by C T Glatte
He’d been appalled to learn that an American submarine had played a large role in sinking the Russian carrier group in the Pacific. He’d felt sure the Korth enhanced sonar would’ve picked up the submarine easily. He wondered if perhaps the Korth hadn’t shared the technology with the Russians. Perhaps they played favorites.
Minutes later the sonar man lifted one side of the headphone, “Targets are changing course, sir. The nearest one is slowing and approaching the sinking ships. The other has increased speed and is weaving and pinging.”
“Stay close to the wreckage, all that noise will keep us hidden. Weapons, you have a solution on those targets?”
The two sailors beside the sonar man were hunched over the Torpedo Control Center, adjusting knobs and dials. The senior of the two nodded, “Yes, Captain. Forward tubes one through four are set for the contact moving toward the wreckage. Rear tubes one through four, set for maneuvering contact. Ready to fire on your command, Captain.”
The torpedos were also a marvel of technology which he would’ve never dreamed of before the aliens. They could be programmed to follow the sonar to the contacts, homing in on them as long as the sonar was active. It virtually guaranteed a hit. The only drawback being, as long as the sonar was active, they could be seen if someone was searching.
Captain Onge wasn’t worried about being seen just yet. His ability to hit targets in any weather at any time of day would have the allies reeling, at least initially. From this day forward his job would become more difficult. He doubted he’d have too many more kills as easy as these unfortunates.
United States Navy Fleet Admiral Harold Stine was pulled from a deep sleep by the incessant ringing of his bedside phone. His wife of twenty-six years mumbled something and rolled away from him, taking the covers with her.
He sat upright on the side of bed and finally found the phone. “Stine here,” he grumbled as he slipped on his glasses.
He listened and all his grogginess disappeared as Commodore Winstrap’s voice told him the news. Stine’s tone changed, “Put all naval forces on status red-one. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
His wife rolled toward him, sensing the change in his attitude. “Trouble?” As a career Navy wife she knew not to pry too much.
He sighed heavily and nodded. “The worst kind.”
She stroked his back and he leaned over and kissed her forehead. “I may be staying at the office for the duration.”
She nodded and the admiral stood and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Despite his age, he was still in good shape. He exercised every day. “Remember to eat. I know how busy you get. I’ll alert Miles,” she said.
He nodded, went to the bathroom and shut the door. She heard the shower running. She got up, heated water and by the time he was dressed and heading for the door had a steaming cup of coffee ready for him. He took it and sipped gratefully. “Thanks, darling. I’ll check in when I can.” She nodded and gave him a peck on the cheek.
He descended the front steps and slid into the backseat of the idling car. “Morning, Miles,” he addressed the driver.
Miles looked at him in the rear-view mirror, “Good morning, sir. The Pentagon?”
“Yes, and don’t stop for any red-lights.”
Miles nodded and depressed the accelerator. “Yes, sir. Should be light traffic this time of the morning.”
Stine used the ten-minute car ride to gather his thoughts. He did a mental tally of all the Atlantic US naval forces under his command. They were plentiful, however it sounded as though not as plentiful as they were when he’d gone to bed six hours earlier. The Watkins?
The powerful Cadillac pulled up to the guard shack and Stine was happy to see a squad of stern looking Marines with their weapons off their shoulders, backing up the MPs who inspected their identifications as though they’d never seen the car or Stine before. When they were satisfied, the MP sergeant stepped back and snapped off a brisk salute. The barricades were lifted and the Marines pulled the spiked barriers from the road and stepped back and saluted.
Miles commented. “That’s different, Admiral.”
“Yes, it’ going to be a long day. No need to wait for me. Head back home in case Gracie needs your services.”
The Cadillac stopped in front of the building’s lit up entrance. More Marines were fanned out and Stine saw a heavy .50 caliber machine gun behind a sandbagged barrier that hadn’t been there the day before.
The security of the nation’s strategic centers had been increased immediately after the first aggression by the Russians in Alaska months before, but now the threat was off the East Coast only miles away, and security tightened.
Inside, Admiral Stine was whisked through two more security checkpoints. The place was bustling with activity, much more than normal. There was always something going on inside the long hallways, but Stine hadn’t seen it like this since the Russian invasion.
Commodore Wallace Winstrap was suddenly by his side. “Morning, Admiral. The staff’s still coming in, but I’ll show you what we know so far.”
They entered a large space with leather chairs placed around an oval bar, which overlooked a sunken room with a huge table in the center. An oversized map of North America, Canada and South America filled the table’s surface.
Around the map stood men and women with headphones on, holding long sticks which formed ’Ts’ at the end. Occasionally, a worker would lean forward and move a magnetic piece to a new spot as new information streamed in.
Commodore Winstrap pointed at the Eastern Seaboard which was dotted with symbols of known shipping. There was a large red ‘X’ beneath the symbol denoting Patrol Group Zebra. “That was their location when we received the emergency SOS. It came from the cruiser, Corsican.” He lifted one of the many phones placed strategically in front of each leather chair.
Twenty feet away, a Navy lieutenant on the floor surrounding the map table immediately reached for the buzzing phone behind his head and looked up at the Commodore. “Sir?” he asked into the phone.
“Play back the last message from Corsican.”
“Aye, sir.” They watched as the lieutenant hung up the phone and walked to a console of electronic equipment. He spoke to the operator, a woman with large headphones covering her ears. She nodded and her hands moved so fast they blurred.
The room filled with static then the voice of a harried sounding officer. “This is Patrol Group Zebra. Enemy contact. Suspected submarine attack of unknown origin. The Frost and Watkins…“ the voice took on emotion, obviously flustered. “They’re going down. Repeat Frost and Watkins are going down.” There was more static, then a voice in the background could be heard. “Torpedos incoming, tor...” The transmission was suddenly cut off leaving only a faint buzz of static, which turned off when the operator pulled the switch.
Commodore Winstrap looked at his watch. “That was an hour and half ago. There’s been nothing since. We’ve been trying to raise them, but it’s as if they disappeared off the face of the earth.”
Fleet Admiral Stine thought about the men serving on the four ships. The captain of The Corsican wasn’t a personal friend, but he knew all his senior officers to some degree. He did know the captain of The Watkins well, however and he was shocked to hear of its possible demise. The Watkins was one of their newer battleships, huge, displacing nearly 65,000 tons. Losing it was a serious blow to the Atlantic Fleet.
He said a brief silent prayer for his friend’s safety then barked. “I want all ships able to muster to do so. I want destroyers and cruisers actively pinging and patrolling the coastline in force. Get the Air Force on the line. I want anti-submarine patrols up whenever possible.”
Commodore Winstrap nodded and relayed the order via telephone. “It’s done, sir. Who do you think’s behind it?”
Stine shook his head and rubbed his chin. “I doubt it’s the Russians, their subs have been giving us headaches in the Pacific, can’t imagine they’re operating out here too. Gotta be Western Europe. Probably
came out of the British Isles, but were so damned blind, it could be from anywhere.”
He paused and considered something else. “The weather must be worse out there on the water than it is here, how the hell’d those subs attack at night in these kinds of conditions? How’d they find our ships?”
Commodore Winstrap shook his head. “We’ve had no reports of Russian subs with that kind of capability. This must be some new alien technology, sir.”
Stine nodded and looked worried. “That’s what I’m afraid of, Wally.” He took a deep breath expanding his chest. “Get me a secure line to the President.”
Commodore Winstrap nodded and lifted the phone talked briefly with the lieutenant who relayed it to the operator. Winstrap handed him the phone, “It’s ringing, sir.”
Winstrap stepped a few paces to give the admiral space. Stine listened to the ringing and stiffened slightly when he heard his Commander in Chief’s groggy voice. “Sorry to wake you sir, but there’s a new front in the war…”
5
Rex Crandall was exhausted but that was nothing new. He was four months into the program. It was officially called, The Branch, but everyone called the training, the program, as though it was some kind of college class but if he failed this class he wouldn’t end up with an ‘F,’ but a bullet in the back of the head.
His ‘class’ started with fifty men and women and now they were whittled down to fifteen. Those who’d suffered injury were put back a class or two depending on their injury, but those that simply couldn’t cut it, disappeared.
The training cadre didn’t hide what happened to them. No one could know of its existence, so they were executed and their bodies burned. There was no family to tell, all the candidates were already assumed dead.
Rex hated the cadre. Everyone did. They were ruthless and unforgiving. Many times Rex had wanted to quit, thinking death would be far easier than the misery he was being put through, but the thought of strangling the sadistic cadre as they slept or slitting their throats or simply filling them full of bullets, kept him going.
The first few weeks had been spent being pushed to their physical and mental limits, and beyond. Rex was a good athlete despite being older than most of the others and he re-ignited a competitive spirit he thought he’d left on the basketball court back in high school. Despite his age, or possibly because of it, he worked smarter, making the time cut requirements by a second or two instead of trying to crush the records like the young bucks.
They’d lost many ‘recruits’ during the physical phase. Rex figured out early, it was mostly a mental game. He could put the pain in a separate compartment and push beyond it, completing whatever task needed completing.
He watched many men, far stronger physically, fail because they simply couldn’t get past the pain. When they got to the point where their muscles would no longer work with the normal coaxing, they simply quit. Rex and a few of the others learned it was all mental. Their bodies could be pushed farther than they ever thought possible, as long as they were in the correct mental state.
After the first month of attrition, the physical stressors didn’t slack off, however their bodies and minds were attuned to the abuse and built on it, even thrived. Rex had no doubt he was in the best physical shape of his life.
Each new challenge was more difficult than the last. Eventually, the curriculum changed slightly. Instead of constant physical abuse, they spent more time in the classroom. They studied and memorized every weapon the free west had and every known enemy weapon. They could field strip and put them back together quickly and correctly.
The cadre would isolate each recruit, throw a mass of parts onto a white tarp and shut and lock the door. When they returned in thirty minutes they expected every part to be put back together, and each weapon, Rex had four, was tested with live ammo. If there was a problem, like a weapon didn’t fire, the recruit was given one more chance, but instead of thirty minutes, only twenty. If they failed, they disappeared.
Along with weapons training, they also learned hand-to-hand combat. The instructors were brutal and relentless throwing recruits with various Judo, Ju-Jitsu and Taekwondo moves until they were battered and bruised.
Rex enjoyed the hand-to-hand training. The instructors weren’t the normal sadistic cadre members. They were there to teach, not break them down and make them fail.
He absorbed the painful lessons quickly and excelled. The instructors used him more and more for demonstration so he got extra training. Soon, he could hold his own with the instructors. He was motivated to learn, hoping someday he’d have a chance to kick the shit out of cadre members.
Now, after four months, there were fifteen recruits left: six women and nine men. During the physical testing, the women were separated, presumably given somewhat lower expectations. Rex hardly noticed when they returned to their ranks. He remembered there being a lot more women at the start. The fact that the cadre would execute women as quick and easy as a man, made him hate them even more.
“Cadet five-twenty, get up that rope! Now!”
Rex jolted hearing his new name, Five-hundred-twenty. He jumped as high as he could and gripped the thick rope at the same time lifting his legs and wrapping the rope around his ankle and foot. He pushed with his legs, feeling the crook of rope tightening and forming a half loop for purchase. He reached up and repeated the motion over and over until he was at the top, where the rope was tied to a thick telephone sized pole.
He lunged and gripped the pole, bringing his legs up to wrap around it for more support. Without looking down, he shimmied his way across to the platform and released his legs. An instant later he was airborne and he landed lightly on the wooden platform.
He looked down the seventy-five feet to the staring faces which seemed so small from up here and gave a thumbs-up sign. He heard the same harsh voice. “Next!” He looked to see a young woman, Five-hundred-sixteen, mounting the rope. He knew she’d make it no problem. He knew none of the remaining would have a problem with this obstacle, well except maybe, Four-ninety-one. He was from an earlier group and been rolled back due to a broken leg, which had happened on this same obstacle. Apparently, he’d fallen midway up and shattered his right tibia.
Rex took his eyes from the young woman shimmying easily up the rope and took in his surroundings. He guessed he was somewhere in the South, based on the heat and humidity, even in winter. He looked over a vast, swampy forest of deciduous trees which he’d become intimately involved with on countless night operations.
Though it looked beautiful from here, he knew the forest was anything but. It was ugly and wet and full of poisonous snakes and reptiles that would just as soon eat you as swim away. He loathed the forest, but couldn’t deny its harsh beauty this evening.
Five-sixteen was suddenly beside him, breathing hard. She ignored him and leaned out to give the thumbs-up. She gasped, “I beat you — I beat your time.”
He gave her a crooked grin and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. There wasn’t a time element.”
“I counted how long it took you, I beat you by fifteen seconds.” She put her hands on her knees and bent over trying to get control of her breathing.
He reached out gripped her hand and turned her palm over exposing a pink hole where she’d torn off a blister. He ground his grimy finger into it and she pulled back, “Ouch, knock it off.”
He showed her his hands, no torn blisters. “It didn’t mean anything, but now you’re worse off than I am. You’re at a disadvantage for whatever they throw at us next.”
She spit and it landed between his well-worn boots. “Fuck off, Five-twenty.”
He tapped his temple, “Gotta think, girl. Gotta be smart if you wanna make it.”
She ignored him. The rope was tense and moving, he stepped past her to see who was coming next. “It’s Four-ninety-one.”
She stood to her full height and leaned over looking down. “Is this where he fell?” she asked.
He could hear the concern in h
er voice. Despite every recruit being here because of their independent, problematic attitudes, they still pulled for each other. They were careful not to help one another, at least overtly, or they’d be singled out for special treatment by the cadre.
When Four-ninety-one was close enough to hear him, but far enough away from the cadre to hear, Rex urged, “You’re doing great. Almost here.”
Four-ninety-one looked up and Rex saw pain and fear in his eyes. He whispered to Five-sixteen, “He’s struggling.” She gave a curt nod of agreement. He raised his voice. “Don’t look down, just one step at a time.”
Finally, Four-ninety-one was at the top of the rope. He looked at them on the platform. He was still clinging to the rope. Rex gestured, “Come on. Just reach up and shimmy across the pole, we’ll catch you.”
Four-ninety-one looked dubiously at the pole. Rex could see his arms shaking from exhaustion. Four-ninety-one had made it this far because he was made of stern, hard stuff, just like all of them. He took a deep breath and lunged upward and gripped the pole.
For an instant, Rex thought sure he’d fall, but he hung on and tried to lift his feet and legs to wrap around the pole. He failed the first time and when his legs peeled off, he nearly lost his grip again. He didn’t have it in him to try to hook his legs again, so he went hand-over-hand until he was halfway between the rope and the platform.
He moved another foot closer and Rex put out his hands indicating he’d catch him. Four-ninety-one swung his legs backward to generate momentum toward the platform. Rex knew he wasn’t close enough yet, but it was too late to stop him. Five-sixteen sucked her breath in realizing the same thing.
Four-ninety-one didn’t get a good launch. He flailed toward the platform but it was obvious he wasn’t going to make it. Rex yelled, “No,” and went to his belly and lunged. He clutched the terrified young man’s hand and felt himself being pulled off the platform. His momentum was arrested when he felt Five-sixteen grab his legs and hold on. She pulled him back until he could hook a foot behind a railing strut.
