by Stuart Slade
Oval Office, The White House, Washington D. C.
"The National Security Advisor, the Chief of the Joint Staff and the Director of Central Intelligence are here to see you Sir.'"
"Send them right in." It had been less than ten minutes since The Seer had called requesting an urgent meeting with the President. Nixon could guess what was coming, he'd been having nightmares all weekend about it. Sure enough, it was The Seer who started speaking as soon as the meeting was convened.
"Sir, over the weekend one of our SEAL teams picked up the subject we discussed in Colombia. He was retrieved safely to this country and he has revealed some additional information that requires immediate action. He has confirmed the information we received concerning the fact that his organization was paid with several tons of Afghan heroin for some services to be rendered. Those services have now been identified. Three groups, each of twelve Caliphate agents have been sent to South America. The Medellin Cartel was instructed to collect them from their entry point, transport them to the Mexican-American border and then smuggle them over. Having got them over, they were to be infiltrated into vulnerable border towns: San Diego, Nogales and El Paso.
"The subject believed that the people in question were saboteurs or simple spies. We believe that he was mislead on this point and that all 36 men have been infected with blackpox. We have confirmation for that, circumstantial but none the less convincing. One of the terms of the contract is that the persons being smuggled over the border must be delivered to their destination within ten days of being collected from their arrival point. This is, Sir, the incubation period for blackpox. Assuming they were infected just before arrival, they would have three or four days when the disease is at its most contagious, but before the symptoms became apparent, to spread infection as widely as possible. Thirty six Typhoid Marys loose in American cities.
"The people in question arrived in South America, we have the route details, four days ago. In other words, we have less than a week to find those people and kill or isolate them. And we have to do that without exposing our own people to the virus."
Nixon frowned. "Seer, something doesn't add up here. If these people are being brought North and they're already infected with blackpox. won't they infect the coyotes bringing them up?"
"That is correct Sir. They will. That's probably one reason why they didn't give the full story. Those 36 persons will infect the Cartel people they contact. It's a typical Caliphate double-cross. They're hoping to start a major epidemic down south as well, and we must accept that they will probably succeed in doing just that. They probably hope that the entire Cartel will be wiped out by blackpox and that will cover their tracks. Once we explained the real situation to the subject, he opened up and told us everything he knew. Give the man some credit; he really does appear to care about the people who work for him."
CJS thought for a second. "We have to seal the border and that means we're going to have to operate down south ourselves. We need to get ground recon teams into Mexico and get a tight air surveillance network set up."
"Can't we stop them at the border? Fences, minefields, that sort of thing?" Nixon's voice was steady but the imminence of the threat had shaken him. "Just how bad is this attack? Worst case."
CJS shook his head. "A single line of defense like that won't hack it Sir. They never do. Fences and minefields are only of use if they're kept under observation and covered by fire. Even then, they're a single line and that can always be evaded or penetrated. Even if we did go that way, we just don't have the manpower to guard that border to the required standard. Even if we mobilized to Second World War standards, we don't.
"We must rely on a defense in depth. Keep a deep swathe of the border region under surveillance and use mobile recon teams to ambush and detain illegal traffic. A lot of that we can do with what we've got. We can use SAC strategic recon training missions for a lot of the surveillance. SOCOM's AC-133s can do a lot more. We can use air-transportable units and Marine Force Recon elements for the ambush role. We'll be driving a coach and horses through Mexican sovereignty, but that can't be helped."
"That's all very good but it won't plug the weakest point on the whole frontier." The Seer's voice was thoughtful, remote even. "El Paso. The city's right on the border; effectively it forms a single urban unit with the Mexican city, Ciudad Juarez, the other side. The border itself is crazy there. It runs down streets, through houses. There's a factory there than has a wedge shaped triangle of its floor space in Mexico and the rest of its machinery in the US of A. Don't ask me how we'll secure that border. The only chance we have is to find and stop the Coyotes before they get to the city.
"As to how bad it is, given that we'll be dealing with first generation infectees and the remarkable mortality of blackpox, AMRIID estimate that we could be looking at a million dead by the time the plague burns itself out."
"A million!" Nixon was horrified. "That's almost as many as we lost in Russia."
"There are some good bits of news. Thanks to the SEALS we're one step ahead of the game; we know what to look for and where. Thanks to the French, we have samples of the infective agent and are well on the way to developing a vaccine. I hate to have to say it but we owe the French for this one."
"I have no doubt they'll trade on that to the max." Nixon's voice was suspicious and resentful.
"No doubt, they wouldn't be the French if they didn't." The Seer checked his pad. As usual Lillith had provided a quick digest of the news that morning. "‘By the way, three more of their Communales have been hit and their Air Force hit every Caliphate air base in range of Algeria this morning. Did a good job too, took down most of the aircraft there. They lost nine Super-Mysteres and three Mirage VFs to anti-aircraft fire. In addition, they're moving more fighters in to provide air cover. Problem for them is that they're stripping the Metropolitan French Air Force to do it. That leaves the south of France wide open."
"‘We can pay off then. Send some of our fighters to cover the area. NORAD can detach a couple of squadrons."
CJS shook his head. "The French won't have it. They don't like us and don't want us there. Anyway, our fighters are designed to operate within a systematic air defense network. The French have one but its incompatible with our systems. Our fighters won't do them any good. SAC has a squadron of F-108s and an RB-58C detachment at Aviano in Italy. They could run interference but that's it."
DCI chipped in while CJS was thinking. "The Brits are in tight with the French. We could hit up a deal with them. Their systems are compatible with the French defense net, they could shift some of their interceptors down to cover Southern France. We could offer to cover the costs involved, plus a reasonable percentage of course. The French wouldn't have to know ‘officially" that we were bankrolling the deployment."
"Talk to the Brits. Sound them out on it. If they're willing, do it." Nixon thought again. "That leaves one question. If the attack on us materializes, if the information we've been given proves correct, if we link the Caliphate to the attack, how do we reply?"
It was a rhetorical question and everybody in the room knew it. All three visitors said the same thing, almost as a rehearsed chorus. "They burn."
CHAPTER EIGHT: HARASSING
Conference Room, Naval Base Sugu Bay, Southern Coast of Hainan Island
Compared with the elaborate facilities of the Imperial Navy Headquarters in Tokyo, this "conference room" was a joke. A roughly-constructed timber building surrounded by earth berms to protect it against air attack, it was barely more sophisticated than a peasant's hut. The conference table was crudely-sanded fresh-cut timber resting on trestles and the seats were packing cases. The displays on the walls were paper maps stuck with pins and crayoned markings, not the sophisticated electronic displays boasted by Tokyo. The whole facility looked as if it had been thrown together using whatever had been left over from more essential projects and assembled by whoever it was who had nothing better to do. It looked that way because that's what it was and ther
e was nowhere else Admiral Koga would rather have been.
"And what is the score so far, Toda-San?"
"As of noon today, we count eleven Tigers and two Skyhawks shot down. Of course we do not know how many of their aircraft crashed while landing; some went back to their base badly damaged. The battle this morning was particularly interesting, we think it was an armed reconnaissance mission looking for this base.
Four bombed-up Skyhawks escorted by four Tigers. That's where we got the two Skyhawks and three Tigers. If our count is correct, we have shot down almost a third of the carrier's fighter strength already."
"And it has cost us?"
"So far. Sir, it has cost us thirteen Ohtoris, including three that sank after landing. That's the problem with seaplane fighters, Sir, one that nobody thought of. A badly-damaged landplane can touch down on a runway and be repaired but a damaged seaplane sinks. In addition, we have four more aircraft on Nisshin being repaired." The Nisshin had arrived last night and her base facilities had been badly needed.
"So you have lost half your unit in exchange for a third of the enemy?" Koga's voice was not pleased.
"Not really Sir. We have lost only five pilots. The rest were rescued by our flying boats. Sir, the Americans were right all along. It's critical we save the pilots who have been shot down."
Koga's eyebrow lifted disbelievingly. If a pilot got shot down, he was what the Americans so charmingly called a loser and wasn‘t worth saving. In fact, a real warrior would choose to go down with his aircraft rather than eject and put up with the shame of being rescued.
"Sir, I know it's against everything we've been taught, but it's the best way. We've seen it often here. All the aircraft that have been lost or had to abort from damage were pilots on their first or second missions. Get them through their first few battles and their loss rate drops greatly while their kill rate climbs. If we rescue a pilot shot down on his first or second mission, he lives long enough to start scoring on his later missions."
Koga snorted. It wasn't the Japanese way but if it worked, perhaps it should be? "What else have you changed Commander Toda?"
"The new system we have Sir, the group out here flying missions while the other half stays in Japan and trains replacements, it's good. That's why we've lost half our original number of aircraft yet can still have twenty ready for missions. I believe we should even start rotating pilots. We should get some of the most experienced back to Japan to teach what they've learned out here while the new recruits can get some experience under their belts.
"And, Sir, we have much to teach, so much of our doctrine just didn't work. We lost aircraft unnecessarily because of that. Our old-style, three-plane formations just didn't work. We've reorganized as three sections of four with each section having two two-Ohtori elements. We tried an intermediate step but it wasn't as effective. Two two-plane sections per flight, with each section having a shooter and a wingman to guard his tail. That's the way to do it. I've ordered the group back home to train all the new pilots to fly that way. Sir, the combat out here is the first real air war we've fought since the late 1930s, everything is different now."
Koga stared at the reports again. "You think we will win out here?"
"Sir, Yes Sir! We can replace our losses, the Indian carrier cannot. We started off, 24 against an estimated 36, now its 24 against 25. If they've lost planes trying to land on the carrier, we may already have numerical superiority. Soon, the Shukas can resume their raids and we can drive the enemy out of the Pescadores."
"The Indians are the opposition Toda-san." Koga's voice was distant. "The army is the enemy."
"Sir. And there is something else. We've been plotting opposition flights back by radar and observation. Every time there's an engagement. If I may draw your attention to this map, Sir. The pink area is where the opposition carrier might be sailing and the thick red lines are where the opposition aircraft have been flying. Sir, those lines concentrate on a small area, out here." Toda tapped the map. It wasn't really a small area but it was an improvement over the huge area shaded pink. "If we can get submarines into this area, we may well score. I originally thought that we couldn't hurt the carrier, just run it out of aircraft. But if we can pin it down, the submarines might hurt it."
The Submarine Commander nodded once, very sharply. "Our outspoken young pilot is right. We have our six submarines down here and I can order two more in. With eight submarines in that area, hunting down that carrier is possible."
Koga still sounded doubtful. "The Germans never had much success against the American carriers with their submarines."
"They sank Enterprise, Sir, and hurt Boxer and Kearsarge. But the Americans had the whole of the Atlantic to play in. They stayed far out to sea, selected a target and ran in at night, Then they stayed for a day or two only and were away again before submarines could catch up. Also, they were surrounded by destroyers and there were specialized ASW groups to intercept any submarines that did try to interfere. And look at where the American carriers were hit. Enterprise leaving New York. Boxer and Kearsarge off the Churchill naval base. Where their area to maneuver was limited and their screens were weak. Now, it's the Indian carrier that has a weak screen and is operating from a restricted area. She's doing the same maneuvers that gave the German submarines shots at American carriers. We can get her, Admiral, thanks to our young friend, we have a chance." The Submarine Commander settled back, his little mustache bristling at the thought of one of his submarines getting a carrier.
"And how is the surface squadron?"
Admiral Nashima tore his eyes from the map. "One rocket cruiser, one light cruiser, two Sawari missile destroyers, two Type B and two Type C destroyers. We are still integrating the reinforcements with the survivors of the previous squadron." Nashima's skin crawled slightly at the thought of that defeat. Admiral Kurita had been relieved of his command and had retired. It wasn't enough; not for turning back just as the battle had been won. "We can support an invasion but that's all. If we fight another division of the Flying Squadron, if it fights the way Admiral Dahm fought, we will lose."
"So, we are agreed? We carry on the campaign of air attrition against the Indian carrier and try to refine its position so a submarine can have a shot at it. We will prepare to land a Special Naval Landing Force on the Southern Pescadores, screened by the South China Sea Squadron but not start that operation until the carrier has been left ineffective, we have achieved air superiority and the Indian bases have been heavily bombed. I will also advise you that diplomatic moves have started in order to persuade the Indians to leave our Islands before the recovery invasion is launched. If you, Fighters, and you, Submarines, score greater success, those diplomatic moves stand a much greater chance of becoming reality. We will meet again in a week. Here, of course"
Koga looked around. It felt good to be in an operational headquarters, surrounded by the men doing the fighting. Even if the inevitable result was the final eclipse of the surface fleet he had grown up in.
Desert, South ofNogales, Mexico.
The truck was a six-wheeled AEC, the British built vehicle that was almost a standard in South America. The American trucks were great on good roads, but the British-built AECs had it all over them when the roads were as bad and neglected as this one. The truck had been on the road for three days now, stopping only to refuel from the drums of diesel lashed to the back and to change drivers. There were three crew in the cab which made it crowded but the other alternative was to drive twelve-hour shifts.
Perhaps the crowded cab was why the three men there didn't feel so well. They were feverish, headachy and starting to itch. The latter was probably the lack of washing water of course. The twelve strangers in the back of the truck looked worse though; they seemed to be really ill. Probably the heat disagreed with them, but wasn't where they came from hot? Perhaps it was the strangeness. The drivers had heard that people from the Caliphate didn't travel much. These one's seemed to like it though; they'd kept wanting to get out and
meet the people in the local villages and had been really upset when they hadn't been allowed to.
"Bridge out ahead." The youngest of the three called out the warning. The road led onto a rickety bridge, part stone, part wood; the ramp blocked by black-and-yellow striped warning signs. Unsafe Bridge it said, Closed. The alternative was more than thirty kilometers back and it lead through a major crossing checkpoint, one they were under strict orders to avoid. The bridge looked solid enough. Perhaps some busybody trying to justify their existence?
"We'll go through, take it carefully. If the bridge is bad, the arroyo doesn't look too rough." The truck started up again and edged towards the signs; it's diesel engine seemingly silenced by the desert around them. That's what made the machine gun fire so shocking. The sound of ripping paper or a chain running over rocks. A frantic hammering that tore up the desert silence and sprayed the road surface into a dust cloud. Almost by instinct, the truck driver floored the throttle, attempting to run through the burst of gunfire that was intended to stop them. It was the worst and last mistake he'd ever make. The next burst of gunfire, 90 rounds in less than three seconds, ripped into the truck cab. It didn't just kill all three men there, the high-velocity .276 bullets left them shattered and unrecognizable.
High on the hill overlooking the road, the Marine Force Recon team watched the truck with its shattered cab swerve out of control and plow off the road, turning over as it did so. There was silence for a few seconds, broken only by the creaking and grinding sound of crunched metal and settling dust. Then the back of the truck seemed to open. Some figures staggered out, three, four, perhaps five? The dust made it hard to tell. According to the briefing, there should be twelve in there.
