The Ghost Pattern (23 page)

...63

...Wednesday, May 11, 3:06AM Local Time (UTC+10:00 hours)

...USS
Okinawa
(LHD-10)

...Sea of Okhotsk, Near Russian Territorial Waters

Captain Kevin Callahan woke up with a start. His XO knocked twice on his stateroom door, then walked right in, not waiting for permission. What the hell was going on?

His current assignment was a tricky one. He was leading battle group
Okinawa
into a series of tactical naval exercises off the coast of Japan, in collaboration with the Japanese Navy. As captain of USS
Okinawa
, a Wasp-class amphibious assault ship, he was the commander of the entire battle group: one Arleigh-Burke class destroyer, two Freedom-class and one Independence-class littoral combat ships (LCS), two GHOST super-cavitating stealth ships, and several support vessels.

But that wasn’t the tricky part of his current assignment. The tactical exercises were going well, and the Japanese Navy was a worthy partner with naval strategy valor. However, they rarely operated more than fifty miles away from Russia’s territorial waters. Most days they’d come as close as ten miles, irritating the crap out of the Russian Coast Guard, their vessel commanders, and everyone else for that matter.

Naturally, the Russians were worried, knowing the
Okinawa
, a Wasp-class, landing helicopter dock (LHD), amphibious, assault ship, essentially an aircraft carrier for helicopters, deployed and maneuvered so close to their coast. The
Okinawa
carried almost two thousand Marines aboard, in addition to the ship’s complement of almost twelve hundred. Her own fleet of seven Super Stallion helicopters, four MV-22 Osprey aircraft, four Super Cobra attack helos, and six Harrier II attack aircraft packed a serious, worrisome punch. Her stern gate could drop and launch additional armed landing hovercraft, challenging the enemy with its versatility. Hence, it was not surprising that the
Okinawa
and its battle group made the Russians wary, anxious, and irritable. Yet, while she was executing joint tactical exercises with the Japanese, staying just barely outside of Russian territorial waters, there was little, if anything, the Russians could do.

The Russians had two powerful radar stations, tracking every move the ship made. One station stood high on a cliff near a lighthouse called Red Partisan, and the other was farther south, right on the coast, near Terney. Those two radar installations could track everything, from surface vessels to air traffic. The facilities were heavily guarded, and most likely were humming with intense activity every time one of the battle group ships started her engines, or lifted her anchors.

They had received significant diplomatic pressures to take their joint exercises farther out into the Pacific as a sign of goodwill, but Washington and Tokyo had held equally strong. As long as battle group
Okinawa
was not entering Russian territorial waters, there was nothing Russia could do about it other than foam at the mouth.

Before Captain Callahan had finally gone to bed for the night, sometime after midnight, his battle group was sailing around Wakkanai heading east, just five miles off the coast of Japan, but only a few miles away from the territorial waters of Sakhalin. He hoped his XO didn’t bring the news that someone had made a mistake and had veered into Russia’s waters by accident; there’d be hell to pay.

He sat on the side of his bed, rubbing his eyes.

“What is it, XO?”

“I have the president for you, sir.”

Sleep still fogging his brain, Callahan asked, “You have who?”

“The president of the United States, sir, on encrypted voice comm.”

All his remaining brain fog instantly dissipated under the wave of adrenaline that hit every nerve in his body. The president? Calling him? That had never happened before, in his entire career. It had to be serious.

He hopped to his feet and threw his working blues on within seconds, then almost ran to the bridge, followed by his XO.

“Captain on the bridge,” one of the lieutenants announced, standing at attention.

Callahan went straight for the communications desk. He put on the headset handed him by his communications officer, cleared his throat a little, then signaled to the young man to open the line.

“Mr. President, sir,” he greeted. “This is Captain Kevin Callahan, Battle Group
Okinawa
, off the coast of Japan.”

“Captain, we have a situation on our hands, and you’re the only one who can help,” President Krassner said, skipping the pleasantries and going straight to the core of the issue.

“Sir?”

“Flight XA233, the flight that was presumed crashed in the Pacific, was in fact hijacked by Russian terrorists. A small American team found the plane and was able to free the passengers and crew being held as hostages. They’re heading toward the coast, taking heavy fire, right in the area where you are now. There are nearly 450 people, most of them American. They need your help, captain. We have to bring them home.”

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

...Wednesday, May 11, 3:19AM Local Time (UTC+10:00 hours)

...Road to Vanino

...Sea of Okhotsk Coast, Russia

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.

“What did it?” Alex asked.

“Grenade,” he replied, “under its belly.”

She craned her head out of the window some more, swallowing hard, forcing herself to ignore the sound of bullets flying through the air. One Ansyr blown to hell, but four more were coming, and behind them, even more trouble. The next Ansyr in line on the narrow road, closest to Tango Nine, was firing continuously, getting awfully close to the limit where their large caliber rounds would start tearing into Tango Nine, killing everyone in it.

Then she had an idea. She pressed her comm link button. “Lima, sever a tree, a big one, copy?”

“Alpha, did you say tree?”

“Block the road, Lima, block the fucking road!”

“Copy,” Lou confirmed, then, before releasing the comm button, Alex heard him give instructions to the Bravos with him. She saw Tango Nine slow, almost to a stop.

A few seconds later, a huge, majestic oak fell sideways, barely missing Tango Nine, and blocked the road.

“Great job, Lima, now catch up,” she radioed.

“Copy,” Lou replied, more intelligible now that the heavy firing had ceased and the Russian armored vehicles had stopped their pursuit.

“How much time did it buy us?” Alex asked, smiling involuntarily as she noticed the expression on the Tango One driver’s face. The man was grinning widely, despite the tension in the air.

The radio crackled static for a short while, then Lou’s voice came through.

“Not that much. Maybe five, ten minutes at the most.”

The driver’s grin vanished.

“What?”

“They can cut through it, Alpha, just like we did, only they have bigger caliber bullets.”

“Copy,” she replied, unable to hide her disappointment.

They needed a break…a bigger break, not five minutes. This wasn’t going to cut it.

She spoke into the radio again.

“Firefly Nest, do you copy?”

“Copy, Alpha. ETA is two minutes.”

“Copy, Nest. Step on it.” Then she turned to the driver at her left and added, “You too.”

The truck accelerated, bouncing heavily on the poorly maintained road as it hit potholes, scattered rocks, and fallen tree branches.

Alex allowed herself a moment to breathe, and leaned against her backrest with her eyes closed. Maybe they had a chance after all with help from the drones. She’d seen them in action before. Each UCAV could carry up to 16 Hellfire missiles, and their targeting was deadly accurate; they were incredible weapons, a thing of beauty when they were on your side in battle.

She turned toward the back, to check on Sam and Blake. Blake locked eyes with her, encouraging her with a quick nod. Sam lay unconscious, the German doctor checking his vitals every few minutes. The doctor’s pursed lips and deep frown made her stomach churn in fear for her friend’s life. She reached and grabbed Sam’s hand, holding it tight. It was cold to the touch and damp.
Hang in there, Sam, please! We’re gonna make it, you’ll see. Just hang in there!

Her phone’s vibration caught her attention. She had a new text message, from Henri Marino. It read, “Eagle Base is your ride home. Good luck!”

Yes! They were coming! Way to go, Marino! And thank you, Mr. President! Now all they had to do was get to the extraction point, and stay alive until they came.

She spoke into the radio to share the news.

“All call signs, this is Alpha. We have a ride home. Do you copy?”

She knew they copied, because instant cheering erupted from all trucks. Some honked their horns and flashed their lights, forgetting for a second they were in the middle of a battle. Knowing they were not alone, knowing that someone was going to come for them gave them hope, a much-needed shot in the arm for everyone.

They weren’t out of the woods yet, literally and figuratively speaking. She saw the lights from the Russian armored vehicles starting to approach again; they’d only delayed them by four minutes or so.

Her radio crackled, then a new, unfamiliar voice spoke, patched in via her sat phone.

“All call signs, this is Eagle Base. Do you copy?”

She replied cheerfully. “Eagle Base, Alpha. Copy loud and clear.”

“Alpha, coordinates for pickup confirmed. ETA sixty minutes. What’s your status?”

She hesitated before responding. How could she summarize in a couple of words the desperate situation they were in?

“Eagle Nest, this is Alpha. We’re precarious and low on resources, taking fire. More bogeys inbound, both air and ground. Not sure we’ll last sixty minutes, but we’ll try.”

She released the comm button, waiting for Eagle’s response. A few seconds of radio silence ensued, then the voice replied, “Copy, Alpha, good luck.”

She couldn’t help a bitter chuckle hearing Eagle’s encouragement. Too many people wished them good luck; that meant their situation actually needed it. Every bit of luck possible.

Alex looked out the window toward the end of the convoy; the headlights were approaching fast, and the Russian armored Ansyrs were resuming their fire.

Then, from somewhere above her head, she heard a whoosh, followed by an explosion. A drone had fired a missile, blowing up the Ansyr closest to them.

“About bloody time, Firefly,” she radioed.

“Roger that, Alpha,” the drone operator replied, barely intelligible. “Alpha, we have an issue. It’s dark, and you’re under forest cover. We can’t distinguish between you and them enough to fire safely. We can only target them if they’re firing at you.”

Oh, crap…
“Copy that, working on a fix,” she replied.

She thought for a few second, then pressed the radio button again. “Lima, can you paint a target?”

“Affirmative,” Lou’s voice confirmed.

“All Tangos except Tango One, kill your beams. Lima, paint the fuckers.”

A few seconds later, the only lights still flickering in the darkness of the forest were the Russian Ansyrs, marked red by several laser spots.

The drones didn’t waste any time. Two missiles were fired and both reached their targets, blowing to bits two Russian armored vehicles. Only one Ansyr was left, followed by the BTR-80s and the trucks carrying troops.

Before a drone could take that last Ansyr out, it fired a large caliber projectile, but missed Tango Nine. The road was curved, so the projectile hit the rear right wheels of one of the other trucks, sending it in the air, sliding on its side, and screeching to a stop. The trucks braked hard, barely avoiding it, and the rest of the convoy stopped.

The radio crackled and then the voice of one of the backup team members screamed.

“Alpha, this it Tango Five. We’re hit! We’re hit!”

“Stop the truck and kill your lights,” she instructed her driver.

She jumped off the truck and ran to Tango Five, just as people were starting to come out of it. Some were just dazed, shocked, while others were wounded and needed help.

One of the Bravos approached her.

“The road is blocked,” he said. We can only use the first four trucks, and we can’t fit everyone in them.

She frowned, thinking hard. The truck was huge, effectively blocking the narrow road. But they had manpower, the power of many.

“All Tangos, instruct your able passengers to climb down and help us push Tango Five out of the way, and then they are to go back to their trucks. All passengers in Tango Five and Tango Nine will have to travel in other trucks. The civilians are too exposed in Tango Nine. Only Bravos in Tango Nine. Copy?”

Another drone, flying low above them, shot a missile, and took out the last Russian Ansyr that had just opened fire.

Within a minute, Tango Five was pushed to the side of the road, where it fell into a ravine and exploded on impact on the rocks below.

Everyone rushed to the trucks, and, one by one, the Tangos confirmed by radio they were ready to continue on their escape route.

Alex took her seat in Tango One, and checked the GPS. Only a few more minutes until they turned south, heading for the LZ. She noticed a message from Tom, arrived just seconds earlier. It read, “Russian helos closing in, ETA two minutes.”

Really? That was not happening…It was about time they caught a goddamn break. She felt tears of frustration burn her eyes. There was no way they could take on three armed helicopters attacking them, drones or no drones. They were low on ammo, the drones were busy with the rest of the Russians catching up from behind; it was just hopeless.

She directed the driver to turn right, and leave the main road. Maybe their chances would be better if they dumped the trucks and scattered everyone in the forest, to continue to the LZ on foot. But they had a lot of wounded, and some of the people couldn’t walk. Some of the people had been shot; no, that wasn’t going to work.

As they turned, she saw an explosion toward the coast; a large ball of fire erupted, illuminating everything around it for a short while, then continuing to burn. She texted Tom, who watched them via satellite, “What was the explosion ENE of us?”

His reply came in immediately. It read, “Your friends took out a radar station called Red Partisan. All good.”

That was logical. Probably Eagle Nest preferred radar darkness to having to fight the entire Russian Army over their rescue.

Then her radio came to life again.

“All call signs, this is Eagle Nest. We see three enemy helos approaching fast. Moving to intercept.”

“Copy that, Eagle, you saved the day.”

Maybe they’d caught that break after all.

They drove south on an unpaved, bumpy road that followed the edge of the forest. Behind them, the drones still engaged the remaining Russian vehicles, and Alex had counted two more explosions since they had taken the turn onto the unpaved road. Probably they were finishing off the remaining trucks filled with Russian soldiers.

She swallowed uncomfortably, thinking for a minute of all the Russians who were losing their lives that night. Then she thought of what might have happened to all the passengers and crew if they’d been recaptured by the Russians. That was what war was all about…One had to kill to survive. They hadn’t started that war; the people who took XA233 had started it. V had started it. She and her team were there to end it.

She checked her GPS again, seeing they were approaching on the left, the flat, rocky clearing she had chosen for the landing zone. They were there…they had made it.

Now all they had to do was survive for another forty minutes or so.

She spoke into her radio.

“All Tangos, we’re here. Instruct your passengers to disembark, walk south for a few hundred yards, not more, and take cover behind the tree line.”

“Copy that, Alpha,” Lou’s voice responded, almost cheerfully. Hope was a wonderful thing.

She hopped off the truck and stretched her legs, feeling the tension ease a little. She looked toward the rest of the trucks, and nodded, satisfied, seeing how they arrived, one by one, killing their lights and cutting their engines.

The distant roar of jet engines caught her attention, and she looked toward the northern sky. In the distance, she could see the sky light up occasionally, as Eagle Nest’s forces engaged the enemy.

She climbed in the back of Tango One and handed Blake her phone.

“We’re here, we’ve made it. We have a ride home. Tell your pilot to get out.”