One of the transports was within their engagement area and a single Rapier 2 leapt into the air. The Rapier FSC system has the ability to process seventy five threats per second and sort out friend from foe whilst it is doing so, but for that it needed its frequency agile 3D pulse Doppler, J-band radar. There were not supposed to be any NATO aircraft in their engagement area so the missile was loosed anyway, without the need to go active on radar and inspect its credentials.
It took twenty seconds for the Soviet operators to pinpoint the firing point by radar backtracking, another thirty seconds to send the co-ordinates to the gun lines and three minutes for the first shells to leave the barrels. The time of flight for the shells was a further one minute seven seconds.
The launching of the Rapier was the signal for the sentries to return on the double because they were in danger of receiving unwanted attention, should the launch have been detected.
Peter reversed the APC up to their Rapier trailer and leapt out to assist the rest of the crew attach it. Adrenaline was coursing through all their veins in the knowledge that enemy artillery or ground attack aircraft could at that moment be heading towards them.
The trailer was hooked up and the crew dispersed at a run to their various vehicles. As Peter put the 432 into gear a flush faced young female Gunner closed the rear hatch behind her and let out a nervous giggle, relieved that they were now moving and out of danger.
Sixteen 240mm shells arrived on the battery’s position before it had reached safety, one landed squarely atop Peter and Sally’s APC, tearing through the thin top armour before exploding. It had taken the Gunners just too long to hook up and move on to their next firing positions.
When the shells arrived at the firing points before Leipzig, most of the AAA units were already in the process of relocating to new sites and one other was destroyed, also a were towed Rapier unit, it took longer for them to relocate. The Crotales, Pirhanas, Stormers and Roland’s were all self-propelled, so for them it was a case of shoot ‘n scoot, but three suffered damage from artillery fire that put them out of action for the night.
A somewhat ragged gap had been created for the ammunition airlift to enter, although eight more of the big transports were shot down whilst entering or egressing that night.
The Nighthawks had the advantage over the Russian stealth fighters inasmuch as they had a last bearing, course and speed to work from in hunting them, other than that it was back to the dark ages as far as night fighting went. The billion dollar aircraft were reduced to groping about in the dark for their enemy, much as their wire and canvas skinned, biplane predecessors had when looking for Zeppelin’s over London and the Home Counties, almost a hundred years before.
Two Su-37s left fiery trails down from the heavens to the hard unforgiving earth but so also did a Nighthawk.
Uncharacteristically, an almost flat calm greeted the periscope of the Royal Navy Trafalgar class SSN, HMS Hood. The thin ESM mast with its radar absorbent skin had preceded the way to the surface to sample the electronic traffic, both radio and radar. Radioactivity had been monitored since even before they had turned about, they were at war and it was looked for as a matter of routine. The seawater was tested as they progressed along and the air above was also sampled whenever the ESM mast poked up above the waves, a RAD counter monitored the different rays and their levels whilst another device tasted the breeze for toxicity as it tested for Chemical and Germ warfare agents.
The vastness of the Pacific was diluting the highly irradiated water at ground zero. There were dead fish aplenty, many were from species that lived far below the surface where light never reached, siphoned to the surface by the thermal effects caused by superheated surface water.
There were no human bodies, nor any wreckage or flotsam from the carrier group in the area, all of that would now be dust and vapour. The ESM mast could detect no distress beacons from life rafts either, so once the periscope disappeared below the surface the ESM followed it.
The predominant currents and wind had been calculated to give them an idea of where any life rafts might now be, had any aircraft been outside the danger area when the Russian nuclear weapons had destroyed the USS Kitty Hawk and her escorts. The Hood altered course and her captain gave orders to go deep, they would approach the surface again in two hours’.
Nikki had regained consciousness during the morning but was extremely weak. They had no method of feeding her nutrition or fluids intravenously whilst she had been unconscious, and now that she was awake they had limited water and food with which to help restore her reserves. She was propped up against the inflated wall of the raft, which improved the cramped conditions slightly. The seawater still was only designed to supply water for one person, but here they were with three of them now fully reliant upon it. The half-litre bottles of fresh water in their survival vests had long since been drunk. The best they could hope for was that it would rain and they could use the canvas sea anchor to collect the rainwater and fill their small bottles from that.
The fishing line was trailing in the sea and Sandy had it tied around his little finger, in order to feel any nibbles. With the slight increase in room, Chubby had used a marker pen to draw the squares on the ‘deck’ that they now used as a chessboard. The chess ‘pieces’ were squares of paper from Sandy’s notebook.
Chubby’s Knight was about to take Sandy’s last Bishop and put him in check when something collided with their raft.
“Anyone alive in there?” a Lancashire voice hailed.
Chubby was nearest the entrance to the raft and leant out to see an elderly man with sun weathered skin kneeling on the deck of a Ketch, he held the lifeboats painter in his hand, still wet from the ocean it had been fished out of with a boat hook.
“Yes… ” Chubby was startled.
“There are three of us.”
He hadn’t noticed anyone else until a voice called out to the man on the deck.
“Who is it Eric?” The speaker was a tiny elderly lady who had the same accent as the man.
“It’s a bloody foreigner, that’s who!” grizzled the weather beaten sailor.
“Mind your language and help him on board!”
Muttering under his breath he secured the painter to a cleat and extended his hand to the American, helping him onto the deck. It took two attempts to assist the weakened Nikki aboard and the elderly lady left the wheel to hurry forward, where she fussed over her and hustled her below. Sandy brought with him their meagre supplies and the seawater still before the raft was cast adrift.
“I suppose you’re a bloody yank an ‘all?” was his greeting from the sailor.
“No I’m not, I’m Scottish.” He replied with a friendly smile, but if he thought his rescuer would be pleased he was mistaken.
“Another bloody foreigner, the best thing about Scotland is the road out of it… do any of you speak Chinese, there’s one of them lot on board too?”
On April 27th 1521, at a place now called Puerto (or Punta) Engaño in a wide bay on the north of the low lying island of Mactan, Fernao de Magalhaes or to give him his Spanish name, Ferdinand Magellan, the great Portuguese explorer in the pay of the Spanish crown, had attempted to land and take the island by conquest. The local chieftain, a warrior by the name of Rajah (Chief) Lapu-Lapu had been kept abreast of Magellan’s activities by spies and messengers; he had no intention of being delivered unto Christianity and a Catholic God by way of a sharp edge across the back of the neck.