EndWar e-1 Read online

  Andreas had to assume that the Romanov would behave like the SSBN it was and try to skulk away and hide—

  Because a Joint Strike Force nuclear attack sub was a Russian SSBN crew’s worst nightmare.

  Major Alice Dennison’s monitor showed streaming video from the High Level Bridge in Edmonton, just as Spetsnaz mechanized forces were making their way over it—

  And just as the Tomahawks launched from the Florida made impact.

  As explosions flashed in a string of lights festooning the bridge’s lines, Dennison nodded. A perfect strike.

  Sure, the nuke there had already been deactivated, but the Euros had reported that the Russian ground force moving in was much larger than initial intel had indicated, and cutting off their main avenue of approach would now allow the Euros to better engage and delay them, until more follow-on forces arrived, or until the Russians decided to pull out.

  The bridge broke apart in three distinct pieces and dropped to the river, creating tremendous waves and sending fountains high into the night sky.

  And along with the bridge came the Russian vehicles, tumbling end over end, crashing into the pieces of bridge before they sank or simply splashing hard into the water.

  At least a dozen more vehicles had been moving so swiftly that they couldn’t stop, and like elephants herded to a cliff, they plunged over the side.

  She took a long pull on her coffee cup, leaned back in her chair, and continued to watch as, in another set of windows, images came in from Calgary Tower, where wounded or killed infantrymen were being evaced away.

  She’d spoken to one of the company commanders there, a man named Welch, who’d said one of his rifle squad leaders had saved the entire NEST team by throwing himself on a fragmentation grenade. Stories of men doing this in order to save their brothers in arms were common during times of war.

  But that kind of bravery was not.

  That solder’s name was Sergeant Marc Rakken, and Dennison would make sure that he received the full recognition he deserved.

  A call flashed on her screen. “Yes, General Kennedy. What can I do for you?”

  FORTY

  “Captain, we’ve got a passive range solution of twenty-six thousand yards and a computed course and speed of three-two-zero, fifteen knots, for the target,” reported the Florida’s attack coordinator.

  “Sonar’s lost contact with Sierra One, Captain,” said the operator. “He’s definitely slowed down.”

  Commander Jonathan Andreas nodded. “Weps, set the unit in tube one on low speed, passive search, transit depth fifteen hundred feet. Set the unit in tube four on low speed, passive search, transit depth one thousand feet.”

  While the Navy called them units, Andreas still thought of the Mark 48s as torpedoes and would refer to them as such when in the company of nonmilitary friends and family.

  However, it hardly mattered what they were called when one was bearing down on you.

  The Russians would soon testify to that.

  Andreas continued: “Gentlemen, I want to sit back here in his baffles and straddle him with our 48s. Let both units achieve ordered depth during their run-to-enable. With units one and four walking point, we’ll follow behind, right down to fourteen thousand yards if he doesn’t hear us. Now here’s the plan…” Andreas paused, solidifying the tactical picture in his mind before voicing it. “I’m going to send unit four out onto his port quarter, maybe just abaft his beam, turn it toward him, then switch it to high speed, active mode. If he thinks he’s under attack from the west, he’ll turn east to evade and concentrate his snap shots and countermeasures toward the west — not at us. Meanwhile, unit one will be out on his starboard side, waiting. He’ll never know what hit him.”

  The weapons officer flashed a knowing grin. “Reminds me of growing up on the sheep ranch. We had two smart border collies. One would outflank the flock, bark, and charge, then turn the flock back toward his buddy.”

  “Exactly,” said Andreas. “Now you’ve got the bubble, Weps. We American cowboys and sheepherders will show these Russians how it’s done.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Sergeant Nathan Vatz wasn’t sure who was coming up the stairs behind him, but he needed to make his move. He charged across the roof, coming up to the rearmost Spetsnaz troop making his way along the edge.

  Vatz covered the troop’s mouth with one hand while the Caracara knife in his other hand tore through the Russian’s neck and into his spinal cord. This soldier died as quickly as that one had back in Moscow. As he went down, Vatz folded up his knife, slung around his rifle, and jogged off.

  The other three still hadn’t noticed him. It was pitch-black up there on the roof, no power in the entire town now, and the temperature was dropping rapidly. His nose was runny and frozen, his lips growing more chapped.

  He rushed up to the next guy, the drumming of helicopter rotors all over the sky now, along with the whooshing of jet engines, sporadic gunfire, and near-and-far explosions. The din fully concealed his thumping boots.

  Vatz was about to dispatch the next guy with his blade when the trooper turned around, and gaped at Vatz. All Vatz could do was throw himself forward, knocking the Russian to the rooftop.

  They slid across the ice, rolled, still clutching each other, then Vatz forced the man back while driving his knife into the trooper’s neck.

  The guy let out a scream.

  The last two Russians came charging back, rifles coming to bear.

  Maybe thirty feet away, they grew more distinct, two unmasked men in their late thirties or early forties loaded down with gear but shifting as agilely as barechested jungle fighters. These two were seasoned Spetsnaz troops.

  Vatz grabbed the bleeding Russian beneath him and rolled to his left, using the troop as a shield—

  As the others opened fire, riddling their squad mate with rounds, some thudding off his helmet and armor, others burrowing into his legs and neck. Vatz flinched hard, knowing it would take only one lucky round to finish him. He lay there a moment, unmoving, playing dead, as they ceased fire and came closer.

  While Vatz couldn’t see them, he reached out with every other sense, and just as those boots sounded close enough, he threw off the body and came up with his rifle.

  They were ten feet away, firing as he did, the rounds striking his chest hard, the armor protecting him, the impacts breath-robbing.

  Both Russians dropped to the roof, clutching their wounds and firing one-handed into the air.

  Unsure if he’d been hit in the arms or legs, Vatz pushed himself up, checked himself, then turned toward the other side of the roof, where a half dozen silhouettes appeared:

  More troops. Running toward him—

  While a chopper swooped in behind them, its powerful searchlight bathing the Russians in its harsh glow.

  Vatz squinted while beginning to move back. Was that an enemy helo or not?

  He got a better look and shouted, “Yeah!”

  Trailing the troops was, in fact, a JSF Black Hawk helicopter, its door gunners delivering the.50 caliber early bird special to the Russians below.

  Two troops were cut down hard and fast.

  A third threw himself behind a rectangular-shaped duct but was torn to ribbons.

  Vatz broke to the left, out of those gunners’ line of fire, reaching the other side of the roof, when he was nearly knocked off his feet by a Russian troop coming around another aluminum vent.

  He shoved the guy back in order to bring his rifle to bear, but the wide-eyed troop reacted as quickly — grabbing him by the collar and swinging him around.

  Vatz tried to wrench off the troop’s hands, but the kid had a death grip, which was fitting, since their forward momentum carried them both off the roof—

  And into the air.

  “Captain, Sonar. Regained contact on Sierra One, bearing three-four-one, narrowband tonals, twin ship turbine generators. WLY-1 matches to a Borei class. You were right, sir. It is without a doubt the Romanov. Range, twenty-fi
ve thousand yards, computed from prior Romanov SSTG detection tables.”

  “Excellent. We’re sure who he is, and now we got him,” cried Andreas, slamming a fist into his palm. “Officer of the Deck, come right to three-four-one, make your depth eighteen hundred feet, speed four knots. Make tubes one and four ready in all respects. And when ready, match generated bearings and fire!”

  “Unit in tube one fired electrically. Unit in tube four fired electrically,” reported the weapons officer.

  For the next two minutes there was utter silence in the control room, then the attack coordinator abruptly jarred Andreas from his introspection: “Units one and four enabled and conducting spiral searches.”

  “Turn unit four twenty degrees left. Then, once clear of the baffles, turn it right — directly at the target — changing speed to high and switching to active search mode,” ordered Andreas.

  “Aye-aye, sir!” cried the weapons officer.

  Vatz and the Russian plunged twenty feet to the ice-covered pavement below.

  During the fall, Vatz had been able to roll the Russian slightly, so that he was on the bottom.

  It was interesting how Vatz’s mind emptied in the two seconds it took to drop. He was at complete peace, because the part of him that wanted to die would soon be satisfied. The guilt of living would be gone. But in the last quarter of a second, as the ground came up hard and fast, the other part took over, the Special Forces soldier trained to live at all costs, and a four-letter word blasted from his lips.

  He gasped as they made impact, which was far less severe with one hundred and eighty pounds of Russian cushion beneath him.

  The guy’s head snapped back, his neck probably broken.

  That wasn’t so bad. I’m alive.

  But then Vatz felt a tremendous pain rushing up his legs, and now he couldn’t move them. He’d probably fractured both.

  He rolled over, groaned, looked up as someone approached, shone a light in his eyes.

  The light shifted to expose a Spetsnaz troop with a pistol in his hand. “Good-bye, Yankee.”

  The Romanov’s reaction was immediate and textbook. The sub turned right, went to flank speed, and launched countermeasures.

  “Second detect on unit one,” called out the weapons officer. “Unit one is homing!”

  Andreas inhaled deeply. There’d be no more signals from unit one’s wire.

  At “homing,” the Mark 48 increased speed to sixty knots, armed itself, and activated its proximity detector. The torpedo’s high-explosive warhead would detonate once it sensed the high concentration of the earth’s magnetic field caused by the close proximity of the steel mass of the Romanov’s hull.

  Andreas literally held his breath.

  Captain Second Rank Mikhail A. Kolosov closed his eyes and tensed every muscle in his body. He and Viktoria were going to exact their revenge on the Russian government for Dimitri’s death. It was going to be simple. Magnificent. Memorable.

  And there were several other governments who’d paid dearly to help them along in their quest — because many others stood to benefit from their plan. But he had failed them. Failed his siblings.

  Dimitri was the brother with a heart of gold who’d sacrificed his life to do a good job for his employer.

  Viktoria was the sister with a brilliant mind.

  But what was he now, except a failure?

  His boat was in a dive, descending through twelve hundred feet, trying futilely to escape. His men were overwhelmed by what their instruments told them.

  “The torpedo is locked on!” cried the executive officer.

  Kolosov opened his eyes. “I know.”

  “Then we die with honor for the Motherland!” the XO shouted.

  Kolosov shook his head, removed the picture of his brother from his pocket, and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  “Detonation, detonation!” shouted the sonar operator.

  Their torpedo had been rising up from thirteen hundred feet, and Andreas imagined it striking the Romanov’s keel with a massive explosion, the submarine breaking apart, sections tumbling away into the cold darkness.

  Andreas sighed, took in a long breath.

  “I’ve got popping noises and secondary detonations from Sierra One, sir,” reported the sonar operator.

  Whatever was left of the Romanov had reached crush depth.

  “It’s a kill, Captain. We got a kill,” announced the sonar operator, switching from headset to speaker for all to hear.

  “Please, shoot me,” Vatz told the Spetsnaz troop in Russian.

  That Vatz spoke the bearded man’s language surprised him. He drew back his head, but then grinned. “I will help you die, Yankee soldier.”

  “Thank you. You see, I’m tired of killing you guys. You are the worst soldiers I have ever seen.” Vatz frowned deeply. “You are Special Forces? I don’t think so. You fight like little girls.”

  “Sergeant!” hollered one of the Spetsnaz troops.

  The Black Hawk had banked hard and was descending for another pass.

  But the troop was pointing at the two rifle squads from the Tenth Mountain fanning out across the street and already engaging the half dozen men standing above Vatz.

  And it was in that second of distraction that Vatz drew the LC pistol from his hip, and just as the soldier turned back to finish him, Vatz lifted his arm and fired a 4.6 mm projectile into the Russian’s face.

  As the troop tumbled back, a glorious cacophony of gunfire filled the street, the Russians scattering like roaches.

  After a minute of withering fire, Vatz forced his head up at the approach of someone.

  “Hey, man, nice shot,” said one of the riflemen, a corporal, now at Vatz’s side. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Sergeant Nathan Vatz, Special Forces.” He tried to move; the pain was excruciating, bringing tears to his eyes.

  “Easy, Sergeant. We’ll get you out of here.”

  “I know you will.”

  As the corporal radioed back for help, Vatz tried to take his mind off the pain. He leaned back, rested his head on the pavement, and gasped.

  He’d never known there were so many stars. It was, indeed, a heavenly view, and it reminded him of that terrible night before the rains had set in.

  “Are you worth it?”

  Those words had never stopped echoing in his mind, and now, as he considered them once more, he wondered if it wasn’t about placing value on the Russians or the terrorists.

  Maybe it was about valuing the mission.

  Is what we do worth it? Worth our lives?

  His hands tightened into fists.

  Of course it was worth it — worth every drop of blood, sweat, and tears. They had been soldiers to the marrow and had died being true to who they were.

  It was worth it.

  FORTY-ONE

  Commander Jonathan Andreas brought his boat to the surface. They were calling in their After Action Report to COMPACFLT. He stood outside on the deck with the XO, the weapons officer, and the communications officer. It was a star-filled night, brutally cold, but Andreas was certain his men had never felt warmer.

  After sharing the good news with Admiral Stanton, Andreas lifted his voice. “Gentlemen, let’s get below and break out the medicinal brandy. As morale officer, I’m concerned about the crew’s well-being in these arctic climes. But before that, I want you take in a deep breath and remember this day. I’m unsure if there ever was or ever will be a boat as busy as we’ve been in the past twenty-four hours or so. If we carried it, we launched it. If it came near us, we killed it. I’m proud of each and every one of you.”

  The men shouted their agreement, then Andreas noticed that both photonic masts were up and the BRA-34 antenna was extended.

  Worse — the running lights were on. His grin faded.

  Someone would catch holy hell for that.

  “XO, we have a problem!”

  The Pave Hawk had transported Sergeant Raymond McAllen, his Marines, Pravota, and Major S
tephanie Halverson back to Fort McMurray, where McAllen received treatment for his wounds at a field hospital. He sat up in bed, warmed by the portable heater and sipping on a cup of strong coffee inside the rickety tent.

  His wounds were minor, one in each leg, and the rounds had been removed. In a few weeks — and with a little physical therapy — he’d be back on his feet. Palladino, Szymanski, Friskis, and Gutierrez had come by to see him, but strangely, Sergeant Rule had not, and the others had not seen him in the past hour. But then, finally, the sergeant came loping down the long aisle of beds, holding a small plastic bag.

  “Here,” he said with a smile. “Souvenirs. The slugs that were in your legs. Took me a while, but I got them for you.”

  “Uh, thanks. Maybe I’ll make a necklace.”

  “Really?” Rule grimaced.

  “No, you idiot.”

  Rule thought a moment, then finally chuckled. “Sergeant, I just wanted to thank you for the opportunity to prove myself.”

  “You’re thanking me for getting shot?”

  Rule shrugged. “I guess so.”

  McAllen widened his eyes in mock seriousness. “Well, I hope I can return the favor.”

  “That’s okay.”

  Just then Halverson, who’d changed into a spare Marine Corps uniform with heavy jacket, approached the bed. “How’re you doing?”

  McAllen smiled. “Better, thanks.”

  “How are you doing?” asked Rule.

  She shivered. “Finally thawed out.”

  McAllen gave Rule a look: Go!

  But the guy didn’t get it.

  “Did you see the Russian when we left him?” Rule asked her. “That guy cracked me up. He was all smiles. Never seen a POW so happy.”

  McAllen raised his voice. “Sergeant, you mind if I talk with the major?”

  “Oh, yeah, oh, okay. Be good, man. See you later.” Off he went, with a little hip-hop rhythm to his gait.

  “He’s a character,” said Halverson.

  “He’s like a new pair of dress shoes. Stiff and squeaky. But he’s doing better than I thought.”