EndWar e-1

by Tom Clancy

  Becerra glanced over at Hellenberg. The White House Chief of Staff shook his head from the other side of the table. He was off camera, but that didn’t matter. Becerra displayed enough disgust for both of them.

  Emerson thought a moment. “I spoke with Kapalkin. If I make a move, the hammer will come down. I won’t do this.”

  “He’s bluffing. He doesn’t have the resources. And he knows the Euros will be in Edmonton soon.”

  “I think he’s right. I think we have less to lose if we do nothing. And if we play the victim of two evil superpowers, we might actually gain something: the world’s sympathy.”

  “Prime Minister, you’re making a terrible mistake. This is your Pearl Harbor. It’s your time.”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “If not now, then when?”

  “The situation is being carefully evaluated.”

  “That’s a line for the media, not for me. Come on, Prime Minister! Together we can shut them down. Otherwise, it’ll take time, resources, and your people will suffer the consequences.”

  “I understand.”

  “I hope so. Because at this time I’m informing you that one of our Stryker Combat Brigade Teams is en route to Calgary to help evacuate your civilians. They also have orders to take out enemy positions designated by our SEALs and Special Forces. I’m not asking for your permission, Prime Minister. If you won’t save your own people, we will, because doing so is in the best interests of the United States.”

  Emerson slammed a fist on his desk, “Damn you, Becerra, you have no idea what a position I’m in! No idea!”

  “It’ll only get worse, Prime Minister.”

  “Look, we won’t stop you from helping. But I can’t take the risk. Not now.”

  “I’ll check in again, once my brigade reaches Calgary. The Euros will be calling. Good-bye, Mr. Prime Minister.” The second Becerra ended the call, he huffed and added, “What a fool. What a waste of time.”

  “General Kennedy’s waiting to give you an update,” said Hellenberg.

  “Before I take that, let me ask you something, Mark. We’ve known each other for a long time.”

  “A lot of years.”

  “You think there’s anything I could’ve said to that man?”

  The chief of staff frowned. “As an old attorney, I’d say you made a good argument. You hit him with the facts and appealed to his emotions. But they’re afraid to commit. Do you know how much money is resting on Emerson’s decision?”

  “Yes, like he said, the position he’s in. The Canadians ally with us, and their remaining overseas oil markets could crumble. The Chinese have already gobbled up most of their oil firms operating abroad. Sure, they know they’ll never lose us as customers, so they can take the gamble, hold out, see what they can get.”

  “These are games for the academics to figure out. Right now there’s a battle to fight.”

  Becerra nodded, tapped the screen, and there she was, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Laura Kennedy, looking slightly less rankled than the last time they’d spoken. “General, sorry to keep you waiting,” he began.

  “That’s all right, Mr. President. We have intelligence coming in from multiple command posts. As always, it’s information overload, but here are the highlights. The company of Special Forces up in High Level is about to engage a Russian recon patrol from Behchoko. Unfortunately, that TRAP mission you asked for is being conducted by a Force Recon team who just landed in High Level to refuel. They could get caught up in the fighting there.”

  “Damn, I hope not.”

  “Good news from the Florida up in Coronation Gulf. Her skipper says they wiped out that Russian task force and have moved to the mouth of the Dolphin and Union Strait, a natural choke point. He’s got us covered up there.”

  As the general spoke, Becerra watched images of the sinking ships captured by the sub. The sight left him awestruck.

  “The first sorties carrying our brigade from the Tenth Mountain Division have landed without incident in Grand Prairie, and the Marines from Pendleton have begun their deep reconnaissance up Highway 63, north of Fort McMurray. They’ll be reinforced by at least one follow-on Euro battalion, I’m told. No ETA on the Euros arrival yet.”

  “I’ll contact General Bankolé to see what’s holding them up.”

  “Mr. President, I hate to use this phrase, but it’s been bandied about in the past few hours. What we’re seeing so far from the Russians is an invasion plan, but one with a real failure of imagination.”

  “Well, you’ve made me wince, so now you’d better explain.”

  “The Russians are using all available avenues of approach, initiating the operation with basically no surprises. We expected them to seize those key towns up north to keep avenues open, which they are doing. We know they’ll push down 63 and 35. We’ve already seen them drop in a separate battalion augmented with petroleum specialists to help gain control of the fields and refineries up near Fort McMurray. And we know they’re using the avgas up in Behchoko to refuel their 130s. They sent some of those refueled planes farther south. The first flight passed Edmonton, so we believe they’re either bound for Calgary or maybe they’ll put down in Red Deer, right between the two cities. There’s a regional airport there that they might use as a staging area, sending infantry both north and south to the cities. Initially, they’ll need at least a battalion to fully secure each city until their reinforcements arrive.”

  “How are we doing in the air?”

  “So far the space backbone layer remains clear since the destruction of the ISS. Euro lasers and the Rods from God are fully online. We’ve managed to disrupt the Russians’ airborne network layer with Euro lasers, taking out those first surveillance and 130X craft, but that won’t last for long, since their fuel cells will need recharging. The tactical and terminal layers are where it’s all happening. We can take out their transports, but, as always, collateral damage is a primary concern, especially once they get near the cities.”

  “Yes, and the joint chiefs know very well how I feel about that.”

  She nodded. “You shoot a missile at one of the largest transport planes in the world and it crash-lands in downtown Edmonton, suddenly we’re the terrorists, invasion or not.”

  “We won’t let that happen.”

  “No, sir.” She regarded her notes. “The fighters from Alaska have had only limited success up in the Northwest Territories, given the Russian fighter escorts, but with the infrastructure concerns, the joint chiefs continue to assert that this will be a ground battle with close air support. The Russians seem to agree. We’ve seen no evidence that they’re readying strategic bombers. If they take Alberta, they’ll want to take it intact. Again, no surprises. The Rules of Engagement seem remarkably clear. The only unexpected thing they did was launch this attack during winter, making ground movement all the more difficult — but that goes for both sides.”

  “You seem bothered by all of this.”

  She hesitated. “Given our dealings with the GRU in the past year, sir, it would be foolish to assume this is all they have planned.”

  “For all our sakes, I hope those fools in Moscow know where to stop.”

  “Me, too. But while it’s perfectly logical for them to want control over the reserves in Alberta, you always wonder: is this just a diversion to keep eyes on Canada while they slip one under the table?”

  “So we keep one eye on Canada and one on the rest of the world.”

  “Yes, sir. And, oh yes, one more smaller matter. Green Vox and his cronies are back at it. They’ve delayed the Stryker brigade heading to Calgary.”

  “What happened?”

  “Not sure. Reports indicate they might have planted IEDs. But these weren’t roadside bombs. They might have been planted on the vehicles before they even left Fort Lewis. If that’s the case, it was definitely an inside job. Those crews are trained to go over their vehicles very carefully.”

  “If a bomb is made to resemble a component that’s
already there, how do you check for that?” asked Becerra.

  “Exactly.”

  “Are they moving again?”

  “Just in the last hour.”

  “Good.”

  “But here’s what bothers me, sir. For the past eight years, the Green Brigade has hit targets all over the world, significant targets.”

  “And you’re wondering why they’d attack Fort Lewis, then disrupt the convoy?”

  “Two smaller bombs just went off at Fort McMurray Airport, where our Marines have landed. No one was hurt.”

  “So the Russians have Vox back on their payroll. Another failure of imagination, eh?”

  “Maybe so. I’m sure time will tell. Well, that’s all for now, Mr. President.”

  “Thank you. And General, when that Russian recon force hits High Level, I’d like to monitor those channels.”

  “Absolutely. Should be any minute now.”

  “Where’s everyone else? Where are they?”

  The captain shook his head.

  Barnes and the medic were no longer moving, and the engineer was clutching his leg, shot in the femoral artery and bleeding all over the bay floor.

  Just then Gerard pulled open his bloody jacket and lifted his shirt, revealing a pair of dark holes in his chest. He wouldn’t make it, and neither would the engineer.

  “We need help!” Vatz cried to one of the door gunners.

  The guy ignored him, tending to his own shoulder wound. Gritting his teeth, Vatz pushed himself over to the Russian, wrenched up the man’s visor, and grabbed him by the neck. “Are you worth it, you bastard?”

  The Russian stared up with vacant eyes.

  Vatz glanced back at the remains of his team, then glared at the colonel once more and screamed, “Are you worth it?”

  “They’re splitting up now,” said Black Bear over the radio.

  Sergeant Nathan Vatz shivered. Looking down, he saw his gloved hands had formed into fists and felt the sweat pouring down his face, despite the cold wind blowing across the town hall’s rooftop.

  Don’t do that again, he ordered himself. This isn’t about revenge. Stick to the plan, the mission.

  “Looks like a couple heading toward downtown. Two more holding back, probably scouts. Four breaking off, coming for us at the airport. The other four? Not sure where they’re going yet. Looks like the scouts see the roadblock, over.”

  Captain Godfrey, still off to Vatz’s right, was working his Cross Com, studying the imagery coming in from Black Bear’s men at the airport. Suddenly he cried, “They’re jamming us!”

  Vatz checked his own channel: static. No voice, data, imagery.

  Didn’t matter. They’d hoped for the best, prepared for the worst, as always.

  Every operator knew his role.

  They just needed the Russians to be good enemy soldiers and die according to the plan.

  The two Ka-29s, painted in camouflage patterns, swooped down into the middle of the broad intersection, their rotors echoing so loudly off the buildings that Vatz wished he’d shoved in his earplugs. They had no tail rotors, he noticed, just a large main rotor with a smaller rotor beneath it. The tail sections had horizontal wings with vertical fins attached to the ends, like the dorsal fins on sharks. Each fin was emblazoned with a bright red star.

  A close look through his binoculars yielded more of the expected: Spetsnaz infantrymen visible behind the two crew members. Vatz assumed the hold was jammed to capacity: sixteen troops. Their landing gear unfolded, their noses pitched up, and they set down, one after the other.

  Vatz didn’t need to give the order. His weapons sergeants knew exactly what to do next. All of them did.

  He took in a long breath—

  And the battle began.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Still crouched beneath the cellar staircase and not moving a muscle, Major Stephanie Halverson listened to the commotion going on upstairs:

  “Where is she?”

  “Who?” asked the father.

  “The Yankee pilot!”

  “I don’t know!”

  A gunshot boomed, causing the mother to cry out, and Halverson thought, This is it. It’s over.

  They had killed the husband. They would come down and finish the job.

  Suddenly, the mother bolted from her hiding place in the back and charged toward the stairs, where a Spetsnaz soldier was just coming down.

  “Don’t shoot!” she screamed.

  He did.

  Put a bullet in her chest.

  But a half second after he fired, so did Halverson, carefully aiming between the slots of the wooden stairs, her round coming up between his legs and into his torso.

  He tumbled forward, his rifle dropping to the concrete. Before Halverson could come out and grab it, the boy was there, snatching up the rifle. He panted as he looked at his mother slumped across the floor—

  Then a creak from the stairs seized his attention. He cut loose a dozen rounds.

  Yet another troop slumped.

  Halverson darted across the room, got up on a chair, broke out the window with the butt of her pistol, then hoisted herself up and squeezed through the hole. “Come on!” she cried, reaching out to the boy.

  He raced over and took her hand, just as a metallic thump sounded, followed by a loud hissing: gas.

  They’d killed two. Had the father shot one? Maybe. There’d only be three left, then, she thought.

  Out in the snow, she and the boy ran straight for the barn, about a hundred yards away.

  Gunfire boomed behind them.

  She hazarded a look back. One troop, who had come out the back door, had just spotted them.

  “Run!” she screamed.

  Sergeant Raymond McAllen wasn’t shaking in fear but in frustration. His men had the fuel truck pulled up beside the Longranger III, the hose attached to the bird. However, filling the tanks took time. Too much damned time.

  Come on, come on.

  The Russian helos were twenty meters above the tarmac, ten, five…

  He tightened up against the wall, his helmet and combat subsystems fully activated, his Heckler & Koch XM9 assault rifle at the ready.

  Each operator on the team handpicked his own weapons, sometimes purchasing a few fancy toys themselves, and McAllen had recently been experimenting with the XM9, a weapon whose earlier version, the XM8, had been abandoned by the military.

  Like the XM8, the 9 was a modular weapon with four variants: a baseline carbine, a compact carbine, a sharp-shooter, and a heavy-barreled automatic. McAllen carried the baseline carbine with attached XM322 grenade launcher.

  McAllen glanced off to his left, where Palladino lay prone beneath a tree, eye pressed to the scope of his M82A1 sniper rifle with its bipod dug deep in the snow. He’d taken the big girl along for this ride, and her.50 caliber rounds would easily penetrate the fuselages of those helos, the booming alone enough to strike fear in the hearts of the enemy.

  Gutierrez had positioned himself a couple meters farther south, near another tree, his SAW balanced on its bipod. Radio operator Friskis and assistant team leader Rule were closer to the chopper, each armed with an MR-C — Modular Rifle Caseless — which fired 6.8 mm caseless ammo at a rate of nine hundred rounds per minute. Both weapons were also equipped with rail-mounted 40 mm grenade launchers.

  All of which was to say the boys from Force Recon were good to go and waiting for showtime.

  But the order to fire would never come, McAllen realized. The Russians were jamming all communications. He would let the SF boys take the first shots, as they had indicated. His years of experience would tell him when to engage his men.

  The first two helos touched down, the third and fourth only seconds behind.

  From somewhere on the other side of the terminal came a boom and hiss, followed by a white streak that spanned the tarmac in the blink of an eye, reached the lead helo—

  And detonated directly over the canopy.

  After the initial explosion, two more qui
ckly followed, knocking the chopper onto its side, rotors digging into the ice and asphalt, while another burst sent flames shooting from shattered windows.

  Those Special Forces guys must’ve brought an AT4 from their cache back home. They had some very nice toys.

  Jagged pieces of fuselage and engine components from the first chopper flew into the second, striking its rotors just as a side door popped open and the first infantryman tried to get out. Meanwhile, the third and fourth choppers began to lift off.

  McAllen craned his head toward the forest. “Outlaw Team, fire!” Even as he issued the order, he burst from his position and launched a grenade at the open door of the second chopper.

  That first infantryman was already cut down by Gutierrez’s machine gun — and as he slumped, McAllen’s grenade flew into the helo’s crew compartment.

  What a shot!

  With a slightly dampened boom, the grenade exploded, shredding the men inside and blanketing the chopper in thick, gray smoke.

  The thumping of more helos from behind sent McAllen’s gaze skyward. For a moment, his heart sank as he assumed more enemy troops were inbound.

  But no. He had to blink to be sure he was seeing them: a pair of civilian choppers with riflemen strapped in and leaning out their open bay doors, already opening fire on the two Russian helos below.

  McAllen had to hand it to the SF guys, who’d managed to recruit those pilots and get some shooters up there. Sure, it was amateur close air support, but he’d take it.

  Palladino let his first round fly, the rifle emitting a crack of thunder that rattled the buildings. He was targeting the crew members of the third helo. His round punched a gaping hole in the canopy and blew the pilot to pieces.

  That bird wasn’t going anywhere now. It dropped back toward the tarmac, hit hard, then began to bank erratically over the grass, as Gutierrez raked it with more fire.

  The bay door popped, and a few Spetsnaz infantry leapt out, hit the ground, and came up firing—

  But they were quickly cut down by the riflemen in the air, helos sweeping over them, rounds sparking as they ricocheted off the street.