Red Tide: The Chinese Invasion of Seattle (Occupied Seattle Book 1)

by Christopher Kennedy

  “Got it,” said Calvin. “What does “CS” stand for?”

  “Nothing that I know of,” answered Ryan. “I think it was the initials of the guys that discovered it.” He paused and then said, “The chemical reacts with the moisture on your skin and in your eyes, causing a burning sensation and the immediate uncontrollable shutting of your eyes. It will feel like your eyes, nose and throat are on fire, with massive amounts of tears, coughing, and mucus discharge from your nose, as well as disorientation, dizziness and restricted breathing. It will also burn your skin where sweaty and or sunburned. Most of these effects will wear off within an hour, but your life will absolutely suck for that hour, making you wish you were dead, and the burning feeling may persist for hours. Any clothes that you get it on will have to be washed several times to get it out; it’s easier, however, to just throw them away.”

  He thought a bit. “Oh, yeah, one other thing. I don’t know if the Chinese will have dogs, but the CS gas is less effective against them because their tear ducts are less developed, and they are protected by fur. Hit them with high explosive, instead.” Ryan picked up a blue grenade and showed Calvin how to load the grenades into the launcher and watched him practice a few times. “With just the two of us, you need to know how to shoot these, in case I need covering fire to get out of something stupid that I’ve done.”

  “I think I’ve got it,” said Calvin, “although I’d love to fire a couple of these to practice with before I need them in combat.”

  “No problem,” Ryan replied. “These blue ones are practice rounds; you can shoot a few of them on our way to town tomorrow.” He looked at the lower shelves. “Hey, look at this! Here are some no-kidding hand grenades, too.” He looked at Calvin. “These things are definitely illegal for civilians to possess—good thing you’re in the military! You’ll have to carry all of them, since I’m not allowed to.” Calvin frowned at him. At just under a half pound each, a load of them would be heavy, especially with all of the other gear that he saw that he wanted to take. “Maybe I can help carry some,” said Ryan, “but remember, they’re yours; I’m just helping you carry them. So, you said you had never used a grenade before, correct?”

  “No, I haven’t,” said Calvin, “but I know generally how they operate. First, you hold it in your throwing hand, making sure that your thumb is holding the safety lever down. You then pull the safety pin and throw the grenade toward the enemy. Once you throw it, duck so you don’t hit yourself when it blows up.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Ryan. “When using a grenade, the object is to have the grenade explode with the target in its effective range and you outside it. The M67 grenade that you’re holding has an effective kill zone of about five meters, just like the M203, and it will cause serious casualties out to about a 15 meter radius. You do want to stay down, as fragments can fly as far as about 230 meters, which is a lot farther than you or I can throw it. Like the saying goes, close counts with hand grenades, as most people that are within a 15 meter radius of one going off are injured enough to render them effectively out of the battle.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to release the arming lever and count to three prior to throwing them?” asked Calvin.

  “No,” said Ryan. “That’s called ‘cooking off,’ where you intentionally hold onto an armed grenade and allow its fuse to burn partially, thereby shortening the time to detonation after throwing. Doing this can keep an enemy from taking cover or throwing it back, but it is very dangerous, as fuse times can vary from grenade to grenade, and you don’t want to be holding it when it goes off. Just pull the pin and give it a hard throw to where it needs to go and get down; leave the rest of that macho shit to the pros.”

  “OK,” Calvin agreed.

  “One thing I would like,” said Ryan, “is a call when you throw it if I’m nearby. Give me a yell of ‘frag out’ or ‘fire in the hole’ or something, so that I know to get down. I’ve got enough metal in my body; I don’t want to collect any more.”

  “No problem,” said Calvin.

  “OK, then, big boy,” Ryan continued, loading Calvin up with gear, “let’s see how much you can carry.”

  Runway 31, NAS Fallon, NV, 2130 Pacific Daylight Time

  “Fallon Tower, Eagle 602 checking in for takeoff,” called Commander Anthony Sutton, the Black Eagles’ commanding officer and mission commander for the flight.

  “Eagle 602, Fallon Tower, winds are 315 at 8 knots. You are cleared for takeoff, Runway 31,” replied the tower.

  “OK, guys and gals,” said Commander Sutton, “We’re cleared for takeoff. Let’s put our game faces on. CAG expects us to find out where the other flight went, and we’re going to do just that.” Eagle 602 pulled onto the runway and took off.

  “Hey, skipper,” asked Lieutenant Kristen Reynolds, one of the Hawkeye’s pilots for the flight once they were safely airborne, “aren’t the Kestrels flying up with us?”

  “The two VFA-137 Super Hornets will be taking off in about ten minutes,” replied Commander Sutton. “Since they fly about twice as fast as we do, we’d just slow them down on the way up. This way, they can fly a more fuel-efficient profile and save some gas until we get a little closer.”

  “How are they going to be armed?” asked Lieutenant Charles Sileno, who was one of the air control officers that rode in the back of the aircraft and operated the radar.

  “They’ll have plenty of air-to-air ordnance,” replied Commander Sutton. “They’re each going to have two AIM-120 AMRAAMs, two AIM-9 Sidewinders, as well as a full ammunition load for their 20mm gums.”

  “That’s cool,” said Lieutenant Sileno. “I just hope they don’t need it.”

  Joint Base Lewis-McChord, Tacoma, WA, 2245 Pacific Daylight Time

  “Hi, sir,” said Shuteye, opening the door. “Welcome to the party, Lieutenant.” The company’s XO, First Lieutenant Odysseus Bollinger walked into the crowded apartment, nodding to the assembled group. In addition to Top, Shuteye and Corporal Taylor, he saw The Wall, the twins, and the sniper team of Private First Class Steve ‘Tiny’ Johnson and his spotter, Private First Class Mike ‘BTO’ Bachmann. PFC Johnson was black and an absolute mountain of a man; at 6’5” and well over 300 pounds, he was the only person to make The Wall look normal-sized. Johnson was the company’s .50 caliber sniper. In his giant paws, the oversized sniper rifle that was a heavy load for anyone else looked like a kid’s toy gun. His spotter, BTO, was his exact opposite. BTO was as white as Johnson was black, barely five feet tall and 140 pounds, and as fiery in personality as Tiny was withdrawn and reticent. BTO looked like a little Chihuahua running around a Great Dane.

  He smiled at Corporal Taylor. “Welcome to the company,” he said in greeting. “Sorry our meeting couldn’t be under better circumstances.” Looking over at the twins, he continued, “I should have known you guys would be here. Whenever there’s trouble, the Gordon brothers can’t be far away.” His vision moved to Top. “And let me guess, the twins are already trying to figure out how to steal one of the tanks and fire its gun, right?”

  Top laughed. “How’d you know, sir? That’s exactly what they wanted.”

  “They’re very predictable,” said the XO. He looked at one of them and continued, “isn’t that right, Jamal?” The twins just laughed.

  The XO got serious and looked at Top. “OK, what do we know?” he asked.

  “Not very much,” answered Top. He directed the XO over to the kitchen table where some maps had been set up.

  As they walked off, The Wall asked the twin identified as Jamal, “Was he right?” Jamal nodded. “How does he do that?” The Wall asked. Jamal just shrugged, unknowing. The Wall was amazed; the XO never got the twins wrong. Even with a 50/50 shot, The Wall got it wrong about 90% of the time. Grrr, he thought.

  “OK,” said Top, “here’s what I’ve got so far. If we go down the road past the State Farm Operations Center, we can cut across I-5 and be at a wooded part of the base. We can either go over the fence, try to dig under the
fence, or cut the fence; your choice, XO. Personally, I’d rather not vandalize the base. It kind of goes against everything I’ve ever stood for.”

  “I think we’ll go over it,” said the XO. “The fence doesn’t have razor wire on it; we can climb over it and not have to explain to the base CO why we destroyed his fence. It will be a little more obvious while we’re going over it, but less to explain if we’re wrong.”

  “After that,” Top said, “we can stick to the trees until we get to the airfield. We’ll have to cross a block of buildings to get to the airfield, or go way out of our way; we’ll just have to wait until we get there to decide which we want to do. We’ll get a good look at the field and anything else we can see along the way, and then we’ll come back. We’ll be going in unarmed, so we will avoid all contact with anyone not known to be American.”

  “All right, we’ll just have to see what there is to see, and then we’ll meet back here to decide.” The XO paused and looked up at Top. “Who do you recommend for this little walk in the dark?”

  “No offense sir, but I’d like to lead it. I’ve got the most experience in stealth ops. I’ll take Shuteye, who is pretty agile and looks like the folks we saw at the gate, so he might be able to fit in if needed. I’d also like to take Corporal Taylor, if she’s up to it. She’s the most current, having just completed the Ranger school and is the best able to identify anything that we might see of foreign manufacture.” He looked at the newest member of the company. “What do you think, Suzi? Are you able?”

  “Rangers lead the way!” she exclaimed. “In any event, yeah, Top, I’m good,” Suzi confirmed. “Let’s go before I fall asleep again.”

  Top loved her spirit. “Out of curiosity, do you have a call sign that we can use, if needed?”

  “Yeah,” she said, looking embarrassed. “They call me ‘Deadeye.’”

  “Like, why do they do that, dude?” asked one of the twins from behind her.

  Suzi spun around on him and unleashed a withering glare at him, staring him down for a full five seconds. She ground out in a low voice, unlike anything they had heard her say previously, pausing between every word, “I…said…I…am…not…a…dude.” After a short pause, he seemed to crumble a little and looked down; a very un-surfer-like “sorry” coming from him. The twins would later characterize her gaze as ‘scary’ and ‘creepy.’

  She turned back to Top and sighed. “Sorry,” she apologized, “I’m still a little out of sorts from Ranger School. In any event, they started calling me ‘Deadeye’ because I’m a pretty good shot.”

  “A pretty good shot?” asked Top.

  Suzi shrugged. “Yeah, I didn’t miss much.”

  The Wall looked quizzical. “You didn’t miss much when?” he asked.

  “I didn’t miss…just about ever,” she answered.

  35,000’ Above Elmendorf, AK, 2145 Alaska Daylight Time (2245 PDT)

  “Diceman 131, Focus 105,” the E-3C Sentry AWACS aircraft called the flight of two F-22s from the 90th Fighter Squadron.

  “105, Diceman 131, go ahead,” answered Captain Sally ‘Sassy’ Pinione, the pilot of the lead aircraft.

  “131, your target is at 75 miles, bearing 180 degrees, angels 350,” said the AWACS aircraft. “The aircraft is on a Beijing-to-Seattle flight plan and is the fourth aircraft in four hours that said they were taking businessmen to a conference in Seattle. The ops center wants you to go take a look.”

  “131 has the target, 179 degrees and 74 miles,” said Sassy, as her radar found the target and locked onto it, focusing down to its narrow tracking beam of 2° azimuth and elevation.

  “That’s your bogey,” said the AWACS. “Your target is supposed to be a commercial airliner, so approach from its 6:00 position so you don’t scare its passengers.”

  “Roger, that,” said Diceman 131, as she turned her $150 million aircraft to the south. “We’ll go take a look.”

  As the Diceman section went to go look at China Air 326 Heavy, the E-3C was also controlling another F-22 section on a different airborne command and control frequency.

  “Bulldog 214, Focus 105,” called the E-3C Sentry to the second section of F-22 Raptors from the 525th Fighter Squadron. “Your target is 210 degrees for 95 miles, angels 370 and is supposed to be an airliner headed from Shanghai to Seattle.”

  “Bulldog 214 has the bogey at 208 degrees and 93 miles,” said Major Jim ‘Lizzie’ Borden, the lead fighter in the section.

  “That’s your bogey,” confirmed the AWACS. “Your target is supposed to be a commercial airliner, so approach from its 6:00 position so you don’t scare its passengers.”

  “Roger,” said Lizzie. “They’ll never see us coming.”

  Onboard Diceman 131, 2155 Alaska Daylight Time (2255 Pacific Daylight Time)

  “Focus 105, this is Diceman 131,” radioed Sassy Pinione, “We are behind the bogey, and it looks like some sort of tanker aircraft.”

  “Say, again, 131,” replied the AWACS aircraft. “It’s a tanker?”

  “That is correct. It is a tanker. It looks like a Russian IL-78 Midas tanker aircraft, complete with two hoses streaming behind it, one from each wing.”

  “Roger that, 131,” replied the AWACS aircraft. “Remain in position at its six o’clock while we request further instructions for you.”

  “Wilco,” said Diceman 131. She was bringing her aircraft a little further to the left to ease in behind the giant tanker aircraft when her wingman’s aircraft suddenly blew up, with two obvious explosions in the area of its engine exhaust.

  “Holy shit!” she screamed. Keying her radio to transmit, she got out, “Focus 105, Diceman 131; my wingman just blew…” at which point her aircraft was hit by the third and fourth Chinese PL-9 missiles and blew up, as well.

  Focus 105 tried to call Diceman 131 three times; all three calls went unanswered.

  Onboard Bulldog 214, 2200 Alaska Daylight Time (2300 Pacific Daylight Time)

  “Focus 105, this is Bulldog 214,” radioed ‘Lizzie’ Borden as the section pulled in behind the big AWACS aircraft. “Pretty funny. We’re at your six o’clock.”

  “Bulldog 214, I don’t understand. What do you mean, you’ve got me?” answered the AWACS.

  “Focus 105, Bulldog 214,” responded the F-22 lead. “We have joined on the bogey, and it’s the AWACS. How’d we do sneaking up on you?”

  “Bulldog 214, Focus is currently 80 miles north of your position. Whatever you just joined on is not us, over.”

  “OK, Focus, if it’s not you, it’s some other AWACS plane. I can see the giant dome above the aircraft.” He paused. “Wait a minute, the shape of the airframe is all wrong. The aircraft we just joined on looks like a Russian A-50 AWACS!”

  “Bulldog 214; be advised that there is also an unknown tanker aircraft approximately 30 miles east of your presence. Between the tanker and the AWACS, there may very well be enemy fighters in your vicinity. Please advise if you see anything visually or on your radar.”

  There was no response from the Bulldog flight, nor would there be, as the F-22s had already fallen prey to the second section of J-20 aircraft. The J-20 stealth aircraft were fifth-generation fighters that were designed and manufactured based in a large part on technology stolen from the United States’ F-22 and F-35 projects. They were very stealthy until their doors opened to fire their missiles, but by then they were behind the U.S. fighters where the Americans couldn’t see them. In just over ten minutes’ time, the U.S. had lost four aircraft valued at over half a billion dollars. It was one of the costliest battles in American history, and the Americans were unaware that it had even happened.

  KIRO-TV, Channel 7, Seattle, WA, 2300 Pacific Daylight Time

  A squad of soldiers broke into the control room of KIRO-TV, Channel 7. “Hey, guys, easy,” said Dalton Marshall, the director for the 11:00 News. “What’s going on?”

  The leader of the troops approached him holding a DVD. “You will play this at the start of your 2300 news show,” said the soldier
.

  “Well,” said the director, “normally, at the start of the show, we go straight to the anchor who talks about what happened today. I can’t play something that I haven’t seen, anyway. It’s against station policy.”

  “Yes, you can,” said the soldier, “or I will find someone that will.”

  “Like who?” asked the director. “No one will do it for you. It’s against station policy, and they’ll lose their job if they do.”

  The soldier aimed his weapon and fired once. The director fell backwards, shot through the forehead. “They’ll lose their lives if they don’t,” said the soldier. He turned to the station’s floor director, who was also in the control room. “I would like you to play this DVD at the start of the 2300 news show,” said the soldier. “I would also like you to make sure that the network has a feed and knows that it is coming. You may tell them that there are soldiers here forcing you to do it; whatever it takes to make it happen is all right with me.”

  “I believe that can be arranged,” said the new director, looking at the body of his predecessor. “No problem.”

  Precisely at 2300, the address ran on KIRO-TV, Channel 7, and every other TV station in the Seattle area. “Good Evening people of Seattle and Tacoma and of the rest of the United States,” said a uniform-clad Colonel Zhang Wei. “I know you were expecting your local news, but I have a more important announcement. My name is Colonel Zhang Wei of the People’s Liberation Army of China, and I come to you today to urge everyone to remain calm while you listen to what I have to say.”