nine-millimeter hemorrhage. "Most of the American forces will drive into Europe. But we have a limited time. If the amerikansti behave as usual, they will seize Paris as soon as they can. I believe they have the capability to do just that."
"So, what are you waiting for, Comrade General?"
000
Taylor didn't understand why Dennison looked so uncomfortable in fatigues. She'd decided—unwisely, Taylor thought—to come along armed only with her pistol, which was clipped to her right leg "Lara Croft" style. She looked good in anything, Taylor thought, his eyes wandering….
Focus, old boy, focus, Taylor told himself. This wasn't the time or place to think anything like that. Instead, he decided to distract himself by looking over his driver's shoulder to peer out at the world outside.
The C1A5 Archon Command Vehicle was an excellent piece of engineering. It handled bumps and holes as well as its Fastback cousins. And it was pretty fast, too; evaluations put its top speed at eighty-six miles per hour, maybe more if pushed. Its communications, all heavily encrypted, were top of the line. Which meant that General Mitchell's picture, transmitted from his temporary HQ on USS Arizona, was crystal clear. "What's the situation, Colonel?" he asked.
Taylor suppressed a frown. While Mitchell himself hadn't liked it when General Keating got on the horn in the middle of an operation, it was a habit that had rubbed off on the top Ghost. Taylor hated having someone breathe down his neck, but he was a Colonel, and as a colonel he'd take whatever his General gave him. "All pockets of resistance have been neutralized, sir. Arrabida is in US hands. What's next?"
"La Mancha," Mitchell answered. He outlined what Taylor had to do. "I suggest that you get the company commanders in on this. Good luck. Mitchell out."
"OK," said Taylor. This didn't sound too bad. "Major, rally the unit leaders."
Half an hour later, in a large tent camouflaged by trees, twenty-four officers listened politely as Taylor outlined the operation. "We're calling this Operation: RED STORM. With any luck, if a Euro manages to get the name of this op, he'll think we're going after the Russians. In any case, here's how it goes.
"The JSF is going to assault La Mancha. The 35th is leading the assault, backed by 12th Armored and the 13th Airborne. The 35th's objective is to seize this hilltop, which is designated as Foxtrot. As you may notice, this hill has a few structures that'll do just fine for long-range snipers and artillery. I want a ring of tanks around the base of the hill. The tanks will protect the infantry assault. With artillery support, three companies will assault the hill. The other three will remain in reserve," just in case the first three are wrecked, he didn't say. "The gunships will hang back in case the Euros try to counter with tanks and artillery…in which case, a tank company will peel away from the base of the hill and attack any IFVs that are protecting the enemy artillery." What the Badger IFVs lacked in armor, they more than made up in anti-air. "The Fastbacks will remain on standby, just in case the troops need a quick evac, and also if there're vehicles that need fixing; the engineers will be on standby as well. The 13th is going to seize this castle. If all goes well, Colonel Brown's tanks will then go up the middle and crush the remaining enemies. Any questions?"
Captain Robert Toland of Ninja Company raised his hand. "Sir, what is the significance of La Mancha?"
"La Mancha is a town famous for having a big-ass castle in it, which is being used by the enemy as an HQ. The 13th is going to assault that with Goshawks and try to capture any enemy officers. La Mancha itself is being used as a possible staging ground to counter our invasion. Intel says that the Euros aren't ready yet, so this is the best time to strike."
Captain Diaz asked, "Sir, where does this intel come from?"
"From a few good operatives," said Taylor, his face blank. They all got the message. Although suspected to exist by many in the military, Third Echelon was still unknown by most everyone, and any info about it was mostly gossip. "Trust me people, this intel is solid."
Captain Roland Freemont of Ice Pick spoke up. "Who are we facing, sir?"
Taylor smiled. "Well Roland, you and your fellow officers are lucky, 'cuz you're going to be the first JSF units in Iberia to officially engage in combat with the European Federation Enforcer Corps. There's only one battalion of EFEC troops, but they're supported by regular army troops and they have air cover. We don't have either of those supports."
"What?" asked the captain of Ratchet Company, the engineer company that Corporal Wu belonged to. "No air support? Excuse me sir, but how the hell are we supposed to complete our objectives if the Euro planes start shitting bombs on our heads?"
"I feel you captain, but I don't have much choice in the matter." Inwardly, Taylor cursed himself for not thinking of this earlier. "'Ours is not to reason why', captain."
"'Ours is but to do and die'," finished Captain Benny Zabir, CO of the gunship squad Cobra. "I'd rather not do the dying, of course. I'd leave that to the Euros."
Taylor wanted solutions, not comments. "You have a suggestion, Captain?"
"Sir, my soul is boiling just contemplating this, but why not ask the Marines for help? They have the STOVL version of the F-35, right? They don't need a long airfield. Better than nothing, anyway."
"That's a thought, Benny. It must've taken a lot out of you to suggest that." That elicited a few chuckles. There were complaints, quiet ones, that like General Mitchell and General Keating, Taylor was prejudiced towards anyone who hadn't served in the Army. Most didn't believe the rumors, but couldn't deny the fact that all of Taylor's top officers were indeed Army. "I'll ask our jarhead comrades about that. OK, you have your orders. Dismissed."
000
Colonel Antonio Maldini stared at the large tac map that dominated an entire wall of the briefing room. Things were going badly. The Russians had broken through the eastern front and were thoroughly in control of east Poland, Belarus, Latvia, Lithuania and Estonia. The Ukrainian troops were being encircled. Worse, the terrorists in the Balkans had seized the opportunity to take control of that area and were attacking European troops.
And then there was the American threat. They'd seized Portugal without much fuss, establishing air control over that nation. Colonel Haider was mustering troops in La Mancha for a "counter-attack"…which was more like a delaying action. Still, his choice of that area was smart; the town was far enough from the American front-lines that there was little risk of air attack, and close enough to be a staging point. Maldini knew that if he'd been in command, he'd have launched an attack by now. But Haider was waiting for more regular army troops to supplement his forces, and that was giving the Americans time, time that they would undoubtedly use wisely.
There were a few bright spots. European subs had sunk twelve merchant ships flying the US flag, and troops based in Turkey were stubbornly resisting Russian attacks, inflicting heavy casualties on the vaunted Spetsnaz Guards Brigade. But the truth of the matter was that Europa was on the defensive, reacting instead of acting. Such a war could only be lost. The Federation had to take offensive action, and soon.
"But where?" Maldini wondered. The map gave him no answers.
000
Major David Crenshaw examined the cockpit of the unmarked F-35 that belonged exclusively to the squadron leader of HAWX Squadron. The V/STOL aircraft had garnered an impressive reputation, although it really couldn't hold a candle to its cousin, the F-22 Raptor. It was used primarily as a ground attack aircraft, a role it excelled at. It was also a decent dog fighter.
"Reaper Flight, this is Citadel," said the controller on board the AWACS quarterbacking the mission. "The airspace around the operation area is clear at this time. You may commence attacks on ground targets at will. Citadel out."
Crenshaw didn't acknowledge. It would vector any fighters the Euros had against HAWX or the AWACS, and he was pretty sure the fighter escort that Citadel had was adequate enough to deal with enemy fighters, even though the aviators guarding the thing were Marines. With a brief double tap of his com system, he let his wingmen attack at will, and dove for the ground.
Even at this height, the battle on the ground was spectacular. Crenshaw watched a column of Schwarzkopf tanks rumble along, guarded by AH-80 Blackfoot gunships, the dangerous new descendant of the venerable Apache. Suddenly, a blue blur screamed by, and four of the gunships burst into flames. Belatedly, Citadel reported, "Reaper Flight, we have enemy ground attack aircraft in the vicinity. They are priority targets. Engage at will!"
"Roger," Crenshaw said. With that, he twisted the control stick and went after the nearest Eurofighter Hailstorm. He had four AIM-120D AMRAAM missiles, which he reasoned would be enough.
The pilot apparently saw him, because he dropped his bomb load and climbed, banking sharply and popping flares. Crenshaw bored in right after him, and fired off a missile. The results were just as expected. The Sidewinder slammer into the fighter, cracking it in two. The pilot didn't eject, and the Hailstorm—what was left of it—hit the ground. "Flight leader has the kill, good shot," confirmed Citadel.
"Nailed him," said Talon, his wingman, pulling out of a maneuver and leaving behind nothing but a dead Hailstorm. His other wingman, Casper, also announced a successful kill; conserving ammo, he'd managed to maneuver his enemy into the ground.
"Your wingmen are getting all the kills, Reaper lead," said Citadel. "They'll be gunning for your job next."
"Horseshit," Crenshaw said. He was the first ace since the two previous World Wars to post triple digit kills that were all confirmed on gun cam. His current record was one hundred and twelve. He spotted another Hailstorm at one-o'clock low. Soon, that one was killed by another Sidewinder up the tailpipe. "That's a hundred thirteen, Citadel."
"Careful boss," said Casper. "We might catch up faster than you think."
"Again, horseshit," Crenshaw grinned. "But I appreciate your enthusiasm."
"Reaper Flight, this is Creeper Six," said Captain Diaz, leading a charge on a hill called Foxtrot. "We're being hit by sniper fire from the windmill. They have rockets there and they've already taken out a gunship. Take that building apart!"
"Roger, rolling in now," Crenshaw replied. He had two J-STRIKEs which he'd hoped to conserve for enemy armor, but they'd have to do. "Talon, form up on me. Casper, make sure no Euros come up on our asses."
"Roger, your asses are covered in a nice warm blanket," said Casper. He went after a pair of Eurofighter Typhoons bearing down on them.
Crenshaw saw the windmill and the trails of smoke leading from it; rockets being fired from the windows. He was almost in range when his threat receiver blared. "Ah shit! SAM watch, SAM watch!" He thought quickly. Creeper needed support now, but the SAM was bearing down on him. He decided to see who it was aimed at. "Talon, break left and pop flares!"
"Roger," Talon acknowledged in a calm voice that masked his anxiety. He did as told, making a sharp turn and firing off flares. The missile didn't follow, and Crenshaw's threat receiver continued to make noise. "Lead, the SAM is going after you. Evade, I say again, evade!"
"Fuck it! I'm taking that building out!" Crenshaw gritted his teeth. He should've evaded instead of Talon, should've allowed his wingman to hit the building, but it was too late. He got in range, fired off both J-STRIKEs and broke right, popping flares.
It worked. The SAM, almost close enough to detonate its deadly ordnance, couldn't turn fast enough to track the F-35. It went after a flare instead, exploding harmlessly. "That was a close one, Reaper Lead," Citadel observed. "Creeper Six has reported that they are no longer under sniper fire, and the gunships are moving freely. Well done. Oh, and tanks from Punisher Company have taken out that SAM battery."
Crenshaw relaxed ever so slightly. The SAM was the only thing he really feared, since they couldn't always be detected until their tracking radar was turned on, an art the Russians had perfected and that the Euros were fast learning. It was because neither the Euros nor the Russians had an air force capable of matching the USAF that the two resorted to state-of-the-art SAM batteries.
"Reaper Flight, this is Citadel. We have eyes on six, repeat six enemy interceptors. Recommend you engage immediately."
Crenshaw frowned. The enemy was most likely flying Eurofighter Typhoons, aircraft that were extremely capable. He knew their capabilities, and he didn't like the odds. He had two more Sidewinders and 220 rounds of 25mm cannon rounds, only a few seconds worth of firing time. "Talon, Casper, what do you have left?"
"I got three Sidewinders, boss," said Talon.
"I got two, Lead," Casper responded.
"Make 'em count! HAWX Squadron, let's get 'em!"
Crenshaw raced after the Typhoons. Their most likely target would be the AWACS, and the Boeing product was vulnerable even with its fighter escorts. Soon, he spotted the small specks that were the interceptors: two groups of three, bearing down on Citadel. "Talon, take out the ones to the north. Casper, you and I are going after the one closest to Citadel." Without waiting for an acknowledgement, he went ahead, Casper right behind him.
The Typhoons didn't react for a second, but the closest group broke away and targeted Crenshaw. The lead fired first, and Crenshaw, using fighter pilot instincts that had been so engraved into him that they were as natural to him as blinking, nudged the control stick quickly and went pass the missile. The missile couldn't turn quickly and lost lock. Crenshaw's helmet blared with the tone that indicated a solid lock, but he waited till he could see the canopy of the Typhoon before he fired.
There was no dodging it. The Sidewinder was fired almost point-blank in an Air Force perspective, and the Typhoon ate it. "Kill!" said Crenshaw, already vectoring in on the second Typhoon. A second explosion briefly distracted him. My god, no… "Casper?"
"I'm alive, boss. He ain't."
Crenshaw was relieved. A similar statement from Talon indicated that three of the attackers were down. The remaining three, however, were in no mood to retreat. One slid in neatly behind Crenshaw and fired a missile, forcing him to turn and pop flares. The missile missed, but oddly the Typhoon didn't bother to go after him, and instead streaked after Citadel.
"No you don't, you son of a bitch…" Crenshaw went after him. The Typhoon was seconds from missile range of the AWACS. He got tone and fired off his last Sidewinder, but the Typhoon pilot had just enough time to fire his own at the AWACS before Crenshaw's missile went up his tail-pipe.
The big Boeing product lurched right, popped flares and lurched left, the pilot trying to confuse the missile. But it kept right on target. Crenshaw was sickened. Friends were on that plane. He didn't know what he'd say to the families.
Suddenly, one of Citadel's Marine escorts turned sharply…and interposed his F-35 between the missile and the AWACS. The missile connected with the fighter and blew it to bits. And Citadel was saved.
The operator sounded grim. "Any sign of a chute, Reaper Lead?"
Crenshaw looked, looked hard, knowing he wanted to see this Marine, shake his hand, ask him why he'd do something that stupid, that brave… "Negative, negative. No chute."
Thanks to HAWX, there were only two Typhoons left, and the Marine pilots went after those, both to eliminate the threat to Citadel and to avenge their fallen brother. Crenshaw let them. He was Winchester, out of missiles. He watched with grim satisfaction as the Marines snuffed both Typhoons. Then he reported his status to Citadel.
"Reaper Flight, return to base. The ground attack is successful. La Mancha is ours. Well done. And well done, Dragon Flight." The last was the Marine escort squadron, who responded with the traditional 'Oorah!', but with less enthusiasm, the memory of the dead pilot in their minds.
With that, Crenshaw turned the stick and prepared to head back to the base at Arrabida, to drink to victory and to a fellow pilot's memory.