Chapter 7

'Warsaw Pact attacks Allied Command Europe. Heavy conventional air and missile attack underway. Soviet ground forces have begun to cross Inner German and Czech borders. Situation confused. MFL.'

Communiqué from SACEUR HQ to news services and all commands, sent in the clear, issued 0401 Zulu, 4 August 1985

The White House

Washington, D.C.

3 August 1985

2140 Local/0340 Zulu

President Reagan was in the Situation Room again, in what had become a nightly ritual. Now, there were four meetings daily, more than JFK ever had during the Missiles of October, but then again, JFK didn't have to go to war. The President had known for over a week that NATO and the Warsaw Pact would be going to war, the only question was when.

Due to the deteriorating situation, the Secret Service had asked the President and the First Lady to move into the Presidential Emergency Facility next to the Situation Room, underground. Private quarters with bath and shower were available, and meals could still come down from the White House kitchen above. Concern that a Soviet agent, or a Spetsnatz sniper, might take a shot at the President in the Oval Office, or the Residence, had precipitated the move, though the President resolved that if events proved the concern unwarranted, he'd go back "above."

Now, his National Security Team was going over events world-wide. The Norwegians had reported that the Soviet Red Banner Northern Fleet had engaged in a major sortie, with surface ships and an amphibious force, and it was obvious that there would be an amphibious landing somewhere on the Norwegian coast. Just as worrisome, a report relayed from the Naval Attache in Stockholm reported a large Soviet-led amphibious force had left Baltic ports, headed west. They could only have one destination: Denmark, and an operation to force open the Baltic exits for the Soviet Baltic Fleet. Similar reports of Soviet naval movements were coming in from the Turks, and from both the Japanese and South Koreans: the Soviet Navy was coming out.

"Mr. President," Gen. John Vessey, the Chairman of the JCS was saying, "NATO forces-air and ground-are on full alert. All Allied forces are locked and cocked. They're as ready as they can be."

"And REFORGER?" The President asked.

"Nearly complete. Now, some service and support units for III Corps and V Corps haven't closed up yet, but other than that, all of REFORGER is in place. The Brits' II Corps is also in place, and the Canadians have brought a second brigade in-they now have a division in Germany, under VII Corps." Vessey reported.

Reagan nodded. "All right, best guess, General. What's your take on holding them conventionally?"

That was a question on everyone's mind. And the rest of the National Security Team turned to the Chairman.

"Mr. President, I can't give any guarantees-nobody can."

"Then what can you give?" Secretary of State Schultz asked.

"My best guess-and this is SACEUR's as well: seventy percent chance, we can do it. That includes chemicals if necessary," Vessey responded.

Reagan nodded. Then he turned to the CIA Director, Bill Casey. "Director?"

"CIA concurs on holding them conventionally, but our take is sixty-five percent, give or take. But yes, we can do it." Casey responded.

"When are they coming?" Don Regan, the White House Chief of Staff asked.

"Soon. Sometime in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours," Casey responded.

Nodding the President went on. "Naval situation?"

"The CNO says that everything that can go to sea is at sea," Weinberger reported. "Strike Fleet Atlantic is four hundred miles south of Iceland, with the amphibious forces for Norway right behind them. Sixth Fleet in the Med is reporting heavy Soviet ECM activity, but Coral Sea has joined up with Forrestal and John F. Kennedy, with Saratoga a day out of Gibraltar. The French have Foch joining up with Coral Sea, and the Italians and Spanish have their ASW carriers also at sea. We're ready there. Enterprise is in the IO, and ready to pounce on the Soviet IO Squadron and then Aden, while Constellation left Subic Bay this morning, our time. She's getting in strike range of Cam Ranh Bay and the Minsk group. Midway has joined up with Ranger and Carl Vinson east of Japan, and Kitty Hawk has left Pearl Harbor."

"Good. The Air Force is ready in Europe-and in the Far East, correct?" Reagan asked, and he saw Vessey nod.

Weinberger nodded as well, then added. "Mr. President, CINC-SAC has been asking all day for permission to disperse his bombers and institute an airborne alert."

Reagan looked at his CIA director. "Any signs of a Soviet Strategic Forces alert?"

"No, Mr. President," Casey reported. "Some of their Bears appear to be on a ground alert status, but no sign of bombers moving to their Arctic Staging Bases. No SS-20s out of garrison, though they have put their missile subs into the bastions, as we expected."

"All right, then." Reagan looked at Weinberger. "Unless there's signs of a Soviet strategic alert, SAC stays as they are. Understood?"

"Understood, Mr. President."

"Good." Reagan looked at his advisors. "Now, it's been a long day. Unless something happens, I suggest you all go and get some rest. Be back here at 6:00 tomorrow morning." The President said as he got up to leave.

Heads nodded, and Regan said, "Yes, Mr. President. "

The President had just gotten up when an aide picked up a teletype message. "Sir, this is from Embassy Bonn. They report air raid sirens sounding in the city."

"What?" Admiral John Poindexter, the National Security Advisor, said. "A false alarm?"

"Nothing further, Sir," the aide replied.

Another aide came into the room and handed another message to Secretary Schultz. "Mr. President, this is from Embassy Copenhagen. They report air raid sirens sounding, and explosions coming from the direction of the International Airport."

"Explosions, George?" A voice on a speakerphone said. That was Vice President Bush from Camp David. He had been sent there to ensure that at least one Presidential Successor was out of Washington at all times.

"That's what they're saying."

Then a military aide came into the room and handed a message to General Vessey. He showed it to Secretary Weinberger, who nodded. "Mr. President, FLASH traffic from SACEUR to all concerned. It's also going out over the wire services."

"Read it, General," Reagan said.

"Message reads: 'Warsaw Pact attacks Allied Command Europe. Heavy conventional air and missile attack underway. Soviet ground forces have begun to cross Inner German and Czech borders. Situation confused. MFL.'" Vessey paused. "Your orders, Mr. President?"

Reagan looked at the clock that showed GMT, or Zulu, Time. It read 0403. The clock for Moscow read 0603. "That's it, then. They're coming. All right, SAC and NORAD stay at DEFCON 3. Everyone else, all the way up to DEFCON 1. Full engagement permission for conventional forces worldwide."

Weinberger turned to Vessey and nodded. The CJCS picked up a phone and relayed the order….

The die had now been cast; it was all in SACEUR's hands now.

West Perimeter Fence RAF Lakenheath 4 August 1985 0339 Local/0339 Zulu

Captain Marko Zlobiev was a six-year veteran of GRU Spetsnaz. He had movie star good looks, his chiseled face framed by frost blue eyes and dirty blond hair. But, his physique was seemingly average, though through his cover as an employee at the American Base PX as "George Bailford," he'd been able to get a pretty good idea as to the layout of Lakenheath.

He didn't trust the morons back at the Defense Ministry, their satellites and agent reports hadn't helped him at all back in Afghanistan against the dushmen in Afghanistan. Now, now he wasn't against some fucking tribesman with a battered Chinese-made AK. No, he was up against NATO, and he'd gotten his eleven men this far through two hours of painstaking infiltration through the RAF Regiment ground defense zone that extended 2 miles outward from the base. His men had had to kill three of the "rockapes" with knives, happily, they'd stayed quiet while dying, but every minute was another chance the bodies would be discovered and all hell broke loose.

And other than knowing where the fucking igloos are, I haven't a clue as to what the actual defenses of the base are. Sergeant Delkin didn't return from that reconnaissance two days ago, and the press is full of a "peace protester" being shot trying to enter the base. I can only assume that was Delkin.

Unlike most of his work since arriving in Britain, this time, they'd stopped to put their uniforms on. If they were to be captured, Zlobiev wanted his people treated like POWs, not shot out of hand if things went wrong, so here he was, wearing his KMLK green and olive camo suit over his khaki brown uniform, his Addidas sneakers being the only concession to his comfort, another habit Zlobiev had cultivated in Afghanistan.

He was crouching near the perimeter fence, facing outward towards the gloomy dark with his AKSU, while two of his eleven men carefully cut the fence, while holding the fence firmly to make sure the vibration either didn't make any noise, or set off any motion detectors.

So far, so good, but the fact remains, all it's going to take is one damn British soldier or American Security Policeman with a starlight scope, or just someone who manages to cry out before we slit his throat, and it will be all over. Ground's all wrong for this, no cover and it's too damn flat. Thank god it's so dark.

The mission of Zlobiev's team was simple, and stereotypical Spetsnaz mission, they were to gain access to the base, hit the "igloos" where the tactical nuclear weapons were stored, disable them by any means required, except their detonation or any method that resulted in a release of radioactivity, the orders had been very specific on that requirement. They were then to gain access to the "Victor Alert" area, kill as many aircrew and ground crew as possible, destroy or disable nuclear-armed aircraft and disable any onboard nuclear weapons. After that, they were to egress from the base as quickly as possible.

I doubt any of us will live long enough to egress, the Americans and British will be on us like flies on shit once the first gunshot or explosion occurs. After that, the rest will be academic. But, I have my duty, and I will do it.

It wasn't long before the fence was cut through enough for the team to proceed one at a time. It was time. Speed and silence was key. There was simply too much open ground around the airfield, especially around the igloos. Anything could blow the operation, anything.

There was no talking by the team; they'd rehearsed things on a mockup in the countryside, well away from anyone, using sticks for their weapons, but it wasn't much of a rehearsal, but Zlobiev had a good team, he knew them well, and they knew him. As they proceeded through the fence, each went prone, covering a sector on the far side of the fence. As the last man came through, he slapped Zlobiev's left sneaker, the minor sound booming like a cannon. Zlobiev knew this was just jitters, but sound was their enemy.

As soon as his sneaker was slapped, Zlobiev rose, and touched the shoulders of the two nearest men, who transmitted the gesture down the lines of their fellows in the semi-circle, rising to one knee as they did. They awaited Zlobiev to start moving, and as he did, they followed, at a brisk jog, each man watching a sector of the strangely quiet airbase.

Usually, the team would move by bounds in such a situation, but the terrain was such that it was probably best to sacrifice overwatch for speed. It had been figured out back at the team's hide that they probably had 2-3 minutes to hit their first target, another 90 seconds or so at the second and then had to be out in under a total of 4-5 minutes before the QRF (Quick Reaction Force) showed up and overwhelmed them. There just was not time for subtlety.

Slowly, the distance to the well-lit igloos in the distance shrank, 500 meters, 400, 300, 200, and then..it happened. Failure was given form in the shrill honk of a flock of angry geese. Oh fuck. Zlobiev's mind swore. NATO had been using geese in the anti-infiltrator role for a year, especially to protect nuclear facilities. It seemed their sense of smell and territorial nature made them better than guard dogs in certain roles…and one of his men some 30 meters to his left had just strolled through a gaggle of them, and the damned birds were pecking the hell out of him.

The team went prone as one, crawling towards each other to form a circle for an all-around defense. It wasn't long before the honking attracted attention. They heard the British soldiers before they saw them, muffled boot steps and shouted commands, with an occasional squelched response on a radio.

Zlobiev knew just by the number of voices it would be too many to kill silently. No, this would have to be done the hard way. He looked at the men nearest him. Their camouflaged faces belied their eyes, warring between fear and world-weariness. But they trusted Zlobiev. Those eyes said it all: We know we're fucked boss, but let's play this out, we've been in worse shit than this. Combat is a strange mélange of skill and luck, and for Spetsnaz team 1245, it seemed that luck had run out. But if you had asked any member of the team where would they rather be, the answer is with their comrades, even at a moment like this.

Zlobiev took a deep breath, sighted the AKSU in the general direction of the voices and footsteps, flicked off his safety on his weapon, and let the breath out slowly, squeezing the trigger….

Hardened Aircraft Shelter 2-North

RAF Lakenheath

4 August 1985

0341 Local/0341 Zulu

1st Lieutenant, Jane Lane, USAF, was not having a good sleep, she'd woken up at least three times that night, of course, sleeping in their flight gear on a cot in a damp, concrete aircraft shelter, one room away from their aircraft didn't help matters. Damn chill in the room, the issue blankets are more of a suggestion anyhow.

She rose and smiled wanly at the ceiling, exhaling in frustration of ever getting a decent night's sleep. "Might as well get the day started," she muttered. There was plenty of reports and requisitions to get done anyhow…having just gotten chewed out by the Squadron Ops Officer for having let my ground duties slip..he does realize we're on the damn brink of war, and the kids have gone home, so making sure all the Little League athletic equipment has been accounted for is a little insane, right?

She turned to look at Daria, or more correctly, her head just peaking out of the blanket she had buried herself into. Daria had a useful gift, she could sleep anywhere, anytime, something Jane simply had not mastered. She was practically cocooned in the issue blanket and all Jane could do was smile and shake her head. Ah, Daria, you aren't careful, somebody from a Mexican restaurant is going to serve you up for the breakfast crowd. Jane decided against waking Daria, as aircrew were, unless they were on Victor alert, under orders to get as much sleep as possible, and Jane figured. It's going to happen sooner or later, It just is. Might as well let her get as many Z's as she can.

Jane walked over to the open doors of the Hardened Aircraft Shelter, or HAS, as they were commonly called, she noticed their crew chief, Master Sergeant Jim Broadley. Jim was a "lifer" as many people remarked, with a lanky body and a craggy ebon face that had been in too many bar fights and other rough places. His once close-cropped hair was thinning rapidly, and graying in far too many places for his taste. He'd come up through the Security Forces in Vietnam, but after Tet, and a few close calls, decided fixing airplanes was far safer and smarter. Master Sergeant Broadley, for all of his "good ol boy" façade (which for a black man from rural Mississippi, was outright odd), was a proud graduate of Delta State University's Aviation Program, and had undergrad and graduate degrees to prove it. Right now, he was standing outside the red circle that denoted the area one wasn't supposed to have an open flame near the aircraft, enjoying a highly illegal, but wonderful Cuban cohiba. The curls of smoke were simply hypnotic to watch, and Jane had to keep blinking to keep from falling asleep on the open tarmac.

He noticed Jane's approach, and simply nodded, his rich Mississippi baritone booming out, even if he was just attempting to whisper "'Morning mam, I think today's the goddamned day."

Jane nodded in return, remaining silent as she noticed Broadley also had a slung M-16, and was wearing a cartridge belt, with ammunition pouches.

"Ya think, Master Sergeant? Where's the rest of the crew?"

"Half are sleeping on the other side of the shelter, the other half, getting themselves breakfast. I got them also picking it up for you and the other half of the ground crew. Don't worry mam, this ain't my first rodeo. You and Lieutenant Morgendorffer don't break my airplane," he said, pointing with the cigar at the F-111 for emphasis "Ya hear?"

Jane nodded. We'll do our best, Master Sergeant, but I think fate and Soviet Frontal Aviation get a vote.

"Don't worry mam, I pre-flighted her myself, all you got to do is get in, put your helmets on, and wait for the starter cart, then execute a crash start. You'll be gone inside of two minutes tops. That's assuming the runways don't get blocked up by somebody." Broadley drawled as he exhaled more cigar smoke.

Jane smiled. "Hope we don't have to."

"Amen to that, but when you been to one rodeo? You figure out when another one's coming."

It was just then that the two heard an unfamiliar high-pitched pop-crack in the distance, then a series of more familiar pop-cracks in return. Did somebody just take a damn shot at the rockapes? That wasn't smart! Then a loud WHUMPF threw both Broadley and Jane to the ground, That came from the main gate, what the hell is going on…wait, no, omigod, it's happening. The series of pop-cracks had escalated into a full-blown firefight, no, two firefights. Someone ran by screaming "Sappers in the Wire, Sappers in the Wire!" as he ran past, wearing a older-style steel pot, flak jacket and ALICE gear, carrying a M-16 at high port, running full out towards the main gate. Three others attired just as he was were close behind.

Seconds later, the ground defense alarm finally went off, and Jane was now shocked into action as Broadley ran to wake up his people, moving faster than his age would have suggested he was capable he was. He pulled Jane to her feet, "Time to go, Mam" he shouted, trying to be heard over the klaxon now mournfully announcing the war they'd all feared had come.

Daria had sprung awake already. She was sitting on her cot as she was throwing on her survival vest and slammed her .45 into the holster of the vest. As she rose to her feet, she screamed, "Damn you Lane and your prescience!" They then ran to their F-111, with Jane running around the nose of the aircraft to her position in the right seat.

Jane and Daria quickly strapped themselves into the aircraft with practiced ease. It was something they had done a million times before in practice scrambles, but this time, with the firefights ringing in their ears and now two klaxons, both the ground defense and the scramble horns going of, it was a horrible cacophony that brought it home to everyone. War had come, and it was time to do what they had trained for.

The starter cart sputtered to life, providing needed power to the F-111 to start the engines and with a flip of the switch on Daria's side of the instrument panel, they came alive with a rumble, it was a shallow one, indicating the fact that the engines did not have enough power to move the aircraft. Their helmets flooded to life with radio traffic from other F-111s relaying orders and announcing they were ready to taxi. But soon, a single message cut through the confusion.

ALL CALLSIGNS EXCEPT VICTOR CALLSIGNS, THIS IS LAKENHEATH TOWER; THIS IS A SCRAMBLE, SCRAMBLE, SCRAMBLE. THIS IS NOT AN EXERCISE. EXCECUTE INSTRUCTIONS IN YOUR TARGET FOLDERS. USE FIRST AVAILABLE RUNWAY FOR TAKEOFF. WINDS ARE OUT OF THE EAST AT 5. VISIBILITY IS 2/3rd TO FIFTY THOUSAND FEET. WATCH FOR OTHER TRAFFIC AND STRAY FIRE FROM THE FIREFIGHTS IN PROGRESS AROUND THE AIRFIELD. SQUAWK 1935 UNTIL CLEARED UK AIRSPACE. COMBAT DEPARTURES ARE AUTHORIZED; GROUND ABORTS CLEAR THE RUNWAY AS SOON AS YOU CAN AND TAXT TO THE EAST END OF THE FIELD. THERE IS AN ACTIVE MANPAD THREAT. GOOD LUCK AND GOD SPEED.

Daria and Jane grabbed their sides of the open canopy and closed them, shutting out all outside noises except the engines themselves. Broadley himself gingerly pulled the chocks, and gave a big thumbs up to both Daria and Jane.

Daria returned the gesture. They'd violated about a dozen safety regs getting the aircraft by Daria's own count getting the F-111 ready to taxi, but this was go time, and they didn't have time to make sure every last ribbon and pin was pulled from the aircraft. She turned to Jane. It was business time.

"Good engine start, prepare to taxi, Sundance, watch the right side for traffic."

"Roger that, let's do this." Jane said with a wan smile.

Both took a second to buckle on their oxygen masks and took test breaths to make sure the oxygen was flowing. It was. Broadley's pre-flight had been flawless.

Daria slowly applied power and taxied the aircraft gingerly out of the shelter, turning left to the active runway, where there was already a line of aircraft, two abreast waiting their turn to execute a minimum interval take off or MITO as it was known, with aircraft taking off two at a time, every twelve to fifteen seconds. The aircraft would actually be taking off from both sides of the runway, alternating which end would take off first, to say this was dangerous, well, that was an understatement. But, like the crash starts, it was something Daria and Jane had practiced many times.

As they taxied to the runway behind another pair taking off, Daria noticed one aircraft nearly get hit by a flash of moving light. Shit, MANPADS, her mind reported.

Daria looked at Jane and sucked in some air as it came to be their turn. "Here we go, 'Miga. Punch out a few flares as we go, if there's MANPADs out there…"

Jane nodded as she set up the flare program to punch out three flares 15 seconds from now.

"Pilot ready"

"WSO ready" Jane answered, both their voices muffled by their oxygen masks, now buckled tightly into their helmets, and against their faces.

Daria advanced the throttles to the stops, triggering the afterburner and the aircraft thundered to life. It rolled down the runway a little sluggish as the aircraft was loaded nearly to the gills with ordinance and fuel, but she didn't even reach the 2/3rds mark of the runway before she lept into the air, her engines thundering to life with flame extending well behind the aircraft as it chunked out a line of three protective flares. Daria then turned their F-111 towards the rally point, an arbitrary point on a map some 150km from the British coast over the North Sea.

Daria throttled back to full military power and climbed to 10,000 feet. The air traffic control frequencies were bedlam, and in any event, their mission had a script she intended to follow, as long as it didn't interfere with the safe operation of her aircraft and crew. Meanwhile, all she had to do was watch for traffic, friendly and enemy as well as watch her fuel state.

Meanwhile, the auxiliary radio receiver was tuned into the UK Air Defense frequency, and the picture it was painting was a fearsome one, as Daria and Jane groped their aircraft through the now-violent darkness, punctuated by the flashes of detonating missiles and bombs in the distance.

FOXCHASE THREE-ZERO TO STARLIGHT 11, VECTOR TO RAID TWENTY? I LOST HIM IN THE CLOUDS TEN MILES SOUTH OF BIGGIN HILL…

CADILLAC 32, GOOD KILL, GOOD KILL!

THIS IS ARCHER 35, I AM ON FIRE, PUNCHING OUT NOW 25 MILES WEST SOUTH WEST OF DOVER, AND SOMEBODY CALL THE PJs.

And so it went, as men killed other men and sometimes women in the dark. Most of them never seeing the other, except as a blip on a radar screen.

The join-up with the rest of her flight was uneventful, Daria slid the aircraft flawlessly into the number 2 slot, left of her flight leader's aircraft, flashing her formation lights twice, then keeping them off. Any light in the pre-dawn skies over the North Sea was liable to have a missile launched at them on the simple principle of "better safe than sorry."

Daria's primary radio crackled to life, it was their flight lead. Major Allan Frampwell. Frampwell had been their flight leader since their arrival in England. He was competent, and while he'd missed Vietnam by a year as he was commissioned in 1974, he knew his trade and people trusted him. He was a tall, lanky fellow from Minnesota, who was married to a British girl he'd met on leave during his first tour at Lakenheath in 1979. Daria and Jane knew the kids equally well; they'd babysat for them on a number of occasions. Jane's cartoons adorned the kids' walls of the playroom their father had built for them.

But this night, it wasn't about any of that.

SLEDGEHAMMER LEAD TO ALL SLEDGEHAMMER CALLSIGNS, WE'VE PRACTISED THIS, WE KNOW WHAT WE'RE UP AGAINST, AND SLEDGEHAMMER TWO-THREE, YOU'VE DONE THIS BEFORE. YES, IT'S THE FIRST TEAM. GUESS WHAT, SO ARE WE. DO YOUR JOBS, REMEMBER YOUR TRAINING AND YOU'VE GOT A GOOD CHANCE OF LIVING TO BITCH ABOUT HOW BAD THE VA IS. LET'S GET IT DONE FOLKS.

Daria looked at Jane, all they could see was each other's eyes with the helmet and the oxygen masks blocking most of their faces.

"Miga, if we buy it…glad it was with you." Jane whispered.

"Thanks, but let's hope it's somebody else's night." Daria shrugged.

With that thought, Daria waited for the break call, and when it came, applied right aileron and dove for the deck, maintaining good formation all the way down.

Once they were down to 1000 feet over the North Sea, the flight of four aircraft went to full military power and turned to the northeast, towards Denmark, and the Baltic Sea.

Two Hours Later

It had been mostly a quiet ingress over Denmark and the Baltic, as both side's naval assets had been too busy shooting the hell out of each other, and the Danish Air Force was reportedly too busy shooting up a convoy of Soviet transports filled with paratroopers headed for Jutland. Radio's bedlam anyhow, I couldn't get a coherent picture if I tried. Daria shook her head, the weight of the helmet she'd been wearing for hours, coupled with the intense concentration she'd had to exercise just to keep the aircraft from slamming into something some 300 feet off the deck was a bit tiring, to say the least. The sky to the east began to lighten ever so slightly as twilight peaked out from the cover of night. Daria prayed they'd get their run completed before the sun was up. Daylight bombing wasn't a fun prospect for anyone.

She suppressed a yawn and kept her eye on the formation low-light strips of the lead aircraft to her right, as well as constantly asking Jane for terrain updates. Jane herself was very busy, dividing her time between the RWR, the radar and checking her sector of the aircraft for traffic, enemy or otherwise. She also took a quick glance at the altimeter, hoping the aircraft didn't fly itself into the water, or as they crossed the beach, the ground. Thankfully, the Baltic had very little of that, as well as northern East Germany, but complacency had killed it's measure of military aviators. If tonight's the night I die, I at least want to drop some bombs first? Daria's mind drolled on, her inner voice in a tone she hadn't heard come out of her mouth since high school. I guess being on the edge of death does make you blasé, eh?

The F-111's TFR was set on HARD and as usual, was living up to the billing, as it bucked Daria and Jane around like balls in a pinball machine while attempting to use what terrain it could find along the Baltic coast of East Germany for cover. Surprisingly, there has been little reaction from anyone on the ground as they crossed the coast, just some search pings from some air defense and guidance radars, and as time passed, this continued. It seemed the Soviets were content to not bother with them…or hopefully, their SAM and AAA guys think we're theirs. How they can with our IFF off is interesting, but why complain? Something's working in our favor.

The flight continued to be uneventful, one would be lulled into thinking it was another training exercise, if it wasn't for the distant flashes off to the right…signifying the sound and fury that had begun some 4 hours ago.

"How we doing on terrain?"

"Good, no terrain of any note, really, this part of Germany's pretty flat anyhow, and the only power lines we're supposed to run into is the ones coming off the target."

"Yeah…you might wanna remind me of those."

"Seriously, Butch, you forgot?" Jane said, a note of alarm in her voice.

"Um, we're deep in East Germany, about to drop the first bombs of the Third World War, wondering why one of the densest air defense systems in the world hasn't done a damn thing to us, except sweep us with radar, and you're worried about power lines?"

"Yeah, they can kill us just as dead!"

"Ok, ok, I get it, focus Morgendorffer."

Jane chuckled. "It's getting to me too, Daria."

"Time to IP"

"12 minutes, then we make the southwest turn, then after our run, we turn south and parallel the power lines for three miles to this little burg called Preistwitz, then dog leg to the north, follow the Elbe, try not to get shot down by every Russian mother's son with an AK or an SA-7 and egress out through the Kiel Canal over Hamburg and out into the the North Sea, where we rejoin the flight. Who the hell came up with this egress plan?" Jane intoned with a tone of mirth in her voice, knowing very well it was half her idea.

Daria chuckled softly, "The two trained monkeys flying this 30 million dollar piece of hardware?"

"Nervous?"

"Bet your ass, but I am mostly nervous about us missing the target, if you can believe it?"

Jane shrugged. "Me too."

The next twelve minutes vanished into routine, the night was still quiet as they passed to the east of Berlin, where it was lit up like a nightmarish Fourth of July display, with red and green tracer lighting the sky for miles around, and explosions flashing in the dark. But yet, even with being within 20 miles of the embattled city, nobody fired on the fourship of F-111s as they passed to the south. Their IP or Initial Point, where they began their bomb run, was over the small town of Schraden, which was of little significance to noone except the people who lived there, and the exasperated Soviet traffic controllers who were trying to direct elements of the Polish army which comprised the 2nd echelon of the Soviet advance into West Germany, the trouble was, unfamiliar routes, the crash call up the Polish army and the rest of the Warsaw Pact had endured, not to mention language difficulties and NATO "bandits" had done a good job of screwing up most of the highway signage in East Germany within 20 miles of the Polish border. There was now a 30 mile long traffic jam of three Polish divisions and the headquarters of 2nd Polish Army was caught in it while the Soviets and Poles argued which way the Poles were supposed to proceed. Such things attracted airstrikes, and a logjam this long was certainly going to get a visit from someone.

But none of this mattered to Daria and Jane; they had other things on their mind. The target for now was an airfield right on the outskirts of Grossenhain. It was seemingly unassuming, but the airfield was the home to the 497th Light Bomber Regiment, which flew SU-24s. They were the Soviet analogue of the F-111, and as such, had to be put out of action as long as possible. The idea of the strike was to pound the single runway with enough Durandals and CBUs to put the airfield out of action for 48-72 hours. To make sure of it, some RAF Tornados with JP-233 cratering munitions were 2 minutes behind Daria and Jane's flight, just to make sure of matters. Getting at the aircraft was unlikely, as they were either a) bombing NATO bases just like Daria and Jane were, or b) safely in their shelters, but if they couldn't get off the ground…

A pair of clicks came over the radio; it was the signal to make the turn for the final run. Wordlessly, each aircraft answered with a single click of their own on their mic, and then turned to line up individually for their run into the target. Once their bombs were dropped, they would each make their way out individually, on the theory you could only catch so many hares in one go. They were to meet up some 65 miles north northwest of Cuxhaven over the North Sea, meet a tanker there, who would refuel them for the trip back to Lakenheath. Two hours rest, and then do it all over again to someone else.

It was all business now. Jane wordlessly slid a transparency into her radar hood, flipped a few switches, and both pilot and WSO grabbed their Bomb Run (Conventional) checklists, going through the forty steps with practiced ease. The aircraft had a good radar return on the runway, visual bombing in the inky twilight would have been easier at night; visibility in the predawn skies was iffy at best. But the radar return was clear; Jane could easily make out the 2200-meter long runway.

"Acquired target, good return. Computer has it locked and we're good to go." Jane robotically intoned, her training kicking in.

Ten miles, eight miles, six miles. At four miles, Jane took a laser reading from the Pave Tack pod to get ranging for the computer. It fed the data in to improve the accuracy of when to calculate the release point. On the FLIR display in the center cockpit panel, the buildings of the Soviet airbase became clearer. It looked normal, it was blacked out, for sure, but there didn't seem to be any urgency below. Daria watched the airplane, being ready to take control of the airplane just in case anything went wrong, this part was mostly Jane's show now.

A "release" light came on, stating the computer had calculated a release point, and adjusted the aircraft's direction a few degrees to the left to ensure the bomb release was on target. Jane did a final radar check, adjusted the salvo controls to make sure all the bombs released, and then pressed a button, giving final release authority to the computer.

The F-111s approached the airfield line abreast. By this point, the Soviet traffic control and air defense radars had certainly noticed them, especially as they were neither swanking their IFF nor responding to calls from the tower.

The ring of SA-3 sites were too close to the NATO aircraft to do very much about them, and stood by impotently as the F-111s passed right over them, the first bombs being released over their heads and drifting towards the airfield, but the sirens rang out from Grossenhein, too late to do much more than give a few minutes time to find shelter from the oncoming storm.

"Ok, Sundance, begin the count."

Jane watched the bombing computer display, and kept one eye on the Pave Tack display as well, ready to take over with a manual run if the computer failed. "10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, and HACK!"

As Jane shouted HACK, Daria smashed her thumb on the "pickle button" making sure that if the automatic release failed on the bombs, the manual release would surely trigger the bombs off the rail. But, this time, it was simply redundant. The aircraft rose a few feet as multiple THUMPS were heard, signifying the release of the Durandals being carried on the wings. As that happened, Daria took the aircraft to full military power and began to apply random left and right rudder to throw off any gunners who might now be racing for their guns.

The 36 BLU-107 Durandals fell in a line from northeast to southwest across the runway, each bomb sprouting a small parachute from the rear. When the angle of each bomb reached 50 degrees, a rocket motor fired, flinging the bomb like a spear into the surface of the runway. As soon as the bomb penetrated the surface of the runway, a 220lb charge detonated, which then forced a 33lb secondary charge deeper into the ground. Some of those detonated after a one second delay. Some had been set to delay going off for hours after the raid. This would complicate the Soviet efforts to repair both the grass and tarmac fields. Each detonation left a 6ft by 16ft crater and disturbed the concrete for as much as 50ft from the initial detonation, meaning that that concrete had to be dug up and replaced as well. But for all this, and for a RAF raid that was 2 minutes behind the F-111s that had just hit Grossenhein, it would only shut the base down for a 24-hour period as the Soviets had pre-positioned their engineering assets for just such an eventuality.

Meanwhile, the Soviets shook off their stupor within seconds of the bombs being released and the skies around Grossenhein lit up like the ninth circle of hell. Red balls of tracer leapt into the night sky, reaching out like fingers of death, seeking lives and airplanes to destroy.

Daria and Jane were buffeted around as the shells exploded and the deafening sound of the Soviet anti-aircraft fire roared out.

"Shit, their radar came on line." Jane exclaimed, "They won't be so blind now."

"Run the countermeasures program, hope that gets them shooting at the chaff instead of us."

Jane shrugged and flipped a switch, telling the aircraft to shovel chaff and flares out like hay, as there had to be somebody out there with a MANPADS.

Daria was about to tell Jane to hang on, as she was thinking of making the jinking harder to try and throw off the gunners aim some more, when a large flash and a loud bang off to the left buffeted the aircraft, tossing it around like a toy in a chid's bathtup for a few seconds.

"What the hell was that?" Jane intoned.

"Dunno, it was on my side of the aircraft though, call it 10:30 or so, at this point, who the hell cares, let's just get out of here."

The jinking and countermeasures seemed to work, as the fire lessened and then dropped off once they cleared the target.

"Well, here's to smooth sailing back to the North Sea?" Jane offered.

"From your mouth to God's ears, Sundance." Daria muttered.

25 minutes later, 8,000ft above the Elbe, east of Bittkau, DDR

Hauptmann Marcus Krenz, of the LSK's JG-9 was having a lousy war thus far. Though his MiG-23ML (known to NATO as a Flogger-G) was "supposedly" an improvement from the MiG-21 he used to fly, the fact was, the aircraft had done a level job of trying to kill him since he'd begun flying the type two years ago. He'd had to keep one eye firmly on the instruments, and another on the sky around him. One also had to remember what wing setting to keep the aircraft in, even with the improved engine and airframe, that particular problem had killed a lot of rookie MiG-23 pilots.

For Krenz, this was the least of his problems it seemed, the liberation of the West had begun and what was he doing? Flying up and down the goddamned Elbe looking for NATO aircraft trying to use it to make a run out of the DDR into the North Sea. He'd already missed being hit by his own side's missiles twice, probably SAMs from god knew where, and the last time, the aircraft had almost gone into an unrecoverable spin. His wingman had not been so lucky. The young man hadn't even seen the missile that had killed him. That alone had sent Krenz into a near fury.

Considering his father had been a 12-victory ace in the last war against the Americans over the vaterland, including several of the "Boeings" that had been laying waste to German cities by day. Nein, there was no threatening Dad's record this time around. He hadn't seen a single NATO aircraft below him, either on radar, or in the increasing light of the rising sun. It was simply frustrating, to say the least. And then there was the political officer who was sure to harangue him over the fact he was coming back with loaded missile racks and loaded charges of treason.

Kranz shook his head in frustration, and banked his jet to the right to get a better look at the Elbe below. There'd been a GCI (Ground Control Intercept) report of a low-level contact somewhere east of Stendal. Krenz had been running the river north to south according to instructions from GCI but had seen nothing on either his radar (which was an unreadable hash with all the damn jamming from both sides) and visually, which was still kind of murky, even with the improving morning light.

As he made to level out the aircraft, he took one last look, and there…there it was. It was moving fast against the terrain. Yes..it..it was. As Krenz continued to look, the shape took form. It was an American F-111 using the river valley as a highway out towards the North Sea. He was good, and used the cover of the valley well, but this would be a simple kill, the F-111 was only rated to 5Gs, she couldn't hope to maneuver with Krenz's MiG-23 and her rear visibility was non-existent. The American would never see him, he'd simply slip right in and put two R-60s up this American's ass and be home in time for breakfast. Kranz smiled as he adjusted the sweep of his wings and dove like a falcon spying a rodent for dinner.

Thus far, Daria and Jane's egress had been rather uneventful, they'd had to decoy a few SA-7s, and there had been some random fire at them, but nothing serious. Nothing to suggest there was a concerted effort at trying to kill them. It had gone, well, pretty much according to plan. Jane was busy figuring out their position along their strip map, along with estimating fuel states, while Daria flew the airplane.

Jane was reaching back to get her calculator stowed behind the seat and there it was, at 5 o'clock high. It was a glint of light on metal. Jane's blood went cold and she reached for the binoculars. She'd had some trouble focusing on the fast moving object, but one look was all she needed. "Daria, we gotta go, and go now! There's a Flogger on our ass, 5 o'clock high, call it 4 and a half miles and he's seen us!"

Daria muttered some curses as she advanced the throttles to full military power and ran like hell, while Jane ran the "panic" program they had in the countermeasures system that dumped every flare in the airplane so to interfere with IR missiles. The thinking was, if he had seen them far off enough to fire a radar-guided missile at them, the MiG would have done it by now. Daria also began her "Luke Skywalker" jinking and looking for something to throw this guy off. As Daria's maneuvers increased in intensity, the aircraft began to protest. Meanwhile, sweat began to pour into her eyes and pool in her flight gloves. Don't let me overstress or CFIT the airplane now! Oh yeah, and don't let that MiG kill me either.

Jane continued to look for him, but lost him as he settled into the six o' clock position, high and behind the F-111.

Krenz was frustrated, the damned R-60 refused to lock on, distracted by the veritable hail of magnesium flares pouring from the rear of the F-111 in two second intervals. Verdamt NATO equipment, it's always better than ours! He quickly gave up on the idea and decided he'd try for a guns shot. It was risky, but the F-111 was too damn good to give him a decent missile shot. And that pilot's too damn smart, but I can still maneuver harder than he can.

He dove a bit lower and cut his throttle, then lined the F-111 up in the pipper of the gunsight..and he tightened his finger on the trigger, One second, one second is all I need you Ami bastard. But just as he squeezed the trigger, the aircraft had flown through the gunsight. Krenz in his frenzy for his first kill had forgotten to apply the lead on target. The shells behind and to the left of the F-111. Schiesse! He adjusted his lead and this time tightened on the trigger again, letting go a long burst…and missed again, this time the shells impacted in front of the F-111, as it banked hard to the right to avoid a tree lined island in the river.

Damn, I won't miss a third time, you bastard. Krenz's blood was up, and he didn't hear the aircraft's warning tones telling him he was low on fuel, and that he should pull up. Instead he roared, "Shut the hell up, bitch! I know how to fly an airplane!"

Daria was wringing the F-111 out, and her luck was probably running not too far behind, either she'd overstress the airplane or she'd fly into significant terrain. Daria also knew that Flogger driver wasn't going to miss a third time, either way, Daria did not fancy trying to eject from a F-111 going 650 miles an hour at 300 feet over the Elbe, even with an ejection capsule.

"Sundance, is there significant terrain we can loose this asshole?"

"Um, now that you mention it, yeah! There's a big, and I mean big bridge just north of us. Call it 2 miles or so. You thinking what I am thinking boss?"

"You gonna hate me?"

"Later, if we live. Get on that radar, and help me thread the needle."

Jane shook her head We're about to do something insane and stupid.

Daria kicked in her afterburners and made for the dubious safety of the bridge, hoping against hope they could pull this insane scheme off.

Krenz smiled. This will not help you, Ami. I can more than outrun you. He increased his own throttles to military power, and swept his wings back to full sweep. As soon as he increased power, the aircraft began to let go with a torrent of warnings in a female voice, too low, too fast, low fuel. All of it was getting very distracting. "Shut up you bitch, I know how to fly an airplane!" he roared. Krenz figured he could always put the aircraft down at the Soviet field at Stendal if he got short. That was assuming the borcht chewing bastards could tell him from a NATO aircraft. He'd been hearing radio calls all morning of friendly fire, with mostly Soviet units being responsible. Probably was a Russian SAM gunner who killed my wingman.

The F-111 kept going straight and level, it was almost too easy, but the suspension bridge that bridged the Elbe east of Stendal began to loom in his vision, and the closure rates began to become too fast. He'd have to pull up and try again, his professional side told him, but the personal side, the prideful side that had lost his wingman and hadn't scored a kill yet, it was in control, and it was going to kill this F-111. And in the end…it was that refusal to listen to his professional side that killed him. Suddenly, the F-111 chopped its power and flew under the bridge!

Krenz spent his last few moments frozen in shock..until the tail of his MiG-23 clipped the bridge at some 670 miles per hour, and ripped off of the airplane, then plowed like a missile into the water. Krenz didn't even have time to scream.

Daria advanced the throttle past the stops and increased altitude to 500 feet. She was drenched in sweat and her breathing was ragged. She tore off her oxygen mask, and smiled a wan smile of exhausted victory.

Jane turned to Daria with a smoldering look of anger in her eyes. "Butch. Never. Ever. Do. That. Again. I'd rather eject first."

Daria never took her eyes off the front of the airplane and flying, but she shrugged and said "Him or us, Sundance, him or us. Stupid bastard should have broke off when he had the chance. Either he did, and decided to call it a day, or he didn't and he's one with the Elbe right now. Either way, I don't give a damn. How much further to home?"

"Call it another half hour before we're over the North Sea, then 45 minutes flight time for the tanker."

"Might wanna run the fuel figures again. I am sure all that 'Death Star Trench' shit probably screwed around with the fuel state."

"Doing that now, looks as if we will get once chance at tanking, we screw that up, we're going to have just enough fuel to make Wilhelmshaven or Cuxhaven, with no reserve for a missed approach."

"Goody."

35 minutes later, 30,000 feet over the North Sea

Exxon station was little more than a random point on a map generated by a computer as a good place to have a KC-135 orbit to refuel strike aircraft on their way home from strikes on East Germany, and in some cases, Poland. Daria and Jane were no exception, as they were on fumes when they got there and linked up with their flight. They were the last to arrive, as the dots in the distance resolved themselves into the distinctive shapes of aircraft.

The F-15s escorting the tankers hailed from Holloman Air Force Base in New Mexico, they were part of the 49th Fighter Wing, and had forward deployed to England as the crisis deepened, and now, they were doing what F-15s were pretty much designed to do, kill MiGs. And, from the looks of the empty missile racks on some of the F-15s, they had been busy.

As Daria tuned into the tanker frequency to get clearance and instructions for refuel, her alternate radio receiver came to life.

VARK TO MY 9 O CLOCK, HOW IS IT OVER INDIAN COUNTRY?OVER?

Daria tuned into the GUARD channel and replied:

EAGLE ON MY 3 O CLOCK, THIS IS SLEDGEHAMMER TWO-TWO, IT'S AS BAD AS THEY TOLD US. WE HAD TO GET A MANUVERING KILL ON A FLOGGER JUST TO GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE. THEN THE WEST GERMANS ALMOST KILLED US OVER BREMERHAVEN. NOT FUN AT ALL, BUT THE RUSSIANS JUST GOT A CALLING CARD THEY WON'T SOON FORGET. BY THE WAY, NOTICED THE MISSILE RACKS, SEE YOU HAVE BEEN BUSY. OVER.

The radio crackled to life in return, and the voice replied.

ROGER THAT, SLEDGEHAMMER TWO-TWO, THIS IS CHEVY FOUR-SIX. NICE WORK ON THAT FLOGGER. I WILL REMIND SOME OF MY GUYS THAT VARKS CAN SCORE KILLS AS WELL AS EAGLES WHEN THEY HAVE A HOT STICK. AND YES, YES WE HAVE, I HAVE THREE RED STARS TO PAINT ON THE SIDE OF THE NOSE WHEN I LAND IN THREE MORE HOURS. THAT'S ASSUMING I AM NOT WINCHESTER FIRST. GOTTA GO, FOUR-SIX OUT.

Daria smiled in spite of herself, the flight back had been uneventful until they had run across Bremerhaven. It seemed the folks there had been unable to tell the difference between a F-111 and an SU-24 and had acted accordingly, lighting up the sky like the 4th of July. Happily, their aim was as bad as their recognition skills, but it had added a lively moment to the egress, not that Daria nor Jane had particularly needed it.

As she rendezvoused with her flight and prepared to check in with the flight lead, she noticed something. The flight lead's aircraft was missing. Why she had not noticed before was a bit disconcerting. Tired I guess. She tuned the radio to the flight frequency and chimed in:

SLEDGEHAMMER TWO-THREE, TWO-TWO HERE, WHERE'S LEAD, OVER?

TWO-THREE TO TWO-TWO. HE BOUGHT IT OVER THE TARGET. DIDN'T YOU SEE AN EXPLOSION TO YOUR TEN THIRTY, SAY ABOUT A MILE, MILE AND A HALF? OVER?

YEAH TWO-THREE, WE DID, ARE WE SURE IT WAS HIM? OVER?

TWO-TWO, IT WAS. HE CUT OFF IN MID-TRANSMISSION ABOUT A TRIPLE-A WARNING AND IT WAS HIM. NO BEEPER OR CHUTE FROM HIM OR HIS WSO. HE'S GONE TWO-TWO. WON'T BE THE LAST ONE WE LOSE. SEEN IT BEFORE. OUT.

Daria turned off the radio for a moment, and then stripped off her mask, slowly. She was in shock. It happened so quickly, no scream, no prayer, no nothing. Here one minute, gone the next.

"Butch? You ok?" Jane asked, a note of concern in her voice.

"Yeah," Daria exhaled "that explosion on the egress? That was lead."

Jane muttered softly "Shit. We babysat his kids, you know?"

"Yeah, I don't wanna think about that right now." Daria whispered.

"We painted their rooms! I mean, shit? Why him, or his WSO, he was engaged to some local girl and-" Jane babbled.

"Because I don't want to think about it! We have to tank, and then get the bird home! I can't think about it. We knew this could happen. We've lost friends before! So just shut up, OK?!"

Jane shut up; there was a pregnant silence in the aircraft. Daria had come down harder on Jane than she had wanted to, but from a professional standpoint, she was right. But she was also hiding the fact that, while she knew it intellectually, it was another thing to actually see someone disintegrate in front of you due to enemy fire. I'll mourn later. Daria resolved.

Daria turned the radio back on, and radioed the tanker:

COORS 34, THIS IS SLEDGEHAMMER TWO-TWO, WE ARE AT YOUR SEVEN-THIRTY, FIVE HUNDERED FEET BELOW, PERMISSION TO TANK, OVER…

On Final Approach to Runway 06

RAF Lakenheath

4 August 1985

0641 Local/0641 Zulu

"Roger tower, this is Sledgehammer 22, understand we are number four for landing, will watch right side of field and understand Runway 24 is shutdown for the next four hours. Thanks and good day, Out."

Daria looked over the field as they orbited in the downleg pattern of the final approach, awaiting their turn to land. She idly looked around, seeing smoke rising from some of the unhardened hangars, the admin and living blocks, as well as a couple of craters from Runway 24. It seemed there was also a wrecked Soviet aircraft right in the middle of Runway 24, burning brightly and occasionally cooking off. Looks like they had the same idea we did.

Jane had not said a word to Daria since their exchange over the loss of the flight lead, she had her binoculars out and was scanning the sky, making sure they didn't blunder into anyone, as well as one eye on the Radar Warning Receiver. The greeting the West Germans had given them had made her a little paranoid, and she sincerely hoped the Rockapes could tell an F-111 from a Sukhoi-24. But she was prepared in-case they didn't. As it was, the IFF was on, and she hoped it was squawking for all it was worth.

Daria flew casually, adjusting the throttle and stick more by feel than actual conscious thought, as she had done this landing hundreds of times. Her mind was mostly numb. Her first combat mission was something of a blur, a blur of sensations and impressions. She knew when she got the plane on the ground and taxied back to the HAS, it was going to be an effort to stay awake through the intelligence interrogation. All she wanted to do was catch an hour or an hour and a half's worth of sleep. The thought of going again in two hours seemed more than a little daunting. But, she had to act as if that wasn't the case. She was the aircraft commander, and as a wise man had once said, "Command is a very lonely affair." Her instructors had never told her just how lonely.

Jane was alone with her own thoughts, chewing her lip as they slowly orbited down to line up with the runway. There was a slight crosswind from the West, about 2-3 knots, and visibility was near perfect. It didn't get much better for a landing. You could see traffic for miles, and the tower was running like it was peacetime. Other than the occasional emergency call on the Guard channel, it really did seem like peacetime, like the combat mission was just a bad dream.

As Daria lined up the aircraft and she and Jane went through the landing checklist, they were both acting on simple training. The excitement and adrenalin was gone, and the reason for all the rote training was clear. The aircraft had come through with flying colors. No faults, no mechanical failures and no battle damage. All in all, they'd been lucky. Luckier than their flight lead. But now was about getting the airplane on the ground.

The aircraft drew nearer; with Daria using the throttle to control altitude, and the landing was gentle, almost textbook, except for a slight porpoise after the initial strike of the rear wheels. They announced contact with the runway with a loud squeal of the brakes, applied by Daria just in case something untoward happened. She applied full power to flare out, and the nose came down effortlessly. They were down. They were home. All that was required now was to get some breakfast, failing that, some coffee, talk to the intelligence guys, and then get some rest to prep to do it all again in two hours.

That first day, Daria and Jane flew four sorties.