Anvil (8 page)

The Russian
Shipwreck anti-ship missiles rushed towards their targets, constantly
confirming their current position and speed as they maintained a running
calculation of time to impact.  All nineteen weapons were equipped with
500 Kiloton thermonuclear warheads.  Ten were targeting the
Washington.  Two each for the two Aegis Guided Missile Cruisers and the
remainder for the Arleigh Burke class guided missile
destroyers.   

Shipwrecks
are big and fast, streaking towards the CSG at nearly twice the speed of sound. 
Every ship so equipped fired defensive missiles as they raced to set up a
screen to protect the carrier.  Three of the Russian missiles were
destroyed in the initial salvo, additional anti-missile missiles roaring off
their rails and heading downrange.

Five more
Shipwrecks were knocked out of the air by the second and third wave of
defensive fire.  Eleven remained, tracked and engaged by a final
launch.  Three more were destroyed.

By now the
Shipwrecks were close enough to heavily damage the fleet simply by detonating
their warheads.  But they kept coming.  The Phalanx, Close In Weapons
Systems (CIWS –
pronounced
see-whiz
), spread across the fleet
locked on and began firing when the Russian missiles came within two miles.

Four inbound
missiles were destroyed by the hail of fire from the CIWS, a fifth shredded by
the depleted uranium slugs of the Phalanx.  Three missiles remained, and
it was the Washington’s bad luck that all three were targeted on it.  The
carrier’s CIWS managed to knock two of them down, leaving only one to leak
through the defenses.

When the
Shipwreck’s electronics determined that it was within one hundred meters of its
target, a command was sent to the warhead.  The nuclear trigger was
initiated and milliseconds later, a thermonuclear explosion equivalent to five
hundred thousand tons of TNT bloomed. 

Millions of
gallons of seawater instantly flashed to steam as the fireball expanded,
engulfing the Washington and the majority of the CSG in a ball of radioactive
fire.  While the fireball was still expanding, ten more Shipwrecks were
launched, targeting the Washington’s CSG.  Fifteen more took flight from a
Russian submarine that had remained quiet and deep, hiding within fifty miles
of the crippled Nimitz. 

Again, the
US Navy successfully stopped all but one of the inbound threats with a flurry
of launches.  But the single missile screamed over the tops of the waves,
slightly gaining altitude seconds before arriving.  The CSG’s defenses had
been overwhelmed, none of them targeting the Russian nuclear weapon which detonated
one hundred meters above the Nimitz’ flight deck.

The
Tomahawks launched by the two American Carrier Strike Groups spread out as they
approached the coastline of the western United States.  Some were
adjusting course to reach designated targets, others seeking and locking on to
electronic emissions.  When communication with the CSG was lost due to the
nuclear attack, the missiles without assigned targets defaulted to searching
for sources of electromagnetic energy.

For reasons
unknown to the Americans, the Russians had only moved into Seattle, Portland
and San Francisco.  The remainder of the west coast remained
unoccupied.  Theories abounded for why this was so, but that was all they
were. 

The first eight
missiles to arrive on target had been selected to attack a Russian destroyer
guarding the mouth of the Columbia River.  The Admiral Panteleyev, an
older Russian destroyer, detected the inbound cruise missiles less than three
minutes before they arrived.  But three minutes was more than enough time
for the Captain to bring the ship to general quarters and turn the bow to face
the approaching threats.  As the Tomahawks drew closer they lost altitude
until they were barely skimming the surface of the ocean. 

Equipped
with two Kashtan CIWS systems, the Captain and crew stood nervously watching as
the computers took control of the ship’s defenses.  The Kashtan system
boasts two 30 mm canons as well as eight radar guided surface to air
missiles.  Each canon can fire 4,500 rounds per minute and the entire
turret is self-contained and fully automated when activated.

Sirens
blared as the two systems swung into operation, tracking the inbound targets on
radar.  Quickly, missiles streaked into the air, rapidly covering the
distance to the Tomahawks.  Of the eight targets, two were intercepted and
destroyed in the opening salvo.  More defensive missiles launched,
splashing another Tomahawk before all four of the auto-canons began
firing. 

Three more
Tomahawks went down, both turrets attacking the remaining threat and destroying
it when it was within half a mile of the ship.  Sirens continued to sound
and the Kashtans were swiveling to engage newly detected threats when three
Tomahawks slammed into the ship in quick succession.

These were
radar seeking missiles that had homed in on the Kashtans’ electronic emissions,
changing course and coming in at a sharp angle to the bow of the ship. 
Three, 1,000 pound high explosive warheads detonated, blowing massive holes in
the deck of the destroyer and instantly killing all aboard except for a select
few who were deep in the bowels of the ship in sealed compartments. 
Burning, the ship quickly began listing to port as cold seawater poured in through
multiple breaches in the hull.

Up and down
the coast, from Northern California to Seattle, the Tomahawks began arriving on
target.  The Russian Navy had a large presence in the area, many of the
ships launching anti-missile missiles and engaging with their Kashtan
systems.  But the Americans had successfully attacked with enough cruise
missiles to overwhelm the Russian’s ability to effectively defend their
positions.

Over
two-thirds of Russian Navy ships on and near the west coast of the United
States were either sunk or damaged so severely they had to be abandoned. 
No ship that did not have defensive systems survived the barrage.  But the
Americans had targeted much more than just enemy ships. 

Shore based
operations centers set up by the occupying military were devastated in Seattle
and San Francisco.  Infrastructure critical to the new tenants of the
cities was also targeted.  In San Francisco, the Golden Gate and Bay
Bridge were the recipients of multiple strikes, both collapsing into the water. 
In Portland, bridges across the Columbia were taken down.  In the
mountains above Seattle, hydroelectric dams were destroyed, denying power to
the Russians and sending billions of gallons of water flooding downstream.

Follow up
waves of Tomahawks seeking radar and radio emissions arrived, killing more
Russian civilians than military.  US military bases all along the coast
were attacked and heavily damaged, denying their use to the invaders. 
Finally, port facilities were targeted.  Dozens of Russian cargo and passenger
ships were caught tied up at the docks.  Many were damaged beyond repair,
burning and adding thick, black smoke to the choking miasma that hung over each
city.

The Russian
naval bases near Vladivostok and on the Kamchatka Peninsula were significantly damaged. 
Heavily defended, they were able to stop nearly six hundred of the inbound
missiles, but again the sheer numbers overwhelmed them and over two hundred
Tomahawks reached their targets. 

The final
wave of the American attack was the eight hundred Tomahawks launched from the
North Sea.  Several Russian air bases in Eastern Europe sustained damage
as they were not expecting or prepared for an assault.  That left four
hundred missiles streaking across the Russian steppes for Moscow and multiple
military installations surrounding it.

Moscow is
the most heavily defended city on Earth.  Ringed by multiple, redundant
anti-aircraft and anti-missile batteries, it was prepared to fend off just the
type of attack that had been launched against it.  Only because part of
the system was down for maintenance did any of the Tomahawks slip through and
reach their targets. 

But none of
the over one hundred missiles designated to destroy the Kremlin came within ten
miles of the seat of the Russian government.  A total of eleven explosions
rattled the windows in the city as the weapons succeeded in damaging some
hangars and two runways at Kubinka Air Base, several miles west of Moscow.

Before the
fires on the flight line had been extinguished, four long range nuclear missiles
were launched from a Russian submarine patrolling above the arctic
circle.  NORAD would have normally been the US Military organization to
identify, track and attempt intercept of the missiles, but it no longer
existed.

In Pearl
Harbor, console operators stared at their screens in disbelief for a few
moments before warnings began being shouted across the CIC.  Admiral
Packard stepped quickly to a terminal, clenching his jaw when he saw the four
tracks plotted on the screen.  The man working the station was typing
furiously, unaware of the Admiral peering over his shoulder.

“Fuck me,”
he breathed when the tracks updated and the computer drew the projected flight
paths of each missile.

The dotted
tracks formed neat parabolas that terminated in Hawaii.  They were
undoubtedly ICBMs.

I dashed
through the break in the terrain, the five Rangers following in single file and
keeping good spacing.  There were lots of small hillocks as well as
depressions in the terrain and I used them to my full advantage as we moved
down the slope.  I would run for a few seconds before throwing myself to
the ground, not wanting to give anyone an opportunity to zero in and drill a
bullet through my hide.

Half way to
the valley below, where the main battle was being fought, I paused behind a car
sized boulder.  The Rangers spread out on either side, prone with their
bodies shielded by the earth.  Only their heads and rifles were visible
from downslope.  A quarter of a mile away the fighting raged as Russian troops
tried to advance and complete the encirclement of several hundred
Soldiers. 

Bullets were
flying, mortars were thumping, men were screaming as they fought and
died.  The air was foul with the acrid stench of burned gunpowder and explosives. 
On the left flank, the enemy was making progress, using light armored vehicles,
RPGs and grenade launchers to supplement the heavy fire they were laying
down.  If they succeeded in moving behind the American forces, it would be
a slaughter.

I didn’t
understand why the officers in command hadn’t already pulled back or why their
comms with the Command Post weren’t working.  Bravery in battle is one
thing, but holding ground against a superior force when there’s no value in the
terrain you’re fighting for is foolish.  Retreating and regrouping is a
valuable tool that every infantry officer in the world is taught.

“Why the
fuck aren’t they falling back?” 

One of the
Rangers, a First Sergeant, had moved to lay next to me as I surveyed the
battle.

“Beats the
hell out of me, Top.  But if we don’t get them out fast, there won’t be
any idiots left to ask,” I said.  “Ready to get your hands dirty?”

“Thought
you’d never ask, sir,” he grinned.

He followed
me as I ran around the rock and headed for a shallow depression in the side of
the hill.  Half way to my destination, bullets began cracking all
around.  Some of them screamed by close enough for me to hear their
passage, others slammed into the wet ground and kicked up gouts of mud and
snow.  They were too heavy, and too many were coming in, for it to be
anything other than a machine gun firing at us.

Adjusting my
run for the final twenty yards, I zigged, twisted and threw myself into the
hole.  The First Sergeant was right on my ass and crashed against me a
heartbeat later.

“You see the
fucker?” 

I had to
shout over the noise of the battle, hoping he’d gotten a bead on where the
gunner was set up.  I hadn’t been able to spot the source of the incoming
fire that was currently chewing up the lip of the hole where we huddled.  The
son of a bitch had certainly seen us and was making sure we kept our heads
down.

“No luck,”
he said, shifting around and stabbing his radio’s earpiece back in his ear.

I looked up
the slope as he made a call, not seeing the four other Rangers.  That was
usually a good sign.  If they’d been hit, most likely their bodies would
be out in the open and visible.  Maybe.

While he
shouted into his radio, the withering machine gun fire stopped.  I gave it
a moment before popping my head up and pulling it right back down.  The
movement was too quick for me to see anything, but if the gunner was just
waiting for one of us to show ourselves I hoped I’d entice him to show his hand
and send some more rounds my way.

He was
either occupied with a more immediate threat, or was a wily little shit who
realized what I was doing and was waiting for a better target.  Either
way, I didn’t have much choice other than to take a risk.  Moving
laterally, so my head would appear in a different spot, I carefully raised up
and exposed only enough of myself to get my eyes above the edge.

No bullets
came my way, but I didn’t relax.  First priority was to find the gunner so
he could be dealt with.  I didn’t even bother checking on the progress of
the Russian troops.  With that machine gun in play, we weren’t going to be
advancing.  Getting caught on open ground would be tantamount to
suicide.  He’d chew us up and go on about his day without a second
thought.

“There,” the
First Sergeant tapped my arm and pointed.  He’d finished on the radio and
moved next to me.

I looked
where he indicated and saw the muzzle flashes of the machine gun being
fired.  He had dismissed us for the moment, using his position to keep a
group of Soldiers pinned down so the Russians coming around the flank could
advance. 

“Dug in like
a fucking tick,” I said, noting the nice, deep depression the gunner had found
to set up his weapon. 

He was well
protected from return fire in addition to having a commanding view in almost
every direction.  Almost.  Behind and to his side there appeared to
be a narrow slice of terrain that would hide someone sneaking up on him. 
Maybe.

“Anyone got
anything other than a rifle?”  I asked.

“No, sir,
but I’d surely give my right nut for a two-oh-four right about now.” 

He was
referring to an M-204 grenade launcher, and I agreed with him.

“Give me
covering fire,” I said, making my decision and pushing up and out of the hole
at a run.

Charging a
machine gun emplacement is not the brightest of ideas on the best of
days.  But we were stuck, and if we just sat there and kept our heads
down, the Russians were going to overwhelm and wipe out a whole bunch of
Soldiers.  There wasn’t any other option.  Besides, no one ever
promised that being in the Army was a safe occupation.

I covered
about a third of the distance, with two stops behind rocks, before the gunner
looked up the slope and spotted me.  Swiveling his weapon, he opened up,
blasting chips of stone off the small boulder I was sheltering behind.  I
glanced behind me, gratified to see the First Sergeant and two other Rangers
with their heads up as they poured full auto fire at the machine gun’s
position.

They didn’t
hit him, but they sure as hell got his attention.  I watched closely, and
when the muzzle of his gun traversed to engage them I leapt to my feet and
ran.  My destination was a shallow ravine that had been carved by water
and ran down the hill.  It passed only a short distance behind the
gunner’s position and I planned to follow it, pop up and ruin his day.

Running flat
out, I dove the final few yards as bullets began tearing up the ground all
around me.  A tracer round passed inches in front of my eyes as I
stretched for the safety of the ground.  Crashing down, I bounced off a
couple of exposed rocks and came to rest on my back, a soft bed of sand beneath
the cushion of snow.  Fuck that hurt! 

My body
wanted to just stay there until the pain of pin-balling off the rocks eased,
but staying in one spot too long in combat is a good way to die young. 
Ignoring the protests of what I hoped were only bruises, I rolled over and
began making my way down the ravine.  The din of battle was growing louder
as I advanced, scrambling on my knees and elbows. 

Twenty yards
to my front, something of the high explosive variety detonated on the very edge
of the ditch I was using for cover.  Dirt, rocks and filthy snow
fountained into the air and rained down on me.  I was stunned from being
too close to the blast, hearing as if I was underwater and my vision blurry and
tunneled to narrow pinpoints of light.  My body refused to respond to my
brain’s commands to keep moving.

Well, I
thought it refused, then realized I was still crawling forward.  I was
operating on auto pilot and it took a few more yards of movement to regain
control.  Stopping, I looked around, unsure where I was in relation to the
gunner.  My hearing was slowly coming back and I was pretty certain I
could hear the machine gun hammering from behind me.  I’d crawled past
him?

Shaking my
head, trying to clear it, I turned and poked my eyes over the edge of the
ravine.  Sure enough, I’d kept on going and overshot my target. 
Reversing course, I scrambled to the point I’d identified as a blind spot for
the gunner and crawled over the lip onto open ground.

There were
two more explosions, close, but not close enough to affect me like the last
one.  Now I was able to identify them as mortar bombs dropping in and it
dawned on me that someone was trying to lob one on top of the gunner’s
head.  They seemed to have him bracketed, but as more fell the accuracy
wasn’t improving.  I needed to shut this fucker down and get out of the
area before one of them found me, which was probably all too likely since they
were beginning to rain down at a much faster pace.

Flattening
myself on the ground, I wormed my way forward, rifle held in both hands. 
Another mortar fell close enough to rattle my teeth and leave me with a fresh
coating of dirt.  Spitting mud and blood, I kept moving, eyes focused on
the very small hump in the ground that was all that screened my approach from
the gunner.  Slithering up to it, I pressed my face to the ground as more
mortars fell, one on either side of me. 

By now I was
mostly deaf and questioning whether I really needed to engage the gunner. 
All that was really needed was some accurate mortar fire.  But then maybe
they were firing blind.  They were probably pinned down and doing the best
they could to send some shells in the direction of the machine gun and hoping
for a lucky drop. 

Mentally
yelling at myself, I gripped the rifle tighter and rolled around the hump into
the open, aiming into the depression.  Two Russian soldiers were there. 
The gunner who was currently working a stream of lead onto American positions,
and another man operating as the gun crew.  He was facing my direction,
opening the lid on an ammo can.

He detected
my movement, whipping his head up and staring in surprise.  He was just a
fucking kid.  Eighteen, maybe nineteen.  He just stood there staring
at me with his mouth open.  I shot him in the chest, three rounds
shredding his uniform blouse and sending him staggering backwards to fall
against the gunner.

The man
jerked away from the body of his comrade, starting to turn in my
direction.  He never completed the movement.  Three rounds shattered
his skull and he fell across the other body.  Dropping into the
depression, I dashed forward and dragged the two corpses out of my way. 
Raising up enough to see upslope I waved at the First Sergeant. 

He saw me
and began racing down the slope as I traversed the machine gun and opened up on
the front ranks of the advancing Russians.  As I walked the heavy slugs
across them, I grinned an evil grin as bodies were torn apart and fell to stain
the snow a brilliant crimson.  Continuing to mow down enemy troops, I
couldn’t help the good feeling you get from turning the enemy’s weapon on him.