This Mighty Scourge

by Adam Yoshida

  "What's in the CAP?" asked Childers.

  "We've got six Lightnings into the air, each with a full load of AAMs," answered the CAG.

  "Are the Americans pressing their attack on our air wing?"

  "They seem to have mostly broken off," replied the CAG, "though a few of them have broken off to pursue."

  The Admiral tapped his fingers against the computer console in front of him for several seconds.

  "Six planes won't be enough to save the Russians," he said sadly, "but it might be enough to bring our own boys home. Direct the CAP to move to assist the air group."

  "Yes Admiral," answered the CAG as he swiftly went to work.

  U.S.M.C. F/A-18 Super Hornet, 1230 Miles East of Puerto Rico

  The American aircraft, still laden with fuel, had sprinted on past what remained of the enemy air group and continued to move towards the Russian portion of the Task Group. The four MiG-29Ks that were hovering over the Admiral Kuznetsov had been swiftly shot down by long-range missile fire and now the entire strike package was heading directly on in.

  "Get to at least 20,000 feet," the squadron commander ordered, as the entire force moved to rapidly raise their elevation. The only effective weapons that the Russians had left were their point-defense guns and those couldn't even reach 10,000 feet.

  Captain Pope silently thanked God that someone had thought to outfit a number of the fleet's X-47 stealth drones with laser-designation equipment. That meant that he and his comrades could fly clear of the most dangerous threats and instead leave the truly dangerous part of the operation to unmanned vehicles.

  Upon reaching the specified altitude, Pope levelled off his Super Hornet and reduced his speed slightly. It was oddly peaceful as he soared forward through the air to his designated release point. The aircraft shuddered only slightly as he released eight two thousand pound bombs to begin their journey to their final destination on the surface below.

  Russian Aircraft Carrier Admiral Kuznetsov , 1231 Miles East of Puerto Rico

  Russian maritime engineers had designed their ships to be tough, but there are limits even to the brute-force approach that is typical of Russian engineering. As soon as Admiral Khvostov had realized what was happening, he had attempted to call his own aircraft back to support, but they were all either destroyed or fully engaged. He had attempted to appeal to the rest of the Combined Fleet for assistance, but they reported that they were fully engaged in their own defense.

  The task group's point defenses had managed to take out of a couple of the drones that were engaged in target-designation work, but there were simply too many of them to take out in the time available. A desperate appeal for whatever assistance could have been afforded by the rest of the Combined Fleet was simply ignored.

  English bastards , thought Khvostov. That was the last coherent thought that he had. Within moments the bombs dropped by the American air strike began to descend upon the Russian task force, falling one after another. The first bomb wasn't enough to to either destroy the Admiral Kuznetsov or the kill the Russian Admiral. Neither were the second or third. However, ultimately, some forty-three two thousand pound bombs managed to impact the Russian Carrier in a space of less than thirty seconds. During that brief time the Kuznetsov became some sort of version of the lowest circles of hell, a place where walls of fire were disrupted only by more explosions that impartially tore both men and machines to pieces. When several mortal wounds combined and caused the entire Carrier to simply explode, killing every single one of the 1742 people onboard, it was as much an act of mercy as it was anything else.

  The dead sailors of the Kuznetsov were rapidly joined in Valhalla by the six hundred and eighty-seven souls onboard the Kirov , as the massive nuclear-powered Battlecruiser was likewise torn to shreds by a storm of American ordinance. Fate was somewhat-less merciful to the sailors onboard the Kirov . The rain of American bombs managed to break the massive ship in half, sending it to rapidly sink below the waters, but not before it managed to soak the surviving men and surrounding waters with a lethal dose of radiation. These losses were compounded by the destruction of the two last Sovremenny -class destroyers that had accompanied the Task Group. Those ships simply dissolved in fire as the rapid impacts of the American bombs annihilated both ships, adding another 704 men to the total Russian death toll for the afternoon.

  HMS Prince of Wales (R09) , 1220 Miles East of Puerto Rico

  Captain Derek Welch had was stooped over the table on the bridge of Carrier Prince of Wales . Just hours earlier he had been the Executive Officer of the Queen Elizabeth -class Aircraft Carrier. The previous Captain, however, had been fatally-wounded while attempting to lead the crew in dealing with the fires that had spread throughout the ship after the American LRASM attack. Now, after unbelievably heroic efforts in which a further twenty-two men and women had been killed outright and many more seriously injured, the fires were finally under control and the fate of the ship was no longer uncertain.

  For all that that matters now , thought Captain Welch bitterly.

  He had striven his entire life for a command such as this. He had worked his way up from being a lowly Midshipmen to command a Type 45 Destroyer. His assignment as the XO onboard the Prince of Wales was to be a temporary assignment, designed to give him some experience onboard a ship of this type before he took command of the Queen Elizabeth the following year. Now he was going to make a very different sort of history.

  He wasn't sure when the last time was that a ship of any nation had struck its colours at sea and surrendered to an enemy. Perhaps the American Civil War, he thought. He was pretty sure that the last time that a British ship had done so would have been during the Napoleonic Wars. He didn't have internet access (or the time, for that matter) to check. Whenever it was, now he was about to do the same.

  A handful of the Carrier's helicopters had survived the fires and the damage caused by the middle strikes and were now being used to pull pilots and survivors from other damaged ships from the water as the Captain awaited the arrival of the group of Americans who were to formally take possession of the horribly-damaged ship. For want of anything else to do, the Captain was overseeing these operations, both as a way of keeping his mind off of his impending fate as well as to give himself something to do.

  An AW101 Merlin helicopter was landing on the undamaged forward portion of the flight deck, with another three coming in fairly close behind it.

  "Captain," came a radio call from the Merlin, "we think that you'd better come on down to the deck to meet us."

  "I can't possibly," replied Welch, "I'm watching over this complete rescue operation. I couldn't step away. Not now."

  "You're going to want to come," replied the pilot, "that's my bit. Comsec and all the rest prevents me from saying more."

  The Captain looked around the bridge with a scowl. The young officer who was controlling the helm shrugged.

  "I'll be right down," finally said the Captain, as he grabbed his jacket and stormed on down to the flight deck.

  The Captain stormed out on the deck, moving towards the Merlin at a quick pace with a view towards upbraiding the pilot for wasting his time. Surrender or no surrender discipline must be maintained onboard any ship of the King's Navy. He was stopped in his tracks when, as he approached the helicopter, he caught sight of a figure who looked familiar sitting in the open door with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

  "Your Grace..." the Captain began, stumbling over his words.

  Lieutenant-Commander Henry Windsor, the Duke of Edinburgh and a Prince of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, smiled warmly.

  "I was rather hoping that I might catch a ride, Captain," he said.

  USS Ronald Reagan (CVN-76), 960 Miles East of Puerto Rico

  The Fifth Fleet was still on high alert, but no shots had been fired for nearly two hours. Almost everyone remained in a state of near-maximum tension and would for a considerable period of time. The loss of so many space-based reco
nnaissance assets made modern naval warfare a particularly frightening business, one where death could come from an unexpected direction at almost any moment. Admiral Layton, however, was feeling a little better than most. He had a small personal spreadsheet that he was using to keep track of roughly how many missiles had been fired at the fleet to date. The enemy's magazines had to be just about empty. The lack of further contact suggested that they were retiring to somewhere in the north and probably almost-wholly depleted.

  That General MacKenzie, who had remained carefully out-of-sight throughout the naval engagement, had now reappeared was the best sign that the engagement had now ended.

  "Well Admiral Layton," he said, "this was some very fine work you've done here today. I suppose some of those bureaucrats at the Pentagon - or wherever we set up our headquarters when all of this is done - may try and give you some trouble about the business with the John C. Stennis , but this is a war. Risks must be taken and losses must be accepted."

  "That is true, General," admitted the exhausted Admiral.

  "Now, Admiral," continued MacKenzie, "I have gathered from my staff that the slow progress of the fleet in the hours since the end of the fighting arises from both the need to guard other damaged ships as well as the time taken in accepting the surrender of certain damaged vessels belonging to the enemy. Is this correct?"

  "Basically so. Though we also have some concerns about crew fatigue," said Layton.

  "I'm not going to tell you how to do your job, Admiral," said MacKenzie, "but you know as well as I do that time is currently of the essence. We must get home and smash the enemy before he permanently divides the country. I do not need to tell you this."

  "I know my duty, General," said Layton.

  "I never doubted that, Admiral Layton," replied General MacKenzie.

  The General took a long look at the Admiral before continuing.

  "I tend to believe that the best course of action at this point would be to accept the risk of leaving behind a small residual force to deal with the rest of what must be done here and for the rest of the fleet to head home at best possible speed. I know that you must fear a repeat of what happened a few hours ago - but all of our best intelligence says that there aren't any more Kirov-class ships wandering around out and about there. If they had more they would have used it when it counted."

  "You've just won the largest sea battle in the better part of a century, Admiral," continued MacKenzie, "I don't want to detract from that. I'd hate to issue a direct order overriding the best judgement of such a figure or to have any disagreements between us at this late stage suggest that you and I were ever anything less than fully aligned."

  Admiral Layton looked back at the General for a moment, collecting his words.

  "As soon as we have our prizes in hand, we will move at best possible speed. Another hour or two. And then we won't stop until we hit home."

  "That would be very fine, Admiral."

  HMS Queen Elizabeth (R08), 1425 Miles East of Puerto Rico

  Admiral Childers took a moment to breathe. The Combined Fleet wasn't in anything resembling a formation at the present time. After the American strike package had found the Russians and he and the French had recovered their aircraft, he had elected to order all ships to make their way to the east at best possible speed in order to prevent an American second strike. In spite of the fact that the Combined Fleet was almost wholly disarmed, such a strike had never come.

  Though they had lost sight of the American fleet, the best assumption was that they continued to head towards the North American coast. The latest direction from the DU's military planning committee suggested that they should maintain their presence at sea in order to both pick off straggling ships from the American fleet and to present a threat that would distract the survivors of that group from their core mission.

  Of course , he thought, the people who thought up those mad orders have no idea as to the actual condition of this fleet.

  Childers paused for a moment and looked at the written instructions in front of him. Then he looked up.

  "Please signal the Admiralty: we are returning to base immediately. All units are almost wholly out of ammunition and any question of further combat under such conditions is quite impossible."

  He looked around at the rest of the men and women on the Flag Bridge.

  "They might order my court-martial for that particular message," he said, "but I'd rather be tied to the mast and shot through the heart than to get all of you killed fighting a futile battle."

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  With Mitchell Randall now a major candidate for the Presidency he was surrounded twenty-four hours each day by the press and the Secret Service. Sneaking him into Arizona in order to secretly meet with Governor Schmidt was simply impossible. The Governor, on the other hand, while prominent, was not quite that closely watched. It had proven fairly simple for him to quietly slip away on a Sunday morning and take a private jet to Las Vegas.

  "Governor," said a smiling Mitch Randall as Schmidt entered his hotel suite, having been brought into through a service entrance. The Senator put down his coffee and took the napkin that was in his lap and folded it up upon the table before he rose to shake hands.

  "I'm glad that you were able to find some time to meet me in person," said the Governor as he looked around at the flurry of activity in the hotel suite in amazement.

  "You managed to put together a damned professional-looking campaign team quickly, Senator," noted Schmidt.

  "Yes," agreed Randall, "during the first stages of the war, pretty much everyone was forced to support Rickover default. I mean, after all, during the Great Mutiny and all that followed that he pretty much was the Federal Government for a time. But remember: no one ever elected him to any national office. He was elected by one Congressional District in Virginia and a majority of the House Republican Conference. That's it. A lot of people came out of the woodwork as soon as I announced. Of course, none of them had the balls to do it themselves."

  "Let's talk about that for a moment," said Schmidt, "do you ever get any privacy?"

  Randall raised his voice slightly.

  "Can we have the room, folks?" he asked. Instantly everyone began to file on out.

  "Ok," said Randall as soon as the door closed behind the last of them, "what is it that you wanted?"

  "No, Senator," replied Schmidt, "it's not really a matter of what I want. I need to know what you want. Why are you running for President?"

  "You must have done your research," said Randall.

  "I've read your press clippings, if that's what you mean," said Schmidt, "but those only tell me what you want other people to know. I want to know what you're really about."

  The Senator said nothing for a moment, then reached for his suit coat and pulled out his wallet. He methodically withdrew a slightly-worn newspaper clipping and handed it over to Schmidt who looked it over for a moment.

  "I know that this is an obituary," said the Governor, "but that's about all that I get from this."

  "This is my nephew's obituary," said the Senator, "he was nineteen years old. Before the war he was supposed to to to Harvard. Instead he ended up as an infantryman along the static lines in Virginia."

  "He was just one boy, but he had a family and hopes. How many people from our ships in this battle in the Atlantic that Rickover is busy celebrating aren't coming home? And for what there?"

  "I know that half of my supporters are Democrats and secret friends of the Federation. I'm not naive. I know that and I know what Rickover and his supporters have done to try and maintain liberty in this country. That's why I used to be counted among them, as are you. But I'm sick of death. I'm sick of boys and girls with promising futures dying so that we can return to some theoretical ideal state of affairs. And even then, we won't do that. Because once we've conquered all of the east, then we're going to have to govern it. Occupy it, in effect. And then there's the whole rest of the world."

  "What do you wa
nt with me?" asked Schmidt, "we're hardly natural allies."

  "Far from it, Governor. When I was Governor of Washington I had to conform to win, of course. But I'm no flaming liberal. I think that we should rebuild an America for Americans - for those who want it. Not an empire. Not a nation entangled with the affairs of distant lands about which we know nothing. I should also say that I'd damned well start by securing the borders and making sure that Mexico paid for what they did to us with more than a few pin-prick cruise missile strikes. It's one thing for us to go venturing abroad to deal with Europe, but it's another for us to be ensuring that our borders are safe."

  Schmidt looked at Randall for a long minute.

  "Governor, you've got yourself a running mate," he said.

  Broadway and Canal Street, Manhattan

  Detective Juan Mancini watched the frantic activity on the street with a sense of amazement. The disruptions of a global war hadn't managed to even so much as slow the activities of the people selling things out on Canal Street. The stands were as full as ever, with tables covered with fake handbags and Burberry scarves stretching out almost as far as the eye could see. Though there was a heavy police presence here, even with the NYPD stretched pretty thin, it still made an ideal place to meet because it was nice and open and the attention of the cops on the scene were largely focused on keeping the open criminality on the street orderly.

  "I'm going to need at least another two million," said the Captain who met with him evenly.

  "That much?" said Mancini.

  "Look, look," said the NYPD Captain, "now there's a lot of sympathy for the Feds. No one likes the way that shit is being run now and I don't think that anyone gives a fuck for the Federation. But, that being said, people are being asked to assume a lot of risk and some people need more than patriotism for motivation."

  "What are we getting for that kind of money?" asked Mancini.

  "Two more precincts on the Upper East Side. Now, that's going to be territory that you're going to need to take right away, what with those fuckers camped in the park."