Bering Strait

by F X Holden

  “Laser jamming?” Halifax asked.

  “I don’t think…” Bunny muttered. She flicked her fingers across her keyboard. The drone should have passed the airstrip by now and be making its run over Gambell harbor. She reached for a small toggle and taking back control of the drone’s low-light camera she swung it around, seeing the green-white flare fade and some solid imagery emerge again. As she pointed the camera toward the drone’s starboard aft quarter it became clear what had happened.

  “Explosion, down in the township,” Bunny said pointing at a screen above her head. “Big mother. Look at that cloud. Showing secondaries too.”

  Rodriguez and Halifax leaned forward. On the 2D screen they could see a small mushroom-shaped cloud rising over a brightly burning building at the edge of the town. Smaller explosions within the building seemed to send phosphorescent arcs of smoke out in all directions, starting other fires.

  “Operation Resolve sir?” Rodriguez asked Halifax. “That looks like a cruise missile strike timed exactly with our ingress. Is that what we were supposed to record?”

  “No, I…”

  “With respect Sir, we should have been briefed,” Bunny said, turning her drone out to sea. “Target identification and bomb damage assessment, those are two completely different missions.”

  “I wasn’t… I didn’t…” Halifax was stammering.

  Rodriguez got the distinct idea that he had no idea what had just happened!

  “Holy hell!” Dave yelled, at almost the same time as Bunny O’Hare, 200 miles away. He hadn’t counted, but it seemed to be on about the sixth or eighth shot from Perri, just as Dave was deciding nothing was going to happen, that the Russian ammo bunker exploded in incandescent white light.

  “Run!” Perri yelled, scrambling to his feet. “We have to get down among the rocks before anyone looks up here.”

  The light from the burning pyre that had once been the sandbagged carport was as bright as a dozen stadium lights. It threw crazy, dancing shadows over the slope of the bluff and the noise and light sent hundreds of Auklets squawking into the night in fright. Perri found himself running through a cloud of birds in what felt like the strobe from a nightclub light show.

  They came to the edge of a group of rocks, with a large open patch of ground ahead of them. Dave would have kept running, but Perri grabbed his jacket by the shoulder and pulled him down. “Wait, let’s see if it’s safe.” He looked down toward the town.

  Soldiers had spilled out of the town hall. He should have realized that’s where the bulk of them would be. Some jeeps were moving cautiously toward the ammo dump. Other soldiers were spilling out of the school, surrounding it, maybe worried about a breakout? Or with something else in mind.

  No one seemed to be headed towards them.

  “OK, let’s go,” Perri said, getting to his feet again.

  “We did it!” Dave was saying. “We actually did it!”

  “Celebrate when we’re back in the tank,” Perri grunted.

  Right then, he saw a missile lift off from an emplacement beside the airstrip and arc away towards the sea, aimed at some unknown target.

  “Missile launch!” Bunny reported. “Not tracking. They’re firing blind. I won’t jam unless they get a lock.”

  “Are we the only aircraft in the target area?” Rodriguez asked Halifax, “Or are there others we aren’t seeing?”

  “As far as I know, we are the only unit over Gambell,” he said vehemently. “No one told me anything about a missile strike. We have set up patrols over the Alaskan Coast, that’s Operation Resolve. Not specifically to give us cover, but that’s why our mission was timed now, while the Russian CAP was focused east.”

  “Beginning second pass,” Bunny said. “We aren’t going to get a third.”

  Halifax reached for a comms handset, “Make the pass and then get to a safe distance and hold. I’m going to try to get some clarity on this.”

  At that moment, a voice came over the trailer loudspeaker, “NCTAMS this is ANR. We are showing one or more ground to air missile launches or major explosions near Gambell. Can you confirm?” Rodriguez and Bunny stole a no shit Sherlock glance at each other, and left Halifax to respond.

  “Gold Control to Gold leader, we have reports of a ground strike on an ammunition dump at Gambell,” the Airborne Controller said in Bondarev’s ear. “Air defense command at Gambell has reported returns from at least one aircraft in the area, probably stealth, but they cannot get a lock. We are assessing the situation, you are to prepare to engage the US airborne force over Bering Strait on our order. Standby. Gold Control out.”

  “Hold position please Gold flight leaders,” Bondarev said with calm dread. “Weapons free. Prepare to engage US aircraft on my mark.”

  Please, he said to himself. Please just let us fire first!

  As they scrambled down the slope at the outskirts of town toward the safety of their underground bunker, Perri saw another missile lift off from the airstrip and speed out to sea. The Russians were shooting at something, but what? Whatever it was, it made it less likely they suspected a kid with a Winchester had blown up their ammo dump, and Perri was glad about that.

  “OK, down down down,” Dave said urgently as he hauled open the trapdoor to the tank and waved at Perri to jump in.

  Feet on the rungs, Perri took one last ground-level look at the boiling white column of smoke rising up over Gambell.

  Now the shit really got real, he thought to himself.

  AMERICAN CARNAGE

  Bondarev knew the crew of the A-100 Airborne Control aircraft. He had hand-picked them. He had seen them at work over Syria and Turkey, seen them stay calm even in the face of a direct attack intended to bring their aircraft down. He knew the scene inside the aircraft right now would be one of frenzied efficiency, plotting targets, handing them off to the AI to assign to his aircrafts’ targeting systems, confirming and reconfirming that every US aircraft had been triangulated to maximize the chances of a kill while they awaited orders from Lukin’s staff.

  Still, he wanted to scream at them to hurry the hell up and decide.

  “Gold leader, you are free to engage. Repeat, weapons free, you may engage.”

  “Gold and Silver leaders, engage!” he said. Even as he spoke, he swung his own machine east-northeast, seeing his wingmen follow, and one by one the six missiles in his ordnance bay dropped out and raced away east. Soon the night sky around him was a tracery of white smoke and bright fire, leaping ahead of his fighters like the bony white fingers of death. He looked away so that he didn’t completely burn his night vision.

  There was no time to even register the kills. On his heads-up display he saw the icons of US aircraft scattering as their threat warning systems reacted to the missile onslaught. Several winked out, and at the edge of his vision he thought he saw bright flashes in the night sky, far away. Then his own threat warning alarm sounded.

  “Evade!” he called, “And re-engage.” If he survived the next two minutes, if any of his men did, the next phase of this battle would be fought with guns.

  At night. Against robots, piloted by a generation of video gamers safe in trailers that could be anywhere in the world.

  She heard the feet running down the corridor toward her office before her security detail burst through the door.

  “Madam Ambassador? Come with us please,” the senior Secret Service officer said, holding the door open as she jumped to her feet. Somewhere in the building an alarm began to sound and her stomach fell. She felt her feet going from underneath her and had to grab the doorway as she went through to stop herself from falling.

  It was the Critical Incident alarm. A terrorist attack. Or worse.

  “New Annex safe room ma’am,” the officer said, confirming her worst fears. “Stairs, this way. We can get there inside two minutes, just take it easy.”

  “What’s the alert for?”

  “Just follow us ma’am, you’ll be briefed when we’re in the secure area.”


  Two minutes to safety. It seemed like such a short time. But she knew that ‘safety’ was an illusion. A sub-launched ICBM starting from the Baltic sea would take less than 20 minutes to reach Moscow, but a hypersonic cruise missile launched from an aircraft over Germany would take only ten. Say she did make it to the bunker under the Embassy. Say she did survive the nuclear strike.

  Then what?

  “No!” she said, stopping in her tracks. She knew the protocol; the bunker was equipped with a pulse shielded landline to the Kremlin. In the case of a nuclear attack, she was supposed to ride it out and then seek to establish contact with Russian authorities and either negotiate their surrender or await further instruction. She also knew how insane that idea was.

  “Ma’am!” the Secret Service officer said, grabbing at her elbow. “Please.”

  “Let me go. Make sure our people are safe. I’m getting on the line to Washington,” she said, in a voice that made it clear she was not interested in discussion.

  “Yes Ma’am,” the officer said, exchanging a look with the others in the detail, before ordering two of his men to stay with her and running off down the corridor.

  “Not good, not good,” Bunny said, horrified. She had zoomed out the tactical map and patched in a feed from NORAD, as she watched the map light up with hundreds of missile tracks over the air east of Saint Lawrence, not to mention another lancing out from Gambell but falling away behind her drone as it scooted to safety. The missile had obviously been blind fired at a return the Verba crew had picked up from her Fantom, but they might as well have fired at a random arc of sky. Without a solid lock from the ground or another data source, the radar and infrared seekers on the missile were just sniffing empty air.

  “ANR, this is Colonel Halifax of NCTAMS-A4, please confirm upload of data from Gambell recon, and I request update on the full disposition of blue and red forces over Saint Lawrence.”

  “Upload confirmed NCTAMS,” a voice replied. “Data request denied. You are directed to return your aircraft to base and await further orders.”

  “It’s bloody world war three up there,” Bunny said, pulling off her helmet and pointing at the air-to-air missile tracks on the 2D screen. She quickly punched in a return course for their Fantoms that would skirt around the hell over Saint Lawrence and get them back up north to the rock. It would take at least an hour.

  Halifax didn’t respond to her exclamation - he picked up a handset and called up to the commander of the Naval Computer and Telecommunications Area Master Station, inside his radar dome.

  “Sound general quarters Captain Aslam,” he said. “When the men are assembled, I want everyone not on active duty inside the station to get down here under the Rock. Meet me at the elevator topside.”

  Rodriguez looked at him, and he turned to the threat display. “This little cold war just got real hot Boss,” he said. “Russia may not know we’re down here, but they sure as hell have seen our radar dome up there and it wouldn’t take more than an old Mig with a bunch of dumb iron bombs to scrape my nice white radar installation of the top of this rock and into the sea, and everyone up there with it.” He turned and took a step toward the door of the trailer, “I’m going topside to make sure only essential personnel stay behind. You get this place organized, and find bunks for everyone!”

  Having been bustled down unfamiliar corridors on the way to the bunker under the New Annex, Devlin found herself taking one wrong turn after another as she tried to move against the flow of people running for the illusory safety of the New Annex basement. It wasn’t entirely irrational, the same alarm was also used for both a terrorist or chemical weapons attack, and the airtight, radiation shielded and self-contained secure rooms below the New Annex were adequate to protect staff against threats that were slightly less dramatic than a direct hit by a thermonuclear weapon. As the panicked traffic thinned out, Devlin found herself standing in a corridor that looked familiar and yet…

  “You lost ma’am?”

  She turned and saw the analyst, Carl Williams, with his head sticking out of his office.

  “You should be in the bunker,” Devlin replied, pointing up at the wall where a loudspeaker blared.

  “Shouldn’t you?” he asked, looking at her security detail, who both gave him pained looks. He himself clearly wasn’t in a hurry to go anywhere.

  She didn’t have time for this. “I need to get a secure line to Washington. What is the quickest way to the Chancery from here?”

  “You can do it from my office,” he said.

  “But it’s a dedicated…”

  “No problem,” he insisted. “Trust me.”

  “Sorry,” she said to the secret service officers, “There’s only room for two.” Carl stood aside so she could get into his little cubicle of an office and he closed the door behind her. The critical incident alarm was still blaring outside and she winced. It would make holding a phone conversation a real pain.

  Williams read her mind, “You want me to turn that off?”

  She hesitated, “I don’t think you should.”

  “There’s no threat to the embassy,” he said calmly. “A little skirmish in the air over Saint Lawrence, but that’s all. Nukes aren’t flying, yet. Triggering a critical incident alert based on that is a complete over-reaction by someone in State.”

  Devlin was about to ask him how the hell he knew that, but she was learning that with Carl Williams, for deniability purposes it was probably best she didn’t ask.

  “Can you shut off the siren without pulling everyone out of the bunkers quite yet?” she asked.

  “HOLMES? Can you kill the critical incident siren, but leave the alert in place until it is canceled by State?” Williams spoke towards his laptop.

  “Yes Carl,” the cultured British voice replied.

  “Do it please.”

  The alarm cut instantly, an eerie silence replacing it. No heels on the floors, no voices in the corridor.

  “Just sit there ma’am, tell him who you want to call,” Williams said, pointing to his chair behind the desk and laptop. “Once you connect, I’ll leave you alone.”

  Devlin sat, then leaned forward over this laptop, “OK, HOLMES this is Ambassador Devlin McCarthy…”

  “Confirmed ma’am, I have facial recognition,” HOLMES replied.

  “Right, well … I want to speak to Secretary of State, Gerard Winburg please, on his direct encrypted line.”

  “Yes ma’am. He is airborne in Airforce 1 at the moment. All communications are encrypted. Putting you through,” the AI said.

  Williams pointed at the door and moved toward it, but Devlin reconsidered. There was probably no point in secrecy, and she might be able to use Williams’ help. She motioned to him to stay put.

  “That line is busy ma’am,” the AI said. “We are on hold. Do you want me to put you through to the President’s direct line instead? He is on Airforce 1 with the Secretary of State.”

  Devlin hesitated, but before she could answer, there was a click on the laptop’s loudspeaker, “Winburg here.”

  “Mr. Secretary, this is Ambassador McCarthy in Moscow,” she said. “The critical incident alarm has sounded here.”

  “Yes, I authorized it,” the harried voice at the other end said, clearly under pressure. “I don’t know how much you know about current developments over Saint Lawrence McCarthy.”

  Devlin looked at Williams. He came around to her shoulder, tapped a couple of keys on his laptop and Devlin saw he had been preparing an intelligence report when she had interrupted him. She put her finger on the screen and started reading.

  “Sir, I know that at 0200 Alaskan time this morning explosions were reported in the township of Gambell, cause unknown. Local Russian anti-aircraft missile batteries however responded to an unidentified threat, indicating the source of the explosion was possibly an attack by US aircraft, or they simply panicked. Following this, Russian aircraft stationed in the eastern no-fly zone around Saint Lawrence engaged US aircraft on patrol alo
ng the Alaska Coast.” She hesitated, looking at Williams in disbelief, but he nodded. “And as of … five … minutes ago, data from NORAD and Airborne Control aircraft in the combat area indicates the destruction of 17 Russian aircraft for the loss of 23 US aircraft destroyed, eight damaged.” She had to read the last part again. That was nearly as many aircraft lost in one engagement as had been lost in the entire Middle East conflict, and the battle was still going?

  There was a silence at the other end, before Winburg came back on the line, “Dammit how are you getting that intel in Moscow?! You have real-time data on kills and losses over Saint Lawrence? That’s more than I have!”

  “I have an NSA analyst on station here Secretary,” she winked at Williams. “He’s very … resourceful.”

  “Apparently. Anything else?”

  “No Sir, we are working to identify Russia’s strategic aims in this conflict. I hope to get back to you soon on that;” Devlin said. “Sir I am not CIA head of station, I know that, but I wanted to report that we have seen no signs of military preparations on the streets here in Moscow, we have heard of no evacuations or civilian warnings and as far as I am aware key senior politicians and bureaucrats are still in Moscow and behaving normally. Russian TV and radio is also running normal programming.”

  “OK…”

  “Sir I have seen nothing today, or in the last week, to indicate the Russian government is about to conduct a nuclear strike on the USA or that they are anticipating one from us.”

  “Which could of course, be part of their strategy,” Winburg said. He was the former CEO of a major defense contractor, and Devlin had heard him say his policy was to trust no one, in business or politics. “Look .... this was a good call Ambassador. Good context. Make sure you share what you have with CIA. And you feel free to call me again when you have anything to add.”