ARES Virus (Book 2): White Horse

by John O'Brien

  “Although our long-term goal is to find a way to do that and secure all three naval bases, the short-term one is to take the naval air station on Whidbey Island. That will allow us to conduct operations to secure satellite control. Once we have that, we’ll maintain a presence on the island, rotating crews in and out.

  “With that said, our first priority, as with that on the eastern side, is to establish a shore-side presence. In doing that, we have three goals: the Bremerton Naval Station, the Bangor Trident Base, and the naval air station base on Whidbey Island. Now, I know that I just said that we can’t sustain a presence in those facilities, but we can clear them out and potentially utilize them in intervals in order to resupply.

  “Operations against the naval air station will commence first, on the day following our arrival two days hence. As with the forward bases in the east, we need to preserve the resources and the integrity of the structures, so we’ll use helicopters to draw the infected away from the installations and utilize strike aircraft. The open fields on the island will allow this, and we won’t have the problem of distance as we’ll be parked in the backyard.

  “The air station has limited housing and is located next to the moderate-sized town of Oak Harbor. There are three residential areas that we’ll need. We’ll draw the infected away in order to use its housing. We’ll then land Marine contingents to sweep it clean. The town of Oak Harbor will be razed to the ground to ensure the safety of our personnel and the air station. We’ll be able to run continuous operations, so I don’t anticipate this will take longer than a couple of days. But, that’s the easy part of the operation.

  “Bangor Naval Base will be a bit more difficult, mostly due to the forested lands and numerous population centers surrounding it. The plan is to draw the infected into the towns and bring the buildings down around them. There are also numerous housing developments scattered across the peninsula that will have to be dealt with. The plan is to target each and every one of them. We’ll have to preserve the entire infrastructure of Bangor, so that means helicopters to draw what infected we can into the few open areas. In the end, we’ll have to again send in the Marines to clear it out.

  “Bremerton,” Sulley says with a deep sigh. “Bremerton will be a tricky son of a bitch and may well prove to be impossible. However, it has the largest supply of fuel out of any base in the world and it’s the only place where we can feasibly park the carriers. So, it’s imperative that we make every effort to secure those resources. The city is a large one compared to the rest on our target list, and it’s built right up to the naval base. That means that we can’t level the city without putting the base and its resources at risk. The risk of fires spreading out of control alone is just too great.

  “We can isolate the city to a degree by taking out the two bridges separating the two parts of the city, but we’ll eventually have to eliminate the infected there as well. Parts of an overall plan have been worked out, but we are still in the process of coming up with a fully workable one. So, as of now we just plan to clear Whidbey Island, looking toward further operations against the two port facilities.

  “With regards to gaining satellite control. We looked at two different options: going into Peterson or a strike into the Cheyenne Mountain complex. Peterson is adjacent to Colorado Springs, sporting a population of nearly a half million. That will require some diversionary tactics with a quick strike into the facilities. And still, the time it will take to clear the building, program the system to give us operational control, and exit makes that a risky proposition. NORAD, in a warm standby status, looked to be a better option, but still, the nearby population base and the need to penetrate the facility makes it risky. I say this because we have found an alternate plan that we didn’t consider due to incomplete intel.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Schriever Air Force Base,” Sulley states, presenting a map to the group. “It’s situated twenty miles outside of Colorado Springs and will give us access to a key group of satellites. We won’t have the operational control that Peterson Air Force base would give us, but we will gain extended capabilities above what we currently have, which is next to nothing.

  “Distance is a factor. As in the east, we’ll have to set up a forward deployment base. The basin in which Boise and Idaho Falls lie provides several ideal possibilities. From there, we’ll conduct a two-pronged sortie. A contingent of helicopters will position themselves over Colorado Springs to draw the infected into the city and keep them away from the remote base. Prior to reaching the town, a second echelon will swing to the south between the Springs and Pueblo and continue, approaching Schriever Air Force Base from the east. Once there, we’ll do the draw out and eliminate tactic before going into the facility.

  “So, in summary, the plan is to secure Whidbey Island Naval Air Station. After that, we’ll begin operations toward Schriever Air Force Base while sending units to the Columbia generating station and Hanford. We’ll then tackle Bangor and figure out the headache of Bremerton. With all three bases, we’ll be able to fuel and rearm the subs, have fuel for the boats, and have a large enough facility for all of our aircraft on an interim basis,” Sully finishes.

  “Okay folks. You can see that we have a busy time ahead of us and it’s important that we do it right; not only with regards to a ticking clock timeline, but also with regard for the safety of our personnel. If the virus is introduced into any part of our forces, well, we only have to look at what happened to the rest of the world. We could sail out of range and stay secure, but we’ll have to go ashore at some point if we’re to survive in the long run. If we wait, we’ll have lost half the continent. Canada is an option, as they only have a few reactors, most of them in the east. Mexico remains an option with only a couple on their eastern seaboard. But, we’ll have lost valuable resources. The viable world will have shrunk considerably. We’re not talking lost for just a few years, but for hundreds, if not thousands. Our best estimates are that the continent won’t be affected by the radiation releases of Europe and Asia. Some of it will make its way to the western shore, but only in low levels. Operation White Horse is our best chance to preserve ourselves. Yes, there will still be millions of infected, but as mentioned previously, the winter will most likely solve the problem in the cold northern climates. We’ll come up with a solution for the rest, but we first have to get a firm foothold ashore while preserving resources. Beginning tomorrow, we won’t have time to think, so now is the time to ask any questions you have,” Gettins states, looking each in attendance in the eye.

  The commanders’ faces focus on him, most shaking their heads in the negative.

  “Very well. Get some rest, as it’s likely to be the last time for a while,” Gettins says.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Strait of Juan De Fuca

  October 15

  Lieutenant Commander Scott Kingsley finishes with his pre-flight checks and checks in with the rest of his flight with a press of the mic button on his throttles.

  “Talon Zero Four,” he calls.

  “Two, Three, Four,” the return calls from his flight come in sequentially. Everyone is ready.

  Kingsley looks down from his cockpit and gives a thumbs up to the plane captain on the deck, indicating that he and the rest of the flight are ready to go. In the controlled chaos of a flight deck under operations, Kingsley watches as a yellow shirt arrives to take charge, the same occurring with the other three aircraft of his flight.

  He never tires of the feeling of the twin turbofans under his hand, the slight vibration of their immense power. The sound of other jets starting up, sitting at idle, or taxiing across the flight deck penetrates his helmet. Even though a stiff wind blows along the flight deck from the carrier traveling at high speed into the wind, the smell of jet exhaust permeates everything. The sounds of the flight deck are overridden by the powering up of aircraft at the catapults as they are thrown into the air, forced into flight velocity.

  Kingsley notes the yellow shirt give him
a thumbs up, effectively taking control of his aircraft.

  “Hands,” Kingsley says to the electronic warfare officer in the seat behind him on the intercom.

  Kingsley shows his hands to the deckhand as an indication that they aren’t anywhere near the controls and presses down on the top of the rudder pedals to engage the brakes. The yellow shirt nods and sweeps his hands to the side, thumbs outward, to tell the other deckhands to remove the chocks and chains. The aircraft has been freed from the deck’s hold.

  At a signal from the yellow shirt, Kingsley nudges the throttles of his F/A 18-E Super Hornet. The aircraft rolls forward. With a press of the rudder pedals, he turns under the guidance of the deckhand. His wingman pulls alongside of him as they roll across the slight pitching of the carrier. Passing from one yellow shirt to another, they arrive at the catapult. They are next in line behind a pair of Super Hornets about to be launched.

  Kingsley, call sign Rawhide, sits at idle with his toes pressing on the brakes. The deck shifts and rolls, the aircraft riding along with it. He thinks back to his earlier days when he was just an ensign. Entering the O’Club while onshore, a small group of lieutenants in his squadron had noticed him.

  “Hey, rancher, over here,” one of them called—a reference to his growing up on a ranch in the Texas panhandle—the empty and nearly empty pitchers on the table attesting to their current state of inebriation.

  Another at the table yelled “Rawhide!” in the manner associated with the old TV series. The others joined in and the call sign had stuck. There had been others, but none had taken hold. That was the way call signs worked. Many were tried until one came around that stuck. He is just thankful that it wasn’t something like “flaps,” “gear,” or something else that indicated a huge mistake. There had been one in his old squadron named “overrun” because he had hit the overrun in front of the runway onshore twice.

  Yeah. It could have been much worse, he thinks, watching as the blast shield rises ahead of him.

  He contemplates how the procedures for launching a strike in the desert aren’t any different than launching one to save the last vestiges of humanity. Today, he’ll be targeting Americans—whether infected or not, they are still that—on home soil. The methods are unchanged; the bombs hanging on pylons under his wing will fall in the same manner. They will indiscriminately kill what they are aimed at. It’s he who chooses whether people will live or die, not the hardware or aircraft. A simple press of the trigger and the bombs will fall, spinning toward the ground. They will explode as programmed, not knowing whether the encased steel hits flesh and bone nor understanding why.

  It’s even easier than that, Kingsley thinks. The aircraft systems can be programmed to drop the hardware when they reach the drop parameters.

  Kingsley has no qualms about what he and the others of the squadron are about to undertake. It’s his job and one he takes seriously, although his antics while ashore might indicate otherwise. He understands that if humankind, and he in particular, are to survive, they must clear out landside bases.

  While crossing the Pacific, he thought about his family a lot. He doesn’t know about the fate of his wife and daughter, but with the lack of communication from any survivors, he can guess. He’s spent more than a few hours in his tiny cabin, staring at their pictures with tears rolling down his cheeks. He and his wife had been having marital problems, mostly his fault he knows, but his eight-year-old daughter holds his heart. During those moments in his cabin, his heart felt like it was being torn into pieces. He didn’t feel like he could go on; he couldn’t possibly feel more grief than he had felt in those moments. He would curl up and sob until there wasn’t any emotion left.

  He feels the pang of his loss gripping his heart, threatening to submerge him.

  Come on, Scott, focus.

  Ahead, the view blurs from exhaust as it spreads around the blast shield, the aircraft on the catapult about to launch. Kingsley hears the roar of an aircraft at military power and then the catapult surging forward, throwing the jet off the deck and into the air. The blast shield begins lowering as the hornet on the second catapult powers up and is launched. It’s his turn.

  The director in charge of the catapult sweeps his arms from his chest outward. Kingsley lowers the wings into place, his wingman at the catapult next to him doing the same. The yellow shirt signals for him to lower the launch bar. Kingsley chuckles, as he does each time, because it looks like the director is flipping him off. Under the direction of the deckhand, Kingsley bumps the throttles and slowly creeps forward, making minute control adjustments in order to align the launch bar with the catapult. Just prior to engaging with the catapult, the director calls for a halt.

  A red shirt gives him a thumbs up, and Kingsley holds up his hands in a cocked gun shape, the EWO in back doing the same. Hand signals from the “Ordie” indicate for the others swarming around the aircraft to arm the weapons slung on the super hornet. Once armed, he refocuses his attention back to the director. Kingsley advances his throttles to roll the last few feet, the nose gear having to ride up and over the catapult. Once in place, the director signals for him to release the brakes, the aircraft squatting into position like a big cat about to strike.

  Control is passed to the shooter, who begins waving his hand over his head in a circular motion. Kingsley runs his throttles up to military power, checks his controls and instruments, leans his head back against the seat, and salutes. The shooter returns the salute, places one hand on the deck, and signals forward.

  Kingsley is pressed back against his seat from the G-forces as the catapult is released. The super hornet quickly picks up speed, the gray of the deck rolling by faster underneath. Nearly instantaneously, the gray gives way to the blue waters of the strait. Kingsley never tires of the rush, except for night launches, which can be disorienting. He pulls up his gear and flaps, setting up a gentle climbing turn away from the carrier’s path. It wouldn’t do to have a failure and eject only to have the behemoth run over him.

  Still in a gentle turn, he levels out, setting up an easier angle for the rest of his flight to close in. Talon 2, his wingman and the one who was on the catapult next to him, slides into place on his wing. Talon 3 and 4 join a couple of minutes later. Together, they climb into an orbital pattern established by combat control. The squadron, Strike Fighter Squadron 115 or VFA 115, establishes itself stacked at different altitudes. Another squadron orbits in the same manner at a different orbital point. Once the helicopters have drawn the infected out, they will be sequenced in to deliver their ordinance.

  Kingsley checks in with combat command and looks down from his position over a series of islands north of the strait. The forested and mountainous slopes of Vancouver Island rise above the waters. From his altitude, he sees the city of Victoria sprawled across the most eastern part of the peninsula. He can’t see anything detailed from his height, but it’s supposedly filled with those who have been infected. As is every city across the world. While monitoring the radios and his flight path, he stares at the beleaguered city, wondering exactly what it must be like. He’s been shown satellite footage of various towns, but hasn’t directly viewed or experienced any of the infected places. His only knowledge is what has come from briefings, and those weren’t pretty.

  The virus supposedly manifested itself across the world all at once after some incubation period. Those who were infected became savage in their pursuit of others, seeking to spread the infection. Population centers were overcome in a matter of hours. He can’t even imagine what that must have been like. Thoughts return to his daughter, and to some extent, his wife.

  Easy, Scott, let’s not venture down that path right now.

  Immediately to the south, he sees the ships of the task force centered on the USS Ronald Reagan. Wakes trail behind the vessels as they provide screening for the large carrier, stripes of white breaking up the blue waters. They give a wide berth to the Reagan as it conducts flight operations, which is difficult in the tight confine
s. The carrier only has room to launch a few aircraft, then turn around and reposition itself. Recoveries will take longer, but hopefully they won’t have to worry about that for much longer if they can secure the naval air station. Out of sight, still on the Pacific outside of the strait, the rest of the fleet sails with the USS Nimitz.

  The sun has barely cleared the long range of the Cascades to the east. The white peak of Mount Baker rises above the shadowed valleys, with Rainier towering majestically to the south. The straits and passageways of the northern waters shimmer in the morning’s rays.

  Some of the time, he and his EWO chat about events, politics, religion, or whatever comes to mind. At other times, like this one, they remain quiet, each reflecting on their own thoughts. The helicopters that are to draw the infected out report in, drawing Kingsley fully back into the cramped cockpit.

  “Sounds like it’s about go time,” Kingsley comments in their open intercom.

  “It’s about time,” his EWO replies.

  The choppers radio the crew coordinating and commanding the strike. They set up flight paths, altitudes, check points, and target coordinates, which are input into the aircraft navigation systems.

  “Talon Zero Four, Reaper,” Kingsley hears over the radio.

  “Reaper, Go for Talon Zero Four,” he responds.

  “Talon Zero Four, you are cleared strike path Alpha, target Whisky Zero One, delivery package Charlie Two. Return present position, angels eight.”

  “Copy Alpha to Whiskey Zero One with Charlie Two. Return present at angels eight,” Kingsley repeats.

  It wasn’t exactly their usual procedure or radio calls, but they’ve had to do this one on the fly. It really wasn’t much different than loitering in a holding pattern overseas, waiting for target information. The call was basically telling his flight which ingress path to follow, which target coordinate they were to strike, with which ordinance, and how many—in this case, they were dropping two cluster bomb units on a clearing to the east of the naval air station and returning to their orbit at twenty thousand feet. The angels’ altitude was established during the mission briefing and all altitudes given over the radio were in reference to this, in order not to give away the exact height. For this strike, angels’ was set at twelve thousand feet.