He bolted up from the cot, faced one of the cameras. “Get me Major Dennison. I’m ready to talk!”
Khaki was speaking to one of the Special Forces commo guys on the ground at the airport, and all Sergeant Raymond McAllen could think was, Damn, I was right. We got no luck.
“He wants to talk to you,” said Khaki, lifting his chin.
“This is Outlaw One, go ahead over,” McAllen said.
“Outlaw One, this is Beast, team Berserker, on the ground. Need you to put down A-SAP. Incoming enemy helos. ETA ten minutes, over.”
“Roger that, Beast. We plan to refuel and get the hell out of there, over.”
“Negative, Outlaw One. You will remain on the ground until further notice, over.”
“Beast, let me talk to your CO, over.”
“Roger that, stand by.”
After ten or so seconds, a voice crackled over the radio, “Outlaw One, this is Bali, over.”
“Roger, Bali, I want to speak to the CO.”
“Uh, sorry, he’s got a little situation right here, asked me to talk to you, over.”
“Bali, listen to me, we’re going to refuel and try to get out before those inbound helos arrive, over.”
“Negative.”
“Bali, maybe you’re not hearing me—”
“Outlaw One, you are instructed to land, begin your refueling ops. We’ll let you know when you can take off.”
McAllen lost it. “Sergeant, we have orders from American Eagle himself! Do you read me?”
After a moment’s silence, Bali returned: “Outlaw One, I understand, but we have incoming enemy helos and a party planned. You can’t ruin it. And to be honest with you, Sergeant, we could use your help.”
“Roger that, Bali. We got orders that say otherwise, but, uh, we don’t want to ruin your party plans. When we’re on the ground, we’ll see what we can do, understood?”
“Roger, Outlaw One. Link up with Black Bear at the main terminal. Bali, out.”
McAllen spoke into the intercom: “Listen up, guys. The Russians will reach the town about ten minutes after we do, maybe less. Sucks for us, but we’ll be in the process of refueling when they arrive. But we’re also accidentally crashing a little party the SF boys have set up for them. So . . . the second the skids hit, we’re out the door. We might need to lend these boys a hand before we get back in the air.”
“It’s just like that time my cousin went to fill up his boat before fishing, and the station was being robbed at the same time,” said Sergeant Rule.
“You think if your cousin knew the place was being hit he would’ve stopped for gas?”
“No way.”
“Well, Rule, we’re stopping anyway.”
When Captain Godfrey returned to the roof, he told Vatz that he’d managed to calm down the mayor and that he, a few RCMPs, and the fire chief had persuaded the politician to suck it up, take responsibility, and defend his home.
After all, there was no stopping the nearly five hundred citizens from High Level who had volunteered to remain and defend their homes. They were scattered throughout the town, some hiding in their own homes, poised to attack; others, like the Special Forces, lining the rooftops or crouching in doorways. They were just ordinary folks, caught in an extraordinary situation. One woman in her late fifties whose kids were already grown up carried a big hunting knife and a shotgun. She’d told Vatz that the first Russian to cross her doorstep would be shot, wrapped in Hefty bags, and buried out in her backyard without a funeral. The second one, if he hadn’t learned his lesson, wouldn’t even get the burial.
The people of High Level were not giving up without a fight, no matter the mayor’s reservations.
As Vatz crouched down once more, raising his binoculars to study the plains north of the town, Big Bear’s voice sounded over the radio: “Outlaw team is just setting down.”
McAllen had instructed Khaki to land near a thick stand of trees adjacent to the terminal. The wooded area would provide them with marginal cover, so the incoming Russian pilots might miss them.
However, it was a cool, crisp morning, with lots of sunshine and visibility—painfully good visibility.
Such a pretty day for a battle.
The Longranger III hit the dirt, and McAllen put his mouth to work, sending off recon scouts Palladino and Szymanski to secure the fuel truck, while commo guy Friskis and medic Gutierrez guarded the helo.
Khaki said he would stay with the helo to supervise refueling, but if the Russians started firing, he was out of there to get some action for himself. He carried a couple of rifles and pistols whose magazines he intended to empty. He also had four illegally procured fragmentation grenades. You had to love an ex-Special Forces guy.
Meanwhile, McAllen and Rule jogged across the parking lot toward the terminal, where a thick-necked guy in flannel with an unlit cigar jutting from his mouth was walking out the glass doors.
“You Black Bear?” asked McAllen.
“Yep, Warrant Officer Samson, ODA-888 out of Fort Lewis.” He proffered a gloved hand
McAllen shook firmly. “Sergeant Ray McAllen, Force Recon, Thirteenth MEU out of Pendleton. This is Sergeant Rule, my assistant team leader. Well, we just came to fill her up and clean the windshield. Do we need a key for the bathroom?”
“Funny guy. Why don’t you boys get up on the roof?> Keep low so they don’t see your uniforms. We want them to think we’re all locals for now, good old Canadians with hunting rifles, not much of a threat.”
McAllen grimaced. “We’ll stick with our bird, get the fuel, and get the hell out. We’re headed up north on a TRAP mission.”
“We don’t stop those incoming helos, you’re not going anywhere.” Black Bear removed the cigar from his mouth. “Tell you what. You take up positions along the west wall, close to your bird. Stay out of sight. Get on our channel. You wait for us. All I’m going to say is ‘Outlaw Team,’ and you cut loose.”
“Good enough. Good luck.”
Black Bear nodded. “Good luck to us all.”
Major Stephanie Halverson ran along the wooden fence, keeping within a meter of it, hoping the poles might break up the vertical line that was a United States Air Force pilot shot down and fleeing.
The farmhouse was just a thousand yards ahead, with a couple of barns in the back, a few horses, and another long building. The place stood postcard still.
Almost there. Fight for it.
Nearly out of breath, her nose running, her legs on fire, she repeatedly glanced over her shoulder; there were no Spetsnaz troops in sight.
But as she left the fence to make a final mad dash to the main house, whose front door looked more inviting than anything in the world, the terrible whining of those engines drew near, and a glance back triggered a wave of panic.
She mounted the front stoop, wrenched open the screen door, tried the knob.
Open. Open? Well, what did she expect? She was in the middle of nowhere Canada, crime rate: zero.
Bursting into the house, she cried, “Hello? Hello? Is anyone home?”
It was a weekday morning, and a middle-aged woman in jeans and sweatshirt appeared from the kitchen beyond. “Who are you? What are you doing in our house?” she demanded.
A middle-aged man with a graying beard came rushing forward, along with a long-haired teenage boy, wearing a ball cap.
“Dad, there’s a crazy lady with a gun in our living room,” said the boy, strangely calm. “And she’s wearing a costume.”
Halverson spoke a million miles a minute: “I’m Major Stephanie Halverson, U.S. Air Force. I got shot down. Russians are here. On snowmobiles. They’re coming. Do you have a car?”
The father glanced down at the pistol in her grip and raised his hands. “If this is some kind of sick joke . . .”
“It’s not a joke! Do you have a TV? Do you watch the news? The Russians are invading!” Halverson nearly screamed at the family.
“They were talking about some kind of military maneuver on the mo
rning show,” said the mother. “And now there’s some weird news program on every channel.”
As the snowmobile engines grew louder, the teenager, unfazed by Halverson’s pistol, darted to the front window, peeked past the curtain. “She’s not lying. Looks like soldiers out there. They’re coming!”
“I’ll get my rifle,” said the father. “Joey, you take her and your mom to the basement.”
“We can’t stay. We have to go!” Halverson said.
“Well, Major, you picked the wrong address, because my pickup’s battery is dead, and the one tractor I have would never outrun them. I was supposed to drive my boy to school.”
Halverson waved the pistol, tipped her head toward the window. “Those are Spetsnaz troops. Do you know what that means?”
“It means you’d better get in the basement!” cried the father.
Without time to think, Halverson followed the boy and his mother through the kitchen, past an open door, and down a flight of rickety wooden steps. It was a full cellar, the entire footprint of the house, cluttered with boxes, machinery, a washing machine and dryer, and clothes hanging from lines spanning the room.
The boy, Joey, switched the light off, but a dim shaft filtered in through the single window, up near the ceiling. Then he headed toward the back, where he wanted to hide between sheets of plywood leaning against the wall.
“No,” said Halverson. “You and your mom stay here. I’m under the steps. Go.”
Even as she spoke, a crash resounded from upstairs, and a man shouted in a thick Russian accent, “Come out, Yankee pilot!”
TWENTY-FIVE
President Becerra leaned forward in his seat aboard Air Force One and sharpened his tone. “Prime Minister, Spetsnaz forces are in the streets of Edmonton and Calgary.”
Emerson’s tone turned equally sharp. “I’m well aware of that, Mr. President.”
“They’ve captured your communications uplinks and early warning radar, and they’ve hacked in to and now control your power grid.”
“Yes, they have.”
“And my advisors tell me they’ve already begun psychological operations using their new 130X electronic warfare planes. The Euros took out their first two, but two more are in the air. They’re taking control of your radio, TV, Internet, even military communications channels.”
“I know that.”
“My SEALs and Special Forces have infiltrated those areas, but they’re only gathering intel. They tell me some of your local fire and police are fighting back, but they need help. They need you to take official military action, otherwise I’ll be watching executions on CNN.”
“Mr. President—”
“They’ll move your women and children to holding areas, to separate families and sow terror. This is what they do, Prime Minister. This is how they control cities—through fear and intimidation.”
Becerra glanced over at Hellenberg. The White House Chief of Staff shook his head from the other side of the table. He was off camera, but that didn’t matter. Becerra displayed enough disgust for both of them.
Emerson thought a moment. “I spoke with Kapalkin. If I make a move, the hammer will come down. I won’t do this.”
“He’s bluffing. He doesn’t have the resources. And he knows the Euros will be in Edmonton soon.”
“I think he’s right. I think we have less to lose if we do nothing. And if we play the victim of two evil superpowers, we might actually gain something: the world’s sympathy.”
“Prime Minister, you’re making a terrible mistake. This is your Pearl Harbor. It’s your time.”
“No. Not yet.”
“If not now, then when?”
“The situation is being carefully evaluated.”
“That’s a line for the media, not for me. Come on, Prime Minister! Together we can shut them down. Otherwise, it’ll take time, resources, and your people will suffer the consequences.”
“I understand.”
“I hope so. Because at this time I’m informing you that one of our Stryker Combat Brigade Teams is en route to Calgary to help evacuate your civilians. They also have orders to take out enemy positions designated by our SEALs and Special Forces. I’m not asking for your permission, Prime Minister. If you won’t save your own people, we will, because doing so is in the best interests of the United States.”
Emerson slammed a fist on his desk, “Damn you, Becerra, you have no idea what a position I’m in! No idea!”
“It’ll only get worse, Prime Minister.”
“Look, we won’t stop you from helping. But I can’t take the risk. Not now.”
“I’ll check in again, once my brigade reaches Calgary. The Euros will be calling. Good-bye, Mr. Prime Minister.” The second Becerra ended the call, he huffed and added, “What a fool. What a waste of time.”
“General Kennedy’s waiting to give you an update,” said Hellenberg.
“Before I take that, let me ask you something, Mark. We’ve known each other for a long time.”
“A lot of years.”
“You think there’s anything I could’ve said to that man?”
The chief of staff frowned. “As an old attorney, I’d say you made a good argument. You hit him with the facts and appealed to his emotions. But they’re afraid to commit. Do you know how much money is resting on Emerson’s decision?”
“Yes, like he said, the position he’s in. The Canadians ally with us, and their remaining overseas oil markets could crumble. The Chinese have already gobbled up most of their oil firms operating abroad. Sure, they know they’ll never lose us as customers, so they can take the gamble, hold out, see what they can get.”
“These are games for the academics to figure out. Right now there’s a battle to fight.”
Becerra nodded, tapped the screen, and there she was, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Laura Kennedy, looking slightly less rankled than the last time they’d spoken. “General, sorry to keep you waiting,” he began.
“That’s all right, Mr. President. We have intelligence coming in from multiple command posts. As always, it’s information overload, but here are the highlights. The company of Special Forces up in High Level is about to engage a Russian recon patrol from Behchoko. Unfortunately, that TRAP mission you asked for is being conducted by a Force Recon team who just landed in High Level to refuel. They could get caught up in the fighting there.”
“Damn, I hope not.”
“Good news from the Florida up in Coronation Gulf. Her skipper says they wiped out that Russian task force and have moved to the mouth of the Dolphin and Union Strait, a natural choke point. He’s got us covered up there.”
As the general spoke, Becerra watched images of the sinking ships captured by the sub. The sight left him awestruck.
“The first sorties carrying our brigade from the Tenth Mountain Division have landed without incident in Grand Prairie, and the Marines from Pendleton have begun their deep reconnaissance up Highway 63, north of Fort McMurray. They’ll be reinforced by at least one follow-on Euro battalion, I’m told. No ETA on the Euros arrival yet.”
“I’ll contact General Bankolé to see what’s holding them up.”
“Mr. President, I hate to use this phrase, but it’s been bandied about in the past few hours. What we’re seeing so far from the Russians is an invasion plan, but one with a real failure of imagination.”
“Well, you’ve made me wince, so now you’d better explain.”
“The Russians are using all available avenues of approach, initiating the operation with basically no surprises. We expected them to seize those key towns up north to keep avenues open, which they are doing. We know they’ll push down 63 and 35. We’ve already seen them drop in a separate battalion augmented with petroleum specialists to help gain control of the fields and refineries up near Fort McMurray. And we know they’re using the avgas up in Behchoko to refuel their 130s. They sent some of those refueled planes farther south. The first flight passed Edmonton, so we believe they’re e
ither bound for Calgary or maybe they’ll put down in Red Deer, right between the two cities. There’s a regional airport there that they might use as a staging area, sending infantry both north and south to the cities. Initially, they’ll need at least a battalion to fully secure each city until their reinforcements arrive.”
“How are we doing in the air?”
“So far the space backbone layer remains clear since the destruction of the ISS. Euro lasers and the Rods from God are fully online. We’ve managed to disrupt the Russians’ airborne network layer with Euro lasers, taking out those first surveillance and 130X craft, but that won’t last for long, since their fuel cells will need recharging. The tactical and terminal layers are where it’s all happening. We can take out their transports, but, as always, collateral damage is a primary concern, especially once they get near the cities.”
“Yes, and the joint chiefs know very well how I feel about that.”
She nodded. “You shoot a missile at one of the largest transport planes in the world and it crash-lands in downtown Edmonton, suddenly we’re the terrorists, invasion or not.”
“We won’t let that happen.”
“No, sir.” She regarded her notes. “The fighters from Alaska have had only limited success up in the Northwest Territories, given the Russian fighter escorts, but with the infrastructure concerns, the joint chiefs continue to assert that this will be a ground battle with close air support. The Russians seem to agree. We’ve seen no evidence that they’re readying strategic bombers. If they take Alberta, they’ll want to take it intact. Again, no surprises. The Rules of Engagement seem remarkably clear. The only unexpected thing they did was launch this attack during winter, making ground movement all the more difficult—but that goes for both sides.”
“You seem bothered by all of this.”
She hesitated. “Given our dealings with the GRU in the past year, sir, it would be foolish to assume this is all they have planned.”
“For all our sakes, I hope those fools in Moscow know where to stop.”