by Dirk Patton
While the SEALs were more than capable of penetrating the building, it was the noise involved that concerned them. No one could estimate the amount of time it would take to find the equipment they needed once they made entry. If they made a lot of noise going in, the infected would be attracted in large numbers and there was a very real possibility that they would become trapped. Outnumbered beyond their ability to fight through to return to their boat.
The only positive was they did have some C-4 explosive which they would need to breach doors or windows. When Sam and Gonzales had stopped at the National Guard Armory with the crazy Army Colonel, the Master Chief had stuffed a few extra bricks and some detonators into his pack. He had more than enough and as the team discussed the plan, part of his mind was already working on the design for a small, shaped breaching charge that would get them inside with minimal noise.
Precisely an hour after he had left, Sam returned to be briefed on the plan his men had developed. It was simple and straightforward, as most plans made by the men who actually have to execute them are. After several questions he approved it without changes.
“Sunset is at seventeen-fifty-three,” he said, glancing at his watch. “We launch at twenty-hundred. Questions?”
A SEAL who looked more like a movie star/California surfer than a warrior spoke up from the back of the room.
“LT, think there’ll be any hot co-eds on campus?” He grinned with perfectly straight and white teeth.
“There’s plenty of them,” Master Chief Gonzales answered. “And the best part is they’ll all be running right to you.”
19
“Is GMD online?” Admiral Packard snapped, rushing to stand behind a Master Chief Petty Officer manning a console at the far side of the large CIC.
GMD stands for Ground-based Midcourse Defense and is comprised of anti-ballistic missiles. The missile shield that had become so prominent in the news when the United States proposed installing the system in Poland. Russia had flipped out, threatening all sorts of horrible things until the US President abandoned the idea.
“Green across the board, sir,” the man answered, fingers flying across his keyboard.
“Set the system to automatic and execute,” Packard ordered.
The console operator quickly entered the appropriate commands, the Admiral providing his authorization code when requested by the software that controlled the missiles. Within seconds, several Navy ships were networked into the targeting system as the GMD utilized their Aegis AN/SPY radar to augment its own.
“I want every ship that can move exiting the area at flank speed!”
Packard looked around the CIC as he shouted, satisfied to see several operators immediately begin issuing emergency orders. While the GMD’s targeting software identified, tracked and calculated the intercept, four missile silos buried deep in the earth at Fort Greely, Alaska came to life.
There was no one left on the post, even the infected having succumbed to the bitter cold, but the GMD system was more than capable of operating independently. Millions of dollars had been spent to ensure that nothing short of a direct hit from a ground penetrating thermonuclear weapon could prevent it from functioning.
Blast doors at ground level opened in preparation for launch. Restraining arms fell away from the sides of the missiles and inside each a computer woke up. Readiness for launch was verified and the authorization codes accepted. Seconds later, the missiles received their flight trajectory data. This was only a preliminary track which would get them into the general vicinity of the Russian ICBMs. Once in flight, they would maintain communication with the command system, constantly updating their individual target’s location.
With a ground shaking roar, four anti-missiles streaked skyward. Cameras positioned around the massive field where the silos were located gave a view of the launch to the CIC in Pearl Harbor. The Master Chief had taken over one of the large displays at the front of the room, putting up a computer generated plot of the incoming ICBMs as well as the intercepting GMD missiles.
“How long to intercept?” Packard asked quietly, eyes glued to the display.
“Five minutes, sir.”
The Master Chief used his mouse cursor to point out a small set of numbers in the lower right corner of the screen that were counting backwards. The tracks went nearly straight up from the launch platform, a Russian sub. The lines drawn on the display were solid to show where the weapons had already traveled, changing to dashed to indicate the predicted path.
The ICBMs had completed their five-minute boost phase. The engines had burned out and dropped away when they were two hundred miles above the Earth’s surface. Still gaining altitude from the tremendous velocity of the launch, the missiles were headed for an apogee of eight hundred miles. Once there, gravity would overcome their momentum and they would tip over and begin to fall back towards the atmosphere.
This is the midcourse phase and can last from fifteen to twenty-five minutes, depending on the distance from the launch site to target. It is during this phase, before re-entry, when there is an opportunity to intercept and destroy the warhead.
“Sir, I recommend launching a second wave of interceptors. We have intelligence that Russian missiles deploy decoy warheads when they reach apogee. There is still time to get additional missiles on target.”
Packard turned and met the eyes of a Captain from Naval Intelligence. Without hesitating, he issued the order to the Master Chief operating the system. In short order, the tracks of four more anti-missiles appeared on the display. They raced to intercept the small objects traveling at greater than 15,000 miles per hour, eight hundred miles above the surface of the planet.
The GMD system had never been used to intercept a real ICBM. There had been multiple tests for nearly two decades, but the track record of the system was anything but confidence inspiring. The success rate had never been greater than fifty percent. The Admiral knew this, but also recognized there was no other option.
Once the ICBMs re-entered the atmosphere, they would be traveling at speeds exceeding four miles per second. There was nothing that could be done at that point. No defensive weapon ever devised by man was capable of tracking and hitting something moving that fast.
It was deathly quiet in the CIC as all eyes watched the display. The view zoomed as the first wave of interceptors closed the distance to the Russian missiles. The ICBMs were almost at their apogee, speed reduced as their flight path flattened out.
“Missiles are at apogee.”
The Master Chief confirmed what everyone could see on the screen. There were gasps and curses from around the room when the four dots on the screen representing the inbound missiles suddenly separated and became sixteen.
“MIRVs?” Packard asked the Master Chief.
A MIRV is a Multiple Independent Re-entry Vehicle, or in simpler terms, several nuclear warheads packed onto one missile that separate and strike different targets.
“Decoys, I believe, sir. But unable to confirm,” the Master Chief answered after a moment of carefully analyzing the data that was streaming into his system.
Packard and the Captain exchanged worried glances as silence fell across the room. The clock kept counting down the time to intercept of the first wave, ticking to under fifteen seconds. Everyone held their breath as the tracks of the Russian weapons and the American interceptors converged.
For a few moments nothing could be seen on the display other than a large flare that marked the point in space where all of the tracks had converged. The Master Chief was closely watching different data sets on his console, ignoring the monitor at the front of the room.
“Two successful intercepts, sir,” he reported. “The other two were misses.”
“Can you tell if we hit warheads or decoys?” The Admiral asked.
“No, sir. I cannot.”
The man answered in a professional monotone that belied the seriousness of the situation. Packard looked back up at the master display, noting the second wave w
as less than two minutes from intercept.
“Time to re-entry?” He asked.
“Twelve minutes, sir.”
The Master Chief highlighted a different location where another countdown clock was running.
“Send another wave, Master Chief. As many as you can.”
“Aye, sir.”
The man banged out commands on his keyboard, quickly overriding the GMD system and ordering twelve more interceptors to launch. Their tracks quickly appeared at the bottom of the display as the second wave converged on the inbound targets. Once again, the tracking of individual objects on the screen merged into a large blob of light. The Master Chief was watching one of his displays as he typed furiously. Soon, the remaining interceptors left their silos in Alaska.
“Three targets destroyed and one miss, sir,” he reported. “All silos at Fort Greely are now empty. Without personnel on site to reload, we cannot launch any additional.”
“What about Vandenberg?” The Admiral asked, referring to the other location in the California desert where the GMD system was located.
“Unable to communicate with the system at Vandenberg, sir. It’s been off line since the attacks in the LA area.”
Packard cursed to himself, maintaining a calm outer appearance. There was nothing else they could do. If the Russians threw short range, or theatre, ballistic missiles at them, the Navy had more than enough ships remaining that were capable of knocking them down. But defense against ICBMs? He was out of rabbits.
“Time to impact on target?” He asked, the Master Chief understanding he meant how long before any warheads that made it through would detonate in Hawaii.
“Ten minutes, twenty-three seconds. Sir.”
“Do we sound an alarm for the civilians, sir?” The Captain asked in a quiet voice.
“If even one of those leaks through, it won’t matter,” the Admiral shook his head as he spoke. “There’s not enough time and besides, where would they go? It’s a small island, Captain.”
“Yes, sir,” the man answered, nervously fingering the Naval Academy ring on his right hand.
The third wave arrived, the room waiting anxiously for a report.
“We have nine kills and three misses, sir,” the Master Chief said. “One target remains inbound.”
“Odds are in our favor. Ten interceptors for one target,” Packard said quietly.
“Respectfully, sir, the odds are getting worse. The remaining target is accelerating as it falls back towards the atmosphere. That makes it more difficult to knock down.”
The Master Chief had turned and spoken so softly that the Admiral had to lean in to hear him. He appreciated the man’s discretion. Nodding, he turned his attention back to the display, willing one of the anti-missiles to find its target.
It wasn’t long before all of the tracks converged. Everyone in the CIC knew the drill by now, turning to look at the console where the Master Chief worked, waiting for his report. This one took slightly longer, the man double checking before turning to face Admiral Packard.
“All interceptors missed, sir. One target remains inbound.”
This time he spoke loud enough for the whole room to hear. There was stunned silence as the enormity of the report weighed on each man and woman.
“Can you tell exactly where it’s targeted?” Packard asked after several moments of silence.
The man turned back to his console and opened a new window on one of his screens. Several clicks of the mouse fed data into the software which quickly provided a set of coordinates in a textual display before drawing them on a map. The Master Chief looked up as he sent the results to be displayed on another of the large screens.
A satellite image of Oahu slowly zoomed, a pulsing red dot appearing directly over the USS Arizona memorial in Pearl Harbor. Packard looked at the image for a couple of heartbeats before turning to the Captain at his side.
“Get all essential personnel into shelter,” he ordered.
20
As quickly as the Russian helo appeared, it exploded into a massive ball of flame. I flattened myself on the ground as shrapnel from the destroyed Havoc whistled past my ear. A heartbeat later an Apache roared overhead, banking away from several lines of tracers that reached out from the advancing enemy.
The pilot dropped until he was nearly scraping the ground, juking side to side in a desperate attempt to evade the enemy anti-aircraft fire. Body pressed to the ground, I looked up as he fired off a pair of hellfire missiles. Then the stream of tracers found the aircraft.
Most of the tail section was shredded, the Apache beginning a sideways twist before belly flopping into the snow. It slid several yards before striking a rock and flipping onto its side. The main rotor contacted the ground and shattered, sending chunks slashing through the air.
“You two,” I leapt to my feet and pointed at the two Rangers who had accompanied me. “Grab some men and go get those pilots!”
The Apache had come down inside the shrinking perimeter and I didn’t want the men flying it to fall into Russian hands. The Rangers grabbed the Corporal and two Privates who we’d caught trying to run and dashed in the direction of the crash. The Lieutenant was still on the ground and I bumped him with my boot, none too gently, telling him to get on his feet.
He didn’t respond. I could tell by feel the moment my foot touched him that he was either unconscious or dead. Kneeling, I grasped his shoulder and rolled him over. Vacant, dead eyes stared up at the grey clouds as his limp corpse flopped onto its back. A neat, almost bloodless, wound was in the middle of his forehead. Shrapnel from the Havoc.
Standing, I looked around, glad to see the Soldiers I’d sent Dutch to retrieve. They were streaming through gaps between the hills, running as Russian mortar fire tore up the ground behind them. As happy as I was to see them, I was dismayed at how few were still alive. And healthy. Nearly a third of the men running towards me were supporting a buddy who had been injured, too many more paired up and carrying a body between them.
Voices screamed for medics as they approached, but there wasn’t much help available. The two men wearing armbands with muted red crosses on them dashed about, trying to triage the overwhelming amount of injuries. Many of the Soldiers were mortally wounded and wouldn’t make it through the day without immediate evac. But there were no hospitals any more, at least not within reach of the battlefield. Maybe the Navy still had a hospital ship in operation, but…
As the remaining men of the company approached, I shouted for them to get formed up and prepare to fall back. I ran around the edges, meeting many of them as they arrived, pointing and yelling orders. Keeping my eyes moving, I was looking for any NCOs amongst the survivors but wasn’t finding any.
All too soon, men stopped appearing. Dutch and the two Rangers brought up the rear. He saw what I was doing and immediately added his voice to the commands, helping get the Soldiers rallied and ready to move as a group.
“Any NCOs survive?” I asked him when he passed close to where I was standing.
“Not that I could find. This is one big clusterfuck, and the Russians are close enough I can smell the goddamn borscht,” he answered.
“I sent two of your men to pull the pilots out of that downed Apache and they aren’t back yet. Can you get them on the radio?”
We both ducked as mortar shells began falling closer, heralding the continued approach of the Russians. Dutch transmitted several times, pausing to listen in between each broadcast, but he wasn’t getting a response.
“What freq are you on?” I pulled out my radio and adjusted the channel when he told me, making a note of his call sign.
“Take point and get these men out of here,” I said, tucking the radio back into its Velcro pouch. “I’ll go get our Rangers.”
I turned to run for the column of smoke that clearly marked the site of the crash, pausing when Dutch touched my arm.
“My job, sir,” he said, trying to move past me.
“Negative, Top. I sent them, I�
�ll go get them.”
I didn’t give him a chance to argue the point, though I understood what he was doing. In the military, officers are considered more valuable than NCOs. That’s probably true as there are only a fraction as many officers as there are NCOs. The principle is drilled into every Soldier from early on in their military career, and for NCOs it is second nature.
But I wasn’t a tactician. I wasn’t a highly skilled technician or engineer. I wasn’t a General that could draw up battle plans and change them on the fly as the fighting unfolded. I was a dog-faced grunt that was nothing more than an NCO until the world fell apart and a well intentioned Colonel promoted me to Major. Sitting back and letting someone else do the fighting just didn’t mesh with my mindset.
The incoming fire intensified as I ran towards the downed Apache. Mortars were getting closer and a couple of times machine gun fire came my way. I ran in a crouch, changing direction often and slowing then sprinting to the cover offered by different terrain features. It’s an exhausting way to cover ground, but running a steady pace in a nice straight line is a great way to let an enemy lock on and shoot you.
I was able to get an occasional glimpse of the advancing Russians, and I didn’t have much time. Dashing to the base of a small hill, I threw myself flat and skidded to a stop as more machine gun fire whipped over my head. Worming forward, I looked around the shoulder of what was really no more than just a small mound of earth. I could see the crash site fifty yards in front of me.
The Apache was on its side, smoke pouring from the engine compartment. No flames were visible, but it was only a matter of time. Taking shelter behind the hull were the five men I’d sent and the pilot and gunner from the helicopter. They were still alive, for the moment, pinned down by a couple of squads of Russians.
