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Authors: Wings of Fire (v1.1)
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“Don’t
give me that ‘Nike out’ crap,” McLanahan radioed back. “This is supposed to be
a soft probe, not a search-and-destroy—that’s why we have the FlightHawks
overhead. I want you out now.”
“Then
I guess I’ll just ignore this SS-12 battery I just found.”
“What?”
“Pretty damned clever, hiding it in
a garbage dump,” Wohl said. He moved closer to the area. There was a short ramp
on the west end of the pit, ostensibly to make it easier for the dump truck
drivers to enter the pit. But on closer inspection, he saw that the garbage was
piled not on the ground inside the pit but atop a retractable net. “Normal
overhead imagery shows a garbage dump. It’s unguarded like a garbage dump—and
the organic waste gives off enough heat to block infrared and radar imagery.”
Wohl examined underneath the net with his infrared sensors. “And there it is,
boys—the aft end of a MAZ-543 transporter-erector-launcher and an SS-12
Scaleboard rocket, still in its marching sheath. I’ll bet there are at least
three more TELs in this pit, and if I check the other garbage pits, I’ll find
more. Not to mention the TELs hidden in some of the service buildings.”
“The
damned Libyans have SS-12s,” Briggs breathed. “Holy shit.” The SS-12 tactical
ballistic missile, NATO code name “Scaleboard,” was the upgraded version of the
ubiquitous mobile “Scud” surface-to-surface missile, in service with almost a
dozen nations around the world. The SS-12 was larger, had three times the range
of a Scud, was more accurate—and it carried a one-point-three-megaton nuclear
warhead. As far as anyone knew, this was the first known instance of an SS-12
missile based outside of Russia . “Can you see the warhead, Nike? Is it a
nuke?”
“Stand
by, Taurus. I’ll check.”
“Nike,
clear out of there,” McLanahan repeated. “We’ll have the FlightHawks take them
out.” The first FlightHawk UCAV carried only the laser radar array, but the
second FlightHawk was armed with four antitank BLU-108 SFW sensor-fuzed weapon
bomblets and four antipersonnel Gator cluster bomb munitions. They were
devastating weapons: A single SFW could destroy as many as three dozen main
battle tanks, and a single Gator could kill, injure, or deny enemy access
across an area twice the size of a football field. “Base, you copy? Stand by to
arm up the ’Hawks.”
“We
have a good location on Nike,” Wendy McLanahan radioed from the Catherine out in the Med. The Tin Man
battle armor contained a transponder to allow Wendy on board the command ship
to track and monitor all the commandos. “Ready to come in hot.”
“Negative,
Base, negative,” Wohl interjected. “The junk they got these things buried under
will keep the SFW from detecting them, or they might lock onto some other hot
object; and the junk might block the bomblets’ blast effects. We’re going to
have to expose them enough so the SFWs and Gators can do their job, or destroy
them one by one by hand. I’m moving in.”
No use in trying to hold him back,
Patrick thought, he’s on the warpath. It’s not every day that you’re sent in
just to take a few pictures and end up coming across a bunch of nuclear-tipped
missiles. Wohl must be salivating in his battle armor. “Roger, Nike. Stalkers,
let’s move in together. One coordinated attack. Stand by.”
But
Chris Wohl wasn’t going to “stand by”—he was already on the move.
He
hurriedly checked for a sentry. There were sentry shacks on all four sides of
the garbage pit, but through his infrared sensors he could see that all were
deserted. He descended down the incline toward the rear of the rocket.. .
give me that ‘Nike out’ crap,” McLanahan radioed back. “This is supposed to be
a soft probe, not a search-and-destroy—that’s why we have the FlightHawks
overhead. I want you out now.”
“Then
I guess I’ll just ignore this SS-12 battery I just found.”
“What?”
“Pretty damned clever, hiding it in
a garbage dump,” Wohl said. He moved closer to the area. There was a short ramp
on the west end of the pit, ostensibly to make it easier for the dump truck
drivers to enter the pit. But on closer inspection, he saw that the garbage was
piled not on the ground inside the pit but atop a retractable net. “Normal
overhead imagery shows a garbage dump. It’s unguarded like a garbage dump—and
the organic waste gives off enough heat to block infrared and radar imagery.”
Wohl examined underneath the net with his infrared sensors. “And there it is,
boys—the aft end of a MAZ-543 transporter-erector-launcher and an SS-12
Scaleboard rocket, still in its marching sheath. I’ll bet there are at least
three more TELs in this pit, and if I check the other garbage pits, I’ll find
more. Not to mention the TELs hidden in some of the service buildings.”
“The
damned Libyans have SS-12s,” Briggs breathed. “Holy shit.” The SS-12 tactical
ballistic missile, NATO code name “Scaleboard,” was the upgraded version of the
ubiquitous mobile “Scud” surface-to-surface missile, in service with almost a
dozen nations around the world. The SS-12 was larger, had three times the range
of a Scud, was more accurate—and it carried a one-point-three-megaton nuclear
warhead. As far as anyone knew, this was the first known instance of an SS-12
missile based outside of Russia . “Can you see the warhead, Nike? Is it a
nuke?”
“Stand
by, Taurus. I’ll check.”
“Nike,
clear out of there,” McLanahan repeated. “We’ll have the FlightHawks take them
out.” The first FlightHawk UCAV carried only the laser radar array, but the
second FlightHawk was armed with four antitank BLU-108 SFW sensor-fuzed weapon
bomblets and four antipersonnel Gator cluster bomb munitions. They were
devastating weapons: A single SFW could destroy as many as three dozen main
battle tanks, and a single Gator could kill, injure, or deny enemy access
across an area twice the size of a football field. “Base, you copy? Stand by to
arm up the ’Hawks.”
“We
have a good location on Nike,” Wendy McLanahan radioed from the Catherine out in the Med. The Tin Man
battle armor contained a transponder to allow Wendy on board the command ship
to track and monitor all the commandos. “Ready to come in hot.”
“Negative,
Base, negative,” Wohl interjected. “The junk they got these things buried under
will keep the SFW from detecting them, or they might lock onto some other hot
object; and the junk might block the bomblets’ blast effects. We’re going to
have to expose them enough so the SFWs and Gators can do their job, or destroy
them one by one by hand. I’m moving in.”
No use in trying to hold him back,
Patrick thought, he’s on the warpath. It’s not every day that you’re sent in
just to take a few pictures and end up coming across a bunch of nuclear-tipped
missiles. Wohl must be salivating in his battle armor. “Roger, Nike. Stalkers,
let’s move in together. One coordinated attack. Stand by.”
But
Chris Wohl wasn’t going to “stand by”—he was already on the move.
He
hurriedly checked for a sentry. There were sentry shacks on all four sides of
the garbage pit, but through his infrared sensors he could see that all were
deserted. He descended down the incline toward the rear of the rocket.. .
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