The Ethan Galaal Series: Books 1 - 3

by Isaac Hooke

  "Please specify the targeting options, Mr. President," the Chairman said over the SATCOM.

  "Once the missiles are fired, they can't be stopped," the Vice President warned over the teleconference line. Everyone knew that, of course, but the Vice President obviously wanted to issue a none-too-subtle reminder.

  The President studied the missile trajectories displayed on the screen. Four ICBMs marked in red, the first far ahead of the other three and fast approaching EMP detonation range. The interceptors marked in blue, coming in from the opposite direction.

  "Why fire only four?" the President said suddenly.

  "Mr. President?" the Chairman asked over the SATCOM, sounding confused.

  "Why did the Russians fire only four ICBMs?" the President repeated. "If they wanted to stage an attack, it doesn't make much sense to fire only four."

  The Secretary of State answered, his image appearing on the main screen. "There are probably a lot more coming on the horizon."

  "The early warning system would have detected them," the President said.

  "Not necessarily," one of the duty officers in the room said, though he didn't elaborate.

  "Maybe one of their submarines has gone rogue," the Director of Homeland Security said over the conference line.

  "Their subs can't fire without the EAM codes from Moscow," the Secretary of Defense said, appearing on the main screen once more. "Their nuclear execution plans are similar to our own. The order had to come from higher up."

  "Time's wasting away," the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs said. "The first ICBM has already passed within optimal detonation range. If we're going to launch, Mr. President, now's the time."

  The President wiped the sweat from his brow. "Mr. Chairman. I simply want to make the right choice."

  "We all do, Mr. President," the Chairman returned.

  He pressed his lips together. As President, he had to make some hard decisions. Though this was proving to be the hardest of them all.

  It was a funny thing. He had always thought if the Russians launched a preemptive nuclear strike that he would allow them to win unscathed—to hell with mutually assured destruction. Humanity's entire future was at stake.

  But now that it came down to it, he'd be damned if he let the Russians get away with something like that. The US wouldn't go down without a fight. He'd cut off their head at the very least. And their claws.

  "Mr. Chairman, initiate OPLAN 8010," the President said into the headset. "Target is Russia. Nuclear forces. Major Attack Options A and C."

  "Received," the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs said over the SATCOM. "OPLAN 8010. Russia. Nuclear forces. Major Attack Options A and C."

  "Correct," the President said.

  "Mr. Secretary, do you endorse this order?" the Chairman returned.

  There was only a moment's hesitation. "I support this order," the Secretary of Defense answered.

  "Received Presidential authentication and authorization," the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs said over the SATCOM. "As well as confirmation of orders from the Secretary of Defense. Transmitting attack option and Gold Codes to officers on duty in the National Military Command Center."

  Tense silence filled the room.

  "Hold," the Secretary of Defense said. "I retract my support."

  The President was taken aback. "Mr. Secretary?"

  "I've received some news you might want to hear."

  The President glanced nervously at the inbound ICBMs on the display. The nearest could detonate at any moment, blacking out communications nationwide.

  "What do you want me to do Mr. President?" the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs asked warily over the SATCOM. "He's already given his support. It can't be retracted."

  "Let's hold for a moment and hear what he has to say," the President said. "Be quick, Robert."

  "Mr. President, I have Samantha Rond on the line," the Secretary of Defense said, appearing on the videoconference screen. He was holding a personal satellite phone.

  "The same Samantha Rond who coordinated the stealth attacks against the Islamic State?" the President asked.

  "That's her. I've briefed her on the current situation. She has some unique insights I believe you'll want to hear."

  "Conference her in," the President said.

  "Mr. President," the calm voice of Samantha Rond came over the conference phone. She did not appear over the video uplink of course—the operative was notoriously camera shy. "Recently, we've acquired data indicating a terrorist-funded company named Aurora Research Incorporated, based out of Iceland, has been quietly stockpiling modified four-stage sounding rockets. Eight in total."

  The President rubbed his chin. Iceland. The ICBMs were launched within a fifty kilometer radius of that landmass. The President felt a shred of hope.

  "You believe our incoming ICBMs are actually modified sounding rockets launched by terrorists?" he said.

  "Yes. Four-stage sounding rockets would be indistinguishable from ICBMs to our radars."

  The President glanced at the analyst, who nodded his head in confirmation.

  "Sounding rockets," the President mused. "Capable of delivering nuclear warheads?"

  "No," Sam returned. "The rockets are too small to contain nuclear payloads. They're meant for sub-orbital research. The incoming rockets have to be duds. Either that, or they harbor minor explosives. The terrorists are obviously hoping we'll initiate a nuclear strike against Russia based on the principle of mutually assured destruction."

  "Other than the data, do we have any hard physical proof that sounding rockets were actually launched?" the President said.

  "I have operatives in Iceland at this very moment. I expect to hear from them shortly."

  "What Samantha is saying seems plausible," the Secretary of State said over the vidlink. "But we need that proof. What if Russian hackers planted the sounding rocket data with the sole purpose of misdirection? The Russians knew they'd launch their missiles from submarines near Iceland, so why not fake some data, make it look like a nearby research station purchased sounding rockets that could be mistaken for ICBMs?"

  "You're over-thinking this, Gerry," the Secretary of Defense said. "Don't mindfuck yourself."

  "All I'm saying is, data can be fabricated," the Secretary of State insisted.

  "Please." Sam's voice lost some of its composure. "Wait a while longer. Let my operatives do their jobs. They're working to obtain confirmation as we speak."

  "Mr. President," the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs said. "What do you want to do?"

  The President glanced at the display. The closest ICBM was only three hundred kilometers away. Already within EMP detonation range. Did he dare wait?

  "Delay the launch, Mr. Chairman," the President said.

  49

  Hidden Base, Southern Region Suðurland, Iceland

  BRETTA MOVED BETWEEN THE HANGARS, making her way toward the launch area. She paused at the corner of each building and peered past for signs of patrols. Black and green-colored canopies hung between the hangars, blotting out the sky so that everything was cast in perpetual shade.

  The C-4 backpack hung from her shoulders. She had returned to the Hilux to grab it, dumping several of the explosives to lighten the load. She considered planting C-4 on the hangars she passed, but decided she didn't have time.

  An armed man dressed in fatigues abruptly rounded the corner of the hangar directly ahead.

  "You!" He shouted in Arabic. "You don't belong here!"

  Bretta was on the man before he could raise his rifle. She elbowed him in the throat and kneed him in the groin at the same time. The man bounced away, stunned; she vaulted onto his chest, her knees smashing into his upper body, and he was thrown backward onto the hard ground.

  Bretta remained on top, pinning him. She released two quick, strategic blows, crunching the cartilage of his nose and larynx in turn. She scrambled to her feet and snatched the AK. She didn't have time to tie him up, so she rammed him several times in the skull with the stock of th
e rifle instead. She continued onward.

  She considered discarding the rifle. It felt clunky in her hands compared to the Px4, but she hoped it would momentarily confuse any enemy combatants into mistaking her for one of them, giving her a slight edge. That advantage might translate into mere milliseconds, but it was all she needed

  Up ahead a small crowd had gathered near the canopy edge, where the open-sky launch area awaited. The men were civilian engineers, judging from the prevalence of eyeglasses. They were joined by women and children—apparently family members lived on the outpost. The group had gathered alongside the biggest hangar on the base.

  On the black rocks of the plain beyond, she spotted a spent launch platform about five hundred meters away. Bretta vaguely wondered how safe it was to observe a rocket launch from that distance. If she had children, she certainly wouldn't have allowed them that close.

  Bretta avoided the crowd and instead circled the rear of the hangar, coming toward the front from the opposite side. She paused at the corner to warily gaze past the building edge.

  She counted ten fighters guarding the hangar entrance. Beyond them she could see the civilians.

  She glanced at the launch area directly ahead. Two semis towing missile platforms were just coming to a stop out there. She couldn't approach the platforms, not without those guards spotting her.

  A klaxon abruptly sounded, echoing from loudspeakers somewhere behind her.

  One of the fighters shouted something, then all ten sprinted away from her toward the crowd, running past the group as they skirted the hangar on the way to the main building.

  Thank you, Ethan.

  Bretta decided to clear the hangar before heading onto the black plain: the fighters wouldn't have guarded the building unless it contained something of worth.

  The klaxon abruptly ended. She wasn't sure what that meant, other than that she had to hurry.

  She entered the hangar. Two more fighters were waiting just inside.

  "Hey!"

  Bretta unleashed two quick rifle bursts, terminating the surprised men before they could raise their weapons.

  She moved farther into the building.

  Two Iveco Trakker semis with fifty-inch Michelin tires were idling on the far right side of the hangar. On their trailers were two more long launch platforms, containing missiles. From where she stood, she was fairly certain those weren't ICBMs: they were simply too thin. Still, a sounding rocket of that size could easily be confused for an ICBM on radar. She couldn't allow any more launches.

  There were crates, and some computer equipment scattered throughout the hangar, mostly along the walls, but no more guards. The only other people she saw were the semi drivers, civilians dressed in grimy coveralls. They had come down from their trucks and were walking toward her with their hands raised. They had seen her shooting the guards, apparently.

  Bretta closed the distance, knocking both of them to the floor. She proceeded to bind and gag the drivers in turn with duct tape, and dragged them out of sight behind a workbench. She hurried to the entrance and similarly hauled the dead bodies of the guards behind a crate.

  She discarded the cumbersome AK and hurried to the trailer farthest from the entrance. She clambered onto the platform, using the metal latticework supporting the missile as a ladder. The rocket was in a horizontal position. Fifteen meters long, but definitely too thin to be an ICBM.

  She swung down from the platform onto the rocket. She lowered her backpack, retrieved a Mylar-wrapped M112 demolition block, removed the paper liner on the adhesive side, and attached the block to the missile.

  She reached for her encrypted radio and pressed the send button. "Copperhead, do you read?"

  No response.

  "Copperhead, I ask again, are you there?"

  "I'm here," came the response. "Report."

  "These aren't ICBMs. They're sounding rockets."

  There was a pause on the line, then: "Roger that."

  She armed the C-4, which was linked to a remote detonator in the backpack, and then hauled herself back onto the outer trellis of the launch platform.

  She abruptly heard a truck door slam. The adjacent semi shifted into gear and slowly moved toward the entrance. One of the fighters had probably returned, and was driving.

  Bretta leaped to the ground and dashed toward the receding trailer. She vaulted onto the platform and hauled herself onto the metal latticework.

  The semi-trailer emerged from the hangar. Though the ground was relatively flat, there were still a lot of small bumps, and Bretta was jolted about during her climb. As she lowered herself from the trellis toward the missile, a particularly nasty bump caused her to lose her grip, and she fell, slamming right into the rocket.

  Ignoring the flashes of pain in her cheek and midsection, she promptly wrapped her arms and legs around the missile so she wouldn't slide off. She reached inside the backpack with one arm, retrieved another M112 brick, affixed it to the missile, and armed the device.

  She stood up and vaulted onto the surrounding metal latticework. She clambered over the top and was about to start lowering herself down the other side when another semi raced past, headed back toward the hanger. The vehicle had no trailer.

  Bretta glanced forward, to her left. She spotted two fresh launch platforms on the black plain. Electro-hydraulic actuators were already tilting the missiles skyward.

  Bretta made her way along the platform toward the tractor portion. At the front edge, she lowered herself onto the rear deck plate and then clambered onto the roof of the cab.

  She crawled to the driver side, drew her Px4, leaned over and let off several shots. The bullets penetrated the window, striking the driver. The semi tractor pulled severely to the left. Gazing through the glass, she confirmed that the driver was incapacitated.

  Bretta hurried to the opposite side of the roof, aimed down at the passenger window and fired. She randomly shifted her aim, her goal being to weaken the laminated glass. When her magazine emptied, she loaded a new one, chambered a round, and holstered the weapon. She sat on the edge of the roof and struck the passenger window with her boot heels. The compromised glass shattered.

  She carefully lowered herself, clearing the shards from the bottom of the windowsill with one boot. She planted both feet on the sill, then spun around and jumped inside.

  The driver, dressed in combat fatigues, rested on the wheel, unconscious or dead.

  Crouching, she edged past the gear stick. The driver wasn't wearing a seatbelt, so it was a simple matter to open the door, shove the body outside, and close the door again. She threw her C-4 backpack onto the passenger seat beside the fighter's abandoned AK, and then sat down.

  The semi tractor had slowed, and was close to halting, but she accelerated again. She steered around the empty skeleton of a used launch platform and drove toward the closest active missile instead. The actuators had nearly angled said rocket perpendicular to the ground.

  Bretta aimed the big vehicle directly for the missile. She lodged the AK between the accelerator and gear box, scooped up her backpack, opened the door, and at the last possible moment leaped from the semi.

  Behind her the truck plowed into the platform, dragging it and the missile several meters along the ground before the engine failed and the vehicle ground to a halt. The liquid hydrogen aboard the rocket hadn't detonated. Instead, the missile lay at a forty-five degree angle, entangled by the broken and twisted outer framework.

  One rocket down.

  She clambered to her feet, doing her best to ignore the painful gashes and friction burns the sharp rocks had inflicted on her body. The fatigues hadn't protected her very well. Her ankle was sprained very slightly.

  She half-limped, half-sprinted across the field toward the other active platform. It must have been placed some time after the previous one, because the actuators were still rotating the missile into launch orientation: the rocket currently resided at an angle seventy-five degrees to the ground.

  Bullets
riddled the rocks beside her. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw an incoming Hilux racing to intercept her.

  She reached the launch platform and hurried around to the far side, using it as a shield against the incoming SUV. She leaped onto the trailer and flinched at the pain in her ankle. With difficulty she clambered onto the moving framework. About two meters up she was able to squeeze through a gap in the latticework. She retrieved an M112 brick from the backpack, removed the adhesive, armed it, and, hanging onto the framework with one hand, reached across to affix the brick to the rocket's surface.

  Bullets ricocheted from the metal framework around her. She resisted the urge to retract her hand and successfully attached the explosive. She hauled herself along the inside of the trellis as more gunfire came in. She squeezed outside and worked her way down to the bottom of the trailer.

  The Hilux raced past the rear of the platform, coming into view. Bretta drew her Px4 and aimed at the tires. She waited patiently for the vehicle to close. Meanwhile the on-board gunner sprayed-and-prayed in her general direction. She was a little surprised the passengers would risk damaging the rocket. Not unexpectedly, the gunfire stopped a moment later.

  She led the target very slightly and when the SUV was within thirty yards, she fired. The first shot missed. The second hit the front left tire spot on. The vehicle pulled to the left and slammed into the platform.

  Bretta leaped down, clenching her teeth as a jolt of agony traveled up her right leg from the ankle. She limped to the far side of the platform. More gunfire came from the crashed Hilux. She finally reached the front of the platform and ducked behind it, then continued away at an angle, putting as much distance between herself and the trailer as she could.

  When she judged herself far enough away, she slid the backpack from her shoulder, fished out the remote detonator, and leaped to the ground. She pressed the activation button.