by James Rosone
“OK, Admiral, if we only have five days until they reach Guam, then let’s go with the assumption that hostilities are going to start around then,” directed the President. “Relocate the military dependents on Guam ASAP. Also reinforce the island with as many Marines as you can. See if you can manage to deploy one of the three regiments from Okinawa to Guam. Tell them to dig in and get ready to hold that island for as long as necessary. See what additional aircraft we can send, and make sure we send them as much ammo and MREs as possible. If a war really does break out, then God only knows how long they may need to hold out.”
War with China wasn’t how Alton wanted to end his presidency. Whoever ended up winning the election in eight days would be stuck fighting this war—a war he’d never wanted, a war he had tried desperately to keep America out of.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Snake Eaters
October 2024
Gulf of Mexico
Major Fan Changlong rolled his shoulders against the jump seat of the aircraft. They had been in the air for six hours as the cargo aircraft made its thirtieth flight along the American coastline.
Every night for the last month, the Chinese Air Force had flown either cargo or electronic surveillance aircraft along the Gulf Coast of the Southern US. They usually started off at the tip of Texas and then traveled along to Louisiana before swinging back out into the Gulf and heading to Cuba. On occasion they flipped the route and started it in the opposite order just to keep the Americans on their toes.
The pilots made sure to stay three miles from the twelve-nautical-mile borders of the American airspace. This didn’t mean the Americans wouldn’t scramble fighters to greet them; they usually did. Around Texas, it was usually a pair of F/A-18 Super Hornets that would meet them. Then a pair of F-15Es would take over as they got closer to Louisiana. The whole point of these nightly exercises was to lull the Americans into complacency. Once they found a gap in the coverage, they’d note the location so they could arrange for their special package to be delivered.
A crewman walked up to Major Fan. “Sir, the pilot says we’re coming up on the first possible jump location. You have ten minutes.”
He nodded at the news. Finally…
Fan called out to the twelve-man South Blade team he was leading, letting them know that it was time to get their gear on and prepare to jump. The Special Forces men started strapping their parachutes on, then their oxygen tanks, face masks, drop bags and weapons. Once they were suited up, the operators attached themselves to the aircraft’s oxygen system and waited to see if their American fighter escort would break off, giving them a short window to make their jump before the next set of escorts showed up.
Fan looked off in the direction of the pilots. One of the crew chiefs was standing next to the flight deck, talking with the pilots. A second later, the soldier turned around to look at him. He shook his head, letting them know the Americans were still with them. That meant they’d probably stay with them for another twenty minutes until they reached the next waypoint.
Fan told his soldiers to disconnect from the plane’s air supply and take a seat. They’d keep most of their equipment on, but there was no point standing around.
As the soldiers had begun disconnecting from the oxygen supply, the crew chief ran over to them. “The pilot said the Americans just pulled off. He’ll depressurize the plane in a couple of minutes and lower the ramp. You will only have a few minutes to go before the next set of escorts show up.”
“You heard the man! Get your masks back on and reattach to the plane’s system. We’ll disconnect and jump as soon as they have the ramp lowered,” Fan called out to his soldiers.
The cargo lights turned from a soft blue light to a soft red light. Moments later, the seal on the back ramp of the aircraft broke open. The cool air swirled about the cargo bay as the ramp lowered. Fan signaled to his soldiers to disconnect the plane’s oxygen. It was time to transition to their drop tanks and get ready to jump.
While Fan waddled over to the edge of the ramp, Master Sergeant Lei, his senior NCO, made sure everyone got out all right.
As they stood on the edge of the ramp, the jump light turned green, letting him know they were over the optimal jump zone. Without hesitation, Fan leapt into the dark void.
The air swirled around him as his body fell away from the cargo plane. He counted to five before he deployed his chute. It filled with air seconds later, jolting him as the parachute slowed his rapid free fall to a controlled descent.
Once he had his guide wires under control, the heads-up display in his helmet started tracking his altitude and pointed him in the direction he needed to go in. Fan angled his chute in the direction his HUD had indicated. He knew the eleven other members of his team would follow him.
At twenty-two thousand feet, they had a good bird’s-eye view of the American coast. At this point they were only seven miles away from land, another two miles from their unofficial drop zone.
When they descended below twelve thousand feet, Fan received a short text message on his HUD. Their ride was at the appointed place, ready to pick them up. Craning his head around, Fan saw a couple of his soldiers a little further up and behind him. He wasn’t sure where their equipment was, but he assumed it was automatically following somewhere behind them.
At first, Fan had wondered why they didn’t just cross the American border in a vehicle or fly in from a friendly nation. Then he had seen the list of equipment they would be bringing with them and he’d known exactly why they needed to do a high-altitude, high-opening jump. A HAHO was the only way they could smuggle this kind of weaponry across the border. If they got caught, it could jeopardize the entire mission.
As they got closer to the drop zone, an empty field near a park, Fan pulled down hard on his guide wires, allowing the canopy above to fill with air. Moments later, he was on the ground, rolling his parachute up. The rest of his team landed nearby. Then came the gliders with their heavy equipment.
They collected up their gear. Moments later, a couple of figures emerged nearby, causing the South Blade team to draw down on them. They gave the appropriate call sign, and the soldiers lowered their weapons. The leader said something into the radio. A couple of engines started not too far away, then some parking lights turned on and they drove toward them.
“My name is Tran. My men and I will take you to the safe house. You can load your equipment into the back of that van,” the man in all black said as he pointed to a large U-Haul cargo van.
Fan nodded and called out to his sergeants to load the special packages into the U-Haul. Five minutes later, everyone had piled into the vehicles and they were on their way to the safe house. The driver and the man named Tran didn’t say much. Fan figured they knew the men they were transporting were killers. Their job was to get these men to the safe house and hand them off to the next set of handlers. Then they’d continue to stand by and wait for the next set of soldiers to pick up.
When they arrived at the safe house, Fan’s men got the weapons and equipment loaded into a shed nearby. A man from the Ministry of State Security was there waiting for them.
“Major Fan, my name is Mr. Lee. That is how you will address me. I have your new set of orders. Tomorrow, you will split your team up into three four-man teams.”
Fan held a hand up. “Excuse me, Mr. Lee. I was told my team would be operating as a team, not be split up.”
The man named Mr. Lee only smiled. “Plans change, Major. Over the next four nights, the rest of your company will arrive. They will similarly be split up to head to their assigned targets as well. Once your primary objectives have been met, you may reorganize your teams as you see fit. But for the time being, these are your new orders.”
The mystery man then handed Fan a set of papers with their orders. As he looked at them, a smile crept across Fan’s face. These are much better than our original orders…
“There is nothing to worry about, Major Fan. You are in good hands. We have arran
ged for everything. Once you carry out your primary objective, you will be relocated, and you and your men will reconstitute and prepare for your follow-up missions. Now, I suggest you get some sleep. The coming days and weeks will be strenuous at best.”
*******
Straits of Florida
ODA 7322, Bravo Company
Sergeant First Class Rusten Currie had just jumped out of a C-17 and into history. He was a part of two ODA teams that would be the first American military forces to invade Cuba since the Cuban-American war in the early 1900s. Fortunately for the Americans, the Chinese and Cubans did not routinely send fighter escorts to greet the American aircraft skirting their territory, which had made their jump much easier.
It’s only a matter of time until we land in Cuba, he thought in anticipation. It was his first time doing a HAHO in months, but every time he jumped from such a high altitude, he marveled at how alive he felt.
Every few minutes, Currie would check his compass and GPS unit to make sure he was leading his team in the right direction. Steadily, they got closer to land. At approximately 0300 hours, two members of the CIA’s Special Operations Group or SOG would activate an infrared strobe light, letting them know precisely where the drop zone was. The SOG team had infiltrated the country a couple days earlier with the help of a CIA asset already on the ground.
With no more than five minutes left in their descent, Currie saw the IR strobe light come on through his night vision goggles. He pulled on his guide wire, angling his chute to head toward it. The others stacked up slightly higher and behind him. They’d follow his lead toward the IR signal.
When he was no more than thirty feet above the ground, Currie detached his drop bag with his ruck and other equipment to dangle below him. Seconds later, he pulled hard on the guide wires of his chute to control his descent. He’d captured the air at just the right angle—his landing was practically as light as a feather. He took a couple of quick steps forward, then detached himself from his chute and went to work on rolling it into a tight ball.
Meanwhile, the eleven other operators of his ODA landed and did the same thing. Once they all had their chutes collected, along with their rucks and weapons, the SOG members guided them into the jungle. They had a place ready for the ODA to bury their spent chutes so they’d be out of sight.
One of the SOG members walked over to Sergeant First Class Currie and his captain, Larry Thorne, as they were talking. “Captain, Sergeant, I’m Howard. You’re free to use this as your base camp if you’d like. We haven’t gone exploring the area yet. We wanted to get you sorted first. Intel says we have at least six DF-17 launchers in the area and probably about the same number of HQ-9 radar systems.”
“Howard, I’m Captain Thorne,” the ODA team leader said. “We have some initial ideas about where some of these systems are located. I’d like to show you what we have and compare it to what you know.”
“Sounds good. Come on, let’s get you situated in the hide position. We can go over what you have with what we have and then figure out how best to break your teams down. If we can get these locations pre-positioned, it’ll make calling in airstrikes a hell of a lot easier.”
The coming days and weeks would involve a lot of roaming around the jungles and forested areas of Cuba as the Greenie Beanies went about the task of identifying and hunting down the enemy radar and missile launcher systems. When and if a war did start, they’d be ready to take these threats out.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Don’t Mess with Texas
October 24, 2024
Pacific Ocean
USS Texas – SSN 775
Two days ago, the Commander of the USS Texas, Kurt Helgeson, had received a notification from COMSUBPAC Rear Admiral Ishan Patel that the Chinese were not only ignoring the ultimatum the US and NATO had issued, they were still sending more soldiers to the Caribbean in direct violation of the Monroe Doctrine.
Shortly after, Helgeson had received a coded message to open the captain’s safe and unseal the orders marked Five-Tango-Six-Zulu-Quebec-Niner. Commander Helgeson and his XO, Lieutenant Commander Kristin Evans, had jointly opened the safe and retrieved their new set of orders.
Regardless of the years of training, it was still nerve-wracking to read a military plan to attack the Chinese Navy. Clearly, the negotiations above the water between Beijing, Washington, Moscow, and Brussels hadn’t worked. Should the Chinese ships cross a certain set of coordinates, they had the operational orders to begin hostilities against the People’s Republic of China.
Tensions were high. It felt like a figurative storm was steaming toward them at flank speed on the surface of an angry sea. Commander Kurt Helgeson fueled himself with extra doses of caffeine to keep his mind sharp; one of the lieutenant junior grades had made it his mission to make sure that there was always a fresh pot available. Helgeson had a habit of pushing everyone to their maximum abilities, and yet, they respected the hell out of him for it. The last commander of the USS Texas had been a ROAD—retired on active duty—and the crew’s morale had dramatically improved after Helgeson stepped in and kicked it all back into high gear.
With a fresh cup of joe in hand, Commander Helgeson turned his attention to the crewman who was monitoring the Orca II autonomous underwater vehicles or AUVs. They were deployed in a picket formation in front of the Texas as they searched for the Chinese fleet. According to the latest intelligence, the enemy fleet was still heading toward them.
“STS2, keep an eye out for any ASW activity,” he said to the sonar tech. “As the Chinese fleet continues to move closer to the line of control, we should start to detect their own picket ships and helicopters.”
“Yes, sir,” came the reply.
The integration of the unmanned submarines was a new addition to the Texas and soon the rest of the American submarine fleet. The AUVs could operate individually with a preprogrammed orbit around the Texas, extending their underwater eyes and ears by a hundred miles beyond what the towed array and the bow-mounted sonars could provide. The Orcas could also relay targeting data back to the Texas and assist in the prosecution of targets, both near and far.
The Navy had set up a sophisticated series of subsurface gateway buoys that used laser communications from surface combatants, satellites or aircraft to allow standard submarines to control the Orcas. They could now relay attack information to leverage their antiship missiles from much further away without fear of being detected. The most amazing aspect of these new AUVs, however, was their ability to prosecute targets on their own should they be given their own set of attack orders. During the initial combat suitability tests a few years ago, nine Orcas operated by three different fast-attack boats had successfully engaged and notionally scuttled an entire carrier battle group without even being detected.
Fifteen minutes later, an enlisted sailor from the galley came onto the Conn. He broke the tray’s magnetic hold to the counter and replaced it with a new tray stacked with sandwiches cut in half. Everyone working on the Conn would be able to grab a snack or refill their coffee to help get them through the rest of the shift or until they could cycle through for the next meal.
After snagging a few bites himself, Commander Helgeson walked back over to the OC2 station, where they were monitoring and controlling the Orcas. Since their sub was named the Texas, Helgeson had figured they should name the Orcas after some cities within Texas. The crew had voted, and Dallas, Lubbock, and Killeen had won. When Commander Helgeson leaned over the Orca controlman’s station, he saw the icon designating the Killeen blinking red, and then the Lubbock began blinking as well. They had found something.
“Hey, find out what those two contacts are,” Helgeson directed.
The sailor manning the station sent a text to the Sonar room to inquire about it and any indication of what might be out there. Five seconds later, the sonarman responded.
“Conn, Sonar. Contact Lubbock, bearing two-two-eight degrees, aerial contact, dipping sonar eight thousand yards off its bo
w,” announced the operator before he called out the second contact.
“Conn, Sonar. Contact Killeen, bearing three-three-zero degrees, surface contact nineteen thousand yards off her bow.”
Commander Helgeson snapped the mic from its cradle and faced aft toward the Sonar room.
“Sonar, Conn. ID both those contacts for me. See if we can get a visual on that dipping sonar. I need to know if there are more ASW assets in the area.”
“Conn, Sonar, stand by.” Without a word from Helgeson, his XO, Lieutenant Commander Kristin Evans, headed back to Sonar to check things out for herself.
*******
When Evans arrived at Sonar, she immediately saw the contacts appear on the computer screen. She adjusted her glasses a little higher on her nose so she could be sure she was seeing everything clearly.
One of these days, I’ll have to get Lasik, she bemoaned to herself. But that would have to wait until after whatever was about to happen.
The first image was of a ship, with an acoustic probability rating of ninety-four percent. Then the sonar operator pointed to the other contact, the one that posed the greatest threat to them; the dipping sonar matched that of a Changhe Z-18F antisubmarine warfare helicopter. The ASW chopper also carried a surface radar, and its dipping sonar was on par with anything the US Navy used. It had hardpoints intended for torpedoes or missiles, depending on the mission, and a large complement of sonobuoys.
Evans nodded to the sonarman, letting him know she concurred with both of their probabilities.
