“That’s not what Ambassador Allan is telling me. He’s reporting from The Hague that he thinks the E.U. and the antagonists in the U.N. have been preparing for this. He sees it akin to our invasion plans for Canada, drafted back in the ‘50s. It’s like a contingency plan that sits around and is in place just in case…Mr. President, I think this is going to happen in less than a month. I’m convinced that they’ve had this ready to go for a long time.”
“Sir, either way, that’s plenty of time to get our forces home and dig ‘em in,” said SecDef’s image.
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs nodded in agreement from his location at a remote Air Force Base in the west. “We’ve got our special forces already boarding planes. They should be here in less than thirty-six hours. The main line troops will take longer, because they were spread all over Iraq and Syria, but say three weeks to a month to get damn near all of ‘em home. We can have the bulk of our Marines home by the end of the week. We can get most of the armor and mechanized infantry out on C-17s, but the bigger stuff’ll have to be shipped. That’ll take a few weeks.”
“So, bottom line, how long until we’re ready?” asked the President.
“We can be fighting ready with 60-75% combat strength in a few weeks. I give it a month, month and a half for total strength. You want to be ready for just about anything? I’d say two months on the outside. Either way, we’ll be ready and waiting before the Blue Bonnets get close.”
THE COMBINED SAUDI-Jordanian army marched it’s way west, heading towards Israel. Hundreds of tanks and armored vehicles lead the way. The infantry was spread out over a few miles in different waves. The Saudi Air Force sent up American made F-16s from the abandoned USAF base in Riyadh to initiate the first strike at dawn.
On the western border between Israel and Egypt, the Egyptians massed their forces and pushed east. The two armies had planned on meeting somewhere south of Jerusalem, combining and crushing all before them. If everything went as planned, the Syrians, reinforced by Iranian commandos, would move down from the north and the great Army of Islam would meet in the middle of the besieged Jewish State.
About half an hour before dawn, the first elements from Saudi Arabia and Jordan approached the base of the mountains on the eastern flank of Israel. The Israeli PM tried one last frantic call to the Saudis to call off the invasion and was rebuffed and told to pray.
MISSILE LAUNCH DETECTED! called out the officer of the watch at NORAD’s command center.
“Confirm!” rang out the voice of another Air Force officer, checking his own monitor. “I show seven…no, eight—wait, now it’s nine new contacts in the air and heading west out of Iran.”
The officer of watch yanked up the phone that linked him with the base CO’s office. Someone was always on duty, whether it was NORAD’s commanding officer or a subordinate for just such a situation. And when the President was ‘in residence’ you pulled long shifts.
“Munson,” came the sleepy voice on the other end.
“Sir, this is Control. We’re targeting multiple ballistic missile launches from Iran. The missiles are approaching sub-orbital velocity and heading west. Target is unknown at this time, but the vectors are showing the missiles will have orbital velocity if they keep burning at this rate, sir.”
“This confirmed?”
“Yes, sir,” said the nervous Major. Ballistic missiles launched from a rogue state that was known to harbor terrorists and labeled one of the axis of evil—
The phone in his hand cut off the Major’s thoughts, “Very well, keep tracking them, I’m on my way. I want targets and probabilities by the time I get down there. I need to brief the President.”
THE SECURED PHONE on the President’s desk in the War Room rang with an eerie buzz. The leader of the free world glanced at his combined virtual-cabinet and snatched up the receiver.
“The Israeli Prime Minister holding for you, Mr. President.”
“Very well, patch him through,” said the President in a voice calmer than he felt. The President watched as the image of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff suddenly turned and was handed a phone of his own. Likewise the Commandant of the Marines was handed a phone by someone off-screen.
“Mr. President, the invasion has begun! The Arabs have crossed our borders—I am ordering my forces to engage the enemy. We are declaring a state of war and as such I formally request your country’s military assistance per our treaties.”
The Secretary of Defense’s image was handed a slip of paper from someone outside the view of the camera. He scanned it, eyebrows crawling up his forehead. An aide suddenly stepped up to the President and handed him a piece of paper.
“Ben—hang on,” he said to the phone, ignoring the screams of protest that now was not the time to put him on hold. To the SecDef, with the receiver covered with his other hand, the President asked, “Is this confirmed?”
“Yes sir. It just came in to me from NORAD.”
The President looked at the full-bird Colonel who had just stepped into the room and nodded. “Yes sir, I just came from the situation room myself. It’s for real, Mr. President.”
“Well, that settles it then.” He took his hand off the receiver. “Ben, I’ve just been informed that Iran has launched nine ballistic missiles and they’re heading west. We think they may be targeting you.”
“I know! I’m reading a report that says the same thing. We are firing up our anti-missile systems right now. Mr. President, I am going to authorize the use of nuclear force if these missiles are carrying what I fear they are.” The Israeli PM abruptly hung up the phone.
“Shit!” the President said. He slammed the receiver down on his end. He turned to the monitor depicting the pallid face of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.
“The Iranians just launched some missiles against the Israelis and the Arab armies have crossed the border. Get the word out to our carriers in the area to assist the Israelis.”
“Sir, assist how?”
The President drummed his fingers on the highly polished conference table, the dreaded moment having finally arrived. It was do or die time. The next words out of his mouth would determine the fate of millions. Without U.S. support, the Israelis would fall to overwhelming numbers, unless they used nuclear weapons. If the U.S. helped, nukes might not be necessary. Then again, if the Iranians are sending nukes towards Israel, it would all be over in about five minutes anyway.
“Tim?”
“I tried to contact the Saudis just now—to tell them what you asked me to, but they…ah…insulted my mother and my dog…and told me they would no longer abide by our rules.” The Secretary of State shrugged with an angry frown. “Our ambassador was expelled from Saudi Arabia. The Ambassador to Egypt has disappeared. I’ve got people trying to contact her, but we’re not getting anything. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
“That’s it. I’ve had it with these assholes.” The President looked back to the waiting commanders of the Armed Forces of the United States.
“Tell our carriers to take the gloves off. They are hereby authorized to seek out Egyptian, Syrian, Jordanian or Saudi targets inside Israeli borders and exterminate with extreme prejudice. Any of these Arab assholes so much as fart in our direction, I want you to blast the sonsabitches straight to Hell. Have ‘em coordinate with Tel Aviv. I want a full court press, gentlemen.”
SIR, ONE OF the missiles has just changed its vector. It’s going to land somewhere in northern Iraq,” reported the officer of the watch to General Munson. They were all watching the same giant digital displays on the far wall deep in the heart of the North American Air Defense Command Center. It showed a detailed map of the world, highlighting the trails of the nine rockets from their launch in Iran towards the west. Sure enough, one of the little blips snaked a little south and became an ‘X’, signaling that the missile had impacted the surface and stopped. Another blip changed direction and headed southwest.
A commotion at the rear of the theater-like room got
General Munson’s attention. He turned in irritation to see the Commander in Chief of the United States and his entourage march into his situation room like a conquering hero. His irritation turned into annoyance.,
“That one’s not going to hit Israel…looks like another dud. Any reports as to what it was carrying?” asked the President, coming up next to General Munson and pointing at the stray line sticking out of Iran.
“Negative on fallout readings detected from our monitoring stations, sir. But that could mean they were just too small…” offered a Lieutenant sitting just to the left of the group of men.
“Delta is changing vector,” someone announced behind a computer station. On the main screen, one of the colored lines suddenly veered course. Its altitude was displayed in feet and was evident to anyone who cared to look that the missile couldn’t possibly hit Israel. It was thousands of feet above the tiny Jewish nation and holding altitude. Israel was not its target.
“My God, it’s heading for the Med,” one of the Colonels gasped.
U.S.S.
THEODORE ROOSEVELT
The Big Stick
WHOA, HEY, WHAT the hell is going on here?” asked the pilot of the F-35C Lightning II patrolling the skies on the western edge of Israeli airspace. His threat warning indicator had just come to life indicating someone was trying targeting his fifth generation fighter aircraft with air-to-air missiles. “What the hell are those Egyptians doing?”
His wingman spotted it at the same time. “Comin’ out of the southwest, no lock…it’s that Egyptian patrol we spotted an hour ago. Pesky bastards…I got ‘em tagged, man.”
“This is Navy One-One-Niner to Egyptian Mirage flight. You are targeting United States Naval aircraft—cease and desist. I repeat, cease your targeting of U.S. Naval aircraft,” said the calm but stern voice of Lieutenant Commander Riggs. Fully aware of the situation at home and here in the eastern Med, he wasn’t about to let something that could be just a prank turn into an event that triggers a war. He gave the Egyptians a few seconds to acknowledge, but they were silent.
“Still trackin’ us…” announced his wingman over the radio.
Riggs glanced out the starboard side of his sleek aircraft to take a look at his wingman’s plane. The F-35C Lightning II was a handsome bird, he had to admit. He never got tired of flying it.
“This is Hawk One to Nest, Hawk One to Nest…we are being targeted by Egyptian bogeys, repeat, we are being actively targeted by Egyptian air—“
The beeping tone from the alarm suddenly went into an angry growl and grew in volume. His wingman saw it too and called out, “Shit! They got lock. I don’t know how, but they got lock!”
Without replying, the Riggs dropped the nearly empty external fuel tanks and sent the single engine Lightning II into a wild maneuver designed to throw off an enemy trying to attain missile lock. It worked in a matter of seconds as the warning tone returned to the calmer beeping of an active target acquisition attempt.
“Nest, Hawk One, please advise!”
The crackly response came back, “Hawk, Nest. You are to avoid contact.”
GODDAMN EGYPTIANS, GRUMBLED the Admiral in command of the U.S.S. Roosevelt battlegroup. He stood in the massive aircraft carrier’s Combat Information Center, observing the course of both the American flight of F-35s and the Egyptian Air Force Mirages.
“Admiral, we just received new orders,” said the Captain of the huge vessel. He handed the printout to the Admiral. The message came directly from the Commander In Chief of the Atlantic Fleet, to which, despite the fact that it was in the Mediterranean, the Roosevelt belonged.
The Admiral read the printout twice to be certain. He grinned. “’Bout Goddamn time. Captain, sound general quarters and alert the battlegroup.”
“Hawk Two to Nest, we are taking enemy fire! Repeat, the Egyptians just launched a missile at us!” came over the command center’s speakers.
HAWK ONE, NEST. New orders—you are authorized to engage the Egyptians, repeat, you are authorized to engage—good hunting!” squawked in Riggs’ headset.
“Finally,” grunted the Riggs as he spun the Lightning around again looking for the errant Egyptian missile that had just streaked by. He didn’t want that thing coming about and biting him in the ass.
“Hawk Lead to Hawk Flight, let’s take these bastards out of the sky,” called out Riggs. He pulled back hard on the controls and spun the plane around to face the enemy. Now it was his turn. He flipped the switch to activate his missile systems and their powerful search radar.
“Hawk Four, that’s affirmative, targeting now.”
“Hawk Two, roger that.”
“Hawk Three, copy.”
“Missiles hot and locked…target acquired…and locked!” reported his wingman. Riggs’ own AIM-9M Sidewinder missiles infrared targeting systems sought out and found the Egyptian fighters heat signature.
“Fox-one!” he called out as he pressed the trigger and one of the Lightning’s nine and a half foot Sidewinder missiles leaped from its internal port and streaked towards its destiny with the French-made Mirage fighter leading a ribbon of smoke.
“Fox-one!” called out another American fighter.
“Missile away!” radioed Hawk Three.
“Switching targets,” said Riggs, adjusting the path of his jet so he could lock onto another Egyptian target, still some eight miles away.
“They’re looking for a lock…” warned his wingman. Riggs checked his own threat assessment screen. The warning lights lit up again.
“They’ve locked on again—going evasive,” said the voice of one of the fighter pilots. Riggs could see out the canopy one of the other Lightnings, perhaps two miles away to his west, suddenly swerve to port and dive for the ocean.
“Missile inbound—missile inbound!” reported Riggs’ wingman, Lieutenant Al Jones, his voice going up in pitch.
“Fox-two…” came the voice of the pilot of Hawk Two. Another of the famous Sidewinders streaked off to the south, heading for the Egyptian planes
“Whoo-hooooo! Got the bastard!” cried out Hawk Three. “Splash one Mirage. Okay boys, we got five left.”
“Splash two! Reaper’s in the house!”
“Target locked….Fox-two!” said Riggs, squeezing the missile trigger again. There was a flash of smoke and the plane shuddered when the missile jumped clear of his plane.
“Splash three—“ called out Jones.
The exploding Egyptian fighters were just coming into visual range. They were painted to blend in with the sky and were hard to pick out from the clouds, but the little fireballs that signaled a dead Egyptian fighter were easy to pick out. The two groups of fighters, one American made, the other French, raced towards each other. In less than a minute, both flights of fighters were too close for missiles. The air battle became a dog-fight.
The Lightnings, propelled by more thrust capability than the French Mirage fighters, were the more powerful fighter. They were newer—5th Generation fighters—and came packaged with all the bells and whistles that only a Superpower could afford. However, the Mirages were lighter and more agile, offering a balance to the speed and technology of the American planes.
However, the quality of the respective pilots was incomparable. The Americans were trained to be the best in the world and kept a constant edge on their skills. The Egyptians had only been flying the Mirage for twenty years or so off and on. They were good, but not great. This day, they weren’t even adequate.
The fact that these pilots were fighting over the Mediterranean Sea only added to the advantage held by the Americans. The Egyptians were flat out not comfortable being that far out to sea. They were forced out over the unfamiliar waters as a diversion only. They were expendable. The Lightning Riders—as they so fondly called each other—were Naval Aviators. They weren’t just pilots, and they were perfectly at home over open water.
As a result, three more Egyptians were plucked from the sky like ripe oranges in quick succession as the odds gr
ew longer and longer. In minutes, it was down to one on four.
In less than ten minutes, the first air battle of the new unnamed war was over. All six Egyptian fighters had been blasted from the sky and only one American plane had been damaged. An Egyptian fighter pilot had gotten a lucky shot with his on-board machine gun, strafing the starboard wing on Hawk Three’s Lightning.
“Did we just start a war?” The Americans had dropped back to subsonic speeds to keep in proximity with their wounded comrade.
“Damn if I know, Jonesy,” replied Riggs. He unstrapped his oxygen mask and let his breathing rate return to normal as he scanned the horizon for the carrier. When he landed he’d be debriefed and he couldn’t wait to get some answers of his own as to just what the hell was going on.
CAPTAIN, I’M PICKING up multiple bogeys, fast moving…”
“What are they?” asked the Captain of the U.S.S. Roosevelt, still in the CIC.
“This profile matches ballistic missiles, sir,” replied the petty officer, watching the screen in front of him. “Sir, they’re gonna hit Israel, but one’s heading out towards the Med. Sir, it’s gonna be close.”
The Captain snatched up the nearest intra-ship microphone. “Admiral, we’ve got to warn the battlegroup—“
“Go ahead, but it’s too late,” said the grizzled old Admiral, watching the radar returns.
He was right of course, the Captain could see. Undaunted, he began the frantic message sent out to the little fleet the Roosevelt spearheaded. He thought how pointless the warning was as he was speaking. What could any of the massive ships do to avoid a ballistic missile that may or may not be carrying nuclear warheads? The Roosevelt took miles to turn around. He grimaced and put the microphone down. May as well go stand on the flight deck and piss in the wind for all the good it’ll do. They were had.
Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) Page 31
