“Well, he can count on us, sir.”
“My words exactly. So we’re under way for the Gulf. And XO, the second we’re in our firing position, I aim to let our Tomahawks fly and destroy that target.”
The XO nodded. “The crew will happily oblige, sir.”
In 1703, Peter the Great laid the cornerstone of the fortress he named St. Petersburg, in honor of the guardian of the gate of heaven. He later built a shipyard across the Neva River from the fortress.
In 2015, Pyotr Alexeyevich Romanov, a Project 955 Borei-class submarine was launched to honor the great tsar.
Five years later, Captain Second Rank Mikhail A. Kolosov was given command of that sub. Kolosov was thirty-nine, never married, and known by his colleagues as a pensive loner. He was a graduate of the Tikhookeansky Naval Acadamy and the Paldiski nuclear submarine training center.
His first assignment was as communications officer on a diesel-electric Foxtrot class. Next he was an engineering officer aboard the last remaining Alpha nuclear attack sub. He later served four years as XO onboard a Typhoon-class SSBN until it was sold to the Chinese.
Despite eighteen years in submarines, Kolosov was still the youngest officer to be given command of the Romanov, and he was now on the mission of a lifetime.
Just two days previously, the Romanov had slipped her moorings at Severodvinsk’s Sevmash shipyard, transited the Neva River, and disappeared under the polar ice. Kolosov knew that JSF spy satellites had photographed Romanov’s empty berth and that her movement had triggered a worldwide alert.
Now they were about to pass through the Dolphin and Union Strait, bound for the Coronation Gulf, utilizing their shaftless propulsors called RDT—rim-driven thrusters. The super quiet, all-electric Romanov did not require noisy main reduction gears to convert high-speed main turbine rotation into low-speed propeller shaft rotation, and Kolosov was certain that he and his crew of 110 would pass unnoticed into the Gulf, carrying their full complement of twelve R-30 Bulava (SS-NX-30) ballistic missiles.
Kolosov reached into his breast pocket and removed the picture of Dimitri. He stared at it a moment, then rubbed the back for good luck, a ritual he had performed countless times. His older brother, twelve years his senior, had died back in the mid-nineties.
Dimitri had been working on the clean-up of the 70 MWe and 90 MWe pressurized-water training reactors in Paldiski, Estonia, and had suffered radiation poisoning while constructing the two-story concrete sarcophagus that now encased the two reactors. Officials and administrators had been grossly negligent, and Kolosov had lost his brother because of them. Dimitri’s death was a devastating blow to the family, one from which his parents had never recovered. They had gone to their own graves grieving his loss.
Kolosov returned the photo to his pocket and regarded his executive officer.
“It won’t be long now, sir,” said the younger man. “Today will be a great day for the Motherland.”
Kolosov averted his gaze. “Yes, comrade.”
Sergeant Marc Rakken and his team moved up the Calgary Tower stairwell, climbing farther into the uncertain darkness. The Spetsnaz troops had gassed the entire stairwell but to no avail. Rakken and his squad were masked up and determined. Another squad was coming up behind his, with two more in the other stairwell.
The staircase seemed to go on forever, the teams’ lights shining up until they seemed to run out, beams clogged with the still-lingering gas.
Every man on Rakken’s squad was now equipped with a concave-shaped Ferrofluid shield behind which they could duck in the event of a grenade being tossed into the stairwell. The shields also protected them from incoming rifle and rocket fire, though a significant explosion’s concussion would send them tumbling back down the stairs. If the blast didn’t kill them, the fall might.
Real-time video from the drone showed two heavily armed Spetsnaz troops posted on the landing outside the main door to the observation deck. Both were staring down into the stairwell with digital binoculars pressed to their masks. They resembled darkly clad aliens, armored and deadly. A third troop appeared and reached into a satchel.
“Grenade!” one of Rakken’s men cried over the radio.
Rakken already had an image from his point man’s helmet camera. The grenade had been dropped at an angle intended for their landing, but it flew wide, and plummeted toward the very bottom—
Two seconds later it exploded, the staircase and railings reverberating.
“Sparta Team, they still can’t get a decent angle on us. Let’s pick up the pace!” Rakken cried.
However, every man on his rifle squad was already breathless, including himself.
And they were only halfway up the tower.
“Incoming, shields up!” yelled Rakken’s point man.
Dozens of rounds began pinging and ricocheting down at them, and Rakken crouched down behind his shield, feeling the vibration of several impacts as the shield’s liquid outer layer grew hard, absorbed the blow, then returned to its fluid state. The Russians were simply delaying them now, and Rakken wouldn’t stand for that.
“Sparta Team, I don’t care about that fire! Move out!”
Not two heartbeats after Rakken gave the order, the entire tower began to shake, as though from some massive earthquake.
“Sergeant!” cried one of Rakken’s team leaders. “What the hell is that?”
Major Alice Dennison was riveted to her monitors. She had just watched the Rods from God platform commanders line up for their shot. Then the rocket-and-fin-equipped tungsten rod had streaked away from the cylindrical platform, its engine glowing as it reached a speed of nearly 36,000 feet per second—about as fast as a meteor until retro rockets kicked in to prevent it from burning up. The rod was nearly twenty feet long, one foot in diameter, and its heat-shielded nose cone had grown cherry red as it had vanished into the atmosphere.
The rod had all the destructive effects of an earth-penetrating nuclear weapon without all of the radioactive fallout. It relied upon kinetic energy to destroy everything in its path.
Dennison had views from several cameras on the ground when the rod slammed into Highway 2, directly in the middle of that long convoy of Russian vehicles.
And now a swelling sphere of destruction spread from the impact site, the ground heaving up in great torrents, as though a billion subterranean explosions were going off in succession, chutes of fire and smoke lifting hundreds of feet into the air. The kill zone continued to spread, vehicles instantly pulverized by the unstoppable force.
She could only imagine what it must feel like on the ground, commanders popping out of their hatches, only to look up as the sky turned black. A breath later, they were incinerated or torn apart or buried under tons of dirt.
Dennison wasn’t sure what the quake would measure on the Richter scale, but the entire province would feel some kind of effect.
It was hypnotizing to watch, even though she’d seen kinetic strikes before. Every one was a little different, all awe-inspiring and even a little sad. No one on the ground had even a remote chance of survival.
Their ride home was nothing fancy: just a good old HH-60G Pave Hawk, which in truth was a highly modified Black Hawk whose primary mission was to conduct combat search-and-rescue operations into hostile environments.
Well, Sergeant Raymond McAllen mused, his current situation fit quite nicely into the air crew’s mission parameters.
Khaki had assisted the two pilots, one flight engineer, and one gunner into putting down in a clearing about five hundred yards south of their position; at the moment, McAllen, Halverson, and Pravota were charging toward the waiting bird, now less than a hundred yards away.
Rule and Gutierrez ran past them to provide a final few salvos of covering fire, and McAllen forced Halverson and Pravota to run ahead of him, placing himself between them and the incoming fire.
He’d read it a hundred times in the biographies of other Marines, had experienced it himself, and now, at this very moment, he kn
ew it would hit him.
When you were just seconds away from safety, those last few seconds were the hardest.
You saw yourself getting shot at the last moment.
Saw yourself dying just as you were about to be saved.
Many combatants said they were never more scared than in the moment they were about to be picked up.
McAllen’s group cleared the forest, and Halverson and Pravota made a last mad dash for the waiting chopper, rotor whomping, engine thrumming, snow blowing hard. The gunner was at the ready near the open bay door, pivoting his .50 caliber, hungry for kills.
Halverson pulled ahead of Pravota, then she suddenly slipped and hit the ground. The Russian stopped and, though still handcuffed, tried to offer help. But Halverson got back up on her own and together they made the final twenty-yard leg and were helped inside by the flight engineer.
“Outlaw Team, this is Outlaw One. Everybody fall back to the pickup site. Package is loaded. Say again, fall back now.” McAllen turned and dropped onto his gut. Between him and the chopper’s gunner, they had good coverage of the tree line.
Palladino and Szymanski came bursting from the forest first, then came Friskis and Gutierrez. Khaki was already onboard the chopper.
“Outlaw Two, this is Outlaw One,” McAllen called. “Everybody’s loaded up. Come on, buddy, let’s go.”
But there was no answer from Sergeant Rule.
McAllen tried again. Then he cursed, rose, and charged back toward the tree line.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Sergeant Raymond McAllen spotted his assistant team leader lying prone beside a tree, his head low.
He wasn’t moving.
But suddenly McAllen’s attention was torn away to the trees, where several troops were darting from trunk to trunk—moving in. Gunfire immediately sounded, and McAllen crouched and charged for Rule’s position.
He took a flying leap and crashed into the snow just as Rule’s rifle boomed.
“Sergeant?”
Rule regarded him. “They’re moving up!”
“I ordered everyone to fall back.”
“I didn’t hear that.” The Sergeant banged on the headset fitted below his helmet.
“Let’s go!”
Rule fished out a grenade, pulled the pin, hurled it at the oncoming troops, then burst to his feet.
He and McAllen charged back through the forest, leaving behind an onslaught of fresh fire from the Russians.
The grenade exploded with a satisfying boom, just as the two rounded a pair of trees and spotted the chopper ahead, eclipsed by the last few pines.
Something pinged off McAllen’s helmet, then a few more pings struck his back. Aw, hell, he was taking fire.
Then a pair of sharp stings woke in his legs. He took three more steps, the pain growing unbearable.
He collapsed to his belly as Rule kept on running.
What they thought had been an earthquake turned out to be a successful kinetic strike on the Russians coming down from Red Deer, and Rakken used that good news to boost the morale of his men in the stairwell. And God knew they needed a boost.
They had about two hundred more steps to climb, and if Sergeant Marc Rakken’s legs were any indication of how the others felt, then they all could hardly stand.
But they forged on, with the Russians up top sending down bursts of fire and the occasional grenade. They also continued lobbing smoke to obscure the entire stairwell. If they had any rockets, they were waiting until Rakken’s men got closer to use them.
So up they went, stair after stair, in the smoke-filled darkness, only the sounds of the radio and their own breathing now filling their ears.
The company commander informed them that snipers in the building across the street were attempting to pick off any troops they spotted on the observation deck, but thus far those Russians had kept out of sight.
And twice Rakken had attempted to gain information from one of the five civilians ascending just behind them, a bearded, middle-aged man with the call sign “Nimrod One.”
“You just get us in there, Sergeant, and we’ll do the rest,” the man had said.
“I can help you more if I know what your job is.”
“I think you’ll figure it out pretty quickly once we’re up top.”
“Well, I have my ideas.”
“I’m sure they’re not too far off base. Now, if you don’t mind?”
Rakken almost wished this were the simple destruction of a Spetsnaz observation post. Then again, what kind of bragging rights would that earn him?
“Grenades!” shouted his point man. “Two more! Three!”
They all dropped down behind their shields as the explosions resounded—
And then, as the smoke cleared, Rakken’s men reported that a four-meter section of the staircase had been destroyed and that they would need the ropes to ascend to the next landing.
Delays, delays, more delays. That’s what the Russians wanted. The teams in the other stairwell weren’t faring much better, according to reports.
“All right, people, let’s rig this up and get climbing!”
As Rule ran toward the Pave Hawk, he couldn’t understand why Gutierrez and Szymanski were waving their hands and pointing. He tried his radio, but it was dead: either the battery was gone or he’d damaged it out there.
But it only took another pair of seconds for him to realize that they were indicating to the trees behind him. He stole a look back and saw McAllen lying in the snow.
He turned around, raced toward the sergeant, even as the chopper’s door gunner opened up on the trees to give him some covering fire.
McAllen pushed up to his hands and knees, trying to stand, as Rule opened up with his own rifle, hosing down a pair of troops who burst from behind a trunk to confront him.
But two rounds struck Rule’s armored chest, knocking him backward. He lost his footing, fell on his rump. He got up, started once more toward the sergeant, the .50 caliber still churning behind him, ripping up bark and limbs ahead.
It dawned on Rule that the sergeant wouldn’t be lying there, shot up, if it weren’t for him and his damned busted radio.
So he poured every ounce of energy he had left into his legs. He reached the sergeant, dropped, returned more fire as rounds stitched lines in the snow just a meter parallel to them.
“Rule, you idiot,” gasped McAllen.
“I know,” he said. “Ready?” He rolled the sergeant over and hoisted him up over his back, legs buckling under the man’s considerable weight.
He walked three steps and collapsed.
Meanwhile, Szymanski, Palladino, and Gutierrez had hopped back out of the chopper, dropped, and were providing more covering fire.
“You’re going to kill me if they don’t,” said McAllen. “Drag me!”
“Thought a carry would be faster.” Rule stood, came behind McAllen, grabbed his pack’s straps and began sliding him over the snow.
A sudden thud on his chest sent Rule back to the snow, his hands snapping off the pack. He groaned in pain.
“Rule?”
“Yeah.” He gasped. “Got my armor. Damn I’m going to be sore tomorrow.”
He returned to dragging the sergeant, whose legs were leaving a blood trail in the snow.
“Hey, Rule, I didn’t tell you this before, but you cast a big shadow, Marine. A big shadow.”
“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.