EndWar e-1

by Tom Clancy

  Something pinged off McAllen’s helmet, then a few more pings struck his back. Aw, hell, he was taking fire.

  Then a pair of sharp stings woke in his legs. He took three more steps, the pain growing unbearable.

  He collapsed to his belly as Rule kept on running.

  What they thought had been an earthquake turned out to be a successful kinetic strike on the Russians coming down from Red Deer, and Rakken used that good news to boost the morale of his men in the stairwell. And God knew they needed a boost.

  They had about two hundred more steps to climb, and if Sergeant Marc Rakken’s legs were any indication of how the others felt, then they all could hardly stand.

  But they forged on, with the Russians up top sending down bursts of fire and the occasional grenade. They also continued lobbing smoke to obscure the entire stairwell. If they had any rockets, they were waiting until Rakken’s men got closer to use them.

  So up they went, stair after stair, in the smoke-filled darkness, only the sounds of the radio and their own breathing now filling their ears.

  The company commander informed them that snipers in the building across the street were attempting to pick off any troops they spotted on the observation deck, but thus far those Russians had kept out of sight.

  And twice Rakken had attempted to gain information from one of the five civilians ascending just behind them, a bearded, middle-aged man with the call sign “Nimrod One.”

  “You just get us in there, Sergeant, and we’ll do the rest,” the man had said.

  “I can help you more if I know what your job is.”

  “I think you’ll figure it out pretty quickly once we’re up top.”

  “Well, I have my ideas.”

  “I’m sure they’re not too far off base. Now, if you don’t mind?”

  Rakken almost wished this were the simple destruction of a Spetsnaz observation post. Then again, what kind of bragging rights would that earn him?

  “Grenades!” shouted his point man. “Two more! Three!”

  They all dropped down behind their shields as the explosions resounded—

  And then, as the smoke cleared, Rakken’s men reported that a four-meter section of the staircase had been destroyed and that they would need the ropes to ascend to the next landing.

  Delays, delays, more delays. That’s what the Russians wanted. The teams in the other stairwell weren’t faring much better, according to reports.

  “All right, people, let’s rig this up and get climbing!”

  As Rule ran toward the Pave Hawk, he couldn’t understand why Gutierrez and Szymanski were waving their hands and pointing. He tried his radio, but it was dead: either the battery was gone or he’d damaged it out there.

  But it only took another pair of seconds for him to realize that they were indicating to the trees behind him. He stole a look back and saw McAllen lying in the snow.

  He turned around, raced toward the sergeant, even as the chopper’s door gunner opened up on the trees to give him some covering fire.

  McAllen pushed up to his hands and knees, trying to stand, as Rule opened up with his own rifle, hosing down a pair of troops who burst from behind a trunk to confront him.

  But two rounds struck Rule’s armored chest, knocking him backward. He lost his footing, fell on his rump. He got up, started once more toward the sergeant, the.50 caliber still churning behind him, ripping up bark and limbs ahead.

  It dawned on Rule that the sergeant wouldn’t be lying there, shot up, if it weren’t for him and his damned busted radio.

  So he poured every ounce of energy he had left into his legs. He reached the sergeant, dropped, returned more fire as rounds stitched lines in the snow just a meter parallel to them.

  “Rule, you idiot,” gasped McAllen.

  “I know,” he said. “Ready?” He rolled the sergeant over and hoisted him up over his back, legs buckling under the man’s considerable weight.

  He walked three steps and collapsed.

  Meanwhile, Szymanski, Palladino, and Gutierrez had hopped back out of the chopper, dropped, and were providing more covering fire.

  “You’re going to kill me if they don’t,” said McAllen. “Drag me!”

  “Thought a carry would be faster.” Rule stood, came behind McAllen, grabbed his pack’s straps and began sliding him over the snow.

  A sudden thud on his chest sent Rule back to the snow, his hands snapping off the pack. He groaned in pain.

  “Rule?”

  “Yeah.” He gasped. “Got my armor. Damn I’m going to be sore tomorrow.”

  He returned to dragging the sergeant, whose legs were leaving a blood trail in the snow.

  “Hey, Rule, I didn’t tell you this before, but you cast a big shadow, Marine. A big shadow.”

  “You’re just saying that so I drag your shot-up butt out of here.”

  “That, too.”

  Even as Rule continued hauling the sergeant forward, McAllen lifted his rifle and fired several bursts.

  After a few more tugs, Rule suddenly felt the sergeant grow lighter as Gutierrez joined him. Within a handful of seconds they had McAllen into the bay, where Gutierrez immediately cut off the sergeant’s pants legs and got to work.

  Rule shoved himself into the back of the Pave Hawk as the chopper roared up and away, leaving the Russians on the ground firing wildly at them as they cleared the trees, their muzzles now winking in the half-light of dusk.

  “How is he?” he shouted to Gutierrez.

  The medic gave him a look: Not now. I’m busy.

  McAllen gestured for Rule to come close so he could shout in his ear. “You did good. I give you a B plus.”

  Rule rolled his eyes. “Thanks!”

  “Make your depth one-five-zero feet,” ordered Commander Jonathan Andreas.

  “Make my depth one-five-zero feet, aye,” repeated the officer of the deck.

  It was all business in the Florida’s control room, though Andreas noted a hint of excitement in the OOD’s tone. They were in launch position in the Coronation Gulf and about to punch their Tomahawk land attack missiles out of their vertical launch system tubes.

  Despite the outbreak of war, Andreas assumed that most members of his crew had never live-fired those missiles; they had only practiced simulations. Andreas recalled when he could only launch while at periscope depth, but design improvements now made it possible to fire from the safety of 150 feet.

  He reviewed the sequence in his head: The tube door would open, the gas generator would fire up to boil the water pocket inside. The water would flash to steam, forcing a pressure pulse to the bottom of the tube. The pressure pulse would then push the missile up through its protective membrane enveloped in a steam bubble, and eject the bird completely clear of the surface.

  Then, as the Tomahawk cleared the surface, the first stage would ignite, lifting the bird to three thousand feet.

  At its apex, the first-stage would jettison and the missile would plummet into free fall, spinning the missile’s jet engine on the way down. The increasing flight speed would turn the compressor and build up pressure and heat in the combustion chamber. Fuel would be injected, and the missile’s engine would then be up and running.

  Andreas could see it all in his head.

  Now it was time to make it happen. He gave the firing order, and the entire submarine rumbled.

  Once the first missile left the sub, Andreas lifted his voice and said, “Watch your trim, Officer of the Deck. Keep your eye on the bubble.”

  The Florida had to adjust her buoyancy and trim to compensate for the sudden loss of weight after each missile left the sub.

  The remaining five Tomahawks, spaced three minutes apart, would follow the first down a bearing of one-seven-eight degrees while cruising at subsonic speed roughly fifty feet above the surface.

  The one-hour, forty-nine-minute, thousand-mile flight included a pre-programmed midpoint correction as each Tomahawk passed over Wild Buffalo National Park.

  P
acked into each missile’s computer memory were final destination landmarks: pictures of the Alberta Legislative Assembly building, the exact interchange point where 97th Avenue NW, 109th Street NW, and 110th Street NW converged and provided sole access to High Level Bridge.

  Onboard TV cameras would accurately identify the final orienting landmarks as each missile plummeted toward the Saskatchewan River and the High Level Bridge below.

  After the last missile blasted away, Andreas congratulated the crew, then he gave the order to head back to the Dolphin and Union Strait to continue their patrol, even as they monitored the missiles’ progress.

  Just one hour into that journey, the sternplanesman cried, “Jam dive, sternplanes!”

  The sternplanes were horizontal rudders, or diving planes, extending from each side of the submarine near the stern. They had lost hydraulic pressure and had slammed into the dive position, where they would remain locked until hydraulic pressure could be restored and control reasserted.

  With miles and miles of steam, electrical, and hydraulic lines running up, down, and through bulkheads, it was just a question of time before something broke, got damaged, wore out, or operator error occurred.

  Now the Florida was headed straight toward crush depth.

  “All back full!” yelled the OOD and Andreas in unison.

  The bow planesman jerked his joystick to full rise, trying to counteract the effects of the sternplanes.

  “Passing one thousand feet, thirty-one degrees down bubble,” reported the chief of the watch, his hands hovering over the controls to blow the forward main ballast tanks.

  The sternplanesman immediately switched to auxiliary hydraulics and pulled back on the sternplanes. Nothing.

  “Passing twelve hundred feet, forty degrees down bubble, sir,” cried the chief of the watch.

  The sternplanesman switched to emergency hydraulics, pulled up, when suddenly the sonar operator lifted his voice:

  “Torpedo in the water, incoming torpedo bearing three-two-zero! WLY-1 classification — a Shkval — range thirty thousand yards, speed two hundred knots!”

  Sergeant Nathan Vatz and his men had shifted farther back into the town to their secondary positions along the rooftops of some local businesses on 97th Street, parallel to the highway.

  For the past hour the Russians had been pounding the hell out of the obstacle, and Vatz figured they’d destroy the remaining mines within thirty minutes, maybe less.

  Once that happened, Berserker and Zodiac teams could make a last stand or withdraw and live to fight another day.

  Because if they didn’t withdraw, they would eventually exhaust all ammo and be overrun. Vatz felt sure those Spetsnaz forces would not take them prisoner.

  In fact, Russian political officers might order the public execution of the captured ODA teams to keep High Level’s civilian survivors fully intimidated and in line.

  Moreover, if watching a group of military men forced to their knees and shot in the head wasn’t enough, they’d shoot a few civilians, as well as threaten the use of biological and chemical weapons.

  “Black Bear, this is Bali, over.”

  “Go ahead, Bali.”

  He gave the assistant detachment commander a SITREP regarding the obstacle, then added, “What’s the status of the Tenth, over?”

  But before Vatz could get a reply, the channel went dead. Damn it. The Russians were jamming again.

  “Hey, look!” cried Beethoven, pointing up at the northern sky. A dozen or more Ka-29s were inbound, flying in an arrowhead formation.

  The lead chopper, along with one other, pulled ahead, swooped down, and began unloading rockets on the remaining cars in the obstacle, blasting a clear lane through the burning wall.

  Even as the choppers peeled off, one on either side, the first few BMPs broke through.

  The weapons sergeant on Vatz’s team, who was now posted atop a machine shop two buildings down, cut loose with the team’s last Javelin.

  With a powerful whoosh, the missile streaked skyward, came down, homing in on the lead BMP, then struck it perfectly, blasting apart the vehicle and sending pieces slamming into the BMP behind it, killing the vehicle commander who’d been standing in his hatch.

  Vatz rose, jogged to the edge of the roof, and gave the signal to fall back. The signal was passed on to the other four men as Vatz and Beethoven got moving.

  Once on the ground, they piled into their pickup truck, with Vatz at the wheel, Beethoven riding shotgun.

  “Are we headed to a third fallback position?” asked the medic.

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “We’re low on ammo. We can’t stay.”

  “Black Bear figured the Tenth would be here by now. We’ll have to wait right here till those choppers fly by, then I’ll get us to the south side of town, find some cover there. And after that, well—”

  “This is it. We won’t make it out of here. Not with them dropping troops on the ground now.”

  Vatz didn’t respond.

  Part of him was getting awfully depressed, whispering like the Reaper in his ear, It’s about time you died. You’re long overdue.

  He shoved his head out the open window, lifted his binoculars, and watched the helos streak overhead, descending hard and fast.

  Before darkness fully settled, High Level would belong to the Russians.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Back inside Calgary Tower, Sergeant Marc Rakken sent two of his men forward, told them to use their rifles’ attached grenade launchers.

  He’d been ordered to cause minimal damage to the tower. Well, tell that to the troops up there, four on the top landing now, dishing out a steady stream of rifle fire punctuated with the occasional smoke and fragmentation grenade. The Russians had already destroyed several landings that the team had strung ropes across.

  Another explosion rocked the stairwell, and suddenly three of Rakken’s men tumbled by, having been blown off the stairs. Two had probably been killed by the explosion, but a third had keyed his mike as he fell, screaming at the top of his lungs as he plummeted to his death.

  “Sergeant, we can’t go on,” cried one of his grenadiers.

  Rakken, his face covered in sweat now, the MOPP gear practically suffocating him even as it protected him, could stand no more. “Sparta Team!” he barked loudly. “Follow me. We’re going in!”

  With the civilian geeks huddling behind their shields to the rear, Rakken pushed past the others and pounded up the stairs, firing steadily until he neared the final landing.

  All four Spetsnaz troops were positioned there; reacting instinctively, Rakken pumped off a grenade from his rifle’s launcher.

  Three, two…

  He hit the deck as the burst rumbled hard through the concrete and steel above.

  Before the smoke cleared, he was back to his feet, thundering up to find two of the troops blown apart, a third missing his legs, the fourth lying on his back, half his torso gone. He groaned and reached out to Rakken for help.

  Rakken answered his request with a bullet.

  “Sparta Team, clear up here, come on up.” He checked the door leading into the observation deck and souvenir shop: locked, of course.

  He called up his engineer to blow the door. As the charges were being set, he returned to the civilians, told the guy known as Nimrod One that they would need to clear the observation deck first before he could allow them to enter. The guy understood but urged Rakken to hurry.

  After issuing another SITREP to Captain Welch, Rakken checked in with the engineer: good to go.

  “Fire in the hole,” warned Rakken.

  With an appreciable bang, the C-4 blew the door from its hinges, and as the gray smoke rose, Rakken and his men charged onto the deck, a huge, circular-shaped room with panoramic windows offering a wide view of the city lights. The souvenir shop was in the middle, obscuring some view.

  Two Spetsnaz troops burst from the shop, firing at Rakken and his men as they fanned out.

  Rakke
n returned fire as he dropped to his gut and propped himself up on his elbows.

  One of his men shrieked in agony. Then another. Yet there were no sounds of gunfire.

  Rakken reached down to the belt at his waist, withdrew his Blackhawk Gladius, activated the thumb switch. The brilliant light pushed back into the shadows to find an unmasked Spetsnaz troop brandishing a large combat knife.

  He was slipping up behind one of Rakken’s men.

  Rakken screamed out—

  But the knife came down into the back of the man’s neck. His man shrieked and fell, either dead or incapacitated.

  Rakken bolted to his feet, one hand detaching his own mask as he charged along the windows, firing and dropping the guy. Then he whirled at the sound of more gunfire on the other side of the deck.

  He made a mad dash along the windows, spotted three more Russians firing ahead at his men.

  Dropping once more onto his belly, he used the laser designator in his helmet to target the exposed necks of each man and delivered one, two, three shots.

  Blood and brain matter flew, and two men collapsed, but he’d missed the third. That troop turned back.

  Just as Rakken was about to fire again, a metallic clang caught his ears.

  He glanced to his right.

  A grenade hit the floor and rolled toward him.

  Just beyond it, the second team was moving in, along with the civilians, who were running toward him.

  “Get back!”

  He threw himself on the grenade.

  Just as it went off.

  Sergeant Nathan Vatz and his men raced in the truck down 97th Street, unaware that one of the Ka-29s had wheeled around until a pair of rockets tore into the asphalt behind them and exploded.

  The two operators seated back there leapt over the side, just as a wall of flames filled the pickup truck’s rear window.

  Then, as the truck reached the next corner, Vatz hung a sharp left turn—

  Just as another rocket hit, blasting them up onto two wheels.

  Beethoven shouted something but Vatz’s ears were still ringing from the explosion.

  They hung there for a million-year second until the truck slammed hard onto the passenger’s side, safety glass shattering. They slid up onto the sidewalk, caromed off a building, then sideswiped a light pole before coming to a screeching halt, engine still running, glass still tumbling, flames crackling from somewhere outside.