Pacific Siege sts-8

by Keith Douglass

  “Keep them locked down, keep them fed and warm. We are not the enemy of these men.”

  They drove from there directly to the school, now empty by decree.

  On the far side of the playground, the earth had been leveled. General Nishikawa paced off twenty steps from the corner of the play area, and put a mark in the soil. He stepped off sixty paces from the pine tree growing at the side of the playground, and put another mark. Between the two had been a small hill that had contained the tombs of his family for over a hundred years. Now there was nothing but bare earth, and the marks of dozens of children who usually played over this area.

  Tears squeezed out of his eyes as the general knelt in prayer on the sacred ground. He didn’t want to admit it, but it must be that the hill, and his ancestor’s remains, had been bulldozed into the small gully that had been directly in front of the hill. Now the gully was filled all the way to the school.

  He wailed and cried openly for the souls of his departed ancestors, and for the evil that the heathen Russians had heaped on their souls by desecrating and destroying the graves.

  For an hour he knelt on the ground praying.

  By the time he returned to his military headquarters, there were three long typed messages on his desk. Each had come over the radio, since he had cut the telephone cable from Kunashir to Hokkaido. He settled down to read the messages. He knew they would be denunciations from the Russians, from the Americans, and from the senile and impotent Japanese politicians in the Diet.

  Before he could read them, a thundering roar shook the building.

  He rushed outside where two guards pointed away from the headquarters.

  “Aircraft,” one said.

  Three minutes later, two jet fighters again came in low over the town. The fighters did not fire, but their afterburners shook the whole community. As they flashed directly over the military headquarters building, General Nishikawa saw the identifying red stars on the wings.

  “Ah, so. The Russians have arrived,” the general said. The planes made one more thundering low fly-over, then headed northwest for the Soya Strait between Hokkaido and the Russian island of Sakhalin. That way they would not penetrate the Japanese airspace on the way back to their Russian aircraft carrier somewhere to the southwest.

  General Nishikawa hurried back to his office to read the three dispatches. The one on top was from Tokyo. The Prime Minister himself ordered him to end his invasion of Kunashir, and return his force to Hokkaido.

  “If you do not comply with this order, you will be declared a traitor to Japan, and will be dealt with according to Japanese parliamentary law. You and your men will be outlaws, branded as cowards, and rebels, and forever denied entry into Japan. For the good of Japan, cease this outrageous invasion, and return to Japan at once.

  I guarantee you leniency if you return within two days.”

  The message was signed by the Prime Minister himself.

  He could not do it. Nishikawa had sworn a vow of vengeance against the government that had destroyed the graves of his ancestors. He would not give up until he had caused them as much damage as they had done to his family.

  The second message was sent by the United States ambassador in Tokyo.

  “General Nishikawa: We appreciate your situation, and your honorable try to recover the graves of your ancestors; however, we do not agree with the way you have gone about it. We have a battle group steaming your way. The ships, planes, and men should be off your eastern shore shortly. We will attempt to put a screen around your headquarters with an air cover, and Naval ships along both coasts near the southern end of the island.

  “If requested by the Japanese government, we will take action against you to subdue your force, and remove you from the island within the seven-day limit the Russians have imposed. It will be your option whether you oppose our forces or not. If you choose to fire upon our troops and aircraft, we will respond with all of our capability.

  “We hope that we do not have to engage your forces in combat; however, we are ready, and ultimately able, to do so. We look to your timely response to our message.”

  It was signed by the United States ambassador to Japan, Lloyd Contreras.

  Nishikawa stared at the message and shook his head. “Mr. Ambassador, I’m sorry, but I’m not leaving my ancestors again. This time somebody will have to blow my dead body off this island. This is my ancestral home, and I intend to either live here or die here.”

  He wrote down the same words and started to take them to the sergeant in the radio room. Then he stopped. Let them wonder. Yes, let them guess at what he would do. It would last longer that way. For a moment he wondered if he only had five more days to live. It was possible. General Nishikawa shrugged.

  The third message was from the Russians, “Our planes have flown over your complex by now. We know where you are, and our computers are plotting the flight of our missiles, which will hit you with pinpoint accuracy. There is no hope that you can win. Give up now, and retain your life and the lives of your men. You have made your statement. The Russian government has always been ready and willing to discuss the future of the Kuril Islands. That offer still stands.

  “You still have your transport, the small boats you negotiated the channel in to arrive at Kunashir. Move to them now, within the hour, and you’ll be safe in Japan before sunset.

  “If you do not comply within the seven-day deadline we gave you, the military headquarters there, and any of your troops we can find, will be blasted into eternity, and quicker than you ever thought you will be visiting with your ancestors.”

  General Nishikawa looked up as someone knocked on his door.

  “Come.”

  The communications sergeant hurried in. He smiled.

  “General, sir. We have figured out the Russian radios here. We now have a network of the handheld units in four outposts. The lookouts posted make a net call every hour on the hour, and anytime that they see anything suspicious.

  “The first reports came in just now. They can see no planes or ships, and everything with the local population is calm. There are enough food stores in the kitchen area to feed our people for just over a week. Then we’ll need a new food source.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant. There won’t be any need for any more food. A week should do us fine. You’ve read the radio messages. We’ll be lucky to still be eating anything after a week.”

  The sergeant saluted, did a smart about-face, and left the room.

  General Nishikawa stared at the three messages spread out on his desk. He didn’t trust the Japanese government.

  The United States spoke softly, but carried a huge stick. The Russians spoke bluntly, but had given him a week.

  He could not figure out why, but he was the most afraid of the United States’ message. The big battle force, with missiles, rockets, and eighty-five aircraft, would be offshore within a few hours. He had to decide how to deal with them. The Russians would wait. It would be the Americans who presented him with the immediate threat.

  He took out the two swords of the samurai and held them, the long one and the deadly shorter blade. Yes, at least one of his ancestors had been a samurai. He had been a military retainer of a Japanese diamyo practicing the chivalric code of Bushido. Honor above all. He stared at the smaller blade, then gently put it in the wooden sheath, then the silk wrappings, and placed it in the bottom desk drawer. Soon he would carry it with him at all times. Soon, but not yet.

  13

  Tuesday, 20 February

  USS Monroe, CVN 81

  Off Hokkaido, Japan

  The sixteen SEALs sat near the bow of the big aircraft carrier near the starboard side, usually reserved for parked aircraft. The area had been cleared, and the SEALs were about to have a live firing drill.

  Each man sat on the deck with six magazines for his particular weapon in front of him. Each magazine had only three rounds in it.

  “You know the drill,” Murdock told them from where he sat in the middle of th
e line of SEALS. “As soon as you hear me fire, you fire your weapon, empty the magazine. Then eject the magazine, and load the next one. Fire and eject, load and fire, and eject until you are finished with the six magazines.

  “Machine gunners, fire out the ten rounds on the end of one belt, load and charge the second belt, and fire ten rounds in two five-round bursts. Speed in reloading is the key here. Last man done gets thrown overboard.”

  “You wish,” somebody cracked, and they all broke up.

  Murdock went on. “You guys with the H&K G-11s. Fire two three-round bursts and reload. Do that three times. Everyone up to speed?”

  He looked around, lifted his H&K MP-5SD, and fired over the raft into the Pacific Ocean. At once the fifteen other weapons roared, and the stuttering of the three-round bursts caught a lot of sailors on the deck of the big ship by surprise. After a moment’s hesitation, the work on the huge floating airfield went on as scheduled, with two Tomcat F-14’s launched off the deck by the catapults.

  Murdock slammed the second magazine into his subgun and fired, punched out the empty, and loaded again.

  Jaybird Sterling gave a rebel yell as he finished his sixth clip.

  He was the first one done. The machine gunners and the caseless-round G-11s finished next, and then the rest of the submachine guns, the sniper rifles, and the Colt carbines in that order.

  Murdock checked his wristwatch. “Yeah, okay, nothing spectacular.

  Now clean up the brass and let’s do some double time up and back over here out of the way.”

  They worked out for another hour; then Murdock sent them below for the evening meal. He found a note on his stateroom door that he was wanted in the admiral’s cabin. The door was open to a small outer office where a lieutenant commander sat behind a desk.

  “Commander Murdock. Right this way. The admiral is interested in what you’ve come up with. He also wants to ground you on some other details.”

  Inside the admiral’s cabin, it looked more like a luxury liner suite. A couch along one wall, a large desk and a swivel chair, even a bookcase along the other bulkhead.

  Murdock came to attention in front of the desk. “Lieutenant Commander Murdock reporting as ordered, Sir.”

  “At ease, Commander.” The admiral pointed to a chair. The rough command presence was gone for the moment. Small worry lines showed around the corners of the admiral’s eyes, and he seemed to have aged five years since Murdock had seen him.

  “Damned touchy situation we’re heading into, Murdock. I want you to know that. Our battle fleet is going to be between that Japanese invader of part of Mother Russia and a Russian battle fleet. Things could get downright dicey.”

  “When do we arrive off the island, Admiral?”

  “Another three hours. Be dark by then. The seas have calmed, and we have constant surveillance over the little town, but that’s all we can do right now. I’m hoping you have a quick way to go in and get the general out of there before the Russian Navy pulls up just outside of our pickets.”

  “Afraid not, Sir. Our best scenario is to go in silently in our inflatable boats. Get ashore without being seen, then try to take down the command headquarters with stun grenades and fancy footwork. If we have to treat these invaders as friendlies, it really ties our hands.

  We’re usually more of a shoot-and-scoot kind of operation.”

  “I was afraid of that, Commander. We’ve got one ELINT Viking up now. The Russians are less than two hundred miles away coming at flank speed. They’ve made four overflights of the island, just to let us know that they can do it. They’re coming in from the west, which means they have to go around Cape Shiretoko, then motor about fifty kilometers down Nemuro Strait between the cape and Kunashir Island. They would still have to go around the southern tip of the island to come up on the town of Golovnino, where the Japanese invaders are.

  “My guess is they will bypass the cape, stay out another twenty kilometers or so, and come in on the east coast on the Pacific side.

  Which means we have a little more time. We’re talking about eight hours, maybe less if they push it.

  “I’ve been warned by CINCPAC to be extremely careful about taking any action against the Russians. If they shoot first, we are authorized to return fire in kind if one of our aircraft or ships is in deadly peril.” The admiral let out a long sigh, picked up a much-chewed cigar, and clamped it in his mouth. He didn’t light it. “‘Shoot and scoot,” yeah, I like that. Hell of a good way of doing this business. Only we can’t, not on this one.” He looked at Murdock, who suddenly had a whole new perspective on this level of command. “You have any more ideas on this fucking island?”

  “Forget Japanese sensitivities and drop a pair of missiles on the command headquarters, then go in and mop up and airlift out any living Japanese, and leave the place to the Russians by the time they drop anchor off the town.”

  The admiral laughed. “Don’t I wish I could. CINCPAC would have me by the balls before I could radio in an after-action report. I’d be retired in Coronado before you could flick your Bic.”

  A phone on the desk beeped twice. The admiral picked it up and listened. “Yes, I’m coming down. Tell those young men to keep their cool.”

  The admiral stood, his game face back in place. “I’ve got to get down to TFCC. You might want to tag along.”

  Murdock hurried forward to follow the admiral.

  The TFCC is the Tactical Flag Command Center. It contained tactical display screens showing what ships and planes were where in his command.

  A short walk later, the admiral and Murdock stepped inside the center, and both stared at the display screen.

  “How close?” Admiral Kenner asked Captain Olson, the CAG.

  The Carrier Air Wing Commander checked the screen. “Two bogies, sir, probably from the Russian carrier still out about eighty miles from the tip of Hokkaido. Their course seems to be set just to miss the Japanese island. Estimated speed about seven hundred knots. We have two Tomcats on an intercept course with contact somewhere past the point of Hokkaido in approximately twelve minutes.”

  “Get them on tactical,” the admiral said.

  Ten seconds later the call went out. “Red Tomboy, this is Home Base.”

  The response came at once.

  “Home Base, yeah. We’ve got those two bogies on a hot meet. What the fuck are we supposed to do?”

  Admiral Kenner took the hand mike. “Red Tomboy, this is Admiral Kenner. Do not initiate any action. Do not lock on with radar. Make it a fly-by-and-wave. Absolutely do not engage.”

  “That’s a Roger, Home Base. No engagement. Should we turn and bird-dog them?”

  “Red Tomboy, maintain loose contact, don’t attempt to escort or influence their flight direction.”

  “Roger, Home Base. Out.”

  Admiral Kenner handed the set back to Captain Olson. The admiral again studied the screen that showed his ship placement.

  “All our units in their proper locations?”

  “Right, sir,” the watch officer said. “Everyone in the specified protection screen.”

  “Good. That task force could have a Russian Boomer along with it, We’ve got to be especially alert. What’s our ETA on the island?”

  “Less than three hours now, sir. We’ve sent out signals for the spread of our ships. We’ll be four miles off shore.”

  I’ll wait for the intercept, Captain Olson,” the admiral said.

  It was a sit-down room with all the video screens at chest height, and a shelf for work areas below them. Murdock had never seen this part of a carrier in action. He watched the lines on the screen start to converge.

  Suddenly he was glad he was just a lieutenant commander, without the responsibility for the carrier task force and the lives and welfare of ten thousand men and a billion dollars worth of hardware that the admiral had.

  The lines on the screen almost met; then both veered slightly until they were parallel but looked almost on top of each other.


  “Can’t be separated by more than maybe a hundred feet, sir,” the radar specialist said.

  Admiral Kenner grunted.

  The lines continued in a straight line.

  “Heading is still directly for the northernmost point of Hokkaido,” a second tech said.

  The admiral turned to another console. “Let’s try to bounce a signal off our ELINT and try to raise the commander of the Russian task force. It’s time we had a talk. Don’t we have an xpert Russian translator on board?”

  The watch officer frowned. “Yes, sir. I’ll round him up. A Chief Johnson, as I recall.” He turned and talked to another operator, who left his station and hurried out of the TFCC.

  Three minutes later, the translator was there, looking at the message the admiral had written out. He went over it four times, then nodded at the console operator.

  The chief spoke in Russian: “Hailing the Russian task force now steaming up the Sea of Japan toward Hokkaido. This is Admiral Kenner of the USS Monroe, CVN 81. We urgently request that you respond to our call so we can have a conversation about our mutual problem.” The chief released the mike switch. Everyone in the TFCC waited. The dead air time stretched out.

  “A minute,” the chief said. He looked at the watch commander, who held up his finger in a wait sign.

  “It’s been two minutes,” Admiral Kenner said. “Repeat the message, word for word.”

  “Admiral, we’re on an international hailing frequency,” the chief said. “I’m almost certain they monitor that frequency. We should be able to raise them on it. They may need some time to decide how to respond.”

  “Do it again,” Kenner said.

  The translator again spoke in Russian into the microphone. When he ended the message they waited.

  A minute later the speaker came to life. The words were in English. “Admiral Kenner. May I offer my compliments on your seamanship. This is Admiral Vladimir Rostow, leader of Task Force Twelve now moving toward Kuril Islands. I see no need for us to talk.

  This is a Russian problem, not one for the United States. It is our island that has been invaded. We have given the renegades seven days to leave the island or face total annihilation. There is no room for negotiations, only the total withdrawal of the invaders by our deadline.