Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star

by Nobody, Joe

  Nick had warned his men, “They most likely will start with a stand-off attack. They’ll splash laser beams all over this facility before the hurt comes raining down. You won’t have much notice, so get low… and get there quickly. For a few minutes, you will feel like you are in Dante’s seventh level of hell.”

  Heeding his advice, the three office workers scrambled for the preassembled pits of sandbags in the back corner. Each miniature bunker consisted of a heavy metal desk, completely lined and covered with sandbags. As they scurried for the cover, one of the men was screaming on the radio, advising any listener on the frequency they were under attack.

  Radios carried the alarm all over Midland Station. Hundreds of men hustling to pre-assigned defensive positions, the vast majority centered on the only functional refinery in Texas. The Alliance was determined not to let its primary bargaining chip fall into enemy hands. Rigged with explosives and surrounded by the best defenses the tiny militia could assemble, Nick would destroy the facility if it couldn’t be held.

  In the desert, 15 miles to the east of the warehouse, the Kiowa’s transmission was received by three M109 Paladin self-propelled howitzers. Looking like elongated battle tanks with extra-large gun barrels, the tracked vehicles had been a staple of the American ground warfare since the 1960s.

  But these war machines weren’t primitive by any sense of the word. Constantly upgraded and modernized, each of the mobile artillery units was equipped with the latest in networking, software, and munitions. The fire-control computers onboard the armored guns processed the Kiowa’s broadcasted coordinates and within seconds began delivering a firing solution.

  The 155mm gun barrels arched toward the sky, each tube reaching a high degree of apex. Almost simultaneously, the three belched smoke as their projectiles roared toward Midland Station.

  Inside the crew compartments, loaders were feeding a new round into the breach. Within seconds, the barrels lowered their aim a few degrees, and soon three more rounds were on the way.

  The process was repeated a third time, the final salvo fired with the barrels at a much lower angle. The tactic was simple. While the first shell was traveling on a high arch toward the target, each follow-on round was catching up via its lower trajectory. A high fly, then a lob and finally the line drive. All nine rounds would impact at the same time, despite being fired several seconds apart.

  As each shell began its descent, stabilizing fins sprouted from the projectile’s body. A few moments later, an electronic seeker energized in the nose, scanning for the Kiowa’s laser designators.

  The Kiowa hovered, well hidden behind the mound and keeping its invisible laser beams aimed at the objective. Those lines of intense light weren’t focused on a single point. Rotating in a computer controlled sequence, each corner of the parking lot was highlighted as well as the center of the warehouse’s roof.

  Miles above and east of the target, the artillery seekers locked onto the beams and made small adjustments to their courses. Four of the incoming warheads zeroed in on the actual building while the remaining projectiles flew toward the grounds surrounding the marshalled trucks.

  One hundred and fifty feet above the structure’s roof, the Excalibur Block II shells detonated. To any observer on the ground, the explosions appeared as harmless, grey puffs of smoke, the effect more closely resembling malfunctioning civilian fireworks than a deadly military strike. It was an illusion.

  Multiple bomblets scattered from each shell, free falling downward in a precise pattern. Ribbons stabilized the grenades, pounds of high yield explosives descending toward the warehouse’s roof. At 15 feet above the structure, each sub-warhead exploded.

  During the Gulf wars, US troops had coined the term, “Steel rain,” when referring to cluster munitions, and it was an apt description. The roof of the warehouse practically disintegrated, the victim of high velocity shrapnel and a compressed blast wave of air.

  Two of the three workers inside of the structure actually survived the attack, huddled in their makeshift bunkers. Lucky to still draw breath, they found themselves at least temporarily deaf and blind… they couldn’t hear the continuing air strike or see the carnage. The sole causality died when his body was crushed by a collapsing wall of scorching rubble.

  At the same instant the warehouse was being shredded, a wall of West Texas soil erupted around the parking lot. Five of the artillery rounds bracketed the area surrounding the military’s seized trucks. The planners back at Hood hadn’t wanted any guard posts, sniper hides or other hidden defenders enjoying their breakfast.

  Before the dust and debris had begun to fall, the two Longbow Apache gunships pointed their noses downward and accelerated toward the target. At a range of four miles, each war bird energized two Hellfire missiles, verified its target, and launched.

  The second wave of the attack was really unnecessary, but the officers back at Hood had been surprised and embarrassed by the Alliance once. They vowed it wouldn’t happen again and used the Apaches to “bounce the rubble.”

  What little was left of the warehouse was struck by the missiles, the net result of the mission a pile of unrecognizable, smoldering ruins.

  A short time later, the two gunships roared over the scene, infrared sensors scanning for any sign of defenders or resistance. There were no survivors, the two remaining Alliance workers slain instantly in the follow-on attack.

  The Apaches didn’t leave. Instead, the two aircraft began orbiting the facility, almost as if daring any Alliance fighters to show themselves. None did, at least not in the immediate vicinity.

  Nick and the other militia leaders had been concerned that the US might attack. Their foresight had even gone so far as to anticipate an assault from the air.

  “We can’t keep them from destroying the convoy’s trucks or cargo. We can do little to defend the warehouse from a determined attack. What we can do is make them pay a high price for their actions and save as many of our people as possible.”

  Their plan had included the radar detectors, sand bagged desks, and a third measure of defense.

  Months ago, when it had become clear that the Alliance might face the US military, a detailed inventory of all available weapons, ammunition and personnel skills had been ordered by the council. Every small-town National Guard armory, police station, and sporting goods store had been searched and the contents counted.

  Most had been looted after the collapse, but the stolen items had not simply vanished into thin air. Over time, the men of the Alliance had recovered, stumbled upon, or received voluntary donations of a considerable cache of offensive firepower.

  While small arms and ammunition were important, Nick fully understood that his force’s most critical shortcoming was standoff weaponry. His foe could project power from great distances while he could not, and that was a recipe for a hasty defeat.

  Of all the arms available to the Alliance, it was the seven .50 caliber rifles that caused the ex-Special Forces operator to smile. The huge rifles were man-portable, capable of inflicting damage at considerable distances, and deadly accurate.

  All seven had been in the hands of private individuals, some purchased for the sheer fun of target practice, others as conversation pieces. Whatever the reason, Nick appreciated their contribution to the Alliance’s arsenal and planned to make good use of their capabilities.

  Given warning by the desperate radio broadcast from the warehouse, all seven of the 50s were on the move by the time the howitzer shells landed. Teams comprised of two carefully selected men scrambled for predetermined positions, each duo carrying one of the big rifles.

  The collection of civilian long guns was enhanced by military ammunition. The Alliance defenders had confiscated cases of assorted cartridge types being transported by the convoy. These special bullets greatly improved the capabilities of each weapon.

  Armor piercing, incendiary, and anti-personnel rounds were uncrated and distributed to the teams. Despite the improved munitions capability, Nick’s ord
ers were stern and ominous. “Don’t mess with the gunships, no matter how tempting a target they present. Don’t fire at any moving aircraft. If they are coming for the trucks, their helicopters will have to land. Hit them when they are on the ground. Shoot the engines, cockpit, and tail rotors. Don’t worry about the individual troops they are unloading – hit and kill those birds.”

  Well-hidden fighting locations had been selected for each of the Alliance’s teams. The roof of a building almost 1200 yards away had a special shelter that appeared to be an air conditioner unit from the air. A slight rise in the desert floor, almost a mile from the warehouse concealed another team, while an abandoned dump truck provided both protection and cover from overhead eyes for a third.

  While the Alliance’s defenders settled into their positions, the two Apaches orbited the parking lot, ready to pounce on any sort of defensive reaction. Their job, once the warehouse had been leveled, was to make sure the landing zone (LZ) remained clear.

  Four minutes after the attack had begun, the desert east of Midland Station was again disturbed by the pounding reverberations of military helicopters passing overhead.

  Eight Blackhawk general-purpose helicopters flew in formation, each carrying 11 infantrymen outfitted for airmobile assault. The transports vectored toward the open desert, their destination a patch of flat sand not more than 100 meters away from the parking lot full of trucks. Their trucks. The trucks they intended to take back.

  The empty field of scrub and loose soil had been chosen for the landing zone due to a variety of reasons. First and foremost, up to four birds could land and disgorge their troops at the same time. It wasn’t any secret that aircraft were the most vulnerable while on the ground. Everyone from the lowest private to the pilots themselves dreaded that brief amount of time they would be earth-bound.

  In addition to the close proximity to their target, the other primary justification for using open desert was the curtain of dust kicked up by the rotor wash. The US Army had been fighting in desert environments for most of the past three decades, and the shroud created by the cloud of sand and soil was deemed well worth the loss of visibility suffered by the pilots. If there were any shooters out there brave enough to risk the wrath of the covering Apache gunships, the planners hoped the manmade dust storm would at least throw off their aim.

  In they came, low to the ground and moving at over 100 mph. The first flight of four Blackhawks approached from the east with the rising sun behind them. Appearing as if they were controlled by a single mind, all four flared their noses and slowed dramatically at the last moment.

  When the wheels were a foot off the ground, experienced sergeants and officers started screaming at the huddled troops to hit the ground. Men poured out of the wide bay doors in a seemingly endless stream.

  Of the seven Alliance teams, only five had a clear view of the landing zone. Most of the nervous men manning the long rifles had military experience, some even having performed similar assaults in Iraq and Afghanistan. High-powered scopes, already zeroed in for their respective ranges, centered on their targets. Sweaty fingers began to squeeze triggers.

  The first shot from the Alliance snipers shattered the bubble glass on one of the troop transports. The second hit the GE turbine engine powering the rotor. Shot after shot began to impact men and machines.

  The damage suffered by the landing force probably wouldn’t have been that great were it not for one bullet that killed a pilot just as he was taking off. The warrant officer’s final convulsions caused his craft to accelerate, listing hard to starboard and flipping vertically just a few feet above the ground. One of the rotors slammed into the earth, spinning the fuselage into a missile in its own right and propelling it directly at another nearby Blackhawk.

  The collision and resulting explosion generated a huge fireball and plume of black smoke, showering the surrounding area with deadly fragments of both airframes. Fourteen men lost their lives in that moment.

  Chaos had erupted outside of Midland Station, Texas.

  One of the Apache pilots spotted the muzzle blast of an Alliance defender. Within moments, the deadly chain gun mounted under the gunship’s nose began to spit 20mm rounds into the sniper’s hide. Slaved to the pilot’s helmet, the bird didn’t even have to change course. Wherever the pilot looked, the gun followed. Nick’s two-man crew was killed before they realized they had been spotted.

  Despite Nick’s instructions to avoid engaging any gunships, one of the Alliance teams found themselves with no option. The lead Apache detected them and began moving in a slow hover toward their position. It would be only a matter of moments before they were exposed. Concluding they were dead anyway, the shooter centered his crosshairs on the front windshield of the approaching gunship and fired a 700 grain armor-piercing round at less than 100 yards.

  The shell easily penetrated the cockpit glass, missing the pilot’s head by mere inches and continuing through the secondary hull into the machinery compartments. One of the sophisticated aircraft’s many computers was shattered by the huge bullet, that specific processor managing the bird’s fire control systems.

  Warning lights illuminated the now-crippled copter’s dash, the shaken pilot no longer concerned with hunting the rifle team below. He managed to maintain control of his stricken aircraft, but only barely. Announcing his departure over the radio, he pointed his bird east and accelerated for Fort Hood.

  Despite the destruction and mayhem, the second wave of Blackhawks vectored in on the LZ. Scarred by blackened sand and still-smoldering debris, one of the NCOs yelled, “Welcome to hell, men. Enjoy your stay!” as the bird touched down.

  The second wave of infantry disembarked, undeterred by the carnage surrounding them. If anything, the death and destruction motivated the troops as they fanned out toward their objectives.

  As per Nick’s orders, the long distance shooters faded away. The Alliance was willing to give up the Army’s trucks, their strategic importance unworthy of a pitched battle they knew was unwinnable.

  Within minutes of the initial artillery barrage, the grind of cranking engines replaced the reports of battle. With the remaining Apache and Kiowa overhead, the line of military transports began pulling out of the parking lot and heading east toward Fort Hood.

  Before the skyline of Midland Station had faded behind the last truck in the line, commanders were receiving reports. Both sides felt as if they had fared poorly in the skirmish, with the US Army reporting 14 dead and 3 wounded. Two aircraft were lost, one lightly damaged.

  The Alliance lost five men, over 20 trucks, a warehouse, and a lot of confidence.

  Chapter 2

  Camp David, Maryland

  July 21

  The gentle crackle and warm glow of the fire didn’t help the Colonel’s mood. Nor did the expansive, comfortable sitting room of his Camp David quarters. His companions for the evening, a reasonable cigar, and half-full glass of brandy managed to keep his famous temper in check – but just.

  It was bad enough being physically and mentally exhausted, the result of a four-day, non-stop excursion through eastern Iowa. Returning late the previous night, his Air Force shuttle had touched down at Andrews in the wee hours of the morning. By the time he’d been driven back to Camp David, the rest of the presidential staff had turned in, and that had suited the bone-weary traveler just fine.

  No, it wasn’t the travel-induced fatigue that simmered his anger. He was a man conditioned to long periods of denying his body proper rest. It was the news of recent events in West Texas that threatened to boil over his emotions.

  Rising early on just a few hours’ rest, the Colonel had headed into the presidential staff meeting expecting an agenda focused on the results of his trip. He had used the in-air time to compile a preliminary report, addressing the current conditions of several pipelines that traversed through the nation’s heartland. It was critical information, data projecting how many millions would have heat in the coming winter months. The effort was for naught.


  Instead, he’d stepped into a shit-flinging tempest of infighting, primarily due to recent events in West Texas… events the Colonel found deeply troubling.

  A cloud of blue fog surrounded the fireside chair as he exhaled a lungful of cigar smoke. Reaching into his back pocket, he produced a wallet and opened the worn leather to gaze at a faded photo of his grandchildren.

  The smile passed from his lips as his thumb settled to flip to the second photograph. He hesitated, wondering if he should. “What the hell,” he thought, and turned to the next image.

  A vivacious Beverly Porter grinned back at him, her cheerful eyes and winning smile causing his chest to constrict in frustration and remorse. “I couldn’t save you, Beverly,” he whispered. “I would have gladly sacrificed my life so you could live, but I think you knew that. I hope you knew that.”

  The Colonel replayed the events of that fateful day. The hasty departure from Houston, bullets chasing the stolen airplane as it lifted off with far too little fuel. Once in the air, there was only one destination that would meet his desperate needs – his former employee’s ranch.

  Things might have ended better, but there was the emergency landing, a controlled crash that left him skewered through the chest by a 16-inch length of aluminum airframe. Beverly and the grandkids had been traveling with him and pulled him out of the crumpled plane into the isolated landscape of the West Texas desert.

  Despite the horrific experience, his injuries, and the remoteness of their surroundings, the survivors had clung to hope. Before exhausting their fuel supply, they had buzzed Bishop’s ranch twice and then attempted the ill-fated landing. They prayed someone would come looking for them. Unfortunately, their prayers were answered.

  The Colonel tipped his brandy, savoring the thick liquid before swallowing. He chased the warm sensation with another draw on his stogie. “The sins of the flesh,” he mumbled to the fireplace.