by Chris Harris
He knew the Russians had landed in San Antonio and itched to get involved in the action. He was a member of the elite forces of the United States and the fact that the Russians were running a mission on US soil hurt his professional pride.
“Bear,” he said, “remind General Welch I have a unit here ready and waiting to assist in POTUS extraction.”
“When they need you I’m sure they’ll come a hollering, Troy. But I will forward your request,” Gus said to him, his face showing concern. “How are your people holding up?”
“Desperate for some payback, Gus,” he answered with a tired sigh, “desperate. Can I request we do a recon mission to the camp at Caldwell? It will give us a more accurate assessment of enemy strength and location in the area. We are better when we are doing something and a few days in the bush will stop them sitting here brooding. If the infection has reached the camps, we need to know. Anything we can give the scientists at Fort Deitrich could help them.”
Senator Gus Howard was one of the few senior political figures who was both alive and not under Chinese control. He also had the respect of everyone at the Holly River Base. His position as one of the leaders was not by invite or by asking. The role naturally suited him, and he found himself doing it without realizing.
Gus looked at Troy and smiled.
“Come on, Troy. You know as well as I that you get every communication I do. If you are asking for permission, then it’s because you don’t expect it to be granted. Whereas if the request is agreed by me then the call comes in and you ain’t here, I’m the one General Welch rips a new asshole.”
Troy shrugged. “Can’t blame a man for trying. Look if we leave now, we know the route is clear almost to the camp. We can be there and back in a day. I think the intel gain will be worth it. It will also be a good opportunity to integrate the various units that have arrived here and for me to see how good they all claim to be.”
“So, it’s a training mission now?”
“Oh come on, Gus,” Troy said, “we just want to do something useful, that’s all. My men and I are hurting; we failed to protect the POTUS. The camp mission and the one to Fort Deitrich have been put on hold. We are no use to the country sitting round a campfire stirring a pot of beans. Most of the militia leaders are not due here for a few days, we may as well make ourselves useful and get our finely tuned asses in the fight.”
Numbers at the Holly River Base were increasing daily as more followed the cryptic message on posters he had distributed. Bear had contacted some of the militias in Virginia and other states. With the already established contact with General Welch at Cheyenne Mountain, Gus had organized a war council and invited militia leaders to attend with the aim of agreeing how the various units could coordinate their efforts. Most were due to arrive over the next few days.
Gus smiled at the captain. “Let me make a call. Bear, get me General Welch please.”
A short while later Gus went to find Troy who was sitting outside around a fire, drinking coffee with his men.
“Captain Gardner. You have thirty-six hours,” he said with a smile. “They are working on the logistics to extract the president. Her location is currently the safest place for her to be until the best plan is agreed. You have been authorized to gather intel on the camp and the location of enemy forces in and around the Caldwell area.”
Troy nodded his thanks to the senator and stood up and addressed his men, saying simply, “Ten minutes.”
He did not need to tell his men what equipment to take. They were superbly trained and would know.
Five minutes later as Troy was going through the route and the alternatives with his sergeants, the men loaded the last of their equipment onto the trucks.
Caldwell
Toby and Harris stood at the fence with the entire population of the camp.
Uncertainty was rife and wild rumors abound. Panic had spread when one loud voice assured everyone that the Chinese had pulled back as they were about to attack them. Hearing this, people either tried to scale the fence or find a safe place to hide.
Harris stood calmly in the middle of the furor, his hand supporting Toby who was swaying unsteadily on his feet. He was as confused as the rest of the camp, but also knew that no one else had any idea what was going on so did not react to the wild speculation being spread by the lips of terrified individuals.
When the masses had fled from the perimeter of the fence, he led Toby to it. Escaping from the camp seemed the right move to make. The guards would not have left unless there was a good reason and they had deliberately knocked over the water barrel as they departed.
He studied the fence. It was made from twelve-foot-high heavy-duty chain link, topped with a double row of razor wire.
None of the panicking inmates had successfully scaled it, all getting entangled and badly cut by the razor-sharp barbs. With a pair of wire cutters, you could be through it in seconds, but he knew no such tool existed in the camp. He walked up to the gate to inspect it. It was secured by a padlock and a locking bar that had been dropped into place. A lorry would be able to smash through it, but half-starved weakened men would be able to do no more than rattle it.
Eventually an air of defeat and despondency settled over the exhausted hungry and thirsty inmates. Gathering back in the yard most slumped to the ground, all their energy spent. Harris looked at the men. He never chose to stand out from the crowd, preferring the solitary life working the late shift as a security guard at a security firm in Cleveland and spending his off-duty hours in his apartment watching television.
When the attacks happened he eventually let two people into his secured area and, to his surprise, found their company to his liking. They had stuck together when he deemed it safe to leave and he assumed the role as their guide and protector, finding that he was more capable in the role than he had ever thought.
When they were captured by the Chinese and Marissa was separated from them, he continued to protect and look after Toby. Looking at the men in the yard he knew that most had given up and were just waiting for whatever was going to happen next to arrive.
If he could have gotten Toby out of the camp alone he would have, but for the plan he was forming in his mind he needed help from others. Still supporting Toby, he walked to the center of the yard. His physical size made him an imposing figure amongst the ragged malnourished group and eyes were drawn to him. The low murmur of voices subsided into silence.
“We need to get out of this camp. Not one of us knows if the Chinese will come back or what they are planning next, but I think that remaining here will be more dangerous than leaving.”
A voice called out, “We can’t get out. Don’t you think we haven’t tried?”
“Yes, but you haven’t been working together. We can’t break down the gate, it’s too strong. The ground is too hard, and the fence dug in too deep to dig under it. If we work together to construct a ladder or platform, we can build something that will enable us to get over the fence.”
Another voice: “And then what do we do?”
“Anything is better than staying here, waiting to die. There is no water in here and lack of that will kill us in days. I don’t know what is out there, we may get captured again or we may find somewhere safe away from the Chinese. If we stay here, we will definitely die, if we leave we may die. I know which option I prefer.”
Most of the men in the yard looked at him and nodded. They sat more erect and alert, the veil of despair lifting as the potential of escape and life was realized.
Harris looked at the faces staring at him. “If we all can go and find long lengths of lumber and something to fix them together we can make a start.”
One voice called back, a slight lisp adorning the words, “Where are we meant to find those?”
Keeping calm, he replied, “Look around us. There should be plenty of timber we can scavenge, the blankets can be used to tie everything together. Look, I don’t really know, we just need to find what we can and do our best.”<
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Galvanized and with purpose most went off to start looking for materials and soon the sounds of banging and splintering wood echoed around the yard. The pile of lumber grew. Harris organized a few who claimed to have practical skills to begin constructing something that would enable them to scale the fence. It was slow work involving a lot of trial and error on how to securely join timber together with what they had available to make it strong enough, but eventually two rough-looking ladders were made.
The camp had united under the common aim to escape, and many willing hands helped lift the first section into place. After a few precarious moments the other section was hauled up and let drop over the high fence to form a ladder down the other side. Blankets were gathered to place over the razor wire.
As soon as it was in place everyone cheered, but then the mood changed. The way out of the camp was open and everyone wanted to be first to escape. Harris, who had climbed up the ladder to test it and place the blankets, turned and saw the crowd that seconds ago had been unified in success, jostling and pushing past each other in their eagerness to be first.
He held his hands out and bellowed, “STOP!”
The advancing crowd paused.
“We don’t know what’s out there yet or which direction is the safest to go. If you run off in the wrong direction, you could run headlong into the Chinese. Please could we stop and think for a moment.”
The crowd, seeing the sense of what he was saying, backed off a few paces as he descended the ladder.
“I suggest a few of us go and check the immediate area out. I don’t know the area at all—are there any locals who can volunteer?”
Four stepped forward to volunteer and the rest of the camp lined the fences and watched as they scaled the ladder and ran off to reconnoiter the area.
Chapter
Fifteen
Cheyenne Mountain
General Welch sat in his chair at the command center watching the screens displaying live satellite images and plotting the Chinese fleet’s course.
The second Chinese wave was approaching the western seaboard of the United States at maximum revolutions. Like an approaching swarm of malevolent monsters, they promised death to their enemies.
An exhausted-looking young lieutenant turned to him. “Sir, that’s confirmation. They are splitting and heading for four different ports. ETA between six and eight hours.”
Banging his fist hard against the desk he exclaimed, “The goddamn bastards will be landing before we can do anything about it! Dammit, get me O’Reilly on the line.”
Seven of the nine carrier battle groups in the US fleet had been in their home ports when the Chinese attacked. The ports had not been targeted by the nuclear weapons, but by the new and unknown weapon the Chinese had unleased from their carrier-launched stealth bombers.
Despite going on full alert the moment the first inbound missiles were detected, the new weapon, designed with the utmost secrecy by the Chinese, was impossible for the many layers of defense that a carrier group could throw up around itself to detect or counter.
The bombs had fallen from the sky unnoticed until the first detonation which heralded the arrival of a barrage of high explosives seemingly coming from nowhere. The first wave neutralized any offensive capability of these fleets, which for so long had been the most powerful force projector on the planet. They had the capability to sail anywhere and instantly be the most dominant force in the neighborhood, bringing either peace or annihilation depending on whose side you were on. The mere arrival of a United States carrier battle group had the ability to diffuse potential trouble spots quickly.
Now, as the second and third waves of bombs fell, all that was left of the once proud and mighty symbols of a global power were the burnt, twisted remains of their hulls. Only two carrier groups survived: The USS Theodore Roosevelt was in the Persian Gulf and the USS Ronald Reagan was in it the Southern Pacific partaking in a joint maritime training exercise with the combined Australian and New Zealand navies.
With the reports of unknown weapons destroying ships at anchor in their home ports, the mood on the remaining flotillas was dark. General Welch had, on day one of the attacks, been fearful the remaining ships at sea could become targets, and had ordered all the ships of the Pacific fleet to head to a friendly foreign port, and the ships in the Persian Gulf to ‘get the hell out of there’ and make best speed to the South Atlantic.
The only vessels he remained deployed were the submarines. About half were in a home port at the time of the attack and so shared the same fate as the surface vessels, but the others were still out there, silently cruising through the ocean’s depths, awaiting orders.
Admiral Jim O’Reilly had assumed command of the Pacific fleet following the destruction of the base at Pearl Harbor. Transferring his flag to the USS Ronald Reagan, he had spent the time gathering and marshalling the forces at his disposal ready for the order to strike back to be given.
The Ohio ballistic missile submarines, or ‘Boomers’ as they were referred to by most in the navy, he positioned in a line across the Pacific Ocean ready at a single command to unleash their cargoes of either nuclear or conventional destruction. Every fast attack submarine available was either patrolling the Atlantic, trying to track the unknown number of very stealthy Chinese submarines that had launched nuclear missiles at the US, or were shadowing the huge fleet of Chinese vessels that was now hours away from the West Coast.
General Welch had the call set on speaker. “Jim, it’s Doug,” he said, the tiredness making his voice heavy. “Report.”
“Every vessel we have is at the highest level of alert. Just give me the command and I can fill the seas with Ticonderoga-class Cruisers and destroyers and thousands of pissed off sailors,” he declared vehemently. “The subs are tracking the Chinese fleet, but the net they have thrown around themselves is large and tight. If we start poking them, I fear we will lose some subs for no gain.”
“There is nothing we can do to stop them landing, I agree,” Welch said, “but how soon can you get some of your ships in strike range?”
“The subs are already there. In eighteen hours I can have ten destroyers past the date line and in theatre. The carrier group at best speed is five days out.”
“Jim, the Russians and Canadians are closer. I’m authorizing you to open up channels of communication and get a workable plan of attack together. Report back ASAP.”
“Yes, sir. I am also getting the intelligence about another build-up of troops in Chinese and Korean ports. Do I need to consider the option of a third invasion fleet setting sail?”
Welch sighed again. “It looks that way. They are not being as secretive about this and as you can tell they seem to be stripping the cupboards bare on transport. Agents in country are reporting cruise liners being commandeered for troops. We are trying to figure out what naval assets they have left to protect this fleet. Therefore, I want you to plan an attack on the second invasion fleet. It will tie up any Chinese forces and stop them being redeployed to protect the third wave.” He paused, not wanting his next words to sound trite.
“They have hit us hard and we are in a world of hurt, but now we have the president back we can start looking at our offensive options. The Brits are back on side and are assisting in getting our European-based troops home.” Welch chuckled mirthlessly. “Well, to Canada at least. I am awaiting confirmation from them of what military resources they can also offer. The board is set, and the pieces are starting to drop into place. If we can get the next phase right, we can go from our current defensive posture and begin the containment stage.”
“That’s great news, sir. I think that at this stage my people will be more interested in blowing them back to hell. Tell me,” he said changing the subject, “how is life at the mountain now?”
“Better now I can go outside for some fresh air, thanks. The Russians have landed in force and have set up a strong perimeter. I don’t think the Chinese will be back any time soon. It’s a strange w
orld we are living in, Jim. We are accommodating our new allies in the complex itself as well as outside. I’m getting used to the sight of the Russians poking about making themselves at home, while a part of me is wondering what the hell they are doing and if they are planting bugs or other clever things their intel guys can come up with.”
The admiral laughed again. “We’d be doing the same, I’m sure. Anyway, I’ll be back as soon as I get a plan together with the Canadians and Russians. O’Reilly out.”
Pacific Ocean, 200 Miles West of San Diego
Captain Wayne Grant was perturbed. In the first few days following the bombardment and subsequent invasion, all the news had been positive. The initial goals had been achieved and ground forces were spreading throughout the country, taking control of vast areas and the citizens they contained. Any surviving military assets were seized and placed under Chinese control.
He had anticipated an American counter attack and whilst most celebrated the lack of one, he could not understand why no attempt had been made to stop them so far. His Chinese masters were boasting that the American devil had been utterly defeated. When he had tried to instill caution, stating that most of the Pacific fleet was out there and untouched, he was ridiculed and shouted down. He was reminded that he wasn’t one of them, at least by the bravest of the Chinese officers, and he bit his tongue so as not to hit them with too much truth that they didn’t want to hear.
They wanted his insight on the American mind, that much was clear, and had listened and learned from what he had told them over the years, but now the sight of the impending victory clouded their judgment. He believed that their arrogance blinded them.
As far as they were concerned the country was leaderless, the president had been captured, caught hiding away in a bunker. The country would soon surrender and become a satellite of China. They could not comprehend that others would, without orders from the highest level, continue the fight. They thought that the missing Pacific fleet was in hiding and when the surrender was broadcast, would meekly return and bow to their new masters.