by Andy Farman
“What is it?” he asked.
“Sssh!” She hushed him. “Listen.”
Her ears were better than his but then he picked up the faint sound of a distant siren.
The fire stations, police stations and town halls all had installed air raid sirens upon the roof of the buildings and they had been sounded for the well-publicised air raid drills and civil defence exercises. The drills had become progressively more numerous to the point where they were in danger of becoming self-defeating, and road traffic accidents had quadrupled with the onset of the mandatory blackout. Australians were increasingly inclined to stay indoors when the air raid sirens sounded.
The distant siren was joined by another, and then another, with more joining in until every siren along the coast was sounding that mournful wail.
“I didn’t hear this advertised on the radio.” Rebecca said standing and looking out across the town.
“STAND TO!” Tony McMarn’s voice bellowed from the direction of the CP and someone began bashing mess tins together, the audible warning for troops in the field to suit up and mask up.
Rebecca immediately stopped breathing and pulled her respirator from its case.
“Shit.” Bart cursed. The perfect moment ruined by an unscheduled drill.
The light came then, and both his and Rebecca’s shadows appeared briefly before disappearing in the harsh whiteout glare of a nuclear explosion.
Somewhere someone screamed, someone who had been looking north at that moment.
They both dropped to the ground and gradually the light lost some of its awful intensity. Rebecca pulled on her gloves, and now fully suited she squeezed his arm, shouting at him to get to his NBC kit also. Then she nodded a quick farewell and left, sprinting back to the CP as fast as her overshoes allowed.
There were a series of explosions somewhere, the biggest emergency maroons he had ever heard, and they were all in the sky above.
“It has started.” he said to himself and risked a look to the northern horizon where a massive fireball sat above what must be Sydney. Bart picked up his M-16 and ran back across the hilltop in the direction of his Humvee.
In the CP there had been shock, but training had taken over and they were moving out to the combat teams FV-432 armoured command vehicle.
The infantrymen of the Royal Green Jackets were pulling closed the troop doors of the Warrior IFVs, and the four Challenger IIs were starting up.
Everything in the CP’s 9 X 9 tent, attached to its rear, from maps, to Watchkeeper’s Logs was transferred. The tentage was just for practicality anyway, room to breathe.
Transfer complete and Rebecca ran back to her CRARRV, the armoured repair and recovery vehicle version of the Challenger I. She slowed as she came across a fallen figure but she did not stop. NAIAD had activated after the overhead explosions and was still sounding its alarm.
On reaching the vehicle she clambered up its armoured glacis to the hatch, removing her webbing and passing it down inside before following it through and sealing the way behind her.
Tears coursed down her face behind the eye pieces of her respirator as she plugged in the radio jack.
Heck’s voiced sounded immediately, asking each callsign for a sitrep. They answered in turn; the individual tanks, the infantry fighting vehicles, the QM and the combat teams attached personnel. Heck would have his ‘Higher’ demanding a sitrep of him so they answered clearly and concisely. The combat team had one wounded; an infantryman with severe eye injuries from the nuclear flash, and one of the QM’s storemen was missing, as yet unaccounted for.
“Hello Sunray Eight Eight this is Sunray Tango, send sitrep, over?”
She took a deep breath before answering.
“Eight Eight, negative Casrep this callsign but one times Kilo India Alpha from our friends, over.”
Indian Ocean.
0003hrs.
A pitch black night on an ocean running ten foot swells. Only the unbroken cloud covers internal electrical activity, offered any respite, or any visual clue as to the position of the horizon. It was a place without life, too deep, too far from shore or reef to support fish, and too hostile for non-aquatic life to survive. Just briefly, for a moment, the wind carried the sound of helicopter rotor blades fading to nothingness. Once they had departed only the sound of the wind and waves remained, although a stench of diesel increased by the moment.
Flotsam burst to the surface, freshly rendered wooden fittings, the splintered grain almost white against more weathered areas. Paperwork appeared to percolate up from the depths, single sheets, an old copy of The West Australian and a waterlogged paperback book, Neville Shute’s 'On the Beach'. To this detritus of tragedy were added fearful cries, spluttering, and a flailing of limbs.
Two young women and five men, hundreds of miles from the nearest land, coughing and spluttering, with sinuses flooded with salt water and in shock. The only survivors of the Royal Australian Navy diesel electric submarine, HMAS Hooper.
Several minutes passed before the relief of still being alive took hold, but there then followed the full weight of their situation, their deaths were merely postponed.
Commander Reg Hollis struggled to make sense of what had happened. He had been beside a junior ratings mess, speaking to Petty Officer Penman, and the boat was at sixty feet, snorkelling to charge their depleted batteries. A violent explosion somewhere forward had plunged the vessel into darkness, and the sea burst in as the boat turned vertical, facing the bottom of the Indian Ocean, five miles down.
The greatest cause of death to submariners in both peace and war is not drowning but onboard fire and explosion. An emergency oxygen generator producing hydrogen and coming into contact with seawater, which will cause a fire, or volatile torpedo fuel igniting explosively, those are the main culprits.
He had heard nothing prior to the explosion, no alert, no closing screw noises, just nothing.
A second explosion split open the vessel a moment later while she was still near the surface, venting air in a giant gout of an oxygen bubble which propelled wreckage and crew members, the dead and the living, towards the nearby surface and that was how he and several members of the crew were here, floundering in the waves.
Something bumped against him, startling him; he put out a hand to fend it off and touched a mattress in its waterproof plastic cover. He clung to it gratefully for a moment before calling out, telling anyone who could hear to swim towards the sound of his voice.
The first to reach him was male, and that was all he could discern. It was too dark to see anything but another’s head above water.
“Grab a hold of this.” Reg helped him get a grip on the mattress. “Commander Hollis here, who’s that?”
“AB Daly sir.” Able Seaman Philip Daly, a career sailor who could probably have made PO by now but for an over fondness of beer and fighting during runs ashore.
“What happened, sir?”
“No idea, absolutely no clue, sorry…who else got out?”
“I heard PO Penman shouting, and there are a couple of others, a few bodies too.”
They could hear others and together they kicked, steering the mattress in the direction of the sounds of splashing and choking.
Leading Seaman Craig Devonshire and AB Stephanie Priestly were together towing PO Penman. A few minutes later Honorary Acting Sub Lieutenant Chloe Ennis emerged from out of the darkness. Chloe was the baby of the wardroom and in reality still a Midshipman, temporarily promoted at a local level because she was a hell of a more pleasant visage than Tommo, the Engineering Officer.
Last to arrive was LS Paul Brown, vomiting up diesel fuel he had swallowed inadvertently.
They were all about done in, and the Petty Officer clung to the mattress as his rescuers panted and gasped. There was very little room around the mattress for seven of them, and only room for one, the injured petty office to get a grip with both hands.
LS Devonshire had a waterproof pen light which he awkwardly lit, and they then go
t to take stock of their situation.
“Is there anyone else, did you hear anyone else out there?”
They had not but Reg had them all call out together as they and the mattress reached the apex of a swell.
Only the lonely wind replied.
Taking the torch Reg shone the light at each of them in turn. He wondered if he looked as shocked and scared as they did. Young Stephanie’s eyes were as large as saucers, but it was the Petty Officer he was most concerned about.
Derek Penman was deathly pale, and a deep cut in his scalp was leaking blood down the side of his head into the water.
“The way I see it.” said Reg. “We have six hours until dawn, we just have to hang on and stay awake until then.”
He shared a little hope with them.
“There is a yank nuke in the area out of Pearl, she was to relieve us and she had our course and speed.” He said earnestly.
“They’ll find us in the morning.”
Reg shone the light again at the injured man, noting his out of focus stare.
“Petty Officer…Derek, can you hold on for six hours?”
PO Penman paused and then nodded.
The cold was invasive, eating into the tissues of the body and Reg knew that if they were going to see the light of day they had to do something positive to stay awake.
“Okay, we’ll play a little game of general knowledge, and I’ll start with an easy one.” He could hear at least one person’s teeth chattering already.
“In 1858 the first recognised Aussie Rules match was played, between Melbourne Grammar and Scotch College.” He paused a moment before asking the question, knowing they were all trying to remember their sports trivia, such as what the score had been and who had scored what.
“Who umpired?”
“Tom Willis!” said Stephanie instantly, and felt rather than saw the men staring at her. “I’ve got six brothers guys, whaddya expect?”
“Correct…you choose the next question Steph.”
“Thank you sir, and in payment for that ‘Boy’ question, answer this…how many tampons are in a pale pink box of Lil-Lets?”
There was laughter from Chloe but silence from the men.
“It’s going to be a long night.” Someone grumbled.
Lightning flashed, and just for a split second Reg saw a dorsal fin.
Mao carrier group, Indian Ocean, West of Australia: 0005hrs, same day:
Vice Admiral Putchev watched the clouds flashing with internal electrical activity overhead and listened to the lonely wind. The fleet was running blacked-out as usual, and each vessel an undefined dark mass against the ocean. He could almost imagine he was the only human left, but he knew there were probably other solitary figures on the other ships doing exactly the same as he was.
The beat of helicopter rotors sounded for the second time in the last half hour. Was it the same two aircraft returning or had the earlier machines merely relieved these two?
He sensed he was no longer alone, and another came to stand beside him at the rail.
“It is going to be a stormy night Admiral, and not just with the weather.” Captain Hong said after a minute or two.
“How so?”
“The American stealth bombers have attacked our ICBM silos, and my country has launched in reprisal.” The captain explained. “It has prompted our planned attacks upon New Zealand and Australia to begin earlier than I would have desired, if it had been up to me. But I am just the bus driver around here.”
This venture, the invasion, was a Chinese effort with support from Russia; as such the PLAN Admiral and the commander of the Third Army’s 1st Corps paid only lip service to the Russian contingent. Putchev was the advisor on carrier operations but the more the Chinese sailors mastered its intricacies the less important the Russians had become to them and their hosts became more and more distant.
It was always going to be a difficult marriage. The Cold War between East and West had seen more Russian and Chinese dead in border skirmishes at each other’s hands, than by NATO. As such, the Russian surface vessels all had large armed ‘Liaison Staffs’ from the People’s Liberation Army Navy on board so the Chinese Admiral could sleep soundly without fear of his allies turning on him.
Trust was not easily fostered after decades of enmity.
Only Captain Hong, the Mao’s skipper, had made any effort to form a friendship. But as he had said, his role was merely the daily running and the functions of the aircraft carrier.
Karl Putchev felt the deck shift beneath his feet and the throb of the engines increase. The long, slow, almost leisurely cruise due south was at an end.
“You’ve launched ICBMs?”
“We must go below Admiral; the fleet will shortly begin to prepare for NATOs response.” He moved towards the nearest hatch. “And there is also a bothersome noise in the engine room I would like your advice on.”
The engine room was the only place on board that they could really be sure that no listening device could be effectively employed.
Making their way down through the lower decks they maintained a professional chatter until standing beside a piece of machinery tucked away in a corner.
“My understanding is that the strike only found success here, in Australia, and that the city of Sydney has been destroyed…moreover, chemical weapon are to be deployed against targets on land, and this may have already begun.”
Vice Admiral Putchev felt a dread coldness at the news.
“What word of your own armies in Europe, my friend?”
A cynical smile appeared on Karl Putchev’s face.
“We have forced some river or other and NATO is in full flight.”
“What, again?” Captain Hong said, in mock surprise. “That’s every day this month, isn’t it?”
RAAF Pearce, nr Perth: Western Australia:
0007hrs.
It was warm and sunny, far too nice to be in school on a day like today. The heavy old wall clock ticked away hypnotically as Nikki and the rest of Miss Goldmeyer’s second grade class cast longing looks out of the window.
After a long and bitter winter the spring was here at last.
Chalk scratched upon the slate blackboard as Miss Goldmeyer hurried to write out their assignment before the lunchtime bell sounded its gentle chimes.
“NBC RED ONE!…STATION SCRAMBLE!...NBC RED ONE!...STATION SCRAMBLE!”
Miss Goldmeyer placed down her chalk and turned to face the room full of six year olds.
“Girls, quickly and quietly now, open your desks, put away your books and man your aircraft!”
With a jolt Nikki came awake, the klaxon screaming in between the tannoy's order for a general scramble, to get all serviceable aircraft off the ground and warning of a suspected incoming nuclear, biological or chemical weapon attack.
“NBC RED ONE!…STATION SCRAMBLE!...NBC RED ONE!...STATION SCRAMBLE!”
Candice was fighting with the zipper on her sleeping bag as Nikki rolled free of hers, tugging hard she released her RIO and grabbed her helmet before sprinted for the door.
In the corridor she was shocked to see two armed personnel, ‘Adgies’, Air Defence Guards in full nuclear biological and chemical warfare suits with respirators and helmets, looking like bipedal insects with torches gesturing at them to go left, not right, down the central corridor of the accommodation block. Panting she burst through the doors at the far end to see an open back four ton truck, its canvas removed and with its tailgate down just starting to pull away, it was almost full. Aircrew from a half dozen different nationalities were stood holding on to the tubular frame meant to support the missing canvas roof and sides.
1 Squadron RAAFs flight of F/A 18Fs attached to Pearce tore down the runway in pairs, a perfect minimum interval take-off, and Nikki found the need to scream at the top of her voice in order to be heard over the Super Hornets.
“WAIT!”
The truck did not stop but the driver was keeping the speed right down as he watched them in his
wing mirror, and the two USN aviators sprinted after it.
Hands reached down, Nikki tossed her helmet into one helpful pair of hands and grasped another, being hauled physically aboard where Candice joined her a moment later.
Someone pounded on the truck cabs roof and the driver floored the accelerator.
Several of the other passengers were pulling on NBC suits one handed, hanging onto the trucks roof frame with the other; others were in various stages of donning theirs. Neither Nikki nor Candice had been issued that item. Theirs was in the stores aboard the Nimitz awaiting their collection, and their signature for them of course.
An already suited RAAF squadron leader had a mobile pressed to one ear and his other arm looped around the roof frame with the palm pressed hard against the other ear, trying to listen.
“Is this a drill?” Candice asked.
“Hell no.” a voice answered. “The bastards nuked Sydney.”
“But our ship is there!” She blurted.
“Not anymore it’s not, darlin’.”
“Fuck!” exploded Nikki angrily. “That’s the second time.”
Someone shone a penlight at the name-tag on her flight suit.
“Oh, you’re that Pelham!” another faceless voice said, with a little bit of awe.
“No such thing as too many veterans in the ranks, welcome aboard Lieutenant Commander.” said another.
The truck held Australians, New Zealanders, Taiwanese, Singaporeans, Filipinos, Japanese and Americans. Nikki was unique in being the only American present to have seen air combat in World War Three, but the Asiatic crews on the truck had all lost that particular cherry.
The Anzacs still had that bitter-sweet, and terrifying experience to come.
The truck went onto two wheels as it made the turn towards the dispersal, the driver working the gears but barely coming off the gas as he applied the clutch. The tailgate rose and fell with a crash, bouncing open and closed, dangerously unrestrained, the locking pins and chains whipping against the paintwork. No one was going to risk broken fingers and other bodily harm by capturing the tailgate, so a clear space existed where the whipping chains held sway, the crewmen and women pressing together defensively back towards the cab.
