“Beats the shit out of me,” the captain said. “Get up to the con and inform Algonquin of the change in orders, then bring us about a hundred and eighty degrees. I’ll make an announcement to the crew shortly.”
“They won’t be happy, sir. This means we’re going to miss Christmas.”
“We’re not going to miss Christmas, Duncan. We’re going to be celebrating the birth of our Lord right here aboard Boxer.”
“Yes, sir,” O’Leary said with a smile. “I’ll be sure to point that out to them.”
“Please do.”
When O’Leary was gone, Bisping sat down on his bunk and took a Bible from beneath his pillow. It contained the only photos he had of his wife and three children, the only photos he would ever have. He touched his wife’s face and sat looking at her.
The temptation to jump ship and head off across the country on his own to look for them had been difficult enough to suppress the first time. Now, with the change of orders, he would be forced to endure the temptation for another indefinite period. He would, of course, never actually abandon his ship or his crew, but it was an agonizing temptation nonetheless. He told himself that Atlanta was too far to travel anyhow; he told himself that his family was long dead; and most important, he told himself it was better not to know exactly what had happened to them.
Chief Petty Officer Gordon, the senior aircraft mechanic, reported as instructed, informing Bisping that the particulate matter in the air was thin enough that it didn’t seem to have affected the turbines of the helicopters.
“Good,” Bisping said. “The precipitation must have brought a lot of it down. We’re heading back to Cali, Chief. So make sure that all of our aircraft can be ready on a moment’s notice.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Bisping announced the change of orders to his crew over the MC then laid down for a short nap. He had not been napping more than twenty minutes when the ship’s claxons began to sound.
“Captain to the bridge. Captain to the bridge.”
Bisping took the phone from the wall, getting O’Leary immediately. “What is it?”
“A pair of Lanzhou Class destroyers, Captain, steaming right at us out of the north at twenty-five knots, distance thirty-two hundred meters beyond visual range. There wasn’t anything on the scope until just now, sir. They’re coming out of a squall.”
“Turn into them!” Bisping ordered. “Scramble the F-35s and advise Algonquin that they are to take whatever action necessary to sink both vessels. I’m on my way up.”
Bisping couldn’t imagine what a pair of Chinese destroyers was doing in American waters, but twenty-five knots was very near their top speed, and both vessels carried the Hai Ying antiship missile, lethal within a range of well over a hundred miles. Boxer and Algonquin would be engaging them at less than twenty.
By the time Bisping reached the bridge, the Algonquin had already been struck once and there was a fire on his own ship’s flight deck, where a firefighting team was already in action.
“What the hell happened?”
“ The fuckers launched a full spread the second you hung up the phone, sir.”
O’Leary was watching the northern horizon through a pair of large binoculars. “Our phalanxes knocked two missiles down but we each took a hit. Algonquin took one to her bow cannon and we lost a chopper on the deck.” A phalanx was a radar-equipped weapon system based on the M-61 Vulcan Gatling gun, capable of firing its 20mm cannon at a rate of 4,500 rounds per minute, roughly seventy-five rounds per second. They were the ship’s last line of defense, and the Boxer had four of them, two mounted on the stern, one to starboard, and one to port. The Algonquin carried one on the foredeck.
“How many missiles did Algonquin get off?”
“Two, sir. I don’t see any smoke on the horizon yet but there are no more missiles inbound at this time.”
The flight officer was requesting permission to launch both of the F-35 Lightning fighters, and permission was given. As vertical/short takeoff and landing aircraft, the F-35s could take off regardless of the burning helicopter on deck.
“I don’t want any more goddamn missiles hitting my ship. Is that clear, Mr. Ryder?”
“Aye, sir!” answered the weapons officer, knowing he would be getting his ass chewed later on.
“Mr. Brooks, what’s happening aboard Algonquin? Did their missiles hit or not?”
Brooks was on the phone to their escort within seconds.
“Algonquin believes they scored a hit on each vessel, sir, and they’re about to launch another pair. There was a problem with their weapon system, but they’ve got it back up.”
A second pair of SM-2 antiship missiles were fired from the Algonquin’s deck and went streaking toward the horizon just fifty feet off the surface.
“Four more Chinese missiles inbound!” Ryder announced.
This time four Sea Sparrow antiaircraft missiles were launched from the Boxer to intercept them. Seconds later Bisping saw three explosions just off the water some 1,600 meters out.
“One got through,” Ryder announced. “Port and starboard phalanxes have a lock!”
Each phalanx fired a single two-second burst and the missile was destroyed a thousand yards out.
By then both fighter jets were closing on the Chinese destroyers, reporting that both vessels were hit and smoking. It was unclear whether they were still capable of launching missiles, but the ships were still steaming south at better than twenty knots.
Bisping took the mike from the comm officer. “Ghost Rider, this is the captain. Your orders are to sink them. Is that clear?”
“That’s affirmative, Boxer. We are beginning our attack run now . . .”
Both F-35s carried a pair of joint-strike missiles designed for holing enemy ships at or near the waterline. One fighter broke to the east, the other west, as they dropped to a mere two hundred feet off the water, cutting sharply back toward the Chinese destroyers to attack them full abeam. At one mile, both launched their missiles, then broke hard to the right and climbed, hitting full afterburners and firing countermeasure flares in case the Chinese tried to shoot them down. But the Chinese antiaircraft systems had been knocked out as a result of previous missile strikes.
All four antiship missiles struck home, hitting the vessels at the waterline, and soon both ships began to list, quickly going dead in the water. The F-35s made a number of strafing runs with their 25mm cannons, then returned to the Boxer. One sailor aboard the Algonquin had been lost to the missile strike, and the Boxer had lost two helicopter pilots.
“Mr. Brooks!” Bisping said.
“Yes, sir?”
“Get a message off to Pearl. Message is to read: ‘Attacked by two Chinese Lanzhou destroyers six miles out of San Diego. Sank same.’ ”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Let me know if they change our orders. I’m going down to the flight deck to see about our men.”
Sixty-Three
The women were gathered once again in the cafeteria, and Forrest stood before them with his usual smile. “Ladies,” he said happily. “How are we this evening?”
A quick glance told him that Lynette was not in attendance; she had been avoiding him like the plague since their last exchange.
“Fine,” many of them answered, having no idea why the hell they were being called together again so soon, and most of them dreading it.
“Do we have to eat scorpions this time?” Erin asked with a dry smile.
“Only you, E. The rest of us get caviar.”
There was some laughter and then everyone quieted down.
“As of last night, we have a brand new plan,” Forrest announced. “And you will all be happy to know that it does not involve any scorpions, mice, or any other kinds of creepy crawlies. What it does involve, though, is a great deal of risk. As you all know, Melissa has been workin
g very hard to decipher the encrypted transmissions we have been picking up for a long time now. And I am happy and very proud to report that her diligence has finally paid off.”
This sent a tremor of anxiety through the group, everyone suddenly aware of what such a development could mean.
“As a result of this new knowledge,” he went on, “we are now in contact with the Hawaiian Islands, where they seem to be making a hell of a lot of progress toward building a future.”
A wave of enthusiasm swept over them, hesitant smiles on their faces.
“In another odd twist of fate,” he continued, “Marty happens to be a personal acquaintance of Hawaii’s new leader. And, as luck would have it, this leader of theirs seems to value Marty’s life enough that she has agreed to send a ship to rescue us.”
The women let out a collective cheer and there was general pandemonium.
“Hey! Ho!” he said, after a sharp whistle. “Allow me to finish before you get too carried away.”
The women settled quickly, smiles still plastered to their faces.
“They’re sending a ship,” he said, “not a convoy of trucks, which means it’s up to us to get ourselves to the California coast by the first of the year. This gives us just over two weeks. And we have no idea what kind of obstacles lie between here and there. The trucks we have will drive through some pretty deep snow, but there’s no telling how much snow has fallen in the mountain passes. It could be ten feet deep for all we know. We’ve got two months worth of MREs to take with us, but they won’t do us much good if we get snowbound and miss our window for extraction.
“So here’s the deal. The only personal items you may bring with you are what you can put in the pockets of your coats. Everything else stays, no exceptions. With all the food and fuel and ammo we’ll be hauling, there won’t be room for anything else. As it is, we are going to be sitting quite literally on top of one another in the vehicles.”
“When are we leaving?” Andie asked.
“The men are prepping and loading the vehicles as we speak.”
“Jesus, that fast?” said Maria two.
Everyone began talking at once.
“Shut up!” Joann shouted, throwing the room back into a startled silence.
Forrest chuckled, thanking her. “Okay. There’s no need to go scrambling around the complex like cats on fire. No one’s going to be left behind, so everybody stay calm, take your time and be careful. We’ve come too far for somebody to get hurt now. Make sure the children are bundled up in their winter clothes because we’re only taking one blanket per person. There won’t be room for many sleeping bags.”
The group broke up, and Melissa caught Forrest in the corridor. “What about my computer?” she asked.
“Well, I’ve always been a little bit superstitious,” he said with a smile. “Suppose we left it here as a sacrifice to the gods of war? It might help guarantee us a victory.”
“I love my computer.”
“I know you do, sweetheart, but you’re going to have your hands full helping with the children and helping me to look after Laddie. And I think maybe it’s served its purpose.”
Sixty-Four
Traveling west in a pair of Army M35, six-by-six trucks, it took the group almost forty-eight hours to travel 180 miles through two and half and sometimes as much as three feet of snow to the city of Denver. Even with snow chains on all of the tires, it was slow going, with one truck occasionally bogging down and being pulled free by the other. Kane and Forrest drove the lead truck; Sullivan, Emory, and Marty were in the second; and Ulrich and Danzig followed in their tracks due to the Humvee’s lower ground clearance.
“We’ve got what, about three hours before dark?” Forrest said, standing on the hood of his truck watching the ruined city through a pair of binoculars. “Maybe we should wait until then before we try to get through. Our night vision should give us an advantage over anyone we happen to come up against.”
“Why not wait until morning?” Ulrich suggested. “This snow’s getting deeper, and Denver may be the best chance we get to switch the trucks out for some snowcats.”
“Good point,” Forrest said. “Switching vehicles in the dark would be a pain in the ass. But we’ve still got a thousand miles to go, and I hate to waste even an hour sitting still.”
“I hear you.”
“Let’s get in there before dark and try to find the address for a local snowcat dealer. Any objections?”
“None.”
They stopped at the first gas station they came to and found a phone book behind the counter. The station looked like it hadn’t been open in fifty years, its windows shattered, trash and filth and a few hundred dollars of now useless currency swirling around in the wind. There was not a single morsel of anything edible to be found. Not so much as a stick of gum or a bottle of water.
Ulrich found an address then snatched a map from the rack near the busted register and looked up the street, tracing his finger from where they were at the corner of Tucker and Cisco to Chester Avenue on the other side of town. “Looks like the dealership’s about eight miles up the road.”
He dropped the phone book on the floor and went out through the broken storefront window.
It was getting dark by the time they made it to Vann’s RV dealership, where they found a pair of used red Bombardier GT300 twelve-passenger snowcats in the back lot alongside a new orange fifteen-passenger Tucker 1600. The vehicles were behind the building and out of sight of the road, and thus had not been tampered with.
Forrest told Sullivan, Emory, and Marty to take up positions on the roof of the dealership, then asked Kane for an assessment on getting the trucks up and running.
“Shouldn’t take long,” Kane replied. “Unless the batteries are dead, which is possible. Wayne and Linus are in the garage gathering some tools.”
“Let’s make it happen,” Forrest said, starting back to the trucks to inform West and Price of their find.
Trudging through the hip-deep snowdrifts behind the dealership, he heard the women and children suddenly begin screaming, and he bolted toward the corner, knees high and his weapon at port arms. There were rifle shots, and the screaming reached a crescendo as his legs churned through the snow. Marty bashed his way through a locked glass door to join him at the run.
They rounded the corner to see a cluster of the women gathered near the back of a truck, all of them pointing into the dimness at two men scurrying away in tattered parkas where the snow was only knee-deep. Joann and West were giving chase, but the interlopers were outpacing them, and one carried a screaming child gripped in his arms.
Forrest stopped and sighted on the man lagging behind, who was trying to shield the abductor from West’s rifle. He fired and hit the man in the small of the back. The abductor, however, was too far off to risk hitting the child, so Forrest continued running for the truck, knowing he’d never catch the man before he disappeared into the night.
Marty fired at the interloper’s legs and missed.
“Marty, no! It’s too far!”
“But if he gets to those houses, we’ll never catch him before he kills her!”
Forrest could see two dead men in the snow near the trucks now, where Price was staggering to his feet, holding his head.
“The dog!” Forrest screamed. “Price, the dog!”
Price whirled drunkenly around and scrabbled onto the running board of the truck where Laddie was barking savagely to get out. He pulled the handle to open the door and fell away as the dog leapt from the cab and went tearing off through the snow, quickly overtaking Joann and West as he gave chase into the shadowy neighborhood.
“Save my baby!” Joann shrieked as she stumbled, then fell forward into the dirty fluff. “Laddie, please save my baabyyyy!”
“Jack, I’m sorry, they came outta nowhere!” West shouted as Forrest and Marty ran past hi
m. Emory and the other men were responding now, but they were still fighting their way through the deep snowdrifts.
“That way, Marty! Flank his ass to the right around those houses!”
The light was fading fast and there was no time to go back for their night vision goggles. They could still hear Beyonce screaming for her mother somewhere ahead of them, but they knew it wouldn’t be long before her captor put her to death to silence her screams.
Running for his life, the raggedy man felt his muscles burning, fear and exhilaration gripping his heart. He was nearly home free, but he needed to shut the kid up fast or those bastards with the guns would catch him even in the dark. His stomach twisted as he weaved his way through the yards, feeling the child’s plump and tender limbs through her coat and pants. His salivary glands were already working, smelling her soapy scent, already tasting her juicy, fire-roasted meat, salted and sweet in his mouth.
He had dropped his knife during the scuffle, having underestimated the tall black broad’s strength. What had these people been eating all this time? How were they so healthy? It didn’t matter. They had obligingly seen fit to kill his three cohorts for him, so if he could just make it to the sewer, he’d be free and clear with enough meat to last him for the next couple of weeks.
He decided to jam his thumb deep into the child’s eye socket to kill her on the run, but she was struggling and he mistakenly jammed his thumb into her mouth. Beyonce sank her teeth to the bone, and the raggedy man gritted his teeth and swore in anger as he bounded down the alley toward the open manhole, clouting her clumsily about the face and head until she let loose. The path through the snow here was well traveled and the going was fast.
At last he arrived at the manhole, laughing in victory as he held the child by her ankles over the opening, certain the twenty-foot fall would shut her up for good. But before he could drop her, he was slammed from behind by a 110-pound German shepherd moving at top speed. The man and the girl both flew clear of the hole, and the dog sank its teeth deep into his emaciated thigh, thrashing its head back and forth like an angry mako shark, easily separating muscle from bone, severing the femoral artery.
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