by Leslie Wolfe
On a separate screen, an officer brought up a live satellite feed, showing a slow-moving convoy of trucks taking fire from Russian assault vehicles. It was still dark; the feed barely showed anything other than flashes of light accompanying whatever projectiles were fired and briefly illuminating the convoy and its attackers. A vehicle had been left behind, burning on the side of the road. Some projectiles were fired at the enemy, hitting the targets, and causing explosive damage, but Callahan couldn’t tell who was firing what at whom. There wasn’t any time to figure out what was going on with the convoy; he needed to act.
“Switch to infrared and get me a sitrep,” he ordered one of the lieutenants.
Then he went back to the comm desk and grabbed the microphone that opened channels to every station on the vessel.
“All hands, this is the captain speaking. We are now at condition Delta. This is not a drill. We have been tasked with the rescue of about 450 civilians from behind the Russian border. We will engage in immediate combat action.”
He hung up the microphone, and a second later an officer grabbed it and called, “Battle stations. Battle stations. This is not a drill.” Then he hit a button, and a familiar alarm went on for a few seconds.
Callahan went back to the digital map and studied it intently for a little while.
“This is what we’re going to do,” he said. “We need a diversion, and we have to take out these two radar stations.”
“Diversion, sir?” the XO asked.
“There are just too many Russian vessels and helicopters patrolling the area. If they see us too early and they send in their MiGs, we won’t be able to pull the civilians out; we’re finished. There’s an air base on Sakhalin holding at least four MiGs, only minutes away in flight time; we have to move lightning fast.” He stopped for a second, frowning deeper at the digital map. “I’ll ask Admiral Tochigi for a favor. If one of his battleships here, off the coast of… umm… Mashike, should send an SOS, and we deploy our group for search-and-rescue operations, all the Russians will gather there to keep an eye on us. We’ll head out there with the entire battle group, but right before we’d have to turn south, here,” he added, pointing at the northern tip of the Japanese island of Hokkaido, where Wakkanai was, “the Okinawa will claim engine trouble, and stay behind with only the GHOST vessels and some armed RHIBs.”
“Sir, if I may?” the XO asked.
“Yes, what is it? the captain answered.
“We’d be vulnerable with only two GHOSTS; we’d be sitting ducks. Our helos would be gone, our escort too. The Russians could take advantage of the situation we created.”
“We’ll keep two Harriers and a Cobra. But that’s why we’ll start by sending a couple of SEALs to take out those radar stations. Send out a Cobra with two SEAL teams armed with RPGs. Let’s take those radars out first. This will give us a small window of darkness to get to the coast and out again with the civilians.”
His XO’s face lit up, as he understood the captain’s strategy. A faint smile fluttered on his lips.
“Sending SEALs now, sir.”
“Good. As soon as they confirm the radar stations are out, send in all seven Super Stallions to the LZ, with two Cobras and two Harriers as escorts. Confirm extraction with the ground team, confirm LZ coordinates. Get their ETA for the LZ.”
“We’re 250 klicks from the LZ. Stallions will take almost one hour to get there.”
Callahan frowned again.
“Let’s synchronize with the rescue team on the ground. We shouldn’t remain in Russian airspace one second longer than strictly necessary.”
One of the lieutenants approached them.
“I have the satellite sitrep, sir. The convoy has drone support.”
“Drones? Who’s flying them?”
“Unknown, sir. But the Russians are sending in helos. Several Russian armored vehicles are still engaged in battle with the convoy, and three helos are approaching from the north. They should reach the convoy within thirty minutes or so.”
Callahan clenched his fists in a rare display of anger.
“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath.
Their exfil plan needed more than an hour to execute; more likely two.
...64
...Wednesday, May 11, 3:19AM Local Time (UTC+10:00 hours)
...Road to Vanino
...Sea of Okhotsk Coast, Russia
It was hell. Weapons fire and explosions lighting up the sky, blinding her night vision, and deafening her. She was still riding in the first truck, leading the convoy. Alex put her head out of the window and looked behind her, at the rear truck, Tango Nine, engaged in fierce battle with the Russian assault vehicle, and losing.
She heard bullets flying through the air, smelled the heavy scent of burnt gunpowder, and heard the bullets hit trees and rocks, just a couple of feet away. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she breathed heavily, almost panting, not even aware of the sharp pain felt in her sternum with every breath.
Oh, my God, what the hell are we going to do? Alex thought, watching in disbelief just how ineffective the fire laid down by the Bravos and Lou was. The armored vehicle behind Tango Nine kept on coming, catching up with every second. All their bullets ricocheted off the Ansyr’s armor, not even slowing it down.
Then, suddenly, the Ansyr blew up, engulfed in a ball of fire.
“Yeah, baby,” she couldn’t help but cheer. She pressed the button for her radio, yelling to cover the battle noise.
“Lima, this is Alpha, do you copy?”
“Go for Lima,” Lou replied, barely intelligible over the heavy firing.
“What did it?” Alex asked.
“Grenade,” he replied, “under its belly.”
She craned her head out of the window some more, swallowing hard, forcing herself to ignore the sound of bullets flying through the air. One Ansyr blown to hell, but four more were coming, and behind them, even more trouble. The next Ansyr in line on the narrow road, closest to Tango Nine, was firing continuously, getting awfully close to the limit where their large caliber rounds would start tearing into Tango Nine, killing everyone in it.
Then she had an idea. She pressed her comm link button. “Lima, sever a tree, a big one, copy?”
“Alpha, did you say tree?”
“Block the road, Lima, block the fucking road!”
“Copy,” Lou confirmed, then, before releasing the comm button, Alex heard him give instructions to the Bravos with him. She saw Tango Nine slow, almost to a stop.
A few seconds later, a huge, majestic oak fell sideways, barely missing Tango Nine, and blocked the road.
“Great job, Lima, now catch up,” she radioed.
“Copy,” Lou replied, more intelligible now that the heavy firing had ceased and the Russian armored vehicles had stopped their pursuit.
“How much time did it buy us?” Alex asked, smiling involuntarily as she noticed the expression on the Tango One driver’s face. The man was grinning widely, despite the tension in the air.
The radio crackled static for a short while, then Lou’s voice came through.
“Not that much. Maybe five, ten minutes at the most.”
The driver’s grin vanished.
“What?”
“They can cut through it, Alpha, just like we did, only they have bigger caliber bullets.”
“Copy,” she replied, unable to hide her disappointment.
They needed a break…a bigger break, not five minutes. This wasn’t going to cut it.
She spoke into the radio again.
“Firefly Nest, do you copy?”
“Copy, Alpha. ETA is two minutes.”
“Copy, Nest. Step on it.” Then she turned to the driver at her left and added, “You too.”
The truck accelerated, bouncing heavily on the poorly maintained road as it hit potholes, scattered rocks, and fallen tree branches.
Alex allowed herself a moment to breathe, and leaned against her backrest with her eyes closed. Maybe they had
a chance after all with help from the drones. She’d seen them in action before. Each UCAV could carry up to 16 Hellfire missiles, and their targeting was deadly accurate; they were incredible weapons, a thing of beauty when they were on your side in battle.
She turned toward the back, to check on Sam and Blake. Blake locked eyes with her, encouraging her with a quick nod. Sam lay unconscious, the German doctor checking his vitals every few minutes. The doctor’s pursed lips and deep frown made her stomach churn in fear for her friend’s life. She reached and grabbed Sam’s hand, holding it tight. It was cold to the touch and damp. Hang in there, Sam, please! We’re gonna make it, you’ll see. Just hang in there!
Her phone’s vibration caught her attention. She had a new text message, from Henri Marino. It read, “Eagle Base is your ride home. Good luck!”
Yes! They were coming! Way to go, Marino! And thank you, Mr. President! Now all they had to do was get to the extraction point, and stay alive until they came.
She spoke into the radio to share the news.
“All call signs, this is Alpha. We have a ride home. Do you copy?”
She knew they copied, because instant cheering erupted from all trucks. Some honked their horns and flashed their lights, forgetting for a second they were in the middle of a battle. Knowing they were not alone, knowing that someone was going to come for them gave them hope, a much-needed shot in the arm for everyone.
They weren’t out of the woods yet, literally and figuratively speaking. She saw the lights from the Russian armored vehicles starting to approach again; they’d only delayed them by four minutes or so.
Her radio crackled, then a new, unfamiliar voice spoke, patched in via her sat phone.
“All call signs, this is Eagle Base. Do you copy?”
She replied cheerfully. “Eagle Base, Alpha. Copy loud and clear.”
“Alpha, coordinates for pickup confirmed. ETA sixty minutes. What’s your status?”
She hesitated before responding. How could she summarize in a couple of words the desperate situation they were in?
“Eagle Nest, this is Alpha. We’re precarious and low on resources, taking fire. More bogeys inbound, both air and ground. Not sure we’ll last sixty minutes, but we’ll try.”
She released the comm button, waiting for Eagle’s response. A few seconds of radio silence ensued, then the voice replied, “Copy, Alpha, good luck.”
She couldn’t help a bitter chuckle hearing Eagle’s encouragement. Too many people wished them good luck; that meant their situation actually needed it. Every bit of luck possible.
Alex looked out the window toward the end of the convoy; the headlights were approaching fast, and the Russian armored Ansyrs were resuming their fire.
Then, from somewhere above her head, she heard a whoosh, followed by an explosion. A drone had fired a missile, blowing up the Ansyr closest to them.
“About bloody time, Firefly,” she radioed.
“Roger that, Alpha,” the drone operator replied, barely intelligible. “Alpha, we have an issue. It’s dark, and you’re under forest cover. We can’t distinguish between you and them enough to fire safely. We can only target them if they’re firing at you.”
Oh, crap… “Copy that, working on a fix,” she replied.
She thought for a few second, then pressed the radio button again. “Lima, can you paint a target?”
“Affirmative,” Lou’s voice confirmed.
“All Tangos except Tango One, kill your beams. Lima, paint the fuckers.”
A few seconds later, the only lights still flickering in the darkness of the forest were the Russian Ansyrs, marked red by several laser spots.
The drones didn’t waste any time. Two missiles were fired and both reached their targets, blowing to bits two Russian armored vehicles. Only one Ansyr was left, followed by the BTR-80s and the trucks carrying troops.
Before a drone could take that last Ansyr out, it fired a large caliber projectile, but missed Tango Nine. The road was curved, so the projectile hit the rear right wheels of one of the other trucks, sending it in the air, sliding on its side, and screeching to a stop. The trucks braked hard, barely avoiding it, and the rest of the convoy stopped.
The radio crackled and then the voice of one of the backup team members screamed.
“Alpha, this it Tango Five. We’re hit! We’re hit!”
“Stop the truck and kill your lights,” she instructed her driver.
She jumped off the truck and ran to Tango Five, just as people were starting to come out of it. Some were just dazed, shocked, while others were wounded and needed help.
One of the Bravos approached her.
“The road is blocked,” he said. We can only use the first four trucks, and we can’t fit everyone in them.
She frowned, thinking hard. The truck was huge, effectively blocking the narrow road. But they had manpower, the power of many.
“All Tangos, instruct your able passengers to climb down and help us push Tango Five out of the way, and then they are to go back to their trucks. All passengers in Tango Five and Tango Nine will have to travel in other trucks. The civilians are too exposed in Tango Nine. Only Bravos in Tango Nine. Copy?”
Another drone, flying low above them, shot a missile, and took out the last Russian Ansyr that had just opened fire.
Within a minute, Tango Five was pushed to the side of the road, where it fell into a ravine and exploded on impact on the rocks below.
Everyone rushed to the trucks, and, one by one, the Tangos confirmed by radio they were ready to continue on their escape route.
Alex took her seat in Tango One, and checked the GPS. Only a few more minutes until they turned south, heading for the LZ. She noticed a message from Tom, arrived just seconds earlier. It read, “Russian helos closing in, ETA two minutes.”
Really? That was not happening…It was about time they caught a goddamn break. She felt tears of frustration burn her eyes. There was no way they could take on three armed helicopters attacking them, drones or no drones. They were low on ammo, the drones were busy with the rest of the Russians catching up from behind; it was just hopeless.
She directed the driver to turn right, and leave the main road. Maybe their chances would be better if they dumped the trucks and scattered everyone in the forest, to continue to the LZ on foot. But they had a lot of wounded, and some of the people couldn’t walk. Some of the people had been shot; no, that wasn’t going to work.
As they turned, she saw an explosion toward the coast; a large ball of fire erupted, illuminating everything around it for a short while, then continuing to burn. She texted Tom, who watched them via satellite, “What was the explosion ENE of us?”
His reply came in immediately. It read, “Your friends took out a radar station called Red Partisan. All good.”
That was logical. Probably Eagle Nest preferred radar darkness to having to fight the entire Russian Army over their rescue.
Then her radio came to life again.
“All call signs, this is Eagle Nest. We see three enemy helos approaching fast. Moving to intercept.”
“Copy that, Eagle, you saved the day.”
Maybe they’d caught that break after all.
They drove south on an unpaved, bumpy road that followed the edge of the forest. Behind them, the drones still engaged the remaining Russian vehicles, and Alex had counted two more explosions since they had taken the turn onto the unpaved road. Probably they were finishing off the remaining trucks filled with Russian soldiers.
She swallowed uncomfortably, thinking for a minute of all the Russians who were losing their lives that night. Then she thought of what might have happened to all the passengers and crew if they’d been recaptured by the Russians. That was what war was all about…One had to kill to survive. They hadn’t started that war; the people who took XA233 had started it. V had started it. She and her team were there to end it.
She checked her GPS again, seeing they were approaching on the left, the flat,
rocky clearing she had chosen for the landing zone. They were there…they had made it.
Now all they had to do was survive for another forty minutes or so.
She spoke into her radio.
“All Tangos, we’re here. Instruct your passengers to disembark, walk south for a few hundred yards, not more, and take cover behind the tree line.”
“Copy that, Alpha,” Lou’s voice responded, almost cheerfully. Hope was a wonderful thing.
She hopped off the truck and stretched her legs, feeling the tension ease a little. She looked toward the rest of the trucks, and nodded, satisfied, seeing how they arrived, one by one, killing their lights and cutting their engines.
The distant roar of jet engines caught her attention, and she looked toward the northern sky. In the distance, she could see the sky light up occasionally, as Eagle Nest’s forces engaged the enemy.
She climbed in the back of Tango One and handed Blake her phone.
“We’re here, we’ve made it. We have a ride home. Tell your pilot to get out.”
...65
...Wednesday, May 11, 4:38AM Local Time (UTC+10:00 hours)
...Khabarovsk Airport
...Khabarovsk, Russia
Dylan Bishop ended the brief conversation with his boss with a long sigh of relief. He wasn’t very brave; he had to admit. He was just a guy who liked to fly planes, nothing more. His charismatic nature, combined with his excellent record of achievement as a pilot had gained him the cushy, generously compensated job of personal pilot for the banking magnate, Blake Bernard.
Cushy until now, that was. Mr. Bernard’s typical outings were mostly business trips to a variety of American cities, or, in some cases, leisure outings to destinations like Ibiza or Paris. But Russia? With 500 pounds of guns and ammo onboard? That was scary.
Dylan shuddered. He was glad it was over; he wasn’t cut for that kind of stuff. His boss had told him to get out of there, and he wasn’t going to waste another minute. Deciding on the quickest, most superficial preflight check of his career, he hopped out of the plane and quickly circled it, removing the wheel blocks and the air intake covers. He moved fast, feeling the tingle of fear chilling his blood and creeping up his spine. He ran his hands quickly on the wings’ edge of attack, making sure no dents had appeared. Nothing could be wrong with the plane anyway; he hadn’t left it for a minute since they had arrived, too terrified to set foot outside the eerily quiet hangar. No one had even come close to it since they had landed.
