by Dirk Patton
The first eight missiles to arrive on target had been selected to attack a Russian destroyer guarding the mouth of the Columbia River. The Admiral Panteleyev, an older Russian destroyer, detected the inbound cruise missiles less than three minutes before they arrived. But three minutes was more than enough time for the Captain to bring the ship to general quarters and turn the bow to face the approaching threats. As the Tomahawks drew closer they lost altitude until they were barely skimming the surface of the ocean.
Equipped with two Kashtan CIWS systems, the Captain and crew stood nervously watching as the computers took control of the ship’s defenses. The Kashtan system boasts two 30 mm canons as well as eight radar guided surface to air missiles. Each canon can fire 4,500 rounds per minute and the entire turret is self-contained and fully automated when activated.
Sirens blared as the two systems swung into operation, tracking the inbound targets on radar. Quickly, missiles streaked into the air, rapidly covering the distance to the Tomahawks. Of the eight targets, two were intercepted and destroyed in the opening salvo. More defensive missiles launched, splashing another Tomahawk before all four of the auto-canons began firing.
Three more Tomahawks went down, both turrets attacking the remaining threat and destroying it when it was within half a mile of the ship. Sirens continued to sound and the Kashtans were swiveling to engage newly detected threats when three Tomahawks slammed into the ship in quick succession.
These were radar seeking missiles that had homed in on the Kashtans’ electronic emissions, changing course and coming in at a sharp angle to the bow of the ship. Three, 1,000 pound high explosive warheads detonated, blowing massive holes in the deck of the destroyer and instantly killing all aboard except for a select few who were deep in the bowels of the ship in sealed compartments. Burning, the ship quickly began listing to port as cold seawater poured in through multiple breaches in the hull.
Up and down the coast, from Northern California to Seattle, the Tomahawks began arriving on target. The Russian Navy had a large presence in the area, many of the ships launching anti-missile missiles and engaging with their Kashtan systems. But the Americans had successfully attacked with enough cruise missiles to overwhelm the Russian’s ability to effectively defend their positions.
Over two-thirds of Russian Navy ships on and near the west coast of the United States were either sunk or damaged so severely they had to be abandoned. No ship that did not have defensive systems survived the barrage. But the Americans had targeted much more than just enemy ships.
Shore based operations centers set up by the occupying military were devastated in Seattle and San Francisco. Infrastructure critical to the new tenants of the cities was also targeted. In San Francisco, the Golden Gate and Bay Bridge were the recipients of multiple strikes, both collapsing into the water. In Portland, bridges across the Columbia were taken down. In the mountains above Seattle, hydroelectric dams were destroyed, denying power to the Russians and sending billions of gallons of water flooding downstream.
Follow up waves of Tomahawks seeking radar and radio emissions arrived, killing more Russian civilians than military. US military bases all along the coast were attacked and heavily damaged, denying their use to the invaders. Finally, port facilities were targeted. Dozens of Russian cargo and passenger ships were caught tied up at the docks. Many were damaged beyond repair, burning and adding thick, black smoke to the choking miasma that hung over each city.
The Russian naval bases near Vladivostok and on the Kamchatka Peninsula were significantly damaged. Heavily defended, they were able to stop nearly six hundred of the inbound missiles, but again the sheer numbers overwhelmed them and over two hundred Tomahawks reached their targets.
The final wave of the American attack was the eight hundred Tomahawks launched from the North Sea. Several Russian air bases in Eastern Europe sustained damage as they were not expecting or prepared for an assault. That left four hundred missiles streaking across the Russian steppes for Moscow and multiple military installations surrounding it.
Moscow is the most heavily defended city on Earth. Ringed by multiple, redundant anti-aircraft and anti-missile batteries, it was prepared to fend off just the type of attack that had been launched against it. Only because part of the system was down for maintenance did any of the Tomahawks slip through and reach their targets.
But none of the over one hundred missiles designated to destroy the Kremlin came within ten miles of the seat of the Russian government. A total of eleven explosions rattled the windows in the city as the weapons succeeded in damaging some hangars and two runways at Kubinka Air Base, several miles west of Moscow.
Before the fires on the flight line had been extinguished, four long range nuclear missiles were launched from a Russian submarine patrolling above the arctic circle. NORAD would have normally been the US Military organization to identify, track and attempt intercept of the missiles, but it no longer existed.
In Pearl Harbor, console operators stared at their screens in disbelief for a few moments before warnings began being shouted across the CIC. Admiral Packard stepped quickly to a terminal, clenching his jaw when he saw the four tracks plotted on the screen. The man working the station was typing furiously, unaware of the Admiral peering over his shoulder.
“Fuck me,” he breathed when the tracks updated and the computer drew the projected flight paths of each missile.
The dotted tracks formed neat parabolas that terminated in Hawaii. They were undoubtedly ICBMs.
16
I dashed through the break in the terrain, the five Rangers following in single file and keeping good spacing. There were lots of small hillocks as well as depressions in the terrain and I used them to my full advantage as we moved down the slope. I would run for a few seconds before throwing myself to the ground, not wanting to give anyone an opportunity to zero in and drill a bullet through my hide.
Half way to the valley below, where the main battle was being fought, I paused behind a car sized boulder. The Rangers spread out on either side, prone with their bodies shielded by the earth. Only their heads and rifles were visible from downslope. A quarter of a mile away the fighting raged as Russian troops tried to advance and complete the encirclement of several hundred Soldiers.
Bullets were flying, mortars were thumping, men were screaming as they fought and died. The air was foul with the acrid stench of burned gunpowder and explosives. On the left flank, the enemy was making progress, using light armored vehicles, RPGs and grenade launchers to supplement the heavy fire they were laying down. If they succeeded in moving behind the American forces, it would be a slaughter.
I didn’t understand why the officers in command hadn’t already pulled back or why their comms with the Command Post weren’t working. Bravery in battle is one thing, but holding ground against a superior force when there’s no value in the terrain you’re fighting for is foolish. Retreating and regrouping is a valuable tool that every infantry officer in the world is taught.
“Why the fuck aren’t they falling back?”
One of the Rangers, a First Sergeant, had moved to lay next to me as I surveyed the battle.
“Beats the hell out of me, Top. But if we don’t get them out fast, there won’t be any idiots left to ask,” I said. “Ready to get your hands dirty?”
“Thought you’d never ask, sir,” he grinned.
He followed me as I ran around the rock and headed for a shallow depression in the side of the hill. Half way to my destination, bullets began cracking all around. Some of them screamed by close enough for me to hear their passage, others slammed into the wet ground and kicked up gouts of mud and snow. They were too heavy, and too many were coming in, for it to be anything other than a machine gun firing at us.
Adjusting my run for the final twenty yards, I zigged, twisted and threw myself into the hole. The First Sergeant was right on my ass and crashed against me a heartbeat later.
“You see the fucker?”
I had to
shout over the noise of the battle, hoping he’d gotten a bead on where the gunner was set up. I hadn’t been able to spot the source of the incoming fire that was currently chewing up the lip of the hole where we huddled. The son of a bitch had certainly seen us and was making sure we kept our heads down.
“No luck,” he said, shifting around and stabbing his radio’s earpiece back in his ear.
I looked up the slope as he made a call, not seeing the four other Rangers. That was usually a good sign. If they’d been hit, most likely their bodies would be out in the open and visible. Maybe.
While he shouted into his radio, the withering machine gun fire stopped. I gave it a moment before popping my head up and pulling it right back down. The movement was too quick for me to see anything, but if the gunner was just waiting for one of us to show ourselves I hoped I’d entice him to show his hand and send some more rounds my way.
He was either occupied with a more immediate threat, or was a wily little shit who realized what I was doing and was waiting for a better target. Either way, I didn’t have much choice other than to take a risk. Moving laterally, so my head would appear in a different spot, I carefully raised up and exposed only enough of myself to get my eyes above the edge.
No bullets came my way, but I didn’t relax. First priority was to find the gunner so he could be dealt with. I didn’t even bother checking on the progress of the Russian troops. With that machine gun in play, we weren’t going to be advancing. Getting caught on open ground would be tantamount to suicide. He’d chew us up and go on about his day without a second thought.
“There,” the First Sergeant tapped my arm and pointed. He’d finished on the radio and moved next to me.
I looked where he indicated and saw the muzzle flashes of the machine gun being fired. He had dismissed us for the moment, using his position to keep a group of Soldiers pinned down so the Russians coming around the flank could advance.
“Dug in like a fucking tick,” I said, noting the nice, deep depression the gunner had found to set up his weapon.
He was well protected from return fire in addition to having a commanding view in almost every direction. Almost. Behind and to his side there appeared to be a narrow slice of terrain that would hide someone sneaking up on him. Maybe.
“Anyone got anything other than a rifle?” I asked.
“No, sir, but I’d surely give my right nut for a two-oh-four right about now.”
He was referring to an M-204 grenade launcher, and I agreed with him.
“Give me covering fire,” I said, making my decision and pushing up and out of the hole at a run.
Charging a machine gun emplacement is not the brightest of ideas on the best of days. But we were stuck, and if we just sat there and kept our heads down, the Russians were going to overwhelm and wipe out a whole bunch of Soldiers. There wasn’t any other option. Besides, no one ever promised that being in the Army was a safe occupation.
I covered about a third of the distance, with two stops behind rocks, before the gunner looked up the slope and spotted me. Swiveling his weapon, he opened up, blasting chips of stone off the small boulder I was sheltering behind. I glanced behind me, gratified to see the First Sergeant and two other Rangers with their heads up as they poured full auto fire at the machine gun’s position.
They didn’t hit him, but they sure as hell got his attention. I watched closely, and when the muzzle of his gun traversed to engage them I leapt to my feet and ran. My destination was a shallow ravine that had been carved by water and ran down the hill. It passed only a short distance behind the gunner’s position and I planned to follow it, pop up and ruin his day.
Running flat out, I dove the final few yards as bullets began tearing up the ground all around me. A tracer round passed inches in front of my eyes as I stretched for the safety of the ground. Crashing down, I bounced off a couple of exposed rocks and came to rest on my back, a soft bed of sand beneath the cushion of snow. Fuck that hurt!
My body wanted to just stay there until the pain of pin-balling off the rocks eased, but staying in one spot too long in combat is a good way to die young. Ignoring the protests of what I hoped were only bruises, I rolled over and began making my way down the ravine. The din of battle was growing louder as I advanced, scrambling on my knees and elbows.
Twenty yards to my front, something of the high explosive variety detonated on the very edge of the ditch I was using for cover. Dirt, rocks and filthy snow fountained into the air and rained down on me. I was stunned from being too close to the blast, hearing as if I was underwater and my vision blurry and tunneled to narrow pinpoints of light. My body refused to respond to my brain’s commands to keep moving.
Well, I thought it refused, then realized I was still crawling forward. I was operating on auto pilot and it took a few more yards of movement to regain control. Stopping, I looked around, unsure where I was in relation to the gunner. My hearing was slowly coming back and I was pretty certain I could hear the machine gun hammering from behind me. I’d crawled past him?
Shaking my head, trying to clear it, I turned and poked my eyes over the edge of the ravine. Sure enough, I’d kept on going and overshot my target. Reversing course, I scrambled to the point I’d identified as a blind spot for the gunner and crawled over the lip onto open ground.
There were two more explosions, close, but not close enough to affect me like the last one. Now I was able to identify them as mortar bombs dropping in and it dawned on me that someone was trying to lob one on top of the gunner’s head. They seemed to have him bracketed, but as more fell the accuracy wasn’t improving. I needed to shut this fucker down and get out of the area before one of them found me, which was probably all too likely since they were beginning to rain down at a much faster pace.
Flattening myself on the ground, I wormed my way forward, rifle held in both hands. Another mortar fell close enough to rattle my teeth and leave me with a fresh coating of dirt. Spitting mud and blood, I kept moving, eyes focused on the very small hump in the ground that was all that screened my approach from the gunner. Slithering up to it, I pressed my face to the ground as more mortars fell, one on either side of me.
By now I was mostly deaf and questioning whether I really needed to engage the gunner. All that was really needed was some accurate mortar fire. But then maybe they were firing blind. They were probably pinned down and doing the best they could to send some shells in the direction of the machine gun and hoping for a lucky drop.
Mentally yelling at myself, I gripped the rifle tighter and rolled around the hump into the open, aiming into the depression. Two Russian soldiers were there. The gunner who was currently working a stream of lead onto American positions, and another man operating as the gun crew. He was facing my direction, opening the lid on an ammo can.
He detected my movement, whipping his head up and staring in surprise. He was just a fucking kid. Eighteen, maybe nineteen. He just stood there staring at me with his mouth open. I shot him in the chest, three rounds shredding his uniform blouse and sending him staggering backwards to fall against the gunner.
The man jerked away from the body of his comrade, starting to turn in my direction. He never completed the movement. Three rounds shattered his skull and he fell across the other body. Dropping into the depression, I dashed forward and dragged the two corpses out of my way. Raising up enough to see upslope I waved at the First Sergeant.
He saw me and began racing down the slope as I traversed the machine gun and opened up on the front ranks of the advancing Russians. As I walked the heavy slugs across them, I grinned an evil grin as bodies were torn apart and fell to stain the snow a brilliant crimson. Continuing to mow down enemy troops, I couldn’t help the good feeling you get from turning the enemy’s weapon on him.
17
“Still no comms,” the First Sergeant shouted a few seconds later when he leapt into the hole next to me.
He was referring to continued attempts to contact the command element of the Sold
iers that were about to be cut off. I was still firing the captured machine gun, heavy on the trigger. This was definitely one of those times that you didn’t worry about overheating and damaging a weapon. All that mattered was sending as much lead downrange as quickly as you could.
“Need ammo,” I shouted, noting the belt was about to run out.
He grabbed the same can the first Russian I’d shot had been opening, snatched up the end of a fresh belt of ammunition and moved next to me. When the last round fired I yanked the breech cover open and he slapped the new belt into place. A second later I was back in action. But the damn Russians weren’t cooperating.
Instead of standing out in the open for me to shoot, they had taken cover and were firing back. Bullets were screaming overhead and slamming into the dirt I was sheltered behind. Fortunately, only the barrel of the machine gun was exposed through one of several slots the gunner had cut in the surrounding berm.
To add to the fun, mortars were still falling all around. No more or less accurate, but I was getting an itch on my back, worried the troops firing that particular weapon were about due for a lucky drop.
With the Russians eating dirt, their advance stalled. They didn’t pull back and give even an inch of the ground they’d taken, but at least they weren’t still progressing. The remaining four Rangers arrived and set up to guard our rear. We were within Russian lines and it was only a matter of time before someone behind us realized that it was American hands firing the machine gun.
“Now that just ain’t fair,” the First Sergeant drawled when two Russian BTRs appeared over a rise to our front.
The BTR was first developed by the Soviets during the Cold War, having been continually updated and upgraded. Not to simplify it too much, it’s their version of a Bradley. Only with eight wheels instead of tracks, so it looks less like a tank. But it’s no less deadly, sporting a 30 mm auto-canon.