A wave rolled outwards as the warship slipped under the surface, causing small craft to bob up and down, as a large oil slick began to form. That was Hollis’s cue to turn the photonics package back on the freighter. And just in time too, as the aft half of the icebreaker’s hull pointed straight up, and plunged to the bottom of the bay. “Aircraft from the north!” a tech said. “It looks like someone spotted us.”
The deck slanted steeply as the sub went down. The attack was far from surprising. It had taken some time for the Russians to figure out what had occurred and to put a plane in the air. But they had, and now positions were reversed. Suddenly the hunter was the hunted. “Set a course for the Aleutians,” Hollis ordered, “and reload those tubes. This voyage isn’t over.”
But deep in his heart Hollis had a hunch that the operation was over. And that PACOM would order the Hawaii back to port to load missiles if nothing else. Then I’m going to call Cristy, Hollis decided, and take a shower that lasts a lot longer than three minutes, and sleep for twenty-four hours . And that was a lot to look forward to.
A series of thumps were heard as the plane continued to attack, but the depth charges were a long ways off, and nothing to worry about. The Hawaii had survived.
Chapter Eighteen
Wales, Alaska, USA
P rior to the war the tiny village of Wales, Alaska had been known for two things: The fact that it was the westernmost city on mainland North America, and its proximity to an ancient Birnik burial mound. But now it was in danger of being overrun by the Russians, and people in the lower forty-eight were hearing about it for the first time.
In an effort to prevent the Russians from landing, military personnel and supplies were pouring in. And what had been a population of 150 had swollen to more than 3,000 with more people arriving each hour. There was no road. That meant everything and everybody had to be flown in—and the racket caused by the planes and helicopters was constant. A howitzer dangled below a Chinook’s belly as the helo passed over Falco and Oliver.
Meanwhile off to their right a huge bulldozer was hard at work pushing dirt and the splintered remains of Inuit homes up to form a defensive wall. A thousand interlocking concrete blocks had been barged in to create ocean facing bunkers. Each was topped with sheets of corrugated metal and a thick layer of dirt.
Would the preparations be sufficient to stop the Russian marines as they stormed up the sloping beach? They’d have to get through the minefield first. Then, after cutting holes in the coils of razor wire, they would confront dozens of machine guns .
Meanwhile mortar bombs would fall all around the Russians—even as Falco and Oliver summoned planes to attack those who were still alive. So, had a frontal attack been the only option available to the Russians, the Americans would have been in a good position to repel it.
But that isn’t the case, Falco thought to himself, as they walked along. The Russians aren’t stupid. They’ll flank us north and/or south in an attempt to roll us up without storming the beach . General Haberman knew that of course … And had plans to prevent such a maneuver. But could she and her team get the necessary defenses in place quickly enough? That was an open question. All Falco could do was focus on his job.
Engines roared as ATVs, Humvees, and civilian vehicles passed by the JTACs, going in both directions. The southernmost section of the wall was complete and the controllers had been assigned to bunker FP23. Red spray paint marked each entrance.
Falco spotted 21, followed by 22, and 23. He ducked inside. What light there was entered through a water-facing horizontal slit. It was positioned low for the convenience of machine gunners and riflemen.
Ice crystals were trapped in the earthen walls. And now, as they began to melt, water was trickling down to puddle on the dirt floor. That meant the mud was about to get even muddier. Falco’s boots made sucking sounds as he went forward to kneel and peer outside. Oliver joined him. “Home sweet home,” the noncom said. “Aren’t we the lucky ones?”
“Yeah,” Falco agreed, as he eyed the beach. “The guys at Travis don’t know what they’re missing. This isn’t going to work.”
“Nope,” Oliver agreed. “We can sleep in here, and take cover if necessary, but that’s all. We need to see what’s going on.”
“Exactly,” Falco responded. “So let’s leave our gear here—and go shopping for some construction materials. An OP on the roof would be ideal—with cargo pallets on this floor. I don’t want to sleep in the mud.”
“Roger that,” Oliver replied.
The JTACs had been forced to leave everything other than their radios, scopes, and the laser designator on Little D. But thanks to all the supplies that had been airlifted into Wales they had new packs, sleeping bags, a spare set of Cammie’s each, some MREs and basics such as toothpaste. And, in case they had to join the infantry, they’d been issued brand spanking new M4 carbines to replace the submachine guns.
After piling their equipment on a dry spot, the men went looking for materials they could work with. Unfortunately there was a lot of competition from people with similar needs. But, by the time the light started to fade, the JTACs had acquired enough pallets to cover the muddy floor.
Then work began on what Oliver referred to as an “air force lounge” on the roof. The U-shaped enclosure was made of sandbags and salvaged lumber. It wouldn’t protect the JTACs from a full-on beach assault. But it might shield them from flying shrapnel and small caliber stuff. And the OP would offer them unrestricted views of the sky and shoreline.
With no immediate threat to worry about, Falco and Oliver joined the machine gun team next door around a campfire on the beach. It was located on the strip of land between the bunkers and the wire, which meant there was no need to worry about mines.
Other fires were visible to the north and south. Falco half expected an MP to come along and order them to douse the flames. But no one did. And that made sense. The Russians knew where Wales was—and were presumably watching from space.
As the sun dipped below the western horizon a soldier appeared on the top of the wall, and began to blow taps. Those who’d been seated stood as the sweet, sorrowful sound floated over the encampment. It was as if they were already in mourning .
Once it was over the talk was subdued as soldiers, sailors and marines settled in around their fires to eat MREs and shoot the shit. The one thing they didn’t talk about was the coming battle. None of them wanted to consider that—or what might befall them.
People left for their makeshift beds as the temperature fell, and the campfires were extinguished one-by-one. It was warm in Falco’s sleeping bag, but the pallets were hard, and he didn’t expect to sleep well. Especially given the nonstop noise of aircraft passing overhead. Was Parker nearby? Or was she flying out of Elmendorf? Either was a possibility.
When Oliver woke him Falco was surprised to discover that he’d been asleep for six hours. Oliver’s flashlight was on—but pointed at a wall. “Sorry, sir … But an MP came by. The Russians are coming. I have water in the Jetboils.”
Falco swore, battled his way out of the bag, and went out to visit the nearest latrine. It was cold, but the stars were visible, and that meant planes would be in the air. Thank god for that.
The hot water was ready by the time Falco returned. They had some government issued coffee, but it wasn’t half as good as the packets of Starbucks Lee always carried with him, and Falco missed the other JTAC’s cheerful nonsense. The two men were on the bunker’s roof sitting on five-gallon plastic buckets. Falco wrapped his fingers around the mug and took a sip. “So, what’s shaking?”
Oliver had the radios on, and was monitoring them. “The Russians are loading marines onto two Pomornik Class landing craft. Each of them can carry three tanks, plus one-hundred and forty troops. Add some BK-16s, plus lots of RIB boats, and we’ll have plenty of stuff to shoot at.”
“So they’re not going to sneak up on us. They’re coming straight in. That’s a surprise.”
“That’
s how it looks,” Oliver agreed. “Their ETA is approximately one hour. ”
“So I have time for breakfast,” Falco said, “and to freshen up. I want to look good for the Russians.”
“I’m sure they will appreciate that,” Oliver replied. “Plus you never get a second chance to make a first impression.” Both of them laughed. The air battle started two minutes later.
Both sides were determined to own the airspace over Wales and the pilots went after each other at 30,000 feet. The JTACs watched the twisting, turning contrails as they carved scratches into the pale blue sky. They could hear a mish mash of allied transmissions, but they were necessarily brief, and disconnected from the big picture. That made it impossible to know who was winning. Falco felt his heart jump as a male voice came over the radio. “Stripper … Snowman has a bogey, visual, one o’clock, 10 miles, angels 30.”
“Roger that,” Parker replied. “Stripper and Cricket turning to intercept. Over.”
Then her voice was gone as a third pilot spoke, and Falco was left to wonder if Parker would survive, and if they would meet again. Oliver’s voice interrupted his thoughts. The noncom was holding a pair of binoculars and looking out to sea. “It’s show time! Here they come.”
When Falco raised his glasses he saw that Oliver was correct. He was familiar with a variety of U.S. made landing craft, but had never seen a Pomornik Class hovercraft before. There were two of them separated by half a mile of cold gray water. The one Falco had focused on threw spray every which way. Further back, about half the length of the hull, a small pilot house could be seen. Two massive propeller housings were visible aft of that. They were driving the monster forward at something like 60mph. That was damned fast for something so large. Automatic weapons began to chatter as the incoming hovercraft opened fire.
What Falco estimated to be 30mm cannon shells triggered mines as they marched up the beach, found the wall, and began to pound it. In the meantime rockets were streaking in and scoring hits along the defensive line. If they struck a weapon position, good. But the real purpose of the barrage was to suppress defensive fire. And there was plenty of it as American fifty-caliber machine guns, mortars, and rocket launchers opened up on the hovercraft. The combined rattle of automatic weapons and the crack of exploding rockets was nearly deafening.
Falco saw columns of white water shoot up around the oncoming landing craft, followed by at least two hits, and a sudden upwelling of black smoke. But as the hovercraft neared the beach it became clear that the vessels could take a lot of punishment.
That’s why Oliver was on the horn with a pair of howitzer teams. And when they fired the results were clear to see. The hovercraft on the left survived a near miss. But the boat on the right took a hit near its stern. And when the smoke cleared the port engine and its mount were missing! The vessel veered, but kept coming, and managed to ground itself on the gently sloping beach. That’s when the black air cushion deflated, a ramp fell, and what might have been two hundred people surged out onto the gravelly incline. What happened next took Falco and presumably everyone else by surprise.
The invaders rushed forward seemingly eager to attack. Then came the explosions as some of the leaders stepped on mines and were blown to smithereens. Others fell grievously wounded to lay screaming on the beach. Those who could turned, some dragging wounded comrades behind them, to gain the relative safety of the boat.
But men with guns were there to block them. The marines fired at the gravel in front of the mob and forced it to turn back. That was when Falco realized that the people being forced up the beach and into the American minefield weren’t wearing uniforms, and didn’t have weapons! They were civilians, or POWs, captured somewhere, and brought east for safekeeping. Or worse yet, taken for the very purpose they had been put to, which was clearing a path for Russian marines!
And sure enough, as the prisoners were forced to enter the minefield, heavily armed troops poured out of the hovercraft to follow up. Orders crackled over the radio. “Don’t fire on the people in the minefield! Kill the soldiers behind them.”
It was the correct order to give, but largely meaningless, as mines continued to detonate. “Bring fire in on the waterline!” Falco said, and Oliver passed the order on.
Shells rumbled overhead, fell, and exploded among the marines. Dozens fell. So many of them that the survivors were forced back. And because the ramp had been raised, all the marines could do was stand knee deep in the chilly water, and huddle around the boat’s bow. Then mortar and howitzer rounds began to fall on the hovercraft themselves.
Meanwhile prisoners fortunate enough to survive the journey up through the minefield found themselves trapped against coils of razor wire. American soldiers risked their lives to go down and cut holes in the wire, even though more Russians were landing from RIB boats, and might pour through the newly created gaps.
Then the very thing that Falco had feared took place. “Overlook to all units,” a male voice said. “The Russians are landing in force both north and south of Wales. Reserves will engage. Watch your flanks. Over.”
At first Falco was only vaguely aware of the battles taking place north and south of him as he worked with Oliver to call fire in on the secondary landing craft that continued to land on the beach. The howitzers and the big 120mm mortars had plenty of smart rounds to work with. That meant the JTACs could use the laser designator to systematically target and destroy even small landing craft. And one or two rounds was typically sufficient to do the job. So it wasn’t long before a dozen columns of heavy black smoke were rising from the wrecks and drifting north.
At that point Falco was able to take a moment to look around. A wild tangle of contrails was sprawled across the sky indicating that American and Russian planes were battling for control of the airspace above Wales. Suddenly Falco heard what he knew to be Parker’s voice. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday , Stripper with catastrophic engine failure over Wales, two people on board; Mayday, Mayday, Mayday .”
As Falco looked south he saw an orange-red explosion at about eleven o’clock. A wing twirled as it fell. Smaller pieces of debris left individual smoke trails as they drifted down. A single chute appeared. Did it belong to Parker? Or to her Wizzo?
Falco grabbed a handheld radio. “I have to go Greg … Stay on it. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Oliver opened his mouth to speak, but never got the opportunity.
Falco had his M4 in hand as he jumped down into the street. He hit hard and began to run. The chute was no longer visible. That meant someone was down. Had he or she been captured? Were they on the run? Falco prayed for the second possibility.
Falco saw a civilian ATV up ahead. It was parked next to a bunker with the engine running. Was the driver inside? Probably. After slinging the M4 over a shoulder Falco jumped on board. There was a shout as Falco accelerated away, but he didn’t look back.
It didn’t take long to clear the fortified area, blow through a checkpoint, and climb the hill beyond. Falco paused at the top to look down into the depression beyond. A battle was underway. It appeared that six Stryker vehicles had been brought in aboard C-17s. The eight-wheeled vehicles were heavily armed. And they, along with a large contingent of infantry, were battling a Russian invasion force. Their backs were to the sea. But precarious though their position was the Russian marines had fire support from two gunboats positioned offshore. Falco watched in horror as a Stryker took a hit and blew up.
Was the equivalent of a Russian JTAC at work? Yes, that’s the way it appeared. Falco brought a small pair of binoculars up to his eyes. It didn’t take long to find the spotter’s location. He was where Falco would have been—which was atop some rocks near the shoreline. A spot with a good view.
And there, no more than a hundred yards away, was a parachute. It lay crumpled on the ground. Was there a body? No, Falco didn’t see one. Perhaps the person the chute belonged to had been captured—or maybe they were hiding. Falco opened the throttle. Slush flew. There was no cover. So all Falco could do
was use the ATV’s speed to reach the pile of rocks as quickly as possible.
Falco was halfway to his destination, and closing fast, when the Russian fired at him. Geysers of mud crossed in front of the quad. That was bad, but good in a strange sort of way, because the other JTAC couldn’t fire on him and spot for the gunboats. That would reduce the accuracy of incoming fire.
Falco braked as he neared the pinnacle, brought the ATV to a stop, and got off. Where was the Russian hiding? That question was foremost in Falco’s mind as he sought cover among the rocks. It felt good to have something solid behind him as the JTAC scanned his surroundings. There were no signs of movement.
It would’ve been nice to stay put, and let the Russian come to him, but the clock was ticking. What if the enemy JTAC decided to ignore him? And continued to bring fire in on the Strykers? Or what if the downed aviator was wounded? There were a lot of possibilities and none of them were good. That forced Falco to move. It seemed natural to circle the jumble of rocks in a clockwise direction. He was careful to keep the M4 up—as his eyes scanned the heights above. That’s where any JTAC worth his salt would be .
Falco was shuffling sideways, with his heart in his throat, when a small rock fell. It took a bounce, passed over his head, and landed somewhere behind him. The Russian stood, raised his AK-47, and fired. Bullets snapped past Falco’s right ear. The JTAC was silhouetted against the gray sky. The carbine seemed to fire itself. The Russian jerked as the slugs hit him, took an involuntary step backwards, and toppled out of sight.
Target down. Falco felt a profound sense of relief as shells landed south of him. Yes, the gunboats were firing, but their spotter was dead. That meant Falco could …
A rifle butt struck the side of Falco’s head and sent him reeling. It was a glancing blow, which was fortunate, since a solid hit might have been fatal. The Russian JTAC had an assistant! Falco should have considered that possibility but hadn’t.
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