ARMAGEDDON'S SONG (Volume 3) 'Fight Through'

by FARMAN, ANDY

  The AAA protecting the silos did not appear to have slackened off in the slightest and the clock was running, he couldn’t afford to delay any further.

  He would lay money that a pair of fighters had already scrambled out of Lanzhou with more to follow, but he was far more concerned with the time it would take to launch the ICBMs in the silos which were there primary targets.

  The highly corrosive and unstable liquid fuel could only be pumped into the missiles tanks immediately before launch, and the best available intelligence put the time needed for this operation to be anywhere between twenty minutes and two hours.

  If Colonel Chandler allowed a minimum of ten minutes for the Chinese Premier to be informed the region was under air attack and to make a decision to launch, then Chandler had only eleven minutes remaining before the ICBMs were launched at their targets, if the lower fuelling figure were to be proved correct.

  “Spectre One, Two and Three I want you to gain angels forty, send your activation signals to the RERs and standby…… Spectre Four and Five form on me and follow me up to thirty thousand…….Javelin One, take your aircraft north and standby to make a dummy pass on my word……Fire Arrow Zero Two hook east at twenty thousand and standby also…. ” In a very short time he had a plan in place to divide up the massed guns protecting the silos, he had no doubt that it would work because the defenders could not afford not to react to approaching aircraft, but would it work enough? He could not afford to unduly risk his own aircraft or Spectre Four and Five because they were the back-up’s for the attack, they would break once they had succeeded in drawing fire but the remainder would continue on into the cauldron.

  Chandler’s aircraft was levelling out when Spectre One reported the successful activation of all six RERs and green lights on all six weapons.

  “Roger Spectre One, this will be a simultaneous drop on all six targets just as planned, but I want twice the spacing between aircraft plus a thousand feet of vertical clearance. The rest of us will turn in toward the target to draw some guns our way in thirty seconds time, so you wait twenty seconds longer and begin your runs.”

  He received three acknowledgements and had time left for a deep breath before banking hard right, bringing the nose around to point toward the silos and opening the throttles all the way.

  The sky ahead was receiving a fairly equal share of attention but pretty soon he noticed that change. The bursting shells seemed to home in on his flight level and he pushed the nose down in response, losing five thousand feet before levelling out.

  Fire Arrow Zero Two was caught almost immediately by a searchlight, a second later two more locked on, trapping it in a cone of light for all to see and all to shoot at. The F-117As pilot twisted and turned the aircraft in a vain attempt to throw off the searchlights, before rolling and diving for the valley floor. Chandler watched the manoeuvres with trepidation, the Nighthawk isn’t built for high-speed aerobatics, and it is not terribly keen on the medium speed variety either. It relies upon stealth rather than the classic fighter aircraft qualities to achieve its mission goals. Pilots who have unwisely tried to throw the aircraft around the sky like some stunt machine have found the F-117A flying away without them, in several different directions at once. The colonel was unable to follow the Nighthawk with his eyes so he did not then know how its pilot fared, but to the west he saw fire in the sky as yet another of his B1-B Lancers fell.

  A near miss shook the B2 he was flying and he decided that his flight of three had done all it safely could for now so he ordered them to break off and reform to the south once more.

  A SAM radar came up, sweeping the skies with radar energy until a Dark Lighters HARM obliterated the transmitter vehicle. A searchlight passed across Chandler’s B2, the glare robbing him of his night vision but then the man-made turbulence ended and they were back in the clear.

  Chandler couldn’t see Spectre aircraft carrying out the attack but he banked around and peered out into the night sky at where he thought they would be.

  “Come on guys and gals” he muttered to himself. “One good run and we can all go ho…..”

  A 90mm shell pierced the composite belly of Spectre Three and detonated as the rotating dispenser was in the process of cycling the second BLU-116 out of the weapons bay. The B2 disintegrated a bright flare of light in the night sky and then it was gone.

  In the central command bunker a quarter of a mile from the line of silos they could neither hear nor feel anything that was going on around them, such was the depth below ground and thickness of the walls, and yet the screech of audible alarms shook the staff there more than the actual sight of five of the silos being destroyed would have done.

  The five weapons successfully released had flown true, homing on the splashes of light of a wavelength no human could see unassisted, to penetrate the silo caps and explode inside where the volatile fuel was being pumped into the ICBMs added to the destruction.

  The subterranean fuel tanks ruptured and the contents flash ignited causing an over-pressure that wrecked the integrity of the underground structures. The ground buckled, bulged and burst open with a roar, the valley was momentarily lit up like day as the fireballs expended themselves. Slabs of reinforced concrete flew hundreds of yards to smash into the frozen earth whilst the tremors caused by the explosions ventured even further from the sources, radiating outwards like the ripples on the surface of a pond to shake the very walls of the valley.

  High above the valley floor on the ridge top the accumulation of snow about Site Six shifted. Its grip with the rock and ice loosened, the mass began to move slowly at first but it was unstoppable now, it gained momentum and swept down towards the edge. The laser designator in its niche was swamped before the weight of snow tore the securing ice screws free and the designator joined just one of many avalanches and rock falls triggered around the valley.

  “Was that all six, was that all the silos?”

  Colonel Chandler didn’t catch the callsign of the person asking the question, the one who asked what they all wanted to know.

  “Ringmaster, Spectre One?”

  “Go ahead, Spectre Four?”

  “I don’t know if Three released on silo six, I was looking real hard but I only saw five clear strikes.”

  “Roger…….Spectre Four this is Ringmaster?”

  “Ringmaster, Spectre Four, we just dialled in designator six’s freeq, and it’s no tone, I say again, negative tone on target six at this time…..resending activation codes……Ringmaster, negative tone, negative tone, over.”

  Chandler was still for a moment, allowing his brain to absorb what must follow. Switching to intercom he spoke, an edge of determination in his voice.

  “Send it.”

  Arkansas Valley, Nebraska, USA

  Wild cheering erupted before the message had been completely read out and Henry Shaw shouted for silence. Those giving voice were almost exclusively civilians.

  “I will have silence in this room.” He growled, glaring at the slower to respond.

  “This is a War Room, not the bleachers…this thing is not over yet.”

  The President took the message slip from the signaller and read in silence.

  “How many were aboard Santa Fe and Columbia, Henry?”

  A flicker of surprise passed over General Shaw’s features, he too was ignorant of the messages entire content.

  “I am not entirely sure, perhaps as many as three hundred in total Mr President.”

  He handed across the message.

  “They were ambushed by the missing attack submarine; HMS Hood collected both her and the Xia.”

  Henry read the message himself, trying to recall who, if anyone, he or his son and daughter may have known on the vessels, or perhaps parents whose pride and joy whom they had raised and had such hopes and dreams for were soon to be destroyed by a stranger at the door in uniform.

  His thoughts were interrupted by another signaller. A folded message slip held outstretched.

  He
took it with a nod, opened out the single sheet and read the two words printed upon it.

  “Mr President, we have a message from ‘Circus’ sir”

  Circus was the codename for the airstrike on the ICBM silos and the President could tell from his tone, kept professionally neutral, that it was not necessarily one of cheer and victory.

  Damn stupid name for a military mission he thought, and not for the first time. He raised an eyebrow and his heart thudded at the response.

  “It reads, Crescent Moon.”

  The crescent, the incomplete circle, a thing not finished.

  “Thank you Henry, please send back Cauldron……” he paused, remembering something and embarrassed that he may just have sounded callous.

  “General, our troops on the ground…..have they had time to withdraw?”

  Henry could see that this was important to his commander-in-chief. Tens of thousands were fighting and dying, a global nuclear war could be just minutes away, but he needed this, this gesture, an assurance that his humanity was still intact.

  It was unfortunately irrelevant whether or not they were out of danger, because they were just plain out of time. But he did not say that.

  “Mr President, Dick Dewar and his men are free and clear, they are miles from the valley by now.”

  Gansu Province, China: Same time.

  The snow fell heavily, creating a visage that would not be out of place in a ‘White Christmas’ setting if not for the thunder of the massed guns defending the silos echoed throughout the mountains. It masked the sound of heavily laden men whose steps compressed the snow with what would be an easily audible crunching sound, at any other time.

  The site of the avalanche was well behind the Royal Marines but they were only midway across the narrow, slanting valley. Only another twenty minutes at their current pace would bring them to the foot of the northern rock wall.

  The white thermal facemask worn by Rory Alladay absorbed the moisture he exhaled, preventing the tell-tale fogging that would otherwise result in the cold, frigid conditions.

  He was totally exposed on a patch of ground as flat as a billiard table; there was no cover for a hundred paces in any direction. Nothing quite catches the eye like movement and he had been able only to slowly lower himself into a crouch when he had first caught a whiff of tobacco smoke before he recognised the outline of the Chinese soldier in white camouflage gear set against the starkly blank background of the valley floor.

  He was close, close enough to hit with a snowball had they been engaged in any less lethal activity and the only thing that had saved Alladay from detection was the Chinese soldier was looking up toward the sound of an aircraft passing unseen overhead.

  Rory was scout, or ‘walking point’ as the Americans would have it, and the remainder of his callsign were moments behind.

  “Enemy.”

  The single word quietly spoken into the boom mike was all that was required to have the M&AWC troops freeze in place before slowly turning to cover their assigned arcs and take up prone firing positions.

  The Chinese soldiers head turned as he attempted to discern the aircraft. He was relaxed, his gloved left hand gripped the stock of his compact QBZ-97 assault rifle but the right held a reversed cigarette, its red end masked by the palm of his hand.

  He took a long pull, enjoying the nicotine before exhaling and as the sound faded his head turned back.

  He started as he caught movement in his peripheral vision, which was followed almost instantly by a momentary difficulty in catching a breath, but the sensation, along with all senses, thought and feeling ended as if a switch had been flicked.

  Rory lowered the dead soldier carefully into the snow to ensure silence. The cigarette which had fallen from lifeless fingers sizzled for a half second in the snow and its glow was quenched.

  The dark handle of a fighting knife protruded from the juncture of the throat and underside of the mouth. Once the body was laid down Rory braced the dead man’s chin with the palm of one hand and withdrew the blade, feeling it scrape on vertebrae as it came free and cleaning it quickly yet thoroughly on the Chinese soldiers clothing. The blade, which he returned to its scabbard, would not be frozen in place by his victim’s blood or brain matter when he next needed it.

  The question of what the soldier had been doing there, and where the rest of his patrol was, remained. It was obvious he had not come alone to this place, so was he just lost or were his mates nearby?

  Richard Dewar’s interrupted his thoughts, whispering a question, a requirement for an update.

  “Sitrep, over?”

  Rory gave the situation report in low tones, without embellishment and included his thoughts. Once complete he collected his bergan from where he had dropped it and took up a prone position beside it, covering the way ahead as Major Dewar brought up the remainder of the M&AWC.

  The unnatural light reflected off the clouds distorted the green hues of Rory’s night sight as it had his PNG’s. His range of vision was increased however and he could make out the end of the flat area as the shapes of a low cluster of snow covered rocks and boulders were now visible.

  Looking over his shoulder he could now make out Major Dewar at the head of the well-spaced line of men; it was time for him to move again.

  Rising to the kneeling position he heaved the bergan onto his back and put his weapon into his shoulder, swinging the weapon through a 180° arc, staring intently into the sight before standing and stepping off toward the rock in the centre of the cluster.

  A bright light shone from beyond the ridges, not a strobe-like explosion but one of sustained duration. It lit the far rock wall and spread downwards to encompass the snow covered floor as the source climbed higher in the sky. After several seconds the sound reached them. Harsh light and noise from boosters providing three hundred thousand pounds of thrust now filled the valley, seemingly little diminished by their distance from the silo.

  The rock Rory was walking toward shot him.

  Arkansas Valley, Nebraska, USA

  A single line of script originating from ‘Circus’ flashed up on the screen.

  ‘Missile Launch’

  The blinking of a half dozen call lights on telephones began just a heartbeat later.

  Henry lifted the telephone receiver before him, depressing the button above urgent light above the button marked ‘MDA’, Missile Defence Agency.

  “This is General Shaw.”

  Gansu Province, China: Same time.

  Richard had been looking off to his left arc when he, and his callsign, had been caught like deer in the proverbial headlights.

  The established drill for such a predicament, had they been in Europe, the African bush or even a rain forest would have been to freeze in place and literally ‘make like a tree’, but here in this narrow, bare valley there were no such items to be mistaken for. To move or to drop into cover was to draw unwanted eyes.

  The top of the far valley wall had suddenly lit up and that light increased to encompass them all.

  The line of Royal Marine Commandos closed one eye, their sighting eye to preserve night vision, and with the other they made best use of the illumination to study their surrounds without turning their heads, remaining motionless as the roar of rocket motors reached them, a roar that almost but not quite drowned out the single shot that cracked out.

  Rory Alladay dropped as if his legs had been cut from beneath him, and none but Rory had seen the firing position. Richard stifled the urge to go immediately to aid a comrade of many years, as quite obviously the rest of the cadre was undiscovered.

  The flaming light rose into the night sky and faded. Richard felt gutted that after all they had endured the mission had ultimately failed, an ICBM was in the air, and to make matters even worse a comrade was down.

  Slowly the Marines began to edge into an arrowhead formation, one best suited to such situations, allowing the flanks to remain covered but permitting maximum firepower to the front without someone shoot
ing his mate in the backside.

  A bang announced the flight of a parachute flare rising from their front and its journey into the heavens was marked by a trail of smoke. With a sharp popping sound the flare came to life above and behind them, silhouetting the marines in its chemical light.

  The enemy knew that the one man they had accounted for, Rory Alladay, would not be alone and the view of the canyon floor now differed markedly from less than a minute ago.

  From the Chinese point of view the threat was too close in for them to call in mortar, artillery or air support, so the Chinese commander elected a reconnaissance by fire instead.

  A wiser commander would have ordered just one of his men to fire at suspicious shapes though, not the whole section.

  Muzzle flashes emitted from each of the ‘rocks’ ahead of them.

  Richard was in the process of dropping prone, his ears ringing painfully from the loud cracks of high velocity rounds passing close by, when he was struck a fierce blow on the right side of the chest. He landed hard, the breath driven from him and his right arm numb from shoulder to fingertips.

  The weight of his bergan pressed him face first into the snow, smothering him in his suddenly disabled state its sheer weight preventing his lungs from fully inflating. Spots danced before his eyes and he realised the vulnerability of his position. Adrenaline assisted him to roll onto his right side where his left hand could reach the quick release buckle of his bergan. Free of its burden he rolled prone once more with incoming small arms kicking up the snow about him and striking the bulky pack.