Uprising

by Chris Harris

  The duel between the incoming missiles and the fleet’s defense systems was focusing the attention of the fleet’s surveillance systems. Most of their sensor and radar capabilities was directed toward the Canadian attack. Other systems still maintained a 360-degree coverage, but there was so much incoming information they were struggling to compute all the data.

  As the battle raged to the north, west, and south, the combined American and Russian surface fleet waited for the order to commence their attack. Deep beneath the waves each of the detected Chinese submarines had a silent killer tracking its course with yet more submerged executioners stealthily creeping toward the outer ring of the Chinese ships.

  Cheyenne Mountain

  General Welch and his Russian counterpart sat side by side in the cavernous control room at Cheyenne Mountain watching the information being relayed on the large screen in front of them.

  The general sipped from the mug of coffee an aide continually kept full of the strong caffeine-filled black liquid and said quietly to Russian by his side, “I think we are about ready to commit. Do you agree, my friend?”

  The Russian nodded. “Da, I agree Comrade General.”

  He called out, “Get me Admiral O’Reilly on the horn.”

  The voice of the admiral came through the speakers a few seconds later. “Doug. We’re all set. Every sub is reporting targets acquired and locked. Those boys are catching up fast, but their tin cans aren’t as good or as quiet as they think they are,” he said with cruel glee. “All surface assets are in position. I’m just waiting for my gut to tell me it’s time to press the button and then we will give those Communist bastards an ass kicking.”

  “Okay, Jim. Go get ’em.” The general ended the call. Not one to waste words he knew the admiral had far more important tasks to do than waste time talking to him.

  USS Ronald Reagan

  Admiral O’Reilly sat back in his chair and mentally went through all aspects of the assault he had planned, checking for the one hundredth time that nothing had been missed. Understanding that no battle ever sticks to the plan after the opening salvo is fired, he knew that the time for planning was over and it was now time to commit tens of thousands of men and women and billions of dollars of the most advance military equipment built to battle.

  He picked up the handset by the side of him and ordered the attack to begin.

  Chinese Type 002 Carrier Operations Center

  “Sir, multiple inbound surface contacts,” a sailor shouted.

  The officer in charge scowled at him. “I know, you fool,” he snarled. “Do you think I don’t know?”

  The missiles fired from the Canadian ships and airplanes were wreaking havoc amongst the northern sector of their defenses. As intended, their point defense systems could not cope with the volume of incoming targets. Two destroyers and three frigates had been hit and were calling for urgent assistance, and many other ships had expended most of their munitions when their automated systems kept firing until the last incoming missiles were destroyed.

  The officer was overwhelmed with too much information and multiple requests for orders and assistance that he had not comprehended what the young sailor was telling him. All ships, no matter how technologically advanced, were based around a modern idea of war where they may be attacking or defending themselves but only from or at a limited number of targets. The concept of a mass sea battle where the fleets of nations slugged it out across the oceans was thought to be a thing of the past, last fought in the Pacific campaign of World War II and considered impossible after the end of the Cold War.

  Those battles of World War II were fought by airplanes and shell fire, both of which could be replenished at sea after the battle. Firepower on modern ships came from their missiles not their deck guns, which were mainly now limited to one, albeit powerful and with advanced targeting capabilities. The logistics of reloading the launch systems was a dangerous and complicated process that mostly needed to be done in a dockyard.

  Many ships on the outer ring of the northern sector of the Chinese fleet, although they had effectively, except for the acceptable loss of a few ships, defeated the Canadian attack, were now low on missiles and vulnerable to another.

  “Sir, missiles inbound from other vectors,” the sailor tried again.

  This made the officer stop and run to his screen.

  Another sailor shouted out, “Detecting torpedoes in the water. Not ours, sir. Calculating targets now.”

  He waited for the information to display on his screen. “None heading for the fleet, displaying tracks now.” He paused and held his hands to his headphones as if to help him hear more clearly. “Detecting one, no two explosions, unknown source.”

  The officer shouted in anger, “They are targeting our submarines you idiot!”

  Song-class Submarine

  The fate of the captain, his submarine, and the men who served under him was similar to many of the other submarines the Chinese had deployed to protect the invasion fleet.

  Submerged, they had formed a hidden outer ring around the fleet, shadowing its progress across the vast emptiness of the Pacific Ocean, all the time searching for any contact, however distant, that may indicate an enemy submarine probing the net they had thrown around the surface ships. Detecting occasional contacts which had vanished when investigated further, he was confident the seas around them were clear of any underwater threats.

  The last news he had received was that the American president had been captured and was about to sign the surrender. He would not have become a captain on one of his homeland’s most advanced submarines if he had not been a loyal party member, and so believed, without question, the propaganda and rhetoric spewed forth by his commanders as to the success of the operation and how the United States was a beaten and cowed animal just waiting for them to control.

  The captain stood in the control room as it glided quietly through the deep and was proud of the part he and his crew had played in his country’s latest adventure. His mind wandered briefly as he imagined the stories he would tell his grandson as he sat on his knee, listening to him recount the time he was a submarine captain and invaded America, when the sonar man screamed.

  “Two torpedoes astern. Range five thousand meters, speed sixty miles per hour.” He paused, then added, “Computer calculates they are Mk-48s.”

  Snapped from his daydream, the captain let the tea cup he was holding drop and smash on the floor. “Maximum revolutions,” he bawled, “depth two hundred. I want the course plotted and countermeasures ready to launch. Weapons, work out firing solution for counter attack.”

  The submarine shuddered as the engines applied full power and began the age-old tactic of trying to outrun the incoming torpedo and get below the thermocline layer to confuse the incoming torpedoes’ targeting systems. Watching the crew around him, the captain knew that in all probability it was too late. Five thousand meters was too close to run from and, even though they would try, all increasing speed and changing depth would do was add extra seconds to their lives. He could tell from looks he was receiving from his crew that they realized the harsh truth too. Their grim looks of determination showed that they would play the game to the end and maybe, just maybe, would win.

  Being a submariner was normally a quiet and stealthy profession as you crept through the oceans using skill and guile to avoid detection. But not today as fifteen Chinese submarines suddenly started making enough noise to be heard by every listening device over the vast area of water as their propellers churned the water and launched electronic and noise countermeasures in vain attempts to escape death.

  The American, Russian, and Canadian submarine captains were too experienced compared to their Chinese counterparts, who as a country did not have the same level of submarining training or heritage. They had spent days using every ounce of their skill to slowly maneuver themselves to be in the optimum position to strike.

  In the Song-class submarine, the captain listened as a sailor called out
the rapidly reducing distance of the approaching torpedoes. He had a momentary moment of hope as an explosion shook the hull when one of the torpedoes exploded as a decoy worked and tricked its targeting systems. It disappeared when the sonar operator shouted, the panic in his voice evident. “The second one has reacquired us. Distance five hundred meters.”

  He had time to turn to his second-in-command and shake his hand and say, before the warhead exploded in the stern of the submarine, “It has been an honor to serve with you.” Their eyes locked in the tense seconds before the torpedo impacted.

  Death came in an instant as the hull, massively compromised by the explosion, imploded and water under immense pressure filled the compartments, its force blowing open the watertight doors that were intended to separate them. An invisible wall of super compressed air, heated to hundreds of degrees Celsius, rushed ahead of the wall of water instantly incinerating everything in its path a fraction of a second before the water extinguished the brief but deadly fireball.

  The hull sank rapidly into the unfathomable depths, screeching and groaning as the increasing pressure buckled and crushed it to an unrecognizable lump of scrap.

  Only one submarine escaped this fate.

  The sinking of the Chinese submarines was the signal for the ballistic missile subs to launch their payloads. Both US and Russian ballistic missile submarines launched Tomahawk and Kalibr cruise missiles respectively and they skimmed the ocean, honing their deadly payloads toward the Chinese.

  Coordinating with these launches perfectly, the combined surface fleets of both navies surged forwards and launched a mass volley of more cruise and anti-ship missiles, which closely followed the first wave of ship killers streaking across the oceans to inundate the Chinese.

  Chapter

  Twenty-five

  Major Benjamin Bowden looked out of the open rear loading ramp of the Hercules Transport aircraft he and the men of A squadron were in at the countryside passing not far below him. His preference would have been to do a high-altitude night drop, but the logistics of the whole operation meant daylight was crucial.

  Both SAS squadrons, supported by over five hundred US Rangers, were in a fleet of planes flying a tree-top level circuitous route, dodging all major concentrations of Chinese forces, heading for the skies above Fort Deitrich. The original plan to HAHO parachute in had changed: as the mission planning progressed it was thought a night drop would be too risky, potentially scattering their forces over too wide an area to be effective. The men of the Special Air Service were all qualified jumpers, but not enough of the rangers were versed in the dangerous insertion method, which ruled it out entirely.

  Another force was setting up refueling staging posts for the fleet of helicopters heading toward a location already secured by another smaller detachment of rangers in a remote forest clearing north of their target.

  He was linked to the cockpit of the plane by a headset plugged into a port on the bulkhead behind him. When the captain informed him the drop zone was approaching he removed the headset and stood up, indicating to his men to get ready as the red light lit up on the rear bulkhead.

  They all stood and shuffled toward the ramp. The jumpmaster secured to the plane by a strong umbilical cord stood at the edge of the ramp looking down at the ground rushing by.

  Jumping without a static line was risky from the altitude they were at, but his men were superbly trained, and he could rely on them. The light changed to green and without hesitation Bowden took a few quick shuffling steps and leapt from the rear of the plane. It took a few seconds to stabilize from the buffeting of the airstream before he pulled the release handle on the parachute which streamed out of the pack on his back, fluttered for a few nervous seconds, and then filled with air, arresting his rapid descent. Quickly finding the control loops he looked down to choose his landing spot on the rapidly approaching ground.

  Twenty seconds after leaving the Hercules, he pressed the release catch on his parachute, loosened the straps that held his weapon tightly to his chest, and raised his rifle searching for targets.

  Looking around he could see the rest of his command doing similar. Not far away the skies were filled with other ballooning parachutes as the skilled pilots dropped their cargos over their pre-determined drop locations.

  Pulling a ruggedized tablet computer from a pouch he checked it as his men gathered in a defensive cordon around him. A squadron were the rescue squad and B squadron were to provide close support and extra manpower if needed. The rangers had been dropped at four points around the perimeter of the base and were tasked with being the first line of defense against any Chinese attack. This was thought highly likely as intelligence placed a sizeable force in the town that bordered the science facility.

  His sergeant knelt next to him. “Which way, Ginge?”

  He pointed to the remains of a building next to the clearing they had landed in. “For once, the flyboys got it right on the money and dropped us on top of it. It’s that one.”

  The building, or what was left of it, was in a mess. The precision strike by China’s new secret weapon had destroyed it and most of the others he could see. The walls and roof had partially collapsed, steel supports leaned at angles, and smoke rose from fires that had burned out but still smoldered.

  “Where are the runners?” he asked. “Before we begin we need to make sure everyone is in position.”

  With the new and unknown capabilities of the Chinese radio-locating rocket system they had chosen to go old-school in their communication procedures. Runners had been selected from each unit who would be tasked with relaying information between the forces scattered around the base.

  The sergeant called out and four men stepped forward, and after being shown where to go on the major’s tablet they set off running. While they were waiting for them to return Bowden and his sergeant entered the building to see how big a task they faced.

  Carefully climbing over and under fallen debris they worked their way deeper into the wreckage. The news was good and bad. They could see the access door and now understood why the scientists were trapped inside. Large sections of the steel roof structure had collapsed and were piled up against it.

  The runners had returned by the time they had extricated themselves from the building. All the rangers were in position and digging in, awaiting the expected Chinese attack.

  “Okay boys, shall we get on with it?” he started. “B squadron set up a perimeter. A squadron wait here until the demolition boys decide how many of us they’ll need.”

  The explosive experts entered the ruined building and conducted a survey of the task ahead. One reported back quickly estimating it should take an hour or two to clear and stabilize the exit route for the trapped scientists and they would need a further twenty men to help shift the debris.

  Major Bowden studied his watch. “The choppers should be here by then. Crack on, Sergeant.”

  Due to the black out on radio transmissions, the plan was for two Apache attack helicopters, that were already at the extraction point a twenty-minute flight time away, to fly to their location. If those on the ground were not fighting the Chinese the helicopters were to land and get further instructions, or if they were engaged to use their rockets and canons to assist. They were only to land if the pilots deemed it safe to do so. They would then report back and if they had been given the ‘Go’ by the SAS, would escort the transport helicopters back to the base to extract them.

  Radios were only authorized to be used if there was no other option and the success or failure of the mission depended on it, making the potential risk of a salvo of missiles honing-in on their signal acceptable.

  He ordered twenty men to be on standby to help those inside the building, then arrayed the rest around the building and got them busy preparing defensible positions. Soon cracks of explosions sounded from the building as steel beams and other debris were blasted clear.

  A corporal near him was unpacking and preparing a small drone. It was a new addi
tion to their equipment, and one that many other armed forces and government agencies were beginning to use, giving them the capability to quickly and easily gather intelligence and survey the area around them. The four rotors of the drone emitted a shrill whirr as it rose quickly and soared away. The corporal studied the screen on the small control console as the high-resolution camera sent back the live feed. Major Bowden ignored the temptation to see what was being displayed. He had a job to do and if anything was spotted he would be the first to find out.

  Clearing the debris from the doorway was progressing. Cutting tools which would have made the job a lot easier are heavy, so they had been unable to bring anything but simple hand tools when parachuting in. Using their ingenuity, they were working their way through the mass of twisted and burnt metal using explosives to cut through beams and whatever they could find and use to prop up and stabilize places that needed it. The scientists knew they were coming and could most likely hear the efforts to rescue them. The major stood at the entrance to the building watching the soldiers clear the door area, nervously drumming his fingers against his leg.

  A shout from the drone operator caused him to run over. “We have Chinese inbound,” he stated and pointed to the screen. Armored vehicles supported by walking soldiers were advancing along the road toward the base.

  “How far away are they?”

  The operator turned a dial and the image zoomed out. “About half a mile I reckon. The Yanks are going to be busy soon.”

  He turned to the soldier by his side. “Jonesy, run over and warn them they have four APCs and approximately two hundred on foot heading their way. Tell them we will monitor from here and will reinforce if necessary.”

  Turning to look at the sky he spoke to no one in particular. “I hope those choppers turn up soon, we may have need of them before too long.”