The Monroe Doctrine

by James Rosone

  *******

  Second Lieutenant Lopez from First Platoon ran toward the last location where he’d seen First Lieutenant Grimm and his radio operator. After not being able to raise him on the radio, he needed to find out if they were still in the game.

  When Lopez came around some cover, he saw the fighting position Grimm had been working out of—the last round that tank had fired had scored a direct hit on their position. Lieutenant Grimm had a slight smile on his lips as he stared up into the sky, his eyes already starting to gloss over. Another Marine near him had tried to tie a tourniquet on his left leg. Either the Marine hadn’t realized that he had sustained a bad wound to his own neck, or he’d just tried to tie off the leg first—in either case, the poor guy appeared to have bled to death, alone and with no one able to help him.

  The radio operator didn’t really have much of a body left either. The tank round had ripped him to shreds. In that moment, with confirmation of what had happened, Lieutenant Lopez assumed command of the company. He motioned for his own radio operator to get the battalion CP on the horn. He needed to call in their situation report.

  “Dagger Six, this is Bowie Red Six.” He paused as he looked down at First Lieutenant Grimm’s body. “Correction, Dagger Six. This is Bowie Six Actual.”

  After a long pause, Lieutenant Colonel Bonwit came on the radio. “Bowie Six, Dagger Six. Understood. Send it.”

  “Sir, we’ve managed to repel the armored assault.”

  “Good copy, son. Pull your company back. We’re collapsing the lines and are expecting a follow-on attack momentarily.”

  “Understood, sir. Bowie Six, out.”

  *******

  Port-au-Prince, Haiti

  Commander Adams had just landed at the international airport. A Super Hornet from the Truman had flown him directly there, with its afterburners lit nearly the entire way. It had been a rocky ride given the weather, but if Adams was going to lead this attack, they had to get him there one way or another. If the carrier and Marine air wings couldn’t take off with a full ordnance load because of the high winds and bad weather, then by God, his prop planes a few hundred miles closer to the enemy would.

  Adams had spent the last twenty minutes on the radio with his XO, going over the battle plan. His XO had then briefed the pilots as he was approaching Haiti.

  When he jumped out of the Super Hornet, Adams thanked the pilot, who would have to wait until the weather cleared near the Truman before he could return.

  Commander Adams immediately saw his pilots were all in their A-29s, their engines cranked, waiting for him to hop in his airplane and lead the way. Adams’s ground crew hurried to get his bird armed and ready to roll for him.

  Adams smiled as he raced to his own plane, his pilots waving him on. He loved his pilots. They were absolute animals—totally fearless in the sky, and they never shied away from a good fight. His squadron of Super Tucanos was made up of all volunteers. It was a nontraditional flying rate, which likely meant they’d never rise very high in the ranks. Many of them just didn’t care; flying the Tucanos meant guaranteed action in support of SEALs and Marine Raiders on the ground. Commander Adams never imagined they’d be used for a large-scale operation like the first wave of a seaborne invasion, but here they were. If he were honest, he was really looking forward to seeing just what this plane could do.

  Strapping himself in, Adams put his helmet on and then closed his canopy. Connecting to his squadron, he told his pilots to go for broke once they reached Khe Sanh and the battle began.

  They roared back over the radio with their unit motto, “All in!” They were, after all, the Death Dealers.

  Their primary target was those heavy artillery trucks that were plastering the base—the Chinese infantry had been hammering the Marines with precision artillery strikes as they continued to advance on the facility. After the A-29s had removed the SP artillery as a threat, they’d circle back around with their rockets and machine guns. They’d be able to loiter over the base for close to thirty minutes before they’d have to head back so they didn’t exhaust their fuel supply.

  After flying towards the facility for a little while, they eventually came into range of Cuba. From this vantage point, all Adams could see in the general vicinity of Gitmo was a lot of thick black smoke. Small flashes and explosions were taking place on the ground from artillery strikes and secondary explosions. The place was getting the crap kicked out of it.

  “OK, boys and girls, let’s go save some Marines,” Adams announced over the radio as they headed toward the last known location of that enemy artillery.

  *******

  Echo Company

  Defensive Position

  Outside Gitmo

  “Skipper, here they come!” Paglia shouted to Captain Finch.

  Echo Company had repelled three assaults in the last two hours, but the company was down to forty percent combat effectiveness, and their lines were spread too thin. Lieutenant Colonel Bonwit had informed them there was no reserve left to send him. The entire battalion was down to fifty percent strength. The casualty collection point at the eastern end of the airfield was overflowing with the wounded. They were critically short of ammunition, and they were dangerously close to being overrun.

  Finch was about to shout a response back when he heard the whump, whump, whump of helicopter blades. There were three Harbin Z-19 attack helos headed their way. Before Finch could shout a warning to his Marines, the helos opened with their gun pods.

  The tanks let loose with their 105s as the APCs advanced with several lines of infantry. Finch did what grunts for hundreds of years had done—he made peace with his God and tried to sink further into the earthen hole he’d dug until it was safe to poke his head above ground.

  Boom!

  There was an explosion just in front of Finch’s position. As he looked up through the tears in his eyes, he saw one of his Marines flung over his hole. Something in him snapped.

  These bastards may kill me, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to die in this hole like a coward!

  Finch checked the magazine on his rifle. As he was about to stand, he heard the drone of an airplane. He wasn’t aware of any propeller aircraft in the Chinese or Cuban inventory. Finch searched the sky for the plane, until he heard the unmistakable sound of a Mk II .50-cal machine gun.

  The three Z-19s were shredded by strings of .50-caliber bullets. As burning hulks crashed to the ground, three slim bubble-canopy planes screamed a mere fifty feet off the deck. The tank commanders in their hatches ducked as the planes were only a few feet above their heads.

  Two of the tanks exploded as they were hit with dozens of Hydra rockets from more of the planes. The Cuban and Chinese infantry started firing at the planes as they banked away from their attack run. As they did, the Marines rose from their fighting holes and began to fire at the Chinese.

  Two more of the planes came screaming in, firing their .50-cals at the enemy infantry. Finch couldn’t believe his eyes. It was like something out of a World War II movie. The enemy soldiers broke their attack and started to run.

  One of the planes flew so low, Finch could see into the cockpit. He wasn’t sure, but he’d swear he saw a SEAL Trident on the pilot’s helmet. The pilot was crazy—he was flying so close to the ground, firing his guns, that the spent casings were bouncing off the dirt.

  The pilot pulled up and went vertical before he looped and rolled and flew back over Finch’s position. Then Finch saw a couple of flashes near the front engine compartment of the aircraft, and smoke started emanating from the front of the plane. The pilot, whoever he was, steered away from the battle line and headed toward their beat-up runway near the coast.

  As his Marines tended to the wounded and made ready for what would invariably come next, Finch heard a sound he’d thought he’d never hear again. Turning to look behind him, Captain Finch saw twelve MV-22s, flying in low and fast towards the runway.

  Once they landed, fresh Marines started running out the ba
ck of the bird and heading towards his position. A smile spread across Finch’s face.

  One of his radio operators ran towards him. “Captain Finch, Lieutenant Colonel Bonwit’s on the horn for you,” the RTO said as he handed him the hand receiver and plopped down next to him.

  “Dagger Six, this is Stiletto Six. Send it.”

  “Finch, II MEF is here! Advance elements from 4th MARDIV are on ground. Hold your position, Marine. It’s time to take this base back. Turn the company over to your XO and meet at the bunker for a commanders’ meeting. Out.”

  Finch couldn’t help but laugh. He’d never thought his ass would have been saved by ancient-looking airplanes and the Marine Corps Reserve.

  *******

  1st Battalion, 6th Marines

  25 Nautical Miles South of Santiago de Cuba

  Lieutenant Colonel Seth Mills was on the command net in the cockpit of the MV-22. He was in the first wave from 6th Marines to invade Cuba. His lift was made up of twelve MV-22 and twelve CH-53s, and they were assaulting the Santiago de Cuba International Airport with nearly eight hundred Marines. In a few hours, the rest of the assault force would be joining them.

  Right now, their mission was simple: seize the airport and hold it. Once they landed, they’d have three Ticonderoga cruisers at their disposal for direct naval gun support. Mills planned on making full use of their 155mm AGS weapons. The cruisers had doubled their ammunition so that they’d be able to provide sustained fire support missions to the grunts onshore.

  Looking through the window of the cockpit, Mills noticed just how close to the deck they were flying. The pilots were serious about avoiding the Chinese SAMs. When they neared the coast, he knew they were going to get painted by MANPADS. He hoped their pilots and crew chiefs were on the lookout for them.

  Mills checked his watch, then looked out the window; he saw the exhaust plumes from the five B-1B bombers as they raced past them. Then he felt the sonic boom, even in the Osprey. The planes were flying about a hundred feet off the deck as they swooped in fast and under the radar.

  The slick-looking bombers had been tasked with destroying the coastal defenses surrounding the airport and the naval port in the city. Each bomber was carrying eight AGM-154 joint standoff weapons for this very purpose. When the bombers got within twelve to eight nautical miles of their targets, they would climb to one thousand feet and release their ordnance. The big bombers would then turn away and drop back down to near wave top levels. The missiles would fly in ahead of the Ospreys, pulverizing the known enemy AA guns and other threats to the helicopters. This would provide the Marines with the needed shock and awe to get their people on the ground and start seizing the airport.

  Lieutenant Colonel Mills was amazed at just how fast the bombers were. No sooner had the bombers vanished from the battle space than a dozen F/A-18 Super Hornets and E/A-18 Growlers swooped in. Some of the aircraft loitered, waiting for a target from the Marines when they landed. Others were taking out the guns the bombers had missed. It was a well-coordinated multipronged aerial attack.

  “Death Walker, Ember Six.”

  “Ember Six, Death Walker Actual. Send it.”

  “Once you take the airfield, you have to hold it. The weather is clearing to the west, but the sea state is going to slow 8th Marines. We’re retasking the MV-22s and CH-53s from Gitmo. We’ll lift 2nd Marines to you instead.”

  “Ember Six, I copy all. We will hold.”

  In the distance, Mills saw flashes as ground targets continued to explode around the airport. The crew chief then tapped him on the shoulder and held up two fingers. That meant there were two minutes until his portion of Operation Tricorne would commence.

  The Hornets flanking them began to fire. The missiles streaked towards their targets as the darkening sky suddenly lit up with anti-aircraft machine-gun fire that appeared to have just woken up after the first wave of missiles hammered the very positions they were supposed to protect. The AA fire arced toward them and crisscrossed the sky as their gunners sought out anything that moved above them. Some of the Super Hornets were now diving down on the guns to take them out.

  In Mills’s headset, he heard the pilots calling out various targets as they engaged them. He had to hand it to these pilots—they had to keep track of a lot of things all at once. From flying the planes to all the various radio chatter and callouts constantly streaming across the net—he wasn’t sure how they kept it all straight.

  From what Mills could tell, the Super Hornets were yelling out “Fox Three,” which meant they were firing some radar homing anti-SAM missiles. Mills hoped for their sakes they took those guns out. He also knew the Growlers above them would be doing their best to jam the enemy systems. Right now, Mills just wanted to get on the ground with his soldiers and do something. He felt helpless sitting in the back of this flying death trap, listening to the pilots wage war.

  As the MV-22s began their combat assault on the tarmac, several of them had been hit and slammed into the deck hard. When Mills’s bird finally landed, the rear ramp opened, and his Marines ran out to the warm welcome of enemy gunfire. They all hit the deck and started looking for targets to shoot, while the Ospreys that could fly began the process of getting the hell out of Dodge.

  Mills heard the roar of jet aircraft and looked up; their air support was flying low to avoid SAMs. He could still make out the lettering of the pilots’ names just below the canopies.

  Low and from the east, Mills heard the Viper gunships approaching. “Move forward and get off the runway!” he yelled to his men.

  Two of his Marines who’d jumped up and charged forward got nailed by sniper fire before they’d moved even a couple of steps. A Marine whose name he couldn’t remember grabbed him by his body armor strap and practically threw him to the deck as a sniper bullet passed through the space he’d just been standing in.

  “He’s got you zeroed in, sir!” shouted the Marine as the two of them low-crawled to a ditch where several others were taking cover. The snipers and machine guns did their best to keep the Marines trapped on the runway.

  “You, give me that radio!” Mills commanded once he found the RTO.

  The Marines all passed the radio down the line to Mills. He dared to take a look over the lip of the ditch and across the tarmac at the tower, and he saw several muzzle flashes. He’d found where the snipers were and where that damn machine gun was set up.

  Mills changed the frequency on the radio and grabbed the handset. “Viper Tree-Seven, Death Walker Actual.”

  “Death Walker Actual, Viper Tree-Seven. Send it.”

  “Viper Tree-Seven, we’re taking sniper and machine-gun fire from the tower and the building to the right of it. I want it taken out!”

  “Death Walker, stand by.”

  Mills heard the change in pitch from the Vipers as they circled around to make an attack run. Seconds later, he heard the unmistakable sound of the 20mm rotary cannons as they opened up on the tower. A couple of Hydra rockets then flew over their heads, slamming into the two structures and exploding into a thousand little chunks of materiel as they fell apart.

  “Death Walker, problem solved. Semper fi.”

  “Viper Tree-Seven, oorah! Death Walker out.”

  Looking down the line of Marines huddled in the trench, Mills smiled. “Come on, Devil Dogs, do you want to live forever?”

  He sprang to his feet and darted from the ditch towards the sound of the guns.

  *******

  Five Hours Later

  4th MARDIV Headquarters

  Gitmo

  Major General Roldan handed his water bottle to Lieutenant Colonel Bonwit. The man took it and proceeded to drink most of it down.

  “You look like hell, Mike,” Roldan said as he sat next to Bonwit.

  “I’ve been better, sir,” Bonwit replied, a little too loudly. He was still suffering from hearing degradation from the constant bombardment of the last few days.

  “Mike, what you and your task force did here was noth
ing short of miraculous. Task Force Khe Sanh had a tough job, and you all did your duty above and beyond.”

  As Bonwit looked around, his eyes stopped at the body bags. His heart sank. He’d arrived at Gitmo with a task force of nearly 2,500 Marines and soldiers; 2/8 had lost over sixty percent of his Marines, and his counterpart from 1st Battalion, 65th BCT had lost fifty percent of his soldiers. Even his Raiders hadn’t gone unscathed; they’d lost twenty-four members. Only the Force Recon Platoon and the Special Forces ODA remained at one hundred percent. Had it not been for those operators and their tenacity beyond the wire, Gitmo might very well have fallen. Bonwit looked up at General Roldan with tears in his eyes.

  “Thank you, sir,” Bonwit replied as he looked around at what was left of his side of the base. He just shook his head as he took his helmet off and ran his fingers through his hair. “This ain’t Khe Sanh, though,” Bonwit remarked. Then he stood and walked away.

  Chapter Eight

  Gray Wolf

  Changzheng 32

  Gulf of Oman

  Captain Chen Han rose to periscope level, then flipped the handles down and proceeded to look through the optical sights. He knew the images were also being shown on a companion screen so his XO could see too, as well as being recorded so they could be analyzed later should something of value be found. The goal was to have the periscope up no longer than was necessary to give them a picture of what was going on around them.

  The Changzheng 32, one of three Type 095A submarines, had finally received their war orders, two full days after the war had started. Chen and the rest of his crew had been starting to think the leadership in Beijing might have forgotten about them. They were, after all, part of a small contingent operating in the Indian Ocean, so they weren’t exactly near the action.

  Their orders were very specific: sink any NATO-member-flagged ships they found along the sea lanes heading to and from the Persian Gulf all the way into the Red Sea.