by Dirk Patton
Rachel stepped up next to me and grabbed my injured hand. She’d apparently found a medic kit, probably in one of the Hummers. While I studied the map, she splinted and taped my broken fingers.
“Going to be a bitch handling a rifle with that,” I mumbled to her without taking my attention off the map.
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” she said, applying a final piece of tape and stepping away.
“Pull them back!” Blanchard said to one of the Captains, stabbing a point on the map where there was still a chance for the company in dire straits to escape before being completely surrounded and decimated.
“No comms,” the man replied. “We can’t reach them.”
“Send a runner,” Blanchard shouted.
“We’ve sent two. Neither made it. Third’s on the way, but we’ve lost contact with him.”
Everyone ducked as a pair of A-10s roared overhead, seemingly low enough to count the rivets in their skin. The sounds of rifle fire, light automatic weapons and high explosives seemed to be coming closer. From farther away there were several explosions as American and Russian jets joined in aerial combat. Two hundred yards to our front, a pair of Apaches were hovering only feet above the ground.
They were screened from the battle by a low hill, using the sensor suite mounted above their rotors to see over the terrain and select their targets. As I watched, they popped up in unison. Clear of their cover, each fired two hellfire missiles at targets I couldn’t see.
Before they could drop back into protection, one of them exploded as a Russian missile found it. The other jerked sideways, away from the blast, making it to safety. The shockwave ripped over us a second later, nearly knocking everyone to the ground. The smell of burning aviation fuel came with the wave of heat that arrived moments after.
“Goddamn it, get a squad out of Charlie Company in there to pull these men out. What do we have available for air support?” Blanchard shouted to be heard.
“All ground attack air assets are fully engaged with their armor and we will lose the MEU if we re-task,” the Captain I was standing behind answered.
“A-10s?” The Colonel turned to the other Captain who I realized was wearing an Air Force uniform.
“Working on it, sir. The enemy has multiple rotor-wing assets and anti-air that are keeping them back. We’ve lost four birds already and are trying to get fighter support to clear a path.”
I’d seen enough. Turning, I reminded Rachel and Irina to stay close to Blanchard before running to where ten Rangers had set up a security line between the front and the command post. I ignored the cries from both Rachel and Blanchard.
“You five with me,” I shouted, pointing at them as I ran past.
None of them hesitated to leap to their feet and follow. It didn’t really surprise me. Rangers prefer being on the offensive to the defensive.
We ran a wide circle to avoid the heat from the burning Apache. As soon as we were far enough past to turn west towards the front, without roasting ourselves, we headed for the base of the low line of hills the helicopters had been hiding behind. To my left was a cut in the terrain and I angled towards it, the five Rangers on my heels.
Slowing as I entered the break, I cautiously approached the high spot. Motioning them down, I dropped to my stomach to crawl the final few yards. There was a battle raging on the other side of the crest and it’s generally not a good idea to silhouette yourself against the sky when entering a fight. If the enemy doesn’t see you and blow your ass off, there’s a good chance of friendly fire taking you out. Suddenly popping up isn’t a good way to stay healthy.
Taking advantage of the cover afforded by a small rock resting on the lip, I peered around and grimaced. There weren’t just a lot of Russians, there were a LOT of Russians. And the battlefield was massive, spread across the horizon as far as I could see in either direction. Dozens of light and heavy armor vehicles belonging to both sides sat burning, black smoke billowing into the sky and creating a hellish pall.
Farther out were multiple locations where aircraft had been shot down and crashed to the ground, adding to the haze. The sound of small arms fire was constant and larger, vehicle mounted guns were firing, adding to the din. Helicopters buzzed over the fight, engaging each other as well as ground targets, while higher up I could see the trails of missiles as the fighter jocks tangled.
Mortars were firing, both sides using them to keep troops from advancing. The only thing missing was heavy artillery, which I didn’t understand as I’d seen a fire battery notated on the map.
The screams of men fighting and dying. The smell of munitions and spilled blood. The choking smoke from burning machines and expended ordnance. This was truly hell on Earth, and with a wave to the Rangers behind me I stood and ran directly into it.
14
Admiral Packard stood in Pearl Harbor’s shore based Combat Information Center, staring at multiple monitors. The four largest displays were satellite images of two Carrier Strike Groups (CSGs) operating in the north Pacific Ocean. The remaining two were zoomed on Russian naval facilities located near Vladivostok and on the Kamchatka Peninsula. CSG Nine with the USS George Washington super carrier at the center was positioned three hundred miles due west of Portland, Oregon. CSG Eleven, with the USS Nimitz, was one hundred miles north of the Washington.
All but one of the remaining displays monitored Russian naval and land based activity within the striking range of the two fleets. Finally, he checked the last screen, unhappy with the heavy losses the Marines and Rangers were taking in the land battle with enemy forces in southern Idaho. He didn’t understand why the Kremlin had committed so many ground troops to a tactically valueless chunk of the country, but in doing so they had divided their forces on the ground in North America.
Shifting his attention back to the looming naval engagement, he nodded in satisfaction when he noted the ships of the CSGs where in the proper positions. He wanted to be onboard the Washington, leading the fight at sea, but knew the Captains well and had full confidence in their abilities.
Still, to stand on the catwalk outside the bridge and watch his warplanes. To feel his bones vibrate from the sheer power of the jet engines as they went to full throttle a moment before being hurled into the sky by the catapult. That was what he missed.
Chastising himself for losing focus, he issued the order for the commencement of Operation Anvil. The images drew back slightly, allowing for a wider view of the operational area, and in moments both carriers began launching aircraft. The first planes in the air were tankers that would top off each fighter once it reached altitude, then tag along behind so they could refuel before returning home.
As the two CSGs launched aircraft, the views of the Russian naval bases panned a hundred miles off shore to seemingly empty stretches of ocean. On each monitor, which provided a view of over one hundred square miles, multiple cruise missiles erupted from the surface and gained altitude before tipping over and stabilizing into horizontal flight.
These were Tomahawk missiles, launched by eight American, Ohio class submarines. Each weapon was fitted with a one-thousand-pound conventional warhead as the Navy had so far been unsuccessful in enabling its inventory of nuclear warheads in the absence of National Command Authority (NCA) codes. The Russians had seen to that quite effectively by eliminating all political and senior military leadership through strikes on Mt. Weather and Cheyenne Mountain.
Each sub carried 154 Tomahawks and would send two thirds of their missiles. Packard divided his attention between the launches in the eastern Pacific and the activity of the CSGs off the west coast of the United States which were busily sending waves of cruise missiles to Russian targets within the US.
That wave launched from four Ticonderoga Class, Aegis guided missile cruisers. Each of the ships disappeared in clouds of billowing white smoke. Soon, eight hundred missiles were on their way to a variety of targets in Russia and four hundred were streaking east to the US mainland, low over the blue waters of
the Pacific.
Cruising at five hundred and fifty miles an hour with a range of fifteen hundred miles, Tomahawks aren’t fast. But they approach enemy targets so low to the ground that they are all but undetectable until it is too late to do anything. They are also deadly accurate, and nearly half of the airborne weapons were set to seek and destroy electronic emissions. Russian radar and radio communications.
Next came Electronic Warfare (EW) aircraft from the CSGs. Their job would be to monitor enemy communications and disrupt them, gaining an advantage for the attacking Americans. Finally came waves of F-18s, looking like needle nosed darts on the displays as they took to the air and queued up to take a drink of fuel.
Full, each flight group formed up and began heading for the west coast of the United States. They were flying slow, staying below the sound barrier to conserve fuel as well as to not arrive on target ahead of the initial attack wave. Throttling back, the F-18s held their speed slightly below that of the Tomahawk missiles.
“Turn that up!” The Admiral snapped when a snatch of conversation coming over a console speaker caught his attention.
The Senior Chief Petty Officer operating the station spun the volume control and hit a button to send the audio to overhead speakers. Packard listened for a moment to the fleet communications as first one, then all of the ships in CSG Eleven reported detecting torpedoes in the water with their sonar.
On the screen he watched as each ship responded exactly to US Navy doctrine, accelerating to flank speed and maneuvering based on the bearing and distance to the inbound weapons. Several of the ships launched countermeasures into the water, large canisters that would create noise intended to fool the torpedoes into locking onto them instead of the sound of a ship racing to safety.
Anti-Submarine Warfare (ASW) helicopters were already in the air and as he watched, two of them dropped torpedoes into the sea. Before the weapons had time to destroy the enemy submarine, there was a brilliant flash from the stern of one of the destroyers that had dashed to place itself between the incoming torpedoes and the Nimitz. A moment later a second explosion bloomed from amidship on the destroyer and it went dead in the water. Flames and thick smoke poured from it’s damaged hull.
The CSG continued to maneuver and more torpedoes were dropped by the helicopters searching for the Russian vessel. Packard cursed as new warnings were sounded when an attack from the opposite side of the formation was detected. More torpedoes were dropped and additional helicopters launched as a destroyer and a frigate dashed to the probable location of the new submarine.
The battle raged on, one of the Guided Missile Cruisers taking hits from three torpedoes. The Cruiser’s back was broken, the hull splitting in half and the ship disappearing under the waves in minutes. One more leaked through the defenses and countermeasures, striking the Nimitz and damaging its massive propellers and rudder. The giant ship, without propulsion or steering, came to a stop in the water and began rolling in the large swells.
When it was over, both Russian subs had been destroyed. But the Americans had lost a destroyer and a cruiser. And even though it was still floating, the Nimitz couldn’t launch or recover aircraft without the ability to maneuver.
One of the console operators was busily marking every sailor in the water he and the system could identify, sharing the data with the CSG as rescue operations got underway.
“What’s the water temperature?” Packard asked without taking his eyes off the hundreds of men and women bobbing on the surface.
“Forty-five degrees, sir,” a voice he didn’t bother to identify answered.
“Goddamn it,” he mumbled to himself.
He well knew that in water that cold a human would lapse into unconsciousness in less than thirty minutes. It would only be the lucky individual who survived an hour before succumbing to hypothermia. As frantically as sailors were being pulled out of the ocean, there just wasn’t enough time before many of them died.
“Status of CSG Nine?” He barked out, compartmenting his anger over the loss of so many.
“ASW has detected and engaged three targets, sir. One destroyed. They are still pursuing the other two. No damage or casualties to any CSG assets at this time.” The Senior Chief who was monitoring communications answered.
“Time to first targets for the Tomahawks?” He asked the Surface Warfare Officer seated at a station directly beside him.
“Eleven minutes, sir,” the woman answered immediately.
“Launch the second wave,” he ordered, watching as more sailors were pulled out of the water into RIBs and winched up into hovering helicopters.
“Launch second wave, aye, sir,” she replied.
Fifteen seconds later, the remaining three Guided Missile Cruisers began sending the last of their missiles to target. Half were programmed to seek any enemy radar signal that hadn’t been destroyed by the first wave, the remainder flying slow and loitering. The launching ships were in communication with them and would be able to designate targets of opportunity that had survived the initial attack.
The displays showing the eastern Pacific changed to two more stretches of open ocean, moments later the surface boiling as more Tomahawks took flight. The location was the North Sea, fifty miles off the western coast of Denmark. Six more subs launched another eight hundred cruise missiles between them, half heading for military targets deep inside Russia. The remaining four hundred spread out as they raced to political and command and control locations within Moscow itself.
“Admiral, CSG Nine reports detection of multiple inbound bogies. They are maneuvering to engage.”
“Show me,” Packard barked. “Where the hell did they come from?”
The view on one of the screens changed as did a monitor that mirrored what was displayed in the Washington’s CIC. Multiple tracks were racing across the surface of the ocean, heading directly for the super carrier.
“Submarine launched anti-ship missiles, sir,” the Surface Warfare Officer said. “Most likely Shipwreck missiles.”
“How many?” The Admiral asked, dreading the answer before he heard it.
“Nineteen, sir,” she answered.
As he watched on the satellite image, all of the ships in CSG Nine maneuvered to place themselves between the approaching threats and the Nimitz. Every man in the fleet, from the Captains to the cooks, knew that in a situation like this his ship was expendable if it would save the carrier.
“Any way to tell if they’re specials or conventional?” By ‘special’, Packard was referring to nuclear warheads in the missiles. He knew there was no way to know until the first one detonated, but couldn’t stop himself from asking.
“No, sir,” she answered in a quiet voice.
15
The Russian Shipwreck anti-ship missiles rushed towards their targets, constantly confirming their current position and speed as they maintained a running calculation of time to impact. All nineteen weapons were equipped with 500 Kiloton thermonuclear warheads. Ten were targeting the Washington. Two each for the two Aegis Guided Missile Cruisers and the remainder for the Arleigh Burke class guided missile destroyers.
Shipwrecks are big and fast, streaking towards the CSG at nearly twice the speed of sound. Every ship so equipped fired defensive missiles as they raced to set up a screen to protect the carrier. Three of the Russian missiles were destroyed in the initial salvo, additional anti-missile missiles roaring off their rails and heading downrange.
Five more Shipwrecks were knocked out of the air by the second and third wave of defensive fire. Eleven remained, tracked and engaged by a final launch. Three more were destroyed.
By now the Shipwrecks were close enough to heavily damage the fleet simply by detonating their warheads. But they kept coming. The Phalanx, Close In Weapons Systems (CIWS – pronounced see-whiz), spread across the fleet locked on and began firing when the Russian missiles came within two miles.
Four inbound missiles were destroyed by the hail of fire from the CIWS, a fifth shredded by
the depleted uranium slugs of the Phalanx. Three missiles remained, and it was the Washington’s bad luck that all three were targeted on it. The carrier’s CIWS managed to knock two of them down, leaving only one to leak through the defenses.
When the Shipwreck’s electronics determined that it was within one hundred meters of its target, a command was sent to the warhead. The nuclear trigger was initiated and milliseconds later, a thermonuclear explosion equivalent to five hundred thousand tons of TNT bloomed.
Millions of gallons of seawater instantly flashed to steam as the fireball expanded, engulfing the Washington and the majority of the CSG in a ball of radioactive fire. While the fireball was still expanding, ten more Shipwrecks were launched, targeting the Washington’s CSG. Fifteen more took flight from a Russian submarine that had remained quiet and deep, hiding within fifty miles of the crippled Nimitz.
Again, the US Navy successfully stopped all but one of the inbound threats with a flurry of launches. But the single missile screamed over the tops of the waves, slightly gaining altitude seconds before arriving. The CSG’s defenses had been overwhelmed, none of them targeting the Russian nuclear weapon which detonated one hundred meters above the Nimitz’ flight deck.
The Tomahawks launched by the two American Carrier Strike Groups spread out as they approached the coastline of the western United States. Some were adjusting course to reach designated targets, others seeking and locking on to electronic emissions. When communication with the CSG was lost due to the nuclear attack, the missiles without assigned targets defaulted to searching for sources of electromagnetic energy.
For reasons unknown to the Americans, the Russians had only moved into Seattle, Portland and San Francisco. The remainder of the west coast remained unoccupied. Theories abounded for why this was so, but that was all they were.