Thanks to CajunBear73 and OechsnerC for their reviews and commentary.
=O=
Chapter 30: Constrained Force-Reduction Salvo
Stoick smiled to himself as he watched the markers on the battlefield plot shift. A staffer pulled a marker for an Indian battalion off the map, where it joined six others in a plastic bin.
One of his staff officers came forward with a map. "I'm telling you, sir. This is a diversion from a major ground offensive into East Pakistan. With the failure of their counteroffensive, the Indians will need another way to put pressure on us on the negotiating table. What better way than an invasion of East Pakistan? We need to shift tactical air assets onto those positions now, before they start moving."
Stoick tried to make sense of the Army map, but decided that it was beyond his expertise. "Colonel, take this up with General Kwok. See what he thinks of this matter."
The Indians had tried their best to disguise their forces – up until last night, half the people in the room would have bet that the forces in Assam had been earmarked for a massive invasion of East Pakistan. If they tried to force the mountain passes leading into the disputed area, the Indians had the unenviable task of facing a small force at a chokepoint which made greater numbers moot, like the Persians at Thermopylae. One can only fit so many battalions on an isolated mountain road before they get in each others' way, and before supplying them becomes impossible.
And this time, it was the Spartans who were darkening the skies with their arrows.
Many army commanders would have taken another path, and attacked elsewhere, instead of trying to force the passes, which, presumably, was why Frank was so insistent that it was a diversion.
He smiled at the marker representing yet another cell of B-52s as it made its way over the narrow mountain passes leading up to the Himalayas. That he could work with.
General Kwok walked over, the staff officer in tow. "General Haddock. The Indians threw a pretty good force at us – two whole light infantry brigades, in fact, with plenty of artillery and tank support, and what we believe to be a crack armored division. It's an awful lot to sacrifice for a diversionary operation."
Stoick raised an eyebrow. "Sacrificed?"
"Yessir. Uh… latest reports on the ground are that the last pockets of Indian airborne troops are hours from destruction, and that another Indian armored brigade has come on the line to replace the one they stuck into our buzzsaw, sir."
The Indian airborne force had been decimated, caught between Pacifican air superiority, Army SAM batteries, and counter-landings by Airborne quick-reaction forces.
Between the efforts of antimissile operators, the dispersed nature of the Combat Bases, and the inaccuracy of the missiles, their Scud attack had caused only limited damage. Stoick shuddered as he imagined the packed apron outside showered in bomblets, reminding himself that his headquarters was well out of Scud range.
The Colonel raised his hand to speak. "Sir, with the Indian counteroffensive decisively broken, the Indians will turn to other options to escalate, such as invading East Pakistan."
Stoick shook his head. "If the Indians do that, we take the conflict nuclear, and they know it. No. They'll go nuclear before they do that. This is why our tactical airpower must be rationed carefully. We'll need every sortie if we're going to have to clear out those ballistic missiles."
He glanced at the bigger map. The Administration would give orders for Operation Tutti Frutti any minute now – he knew it in his bones. He'd already held back half his airstrikes for the day to minimize the time it would take to get them in the air.
The doors to the command center swung open.
General Drago Bludvist strode into the room, flanked by half a dozen of his staffers. The predatory grin on his face reached from ear to ear, and his piercing gaze was locked squarely on Stoick.
Stoick sighed as Drago's staffers began to clear out their desks. Orderlies packed planning documents into doilies as critical elements of the SAC bombing apparatus prepared to relocate to their nuclear command posts.
They were going nuclear, and SAC wanted to be in a nuclear posture if and when the conflict escalated.
"Sir, the President is on line one."
He picked up the phone even as the staffer distributed contingency orders around the room. Not much needed to be said. Scattering aircraft and troops – even at the expense of upfront firepower – was a necessity if nuclear operations were likely.
Drago gave Stoick a mock salute, spun on his heels, and headed out the door.
=O=
Pickup trucks drove to the flight line in ones and twos, carrying clusters of pilots in grey-green pressure suits on their beds.
The entire squadron had sat through the briefing in stunned silence. Sure, they had trained extensively for it. Sure, the nukes to be used were all TV-guided firecrackers, with yields under a kiloton – a fraction of the yield of the atomic bombs used in WWII. And sure, the targets were point targets – individual missile launchers and weapons storage sites, not area targets like dispersal fields.
But nuclear war. The words had a ring to it.
They'd been assigned to escort SAC bombers conducting limited precision-guided nuclear strikes against the Nest. Over the past two weeks, they'd stripped the Nest of defending fighters and whittled away at its SAMs. Now it was finally time to pull out its nuclear-tipped teeth.
With TV-guided nuclear weapons.
Hiccup's teeth ground as he pondered the lost possibilities. He'd helped formulate the contingency plans, drawn up hastily over the last three weeks of the crisis.
Astrid broke the silence. "Hiccup, are you feeling okay?"
Hiccup smarted. "I could have done it."
Astrid frowned. "Done what?"
"The nuclear missiles are what, two meters wide? Twenty meters long? Surrounded by dirt berms so it has a good chance of surviving a near-miss by a 1,000 kg bomb? Covered in camouflage nets to make TV-guided bombs break lock? Contrast lock or no contrast lock, I could have steered a guided bomb all the way into that puppy, no nukes needed." Hiccup seethed. "Okay, I might have needed three or four bombs to get a good hit in, but I did it a few times in the simulator!"
Astrid shook her head. "That's the problem, Hiccup. Most people can't do it. Most of SAC's boys can't do it." She sighed. "While you and I may try to be our best selves… heroes don't win wars, Hiccup. Systems win wars. If we had an army of me, and an army of you, we'd have…"
"A whole lot of bickering?"
Astrid chuckled. "Basically, we're us. Most people aren't. And wars are fought by most people. Competent professionals, sure, but not everyone can be a fighter ace or a crackerjack engineer. With adequate training and drive, sure – but not everyone can make that commitment."
Hiccup sighed. "CAA was three months away from fixing the contrast lock problem. They were less than six months away from getting the guided cluster bomb to work properly – and Bob told me last week how fast everything was going because of the war. Now the guided cluster bomb would have scattered hundreds of grenades around a fragile and highly flammable missile, berms or no berms, average operator or not – a kill for sure. But nope. The Indians had to screw around now."
"Some of the missiles are in concrete shelters. And you heard the Colonel: it'll take too long to assemble all the fighter-bombers, their escort, Wild Weasel, jammer support, AWACS, tankers…" Astrid counted off her fingers.
Hiccup briefly glared at Snotlout, who was chatting with his backseater in the pickup just ahead. "The technology was nearly there – we were so close. I guarantee it, Astrid - just two years from now, we'll be able to nail every last one of those missiles without using a single nuke. But because of naysayers, funding, and, oh, who am I kidding – the hard, practical limits to rates of technological progress - we only have prototypes of the necessary weapons systems."
Astrid laughed. "You go to war with the army you have. Not the army you wish you had."
They reached the hardened shelter. Technicians loaded nuclear-tipped Falcon air-to-air and anti-radar missiles – painted a gleaming white, the color of nuclear weapons – into weapons bays, entering codes to arm the weapons as they went. Hiccup smiled as a technician set a dial to zero-zero-zero – an arming code unforgettable even under intense stress. An ageing man with a metal leg strode out to meet them.
Hiccup smiled. "Gobber? What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be back in the main hangar?"
"Thought I'd send you off!" Gobber gave them a nod. "Good luck. And bag an extra SAM for old Gobber, would ya?"
Astrid nodded, and hopped into the cockpit, while Hiccup just stood there, staring at his mentor. He thought of the opportunities, the contacts, the resources that Gobber had managed to shove his way, through his whining, complaining, and messes. Had he ever really properly thanked Gobber?
"Thanks, Gobber. I… know you know I'm very grateful for everything you've done for me over the years. And… I know I can be abrasive. I guess… I just want to say… thank you. For… everything." He locked down his helmet, and climbed into the cockpit.
Gobber just smiled. "You can repay me by working your arse off when you get back in one piece."
Hiccup just nodded, and clambered onto the ladder.
They taxied onto the runway, right behind a stream of silvery bombers, the slim white shapes of guided nuclear bombs clear and bright next to their bulging fuel pods.
Toothless roared off the runway into a late afternoon sky.
Astrid scanned the pale brown earth and swirling cottony clouds below them as they ascended to altitude.
She'd miss the view. But there was a nuclear war on. On a battlefield where a blinding nuclear flash could come at anytime, the Mark I eyeball was simply too vulnerable. Nor did she trust the fancy new electronic anti-flash visors they had been issued.
"Curtains down. Instruments only." She advised. "Okay, Toothless, we're blind. You'll be doing the seeing from here." Toothless's eyes and ears weren't immune to nuclear effects, but they were far less fragile – and far more replaceable - than her own.
On the other hand, they'd flown Toothless mostly on instruments or in pitch darkness for months now. And virtually none of their tasks had ever involved anything resembling combat in visual range.
Toothless had always been seeing for them. But something about the black curtains over the windows seemed to make it more real.
=O=
From the cockpit of his personal Valkyrie bomber, Bewilderbeast III, Drago smirked as he examined the radar display. While the bulk of the operation would be carried out by the more numerous Hustlers, his Valkyries had been tasked with attacking the most hostile areas – including the complex of nuclear missiles in Central India.
He knew that some people scoffed at him behind his back for maintaining a bomber for himself. Such people knew little of the necessities of generalship, Drago thought.
In World War II, Curtis LeMay had personally led bomber raids into Japanese airspace. The effort to assess the performance and appreciate the difficulties of his aircrews had been repaid tenfold. With superior insight into the operational realities limiting his bombers, Curtis LeMay had been able to devise and implement war-winning tactics and strategies, allowing him to succeed where men of lesser insight, determination, and moral courage had failed.
Operation Tutti Frutti was the first nuclear bombing offensive since WWII. Drago had every intention of being in the thick of it. And thanks to modern radar technology, it was all being recorded on magnetic tape. No lesson would go unlearnt, no insight unseen. Not while General Drago Bludvist was on the frontlines.
And a leader had to lead by example. To expect his men to take risks that he was personally unwilling to bear reeked of cowardice. If one demanded much from one's men – and Drago demanded nothing less than perfection – one had to meet those same standards.
He turned on the radio, a general on elephant-back addressing his massed men. He spoke slowly and clearly, mincing every word.
"Hear me! This is… General Bludvist. Today, we… stand on the brink… on a monumental battle, critical for the security… the prosperity… the survival… of our great Nation. We have long expected… planned for… trained for such a battle. Today, we fight it! Today, we win it!"
They passed into Indian airspace, keeping their distance behind the Blackbird 'skirmish line'.
"Gold lead, this is Black lead. Emitters are quiet. Skies look clear."
Drago stared at his radar display at the ocean below. The packets that made up the SAC offensive were the only supersonic aircraft in the vast volume of sky over the Bay of Bengal.
His pilot spoke. "This is Gold lead. We are feet dry."
The westbound packets of bombers mingled with packets of supersonic aircraft crisscrossing Indian airspace as the Deccan highlands loomed ahead of them – hopefully not enough packets to give the game away.
Drago smiled as he gazed upon his foe for the first time. "There it is, Captain. The Nest."
Bewilderbeast III crooned as Indian search radars squawked at them from across the mountaintops, regally ignoring the rabble of gun radars and medium-range-missile radars that chirped away pointlessly, twenty kilometers below.
More packets of supersonic bombers blazed into enemy airspace. The Indians should have been catching on that their skies were somewhat more crowded than usual.
"Gold lead, this is Purple 2. Music is loaded and ready to go."
A Gammon radar roared to life, and Drago sneered. "Come to papa."
=O=
"That General Bludvist is a piece of work, isn't he?" Hiccup adjusted Toothless's electronic warfare suite. "I mean, striking first is well and good, but he seems a little too… happy about it."
Astrid brought Toothless straight and level at Mach 3 and 60,000 feet, perfectly mimicking the flight path of a B-70 Valkyrie – bait for what was left of the Indian SAM network. "Hey, he's coming in right behind us. That's some gumption right there. They say his boys love him, and he sounds like a leader I'd be happy to follow to hell and back."
She checked her fuel gauge. "Plus, he has to look happy. It's part of SAC's act to scare the Soviets."
To hell and back. Hiccup nodded.
Toothless, his ears open, cautiously scanned the highlands twenty kilometers below, wary of signals from between the weathered, forested peaks of ancient lava flows.
A SAM battery roared to life.
"Black 5, SAM launch, Bullseye 200/550!" Hiccup yelled. "Magnum! Missile away!"
An AGM-76 nuclear-tipped anti-radiation missile (ARM), its white paint gleaming in the cloudless sunlit stratosphere, streaked towards the offending SAM site.
Practice rounds were painted orange. Conventional warshots were painted grey. In the Air Force, white was the domain of live nuclear weapons.
"ECM on. Astrid, punch it!" Hiccup checked his radar as a lone SA-5 barreled towards them at Mach 3. Expect a twenty-five kiloton nuclear warhead.
Toothless shed his disguise, popped off the radar reflectors, and leapt into action.
Hiccup watched as the ARM broke Mach 5 as it hurtled earthward. The SAM radar turned itself off, eager to break the missile's lock. Hiccup smirked darkly. With a one-kiloton nuclear warhead, the ARM would have a fair shot of badly damaging the "soft" radar even if it landed a good kilometer away.
Well, at least they hadn't given people the go-ahead to start popping off 200-kiloton short-range attack missiles for SAM suppression. Those would have killed the entire SAM battery, missiles, radar, and all, and the city next door for good measure.
The radio crackled to life. "SAM! SAM! Magnum! Black 4, SAM launch! Maneuvering!"
Astrid gunned the throttle, and brought Toothless around into a sharp, countrysized turn even as Toothless climbed for their lives.
"SAM! Black 2, SAM launch! Magnum!" More SAM warnings filled the airwaves as missile after missile left its launch rail, hurtling into a lightly overcast sky.
Far fewer missiles than the week before, but if these ones were nuclear-tipped…
The SAM radar turned back on, set on bagging Toothless with a nuclear missile.
Toothless continued to gain altitude, and, as usual, the missile failed to keep up with the turn. Hiccup watched his screen as the missile steadily closed, even as Toothless strained to maximize separation. "Astrid, point our tail five o'clock!"
A blast from behind was far more survivable than a blast from the side. Nine kilometers… Eight…
"Roll left!" If they were to maximize their survival in the face of the hail of neutrons the bomb would surely send their way, they had to put as much of Toothless's bulk between themselves and the fireball as possible. Toothless began a slow roll – the fastest he could handle at Mach 3.3.
Eight... Seven… Six… Seven...
At seven kilometers, the missile detonated in a massive nuclear fireball five hundred meters across. Toothless groaned as the blast wave rocked the aircraft, and the cockpit screamed with radiation alarms as a wisp of neutrons sleeted through Toothless.
Hiccup checked the dosimeter. Minimal dose. Brushing the upper limit for a radiation worker's yearly exposure, but well, civilian limits were too low anyway. Heh.
If they had been in the open air, without the big neutron-absorbing kerosene tank, and titanium fuselage in between themselves and the blast… Hiccup was sure they'd have been somewhat worse for wear.
Toothless had saved 'em once again with sheer mass. Not that he was overweight or anything.
"Hiccup? Hiccup! Are we okay?"
"Hiccup!" Astrid frantically closed her eyes, trying her best to feel for any nausea that might mark the first signs of radiation poisoning. Her gut churned slightly as she wondered whether Hiccup, barely a meter behind her, was in any condition to speak.
Far below them, barely a dozen meters away from a stunningly brave, still-active SAM radar, Toothless's nuclear anti-radiation missile initiated in a massive, hundred-meter fireball of its own, leveling the SAM site, knocking down farmhouses four hundred meters down the road, and throwing a plume of radioactive dirt high into the air.
As the dust cleared, personnel in the highly exposed radar vans, the security cordon, and the reload repair shack, or anyone caught out of cover within several hundred meters perished, variously vaporized, blasted, irradiated, and cut down by shrapnel. As the shaking stopped, a lucky few Soviet SAM technicians in foxholes covered with dirt and metal sheeting cried with joy, thankful to be alive.
"Hiccup! Are you okay back there?!" Astrid's frantic voice snapped Hiccup from his reverie, and he looked up from his radar screen, where plumes of dust and dirt stretched high into the air.
"Yeah, yeah." Hiccup shook his head. "We're fine. Minimal rads."
"Damnit, Hiccup, I thought you were comatose or something!"
Drago's voice roared over the radio. "Roundtable! Roundtable! Roundtable!"
Hiccup sighed. "That's their cue."
"Black flight, this is Black Leader. Call in."
Out of eight available aircraft, Black flight had lost one – grievous losses for a conventional campaign, considering that the twelve-jet squadron had only lost two jets in the past two weeks of fighting. For a nuclear one, these were very light losses.
They circled the province-sized missile dispersal complex as the Valkyries of Gold flight bore down on their targets unopposed.
Bomb bay doors slid open, and, one by one, guided nuclear bombs unfurled cruciform wings as they descended into the howling slipstream. Through primitive electronic eyes, hazy with interference and cloud, harried weapons systems officers shepherded them towards the revetted launch pads, warhead storage bunkers, and command nodes of the Group of Soviet Forces in India.
Much to General Bludvist's displeasure, his subordinate's guided nuclear bomb missed its intended target by forty meters, landing well outside the earthworks and camouflage nets protecting the SS-5 Intermediate-Range Ballistic Missile.
Had the missile been fully fueled and erect, a regular 1,000-kilogram bomb would have had an excellent chance of destroying it. But since the missile was still horizontal and heavily revetted, such a bomb would only have had a slim-to-fair chance of damaging something critical on the weapon.
Slim to fair, of course, was completely inadequate where nuclear war was concerned - which was why the weaponeers had allocated to the target a single subkiloton guided nuclear bomb.
Proximity fuse jammed, the diminutive 250-kilogram guided bomb instantly blossomed into a massive fireball with the firepower of two hundred tons of TNT the moment it hit dirt, sucking the missile out of its revetment and crushing it like a spent soda can.
Their targets destroyed, the bombers banked away, and headed for home.