Captain Callahan felt sweat beads forming at the roots of his hair. He was being asked to commit an act of war against Russia.
“Mr. President, sir, are you authorizing me to enter Russian sovereign air space with armed military aircraft, engage the enemy, and exfiltrate the rescued people?”
“Precisely. If it can be avoided, I would prefer not to start World War III with Russia over this, but do whatever is necessary to bring those people home. I am 100 percent behind whatever you decide to do, captain. Just get them home.”
“Yes, sir,” Captain Callahan acknowledged the orders.
“We’re sending maps, satellite imagery, and coordinates as we speak. What else do you need?”
“Nothing else, sir. It’s an honor to be chosen for such a mission, sir. We’ll get the job done; we won’t let you down. You can count on us to bring our people home.”
“I know that, captain. Good luck!”
The connection ended, leaving Callahan with two parallel ridges of deep worry on his forehead. An incursion like this typically took months of preparation, of careful planning. He had a few minutes, not more.
“XO,” he called.
“Sir?”
“Get all Stallion crews ready, two Harriers, four Cobras. Arm and fuel them, have them ready on deck. Let’s look at the map.”
He walked toward the navigation desk, followed closely by the XO, the weapons officer, and the flight operations officer.
“Get me a satellite feed for the rescue location. How do we communicate with them?”
The XO checked the recently decrypted communication.
“We have their comm frequencies and their sat phones. We have codes to tap into their satellite support, sir. They’ve suggested LZ coordinates for extraction.”
“Put it on the screen,” Callahan said.
The XO typed quickly some numbers, and a red dot appeared on the regional map. Green dots marked the locations of the USS Okinawa and its battle group. A dotted line marked the limit of Russia’s territorial waters, and two red triangles marked the locations of the Russian radar stations.
On a separate screen, an officer brought up a live satellite feed, showing a slow-moving convoy of trucks taking fire from Russian assault vehicles. It was still dark; the feed barely showed anything other than flashes of light accompanying whatever projectiles were fired and briefly illuminating the convoy and its attackers. A vehicle had been left behind, burning on the side of the road. Some projectiles were fired at the enemy, hitting the targets, and causing explosive damage, but Callahan couldn’t tell who was firing what at whom. There wasn’t any time to figure out what was going on with the convoy; he needed to act.
“Switch to infrared and get me a sitrep,” he ordered one of the lieutenants.
Then he went back to the comm desk and grabbed the microphone that opened channels to every station on the vessel.
“All hands, this is the captain speaking. We are now at condition Delta. This is not a drill. We have been tasked with the rescue of about 450 civilians from behind the Russian border. We will engage in immediate combat action.”
He hung up the microphone, and a second later an officer grabbed it and called, “Battle stations. Battle stations. This is not a drill.” Then he hit a button, and a familiar alarm went on for a few seconds.
Callahan went back to the digital map and studied it intently for a little while.
“This is what we’re going to do,” he said. “We need a diversion, and we have to take out these two radar stations.”
“Diversion, sir?” the XO asked.
“There are just too many Russian vessels and helicopters patrolling the area. If they see us too early and they send in their MiGs, we won’t be able to pull the civilians out; we’re finished. There’s an air base on Sakhalin holding at least four MiGs, only minutes away in flight time; we have to move lightning fast.” He stopped for a second, frowning deeper at the digital map. “I’ll ask Admiral Tochigi for a favor. If one of his battleships here, off the coast of… umm… Mashike, should send an SOS, and we deploy our group for search-and-rescue operations, all the Russians will gather there to keep an eye on us. We’ll head out there with the entire battle group, but right before we’d have to turn south, here,” he added, pointing at the northern tip of the Japanese island of Hokkaido, where Wakkanai was, “the Okinawa will claim engine trouble, and stay behind with only the GHOST vessels and some armed RHIBs.”
“Sir, if I may?” the XO asked.
“Yes, what is it? the captain answered.
“We’d be vulnerable with only two GHOSTS; we’d be sitting ducks. Our helos would be gone, our escort too. The Russians could take advantage of the situation we created.”
“We’ll keep two Harriers and a Cobra. But that’s why we’ll start by sending a couple of SEALs to take out those radar stations. Send out a Cobra with two SEAL teams armed with RPGs. Let’s take those radars out first. This will give us a small window of darkness to get to the coast and out again with the civilians.”
His XO’s face lit up, as he understood the captain’s strategy. A faint smile fluttered on his lips.
“Sending SEALs now, sir.”
“Good. As soon as they confirm the radar stations are out, send in all seven Super Stallions to the LZ, with two Cobras and two Harriers as escorts. Confirm extraction with the ground team, confirm LZ coordinates. Get their ETA for the LZ.”
“We’re 250 klicks from the LZ. Stallions will take almost one hour to get there.”
Callahan frowned again.
“Let’s synchronize with the rescue team on the ground. We shouldn’t remain in Russian airspace one second longer than strictly necessary.”
One of the lieutenants approached them.
“I have the satellite sitrep, sir. The convoy has drone support.”
“Drones? Who’s flying them?”
“Unknown, sir. But the Russians are sending in helos. Several Russian armored vehicles are still engaged in battle with the convoy, and three helos are approaching from the north. They should reach the convoy within thirty minutes or so.”
Callahan clenched his fists in a rare display of anger.
“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath.
Their exfil plan needed more than an hour to execute; more likely two.
…64
It was hell. Weapons fire and explosions lighting up the sky, blinding her night vision, and deafening her. She was still riding in the first truck, leading the convoy. Alex put her head out of the window and looked behind her, at the rear truck, Tango Nine, engaged in fierce battle with the Russian assault vehicle, and losing.
She heard bullets flying through the air, smelled the heavy scent of burnt gunpowder, and heard the bullets hit trees and rocks, just a couple of feet away. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she breathed heavily, almost panting, not even aware of the sharp pain felt in her sternum with every breath.
Oh, my God, what the hell are we going to do? Alex thought, watching in disbelief just how ineffective the fire laid down by the Bravos and Lou was. The armored vehicle behind Tango Nine kept on coming, catching up with every second. All their bullets ricocheted off the Ansyr’s armor, not even slowing it down.
Then, suddenly, the Ansyr blew up, engulfed in a ball of fire.
“Yeah, baby,” she couldn’t help but cheer. She pressed the button for her radio, yelling to cover the battle noise.
“Lima, this is Alpha, do you copy?”
“Go for Lima,” Lou replied, barely intelligible over the heavy firing.