by Dirk Patton
“Mr. Prime Minister, are you aware of what’s happening in Sydney?” The Admiral said through clenched teeth.
“If you are referring to the illegal incursion onto Australian soil by the American military, Admiral, yes I am.”
“Then arrest them, Prime Minister! Do not allow the Russians to take them.”
“I’m afraid that’s out of my hands at this point,” the PM replied smugly. “My understanding is that your men were attempting to gain entry to the residence of President Barinov. That makes this a matter best handled between the United States and Russia.”
“You son of a bitch!” Packard said, no longer attempting to control his anger.
The PM was saying something in response, but the Admiral’s attention was drawn fully to the screen. The SEALs were now completely surrounded and on their knees as Russian troops held them at gunpoint. Motion to the side resolved into a Hind helicopter entering from the eastern edge of the view.
It was flying low and fast, flaring into a hover and touching down in the middle of the large, open field. The side door opened, and several uniformed Spetsnaz jumped down to set up a defensive perimeter. A moment later, a squat figure with white hair stepped out and paused to adjust his suit. Barinov!
The Australian PM was still speaking, but Packard stabbed a mute button on the headset and whirled to Jessica.
“Do we have a Thor platform over Australia?”
She spent several seconds working on her console before answering.
“No, sir. We can hit parts of southeast Asia, but Sydney is too far south. Guess no one ever thought we’d need to attack the Aussies.”
He grimaced, then took a second to check the screen showing the progress of the Tomahawk missiles. -00:02:31. A little over a minute and a half before the Thor rods arrived on the Russian fleet. Another second to satisfy himself that the enemy ships had not changed course, then he looked back at the screen as Barinov strode across the field towards the captured SEALs. He was accompanied by three aides and surrounded by a large squad of soldiers.
“Sir, targets are launching defensive weapons,” the duty officer called.
A glance back at the Russian fleet. Blooms of fire and thick smoke from every ship as anti-missile missiles were fired. Noting the time to target, he turned back to the view of Sydney and noted that the PM was still talking. He listened for a moment as the man continued to try and justify his complete capitulation to the enemy. Packard unmuted his headset.
“Mr. Prime Minister, shut the hell up!” He barked, silencing the protestations of the politician. “You have troops standing less than two hundred yards away from my men. It is time for you to make a decision. Sir, if you allow the Russians to take them, or harm them, I will consider it an act of war by Australia against the United States of America.
“We’re hurt, as you well know, but we’re not out by a long shot. If you don’t believe me, I suggest you have one of your aides set up a satellite view of the ocean, 200 miles northwest of Oahu. But, you’d better hurry, or you’re going to miss it.”
For a moment, all he could hear was the soft breathing of the man on the other end of the call. Then there was a muted click as he was put on hold. Packard stood waiting, watching as Barinov stepped through the ranks of his men and stood looking down at the captured Americans. He seemed to be talking to them.
Turning his attention to the main screen, he watched as more defensive missiles were fired. By now, the majority of the enemy fleet was obscured by dense clouds of smoke from repeated launches. He glanced at the timer, then back at the vague shapes of the Russian ships.
Three seconds later, the first Thor rod arrived on the lead ship, a guided missile cruiser nearly as long as an aircraft carrier. From within the blinding smoke, there was a brilliant flash, then a concussive wave raced out in all directions, blasting the air clean of the rocket motor exhaust. Three more flashes heralded additional strikes, then there was a sudden burst of atomized seawater that completely hid the entire fleet.
Another flash, then two more eruptions from the ocean as millions of gallons of water were instantly boiled to steam. A few seconds later, three more flashes within the roiling aftermath of the Thor strikes. The entire CIC was silent as the men and women intently watched the screen, waiting for the air to clear.
“Seaman?” Packard spoke quietly to Jessica.
“That’s all of the Thor rods, sir. From what I saw, I believe we had eight direct hits and three misses. The misses should be what put all the water into the air. I’m switching to thermal so we can see through it.”
The screen blinked, but before the imagery could update, the Tomahawks began arriving on target and detonating. The Russians had successfully shot down slightly more than 100 of the inbound cruise missiles, and would have perhaps splashed most of the remainder of the weapons were it not for the Thor attack.
Now, in rapid succession, missile after missile screamed into the maelstrom and detonated. There was so much heat energy expended, and additional smoke and atomized water thrown into the air, that all modes of surveillance were useless.
The barrage of Tomahawks continued for several minutes. When it was over, a dense layer of smoke and water vapor covered more than forty square miles of the ocean’s surface. The mist quickly cooled the area, and the satellite’s thermal imaging began to give them a view through the cloud.
Everyone waited, holding their breath and riveted to the screen. Jessica changed back to normal mode when nothing substantial was visible on thermal. Water and smoke still obscured the view, but it improved by the second. Initially, no one understood what they were seeing. Or not seeing. Commander Detmer was the first to recognize it for what it was.
“There’s only debris left,” he began in a quiet voice that rose in excitement, loud in the stillness of the CIC. “All of their ships have been destroyed and sunk!”
Stunned looks were exchanged, then shouts and cheers suddenly erupted throughout the room. Hugs were exchanged by people with expressions of relief and joy. Admiral Packard took a deep breath and slowly let it out before turning back to the view of his SEALs.
Barinov was apparently in the mood to hear himself speak. He was walking a slow circle around the captives, his hands behind his back. His head was turned to face them as he moved. As he was finishing a circuit, an aide with a phone to his ear dashed forward and leaned close to speak.
The Russian President’s body language showed shock and surprise as he leaned away from the man, then thrust his head back forward with what had to be a question. The aide spoke briefly into the phone before nodding his head to confirm the news he’d just delivered.
“Merry Christmas, asshole,” Admiral Packard said under his breath as he watched Barinov learn of the destruction of his invasion fleet.
He saw several more exchanges between the two men, taken aback when Barinov suddenly looked straight up. The image was so crisp, Packard could see his rheumy eyes searching the sky. So, the bastard knew he was watching.
The Russian stared for several, long seconds. The Admiral experienced an eerie feeling, as if his enemy was able to look through the satellite camera and see him standing in the CIC.
Finally, Barinov turned away and strode to the closest soldier. Reaching out, he snatched the man’s sidearm out of its holster and strode towards the captive SEALs. Packard watched in horror as he walked behind the Americans, methodically shooting each one in the back of the head.
“Captain West. Order the North Carolina to put a Tomahawk on Barinov’s location. Now!”
---
“Captain, flash traffic coming in!”
Talbot and Adrienne rushed to the console and leaned in as a high-speed printer chugged out the message. The skipper reached past the sailor manning the station and ripped it free the instant it was completed. Adrienne moved next to him, reading over his shoulder.
With Battlespace restored, they had been able to access the feed from the satellite and had seen what had happe
ned to Fulcrum team. Expressions in the control room were grim as the Captain and XO read their orders. Tears were in Adrienne’s eyes, as well as many of the sailors who had watched in horror as their brethren were executed.
“XO?” Talbot asked quietly.
“I’m good, sir. I recognize this as a valid order.”
“Very well,” he said.
He was turning to issue the orders necessary to launch their Tomahawks when a shout from the sonar operator stopped him.
“Conn, Sonar! Multiple surface and airborne contacts approaching at high speed. They’re on a bearing to our current position.”
“XO, get us to deep water!” Talbot barked then turned around as she began issuing navigational orders. “TAO, spin up two missiles and enter the targeting data we received from Pearl in the flash traffic!”
The control room was suddenly a hive of activity as everyone jumped to execute the orders that were being issued. Talbot grabbed an overhead handle as the deck tilted in response to Adrienne’s orders to move them farther offshore and away from the approaching threats. It leveled a moment later, a slight vibration starting up as the submarine accelerated to flank speed.
“Captain, missiles are ready! Doors are open!” The Tactical Action Officer called out.
“This is the Captain. Release of missiles is authorized!”
“This is the XO. I concur. Release of missiles is authorized!”
The two officers stepped to the weapons console, each inserting a key that hung from a chain around their necks. After a brief countdown, they turned them in concert. A light flashed on the panel, and a moment later the boat shuddered as a gas generator shot two missiles out of the top of the submarine.
“Close outer doors!” Talbot snapped. “XO, take us deep before the goddamn Russians put a torpedo in the water.”
“Aye, aye sir!”
---
Twin geysers appeared in the water, only ten miles from the entrance to Sydney Harbour. A second later, blooms of fire lit the dark surface as the Tomahawks’ rocket motors ignited. They swiftly gained altitude before turning over and streaking towards the city.
Quickly, the rockets burned out and jet engines took over. Approaching North Head, the point of land that guards the northern entrance to the harbor, the two missiles began to descend, their speed increasing to just over 500 miles an hour. Six miles remained to reach the Gardens where Barinov was standing, which they would cover in slightly more than forty seconds.
The launch had been detected by two Russian guided missile boats sitting in Sydney Harbour for the sole purpose of protecting their president. Before the Tomahawks passed North Head, both of their targeting systems had locked onto the approaching threats. Seconds later, the computers that controlled the defensive weapons, which were in automatic mode, ordered the release of anti-missile missiles. Each boat fired four.
The eight Russian missiles screamed to meet the inbound American weapons, constantly adjusting their flight based on a real-time data link from the ships that fired them. Even with this advantage, several of them missed and continued on to fall harmlessly into the ocean when their fuel was expended.
The last three successfully destroyed the pair of Tomahawks, over the still waters of Sydney Harbour. The twin explosions rattled windows all across the city and caused Barinov to pause and look up into the night sky.
“American missiles were just intercepted, sir.” His aide stood next to him, a secure radio pressed to his ear. “No other inbound weapons detected at this time. We are in pursuit of an unidentified submarine, east of the harbor entrance.”
Barinov grunted, then took a moment to look back at the bodies of the American sailors he had personally killed.
“They are children, no?” He asked his aide, referring to Americans.
“Yes, Mr. President. They are, but they are dangerous children. And they will come for you again.”
Barinov snorted in response.
“Let them come, Yevgeny. Let them come.”