Hunter Killer: The War with China: The Battle for the Central Pacific

by David Poyer

  He tries not to think of the chickens, how they suddenly went quiet as they were pulled through the hole in the wall.

  Hector wears baggy digital-printed trop camo utilities, with a laser ID tape and heavy boots. His old-style dog tag is backed by a hastily modified pet chip under the skin of his neck. He wears no watch, carries no radio, since his helmet will tell him the time and link him to the intraplatoon net. He wears knee and elbow pads and black tactical gloves and heavy body armor with reactive inserts.

  The new lightweight integrated combat helmet has night vision and a BattleGlass interface in the goggles that feeds him data and ranges wherever he looks. Hector hugs the M240 machine gun with laser optic and a hundred rounds of linked 7.62. His secondary weapon is a pistol in a leg holster. He carries a rigger belt, notebook, pen, gas mask, and a folding multitool. On his plate carrier he has thirty more rounds of pistol ammunition, a fragmentation grenade, water-purification tablets, a compass, an LED flashlight, a green chemlight, a midazolam/atropine autoinjector, and earplugs. In the assault pack is an issue Camelbak with a hose clipped to his shoulder strap, two hundred more rounds of linked 7.62, the machine-gun-cleaning kit, a 500-ml intravenous bag with starter kit, two MREs, a poncho and liner, another undershirt, spare batteries, a pistol-cleaning kit, the personal hygiene kit the Marines refer to as “snivel gear,” and a pair of heavy leather gloves.

  In his main pack he carries half a modular sleeping bag, two undershirts, two pair of socks, a knit cap, two more canteens of water, two more MREs, and a sleeping pad. Also one 60mm mortar round, a combat lifesaving kit, and range cards for the Pig.

  Hector wonders how far he’ll be able to hump 135 pounds of clothing, gear, weapons, food, water, and ammo when he weighs only 148 pounds. The marines have heard about powered metal exoskeletons. But they’ve never seen one, and even if they exist, the Corps will be the last to get them. The beast they’re riding in, that they’re powering along three feet above the water in, was built forty years before. It creaks and shrieks around them as its metal skin flexes.

  It’s only thin aluminum, after all.

  * * *

  THE brigade had been held aboard ship for weeks at sea. The officers and SNCOs went to sand-table rehearsals, but the grunts just got rumors. Until two days before, when they gathered in the hangar bay for a mass briefing by the colonel.

  The operation was named Mandible.

  Their target was an island.

  (“Duh,” Troy had whispered.)

  The island’s code name was Lifeline.

  When the graphic went up, Hector leaned forward, trying to peer around the guy in front of him for a better look. It stretched southwest to northeast, shaped like a long turd. It didn’t look that big, but even smaller islands lay off to the east and north.

  The colonel turned the brief over to a major. She said, “The Navy is carrying out attacks at two other points, starting now. And we have a submarine blockade between Lifeline and the enemy coast. So we don’t expect major reinforcements for the enemy, by either sea or air. The battlefield is isolated; he’ll have to fight with what he has. We’ll have the advantage of surprise and numbers.

  “On the other hand, this is an over-the-horizon assault, with multiple repeat sorties by Osprey, helo, and LCAC to get the first echelon ashore. Since shipping will have to stand off, due to area-denial missiles, this will slow the buildup and place heavier demands on the lead assault elements.

  “We’ll get to the enemy order of battle in a moment. But I wanted to discuss the geography first, because we’ve discovered difficulties that may not have been appreciated when we were assigned this mission.”

  An aerial photo, looking down onto an undulating green carpet fringed with black rock. “Lifeline is eighteen kilometers long and roughly five kilometers wide. It is dominated by two volcanoes, Riposet, in the southeast, and Karaboban, to the north. Both are long extinct. Riposet, at a two-hundred-seventy-meter elevation, dominates the island and the airfield. Whoever holds it, holds the island.”

  “Our first two objectives,” the colonel put in, “are the airfield and the commanding height to the south. We have a cruel and determined enemy. Cruel—judging from his conduct in Korea. Determined—he will not surrender easily. In China, defeated generals are shot.

  “But Marines have always accomplished the mission. I have no doubt you’ll make me proud.”

  He nodded to the major. She picked up, “Now, enemy forces. Based on all-source intelligence, we estimate Lifeline is occupied by approximately four thousand Chinese.”

  The marines stirred. Hector didn’t like that number either. There were only about two thousand men and women in the whole Second Regiment. Weren’t you supposed to land with more guys than you had opposing you?

  As if sensing their unease, she said, “But most of the occupiers are not fighting troops. Many are construction crews and civilian contractors, resurfacing and extending the airfield for the next phase of their offensive. Taking it won’t just screw up their plans, it’ll position us for our next step.

  “In two days, at an H-hour of 0400 local, following preparatory strikes by Tomahawk, UAV, Marine and Navy air, and naval gunfire support, Nine MEB will carry out a two-pronged attack. The Ospreys will vertical-envelop at LZ Mallet, which I am indicating with the pointer.”

  The major hesitated. “It was difficult to select a landing point for the element conducting the frontal assault. The coastline is formed by steep cliffs. Rocky. Precipitous. There are only four places at all suitable, only one is on the eastern coast, and it has no beach suitable for LCACs. Actually, there aren’t any ‘beaches,’ in the sense of a shallowing hydrography shading up into a gradually climbing coastal terrain.

  “To be honest, it took us a long time to figure out the best way to get you in, aside from a pure vertical assault, which wouldn’t give us a rapid enough buildup or the logistic foothold needed for resupply.”

  “Then how the fuck are we getting ashore?” Whipkey muttered, fidgeting like an eight-year-old.

  “Shut up, Troy, and listen,” Hector hissed.

  The briefer clicked a laser pointer. “First Battalion, Second Regiment, will land on Red Beach Two. Here.” The red dot pulsated, but Hector didn’t see anything like a beach.

  “AAVs, tanks, and vehicles will debark at the foot of an eroded cliff. The incline is about forty degrees. Rough going, but we believe the armor can negotiate the grade. Once the beachhead’s secure, the logistics combat element will sculpt a ramp with dozers. The rubble will form a base for a pontoon causeway, where resupply will come in starting at D plus one.

  “Until that happens, though, we’ll have to hold against any counterattack with organic assets, supplemented by drone resupply. The good news is, we’ll have continuous air support from the MAG and the UAV folks. Fifty Stinger teams, antidrone squads, and Navy top cover will further protect us.

  “Terrain inland is undulating, with open areas interspersed with scrub jungle in the lower elevations. You will encounter small lakes and watercourses. The former administrating country advises most of the inhabitants have left. For ROE purposes, consider the entire island as a free-fire zone. Of course, try to avoid damage to hospitals and churches, unless they’re being used as firing positions.

  “Once ashore, push toward the airfield in accordance with the phase lines shown and link up at LZ Mallet. We should have local-area GPS coverage, but it’s probably better to depend on your compass and map. Push forward as rapidly as you can. Don’t give the enemy time to organize. Second Battalion, landing south of us, will take Mount Riposet. Note this shallow ravine; it will serve as a boundary line. Three-Two will be held in reserve.

  “When you make contact, don’t halt. Call in supporting fire, then close with and destroy the enemy. Don’t get ahead of the phase lines. Your prep fires will be going in ahead of you. But don’t fall behind, either. Once fire lifts, the enemy’s going to have his head back up again.”

  The colonel inte
rrupted again. “Let me emphasize that: When counterattacks occur, call in support and attrite the enemy.”

  His audience stirred, glancing at one another. Hector felt uneasy. If anything went wrong, they’d be stranded ashore without resupply, maybe without tanks.

  The major wound up with the repeated assurance that the carriers would have their backs. But most of the marines still looked skeptical.

  When she was done, Weapons Platoon went to a corner of the cavernous well deck. They settled between one of the LCACs and the canvas-shrouded bulk of a tank. Hector nodded to the other M240 gunners. He caught Orietta’s grin from the mortar section, Pruss beside her. They’d all be hitting the beach with the first wave, apparently.

  Lieutenant Smalls’s usual procedure was for him to call in the three section leaders and the platoon sergeant, Hern, and let them pass the gouge on to the troops. But apparently he wanted them all together for this. “We haven’t been together long,” Smalls started. “Especially our new joins. But you heard what the colonel said. If these guys counterattack, you know where you die. In place, behind your weapon. Taking as many of them with you as you can.”

  And they’d all nodded soberly. Accepting it.

  It would be up to them.

  * * *

  NOW, in the hammering well of the LCAC, deep in the belly of the amphibious tractor, “Five minutes” comes back passed mouth to mouth. Hector tries to wriggle, to stretch cramping muscles. But after so long he isn’t sure he can get up, much less muscle up close to his body weight.

  A strange, prolonged groan. A lurch, as if they’ve hit something. He grips the Pig as if it can save him. A distant thud. Then another, heavier, closer. If a shell hits them now, no way they’re getting out. The “L-cack” floats above the water, driven on a cushion of air, but if it loses power they’ll be trapped.…

  “Stand by,” Sergeant Hern snarls, ducking to yell back to them. The AAV’s diesel clatters to life with a jolt and a roar. Whipkey and Ramos stiffen as above them a hatch cracks partway. An emergency exit, though every one knows only a few will be able to make it out.

  Through it they glimpse fog, and gray light. Slanting gray sky. Spray spatters. Marines bend, heaving into the corners. A tide of vomit slides to and fro on the deck.

  The thudding becomes a drumbeat, then a howl as if the world itself is being destroyed. Black smoke stains the sky. Aircraft scream over. Jets, and the crosslike shapes of Ospreys.

  Terror squeezes his heart. Hector pants.

  The marines crouch as hell gapes a mile ahead. Hector can only catch shattered glimpses. Volcanoes of flame throw boulders free to leap and crash down into the surf. Earth erupts, a russet belch of gritty soil scrambled by high explosive and laced with hot steel. Shells roar overhead, detonating with deafening blasts that walk circles of concussion across the water. Farther inland, even heavier explosions shake the sky. They can’t see for the fog, but something up there is unloading destruction on the enemy.

  For which they curse and pray, torn between terror and gratitude. Hector, helmet lowered, embracing the Pig, can’t pray. Can’t even think, in the pandemoniac din. Only two words tower in his mind. Last words he will die without saying, if he dies today.

  Mandible.

  Lifeline.

  The iron stink of torn earth and explosive reaches them on the wind.

  * * *

  SOMEHOW a gap. Like the flicker of a strobe, and

  * * *

  HE’S ashore. Panting, smeared with red dirt, so somewhere in there he must have fallen or been knocked down. His Glasses have gone blank. His radio hisses empty in his earbud. He looks back down the slope, to where the LCAC …

  Where the LCAC …

  To where the LCAC lies beached and on fire, canted to one side like Godzilla used it to wipe his ass, then stomped on it. Huge pieces lie smoking, scattered on the rocks. Two amtracs also lie torn open and burning soundlessly. Silent explosions lift tons of white water a few hundred feet out to sea. Huddled bundles in graytan digital camo lie among them, or surge in the surf. A damaged cargo-robo whirs and bobs in circles until it finally topples, slides down into the surf, thrashes briefly, and subsides beneath the waves.

  Only Hector doesn’t remember.…

  His helmet rocks to a blow and his brainpan echoes. It’s Sergeant Hern, yelling into his face. Soundlessly. Hector blinks. Only after several seconds do the sounds abruptly assemble into words. Accompanied, now, by the zip and crack of incoming. Lots of incoming. Instinctively, he crouches.

  “… and get set up. Hear me? Haul ass! Two hundred meters to the left and set up.”

  A second face. Whipkey, tugging at his other arm. “Ramos. The fuck, man?—He got concussed, Sergeant. When the cack got hit. Had to drag him out.”

  “Get him on his feet. Move him out. We got to get off this fucking beach.”

  Nearer the crest the NCOs and officers, huddled in a cleft of rock, are talking on radios and assigning sectors of fire. Hector, toiling heavily past them, sees through a blankness that beyond that lies a bare hilltop, with very little cover and dirt spurting up continually as it’s raked. He feels naked. “Supposed to do this in the fucking amtrac,” he mutters. “What the fuck?”

  “Forget the track, dude,” Whipkey pants, shoving him. “They had us boresighted the second we hit the sand. We were lucky to get out alive. Lots didn’t.”

  Hern leads them out at a scramble, bent double, riflemen in support, and they rush in short sprints from dip to dip, panting under their loads, until they reach a rise on the left flank. Mortars start howling in as they run. The ground shakes. Earth patters over them. Jagged steel sings and whines. Air bursts. There’s nowhere to hide. They fall, digging their fingers into the ground, then leap up and sprint again. By some miracle, only one rifleman gets hit. They shout for a corpsman, and resume buddy-rushing once they see him on his way.

  The sergeant sets them in overlooking a jungled valley with gray fog eddying up from tangled vegetation. There’s a little cover here, at least, stunted scrub trees studded with bare boulders. Their primary field of fire is to the left oblique with a secondary dead ahead. Hern yells, “Make sure you don’t fire on any First Battalion guys. They’ll be coming up on the far side of the valley.” Hector realizes this is the “ravine” mentioned in the briefing, the line between battalions. But where are the Ospreys, the guys coming in vertical assault? He starts to ask Whipkey, then decides he wouldn’t know either.

  A huge explosion goes off in the air a hundred yards away, thumping deep in his lungs and kicking up the dirt in a huge circle below it. Besides, they have more pressing issues. Like getting dug in before one of those shells, or rockets, turns them into pulled pork.

  Hector and Troy dig madly with entrenching tools. The soil’s reddish, gritty, not sand, but lighter. Their blades grate on fist-sized pumice rocks. He’s never seen anything like this stuff. As they dig it turns to powder and they start coughing. They throw up a hasty position, then spade in the Pig’s bipod legs. Roll in, and glass their front.

  But he can’t see. The fucking fog covers everything. It eddies up from the trees below and hangs opaque and motionless. Still, he pings laser ranges, and Troy sketches a card. Fifteen minutes later a Javelin team arrives on their left, then a rifle squad digs in between them, accompanied by an antidrone gunner. With each arrival Hector feels reassured. They have a perimeter now. But where’s the armor? He hasn’t seen a single piece come off the beach. He hasn’t seen any enemy yet, either, but keeps searching the fog, swinging the 240’s muzzle, finger on the trigger. Now and again rain slashes down, hard, chilly, obliterating the last remnants of sight. His helmet radio tells him, “Hold fire, claymores are going out.” He clicks and rogers, but never sees movement. Either they’re really good, or visibility is shit.

  The roar of engines behind them … the second wave of cacks is coming in. They’ll have to thread in, avoiding the wrecks. With a queer-sounding pop his radio goes off, then comes back on. “W
hat happened back there?” he mutters to Whipkey. “To the cack?”

  “Fuck if I know. Just, we were there, waiting for the ramp to go down, and there’s this terrific bang and the whole side opens up. We’re spinning around, starting to go down … somebody hit the ramp button, though, and they drove the amtracs out. You don’t remember?”

  “I don’t remember dick until Hern grabbed me at the top of the cliff.”

  “No shit … Well, we hit the beach, then there’s this terrific whang and the track shudders and stops. The driver’s just … gone. He’s like, paste. We get out but then it’s like total clusterfuck. Major incoming. We’re trying to rush, but guys are going down. Then I look back and you’re laying there. A lot of rocks and shit were flying around.” Whipkey bends in. “Shit yeah, you got a hell of a dent here. Can see the ripped Kevlar. Probably woulda tooken your fucken head off, without that brain bucket. Sure you’re okay?”

  “I think so. Kind of got a headache, though—”

  “Ops, this is Whiskey actual, report Alfa Charlie Echo,” says Hector’s radio. The lieutenant, asking for an ammo, casualties, equipment report.

  He peers out again over the sights. “This is Six, six hundred rounds, no casualties, operational. Visibility limited by fog, two hundred meters, no enemy observed. Over.”

  “Whiskey actual, out. —Ah, wait one … Stand by … stand by to move out. Follow AAVs, one-zero-five magnetic. Threat direction, left flank. Acknowledge.”

  “Fuck,” Whipkey mutters. “We just got this fucken position dug.” But he’s already packing and slinging, getting ready to move.

  Hector checks his compass and frowns. “Hey, something’s fucked … am I wrong? That’s gonna take us down into that jungle.”

  “No it won’t. You’re reading it wrong. We’re just gonna skate by it.” Whipkey sighs, and Hector looks to see him squatting in their hole with his trou down. “Takin’ a dump while I can,” he mutters. “Recommend you do the same.” He pulls up his pants, slings his rucks, the heavy bag with the extra barrel, and climbs out.