“Sir, it looks like there is some serious tension building in the South China Sea. The Chinese seem to have a bee in their bonnet. If everyone’s not careful, we could be on the verge of a shooting war.”
“What’s happening?”
“It seems the Chinese are aggressively trying to enforce a ‘safety zone’ around their armada of ships. In the past, America always yielded to the Chinese rather than stand our ground…”
“Yielded, Jim? You mean we’ve always backed down?”
“Yes, sir. Ever since the Chinese started developing and weaponizing the contested island chains, successive administrations have turned a blind eye to Beijing’s actions.”
“And so COMSEVENTHFLT is looking for direction?”
“Yes, sir.”
Patrick Austin thrust his hands into his pockets and paced the room, his shoulders hunched, all his attention concentrated. He stopped suddenly in mid-stride.
“Order the Seventh Fleet to DefCon 1,” POTUS decided. “There will be no backing down. Not this time – not ever again.”
103RD ROCKET BRIGADE
ULAN-UDE
NORTH OF MONGOLIA
The Missile Battery had been located in a desolate featureless valley twenty-five kilometres northwest of Ulan-Ude, surrounded by miles of uninterrupted flat terrain in every direction. The site for the Rocket Brigade’s headquarters was large compared to other similar sites maintained by the Russians, and was protected by miles of high wire perimeter fencing, a sophisticated network of security cameras, and a dedicated company of MVD Internal Troops on twenty-four hour guard duty.
Such security measures were both fitting and necessary; the 103rd was armed with Russia’s mobile Iskander ballistic missile system, capable of delivering thermonuclear warheads.
The main building on the base was an unremarkable collection of non-descript offices in a sprawling one-story grey concrete block. Beneath the Guard Force Ops Room, where the security systems for the base were monitored, was concealed a reinforced bunker that housed the nuclear command and control room. It was the beating heart of the base – and included sophisticated communications and satellite monitoring equipment not standard to all such military installations.
Rocket Brigade Commander, Colonel Maksim Pevtsov, could not remember the last time he had seen daylight or breathed fresh air. Since the outbreak of the worldwide epidemic, he had been living underground; the base placed on perpetual high alert. Now he was pallid and haggard. He glimpsed his reflection in the small bathroom mirror and balked. He looked like he had been bled from the jugular.
When the Colonel stepped back into the control center, his second-in-command, Major Rodchenko, stood stiff to attention by a communications console. Pevtsov sensed, by the Major’s flushed expression, that something significant had occurred in his brief absence.
“Comrade Colonel, we have just received orders from Operational-Strategic Command Eastern Military District,” Rodchenko’s voice wavered. “A nuclear strike has been authorised against the infected.”
Colonel Pevtsov balked. “Have these orders been confirmed?”
“We are awaiting verification now, Colonel. But they appear to be legitimate. A Major-General of the 12th GU MO has also made contact to arrange the release, transportation, and delivery of the required nuclear warheads.”
“Yebena mat’ – holy shit!” Pevtsov croaked.
Chapter 13:
USS BLUE RIDGE (LCC-19)
SOUTH CHINA SEA
Vice Admiral Archie ‘Bunker’ Duggan read the CRITIC message that had come via the White House and blew out his cheeks, contemplative and grim.
As COMSEVENTHFLT, Duggan was responsible for the safety and operation of every US warship in the Seventh Fleet Area of Responsibility, which included the entire South China Sea. He had a sudden sense that he was standing on the precipice of a pivotal moment in world events.
It was an uncomfortable responsibility; one Archie Duggan had spent his entire career preparing for, but one he had never seriously contemplated – until this instant. He sensed, ominously, that his long and distinguished career of achievement would count for little if he failed his Fleet in this critical moment. The US Navy was notoriously unforgiving of fiasco.
Duggan was fifty-five years old, and had spent all his adult life in the Navy, rising through the ranks after an inauspicious beginning in the Aviation Reserve Officer Candidate Program in the early 1980’s. From those humble beginnings he had forged an illustrious career leading several attack squadrons before commanding one of America’s Carrier Strike Groups. He was a lean, tall man with a wiry frame and sailor’s face; weathered, tanned and wrinkled by endless years at sea.
Duggan flicked a glance sideways. Blue Ridge’s Executive Officer stood hovering anxiously by his shoulder. The Fleet Commander passed across the message.
“Alert every ship in the fleet immediately, XO,” Archie Duggan’s voice sounded tight with new tension. “By order of the President and the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Fleet is now officially at DefCon 1. Maximum readiness: all forces ready for combat – nuclear war imminent or likely. If the Chinese come close, or threaten attack, we open fire and defend ourselves.”
*
“Orders from COMSEVENTHFLT, sir. It’s getting real serious,” Guy Prince, Executive Officer aboard USS Hacksaw, handed the flimsy message over. His face was pale, his body racked with rising tension.
Commander Tim Benbow arched his eyebrows as he read. He handed the message back to his XO without a word and reached for a phone on the bridge. He flipped a switch to speak on the ship’s 1-MC address system.
“General announcing. This is the captain speaking.
“Seventh Fleet has been ordered to DefCon 1. As of this moment we are authorized to defend ourselves and to protect the Fleet with all means at our disposal.”
Benbow disconnected the line and dropped the phone back into its cradle. For a moment Commander and XO locked eyes, and there was a silent exchange of ominous foreboding between the two men. Unbidden, a quote from a Hollywood submarine movie flashed across Guy Prince’s mind.
“You don’t put on a condom unless you’re ready to fuck.”
That was how this scenario felt to Prince: the world was hurtling towards a crisis, and USS Hacksaw was caught right in the middle of history.
Suddenly a shrill voice from the destroyer’s Combat Information Center tore the tense silence apart.
“Bridge, CIC,” said the Tactical Action Officer into his headset. “Holy shit, Captain! There are two of them, sir. Two Chinese destroyers. Repeat two Chinese destroyers. The second one just appeared. First one bears 357 degrees true at twenty-five nautical miles and the second one bears 250 degrees true at thirty nautical miles.”
Benbow lunged for the bridge’s radar repeater that echoed the display monitor in the ship’s CIC and cursed bitterly.
“TAO, evaluate the new contact.”
“It’s another Luyang II-class destroyer, sir. She’s just lit off her weapons and radar systems,” the TAO said in a flustered blurt. The TAO was the man responsible for fighting the ship’s lethal array of weapon systems, operating from the dimly-lit, blue-glowing confines of the Combat Information Center on the main deck of the ship.
Benbow balled his fists and thrust out his jaw, tightening his lips. Alarm washed over his mind in dark waves. He turned to Guy Prince, his voice a fraud of unnatural calm, but his eyes haunted with worry.
“XO, sound General Quarters.”
TRUMAN HALL (US NATO AMBASSADOR’S RESIDENCE)
BRUSSELS
To an unsuspecting observer, the two men and the well-dressed woman might have looked like middle-aged tourists as they strolled through the manicured and imaginative gardens of Truman Hall.
The US Ambassador’s residence was a traditional Flemish country estate that had been built in the 1960’s; an elegant architectural triumph of brick, stone and slate roof dormers set in the Belgian countryside.
But
it was the extensive landscaped gardens that were the true feature of the estate, created with an artist’s eye to dazzle and delight, and featuring discreet cobbled paths that meandered through roses, honeysuckles, wisteria and hydrangeas.
It was a place of peaceful contemplation – and a refuge for discreet negotiation.
“The Germans? They’re the biggest obstacle, right?”
“Yes,” Jeremy Farthingdon agreed. He was the British Ambassador to NATO – a grey-haired man with a long face and a permanently sleepy appearance that belied a sharp incisive mind. “They’ve been fractious about anything to do with military action in the past, especially when it comes to issues like the Balkans. Maybe they will be more willing to look at a military option this time, given the gravity of the situation.”
The man walking beside Farthingdon nodded. He was the French Ambassador, dressed in a stylish expensive suit that made the Englishman’s cardigan and trouser ensemble look positively shabby. Pierre Delcoise had dark, intense eyes and an anvil jaw that gave him an air of arrogance. He was a career diplomat who understood European politics better than most.
“I tend to agree with Jeremy,” Delcoise clasped his hands behind his back and studied the ground in deep thought as the trio wandered past tall trees. “Normally, the Germans would not budge. They are a stubborn people – but this is something that not even they can ignore. If we present the issues in the right way, then I believe they will vote for united action. The trick with the Germans is not to bully them. They must be prodded very gently.”
Virginia Clayton nodded. “Will you talk to our friends in Berlin, Pierre? We need them first. They’re the biggest domino. If they fall into line, where are the other objections likely to come from?”
“That depends on your government, Madam Secretary,” Farthingdon made a polite apologetic face to soften the bluntness of his comment. “Most of the smaller NATO members are asking themselves what the United States is going to do about defending Europe. A great deal depends on your lead.”
Virginia stopped suddenly to give her words greater import. “The President is absolutely adamant,” she said. “The United States stands with her European allies in this crisis. Every single American soldier, tank and aircraft currently in Europe is at NATO’s disposal and will be committed to defense against the infected.”
“And what about troops posted elsewhere around the world?”
“They have their own fights, Jeremy. Our troops died alongside our South Korean allies in the suburbs of Seoul, and they died fighting to defend Japan to the last man and woman. No one can question America’s commitment to this terrible crisis. But it is impossible logistically to arrange for reinforcements to be transported from America in the few days we have remaining to us.”
Pierre Delcoise was less discerning than his English counterpart. He made a face that could have been veiled contempt. “This is reassuring to hear,” he began. “But Madam Secretary, those of us who understand such things also know that while what you say is true, the opposite is also true. It would be impossible for America to evacuate your aircraft, soldiers and tanks in the few days remaining. Yes?”
Virginia smiled thinly to concede the point. The French Ambassador went on. “And so your steadfast support of Europe’s plight is not so much a matter of loyalty as it is a lack of options, perhaps?”
“You can view America’s loyalty to Europe through any window you wish, Pierre,” she kept her voice civil. “But the picture is the same. America’s troops, tanks and aircraft will be at the forefront of the fight. The question is not about our commitment, it is about our NATO partners sharing our desire to use military force to defend Western Europe. After all this is your homeland, not ours.”
“Touché,” the French Ambassador had bared his teeth just enough to make his point. Now he smiled, and once again became the charming and urbane politician.
“The Italians and Greeks worry me a little,” Jeremy Farthingdon had felt decidedly uncomfortable watching the barbed exchange. Now he sought to deflect any lingering irritation by re-focusing attention on the real matter at hand; applying behind-the-scenes political pressure on those rebellious countries that might block the consensus vote the NAC needed to fight a war.
“The bloody Italians are all over the place and the Greeks change government more often than a normal man changes his underclothes. It’s hard to know which way they’ll lean.”
“How do we prop up their support?”
Farthingdon looked vexed and stared off into space as though the answer might be written in the sky. Finally he frowned. “Strangely, the Turkish seem to have some leverage with the Italians,” he said. “I can’t for the life of me tell you why, but there is a rapport there.”
“It might have something to do with the fact that the Italian Ambassador is a rather striking woman…” the Frenchman noted with an arched eyebrow and a foxy smirk.
“Quite,” Farthingdon frowned. The implication was mildly disconcerting but stranger things were commonplace in the world of geopolitics. “Either way, Turkey might be the lever we need.”
“And where does Turkey stand?”
“We’ve certainly had our issues in the past,” the British Ambassador understated. “Turkey is NATO’s erratic wild child. They positively hate the Greeks, but that dates back to Ankara’s animosity over the old independence wars and conflicting issues in the Aegean over the extent of territorial waters and national airspaces. The Turkish are problematic and normally I’d be wary about relying on them – but in this case I think they’ll be wholeheartedly behind military action. They’re immediate survival depends on it.”
NATO had always been a loose and troubled alliance. In the early years of formation the member countries had a common feared cause – the Soviet Union. The threat of communist expansionism had been the glue that had bound the allies together. In the years that followed the demise of the Soviet menace, NATO struggled through a period of history to justify its existence and expense. The rise of Russia from the Soviet ashes had reawakened old fears… but not everyone in Europe was alert. The alliance worked best when the danger was imminent, overwhelming and undeniable. The NK Plague was the peril that could galvanize unified resistance and overcome traditional rifts.
Virginia Clayton reached a decorative stone bridge across a stream and stopped walking. The weather had turned cold. She shivered.
“I urge you both to use every means at your disposal to alarm and unify the member governments,” she gave a brief, troubled smile. “If you think a phone call from the President will make the difference, I’ll arrange it. This plague cannot be denied and it won’t discriminate between religions and ethnicity. It’s a global killer that can’t be reasoned with. There’s only one way Europe is going to survive. Collectively, every nation has to take up arms. It’s no longer about sovereignty. It’s the same land. Borders should no longer exist. People can’t be French and British and Turkish – they have to come together as Europeans and fight the spread of this plague in a place that offers the best chance for survival – no matter where that piece of earth is. It’s our job,” she met the gaze of both men with steady, level eyes, “to make sure every NATO member believes and understands that. Buildings can be rebuilt. Borders can be reinstated… but only if we can unite to beat the undead storm.”
PLAN DESTROYER ‘YALOU’
SOUTH CHINA SEA
“What is the American doing?” Zhao demanded.
“The ship is still steaming on its current course, Commander,” Yalou’s XO reported incredulously.
“What?” Zhao shot the man a wild look, almost daring him to repeat the stunning news. “The American destroyer has not turned away?”
“No, sir,” the XO said.
Zhao stood, shocked. Much of his strategy had depended on the intimidating, unexpected emergence of the second Chinese destroyer suddenly appearing on the American destroyer’s radar screen. Zhao felt the first flicker of uncertainty shake his confidence. The
Americans were behaving unpredictably. They were defying him. Daring him. Zhao gnawed his lip, caught in a moment of indecision. Yet his orders were specific and unambiguous. The American destroyer’s blatant actions were a direct challenge. It could not be tolerated.
“Signal the Jianguanan. We launch our missiles in sixty seconds.”
A warning siren howled. Zhao strode to the console beside his captain’s chair. A light on the control board began burning bright red. He placed his thumb on the cover of the firing button, waiting for the exact moment to launch. He could feel himself trembling with anxiety and anticipation. He was about to propel China and America into war.
“Permission to fire has been confirmed,” Zhao announced.
The two Chinese destroyers were armed with eight YJ-62 subsonic anti-ship cruise missiles each, fired from two four-cell cylindrical launchers that were positioned forward of the destroyer’s helicopter hangar. A Russian-made ‘Band Stand’ fire control radar mounted atop the bridge and a ‘Light Bulb’ datalink guided them. It wasn’t the most sophisticated technology – but it was reliable. The Russians had demonstrated that by using the same system aboard their older Sovremenny-class destroyers. The missiles were sea-skimmers – designed to hurtle towards their target just a few meters above the ocean’s surface. The drawback was their relatively slow speed. At Mach 0.6, it would take just over four minutes of flying time for them to reach the American destroyer, still some twenty-five nautical miles away.
Zhao turned to face the ship’s stern. He flipped the red cover, pressed the ‘fire’ button, and waited. In his head he was counting down the seconds, each one ratcheting tighter the knot of tension in his guts. The enormity of the moment struck him suddenly and he felt the gruff defiant façade of his composure begin to crack.
Then in a moment of blinding flashes and deafening noise, it was too late.
Dead Storm: The Global Zombie Apocalypse Page 44
