Winter Kill 2 - China Invades Australia

by Gene Skellig

  “Effort? What do you want me to do?” asked the LnO. He was thrown off balance not only by the CIA analyst’s rattling speech, but by the American’s quirky manner of shifting from detail-oriented arrogance to bright-eyed smiles, on a dime.

  “I’ll need an update from you on your own disposition of forces and your HHQ’s ConOps and contingency plans for a full-on invasion by China. You do have such a plan, don’t you?”

  “You know damned well we do. You and I have gone over the 2009 White Paper before. You know all about our plans to increase our subsurface fleet to 12 hulls, and the manner in which they would be used for anti-shipping, surveillance and strike,” said the LnO with annoyance.

  “I’m not talking about that naval fantasy. Thanks to your overly free press everybody knows you can only staff two of six subs now and you are years away from having a credible sub-surface-centered defense strategy. I’m talking reality here. The here-and-now, come-as-you-are. What you proud Australians will do if you wake up tomorrow hearing angry men shouting Chinese in the streets. Your civil defense plans, national mobilization for a war of national survival.”

  This definitely threw the Australian off balance. “I don’t think we have anything like that. Are you seriously asking me to ask HHQ in Canberra if we have a plan for….for what, a no-notice, organic mobilization for insurgency operations against a surprise Chinese occupation?”

  “Yeah. That’s what I am asking for. If you seriously think it is even possible that this PIR from Adelaide has any basis in fact, then you are entirely fucked. The Chinese, if they ever come here to do you harm on a grand scale, will have figured out a way to remove your allies from the equation and to somehow move a million soldiers here in a hurry. They’ll swarm over your defenses like they did to us at the battle of Chosin Reservoir in 1950.”

  Silence hung in the air for a long moment.

  The LnO sighed, thinking of withdrawing his request, but he could not let go of the notion that the PIR from Adelaide was an important bit of information. It needed to be acted on with a sense of urgency.

  He ground his teeth. “OK. I’ll do it. You ring Langley and sharpen your pencil and I’ll talk to the J5 and look into our CONPLANS,” he said. The Australian then left the CIA Fusion Centre and made his way to his office in the a modular trailer just outside of the American-controlled portion of the comms facility at Pine Gap. He felt a little smaller after this last exchange with the CIA; leaving him feeling like a guest in his own country. As if Australia had already been lost. He looked up at the wide blue skies, deceptively peaceful and quiet. What if the Chinese really are coming? That would be a real pickle.

  6

  BY LAND IF NOT BY AIR

  Owen MacInnes may not have had that much experience in the few years he had served the Army Reserves, but he still considered himself to be a military man. So when he had been visiting his wife’s family in Altoona, Pennsylvania, he had tried to fit in. With her retired General of a father, and a long-serving Warrant Officer as her brother-in-law, the conversations around his wife’s family’s dinner table tended to have a military dimension.

  The Upton family home was originally owned by a large farming family, but when they had fallen on hard times and been forced to sell the farm, a young Major Upton had bought the property, planning for his retirement from the US Army. His retirement had been postponed several times over the years, and re-considered after the birth of each successive daughter. Had the General had sons he would have retired and become a rancher, his life’s dream. However he had postponed his retirement four times, with four daughters and no sons, and continued to advance in the Army until he retired as a Brigadier General with 30 years of service.

  General Upton, retired, had built his long dreamed-of ranch, and tried to become a farmer. In fact, he had been operating an effective little hobby farm, but without sons to back him up he had limited the scale of his ambitions – but he had not abandoned his dream. As a result, the Upton family home was something of an under-used resource which could, with the right sort of men, become a thriving dairy farm, orchard, or other agricultural enterprise.

  But the General, with only two of his four daughters married off, still lacked the manpower. Still healthy and active, he was willing to wait as long as it took for one or more of his girls to pick up his lead and become interested in the ranch. Until then, he and his wife, Fiona, would make use of the excessively large home as the center of the Upton extended family. But with only two sons-in-law the General had to really stretch the term “extended family”, in order to have a really satisfying family gathering.

  To this end, and perhaps out of a desire to delude himself into feeling that he had the large family he had always dreamed of, he often invited Joseph Blakely, the brother of his daughter Maggie’s husband, Matthew Blakely, to round out the table.

  It was still strange for General Upton to think of Maggie, as anything other than an Upton. Too bad I couldn’t have had him take her name, he thought to himself, ‘Warrant Officer Matthew Upton’ would have had a ring to it.

  Thinking of his daughter’s husband, and the man’s brother, Major Joe Blakely, made him worry. They had all enjoyed each other’s company for the last week, but it had been punctuated with the departure of Joe, Tannis and Agnes for their Change of Station to Australia. That they had made time to visit with Matt and Maggie, and the Upton family at large, had been greatly appreciated. But everybody knew that it would be the last large family gathering for quite some time. Major Joseph Blakely and his family were not expected to have any entitlement to Leave Travel from Australia to the US for their three year assignment, not in the current financial state of the US Army.

  But what had made it worse for the old General was what his son-in-law, Warrant Officer Matthew Blakely, had disclosed to the family in one of their late-night discussions around the kitchen table.

  Without divulging any secret information he had been privy to in his duties at the Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center, WO Blakely felt that he was free to discuss his take on the dangerous path that President Parker had put the United States on, what with the confiscation of gold and other radical financial measures that she was putting into place.

  When the conversation had turned from military matters to social and economic ones, Owen MacInnes finally found a place for himself in the conversation with the old General and the Blakely brothers. It was hard enough for Owen to get involved in conversations, what with his civilian status and old General Upton’s seeming hatred for Owen. But when it came to discussing how the general population at large saw the confiscation of their gold, the extraordinary bank levies, and the new requirement to register their fire-arms, for once Owen was the subject matter expert and the military men had actually listened to his perspective for a change.

  They had talked long into the night; the topic was what to do if a major crisis tore apart the fabric of American society.

  “If it gets really bad, then this farm would be a great place to ride it out, General,” said Matthew.

  “Sure, Matt, if you don’t work in the world’s most well-equipped bunker,” said his younger brother, Joe, not entirely in jest. The two brothers had often debated whether it would be better to take one’s chances on the surface rather than being trapped. No matter how well appointed, an underground tomb would wear on the mind, the brothers had agreed.

  “As for me, I know that I’ll be stuck in Mount Weather for the duration. That’s why I’m so happy Maggie has a place to head for, where I know that she’ll be safe.”

  “Have you and Maggie discussed what she should do if it gets hairy on the roads? Who she can turn to for help along the way?” asked Owen.

  “Not really. It’s only a hundred and twenty miles from our home in Winchester to the ranch here in Altoona,” said Matt.

  “And how far from this bunker you work at, Mount Weather, to Winchester.

  “Why?”

  “Oh, just thinking,” said Owen, not want
ing to share his thoughts. He did not have a very good relationship with his wife’s father and did not want to be presumptuous. For her part, his wife, Catherine, had stood up for him. That had only made things worse for Owen with old General Upton, and had culminated in the young couple choosing to hold their marriage in their home in Richland, Wisconsin, rather than at Catherine’s father’s ranch in Altoona, Pennsylvania.

  The Upton family, and a good contingent of friends from the Altoona area had made the nearly 800 mile journey to see Catherine and Owen get married, but the General had not forgiven his son-in-law for what he took as a personal insult.

  “So what’s your plan for societal collapse, Owen? Are you a survivalist? Got your own ‘bug-out’ plan to some cabin in Wisconsin Dells?” asked Joe Blakely.

  Unsure if the major was making fun of him, Owen tried to change the subject. “Yeah, right. As if Catty and I could afford a place in the Dells. I just hope it never gets that bad. Out where we live there are some real nut-jobs, armed to the teeth and ready for social collapse. I pity the poor cops, or soldiers, who try to maintain law and order if it ever comes to that. You know, many of them see the federal Government and men in uniform like you and Matt as the enemy,” Owen said.

  “Well, I expect that it will be different depending on the circumstances,” said Matt. “If the government can keep it together, the citizenry will stay in line. But we’ve certainly had a few situations lately, like that scare in some small farming community down in Kansas, when the banks were down for that day – remember? Everybody became convinced that the financial collapse had come, just because the town’s three banks were all closed due to some kind of computer virus?”

  “I didn’t hear about that one. What happened?” asked Joe.

  “Well, a few locals got out their guns, figuring that it was ‘open season’ on ‘open carry’, and deputized themselves to save the supermarket from hoarders. Turned out that things were fine until they showed up on main street with their guns. Then all sorts of panic took over, and there were some shootings. By the end of the night some grocery stores had been looted and the gas station was on fire. Even some of the cops got wrapped up in the panic and filled their squad cars with cans of food and cases of water. If it weren’t for some very disciplined US Army Reservists who mobilized a company to support the Sheriff, just on a phone call from the Governor, things could have really gotten out of hand.” Matt looked meaningfully at Owen, who appreciated the nod to Army Reservists.

  He’s trying to help me with the General, thought Owen. “Yeah, well, if you get the right sort of Reservists. Some units really know what they are doing, and others are no more than little empires for their CO’s,” said Owen, with an undertone of anger that the two Blakely’s suspected had something to do with the abrupt end of Owen’s short-lived career with the US Army Reserves.

  7

  bypassing customs

  John Oxley loosened his tie with his right hand as his left steered his car along the airport road. He had just finished his evening shift at the small regional airport in Port Macquarie and was on his way home. He’d processed a Citation business jet that had arrived, on schedule, at 0300hrs, and was on his way home for the day. There were no other international arrivals on the books for the overnight so his replacement should be able to enjoy the standby-duty period at home, asleep, on the recall posture.

  A bit of work, but really not enough to justify the three of us, Oxley thought to himself. It was about as busy as normal for this sleepy area on Australia’s east coast. It was still an open question whether the three personnel of the Australian Customs and Border Protection Service would keep their jobs, what with all the cutbacks in the public sector. There was just not enough maritime and aviation related customs work to keep the small detachment busy. Most likely, “Ox” knew, the Port Macquarie unit would be rolled up into the Newcastle office, and at least two of the Customs Inspectors would be declared ‘redundant’, or relocated to the Sydney office.

  What the fuck!? Driving along Tuffins Lane, he had almost reached Hastings River Drive when he looked up over the river and saw a Boeing 737 turning final, about to land.

  In the moonlit night he did not recognize the flowery livery of the jet and it was too dark for him to make out the registration number as the aircraft passed directly overhead. What surprised Oxley was that the aircraft was in a left-hand circuit for Runway 21, which was against the rules. Aircraft were supposed to approach straight-in, over Hastings River, or in a non-standard, right hand circuit for Runway 21. But this one was doing it all wrong, which could only mean one thing: they weren’t local.

  Ever since the runway had been expanded a few years back, more and more airlines had been using the airport, bringing in charter flights who wanted to avoid the inconvenience of changing planes and clearing customs in Sydney.

  But all such flights had to be arranged well in advance, so that Ox or another Customs Inspector could be notified and refueling, parking and a host of other airport services could be coordinated. Otherwise there would be nobody at the airport, at least not until after 0700hrs. All of that was the Port Macquarie Airport Operations Manager’s responsibility to deal with, but Ox knew that in the end the passengers would be allowed to disembark and enter the terminal to clear customs, so he reluctantly turned around and headed back to the airport.

  As he drove around the terminal to his parking spot he could only see the tail protruding over the one-story terminal building as the jetliner taxied back along the runway for the parking spot on the main apron.

  As he drove, he rechecked the schedule. Nope, nothing expected today. Better call Kirkie. He speed dialed the tower controller as he pulled his Prius over into the reserved parking space, but did not get out of his car. As he listened to the phone ring he saw the airliner turn unexpectedly off the runway and head east along the narrow taxiway to the rows of small general aviation hangars east of the terminal and parking apron. The main wheels of the large aircraft barely fit on the narrow taxiway as the Boeing 737 continued along and then nosed-into a smaller parking apron which normally only small business jets and charter aircraft operated from.

  “What kind of idiot would..?” he began saying out loud, and then the phone was answered.

  “Tower, Charleswood speaking.”

  “Kirkie! Ox. What the hell is that jet doing on Charlie-Two?”

  “I don’t know, I’m gobsmacked up here. They landed NORDO, and still won’t answer on either the MF or Ground.”

  As Ox and Kirkie talked, Ox noticed an enormous black American-style SUV driving through the parking lot and pulling up at the far end of the terminal building. No sooner had it come to a stop than all four doors opened and more than a half-dozen Asian men spilled out of the vehicle.

  “Hang on, Kirkie. I think you’ve got some company. There’s some blokes heading towards your side entrance.”

  “I see them. Hey, are those guns?”

  “Holy Shit! Yes, they’ve got rifles, and looks like some hand-guns.”

  As he spoke, Ox looked at the airliner again, and saw the door opening. Moments later the forward emergency chute deployed and a bright orange air-inflated slide sprang out from under the port-forward door of the airliner. Uniformed soldiers began leaping out of the aircraft, sliding down the chute.

  They seemed well trained to Ox, as each man in turn reached out to help the next soldier to his feet at the bottom of the chute, and then moved aside to make way for the stream of men coming after.

  “Is this some kind of exercise, Kirkie?” he asked, over the phone.

  “No, Ox. I’m ringing the Air Force now but there’s no answer. I can’t raise Air Traffic Control or the LAC either.”

  “No worries. There’s Constable Buchanan now, in his Nissan.”

  Constable Buchanan had been monitoring the airport frequency in his New South Wales Police Force cruiser, after the Local Area Command, LAC, had received numerous complaints about the airliner violating local nois
e abatement ordinances.

  As Buchanan pulled up to the terminal, three of the men from the black SUV turned towards him. He had no sooner stepped out of his vehicle when the men began firing at him. He ducked just in time. Bullets tore into the hood and front panel of his vehicle. With scarcely a moment to comprehend what was happening, the young constable hunkered down and rushed to the rear of his vehicle.

  At the other end of the well-lit parking lot John Oxley saw it: two men were firing at Buchanan and another half-dozen were heading upstairs towards Kirkie up in the airport tower. Something clicked in his head. From deep inside, perhaps from his time with the 41st Battalion, Royal New South Wales Regiment, Ox switched into combat mode. There was no doubt or confusion in his mind. He knew exactly what was happening. The men trying to break into the tower building and the soldiers pouring out of the 737 were here to do harm to his friends.

  Ox jumped into action, but not out of flag-waving heroism. All he could think was: My mates are in danger! He gunned the gas pedal and accelerated around the north end of the parking lot, speeding straight at the two gunmen who were shooting at Buchanan.

  The gunmen looked around too late. All they saw was the “bush basher” bars mounted on the car’s front end as it smashed into their legs, propelled them into the air and shot them into the brick wall, their heads splattering grey matter and bloody fluids all over the wall.