Jensen might still have his doubts but it would have been criminal not to at least put some form of counter in place; Homeland Security was after all supposed to be his responsibility, the safety of Congress and its members not something he could afford to leave to others.
Chapter 13 – Wednesday, November 23rd
Mischief Reef – 02:01 Local Time; Tuesday 18:01 UTC
The reef was a ring of jagged rock a few miles wide, the central lagoon shrinking year on year as China began the long-term conversion into an effective military base. Beijing’s military power stretched a full eight hundred miles from the Chinese mainland, the base and its missiles a clear threat to the Philippine island province of Palawan barely a hundred miles to the east. Already with the basics of port facilities and airstrip, the reef’s defences had been feverishly augmented over the past month, its marine detachment almost doubled to some two hundred and sixty.
Two miles north-east of the reef and flying high above the waves floated dozens of minute gliders, each just four inches wide. Dropped by plane from 50,000 feet, printed circuit boards doubled up as wings; they had no means of propulsion and were totally silent, GPS guiding them to their target. With an accuracy of a few yards, the glider’s various sensors allowed it to act as a relatively sophisticated spy drone – an impressive achievement considering each one cost less than four hundred dollars.
Unlike its insect namesake, the CICADA (Close-In Covert Autonomous Disposable Aircraft) operated in a swarm of just a few hundred rather than several thousand, it taking barely an hour from launch before the resultant data was being interlinked to produce a real-time tactical display of the reef’s defences; some of the drones could even listen in on the defenders’ conversations, others working in concert to pinpoint a moving vehicle or a heavy footfall. A simplified representation of the key elements was in turn fed to the Special Forces – SEALs and Marine Raiders – already en route, where necessary rapid adjustments made to the plan of attack.
The fact those in the first wave would be slightly outnumbered was considered an irrelevancy, the element of surprise and quality of the units involved expected to move the odds firmly in their favour. It was obviously a risk but America’s military planners had factored in a variety of potential problems, the likelihood of success considered well within acceptable limits.
The reef could easily have been obliterated with missiles but the Pentagon wanted a better bargaining chip, the capture of Mischief Reef with minimal losses the single priority. While the President had set America the task of reoccupying the three islands seized by Beijing, attacking the Chinese on their own territory was considered an acceptable alternative, a simple exchange likely to be part of any peace initiative. Such an indirect strategy also had the advantage of severely degrading China’s military build-up and the reef was likely to be significantly less habitable once – or if – the U.S. returned it to Beijing.
And Mischief Reef wasn’t the only target this day. A second force of SEALs and Marines would simultaneously attack the slightly smaller Subi Reef: a hundred and twenty miles to the north-west, the reef had undergone the same program of land reclamation, the reinforced sea walls now enclosing a range of military facilities, helipad and airstrip. Guarded by close to two hundred marines, modern missile systems had recently supplemented the 37mm naval guns.
Owen Metzger had been a Navy SEAL for almost six years and as proud as any to be part of such an elite team, comfortable with the extra responsibility placed on him as a platoon leader. The specialist SDV (SEAL Delivery Vehicle) platoon had practised most aspects of the proposed mission a hundred times in training; the fact it was now for real was not something that unduly worried Metzger and for all of them over-confidence was as much a danger as the enemy.
Deployed from a U.S. submarine, the six men rode squashed together in the flooded submersible while breathing from the vehicle’s compressed air supply. The vehicle’s similarity to a tubular coffin was always difficult to completely ignore and Metzger sat behind the pilot, nothing to do except stay relaxed, the electric motor giving the SDV a range in excess of thirty miles and a sprint speed of eight knots. The final twenty minutes were a heady mix of anticipation and fear, the SDV having no defensive options should it be detected.
The delivery vehicle was abandoned close the western edge of the reef, the platoon swimming the final two hundred yards before emerging into the almost total darkness of a cloudy sky and a new moon. Metzger clambered up onto a half-submerged rock, equipment unpacked, the rest of the squad closing up around him; few words were spoken, their exact position checked with reference to the military facility and the two security towers, the live updates from the CICADA network hopefully ensuring there would be no unfortunate surprises. In total the reef had six surveillance towers, guards backing up the electronic sensors; to take out all six towers and evade the guards without triggering an alert was likely impossible, and once over the sea wall a few minutes grace was the best Metzger and his men could hope for.
A second squad of six SEALs emerged from the inky blackness of the sea, the platoon now complete, no acknowledgement made or expected. The seconds dragged by, Metzger increasingly impatient to get moving. The reclaimed area of the reef was virtually flat, no trees and hardly any vegetation, the surface a sand and coral expanse dredged up from the sea bed. Almost directly ahead, light spilled out from a complex of single and two-storey structures, it one of three military facilities spread out across Mischief Reef. Built on a concrete platform roughly 1000 feet by 700, the western complex was in the process of being expanded into a sophisticated military base; at its heart would be a ten-storey defensive fortress similar to that of an old-fashioned blockhouse, the future headquarters expected to include elevated firing positions and dedicated CIWS.
North of the complex there was yet more building work, a solar farm due to supply electricity to an adjacent sensor array. Once finished, that would leave the Pentagon with a serious problem, the military experts predicting the array could be used with China’s anti-ship ballistic missile, the DF-21 theoretically able to knock out a supercarrier.
The process of stabilising the reef and expanding its military facilities was continuing seven days a week during daylight hours, a smaller base also being created some two miles to the south-east. On the northern rim stood a three-thousand yard runway and associated buildings, and at its peak some thirty cranes and a similar number of trucks had been employed to get the airstrip operational. Two helicopters were permanently based there, their main function seemingly that of driving away the occasional Philippine fishing boat or protestor. The enmity between the two countries had been increasing steadily for more than a decade, it boiling over with China’s capture of West York and Thitu Islands.
Further east beyond the airstrip came the concrete plants and temporary radar antennae, then the fisherman’s huts that had once given the reef a certain innocent legitimacy; not so the line of concrete piers inside the lagoon, two large dredgers and four smaller boats tied up alongside. Twenty-four hours earlier, there had also been a frigate and several patrol boats, the vessels now dispersed in case of a U.S. Tomahawk attack.
“Charlie-One, all units,” announced a gruff voice in Metzger’s right ear. “Be advised Box-One to Box-Six down in ten; proceed as planned.”
“Sierra-One; copy that,” replied Metzger softly. With the electronic sensors of the six towers temporarily frozen, the SEALs would have a fighting chance to keep the initiative. Random patrols were always a danger, the CICADA display showing only one in operation, it now some eight hundred yards to the north. The Pentagon planners had taken the pessimistic approach, it assumed that at least one of the attacking units would be detected; if not, then all to the good, the next phase of the assault able to start without the stress of having someone shooting at you.
Seconds later the two squads were over the sea wall. Metzger led the way, the MP7 sub-machine gun produced by Heckler and Koch his weapon of choice. It was l
ess than a hundred yards to the protection of the first building, a darkened warehouse, its southern edge out of direct line of sight from either of the two western security towers. Metzger slid to a crouch beside it, body tensing as he waited for the strident wail of an alarm.
The only sound was the breathing of those beside him and the muffled crash of the waves against the sea wall. There was certainly nothing to suggest the enemy had any inkling as to the attack; no sign either that additional SEALs and U.S. Marines from the Raider Regiment were also moving into place, a total of ninety-eight men sent to take out the one hundred and ten Chinese defenders stationed on the western complex. The fact that they too were marines meant it would be foolish to underestimate their abilities or their commitment.
Metzger checked his watch: 05:04 local time – fifty-seven minutes to sunrise. Some seventy yards to the south stood one of the new truck-mounted anti-missile systems and further on an open gun emplacement, two soldiers standing idly beside it. The CICADA network indicated that the platoon should have a clear route past the warehouse and an empty utility building before reaching their initial target of the temporary command centre, and Metzger flicked to his night-vision goggles, wanting to make sure nothing had been missed, his world momentarily turned into various eerie shades of green.
Abruptly a voice crackled in his ear, “This is Charlie-One; confirm all units are clear. Wrecker set for one minute.”
Metzger spoke quietly to the SEAL next to him. A nod of acknowledgement and with help of two others, the man hoisted himself up onto the roof of the warehouse. The sniper skills of Sierra-Eight – known to everyone simply as Chad – were of better use atop the building, his first priority that of protecting the rest of the platoon. If they stuck to the original plan, then the full troop of forty SEALs would meet up just shy of the blockhouse complex, it already a defensive strongpoint.
The slope on the roof was relatively gentle and Chad squirmed his way carefully up to the ridge, managing to anchor himself. The warehouse wasn’t quite two storeys high but his new position gave him a clear sight of the northern half of the complex. On a personal level, the biggest danger would come from the roofs of three two-storey buildings, his helmet and body armour giving a slightly false illusion of security.
Although the lights from the surrounding structures were a distraction he stuck with the night scope, able to switch aim quickly between the two most obvious targets. At just under two hundred yards both should be a relatively easy shot, the choice of brain-stem at the base of the skull, the centre of the chest or a bullet in the back not a decision Chad had ever had to make for real. He tried to keep his mind from over-thinking the next few minutes, studying the near buildings while trying to anticipate likely dangers. He needed to stay focused, the lives of his friends and those of other Americans depending upon his actions that day.
Owen Metzger was also trying to predict what the major obstacles might be. The safe option would be to secure the warehouse and utility building first but that could well be a waste of time, every second’s delay crucial. He edged around the south wall heading east, the two-storey command centre away to his right. The rest of the platoon bunched up behind him, everyone knowing what part they had to play.
“Wrecker in ten,” announced the team leader. “All units stand by.”
Sierra-Eight refocused on the two soldiers standing beside the gun emplacement, mentally counting down the seconds. Moments later the lights across the compound flickered into darkness; in one fluid motion Chad gently squeezed the trigger, noting with a detached air the first soldier being punched backwards. He used the gun’s recoil to shift aim slightly, brain coldly assessing his next victim, the second man barely having time to react before Chad shot him through the chest. Instantly, he swapped aim to acquire a lone figure standing transfixed outside the main barracks, a chest shot again the preferred option. A rapid double-blink to regain focus and he resumed his search, no sense yet of regret or guilt, the soldier lying motionless on the ground.
Metzger was already barging his way into the command centre: in twenty-four hour use, the doors were neither locked nor guarded, communications suite on the first floor, operations room above – or so the intelligence reports surmised.
Metzger raced up the stairs, a burst from the SMG instantly grabbing everyone’s attention. As the rest of the first squad joined him, the emergency lights suddenly came on, the half-light almost blinding Metzger. One of the men beside him fired a second warning, gunfire also erupting from the floor below and Metzger ripped the goggles from his face, amazed that no-one had yet tried to shoot him.
It definitely looked to be some sort of operations room: a triple line of consoles and large-screen display, offices to left and right. As four SEALs targeted the offices, Metzger stepped forward, SMG wavering uncertainly, the final squad member matching him on the right. Metzger counted six men, most standing in shock, two crouching down in an attempt to find cover.
Metzger’s training told him to shoot first and quickly move on; that however was not the plan and Chinese casualties were also expected to be kept to a minimum if humanly possible. Now, with every man having a weapon at his hip, such niceties seemed a highly dangerous proposition. Metzger barely knew five words of Mandarin – English and the threat from the SMG would have to do.
“Everyone on your knees,” he shouted, “hands behind your heads.”
An explosion from somewhere outside rattled the windows and Metzger took another pace forward, gun pointing menacingly at the nearest officer. The man reluctantly dropped to his knees, Metzger pleased to note that most of the others started to follow suit.
But not all; one officer stupidly reached for his sidearm, a three-shot burst from Metzger’s partner catching him in the chest, his gun dropping from lifeless fingers. For a brief instant Metzger feared the rest would abandon common-sense and try and avenge their colleague’s fate, then the moment passed, the top floor finally secure.
In total the command centre delivered up thirteen prisoners with just the one man killed. The SEALs had suffered no injuries, Metzger shocked to realise that the whole assault had lasted barely two minutes.
From the south came the steady rattle of automatic weapons, rapidly increasing in intensity. Metzger’s next priority was the barracks and with the element of surprise now completely lost, it would clearly be a sterner test as to the platoon’s skills. At least one of the other two SEAL platoons should have reached the barracks building by now, Metzger unwilling to delay any longer.
Lying on the warehouse roof, Sierra-Eight had an impressive view of the complex-wide assault, watching as the rest of the SEAL troop swept in from the west, the Marine Raiders from the south. Early-on a tremendous explosion had hit the southern edge of the facility, the dirty grey smoke rising lazily into the night sky partly blocking Chad’s view; the angry sound of gunfire was now virtually continuous, the Marine Raiders in particular meeting stiff resistance.
A second group of U.S. Marines was tasked with attacking the smaller base to the south-east and a series of vicious fire-fights was spreading out along the curve of the reef. Chad risked a glance behind, seeing the glow of burning buildings close to where the airstrip would be; the central lagoon was also under attack, flames engulfing a small boat from bow to stern.
Chad’s gaze turned back to the main complex. The smoke and dense nature of the buildings offered no easy targets, an occasional vague shape appearing briefly with never a clear shot. Always conscious of being a target himself, he had been lucky so far, two of the three buildings that had earlier worried him now cleared out by his colleagues. Hovering high above them all, more U.S. drones sent back real-time images to be assessed and acted upon, the possibility of a clinical missile strike always an option.
The emergency lights were fairly ineffective and despite the encroaching dawn, Chad stuck with the night-sight. As the platoon moved further south from one building to the next, his present position was becoming far too restrictiv
e; he could help ensure a few of the defenders kept their heads down but that was about it.
“Sierra-Eight to Sierra-One; request alternate.”
“Copy that Sierra-Eight,” responded Metzger’s calm voice. “Break off and proceed to Rebel-One-Four.”
Rebel-One-Four was a large workshop, its concrete and steel adding to the fortified feel of the rest of the facility, everything constructed with an eye to defence. Metzger might sound calm but the workshop was proving a stubborn challenge, it needing to be secured before they could move on to the final challenge of the blockhouse complex. Even so, it was not yet thirty minutes since the assault had started and it was to be expected that some of the defenders would prove obdurate. The co-ordinated attack from the SEALs and Marine Raiders was squeezing the defenders from north, west and south, Metzger for one hoping that they could capture the facility well before the second wave of Marines landed, the Corps no doubt anticipating that they would take all of the credit.
The attack on the airstrip also looked to be meeting stiff resistance but there were never any concerns that the assault would actually fail. The guided-missile destroyer USS Zumwalt would soon be on station north-east of the reef and together with the air power of the Ronald Reagan, the U.S. had the resources to overwhelm a score of such reefs with barely a pause for breath.
The Rule Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 3) Page 23