"He bit you!?"
"Like he was a dog or something. Well, not a real bad bite. I'm pretty fast. It was more of a scratch than anything. I kicked his ass across the room for it, but...the others went after Susan and the kids. They said they wanted to..." she glanced at Ted's girls. "With the girls...Erik, they made me so mad I wanted to hurt them. Bad..." she whispered, head on his chest. The tears came back.
"He's gone...they're all gone. Don't worry, it's over..." Erik said with a warmth he didn’t quite feel in his voice.
Crazy son of a bitch bit her. Bit her! What a freaking nutcase.
"Hey! I need help here! See to the children," barked the medic with a voice that cracked like a whip. She had Susan's shirt ripped open to expose what looked to Erik like a nasty gut shot. A few of the other surviving women hovered over the scene, hands over mouths.
Erik glanced up from the top of Brin's head and saw there were also a few men, all guards he had trained and every one of them was wounded. They had already seen to each other's wounds and had set to their weapons. A few peered out windows in an effort to see if the nightmare was really over. One just stared straight ahead, back slumped against the wall and watched the drama unfold over Susan. He was done fighting.
Erik blinked. He suddenly couldn't remember anyone's names. It was as if he were floating behind himself in a dream. Nothing made sense. The fear of losing Brin had vanished so fast when she called to him that it was like he was in jet lag.
Is this it? These are the only survivors? Dear God...where is everyone? Where's Art?
He could see down the hall into the room in which Art Carillion had taken up residence. The door was open, some radio gear strewn about. No sign of their wheelchair bound HAM radio operator. For that matter, Alfonse was gone too.
Erik shook his head to clear it and he and Brin quickly disengaged and grabbed supplies before checking over Ted and Susan's kids. One had a nice gash on his leg where he fell in the rush to get to shelter. The adults had been too busy fighting off the attack to tend to the wounded yet.
Defense came first.
Erik set started to clean Ted's youngest boy's leg. He carefully wrapped it up with a bandage. Inwardly, he marveled at how many wounds he had patched up that day, between the wounded soldiers at the Marina and now Ted's children. It seemed he had lived a lifetime in one day.
"You're gonna be alright...you're very brave, you know that?" said Erik as gently as he could. His hands were red with his own blood and he smeared the nice clean bandage on the boy's leg. "Is that too tight?" he asked. The little towhead shook side to side.
The other children sobbed quietly and clung to each other for support. They were all huddled together in the corner further from the stairwell entrance. Furniture had been piled in front of them to shield them from stray bullets should the fight reach the top floor. Now they used the barricade to hide from the truth that their mother was in mortal danger.
"Cooper!"
"Here!" he replied, facing the stairs, rifle up and waiting for an attacker to try and gain the top floor.
"Get on the horn—we need those ambulances, now," ordered the Lieutenant. "Stupid...stupid...stupid...should've kept them with us..." she muttered to herself as she threw a blood-soaked bandage over her shoulder and applied a fresh one.
"Push harder, dammit, stop that flow!" she growled at her assistant.
"I'm trying," grunted the trooper. He was a grunt, not a nurse. Erik watched the man's clumsy hands, filthy with the grime of battle. The soldier gamely tried to staunch the flow of blood out of Susan. It was dark, dark red. Almost black. Erik shivered. Even he knew that was a bad sign.
Lord....not like this. She deserves to die many years from now in her bed surrounded by grandchildren...not like this in front of her own babies. Please...I know I've asked a lot of you lately, but this is not for me...Erik prayed as he watched Ted. The tough Recon Marine was on edge of the cliff. It was everything he could do to hold on.
"On their way! ETA in five," called out Cooper from the stairs.
"Better make it two!" replied the medic. Cooper relayed the frantic message.
The filthy, scared little boy looked up through the tears that streamed down his face. His little body shook with fear but he controlled his crying long enough to speak. He could see the Medic and her assistant bent over the pale form of his mother. His father slowly rocked back and forth on his heels and held his wife's head. The bandage on Ted's wound was soaked to a dark color as if someone had thrown a glass of merlot at him. Ted's back began to quiver when the medic's voice started getting higher pitched. They had to work fast; too fast for her liking, but they didn't have a choice or the supplies they needed. It was going to be a battlefield patch. Susan's arms slowly dropped to the floor, limp.
"No...no, Susan stay with me. Stay with me!" begged Ted in a soft urgent voice that Erik would never have recognized as belonging to the Marine.
"Mommy?" asked one of the girls. Her eyes were wide open in fear. She stood and reached out an arm. She was too young to know exactly what was happening, but instinct told her it was very, very bad.
Erik felt a little hand squeeze three of his fingers. The big man's eye filled with tears as he looked down at the little boy. He really was a younger, smaller version of Ted, Erik noticed for the hundredth time. The little man looked up at him with red rimmed watery eyes. His eyes were large and very blue.
"Erik, is my mommy gonna die?" the little boy asked in a high, quiet voice between quivering breaths.
Next to him, he heard Brin gasp and put a hand over her mouth. She wrapped her arms around the little boy and held him close. The child still held tight to Erik's three fingers—it was all he could manage to grab in his small hand.
Erik opened his mouth but didn't know what to say.
"Stay with me!" cried Ted. "Please..."
U.S.S. THEORODORE ROOSEVELT
Haze Gray and Under Way
WELL, ADMIRAL, THERE it is…the Rock of Gibraltar.”
“Nothing between us and home now but the open Atlantic,” grunted the old Admiral. He leaned over the railing of the observation deck on the Roosevelt and peer below. Satisfied with the level of activity on the flight deck as crews continued to make sea-repairs, he grunted to himself and turned to face his companion.
“Steady as she goes, Captain. Make your course for Norfolk.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied the Captain. He nodded to a Lieutenant to relay the message to the bridge.
Ahead of the wounded supercarrier, on the gentle swells of the extreme western Mediterranean on this bright day was the Anzio, spearhead of the surface fleet. Still miles out in front further, was the true tip of the spear: the battlegroup’s remaining twin nuclear attack subs. They prowled the deep water, itching for more targets. The little Franco-Spanish fleet had gotten the entire battlegroup spooled up for more combat.
Arrayed around the supercarrier like a pack of sheepdogs were what was left of the battlegroup: the surviving unarmed support vessels, another cruiser like Anzio, and the three destroyers. Together they had cut a wide swath through the enemy off the coast of southern France like a sword and taken minimal casualties. All in all, the Admiral and his command staff figured they were in pretty good shape for the sprint home.
“Any contacts?” asked the Admiral has he glassed the African coast, rolling peacefully by to port, south of the command ship.
“Negative, sir. I think we scared the Spaniards right out of the fight with that last half-assed sortie they tried yesterday. They won’t contest our crossing into the Atlantic.” The Roosevelt’s Captain thought for a moment. “CAP has airspace locked down tight till we’re offshore and out of range any land based fighters. You want me to add to it?”
The Admiral, out of curiosity, aimed his collapsible telescope towards the sky and scanned in silence. He couldn’t see the F-35 Lightnings of Hawk flight or the F-18 Superhornets of Hammer flight, but he knew they were up there, circling like sharks, sniff
ing for blood in the water. Between those two squadrons, the entire battlegroup was protected, 24 hours a day now. The other squadrons could scramble within minutes. An American supercarrier battlegroup, even wounded, was still the single most potent fighting force on the high seas.
And his was going home, no matter the cost. That determination had already wrecked a significant portion of France and Spain’s naval power, days earlier. Another reminder of America’s rule of the high seas had to be dished out the day before when a flight of Spanish jets had tried a last ditch attempt to further wound the Roosevelt. The Admiral suppressed a chuckle. The Spaniards had never even gotten within visual range of the Roosevelt before they were plucked out of the sky by Hawk flight.
“I believe we’ll maintain our status, Captain. I want the other squadrons to maintain high alert and be ready at a moment’s notice. Continue the CAP rotation as is.” The Admiral lowered the spyglass and squinted in the glare of the sun reflecting off the Med. “I think the news casts we were able to pick up give us all the info we need. I don’t see Spain trying anything else.”
“Agreed. I think they just want us to get the hell out of here so they don’t have to try to attack anymore,” the Captain chortled quietly.
The bridge radio squawked to life from its cradle on the gray railing: “Admiral to the bridge, Admiral to the bridge!”
A junior officer rushed up as the Captain held the heavy steel hatch open for the older officer. “Report,” he barked over his shoulder.
The Admiral collapsed his spyglass with a snick-snick-snick and handed the antique to the young lieutenant. He knew the crewed loved the idea of running up the Jolly Roger and the Admiral using a pirate’s spyglass. Moral couldn’t be higher, under the circumstances.
“The Hampton just radioed in contacts to our south, along the Liberian coast. They also picked up scratchy transmissions—“
“Let’s hear it, son,” said the Admiral, impatiently willing his eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness of the command center, the brain of the supercarrier. He made his way forward to the twin heavy seats on a dais looking out over the vast flight deck and the expanse of ocean beyond. Above their heads, speakers in the ceiling let everyone hear the patched through signals from the attack sub.
“—day, mayday! Any United States military assets come in…we are under attack! This is the U.S.S. Coral Sea, requesting immediate assit—“
The Admiral stepped over to a microphone and pointed at the Captain, a signal the younger man well understood. Find them. Provide them cover. Now.
“Coral Sea, come in Coral Sea, this is Theodore Roosevelt, do you read me, son?”
“Thank God!” was the scratchy reply. The voice nearly screamed in relief. The obviously shaken man on the other end of the transmission radioed their coordinates in a shaky voice. “They bottled us up after the attack in the harbor last week. Left us alone for the most part, to lick our wounds. But we couldn’t come ashore because the local warlord got the whole town up in arms against us. Now they’re just trying to finish us off. Just a bunch of pirates but we’re—“
“Don’t worry son…I have help on the way. Just hang tight, keep your heads down and keep quiet. No sense giving away details. This channel is not secure. Understand, sailor?”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
LIEUTENANT COMMANDER RIGGS led Hawk flight over the remnants of the Marine Corps amphibious carriers, holed up in the small Liberian harbor. From his view, screaming in at 10,000 feet, the ramshackle enemy flotilla looked like toy boats blockading the mortally wounded U.S. vessels.
“Coral Sea, Coral Sea, do you read me, this is Hawk Lead,” he called out from the cockpit of his F-35 Lightning II.
“Roger that, Hawk Lead, thanks for the assist.”
Riggs grinned behind his oxygen mask as he tipped his stealth fighter over and began to vector in from the north. “Looks like they’re trying to move in tight.”
“Affirmative, we’ve been able to hold our own, but now they’re sending in zodiacs filled with explosives. Fuckin’ suicide bombers!”
Riggs could tell by the lack of return fire and the proximity of the unarmed little inflatable boats to the larger ships that the Americans were extremely low on ammo, if not out. There was no other excuse for letting the scum of the water get that close to your ship.
“Just keep your heads down and prepare for evac. We’re comin’ in hot.” To his squadron he called out, “All right, boys, you know the drill. Spearhead, on me, keep it loose. Call your shots. We don’t want to waste any missiles on these floating trash heaps.”
“Let the turkey shoot begin!” whooped one of the other Hawks.
Riggs checked his mirrors and saw his flight spread out behind him to the left and right, wings wobbling only a little with the delicate maneuver. As they descended down through 5,000 feet and a thin patch of clouds he called out, “Light ‘em up, Hawks! Let’s show these jarheads how we do it in the Navy!”
“There must be sixty or seventy targets down there!” another pilot announced.
“Fox one!” called out Riggs. A chorus of missile launches filled his headsets. The deadly rain shot forward, their smoke trails looking for all the world like lances as they sought tiny targets on the water far below.
Missiles continued to streak across the late afternoon sky. The first explosion puffed to life on the surface of the water. “Got one!” called out Riggs’ wingman.
The third world flotilla opened up with random and ineffective AAA: AK-47s, pistols, a few mounted .50 caliber machine guns. The spray of small arms fire was impressive in its impotence to defend against the lethal state-of-the-art American warbirds. The Lightnings streaked ahead, untouched over and past their targets. The little gunboats exploded like firecrackers as the seemingly unending cascade of missiles rained down on the pirate blockade.
Riggs risked a low pass to get a better look at the beached Coral Sea. It dwarfed the attacking gunboats. Even run aground and on her side, the amphibious carrier still looked dangerous.
He swooped over a gunboat that looked like it had been put together from six or so different boats just as a missile hit it amidships. The explosion was impressive and rocked the Lightning as he made a pass up the starboard side of the carrier. Marines in battle fatigues cheered and raised weapons along the tilted and torn flight deck. He saw the main hanger was mostly wreckage, bits of Harrier jumpjets and hardware were strewn out in the shallow water of the harbor among the support vessels that had tried to form a protective wall for the disabled carrier. He could see the firefight as the guns on the smaller vessels engaged the enemy flotilla at point blank range to devastating effect.
The little gunboats and pirate skiffs were quickly closing the distance to their quarry. Riggs didn’t like the odds that gave, when his missiles slammed into their targets, practically on top of the besieged Americans. He rolled hard into a bank around the battle, roaring out over the harbor town. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw an explosion—one of the support vessels had been rammed with a zodiac loaded with explosives. Its hull ruptured, the support vessel nearly lifted out of the water in a massive fireball.
“Shit!” he called out, watching pirates get knocked off their boats by the shockwave from the death of the American ship. “Hawk Lead, Hawk Flight,” he said, grunting from a high-gee turn to get back into the fray. “Watch it, guys, the port is crawling with bad guys. They’re truckin’ ‘em in. They’re too close now for missiles—switch to guns and start your strafing runs!”
Something down below in the spinning view of shanties and dilapidated coastal warehouses caught Riggs’ eye as he looped out over the city, heading for the water. He ignored his squadron’s chatter as they eagerly lanced through the hapless blockade.
There. Two convoys of trucks forking in towards the coast…oh shit. His onboard early warning system squawked to life the instant he saw a flash and smoke trail in the warren of crowded streets below.
“SAM launch! Northwest corner and
southeast corner of the port—“ he called out and threw his fighter into a gut-churning evasive spiral.
“What? I got nothing on active search…” another pilot radioed.
“Stingers! Handheld missile launch, southeast of the harbor!” crackled the voice of Riggs’ wingman. “Target locked, fox two!”
“Taking fire—“ someone called out with panic in his voice.
“Hawk Lead, you got a tail!”
“Can’t see it,” Riggs grunted, ignoring the shrieks of warning from his jet’s computer.
“Bank port…now!” called Jonesy, screaming in between his commanding officer and the missile. Riggs saw a flash out of the corner of his eye as the stinger missile found Jonesy’s flare. The two jets turn in tandem and bore down on the SAM site from opposite directions. They fired missiles and passed belly-to-belly.
“Wooaaah! That got ‘im!” called out Jonesy as he turned towards the sea battle once more, another target already in sight.
Riggs hit the deck and roared through the smoke to strafe what was left of the SAM site. Men ran everywhere as vehicles exploded in Riggs’ path.
“Hawk Lead, Hammer Lead. Anything left for us?” came over Riggs helmet. He grinned as he saw a fresh wave of American jets streak into the maelstrom of destruction from the north. Reinforcements had arrived.
Poor bastards won’t know what hit ‘em. Maybe next time they won’t pick a fight they don’t have any business watching, let alone fighting. Out loud, Riggs replied, “You bet, Sledgehammer. There’s another SAM site, southeast corner of the harbor—looks like they’re getting reinforced from the east.”
“Copy that,” replied Sledgehammer. Riggs wobbled his wings in salute as he headed out to sea, past Hammer Flight, hell bent on destruction.
Once Riggs was satisfied resistance had been crushed, he circled the crippled amphibious carrier one more time through the smoke of dozens of burning enemy boats. “Nest, Hawk Lead,” he said. “The road’s clear for evac, over.”
Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) Page 65
