Consequently, when the Russians began their move into Canada, MARSOC was among the first to get the call.
And that particular call had funneled down through command to one Staff Sergeant Raymond McAllen, who was now sprinting back to his two-story barracks to get packed up and get the hell out of Southern California, bound for the Northwest Territories, more than two thousand miles away.
Elements of the 13th Marine Corps Expeditionary Unit (MEU) were being deployed from Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton up to Alberta. They were pumped full of lightning and ready to crack and boom onto the scene. The only thing missing from all the excitement was Jonesy.
And his absence was sorely felt by the five remaining members of the Force Recon team: McAllen, Palladino, Szymanski, Friskis, and Gutierrez.
Five minutes prior, McAllen and the rest of the Outlaws had been listening to their company commander, Colonel Stack, going over the warning order; the CO singled out McAllen’s team to spearhead the company’s reconnaissance operations.
Marine Corps brass, along with the JSF, believed that the Russians would move a large ground force, maybe even a couple of brigades, into several areas of Alberta. They would take the town of High Level and use it as a staging area, and would also move down Highway 63 in the eastern part of Alberta toward Fort McMurray and the Athabasca Oil Sands north of “Fort Mac.”
Much to McAllen’s chagrin, his new assistant team leader, Sergeant Scott Rule, had to open his dumb-ass mouth and ask what was meant by “oil sands.” The CO loved to hear himself talk and loved to impress everyone with his attention to details, whether they put you to sleep or not. That he didn’t have a PowerPoint presentation was the only saving grace.
So they got the one-minute lecture about oil sands, a mixture of crude bitumen (a semisolid form of crude oil), silica sand, clay minerals, and water. The CO even knew that the bitumen was used by the aboriginals back in the day to waterproof their canoes.
Point was, the oil sands could be turned into real, usable oil, and the Russians wanted control of all the reserves.
But they wouldn’t get them — not if United States Marines stood in their path.
Once McAllen and his boys arrived in Alberta, they would chopper way up Highway 63, establish a reconnaissance post, deploy two robo-soldiers that would be controlled by human operators, and confirm where lead elements of the enemy force were heading.
They were a small piece of a much larger defensive dubbed Operation Slay the Dragon by the JSF, an operation that included all branches of the U.S. and European Federation armed forces, with the Euros focusing on the major city of Edmonton.
Now, back in his barracks, a shirtless Sergeant Rule approached McAllen, cocked a brow, all pierced nipples and twenty tattoos. “Hey, Ray, you got a minute?”
“If this is about what we discussed earlier—”
“Look, man, you set me straight. I’m so squared away that if you brush against me, my corners will cut you.”
“Nice.”
“But I’ll never be Jonesy. Nobody will. Just want you to know that I’m giving you a hundred and ten percent. Always.”
“We’ll see how long it takes for you to create your own shadow. And I hope it’s a pretty long one. The other thing is, I got about eight, nine years on you. In my book, that makes me old school.” McAllen reached out and flicked one of Rule’s nipple rings. “Maybe the Corps’s gotten a little soft on this crap since you hide them under your shirt, but I haven’t.”
“I’ll remove them, Sergeant — if they bother you that much.”
“I just want to be sure we’re on the same page.”
“We are. Good. Now don’t forget to pack an extra sock.”
“Huh?”
“Our suits have all those fancy micro-climate conditioning subsystems, but if the suit fails, you and your family jewels will be glad you got that sock. Trust me.”
Rule grinned. “I hear that, Sergeant.”
McAllen turned and looked the man straight in the eye, then proffered his hand. “The last time I met the Russians, they couldn’t help but fall to their knees and bleed.”
“I hope I have the same effect on them.”
They shook firmly, then Rule rushed off to pack.
McAllen returned to inventorying his gear. He fetched a picture of himself and Jonesy from his footlocker and slipped it into his ruck. They’d been pretty drunk that night, and Jonesy had been the one to get McAllen home. He was like that. Dependable beyond belief. And McAllen had to get it into his head that though no one could replace Jonesy, he had to give Sergeant Rule, nipple rings and all, a chance.
At least the spirit of Jonesy would be heading up into the Great White North, along with the spirit of the Corps.
Whenever they went into battle, every man who had ever been a Marine went with them.
With white-hot chaff flashing beside her wings, Major Stephanie Halverson took her F-35B fighter into another dive, rolling as she did so, then banked sharply to the right, cutting a deep chamfer in the air.
Her pressure suit compensated for what would’ve been excruciating g-forces, keeping the blood from pooling in her legs, yet still she felt the usual and sometimes even welcome discomfort.
One missile took the bait and exploded somewhere above her; she didn’t waste time to check its exact location because the other one was still locked on.
Utilizing all of the jet’s sensors and the helmet-mounted display, Halverson was able to look down through her knees, through the actual structure of the aircraft, and spot the missile coming up from below.
She punched the chaff again.
Then killed the engine and let the fighter drop away like an unlucky mallard during hunting season.
The only problem was, the missile had been designed to “see” whole images rather than just single points of infrared radiation like the heat from her engine.
So that Vympel R-84 with its “potato masher” fins had a decision to make: detonate its thirty kilograms of high explosive in the chaff or continue on to Halverson.
With her breath held, she watched as the missile penetrated the chaff cloud—
And kept on coming.
She cursed, fired up the engine, then started straight for the cargo planes still glowing in her multifunction display.
Okay, steady. Okay.
She pressed a finger against the touch screen, viewing a much clearer, close-up image of the nearest aircraft. She tapped another button, and target designation and weapons status imagery appeared in her HMD. She closed in, the target now being automatically tracked, the crosshairs in her visor locking on the AN-130.
If I get taken out of the fight, I’m bringing a couple of you with me.
She tightened her fist, pressed the button.
Missile away. She pressed again. Missile #2 streaked off a second behind the first.
The radar alarm was still going off.
And there it was, a glowing dot. You didn’t need a key to the display’s symbols to know what that one meant: death.
“Sapphire, this is Siren, can’t shake my last missile, over.”
“Yes, you can, Siren! Chaff again! Come on!”
Aw, what the hell. She popped more chaff then broke into a diving roll that would have left most nuggets barfing in their helmets.
And what kind of miracle was that? The damned missile took the bait and exploded in a beautiful conflagration, the dark clouds traced by flickering light.