“Entry point?”
“Landfall, one hundred forty-six degrees east, seventy-five degrees thirty minutes north. Asian landmass, one hundred thirty degrees east, seventy-two degrees north.”
“Right on, nav,” Kazakhs acknowledged, his voice chipper. “Hokay, radar, we’re at two hundred feet. In the weeds, pal, and whadda we got for obstacles?”
“Landfall, no problems, sir,” Radnor replied. “Straight in over Faddeevski Island, thread the needle past Kotclny. High point on Kotelny, 1,227-foot hill starboard. Approach the landmass over Laptev Sea, with a feint straight at Tiksi. Break it off, taking a heading due south over the gulf, and tiptoe through the foothills of the Verkhoyansk Mountains back toward the Lena.”
“Sound like you been here before, radar. Hokay, defense, the natives are a little restless down there. What you see?”
Halupalai fumbled briefly. In front of him lay O’Toole’s charts, looking like a new set of plays for the Rose Bowl.
“Early-warning radar stacked throughout the islands,” he said, beginning slowly. “Jamming now. Missile batteries, Kotelny. Our problem. Decoys, chaff dispatched. SIOP says forty percent chance Tiksi destroyed in first wave. If not, our problem. Heavy radar concentrations, major SAM batteries.
The feint will draw them out, unless they think we’re a decoy for the others coming in behind us.”
“The others,” Kazakhs said. “Yeah. That would be nice.”
“If they see us,” Halupalai continued.
“That’s what you got all those toys for, defense.”
“Yep. Tiksi is the biggest problem. Past the village, heading down the gulf, we got one more major battery of missiles near our entry point at Nyayba. Jamming. Decoys if necessary. Sharp eyes down below, please.”
“That’s you two in the basement,” Kazakhs said.
“Got it,” Tyler said.
Halupalai paused again. He could see the gray shark of the SAM racing up at him. His hand involuntarily went to the Gatling-gun trigger. He shook his head. “Then we are in the mountains,” he continued, “and the threat is MIG’s.”
“Also requiring sharp eyes down below,” Kazakhs added. “Got your eyes open down there, radar?”
“Wide, commander,” Radnor answered.
“Okay, sarge,” Kazakhs said to Halupalai. “Not bad, coming off the bench. We’re in the mountains now, huggin’ and hidin’ for a while. Three hundred feet and eyes on the ridges, please. If we got anybody watchin’ up above, assumin’ our guys missed a satellite or two, we’re headin’ on a course for…?”
“Vladivostok,” Tyler answered.
“Or maybe the Petropavlovsk submarine base on Kamchatka,” Kazakhs acknowledged. “Shifty little buggers, aren’t we? So we pivot…?”
“At one hundred twenty-six degrees east, sixty-five degrees north,” Tyler said. “Right, twenty degrees.”
“And we’re into the wide-open spaces. Tundra. Down to one hundred fifty feet. You might let me know when we see the tree line. Larch scrub first, pine forests next. No pine needles in the intakes, please. Other obstacles?”
“Mountains about halfway,” Radnor replied. “High point, Mount Purpula. Five thousand, three hundred twenty-six feet. Eight-hundred-foot television transmitter at Vitim.”
“Then we’re in the woods again,” Kazakhs continued, “and coming up on the lake.”
The lake. Moreau saw the frozen shore approaching, as she had in countless dreams. Holy Baikal, the Russians called it, the majestic ocean. They said it contained one-sixth of all the fresh water in the world—a saltless inland sea stretching four hundred miles long with barren nine-thousand-foot mountains jutting up from its western bank. She saw the lumbering bomber roar treetop level over the great lake’s deserted northern shore, kicking up powder snow off the ice, and her pulsing adrenaline turned to clammy sweat.
“Decision time,” Kazakhs went on. “Who makes it?”
“SIOP,” Moreau said. “Hours ago.”
“If SIOP, in its computerized wisdom, said the dam at Bratsk is still standing, we get a little side trip,” Kazakhs said. “We hop over the Baikal Mountains, lay a SRAM down on it, and scoot. Question of American pride. The Russkies say it’s the biggest dam in the world. We get to personally put Grand Coulee, right outside good ol’ Cowpatch, back on top.”
Kazakhs paused for a second, a shudder passing through him. The pilot’s chin edged forward and he began whistling softly…for amber waves of grain…
Moreau looked at him curiously.
“Opposition?” he asked.
“Surrounded like Fort Knox,” Halupalai answered. “SAM’s, MIG’s, antiaircraft batteries. Unfriendly place.”
“Yeah. Let’s hope we don’t have to make the visit. Hokay. We’re huggin’ the foothills of the Baikals now. Still a long haul in.”
“One hour,” Moreau said.
“Almost one hour,” Kazakhs confirmed, “and then we make the turn up the Angara River and…?”
“Irkutsk, forty miles,” Tyler responded.
“I got it in the weeds now. Ticklin’ your rumps down there?” Kazakhs didn’t expect an answer. “Targets, offense?”
“In the outskirts, we gotta loft a SRAM over the top at the oil refinery upriver at Angarsk,” Tyler said. “And then two more SRAM’s at the oil fields.”
“Mobil will thank you eternally, nav,” Kazakhs said. He felt shaky. His chin edged farther forward to cover…for purple-mountained majesties… “And Irkutsk. Targets?”… above the fruited plain…
Tyler floundered. “Targets?” he asked. Irkutsk was the target. “Satellite-tracking station, heavy industry, machine-tooling plants, electronics, Trans-Siberian Railway…” Tyler’s voice trailed off. He had never been asked that question before.
“Population?”
“Kazakhs!” Moreau protested.
“Just under a million,” Tyler responded. His voice was firm now, a game being a game. He felt better. His voice sounded better.
“Yep,” Kazakhs said. “Irkutsk gets the big banana. Gravity bomb. One megaton. Ground burst. Low level. Approaching. On the racetrack…”
Moreau began to protest. Then the adrenaline began pulsing again.
“On the racetrack,” Tyler repeated.
“Switch lights on,” Kazakhs said. “Pre Em lights on.”
“Entry plus two-niner-zero,” Tyler said. “Calibration, two-niner-zero. Midpoint two-four-zero. Exit two-eight-zero.”
“I.P. two-two-two-six.”
“Winds, twenty knots.”
Moreau sat mesmerized.
“Coming up on sixty seconds,” Tyler said. “Ready… ready… Now!”
“Hokay,” Kazakhs said. “Heading into bomb run. Straight down Karl Marx Street.”
“Coming up on twenty seconds,” Tyler said. “Ready… ready… Now!”
To Moreau, the silence seemed to go on forever.
“And?” Kazakhs demanded.
Silence.
“And?!”
“PUP!” Moreau responded urgently, automatically leaning forward to begin the Pull Up Pushover procedure that would arch the hydrogen bomb up slightly on its departure, giving them a few extra seconds’ escape time.
…America! America!… Kazakhs whistled. “Bomb away,” he said serenely…. God shed his grace on thee…
Moreau saw the bulbous weapon hover briefly beneath the open bomb-bay doors, saw the drogue parachute unfold to slow it on its short descent, saw it land in Karl Marx Street where people could stare at it for the few seconds before the time release activated. Then she saw the moon burst again. She started to tug at the controls. Her eye caught on the bomb-release lights, which were out. Her gaze fixed on the altimeter, which read 46,000 feet. Then she settled back in her seat and returned to the reality that they were still high over Canadian tundra, rapidly approaching their control point. Practicing. A recital. Damn you, Kazakhs.