Anvil

by Dirk Patton

  I needed to get them out of there. Fast. If the enemy didn’t get them, there was the very real concern of the fire reaching the Apache’s fuel tanks. Sure, they’re made tough, are ballistic resistant and self-sealing, but fire has a way of finding fuel. When that happened, the seven men would be engulfed in the fireball of an explosion.

  The rifle in my hands was new to me, and I had no idea how well, if at all, the battle scope had been sighted. The Russians pushed forward, leap-frogging towards my men while maintain a blistering suppressive fire. I decided it didn’t mater if the sight was zeroed or not. I also needed some help.

  Settling into the rifle’s stock, I called Dutch on the radio. He answered as I pulled the trigger for the first time and saw a puff of dust a foot to the left of my intended target. The Russian soldier, who was throwing down much of the cover fire, either didn’t notice or wasn’t phased. I adjusted my aiming point and pulled the trigger, drilling a round through his neck.

  When I called Dutch I had asked for the radio frequency for the artillery unit. He gave it to me, and even though I didn’t have a map book to provide grid coordinates I placed the call anyway. It took some shouting and longer than it should have, but I finally convinced them to check with Colonel Blanchard to verify I was legit. While this was going on, I took out three more Russians.

  That was good, as it slowed their advance on the men pinned behind the crashed Apache, but it was also bad as they finally noticed me. A large volume of fire started coming my way and I had to roll behind the protection of the hill. Clicking over to the channel the Rangers were using I reached the men below my position and told them to sit tight for another few minutes. The reply was sarcastic and profanity laced and, despite the circumstances, made me smile.

  Clicking back to the artillery channel I was glad to hear that they were satisfied I wasn’t the enemy trying to call a fire mission in on American troops. I didn’t have a map book, had no idea what my location was, but they had terrain maps and I had a set of eyes. It took some doing, but I was able to spot and describe enough unique topographical features for them to find the general area.

  Knowing it was a best guess, and not wanting to drop a shell on the men I was trying to save, I requested a ranging shell, or one that would only produce smoke. The Red Legs were on the ball and it wasn’t long before I heard the rumble of incoming arty. A moment later there was a huge blossom of white smoke, a couple of hundred yards behind and far to the right of the Russians.

  I called in adjustments for direction and drop, doing some rough math in my head and hoping like hell I remembered how to do this. Calling in a fire mission isn’t complicated, but it wasn’t something I’d ever done in real life before. It’s rare that a SF operator finds himself in a situation where artillery is available. It had never happened for me and I had only ever done this in training.

  The second round arrived quickly, closer, but not close enough. Still too far and slightly right. The Russians had noticed the ranging rounds and were pushing hard to move forward, knowing the best protection would be to get as close as possible to the Americans. They didn’t give me a lot of choice even though I would have liked another round to fine tune the bombardment.

  Crossing my fingers, I called in another adjustment and ordered the battery to “fire for effect”. If I had fucked up I’d either just brought the shells down on the heads of my men, or was sending them into empty terrain where they’d do nothing other than make a lot of noise. Hoping I was due for some luck, I started sending as many rounds at the Russians as I could, trying to slow them.

  I heard the roar of the shells in flight over the report of my rifle. Ceasing fire, I watched and waited. It didn’t take much more than a second for the shells to start dropping and they were on target. Well, not perfectly. They were still coming in long, detonating fifty yards behind the rear of the Russian squads, but half the enemy soldiers were killed by the first three rounds and the rest were too busy looking for cover to keep firing.

  Back on the radio, I shouted a new adjustment and watched as the fire was walked closer to the Apache. The Russians were devastated, and I lost sight of all of them in the clouds of dirt, dust and smoke that were thrown up by the 155 mm shells.

  “Fall back now!” I screamed into the radio after switching channels.

  A moment later one of the Rangers leapt to his feet, four others jumping up when he shouted. They scooped the Apache crew off the ground and ran. I stayed prone, rifle up and ready if a Russian popped up behind them. I didn’t think that was going to happen as the artillery was pounding the ever loving shit out of that part of Idaho.

  When they reached my position I waved them on, getting to my feet and following as the last one passed. Mortars started up again when the other advancing enemy units spotted our movement. Machine gun fire was sprinkled in and ahead I saw one of the Privates flop lifelessly to the ground after half his head disintegrated.

  The Ranger in the lead pulled to a stop behind the cover of a slightly larger hill, the rest of the men bunching tightly around him. I started to ask what the hell he thought he was doing, then dove for cover when I saw a Russian BTR nosing its way towards us.

  21

  “Sir!”

  Admiral Packard turned when a communications specialist called out from the far side of the CIC. He had been watching as each console operator worked to shut down and secure their station before heading to a bunker located deep underground. He glanced at the countdown clock tracking the inbound thermonuclear warhead as the woman who had called out to him stood up.

  “Phone call for you, sir. It is Fleet Admiral Chirkov. I’ve confirmed the call as originating in Moscow.”

  Packard was normally not a man who could be surprised, but the news that the head of the Russian Navy was on the phone and wanted to speak with him caught him completely unprepared. He knew Chirkov, having met him twice at diplomatic functions throughout the span of his career, and had always thought the man an arrogant simpleton. But, regardless of the man’s intelligence, he had shown himself to be an incredibly astute politician.

  “Here,” he pointed at the phone on the console closest to him.

  While the comm specialist worked to reroute the call, Packard ordered the Captain to continue clearing the room and move personnel to the bunker. Waiting a moment to collect his thoughts, letting the phone buzz on its cradle, he took a deep breath and lifted the handset.

  “Admiral Packard speaking,” he barked.

  “Admiral, so good to hear your voice. How long has it been? Eight years, no?”

  “If you’ll excuse me Viktor, one of your warheads is about to drop into my lap. I’m a little busy. What do you want?” Packard snarled, struggling to contain his anger.

  “My old friend, I am calling to deliver a present to you. I assume you are watching the track of the inbound device?”

  Packard glanced at the screen, wincing when he saw the ICBM still tracking along a dotted line ending in Hawaii.

  “Again, what do you want, Viktor?”

  “Admiral, please,” the Russian purred into the phone. “Can’t two old warriors have a civil conversation?”

  “If you want civil, you shouldn’t have attacked my country,” Packard responded, finally getting his emotions under control and speaking calmly.

  “Ahh… well, perhaps it is time for all of this to end. That is why I’m calling.”

  Packard was quiet for a moment, wondering what game the Russian was playing. He looked at the countdown clock. Five minutes and twelve seconds remained.

  “I’m listening,” he said. “But you’d better talk fast.”

  “First, allow me to demonstrate my goodwill,” the Russian said. “Keep watching the incoming nuclear warhead.”

  There was silence on the phone as Packard glared at the screen. The clock kept running, counting down the time to detonation. He was aware of the continuing evacuation of the room and decided he was hanging up and heading for the bunker when the time re
ached three minutes remaining.

  “I’m going to hang up, Viktor,” he said when the clock reached four minutes and radar still tracked the missile.

  “Keep watching,” the Russian said with a note of supreme confidence in his Oxford accented English.

  Three seconds later the screen blinked and the icon representing the ICBM disappeared. At the same time the clock stopped, displaying 03:56:59. Packard stared at it for a moment before stabbing the mute button on the phone console.

  “Confirm that, Master Chief,” he shouted at the console operator.

  “Already on it, sir,” the man answered, typing furiously.

  After what seemed an eternity, but was actually less than thirty seconds, the Master Chief heaved a deep sigh and turned to face Packard.

  “Confirmed, sir. The missile was destroyed in flight, above the atmosphere.”

  The man couldn’t contain the smile that spread across his face. Cheers broke out around the room, Packard barking them to silence as he turned back to the phone and took it off mute.

  “Am I supposed to thank you, Viktor?” He asked.

  “To be honest, Admiral, you should thank President Barinov. It is on his orders that the missile was aborted. He is ready to end hostilities with the United States if certain conditions are met.”

  “What are the conditions?” Packard growled.

  “See, I knew you were a reasonable man. There is no need for further bloodshed. If you agree to these conditions, Russia will leave all surviving Americans unmolested. If you do not, the next missiles will not be aborted. And there will be more of them. Many more. Shall I read the President’s conditions to you now?”

  Packard gripped the handset so tight his hand throbbed. Anger boiled in his gut, but as he looked around the room he realized he had no option other than to listen to the Russian. Muting the phone again he turned to the comm specialist.

  “Is this being recorded?”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied after confirming the conversation was being saved to disc.

  “Proceed, Viktor,” he said in a tight voice after un-muting the call.

  “Very well. I assume you are recording and do not need to take notes.

  “First, the full and immediate cessation of all military actions by the United States against any Russian military or civilians. Anywhere on the globe.

  “The complete decommissioning of all American military forces and assets. Immediately, all American submarines must come to the surface and remain there until we direct them to a port of our choosing. All operational naval surface vessels shall be handed over to Russia within one week. All aircraft other than un-armed commercial craft shall also be handed over, and inspections shall be performed in Hawaii to inventory and remove all military munitions.

  “The complete evacuation of North America, including Alaska, by all surviving Americans. Russia now claims the entire continent as sovereign territory.

  “Americans are limited to the Hawaiian Islands and their immediate waters. The survivors in the Bahamas shall be evacuated to Hawaii within one week. Travel to, and trade with, Australia shall be permitted if approved in advance.

  “Finally, we want Major John Chase. Deliver him to any Russian commander, but he must be in our custody within twenty-four hours.

  “None of these conditions are negotiable. If you do not agree, or if you violate any of the terms, all remaining Americans shall be destroyed by Russian nuclear rocket forces. Do you understand, Admiral?”

  Packard stood very still, only the bunched muscles in his jaw betraying his mood. His mind was racing, but as he considered his options it became painfully aware that without America’s nuclear deterrent, it was suicide to stand against the Russians.

  “I don’t know where Major Chase is,” he finally spoke, trying to buy time. “I don’t even know if he’s still alive.”

  “I think you are being less than honest with me, Admiral,” Chirkov chuckled into the phone. “You are as aware as I am that he is in Idaho. Perhaps you do not know his precise location at this moment, but he is with your forces. President Barinov has a personal score to settle with this man and delays or obfuscation on your part will be considered a violation of the terms I’ve laid out. I need your answer. Now. Do you agree?”

  “Agreed,” Packard growled through his teeth as he seethed internally.

  “You are a wise man,” Chirkov laughed again. “I’m sure you can imagine how many warheads are targeted on Hawaii at the moment, awaiting the President’s order. My aides will contact you to arrange the details of the turnover of your fleet. And, I will be coming to Hawaii to personally accept your surrender. Isn’t it a shame that the USS Missouri has been decommissioned? What a marvelous setting that would be for a surrender signing.”

  The Russian was laughing when he broke the connection, leaving Packard listening to a dead circuit. The Admiral stood perfectly still for several moments, the CIC completely silent as every remaining person watched him. Finally, with a shout of anger he snatched the phone off the console and threw it against the wall, shattering the device into dozens of pieces.

  “Get me Colonel Blanchard in Idaho,” he snapped at the comm specialist. “I’ll take it in my office.”

  Packard turned and stormed out of the room, motioning the intel Captain to follow.

  22

  Petty Officer Simmons had been even quieter than normal after speaking with the Army Major. She thought about what he’d told her, brooding as she pulled archives and confirmed his suspicions. The Russians were always right behind him. Just like he said. Just like someone was feeding them information. But who?

  Jessica looked around the room at the five other occupants. There was Lieutenant Hunt, her CO. She eliminated him from the mental list of suspects she was compiling. He had the same access she did and would have been able to pinpoint the Major’s location. No, this was someone who had a good idea of where he was, but wasn’t in the system.

  Pulling up a security system window, she spent several minutes going through the logs. She was looking for any record of one of her co-workers having accessed the data stream specific to Major Chase. None of them had, but there was something else she needed to check.

  Closing the security logs, Jessica initiated an admin login directly to the orbiting satellite. Once in, she ran through three different logs. Still no access by anyone other than her. Sighing in frustration she began to log out but paused, deciding to perform a keyword search in case she had missed something in her review of the records.

  One by one she searched for the login IDs of everyone who worked in her unit. The IDs were comprised of the first three letters of the user’s first name, followed by a middle initial and the first three letters of the last name. Glancing at each console, she noted middle initials which were not something she had committed to memory.

  ROBWROB – No results found.

  CHAHZEM – No results found.

  MELKSTE – No results found.

  THORSYS – THOR SYSTEM LOGIN.

  Jessica blinked, surprised by the results. She had been searching for Chief Petty Officer Thomas R. Sysko. He hadn’t logged in to the satellite, but what the hell was Thor System? Curiosity got the best of her and she selected the response.

  There was a slight delay before a new screen appeared. It gave no indication of what it was for, containing only a password prompt. Opening an additional window, Jessica began digging into the satellite’s operating system. It took some doing, but she finally determined that the password prompt was coming from another satellite which was communicating through the NSA bird.

  “Sir, you need to see this,” she called to Lieutenant Hunt.

  A moment later he was leaning over her shoulder, peering at her console.

  “What’s up?”

  “There’s another bird up there, sir. One of ours apparently. I’m communicating through the NSA satellite and got to a login prompt.”

  “What is it?” He asked.

  “No
idea,” Jessica said, staring at the blinking cursor in the password field. “I was poking around and found it. It’s called Thor System. Ever heard of it?”

  “No,” he replied, shaking his head. “Can you get in?”

  “Haven’t tried yet. Didn’t want to try without checking with you first. Just in case it’s something I shouldn’t be messing around with.” She looked over her shoulder and met his eyes.

  “Probably a good idea,” he said, straightening up. “Let me make some calls, see if anyone knows what it is before you start breaking in.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jessica said as Hunt headed for his console and snatched up a phone.

  Dismissing the new discovery from her mind for the moment, she returned to working on her list of suspects. She was confident the people in the room with her were clear. Besides, the very nature of their jobs had required an incredibly extensive and intrusive background check before each of them received a security clearance. And the clearances were updated every six months. The odds of someone being a Russian agent or sympathizer were so small they were microscopic.

  That left people that didn’t work directly in her unit. Who had been in the room or had access to the information about Major Chase?

  Admiral Packard. Jessica briefly considered the possibility before dismissing it outright. Besides, if the Admiral was in the Russian’s pocket they had much bigger problems than who was feeding intel about one Army Major.

  The Captain from Naval Intelligence. More possible than the Admiral, but unlikely. Still, he had been present in the room and had seen and heard enough information to put the Russians on the Major’s trail without being able to give them precise coordinates. Jessica mentally labeled him as a possibility.

  Who else? She had no knowledge of who the Admiral or Captain may have told. Staffers, fellow officers, lovers…