Uprising

by Chris Harris

  In an isolated corner of the airfield a small arrangement of green tents went mostly unnoticed, subtly guarded by soldiers from the Canadian air force base also located at the airport. Lieutenant General Andrew Michaels, commander of the British Special Air Service Regiment, walked into the largest tent occupied by the majors and captains that commanded the troops.

  “Chaps, the Yanks have a job for us.”

  The gathered men quietened down and listened attentively.

  “The damn Chinese have released a virus that is killing thousands. Possibly millions. Details are sketchy, but there are some scientists trapped in a bunker at”—he glanced down at his notebook for the place—“Fort Dietrich, who were working on what they reckon is a similar virus. They believe that they can manufacture a cure if they can get hold of some samples of the virus itself.”

  General Michaels held up his hands. “Before you ask, I do not understand the science or the reason why scientists in other labs can’t do this. It is speed that is of the essence. If we can get those people out, along with their research stuff and little test tubes or whatever they keep it in, it will be the quickest way for the cure to be manufactured, saving months of work and millions of lives.”

  He gave a wry chuckle. “Now that is the easy bit. The problem is the base was heavily bombed in the initial stages of the attack. Their lab is in a deep underground bunker, so they were safe, but satellite images show the facility was badly damaged. The scientists report the doors are jammed, but as the they are on the wrong side of them, they cannot tell what is causing it. And to complicate matters further the area has a strong enemy presence.” He paused for a muted and sarcastic cheer to die down. “Therefore, I am committing both squadrons to the mission. We must insert into a facility deep within enemy territory, most likely dig around to find the entrance. And then extract the fifteen men and women and get them back to a safe country.” He looked at the assembled faces, knowing his elite well enough that he expected to see no fear.

  “Oh,” he added, “and the mission will take place under strict radio silence. We have received a disturbing report about an unknown Chinese anti-radio missile that almost killed the president.” He looked at the men facing him. “What’s that I hear? A piece of cake, I hear you all cry.”

  He waited for the polite chuckles to subside. “All the intel we have is on the table. Shall we get on with it, gents?”

  The SAS planned their missions collectively as was their tradition. Rank, and especially the divide between the officer classes and the non-commissioned ranks, held no sway in planning; only experience counted. To pass selection and be badged a member of the elite force, you were already the best the British Army had. The subsequent specialist training in all fields they received gave them unique skills, giving every member the right to take part in planning missions. Ironically, they called this process a ‘Chinese Parliament.’

  Two hours later the captains, majors and sergeants, the NCOs who were the backbone of the regiment, gathered in the command tent. Lieutenant General Andrew Michaels started the meeting.

  “Ginge, you are the senior officer, therefore will be in overall command so can you be the conduit for the meeting please. I know that’s unusual, but I can’t remember a time so many of us have been involved in one single mission. As the saying goes ‘we need to keep this simple, stupid.’”

  Ginge, or Major Benjamin Bowden was on his second tour with the SAS. Most officers only serve a single two to three-year stint before returning to their original regiment or a staff job, and only the best of that crop were ever invited back again.

  Major Bowden had completed his first secondment to the regiment as a captain, earning the respect and liking of everyone at the base through his leadership, bravery in action, and basic demeanor. When he reluctantly returned to his original regiment he soon achieved the rank of major and performed outstandingly. By his own admission he missed the regiment and all that it stood for. After a few conversations he reapplied and without hesitation, at the first opportunity, they welcomed him back to command A squadron.

  The nickname Ginge had been unsurprisingly bestowed upon him due to his bright red hair as soon as he stepped through the regiment’s door.

  The gap between ordinary ranks and officers was treated differently in the SAS in all matters; not just that of mission planning. Nicknames were common, as in every part of the army, but in the regiment, it was common for these nicknames to be used between the ranks. So even though he was now a major in command of one of the four SAS squadrons, everyone still referred to him as Ginge.

  “Thank you, sir,” he began. “We propose a HAHO insertion.” As the general did before him, he paused for the low cheer at the dangerous and ultimately exciting method of insertion. High altitude high opening required jumping out at an altitude requiring oxygen and popping their canopies to descend slowly with over an hour spent in the freezing sky. That way, there was no loud crack of a parachute deploying at low altitude. “Confirmation of what the Canadians can offer us in the way of transport should be here soon. Confidence is high that the two squadrons can secure the facility and begin the recovery operation. The blast bunnies,” he said with a smirk, referring to explosive ordnance specialists, “are also confident they can clear a route through whatever debris may be in the way. The issue we see is maintaining the perimeter we create if the Chinese forces are as strong as intel suggests in the area. A US Ranger battalion is currently in a hanger over the apron kicking their heels and chomping at the bit for some action. I had a quick chat with their CO and they are up for a bit of fun. Can I recommend you formally request for them to be seconded to us for the duration of the mission?”

  General Michaels nodded his agreement.

  “They have their own transport,” Ginge went on, “and now that the bulk of their personnel are this side of the pond the transports are starting to bring rotary wing assets and other goodies which could help us a lot. The extraction phase will begin immediately the targets are located. Fuel range is the issue though, as the facility is beyond the range of most rotary wings without refueling. Our initial thoughts are to extract the targets to an FOB,” he explained, not needing to explain the acronym for a forward operating base to these elite soldiers, “we will establish at the same time the operation commences in a national forest north of the location. Depending on air assets available, as soon as the targets are recovered we will then exfil everyone back to the FOB and hold that until we can get a ride home.”

  He looked up, waiting for any questions or problems to be pointed out that he hadn’t considered. Nobody offered any.

  “Logistics and communications are our two biggest headaches. We are planning a mission relying on air assets we don’t have yet, and once the mission starts the radio blackout will pose many unforeseen issues. On our own we can deal with it, but with the other forces we need to bring in to make this happen, if we don’t get this right, then I’m rather afraid it has cluster fuck stamped all over it, sir.”

  Michaels nodded his head in agreement. “I agree. This mission is top of the priority list so I’m sure any request of ours will be met will full cooperation.” He nodded toward the two majors. “If you two come with me we will get the Americans and Canadians up to speed on what we are up to. Captains, I don’t need to tell you this but go and get your boys ready and all equipment squared away. Also, make a list of any equipment we do not have and need, and I will do my best to fulfil it.”

  He paused and laughed. “And please tell the men to keep their sticky bloody fingers in their pockets until at least after the mission. The Americans and Canadians really are on our side this time, and I want to keep it that way. If anyone is discovered to have ‘just found’ something that belongs to someone else, the punishment I will think up will be just as inventive and twice as painful as their story of how they came across it.”

  “You heard the general,” Ginge said with a smirk, “I don’t want to see anyone with an AT4 or something el
se they just happened to find.”

  Chapter

  Twenty

  West Coast of the United States

  Ports, untouched by the bombing, but quickly taken control of by the Chinese, were rapidly filling with soldiers and equipment as the ships disgorged their cargoes as quickly as the facilities would allow, before moving aside to make way for the next waiting ship.

  Tens of thousands of men climbed into vehicles as soon as they were unloaded, or marched away in formation to board the hundreds of yellow school buses, requisitioned by the Chinese to transport the newest wave of reinforcements to hundreds of locations across central and western United States. Requisitioned Air China passenger jets, which had been flying soldiers initially straight from China, began distributing more soldiers to locations further inland. Every ship that docked or airplane that landed added more numbers to the hundreds of thousands already stamping their boots over American soil.

  Fifty Miles off the Coast

  “Yes, General Welch, we are in position,” answered Commodore Phillipe James, commander of the Canadian Pacific fleet.

  “Understood, Commodore. You are free to proceed as soon as you receive confirmation the other forces are in position.”

  “Affirmative, sir,” James replied. “We will await the signal.”

  “Good hunting and God speed. Out,” replied the general as he disconnected the call and turned to the officer at his side. “Update?”

  “Sir, the Russians have one cruiser and three destroyers, and we currently have four Arleigh Burkes just outside the radar detection range of the Chinese blocking force. More are on the way. The littoral-class ships with their low radar profile have managed to sneak in closer without being detected. Our subs have also slipped in as close as they dare. As soon as they act on the Canadian feint we will be ready to strike.”

  They watched the large screens showing the positions of all the allied ships as they closed in on the coast. It was a waiting game. He trusted the commanders who were putting themselves into harm’s way to know when the time to strike was.

  “Sir? Admiral O’Reilly on the line,” a communications officer said.

  General Welch pressed a button on the control panel in front of him. “Go ahead, Jim, you are on speaker.”

  “Sir. We are in position. Permission to go?”

  The general stared at the screen for a few moments. This operation they had called “Operation Chinese Laundry” was going to be the first major strike against the Chinese. Its name stuck after an aide suggested it tongue in cheek after General Welch summed the mission by saying it should hang them out to dry.

  “Granted, Admiral. Go get the bastards.”

  “Thank you, General, we will.”

  Chinese Type 002 Carrier, off the Coast of California

  Captain Wayne Grant awoke to the sound of Klaxons blaring throughout the ship. Fully alert within seconds of waking, he threw on his clothes and ran toward the operations room. As he ran, the rumbling and whooshing of rockets being launched reverberated through the ship. He flattened himself against a bulkhead as a group of sailors ran past, donning flash hoods and helmets as they hurried to whatever post they had when action stations was called.

  “Now it starts,” he muttered acidly to himself. “I knew it wasn’t over yet.”

  The operations room was hive of quiet, determined activity. The Klaxon was still blaring, calling all hands to action stations, but inside the room it could barely be heard. They were the ones who activated the alarm, so it did not need to be drowning out the voices within, lest an urgent command or report be misheard or misunderstood. Sailors sat at their allocated stations monitoring the screens, some talking rapidly through their headsets, others watching monitors, pressing buttons, or adjusting dials.

  The officer in charge stood at a desk in the center of the room. His job was to collate all the different and varied information and report to the captain who was most likely on the bridge, not in a windowless highly protected room, deep in the bowls. The captain could only see to the horizon whereas those in the operations room could see far beyond that, using radars and other highly sensitive and advanced equipment.

  Wayne Grant knew that if he was to find out what was going on, the operations center was where he needed to be. Also, the coward in him knew it was the safest place to be. Its armored walls and advanced fire protection systems would enable it to remain operational even if the ship was heavily damaged. The officer in charge scowled at him as he entered and then turned away to keep on top of all the information that was being channeled to him.

  Grant stood against a wall out of the way and listened to and watched what was going on, and rapidly understood they were under attack from ships to their north. Three Canadian frigates had entered their radar umbrella and at extreme range launched a volley of harpoon missiles at the Chinese fleet. When the ships were first detected, they were identified and plotted but no further action was taken. They were not at war with Canada and with instructions not to treat them as hostile they observed and no more.

  Radio calls for them to turn around and steam away went unanswered. The captain had just ordered a flight of Shenyang J15 fighters to take off and investigate further when the missile launches were detected. The ship’s automated point defense systems took over control and launched its own missiles, sending them flying towards the Canadians at supersonic speeds to destroy the incoming harpoons.

  Grant knew the capabilities of the ship and the others forming the rings of protection around those currently unloading at the American ports. He could not understand what the Canadians thought they were doing. Three puny outdated frigates could not take on the power they were facing unless there were bigger hands to play. The point defense missiles fired were computer-controlled fire-and-forget munitions. The computers worked out the probability of a kill and if it fell below one hundred percent it automatically launched another.

  The ship’s system linked with all the other ships in the fleet and they worked together without the need for human input to destroy any incoming threat. At least three missiles fired from different trajectories were aimed at each incoming one.

  A sailor at another station called out the hits as one by one the nine harpoon missiles launched from the Canadian ship were destroyed. The officer in charge barked an order. Grant, fluent in Mandarin, understood what was being said.

  A sailor at one of the terminals replied, “Targets plotted. Frigates 530 and 619 also have good acquisition. Recommend multiple launch, sir. They are turning away and increasing speed.” The officer talked rapidly through his headset. He was requesting permission to attack the Canadian frigates.

  Another sailor shouted, “Sir. Four aircraft detected inbound seventy-five miles and closing fast. No transponder signals being received. Computer calculates them to be low-profile high-speed targets. High probability of being enemy fighter planes.”

  The officer relayed this information to the admiral of the fleet who was on the bridge six decks above him. He finished talking to his superior with, “Yes, sir,” and then shouted to the room, “Launch at target ships. Plot air targets and engage if they come within twenty-five miles.”

  He then turned to the American standing in the corner and said, “You Westerners are foolish. Do you think that a few ships can do any harm to us? Every missile you fired at us has been blown out of the sky and now you send a few airplanes against us.”

  He paused and looked up at the low bulkhead as the distinctive sound of an airplane launching from the flight deck rumbled through the ship’s hull. “Our fighters are launching to meet this pathetic threat head on. Soon they will see who the true global power is.”

  Grant was a fighter pilot at heart, and even though he had betrayed his country he still knew and respected the capabilities of his former countrymen. His role as advisor led him many times to tell his new masters to never underestimate what they were up against.

  He looked at the officer with distain. “I am on y
our side if you haven’t noticed. This attack is a feint.”

  The officer erupted at him, “A feint! What do you mean? They have launched nine missiles at us and not one came within thirty miles of our ships. The rest of your navy has run away and are in hiding with trembling knees waiting to surrender to us. Our ships are now chasing the Canadians away; our missiles will reduce them to burning hulks. It will show the rest of the world what will happen if anyone tries to stand in our way. America is ours.” He clenched a fist as he finished his vitriol.

  Grant, annoyed at the stupid arrogance of the man, bit back. “Do you really think it is going to be this easy? We do not do suicide missions. If the Canadians have attacked and are turning away, it is for a reason. Can’t you see that? This is just the beginning, they are drawing you away, dividing us further. It is the oldest trick in the book and your arrogance is making you fall for it.”

  Chapter

  Twenty-One

  Kentucky

  The Southern Kentucky militia had not fought the Chinese yet, but they had been far from idle. As soon as the reports of the bombs came in, and the destruction was seen on the television, the men and women of the militia had sprung into action; they had quietly gathered up supplies, loaded their trucks and cars, and had headed for the secluded campsites nestled in the Kentucky Hills.

  Over a thousand men, women, and children were scattered in camps, hunting cabins, and compounds of all sizes throughout the vastness of the Black Mountain region. They came from all works of life across the socio-economic divide, but they all held the same belief: one day they would need to push back against government oppression and tyranny.