Contents
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2017 by Christopher J. Uremovich
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.
Publisher
Amazon
Editor
Joelle West
First edition: October 2017
For my wonderful wife
and my adorable kids.
Chapter 1
Rain thrashed the flight deck of the USS James Madison, permeating the lower levels of the massive aircraft carrier.
Major Frank Nash strolled through the cavernous hangar bay with gear in tow. The sleek airframe of an F-35 stealth fighter was parked before him, one of the last to inhabit the lower decks.
“Old girl is loaded and ready, sir!” a disembodied male voice said from behind the nose of the aircraft. “Some of the controllers are saying this could be your last mission. Is that true, sir?”
The major ignored the blabbering of his junior NCO Sergeant Le. He couldn't be interrupted now, the mission’s details still fresh in his mind.
He dropped his large rucksack onto the polished aluminum and a great thud echoed through the bay. Feeling the fuselage with his hand he skimmed around the plane, inspecting while Sergeant Le followed in silence.
“The crew is eating now. The mess hall still had leftovers from this morning,” Sergeant Le said while watching intently. “Do you want me to get them up here, sir?”
“Yeah, Jason, I do,” the old major said, still inspecting the airframe from top to bottom. Frank’s crew annoyed him. After twenty years in the Marine Corps he had lost hope in this new generation of youngsters. “There’s a war going on and all they can think of is food,” he complained.
“Major needs us now, let's go,” said an out of breath Le to hungry sailors. Some purposely ignored him. “You know what I—” Le was cut short as the entire mess hall personnel were thrown from their chairs.
The aircraft carrier listed hard starboard. A massive explosion rocked the ship, producing a deafening roar. Twisted superstructure, jagged and sharp, flung in all directions, setting the ocean and decks ablaze.
Black smoke billowed out of a single impact hole. Towering flames licked the sky—bodies lay lifeless about the wreckage, some bathed in fire. Dozens of sailors waded out of thick smoke, their flesh seared and hanging by threads, some collapsed on the hot tarmac.
Firefighting and medical teams were rushed to the site as hoses shot streams of salt water onto charred bulkheads. A thick gray mist hung above the waves while fires raged on.
Frank arose after being knocked down by the blast, his head gushing blood from the blunt force trauma. “I gotta get out of here,” he said to himself. “Gotta get airborne, give them some cover.”
Frank climbed into the cockpit and taxied his fighter to a nearby elevator. “Control, Smokey One-One.” The radio returned static as pieces of melted grate fell from ceiling to floor. “Control, Control this is Smokey One-One, permission to take off.” Static gave way to the crack of a young sailor’s voice. “Permission granted, Smokey One-One, we are attempting to fix the lift. Stand by.”
The massive flagship had been hit by a Mistral-class surface-to-ship missile, its accuracy enhanced by being able to skim the surface of the water undetected by radar. All the USS James Madison's crew could do was fight fires and tend to wounded personnel.
Another ship, the littoral combat ship USS Minneapolis–St. Paul, circled around port and began searching for survivors, sending small, unmanned rescue helicopters into the fray.
Gears rolled and pulleys cranked the lift up to the rain-soaked flight deck. Frank checked his onboard computer, connecting to the Advanced Intelligent Network. Two female faces appeared on his helmet’s heads-up display.
“Major, storm clears once you reach the coast,” said a voice from the control tower. “You have Vivica and Shane today. They will escort you into Caracas.”
The F-35 rolled across the deck into position as small robotic vehicles attached the tow bar and holdback mechanism, securing the plane into position. Two catapults extended out from the ship on the starboard side, angled oblique, each with a drone attached.
Unmanned aerial attack drones, or UAADs, were small, V-shaped drones used for supplementing attacks and processing large amounts of data. Four xenon difluoride batteries provided power. Each drone sported an advanced AI.
Vivica finished checking her systems and Shane sent mission data to Frank's HUD. He reviewed topography and final mission details while crews finished clearing scorched debris off the flight deck. Dried blood mixed with sweat started to itch on his forehead but he couldn't do anything about it.
“You are cleared for takeoff, Smokey One-One, give ‘em hell!” confirmed the control tower.
Engines pulsing and flaring, cindering to a fine point, the fighter jet rumbled to the edge of the carrier. In the background, catapults whipped the drones into the sky one by one until united with their human pilot.
“We have liftoff, Control. Going into full afterburn, checking instruments, over.”
“Control copies, Smokey One-One. Good hunting!” sang the radio as the two drones and F-35 buzzed the carrier strike group, black smoke looming in the wet, morning sky.
“I calculate six minutes to Caraballeda,” piped Shane, her head on the HUD looking down at digital instruments. Military programmers meticulously constructed algorithms to make AI more lifelike and believable, albeit a clever ruse.
•••
The streets of Caraballeda were a war zone, its buildings burned and riddled with bullet holes. Men and women in pixelated camouflage dispersed across the ruins, taking up positions within the corridors of the once beautiful city.
Large landing craft hit the beaches in force, offloading tanks and equipment. Autonomous tracked tankettes scoured the outskirts of town while checkpoints were erected. A scarred American flag stood atop the highest building, waving with pride.
Small skirmishes still erupted along the cliffs and mountainsides on the edges of town. A lone American tank with the inscription “Thor's Hammer” written on the bore evacuator exchanged fire with targets on the bluffs above.
Enemy artillery thundered throughout the Venezuelan Coastal Range. Their guns rained down on the American invaders, attempting to thwart the overwhelming advance on the Latin capital.
Eighth Marine Regiment of the 2nd Marine Expeditionary Force was heavily engaged in the city, fighting to take the coastal mountain range a
nd secure the main highway into the northern suburbs of Caracas.
Engineers hurried to construct a command post inside the city hall, which was largely unscathed from battle. Young Captain Sheridan emerged from the building's main archway, his hand cupping his headset in between cannon blasts.
“This is Destroyer X-ray,” Sheridan said.
“Go ahead, Destroyer.”
“We took heavy casualties but have secured phase line kilo.” The captain knelt from the weight of his gear. “We are taking enemy artillery fire from the Juan Diaz with good effect.”
“Griffin X-ray copies last, we have birds in the sky now, send grid,” replied the controller.
“Grid is ten, thirty-five, fifty-four, break, sixty-six, forty-nine, fifty-eight!” shouted the captain into the wireless microphone. The ground below his feet began to rumble and shake, forcing the officer to brace against the ground with his other hand.
“Sir, they're fixin’ to fire another one!” shouted a marine, taking cover behind the sandbags below the steps of city hall.
Captain Sheridan turned his head south toward the Juan Diaz mountains as two large, hundred foot wide blast doors began to open, sucking trees and dirt inside.
The Mistral batteries prepared to fire another deadly salvo. Their near-perfect accuracy claimed eight American ships.
The nose of the launcher peeked past the opening, moving slightly as enemy operators adjusted the trajectory for the USS James Madison's strike group.
“Concentrate all your fire on the Juan Diaz!” the captain barked over all regimental frequencies.
•••
Below, Frank could see the ocean, and to his sides the two attack drones. In the distance red blips popped up along the horizon, marking enemy targets.
“We need to spread out a little more. Vivica, keep scanning for deep threats, mark allied ground to blue, allied aircraft to green.” Frank's viewfinder changed as dozens of blue and green squares appeared.
Because of the immense amount of technical data that a pilot had to process, the drones were easily linked and could handle the majority of data. This enabled the pilot to focus more on the enemy.
“Two enemy aircraft spotted,” Vivica said, her deep scan completed. “Su-35S type flying above the airport.”
Frank acknowledged the threat. “Shane, break off and deal with the Sukhois.”
“Sir, if I may?” Shane asked. “They could be infrared decoys or holograms meant to keep us away from the Mistrals.”
“She has a point, Simon Bolivar International Airport was destroyed hours ago,” Vivica replied, banking left.
“Doesn't matter, they're a threat to our guys on the ground. Shane, break off,” Frank ordered, the beachhead now just two klicks away.
Shane drew hard right and accelerated off into the distance. The F-35 targeting computer was a frenzy of alerts and flashing red lights.
Below, Frank could see Caraballeda shrouded in smoke. Military personnel and vehicles scurried about, defending their positions. He could see the coastal range, and two large diamond-shaped blips indicated Mistral launchers.
“Switching to ground penetrators, I am locked on.” Sweat trickled down his face. “Smokey One-One, Fox Five.”
The F-35's internal bay doors opened and a thousand-pound, satellite-guided missile careened towards the target.
“Smokey One-One, Fox Six.” A second satellite-guided missile dropped from the underbelly of the fighter and crossed the sky.
The munitions traveled at supersonic speeds, jetting past the troops on the ground. The first missile hit with tremendous force, sending shock waves down the mountain side. Moments later, another explosion tore the doors off the second battery, collapsing a connected tunnel network and burying those inside.
“Good effect on target!” Vivica piped as more enemy blips flashed red on the HUD.
“We aren't done yet, Viv,” Frank said, making a wide oblique turn, not exceeding maximum cornering speed.
“Those are 155 millimeter guns down there hitting our soldiers. Do you have eyes on?” asked the major as he climbed for more altitude.
“I have them locked, sir. Shall I initiate a strafing maneuver?” Vivica said.
“Affirmative, I'll cover your six.”
The American-made drone, piloted by the most advanced military intelligence in the world, descended with deadly grace, carpeting the entire area with hundreds of air-to-surface bomblets, depleting its internal bay.
Frank watched, mesmerized as enemy threats disappeared one by one until nothing was left, the entire coastal range covered in thick smog from the dropped ordnances.
“Control, Smokey One-One, mission complete, all threats neutralized,” the Major rejoiced.
“Solid copy, sir, return to the Madison for debrief.”
Major Nash accelerated his fighter and came back around for a low-altitude flyover of Caraballeda. He was ecstatic and greatly pleased with himself. He couldn't resist the arrogant display of might.
“That, Vivica . . . was my final mission. I’m officially retiring tomorrow.”
“Shane returned to the Madison for refit. The Sukhois were decoys,” Vivica responded. Artificial intelligence had come a long way in the last seventy years, but was still incapable of real emotions or feelings. Their algorithms gave the impression of human passion, yet at their core, they were soulless constructs.
As quickly as it ended, it began again. New alerts filled Frank’s cockpit and HUD. He scrambled to decipher the information.
Massive steel doors by the dozens began opening up and down the Venezuelan coastal mountains, from the international airport all the way to the town of Naiguata, a distance of fifteen kilometers.
“New target acquisitions, sir,” Vivica said in a calm voice.
Major Nash's heart dropped to his feet. A feeling of immense dread and absolute terror enveloped him. This, unfortunately, was a feeling he knew all too well. Whatever emotions of victory and great satisfaction were torn away in an instant.
“Vivica, swing back around, take half. I'll take the other half,” Frank said.
“Sir, all I have left is twenty millimeter cannons,” Vivica said, her V-shaped drone dropping in altitude while performing a sharp forty-five degree turn. Frank quickly followed her, moving past while locking on four separate coastal targets.
“The Mistral launchers are preparing to fire a volley, I calculate twelve, five thousand pound, medium-range ballistic missiles,” Vivica said, arming her Vulcan twenty millimeter cannons.
“Smokey One-One, Fox Seven, Fox Eight, Fox Nine, Fox Ten.” Frank’s voice cracked mid-transmission.
Four, five hundred pound MK-82 warheads fell below the internal bay doors of the F-35 and rocketed forward towards intended targets.
The beachhead lit up in a brilliant mixture of fire and dirt. Four Mistral launch sites were destroyed as the other eight emptied their payloads. The USS James Madison strike group was in imminent danger.
Traveling at hypersonic speeds, the giant surface-to-ship ballistic missiles were almost impossible to shoot down. Major Nash turned back around and punched the afterburners. He needed to reach his maximum of 1,200 miles per hour to keep pace and take a well-aimed shot.
Vivica trailed largely behind, unable to match the thrust of the F-35. She radioed the strike group, which was already taking defensive positions.
Two American Zumwalt-class destroyers emptied pods of RIM-162 Sea Sparrow surface-to-air missiles, filling the sky with counterfire. USS James Madison's anti-air batteries prepared to fire salvos at the incoming threats.
“Smokey One-One, Fox One.” A pair of radar-guided AMRAAMs took out a Mistral in a splendid scene of firepower. “Smokey One-One, Fox Two.” Another pair of AMRAAMs sputtered over the great expanse of ocean, falling short, crashing into the sea.
In the distance Frank could see the horizon bathed in anti-aircraft fire. Chain guns sprayed tracers in all directions. Point defense lasers cut missile bodies in half as
some got through and detonated, sending a US frigate to the ocean floor.
Losing hope, Frank spotted a late-fired Mistral gaining on his plane, its destination clearly the USS Madison. Frank prepared to establish a lock on the target but was out of intercept missiles.
Out of time, Frank remembered the oath he took so many years ago. “So that others may live,” he whispered.
The F-35's nose turned sharply and rammed the oncoming missile, scraping against the aft body. Immediately, the stealth fighter's airframe broke apart in a brilliant fireball. Frank’s seat jettisoned from the burning wreckage right before total disintegration.
Chapter 2
It was high noon and the sun shone bright on the warrior's face. He shielded his eyes with his right hand, his left gripped tightly around the hilt of a greatsword, still sheathed.
He was clad in a suit of Damascus steel, on his shoulders, large pauldrons. On his were feet were rawhide and chain mail, and at his side hung a dented helmet, weathered from fierce combat.
He trudged through golden fields of wheat, gently caressing the stalks with his finger tips. The plain was long and narrow, surrounded on all sides by pine forest.
“Our duty is unending,” he whispered to himself. At the edge of the field, smoke rose above the trees. Making his way through the bounty of life, he reached a clearing with a log cabin. The smell of pancakes and bacon hung thick in the air.
Entering the dwelling, he saw seated at a table a beautiful young woman. Her skin was bronze and hair black as night. She stared back at the warrior without fear, holding in her hand pancakes. “Would you like some pancakes?” the woman asked, her voice trailing off like the wind.
The warrior stepped closer to inspect the food and the woman, but the floor gave way and disappeared. Logs fell and the woman slowly dematerialized away. “Can I change your sheets?” a soothing voice asked.
Major Nash awoke with a startled scream, thrashing wildly he grabbed for the pistol at his side, only to discover there was no pistol. The lifeless face of a hospice bot stared back at him.
“Sir, can I change your bed liner and sheets?” the computerized voice asked in monotone.
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