SOUTHERN CHECHNYA—SEVERAL HOURS LATER
“Unobstructed runway. Two large buildings, hangar-type, at the north end. I don’t see any people, though.”
Ferguson shifted around as he spoke. He couldn’t see the top of the peak opposite him, so he had no idea what defenses might be hidden there. The mountain also shadowed whatever was directly below him on the western side of the base, and some of the road to the northeast.
“Here’s something,” he said, as a vehicle emerged from one of the two buildings; it looked like an old-fashioned bread van. Another followed, and another and another. They drove out to three different points surrounding the airfield.
“Maybe they’re radar trucks,” suggested Van Buren, who was listening along with his intelligence staff to Ferguson’s briefing. “The satellites have cleared overhead, so it’s possible that they drive out there once they’re gone.”
“I don’t see any antennas or radar dishes,” reported Ferguson. “I don’t see any missiles either.”
Van Buren’s G-2 captain began explaining that the vans might contain a short-range, low-power radar, which would give them some early warning of approaching helicopters. Another officer said that it was possible that the rebels were
using the mountain itself as the base for tropo-scatter antennas, with the transmission portions relatively short and camouflaged. Such a system would be difficult to see, though it was likely to leave gaps in the coverage.
“I don’t know,” said Ferguson. “Maybe have somebody look at the satellite photos again. Can you get a U-2 in?”
“Russians’ll shoot it down in a heartbeat,” said Van Buren.
“Could they hide missiles in the vans?” asked Ferguson.
“Shoulder-launched missiles, sure.”
“Hang tight,” said Ferguson, as a new set of vehicles appeared from the building. These were tracked ZSU-23-4 Shilka antiair guns, sometimes called “Zoos,” old but reliable flak cannons that could fill the air with shells. Their altitude was limited, but they were deadly against helicopters and low-flying planes. Parachuters would be massacred.
The southeastern end of the base dropped off sharply about twenty yards after the end of the runway. The eastern side of the complex south of the buildings was relatively flat, with a dirt road but no aircraft access ramp. Trenches flanked the runway for about three-quarters of its length. The runway itself was rather narrow and pockmarked with small craters at the sides. The Air Force people had already looked at the sat photos and decided they could get a Herky Bird in there and out.
“I have four F-117As,” Van Buren said. “We can take out four targets—the vans and one of the antiair emplacements. But every shot has to count.”
“Better to take out the guns and jam any radar on the way in,” suggested one of his captains. “Then we target the missiles when we’re on the ground.”
“What if they have heat-seekers in them?”
“We go in with flares and a decoy.”
“Still risky.”
“Why don’t you have the Stealth fighters take out the guns and two of the vans,” said Ferg. “Conners and I hit the last van ourselves. We link up near the buildings. We can work it into deek, like we’re the real attack. We have a grenade launcher. We have to get down there anyway to confirm this
is the place. So we call in, attack starts, we get the van and move on.”
“That might work,” said Van Buren. “You have readings?”
“Not yet,” said Ferguson.
“We’re doing a lot of work here, Ferg. It’s going nowhere without real data. Even then, we have to get Alston’s OK.”
“It’s got to be the place, Van.”
“Fergie?”
“It’s all right, Van. You guys just get ready to hit it. I’ll get the numbers.”
“Don’t get so close they induct you into their army.”
“I hear they have a hell of a retirement plan,” said Ferguson, snapping off the phone.