The Red Line

Rios began doing the only thing he could—staring into the foreboding woods and waiting for the Russians. Outside the wire, the branches of the muddled evergreens drooped beneath the weight of the heavy snowfall. The wind eerily whistled through the trees. Biting snow fell upon the anxious airman’s world of sand. The night was pitch-black.

Time stopped.

• • •

After what Rios believed to be two hours and was in fact twenty minutes, a flight of three F-22 Raptors raced down the runway toward him and took to the night. The stealth fighters passed directly over Rios’s head. Each screamed into the eastern sky.

A few minutes later, a second group of Raptors thundered down the runway, roared ever so closely over Rios’s position, and disappeared into the blizzard. They were followed by a flight of F-35s.

Throughout the night, the pattern would be repeated, with flights of F-22s, F-35s, or F-16s heading down the runway right at him. At the last second, each would leap from the ground and vanish into the eastern darkness. The fighters would later return to be refueled and rearmed. They would then race back down the runway toward the forlorn airman once more.

The thunder of the jet engines would temporarily deafen Rios. Even so, he really didn’t mind. For the activity broke the monotony. It provided a distraction from his mounting fears on a surreal night that had no end. Alone with his lethal weapon and his frightening thoughts, Rios waited in his isolated bunker of sand and snow.

• • •

Above the fierce storm’s immense layer of clouds, the stealth aircraft roared through the twinkling winter’s night sky toward the Czech border at nearly fifteen hundred miles per hour. In each, a single pilot sat. The trio of fighters carried identical pairs of thousand-pound bombs. Air-defense missiles hung from their wings and were positioned in the bays below the F-22s’ bellies, ready to destroy any MiGs that were unfortunate enough to cross their path. Vulcan 20mm cannons waited for close-in air-to-air battles or ground-support attacks.

Each of the American pilots was exceptionally skilled. All three were supremely confident. And there was absolutely no reason for them not to be. Their fighters were arguably superior to any in the world. They could handle both air and ground targets with relative ease. Because of their stealth capabilities, any MiGs that wandered too close would be nearly helpless against them. No enemy radar, whether in an approaching aircraft or on the ground, was capable of accurately identifying and combatting the F-22s.

It wasn’t because the Stealths were invisible to the radars. That would’ve been impossible. Instead, their unique design caused the aircraft’s image to be deflected in various directions rather than reflected directly back. The radar would receive a confusing, disorganized image that it was unable to recognize and interpret.

The formation’s primary target, the first of the new war, was an air-defense battery near the Czech city of Pelzen. After vanquishing the air-defense system, their secondary objective was to destroy the Central Army Group Command and Control Center the missile battery protected. The targeting information upon which the mission was based was the last imagery satellite pictures of the western Czech Republic, taken four days earlier.

With the blizzard masking the targets, the stealth pilots would be forced to use their infrared systems to deliver their payloads with pinpoint accuracy. This wasn’t going to be easy. Or at least that’s what they thought. Nearing Pelzen, the three couldn’t believe their good fortune. Like the foolish Iraqis had done on the first night of Desert Storm, the Russians had turned on their air-defense radar. The signal from the radar served as a homing beacon for the planes. The Russian target had put out a “come and get me” sign.

The lead aircraft made a silent run at the radar. The pilot released a bomb at precisely the right moment. Using the radar’s own signal, he guided his deadly cargo toward the objective. The radar exploded in a fiery flash of light.

With the air-defense system immobilized by the first F-22, the other two fighters were free to concentrate on taking out the command and control center. The target was more difficult to acquire than the radar had been. But the pilots found it exactly where the intelligence reports told them it would be. A rambling house sitting alone in the middle of a farmer’s field, the command center was easily identifiable by the bristle of radio antennas on its roof. Even with the late hour, there were half a dozen well-lit rooms within the building. Outside, a number of combat vehicles sat in the falling snows. It was far too easy for the skilled Americans.

The F-22s locked onto the target. Each released a single bomb. With absolute precision, the pilots guided the munitions toward the large house. The target was instantly vaporized by the force of two thousand pounds of high explosives.

None of the pilots had needed his second bomb to complete the mission. With smiles upon their faces, they turned and headed home to Ramstein. When they landed, each passed a few arm lengths above a frightened Cuban-American airman’s bunker just off the eastern end of the runway.

The wing commander met the triumphant pilots as they rolled to a stop. “How’d it go?” he asked when the flight leader climbed down from his aircraft.

“Piece of cake,” the major said. “The assholes had their radar on. We followed it in and destroyed both the primary and secondary targets. These guys are as dumb as the Iraqis. Even the Taliban knew better than to do something this stupid.”

The four walked into the operations center feeling quite good about their country’s chances of vanquishing another aggressor. Ground crews raced to refuel and rearm the aircraft for their next mission.

• • •

Prior to the attack on the radar installation, the Russian lieutenant had been quite concerned. The headquarters staff had departed long ago, moving their command center thirty miles south. There had been ample time to get the entire command element moved after nightfall, even if they’d struggled with the fearsome elements in doing so.

They left the communication antennas on the roof of the old farmhouse. The moment the staff set out, the lieutenant and his men drove the old, worthless vehicles up and parked them in the same positions the staff’s vehicles had been in earlier. The lieutenant turned on some lights within the building. Not so many as to be obvious. But enough to make the enemy believe their opponent was either foolish or careless.

Now, however, the essential element in the deception was giving him trouble. The ancient radar, worth only what a Moscow junk dealer would give for it, was acting up. He’d started it at exactly midnight. Nevertheless, the lieutenant could only get it to remain on for a few minutes at a time. Without a working radar, it would be nearly impossible to fool the Americans into believing their raid upon Central Army Headquarters had been successful. He had no options. Rather than leaving for the new headquarters’ location, he and his privates would have to stay and baby the old grandfather of a radar until the Americans attacked. They found themselves some protection in a gully a few hundred yards west and waited.

By 3:00 a.m., the lieutenant had made a dozen trips to the radar. In each instance, he’d coaxed it into working once more. He’d gotten the radar running a final time and had walked a short distance away when the first thousand-pound bomb dropped from the sky.

Death came to claim him in a whisper from above. He never heard it. He never saw it.

Had he lived, he would’ve been proud to know his mission was a complete success. He’d fooled the Americans and saved Central Army Headquarters from any further attack. At least for the time being.

• • •

In the darkness of the first night, all over Poland and the Czech Republic, American, British, and German aircraft went after the Warsaw Pact’s command and control with a vengeance. The Warsaw Pact air forces sat on the ground, aware of what was happening but content to wait for their moment to come. Only in the wee hours of the morning, when the British attacked two air bases in ce

ntral Poland, did the MiGs rise up to meet the challenge.

In nearly every case, the NATO pilots reported that their missions had been a complete success. Enemy command and control had been decimated. The ability of the Russians to coordinate their war efforts had been severely damaged. Their leadership had been eliminated.

But the Americans were mistaken. General Yovanovich’s ploy had worked. All the Russians had lost was of value to the scrap heap. By sunrise of the first day, less than 8 percent of the Warsaw Pact’s command and control had been destroyed.

And American command and control was in serious trouble.

CHAPTER 17

January 28—11:54 p.m.

The American Communication Facility

Langerkopf

The communication center sat on a hilltop in a thick forest of green and white. It was fifteen miles from the nearest German village. Bristling with microwave dishes, its tower rose a hundred feet above the tallest of the ancient evergreens. Nestled next to the prefabricated metal communication control building were a large satellite ground-station dish and its associated equipment.

Nine minutes after the Russian tanks burst through the border, the five-man Spetsnaz commando team struck. Each commando’s dress was as black as the darkest night. Each had painted his face in a thick layer of camouflage chalk. Each carried an automatic machine pistol and a satchel charge. Each was a proficient killer, the match of any in the world.

On their bellies, three of the commandos crawled the final quarter mile through the forest’s floor. The chain-link fence that surrounded the facility was their destination. With their wire cutters muffled by a thick cloth, they cut a hole in the fence at the rear of the compound. They were soon inside. While a ghostly figure kept watch, his partners began attaching explosive charges to the legs of the communication tower and the satellite dish.

Just inside the compound sat the guard shack. The remaining pair of saboteurs crept through the shadowless forest to within a few feet of the tiny structure. The security for the Langerkopf communication site, the third largest American facility in Germany, consisted of a single airman with a Beretta pistol strapped to his hip.

A night-shift crew of eleven was working inside the communication building. They had no weapons. The M-4s of the fifty-person Air Force detachment were stored at their headquarters a mile down the mountainside.

The Spetsnaz team leader silently covered the final few feet to the guard shack. In a single motion, he cut the airman’s throat. Without ever realizing what had happened, the American dropped into the snow. The commando dragged the lifeless body across the roadway. A glistening trail of red marked the path he’d taken. He hid the dead airman behind one of the American cars parked across from the communication building. The leader quickly returned to protect his partner. His accomplice started connecting the plastic explosives to the windowless metal building. The expert job was soon completed. The leader signaled the members of the team at the tower and satellite dish. The timers were set.

The saboteurs melted back into the woods. Five minutes later, two simultaneous blasts leveled the mountaintop. The tower toppled sideways, tumbling into the pristine forest. The satellite dish was vaporized. The communication control center burst into a thousand fragmenting pieces.

There wouldn’t be enough left of any of the airmen to bury.

• • •

At the same moment, identical teams of deadly assassins were attempting to infiltrate the mountaintops where the two largest American communication centers were located. At the world’s biggest military communication facility, the Army site at Donnersberg, luck was with the Americans.

A soldier had been sent down to the barracks area to pick up a box loaded with sandwiches and snacks for a hungry night shift. The saboteurs were just beginning to set their explosive charges when the soldier’s car crested the snow-swept hill. The first thing the American saw was the body of the site’s sole guard lying by the gate. The next thing that came into the headlights of his rusting Fiat was five black-clad figures. The soldier knew that at any cost he had to warn those inside the building. He slammed his hand down on his car’s horn and held it there. The horn’s wail crushed the night’s silence, alerting those inside.

The pair of commandos nearest the gate raced toward the old car. While they ran, the Russians drew long knives from the sheaths on their hips. The American locked his doors and continued sounding the horn. A forearm smashed the driver’s side window, shattering the glass. A silver blade flashed in the darkness. In the assassin’s expert hands, the grisly task was effortlessly completed. Another American had succumbed. But before the Russians ended his life, the soldier had sounded his horn for nearly twenty seconds.

From inside the facility, a head poked out the main door to see what the commotion was all about. Two quick bursts from a machine pistol cut him down. He fell back into the building and lay bleeding on the polished tile floor. The Spetsnaz team rushed to set their charges.

Unlike the defenseless airmen at Langerkopf, twenty M-4s sat in weapons racks inside Donnersberg’s main entrance. The Americans tore open the racks and pulled out the M-4s. The storage locker next to the racks yielded ammunition clips and a wooden crate filled with bullets. While the technicians readied their ammunition clips, a warning went out to every communication facility in Germany.

As he watched helplessly as one of his men died on the cold white floor, the staff sergeant in charge of the night shift picked up a microphone and pushed the speaker button.

“This is Donnersberg. We’re under attack from an undetermined enemy force. Say again. To all sites. Donnersberg is under attack. Take whatever action is necessary to protect yourselves.”

At the sixty American strategic communication sites throughout Germany, the soldiers and airmen scrambled to secure their facilities. Their survival, and the ability of the generals to control the coming war, depended upon it.

At Langerkopf, the warning arrived a split second too late. The airmen heard it. But before they could react, the tumultuous blasts ended their lives.

After issuing his warning, the Donnersberg supervisor picked up the phone and quickly dialed the barracks area. At the unit headquarters a half mile down the mountain, seventy soldiers were awakened. They rushed to dress and join the eighteen attempting to protect the hilltop. Nearly all American military communication within Germany went through Donnersberg. Each knew that without Donnersberg, command and control would be forever lost.

But fate, and hunger, had given them a chance. Individually, the communication specialists were no match for their highly skilled opponents. Still, the soldiers were reasonably well trained in the use of these basic weapons.

Inside the communication center, seventeen soldiers waited for their shift leader to give the word. The staff sergeant looked at his men as they held their rifles at the ready.

Outside, the commandos rushed to finish the job. Their presence had been discovered, but they were far too practiced to panic. Their task was nearly complete. Without interference, in a minute, no more, the timers would be set.

“Half out one door, and half out the other,” the staff sergeant said. “Whoever’s out there must be stopped. We’ve got to hold on until the rest of the unit gets here.”

The Americans burst through the facility’s two doors. The commandos were waiting. Before they could reach the snows, six soldiers were felled in a curtain of automatic gunfire. The staff sergeant was the first to die as he led his technicians in their counterattack. The eleven survivors knew it would be five long minutes before any of the reinforcements would arrive. Until then, it was up to them. They dove for cover and frantically searched for the enemy. A black figure was spotted. The Americans opened fire. The Russians responded with their automatic weapons. In a blinding flash, the hilltop erupted in an intense firefight. The muzzle flash of a rifle gave a second intruder away. The American

s returned his fire. One by one, the five commandos were identified and battled.

The first of the assassins fell dead from a soldier’s chattering M-4. Two more Americans went down. One of the soldiers lying in the falling snows screamed in agony from a bullet-shattered kneecap. Next to him, his friend was silent and still. Muzzle flashes from both sides lit up the night.

The clock was moving. The sands of time were beginning to run out for the killing team. A second of the saboteurs was struck in the chest by American fire. He dropped into the snows. The odds were now nine against three. Still, even though outnumbered, the advantage remained with the deft assassins. The American survivors knew, however, that if they could hold on just a little longer, they were going to have a chance of saving the critical mountaintop. The struggle continued. More precious seconds ticked by. Torturous minutes slowly passed as bullets flew in both directions.

Over the sounds of battle, the surviving commandos heard a long line of cars beginning to churn up the mountainside. They knew they’d failed. They disengaged. Firing as they went, all three fell back. The first of the reinforcements—eleven soldiers crammed into a late-model Dodge and an old Volkswagen—reached the top of the hill. Others were close behind. At the edge of the compound, they piled out of their cars and raced through the gate. The mountain was alive with gunfire. And the reinforcements were growing by the minute.

The Russians were overwhelmed. A third and shortly thereafter a fourth of the enemy was caught in the relentless crossfire of the reinforcements and the original defenders. The final commando, the leader of the deadly group, ran toward the rear of the compound. With incredible ease he scaled the ten-foot perimeter fence in a hail of gunfire.

While he straddled the wire, the soldiers heard him scream. He dropped to the ground on the other side and staggered into the darkness. In seconds he was gone. The soldiers let him go. None of the Americans was eager to follow the deadly assassin into the black, chaotic forest.