Now the two AH-6 helicopters traveled at just over one hundred and twenty knots. The tree line cutout surrounding the road formed a canyon-like shape on either side of the highway. The nimble aircraft used it to their advantage, masking their position low over the trees and then diving below the treetops, only feet above the road, tailing the convoy as they lined up for their attack run.
The miniguns fired first.
An eighteen-inch tongue of flame shot out of the six-barrel machine gun as it rotated, firing 7.62mm rounds at a rate of over two thousand per minute. The high-pitched whine of the minigun filled the cockpit as empty shell casings dropped to the road below.
Bullets riddled the vehicles and ripped open several rooftops. The lead aircraft traced his fire along the line of trucks, firing rockets from the M260 FFAR rocket pods when he reached the lead vehicle. The high-explosive rockets killed everyone aboard the lead vehicle and ignited its fuel tank, causing it to leave the pavement as it exploded. Two of the ten vehicles ran off the road, and one crashed into a tree.
The first AH-6 peeled off as the remaining cars began scattering from their convoy, still traveling in the same direction. As personnel from the surviving vehicles began firing at the lead helicopter, the second AH-6 made its attack run, its minigun streaming metallic death into the convoy. Rockets fired into the replacement lead vehicle, causing more devastating explosions.
The MH-6s and Blackhawks circled around the slowing convoy in a tight formation. Miniguns from these aircraft fired towards anyone who returned fire. The convoy was completely stopped now, smoke and flames and dead Chinese soldiers strewn about along a mile of highway. The Blackhawks and MH-6s each landed along an open stretch of road, and Chase and the SEALs jumped out, splitting up evenly to kill anyone who resisted, and take prisoner anyone who surrendered.
Chase and two of the SEALs moved quickly towards one SUV that had run into a tree. His SCAR stock held firm against his shoulder, he trained the weapon on the vehicle as the SEALs searched for survivors.
Movement in the trees.
A target. Chinese soldier, aiming his weapon. Chase depressed the trigger twice. Crack. Crack. Two shots center mass. More rifle fire to his left. Chase kept his weapon trained along the threat axis he was responsible for, trusting the others in his team to do their jobs.
A minor firefight erupted to the north but quickly ended with the resistors killed in their pickup truck. There were seven remaining Chinese soldiers, and everyone who was medically able to indicate their surrender did so. Five were injured, two of them badly. The SEALs’ medics immediately began stabilizing the injured Chinese soldiers. The others were restrained with zip ties and blindfolds.
“One minute until pickup.”
“Roger.”
The platoon of SEALs had formed a perimeter around the central part of the convoy, weapons trained away from the group in a defensive posture as others gathered Chinese communications gear or data storage that might be used for intelligence. In a few more minutes, a Chinook would arrive with a joint military-FBI forensics team to conduct a more thorough search. But Chase and his unit were now complete with their objective. Their skill was needed elsewhere.
“Here we go.”
The helicopters had been circling overhead, close enough to provide support if needed, but far enough away not to make themselves a target. Now they made their approach and landed on the highway. The SEALs ran onto the helicopters, stuffing their recently acquired prisoners and intel into the cabins of the H-60s.
Later that night, Chase sat with the SEAL Team Five platoon commander, a lieutenant, and its senior chief, a grizzled veteran of two decades of fighting. They ate together in the cafeteria, where Army mess cooks had taken over and rustled up a reasonably good meal of rice, chicken, and vegetables.
Chase filled them in on what he had learned from the intel debrief he’d just attended. “That Chinese unit had been headed towards a water purification plant twenty miles from here. They were supposed to sabotage it and then work their way down a list of other targets.”
“So they’re just here to screw with us?”
“I don’t think so. The intel folks think it’s more to create a diversion.”
“A diversion from what?” asked the senior chief.
“We don’t know the answer to that yet.”
16
Lieutenant Bruce “Plug” McGuire was approaching his sixth and final hour of standing watch as the Zulu tactical action officer for the Ford Carrier Strike Group. At the computer terminals to his right sat a lieutenant junior grade and a chief. They were Plug’s assistant watch standers and, like him, both assigned to the Destroyer Squadron. Their boss, the commodore, was the sea combat commander of the Ford Strike Group and reported directly to Admiral Manning.
As the commodore’s air operations officer, Plug had to stand six hours of watch every day as part of his collateral duties. Here, he monitored the network’s tactical displays to make sure the ships and aircraft under their control were doing what they were supposed to be doing, which seemed never to be the case.
“What the hell are those numbnuts on Stockdale doing? Oh my God. She literally has one job right now. One job.” He leaned closer to the large monitor that showed the location of each ship and aircraft. He whispered to the monitor, “Stay in your box.”
The monitor did not reply.
Plug shook his head. “Her screen is freaking fifty miles across. Someone tell me, how is it that she cannot stay in her zone? What are they doing over there?”
“Do you really want to know, sir?”
Plug frowned at the tactical display, ignoring the question. The chief had been kind enough to place their now twenty-five ships in a meticulously detailed screen. It had taken Plug two hours to get approval for it. The screen was a giant circular set of layers that surrounded the aircraft carrier. Each layer was carved into sections like pieces of a pie. The ships in company — destroyers, cruisers, supply ships and littoral combat ships — each had a specific zone to stay in. As the carrier raced around to make wind for jet launches and recoveries, each ship was supposed to stay in its specific quadrant. This kept all of the escorts surrounding the carrier in the right defensive position, but it required the people driving those ships to pay attention and keep up as the carrier moved. And the carrier waited for no one.
“Tell the freaking Stockdale that if she doesn’t get back in her box, she won’t be able to get her mail.” The LTJG began typing over the classified chat messenger system. Using Chat, as it was known, was supposed to be secondary to the radios. But for millennial sailors like him, instant messenger was so much more efficient. Not to mention second nature. The network had been down for the first few days of the war, thanks to the crippling Chinese cyberattack. But the information warfare specialists had changed out much of the crypto and software, and Plug was back to the surface warrior’s addiction that was ship-to-ship instant messenger.
“Stockdale says they have flight quarters set to have the helo deliver their mail in one hour.”
“Not if they don’t stay in their box, they don’t. I’ll call up the HSC guys and tell them not to bother going out there. That helicopter can’t get to them and back to the carrier in time for the next cycle if Stockdale doesn’t stay in their freaking screen position.” The Helicopter Sea Combat (HSC) squadron on the carrier flew MH-60S variants of the Seahawk helicopter. They were tasked with many of the logistics missions due to their impressive storage capacity.