Apocalypse Austin

by David VanDyke

  There was a moment of silence. “I don’t think I’m hungry, sir,” said his copilot.

  Case realized he wasn’t either.

  ***

  “Sir, we’ve got multiple inbounds bearing three two one degrees, speed five hundred,” said the Texan AWACS’ early warning radar operator, not bothering to look away from her screen.

  Bedlam broke out inside the aircraft. What had started out as a normal shift, monitoring Texas airspace from near orbit above Austin, had become a matter of life or death with the sudden attacks on Periman Basin, less than half an hour old.

  “What are we looking at?” asked the air operations commander, Major Tate Gregory, forcing himself to speak slowly. He had a tendency to talk fast when he was excited, and he’d learned long ago that it had a negative effect on his subordinates in times of crisis. Now he was known as Iceman, because they erroneously thought his slow casual demeanor indicated he never became excited or scared.

  “Aircraft at wave-top level. Twenty-two of them. But sir, they’re small. Or maybe stealthy. Their radar returns are…weird.”

  Gregory rubbed his jaw, looking over the controller’s shoulder, thinking back to his tour at a joint air operations center in Dubai during antiterrorist strikes. Those looked like… “TLAMs!”

  “Tomahawks?”

  “Yes.”

  “Marking.” The tech designated the bogeys in the system as wave-skimming Tomahawk Land Attack Missiles, adding to the information the AWACS would share through its datalink, most importantly to the air operations center at Randolph Air Force Base in San Antonio.

  “I also have a dozen bogies from the George Washington at medium altitude, inbound at max cruise toward the coastline.”

  “They’ve got to know we have air defenses,” Gregory mused. “So those must be Growlers.” He meant EA-18s, the specialized electronic warfare version of the carrier-based F/A-18 fighter, whose mission was to jam or destroy ground-based radar and missiles.

  “That would be my guess, sir,” the woman answered.

  Gregory went to the secure comms panel and plugged in his headset to speak with the watch center in Austin. “Reflex, this is Buzzard Three. We have multiple inbounds approaching the gulf coast from the southeast, do you copy?”

  There was silence for nearly five seconds before a shaky voice came on the line. “Sir...I’m not really...this isn’t normally what I...”

  “Who is this?” Gregory asked. “Where’s the watch officer?”

  “Sir, this is IS3 Smith. I’m an analyst. Major Reynolds was ordered to go prepare a situation brief for the governor. General Clemens wanted it ready first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Who’s in charge of the watch center now?” Gregory asked.

  Another moment of silence. “Uh, no one I guess. Most everyone got pulled to the general’s quarters to brief him and prep for a morning meeting with the governor. Said they might have to prepare for a news broadcast interview.”

  Gregory flicked the comms net off and barely suppressed the nearly overwhelming urge to scream in frustration. Punching up the air ops center, he spoke into the headset mike. “Stormwatcher, this is Buzzard Three.”

  The panel indicated a secure handshake with the air ops center, which would tell the other end who was speaking to them and cue them to take a look at what the datalink showed on the common operating picture, the “Big Screen.”

  “Stormwatcher here.”

  “Stormwatcher, launch the alert birds and initiate full scramble. The datalink picture of what we’re seeing off the coast should show you why.”

  “Roger, Buzzard, I have datalink. Initiating full scramble. You’ll have four birds over Galveston in ten minutes, and the rest as fast as I can get them.”

  “Acknowledged. Buzzard Three out.”

  We should have had CAP in the air, Gregory thought. But no one expected what must have been a B-2 sneak attack, followed by this naval strike, this soon. I guess that’s the whole point. Element of surprise. Have to hope the Army can keep them busy until our fighters get into it.

  Gregory walked back over to the technician. “How much warning will the air defense radars have for the TLAMs?”

  “At fifty feet above the deck? Three minutes, maybe two,” she answered.

  Gregory thought. The TLAMs, stubby-winged cruise missiles, were too small and flew too low to be effectively engaged with fighters, even if any arrived in time, but two or three minutes was enough for the Army missile crews to see and acquire them. Hitting them might be another story, but the newest Patriot upgrades should be effective, and Stormwatcher would have passed the alert to the Army immediately.

  “Here they come,” muttered one of the controllers.

  Gregory watched as the TLAM icons crossed the range rings of the Texan missile batteries. Fire control radars blazed on his screens, beams and fans sweeping and scanning as they locked on to the incoming weapons. Tiny blips appeared, highlighted by the AWACS’ powerful radar, even from a hundred miles back.

  When the tracks of missile and counter-missile merged, more often than not both disappeared in a burst of radar hash. The few that didn’t eventually vanished on their own, presumably striking their intended targets.

  “We’re taking them down,” another controller said, excitement in his voice.

  “Sir? The Growlers just pushed it up.” The early warning tech tapped her screen, and then zoomed in on the dozen electronic warfare airplanes, which now showed speeds just barely below Mach one.

  Those Growlers were made to take out air defense radars with small, accurate missiles, blowing a hole for strike aircraft to follow. Their nose cones were also packed with sensors and jammers to detect radar and confuse anything trying to lock onto them.

  And now, with the TLAMs stirring up the hornet’s nest, those radars blazed like beacons in the electromagnetic spectrum, giving the Growlers perfect data on their locations and types.

  “Patch me through to the Army air defense command center,” said Gregory. “Lord help us if there’s no one down there awake who can make decisions.”

  “You’re on the freq, sir, but there’s no handshake. You’re speaking in the clear. We don’t have the new Army encryption protocols yet.”

  Dammit. Just one more thing that dropped through the cracks in the confusion of the secession. No encryption meant he could be heard by the enemy. He had to hope his transmission would be lost in the vast radio spectrum and confusion of the attack.

  “Texas Army ADA net, this is Buzzard Three –” Gregory stopped. His Air Force call sign would likely mean nothing to them. “This is the air ops commander of the Texas Air Force AWACS airborne over Austin-San Antonio. I need to speak to someone in charge.”

  “AWACS, this is Duck Nest. Please go secure.”

  “We don’t have your protocols yet, Duck Nest.”

  “Understood. Authenticate Zulu Alfa Niner.”

  “Wait one.” Gregory ground his teeth as his communications specialist flipped through a binder to obtain the day’s authentication codes. The man held up the book with his finger under a specific line.

  “I authenticate Kilo Alfa Four,” Gregory read. “Put whoever’s in charge on, now.”

  “Stand by.” There came a long moment of silence, and Gregory looked at his watch. Those Growlers would be in range of the radars and start taking them out in less than two minutes. When that happened, Texas would have a big gaping hole in its airspace.

  “AWACS? Who the hell is this?” asked a gruff voice.

  Gregory sighed with relief. Only someone in authority would speak this way. “This is the AWACS ops commander, sir.” He almost said his own name, but with a clear transmission, that would be a further violation of operational security.

  “Well, this is the fire direction center commander, and you better have a damn good reason to be calling in the clear.”

  “We don’t have your protocols, sir, but I’m afraid we have a situation.”

  “You’re damn ri
ght we got a situation. We just fended off a cruise missile attack. Mostly. Three got through.”

  “Yes, sir, but that was only for openers. I’m picking up a dozen EA-18 Growlers approaching the coast, and I’m getting intermittent hits from aircraft behind them. I’m guessing the Atlantic Fleet has launched a full strike.”

  “Why ain’t I hearing this from Reflex?”

  “Good question, sir. Evidently someone down there thought the attacks were over and pulled the watch officer in charge to go prepare powerpoint briefings.”

  “Goddamn headquarters pukes,” the Army officer responded.

  “It appears so.” Gregory looked at his screens. “Sir, you have less than ninety seconds before those Growlers start taking down your lit-up fire control radars. You need to turn them off.”

  Gregory heard his counterpart turn away from his mike and order a heads-up passed to his missile batteries. Then he came back on. “If we turn them off, we’ll be blind. Thanks for the warning, flyboy, but our systems need to stay active. We’ll rip them a new one, just like with the cruise missiles.”

  “No you won’t, sir,” Gregory said, desperation in his voice. “I’ve studied the Growler, and it can take down your systems. You might get a couple of them, but you’re going to lose a nose-on fight. You’ve got to shut down your radars, give them nothing to shoot at. Right now, sir.”

  “We’ll pop them on and off.”

  “That won’t matter. If you let them lock on even once, the Growlers’ new missiles will remember where your radars are and hit them anyway, and they’re dead accurate. They were made for taking down the upgraded Russian SA-10s, which are better than what you have.”

  “Dammit! If I turn them off, we’ll be blind!”

  “I can still see everything,” Gregory answered. “If you turn all your radars off now, the enemy might believe we think it’s over, and send their strike package in hot. I’ll let you know when you can turn the radars back on and give those assholes a real surprise.”

  The ADA officer laughed. “I like it, AWACS.” Then he roared in the background, “Flash message! Go black! We’re going black now across the entire Gulf coast! Put them out fast and stand by!”

  “Thank you, sir,” Gregory said.

  “Just don’t leave us hanging, flyboy.”

  “I won’t. They’re going to pay for Periman.”

  ***

  The twelve Growlers, the George Washington’s entire complement, fanned out up and down the Texas gulf coast, looking for radars to shoot. They found nothing except a few civilian emitters, which they ignored.

  When a four-ship of Texas Air Force F-16s came screaming in high and fast, they turned tail and retreated out to sea. The Growlers had self-defense missiles, but the specialized aircraft were much too expensive to risk in an air-to-air battle.

  The carrier’s Commander, Air Group, or CAG, recalled six of the Growlers so as not to leave his strike package without electronic warfare coverage, allowing the other six to loiter, waiting for a four-ship of friendly F-35s to come forward and deal with the Texan fighters.

  The flight deck crews worked furiously, prepping to refuel the recalled Growlers. The CAG would have rather had them hit a tanker, but all of his flying gas had been used up by his strike package of Lightnings and Hornets, even now inbound on the deck, heading for the enemy.

  Each of the two dozen strike pilots had a specific target, nearly all of them focused on the strategic oil reserves near Houston. The planes flew in six four-ships, vectoring in on their targets, executing textbook approaches, intending to launch precision attack munitions.

  They were deep into the Texas air defense radar bubble when their lock-on warnings screeched as the entire network came alive beneath them.

  Pilots desperately released chaff and flares. Some were close enough to pickle off their bombs. Others dumped all their ordnance just to lose the weight and drag of the weapons. All executed frantic evasive maneuvers, trying to find clear routes back to the carrier, but they’d been caught too deep in.

  The Growlers raced forward, launching AMRAAM air-to-air missiles against the Texan F-16s to keep them busy while their back-seaters began firing anti-radar missiles, but it was too late. Fireballs blossomed above the Gulf Coast as Texan Patriot missiles and even some older HAWKs clawed most of the strike aircraft out of the sky.

  Only five of the original twenty-four aircraft made it back to the Washington, and one of those had to ditch, losing the plane but not the pilot. The sun rose over a tranquil gulf as a helicopter picked up the U.S. Navy aviator bobbing on the surface, looking stunned.

  The CAG briefly considered sending combat search and rescue into Texas airspace, but this wasn’t some third-world enemy where he could sneak helicopters in to pick up downed pilots. The Texans had been ready for them, and it had cost him nineteen good men and women. He wouldn’t sacrifice more.

  Yesterday, the CAG had argued against the sneak attack, but had been overruled by orders from the top. With that damned Texan AWACS orbiting far back, there was no way to achieve true surprise. He’d hoped to overwhelm them with his TLAM-Growler one-two punch, blow a hole in their air defenses, get in and get out before their air forces could scramble, but the clever bastards had been waiting for them.

  Respect for the Texans’ staunch resistance warred with anger at the mission he was forced to execute, bringing forth a string of curses that made the sailors around him blush.

  So much for a short, easy war.

  Chapter 12

  Skull at first thought he had the wrong man, but the location and time of the contact had been specific. Besides, there was no one else in the Balboa Beach, Panama bar at eight in the morning.

  Theodore Herschel didn’t look like some geeky scientist. He was powerfully built, with the gnarled hands and weathered skin of a man who had endured many trials and emerged undaunted. He sat drinking a cup of coffee and reading an American newspaper at the designated table in the corner.

  Skull knew what the paper contained. They all said the same thing lately, with headlines that might have been written by the same editor. Given the increasing government control of the media, perhaps they had. “Vicious Texas Attack on Patrolling Navy Murders Thousands of Innocent Patriots,” or something like that.

  Of course, Skull didn’t know the whole story, but he doubted whatever had happened was the senseless act of aggression the news would have them believe. Even if it were, Skull would have applauded the Texans for seizing the initiative. He’d also noticed a curious back page story of a series of disastrous “accidental” fires at several oil refineries in west Texas. Given the lies elsewhere, he was sure these had been somehow caused by the U.S.

  Herschel looked up as Skull approached. “You must be my new best friend. Coffee?”

  Skull sat. “Yes, please.”

  Herschel waved at the bartender, who looked half asleep. “Enrique, café, por favor.”

  “You come here often?” Skull asked turning to look at the bartender moving slowly to get the coffee.

  “You trying to pick me up?”

  Skull winked.

  “I must say the surroundings are a little odd, given the time of day. I’m surprised it’s even open this early. Couldn’t we have met at a breakfast place or something?”

  “I didn’t pick it. Your control did.”

  The bartender set down a cup of coffee in front of Skull and turned away.

  “Muchas gracias,” said Herschel with a Texas twang. He waved his hand dismissively and patted his mostly flat belly. “No worries; it ain’t like I’m fixin’ to blow away any time soon.”

  Skull fixed his gaze on the older man, who looked back at him impassively. Most people Skull stared at that way fidgeted or tried to look back defiantly. Only a few managed to hold their own.

  Yet there was no challenge in Herschel’s gaze, only mildly amused curiosity. He looked at Skull politely as if expecting him to say something extraordinary, and had the appearance of a man w
ho was content to wait all day for it to happen.

  “I have to say, you’re not what I expected,” Skull finally said.

  “Well, you know what the Dalai Lama said. Expectations are the leading cause of disappointments.”

  “I guess that’s true. Maybe you should tell me a little bit about yourself. Start by showing me some identification just to make me feel comfortable I got the right man.”

  Herschel reached around to the back of his chair to retrieve his wallet. He flipped it open and pulled out a driver’s license. “Not the trusting sort, are ya? Probably not a bad way to be these days. Not like when I was growing up. In those days, a man’s word was his word and you knew where you stood with him.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Same reason you are, I guess.”

  Skull shook his head. “I’m getting paid. A lot. I don’t give two shits about your cause.”

  Herschel’s smile slipped. “Then why do you ask?”

  “I like to know a man’s motivations. It might matter in a tight spot.”

  “Fair enough. What we’re doing means a great deal to me. It’s important. Maybe the most important thing I’ll ever do.”

  “And I still want to know just what that is. I was led to believe you were some sort of scientist or inventor or something,” Skull said.

  “Scientist, no. Inventor, yes. The two don’t necessarily go hand in hand.”

  “What did you invent?”

  Herschel’s smile returned. “Lots of things. Started when I was in college, but the education didn’t take. Missed too many classes while I was actually building and designing things. Took over my daddy’s repair shop and did all right by myself and my family. Eventually started an electronics company on the side that didn’t do half bad if I say so myself.”

  “TexTech,” Skull said. “Your company invented nearly fifty new electronics processes or devices and holds three times that many patents.”

  “Whoa there,” said Herschel shaking a finger at Skull. “I see you’ve done your due diligence. That’s a rare quality these days.”