The Ghost Pattern

by Leslie Wolfe

  “Get me the Okinawa, let’s bring these people home, right now. I’ll deal with the Russians later.”

  “Yes, sir,” the secretary of defense replied.

  “Who’s the commander?”

  “It’s Captain Kevin Callahan, sir,” he replied, after briefly checking the notes brought by his assistant.

  Krassner’s frown deepened. He loosened his tie and took off his jacket, then rolled up his sleeves. He shook his head in disbelief, and then continued, swallowing a sigh of frustration.

  “After we reroute the Okinawa, can you please find out how the hell the entire world is looking for XA233’s wreckage in the middle of the Pacific, and a bunch of civilians find it on mainland Russia? Open everything for this mission, all available support. Reroute satellites.”

  “Umm...yes, sir. They already have satellite support,” the secretary of defense replied, after checking his notes again. “We’re tapped into their feed.”

  “Who the hell are these people?”

  ...62

  ...Wednesday, May 11, 2:24AM Local Time (UTC+10:00 hours)

  ...Abandoned ICBM Site

  ...Near Naikhin, Russia

  Every few minutes, Alex looked up at the sky, more and more worried. One after another, myriad stars became visible, as the heavy clouds moved away. A moonless night, pitch-dark, and, within minutes, direct satellite line of sight would be opening up right above them, as the last of the clouds disappeared fast.

  The Russians had to have a satellite or two monitoring the operation; one doesn’t pull off that kind of endeavor, and then decide to ignore it. It made sense. V would definitely keep his eye on the silo and the status of his op; he was a logical, thorough, resourceful strategist. They were about to have company, she could bet on that. V wasn’t going to give up his operation without a fight.

  Her radio crackled to life.

  “Alpha, Tango One ready for departure.”

  “Copy that, Tango One, on my way.”

  That was the code name for the first truck in their escape convoy. Numbered one through nine, the trucks were loaded with people and ready to leave, hotwired by the Bravo teams and driven by passenger volunteers. Each truck had at least one Bravo team member riding in the back, ready to open fire on any attacker. Tango Nine, the last of the convoy, had three Bravos at the back of the truck, and Lou rode with them.

  Alex had the passenger seat in Tango One, from where she could help Tango One’s driver navigate. She headed there fast, satisfied that all trucks were loaded and ready to leave.

  They had found an escape route toward the coast, a curvy, narrow, mountain road meandering forty kilometers or so toward the coastal town of Vanino. Of course, they would never get to Vanino; they couldn’t risk it. Vanino, being a coastal town, had to have Russian Coast Guard forces. They couldn’t risk being seen and captured. A convoy of nine military trucks loaded with people was not that inconspicuous.

  No, they would cross the mountains on the road to Vanino, then veer off that road heading south, taking a road hardly worth being called a road, just to get out of swamp territory and onto hard terrain, where rescue helos could land. The so-called road was more like an unpaved trail, not even visible on maps. But the satellite feeds from DigiWorld confirmed it was there, barely wide enough for the trucks.

  Then the trucks would take them to the clearing they had identified via satellite, just about ten kilometers after leaving the paved road to Vanino. She had given those coordinates to Henri Marino as a landing zone for their extraction. It was wide enough, and the terrain was flat and firm. No one had confirmed those coordinates yet, but she couldn’t wait any longer. No one had confirmed the exfil mission had been cleared either, but she couldn’t afford any doubt. She had to believe they’d be there.

  She knew she was asking for a lot…rerouting a US Navy vessel into the territorial waters of Russia was crossing the point of no return to what could potentially read in tomorrow’s papers as the start of WW III. Nevertheless, the USS Okinawa and its fleet of Super Stallion helicopters were their only chance of survival. Go, Marino go! Make it happen, girl!

  It wasn’t going to be easy. They’d found 434 survivors; 7 people had been killed since XA233 had been hijacked, including the flight’s captain. Those trucks held 434 men, women, and children in very poor shape, some wounded badly. There were 434 people who counted on her and the team to take them home safely.

  They needed to get going. The sky was almost completely clear.

  Satisfied they had everyone loaded on the trucks, Alex hopped into the passenger seat in Tango One and radioed, “This is Alpha in Tango One, ready to go.”

  One by one, all Tangos confirmed.

  The trucks set in motion, going east, their lights on low beam. Their convoy, moving slowly on the curvy road, seemed eerie to her, like moving though an alternate reality. She felt a pang of fear, thinking just how vulnerable they’d be once they entered the stretch of curvy, narrow, mountain road, with no place to turn or take cover if things got ugly. It was the perfect place for an ambush.

  She shook her dark thoughts away, and turned toward the back. Through the opening between the truck’s cabin and the cargo hold, she reached out and touched Sam’s hand. He lay on the gurney covered in dirty blankets, in and out of consciousness, barely alive. His skin felt ice cold and damp. He was going into shock.

  She squeezed his hand.

  “Sam? You holding on? We’re moving, see? Just a little while longer. Just hold on. Promise me you’ll hold on.”

  Sam didn’t reply, didn’t even open his eyes. Dr. Adenauer, still by his side, shot her a worried glance as he placed two fingers on Sam’s right carotid, feeling for a pulse.

  “Please hang on, Sam, please,” she whispered. “We’re almost there.”

  Next to him, lying on another gurney, Blake was conscious, although pale and wincing at every bump in the road. Adeline sat crouched next to him, holding his hand with both of hers, while her big, round eyes searched Alex’s with unspoken fear glinting in them. The doctors had patched Blake’s wound enough to help him survive the journey, but not much more. She locked eyes with Blake, trying to encourage him. He nodded slightly. He was holding on.

  A third gurney held an unconscious man; Alex had learned he was a doctor, and the Russians had smashed his ribs to make a point. He was heavily sedated, his vitals monitored closely by an American doctor, Gary Davis.

  A short vibration coming from her phone caught her attention. A text message from Tom. It read, “We have you on satellite, from DigiWorld. Godspeed and be safe!”

  Her heart swelled. They were not alone. She opened a comm on her radio.

  “Lima, this is Alpha.”

  “Go for Lima,” Lou’s voice replied, with a little static in the background.

  “Lima, Father has visual, says hi.”

  “Copy, Alpha. Tell him to look wide.”

  That was a good idea. If the DigiWorld satellite would zoom out a little, they would be able to see if anyone approached their convoy, by air or by ground, and give them the heads up.

  She texted Tom. “Will try. Go wide with visual, keep us posted.”

  The truck was slow, going sixteen, maybe twenty kilometers per hour. The road was bumpy, making the wounded in the back groan in pain.

  She craned her head out of the window and looked back at their convoy snaking through the wooded mountain road. The other trucks were holding close, none had straggled. She checked the sky again; it was all clear. If Tom had eyes on them, so could anyone else. So could V. Their headlights in the perfectly dark forest made them easy to spot from above, even with the dense tree foliage cover.

  She felt adrenaline hit her gut. Something was wrong. Behind them, the sky was slightly less dark. At times flashes of light ripped through the hazy darkness, sending long shadows everywhere. Something, someone was coming.

  Her phone chimed again, at the same time Lou’s voice came alive on her radio.

  “Alpha, thi
s is Lima. We have company.”

  She checked the new text message from Tom.

  “Multiple armored vehicles approaching fast from behind. Five Ansyr, two BTR-80 armored personnel carriers, two trucks carrying troops.”

  She pressed the radio button fitted on her wrist and replied, “Copy, Lima. Get ready. We have nine miles left to go until we turn south. Multiple armored vehicles inbound, Ansyrs, BTR-80s, troops. We can’t outrun them.”

  Ansyr was the latest Russian assault vehicle. It was bad news. The Ansyr was an armored vehicle that could go a maximum of 120 kilometers per hour for 800 kilometers without refueling, and could carry three troops and a heavy-machine gun. The vehicles would have no difficulty catching up with the trucks. There was nothing on those trucks that could stop an Ansyr.

  “Copy, Alpha. Ready to engage,” Lou replied, not a trace of hesitation in his voice.

  “Bravo teams, we have company,” she added, although all teams had heard her exchange with Lou.

  “Tango Two ready,” she heard Martin’s voice confirm, followed by the rest of the trucks.

  Yeah, ready, she thought, clenching her jaws. As we’ll ever be. A bunch of people armed with MP5s, Tavors, and handguns, maybe a couple grenades, against Russian armored assault vehicles, and who knows how many soldiers. Not a fair fight, but she wasn’t going to shy away from it. They’d come here to do a job, damn it, and they were going to do it. They were going to take these people home, no matter what.

  Their only strategic advantage was the narrow, mountain road. The assault vehicles could only approach them one by one if they kept on moving. With a little bit of luck and some decent gunmanship from the Bravos in Tango Nine, they could take them out one by one. Or at least she hoped so, considering the Ansyrs were fully armored.

  “Step on it a little,” she asked the driver. The man nodded and increased the speed.

  Alex looked behind her, at the people riding in the truck. They were scared, packed closely together, the way gazelles gather when lions are circling the herd. Most of them had their eyes on her, looking for hope, for safety, for a way home out of that dark, endlessly miserable hell. She had to say something to them.

  She took a deep breath, and then spoke into her radio, while maintaining eye contact with the people on her truck.

  “All Tangos, this is Alpha.”

  “Go for Tangos,” Lou replied.

  “All Tangos, please repeat my message to your passengers.”

  She cleared her voice, then continued.

  “Things are going to get a bit ugly,” she started saying, cringing at the way it sounded. “The Russians are catching up with us. Please know we’ll do everything it takes to get you back home to safety. We have air support on the way, and we will make it. This is my promise to you, to all of you.”

  She checked the back of the convoy, and noticed the sky was lighting up closer behind them. The Russians were getting near.

  She spoke into her radio again, while her right hand clutched the Tavor’s handle tighter.

  “Lima, this is Alpha. ETA on air support?”

  The radio went silent for a little while, and then static picked up before an unfamiliar voice chimed in.

  “Alpha, this is Firefly Nest. ETA is sixteen minutes. We have you on remote visual. Hang tight.”

  ...63

  ...Wednesday, May 11, 3:06AM Local Time (UTC+10:00 hours)

  ...USS Okinawa (LHD-10)

  ...Sea of Okhotsk, Near Russian Territorial Waters

  Captain Kevin Callahan woke up with a start. His XO knocked twice on his stateroom door, then walked right in, not waiting for permission. What the hell was going on?

  His current assignment was a tricky one. He was leading battle group Okinawa into a series of tactical naval exercises off the coast of Japan, in collaboration with the Japanese Navy. As captain of USS Okinawa, a Wasp-class amphibious assault ship, he was the commander of the entire battle group: one Arleigh-Burke class destroyer, two Freedom-class and one Independence-class littoral combat ships (LCS), two GHOST super-cavitating stealth ships, and several support vessels.

  But that wasn’t the tricky part of his current assignment. The tactical exercises were going well, and the Japanese Navy was a worthy partner with naval strategy valor. However, they rarely operated more than fifty miles away from Russia’s territorial waters. Most days they’d come as close as ten miles, irritating the crap out of the Russian Coast Guard, their vessel commanders, and everyone else for that matter.

  Naturally, the Russians were worried, knowing the Okinawa, a Wasp-class, landing helicopter dock (LHD), amphibious, assault ship, essentially an aircraft carrier for helicopters, deployed and maneuvered so close to their coast. The Okinawa carried almost two thousand Marines aboard, in addition to the ship’s complement of almost twelve hundred. Her own fleet of seven Super Stallion helicopters, four MV-22 Osprey aircraft, four Super Cobra attack helos, and six Harrier II attack aircraft packed a serious, worrisome punch. Her stern gate could drop and launch additional armed landing hovercraft, challenging the enemy with its versatility. Hence, it was not surprising that the Okinawa and its battle group made the Russians wary, anxious, and irritable. Yet, while she was executing joint tactical exercises with the Japanese, staying just barely outside of Russian territorial waters, there was little, if anything, the Russians could do.

  The Russians had two powerful radar stations, tracking every move the ship made. One station stood high on a cliff near a lighthouse called Red Partisan, and the other was farther south, right on the coast, near Terney. Those two radar installations could track everything, from surface vessels to air traffic. The facilities were heavily guarded, and most likely were humming with intense activity every time one of the battle group ships started her engines, or lifted her anchors.

  They had received significant diplomatic pressures to take their joint exercises farther out into the Pacific as a sign of goodwill, but Washington and Tokyo had held equally strong. As long as battle group Okinawa was not entering Russian territorial waters, there was nothing Russia could do about it other than foam at the mouth.

  Before Captain Callahan had finally gone to bed for the night, sometime after midnight, his battle group was sailing around Wakkanai heading east, just five miles off the coast of Japan, but only a few miles away from the territorial waters of Sakhalin. He hoped his XO didn’t bring the news that someone had made a mistake and had veered into Russia’s waters by accident; there’d be hell to pay.

  He sat on the side of his bed, rubbing his eyes.

  “What is it, XO?”

  “I have the president for you, sir.”

  Sleep still fogging his brain, Callahan asked, “You have who?”

  “The president of the United States, sir, on encrypted voice comm.”

  All his remaining brain fog instantly dissipated under the wave of adrenaline that hit every nerve in his body. The president? Calling him? That had never happened before, in his entire career. It had to be serious.

  He hopped to his feet and threw his working blues on within seconds, then almost ran to the bridge, followed by his XO.

  “Captain on the bridge,” one of the lieutenants announced, standing at attention.

  Callahan went straight for the communications desk. He put on the headset handed him by his communications officer, cleared his throat a little, then signaled to the young man to open the line.

  “Mr. President, sir,” he greeted. “This is Captain Kevin Callahan, Battle Group Okinawa, off the coast of Japan.”

  “Captain, we have a situation on our hands, and you’re the only one who can help,” President Krassner said, skipping the pleasantries and going straight to the core of the issue.

  “Sir?”

  “Flight XA233, the flight that was presumed crashed in the Pacific, was in fact hijacked by Russian terrorists. A small American team found the plane and was able to free the passengers and crew being held as hostages. They’re heading toward the coast, t
aking heavy fire, right in the area where you are now. There are nearly 450 people, most of them American. They need your help, captain. We have to bring them home.”

  Captain Callahan felt sweat beads forming at the roots of his hair. He was being asked to commit an act of war against Russia.

  “Mr. President, sir, are you authorizing me to enter Russian sovereign air space with armed military aircraft, engage the enemy, and exfiltrate the rescued people?”

  “Precisely. If it can be avoided, I would prefer not to start World War III with Russia over this, but do whatever is necessary to bring those people home. I am 100 percent behind whatever you decide to do, captain. Just get them home.”

  “Yes, sir,” Captain Callahan acknowledged the orders.

  “We’re sending maps, satellite imagery, and coordinates as we speak. What else do you need?”

  “Nothing else, sir. It’s an honor to be chosen for such a mission, sir. We’ll get the job done; we won’t let you down. You can count on us to bring our people home.”

  “I know that, captain. Good luck!”

  The connection ended, leaving Callahan with two parallel ridges of deep worry on his forehead. An incursion like this typically took months of preparation, of careful planning. He had a few minutes, not more.

  “XO,” he called.

  “Sir?”

  “Get all Stallion crews ready, two Harriers, four Cobras. Arm and fuel them, have them ready on deck. Let’s look at the map.”

  He walked toward the navigation desk, followed closely by the XO, the weapons officer, and the flight operations officer.

  “Get me a satellite feed for the rescue location. How do we communicate with them?”

  The XO checked the recently decrypted communication.

  “We have their comm frequencies and their sat phones. We have codes to tap into their satellite support, sir. They’ve suggested LZ coordinates for extraction.”

  “Put it on the screen,” Callahan said.

  The XO typed quickly some numbers, and a red dot appeared on the regional map. Green dots marked the locations of the USS Okinawa and its battle group. A dotted line marked the limit of Russia’s territorial waters, and two red triangles marked the locations of the Russian radar stations.