“You’re just saying that so I drag your shot-up butt out of here.”
“That, too.”
Even as Rule continued hauling the sergeant forward, McAllen lifted his rifle and fired several bursts.
After a few more tugs, Rule suddenly felt the sergeant grow lighter as Gutierrez joined him. Within a handful of seconds they had McAllen into the bay, where Gutierrez immediately cut off the sergeant’s pants legs and got to work.
Rule shoved himself into the back of the Pave Hawk as the chopper roared up and away, leaving the Russians on the ground firing wildly at them as they cleared the trees, their muzzles now winking in the half-light of dusk.
“How is he?” he shouted to Gutierrez.
The medic gave him a look: Not now. I’m busy.
McAllen gestured for Rule to come close so he could shout in his ear. “You did good. I give you a B plus.”
Rule rolled his eyes. “Thanks!”
“Make your depth one-five-zero feet,” ordered Commander Jonathan Andreas.
“Make my depth one-five-zero feet, aye,” repeated the officer of the deck.
It was all business in the Florida’s control room, though Andreas noted a hint of excitement in the OOD’s tone. They were in launch position in the Coronation Gulf and about to punch their Tomahawk land attack missiles out of their vertical launch system tubes.
Despite the outbreak of war, Andreas assumed that most members of his crew had never live-fired those missiles; they had only practiced simulations. Andreas recalled when he could only launch while at periscope depth, but design improvements now made it possible to fire from the safety of 150 feet.
He reviewed the sequence in his head: The tube door would open, the gas generator would fire up to boil the water pocket inside. The water would flash to steam, forcing a pressure pulse to the bottom of the tube. The pressure pulse would then push the missile up through its protective membrane enveloped in a steam bubble, and eject the bird completely clear of the surface.
Then, as the Tomahawk cleared the surface, the first stage would ignite, lifting the bird to three thousand feet.
At its apex, the first-stage would jettison and the missile would plummet into free fall, spinning the missile’s jet engine on the way down. The increasing flight speed would turn the compressor and build up pressure and heat in the combustion chamber. Fuel would be injected, and the missile’s engine would then be up and running.
Andreas could see it all in his head.
Now it was time to make it happen. He gave the firing order, and the entire submarine rumbled.
Once the first missile left the sub, Andreas lifted his voice and said, “Watch your trim, Officer of the Deck. Keep your eye on the bubble.”
The Florida had to adjust her buoyancy and trim to compensate for the sudden loss of weight after each missile left the sub.
The remaining five Tomahawks, spaced three minutes apart, would follow the first down a bearing of one-seven-eight degrees while cruising at subsonic speed roughly fifty feet above the surface.
The one-hour, forty-nine-minute, thousand-mile flight included a pre-programmed midpoint correction as each Tomahawk passed over Wild Buffalo National Park.
Packed into each missile’s computer memory were final destination landmarks: pictures of the Alberta Legislative Assembly building, the exact interchange point where 97th Avenue NW, 109th Street NW, and 110th Street NW converged and provided sole access to High Level Bridge.
Onboard TV cameras would accurately identify the final orienting landmarks as each missile plummeted toward the Saskatchewan River and the High Level Bridge below.
After the last missile blasted away, Andreas congratulated the crew, then he gave the order to head back to the Dolphin and Union Strait to continue their patrol, even as they monitored the missiles’ progress.
Just one hour into that journey, the sternplanesman cried, “Jam dive, sternplanes!”
The sternplanes were horizontal rudders, or diving planes, extending from each side of the submarine near the stern. They had lost hydraulic pressure and had slammed into the dive position, where they would remain locked until hydraulic pressure could be restored and control reasserted.
With miles and miles of steam, electrical, and hydraulic lines running up, down, and through bulkheads, it was just a question of time before something broke, got damaged, wore out, or operator error occurred.
Now the Florida was headed straight toward crush depth.
“All back full!” yelled the OOD and Andreas in unison.
The bow planesman jerked his joystick to full rise, trying to counteract the effects of the sternplanes.
“Passing one thousand feet, thirty-one degrees down bubble,” reported the chief of the watch, his hands hovering over the controls to blow the forward main ballast tanks.
The sternplanesman immediately switched to auxiliary hydraulics and pulled back on the sternplanes. Nothing.
“Passing twelve hundred feet, forty degrees down bubble, sir,” cried the chief of the watch.
The sternplanesman switched to emergency hydraulics, pulled up, when suddenly the sonar operator lifted his voice:
“Torpedo in the water, incoming torpedo bearing three-two-zero! WLY-1 classification — a Shkval — range thirty thousand yards, speed two hundred knots!”
Sergeant Nathan Vatz and his men had shifted farther back into the town to their secondary positions along the rooftops of some local businesses on 97th Street, parallel to the highway.
For the past hour the Russians had been pounding the hell out of the obstacle, and Vatz figured they’d destroy the remaining mines within thirty minutes, maybe less.
Once that happened, Berserker and Zodiac teams could make a last stand or withdraw and live to fight another day.
Because if they didn’t withdraw, they would eventually exhaust all ammo and be overrun. Vatz felt sure those Spetsnaz forces would not take them prisoner.
In fact, Russian political officers might order the public execution of the captured ODA teams to keep High Level’s civilian survivors fully intimidated and in line.
Moreover, if watching a group of military men forced to their knees and shot in the head wasn’t enough, they’d shoot a few civilians, as well as threaten the use of biological and chemical weapons.
“Black Bear, this is Bali, over.”
“Go ahead, Bali.”
He gave the assistant detachment commander a SITREP regarding the obstacle, then added, “What’s the status of the Tenth, over?”
But before Vatz could get a reply, the channel went dead. Damn it. The Russians were jamming again.
“Hey, look!” cried Beethoven, pointing up at the northern sky. A dozen or more Ka-29s were inbound, flying in an arrowhead formation.
The lead chopper, along with one other, pulled ahead, swooped down, and began unloading rockets on the remaining cars in the obstacle, blasting a clear lane through the burning wall.
Even as the choppers peeled off, one on either side, the first few BMPs broke through.
The weapons sergeant on Vatz’s team, who was now posted atop a machine shop two buildings down, cut loose with the team’s last Javelin.
With a powerful whoosh, the missile streaked skyward, came down, homing in on the lead BMP, then struck it perfectly, blasting apart the vehicle and sending pieces slamming into the BMP behind it, killing the vehicle commander who’d been standing in his hatch.
Vatz rose, jogged to the edge of the roof, and gave the signal to fall back. The signal was passed on to the other four men as Vatz and Beethoven got moving.
Once on the ground, they piled into their pickup truck, with Vatz at the wheel, Beethoven riding shotgun.