by Andrew Watts
Pat said, “Shut up, Jones.” He looked at Chase. “You can ignore him. Everyone else does.”
Chase shrugged, a mild-mannered smile on his face.
Pat marched him down the hall and entered an open area where two female secretaries were working behind desks. Behind them stood a closed wooden door.
“Afternoon, Mary. CO in?”
“He said for you to go on in with Mr. Manning when you arrived.”
“Thanks.”
Pat nodded for Chase to follow and knocked on the door, opening it as he did. Three men sat in the office. All were wearing green fatigues. Two were commanders, the other a master chief.
Pat said, “Sir, this is Chase Manning. I’m sorry, sir, is it Lieutenant or…”
Chase shrugged. “I guess it’s technically Lieutenant Commander now. Reserves. But I haven’t drilled in…”
The master chief stuck a thick hand out. “Glad to have you with us, Mr. Manning. I served under your father once at the Pentagon. Shit job. But your dad made it bearable.”
“Thank you, Master Chief.”
Chase shook hands with the CO and XO.
“Thanks, Pat. We got it from here,” said the CO.
“Yes, sir.” The chief left the room, closing the door behind him.
“Have a seat, Chase.”
Chase sat on the couch next to the master chief.
“I understand you’ve been doing some work with the Agency. That correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“General Schwartz has assigned you to our unit for the foreseeable future.”
Chase was pleased. “Sounds good, sir.”
The SEAL team commanding officer said, “Less than a week ago, as the Chinese were detonating EMPs over the continental US and attacking our bases in the Pacific. They were also using cyber and electronic attack weapons to bring down many of NORAD’s radars along the Canadian and Alaskan coastline. We estimate that as many as four dozen large commercial aircraft, each filled with specially trained Chinese infantry, flew into the area just after these attacks took place. We recognized what was going on eventually. Our fighters shot many of the aircraft down. Some turned around and we think probably ran out of fuel over the Pacific. But some got through.”
Chase couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “How many?”
“We don’t know. Maybe one or two? Maybe a few dozen. The radar data is gone now, and the intel reports are going on interviews with radar controllers who were basically having the worst night of their lives. The high-end estimate is four thousand Chinese soldiers, now operating INCONUS. The low end is a few hundred Chinese troops. These soldiers will be joining what we believe are at least six remaining PLA special operations teams that had inserted themselves into the US prior to the attack. You may be aware that several US Air Force bases were hit on the day the war began. Those raids were conducted by these SOF teams, using mortars and other weapons.”
Chase suspected that he had seen these exact Chinese SOF teams training in China.
The commander said, “Chase, SEAL Team Five will join a JSOC unit that is being tasked for an INCONUS assignment. We were about to rotate back to Korea when the balloon went up. Given the current status of the Korean Peninsula, this was deemed a better allocation of resources.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have been detailed to us by General Schwartz. According to him, you’re familiar with the teams we’re to be hunting down. I’m told you saw them training. In China. Is that correct?”
“I have. Yes, sir.”
“Well, that makes sense, then. You’ll be a good asset to have in the hunt.”
The next day, Chase sat in a high school classroom somewhere in Nebraska. The rest of the seats in the classroom were all occupied by a SEAL Team Five platoon. Other platoons were getting separate briefs in some of the other classrooms. Down the hall, similar briefs were being held for Green Beret teams and Ranger units. The school had been converted into a makeshift base of operations for the hunters. Sandbag bunkers and ID checks. Guard dogs, security towers with snipers, communications antennae and radar. Each of those had become part of the high school’s transformation.
Chase heard the thumping of rotorcraft landing and taking off outside. The sports fields had become the LZs for Blackhawks, Chinooks, and the Little Birds of the 160th SOAR.
A man dressed in jeans and a pullover sweater walked into the front of the class. He had two-day-old stubble, and the rings around his eyes made it look like he had been without sleep for the past week. Chase was sure he was a spook.
The INCONUS intelligence streams were still coming online. Drones were being flown over the US. The datalink networks had to have new encryption software installed. In some cases, even the hardware was corrupted. Chinese cyber operators had infiltrated so many US systems that many US drones were labeled as hard down while they underwent audits. With all but a few satellites out of commission and the global demand for intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaisance (ISR) through the roof, manned aircraft were supplementing the shortage inside the continental US.
The targeting brief lasted thirty minutes. The helicopter crews and SOF teams had gone over plans extensively earlier that morning. There were minimal questions now. Just final updates on the situation and objectives.
When the brief ended, Chase’s platoon headed to the football field, where spinning helicopters awaited them. They split into two Blackhawks and two MH-6 Little Birds. Two SEALs sat on the outboard platforms of the MH-6s, one SEAL per side. The tiny helicopters were designed for quick precision assaults. An additional pair of AH-6 Little Birds provided extra fire support. These carried no SEAL passengers. Instead, the extra weight was used to carry miniguns and rocket pods.
The Little Birds took off first, their rotors sounding like an angry hornet compared to the heavier, full-throated thumping of the Blackhawks. The Little Birds used the length of the football field to take off, keeping their skids low until they picked up speed, then nosing upward near the end zone. The Blackhawks took off from their spots in unison. A tight formation, noses pointed towards the ground as they built up speed. The six aircraft sped northwest, dark green wraiths traveling into battle, skimming treetops and suburban roofs alike.
Chase sat in the cabin of the rear Blackhawk. Each door had three SEALs sitting shoulder to shoulder, feet dangling out. They wore green utilities and various styles of tactical boots. Wraparound sunglasses and green protective headgear. Dark gloves would help protect their hands if and when they fast-roped. Forward of the Blackhawk’s cabin door on each side, a 160th SOAR aircrewman manned an M134 Minigun.
From his seat, Chase could see a neighborhood zooming by below them. He had flown low over the US a few times when he was with the Teams. Normally people waved and smiled. Chase caught a glimpse of a few civilians down there, looking up at them. He could tell from their expressions that things were different now. Scared wasn’t the right word for the looks on their faces. They were serious. Determined. It was like a switch had flipped in the American psyche. We were once again a nation at war, the warrior tribe mentality in our DNA seeping to the surface. These civilians looking up at the formation of Army helicopters racing through the sky weren’t observers in this war. They were participants.
Chase held his seat as the aircraft banked sharply and dove over a ridgeline.
“Two mikes out. Contact. Strength fifty. Ten vehicles in convoy. Little Birds inbound first.”
Chase saw nods and thumbs-ups from the other SEALs in the aircraft. Game faces on. The men sitting at the doors had the fast ropes ready to go. Those sitting on the inside cabin seats had their knees bouncing. Most looked at the deck, waiting for it to begin. Some were reinspecting their gear. One was chewing gum, singing to himself. Everyone had their own style of pregame.
The two H-60s and two MH-6s peeled off to the right and began holding in a racetrack pattern as the tiny AH-6 attack helicopters made their assault run.
Chase could j
ust make out the convoy of ten pickup trucks and sedans on the horizon, traveling along a narrow single-lane highway. The highway was a narrow cutout in a sea of pine trees.
The targets had been spotted by specially modified King Air surveillance aircraft. A DIA fusion team had evaluated the imagery with the help of an NSA-owned facial recognition program. They’d only gotten one hit, but it was confirmed with over ninety-eight percent confidence to be a company officer in a PLA infantry unit.
Now the two AH-6 helicopters traveled at just over one hundred and twenty knots. The tree line cutout surrounding the road formed a canyon-like shape on either side of the highway. The nimble aircraft used it to their advantage, masking their position low over the trees and then diving below the treetops, only feet above the road, tailing the convoy as they lined up for their attack run.
The miniguns fired first.
An eighteen-inch tongue of flame shot out of the six-barrel machine gun as it rotated, firing 7.62mm rounds at a rate of over two thousand per minute. The high-pitched whine of the minigun filled the cockpit as empty shell casings dropped to the road below.
Bullets riddled the vehicles and ripped open several rooftops. The lead aircraft traced his fire along the line of trucks, firing rockets from the M260 FFAR rocket pods when he reached the lead vehicle. The high-explosive rockets killed everyone aboard the lead vehicle and ignited its fuel tank, causing it to leave the pavement as it exploded. Two of the ten vehicles ran off the road, and one crashed into a tree.
The first AH-6 peeled off as the remaining cars began scattering from their convoy, still traveling in the same direction. As personnel from the surviving vehicles began firing at the lead helicopter, the second AH-6 made its attack run, its minigun streaming metallic death into the convoy. Rockets fired into the replacement lead vehicle, causing more devastating explosions.
The MH-6s and Blackhawks circled around the slowing convoy in a tight formation. Miniguns from these aircraft fired towards anyone who returned fire. The convoy was completely stopped now, smoke and flames and dead Chinese soldiers strewn about along a mile of highway. The Blackhawks and MH-6s each landed along an open stretch of road, and Chase and the SEALs jumped out, splitting up evenly to kill anyone who resisted, and take prisoner anyone who surrendered.
Chase and two of the SEALs moved quickly towards one SUV that had run into a tree. His SCAR stock held firm against his shoulder, he trained the weapon on the vehicle as the SEALs searched for survivors.
Movement in the trees.
A target. Chinese soldier, aiming his weapon. Chase depressed the trigger twice. Crack. Crack. Two shots center mass. More rifle fire to his left. Chase kept his weapon trained along the threat axis he was responsible for, trusting the others in his team to do their jobs.
A minor firefight erupted to the north but quickly ended with the resistors killed in their pickup truck. There were seven remaining Chinese soldiers, and everyone who was medically able to indicate their surrender did so. Five were injured, two of them badly. The SEALs’ medics immediately began stabilizing the injured Chinese soldiers. The others were restrained with zip ties and blindfolds.
“One minute until pickup.”
“Roger.”
The platoon of SEALs had formed a perimeter around the central part of the convoy, weapons trained away from the group in a defensive posture as others gathered Chinese communications gear or data storage that might be used for intelligence. In a few more minutes, a Chinook would arrive with a joint military-FBI forensics team to conduct a more thorough search. But Chase and his unit were now complete with their objective. Their skill was needed elsewhere.
“Here we go.”
The helicopters had been circling overhead, close enough to provide support if needed, but far enough away not to make themselves a target. Now they made their approach and landed on the highway. The SEALs ran onto the helicopters, stuffing their recently acquired prisoners and intel into the cabins of the H-60s.
Later that night, Chase sat with the SEAL Team Five platoon commander, a lieutenant, and its senior chief, a grizzled veteran of two decades of fighting. They ate together in the cafeteria, where Army mess cooks had taken over and rustled up a reasonably good meal of rice, chicken, and vegetables.
Chase filled them in on what he had learned from the intel debrief he’d just attended. “That Chinese unit had been headed towards a water purification plant twenty miles from here. They were supposed to sabotage it and then work their way down a list of other targets.”
“So they’re just here to screw with us?”
“I don’t think so. The intel folks think it’s more to create a diversion.”
“A diversion from what?” asked the senior chief.
“We don’t know the answer to that yet.”
16
USS Ford
Day 8
Lieutenant Bruce “Plug” McGuire was approaching his sixth and final hour of standing watch as the Zulu tactical action officer for the Ford Carrier Strike Group. At the computer terminals to his right sat a lieutenant junior grade and a chief. They were Plug’s assistant watch standers and, like him, both assigned to the Destroyer Squadron. Their boss, the commodore, was the sea combat commander of the Ford Strike Group and reported directly to Admiral Manning.
As the commodore’s air operations officer, Plug had to stand six hours of watch every day as part of his collateral duties. Here, he monitored the network’s tactical displays to make sure the ships and aircraft under their control were doing what they were supposed to be doing, which seemed never to be the case.
“What the hell are those numbnuts on Stockdale doing? Oh my God. She literally has one job right now. One job.” He leaned closer to the large monitor that showed the location of each ship and aircraft. He whispered to the monitor, “Stay in your box.”
The monitor did not reply.
Plug shook his head. “Her screen is freaking fifty miles across. Someone tell me, how is it that she cannot stay in her zone? What are they doing over there?”
“Do you really want to know, sir?”
Plug frowned at the tactical display, ignoring the question. The chief had been kind enough to place their now twenty-five ships in a meticulously detailed screen. It had taken Plug two hours to get approval for it. The screen was a giant circular set of layers that surrounded the aircraft carrier. Each layer was carved into sections like pieces of a pie. The ships in company—destroyers, cruisers, supply ships and littoral combat ships—each had a specific zone to stay in. As the carrier raced around to make wind for jet launches and recoveries, each ship was supposed to stay in its specific quadrant. This kept all of the escorts surrounding the carrier in the right defensive position, but it required the people driving those ships to pay attention and keep up as the carrier moved. And the carrier waited for no one.
“Tell the freaking Stockdale that if she doesn’t get back in her box, she won’t be able to get her mail.” The LTJG began typing over the classified chat messenger system. Using Chat, as it was known, was supposed to be secondary to the radios. But for millennial sailors like him, instant messenger was so much more efficient. Not to mention second nature. The network had been down for the first few days of the war, thanks to the crippling Chinese cyberattack. But the information warfare specialists had changed out much of the crypto and software, and Plug was back to the surface warrior’s addiction that was ship-to-ship instant messenger.
“Stockdale says they have flight quarters set to have the helo deliver their mail in one hour.”
“Not if they don’t stay in their box, they don’t. I’ll call up the HSC guys and tell them not to bother going out there. That helicopter can’t get to them and back to the carrier in time for the next cycle if Stockdale doesn’t stay in their freaking screen position.” The Helicopter Sea Combat (HSC) squadron on the carrier flew MH-60S variants of the Seahawk helicopter. They were tasked with many of the logistics missions due to their impressive storage capacit
y.
As part of Plug’s job, he helped to write the flight schedule for all of the helicopters in the strike group. It was easier when there were three or four ships. Now that there were twenty-five, with all of the potential landing spots moving locations, it was like trying to solve one constantly changing mathematical equation. Since he had influence over the position the ships were kept in screen, he used that to help him with his collateral job, planning the helicopter schedule. If he kept the ships in certain places, he could plan to have the helicopters move people and parts around the strike group in an efficient manner. But the moment one domino fell, the whole thing came crashing down. Then you had fuel emergencies and missing parts and broken radars and unknown surface contacts and the yelling. Oh God, the yelling. Mostly from the O-5s and O-6s who were pissed off they’d gotten passed over for promotion. Why had he ever agreed to leave his aviation billet? Oh yeah, he hadn’t. The geniuses at the Bureau of Naval Personnel had decided he should be put here. He hoped to God those same guys weren’t working at St. Peter’s gate someday.
“Stockdale says ‘roger out.’”
Plug mumbled under his breath. “They better freaking say roger out…”
The lieutenant junior grade typing at the station next to him said, “You know, Plug, I think you’re getting the hang of this. You’ve got that disgruntled SWO junior officer look down pat. You should consider getting your officer of the deck quals while you’re here. I’m sure the Ford guys would be able to help you out…”
Plug sighed. “You’re probably right. I’m pretty sure that my brain is slowly transforming to full SWO. It’s been slowing down since I got here. And my eyes are becoming overly sensitive to daylight. I’m like a vampire now. I can’t even go topside. Soon I’ll start eating more donuts. Then my flight suits won’t fit.”
“Alright now, easy there, flyboy,” the chief said. “I’d like to see you do a PRT at my age.”
