Erik paused just long enough for Brin and Susan to catch up. "Go! Straight ahead into the bushes! I'm right behind you!"
Bits of dirt exploded at their feet as the Russians fired. The children screamed.
"Kids, run for the trees! Go, as fast as you can!” Erik yelled. Teddy didn't need any other encouragement. He let go of Erik's pants and bolted for the bushes, closely followed by his older sister.
Erik turned back to make sure that Brin and Susan got safely past him. He heard a cry of pain and saw Sewell drop to the ground clutching his stomach. Four Russians still advanced. Erik saw one reach for something in a hip pouch. The group of prisoners tackled the guards and for a moment the threat disappeared.
Sewell staggered to his feet. A red stain smeared his left hip. "Just got nicked,” he said at Erik’s concerned look. “Go—" he said. He waved Erik away.
Eric made for the forest. Mark’s legs and arms slapped against Erik’s side with each step. He clenched his jaw and focused on Brin at the edge of safety as she urged him forward.
The kids stood just inside the treeline as Brin and Susan caught up with them. Erik was only a few steps behind when he saw it. A small round object hit the ground between Erik and the women. Time slowed down. Erik pushed off his left leg as he watched the grenade roll to a stop not two feet from where Brin Susan and the kids cowered at the edge of the forest.
"Grenade! Get—" but he knew he was too late. Erik half-expected a bright flash of light and searing pain as the grenade exploded, shredding him, his wife, Ted's wife, and Ted's children in one bloody instant. The fight to save the kids, to save the women—it would have been all be for nothing…ended by the lucky throw of a dying Russian soldier.
Erik continued to thrust forward, frustrated by the way everything seemed to have slowed down. It was like trying to run in a dream. The harder you pushed, the slower you ran. His eyes shifted up and saw Susan's mouth open as she yelled something. He saw Susan shove Brin aside, directly into her children. As Brin and the kids disappeared into the bushes, Erik's gaze rested on Susan. She locked eyes with him for a moment and gave the briefest of smiles as she fell forward, her eyes open and arms outstretched. She landed directly on top of the grenade.
"NO!" Erik roared.
The grenade detonated and Susan's body disappeared in a cloud of smoke and noise. Erik skidded to a stop, caught off balance by the noise and fell over backwards. Before he could even get to his feet, Sewell grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him to his feet. He left a bloody handprint on Erik’s shirt.
"Go, go! There ain’t nothing can be done for her now! The Russians are counterattacking—it’s over! Everybody’s runnin’ for the hills!" Sewell shoved Eric roughly forward.
Erik’s last look at what was left of Susan's crumpled, lifeless body as he staggered into the bushes was one that would stay with him for the rest of his days.
CHAPTER 34
Into Harm's Way
DOUG MITCHEM, CAPTAIN OF the Aegis guided-missile cruiser Anzio, struggled to see through the thick smoke that obscured his vision inside the CIC. His ship was wounded, but still in the fight. Torpedoes had sunk the destroyers Reese and Madison just aft of Anzio's transom. Missiles fell out of the sky from the Russian planes and had pummeled the carrier strike group. Anzio had retaliated in kind and launched her full complement of cruise missiles into southern Manhattan in an attempt to take out the radar weapon that had disabled Roosevelt’s fighters.
Word had come in over the patched communications link to Roosevelt that they had succeeded—the American fighters, now free to operate over Manhattan, began to dispatch their Russian counterparts. The tide had turned and the carrier strike group moved in for the kill.
That was when the Russians subs had struck. Out of nowhere. Anzio's skipper had been caught completely off guard—there had not been a single sonic signature for 300 nautical miles. It was an impossibility that he didn't have time to fathom. Anzio’s LAMPS helo had been destroyed when a wounded SU-33 had crashed into his aft flight deck. As the helicopter exploded into a ball of fire, the ability to track down and kill the Russian subs went up in smoke.
There were a couple additional LAMPS that took off from Roosevelt in an effort to put some pressure on the Russians subs, but Mitchem figured it would be too little, too late to save Anzio. He checked the status of his ship’s weapon systems. Every cruise missile bay was empty. All antiaircraft missiles had been fired. He’d ordered target acquisitions for the few anti-ship missiles left and the 20mm Phalanx CIWS gun pods were still online. That was it. Anzio was almost completely empty.
They began to take shells from the surviving Russian cruisers. Explosions and plumes of white spray popped all around them as Mitchem tried to navigate Anzio in a zigzag pattern to avoid fire. It was a losing proposition and he knew it, but his options were few.
He figured the only consolation was the fact that Anzio was still between the Russians and Roosevelt. His primary mission was to defend the carrier at all costs and that was something he could still do. For a few more minutes, at least.
Another shell hit the reinforced hull of the bow. An explosion of smoke and sparks blossomed at the front of the ship. He felt Anzio shudder.
"Impact, portside bow!" reported the damage control officer of the watch. Mitchem turned and looked at the young man's face. He didn't look like he was much older than 20 and there was a smear of blood streaked on the side of his head from a gash to his scalp. The young sailor wiped the sweat out of his eyes and put a hand to his ear, listening to his headset as it squawked with the inter-ships comms. He turned to face the Captain. "Sir! Damage control reports that the anchor chains have been severed—"
An explosion somewhere aft rocked the ship. Mitchem felt the sickening sensation of the deck starting to tilt. He closed his eyes. Anzio was dying.
"She's listing!" called out the ship’s XO.
Mitchem gritted his teeth and glanced at the shattered tactical display screen. He cursed as the ship shuddered violently and the movement nearly brought him to his knees. He stood up with some effort and limped his way toward the bridge.
"Captain on the bridge!" someone called out as he burst onto Anzio’s bridge. The scene through the smoke outside was right out of a World War II documentary. Planes screamed through the sky, chased by missiles. Explosions dotted the air as antiaircraft guns from both sides lit up the gray sky. What was left of the Russian fleet in the distance belched smoke and fire as American Tomahawks rained down on them.
Out the shattered port windows, Mitchem could see the dying carcasses of Reese and Madison as they began to sink. The bow of Reese jutted up into the air at an obscene 40° angle. The bulbous sonar dome designed to stay just underneath the water at the tip of the ship glistened rust red in the dim afternoon light. He could see men and women jumping off the doomed ships into the cold Atlantic.
"Torpedo in the water!" called out a voice from behind him.
Mitchem had seen enough. He grabbed the nearest mic as it swayed drunkenly in the air and brought it to his lips. "This is the Captain! Abandon ship, abandon ship! Repeat, abandon ship! This is not a drill! All nonessential personnel get to your assigned stations for evacuation! Senior staff report to the bridge!" He turned to the midshipmen at the helm. "I'll take over from here, son."
"Captain has the helm, I stand relieved."
Mitchem smiled at the man's—boy’s really—insistence on keeping with formality. He directed the young midshipmen to head toward the aft hatch and get to his assigned life raft.
His XO entered the bridge and used a filthy handkerchief to wipe sweat from his face. "Captain?"
"What I'm about to do violates every rule in the book. But the way I see it, we’re out of options. We can either sit here and be ripped to shreds by those Russians—or we can do our job—protect TR at all costs. I don't expect you to follow along with me, but—"
"I always thought the Captain going down with his ship all by his lonesome was a load
of horseshit. I’m staying. She’s mine, too, sir."
Mitchem grinned. "Glad to have you." The rest of the command staff entered the bridge and without word took up stations monitoring the ships vitals. Mitchem took a silent head count and nodded as his chief officers flashed him determined smiles. None of them had decided to head to their assigned checkpoints.
"Gentlemen, this is a volunteer mission. If any of you decide you want to evacuate with the rest of the crew—" the ship shuddered again and tossed two of the officers to the deck. "It will not be reflected upon your service record, nor will your bravery under fire be questioned."
No one moved.
"What are your orders, sir?" asked the XO.
Mitchem turned his attention back to the shattered windows of the bridge. He could smell the clean, salt-tinted air of the ocean as it wafted into the bridge. The cloud of smoke parted and Anzio knifed through the smoky haze while listing to starboard.
"She's taking on water, starboard-aft, by the flight deck," said the chief engineer.
Mitchem set his jaw. "That cruiser there dead ahead seems pretty cocky with those four-inch deck guns. Roosevelt's been coming under fire. We’ve got to do something." He took a glance at his crew. Nothing but grim determination faced him. He nodded one final time. "This is your last chance, people.”
"We’re with you, sir. Hundred percent,” said the XO.
"All right then," said Mitchem. "Signal Roosevelt. Anzio's last transmission: Am engaging the enemy, heading into harm’s way."
"Signaling Roosevelt, aye," said the ship’s chief medical officer.
"Give me everything we've got." He looked out the window as Anzio’s deck hummed at full throttle.
“That cruiser’s turning. She’s coming broadside…” warned the XO.
Mitchem glared at the Russian ship. “Ramming speed!”
LIEUTENANT COMMANDER RIGGS LOOKED out over the port side of his F-35 as he circled over the naval battle. He had dropped his ordinance and inflicted as much damage as he could to the Russian fleet. But it was not without cost. Of the 12 hawks in his squadron, only 4 had survived.
As he looped low over Manhattan, he could see American ground forces rolling through. He’d heard from Zeus that they’d made contact with the 4th Infantry Division, currently attempting to wrest control of Manhattan from the Russians.
Riggs saw the army had done an excellent job—the Russian presence was limited to the extreme southern tip of Manhattan. But on his overflight, he saw many more Russians troops and vehicles flowing out of LaGuardia. He knew that would be their next target, but he and the rest of his squadron would have to land in order refuel and reload their weapons. And from what he could see, Roosevelt was in no condition to receive her fighters.
Just as he thought the battle was going to be over in a victory for the Americans, it looked like all hope would be lost. Zeus relayed an urgent message that there were Russian subs behind the fleet now, launching torpedoes into the American line. The Russians had already taken out half the escort fleet around Roosevelt.
He could tell by the way water foamed behind Roosevelt’s transom that Admiral Nella had ordered flank speed, headed deeper into the bay. Riggs quickly guessed what the Admiral was thinking. Get the ships as close to land as possible.
If they were going down, they’d better do it within swimming distance of shore. There were thousands of lives at stake. And he knew that the protection force was running low on ammo after their long hard-fought battle to get out of the Mediterranean Sea and the skirmishes in the middle of the Atlantic.
"Hey! Check out Anzio, 3 o'clock low," called out Jonesy. Riggs swiveled his head to starboard and gently nudged the joystick to roll his aircraft. Below him, he could see smoke and fire as it billowed from the aft section of the guided-missile cruiser. She looked to be at flank speed, running straight at what was left of the Russian fleet. His gaze shifted to the enemy. The Russian cruisers maneuvered and sought to hit Anzio with deck guns. He could see the white spray erupt like geysers near the surface around Anzio as she advanced. They were training their shots.
It won’t be long now…
"Man overboard! Man overboard!” called out one of the Hawks.
"I got people in the water—looks like they're abandoning Anzio," said Jonesy.
"Zeus copies all," was the terse response from the E2-C Hawkeye, 150 miles away.
Riggs knew that was a bad sign. If the only response to American sailors jumping off the side of a ship currently on fire and making all speed toward the enemy line was "copy all"…that could only mean one of two things.
One, they were well aware back in the CIC on board Roosevelt of Anzio's condition and either approved, or could do nothing about the evacuation of the guided-missile cruiser.
Or two, things were going too poorly for the Americans for the command staff on Roosevelt to worry about the captain ordering his sailors to abandon ship. And if things are that bad, Riggs thought darkly, I need to find an airport.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flare erupt on the side of Anzio as one of the Russian ships scored a direct hit on the port side superstructure. He fumed, wishing that he still had some ordinance remaining.
"Hammer Lead, Hawk Lead!" he called out.
After a moment the reply came back, "Hawk lead—go ahead," replied Hammer’s XO.
"Any of you guys still packin’? Looks like Anzio could sure use some help."
"Negative, Hawk Lead, we’re empty."
"Shit…" muttered Riggs. There was little he could do from his position roughly 1500 feet above the battle. The Hawks were out of ammo and orbited, waiting for a chance to land.
“Missile launch!" called out Jonesy. “South-southwest—"
"It's gotta be one of ours," replied Riggs. He watched in silent fascination as one, then two, then three Tomahawk missiles erupted from the surface of the water southwest of the fleet. They shot into the air on plumes of fire and smoke and leveled off for flight. The missiles arched over the American line, shot forward and embedded into the side of three of the remaining Russian cruisers. The fireballs and resultant black smoke obscured the ships completely from view in seconds.
Riggs smiled at the whoops and yells of triumph coming over the radio. He watched as one final cruise missile attempted to go after the last remaining Russian cruiser. Four bright streaks of light erupted from the side of the Russian cruiser and anti-missile ordinance leapt in to the sky and destroyed the final cruise missile.
“Guns, guns, guns!” ordered Hammer’s XO. “Let’s chew ‘em up, boys!”
Riggs watched as the F-18s dive-bombed the Russian fleet. They zipped in and out of the smoke near the surface and strafed the invading vessels with their M61 Vulcan Gatling guns.
“Hawk Lead, Nest,” crackled over his helmet. “What’s your TOT?”
“Nest, be advised,” Riggs said as he glanced at his fuel gauge, “we are bingo fuel.”
“Roger that Hawk Lead. You are clear for landing. Repeat, clear for landing. Bring ‘em home to reload while you still can.”
“Nest, Hawk Lead, copy that. We’re on our way.”
Riggs checked his screens. It would take an hour to get his planes back to Roosevelt, refuel, reload, and launch again. There were still a few Russian ships down there aiming for the carrier. All that stood between them and Roosevelt was Anzio. Their last chance was for Anzio to block the Russian cruiser from reaching Roosevelt.
ADMIRAL NELLA STOOD STOCK still, his face emotionless.
Captain Davis turned from the admiral back to the fractured tactical display board. The fiber optic cabling was still intact, so most of the lights still worked—however there was a large crack running right down the center of the board. He didn’t want to think about the kind of force it had taken to crack that massive screen deep inside Roosevelt.
"Sir, I said—"
"I heard you," the Old Man said in a quiet voice. "There's nothing we can do now but watch and wait."
; Davis struggled to contain his surprise. He’d just informed his commanding officer that Anzio was steaming at flank speed straight into the heart of what was left of the Russian line. Doug Mitchem was on a suicide mission and the Admiral just stood there, hands clasped behind his back as he stared at the tactical display.
"Admiral, I think—"
"Captain, there is nothing we can do. I see what Mitchem is attempting to accomplish."
Davis stepped closer so that his voice would not carry across the active CIC. "I see what he's doing to—he's committing suicide."
“The men and women who sailed Anzio are now in the Atlantic. We need to coordinate resources to rescue them."
"But, sir, Anzio—"
"Anzio is going to shove a spear straight into the heart of the Russian line," hissed Admiral Nella. He turned to face Davis. The intensity of his voice put Davis back on his heels. "Our fighters are out of ammunition. Our ships are out of missiles, TR’s listing so bad we might not be able to recover our planes. We are running on empty here. This is our last chance to make it through. Captain.”
Davis stiffened at the rebuke. “Sir.”
In a normal tone, Admiral Nella called out: “Signal the fleet—what's left of it—to make all speed for Anzio's position. Flank speed for everyone." The Admiral's face softened. "Doug Mitchem is a good sailor. His sacrifice will not be forgotten."
THE CAPTAIN OF THE last combat effective Russian missile cruiser smiled to himself despite the chaos on his bridge. The Americans had put up a stiff fight, there was no mistaking it—but they had not launched missiles in a few minutes—a sure sign that they were out of ammunition. He’d suspected this might happen after naval intelligence informed him that they’d not had a chance to resupply after their Atlantic crossing. He'd heard about the battles this American strike group had fought in the Mediterranean. They’d been denied access to once-friendly ports in Italy. That bit of news had meant that by the time they reached America, they would be dangerously low on everything. Including ammunition.
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