Echo of Tomorrow: Book One (Drake chronicles)

by Rob Buckman

  In Tehran, the Supreme Ayatollah just sat and stared at the screen, unable to believe his eye. The Great Satan had won; his army was gone as if it had never been, destroyed by an army a quarter of its size. If there was such a Deity as Allah, he had abandoned them. Now there was nothing to stop this infidel army from marching on his City and destroying it. They had come for revenge, and no power on Earth could stop them. The fact that the Ayatollah not only participated in the bombing of four American Cities with thermonuclear weapons, but drove the plan forward in the face of opposition from some of his fellow conspirators didn't enter his thinking. America was the enemy and Allah was on the side of the faithful, wasn't he? Scott’s first order after the battle was to bring up the decontamination units and scrub his equipment. He wasn’t about to start losing his men and women to bio and chemical residue. It also gave them to chance to regroup and fill in the gaps in his forces, and well as a chance to eat, drink and rest. Six hours later he gave the order to advance again, and they moved deeper into Iran. As predicted it wasn’t long before the column ran into the first real entrenched and fortified positions. Row after row of tank traps and anti-tank gun emplacements faced them, but Scott Drake wasn't about to waste his tank force trying to breach it.

  "Comm, whistle up the Marine Corp Commander."

  "Aye-aye, sir." The communication man answered.

  "Yes, General?" A voice asked out of the ether.

  "I need your units to breach those fortifications, Bill."

  "Already in the works, General." He answered his voice grim. Using the armored cameras mounted on the hull Scott scanned the terrain, finding that Bill Yanamuchi spoke the truth. "Who did you send, Bill?" He asked.

  "Those cow…” He bit off the words in mid sentence. “I sent the boys from Guantanamo, General." He amended, but Scott could see the haunted look in his eye. Marines don't surrender or retreat, they attack in another direction as they say.

  With the shame of their surrender in Cuba fresh in their minds, the men and woman of the Fourth Marine battalion stormed the fortifications like people possessed. Better to die honorably rather than live with the shame. With gunships and Harrier VTOL aircraft backing them up, they threw themselves at the wall of guns facing them. There would be no surrender and no retreat this day and they stormed the defenses, uncaring of the death and destruction raining down on them. They were here to collect on a butcher’s bill, and handed out one of their own. Some might say the General had given them an impossible order, but failure was not an option. Scott Drake watched in stony silence, knowing that nothing he could say or do would stop them for breaching the wall. They would breach it and wipe out the stain or die to a man and woman trying. The battle raged back and forth for three hours, tanks, and artillery added their contribution to the battle, cracking hard points or laying down counter battery fire until at last they forced a breach, but not without cost.

  Even with air superiority, they still lost helicopters, Harriers VTOL aircraft, tanks, and APCs to a blizzard of surface-to-air missiles and RPG’s, but the moment the Marines broke through, the tanks swept forward, through and behind the enemy defenses. Here they slowly and relentlessly destroyed the enemy positions in detail. Once they did it, didn't take long for the remains of the Iranian army units to break, and start running towards Tehran. Even before the gunfire had stopped the cargo choppers swept in bringing much needed ammo and supplies, and ferrying out the dead and wounded. Unit by unit they peeled off to rearm and supplying on the fly before returning to the battle. The butcher's bill for breaching the wall was high, as by then two thirds of the Fourth Battalion was dead, or wounded. The remainder were too tired to do anything but sit and stare into the distance, as fatigue and battle shock set in. It was hard for even battle-hardened troops to look into their haunted eyes without looking away, knowing they just looked into hell.

  Scott ordered the Marines into bivouac for twenty-four hours rest before rejoining the fighting and for a while he thought about amalgamating them into one of the other Marine Corps units, then decided against it. They'd resent being disbanded and would want to fight as a unit, even if that unit was whittled down to three men. He'd give them that, knowing the pride and dedication of the Marines. By their action this day they'd wiped the stain of their surrender from their record. With their valor and sacrifice any action on his part to disband or amalgamate them into another unit would be perceived as an additional punishment. To all intents and purposes the 4th Marine Battalion had been reborn in a baptism of fire and death, and thereafter none dare question their courage. The rest of his army needed rest as well, but he didn't want to give the enemy time to regroup.

  "Billy, set up a video link with the air commander." He called down to the Comm tech, and within a few moments, she came on the air.

  "What can I do for you General Scott?" She asked, sounding crisp and alert.

  "I need to give the boys a rest, we've been at it for 72 hours now, and the strain is beginning to show."

  "Anything we can do, sir." As the first female General of the US Air Force, Margaret Aristoff had Scott to thank for opening the way and making it possible, overriding objections of lesser men.

  "Your people have been doing a great job, and I know they are tired as well..." Scott rubbed his gritty eye, wishing he had a hot cup of coffee.

  "We can still do a little more sir."

  "Thanks Margaret. What I need is to change tactics. As of now we are going into 'Larger' and stand down. At dusk today I want your people to begin harassing the enemy throughout the night and tomorrow."

  "I understand General. You want us to strike any concentration or at any point where they stop. In other words, keep them moving and don't let them re-group."

  "You've got it. At dawn the day after tomorrow we'll take up the attack again, but with only half your usual air support. That should give your pilots time to rest."

  "That it will, General. I'll work out the details. I'll stand down half the units as soon as possible and have them ready to go by dusk."

  "Thanks, Margaret."

  "You'd better get some sleep yourself General. You've no good to us dead on your feet." He had to smile, even if he didn't want to. What she said was the truth.

  "I'll take your advice, mother. Now go take care of your chicks."

  "Ten four General." Air Force General Margaret Aristoff smiled; cutting the connection and wiping tears from her eyes.

  The destruction of the enemy by her pilots and Scott Drake's attack force was paying back a little on the debt she felt, and for her little daughter who she would never see again. Anything the General wanted, she would deliver. Even with Margaret Aristoff’’s advice, it was three more hours before he could lie down. Details, requests, and questions kept pouring into his headquarters. No matter how many times he delegated responsibility to one of his staff, there was always one more thing to take care of that no one else could. It was only due to the radio operator and his second in command that the stream of problems stopped. They simply told whoever it was to solve it themselves and get back with the solution. That led to the shooting of all Iranian prisoners, and burying them in a mass grave, yet no one shed a tear over the act. All remembered the scenes of these same people dancing in the street when they learned that four American Cities had vanished in nuclear fire. How they'd danced in the blood of innocent foreigners they'd brutally executed, forcing them to kneel in the middle of some dirty street and cut their heads off. Men, woman, and children.

  Those Iranian soldiers who did manage to escape carried the story with them, enlarging on it and embellishing it with lurid details of white demons that wouldn't die. The size and ferocity of the avenging army grew, sending shivers of fear through the enemy even before they arrived. This time, the American forces weren’t fighting with one hand behind their back. Any concentration of people and vehicles came under attack, civilian or military with no thought to collateral damage. Troops trying to hide within groups of civilians found they were n
o shield against the bombs and guided missiles that rained down. This was total war the like of which hadn’t been seen since the dark days of World War II.

  The constant harassment at night and the onslaught by day drove the remnants of the Iranian army back. Few, if any, could sleep, as the moment they stopped aircraft and helicopters swept out of the darkness to rain fire and death on them. If they found a hidden oasis, or a cave, they became death traps as Special Forces swept through the camp or 'painted' their position for the wide-ranging fighters and bombers with their laser guided missiles. On H day plus five they defeated and destroyed the defenders in the City of Arak, and the road to Tehran was open. At this point Scott ordered the road to Semnan and Zanjan closed and these Cities destroyed. It only took four fuel/air bombs, two on each city to reduce them to smoking, burned out, lifeless ruins. Those that could flee ran for Tehran before the US air force, all pouring up the highway in an endless stream The Air Force turned it into another highway to hell. Escaping off the road didn't help as the air force laid down a 200-yard wide strip of death with anti-personnel and anti-vehicle mines. Now, two and a half million people crowded into the already overcrowded Tehran, soldiers, civilian, rich, and poor. All demanding to know what the Ayatollah was going to do to stop the invaders. Damascus and Tripoli had ceased to exist, Iraq was gone, and none of the other Arab leaders would answer his calls for help.

  Once it was clear that the Americans were out for vengeance, Egypt and Jordan quickly pulled their troops out of Israel, not that it helped. It didn't stop the Israelis from taking back all lost territories and destroying Cairo, Amman, then sweeping up though Lebanon. This time, they made a clean sweep of it, destroying whole cities at the first sign of resistance from anyone. Like the Viet Cong before them the Palestinians and the PLO ceased to exist, as did the Hezbollah, never again would it be a tool of terror for some lunatic to use against Israel. Hezbollah Villages and towns simply vanished from the face of the earth. The Arab world had for year refused to recognize Israel's right to exist, now came the reckoning, as they too showed no mercy, no compassion nor shed tears for the innocent.

  The Ayatollah appealed to Russia, meeting a stony silence for his effort. In desperation, he tried calling the President of the United States, to plead with him, even offering surrender. He might as well have talked to the wall for all the good it did. Some lowly government official kept telling him that all the lines to the President were busy. He was polite and yes, he did know who was calling, but no, he couldn't put the Supreme Ayatollah through to the President at this time. The operator hung up with a feeling of satisfaction, his eyes locked to the TV screen and the tanks and armored vehicles with their American flags charging across the desert towards Tehran. The President on the other hand screamed, ranted, and raved, demanding someone destroy Scott, even if it meant dropping a nuclear weapon on him. In the end, the joint chiefs had him sedated and committed to Bethesda Naval hospital. A grim faced Navy Doctor looked the General in the eye and signing the commitment papers without a word. At that point, the county was without a leader and in desperation the joint chiefs looked around for a replacement.

  Quickly they call the remaining governors of each State to find a solution, knowing that none of them dare take the position for fear of creating a military dictatorship and worsening the already delicate situation internally. All agreed that the best choice was the governor of California as she was one of the few people left who'd announced that she'd be running for the position of President in the next election. The fact that her state had suffered the greatest loss of life in the nuclear strike didn't go without notice. In short order Air force 3 departed Colorado Springs for Edward's AFB with the joint chiefs aboard to install the new President, thereby becoming Air force One. Twenty-four hours later, the governor was sworn in as the President by the only surviving Supreme Court justice and Sacramento became the new Capital of the United States. The newly elected President, the first woman President in history, and the first African American female then tried to put the country back together again. Her first question after taking office was.

  "What's the situation in the Mid East?" Her tone leaving no doubt that she wanted a straight answer.

  Scott Drake had been smart, even though he wouldn't return any call from the President he'd ordered that all units to send back a video feed of the ongoing battles. They linked the signals and sent them live commercial satellite uplinks to all TV and news stations around the world. From the moment the first shot was fired, the world had watched the good and the bad. It was estimated that over four and a half billion people were watching in rapt attention. It was the ultimate reality show with Armageddon and the four horsemen hovering on the horizon. Few countries dare offer a word of protest, not wanting to be connected, no matter how tenuous, to the perpetrator of this nightmare. It didn't take a genius to understand how close the world was to the start of World War III, nuclear holocaust and Armageddon. The silos were open, nuclear subs and bombers on station as nervous fingers hovered over launch buttons. If someone was stupid enough, or dare to go to the aid of Iran, or fire a nuclear weapon at the invading army it would be the end, as no one could afford to sit on the fence after that. Sides would be taken and now nuclear weapons had been used it wouldn't be long before they were all launched. If that happened, the world as they knew it would be gone forever. It would be impossible to unring the bell.

  Many a President or World leaders reconsidered their county's position on a wide range of issues. Wondering if any of those subjects would have any meaning if someone pushed the wrong button. In more than one county the President or Prime Minister met with an unfortunate accident or suffer a sudden heart attack. Religious fanatics suddenly found the police knocking on their doors and taken out and summarily shot. Some tried to run only to be met a hail of bullets as they stepped outside. One of their number had done the unthinkable in the name of religion, as they'd threatened to do for years, but what had it brought them? They had won nothing, gained nothing, except the hatred of the rest of the world. This had to stop. They knew that now. This might be the last chance for the planet earth. If they didn't come to some agreement immediately on a wide range of subjects and change the way they viewed one another. There might be no second chance.

  Even before the final battle, aircraft were winging their way across the world, all heading for the new UN building in Sacramento, all carrying the leader, or the newly elected leader of their country. Scott Drake knew nothing of this, nor did he care. The enemy was in front of him, his army ready to strike, yet he sat and waited. All around him the implements of war sat in the bright sun, heat waves shimmering in the air over the hot metal. The hulls and turrets of the tanks too hot to touch, as were the barrels or rifles and steering wheels of trucks and hummers. All sat and looked at the author of the destruction of four American Cities. It was from here that a major portion of the money had come, and it was here that the final order to detonate the bombs had originated. These people and others had danced in the street when the news flashed round the world. They'd burned American flags and effigies of the president, publicly beheaded American, and foreign prisoners, laughing and dancing with joy in the blood. Now they prayed to Allah and begged forgiveness, some running from the city towards the American lines to throw themselves at the mercy of the invader. Others held up babies in front of them in a vain attempt to evoke sympathy. None made it. They were either shot down by their own side, or the waiting troops. Mercy would be that last thing found here today, and the first casualty of this war. America had finally lost its innocence. The radio in the lead tank came to life, and the operator nodding as the message came in.

  "All aircraft now in position General." He said, looking up.

  General Scott Drake looked up as well, scanning the skies and the horizon. High above him, he saw vapor trails of circling aircraft, in the distance the black dragonfly shapes of hovering gunships. On all sides' heavy artillery and MRL's waited to deliver their load of
death, while far away in the Mediterranean and the Red sea, a fleet of ships awaited the order to launch its consignment of cruise and tomahawk missiles. The final act of vengeance was at hand.

  "Sir, I have a message from the new President of the United States."

  "The new President?" So, they had finally got up the nerve to get rid of that idiot, he thought. "What does he say?" He asked.

  "She asked if you would talk to her on the Sat link, cipher channel." Scott raised an eyebrow.

  "Put her on." He said, switching frequencies.

  "General Drake, This is President Weigel, can you hear me?"

  "Yes, Ma'am President perfectly. Congratulations on your appointment."

  "Thank you. Is this a secure line?"

  "As secure as modern technology can make it." He answered.

  "Good, because I have two messages for you." She said.