Counter Strike (Command and Control Book 2), page 32
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” Abby began in a confident voice. “My name is Aberdeen Cromwell from Sentinel Holdings.” She surveyed the room. When her gaze landed on Don, she smiled at him long enough that others in the room looked his way. Don’s cheeks grew warm. “I’m here to brief you on the latest anti-personnel weapon in the Sentinel arsenal.”
She flipped her hand at the screen. The battlefield image disappeared, replaced by a video of an outstretched human hand. The picture focused on a black cylinder about the size of Don’s thumb. The black object shifted. It sprouted eight appendages, and Don caught the gleam of a camera lens. The device levitated off the hand and took flight.
“This is the C-QDA, an acronym for carbon-based quantum drone assassin,” Abby said. “Usually, we call this little guy a Cicada.”
Don sank back in his chair.
“This is the state-of-the-art battlefield weapon of our time. The Cicada is strictly used for anti-personnel events and is capable of distinguishing between friend and foe in a live fire situation.”
Henry Hahn’s face was the color of chalk. “Mr. President, you cannot seriously be considering using this kind of weapon. This could be considered a first-strike weapon, maybe even a WMD.”
“I asked for options, Secretary Hahn,” Serrano said. “I didn’t get any from my normal sources, so I’m making my own.” He nodded for Cromwell to proceed.
“Mr. Secretary,” Abby said to Hahn. “All I ask is that you listen to what I have to say before you pass any judgment.”
Hahn shook his head.
“The Cicada operates on two-factor kill authentication,” Abby continued. “Factor one is obvious: the target needs to have a heat signature. We don’t want to waste our units on decoys or soldiers that have already been killed.”
“What’s the second factor?” General Nikolaides said. He sat rigidly in his chair, hands flat on the table.
Instead of answering, Abby changed the screen again. It showed an Army camouflage uniform.
“This is Xingkong, or starry sky. The Chinese adopted this camouflage pattern across all the PLA forces—Army, Navy, Air Force, and so on—in 2019. For this exercise, it is a unique identifier to detect and eliminate an enemy on the battlefield.”
“Is that what this is to you, Ms. Cromwell?” Howard said. “An exercise? Your plan is to dump a planeload of killer drones on the battlefield and walk away?”
Abby ignored the jibe. “Madam Secretary, I can assure you that we take our responsibility as a US military contractor very seriously. I’ve worn the uniform and fought for my country. My husband was a Navy SEAL. He gave his life for this country—”
“Your husband was a private military contractor, Ms. Cromwell,” Howard interrupted.
“My husband was a patriot!” Abby shot back. “The best that this country had to offer. We started this company together as a way to help the United States do the hard things that no one seems to want to do these days.”
Abby stopped, her chest heaving, her face flushed with emotion.
“I apologize, ma’am,” she said quietly. “Your question was about safety protocols. We have many. Attacks can be launched from the air or the ground, and they are geographically limited from the point of origin. Each Cicada body has an independent power source that lasts a maximum of four hours, but that time can be preset to expire in as little as a few minutes.”
“Can they be recalled?” the Secretary of State asked. “Or reprogrammed?”
“No,” Abby replied. “Once launched, each Cicada unit operates until it either completes a kill or runs out of power. The units operate in a mode we call ‘cooperative threat engagement,’ which means they act as a hive to best accomplish the overall anti-personnel mission.”
Don had the surreal feeling that he was listening to an infomercial.
“We can program the Cicada swarm to authenticate on any measurable element: body size or shape, whether or not the target is armed. Really, the possibilities are endless.”
“Yes, they are,” the Secretary of State said. “Mr. President, I renew my objection to the use of this weapon. If it does everything Ms. Cromwell claims and is one hundred percent successful, we are signing off on a mass killing event, sir.”
“A mass killing event, Henry?” Serrano said. “Mass. Killing. Event. What would you call what the Chinese just did to the Enterprise strike force, Mr. Secretary? Was that a mass killing event?”
Hahn stood. “Sir, there are rules—”
“Rules?” The President slammed his fist on the table. “Rules? Are you serious? What rules did the Chinese use when they bombed the Naval War College? We are taking every precaution to make sure that this weapon is contained. We are following rules.”
Serrano turned back to Cromwell. “What do we need to do in order to execute Project Cicada?”
“The attack profile is already loaded into the missiles on the Ohio and the Michigan,” Abby said. “I would recommend a ten-missile assault radius for the first wave. I also strongly recommend we clear air traffic from the blast zone to minimize any collateral damage during the airburst.”
“Very well, thank you, Abby,” Serrano said. He turned to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.
“General,” the President said, “clear the airspace over Manbo Beach. Launch ten missiles equipped with the Cicada weapons systems from the USS Ohio. Set Manbo Beach as ground zero.”
The room was silent. Don realized he was holding his breath.
Nikolaides was famously never at a loss for words, but in this moment, he opened his mouth, then shut it again. He looked down the table at the Secretary of Defense.
“General,” the President said.
The Marine general stood, came to attention.
“Aye-aye, sir.”
56
USS Enterprise strike force
50 miles east of Taiwan
“Satellite comms are restored, Admiral,” the watch officer reported.
In the dim emergency lighting in Battle Watch, the young man was all but lost in the shadows. Since the missile attack, the command center had been reduced to battery-operated devices like the tablet Sharratt held in his hand. He tapped to approve the strike force status report.
“Transmit the SITREP to Washington,” Sharratt said.
He took a deep breath. The air smelled of burnt plastic and fried electronics.
It could be worse, he thought. We could all be dead.
The Nimitz was dying. The aircraft carrier had absorbed three direct hits. She listed fifteen degrees to starboard and was down in the stern. It would be a miracle if she didn’t sink in the next hour.
The Roosevelt and the Enterprise had absorbed one hit each. The Teddy had all four catapults fully operational but was making emergency repairs to her flight deck so that she could recover aircraft. She’d be back in the fight within the hour. The Enterprise had taken a missile strike forward of the island, taking out the starboard elevator and two catapult systems.
A few meters to the left and the explosion would have taken out the room where Sharratt was standing right now. God favors idiots and small children, he thought.
The escorts in the strike force were a mixed bag of damage. Six ships had been sunk, but there were also three ships that had escaped without any significant damage.
“How’re we doing on reconfiguring the strike force, Tom?” Sharratt called.
The first order of business was to get back in the fight, and that meant two things. First, continue air defense for the Hualien landing zone. Second, adjust the escorts around the carriers so they could support mission one.
Until they had the datalink back online, Zachary was manually taking reports from all ships on battle damage and weapons stocks. Ships that had sufficient missile inventories and mobility were repositioned along the threat axis with the PLA. The remainder were moved to picket duty to protect against possible subsurface attacks.
And then there were the ships fighting for their lives. The guided missile cruiser USS Chosin had taken two missile hits. She was able to make bare steerageway, and her damage control teams had performed minor miracles keeping her afloat. She would live to fight another day—maybe—but not this day.
“Enterprise reports she’s ready to answer all bells, sir,” the watch officer called out.
“Very well,” Sharratt replied. “Get me a status on power for Battle Watch.”
Sharratt unhooked a phone receiver and dialed Strike Ops, where he knew CAG was waiting for his call.
“CAG,” a voice answered.
“Mongoose, it’s Chip.”
“Sir.” His voice spoke volumes. They didn’t know for sure how many pilots the strike force had lost today, but the list was long. CAG knew every pilot by name. He would feel every loss hard.
“You have permission to recommence flight operations.”
“Aye-aye, sir.” CAG hung up.
The overhead lights clicked on. Sharratt blinked in the sudden brightness.
“The system is coming online, sir,” the BattleSpace operator said, donning her VR goggles and manipulator glove. “I’ll have an updated table in about two minutes.”
Zachary joined him next to the holographic display. The screen glitched, then settled down and started to populate with basic data.
“What’s the status of the Zumwalts?” Sharratt asked.
The directed-energy weapons mounted on the three Zumwalt-class destroyers had performed well beyond expectations in the last engagement. The historians would decide, but in Sharratt’s mind, the lasers had made a decisive difference in the battle.
“Zumwalt is gone,” Zachary said. “Sunk. We’re carrying out search and rescue, but…my guess is…all hands lost.”
Sharratt nodded, recalling the spectacular explosion.
“The Mansoor and the Johnson are seaworthy, but the Mansoor reports major mechanical problems with the laser. If I’m believing the reports, they melted their power distribution bus. They’re rigging a temporary power supply for the laser.”
“Anything they need, Tom,” Sharratt said. “Anything at all. Give them top priority. They’re the one platform we have that doesn’t need to reload.”
“About that, sir,” Zachary said. “Missile inventory is an issue.”
Over their heads, Sharratt heard the whining zip-bang of the catapult as the first plane was launched off the Enterprise. A second later, he heard the reassuring slam of landing gear hitting the flight deck as they recovered their first aircraft.
“Do what you can with what we’ve got left, Tom.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Admiral, we’re getting video from the overwatch drone,” the watch officer called. “I’ve got eyes on the Chinese fleet.”
Sharratt and Zachary turned as one to the flat-screen monitor.
Thick black smoke billowed across the screen.
“What am I supposed to be looking at, Watch Officer?” Sharratt said.
Then the picture shifted, and the smoke was gone.
“Holy shit,” Zachary muttered.
The PLA aircraft carrier Liaoning was dead in the water with a port list of at least twenty degrees. Sharratt could see at least three different wounds in her gray hull.
“She’s not going to make it,” Zachary said.
“I agree,” Sharratt replied. “Where’s the other carrier? The Shandong?”
“Coming up on it now, sir.”
Sharratt studied the screen anxiously, assessing the damage to the PLA Navy’s most advanced aircraft carrier. She had taken at least one hit. Wounded, but definitely still in the fight.
“Make sure CAG sees this,” he said to the watch officer without taking his eyes off the screen. “What do you think, Tom?”
“There’s bomb damage on the after part of her flight deck, sir,” Zachary said. “She’ll have a hard time recovering aircraft without major repairs.”
Sharratt grunted agreement. The PLA could land planes anywhere on Taiwan or on mainland China, so that was not a huge disadvantage for them.
“She’s clearly underway,” Zachary continued, “but it looks like she might have taken a torpedo hit here. Possible damage to her screws or rudder?”
“What’s the position of the third carrier?” Sharratt asked.
“I’ve got her on the BattleSpace table, sir,” the operator said.
Sharratt turned to study the display. The PLA carrier Hainan was at the southern tip of Taiwan.
“All right,” Sharratt said, thinking aloud. “We’ve basically evened the odds for the moment. Meanwhile, those poor Army bastards on Hualien are outnumbered and about to get the snot kicked out of them. Divert all available air resources to pushing back the PLA along the coast road.”
“Admiral, we’ve got a new subsurface contact,” the watch officer said. “One of ours.”
He pointed to a blue icon for a friendly submarine. Sharratt read the data USS Ohio (SSGN-726). It was within twenty miles of the Taiwanese shoreline, just southeast of Hualien.
“Where the hell did they come from?” Sharratt asked.
“No idea, sir,” the operator reported. “They just registered on the system this very moment.”
“Admiral!” Sorenson emerged from the top-secret area. “Flash traffic from NMCC. P4, direct from POTUS.”
A personal message from the President of the United States?
“Read it to me, Jerry.”
“Clear airspace over Hualien. Missile strike imminent.”
Sharratt clocked a look at Zachary, who appeared just as stunned as he was.
I can spend my time arguing, Sharratt thought, or I can spend it fighting.
He took down the microphone for the battle network.
“All stations, this is Alpha Bravo actual,” Sharratt said. “Clear the airspace over Hualien. I say again, clear the airspace over Hualien immediately.”
There was a full second of dead air, then the net exploded with new orders as the principals coordinated their air assets.
Sharratt hooked the receiver and dialed Strike Ops again.
“CAG.”
“Mongoose,” Sharratt said. “I have new tasking for you.” He looked up at the video where the PLA aircraft carrier Shandong was in full view.
“Go after that carrier. The Shandong,” Sharratt ordered. “Sink that son of a bitch.”
“Yes, sir.”
57
6 kilometers north of Hualien, Taiwan
Merriman couldn’t believe it. The Pit was a killing zone, but somehow, someone in the Javelin team was still alive. An anti-tank missile streaked down from the hillside and struck one of the bulldozer-tanks. He tried to remember how many more rounds they had for the Javelin, but his brain would not function.
A line of Chinese APCs emerged from the tunnel. They disgorged a full platoon of PLA infantry. Machine gun fire from the US forces on the hillside rained down, but it was a fraction of what it had been only a few moments ago.
It was all over. They were about to be overrun.
Merriman reached his hand back for the radio handset.
Nothing happened.
“Sanchez,” he shouted. It felt like his ears were stuffed with cotton.
Nothing.
Merriman turned.
Sergeant Sanchez had taken three 30mm rounds in the chest from the helo attack, nearly severing his body across the torso.
Merriman rolled him over and seized the handset. The radio was dead.
Two more tanks emerged from the tunnel.
Another anti-tank round rocketed down from the hillside and scored a hit on a tank. The PLA infantry turned their fire on the location of the Javelin team.
We’re done here, Merriman thought.
He looked across twenty meters of bare rock that separated him from the tree line. Alpha Company was through those trees and over the ridge, maybe half a kilometer away.
He needed to warn Alpha Company what was coming. They were going to need close air support and reinforcements.
He gripped the sides of the rock and launched his body into the open.
His breath came hard and fast. He felt his boots pound into the rocky ridge. He pumped his arms, reaching forward as if he could pull himself through the air.
Little bursts of stone exploded in front of his feet as the PLA forces fired on him. He felt a bullet hit his body armor. He reeled from the impact but stayed on his feet.
Almost there… He crashed into a wall of evergreen branches and sprawled into the dirt.
Keep going, he told himself.
Sprigs of greenery rained down around him as PLA bullets shredded the foliage over his head. His lungs were on fire, but he got to his hands and knees and crawled forward. After a few more meters, he used a tree trunk to pull himself upright. He staggered forward. Running, walking, but always forward.
The ground crested, then sloped down steeply. He dropped onto his ass and half slid, half ran down the hill. He rolled, bounced off rocks and trees, got back to his feet and kept going.
Finally, he burst out of the tree cover. The camouflage netting of the Alpha Company command post was mere meters away.
Merriman lunged into the CP. The expression on Bentley’s face told Merriman what he must have looked like.
“Radio,” Merriman demanded.
He gripped the microphone. His hand was shaking as he pressed down the transmit button. His breath came in ragged gulps.
“Battalion CP, this is Merriman.”
“Go ahead, sir.” Turner’s voice.
“Bravo Company is overrun. Deploy Charlie Company to reinforce the second tunnel. We need close air support, Sam. We need it right now.”
“Roger, CAS required. Stand by.”
“How many Javelin rounds do you have?” he asked Bentley.
“Eight left, sir,” Bentley replied. “We’ve got two dead PLA tanks blocking the highway.”
“That won’t stop them, Chris.” Merriman described the PLA efforts to clear disabled vehicles. “Don’t stop what you’re doing, but we need more firepower. We have to destroy that tunnel.”
What was taking Turner so long? Merriman fumed.
