“Roger,” Masterman replied.
“Let me get a satellite radio set up,” Lieutenant Colonel Garvey said, heading for the door.
Ingrid Bergman was heading south now. General Wallace wanted a better idea for the Chinese logistical tail, and now he was getting it. The People’s Republic of China was in many ways like America had been at the turn of the previous century. Things moved mainly by rail. There were no major highways as Americans understood them, but a lot of railroads. Those were efficient for moving large quantities of anything over medium-to-long distances, but they were also inflexible, and hard to repair-especially the bridges-and most of all the tunnels, and so that was what he and his targeting people were looking at. The problem was that they had few bombs to drop. None of his attack assets-mainty F-15E Strike Eagles at the moment-had flown over with bombs on their wings, and he had barely enough air-to-mud munitions for an eight-ship strike mission. It was like going to a dance and finding no girls there. The music was fine, and so was the fruit punch, but there really wasn’t anything to do. Perversely, his -15E crews didn’t mind. They got to play fighter plane, and all such people prefer shooting other airplanes down to dropping bombs on mud soldiers. It just came with the territory. The one thing he had going now was that his scarf-and-goggles troops were playing hell with the PRC air force, with over seventy confirmed kills already for not a single air-to-air loss. The advantage of having E-3B AWACS aircraft was so decisive that the enemy might as well have been flying World War I Fokkers, and the Russians were learning rapidly how to make use of E-3B support. Their fighters were good aerodynamic platforms, just lacking in legs. The Russians had never built a fighter with fuel capacity for more than about one hour’s flight time. Nor had they ever learned how to do midair refueling, as the Americans had. And so the Russian MiG and Sukhoi fighters could go up, take their instructions from the AWACS, and participate in one engagement, but then they had to return to base for gas. Half of the kills his Eagle drivers had collected so far were of Chinese fighters that had broken off their fights to RTB for gas as well. It wasn’t fair, but Wallace, like all Air Force fighter types, could hardly have cared less about being fair in combat.
But Wallace was fighting a defensive war to this point. He was successfully defending Russian airspace. He was not taking out Chinese targets, not even attacking the Chinese troops on the ground in Siberia. So, though his fighters were having a fine, successful war, they just weren’t accomplishing anything important. To that end, he lifted his satellite link to America.
“We ain’t got no bombs, General,” he told Mickey Moore.
“Well, your fellow Air Scouts are maxed out on taskings, and Mary Diggs is screaming to get some trash haulers to get him his chopper brigade moved to where he needs it.”
“Sir, this is real simple. If you want us to kill some Chinese targets, we have to have bombs. I hope I’m not going too fast for you,” Wallace added.
“Go easy, Gus,” Moore warned.
“Well, sir, maybe it just looks a little different in Washington, but where I’m sitting right now, I have missions, but not the tools to carry those missions out. So, you D.C. people can either send me the tools or rescind the missions. Your call, sir.”
“We’re working on it,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs assured him.
Do I have any orders?” Mancuso asked the Secretary of Defense.
“Not at this time,” Bretano sold CINCPAC.
“Sir, may I ask why? The TV says we’re in a shooting war with China. Am I supposed to play or not?”
“We are considering the political ramifications,” THUNDER explained.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“You heard me.”
“Mr. Secretary, all I know about politics is voting every couple of years, but I have a lot of gray ships under my command, and they’re technically known as warships, and my country is at war.” The frustration in Mancuso’s voice was plain.
“Admiral, when the President decides what to do, you will find out. Until then, ready your command for action. It’s going to happen. I’m just not sure when.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Mancuso hung up and looked at his subordinates. “Political ramifications,” he said. “I didn’t think Ryan was like that.”
“Sir,” Mike Lahr soothed. “Forget ‘political’ and think ‘psychological,’ okay? Maybe Secretary Bretano just used the wrong word. Maybe the idea is to hit them when it’ll do the most good-because we’re messing with their heads, sir, remember?”
“You think so?”
“Remember who the Vice President is? He’s one of us, Admiral. And President Ryan isn’t a pussy, is he?”
“Well … no, not that I recall,” CINCPAC said, remembering the first time he’d met the guy, and the shoot-out he’d had aboard Red October. No, Jack Ryan wasn’t a pussy. “So, what do you suppose he’s thinking?”
“The Chinese have a land war going on-air and land, anyway. Nothing’s happening at sea. They may not expect anything to happen at sea. But they are surging some ships out, just to establish a defense line for the mainland. If we get orders to hit those ships, the purpose will be to make a psychological impact. So, let’s plan along those lines, shall we? Meanwhile, we keep getting more assets in place.”
“Right.” Mancuso nodded and turned to face the wall. Pacific Fleet was nearly all west of the dateline now, and the Chinese had probably no clue where his ships were, but he knew about them. USS Tucson was camped out on 406, the single PRC ballistic-missile submarine. It was known to the west as a “Xia” class SSBN, and his intelligence people disagreed on the sub’s actual name, but “406” was the number painted on its sail, and that was how he thought of it. None of that mattered to Mancuso. The first shoot order he planned to issue would go to Tucson-to put that missile-armed sub at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. He remembered that the PRC had nuclear-tipped missiles, and those in his area of responsibility would disappear as soon as he had authorization to deal with them. USS Tucson was armed with Mark 48 ADCAP fish, and they’d do the job on that target, assuming that he was right and President Ryan wasn’t a pussy after all.
And so, Marshal Luo?” Zhang Han San asked.
“Things go well,” he replied at once. “We crossed the Amur River with trivial losses, captured the Russian positions in a few hours, and are now driving north.”
“Enemy opposition?”
“Light. Very light, in fact. We’re starting to wonder if the Russians have any forces deployed in sector at all. Our intelligence suggests the presence of two mechanized divisions, but if they’re there, they haven’t advanced to establish contact with us. Our forces are racing forward, making better than thirty kilometers per day. I expect to see the gold mine in seven days.”
“Is anything going badly?” Qian asked.
“Only in the air. The Americans have deployed fighters to Siberia, and as we all know, the Americans are very clever with their machines, especially the ones that fly. They have inflicted some losses on our fighter aircraft,” the Defense Minister admitted.
“How large are the losses?”
“Total, over one hundred. We’ve gotten twenty-five or so of theirs in return, but the Americans are masters of aerial combat. Fortunately, their aircraft can do little to hinder the advance of our tanks, and, as you have doubtless noted, they have not attacked into our territory at all.”
“Why is that, Marshal?” Fang asked.
“We are not certain,” Luo answered, turning to the MSS chief. “Tan?”