“We’re on the surface, sir,” Steven said.
Captain Winthrop strode stiffly out of the tiny command center, down a corridor and up a plastic ladder. When he reached up with a hand, the small of his back shot an agonizing twinge through his body. For some unaccountable reason, it made his jaw ache.
You stupid body. Why don’t you work right for once?
Winthrop forced up the hatch. Cool evening air gushed down and hit him in the face. He breathed the salty tang. He’d missed that these past few days.
With a few more lurches up the ladder, he stuck his head, shoulders and torso out of the hatch. The vast Pacific Ocean encircled the tiny craft. Surging water filled every horizon. He knew that straight east was Baja California, enemy territory. A bit farther south was the key port. Merrimac wasn’t going to make a direct attack against it, just the shipping.
Captain Winthrop breathed the ocean air and a giant swell lifted the carbon fiber boat. The stars shone brightly overhead and the moon slowly rose out of the ocean. It was great to be alive, and for a moment, his back felt fine.
The pain returned as he bent at the waist. It made his features twist with agony. He should’ve stayed in Seattle. He should have told someone how much his back hurt.
“No,” he said. The Chinese had killed his father at Lawrence Livermore Laboratory several years ago. Terrorists had lit a dirty nuke there. Everyone knew the Chinese had given the terrorists that nuke. This was simply another way to make the enemy pay for what they had taken from him.
With his long fingers, Winthrop opened seals and extracted a small UAV, a drone plane weighing nine pounds and eight ounces. He drew it out of its compartment and unfolded the wings, latching them into flight position. The UAV was a featherweight, but packed with high tech cameras and sensors. Its duty tonight was to go and find them a worthwhile target.
He checked the drone and finally lifted it. Taking a deep breath, raising it above his head, he waited until Merrimac climbed a swell. He turned on the UAV and the engine began to buzz, turning the propeller. With a grunt, he heaved the drone into the air. It gained speed and then buzzed even louder as it climbed sharply. From inside the sub, Stevens had it under radio control.
Winthrop grinned, watching the drone disappear into the starry darkness. He climbed down the ladder and shut the hatch. It was time to see if their little experimental gimmick was going to work. With that in mind, he climbed down the rest of the way and headed back to the command center…
Two hours and sixteen minutes later, Stevens said, “I think we have a winner, sir.”
Since launching the UAV, Merrimac had done its favorite disappearing trick. The submersible was deep underwater again. Normally, when it was at this depth, the sub would have never been able to receive radio information from the drone. A thin line attached the carbon fiber sub to a tiny buoy bobbing on the surface. The scout drone sent them signals through that.
A second, waterborne drone cruised through the Pacific like a shark. That drone had been attached to Merrimac’s side on the outer rack. Captain Winthrop had released it soon after reentering the command center. The drone was little more than a carbon fiber tube, running on battery power. It was a one-time device and it would never return to Merrimac.
“Put the image on the screen,” Winthrop said.
Stevens tapped his panel.
Despite his bad back, Captain Winthrop leaned forward, propping an elbow on the armrest. The scout had found a big transport ship. The Chinese vessel wallowed in the sea, showing it carried extra-heavy cargo.
“Maybe it’s more tanks,” Stevens said.
“Or artillery guns,” Winthrop said. “Either way, it’s a prime target.” He leaned back in his chair, shoving up against the cushion. He forced himself to relax as much as he could. The sub was small, but he was the captain. He had to keep his boys loose, and one did that through a calm demeanor.
“The Tomahawk drone is forty-seven miles away from the target,” Stevens said.
“Meaning it is well within range,” Winthrop said. He nodded. “Let’s do it.”
Once more Stevens tapped his panel.
As the scout UAV roamed the night sky, reporting with its radio what its camera and other sensors saw, the Tomahawk drone surfaced. It had been fifty feet below, with its own buoy providing a radio link to the scout. The scout radioed the Tomahawk drone the target’s coordinates. Robotically, the waterborne drone’s computer checked its components.
“We’re good, sir,” Stevens said, pointing at a green light on his panel.
Far out at sea, the Tomahawk drone went through a swift and simple transformation. It turned from a drone sub into a Tomahawk launch tube. The end sank and the front or top popped open. Seconds later, the Tomahawk’s nose appeared.
“Three, two, one…” Stevens said in the sub.
Under gas pressure, the Tomahawk missile ejected from the tube and into the air. All told the Tomahawk was eighteen feet and three inches in length. It weighed 3500 pounds. The solid-fuel booster kicked on as a ball of fire shot the Tomahawk higher.
“Ignition, sir,” Stevens said in the sub.
The booster quit several seconds later. The missile’s wings now unfolded. Their span was eight feet, nine inches. With a whirl and a click, the air-scoop appeared and the turbofan engine kicked on. The missile made an easy transition to cruise flight, heading toward the targeted Chinese vessel.
On his chair, Winthrop licked his lips. The Chinese Navy had been hunting down and destroying American submarines. There were a few left, but something had to change. This was one of those changes—if it worked.
“I see it, sir,” Stevens said. He was using the small drone as his camera eye.
Every eye aboard Merrimac watched the screen. The big Tomahawk cruise missile appeared, flying low over the water. It zoomed toward the heavily-laden Chinese cargo vessel.
Are they carrying tanks, or maybe more troops? Winthrop didn’t want to know if it was troops. He hadn’t told anyone, but he’d been having nightmares of launching the nuclear missiles at Santa Cruz. He was glad he’d done it. The Chinese hadn’t deserved any better. But all those men…he’d killed all those men by launching the Tomahawks. Had every Chinese soldier deserved to die so horribly?
Not all the dead were Chinese.
Winthrop didn’t want to think about that, either, but he did. He couldn’t help it.
“Look at it,” Stevens said.
The cruise missile sped straight toward the center of the Chinese cargo vessel. Whoever was out there didn’t have a chance. The missile bored in and struck, exploding its one thousand pound warhead.
A column of fire reached up into the sky. In slow motion, the huge cargo vessel cracked in half. It was awful. It was glorious. Men tumbled into the sea, so did big tank and huge crates. The splashes—
Winthrop turned away. They’d done it. The new system worked. If the Chinese hunted the killer—the launch tube—they would simply sink the empty Tomahawk drone. He had three more to fire before he crawled back to Seattle for another resupply.
“Wow,” Stevens said.
The other two crewmembers grinned at each other.
Winthrop forced a smile onto his face. His back hurt badly. It throbbed. “Shut down the scout,” he said.
“What if can find more—”
“Shut it down,” Winthrop said, with more force than he’d wanted. He needed to take some pills and get to sleep. His back was killing him.
“Good work, gentlemen,” he said. “Our country has found a winner in this combination. Now we want to write our reports and tell the brass hats back home we did it. They need our information as much as we need to make another…hit.”
He’d almost said kill. But he didn’t want to kill. He just wanted to destroy the Chinese capacity to wage war against America.
ALAMOSA, COLORADO
Private Jake Higgins of the Seventh CDMB—Colorado Detention Militia Battalion—lay on his stomach. It was night and h
e was cold, hungry and gaunt, and the seven of them were on the wrong side of Alamosa.
The seven of them, seven stragglers, seven SOBs who had been traveling northwest for weeks now. Jake was the only Militia member. A hard-bitten artillery sergeant led them, taking over when the lieutenant had bought it eight days ago. Back then there had been fifteen desperate soldiers.
Tonight, well east of Highway 285, they were seven U.S. soldiers remaining who had refused to surrender. They’d eluded the Chinese ever since the cauldron battle around Amarillo, Texas had destroyed their formations and pounded the living into bloody dust. From there they had crawled cross-country, avoiding enemy patrols and aircraft sweeps, reaching northeastern New Mexico. After a near-fatal ambush by a Chinese garrison platoon, they passed Trinidad in southeastern Colorado. Now the seven of them needed to race across the 285 south of Alamosa. They were trying for the Rio Grande National Forest, believing the wilderness area would be outside Chinese occupation.
Jake looked like a younger version of his father, Stan Higgins, but he’d lost weight these past weeks. It gave him the staring eyes of a wild dog on the run, with similar stark ribs. His uniform was ragged and dirty, his coat had holes and the soles of his boots were far too thin. His feet ached all of the time, causing him to limp.
One thing Jake knew. He wasn’t going to surrender, ever. His dad had been a history prof and had told him many grim stories about American prisoners in Japanese hands during WWII. His grandfather had been a colonel and fought in Afghanistan, and he’d told him stories about what the Taliban had done to those they captured. Jake would rather starve to death then get his head cut off by a screaming fanatic or have a prison guard slap him across the face because he didn’t bow deeply enough.
I’m an American. We don’t bow to anyone.
The goons in the Colorado Detention Center had tried to teach him otherwise, but he’d resisted them, too. A real American stood up for what he believed in.
“Get ready,” the sergeant told them, speaking in the darkness.
Jake was hungry and his feet hurt. Stretched out on the ground, he just wanted to close his eyes and sleep…maybe forever.
In the distance he could hear Chinese choppers. They could be hunting for them or maybe they were just transport machines. The enemy moved supplies north no matter the time of night or the weather. He’d taken note of that these past miserable weeks.
The lieutenant, when he’d been alive, had talked to a New Mexico partisan nine days ago. The sixty-three year-old had told the lieutenant how some of them blew up Chinese supply dumps at night. They were thinking about sniping enemy soldiers now, too. The lieutenant had given the old-timer one of the M2 .50 calibers and several boxes of ammunition. The old patriot had given the lieutenant directions, freeze-dried packets of food and a package of dried apricots. Jake’s three apricots had been the best-tasting food of his life. After the exchange, the old man had asked them to join up and help him set up a harder-hitting guerilla operation.
Some of the men had liked the idea, but not the lieutenant. He’d been set on returning to American lines, rejoining the Army and killing the invaders soldier-to-soldier.
As Jake lay on the cold ground, listening to the distant whomp-whomp of enemy helos, he wondered if that might have been a good idea. The old-timer had told the lieutenant about White Tiger commandos hunting down Army stragglers. The Chinese were ruthless about it, and they were as tricky as rattlesnakes.
Craning his neck, Jake looked up into the dark sky. The stars blazed. Too bad the seven of them weren’t riding in a helo. It beat hoofing it on the hard ground when your feet pulsated with pain at each step.
“Let’s go,” the sergeant said. “Move it.”
Through an effort of will, Jake forced himself to his feet. Straps dug into his shoulders. He had an ancient M-16 and he carried extra ammo in his pack. He wished it were food.
“Hurry it now,” the sergeant said. “We don’t have all night.”
Seven hungry U.S. soldiers began trudging toward the Southern Rockies. They moved single file, ghosts of the battlefield, seeking their units so they could flesh out and fight toe-to-toe against the hated invaders once again.
“What’s that?” a man said. It sounded like Tito speaking.
“Stop,” the sergeant said. He was a tall man like a stork. Nothing seemed to bother him. His hearing was bad, though. “What is it?” he asked. “What do you hear?”
“It’s a hissing sound,” Tito said. “Doesn’t anyone else hear it? It’s coming from up there.” An arm pointed skyward.
Jake was too tired and hurting to look up. He was sick of the straps digging into his shoulders. He was hungry. Even a stale slice of bread sounded good. Then the hissing sound intruded upon his hearing. What is that? He cocked his head. Yeah, the hissing was getting louder so it almost came from straight up over him.
“They’re Eagle commandos!” Tito shouted. “Look, I can see one silhouetted in the sky.”
Jake slid his M-16 into his hands, readied it and looked up. As he did, Tito opened fire, his assault rifle blazing flame from the end of the barrel.
“You fool!” the sergeant roared. “You’re giving us away. Scatter.”
Jake used to be fast on his feet. He’d had quick reflexes once. That had been with a full stomach and after plenty of sleep. He frowned dully now as he kept scanning the sky, looking for the flyers Tito shot at.
Several of the seven, including the sergeant, scattered in various directions as if they’d been mice under a water bowl a farmer had just lifted.
Tito kept firing into the night until his assault rifle clicked dry, out of bullets. The soldier cursed and began switching magazines.
Jake heard a helo now, and it was much closer than before. He hit the dirt and began crawling away.
Tito slapped another magazine into his weapon and stood there, firing into the starry sky.
Jake crawled, and he kept glancing up. The whomp-whomp of the helicopter had become loud. The way Tito kept firing, he must have lost it. They’d all been on edge since the lieutenant had bought it, ready to call it quits and surrender. They’d been without food for too long. Starvation, more than anything else, sapped a man’s courage.
In the sky, way up there with the stars, a Chinese Gunhawk opened fire with heavy machine guns. It was a horrifying sight: a menacing Fourth of July fireworks that killed with brutal efficiency. Bloody body-chunks ripped off Tito, the heavy bullets shredding the soldier where he stood.
The sight—Jake gasped, unable to breathe, but he kept on crawling. He kept his head down now and moved. He heard more hissing sounds, and that indicated Chinese jetpack flyers. The bastards must be searching for the rest of them, coming down low to finish the job.
“The Sergeant’s hit!” a soldier shouted in the darkness.
Jake squeezed his eyes shut and shoved his forehead against the ground. It was hard to think. He wanted to rave like a lunatic. He wanted this nightmare to end. Why couldn’t it ever end?
The Gunhawk continued to blaze fiery death, showers of bullets. It was Armageddon for the seven survivors. This was it, die time.
“Die fighting,” Jake whispered to himself. His grandfather used to tell him that and so had his dad. Yeah, his dad had told him hundreds of stories of brave last stands: Thermopylae where three hundred Spartans had faced off thousands of Persians, the Alamo where American heroes had given the bird to the Mexican Army and William Tell the crossbowman who had taught the Austrian knights what tough Swiss mountaineers could do.
It was so different crawling in the dirt under Chinese heavy machine gun fire than it was sitting on the rug at home listening to your dad talk.
“Screw it!” Jake hissed. He trembled from fear and adrenaline. He couldn’t stop it. But the thought keep pounding through him: How many times can I die?
With a convulsive shrug of his shoulders, he slid off the ammo pack. It thudded onto the dirt beside him. He shoved up to his feet and he ran for t
he sergeant. Were the Chinese using night vision? Sure, it was almost a certainty. What did it matter, though? You only died once.
Jake felt something: a terrible premonition that meant death. His neck hairs bristled and his body went icy. He launched himself off his feet as if doing a flying tackle. He thrust the M-16 in front of him and he hit the ground hard with his chest. The breath knocked out of him. Inches behind him something exploded. It lifted him, blew him forward so he tumbled head over heels. If he hadn’t had jumped, it would have blown him in two.
He lay dazed on the ground. It was crazy. The world spun. But something in him was on fire. Mechanically, he rolled onto his stomach, and he kept crawling. He spied the sergeant, the long twisted figure of a soldier.
“Sergeant?” Jake asked.
There was no answer from the man. There never would be. The sergeant was dead.
Jake lunged forward and wrestled the last Blowdart missile off the sergeant’s back. The tough guy had insisted on carrying it, saying he would decide when they needed it.
The Blowdart was a hand-held, expendable anti-air rocket launcher. Jake grabbed it, flipped the switches and lifted up onto one knee. He aimed the sights at the Gunhawk way up there, too high for their last .50 caliber to reach. The Blowdart beeped. He had lock-on, baby.
Jake muttered a curse against the Chinese and pressed the trigger. The Blowdart whooshed. He felt the blast on his shoulder. The rocket launched with vengeance and sped upward into the darkness.
Jake hurled the tube away. It hit on an end, flipped and landed on gravel. He grabbed his M-16 off the ground, climbed to his feet and ran. He didn’t look up. Instead he hunched his shoulders and concentrated on running as fast as he could.
Time seemed to slow down. He could feel his thudding heart. Air burned down his throat and each crashing pound of his feet seemed to send spikes up his shins. The shock of the near miss still messed with his perceptions. Then a terrific explosion transpired up in the sky. It had to be the most beautiful sound Jake had ever heard in his life, even better than the time Lucy had said, “Yes, I want to do it.”
Invasion: Colorado ia-3 Page 4
