Anvil (7 page)

It was only
a few more minutes before the pilot made a sharp turn and descended
quickly.  One of the Rangers opened the side door as we touched down,
jumping to the ground.  The rest followed and I leapt out right behind
them.  Blanchard, his aide, then Rachel and Irina brought up the rear.

We were at a
temporary command post.  Five Hummers were parked in a reasonable
facsimile of a circle and two Bradley fighting vehicles bracketed the
camp.  The sounds of the battle were loud and we couldn’t have been more
than half a klick from the front. 

Blanchard
ran to where a Major and two Captains were leaned over a large, plastic covered
paper map.  All three of them had radios pressed to their faces, listening
to reports and shouting orders as they made marks on the map with grease
pencils.  A little old school, but then so am I.

I stepped
behind the shortest man and looked over his head at the map.  To the
uninitiated it looked like uncontrolled mayhem, the symbols they were drawing
appearing to mean nothing.  But they did mean something, and if you knew
how to read them they told a story.

And it
wasn’t a good story.  The Russians were spread across a five-mile front
and had both light and heavy armor supporting them.  The Infantry Division
was spread thin, but appeared to be holding the higher ground.  The
Marines had broken through enemy lines to the north, flanking a company of Russian
armor, but they were now pinned down. 

Two
companies of Rangers were holding fast, using the terrain to their advantage,
but another was in serious trouble.  They were flanked on two sides by
Russian infantry and were in danger of being encircled as a spearhead of light
armor and ground troops pushed ahead.

Another
company of Rangers was trying to reach them, but had made contact with the
largest concentration of enemy armor.  They were stalled, unable to make
progress.  I turned my radio on, the shouts and screams of men in contact
with the enemy immediately filling my ear.  I listened for a few moments,
sorting out who was who as I kept studying the map.

Rachel
stepped up next to me and grabbed my injured hand.  She’d apparently found
a medic kit, probably in one of the Hummers.  While I studied the map, she
splinted and taped my broken fingers.

“Going to be
a bitch handling a rifle with that,” I mumbled to her without taking my
attention off the map.

“I’m sure
you’ll figure it out,” she said, applying a final piece of tape and stepping
away.

“Pull them
back!”  Blanchard said to one of the Captains, stabbing a point on the map
where there was still a chance for the company in dire straits to escape before
being completely surrounded and decimated.

“No comms,”
the man replied.  “We can’t reach them.”

“Send a
runner,” Blanchard shouted.

“We’ve sent
two.  Neither made it.  Third’s on the way, but we’ve lost contact
with him.”

Everyone
ducked as a pair of A-10s roared overhead, seemingly low enough to count the
rivets in their skin.  The sounds of rifle fire, light automatic weapons
and high explosives seemed to be coming closer.  From farther away there
were several explosions as American and Russian jets joined in aerial
combat.  Two hundred yards to our front, a pair of Apaches were hovering only
feet above the ground.

They were
screened from the battle by a low hill, using the sensor suite mounted above
their rotors to see over the terrain and select their targets.  As I
watched, they popped up in unison.  Clear of their cover, each fired two
hellfire missiles at targets I couldn’t see. 

Before they
could drop back into protection, one of them exploded as a Russian missile found
it.  The other jerked sideways, away from the blast, making it to
safety.  The shockwave ripped over us a second later, nearly knocking
everyone to the ground.  The smell of burning aviation fuel came with the
wave of heat that arrived moments after.

“Goddamn it,
get a squad out of Charlie Company in there to pull these men out.  What
do we have available for air support?”  Blanchard shouted to be heard.

“All ground
attack air assets are fully engaged with their armor and we will lose the MEU
if we re-task,” the Captain I was standing behind answered.

“A-10s?” 
The Colonel turned to the other Captain who I realized was wearing an Air Force
uniform.

“Working on
it, sir.  The enemy has multiple rotor-wing assets and anti-air that are
keeping them back.  We’ve lost four birds already and are trying to get
fighter support to clear a path.”

I’d seen
enough.  Turning, I reminded Rachel and Irina to stay close to Blanchard
before running to where ten Rangers had set up a security line between the
front and the command post.  I ignored the cries from both Rachel and
Blanchard.

“You five
with me,” I shouted, pointing at them as I ran past.

None of them
hesitated to leap to their feet and follow.  It didn’t really surprise
me.  Rangers prefer being on the offensive to the defensive. 

We ran a
wide circle to avoid the heat from the burning Apache.  As soon as we were
far enough past to turn west towards the front, without roasting ourselves, we
headed for the base of the low line of hills the helicopters had been hiding
behind.  To my left was a cut in the terrain and I angled towards it, the
five Rangers on my heels.

Slowing as I
entered the break, I cautiously approached the high spot.  Motioning them
down, I dropped to my stomach to crawl the final few yards.  There was a
battle raging on the other side of the crest and it’s generally not a good idea
to silhouette yourself against the sky when entering a fight.  If the
enemy doesn’t see you and blow your ass off, there’s a good chance of friendly
fire taking you out.  Suddenly popping up isn’t a good way to stay
healthy.

Taking
advantage of the cover afforded by a small rock resting on the lip, I peered
around and grimaced.  There weren’t just a lot of Russians, there were a
LOT of Russians.  And the battlefield was massive, spread across the
horizon as far as I could see in either direction.  Dozens of light and
heavy armor vehicles belonging to both sides sat burning, black smoke billowing
into the sky and creating a hellish pall.

Farther out
were multiple locations where aircraft had been shot down and crashed to the
ground, adding to the haze.  The sound of small arms fire was constant and
larger, vehicle mounted guns were firing, adding to the din.  Helicopters
buzzed over the fight, engaging each other as well as ground targets, while
higher up I could see the trails of missiles as the fighter jocks tangled.

Mortars were
firing, both sides using them to keep troops from advancing.  The only
thing missing was heavy artillery, which I didn’t understand as I’d seen a fire
battery notated on the map. 

The screams
of men fighting and dying.  The smell of munitions and spilled
blood.  The choking smoke from burning machines and expended
ordnance.  This was truly hell on Earth, and with a wave to the Rangers
behind me I stood and ran directly into it.

Admiral
Packard stood in Pearl Harbor’s shore based Combat Information Center, staring
at multiple monitors.  The four largest displays were satellite images of
two Carrier Strike Groups (CSGs) operating in the north Pacific Ocean.  The
remaining two were zoomed on Russian naval facilities located near Vladivostok
and on the Kamchatka Peninsula.  CSG Nine with the USS George Washington
super carrier at the center was positioned three hundred miles due west of
Portland, Oregon.  CSG Eleven, with the USS Nimitz, was one hundred miles north
of the Washington.

All but one
of the remaining displays monitored Russian naval and land based activity
within the striking range of the two fleets.  Finally, he checked the last
screen, unhappy with the heavy losses the Marines and Rangers were taking in
the land battle with enemy forces in southern Idaho.  He didn’t understand
why the Kremlin had committed so many ground troops to a tactically valueless
chunk of the country, but in doing so they had divided their forces on the
ground in North America.

Shifting his
attention back to the looming naval engagement, he nodded in satisfaction when
he noted the ships of the CSGs where in the proper positions.  He wanted
to be onboard the Washington, leading the fight at sea, but knew the Captains
well and had full confidence in their abilities. 

Still, to
stand on the catwalk outside the bridge and watch his warplanes.  To feel
his bones vibrate from the sheer power of the jet engines as they went to full
throttle a moment before being hurled into the sky by the catapult.  That
was what he missed.

Chastising
himself for losing focus, he issued the order for the commencement of Operation
Anvil.  The images drew back slightly, allowing for a wider view of the
operational area, and in moments both carriers began launching aircraft. 
The first planes in the air were tankers that would top off each fighter once
it reached altitude, then tag along behind so they could refuel before
returning home.

As the two
CSGs launched aircraft, the views of the Russian naval bases panned a hundred
miles off shore to seemingly empty stretches of ocean.  On each monitor,
which provided a view of over one hundred square miles, multiple cruise
missiles erupted from the surface and gained altitude before tipping over and
stabilizing into horizontal flight.

These were
Tomahawk missiles, launched by eight American, Ohio class submarines. 
Each weapon was fitted with a one-thousand-pound conventional warhead as the
Navy had so far been unsuccessful in enabling its inventory of nuclear warheads
in the absence of National Command Authority (NCA) codes.  The Russians
had seen to that quite effectively by eliminating all political and senior
military leadership through strikes on Mt. Weather and Cheyenne Mountain.

Each sub
carried 154 Tomahawks and would send two thirds of their missiles.  Packard
divided his attention between the launches in the eastern Pacific and the
activity of the CSGs off the west coast of the United States which were busily
sending waves of cruise missiles to Russian targets within the US. 

That wave
launched from four Ticonderoga Class, Aegis guided missile cruisers.  Each
of the ships disappeared in clouds of billowing white smoke.  Soon, eight
hundred missiles were on their way to a variety of targets in Russia and four
hundred were streaking east to the US mainland, low over the blue waters of the
Pacific.

Cruising at
five hundred and fifty miles an hour with a range of fifteen hundred miles, Tomahawks
aren’t fast.  But they approach enemy targets so low to the ground that
they are all but undetectable until it is too late to do anything.  They
are also deadly accurate, and nearly half of the airborne weapons were set to
seek and destroy electronic emissions.  Russian radar and radio
communications. 

Next came
Electronic Warfare (EW) aircraft from the CSGs.  Their job would be to
monitor enemy communications and disrupt them, gaining an advantage for the
attacking Americans.  Finally came waves of F-18s, looking like needle
nosed darts on the displays as they took to the air and queued up to take a
drink of fuel.  

Full, each
flight group formed up and began heading for the west coast of the United
States.  They were flying slow, staying below the sound barrier to
conserve fuel as well as to not arrive on target ahead of the initial attack
wave.  Throttling back, the F-18s held their speed slightly below that of
the Tomahawk missiles.

“Turn that
up!”  The Admiral snapped when a snatch of conversation coming over a
console speaker caught his attention. 

The Senior
Chief Petty Officer operating the station spun the volume control and hit a
button to send the audio to overhead speakers.  Packard listened for a
moment to the fleet communications as first one, then all of the ships in CSG
Eleven reported detecting torpedoes in the water with their sonar. 

On the
screen he watched as each ship responded exactly to US Navy doctrine,
accelerating to flank speed and maneuvering based on the bearing and distance
to the inbound weapons.  Several of the ships launched countermeasures
into the water, large canisters that would create noise intended to fool the
torpedoes into locking onto them instead of the sound of a ship racing to
safety. 

Anti-Submarine
Warfare (ASW) helicopters were already in the air and as he watched, two of
them dropped torpedoes into the sea.  Before the weapons had time to
destroy the enemy submarine, there was a brilliant flash from the stern of one
of the destroyers that had dashed to place itself between the incoming
torpedoes and the Nimitz.  A moment later a second explosion bloomed from
amidship on the destroyer and it went dead in the water.  Flames and thick
smoke poured from it’s damaged hull.

The CSG
continued to maneuver and more torpedoes were dropped by the helicopters
searching for the Russian vessel.  Packard cursed as new warnings were
sounded when an attack from the opposite side of the formation was
detected.  More torpedoes were dropped and additional helicopters launched
as a destroyer and a frigate dashed to the probable location of the new
submarine.

The battle
raged on, one of the Guided Missile Cruisers taking hits from three torpedoes.  The
Cruiser’s back was broken, the hull splitting in half and the ship disappearing
under the waves in minutes.  One more leaked through the defenses and
countermeasures, striking the Nimitz and damaging its massive propellers and
rudder.  The giant ship, without propulsion or steering, came to a stop in
the water and began rolling in the large swells. 

When it was
over, both Russian subs had been destroyed.  But the Americans had lost a
destroyer and a cruiser.  And even though it was still floating, the
Nimitz couldn’t launch or recover aircraft without the ability to maneuver. 

One of the
console operators was busily marking every sailor in the water he and the system
could identify, sharing the data with the CSG as rescue operations got underway.

“What’s the
water temperature?”  Packard asked without taking his eyes off the
hundreds of men and women bobbing on the surface.

“Forty-five
degrees, sir,” a voice he didn’t bother to identify answered.

“Goddamn
it,” he mumbled to himself.

He well knew
that in water that cold a human would lapse into unconsciousness in less than
thirty minutes.  It would only be the lucky individual who survived an
hour before succumbing to hypothermia.  As frantically as sailors were
being pulled out of the ocean, there just wasn’t enough time before many of
them died.

“Status of
CSG Nine?”  He barked out, compartmenting his anger over the loss of so
many.

“ASW has
detected and engaged three targets, sir.  One destroyed.  They are
still pursuing the other two.  No damage or casualties to any CSG assets
at this time.”  The Senior Chief who was monitoring communications
answered.

“Time to first
targets for the Tomahawks?”  He asked the Surface Warfare Officer seated
at a station directly beside him.

“Eleven
minutes, sir,” the woman answered immediately.

“Launch the
second wave,” he ordered, watching as more sailors were pulled out of the water
into RIBs and winched up into hovering helicopters.

“Launch
second wave, aye, sir,” she replied.

Fifteen
seconds later, the remaining three Guided Missile Cruisers began sending the
last of their missiles to target.  Half were programmed to seek any enemy
radar signal that hadn’t been destroyed by the first wave, the remainder flying
slow and loitering.  The launching ships were in communication with them
and would be able to designate targets of opportunity that had survived the
initial attack. 

The displays
showing the eastern Pacific changed to two more stretches of open ocean,
moments later the surface boiling as more Tomahawks took flight.  The
location was the North Sea, fifty miles off the western coast of Denmark.  Six
more subs launched another eight hundred cruise missiles between them, half
heading for military targets deep inside Russia.  The remaining four
hundred spread out as they raced to political and command and control locations
within Moscow itself.

“Admiral,
CSG Nine reports detection of multiple inbound bogies.  They are
maneuvering to engage.” 

“Show me,”
Packard barked.  “Where the hell did they come from?”

The view on
one of the screens changed as did a monitor that mirrored what was displayed in
the Washington’s CIC.  Multiple tracks were racing across the surface of
the ocean, heading directly for the super carrier.

“Submarine
launched anti-ship missiles, sir,” the Surface Warfare Officer said. 
“Most likely Shipwreck missiles.”

“How
many?”  The Admiral asked, dreading the answer before he heard it.

“Nineteen,
sir,” she answered. 

As he
watched on the satellite image, all of the ships in CSG Nine maneuvered to
place themselves between the approaching threats and the Nimitz.  Every
man in the fleet, from the Captains to the cooks, knew that in a situation like
this his ship was expendable if it would save the carrier.

“Any way to
tell if they’re specials or conventional?”  By ‘special’, Packard was
referring to nuclear warheads in the missiles.  He knew there was no way
to know until the first one detonated, but couldn’t stop himself from asking.

“No, sir,” she
answered in a quiet voice.