Assault by Fire

by Lt. Col. H. Ripley Rawlings IV (USMC, Ret. )

  Then, sensing Tyce’s agitation, the colonel held up a hand. “You will remain on active duty, but we really do need experienced personnel, combat experienced personnel, training the weekend warriors for our mighty gun club.”

  “Sir, I—” Tyce began.

  “Captain,” snapped the colonel, “that’s all this board will entertain at this point.”

  The old colonel sighed, compassionately, but obviously resigned to what was best for the service. “You are dismissed, Captain Asher.”

  With that, Tyce wheeled about and marched back through the open hatch. His shoulders slumped, and the usual Marine Corps perfect posture was now a little less erect.

  CHAPTER 4

  Two years ago

  Moscow, Russia

  “Get them here tomorrow.”

  “Mr. President, I really don’t think it’s possible . . .”

  There was an air of extreme urgency in the Russian capital. Just the day before, the president had fired the rest of his cabinet. The official Russian news reported they had all resigned, but everyone knew that wasn’t the case. They had been sacked, down to the last man, and quite a number of them had gone missing overnight.

  “You heard me,” said President of the Russian Federation Kryptov to his newly minted Minister of Defense. He was looking through the Annual Analysis of External Threats to the Motherland. A Russian intelligence product the Minister was well aware of. This year’s analyses included quite a bit of new material.

  President Kryptov dropped the file back onto the desk, leaned back in his large, overstuffed office chair, and pushed the gold-rimmed reading glasses down his nose staring over them at the Minister. If the look wasn’t enough to chill a man’s blood, the knowledge of the President’s recent, savage purge certainly was. The world had known this President as one willing to excessively interfere in global affairs. An old-school Russian warmonger, but one who also wielded immense power, and there had been few to oppose him. Even fewer this morning.

  “Tomorrow, I want them here in Moscow briefing everyone.”

  “All of them?” asked the Minister.

  “General Tympkin, this SPET-VTOR computer and that colonel . . . what’s his name.”

  “Kolikoff, Mr. President.”

  “Yes, the same. I want to see it all for myself and meet the people who are behind this supposed wonder weapon. And I want to test out Tympkin’s and this colonel’s device . . . and their plan.”

  The new Minister of Defense would beg for more time and perhaps plead for reason, but even as he prepared his thoughts, he did so with the recognition that he was merely put into this position to be a “yes” man. One to align the remaining less-militant members of the inner circle.

  There was no hope for peace with the West. Years of American intervention coupled with years of immense Russian economic losses and now, new and even bolder predictions from this General Tympkin and his discarded crew of misfits. Before, the SPET-VTOR computer and its analyses had been labeled as audacious military lunacy. But, over time, the data from the computer and the team had become increasingly accurate and was now included in the annual intelligence reports. Moreover, its many predictions and doctrine had grown in the hearts of those who favored action over the dribs and drabs of diplomacy.

  In dire times, lunatics will rule the stage, thought the Minister.

  But now, the military theorems had been like a bomb. A bomb dropped directly into Moscow at exactly the right moment. The President and his loyal supporters had been searching for solutions to regain Russian dominance for years, and now they had fixated upon this plan. It was clear Tympkin had timed things perfectly.

  “Comrade President, if I may, there have been some discussions, amongst . . .” he was about to say “what’s left,” but halted himself. “Some members of the general staff. They think there is wisdom in perhaps, taking a step back-

  “We have.” the President interrupted, “For ten years in this off ice, Comrade Minister, and the twenty years in the FSB and KGB before it, I have watched as the West picks us apart little by little and greedily laps up what we have lost. We are a shadow of our former selves. America is, and remains the most existential threat we have ever faced, and I include Nazi Germany in that judgment. In fact, America is worse than the Nazis. We have lost more to America than we ever did to Germany. Every day, every month, and every year we have been forced to our heels and cast one step closer to hell.”

  The President paused staring into the Minister’s eyes, “In any case, you are already beginning to sound like your predecessor.”

  The Minister blanched, and a cold sweat trickled down his back.

  The President leaned forward and pulled out a file, this one with the Minister’s picture and name across the front. He spoke while he thumbed through it, “As long as America exists, we will never be as we are meant to be. Because of their dominance in the world, we live in their construct of freedom, not ours. Or as Comrade Lenin put it so aptly, ‘Freedom in capitalist society always remains about the same as it was in ancient Greek republics: Freedom for slave owners.’ We’ve been handed a golden opportunity, and I intend that we take it. Russia will lead the world into the next age.”

  “Comrade President, Tympkin’s plan is just one of many. I . . . I still see another path forward.”

  The President pulled a photograph of the Minister’s family out of the file, sighed heavily, and continued, “But I do not, Comrade . . .”

  CHAPTER 5

  Tomorrow . . .

  Aboard the cargo ship Shujaa

  The weather-beaten, black-hulled ship slipped into the crowded mix of tugboats, oilers, bulk cargo ships, and others steaming through the predawn twilight. She flew the flag of Ethiopia, but her actual port of origin was on a continent away. Plumes of thick smoke rose from her twin stacks as the ship plowed from the dark blue Atlantic Ocean swells into the calmer, green-brown waters of the Chesapeake Bay.

  Her unremarkable name, Shujaa, was stenciled in faded red lettering across her stern. She passed directly in front of the bristling guns of an outbound patrol cruiser, USS Normandy, and right under the nose of the ancient guns on Fort Wool just outside Norfolk, Virginia. The fortress island had been built to keep U.S. waters safe from foreign navies, but the fort was not much more than a roost for seagulls now. Its heavy, 1812 iron cannon was long rusted, and even its World War II artillery pieces had been removed, along with any concerns that the mainland U.S. would ever be invaded again.

  * * *

  Three hundred miles north at the headquarters of the U.S. Coast Guard Vessel Traffic Service, a state-of-the-art radar and satellite monitoring system sent a message to U.S. Customs and Border. A cargo vessel named Shujaa had just entered U.S. territorial waters, on time and in accordance with the sailing plans filed by her parent company, a supposedly reputable shipping firm in North Africa. In reality, it was a shell company that existed only through some paperwork and a mailbox.

  A tired, “wee hour” watch officer glanced at the new blip among the thousands of others in U.S. territorial waters. Since 9/11 it was required by law that a federal agent verify each ship entering and exiting the U.S. at least digitally. A monotonous job, given the sheer volume of ships.

  He confirmed Shujaa was steering toward her listed port of landfall, Baltimore. Her cargo was listed as coffee and timber. Everything looked legit. He forwarded the data to the Baltimore customs station. Finally, he clicked the ship icon on the livestream map, changing the vessel’s marker from a red icon that read “UNK status,” designating it as unknown, to the yellow abbreviation for Routine Maritime Merchant Traffic, Inspect After Arrival: RMMT-IAA. Just as he’d done for the sixty-four other vessels he’d tagged that morning.

  Then he flicked the computer screen controller and went back to browsing the Internet. He cupped his cold hands around his third coffee of the morning, blowing on it.

  “Chief, can’t we turn up the frickin’ heat?” he said as his boss walked into the co
ntrol center. The boss just shook his head, and the watch officer went back to absently thinking about the one hour of watch he had left before his replacement arrived and he could finally get some sleep.

  * * *

  Aboard Shujaa, the crew, cargo, and activity were anything but routine.

  Upon entering Chesapeake Bay, a klaxon alarm brought the ship to general quarters, the navy equivalent of battle stations. Loudspeakers barked out strict orders for all hands to remain belowdecks. All watertight hatches were to be securely dogged down and confirmed with the bridge. No exceptions were permitted.

  Heavy steel louvers lowered with a clatter over the bridge’s glass windows. Overhead, fluorescent lights were shut off and electric battle lanterns snapped on, bathing the ship’s combat information center in dark red light to preserve the crew’s night vision. Two dozen men sat still at their control stations, their eyes reflecting the red glow back like the eyes of a pit of vipers.

  Several powerful vibrations shook the thick metal bulkheads as the loud hiss of six hydraulic pistons elevated the cargo container missile launchers to a precise angle of thirty-three degrees—the optimum firing angle to avoid the coastal U.S. missile radar. Heavy blast doors were flung open to reveal the launchers’ contents—six Scarab, SS-21D intermediate-range tactical nuclear missiles.

  This type of missile had never been deemed a threat to the U.S. through fifty years of U.S. and Russian strategic arms talks. The missiles had too short a range to reach the continental U.S. That is, unless the missiles were sailed across the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans up to the U.S. coasts, packed and disguised inside ordinary cargo ships.

  Shujaa’s commanding officer, a Captain 2nd Rank of the Russian Navy, watched through the half-light as the army missile technicians added last-minute updates to the radar and launch computers. The men and their electronics were a tight fit in his makeshift control room. The bulky cargo ship was not originally designed as a warship, only retrofitted as one. She definitely wasn’t built to carry troops or missiles, but that was indeed the Russian captain’s cargo.

  For the past three weeks Shujaa had followed precise routing, slipping unmolested through the regular shipping lanes of all ordinary civilian cargo ships of her class transiting the Atlantic. Even if a coastal patrol had boarded her for a cursory check, they wouldn’t have spotted the carefully concealed missile racks and probably wouldn’t have noticed the hinged bow, which could open to launch landing crafts disguised as common sightseeing boats.

  Any coast guard or navy inspection would, however, have noticed three hundred fifty elite Russian special forces crowded into an area converted from cargo bays. The atmosphere among these men, the Spetsnaz, was electric, alive with last-minute preparations. A few heavy gunners cleaned their machine guns. Small unit leaders inspected handheld rocket launchers, while officers confirmed objectives and routes in low tones over Russian maps of the U.S. East Coast.

  But no one had gotten close during the ship’s entire 2,400-nautical-mile journey. The captain and her crew had ensured that. In fact, the mission depended upon secrecy and perfect timing.

  The Captain didn’t know the names of the other approaching attack ships. He was fairly certain that five other dual-purpose missile and troop ships were committed to the U.S. East Coast. Like seagoing Trojan Horses, though carrying a much deadlier cargo than their Greek counterparts had two thousand years before. But their purpose was really no different: a decisive, surprise invasion and utter destruction of their enemy’s centers of power. Each captain was meant to be unaware of the others in case of a compromise.

  The internal alarm was silenced, and the loudspeakers came alive with a final countdown in Russian.

  “Pyat’ . . . chetyre . . . tri . . . dva . . . odin . . . pusk!”

  On the final word, “pusk,” the missile men turned their launch keys. Outside the command center, six sequenced pops of ejection charges were followed by a shrill screech as the rocket motors ignited. For a brief moment, bright light burst under and around the steel blast louvers. The brilliant white flash bleached the otherwise darkened red room. Men covered their eyes or squinted. The bridge shook, rattling teeth and sending some scrambling after skittering pens and coffee cups. In moments, the Scarab missiles roared to their top speed of Mach 5.3—just over one mile per second.

  Then everything was silent. Green lights came on in the pilothouse indicating “all clear.” An announcement over the loudspeaker confirmed it: “Vse chisto.”

  The Captain pulled an iron lever to open the hatch to the outside. His senior men followed him as he stepped into a thick fog of rocket propellent exhaust. The dirty grey smoke billowed into the bridge, carrying with it a noxious odor. The stench was a mix of spent booster fuel, ammonium perchlorate, and acrylonitrile acids. Altogether it smelled like kerosene and dead fish. Some of the younger sailors gagged, bringing smiles to the faces of the Russian army soldiers, who were well used to the sights, sounds, and smells.

  The Captain’s expression remained stoic as he looked over the railing of his ship. It was hard to discern anything in the dim light and smoke, but he took confidence in the fact that he’d accomplished the first part of his mission: launching the missiles inside the U.S. radar security network. Now it was time for the next phase of the invasion.

  As the smoke cleared, he and the senior officers watched the bright yellow missile trails. The missiles were now well over the banks of the Chesapeake, bound for strategic targets. They didn’t look much different than a few bright stars twinkling through a misty night’s haze. But each of them and hundreds of others were now launching across the U.S. east and west coasts. Each missile signaled the first invasion of the United States homeland in modern history.

  He stepped back into his bridge through some lasting haze and announced loudly, “Helmsman, come to zero-one-five degrees. All engines ahead full.”

  Then he grabbed the loudspeaker handset and continued. “This is the captain speaking. All stations, stand down from launch. Damage control parties are released back to their divisions. Combat division, man all weapons systems. Deck department, prepare to launch assault landing craft at my command.”

  He turned to face his first officer. “XO, break satellite radio silence. Signal fleet command, ‘Launch complete. Commencing assault phase.’” Then, after a second of consideration, he added, “I want you in the well-deck to supervise launch of the landing craft.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” said the second-in-command, moving off to execute the order.

  He pulled back his braided officer’s cuff and squinted at his watch in the smoky green gloom. He noted the time. Three minutes before impact.

  CHAPTER 6

  Three minutes before impact...

  Washington, D.C.

  Navy Commander Victoria Remington and three of her friends from the medical staff at Bethesda Naval Hospital jogged past the Lincoln Memorial and down Independence Avenue, chatting freely, their breath forming ghosts in the cold December air. The four women made a point of closing their respective offices for a few hours once a week to get some exercise together.

  Victoria had her long, raven-black hair pulled into a tight high ponytail. Her pale blue, almond-shaped eyes, gave Victoria a natural look of aloofness—an unfortunate trait of which she was only too aware. Most people initially misjudged her, assuming arrogance behind her magazine-cover good looks and natural voluptuousness. Or, all too often, assuming brainlessness. She tried not to let it bug her. The few close friends she had loved her for her single-minded loyalty and stinging wit.

  The four women stopped, panting heavily and resting at their usual midpoint spot at the Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial. They paused to enjoy the views of D.C. and catch their breath before round two of the hour-long run. They conversed, as close friends do, about disgruntled coworkers and callous bosses.

  A male military officer jogged by, probably from the Pentagon across the Potomac River. He stared at the girls and slowed down a bit, probab
ly hoping the women would talk to him. When none did, he picked up his pace and trotted off.

  “Victoria, a hot Westie just eyed you up.”

  “I’m not into military guys right now,” she said as she sipped water from a bottle strapped to her wrist. The women were close; they spent free time with each other and sometimes had drinks together. So they had codes for men from the two sides of the Potomac: Westies for men from the Pentagon, and Easties for Politicos.

  But something had caught Victoria’s eye out on the Potomac. Three boats were speeding up the waterway in tight formation. They looked like dinner-cruise or double-decker booze-cruise boats. The type that had enough room for a full restaurant below, a separate, upper bar deck, and plenty of space for lounging or milling around—a common enough sight. But not at the hellbent-for-leather speeds at which these three were traveling.

  The lead boat was the longest, with second-story glass observation windows and a bulky suite of electronics on a topmast. It was riding extremely low in the water. Victoria had spent over sixteen years as a U.S. Navy surgeon, most of that aboard navy and Marine support ships, and she noted, with deepening curiosity, that the radar and electronics atop the boats were military grade. Or maybe it was the men on deck who looked out of place. They wore uniforms inconsistent with any U.S. gear she knew of, and they looked to be carrying firearms.

  Tough to make out the uniforms at this distance, she thought as they neared. Maybe just dining staff uniforms?

  The two smaller boats peeled off from the first and headed west. One entered Four Mile Run, right next to Reagan National Airport. The next boat followed, but then quickly darted into the Pentagon Lagoon Yacht Basin. The largest veered sharply east, passing the Pentagon, and increased its throttle, jetting up a heavy wake that dangerously rocked several small pleasure craft. The boat just barely passed through the open art deco gates into the Washington Tidal Basin directly in front of the women.