Erik recruited some more volunteers, male and female, even some older children not yet ready for guard work, for a Construction Team. He envisioned using them to shore up the defenses of the apartment complex. He wanted towers or watch posts or something built so that the people inside the complex could see what was going on outside the complex before what was going on outside got inside. He wanted to beef up the main gate and make sure no one could get in unannounced.
After another hour of talking and making plans and committees and teams and taking volunteers, Erik asked everyone to once again try and think of anything that they might do to make the complex safer. “If you can think of something that will allow us to store water, or find food, anything—let Alfonse or one of his team members know. Even if you think the idea is stupid, let us know. Thinking outside the box might just save our lives, people.”
Erik waited nervously after the close of the meeting, but no one said anything about the absence of Henry and the other families that lived with him in Building 4 as the crowd broke up. It had been recognized and accepted. His decision to exile Henry had set a precedent. Erik wondered how dangerous a precedent he had created.
Building 4 had been abandoned early that afternoon without any fanfare. They totaled only eight, but they were all gone. Henry and his followers simply packed up and drove out the main gate, neither stopping to say goodbye or even give a dirty look. Erik was surprised they had exited so smoothly, actually. He was worried someone would bring up the issue and make a scene at the meeting, but no one said anything.
Maybe no one cares…
U.S.S. THEODORE ROOSEVELT
No Quarter
LIEUTENANT COMMANDER RIGGS was back in the cockpit of his F-35, back in the sky above the Eastern Med looking for trouble. Someone had tried to nuke his carrier, his home away from home. Someone had tried to kill him and his shipmates, his friends, his family. Someone tried to knock the Big Stick out of the water. He took something like that very personal. There was a shooting war between Israel and just about every Arab nation in the Middle East. The Pan-Arab War, it was being called. America had just been dragged into the fight.
“Why is it, we always seem to get pulled into shit like this, Jonsey?” asked Riggs, not bothering to check his language.
“Uh, we?”
“You know, the U.S.? World War I, World War II, hell you could even say Korea, ‘Nam and the Gulf Wars were thrust on us…now this? We didn’t want this fight or any others, but people seem to love picking on us.”
“Well,” said Lieutenant Al Jones, trying his best to imitate the Duke. “Maybe that’s just because, they like ta die.”
Riggs laughed. “Damn, that was pretty good, man.” That was Jones—Jonsey to everyone he considered a friend. The squadron had lost a good wingman in the form of Hawk Three when the wounded F-35 crashed on landing after the nuke strike. Here it was, only fourteen or so hours later and they were on combat patrol, the high altitude watchdog over the F-18 strike element that was screeching in low to hit some poor dumb bastards who were sitting on targets in Egypt. Anything to take the pressure off Israel, besieged on all sides by pissed off Arabs in tanks and planes.
That sobering thought brought him back to reality. Riggs scanned his radar screens and checked the horizon. It was the wee hours of the next morning to him, though it was still ‘night’ because he hadn’t slept yet. The mission was proceeding as planned. No resistance yet. If they met any, they were prepared to plow right on through.
“Where they at?” asked Jonsey. “Blueprint got himself two bandits this afternoon—you see that on the ops board?”
“Yeah. He’s been up twice, though. Maybe we’ll get some tonight,” Riggs replied. “If these jokers get the balls to come back out and play.”
“Hawk Lead this is Hammer Lead, target acquired, we’re starting our run. Give us five more minutes,” squawked into Riggs’ helmet. Somewhere far below America’s armored fist was about to obliterate a few dumbasses that didn’t know when to leave the big dog alone.
“Copy that Hammer, go get some!”
CAPTAIN, WE JUST got word from the strike group, they’re starting their run, now, sir,” said the Comm officer of the watch, in the Combat Information Center on board the U.S.S. Theodore Roosevelt. The hulking carrier was steaming to the north, making a giant loop in the extreme western Mediterranean. Her fighter protection circled high overhead and spread out all over Egypt this night, bringing death with them.
The Captain sipped his coffee and rubbed his lower back. It had been a long day. Communications with the rest of the battlegroup was still scratchy at best. The nuclear missile had fried a lot of circuitry and made a mess out of their nice, smooth running battlegroup. Most of his support ships had been forced to rely on the old World War II standard, the Morse Code light signal for between-ships communication. He still hadn’t been able to contact one of the subs.
The Captain nodded, taking another sip from his coffee. Standard report, didn’t mean anything except that the mission was going according to plan so far.
Another petty officer with a large headset on suddenly jerked upright. He touched the side of his earpiece and frowned. “Sir! Zeus reporting in that there’s a large flight of bandits inbound, coming in from the southwest. Another large group from the west. Multiple contacts, fighters mostly.”
‘Zeus’ was the call-sign for the Northrop Grumman E-2C Hawkeye airborne early warning aircraft flying well to the south of the Theodore Roosevelt. Its powerful dome mounted radar system extended the range of “sight” for the Big Stick and allowed the carrier to have a heads up on what the enemy was planning. It could spot airplanes over 550 kilometers away. Zeus worked perfectly this time—giving the carrier plenty of warning of an impending attack.
“Christ, here we go. Sick CAP on ‘em,” the Captain said. He turned to face his most senior fighter jock, the man in charge of the carrier’s air wing.
“Scramble everything, Rick.”
ZEUS, TO HAWK Lead,”
“Uh oh,” Riggs mumbled. He keyed his mike. “Hawk Lead, go ahead Zeus.”
“Bandits sighted on inbound approach, low altitude surface attack run from the west. They’re goin’ after mamma!”
“Not on my watch!” cried out Jones. Both men strapped on their oxygen masks. “I knew this was too easy…”
“Got the attack vectors, thanks Zeus,” said Riggs, watching the information transferred to his plane from the E-2C appear on his computer screens. He never ceased to be amazed at how fast the ancient Hawkeye could send out the positional information about the enemy to its fighters. In seconds, the Hawk Flight knew where the enemy was, knew they were the closest of all the American forces, and turned to meet the latest threat to their carrier.
“You are clear to engage—good hunting!”
“Roger that, Zeus.” Riggs gripped the throttle and shoved it forward, causing the powerful engine on his F-35 to roar wide open and propel the sleek interceptor past the speed of sound. His computer screen showed that the remaining Lightnings were following suit, forming up on his position. Since it was night, there was no way for him to spot the other Hawks in the vast darkness of the sky and ocean, save for their afterburner glow.
“Hawk Lead to Hammer Lead,” he called out.
“Hammer Lead, we just finished dropping the last of our load—on our way out.”
“Did you get the heads up from Zeus?”
“Roger that, Hawk, save some for us, we’re on our way.” The wing commander for the strike element knew his F-18s wouldn’t be able to fight long—they had used most of their precious fuel carrying the heavy ground-pounding ordinance to target. They had just enough fuel to make it back to the Theodore Roosevelt, with a little to spare. That little to spare was going to get them in a dog fight. The Hornets throttled up and roared off to the north, leaving smoke and burning, gutted buildings in their wake.
ALL WINGS REPORTING in, sir. The Hawks will be first on the scene—Hammer F
light successfully engaged their target and is moving to intercept the southern bandits. CAP is heading for the western bandits. We’ll have two more flights up in about five minutes.”
“Very well,” replied the Captain, any thoughts of sleep now banished from his mind as he stared at the electronic displays in the CIC. Word had been spread of the impending attack through the battlegroup, and the destroyers and frigates were moving into a defensive position around the all important carrier, warming up their defensive systems and waiting.
THE LEAD EGYPTIAN pilot thumbed the radar switch and sought a hard lock on the nearest American ship. He knew he was very likely going to die if he got any closer than the absolute maximum range of his French made AM-39A Exocet missiles, so he was targeting the first ship—looked like a small supply vessel or a destroyer. The radar signature was fuzzy at this distance. He was still a hundred miles out or so, but closing fast, skimming the deck, only about fifty feet off the surface of the choppy ocean.
At about 85 miles out, the warhead on the modified Exocet came to life and locked on the American ship. Without radioing his wingmen, he launched all four of his missiles, shaking the frame of his Mirage 2000 fighter. Seeing the flashes of successful launches, he pulled up hard and brought his fighter in a large circle, intending on getting the hell out of the combat zone. He hadn’t spotted any American aircraft, but was told to expect fighter coverage. Their absence made him more nervous than he would care to admit.
As the French made delta-shaped fighter and his wingmen pulled away, they failed to see the faint glow of roughly twenty inbound American missiles. The deadly AIM-54C Phoenix air-to-air missiles streaked across the night sky, passing the equally deadly Exoset missiles, nearly equal in number going the opposite direction. Launched from over a hundred and fifteen miles away by the rapidly gaining F-35s, the venerable Phoenix missiles tore into the Egyptian anti-ship squadron at speeds in excess of 3,000 miles per hour.
The Egyptian planes were wiped from the sky, almost to a plane, in less than thirty seconds from the time of the first exploding missile. So accurate were the American missiles that only one Egyptian survived, his plane badly mauled by other exploding Phoenix warheads. Seventeen Egyptian Mirage 2000 fighters were erased in the night sky over the Mediterranean Sea before their pilots could react to the warnings from onboard computers of inbound missiles too close and too fast to evade.
High above them, the Egyptian cover squadrons saw with disbelief the decimation of their comrades from as yet unseen or even un-detected enemies. Of the twenty-five planes in the cover squadrons, all of them hit afterburners and streaked forward, seeking blood.
WE GOT ‘EM, all but one!” called out Jones from his Lightning.
“Yeah but they got their missiles away.” Riggs had already warned the battlegroup that inbound anti-ship missiles were launched and proceeding to target. Hopefully the ships defensive systems would take care of the missiles, but there were a lot of Exosets. Hopefully they all weren’t targeted on the Theodore Roosevelt.
At any rate, Riggs told himself as the F-35 blazed a trail through the high thin clouds on its way west, I don’t have time to worry about them. The real fight is about to begin…
CHRIST, IT’S GETTING hot down there,” said the pilot flying Zeus. His copilot grimaced and checked the instruments again. A female voice behind them called out from the radio room.
“Teddy’s gonna get hit…not all the missiles were taken out.” She listened to her headset. “Shit…they’re abandoning one of the destroyers. The Lewis is going down.”
“Turn us around, Stinky,” said the co-pilot with no emotion in his voice. “We gotta start heading back home if we’re going to make day break. This crate don’t fly so fast…”
“I know, I want to keep our eyes open as long as possible for the fighters…”
“Teddy’s hit! One missile…forward flight deck…another hit! Wait a minute…shit!”
“What is it, Mary?” asked the pilot. “What the hell is going on?”
“We’ve lost Comm with the Roosevelt. That second missile must have hit the stack.” There was no other sound other than the usual whirring of fans and electronics and the rushing of air and the roar of the propellers. The plane’s crew was silent. Their home had just been attacked and they—of anyone in the battlegroup they relied on communications more than anyone—had just been cut out of the loop.
“Greg, start plotting us routes to land, I want friendly zones, times, fuel estimates. Mary, you give our flyboys all the info they need to shoot every one of these fuckers out of the sky. Try to reestablish Comm with one of the other ships. Someone’s got to be broadcasting.”
High above the Mediterranean, the lone American plane, an old twin prop intelligence aircraft built when her pilot’s parents were children, did a lazy circle and began to head for home—not knowing if home was still there or not. To the east and west American pilots were using the information provided by the E-2C Hawkeye to eradicate the Egyptian attackers with a vengeance.
No warnings were given, no attempt to scare them off.
‘No Quarter’ was the order.
Every last enemy fighter was to be chased and hunted down.
SARASOTA
Visitors
ERIK SLOWLY WOKE up to a low rumble, like thunder. A gentle rain was spattering on the windows of the bedroom, creating a nice, lulling effect. He struggled to keep a hold on his tenuous grasp of consciousness. When he finally opened his eyes he realized the rumble wasn’t the gentle rolling sound of the storm. No, it was a continuous, throaty roar. He thought for a second, staring at the rivulets of water streaming down the windows. It was dark gray outside, a pre-dawn shower.
He sat bolt upright when he heard the little handheld two way radio squawk next to his head. Alfonse had scrounged up enough spare parts to rig up the charger to a car battery. He was working on setting up solar cells to run the charging station for the six walkie-talkies they had liberated from Stan’s restaurant.
“Motorcycles at the gate! Erik, you read me? Hey, Ted? Anyone??”
“Yeah, read you five-by-five, quit yelling, dammit!” cursed Ted’s sleepy voice. “On my way…”
“I’m coming too. Don’t do anything—just stay hidden, Tom!” Erik said quietly while getting out of bed. Brin stirred but didn’t wake.
Erik was still trying to get his poncho on as he reached the corner of the office building at the gate of Colonial Gardens. The rain was steady enough for a good soaking. In his right hand he clutched his sheathed katana, in his left, the pistol and holster that Ted had given him. He was just about to step around the corner when Ted showed up, splashing water off his face from the run around the pond. He was already fully dressed and armed. Under his Marine issue combat poncho, thick and camouflaged, Ted was comfortably dry. He carried his service shotgun and pistol strapped to his side.
“Motorcycles,” Erik said, tying down the last strap on his sword and blinking the water from his eyes.
“Sounds like a lot of ‘em,” said Ted, straining to hear everything through the muffling rain.
“Shit…you think they’re here to—“
Ted looked at Erik with a grimace on his face. Someone had shouted something but it was undecipherable through the rain and the noise of motorcycle engines revving and roaring.
“Well, let’s check it out, but from inside,” suggested Ted, blinking under the raindrops. Together they entered the rear of the office and moved to the front, dripping water on the floor as they went. They were careful to keep clear of windows so as to not allow whoever it was at the gate to know they were inside.
The night guards that Ted had established for their first shift were still at their posts. Both were lying on the floor by the big front doors, trying to peek over the edge of the window sill without being seen. They had sleeping bags just around the corners from the doors. Food and water containers were spread out between them. The shortwave radio Erik provided for the guards to monitor at ni
ght was still there, though switched off at the moment. They had followed orders exactly.
“Good job guys…” Ted said, putting his hands on their backs. Both jumped.
“Dammit, Ted! You scared the shit out of me!” the older guard complained.
“I’m a Marine, that’s what’s supposed to happen when you see me,” Ted replied with an evil grin. He shrugged off the poncho and tossed it aside with a wet splash on the floor, readying his weapons.
“Listen,” hissed Erik. He waved a hand for silence. “They’re shutting off the bikes.” Erik stuck his head up real quick, took a fast look and ducked down again. In his mind, he counted off the bikes he saw as the water dripped from his poncho. “There’s gotta be ten, twelve people out there on motorcycles, all parked at the gate.” His mind raced on what to do about this obvious threat. A biker gang was something they were decidedly not ready to handle. And in the rain, of all things!
Ted turned his head sideways and slowly raised himself so that only one eye and half his head was visible from the outside, hardly noticeable unless you knew what to look for, and that when it wasn’t raining. In this storm Ted was pretty much invisible. Unfortunately, his vision was fairly restricted as well.
Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) Page 33
