Sic Semper Tyrannis

by Marcus Richardson

  The trap had been perfectly set and now it had been perfectly sprung. The jamming device that the Army had deployed in downtown New York City was just as effective as he'd been promised. He could not be happier. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel. He took another sip of tea.

  “First, Yuri,” he said to his XO, “we will clear the sky of those planes they sent up to harass us.”

  Yuri grunted. “F-35C. Stealth fighter.” He shook his head. “Even with our jamming, they will not be easy to kill.”

  Illyanovich raised an eyebrow and glanced at his lieutenant. “But we outnumber them. Surely you have more faith in our own pilots, yes?”

  “Of course, captain,” replied the XO. Color crept up his neck above his uniform. “I am concerned about the surface vessels that are approaching from the south—”

  The captain exhaled loudly and waved off his lieutenant’s concern. “One half-dead carrier and what looks like a handful of damaged destroyers and guided-missile cruisers. No match for the fleet we have assembled here. This day will go down in naval history, Yuri! Try to show a little enthusiasm.”

  He held up his hand for silence when the loudspeaker broke squelch—he had the command frequency piped into the bridge so he could hear the chatter while he watched the air battle. It was most exhilarating.

  “Commander, have your bombers break formation and target the enemy cruisers as soon as they are within range. The dogfighting should be over soon,” the voice of the carrier’s captain announced.

  Illyanovich smiled and took another sip of tea. There were no submarine threats in the area and with the jamming device operating on Manhattan, there wasn’t a whole lot for his destroyer to worry about. Time to enjoy the show.

  COMMANDER UMBRIS FROWNED OVER the shoulder of his sonar chief. The readout before him showed twenty surface vessels, not nine. This was no token fleet, but a combined carrier battle group representing 90% of Russia’s North-Atlantic fleet.

  From Moscow with love…

  Umbris returned to the command room. “Cap’n has the conn,” called out Whitaker.

  "All hands to battle stations," Umbris said as he strolled toward the periscope stack. A klaxon sounded the alert and the soft blue lighting in the ops center changed to red. Non-essential personnel shut down their duty stations and exited quickly to get to their assigned damage control stations. The boat fairly hummed with pent up aggression.

  “Bring us to launch depth,” Umbris called out as he watched the tactical display update information. He ignored the sound of Whitaker bringing the boat up from the murky depths and focused on the positions of the Russian ships on his display.

  “Coming to launch depth now, sir,” announced the sub driver.

  “Flood the bays and pop the doors,” Umbris said, still watching the Russian fleet.

  “Flooding tubes and opening torpedo bay doors, aye, sir,” said the Fire Control Technician of the Watch. The young man’s voice held steady. “Coming to launch depth, sir.”

  “Very well,” said Umbris. He reached up and pulled down a dangling mic. “WEPS, CONN—I want firing solutions on as many targets as you can handle, but get me that carrier first.”

  “CONN, WEPS. Firing solutions on all targets, aye, sir,” replied the weapons control chief.

  “Let’s spool up the Tomahawks. This is a bigger threat than anyone realized. I want to be able lop some heads off quick.”

  “Aye, sir.” Whittaker turned and bellowed out the orders to bring the Hampton’s battery of Tomahawk cruise missiles online.

  A few tense moments passed. Umbris watched the ship’s clock tick by critical seconds. The constant training he pushed his crew through paid off—the ship was ready launch and send enemy ships to Davy Jones’ Locker a full three seconds faster than the best recorded drill time.

  “CONN, WEPS: Firing solutions locked in for the carrier, sir.”

  Umbris frowned. Something was off. There were no Russian subs…anywhere. The Russians had the second largest navy in the world and were infamous for their obsession with submarine warfare. For a surface fleet to attack New York without submarines…it was beyond strange.

  Surely they had to accompany that carrier—hell, they only have one…

  He waited two more minutes until the time designated by NEPTUNE GOAL to start his attack.

  “WEPS, CONN. Fire as you bear.”

  ADMIRAL NELLA FROWNED AS he examined the floor-to-ceiling tactical display in Roosevelt’s Combat Information Center. The darkened room was lit only by the softly glowing terminals and touchscreens that ringed the room. Captain Davis stood on the other side of the display and circled the Russian fleet with his finger, leaving a thin red line around the cluster of red dots.

  “From nine to suddenly nineteen ships. Whatever they’re using to jam us in the air isn’t having an effect on the subs, thank God,” said the captain.

  “That’s something,” grunted the Old Man.

  “Sir,” reported a sailor from the comms terminal. “Zeus reports they’ve calculated the radius of the jamming based on communications from our fighters.”

  “Throw it up on the screen, ensign,” said Davis.

  “Aye, sir.”

  The display changed to a large gray-blue swatch of land and ocean, centered on the southern tip of Manhattan. A blinking yellow dot indicated the center of the jamming zone. The Russian fleet sat well inside its sphere of influence. Davis sucked air through his teeth as he watched the dozens of blue dots—his fighters—moved around like gnats in front of a bug zapper, as they dodged in an out of the jamming zone, trying to engage the Russians.

  As they watched, two more blue dots brightened and then went out. Two more aviators had just met fiery deaths over American waters.

  “That jamming is killing us. Any effect on the cruisers?” asked Admiral Nella.

  “Sir, Anzio reports that cruise missile targeting solutions have been reduced to half-mile radius accuracy.”

  “Jesus,” muttered Davis. Without that jamming, he would have been confident that Anzio’s skipper could have dropped a cruise missile through a window on one of the Russian ships—maybe right into the bridge. But half-mile accuracy? They would most likely hit water and kill fish, not Russians. The cruisers were effectively out of the fight. Unless…

  “Torpedo in the water!” called out another voice.

  The tactical screen changed, illuminating six small blue triangles that appeared in front of the dot that represented Hampton. Davis tapped the screen with the fingers of his right hand. A zoom-box appeared over top of the main display, showing the location and vectors of the torpedoes. Target lines shot out from the triangles and intersected with Russian ships. Three of the torpedoes aimed for the carrier.

  The Admiral pointed at Princeton’s little flotilla on the screen. “She’s outside the jamming radius.” He raised his voice and called out, “Order Princeton and her escorts to target that jamming signal. I want a full Tomahawk strike.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Where the hell are their subs?” asked Davis.

  The Admiral held up his hand. “If we don’t get that jamming knocked out, we’re not going to win this fight. If Princeton can’t shut it down, Anzio will attack—then the subs. Send the coordinates of that jamming site to the fleet. We’ve got to knock that thing off-line.”

  Another circle appeared on the map—a yellow tinted one centered on the Russian fleet. “SAM launches, sirs—Zeus is reporting multiple launches. The Russian ships are moving to engage us.”

  “Enemy torpedoes in the water!” a high pitched voice called out in the semi-darkness.

  Six red blips appeared out to sea, well east of Roosevelt. A handful of larger red dots flickered into life and then disappeared as fast as they had appeared. The Admiral sighed.

  “Well, at least now we know where the Russian subs are…”

  “Prepare countermeasures and alert the fleet.” Davis said.

  The Air Boss nodded. “Already vector
ed our LAMPs helos—we’ll run ‘em to ground.”

  “Good, locate and attack the subs, we’ll send the destroyers after them,” said Davis. He knew it was only a matter of time before the anti-sub helicopters launched from Roosevelt found the Russians and began dropping sonar markers and light torpedoes. The destroyers would hone in on those markers like hound dogs.

  “Aye, sir,” replied the Air Boss.

  “Reese and Madison moving to intercept the Russian subs, sir. Reese reports they have contact with four Russian Akula-class submarines,” said the young man at the comm station. He watched the captain with one hand on the headphones he wore. In the red-tinted darkness he looked like some sort of insect-like alien.

  “They’re going after Anzio!” someone said.

  Davis turned back to the tactical display in time to see a red dot disappear near the Anzio’s position. Another one collided with the ship’s image and a yellow circle appeared. Two of the remaining torpedoes were destroyed by the other cruisers and the last two kissed the hulls of Roosevelt’s destroyer escorts.

  “Reese and Madison are hit,” reported the ensign at comms. “Reese’s dead in the water but afloat. No further contact from Madison…”

  “I got a lock on those subs, they’re moving fast, coming right at us, sir.”

  “Torpedo in the water! Multiple contacts!”

  “Oh my God,” muttered Davis. The threat screen lit up like a Christmas tree.

  ANOTHER EXPLOSION ECHOED ACROSS the Upper Bay. Malcolm turned his attention away from the Russian warships and looked up at the greasy smear in the sky where an American jet had been destroyed. He trained his binoculars on the smoky blossom and smiled as he saw the bits and pieces of the broken plane fall out of the cloud. Beside him, General Kristanoff laughed.

  "You see? We swat them from sky like flies. They will be unable to resist us."

  As the general relayed orders over his radio, Malcolm looked up the street behind them, down the long canyon of concrete towers on the southern end of Manhattan. Halfway down the deserted street he could see floodlights in the smoky gloom. He had asked about all the commotion and Kristanoff had explained it was the location of the Russian secret radar weapon. Truck-sized generators that belched black smoke into the air had been parked in the street. Thick cables snaked out from the generators and disappeared into the closest building.

  He couldn't see it through the smoke, but he knew that at the top of that building was a huge radar structure that the Russians had hauled up there over the course of the last 24 hours. He'd never seen such industrious activity. It'd been a remarkable feat, he thought, just flying the damn thing across the ocean. He’d watched as Russian engineers used an intricate cable system to pull the massive structure up the side of the 20-story skyscraper. He shook his head in wonder.

  It is amazing, he thought, the lengths that man will go to destroy himself. If only we could apply ourselves equally to the task of making peace.

  Another boom thundered across the water. He turned and looked up at the sky and saw an explosion fade into a puff of smoke. This one had a white trail that led back down to the deck of one of the Russian ships.

  The general laughed again. "Ha ha! There! You see? Not bad, for Navy."

  Malcolm was about to ask about a bright spot high above the Russian fleet when the General’s radio broke squelch and an excited voice spoke Russian. The General froze mid-laugh. As Malcolm tried to train his binoculars on the point of light, the Russian general shouted into his radio. The man was clearly agitated about something, but Malcolm could not figure out what—

  "We have to leave. Now!" he said. Kristanoff grabbed Malcolm's arm and dragged him away from the edge of the dock.

  "What? Why?" Malcolm stuttered. Another explosion echoed in the distance and as much as Malcolm wanted to turn and look, something about the way the General tried to get away from the dock made Malcolm nervous.

  Kristanoff let go of Malcolm's arm and began to jog toward his command vehicle. He screamed orders into his radio as he ran. Malcolm could see in the distance up the street that the soldiers who’d operated the generators for the radar weapon had begun to head for cover.

  That's not a good sign, Malcolm thought as he raced to catch up the frantic Russian general.

  "What is it?" Malcolm shouted.

  Kristanoff reached the side of his armored personnel carrier—Malcolm had thought it quite arrogant that the Russian had deemed himself so important that he only traveled away from LaGuardia in a tank, but now he was beginning to understand why the high-ranking officer did so. The general opened the hatch and urged Malcolm forward.

  "The Americans! They have launched missiles!"

  Malcolm reach the hatch as Kristanoff disappeared inside. He took one last look at the radar weapon site and saw boxy Russian trucks swerve across the intersection as their drivers tried to flee.

  "I thought you said that machine of yours would stop them from being able to do things like launch missiles?"

  "Get inside! Yes," the general said. He sat down in his command chair and motioned for Malcolm to take a seat as the large ramp at the rear of the vehicle lifted off the ground.

  "BTG-3 will stop fighter planes, scramble targeting computers, fry electronics—if within range. Missiles fired outside range—like cruise missiles my men detected—will still fly toward target, but instead of pin-point accuracy, they will be…close."

  Malcolm peered out the shrinking view of the outside world as the ramp continued its process of closing up and sealing off the armored vehicle. "How close?"

  Malcolm gasped as the office building across the street from the Russian radar installation exploded in a cloud of fire and debris. He could actually see a ring of disturbed air expand outward from the explosion—the overpressure shockwave. The sound, even through 4 inches of armor plating, was loud. The big vehicle shook and as the shockwave passed over, Malcolm gripped the edges of his seat in terror.

  The armored personnel carrier lurched forward as the general relayed directions for the driver to get them out of the danger area. Malcolm reached onto his seat to grab the seatbelt and fumbled with shaking hands for a few moments. He looked down and realized that there was no seat belt.

  The Russian general laughed again. "This is military vehicle, nyet? We have no seatbelts!"

  "That was one missile?"

  The Russian’s smile faded. "Da, one of eight headed our way. They appear out of nowhere—which tells me there must be submarines out there somewhere."

  Malcolm would never be sure, but he swore at the time that he felt the massive BTR jump off the ground as another explosion erupted nearby. It sounded to him like it was right on top of them. Kristanoff turned a small black-and-white monitor around so Malcolm could see through the external cameras.

  Mostly he saw a lot of smoke, and fire. A building up the street had been immolated by a cruise missile. The missile struck toward the lower part of the building and vaporized a corner. The driver slowed and turned up a side street as the camera focused on the partially destroyed building.

  “Hang on!” yelled Kristanoff.

  Malcolm watched, mouth open in surprise as the building collapsed across the road and into the bay. The little screen went white as a wall of sea-spray fell out of the sky and blanketed the BTR.

  RIGGS SWORE INTO HIS oxygen mask. His F-35 fought every move he made as if the damn thing wanted to be blasted out of the sky. Half his squadron had already been shot down and he would be too, if he couldn’t get his plane either under control. He had to get out of range of that jamming device.

  His F-35 shuddered and Riggs grimaced as another flare ejected itself to port and sailed off to a useless death. The damn plane was going completely apeshit and there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

  He could see Russian missiles claw their way up into the sky from the surface vessels below. His plane was having a conniption fit over all the threats—real and imagined—but he had to ignore everything an
d focus on controlling the bucking aircraft.

  A missile streaked just in front of his plane and he swore again as he flew through the smoke trail. He followed the missile over his shoulder and saw an F-18 disappear into a flower of fire and smoke. That marked three Hammers he’d seen buy the farm. The chatter over the garbled radio was a lot quieter now than it had been a few moments earlier.

  “Goddammit!” he yelled in frustration.

  A huge pillar of smoke suddenly erupted out of the mass of skyscrapers on the southern tip of Manhattan. One of the cruise missiles he’d been warned about must have found its mark. The alarms suddenly silenced and the plane woke up—his lightest touch on the stick was all it took to send the fighter into a graceful dive out of the path of an oncoming missile. The HUD flickered in his helmet and normalized. Accurate targets appeared and the computer tracked and identified them in a split-second.

  His plane was back and ready to fight. The targeting computer locked on to an Su-33 that had just blasted an one of the Hammers out of the sky.

  “About time! Hawk flight, Hawk Lead, I got my controls back. Let’s clear the road, boys!”

  “I got tone—Fox three!” called out Jonesy, his voice loud and clear over Riggs’ helmet.

  Riggs waited patiently as he slipped in behind a fleeing Su-33. Like a cheetah running down a gazelle, every move the Russian made, Riggs countered and stayed right on his six. When the tone buzzed in his ear signifying he had missile lock, Riggs squeezed the thumb button on the joystick in his right hand and saw an AMRAAM missile streak away from his plane. He flipped over into a starboard roll and looked for a new target. As he circled, he glanced up and saw with satisfaction that his missile had done its job. The Su-33 disappeared into a ball of smoke and fire.